by Ben Kane
Reminded of the pompous lectures that his oldest brother Sapho was so fond of giving him, Hanno set his jaw. In his search for intelligence, what he was doing made sense. There was no going back now, and they would be in and out in no time. His plan was for Mutt and most of his men to remain on guard outside, their job to listen out for any indication of troops approaching from the town. If that happened, Mutt was to give a prearranged whistle to alert Hanno so they could all withdraw in secret. While his second-in-command stood watch, four parties, ten strong each, were to move on to the property. One, under Hanno’s command, would steal into the house itself while the others, each led by a dependable spearman, would search the farm buildings for supplies.
Hanno padded up to one of the small windows on the villa’s south-facing wall and stared between the gaps in the closely spaced wooden slats. It was pitch black inside. He laid his ear against the cold shutters. He listened for a long time, but heard nothing. Reassured, he had the four files of men fall out.
‘Be careful, sir,’ whispered Mutt.
‘I will. Remember, if there’s any sign of Roman troops, you’re to pull back. I don’t want to lose men in a pointless clash.’
‘And you, sir?’
‘I’ll be right behind you.’ Hanno threw him a confident grin. ‘To your position.’
Mutt saluted and withdrew. Hanno watched as most of the phalanx moved out of sight before he led his party forward. The three other files moved alongside his, the spearmen leading them parallel with Hanno. They paced along the length of the eastern wall, coming to a halt by the corner of the building that would open on to the courtyard. Before he exposed himself, Hanno took a couple of quick looks around the angle of the brickwork. The gloom afforded him little detail, but he discerned the outline of paved paths and manicured plants and trees: the household garden. A short distance away, towards the town, lay what looked like sheds, stables and a large barn. There was no sign of life. Feeling calmer, he eyed the three leading spearmen. ‘Search every building. Take only food. Stay alert. If you meet any serious resistance, pull back. I want no heroics in the dark. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they whispered.
Hanno stepped around the corner; behind him, he sensed his soldiers following. There was a metallic tap as someone’s spear knocked off the helmet of the man in front. Hanno shot a furious glare over his shoulder, but didn’t pause. With luck, the sound wouldn’t have been loud enough to wake anyone who might be inside the villa. He traced his way along the wall, searching for the main entrance. It was twenty paces further on. It was a typical heavy wooden door, its surface studded with metal, and it was closed. Hanno pressed his fingers against the timbers and pushed. Nothing happened, so he pushed a little harder. His efforts made no difference. His heart began to race. Could someone be within, or had the door just been locked when the residents left?
Hanno could feel the weight of his men’s stares on his back. He ignored it as best he could. He was on the horns of a dilemma now. Anyone inside would be woken if he tried to force an entrance, but Hanno didn’t want to walk away. If the house turned out to be empty, then he would have given up without even trying. He moved away from the door and looked up, gauging the height of the roof. Laying his shield and spear to one side, he beckoned to the three nearest soldiers. ‘Bogu, you’re to come with me.’ As the shortest of the trio scurried over, Hanno pointed to the others. ‘You two can give us a boost up.’
They gave him a blank look.
‘Bogu and I will climb up, drop down the other side, and open the gate from within.’
‘Shall I go in your stead, sir?’ asked the older of the pair. ‘Save you the trouble.’
Hanno didn’t even consider the suggestion. His blood was up. ‘No. It won’t take us more than a few moments.’
Obediently, they shuffled in and made a bridge with their hands.
Hanno placed one foot on to their interlinked fingers. At once they swept him upwards. Throwing his arms forward to balance himself, he swung his free leg over and scrambled up on to the roof. The bottom of his bronze cuirass made a heavy, clunking sound as it connected with the tiles. Shit! Half kneeling, half upright, Hanno froze. For several heart-stopping moments, he heard nothing. Then the sound of someone moving into the courtyard. A cough, a snort. Hoyc-thth as the man spat. ‘Fucking cats,’ Hanno heard him mutter in Latin. ‘Always wandering around on the roof.’
Hanno waited, his pulse racing, as the man slouched back to his post, right under his very position. It had to be a doorman, he thought. Which possibly meant that the master of the house was at home. What should he do? It only took an instant to decide. If he left without proceeding further, he would have to live with the regret that he might have discovered something useful to Hannibal. What risk could there be anyway? He and Bogu were more than a match for some old, unfit slave. The fool had probably gone back to sleep already.
He leaned over and indicated that Bogu should join him.
Hanno hissed a warning about Bogu’s mail, and the soldier joined him on the roof with hardly a sound. ‘I heard one man below,’ Hanno whispered. ‘I’ll go first. You come down after.’
Taking great care not to let his cuirass or the tip of his scabbard touch the clay tiles, Hanno shuffled forward with bent knees. Reaching the apex of the roof, he stared downward. The courtyard within was typical, and resembled that in Quintus’ house. Covered walkways ran around the rectangular space. Ornamental shrubs and statues dotted the fringes. Fruit trees and short rows of vines filled most of the rest of the area, which was dominated by a central fountain, now frozen into silence. Not a soul was to be seen.
Content, Hanno eased himself on to the inward-sloping face of the roof. He realised at once that to descend safely, he needed to sit down. That meant his cuirass would clash off the tiles again, alerting the doorman. There was only one thing for it. Stand up, start to walk down the roof. Pick up speed. Reach the roof’s edge and jump. He filled Bogu in on his plan, ordering him to follow at once. Hanno expected to fall about his own height, landing on a mosaic floor. To roll and jump up, drag out his sword and kill the doorman before opening the portal to admit his soldiers.
He didn’t expect to land on top of the doorman, who had wandered back outside.
Nor in fact was he a doorman. He was a veteran legionary, a triarius, in full armour.
Hanno realised there was something wrong as they fell in a tumble of flailing limbs. Unfortunately, he was the one who cracked his head on the ground. His helmet took much of the impact, but it couldn’t prevent him from being momentarily stunned. In considerable pain, Hanno struggled to get his bearings. A punch from the enraged triarius didn’t help either, snapping his chin back and knocking his helmet against the floor again. Somehow he managed to wriggle free of the other’s grasping hands and clamber to his feet. The triarius did the same. In the flickering light cast by a lamp in a wall alcove, the pair studied one another, both equally stunned by what they saw.
What in Baal Hammon’s name is a legionary doing here? thought Hanno, fighting panic. He won’t be alone. ‘Bogu! Get down here!’
‘Gods above, you’re one of Hannibal’s men! Awake! Awake! We’re under attack!’ bellowed the Roman.
Hanno threw a glance at the door. His heart sank. It wasn’t just bolted; there was a large lock as well. His gaze shot back to the triarius. A bunch of keys hung from his gilded belt. Cursing, Hanno ripped out his sword. Their only chance was to kill the Roman as fast as possible and let the rest of his men in.
Shouting again for his comrades, the triarius pulled out his gladius. ‘Gugga filth!’
Hanno had been called a ‘little rat’ before, but the insult still stung. By way of answer, he aimed a savage thrust at the other’s belly. He laughed as the triarius dodged to the side, unable to block it. ‘Filth? You stink worse than a sow.’
A series of loud thumps on the roof presaged Bogu’s arrival. The spearman had the sense to jump down on the far side of the triariu
s, who spat a loud curse. He couldn’t fight with an enemy on each side. Rather than run, however, he bravely backed into the archway that framed the entrance, thereby stopping either Carthaginian from getting to the door.
The sound of raised voices in the courtyard told Hanno that time was of the essence. ‘On him, Bogu!’ he shouted. As the spearman advanced, Hanno feinted for the triarius’ left foot but as the Roman tried to move out of range, Hanno brought his right hand up, smashing the hilt of his weapon into his opponent’s face. With an audible crunch, the man’s nose broke. There was a cry of agony and the triarius staggered back, blood pouring from his nostrils. Hanno followed him as a viper does a mouse. Deadly quick. With all his strength, he rammed his blade into the Roman’s flesh just above the top of his mail shirt. Grating off the vertebrae in the man’s spinal column, it sank in nearly to the crossguard. The triarius’ eyes bulged; his mouth worked; bloody froth left his lips; he died.
Grunting with effort, Hanno pulled the sword out. He closed his eyes against the shower of blood that followed. The corpse sagged to the floor, and he stooped, frantically ripping the bunch of keys free. Hanno glanced to his rear and wished he hadn’t. At least a dozen triarii, in various states of undress, were charging across the courtyard. ‘Keep them back!’ he screamed at Bogu. He spun to the door. Fists were pounding on it from the other side. ‘Sir! Are you all right? Sir!’ clamoured his men. Hanno didn’t waste his breath answering. First, he slid open the bolt. Selecting a key, he shoved it into the massive lock and tried to twist it to the left. It wouldn’t move. He moved it in the opposite direction. Nothing happened.
Frantically, he selected another key. Sandals slapped off the mosaic. Angry yells as the body was seen. Bogu screamed a battle cry. Then, the clash of arms not half a dozen steps behind him. Close. They were so close. Hanno fumbled with the key, unable to fit its bulky end into the hole. It took all of his effort not to scream. Forcing himself to slow down, he managed to insert it into the lock. It fitted better than the previous two, and his hopes rose. A turn to the left didn’t work. Undaunted, Hanno had begun wrenching it to the right when he heard someone emit a strangled gasp of pain. ‘I’m hurt, sir!’ hissed Bogu.
Hanno made the fatal mistake of twisting his head to look. As he did, two triarii charged at the same time. Bogu shoved his spear at the one without a scutum, but that allowed the other to close with him. Driving his shield into the spearman, the triarius rammed Bogu against the wall. As Hanno realised, it wasn’t to kill the spearman. It was to allow the Roman’s comrades to barge past – towards him. Too late, he turned. Too late, he tried to engage the key in the lock’s mechanism. An instant later, something smashed into the back of his head. Stars burst across his vision. His world narrowed to a tunnel before him. All he could see was his hand, which was slowly letting go of the key. A key that had not turned enough to open the lock. In the distance, he could hear his soldiers’ shouts mingling with those of the triarii. He wanted to shout, ‘I’m coming,’ but his voice wouldn’t work. His strength had gone too, and there was nothing Hanno could do to stop his knees from buckling.
Then everything went black.
Hanno woke, coughing and spluttering, as a tide of icy water was emptied over his head. Fear and rage surged through him as he tried to get his bearings. He was lying on the flat of his back on a cold stone floor – where, he had no idea. He struggled to rise, but his arms and legs were bound. Trying to ignore the worst headache he could remember, Hanno blinked to clear his eyes of water. Two men – triarii from the look of them – were studying him, sneers twisting their faces. Above them, the low roof of a cell. Panic made his heart flutter. Where in hell’s name was he?
‘Enjoyed your little sleep?’ asked the man on his left, a shifty-looking type with a wall eye.
‘You’ve been out for long enough,’ added his companion in a falsely solicitous tone. ‘But now it’s time for a little chat.’
Hanno sensed that would involve a lot of pain. He strained his ears. There was no sound of fighting. No clash of arms. His heart sank. Mutt and his men were gone – if he was even still in the villa.
A scornful laugh from the first man, who saw what he was doing. ‘You’ll get no help here. We’re safe inside Victumulae.’
A moan. Hanno’s gaze shot to his left. Bogu was lying a few paces away. A large bloodstain on the tunic over his belly and a wound to his lower right leg didn’t bode well.
It’s just me and Bogu. Hanno spat several ripe curses in Carthaginian.
Another snort of amusement. ‘Wondering why your men didn’t break down the door, eh?’
That was what Hanno was thinking, but he kept his face blank. They would have no idea that he could speak Latin.
‘They pissed off as soon as we sounded the alarm,’ said the second soldier to his comrade. ‘We couldn’t believe our luck. They must have thought reinforcements would be sent out from the town. Stupid bastards.’
A tide of weariness washed over Hanno. They were just following my orders, he thought.
The second man leered. ‘If only they’d known that the sound of the trumpets was all the back-up we were going to get!’
Hanno felt sick at the very thought. He closed his eyes, but the kick to his ribs that followed made them shoot open again with pain. He tried to roll away from the next kick, and it caught him in the back instead. He steeled himself for the next.
‘Enough,’ snapped a voice. ‘I’ll decide how and when he and the other maggot are to be punished.’
The sound of men snapping to attention. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Get him up.’
Hanno felt hands grabbing him under his armpits; he was lifted to a standing position. His surroundings were grim: a square, stone-flagged chamber with no windows. Three small lamps shed enough light to see the damp running down the walls and the table to one side upon which sat a frightening array of metal instruments, every one of them barbed or sporting a cruel blade. A glowing brazier promised more varieties of pain. Watched in impassive silence by the officer who had entered, Hanno’s arms were raised and the rope around his wrists was looped over a hook that dangled from the ceiling. As his shoulder sockets took his entire body weight, Hanno’s agony reached new heights. Desperate, he reached down with his feet. The floor was agonisingly close – he could brush it with the tips of his sandals, but couldn’t support himself for more than a few moments. Gasping with frustration and pain, he looked up.
To Hanno’s utter shock, he recognised the stocky officer – square-chinned, clean-shaven, about thirty-five – before him. It was the man who’d been beneath his blade during the fight with a Roman patrol a week or more earlier. The enemy he had let live, so that he could save Mutt’s life. I should have killed him. Hanno felt terrible for even thinking such a thing. Doing that would have ensured this man’s death, but also that of Mutt. He would still be a prisoner, and merely faced with a different torturer. Hanno noted that the man did not appear to have recognised him. There was a tiny chance that that might work to his advantage. He held fiercely on to that hope.
The officer gave him a mirthless smile. ‘Excruciating, isn’t it? Count yourself lucky that I didn’t tell them to tie your hands behind your back first. That would have dislocated your shoulders the moment they hauled you aloft.’ A scowl when Hanno didn’t answer. ‘You can’t understand a word I say, can you?’
Hanno said nothing.
‘Hang the other one up too,’ commanded the officer.
Hanno watched with helpless rage as Bogu was dragged up, moaning, and suspended beside him. Eventually, the spearman’s eyes came into focus; he tried to smile, but grimaced instead. ‘We’ll be fine,’ Hanno whispered.
‘’S’ll right, sir. You don’t need to lie to me.’
Hanno’s next words died in his throat. Fresh blood had already soaked through Bogu’s tunic from his belly wound. They were both going to die in this room. Bogu knew it. He knew it. There was no point pretending. ‘May the god
s give us a safe passage.’
‘Silence!’ cried the officer. He clicked his fingers. ‘Find me that gugga slave who was mentioned earlier.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The wall-eyed soldier moved towards the door.
‘There’s no need for the slave. I speak Latin well enough,’ said Hanno.
The officer mastered his shock well. ‘How do you know my tongue?’ he barked.
‘I had a Greek tutor as a boy.’
The officer’s eyebrows rose. ‘A civilised gugga, eh?’
‘Plenty of us are well educated,’ replied Hanno stiffly.
A surprised look. ‘Does your man also speak Latin?’
‘Bogu? No.’
‘There are differences between the classes then, as there are here,’ mused the officer, with a scornful glance at his soldiers. ‘Your Latin accent is not that of a Greek-speaker, though. It sounds more as if you come from Campania.’
It was Hanno’s turn to feel startled. Yet it wasn’t surprising that he spoke like Quintus and his family. ‘I have lived in southern Italy,’ he admitted.
The Roman prowled closer. He pushed Hanno between the shoulders so that he swung forward, off the tips of his toes. His arms wrenched back in their sockets, and Hanno bawled with pain. ‘Don’t lie to me!’ shouted the officer.
Desperate to relieve the pressure on his shoulders, Hanno pushed downwards with all the power in his legs and managed – just – to stop himself from swinging back and having the agony rip through him again. ‘I–It’s true. I was captured at sea between Carthage and Sicily with a friend of mine. We were sold into slavery. A Campanian family bought me. I lived near Capua for over a year.’
‘What’s your owner’s name?’ demanded the officer, quick as a flash.
