by Ben Kane
His duties in hand, Varsaco returned. There was a predatory look in his eyes that had not been there before. ‘You’re a handsome boy,’ he said, running his stubby fingers down Hanno’s arm. He slipped a hand under Hanno’s tunic and tweaked a nipple. Hanno shuddered and tried to pull away, but with a man either side of him, he could not go far. ‘I prefer those with a bit more meat on their bones, though,’ Varsaco confided. He moved to Suniaton’s side and roughly squeezed his buttocks. Suniaton twisted away, but the pirates holding him tightened their grip. ‘But look, you’re hurt.’ Varsaco touched one of Suniaton’s still oozing earlobes, then, to Hanno’s horror, licked the blood off his fingertip.
Suniaton wailed with fear.
‘Leave him alone, you whoreson,’ Hanno roared, struggling uselessly to free himself.
‘Or what?’ teased Varsaco. Abruptly, his voice hardened. ‘I am the master below decks. I do as I please. Take him over there!’
Tears of rage streamed down Hanno’s face as he watched his friend being dragged to a large block of wood nailed down near the bow. Its surface, approximately the length of a man’s torso, was covered in irregular, dark patches, and heavy iron fetters were in place at each corner at floor level. Releasing Suniaton from his bonds, the pirates slammed him face down on to the wood. He kicked and struggled, but his captors were too many. An instant later, the manacles clicked shut around his wrists and ankles.
Varsaco moved to stand behind him and, realising what was about to happen, Suniaton began to scream. His protests intensified as the overseer was handed a knife and used it to slit his breeches from waistband to crotch. Varsaco did the same to Suniaton’s undergarment, laughing as the tip of the blade snagged in his flesh, causing him to moan with pain. Finally, the overseer pulled apart the cut fabric, and his face twisted with lust. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered.
‘No!’ cried Suniaton.
It was too much for Hanno to bear. Summoning every reserve of his strength, he twisted and bucked like a wild horse. Engrossed by the spectacle, the two men holding him were caught unawares, and he slipped their grasp. Sprinting forward, he reached Varsaco in a dozen steps. The overseer’s broad back was towards him, and he was busily unbuckling the belt that held up his leather skirt. It dropped to the floor and he sighed with satisfaction, shuffling forward to complete the outrage.
Panting with fury, Hanno steadied himself and did the only thing he could think of. Drawing back his right leg, he swung it through the air and between Varsaco’s thighs. With a meaty thump, the front of his sandal connected with the soft mass of the overseer’s dangling scrotum. Letting out a high-pitched scream, Varsaco collapsed to the deck in a heap. Hanno snarled with delight. ‘How do you like that?’ he screamed, stamping his iron-studded sole on the side of Varsaco’s head for good measure. He managed to deliver several more kicks before the men who had been holding him came barrelling in. Hanno saw one raising the butt of his sword. He half turned, awkward because of the ropes binding his arms, but was unable to avoid the blow. Stars exploded across Hanno’s vision as the hilt connected with the back of his head. His knees buckled and he toppled forward to land on the semi-conscious Varsaco. A rain of blows followed and he slipped into the darkness.
‘Wake up!’
Hanno felt someone nudge him in the back. Slowly, he came to. He was lying on his side, still trussed up like a hen for the pot. Every part of his body hurt. His head, belly and groin had obviously received special attention, however. It was agony to breathe in, and Hanno suspected that two or three of his ribs were cracked. He could taste blood, and warily he used his tongue to check that all his teeth were still in place. They were, thankfully, although two felt loose, and his top lip was bruised and swollen.
He was prodded again.
‘Hanno! It’s me, Suniaton.’
Finally, Hanno focused on his friend, who was lying only a few steps away. To his surprise, they were on the forecastle deck, under the cloth awning he had spied earlier. As far as he could tell, they were alone.
‘You’ve been unconscious for hours.’ Suniaton’s voice was concerned.
The temperature had dropped significantly, Hanno realised. In the gap between the gunwale and the awning, he could see an orange tinge to the sky. It was nearly sunset. ‘I’ll live,’ he croaked. His last memories came flooding back. ‘What about you? Did Varsaco …?’ He couldn’t finish the question.
Suniaton screwed up his face. ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. Amazingly, he grinned. ‘Varsaco couldn’t stand for a long time, you know.’
‘Good! The fucking bastard.’ Hanno frowned. ‘Why didn’t his men kill me?’
‘They were going to,’ whispered Suniaton. ‘But—’
Hearing the stairs that led to the main deck creak, he fell silent. Someone was approaching. A moment later, the Egyptian stooped over Hanno. ‘You’ve come back to us,’ he said. ‘Good. A man who sleeps too long after a beating like that often doesn’t wake.’
Hanno glared.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ said the Egyptian reproachfully. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead by now. Raped before you died, like as not.’
Suniaton flinched, but Hanno’s fury knew no bounds. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’
The Egyptian squatted down alongside him. ‘Spirited, aren’t you? A different prospect to your friend.’ He nodded in approval. ‘I hope to sell you as a gladiator. You’d be wasted as an agricultural or household slave. Are you able to get up?’
Hanno let the other help him to a sitting position. A stabbing pain from his chest made him grimace in pain.
‘What is it?’
Hanno was disconcerted by the Egyptian’s concern. ‘It’s nothing. Just a couple of broken ribs.’
‘That’s all?’
‘I think so.’
The Egyptian smiled. ‘Good. I thought I’d come too late. It wouldn’t be the first time that one of Varsaco’s little games got out of hand.’
‘“Little games”?’ Suniaton asked faintly.
The Egyptian made an offhand gesture. ‘Usually, he’s content to screw whichever poor bastard takes his fancy. Several times a day, normally. As long as that’s it, I don’t mind. It doesn’t affect their sale value. After what you did, though, he would have killed you both. I don’t mind him having his fun, but there’s no point destroying valuable merchandise. That’s why you’re up here, where I sleep. Varsaco has a key to the cage, and I wouldn’t trust him not to slip a knife between your ribs one night.’
Hanno longed to wrap his fingers around the captain’s throat, choking the life out of him, ridding his face of its perpetual smug expression. It stung that their lives had been saved for purely financial reasons. Deep down, though, Hanno was unsurprised by the Egyptian’s action. He’d once seen his father stop a slave from beating a mule for much the same reason.
‘This is the best place on the ship. You’re out of the sun here, and it catches the evening breeze as well.’ The Egyptian got to his feet. ‘Make the most of it. We’re on course for Sicily, and then Italy,’ he said, disappearing from view.
‘At least in Iberia or Numidia, we might have had a chance of getting word to Carthage,’ muttered Suniaton despairingly.
Hanno’s nod was bitter. Instead, they were to be sold to their people’s worst enemies, as gladiators. ‘Melqart can’t be solely responsible for this ill fortune. There’s more to it.’ He cast his mind about, wondering why they should suffer such a terrible fate. All at once, the memory of how he had left home came crashing back. Hanno cursed. ‘I’m a fool.’
Suniaton threw him a confused look. ‘What is it?’
‘I didn’t ask for Tanit’s blessing as I walked out of the front door.’
Suniaton’s face paled. Although she was a virginal mother figure, Tanit was the most important Carthaginian deity. She was also the goddess of war. Angering her carried the risk of severe punishment. ‘It’s not a crime to forget,’ he said, before quickly adding, ‘but you could ask pardon of her anyw
ay.’
In a cold sweat, Hanno did as his friend advised.
Great Mother, he pleaded. Forgive me. Do not forget us, please.
* * *
The next morning, Hanno had not returned home. In itself, that was not particularly unusual. But the hours passed, and still there was no sign of him. At midday, Bostar began to look worried. He paced up and down the corridor from the courtyard, checking the street for his youngest brother. By the early afternoon, he could take it no more. ‘Where is Hanno?’
‘Nursing a hangover somewhere, probably,’ Sapho growled.
Bostar pursed his lips. ‘He’s never been this late before.’
‘Maybe he heard about Father’s speech, and got even drunker than normal.’ Sapho looked at their father for approval. Surprisingly, he got none.
Malchus’ face now also registered concern. ‘You’re right, Bostar. Hanno always comes back in time for his lessons. I’d forgotten, but this afternoon, at his request, we were to discuss the battle of Ecnomus again.’
Sapho frowned. ‘He wouldn’t miss it then.’
‘Precisely.’
Suddenly, the situation felt very different.
A familiar voice cut through their dismay. ‘Malchus? Are you at home?’
All three turned to see a stout, bearded man appearing in the courtyard’s entrance. A long cream linen robe reached almost to his feet, and a headcloth concealed his hair.
Bowing, Malchus hurried forward. ‘Bodesmun. I am honoured by your presence.’
Behind him, Sapho and Bostar were also making obeisance. Eshmoun was not their family’s favoured god, but he was an important deity. His temple at the top of Byrsa Hill was the largest in Carthage, and Bodesmun was one of the senior priests there.
‘Can I offer you refreshment?’ asked Malchus. ‘Some wine or pomegranate juice? Bread and honey?’
Bodesmun waved a podgy hand in dismissal. His round, gentle face was worried. ‘Thank you, but no.’
Malchus was nonplussed. He had little in common with a peace-loving priest. ‘How can I help you?’ he enquired awkwardly.
‘It’s about Suniaton.’
Malchus’ response was instant. ‘What’s Hanno made him do?’
Bodesmun managed a weak grin. ‘It’s nothing like that. Have you seen Suni today?’
Malchus’ heart gave an involuntary leap. ‘No. I could ask you the same about Hanno.’
The smile left Bodesmun’s face. ‘He hasn’t returned yet either?’
‘No. Apparently, the tunny were running in their thousands yesterday. Any fool with a net could catch a boatload, and I’m sure they did the same. When Hanno didn’t return, I presumed they had gone out to celebrate,’ Malchus replied heavily, his imagination already running riot. ‘It’s odd that you should arrive when you did. I was just starting to get worried. Hanno has never skipped a lesson on tactics before.’
‘Suni has never missed the devotions in the temple at midday either.’
Bostar’s face fell. Even Sapho frowned.
The two older men stared at each other in disbelief. All at once, they had a great deal in common. Bodesmun was close to tears. ‘What should we do?’ he asked in a quavering voice.
Malchus refused to let the panic that had flared in his breast grow. He was a soldier. ‘There’ll be some easy explanation to this,’ he declared. ‘We might have to check every inn and whorehouse in Carthage, but we’ll find them.’
Bodesmun’s normal commanding demeanour had disappeared. He nodded meekly.
‘Sapho! Bostar!’
‘Yes, Father,’ they replied in unison, eager to be given something to do. By now, Bostar was distraught. Sapho didn’t look happy either.
‘Rouse as many soldiers as you can from the barracks,’ Malchus ordered. ‘I want the city combed from top to bottom. Concentrate on their favourite haunts around the ports. You know the ones.’
They nodded.
Despite his best efforts, Malchus’ temper frayed. ‘Go on, then! When you’re done, find me here, or in the Agora.’
Bostar turned at the entrance to the corridor. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Talk to the fishermen at the Choma,’ Malchus answered grimly. His mind was full of the storm that had battered the city the previous night. ‘I want to know if anyone saw them yesterday.’ He glanced at Bodesmun. ‘Coming?’
The priest pulled himself together. ‘Of course.’
With a sinking feeling in their bellies, they left the house.
On the Choma, Malchus and Bodesmun found scores of the fishermen who plied the waters off the city. Their day’s work was long done. With their boats tied up nearby, they lounged about, gossiping and repairing holes in their nets. Unsurprisingly, the appearance of a noble and a high-ranking priest filled them with awe. Most went their entire lives without ever being in the presence of someone so far up the social scale. Their guttural argot was also quite hard to understand. Consequently, it was hard to get a word of sense out of them.
‘We’re wasting our time. They’re all idiots,’ Malchus muttered in frustration. He forced himself not to scream and lash out with rage. Losing his temper would be completely counterproductive. The best chance of discovering anything about their sons’ disappearance was surely to be found here.
‘Not all, perhaps.’ Bodesmun indicated a wiry figure sitting on an upturned boat, whose silver hair marked him out as older than his companions. ‘Let’s ask him.’
They strolled over. ‘Well met,’ Bodesmun said politely. ‘The blessings of the gods be upon you.’
‘The same to you and your friend,’ replied the old man respectfully.
‘We come in search of answers to some questions,’ Malchus announced.
The other nodded, unsurprised. ‘I was thinking that you were after more than fresh fish.’
‘Were you out on the water yesterday?’
There was a faint smile. ‘With the tunny running like they were? Of course I was. It’s just a shame that the weather changed so early, or it would have been the best day’s catch in the last five years.’
‘Did you see a small skiff, perhaps?’ Malchus asked. ‘With two crew. Young men, well dressed.’
His urgent tone and Bodesmun’s anxious stance would have been obvious to all but an imbecile. Nonetheless, the old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Each instant that went by felt like an eternity to Malchus. He clenched his fists to stop himself from grabbing the other by the throat.
It was Bodesmun who cracked first. ‘Well?’
The old man’s eyes opened. ‘I did spot them, yes. A tall lad and a shorter, stockier one. Well dressed, as you say. They’re out here regularly. A friendly pair.’
Malchus and Bodesmun gave each other a look full of hope, and fear.
‘When did you last see them?’
The old man’s expression became wary. ‘I’m not sure.’
Malchus knew when he was being lied to. A tidal wave of dread swamped him. There was only one reason for the other to withhold the truth. ‘Tell us,’ he commanded. ‘You will come to no harm. I swear it.’
The old man studied Malchus’ face for a moment. ‘I believe you.’ Taking a deep breath, he began. ‘When the wind rose sharply, I saw that a storm was coming. I quickly pulled my net on board and headed for the Choma. Everyone else was doing the same. Or so I thought. When I was safe on dry land, I saw one skiff still over the tunny. I knew it for the young men’s craft by its shape. At first I imagined that they had been consumed by greed and were trying to catch even more fish, but as it was carried out of sight, I realised I was mistaken.’
‘Why?’ Bodesmun’s voice was strangled.
‘The boat appeared to be empty. I wondered if they’d fallen overboard and drowned. That seemed improbable, for the sea was still not that rough yet.’ The old man frowned. ‘I came to the assumption that they were asleep. Oblivious to the weather.’
‘What do you take us for?’ crie
d Malchus. ‘One dozing, maybe, but both of them?’
The old man quailed before Malchus’ wrath, but Bodesmun laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘That is a possibility.’
Wild-eyed, Malchus turned on Bodesmun. ‘Eh?’
‘A flask of good wine is missing from my cellar.’
Malchus gave him a blank look. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Suniaton is the likely culprit,’ Bodesmun revealed sadly. ‘They must have drunk the wine and then fallen asleep.’
‘When the wind began to rise, they didn’t even notice,’ Malchus whispered in horror.
Tears formed in Bodesmun’s eyes.
‘So they were just washed out to sea?’ Malchus muttered in disbelief. ‘You are old. I can understand why you might have held back, but those?’ Furiously, he indicated the younger fishermen. ‘Why did none of them help?’
The old man found his voice once more. ‘They were your sons, I take it?’
Anguish overtook Malchus’ fury, and he nodded.
The other’s eyes filled with an unhealed sorrow. ‘I lost my only child to the sea ten years hence. A son. It is the gods’ way.’ There was a short pause. ‘The rules of survival are simple. When a storm strikes, it is every craft for itself. Even then, death is quite likely. Why would those men risk their own lives for two youths they barely knew? Otherwise Melqart would likely have had more corpses entering his kingdom.’ He fell silent.
Part of Malchus wanted to have every person in sight crucified, but he knew that it would be a pointless gesture. Glancing back at the old man, he was struck by his calm manner. All his deference had vanished. Looking once more into the other’s eyes, Malchus understood why. What difference would threats make here? The man’s only son was dead. He felt strangely humbled. At least he still had Sapho and Bostar.
Beside him, silent sobs racked Bodesmun’s shoulders.
‘Two deaths is enough,’ Malchus acknowledged with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m grateful for your time.’ He began fumbling in his purse.
‘I need no payment,’ the old man intoned. ‘Such terrible news is beyond a price.’
Mumbling his thanks, Malchus walked away. He was barely aware of a weeping Bodesmun following him. While he retained his composure, Malchus too was riven by grief. He had expected to lose one son - perhaps more - in the impending war with Rome, but not beforehand, and so easily. Had Arishat’s death not been enough unexpected tragedy for one lifetime? At least he’d been able to say goodbye to her. With Hanno, there hadn’t even been that chance.
