Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter IV: Manhood

The bear lunged at his feet, and Quintus lashed out, delivering a flurry of kicks in its direction. He had to bite his tongue not to scream in terror. At this rate, the animal would seize him by the thigh, or groin. The pain would be unbelievable, and his death lingering, rather than the swift end suffered by the Gaul. Quintus could think of no way out. Desperately, he continued flailing out with his caligae. Confused, the animal growled, and it batted at him with a giant paw. It half ripped off one of Quintus’ sandals.

A moan of fear ripped free of his lips at last.

Footsteps pounded towards Quintus, and relief poured through his veins. His life might not be over. He was simultaneously consumed by shame. He did not want to live the rest of his days known as the coward who had had to be rescued from a bear.

‘Hold!’ shouted his father.

‘But Quintus-’ Agesandros protested.

‘Must do this on his own. He said so himself,’ Fabricius muttered. ‘Stand back!’

Waves of terror washed over Quintus. In obeying his wishes, his father was consigning him to certain death. He closed his eyes. Let it be quick, please. A moment later, he realised that the bear had not pressed home its attack. Quintus peered at the animal, which was still only a few steps away. Was it Agesandros’ charge, or his father’s voice that had caused it to hesitate? He wasn’t sure, but it gave him an idea. Taking a deep breath, Quintus let out a piercing cry. The animal’s small ears flattened, which encouraged him to repeat the shrill sound. This time, he waved his arms as well.

To Quintus’ immense relief, the bear backed off a pace. He was able to climb to his feet, still shrieking his head off. Unfortunately, his spear was beyond his reach. It lay right beneath the animal’s front paws. Quintus knew that without it, he had no chance of success. Nor would there be any pride to be had in driving off the bear with noise. He had to regain his weapon and kill it. Swinging his arms like a madman, he took a step towards it. The animal’s head swung suspiciously from side to side, but it gave way. Remembering Agesandros’ advice about what to do if confronted by a bear in the forest, Quintus redoubled his efforts. His damaged sandal was still attached to his calf by its straps, and he had to take great care how he placed his feet. Despite this hindrance, it wasn’t long before he regained his spear.

Quintus could have cheered. The animal was now looking all around it, searching for a way to escape, but there was no easy way. Fabricius had directed the others to spread out. They formed a loose circle around the pair. The remaining dogs filled the air with an eager clamour. His courage renewed, Quintus went on the offensive. After all, the bear was wounded. It had to be within his ability to kill it now.

He was mistaken.

Every time he stabbed his spear at the animal, it either snapped at the blade, or swept it out of the way with its massive arms. Quintus’ heart thumped off his ribs. He would have to go a lot closer. How, though, could he deliver a death stroke without coming within range of its deadly claws? The bear’s reach was prodigious. He could think of only one way. He’d seen pigs slaughtered many times in the farmyard, had even wielded the knife himself on occasion. With their tough skin and thick layer of subcutaneous fat, they were difficult animals to kill, quite unlike sheep or oxen. The best way was to run the blade into their flesh directly under the chin, cutting the major vessels that exited the heart. Quintus prayed that bears’ anatomy was similar, and that the gods granted him a chance to finish the matter like this.

Before he could carry out his plan, the animal lunged forward on all fours, catching Quintus off guard. He backed away hastily, forgetting his damaged sandal. Within a few steps, the studded sole snagged on a protruding root. They pulled the straps attached to his calf taut, in the process unbalancing him. Quintus fell heavily, landing this time on his backside. Somehow, he hung on to his spear, which landed flat on the glade floor beside him. That didn’t stop his heart from shrivelling with fear. The bear’s attention focused in on him and, moving incredibly fast, it swarmed in his direction.

Quintus’ eyes flickered to one side. The shocked expression on his father’s face said it all. He was about to die.

Despite his horror, Fabricius kept his oath. He did not budge from his position.

Quintus’ gaze returned to the bear. Its gaping mouth was no more than a handsbreadth from his feet. He had but the briefest instant to react before it ripped one of his legs off. Fortunately, the end of his spear protruded beyond his sandals. Gripping the shaft, he raised it off the ground. Sunlight flashed off the polished iron tip, and bounced into the bear’s eyes, distracting it, and causing it to snap irritably at the blade. Swiftly, Quintus pulled his legs to one side. At the same time, he jammed the weapon’s butt into the earth by his elbow and gripped it fiercely with both hands.

When the bear closed in, he aimed the sharp point at the flesh below its wide-open jaws. Intent on seizing him, it paid no attention. Lowering its head, it lunged at his legs. Desperately, Quintus slid them away as fast as he could. The movement brought the animal right on to his spear, and its momentum was great enough for the razor-sharp iron to slice through the skin. There was a grating feeling as it pushed over the larynx before running onwards into the deeper, softer tissues. Fully capable of tearing him apart yet, the bear bucked and reared, its immense strength threatening to rip Quintus’ weapon from his hands. He hung on for dear life as, half suspended above him, the animal clawed furiously at the thick wooden shaft. It was so close that his nostrils were filled with its pungent odour. He could almost touch the fangs that had torn apart the Gaul and three of the dogs.

It was utterly terrifying.

The animal’s immense weight eventually worked against it, forcing the deadly blade further into its flesh. Quintus was far from happy, however. The bear was very much alive, and it was drawing ever nearer. It filled his entire range of vision — a great angry mass of teeth and claws. Any closer and it would rip him to shreds. Could the protruding spikes at the base of the iron shank take the strain? Quintus’ mouth was bone dry with fear. Die, you whoreson. Just die.

It lurched a further handsbreadth down the spear shaft.

He thought his heart would stop.

Abruptly, the bear gagged, and a bright red tide of blood sprayed from its mouth, covering the ground beyond Quintus. He had sliced through a large artery! Jupiter, let its heart be next, he prayed. Before it reaches me. The shaft juddered as the iron spikes slammed against the creature’s neck, and it came to an abrupt stop. It snarled in Quintus’ face, and he closed his eyes. There was no more he could do.

To his immense relief, the bear stopped struggling. Another torrent of blood poured from its gaping jaws, covering Quintus’ face and shoulders. Disbelieving, he looked up, stunned to see the light in its amber eyes weaken, and then go out. All at once, the bear was a dead weight on the end of his spear. Quintus’ exhausted muscles could take the pressure no longer, and he let go.

The animal landed on top of him.

To Quintus’ immense relief, it did not move. And although he could barely breathe, he was alive.

An instant later, he felt the bear’s body being hauled off.

‘You’re unhurt,’ his father cried. ‘Praise be!’

Agesandros growled his agreement.

Quintus sat up gingerly. ‘Someone was watching over me,’ he muttered, wiping some of the bear’s blood away from his eyes.

‘They were indeed, but that doesn’t take away from what you’ve done,’ said Fabricius. There was tangible relief in his voice. ‘I was sure you were going to be killed. But you held your nerve! Few men can do that when faced with certain death. You should be proud. Not only have you proved your courage, but you’ve honoured our ancestors in the finest way possible.’

Quintus glanced at Agesandros and the two slaves, who were regarding him with new respect. His chin lifted. He had succeeded! Thank you, Diana and Mars, he thought. I will make a generous offering to you both. Inevitably, though, Quintus’ eyes were drawn to the tattooed slave ’s body. Guilt seized him. ‘I should have saved him too,’ he muttered.

‘Come now!’ Fabricius replied. ‘You are not Hercules. The fool should have known better than to risk his life for a dog. Your achievement is worthy of any Roman.’ He drew Quintus to his feet and embraced him warmly.

Quintus’ emotions suddenly became overwhelming: sadness at the Gaul’s death mixed with relief that he had triumphed over his fear. He struggled not to cry. During the fight, he’d forgotten about becoming a man. Somehow, he had achieved the task set out by his father.

At last they drew apart.

‘How does it feel?’ Fabricius asked.

‘No different,’ Quintus replied with a grin.

‘Are you sure?’

Quintus stared at the bear and realised that things had changed. Before, he’d been unsure of his ability to kill such a magnificent creature. Indeed, he’d nearly failed because of his terror. Staring death in the face was a lot worse than he’d imagined. Yet wanting to survive had been a gut instinct. He looked back to find Fabricius studying him intently.

‘I saw that you were afraid,’ his father said. ‘I would have intervened, but you had made me promise not to.’

Quintus flushed, and opened his mouth to speak.

Fabricius raised a hand. ‘Your reaction was normal, despite what some might say. But your determination to succeed, even if you died in the attempt, was stronger than your fear. You were right to make me swear not to step in.’ He clapped Quintus on the arm. ‘The gods have favoured you.’

Quintus remembered the two woodpeckers he’d seen, and smiled.

‘As you are to be a soldier, we shall have to visit the temple of Mars as well as that of Diana.’ Fabricius winked. ‘There’s also the small matter of buying a toga.’

Quintus beamed. Visits to Capua were always to be looked forward to. Living in the countryside afforded few opportunities for socialising or pleasure. They could visit the public baths and his father’s old comrade, Flavius Martialis. Flavius’ son, Gaius, was the same age as he was, and the two got along famously. Gaius would love to hear the story of the bear hunt.

First, though, he had to tell Aurelia and his mother. They would be waiting eagerly for news.

While Agesandros and the slaves stayed to bury the tattooed Gaul and to fashion carrying poles for the bear, Quintus and his father headed for home.

It didn’t take the Egyptian long to sell the friends. Thanks to the impending games at Capua, sales at the Neapolis slave market were brisk. There were few specimens on sale to compare with the two Carthaginians’ muscular build, or the Numidians’ wiry frames, and buyers crowded round the naked men, squeezing their arms and staring into their eyes for signs of fear. Although Hanno’s miserable demeanour was not that of a combatant, he impressed nonetheless. Cleverly, the Egyptian refused to sell them except as a pair. Several dealers bid against each other to purchase the two friends, and the eventual victor was a dour Latin by the name of Solinus. He also bought four of the Egyptian’s other captives.

Hanno took little notice of what was going on in the noisy market place. Suniaton’s efforts to revive his spirits with whispers of encouragement were futile. Hanno felt more hopeless than he ever had in his life. Since surviving the storm, every possible chance of redemption had turned to dust. Unknowingly, they had rowed out to sea rather than towards the land. Instead of a merchant vessel, fate had brought them the bireme. In a heaven-sent opportunity, Carthaginians had been present at Neapolis, but he hadn’t been able to speak to them. Lastly, they were to be sold as gladiators rather than the more common classes of slaves, which guaranteed their death. What more proof did he need that the gods had forgotten them completely? Hanno’s misery coated him like a heavy, wet blanket.

Along with an assortment of Gauls, Greeks and Iberians, the six captives were marched out of the town and on to the dusty road to Capua. It was twenty miles from Neapolis to the Campanian capital, a long day’s walk at most, but Solinus broke the journey with an overnight stop at a roadside inn. As the prisoners watched miserably, the Latin and his guards sat down to enjoy a meal of wine, roast pork and freshly baked bread. All the captives got was a bucket of water from the well, which afforded each man no more than half a dozen mouthfuls. At length, however, a servant delivered several stale loaves and a platter of cheese rinds. However paltry the portions, the waste food tasted divine, and revived the captives greatly. As Suniaton bitterly told Hanno, they would be worth far less if they arrived in Capua at death’s door. It was therefore worth spending a few coppers on provisions, however poor.

Hanno didn’t respond. Suniaton soon gave up trying to raise his spirits, and they sat in silence. Deep in their own misery, and strangers to each other, none of the other slaves spoke either. As it grew dark, they lay down side by side, staring at the glittering vista of stars illuminating the night sky. It was a beautiful sight, reminding Hanno again of Carthage, the home he would never see again. His emotions quickly got the better of him, and, grateful for the darkness, he sobbed silently into the crook of an elbow.

Their current suffering was nothing. What was to come would be far worse.

In the morning, Quintus had his first hangover. During the celebratory dinner the previous night, Fabricius had plied him with wine. Although he had often taken surreptitious tastes from amphorae in the kitchen, it had been the first time Quintus was officially permitted to drink. He had not held back. His approving mother had not protested. With Aurelia hanging on his every word, Elira casting smouldering glances each time she delivered food and his father throwing him frequent compliments, he’d felt like a conquering hero. Agesandros too had been full of praise when, after dinner, he had brought the freshly skinned bear pelt to the table. Flushed with success, Quintus rapidly lost count of how many glasses he’d downed. While the wine was watered down in the traditional manner, he was not used to handling its effects. By the time the plates were cleared away, Quintus had been vaguely aware that he was slurring his words. Atia had swiftly moved the jug out of his reach and, soon after, Fabricius had helped him to bed. When a naked Elira had slipped under the covers a short time later, Quintus had barely stirred; he hadn’t noticed her leave either.

Now, with the early morning sun beating down on his throbbing head, he felt like a piece of metal being hammered on a smith’s anvil. It was little more than an hour since his father had woken him, and even less since they had set off from the farm. Nauseous, Quintus had refused the breakfast proffered him by a sympathetic Aurelia. Encouraged by a grinning Agesandros, he’d drunk several cups of water, and mutely accepted a full clay gourd for the journey. There was still a foul taste in Quintus’ mouth, though, and every movement of the horse between his knees threatened to make him vomit yet again. So far, he’d done so four times. The only things keeping him on the saddle blanket were his vice-like hold on the reins, and his knees, which were tightly gripping the horse’s sides. Fortunately, his mount had a placid nature. Eyeing the uneven track that stretched off into the distance, Quintus muttered a curse. Capua was a long distance away yet.

They travelled in single file, with his father at the front. Dressed in his finest tunic, Fabricius sat astride his grey stallion. His gladius hung from a gilded baldric, necessary protection against bandits. Also armed, Quintus came next. The tightly rolled bear pelt was tied up behind his saddle blanket. It needed to dry out, but he was determined to show it to Gaius. His mother and his sister were next, sitting in a litter carried by six slaves. Aurelia would have ridden, but Atia’s presence precluded that. Despite the tradition that women did not ride, Quintus had given in to his sister’s demands years before. She had turned out to be a natural horsewoman. Their father had happened to see them practising one day, and had been amazed. Because of her ability, Fabricius had chosen to indulge her in this, but Atia had been kept in the dark. There was no way that she would have agreed to it. Knowing this, Aurelia had not protested as they’d left.

Taking up the rear was Agesandros, his feet dangling either side of a sturdy mule. He was to visit the slave market and find a replacement for the dead Gaul. A metal-tipped staff was slung over his back, and his whip, the badge of his office, was jammed into his belt. The Sicilian had left his deputy, a grinning Iberian with little brain but plenty of brawn, to supervise the taking in of the harvest. Last of all came a pair of prize lambs, bleating indignantly as Agesandros dragged them along by their head ropes.

Time passed and gradually Quintus felt more human. He drained the water gourd twice, refilling it from a noisy stream that ran parallel to the road. The pain in his head was lessening, allowing him to take more of an interest in his surroundings. The hills where they had hunted the bear were now just a hazy line on the horizon behind them. On either side sprawled fields of ripe wheat, ground which belonged to their neighbours. Campania possessed some of the most fertile land in Italy, and the proof lay all around. Groups of slaves were at work everywhere, wielding their scythes, gathering armfuls of the cut stalks, stacking sheaves. Their activities were of scant interest to Quintus, who was beginning to feel excited about wearing his first adult toga.

Aurelia drew the curtain as the litter came alongside. ‘You look better,’ she said brightly.

‘A little, I suppose,’ he admitted.

‘You shouldn’t have drunk so much,’ Atia scolded.

‘It’s not every day a man kills a bear,’ Quintus mumbled.

Fabricius turned his head. ‘That’s right.’

Aurelia’s lips thinned, but she didn’t pursue the issue.

‘A day like yesterday comes along only a few times in a lifetime. It is right to celebrate it,’ Fabricius declared. ‘A sore head is a small price to pay afterwards.’

‘True enough,’ Atia admitted from the depths of the litter. ‘You have honoured your Oscan, as well as your Roman, heritage. I’m proud to have you as my son.’

Shortly after midday, they reached Capua’s impressive walls. Surrounded by a deep ditch, the stone fortifications ran around the city’s entire circumference. Watchtowers had been built at regular intervals, and six gates, manned by sentries, controlled the access. Quintus, who had never seen Rome, loved it dearly. Originally built by the Etruscans more than four hundred years before, Capua had been the head of a league of twelve cities. Two centuries previously, however, marauding Oscans had swept in, seizing the area for their people. My mother’s race, thought Quintus proudly. Under Oscan rule, Capua had grown into one of the most powerful cities in Italy, but was eventually forced to seek aid from Rome when successive waves of Samnite invaders threatened its independence.

Quintus’ father was descended from a member of the Roman relief force, which meant that his children were citizens. Campania’s association with the Republic meant that its people were also citizens, but only the nobility were allowed to vote. This distinction was still the cause of resentment among many Campanian plebeians, who had to present themselves for military service alongside the legions, despite their lack of suffrage. The loudest among them claimed that they were remaining true to their Oscan ancestors. There was even some talk of Capua regaining its independence, which Fabricius decried as treason. Quintus felt torn if he thought about their protests, not least because his mother conspicuously remained silent at such times. It seemed hypocritical that local men who might fight and die for Rome were not permitted to have a say in who ran the Republic. It also brought Quintus to the thorny question of whether he was denying his mother’s heritage in favour of his father’s? It was a point that Gaius, Flavius Martialis’ son, loved to tease him about. Although they had Roman citizenship and could vote, Martialis and Gaius were Oscan nobility through and through.

Their first stop was the temple of Mars, which was located in a side street a short distance from the forum. While the family watched, one lamb was offered up for sacrifice. Quintus was relieved when the priest pronounced good omens. The same assertion was made at Diana’s shrine, delighting him further.

‘No surprise there,’ Fabricius murmured as they left.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Quintus.

‘After hearing what happened on the hunt, the priest was hardly going to give us an unfavourable reading.’ Fabricius smiled at Quintus’ shock. ‘Come now! I believe in the gods too, but we didn’t need to be told that they were pleased with us yesterday. It was obvious. What was important today was to pay our respects, and that we have done.’ He clapped his hands. ‘It’s time to clean up at the baths, and then buy you a new toga.’

An hour later, they were all standing in a tailor’s shop. Thanks to its proximity to the fullers’ workshops, the premises reeked of stale urine, increasing Quintus’ desire to get on with the matter in hand. Workers were busy in the background, raising the nap on rolls of cloth with small spiked boards, trimming it with cropping shears to give a soft finish, and folding the finished fabric before pressing it. The proprietor, an obsequious figure with greasy hair, laid out different qualities of wool for them to choose from, but Atia quickly motioned at the best. Soon Quintus had been fitted in his toga virilis. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot while a delighted Atia fussed and bothered, adjusting the voluminous folds until they met with her approval. Fabricius stood in the background, a proud smile on his lips while Aurelia bobbed up and down excitedly alongside.

‘The young master looks very distinguished,’ gushed the shopkeeper.

Atia gave an approving nod. ‘He does.’

Feeling proud but self-conscious, Quintus gave her a tight smile.

‘A fine sight,’ Fabricius added. Counting out the relevant coinage, he handed it over. ‘Time to visit Flavius Martialis. Gaius will want to see you in all your glory.’

Leaving the proprietor bowing and scraping in their wake, they walked outside. There Agesandros, who had taken their mounts to a stables, was waiting. He bowed deeply to Quintus. ‘You are truly a man now, sir.’

Pleased by the gesture, Quintus grinned. ‘Thank you.’

Fabricius looked at his overseer. ‘Why don’t you go to the market now? You know where Martialis’ house is. Just come along when you’ve bought the new slave.’ He handed over a purse. ‘There’s a hundred didrachms.’

‘Of course,’ Agesandros replied. He turned to go.

‘Wait,’ Quintus cried on impulse. ‘I’ll tag along. I need to start learning about things like this.’

Agesandros’ dark eyes regarded him steadily. ‘“Things like this”?’ he repeated.

‘Buying slaves, I mean.’ Quintus had never really given much thought to the process before, which, for obvious reasons, still impacted on Agesandros. ‘You can teach me.’

The Sicilian glanced at Fabricius, who gave an approving nod.

‘Why not?’ Atia declared. ‘It would be good experience for you.’

Agesandros’ lips curved upwards. ‘Very well.’

Aurelia rushed to Quintus’ side. ‘I’m coming too,’ she declared.

Agesandros arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure…’ he began.

‘It’s out of the question,’ said Fabricius.

‘There are things in the slave market which are not fitting for a girl to see,’ Atia added.

‘I’m almost a woman, as you keep telling me,’ Aurelia retorted. ‘When I’ve been married off, and I’m mistress of my own house, I will be able to visit such places whenever I choose. Why not now?’

‘Aurelia!’ Atia snapped.

‘You do what I say!’ interrupted Fabricius. ‘I am your father. Remember that. Your husband, whoever he may be, will also expect you to be obedient.’

Aurelia dropped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I just wanted to accompany Quintus as he walked through the town, looking so fine in his new toga.’

Disarmed, Fabricius cleared his throat. ‘Come now,’ he said. He glanced at Atia, who frowned.

‘Please?’ Aurelia pleaded.

There was a long pause, before Atia gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Fabricius smiled. ‘Very well. You may go with your brother.’

‘Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother.’ Aurelia avoided Atia’s hard stare, which promised all kinds of dressing-down later.

‘Go on, then.’ Fabricius made a benevolent gesture of dismissal.

As Agesandros silently led them down the busy street, Quintus gave Aurelia a reproving look. ‘It’s not only my exercises that you’ve been spying on, eh? You’re quite the conspirator.’

‘You’re surprised? I have every right to listen in to your little conversations with Father.’ Her blue eyes flashed. ‘Why should I just play with my toys while you two discuss possible husbands? I may be able to do nothing about it, but it’s my right to know.’

‘You’re right. I should have told you before,’ Quintus admitted. ‘I’m sorry.’

Suddenly, her eyes were full of tears. ‘I don’t want an arranged marriage,’ she whispered. ‘Mother says that it won’t be that bad, but how would she know?’

Quintus felt stricken. Such a bargain might help them climb to the upper level of society. If so, their family’s fate would be changed for ever. The price required made him feel very uncomfortable, however. It didn’t help that Aurelia was right beside him, waiting for his response. Quintus didn’t want to tell an outright lie, so, ducking his head, he increased his pace. ‘Hurry,’ he urged. ‘Agesandros is leaving us behind.’

She saw through his pretence at once. ‘See? You think the same.’

Stung, he stopped.

‘Father and Mother married for love. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘It is our duty to obey their orders. You know that,’ said Quintus, feeling awful. ‘They know best, and we must accept that.’

Agesandros turned to address them, abruptly ending their conversation. Quintus was relieved to see that they had reached the slave market, which was situated in an open area by the town’s south gate. Already it was becoming hard to make oneself heard above the din. Aurelia could do little but fall into an angry silence.

‘Here we are,’ the Sicilian directed. ‘Take it all in.’

Mutely, the siblings obeyed. Although they had seen the market countless times, neither had paid it much heed before. It was part of everyday life, just like the stalls hawking fruit and vegetables, and the butchers selling freshly slaughtered lambs, goats and pigs. Yet, Quintus realised, it was different here. These were people on sale. Prisoners of war or criminals for the most part, but people nonetheless.

Hundreds of naked men, women and children were on display, chained or bound together with rope. Chalk coated everyone’s feet. Black-, brown- and white-skinned, they were every nationality under the sun. Tall, muscular Gauls with blond hair stood beside short, slender Greeks. Broad-nosed, powerfully built Nubians towered over the wiry figures of Numidians and Egyptians. Full-breasted Gaulish women clustered together beside rangy, narrow-hipped Judaeans and Illyrians. Many were sobbing; some were even wailing with distress. Babies and young children added their cries to that of their mothers. Others, catatonic from their trauma, stared into space. Dealers stalked up and down, loudly extolling the qualities of their merchandise to the plentiful buyers who were wandering between the lines of slaves. On the fringes of the throng, groups of hard-faced, armed men lounged about, a mixture of guards and fugitivarii, or slave-catchers.

‘The choice is enormous, so you have to know what you want in advance. Otherwise, it would take all day,’ said Agesandros. He looked enquiringly at Quintus.

Quintus thought of the tattooed Gaul, whose primary duty had been working in the fields. His skill with the hunting dogs had merely been an added bonus. ‘He needs to be young and physically fit. Good teeth are important too.’ He paused, thinking.

‘Anything else?’ Agesandros barked.

Quintus was surprised by the change in the Sicilian, whose usual genial manner had disappeared. ‘There should be no obvious infirmities or signs of disease. Hernias, poorly healed fractures, dirty wounds and so on.’

Aurelia screwed up her face in distaste.

‘Is that it?’

Irritated, Quintus shook his head. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Agesandros pulled out his dagger, and Aurelia gasped. ‘You’re forgetting the most important thing,’ the Sicilian said, raising the blade. ‘Look in his eyes, and decide how much spirit he has. Ask yourself: will this whoreson ever try to cut my throat? If you think he might, walk away and choose another. Otherwise you might regret it one dark night.’

‘Wise words,’ Quintus said, levelly. Now, put him on the back foot, he thought. ‘What did my father think when he looked in your eyes?’

It was Agesandros’ turn to be surprised. His eyes flickered, and he lowered the dagger. ‘I believe he saw another soldier,’ he answered curtly. Turning on his heel, he plunged into the crowd. ‘Follow me.’

‘He’s just playing games, that’s all. Trying to impress me,’ Quintus lied to Aurelia. He actually reckoned that Agesandros had been trying to scare him. It had partially worked too. The only reply he got, though, was a scowl. His sister was still angry with him for not telling her what he thought of her chances of happiness in an arranged marriage. Quintus walked off. I’ll sort it out later.

The Sicilian ignored the first slaves on offer, and then stopped by a line of Nubians, poking and prodding several, and even opening the mouth of one. Their owner, a scrawny Phoenician with gold earrings, instantly scuttled to Agesandros’ side, and began waxing lyrical about their quality. Quintus joined them, leaving Aurelia to simmer in the background. After a moment, Agesandros moved on, ignoring the Phoenician’s offers. ‘Every tooth in that Nubian’s head was rotten,’ he muttered to Quintus. ‘He wouldn’t last more than a few years.’

They wandered up and down for some time. The Sicilian said less and less, allowing Quintus to decide which individuals fitted the bill. He found several, but with each Agesandros found a reason not to buy. Quintus decided to stand his ground when he found the next suitable slave. A moment later, two dark-skinned young men with tightly curled black hair caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed them before. Neither was especially tall, but both were well muscled. One kept his gaze firmly directed at the ground, while the other, who had a snub nose and green eyes, glanced at Quintus, before looking away. He paused to assess the pair. There was enough spare chain for the slaves to step out of line. Beckoning the first forward, Quintus began his examination, watched closely by the Sicilian.

The youth was about his age, in excellent physical condition, with a good set of teeth. Nothing he did made the slave look at him, which increased his interest. Agesandros’ warning was still fresh in his mind, so Quintus grabbed the other’s chin and lifted it. Startlingly, the slave’s eyes were a vivid green colour, like those of his companion. Quintus saw no defiance there, just an inconsolable sadness. He’s perfect, he thought. ‘I’ll take this one,’ he said to Agesandros. ‘He meets your requirements.’

The Sicilian glanced the youth up and down. ‘Where are you from?’ he demanded in Latin.

The slave blinked, but did not answer.

He understood that question, thought Quintus with surprise.

Agesandros appeared not to have noticed, though. He repeated his question in Greek.

Again no reply.

Sensing their interest, the dealer, a dour Latin, moved in. ‘He’s Carthaginian. His friend too. Strong as oxen.’

‘Guggas, eh?’ Agesandros spat on the ground. ‘They’ll be no damn use.’

Quintus and Aurelia were both shocked at the change in his demeanour. The abusive term meant ‘little rat’. Immediately, Agesandros’ past came to Quintus’ mind. It was Carthaginians who had sold the Sicilian into slavery. That wasn’t a reason not to buy the slave, however.

‘There’s been a lot of interest in them this morning,’ said the dealer persuasively. ‘Good gladiator material, they are.’

‘You haven’t managed to sell them, though,’ replied Quintus sarcastically; beside him, Agesandros snorted in agreement. ‘How much are you asking?’

‘Solinus is an honest man. 150 didrachms each, or 300 for the pair.’

Quintus laughed. ‘Nearly twice the price of a farm slave.’ He made to leave. His face a cold mask, Agesandros did too. Then Quintus paused. He was growing tired of the Sicilian’s negative attitude. The Carthaginian was as good as any of the others he’d seen. If he could barter the Solinus down, why not buy him? He turned. ‘We only need one,’ he barked. The slaves glanced fearfully at each other, confirming Quintus’ hunch that they spoke Latin.

The Solinus grinned, revealing an array of rotten teeth. ‘Which?’

Ignoring Agesandros’ frown, Quintus pointed at the slave he’d examined.

The Latin leered. ‘How does 140 didrachms sound?’

Quintus made a dismissive gesture. ‘One hundred.’

Solinus’ face turned hard. ‘I have to make a living,’ he growled. ‘130. That’s my best price.’

‘I could go ten didrachms more, but that’s it,’ said Quintus.

Solinus shook his head vehemently.

Quintus was incensed by Agesandros’ delighted look. ‘I’ll give you 125,’ he snapped.

Agesandros leaned in close. ‘I haven’t got that much,’ he muttered sourly.

‘I’ll sell the bear pelt, then. That’s worth at least twenty-five didrachms,’ Quintus retorted. He’d planned on using it as a bed cover, but winning this situation came first.

Suddenly keen, Solinus stepped forward. ‘It’s a fair price,’ he said.

Agesandros’ fists closed over the purse.

‘Give it to him,’ ordered Quintus. When the Sicilian did not react, his anger boiled over. ‘I am the master here. Do as I say!’

Reluctantly, Agesandros obeyed.

The small victory pleased Quintus no end. ‘That’s a hundred. My man here will bring the rest later,’ he said.

Even as he pocketed the money, Solinus’ mouth opened in protest.

‘My father is Gaius Fabricius, an equestrian,’ Quintus growled. ‘The balance will be paid before nightfall.’

Solinus backed off at once. ‘Of course, of course.’ Pulling a bunch of keys from his belt, he selected one. He reached up to the iron ring around the Carthaginian’s neck. There was a soft click, and the slave stumbled forward, freed.

For the first time, Aurelia looked at him. I have never seen anyone so handsome, she thought, her heart pounding at the sight of his naked flesh.

The Carthaginian’s dazed expression told Quintus that he hadn’t quite taken in what was happening. It was only when his companion muttered something urgent in Carthaginian that the realisation sank in. Tears welled in his eyes, and he turned to Quintus.

‘Buy my friend as well, please,’ he said in fluent Latin.

I was right, thought Quintus triumphantly. ‘You speak my language.’

‘Yes.’

Agesandros glowered, but the siblings ignored him.

‘How come?’ Aurelia asked.

‘My father insisted I learn it. Greek too.’

Aurelia was fascinated, while Quintus was delighted. He had made a good choice. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hanno,’ the Carthaginian answered. He indicated his comrade. ‘That’s Suniaton. He’s my best friend.’

‘Why didn’t you answer the overseer’s question?’

For the first time, Hanno met his gaze. ‘Would you?’

Quintus was thrown by his directness. ‘No… I suppose not.’

Encouraged, Hanno turned to Aurelia. ‘Buy us both — I beg you. Otherwise my friend could be sold as a gladiator.’

Quintus and Aurelia glanced at each other in surprise. This was no peasant from a faraway land. Hanno was well educated, and from a good family. So was his friend. It was a bizarre, and uncomfortable, feeling.

‘We require one slave. Not two.’ Agesandros’ clarion voice was a harsh call back to reality.

‘We could come to some arrangement, I’m sure,’ said Solinus ingratiatingly.

‘No, we couldn’t,’ the Sicilian snarled, cowing him into submission. He addressed Quintus. ‘The last thing the farm needs is an extra mouth to feed. Your father will already want to know why we spent so much. Best not blow any more of his money, eh?’

Quintus wanted to argue, but Agesandros was right. They only needed one slave. He gave Aurelia a helpless look. Her tiny, anguished shrug told him she felt the same way. ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said to Hanno.

The smirk of satisfaction that flickered across Agesandros’ lips went unnoticed by all except Hanno.

The two slaves exchanged a long glance, laden with feeling. ‘May the gods guide your path,’ Hanno said in Carthaginian. ‘Stay strong. I will pray for you every day.’

Suniaton’s chin trembled. ‘If you ever get home, tell my father that I am sorry,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Ask him for his forgiveness.’

‘I swear it,’ vowed Hanno, his voice choking. ‘And he will grant it, you may be sure of that.’

Quintus and Aurelia could not speak Carthaginian but it was impossible to misunderstand the overwhelming emotion passing between the two slaves. Quintus took his sister’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t buy every slave in the market.’ He led her away, without looking at Suniaton again.

Agesandros waited until they were out of earshot, then he whispered venomously in Hanno’s ear, in Carthaginian. ‘It wasn’t my choice to buy a gugga. But now you and I are going to have a pleasant time on the farm. Don’t think you can run away either. See those types over there?’

Hanno studied the gang of unshaven, roughly dressed men some distance away. Every one was heavily armed, and they were watching the proceedings like hawks.

‘They are fugitivarii,’ Agesandros explained. ‘For the right price, they’ll track down any man. Bring him back alive, or dead. With his balls, or without. Even in little pieces. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’ A leaden feeling of dread filled Hanno’s belly.

‘Good. We understand each other.’ The Sicilian grinned. ‘Follow me.’ He strode off after Quintus and Aurelia.

Hanno turned to look at Suniaton one last time. His heart felt as if it was going to rip apart. It hurt even to breathe. Whatever his fate, Suni’s would undoubtedly be worse.

‘You can’t help me,’ Suniaton mouthed. Remarkably, his face was calm. ‘Go.’

Hot tears blinded Hanno at last. He turned and stumbled away.