Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter V: Malchus

Carthage

In what had become his daily routine, Malchus finished his breakfast and left the house. Although Bostar had already shipped for Iberia, Sapho was still at home. However, he mostly stayed at his rooms in the garrison’s quarters. When Sapho did call by, it was rare for him even to mention Hanno, which Malchus found slightly odd. It was his eldest son’s way of dealing with bereavement, he supposed. His was to shun all human contact. It meant that apart from the rare occasions when he had visitors, Malchus’ only companions were the domestic slaves. It had been thus since Hanno’s disappearance a few weeks before. Scared of Malchus’ fierce temper and obvious sorrow, the slaves tiptoed around, trying not to attract his attention. In consequence, Malchus was even more aware of — and annoyed by them. While he longed to lash out, the slaves were not to blame, so he bit down on his anger, bottling it up. Yet he could not bear to stay indoors, staring at the four walls, obsessed with thoughts of Hanno, his beloved youngest son — his favourite son — whom he would never see again.

Malchus headed towards the city’s twin harbours. Alone. The adage that one’s grief eased with time was utter nonsense, he thought bitterly. In fact, it grew by the day. Sometimes he wondered if his sorrow would overcome him. Render him unable to carry on. A moment later, Malchus caught sight of Bodesmun. He cursed under his breath. He found it increasingly hard even to look at Suniaton’s father. The opposite seemed true of the priest, who sought him out at every opportunity.

Bodesmun raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘Malchus. How are you today?’

Malchus scowled. ‘The same. And you?’

Bodesmun’s face crumpled with anguish. ‘Not good.’

Malchus sighed. The same thing happened every time they met. Priests were supposed to lead by example, not crack under pressure. He had enough problems of his own without having to deal with Bodesmun’s too. Was he not carrying the weight of two losses on his shoulders? Malchus’ rational side knew that he was not responsible for the death of either Arishat, his wife, or Hanno, but the rest of him did not. During the frequent nights when he lay awake, Malchus had become painfully aware that his self-righteousness was partly to blame for Hanno’s bad behaviour. After Arishat’s death, he had become somewhat of a fanatic, interested in nothing except Hannibal Barca’s plans for the future. There had been no brightness or light in the house, no laughter or fun. Sapho and Bostar, already adult men, had not been so affected by his melancholy, but it had hit Hanno hard. Since that realisation, guilt had clawed at Malchus constantly. I should have spent more time with him, he thought. Even gone fishing, instead of droning on about ancient battles. ‘It’s hard,’ he said, doing his best to be sympathetic. He ushered the priest out of the way of a passing cart. ‘Very hard.’

‘The pain,’ Bodesmun whispered miserably. ‘It just gets worse.’

‘I know,’ Malchus agreed. ‘There are only two things I know of that make it ease somewhat.’

A spark of interest lit in Bodesmun’s sorrowful brown eyes. ‘Tell me, please.’

‘The first is my loathing of Rome and everything it stands for,’ Malchus spat. ‘For years, it seemed that the opportunity for revenge would never come. Hannibal has changed all this. At last, Carthage has a chance at settling the score!’

‘It’s more than two decades since the war in Sicily ended,’ Bodesmun protested. ‘More than a generation.’

‘That’s right.’ Malchus could remember how weakened the flames of his hatred had been before Hannibal’s emergence on to the scene. Now, they had been fanned white-hot by his grief for Hanno. ‘Even greater reason not to forget.’

‘That can be of no help to me. Begetting violence is not Eshmoun’s way,’ Bodesmun murmured. ‘What’s your other means of coping?’

‘I scour the streets near the merchant port, listening to conversations and studying faces,’ Malchus answered. Seeing the confusion on the other’s face, he explained. ‘Looking for a clue, the smallest snippet of information, anything that might help to ascertain what happened to Hanno and Suni.’

Bodesmun looked baffled. ‘But we know what took place. The old man told us.’

‘I know,’ Malchus muttered, embarrassed at having to reveal his innermost secret. He had spent a fortune on sacrifices to Melqart, the ‘King of the City’, his sole request being that the god had somehow seen a way to prevent the boys’ boat from sinking. Of course, he’d had no answer, but he wouldn’t give up. ‘It’s just possible that they might be alive. That someone found them.’

Bodesmun’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a dangerous thing to go on believing,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

Malchus’ nod was brittle. ‘How do you go on?’

Bodesmun looked up at the sky. ‘I pray to my god. I ask him to look after them both in paradise.’

That was too much for Malchus. Too final. ‘I have to go,’ he muttered. He strode off, leaving a forlorn Bodesmun in his wake.

A short while later, Malchus reached the Agora. Seeing large numbers of senators and politicians, he cursed. He’d forgotten that there was an important debate on this morning. He considered changing his plans and attending, but decided against it. The majority in the Senate now backed Hannibal solidly, and this was unlikely to change in the foreseeable future. As well as restoring Carthaginian pride with his conquests of Iberian tribes and intimidation of Saguntum, a Roman ally, Hannibal had helped to restore the city’s wealth. Although his long-term plans weren’t common knowledge, there could be few elders who didn’t suspect the truth.

Catching sight of Hostus, Malchus’ lip curled. He for one thought war against Rome was coming, and was forever speaking out against it. The fool, thought Malchus. As Carthage’s prosperity and pride returned, so conflict with Rome was inevitable. The annexation of Sardinia was a primary reason, and just one example of the wrongs visited upon his people by the Republic. In recent years it had continued to treat them in a disrespectful manner. Constantly sending snooping embassies to Iberia, where it had no jurisdiction, Rome had forged an alliance with Saguntum, a Greek city many hundreds of miles from Italy. It had then had the effrontery to impose a unilateral treaty on Carthage, forcing it not to expand its territories northwards towards Gaul.

Deep in thought, Malchus did not see Hostus recognise him. By the time the fat man had waddled self-importantly to his side, it was too late to get away. Cursing his decision to take the shorter route to the harbours, Malchus gave Hostus a curt nod.

Hostus flashed a greasy smile. ‘Not coming to the debate this morning?’

‘No.’ Malchus tried to brush past.

Moving adroitly for his size, Hostus blocked the way. ‘We have noted your absence in the chamber of late. Missed your valuable insights.’

Malchus stopped in his tracks. Hostus wouldn’t care if he died, let alone wasn’t present at council meetings. He fixed the other with a flinty stare. ‘What do you want?’

‘I know that of late you have had more important things than Carthage on your mind.’ Hostus leered. ‘Family matters.’

Malchus wanted to choke Hostus until his eyeballs popped out, but he knew that would be rising to the bait. ‘Of course you always act for the good of Carthage,’ he snapped. ‘Never for the silver from the Iberian mines.’

A tinge of colour reddened Hostus’ round cheeks. ‘The city has no more loyal servant than I,’ he blustered.

Malchus had had enough. He elbowed past without another word.

Hostus wasn’t finished. ‘If you tire of visiting Melqart’s temple, there is always the Tophet of Baal Hammon.’

Malchus spun around. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me.’ Hostus’ smile was more of a grimace. ‘You may have only livestock to offer, but there are plenty in the slums who will sell a newborn or young child for a handful of coins.’ Seeing Malchus’ temper rising, Hostus gave him a reproving look. ‘Such sacrifices have saved Carthage before. Who is to say a suitable offering would not please Baal Hammon and bring your son back?’

Hostus’ barbed taunt sank deep, but Malchus knew that the best form of defence was attack. Give the dog no satisfaction. ‘Hanno is dead,’ he hissed. ‘Any fool knows that.’

Hostus flinched.

Malchus poked a finger in his chest. ‘Unlike you, I would not murder another’s child to make a request of a god. Nor would I have ever offered my own, unlike some around here. To do so is the mark of a savage. Not of someone who truly loves Carthage and would lay down his own life for it.’ Leaving Hostus gaping in his wake, Malchus stalked off.

His patrol of the port area that morning yielded nothing. It was little more than Malchus had come to expect. He had overheard talk of the weather conditions between Carthage and Sicily, the most auspicious place to make an offering to the Scylla, and an argument over which of the city’s whorehouses was best. He’d seen merchant captains holding guarded conversations, trying to glean information from each other without giving away any of their own, and drunken sailors singing as they weaved back to their ships. Housewives sat in the open doorways of their houses, working their spinning wheels, but the whores had gone to bed. Trickles of smoke rose from the chimneys of the pottery kilns a short distance away. The open-fronted taverns that dotted the streets weren’t busy at this time of day, but the stalls selling fresh bread were a different story. Stopping to buy a loaf, Malchus ran into an acquaintance, a crippled veteran of the war in Sicily whom he paid to listen out for any interesting news. So far, the man had provided him with nothing.

Nonetheless, Malchus paid for the other’s bread. It didn’t cost much to retain the goodwill of the poor, something Hostus would never understand. Together they walked down the street, ignoring the urchins who pestered them for a crust. Malchus watched as the cripple devoured his food before silently handing over his own. This too disappeared rapidly. Studying the man’s lined, weary face, Malchus wondered if he had ever had a wife and family. Been faced with an offer from a creature like Hostus for one of his children. It didn’t bear thinking about, and Malchus was grateful that the dark practices that went on in the Tophet were no longer practised by many.

‘Thank you, sir,’ mumbled the veteran, wiping crumbs from his lips.

Malchus inclined his head. He waited, out of habit rather than any expectation, for any information.

The veteran coughed uneasily, and scratched at the shiny red stump that was the only remnant of his lower right leg. ‘I saw something last night,’ he said. ‘It was probably nothing.’

Malchus stiffened. ‘Tell me.’

‘Down on the docks, I noticed a bireme I’ve never seen before.’ The veteran paused. ‘That in itself is nothing unusual, but I thought the crew were a bit sharp-looking for ordinary traders. Seemed like they were trying too hard, if you know what I mean, sir? Talking loudly about their goods, and the prices they hoped to get for them.’

Malchus felt his heart begin to beat faster. ‘Could you point the ship out?’

‘Better than that, sir. I happened to spot the captain and some of his crew this morning. They were in a tavern, maybe four streets away. Much the worse for wear too.’ The veteran hesitated, looking awkward.

Even the poorest can have pride, thought Malchus. ‘You will be well rewarded.’

Clutching his homemade crutch with renewed vigour, the smiling veteran hobbled off.

Malchus was one step behind him.

A short time later, they had arrived at the hostelry, a miserable low-roofed brick structure with crudely hewn benches and tables arrayed outside. Although it was early, this tavern was packed. Sailors, merchants and lowlifes of every nationality under the sun sat cheek by jowl with each other, swigging from clay cups or singing out of tune. Prostitutes with painted faces were sitting on men’s laps, whispering in their ears in an attempt to win some business. Amidst the pieces of broken pottery littering the sawdust-covered ground, scrawny mongrels fought over half-gnawed bones. Malchus’ stomach turned at the stench of cheap wine and urine, but he followed the veteran to an empty table. They both took a seat. Neither looked at the other customers. Instead they occupied themselves by trying to attract the attention of the tavern keeper or his assistant, a rough-looking woman in a low-cut dress.

Finally, they succeeded. A glazed red jug and two beakers arrived at the table soon after, borne by the owner. He cast an idle glance at the mismatched pair, but was called away before he could decide what to make of them. The veteran poured the wine, and handed a cup to Malchus.

He took a sip, and wrinkled his face with disgust. ‘This is worse than horse piss.’

The veteran took a deep swallow. He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Tastes fine to me, sir.’

There was silence then, and the customers’ din washed over them.

‘They’re right behind me,’ whispered the veteran at length. ‘Four men. One looks like an Egyptian. Another is the ugliest man you’ve ever seen, with scars all over his mug. The others could be Greek. Do you see them?’

Casually, Malchus glanced over the other’s shoulder. At the next table, he saw a thin, pale-skinned figure with black hair sitting beside a barrel of a man whose scarred features could have been carved from granite. Their two companions had their backs towards Malchus, but he could see from their dark skin and raven hair that the veteran’s guess at their nationality was probably correct. Dressed in ochre and grey woollen tunics, with daggers at their belts, the quartet were similar to many of the other customers. And yet they weren’t. Malchus studied them carefully from the corner of his eye. Their faces were cruel, almost hatchet-like. Not the faces of merchants.

Gradually, Malchus began to discern their voices from the others around them. They were speaking in Greek, which was not unusual when individuals of more than one nationality crewed together. It was, after all, the predominant language used at sea. ‘It’s good to visit a big city at last,’ mumbled one of the men with his back to Malchus. ‘Not like where we usually berth. At least here there’s more than one tavern to visit.’

‘Plenty of whorehouses too, with decent-looking women,’ growled the figure beside him.

‘And boys,’ added the scarred man with a leer.

The Egyptian laughed unpleasantly. ‘Never change, do you, Varsaco?’

Varsaco smirked. He lowered his voice slightly. ‘I just want a piece of Carthaginian arse.’

The Egyptian wagged a reproachful finger.

One of their companions sniggered, and Varsaco scowled.

‘You’ve got a long memory,’ said the last man. ‘Is this revenge for the one that got away?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ the Egyptian snarled, confirming Malchus’ suspicion that he was the leader of the group. A subdued silence fell for a moment before Varsaco and the Egyptian began whispering to each other. They cast frequent glances at the other tables.

At once, Malchus looked down. Carefully, he considered what he’d heard and seen. The men did not visit cities often. They looked a lot tougher than merchants should do. The veteran thought the same of their shipmates. Tellingly, they had had a Carthaginian crewmember in the recent past. Or had he been a prisoner? Alarm bells were now ringing in Malchus’ mind. Not once since Hanno’s disappearance had he had anything to go on like this. It wasn’t much, but Malchus didn’t care. Sliding a coin across the table with a fingertip, he watched the veteran’s eyes widen. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered. ‘If I haven’t returned by the time they leave, follow them. Use a street urchin to bring me news of their location.’

‘Where are you going?’

Malchus’ smile was mirthless. ‘To get some help.’

Malchus went straight to Sapho’s commanding officer. His status was such that the captain fell over himself to be of assistance. At once, a dozen Libyan spearmen were put at Malchus’ disposal. Although they had little idea of their mission, the men liked the sound of escaping weapons drill.

Sapho had been asleep when Malchus arrived, but the mention of possible news about Hanno sent him leaping from his bed. While Bostar had the guilt of knowing he should have made Hanno and Suniaton stay in the city, Sapho was saddled with the fact that he should not have given way. His darkest secret was that part of him was glad that Hanno was gone. Hanno had never done what Malchus wanted, while he, Sapho, did everything according to the book. Yet it was Hanno who had made their father’s eyes light up. Of course Bostar knew nothing of Sapho’s feelings. Unsurprisingly, the two brothers had fallen out over the matter anyway, and it hadn’t been long before they were barely speaking. The issue had only subsided with Bostar’s recent departure for Iberia. Hearing Malchus’ news scraped raw Sapho’s guilt. As he threw on his long tunic and bronze muscled cuirass, and donned his Thracian helmet and greaves, he bombarded his father with questions. Malchus had the answers to almost none of them.

‘The sooner we get down there, the sooner we’ll find out something,’ he growled.

Half an hour after he’d left the tavern, Malchus returned with Sapho and the spearmen in tow. The Libyans wore simple conical bronze helmets, and each was clad in a beltless, knee-length red tunic. They were armed with short thrusting spears.

Malchus was mightily relieved to see that the veteran and the four men he’d been watching over were still at their respective tables. The Greeks were dozing; Varsaco was talking to the Egyptian. As Malchus and his companions came to a halt outside the tavern, the two sailors looked around. Their faces twisted briefly with concern, but they did not move a muscle.

‘Where are they?’ demanded Sapho.

There was no need for concealment any longer. Malchus pointed. He was delighted when the Egyptian and Varsaco jumped to their feet and tried to escape. ‘Seize them,’ he shouted.

The soldiers swarmed forward and surrounded the pair with a circle of threatening spear points. The two sleeping men were kicked awake and heaved into the ring with their companions. All four were forced to throw down their daggers. Ignoring the bleary stares of the other customers, Malchus stalked forward and into view.

‘What’s this about?’ asked the Egyptian in fluent Carthaginian. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I’ll be the one to decide on that,’ replied Malchus. He jerked his head.

‘Back to the barracks,’ Sapho ordered. ‘Quickly!’

The veteran looked on in amazement as the captives were escorted away. A metallic clunk drew his attention back to the table surface. On it lay four gold coins, their faces decorated with the image of Hannibal Barca.

‘One for each of the whoresons,’ said Malchus. ‘If they turn out to be the right men, I’ll give you the same again.’ Leaving the veteran stuttering his thanks, he followed Sapho and the soldiers.

There was urgent business to attend to.

It didn’t take long to reach the Libyans’ quarters, which were located east of the Agora, in the wall that faced on to the sea. Whole series of rooms, on two tiers, stretched for hundreds of paces in either direction. Dormitories led to eating and bathing areas. Officers’ quarters were situated beside armouries, administrative and quartermasters’ offices. Like any military base, there were also cells. It was to these last that Sapho guided the spearmen. Nodding in a friendly manner at the gaolers, he directed the party into a large room with a plain concrete floor. It was empty apart from the sets of manacles that hung from rings on the wall, a glowing brazier and a table covered in a variety of lethal-looking metal instruments and tools.

As the last man entered, Sapho slammed the door shut and locked it.

‘Chain them up,’ ordered Malchus.

As one, the soldiers placed their spears aside, and turned on the prisoners. Struggling uselessly, the four were restrained side by side. Terror filled the two Greeks’ eyes, and they began to wail. Varsaco and the Egyptian tried to maintain their composure, filling the air with questions and pleas. Studying the implements on the table, Malchus ignored them until silence fell.

‘What are you doing in Carthage?’

‘We’re traders,’ muttered the Egyptian. ‘Honest men.’

‘Really?’ Malchus’ tone was light and friendly.

The Egyptian looked confused. ‘Yes.’

Malchus stared at the faces of the Egyptian’s companions. He turned to Sapho. ‘Well?’

‘I think he’s lying.’

‘So do I.’ Malchus’ intuition was screaming at him now. These were definitely no merchants. The idea that they might know something about Hanno became all-consuming. Malchus wanted information. Fast. How they obtained it was immaterial. He indicated one of the Greeks. ‘Break his arms and legs.’

Clenching his jaw, Sapho picked up a lump hammer. He moved to stand in front of the man Malchus had indicated, who was now moaning in fear. Silently, Sapho delivered a flurry of blows, smashing first the Greek’s arms, and then his lower legs, against the wall. His victim’s screams made a thin, cracked sound that reverberated throughout the room.

It took a long time, but Malchus waited until the man’s cries had died to a low moaning. ‘A different question this time,’ he said coldly. ‘Who was the Carthaginian you were talking about earlier?’

The Egyptian shot a venomous glance at Varsaco.

A surge of adrenaline surged through Malchus. He waited, but there was no response. ‘Well?’

‘He was nobody, just one of the crew,’ muttered Varsaco fearfully. ‘He didn’t like my attentions, so he deserted at some shithole settlement on the Numidian coast.’

Again Malchus looked at his son.

‘Still lying,’ growled Sapho.

‘It’s the truth,’ Varsaco protested. He glanced at the Egyptian. ‘Tell him.’

‘It is as he says,’ the Egyptian agreed with a nervous laugh. ‘The boy ran away.’

‘What kind of fool do you take me for? There’s far more to it than that,’ snapped Malchus. He pointed at Varsaco. ‘Cut his balls off.’

Sapho laid down his hammer and picked up a long, curved dagger.

‘No,’ pleaded Varsaco. ‘Please.’

Stone-faced, Sapho unbuckled Varsaco’s belt and threw it to the floor. Next, he cut away the bottom of his tunic, exposing his linen undergarment. Sliding the blade underneath the fabric on each side of Varsaco’s groin, Sapho slit it from top to bottom. The garment dropped to the floor, leaving Varsaco naked from the waist down, and gibbering with fear. ‘There were two of them,’ he babbled, squirming this way and that. ‘They were adrift off the coast of Sicily.’

The Egyptian’s visage twisted with fury. ‘Shut up, you fool! You’ll only make things worse.’

Varsaco ignored him. Tears were running down his scarred cheeks. ‘I’ll tell you everything,’ he whispered.

Sapho began to feel very guilty indeed. Taking in a shuddering breath, he looked over his shoulder.

Malchus motioned his son to stand back. Volcanic emotions swept through him. The walls came pressing in, and he could feel the blood rushing in his ears. ‘Speak,’ he commanded.

Varsaco nodded eagerly. ‘There was a bad storm a few weeks back. We were caught in it, and our bireme nearly sank. We didn’t, thank the gods. The next day, we came across an open boat, with two young men in it.’

Sapho leaped up and placed his dagger across Varsaco’s throat. ‘Where were they from?’ he screamed. ‘What were their names?’

‘They came from Carthage.’ Varsaco’s eyes flickered like those of a cornered rat. ‘I don’t remember what they were called.’

Malchus grew very calm. ‘What did they look like?’ he asked quietly.

‘One was tall, and had an athletic build. The other was shorter. Both had black hair.’ Varsaco thought for a moment. ‘And green eyes.’

‘Hanno and Suniaton!’ Sapho’s face twisted with anguish. Despite his relief at Hanno’s disappearance, he couldn’t bear that this might be the dreadful truth.

Malchus felt physically sick. ‘What did you do with them?’

Varsaco turned a pasty shade of grey. ‘Naturally, we were going to return them to Carthage,’ he stammered. ‘But the ship had sprung a leak during the storm. We had to make for the nearest land, which was Sicily. They disembarked there, in Heraclea, I think it was.’ He looked to the Egyptian and received a nod of confirmation. ‘Yes, Heraclea.’

‘I see.’ An icy calm blanketed Malchus. ‘If that’s the case, why have they not returned? Finding a ship to Carthage from the south coast of Sicily should pose a problem to no man.’

‘Who knows? Young lads who have just left home are all the same. Only interested in wine and women.’ Varsaco shrugged as nonchalantly as he could.

‘“Just left home”?’ Malchus shouted. ‘You make it sound as if they had chosen to be washed out to sea. That it was a matter of no consequence. If you let them off in Heraclea, then my name is Alexander of Macedon.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Castrate him.’

Sapho lowered his knife.

‘Not that, please, not that,’ Varsaco shrieked. ‘I’ll tell the truth!’

Malchus raised his hand, and Sapho paused. ‘You’ve probably guessed by now that you and these other sewer rats are dead men. You have condemned yourself with your own words.’ Malchus paused to let his sentence sink in. ‘Tell me honestly what you did with my son and his friend, and you’ll keep your manhood. Receive a quick death too.’

Varsaco nodded dully in acceptance of his fate. ‘We sold them as slaves,’ he whispered. ‘In Neapolis. We got an excellent price for both, according to the captain. That’s why we came to Carthage. To abduct more.’

Malchus took a deep breath. It was much as he had suspected. ‘Whom did you sell them to?’

‘I don’t know,’ Varsaco stuttered. ‘I wasn’t there. The captain did it.’ His gaze turned to the Egyptian, who spat contemptuously on the floor.

‘So you are the one who is responsible for this outrage?’ Cold fury bathed Malchus once more. ‘Cut his balls off instead,’ he roared.

At once Sapho stripped the Egyptian of his clothing. Grabbing hold of the moaning pirate captain’s scrotum, he tugged down to draw it taut. Sapho threw a quick glance at Malchus, and received a nod. ‘This is for my brother,’ he muttered, lining his blade up, praying that the act would assuage his guilt.

‘Varsaco was the one who would have raped them,’ shouted the Egyptian. ‘I stopped him.’

‘How good of you,’ Malchus snarled. ‘You had no problem selling them, though, did you? Who bought them?’

‘A Latin. I didn’t get his name. He was going to take both to Capua. Sell them as gladiators. I don’t know any more.’ The Egyptian looked down at Sapho, and then towards Malchus. All he saw from both was an implacable hatred. ‘Give me a quick death, like Varsaco,’ he pleaded.

‘You expect me to keep my word after what you have done to two innocent boys? Those who engage in piracy merit the most terrible fate possible.’ Malchus’ voice dripped with contempt. He turned to the soldiers. ‘You’ve heard what these scum have done to my boy and his friend.’

An angry growl left the Libyans’ throats, and one stood forth. ‘What shall we do with them, sir?’

Malchus let his gaze linger on the four pirates, one by one. ‘Castrate them all, but cauterise the wounds so they do not bleed to death. Break their arms and legs, and then crucify them. When you’re done, find the rest of their crew and do the same to every last one.’

To a background of terrified protests, the spearman snapped off a salute. ‘Yes, sir.’

Malchus and Sapho watched impassively as the soldiers set about their task. Dividing into teams of three, they stripped the prisoners with grim purpose. Light flashed off knife blades as they rose and fell. The screaming soon grew so loud that it was impossible to talk, but the soldiers did not pause for breath. Blood ran down the pirates’ legs in great streams to congeal in sticky pools on the floor. Next, the stench of burning flesh filled the air as red-hot pokers were used to stem the flow from the prisoners’ gaping wounds. The pain of the castration and cautery was so severe that all the pirates passed out. Their respite was brief. A moment later, they were woken by the agony of their bones breaking beneath the blows of hammers. Low repetitive thuds mingled with their shrieks in a new, dreadful cacophony.

Malchus pressed his lips to Sapho’s ear. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.’

Even in the corridor outside, with the door closed, the din was incredible. Although it was now possible to talk, father and son looked at each other in silence for long moments.

Malchus spoke first. ‘He could still be alive. They both could.’ Rare tears glinted in his eyes.

Sapho felt bad for Hanno. Drowning was one thing, but fighting as a gladiator? He hardened his heart. ‘They won’t be for long. It’s a mercy in a way.’

Unaware of Sapho’s motivations, Malchus clenched his jaw. ‘You’re right. We can do no more than to hope that they died well. Let us join Hannibal Barca’s army in Iberia, and wage war on Rome. One day, we will bring ruination, fire and death to Capua. Then, vengeance will be ours.’

Sapho looked stunned. ‘Hannibal would invade Italy?’

‘Yes,’ replied Malchus. ‘That is his long-term plan. To defeat the enemy on their own soil. I am one of only a handful of men who know this. Now you are another.’

‘The secret is safe with me,’ whispered Sapho. Obviously, he and Bostar had not been party to all of the information carried by Hannibal’s messenger. Finally, he understood his father’s threat to raze Capua. ‘Our revenge will come one day,’ he muttered, thinking of the golden opportunities to prove his worth that would arise.

‘Speak after me,’ ordered Malchus. ‘Before Melqart, Baal Saphon and Baal Hammon, I make this vow. With all my might, I will support Hannibal Barca on his quest. I will find Hanno, or die avenging him.’

Slowly, Sapho repeated the words.

Satisfied, Malchus led the way outside.

The screaming continued unabated behind them.