Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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.’