by Ben Kane
‘That will be a happy day.’
Kleitos threw him a grateful look. ‘Perhaps you will see the Roman girl again. When Hannibal has beaten the Romans, you could seek her out.’
‘She’s married,’ said Hanno more sharply than he’d meant.
‘Well, who’s to say that her husband won’t have fallen in battle?’
‘I’ve thought the same thing more than once. But even if we did meet, she wouldn’t be interested in me – a dirty gugga, one of those who had humbled her people.’ Aurelia had never called him that, but Hanno was trying to harden his heart against further pain.
‘Don’t be so sure. You’ll never be as handsome as me, for example, but I dare say even the flute girls tonight could be persuaded to lie with you.’
Hanno grabbed one of the drying cloths from the pile and flicked it, catching Kleitos on the arse. ‘Cheeky dog!’
Kleitos took the challenge with a whoop. Like two boys, they ran around the room, thrashing each other with their cloths. The slaves looked on, bemused.
Kleitos called a halt eventually. ‘Let’s not miss the start of it. I want to hear what the brothers have to say.’
The bath and massage had sobered the pair up, to Hanno’s relief. Kleitos had awakened Hanno’s devilish side, which wanted to go on an almighty bender. But a public affair like this required his best behaviour, at least for the early part of the night. He did his best to keep this uppermost in his mind as they set off.
Hanno had seen few rooms as grand as the immense banqueting hall in which the party was held. Its grandest feature was the mosaic floor surface – a set of magnificent scenes depicting the war between Greece and Troy: Paris eloping with Helen; Menelaus’ thousand ships setting sail; Achilles defeating Hector; the Trojan Horse full of soldiers. To Kleitos’ amusement, Hanno insisted on wandering around, studying the lot.
‘Carthage is bigger and more beautiful than Syracuse,’ Hanno said. ‘But we have nothing like this!’
‘You Carthaginians are famed for your city, your wandering natures, and your ability to make money where others can’t.’ Kleitos clinked his cup off Hanno’s in salutation. ‘My people’s skill in war may not be what it was in the days of Xenophon, Leonidas and Alexander, but we are still masters of the arts and culture.’
Hanno studied the room, trying not to be awestruck. The ewers of wine and of water carried by the slaves were made of gold or silver. So too were the kraters being passed between the guests. From the hardwood couches and serving tables to the richly painted walls and gilded lamp stands, everything in the room exuded quality and class. His family were wealthy, as was Quintus’, but not on this scale. And despite his stature, Hannibal did not go in for shows of riches. This was the first time that Hanno had been inside the palace of someone – Hiero – who effectively had been a king.
‘Ho, Kleitos!’ called a short man with almost no hair, who was reclining with a group of nobles on a set of nearby couches. ‘Brought a friend?’
‘Come.’ Kleitos beckoned to Hanno. ‘I’ll introduce you to some of my comrades.’
By the time that the sixth krater had been passed around, Hanno was feeling rather inebriated. The wine was watered down, but perhaps not as much as he was used to. He would pass the next time it appeared in front of him, or he’d soon be puking. What time it was, he had no idea, but it had to be late. Not long after his and Kleitos’ arrival, the brothers had appeared, to rapturous applause. Epicydes’ speech had been witty and acerbic, and Hippocrates had waxed long and proud about the gathered men’s bravery. Both discourses had gone down like a house on fire. Toast after toast had been made, and the floor was now awash thanks to the wine that had been poured out as libations to the gods. There had been a spontaneous rendition of the paean, the Greek hymn of triumph, which had set the hairs on the back of his neck atingle. Kleitos’ friends, who seemed a decent lot, had been welcoming and interested to talk with him. Annoyingly, he had heard nothing that would interest Hannibal. Flute girls and dancers in diaphanous robes had moved through the crowd, pausing here and there to perform, and accompanied by musicians with lyres and pipes. Slaves kept the wine flowing without pause. The food, served on silver platters, had been plentiful and delicious: fish and shellfish of all kinds, baked with herbs, stuffed and grilled. There had been spit-roasted lamb and pork, and plenty of fresh-baked flatbread to mop up the juices. If it hadn’t been for the food, Hanno would have been on the floor some time past.
It had been a mistake, he thought blearily, to start drinking when they had. He’d peaked early, and despite the break at the baths, it had all been downhill since then. His plan of retreating to one of the more secluded parts of the room with one of the many attractive flute girls still appealed, but he wasn’t sure if his body was up to the task. His bladder went into spasm, reminding him that he hadn’t yet been for a piss. It seemed perfect timing. If he took his time going and coming, and downed a cup of water taken from a passing slave on the way, he’d start to sober up. Carefully, he got to his feet.
‘Has one of the girls taken your fancy?’ asked Kleitos, leering.
‘More than one. But I need to empty my bladder.’
‘Do it in a corner. No one will notice.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ retorted Hanno. It was unlikely that Hippocrates or Epicydes would hear about it if he did such a thing, but he wasn’t that desperate. ‘Where’s the latrine?’
‘Somewhere over there.’ Kleitos waved vaguely through the crowd at the opposite end of the room.
Hanno hadn’t gone far when he was accosted by a man who introduced himself as Thick Eyebrows’ commander. He made a hearty apology for his men’s behaviour and insisted on sharing his krater of wine. After what he considered enough time to be polite, Hanno made his excuses and left. This time, he was careful to avoid eye contact with the other revellers. His bladder felt as if it were about to burst. Even the sight of a voluptuous flute girl performing a naked dance for a rapt audience of noblemen couldn’t make him pause.
He wandered down a well-lit hallway, trying various doors. They were either locked, or opened into storage rooms. Finally, though, his luck was in. A grander arrangement than he’d seen in an age, the latrine had several wooden seats that emptied into a large-bore angled pipe. Hanno exchanged pleasantries with the other occupant, a fat man whose poisonous farts had Hanno pissing as fast as he could. A little disappointed that his trip hadn’t taken longer – he did not feel any less drunk – he headed in the opposite direction to the banqueting hall. A pleasant breeze cooled his cheeks; Hanno hoped it was coming from a spot where he could sit for a while and let the wine’s effects subside.
Fortune smiled on him. The small balcony that he came upon through a pair of open doors was unlit. By sitting to one side of it, he could avoid being seen from the corridor. With a sigh of relief, he sat on a stone bench and peered out at the city. Slivers of moonlight traced the outline of tiled roofs; shadow filled the spaces in between. Overhead, innumerable stars shone. Off to one side, he could make out the line of the rampart. Now and again, a dog barked. From a distance came the sound of waves lapping against the breakwater. It was the most natural thing in the world to close his eyes.
He woke, shivering with cold. Knuckling away his weariness, Hanno studied the moon. It had started to fall in the sky. Melqart’s beard, he thought, I must have been asleep for hours. He was about to stir, but a movement from the corner of his eye stopped him. He wished that he’d ignored the order to come unarmed, but his concern eased as the shape on the neighbouring balcony, which he hadn’t noticed until that point, was revealed to be a woman. She had a child in her arms, and was rocking it gently to and fro. ‘There, there,’ she whispered. ‘It was a bad dream, my love. Mother’s here. There, there.’
Hanno blinked and listened again. She was talking Latin, not Greek. A Roman woman here had to be a captive or, worse, one of Hippocrates’ whores. Every instinct was telling him to back away silently, and return whence he came,
but sympathy – and curiosity – made him stay put.
‘Mother?’ asked the child, a boy.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘When are we going home?’
‘I-I don’t know, my love. Soon, I hope.’ The boy might have missed the catch in his mother’s voice, but Hanno did not. A memory tickled the edge of his still befuddled mind, like a feather.
‘Mistress?’ A second woman spoke from the room which gave on to the balcony.
‘Yes, Elira?’
Hanno felt as if someone had thrown him, head first, into a pool of icy water. He had not heard the name ‘Elira’ since he’d left Quintus’ family home, more than four years before. She’d been an Illyrian, he remembered. How many women of that race, of that name, could serve a Roman mistress? It couldn’t be. Could it?
‘Aurelia?’ he whispered. ‘Aurelia?’
There was a sharp intake of breath, then a frightened voice said: ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’
Hanno cursed his stupidity. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t know who it was on his balcony. ‘Do not fear. I’m just a weary guest from the party. Is your name Aurelia?’
‘How could you know that?’ she demanded, retreating further.
Now Hanno knew it was she. He spoke quickly, in case she grew even more alarmed. ‘Because I am Hanno, he whom your brother Quintus picked out in the slave market in Capua. You were there too.’
‘Hades below! H-Hanno?’ Her voice cracked again.
He went to the edge of the balcony so she could see him better. ‘I’m here.’
She moved towards him, still clutching her son. ‘I’d heard that you might be in the city, but to meet you is beyond all hope!’ She began to weep quietly.
It was Hanno’s turn to struggle with disbelief. ‘Bomilcar found you?’
‘Yes, in Rome.’
‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’ The boy’s voice was sleepy.
‘Just a man, my love.’ Aurelia glanced at Hanno. ‘Give me a moment.’ She disappeared from view.
While she was gone, the hideous image of Agathocles and the women he’d bought – for Hippocrates – filled Hanno’s mind. This could be the only reason for Aurelia’s presence here, in the palace. A rage such as he’d never felt before burst into flames in his belly. Hippocrates, the filthy fucking bastard. He had to get her away – how, Hanno had no idea, but doing nothing was not an option.
‘How long have you been in the city?’ She was back.
‘A few weeks. And you …?’ Hanno didn’t know how to phrase it delicately. ‘You were taken prisoner? Is that how you came to be here?’
‘Yes. Our ship was taken by a Syracusan trireme. My husband’s partner was killed. I have no idea what became of Agesandros, but Elira and I were chosen by one of Hippocrates’ men as … concubines.’ She said the last word with utter venom.
Hanno longed to enfold her in his arms, to tell her that everything would be fine. ‘Let me into your room.’
‘I can’t, Hanno. I’m sorry. We’re locked in.’
He mouthed a silent, savage oath. ‘Then I’ll kick the door down.’
‘And if the guards come?’
Again Hanno cursed. What chance would he have, pissed and unarmed, against Hippocrates’ soldiers? Even if they could be avoided, there were plenty more at the palace’s main gate. There was no way that he, Aurelia, her son and Elira – Hanno had no doubt that Aurelia would insist she came too – would be allowed to leave. He wanted to scream with frustration. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘You must. For now.’
‘But that monster, Hippocrates—’
‘He can’t hurt me any more. Not when I know you are here.’ Her hand reached out, and he seized it, trying to send all he felt for her through his fingers and into her flesh.
‘I’ll devise a plan for us to escape.’
‘I know you will.’ Her voice had a serenity to it that he wouldn’t have thought possible. It helped to calm him. ‘How can I get word to you?’ he asked.
‘There’s a baker’s near the agora that sells sweetmeats and pastries. They’re the best in Syracuse, or so everyone says. Elira is allowed to go there occasionally, if Hippocrates is pleased with us. That’s the only thing I can think of, unless you can grow wings, and fly up here.’
‘I’ll find her.’ Again he was staggered by her apparent equanimity. Fresh rage washed over him. When Hippocrates ‘is pleased’ with them? Hanno made a spontaneous, heartfelt vow. The filth would die for this. But first, he had to get them out of here.
‘Hades, that hurts!’ grumbled Urceus.
‘Stop being such an old woman. I’m being as gentle as I can.’ Two days had passed, and Quintus was unwinding the bandage that covered Urceus’ wound. The last of the wrapping came away, and Urceus couldn’t quite mask his concern.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Quintus eyed the inner parts of the bandage, and then the hole on either side of Urceus’ triceps. The fabric was stained with blood, but there was no trace of green. Both wounds were reddened, but their edges weren’t angry-looking. There was a little discharge from each, but it was pink-red, not purulent. ‘It looks good. There’s no smell. The surgeon must have been right.’
Urceus grunted. ‘Aye, maybe salt water is good for killing infection.’
‘Well, that and the acetum he sluiced in there. You squawked when he did that,’ jibed Quintus.
‘As if you wouldn’t have! You’re the one who whines when he gets a stone in the heel of a sandal.’
‘True enough.’ Quintus’ grin was rueful. Picking up the roll of linen that lay by his side, he began to cover Urceus’ wound again. ‘Another week or two and you’ll be able to return to duties, I’d wager.’
‘Good. I want to get back into training with you and the rest of our brothers.’ Urceus made a face. ‘What few of them remain.’
They both fell silent, remembering Wolf, Unlucky and the dozens of others who had died in the carnage of their assault on Syracuse. Their maniple had not been alone in suffering heavy casualties. Exact numbers were always hard to come by, but the word was that more than two thousand legionaries and a similar number of sailors had died in the water that day. The attack on the Hexapyla gate had fared no better, the artillery barrages there being every bit as accurate as in the harbour. Marcellus, it was said, had been incandescent with rage when the news reached him. Upwards of a legion had been lost in total; that didn’t take into account the hundreds who had died of their injuries since. The wounded who yet lived still filled the beds of the makeshift hospitals. Men such as Urceus, whose arm no longer required the attention of a surgeon, had been sent to recover among their comrades. His friend’s improvement had definitely speeded up since then, thought Quintus.
The assault’s failure and the loss of life had badly affected the soldiers’ morale. The name of Archimedes, previously unknown, had become a byword for evil. Men spoke his name with trepidation, or not at all. For a couple of weeks after the failed attack, if as much as a length of wood appeared over the edge of the battlements, widespread panic broke out. It had taken the legionaries a while to appreciate that the Syracusans were taunting them with nothing more than planks. Their courage restored by this realisation, men had started advancing towards the walls to hurl insults a day or two before – which was when the enemy artillery had sent over a heavy barrage that had killed a dozen soldiers and sent terror lancing into the hearts of the remainder of Marcellus’ troops. The losses had seen the issuing of an order that no one was to cross the line of the Roman circumvallation unless commanded to do so by a centurion or other senior officer.
Quintus didn’t have a problem with that. Nor did any soldier he knew. Even Corax was happy enough to stay out of harm’s way for the time being. ‘Attacking the walls again would be suicidal,’ he had growled one night as he’d passed through the maniple’s tents on his rounds. ‘Marcellus is right to have us wall the bastards in. If an assault that big couldn’t take the city, there’
s no reason to think that another would go any better.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Quintus, tying off the new bandage on Urceus’ arm. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to get to know our new comrades in the months to come.’ He winked at Mattheus, who had indeed turned out to be a decent sort, as well as a better cook than anyone else in the reconstituted contubernium. Mattheus’ presence had come about thanks to Marcellus’ practical response to his army’s heavy casualties. The units in which the senior officers had been killed had been amalgamated with those whose commanders had survived. Mattheus and more than two score of his comrades now formed part of Corax’s maniple. In turn, Quintus and Crespo had four new tent mates, among them Mattheus, and a soldier called Marius.
Urceus inclined his head. ‘The food’s better since you arrived, I grant.’
Mattheus performed a mock bow. ‘You say that the defenders will starve, but the twenty-mile long wall that we’re building doesn’t stop the arse-humping Greeks from receiving supplies by sea.’
Quintus scowled in acknowledgement. Urceus spat on the ground. ‘Let’s hope that the promised naval blockade is in place soon.’
‘I won’t be holding my breath,’ said Quintus. ‘Corax told Vitruvius this morning that the headquarters gossip is that the Senate has authorised more ships, but not enough for Marcellus to seal off the approaches to both harbours night and day.’
‘So the siege will drag on.’ Urceus didn’t seem unhappy. No one did, thought Quintus. He wasn’t prepared to admit it out loud, but he too was relieved. For all that he wanted Rome to win the war, the brutality of the naval attack had drained him of the desire to fight. Once Quintus would have been overwhelmed by guilt for feeling this way. Now he felt but a twinge.
‘It’s not so bad here, is it?’ asked Mattheus, smiling as heads nodded. ‘We’re miles from the swamps that the men to the south of the city have to live beside. We’ve got well-drained latrine pits, plentiful food, and the wine that Crespo manages to produce over and over.’
Everyone laughed at this, especially Quintus. Of recent days, he had developed a skill at bartering for supplies of wine. Sometimes he even stole it from the locals who sold such things in the camps outside theirs. On one occasion, he had even pilfered it from the back of the quartermaster’s tents. If Corax suspected, he said nothing. As long as his men followed orders and didn’t thieve from the units to either side of his maniple, he didn’t care. The hastati loved him even more for this indifference.
