Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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.

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?’