Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter VI: Servitude

Near Capua, Campania

Hanno trudged despondently behind Agesandros’ mule, swallowing the clouds of dust sent up by those in front. Ahead of the Sicilian was the litter containing Atia and Aurelia, and beyond that, in the lead, were Fabricius and Quintus. It was the morning following his purchase by Quintus, and, after spending the night at Martialis’ house, the family was returning to their farm. During their short stay, Hanno had been left in the kitchen with the resident household slaves. Dazed, still unable to believe that he had been separated from Suniaton, he had simply slumped in a corner and wept. Other than placing a loincloth, a beaker of water and a plate of food beside him, no one had offered him any comfort. Hanno would remember their curious stares afterwards, however. No doubt it was something they had all seen countless times before: the new slave, who realises that his life will never be the same again. It had probably happened to most of them. Mercifully, sleep had finally found Hanno. His rest had been fitful, but it had provided him with an escape of sorts: the possibility of denying reality.

Now, in the cold light of day, he had to face up to it.

He belonged to Quintus’ father, Fabricius. Like his family, Suni was gone for ever.

Hanno still didn’t know what to make of his master. Since a cursory examination when they had first returned to Martialis’ house, Fabricius had paid him little heed. He had accepted his son’s explanation that, because of his literacy and skill with languages, the Carthaginian was worth his high purchase price, the balance of which Quintus was paying anyway. ‘It’s your business the way you spend your money,’ he’d said. He seemed decent enough, thought Hanno, as did Quintus. Aurelia was but a child. Atia, Fabricius’ wife, was an unknown quantity. So far, she’d barely even looked at him, but Hanno hoped that she would prove a fair mistress.

It was strange to be considering people whom he’d always considered evil as normal, yet it was Agesandros whom Hanno was most concerned about. The Sicilian had taken a set against him from the beginning. For all his concerns, at least his own situation had a positive side to it, for which he felt immensely guilty. Suniaton’s fate still hung by a thread, and Hanno could only ask every god he knew to intercede on his friend’s behalf. At the worst, to let him die bravely.

Hearing the word ‘Saguntum’ mentioned, he pricked his ears. A Greek city in Iberia, allied to the Republic, it had been the focus of Hannibal’s attention for months. Indeed, it was where the war on Rome would start.

‘I thought that the Senate had decided there was no real threat to Saguntum?’ asked Quintus. ‘After the Saguntines had demanded recompense for the attacks on their lands, all Hannibal did was to send them a rudely worded reply.’

Hanno hid his smirk. He’d heard that insult several weeks before, at home. ‘Scabby, flea-bitten savages,’ Hannibal had called the city’s residents. As everyone in Carthage knew, the rebuttal presaged his real plan: an attack on Saguntum.

‘Politicians sometimes underestimate generals,’ said Fabricius heavily. ‘Hannibal has done far more than issue threats now. According to the latest news, Saguntum is surrounded by his army. They’ve started building fortifications. It’s going to be a siege. Carthage has finally regained its bite.’

Quintus threw an angry glance at Hanno, who looked down at once. ‘Can nothing be done?’

‘Not this campaigning season,’ Fabricius replied crossly. ‘Hannibal couldn’t have picked a better moment. Both the consular armies are committed to the East, and the threat there.’

‘You mean Demetrius of Pharos?’ asked Quintus.

‘Yes.’

‘Wasn’t he an ally of ours until recently?’

‘He was. Then the miserable dog decided that piracy is more profitable. Our entire eastern seaboard has been affected. He’s been threatening Illyrian cities under the Republic’s protection too. But the trouble should be over by the autumn. Demetrius’ forces have no chance against four legions and double that number of socii.’

Quintus couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘I’ll miss it all.’

‘Never fear. There’ll always be another war,’ said his father with an amused smile. ‘You’ll get your turn soon enough.’

Quintus was partly mollified. ‘Meanwhile, Saguntum just gets left to hang in the wind?’

‘It’s not right, I know,’ his father replied. ‘But the main faction in the Senate has decided that this is the course we shall follow. The rest of us have to obey.’

So much for Roman fides, thought Hanno contemptuously.

Father and son rode in silence for a few moments.

‘What will the Senate do if Saguntum falls?’ probed Quintus.

‘Demand that the Carthaginians withdraw, I imagine. As well as hand over Hannibal.’

Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Would they do that?’

Never, thought Hanno furiously.

‘I don’t think so,’ Fabricius replied. ‘Even the Carthaginians have their pride. Besides, their Council of Elders will have known about Hannibal’s plan to besiege Saguntum. They’re hardly going to offer their support on that only to withdraw it immediately afterwards.’

Unseen, Hanno spat on to the road. ‘Damn right they’re not,’ he whispered.

‘Then war is unavoidable,’ Quintus cried. ‘The Senate won’t take an insult like that lying down.’

Fabricius sighed. ‘No, it won’t, even though it’s partly to blame for the whole situation. The indemnities forced on Carthage at the end of the last war were ruinous, but the seizure of Sardinia soon after was even worse. There was no excuse for it.’

Hanno could scarcely believe what he was hearing: a Roman express regret for what had been done to his people. Perhaps they weren’t all monsters? he wondered for the second time. His gut reaction weighed in at once. They are still the enemy.

‘That conflict was a generation ago,’ said Quintus, bridling. ‘This is now. Even if it comes late, Rome has to defend one of her allies who has been attacked without due cause.’

Fabricius inclined his head. ‘She does.’

‘So war with Carthage is coming, one way or another,’ said Quintus. He threw a further look at Hanno, who affected not to notice.

‘Probably,’ Fabricius replied. ‘Not this year perhaps, but next.’

‘I could be part of that!’ Quintus cried eagerly. ‘But I want to know how to use a sword properly first.’

‘You’re proficient with both bow and spear,’ admitted Fabricius. He paused, aware that Quintus was hanging on his every word. ‘Strictly speaking, of course, it’s not necessary for the cavalry, but I suppose a little instruction in the use of the gladius wouldn’t go amiss.’

Quintus’ grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘Thank you, Father.’ He raised a hand to his mouth. ‘Mother! Aurelia! Did you hear that? I am to become a swordsman.’

‘That’s good news indeed.’ Coming from the depths of the litter, Atia’s voice was muffled, but Quintus thought he detected a tinge of sadness in it.

Aurelia lifted the cloth and stuck her head outside. ‘How wonderful,’ she said, forcing a smile. Inside, she was consumed by jealousy.

‘We’ll start tomorrow,’ said Fabricius.

‘Excellent!’ Instantly, Quintus forgot both his mother and Aurelia’s reactions. His head was full of images of him and Gaius serving in the cavalry, winning glory for themselves and Rome.

Despite his guilt over Suniaton, Hanno’s spirits had also risen. While he had Agesandros to contend with, he was not destined to die as a gladiator. And, although he might not be able to take part, his people were about to take on Rome again, with Hannibal Barca to lead them. A man whom his father reckoned to be the finest leader Carthage had ever seen.

For the first time in days, a spark of hope lit in Hanno’s heart.

One summer morning, word came from the port that Malchus and Sapho had landed. Bostar shouted with delight at the news. As he hurried through the streets of New Carthage, the city founded by Hasdrubal nine years before, he couldn’t stop grinning. Catching a glimpse of the temple of Aesculapius, which stood on the large hill to the east of the walls, Bostar offered up a prayer of thanks to the god of medicine and his followers. If it hadn’t been for the injury to his sword arm, sustained in overexcited training with naked blades, he would have already set out for Saguntum with the rest of the army. Instead, on the orders of Alete, his commanding officer, Bostar had had to stay behind. ‘I’ve seen too many wounds like that turn bad,’ Alete had muttered. ‘Remain here, in the care of the priests, and join us when you’ve recovered. Saguntum isn’t going to fall in a day, or a month.’ At the time, Bostar had not been happy. Now, he was overjoyed.

It wasn’t long until he’d reached the port, which looked out over the calm gulf beyond New Carthage. The city’s location was second to none. Situated at the point of a natural, enclosed bay which was furthest from the Mediterranean, it was surrounded on all sides by water. To the east and south lay the sea, while to the north and west was a large, saltwater lagoon. The only connection with the mainland was a narrow, heavily fortified causeway, which made the city almost impregnable. It was no surprise that New Carthage had replaced Gades as the capital of Carthaginian Iberia.

Bostar sped past the ships nearest the quay. New arrivals would have to moor further away. As always, the place was extremely busy. The vast majority of the army might have left with Hannibal, but troops and supplies were still coming in daily. Javelins clattered off each other as they were laid in piles, and stacks of freshly made helmets glinted in the sun. There were wax-sealed amphorae of olive oil and wine, rolls of cloth and bags of nails. Wooden crates of glazed crockery stood beside bulging bags of nuts. Gossiping sailors coiled ropes and swept the decks of their unloaded vessels. Fishermen who had been out since before dawn sweated as they hauled their catch on to the dock.

‘Bostar!’

He craned his head, searching for his family among the dense forest of masts and rigging. Finally, Bostar spotted his father and Sapho on the deck of a trireme that was tied up two vessels from the quay. He vaulted on to the first craft’s deck and made his way to meet them. ‘Welcome!’

A moment later, they had been reunited. Bostar was shocked by the change in both. They were different men since he’d last seen them. Cold. Hard-faced. Ruthless. He bowed to Malchus, trying not to let his surprise show. ‘Father. It is wonderful to see you at last.’

Malchus’ severe expression softened briefly. ‘Bostar. What happened to your arm?’

‘It’s a scratch, nothing more. A stupid mistake during training,’ he replied. ‘Lucky it happened, though, because it’s the only reason I’m still here. I receive treatment daily at Aesculapius’ temple.’ He turned to Sapho, and was surprised to see that his brother looked downright angry. Bostar’s hopes for a reconciliation vanished. The rift caused by their argument over releasing Hanno and Suniaton was clearly still present. As if he didn’t feel guilty enough, thought Bostar sadly. Instead of an embrace, he saluted. ‘Brother.’

Stiffly, Sapho returned the gesture.

‘How was your journey?’

‘Pleasant enough,’ Malchus answered. ‘We saw no Roman triremes, which is a blessing.’ His face twisted with an unreadable emotion. ‘Enough of that. We have discovered what happened to Hanno.’

Bostar blinked with shock. ‘What?’

‘You heard,’ snapped Sapho. ‘He and Suni didn’t drown.’

Bostar’s mouth opened. ‘How do you know?’

Malchus took over. ‘Because I never lost faith in Melqart, and because I had eyes and ears in the port, who looked and listened out day and night for any clues.’ He smiled sourly at Bostar’s bafflement. ‘A couple of months ago, one of my spies struck gold. He overheard a conversation he thought might interest me. We took the men in for questioning.’

Bostar was riveted by his father’s story. Hearing that Hanno and Suniaton had been captured by pirates, he began to weep. Neither of the others did, which only increased his grief. His anguish grew deeper with the revelation of the pair’s sale into slavery. I thought it was a kind gesture to let them go fishing. How wrong I was! ‘That’s a worse fate than drowning. They could have been taken anywhere. Bought by anyone.’

‘I know,’ Sapho snarled. ‘They were sold in Italy. Probably as gladiators.’

Bostar’s eyes filled with horror. ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ Sapho shot back venomously, ‘and it’s all your fault. If you had stopped them, Hanno would be standing here beside us today.’

Bostar swelled with indignation. ‘That’s rich coming from you!’

‘Stop it!’ Malchus’ voice cut in like a whiplash. ‘Sapho, you and Bostar came to the decision together, did you not?’

Sapho glowered. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘So you are both responsible, just as I am for not being easier on him.’ Malchus ignored his sons’ surprise at his admission of complicity. ‘Hanno is gone now, and fighting over his memory will serve none of us. I want no more of this. Our task now is to follow Hannibal, and take Saguntum. If we are lucky, the gods will grant us vengeance for Hanno afterwards, in the fight against Rome. We must put everything else from our minds. Clear?’

‘Yes, Father,’ the brothers mumbled, but neither looked at the other.

Bostar had to ask. ‘What did you do to the pirates?’

‘They were castrated, and then their limbs were broken. Lastly, the scum were crucified,’ Malchus replied in a flat tone. Without another word, he climbed up on to the dock and headed for the city’s centre.

Sapho held back until they were alone. ‘It was too good for them. We should have gouged out their eyes too,’ he added viciously. Despite his apparent enthusiasm, the horror of what he’d seen still lingered in his eyes. Sapho had thought that the punishments would stop him feeling relief at Hanno’s disappearance, but he’d been wrong. Seeing his younger brother again rammed that home. I will be the favourite! he thought savagely. ‘Just as well that you weren’t there. You wouldn’t have been up to any of it.’

Despite the implication about his courage, Bostar retained his composure. He wasn’t about to pull rank here, now. He was also uncertain what his own reaction might have been if he’d been placed in the same situation, handed the opportunity for revenge on those who had consigned Hanno to a certain death. Deep down, Bostar was glad that he had not been there. He doubted that either his father or Sapho would understand. Melqart, he prayed, I ask that my brother had a good death, and that you allow our family to put aside its differences. Bostar gained small consolation from the prayer, but it was all he had at that moment.

That, and a war to look forward to.

Checking that Agesandros was nowhere in sight, Hanno pulled the mules to a halt. The sweating beasts did not protest. It was nearly midday, and the temperature in the farmyard was scorching. Hanno jerked his head at one of the others who was threshing the wheat with him. ‘Water.’

The Gaul made a reflex check for the Sicilian before putting down his pitchfork, and fetching the leather skin which lay by the storage shed. After drinking deeply, he replaced the stopper and tossed it through the air.

Hanno nodded his thanks. He swallowed a dozen mouthfuls, but was careful to leave plenty of the warm liquid for the others. He threw the bag to Cingetorix, another Gaul.

When he was done, Cingetorix wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Gods, but it’s hot.’ He spoke in Latin, which was the only language he and his countrymen had to communicate with Hanno. ‘Does it never rain in this cursed place? At home…’ He wasn’t allowed to finish.

‘We know,’ growled Galba, a short man whose sunburnt torso was covered with swirling tattoos. ‘It rains much more. Don’t remind us.’

‘Not in Carthage,’ said Hanno. ‘It’s as dry there as it is here.’

Cingetorix scowled. ‘You must feel right at home then.’

Despite himself, Hanno grinned. For perhaps two months after his arrival, the Gauls, with whom he shared sleeping quarters, had ignored him completely, speaking their own rapid-fire, guttural tongue at all times. He’d done his best to win them over, but it had made no difference. When it came, the change had been gradual. Hanno wasn’t sure whether the extra, unwanted attention he received from Agesandros was what had prompted the tribesmen to extend the hand of friendship to him, but he no longer cared. The camaraderie they now shared was what made his existence bearable. That, and the news that Hannibal’s iron grip on Saguntum had tightened. Apparently, the city would fall before the end of the year. Hanno prayed for the Carthaginian army’s success every night. He also asked that one day he be granted an opportunity to kill Agesandros.

There were five of them in the yard altogether, continuing the work which had begun weeks previously with the harvest. It was late summer, and Hanno had grown used to life on the farm, and the immense labour expected of him every day. Things were made much harder by the heavy iron fetters that had been attached to his ankles, preventing him moving at any speed faster than a shuffle. Hanno had thought he was fit beforehand, but soon realised otherwise. Working twelve or more hours a day in summer heat, wearing manacles and fed barely enough, he was a taut, wiry shadow of his former self. His hair fell in long, shaggy tresses either side of his bearded face. The muscles on his torso and limbs now stood out like whipcord, and every part of exposed skin had darkened to a deep brown colour. The Gauls looked no different. We’re like wild beasts, Hanno thought. It was no wonder that they rarely saw Fabricius or his family.

Catching sight of Agesandros in the distance, he whistled the agreed signal to alert his companions. Swiftly, the skin was hurled back to its original position. Hanno dragged his mules into action again, pulling a heavy sledge over the harvested wheat, which had been laid right across the hard-packed dirt of the large farmyard. The Gauls began winnowing the threshed crop, tossing it into the air with their pitchforks so that the breeze could carry away the unwanted chaff. Their tasks were time-consuming and mind-numbing, but they had to be done before the wheat could be shovelled into the back of a wagon and deposited in the nearby storage sheds, which were built on brick stilts to prevent rodent access.

When Agesandros arrived a few moments later, he stood in the shade cast by the buildings and watched them silently. Uneasy, the five slaves worked hard, trying not to look in the Sicilian’s direction. Soon a fresh coat of sweat coated their bodies.

Every time he turned the sledge, Hanno caught a glimpse of Agesandros, who was staring relentlessly at him. He was unsurprised when the overseer stalked in his direction.

‘You’re walking the mules too fast! Slow down, or half the wheat won’t come off the stalks.’

Hanno tugged on the nearest animal’s lead rope. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.

‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you,’ Agesandros snarled.

‘At once, sir,’ Hanno repeated loudly.

‘Stinking gugga. You’re all the damn same. Useless!’ Agesandros drew his whip.

Hanno steeled himself. It didn’t seem to matter what he did. The mules’ speed was just the latest example. His technique with the scythe and pitchfork, and how long he took to fetch water from the well had also recently been called into question. Everything he did was wrong, and the Sicilian’s response was the same every time.

‘You’re all idle bastards.’ Lazily, Agesandros drew the long rawhide lash along the ground. ‘Motherless curs. Cowards. Vermin.’

Hanno clicked his tongue at the mules, trying to block out the insults.

‘Maybe you did have a mother,’ Agesandros admitted. He paused. ‘She must have been the most diseased whore in Carthage, though, to spawn something that looks like you.’

Hanno’s knuckles tightened with fury on the lead rope, and his shoulders bunched. From the corner of his eye, he saw Galba, who was behind the Sicilian, shaking his head in a gesture that said ‘No’. Hanno forced himself to relax, but Agesandros had already seen his barb’s effect.

‘Didn’t like that?’ The Sicilian laughed, and raised his right arm. A heartbeat later, the whip came singing in to wrap itself across Hanno’s back and under his right armpit. Crack went the tip as it opened the skin under his right nipple. The pain was intense. Hanno stiffened, and his pace decreased a fraction. It was all Agesandros needed. ‘Did I tell you to slow down?’ he screamed. The whip was withdrawn, only to return. Hanno counted three, six, a dozen lashes. Although he did his utmost not to make a sound, eventually he couldn’t help but moan.

The overseer smiled at this proof of Hanno’s weakness, and ceased. His skill with the lash was such that Hanno was always left in extreme pain, but still able to work. ‘That should keep you moving at the right speed,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Hanno muttered.

Satisfied, Agesandros gave the Gauls a hard stare and made as if to go.

Hanno did not relax. There was always more.

Sure enough, Agesandros turned. ‘You’ll find your bed softer tonight,’ he confided.

Slowly, Hanno raised his gaze to meet that of the Sicilian.

‘I’ve pissed in it for you.’

Hanno did not speak. This was even worse than Agesandros spitting in his food, or halving his water ration. His anger, which had been reduced to a tiny glow in the centre of his soul, was suddenly fanned to a white-hot blaze of outrage and indignation. With supreme effort, he kept his face blank. Now is not the time, he told himself. Wait.

Agesandros sneered. ‘Nothing to say?’

I won’t give the bastard what he wants, thought Hanno furiously. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Cheated, Agesandros snorted and walked away.

‘Dirty fucker,’ whispered Galba when he was out of earshot. There was a rumble of agreement from the others. ‘You can have some of our bedding. We’ll replace the wet stuff in the morning in case he checks up on you.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Hanno absently. He was imagining running after the overseer and killing him. Thanks to Agesandros’ expert needling, his warrior spirit had just reawakened. If he was to meet Suniaton in the next world, he wanted to be able to hold his head up high. Things would come to a head soon, Hanno realised. But it didn’t matter. Death would be better than this daily indignity.

Unusually, Quintus found himself at a loose end one fine morning. It had rained overnight, and the temperature was cooler than it had been for many months. Invigorated by the crisp, fresh air, he decided to make amends with Aurelia. Over the previous few months, much to her displeasure, Aurelia had been put in the care of a strict tutor, a sour-faced Greek slave loaned to Atia by Martialis. Rather than roaming the farm as she pleased, nowadays Aurelia had to sit demurely and learn Greek and mathematics. Atia continued to teach her how to weave and sew, and how to comport herself in polite company. Aurelia’s protests fell on deaf ears. ‘It’s time you learned to be a lady, and that’s an end to it,’ Atia had snapped a number of times. ‘If you keep protesting, I’ll give you a good whipping.’ Aurelia dutifully obeyed, but her stony silences at the dinner table since revealed her true opinion.

Fabricius knew better than to intervene in his wife’s business, which left Quintus as Aurelia’s only possible ally. However, he felt caught in the middle. While he felt guilty at his sister’s plight, he also knew that an arranged marriage was the best thing for the family. All his attempts to lighten her mood failed, and so Quintus began to avoid her company when his day’s work was done. Hurt, Aurelia spent more and more time in her room. It was a vicious circle from which there seemed no way out.

Meanwhile Quintus had been fully occupied with the work his father set him: paperwork, errands to Capua and regular lessons in the use of the gladius. Despite the time that had passed, Quintus still missed his sister keenly. He made a snap decision. It was time to make her an apology and move on. They did not have for ever. Although Fabricius had found no suitable husband for Aurelia yet, he had begun the search during his visits to Rome.

Throwing some food into a pack, Quintus headed for the chamber off the courtyard where Aurelia took her lessons. Barely pausing to knock, he entered. The tutor glanced up, a small frown of disapproval creasing his brow. ‘Master Quintus. To what do we owe the pleasure?’

Quintus drew himself up to his full height. He was now three fingers width taller than his father, which meant that he towered over most people. ‘I am taking Aurelia on a tour of the farm,’ he announced grandly.

The tutor looked taken aback. ‘Who sanctioned this?’

‘I did,’ Quintus replied.

The tutor blew out his cheeks with displeasure. ‘Your parents-’

‘Would approve wholeheartedly. I will explain everything to them later.’ Quintus made an airy gesture. ‘Come on,’ he said to Aurelia.

Her attempt to look angry faded away, and she jumped to her feet. Her writing tablet and stylus clattered unnoticed to the floor, drawing reproving clucks from the tutor. Yet the elderly Greek did not challenge Quintus further, and the siblings made their way outside unhindered.

Since killing the bear, Quintus’ confidence had grown leaps and bounds. It felt good. He grinned at Aurelia.

Abruptly, she remembered their feud. ‘What’s going on?’ she cried. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks, and then suddenly you barge into my lessons unannounced.’

He took Aurelia’s hand. ‘I’m sorry for deserting you.’ To his horror, tears formed in her eyes, and Quintus realised how hurt she had been. ‘Nothing I said seemed to make any difference,’ he muttered. ‘I couldn’t think of a way to help you. Forgive me.’

She smiled through her grief. ‘I was at fault too, staying in a mood for days. But come, you’re here now.’ A mischievous look stole across her face. ‘A tour of the farm? What have I not seen a thousand times before?’

‘It was all I could think of,’ he replied, embarrassed. ‘Something to get you out of there.’

Grinning, she nudged him. ‘It was enough to shut up the old fool. Thank you. I don’t care where we go.’

Arm in arm, they strolled along the path that led to the olive groves.

Hanno could see that Agesandros was in a bad mood. Any slave who so much as missed a step was getting a tongue-lashing. Ten of them were walking ahead of the Sicilian, carrying wicker baskets. Fortunately, Hanno was near the front, which meant that Agesandros was paying him little attention. Their destination was the terraces containing plum trees, the fruit of which had lately, and urgently, become ripe. Picking the juicy crop would be an easy task compared to the work of the previous weeks, and Hanno was looking forward to it. Agesandros could only be so vigilant. Before the day was over, plenty of plums would have ended up in his grumbling belly.

A moment later, he cursed his optimism.

Galba, the man behind him, missed his footing and fell heavily to the ground. There was a grunt of pain, and Hanno turned to see a nasty gash on his comrade’s right shin. It had been caused by a sharp piece of rock protruding from the earth. Blood welled in the wound, running down Galba’s muscular calf and on to the dry soil, where it was soaked up at once.

‘That’s your day over,’ Hanno said in a low voice.

‘I doubt Agesandros would agree,’ Galba replied, grimacing. ‘Help me up.’

Hanno bent to obey, but it was too late.

Shoving past the other slaves, the Sicilian had reached them in a dozen strides. ‘What in the name of Hades is going on?’

‘He fell and hurt his leg,’ Hanno began to explain.

Agesandros spun around, his eyes like chips of flint. ‘Let the piece of shit explain for himself,’ he hissed before turning back to Galba. ‘Well?’

‘It’s as he said, sir,’ said the Gaul carefully. ‘I tripped and landed on this rock.’

‘You did it deliberately, to get out of work for a few days,’ Agesandros snarled.

‘No, sir.’

‘Liar!’ The Sicilian tugged free his whip and began belabouring Galba.

Hanno’s fury overflowed at last. ‘Leave him alone,’ he shouted. ‘He didn’t do anything.’

Agesandros delivered several more strokes and a hefty kick before he paused. Nostrils flaring, he glared at Hanno. ‘What did you say?’

‘Picking plums is an easy job. Why would he try and get out of it?’ he growled. ‘The man tripped. That’s it.’

The Sicilian’s eyes opened wide with disbelief and rage. ‘You dare to tell me what to do? You piece of maggot-blown filth!’

Hanno would have given anything for a sword in that instant. He had nothing, though, but his anger. In the rush of adrenaline, it felt enough. ‘Is that what I am?’ he spat back. ‘Well, you’re nothing but low-born Sicilian scum! Even if my feet were covered in shit, I wouldn’t wipe them on you.’

Something inside Agesandros snapped. Raising his whip, he smashed the metal-tipped butt into Hanno’s face.

There was a loud crunch and Hanno felt the cartilage in his nose break. Half blinded by the intense pain, he reeled backwards, raising his hands protectively against the blow he knew would follow. He had no opportunity to pick up a rock, anything to defend himself. Agesandros was on him like a lion on its prey. Down came the whip across Hanno’s shoulders, its tip licking around to snap into the flesh of his back. It whirled away but came singing back a heartbeat later, lacing cut after cut across his bare torso. He backed away, but the laughing Sicilian followed. When Hanno stumbled on a tree root, Agesandros shoved him in the chest, sending him sprawling. Winded, he could do nothing as the other loomed over him, his face twisted in triumph. A mighty kick in the chest followed, and the ribs broken by Varsaco cracked for the second time. The pain was unbearable and, hating himself, Hanno screamed. Worse was to follow. The beating went on until he was barely conscious. Finally, Agesandros rolled him on to his back. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered. Prompted by more kicks, Hanno managed to open his eyes. The moment he did, the Sicilian lifted his right leg high, revealing the hobnailed sole of his sandal. ‘This is for all my comrades,’ he muttered. ‘And my family.’

Hanno had no idea what Agesandros was talking about. The bastard is going to kill me, he thought dazedly. Strangely, he didn’t really care. At least his suffering would be over. He felt a numbing sense of sorrow that he would never see his family again. There would be no opportunity to apologise to his father either. Let it be so. Resigned, Hanno closed his eyes and waited for Agesandros to end it.

The blow never fell.

Instead, a commanding voice shouted, ‘Agesandros! Stop!’

Initially, Hanno didn’t grasp what was going on, but when the order was repeated, and he sensed the Sicilian back away, the realisation sank in. Someone had intervened. Who? He lay back on the hard ground, unable to do anything more than draw shallow breaths. Each movement of his ribcage stabbed knives of pain through every part of his being. It was the only thing that kept him from lapsing into unconsciousness. He was aware of Agesandros throwing hate-filled glances in his direction, but the Sicilian did nothing further to him.

A heartbeat later, Quintus and Aurelia, Fabricius’ children, appeared at the edge of Hanno’s vision. Outrage filled both their faces.

‘What have you done?’ Aurelia cried, dropping to her knees by Hanno’s side. Although the bloodied Carthaginian was almost unrecognisable, her stomach still fluttered at the sight of him.

Hanno tried to smile at her. After Agesandros’ cruel features, she resembled a nymph or other suchlike creature.

‘Well?’ Quintus’ voice was stony. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘Your father leaves the running of the farm, and the care of the slaves, to me,’ Agesandros blustered. ‘That’s the way it has been since before you were born.’

‘And if you killed a slave? What would he say then?’ Aurelia challenged.

Agesandros was taken aback. ‘Come now,’ he said in a placating manner. ‘I was administering a beating, nothing more.’

Quintus’ laugh was derisory. ‘You were about to stamp on his head. On this rocky ground, a blow like that could stave a man’s skull in.’

Agesandros did not reply.

‘Couldn’t it?’ Quintus demanded. His fury at the Sicilian, who had looked intent on murder, had doubled when he realised the victim’s identity. Any residual awe he felt towards Agesandros had evaporated. ‘Answer me, by all the gods.’

‘I suppose so,’ Agesandros admitted sullenly.

‘Was that your intention?’ Aurelia demanded.

The Sicilian glanced at Hanno. ‘No,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest. ‘My temper got the better of me, that’s all.’

Liar, thought Hanno. Above him, Aurelia’s face twisted with disbelief, reinforcing his conviction.

Quintus could also see that Agesandros was lying, but to accuse him further would bring the situation into completely uncharted waters. He didn’t feel quite that confident. ‘How did it happen?’

Agesandros indicated Galba. ‘That slave fell deliberately and injured his leg. He was trying to get off work. It’s an old trick, and I saw through it at once. I laid a few blows into the dog to teach him a lesson, and the gugga told me to stop, that it had been a genuine accident.’ He snorted. ‘Such defiance cannot be tolerated. He needed to be taught the error of his ways on the spot.’

Quintus looked down at Hanno. ‘I think you succeeded,’ he said sarcastically. ‘He’s halfway to Hades.’

One corner of Agesandros’ mouth tugged upwards.

The only one to see it was Hanno. Agesandros wants me dead. Why?

It was the last coherent thought he had.

Quintus’ confidence was bolstered by his success over Agesandros. Rather than let the injured Hanno be carried back to the villa like a sack of grain as the Sicilian wanted, he insisted that a litter be fetched. Galba could limp alongside. Scowling, Agesandros could do little but obey his command, sending a slave off at the run. The overseer watched with a surly expression as, using a strip of cloth, Aurelia cleaned the worst of the blood from Hanno’s face. Tears poured down her cheeks, but she did not make a sound. She would not give Agesandros the satisfaction.

A short time later, when Hanno had been carefully transferred into the litter, she finally stood. A mixture of blood and dust covered the lower half of her dress, from where she had knelt in the dirt. Though reddened, her eyes were full of anger, and her face was set. ‘If he dies, I will see that Father makes you pay,’ she said. ‘I swear it.’

Agesandros tried to laugh it off. ‘It takes more than that to kill a gugga,’ he declared.

Aurelia glared at him, afraid and yet unafraid.

‘Come,’ said Quintus, gently leading her away. Agesandros made to follow, but Quintus had had enough. ‘Go about your business,’ he barked. ‘We will care for the two slaves.’

They installed Hanno on blankets and a straw mattress in an empty stable off the farmyard, where he lay as still as a corpse. Quintus was concerned by his pale face. If the Carthaginian died, his father would be severely out of pocket, so he ordered hot water to be fetched from the kitchen, along with strips of linen and a flask of acetum, or vinegar. When they arrived, he was surprised by Aurelia’s reaction. She would suffer no other to clean the Carthaginian’s wounds. Meanwhile Elira treated Galba, with Quintus watching appreciatively. The Illyrian’s medical knowledge was good, courtesy of her upbringing. As she’d told Quintus, her mother had been the woman to whom everyone in the tribe came with their ailments. First she washed the wound with plenty of hot water. Then, ignoring Galba’s hisses of discomfort, she sluiced the area with acetum before patting it dry and applying a dressing. ‘Two days’ rest, and light duties for a week,’ Quintus said when she was done. ‘I’ll make sure Agesandros knows.’

Muttering his gratitude, the Gaul shuffled off.

There was a moan from behind him, and Quintus turned. Hanno’s face twisted briefly at whatever Aurelia was doing, before relaxing again. ‘He’s alive,’ he said with relief.

‘No thanks to Agesandros,’ Aurelia shot back vehemently. ‘Imagine if we hadn’t come along! He might still die.’ Her voice tailed off as she bit back a sob.

Quintus patted her shoulder, wondering why she was so upset. Hanno was only a slave, after all.

Elira moved to the bed. ‘Let me take a look at him,’ she said.

To Quintus’ surprise, Aurelia moved aside. They watched in silence as the Illyrian ran expert hands over Hanno’s battered body, gently probing here and there. ‘I can find no head injury apart from his broken nose,’ she said eventually. ‘He has three cracked ribs, and all these flesh wounds from the whip.’ She pointed to his prominent ribcage and concave belly. ‘Someone hasn’t been feeding him enough either. He’s strong, though. Some good nursing and decent food, and he could be up and about inside a week.’

‘Jupiter be thanked,’ Aurelia cried.

Quintus smiled his own relief and went in search of Fabricius. Agesandros’ cruelty must be reported at once. He suspected that his father would not seriously punish the Sicilian, who, no doubt, would deny everything if challenged. He could hear Fabricius’ voice already. Discipline was part of the overseer’s remit, and no slave had the right to question his authority as Hanno had. This was the first time that Agesandros had gone overboard. In Fabricius’ eyes, it would be a one-off occurrence. Quintus knew what he had seen, however. His jaw hardened.

Agesandros would have to be watched from now on.

Hanno was woken by the pain radiating from his ribs each time he took a breath. The dull throbbing from his face reminded him of his broken nose. He lifted his hands, feeling the heavy strapping that circled his chest. The manacles around his ankles had been removed. This could hardly be Agesandros’ work. Quintus must have insisted I be treated, Hanno thought. His surprise grew when he opened his eyes. Instead of the damp straw in his miserable cell, he was lying on blankets in an empty stable. Occasional whinnies told him that there were horses nearby. He eyed the stool alongside him. Someone had been keeping vigil.

A shadow fell across the threshold and Hanno looked up to see Elira carrying a clay jug and two beakers.

Her face lit up. ‘You’re awake!’

He nodded slowly, drinking her beauty in.

She rushed to his side. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore all over.’

She reached down and lifted a gourd from the floor. ‘Drink some of this.’

‘What is it?’ he asked suspiciously.

Elira smiled. ‘A dilute solution of papaverum.’ Seeing his confusion, she explained. ‘It will dull the pain.’

He was too weak to argue. Taking the gourd, Hanno took a deep swallow of the painkilling draught, screwing up his face at the bitter taste of the liquid within.

‘It won’t take long to work,’ Elira murmured reassuringly. ‘Then you can sleep some more.’

Abruptly, the Sicilian came to mind, and he tried to sit up. The small effort felt exhausting. ‘What about Agesandros?’

‘Don’t worry. Fabricius has seen your injuries, and warned him to leave you alone. The gods must have been in good humour, because he also agreed to let me care for you. It took a bit of persuasion, but Aurelia won him over,’ Elira said. She raised a hand to his sweating face. ‘Look, you are as weak as a kitten,’ she scolded. ‘Lie down.’

Hanno obeyed. Why would Aurelia care what happened to him? he wondered. Feeling the papaverum begin to take effect, he closed his eyes. It was a huge relief to know that one of his owner’s children was on his side, but Hanno doubted that Aurelia could shield him from Agesandros’ ill will. She was only a girl. Still, he thought wearily, his situation was better now than it had been. Perhaps the gods were showing him favour once more? Keeping that idea uppermost, Hanno relaxed and let sleep take him.