Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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?’