Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

There were five of them in the yard altogether, continuing the work which had begun weeks previously with the harvest. It was late summer, and Hanno had grown used to life on the farm, and the immense labour expected of him every day. Things were made much harder by the heavy iron fetters that had been attached to his ankles, preventing him moving at any speed faster than a shuffle. Hanno had thought he was fit beforehand, but soon realised otherwise. Working twelve or more hours a day in summer heat, wearing manacles and fed barely enough, he was a taut, wiry shadow of his former self. His hair fell in long, shaggy tresses either side of his bearded face. The muscles on his torso and limbs now stood out like whipcord, and every part of exposed skin had darkened to a deep brown colour. The Gauls looked no different. We’re like wild beasts, Hanno thought. It was no wonder that they rarely saw Fabricius or his family.

Catching sight of Agesandros in the distance, he whistled the agreed signal to alert his companions. Swiftly, the skin was hurled back to its original position. Hanno dragged his mules into action again, pulling a heavy sledge over the harvested wheat, which had been laid right across the hard-packed dirt of the large farmyard. The Gauls began winnowing the threshed crop, tossing it into the air with their pitchforks so that the breeze could carry away the unwanted chaff. Their tasks were time-consuming and mind-numbing, but they had to be done before the wheat could be shovelled into the back of a wagon and deposited in the nearby storage sheds, which were built on brick stilts to prevent rodent access.

When Agesandros arrived a few moments later, he stood in the shade cast by the buildings and watched them silently. Uneasy, the five slaves worked hard, trying not to look in the Sicilian’s direction. Soon a fresh coat of sweat coated their bodies.

Every time he turned the sledge, Hanno caught a glimpse of Agesandros, who was staring relentlessly at him. He was unsurprised when the overseer stalked in his direction.

‘You’re walking the mules too fast! Slow down, or half the wheat won’t come off the stalks.’

Hanno tugged on the nearest animal’s lead rope. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.

‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you,’ Agesandros snarled.

‘At once, sir,’ Hanno repeated loudly.

‘Stinking gugga. You’re all the damn same. Useless!’ Agesandros drew his whip.

Hanno steeled himself. It didn’t seem to matter what he did. The mules’ speed was just the latest example. His technique with the scythe and pitchfork, and how long he took to fetch water from the well had also recently been called into question. Everything he did was wrong, and the Sicilian’s response was the same every time.

‘You’re all idle bastards.’ Lazily, Agesandros drew the long rawhide lash along the ground. ‘Motherless curs. Cowards. Vermin.’

Hanno clicked his tongue at the mules, trying to block out the insults.

‘Maybe you did have a mother,’ Agesandros admitted. He paused. ‘She must have been the most diseased whore in Carthage, though, to spawn something that looks like you.’

Hanno’s knuckles tightened with fury on the lead rope, and his shoulders bunched. From the corner of his eye, he saw Galba, who was behind the Sicilian, shaking his head in a gesture that said ‘No’. Hanno forced himself to relax, but Agesandros had already seen his barb’s effect.

‘Didn’t like that?’ The Sicilian laughed, and raised his right arm. A heartbeat later, the whip came singing in to wrap itself across Hanno’s back and under his right armpit. Crack went the tip as it opened the skin under his right nipple. The pain was intense. Hanno stiffened, and his pace decreased a fraction. It was all Agesandros needed. ‘Did I tell you to slow down?’ he screamed. The whip was withdrawn, only to return. Hanno counted three, six, a dozen lashes. Although he did his utmost not to make a sound, eventually he couldn’t help but moan.

The overseer smiled at this proof of Hanno’s weakness, and ceased. His skill with the lash was such that Hanno was always left in extreme pain, but still able to work. ‘That should keep you moving at the right speed,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Hanno muttered.

Satisfied, Agesandros gave the Gauls a hard stare and made as if to go.

Hanno did not relax. There was always more.

Sure enough, Agesandros turned. ‘You’ll find your bed softer tonight,’ he confided.

Slowly, Hanno raised his gaze to meet that of the Sicilian.

‘I’ve pissed in it for you.’

Hanno did not speak. This was even worse than Agesandros spitting in his food, or halving his water ration. His anger, which had been reduced to a tiny glow in the centre of his soul, was suddenly fanned to a white-hot blaze of outrage and indignation. With supreme effort, he kept his face blank. Now is not the time, he told himself. Wait.

Agesandros sneered. ‘Nothing to say?’

I won’t give the bastard what he wants, thought Hanno furiously. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Cheated, Agesandros snorted and walked away.