Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

The rest of the climb was made in silence. The last point of cover before the shepherd’s hut was a stunted cypress tree, and they reached it without difficulty. Recovering their breath, each took turns to peer at the pens and the miserable structure alongside, which was little more than a leanto. His lips moving silently, Quintus counted the sheep. ‘I make it more than fifty,’ he whispered. ‘That’s Libo’s entire flock.’

Be logical, thought Hanno. ‘Maybe he’s ill?’

‘I doubt it,’ Quintus replied. ‘Libo is as hard as nails. He’s lived in the mountains all his life.’

‘Let’s wait a moment then,’ Hanno advised. ‘No point rushing into a situation without assessing it first.’

Hanno’s observation made Quintus bridle. Slaves do not advise their masters, he told himself angrily. Yet the Carthaginian’s words were wise. Biting his lip, he drew a goose-feathered arrow from his quiver. It was his favourite, and he’d killed with it many times. Never a man, he thought with a rush of fear. Taking a deep breath, Quintus exhaled slowly. It might not come to that. Nonetheless, he picked out three more shafts and stabbed them into the earth by his feet. Suddenly, an awful thought struck him. If there were bandits about, and he was outnumbered, his bow was the only advantage he had. That might not be enough. Quintus was prepared for the potential danger he’d placed himself in, but he hadn’t really considered his sister. He turned to Hanno. ‘If anything happens to me, you’re to run down and get Aurelia the hell out of here. Do you understand?’

It was too late to say that Quintus should have given him a sword, thought Hanno angrily. It would have been two of them against however many bandits might be in the hut. He nodded. ‘Of course.’

It wasn’t long before there was movement inside the building, which was perhaps twenty paces away. A man coughed, and cleared his throat in the manner of someone who has just woken. Quintus stiffened, listening hard. Hanno did likewise. Then they heard the rickety door on the far side of the hut being thrown open. A short figure wearing a sheepskin waistcoat over a homespun tunic stepped into view. Stretching and yawning, he pulled down his breeches and began to relieve himself. Glancing sunlight lit up the yellow arc of his urine.

Quintus cursed under his breath.

Despite the other’s reaction, Hanno had to ask. ‘Is that the shepherd?’ he whispered.

Quintus’ lips framed the word ‘No.’ Carefully, he fitted his favourite arrow to his bowstring and drew a bead on the stranger.

‘Could it be another shepherd?’

‘I don’t recognise him.’ Quintus drew back until the goose feathers at the base of the arrow nearly touched his ear.

‘Wait!’ Hanno hissed. ‘You have to be sure.’

Quintus was again angered by Hanno’s tone. Nonetheless, he did not release: he too had no desire to kill an innocent man.

‘Caecilius? Where are you?’ demanded a voice from inside the hut.

The pair froze.

With a final shake, the man pulled up his trousers. ‘Out here,’ he replied lazily. ‘Taking a piss on the shepherd. Making sure he’s still dead.’

There was a loud guffaw. ‘Not much chance of the whoreson being anything else after what you did to him.’

‘You can’t talk, Balbus,’ added a third voice. ‘He screamed the most when you were using the red hot poker.’

Quintus threw Hanno a horrified glance.

Balbus laughed, a deep, unpleasant sound. ‘What do you think, Pollio?’ There was no immediate answer, and they heard Balbus kicking someone. ‘Wake up, you drunken sot.’

‘The point of my boot up his arse should do the trick,’ Caecilius bellowed, heading for the door.

Desperately, Hanno turned his head to tell Quintus to loose before it was too late. He barely had time to register the arrow as it flashed past his eyes and shot through the air to plant itself in the middle of Caecilius’ chest. With a stunned look, the bandit dropped to his knees before toppling sideways to the dirt. He made a few soft choking sounds and lay still.

‘Well done,’ whispered Hanno. ‘Three left.’

‘At least.’ Quintus did not think about what he had done. He notched another shaft and waited. The layout of the hut was such that if the remaining bandits merely looked out of the doorway, they would see Caecilius’ body without exposing themselves to his arrows. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, he begged silently, let the next scumbag come right outside.

Hanno clenched his teeth. He too could see the danger.

‘Caecilius? Fallen over your own prick?’ demanded Balbus.

There was no answer. A moment later, a bulky-framed man with long greasy hair emerged partially into view. It took the blink of an eye for him to notice his companion’s body, to take in the arrow protruding from his chest. A strangled cry left Balbus’ throat. Frantic to regain the safety of the hut, he spun on his heel.

Quintus released. His shaft flew straight and true, driving deep into Balbus’ right side with a meaty thump. The bandit cursed in pain, but managed to get through the doorway. ‘Help me,’ he cried. ‘I’m hit.’