Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Malchus motioned his son to stand back. Volcanic emotions swept through him. The walls came pressing in, and he could feel the blood rushing in his ears. ‘Speak,’ he commanded.

Varsaco nodded eagerly. ‘There was a bad storm a few weeks back. We were caught in it, and our bireme nearly sank. We didn’t, thank the gods. The next day, we came across an open boat, with two young men in it.’

Sapho leaped up and placed his dagger across Varsaco’s throat. ‘Where were they from?’ he screamed. ‘What were their names?’

‘They came from Carthage.’ Varsaco’s eyes flickered like those of a cornered rat. ‘I don’t remember what they were called.’

Malchus grew very calm. ‘What did they look like?’ he asked quietly.

‘One was tall, and had an athletic build. The other was shorter. Both had black hair.’ Varsaco thought for a moment. ‘And green eyes.’

‘Hanno and Suniaton!’ Sapho’s face twisted with anguish. Despite his relief at Hanno’s disappearance, he couldn’t bear that this might be the dreadful truth.

Malchus felt physically sick. ‘What did you do with them?’

Varsaco turned a pasty shade of grey. ‘Naturally, we were going to return them to Carthage,’ he stammered. ‘But the ship had sprung a leak during the storm. We had to make for the nearest land, which was Sicily. They disembarked there, in Heraclea, I think it was.’ He looked to the Egyptian and received a nod of confirmation. ‘Yes, Heraclea.’

‘I see.’ An icy calm blanketed Malchus. ‘If that’s the case, why have they not returned? Finding a ship to Carthage from the south coast of Sicily should pose a problem to no man.’

‘Who knows? Young lads who have just left home are all the same. Only interested in wine and women.’ Varsaco shrugged as nonchalantly as he could.

‘“Just left home”?’ Malchus shouted. ‘You make it sound as if they had chosen to be washed out to sea. That it was a matter of no consequence. If you let them off in Heraclea, then my name is Alexander of Macedon.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Castrate him.’

Sapho lowered his knife.

‘Not that, please, not that,’ Varsaco shrieked. ‘I’ll tell the truth!’

Malchus raised his hand, and Sapho paused. ‘You’ve probably guessed by now that you and these other sewer rats are dead men. You have condemned yourself with your own words.’ Malchus paused to let his sentence sink in. ‘Tell me honestly what you did with my son and his friend, and you’ll keep your manhood. Receive a quick death too.’

Varsaco nodded dully in acceptance of his fate. ‘We sold them as slaves,’ he whispered. ‘In Neapolis. We got an excellent price for both, according to the captain. That’s why we came to Carthage. To abduct more.’

Malchus took a deep breath. It was much as he had suspected. ‘Whom did you sell them to?’

‘I don’t know,’ Varsaco stuttered. ‘I wasn’t there. The captain did it.’ His gaze turned to the Egyptian, who spat contemptuously on the floor.

‘So you are the one who is responsible for this outrage?’ Cold fury bathed Malchus once more. ‘Cut his balls off instead,’ he roared.

At once Sapho stripped the Egyptian of his clothing. Grabbing hold of the moaning pirate captain’s scrotum, he tugged down to draw it taut. Sapho threw a quick glance at Malchus, and received a nod. ‘This is for my brother,’ he muttered, lining his blade up, praying that the act would assuage his guilt.

‘Varsaco was the one who would have raped them,’ shouted the Egyptian. ‘I stopped him.’

‘How good of you,’ Malchus snarled. ‘You had no problem selling them, though, did you? Who bought them?’

‘A Latin. I didn’t get his name. He was going to take both to Capua. Sell them as gladiators. I don’t know any more.’ The Egyptian looked down at Sapho, and then towards Malchus. All he saw from both was an implacable hatred. ‘Give me a quick death, like Varsaco,’ he pleaded.

‘You expect me to keep my word after what you have done to two innocent boys? Those who engage in piracy merit the most terrible fate possible.’ Malchus’ voice dripped with contempt. He turned to the soldiers. ‘You’ve heard what these scum have done to my boy and his friend.’

An angry growl left the Libyans’ throats, and one stood forth. ‘What shall we do with them, sir?’

Malchus let his gaze linger on the four pirates, one by one. ‘Castrate them all, but cauterise the wounds so they do not bleed to death. Break their arms and legs, and then crucify them. When you’re done, find the rest of their crew and do the same to every last one.’

To a background of terrified protests, the spearman snapped off a salute. ‘Yes, sir.’