by Ben Kane
It was Agesandros’ turn to be surprised. His eyes flickered, and he lowered the dagger. ‘I believe he saw another soldier,’ he answered curtly. Turning on his heel, he plunged into the crowd. ‘Follow me.’
‘He’s just playing games, that’s all. Trying to impress me,’ Quintus lied to Aurelia. He actually reckoned that Agesandros had been trying to scare him. It had partially worked too. The only reply he got, though, was a scowl. His sister was still angry with him for not telling her what he thought of her chances of happiness in an arranged marriage. Quintus walked off. I’ll sort it out later.
The Sicilian ignored the first slaves on offer, and then stopped by a line of Nubians, poking and prodding several, and even opening the mouth of one. Their owner, a scrawny Phoenician with gold earrings, instantly scuttled to Agesandros’ side, and began waxing lyrical about their quality. Quintus joined them, leaving Aurelia to simmer in the background. After a moment, Agesandros moved on, ignoring the Phoenician’s offers. ‘Every tooth in that Nubian’s head was rotten,’ he muttered to Quintus. ‘He wouldn’t last more than a few years.’
They wandered up and down for some time. The Sicilian said less and less, allowing Quintus to decide which individuals fitted the bill. He found several, but with each Agesandros found a reason not to buy. Quintus decided to stand his ground when he found the next suitable slave. A moment later, two dark-skinned young men with tightly curled black hair caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed them before. Neither was especially tall, but both were well muscled. One kept his gaze firmly directed at the ground, while the other, who had a snub nose and green eyes, glanced at Quintus, before looking away. He paused to assess the pair. There was enough spare chain for the slaves to step out of line. Beckoning the first forward, Quintus began his examination, watched closely by the Sicilian.
The youth was about his age, in excellent physical condition, with a good set of teeth. Nothing he did made the slave look at him, which increased his interest. Agesandros’ warning was still fresh in his mind, so Quintus grabbed the other’s chin and lifted it. Startlingly, the slave’s eyes were a vivid green colour, like those of his companion. Quintus saw no defiance there, just an inconsolable sadness. He’s perfect, he thought. ‘I’ll take this one,’ he said to Agesandros. ‘He meets your requirements.’
The Sicilian glanced the youth up and down. ‘Where are you from?’ he demanded in Latin.
The slave blinked, but did not answer.
He understood that question, thought Quintus with surprise.
Agesandros appeared not to have noticed, though. He repeated his question in Greek.
Again no reply.
Sensing their interest, the dealer, a dour Latin, moved in. ‘He’s Carthaginian. His friend too. Strong as oxen.’
‘Guggas, eh?’ Agesandros spat on the ground. ‘They’ll be no damn use.’
Quintus and Aurelia were both shocked at the change in his demeanour. The abusive term meant ‘little rat’. Immediately, Agesandros’ past came to Quintus’ mind. It was Carthaginians who had sold the Sicilian into slavery. That wasn’t a reason not to buy the slave, however.
‘There’s been a lot of interest in them this morning,’ said the dealer persuasively. ‘Good gladiator material, they are.’
‘You haven’t managed to sell them, though,’ replied Quintus sarcastically; beside him, Agesandros snorted in agreement. ‘How much are you asking?’
‘Solinus is an honest man. 150 didrachms each, or 300 for the pair.’
Quintus laughed. ‘Nearly twice the price of a farm slave.’ He made to leave. His face a cold mask, Agesandros did too. Then Quintus paused. He was growing tired of the Sicilian’s negative attitude. The Carthaginian was as good as any of the others he’d seen. If he could barter the Solinus down, why not buy him? He turned. ‘We only need one,’ he barked. The slaves glanced fearfully at each other, confirming Quintus’ hunch that they spoke Latin.
The Solinus grinned, revealing an array of rotten teeth. ‘Which?’
Ignoring Agesandros’ frown, Quintus pointed at the slave he’d examined.
The Latin leered. ‘How does 140 didrachms sound?’
Quintus made a dismissive gesture. ‘One hundred.’
Solinus’ face turned hard. ‘I have to make a living,’ he growled. ‘130. That’s my best price.’
‘I could go ten didrachms more, but that’s it,’ said Quintus.
Solinus shook his head vehemently.
Quintus was incensed by Agesandros’ delighted look. ‘I’ll give you 125,’ he snapped.
Agesandros leaned in close. ‘I haven’t got that much,’ he muttered sourly.
‘I’ll sell the bear pelt, then. That’s worth at least twenty-five didrachms,’ Quintus retorted. He’d planned on using it as a bed cover, but winning this situation came first.
Suddenly keen, Solinus stepped forward. ‘It’s a fair price,’ he said.
Agesandros’ fists closed over the purse.
‘Give it to him,’ ordered Quintus. When the Sicilian did not react, his anger boiled over. ‘I am the master here. Do as I say!’
Reluctantly, Agesandros obeyed.
The small victory pleased Quintus no end. ‘That’s a hundred. My man here will bring the rest later,’ he said.
Even as he pocketed the money, Solinus’ mouth opened in protest.
‘My father is Gaius Fabricius, an equestrian,’ Quintus growled. ‘The balance will be paid before nightfall.’
Solinus backed off at once. ‘Of course, of course.’ Pulling a bunch of keys from his belt, he selected one. He reached up to the iron ring around the Carthaginian’s neck. There was a soft click, and the slave stumbled forward, freed.
For the first time, Aurelia looked at him. I have never seen anyone so handsome, she thought, her heart pounding at the sight of his naked flesh.
The Carthaginian’s dazed expression told Quintus that he hadn’t quite taken in what was happening. It was only when his companion muttered something urgent in Carthaginian that the realisation sank in. Tears welled in his eyes, and he turned to Quintus.
‘Buy my friend as well, please,’ he said in fluent Latin.
I was right, thought Quintus triumphantly. ‘You speak my language.’
‘Yes.’
Agesandros glowered, but the siblings ignored him.
‘How come?’ Aurelia asked.
‘My father insisted I learn it. Greek too.’
Aurelia was fascinated, while Quintus was delighted. He had made a good choice. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hanno,’ the Carthaginian answered. He indicated his comrade. ‘That’s Suniaton. He’s my best friend.’
‘Why didn’t you answer the overseer’s question?’
For the first time, Hanno met his gaze. ‘Would you?’
Quintus was thrown by his directness. ‘No … I suppose not.’
Encouraged, Hanno turned to Aurelia. ‘Buy us both - I beg you. Otherwise my friend could be sold as a gladiator.’
Quintus and Aurelia glanced at each other in surprise. This was no peasant from a faraway land. Hanno was well educated, and from a good family. So was his friend. It was a bizarre, and uncomfortable, feeling.
‘We require one slave. Not two.’ Agesandros’ clarion voice was a harsh call back to reality.
‘We could come to some arrangement, I’m sure,’ said Solinus ingratiatingly.
‘No, we couldn’t,’ the Sicilian snarled, cowing him into submission. He addressed Quintus. ‘The last thing the farm needs is an extra mouth to feed. Your father will already want to know why we spent so much. Best not blow any more of his money, eh?’
Quintus wanted to argue, but Agesandros was right. They only needed one slave. He gave Aurelia a helpless look. Her tiny, anguished shrug told him she felt the same way. ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said to Hanno.
The smirk of satisfaction that flickered across Agesandros’ lips went unnoticed by all except Hanno.
The two slaves
exchanged a long glance, laden with feeling. ‘May the gods guide your path,’ Hanno said in Carthaginian. ‘Stay strong. I will pray for you every day.’
Suniaton’s chin trembled. ‘If you ever get home, tell my father that I am sorry,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Ask him for his forgiveness.’
‘I swear it,’ vowed Hanno, his voice choking. ‘And he will grant it, you may be sure of that.’
Quintus and Aurelia could not speak Carthaginian but it was impossible to misunderstand the overwhelming emotion passing between the two slaves. Quintus took his sister’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t buy every slave in the market.’ He led her away, without looking at Suniaton again.
Agesandros waited until they were out of earshot, then he whispered venomously in Hanno’s ear, in Carthaginian. ‘It wasn’t my choice to buy a gugga. But now you and I are going to have a pleasant time on the farm. Don’t think you can run away either. See those types over there?’
Hanno studied the gang of unshaven, roughly dressed men some distance away. Every one was heavily armed, and they were watching the proceedings like hawks.
‘They are fugitivarii,’ Agesandros explained. ‘For the right price, they’ll track down any man. Bring him back alive, or dead. With his balls, or without. Even in little pieces. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’ A leaden feeling of dread filled Hanno’s belly.
‘Good. We understand each other.’ The Sicilian grinned. ‘Follow me.’ He strode off after Quintus and Aurelia.
Hanno turned to look at Suniaton one last time. His heart felt as if it was going to rip apart. It hurt even to breathe. Whatever his fate, Suni’s would undoubtedly be worse.
‘You can’t help me,’ Suniaton mouthed. Remarkably, his face was calm. ‘Go.’
Hot tears blinded Hanno at last. He turned and stumbled away.
Chapter V: Malchus
Carthage
IN WHAT HAD become his daily routine, Malchus finished his breakfast and left the house. Although Bostar had already shipped for Iberia, Sapho was still at home. However, he mostly stayed at his rooms in the garrison’s quarters. When Sapho did call by, it was rare for him even to mention Hanno, which Malchus found slightly odd. It was his eldest son’s way of dealing with bereavement, he supposed. His was to shun all human contact. It meant that apart from the rare occasions when he had visitors, Malchus’ only companions were the domestic slaves. It had been thus since Hanno’s disappearance a few weeks before. Scared of Malchus’ fierce temper and obvious sorrow, the slaves tiptoed around, trying not to attract his attention. In consequence, Malchus was even more aware of - and annoyed by them. While he longed to lash out, the slaves were not to blame, so he bit down on his anger, bottling it up. Yet he could not bear to stay indoors, staring at the four walls, obsessed with thoughts of Hanno, his beloved youngest son - his favourite son - whom he would never see again.
Malchus headed towards the city’s twin harbours. Alone. The adage that one’s grief eased with time was utter nonsense, he thought bitterly. In fact, it grew by the day. Sometimes he wondered if his sorrow would overcome him. Render him unable to carry on. A moment later, Malchus caught sight of Bodesmun. He cursed under his breath. He found it increasingly hard even to look at Suniaton’s father. The opposite seemed true of the priest, who sought him out at every opportunity.
Bodesmun raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘Malchus. How are you today?’
Malchus scowled. ‘The same. And you?’
Bodesmun’s face crumpled with anguish. ‘Not good.’
Malchus sighed. The same thing happened every time they met. Priests were supposed to lead by example, not crack under pressure. He had enough problems of his own without having to deal with Bodesmun’s too. Was he not carrying the weight of two losses on his shoulders? Malchus’ rational side knew that he was not responsible for the death of either Arishat, his wife, or Hanno, but the rest of him did not. During the frequent nights when he lay awake, Malchus had become painfully aware that his self-righteousness was partly to blame for Hanno’s bad behaviour. After Arishat’s death, he had become somewhat of a fanatic, interested in nothing except Hannibal Barca’s plans for the future. There had been no brightness or light in the house, no laughter or fun. Sapho and Bostar, already adult men, had not been so affected by his melancholy, but it had hit Hanno hard. Since that realisation, guilt had clawed at Malchus constantly. I should have spent more time with him, he thought. Even gone fishing, instead of droning on about ancient battles. ‘It’s hard,’ he said, doing his best to be sympathetic. He ushered the priest out of the way of a passing cart. ‘Very hard.’
‘The pain,’ Bodesmun whispered miserably. ‘It just gets worse.’
‘I know,’ Malchus agreed. ‘There are only two things I know of that make it ease somewhat.’
A spark of interest lit in Bodesmun’s sorrowful brown eyes. ‘Tell me, please.’
‘The first is my loathing of Rome and everything it stands for,’ Malchus spat. ‘For years, it seemed that the opportunity for revenge would never come. Hannibal has changed all this. At last, Carthage has a chance at settling the score!’
‘It’s more than two decades since the war in Sicily ended,’ Bodesmun protested. ‘More than a generation.’
‘That’s right.’ Malchus could remember how weakened the flames of his hatred had been before Hannibal’s emergence on to the scene. Now, they had been fanned white-hot by his grief for Hanno. ‘Even greater reason not to forget.’
‘That can be of no help to me. Begetting violence is not Eshmoun’s way,’ Bodesmun murmured. ‘What’s your other means of coping?’
‘I scour the streets near the merchant port, listening to conversations and studying faces,’ Malchus answered. Seeing the confusion on the other’s face, he explained. ‘Looking for a clue, the smallest snippet of information, anything that might help to ascertain what happened to Hanno and Suni.’
Bodesmun looked baffled. ‘But we know what took place. The old man told us.’
‘I know,’ Malchus muttered, embarrassed at having to reveal his innermost secret. He had spent a fortune on sacrifices to Melqart, the ‘King of the City’, his sole request being that the god had somehow seen a way to prevent the boys’ boat from sinking. Of course, he’d had no answer, but he wouldn’t give up. ‘It’s just possible that they might be alive. That someone found them.’
Bodesmun’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a dangerous thing to go on believing,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’
Malchus’ nod was brittle. ‘How do you go on?’
Bodesmun looked up at the sky. ‘I pray to my god. I ask him to look after them both in paradise.’
That was too much for Malchus. Too final. ‘I have to go,’ he muttered. He strode off, leaving a forlorn Bodesmun in his wake.
A short while later, Malchus reached the Agora. Seeing large numbers of senators and politicians, he cursed. He’d forgotten that there was an important debate on this morning. He considered changing his plans and attending, but decided against it. The majority in the Senate now backed Hannibal solidly, and this was unlikely to change in the foreseeable future. As well as restoring Carthaginian pride with his conquests of Iberian tribes and intimidation of Saguntum, a Roman ally, Hannibal had helped to restore the city’s wealth. Although his long-term plans weren’t common knowledge, there could be few elders who didn’t suspect the truth.
Catching sight of Hostus, Malchus’ lip curled. He for one thought war against Rome was coming, and was forever speaking out against it. The fool, thought Malchus. As Carthage’s prosperity and pride returned, so conflict with Rome was inevitable. The annexation of Sardinia was a primary reason, and just one example of the wrongs visited upon his people by the Republic. In recent years it had continued to treat them in a disrespectful manner. Constantly sending snooping embassies to Iberia, where it had no jurisdiction, Rome had forged an alliance with Saguntum, a Greek city many hundreds of miles from Italy. It had then had the effrontery to
impose a unilateral treaty on Carthage, forcing it not to expand its territories northwards towards Gaul.
Deep in thought, Malchus did not see Hostus recognise him. By the time the fat man had waddled self-importantly to his side, it was too late to get away. Cursing his decision to take the shorter route to the harbours, Malchus gave Hostus a curt nod.
Hostus flashed a greasy smile. ‘Not coming to the debate this morning?’
‘No.’ Malchus tried to brush past.
Moving adroitly for his size, Hostus blocked the way. ‘We have noted your absence in the chamber of late. Missed your valuable insights.’
Malchus stopped in his tracks. Hostus wouldn’t care if he died, let alone wasn’t present at council meetings. He fixed the other with a flinty stare. ‘What do you want?’
‘I know that of late you have had more important things than Carthage on your mind.’ Hostus leered. ‘Family matters.’
Malchus wanted to choke Hostus until his eyeballs popped out, but he knew that would be rising to the bait. ‘Of course you always act for the good of Carthage,’ he snapped. ‘Never for the silver from the Iberian mines.’
A tinge of colour reddened Hostus’ round cheeks. ‘The city has no more loyal servant than I,’ he blustered.
Malchus had had enough. He elbowed past without another word.
Hostus wasn’t finished. ‘If you tire of visiting Melqart’s temple, there is always the Tophet of Baal Hammon.’
Malchus spun around. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’ Hostus’ smile was more of a grimace. ‘You may have only livestock to offer, but there are plenty in the slums who will sell a newborn or young child for a handful of coins.’ Seeing Malchus’ temper rising, Hostus gave him a reproving look. ‘Such sacrifices have saved Carthage before. Who is to say a suitable offering would not please Baal Hammon and bring your son back?’
Hostus’ barbed taunt sank deep, but Malchus knew that the best form of defence was attack. Give the dog no satisfaction. ‘Hanno is dead,’ he hissed. ‘Any fool knows that.’
