Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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.