Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  Suniaton blocked his path. ‘We’ve got better things to do. Like making money,’ he cried, shoving forward a bulging bag of almonds. ‘Carry that.’

  ‘No! You’ll eat them all anyway.’ Hanno pushed his friend out of the way with a grin. It was a standing joke between them that his favourite pastime was getting covered in ash and grime while Suniaton would rather plan his next meal. He was so busy laughing that he didn’t see the approaching group of soldiers – a dozen Libyan spearmen – until it was too late. With a thump, Hanno collided with the first man’s large, round shield.

  This was no street urchin, and the spearman bit back an instinctive curse. ‘Mind your step,’ he cried.

  Catching sight of two Carthaginian officers in the soldiers’ midst, Hanno cursed. It was Sapho and Bostar. Both were dressed in their finest uniforms. Bell-shaped helmets with thick rims and yellow-feathered crests covered their heads. Layered linen pteryges hung below their polished bronze cuirasses to cover the groin, and contoured greaves protected their lower legs. No doubt they too were on their way to the meeting. Muttering an apology to the spearman, Hanno backed away, looking at the ground in an attempt not to be recognised.

  Oblivious to Sapho and Bostar’s presence, Suniaton was snorting with amusement at Hanno’s collision. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We don’t want to get there too late.’

  ‘Hanno!’ Bostar’s voice was genial.

  He pretended not to hear.

  ‘Hanno! Come back!’ barked a deeper, more commanding voice, that of Sapho.

  Unwillingly, Hanno turned.

  Suniaton tried to sidle away, but he had also been spotted.

  ‘Eshmuniaton! Get over here,’ Sapho ordered.

  With a miserable expression, Suniaton shuffled to his friend’s side.

  Hanno’s brothers shouldered their way forward to stand before them.

  ‘Sapho. Bostar,’ Hanno said with a false smile. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Is it?’ Sapho demanded, his thick eyebrows meeting in a frown. A short, compact man with a serious manner like Malchus, he was twenty-two. Young to be a mid-ranking officer, but like Bostar, his ability had shone through during his training. ‘We’re all supposed to be heading to listen to the elders. Why aren’t you with Father?’

  Flushing, Hanno looked down. Damn it, he thought. In Sapho’s eyes, duty to Carthage was all-important. In a single moment, their chances of a day on the boat had vanished.

  Sapho gave Suniaton a hard stare, taking in his pack and the provisions in his hands. ‘Because the pair of you were skiving off, that’s why! Fishing, no doubt?’

  Suniaton scuffed a toe in the dirt.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Sapho asked acidly.

  Hanno moved in front of his friend. ‘We were going to catch some tunny, yes,’ he admitted.

  Sapho’s scowl grew deeper. ‘And that’s more important than listening to the Council of Elders?’

  As usual, his brother’s high-handed attitude rankled with Hanno. This type of lecture was all too common. Most often, it felt as if Sapho was trying to be their father. Unsurprisingly, Hanno resented this. ‘It’s not as if the greybeards will say anything that hasn’t been said a thousand times before,’ he retorted. ‘Just about every one is full of hot air.’

  Suniaton sniggered. ‘Like someone else not too far away.’ He saw Hanno’s warning look and fell silent.

  Sapho’s jaw clenched. ‘You pair of impudent—’ he began.

  Bostar’s lips twitched, and he lifted a hand to Sapho’s shoulder. ‘Peace,’ he said. ‘Hanno has a point. The elders are rather fond of the sound of their own voices.’

  Hanno and Suniaton tried to hide their smiles.

  Sapho missed Bostar’s amusement, but he lapsed into a glowering silence. He was acutely aware, and resentful, that he was not the senior officer present. Although Sapho was a year older, Bostar had been promoted before him.

  ‘It’s not as if this meeting will be a matter of life and death,’ Bostar continued reasonably. His wink – unseen by Sapho – told Hanno that all hope was not lost. He slyly returned the gesture. Like Hanno, Bostar resembled their mother, Arishat, with a thin face and piercing green eyes. Where Sapho’s nose was broad, his was long and narrow. Rangy and athletic, his long black hair was tied in a ponytail, which emerged from under his helmet. Hanno had far more in common with the gentle Bostar than he did with Sapho. Currently, his feelings for his eldest brother often verged on dislike. ‘Does our father know where you are?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Hanno.

  Bostar turned to Suniaton. ‘I would assume, therefore, that Bodesmun is also in the dark?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Sapho butted in, eager to regain control. ‘As usual where these two are concerned.’

  Bostar ignored his brother’s outburst. ‘Well?’

  ‘Father thinks I’m at home, studying,’ Suniaton revealed.

  Sapho’s expression grew a shade more self-righteous. ‘Let’s see what Bodesmun and Father have to say when they discover what you were both really up to. We have enough time to do that before the Council meets.’ He jerked a thumb at the spearmen. ‘Get in amongst them.’

  Hanno scowled, but there was little point arguing. Sapho was in a particularly zealous mood. ‘Come on,’ he muttered to Suniaton. ‘The shoals will be there another day.’

  Before they could move a step, Bostar spoke. ‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t go fishing.’

  Hanno and Suniaton stared at each other, amazed.

  Sapho’s brows rose. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Such activities will shortly be impossible for both of us, and we’ll miss them.’ Bostar made a face. ‘That same day will come for Hanno soon enough. Let him have his fun while he can.’

  Hanno’s heart leaped; the gravity of Bostar’s words was lost on him.

  Sapho’s face grew thoughtful. After a moment, though, his sanctimonious frown returned. ‘Duty is duty,’ he declared.

  ‘Lighten up, Sapho. You’re twenty-two, not fifty-two!’ Bostar threw a glance at the spearmen, who were uniformly grinning. ‘Who would notice Hanno’s absence apart from us and Father? And you’re not Suni’s keeper any more than I am.’

  Sapho’s lips thinned at the teasing, but he relented. The idea of Bostar pulling rank on him was too much to bear. ‘Father won’t be happy,’ he said gruffly, ‘but I suppose you’re right.’

  Hanno could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘Thank you!’ His cry was echoed by Suniaton.

  ‘Go on, before I change my mind,’ Sapho warned.

  The friends didn’t need any further prompting. With a grateful look at Bostar, who threw them another wink, the pair disappeared into the crowd. Broad grins creased both their faces. They would still be held to account, thought Hanno, but not until that evening. Visions of a boat full of tunny filled his mind once more.

  ‘Sapho’s a serious one, isn’t he?’ Suniaton commented.

  ‘You know how he is,’ Hanno replied. ‘In his eyes, things like fishing are a waste of time.’

  Suniaton nudged him. ‘Just as well I didn’t tell him what I was thinking, then.’ He grinned at Hanno’s enquiring look. ‘That it would do him good to relax more – perhaps by going fishing!’

  Hanno’s mouth opened with shock, before he laughed. ‘Thank the gods you didn’t say that! There’s no way he would have let us go.’

  Smiling with relief, the friends continued their journey. Soon they had reached the Agora. Its four sides, each a stade in length, were made up of grand porticoes and covered walkways. The beating heart of the city, it was home to the building where the Council of Elders met, as well as government offices, a library, numerous temples and shops. It was also where, on summer evenings, the better-off young men and women would gather in groups, a safe distance apart, to eye each other up. Socialising with the opposite sex was frowned upon, and chaperones for the girls were never far away. Despite this, inventive methods to approach the object of one’s desire were const
antly being invented. Of recent months, this had become one of the friends’ favourite pastimes. Fishing beat it still, but not by much, thought Hanno wistfully, scanning the crowds for any sign of attractive female flesh.

  Instead of gaggles of coy young beauties, though, the Agora was full of serious-looking politicians, merchants and high-ranking soldiers. They were heading for one place. The central edifice, within the hallowed walls of which more than three hundred elders met on a regular basis as, for nearly half a millennium, their predecessors had done. Overseen by the two suffetes – the rulers elected every year – they, the most important men in Carthage, decided everything from trading policy to negotiations with foreign states. Their range of powers did not end there. The Council of Elders also had the power to declare war and peace, even though it no longer appointed the army’s generals. Since the war with Rome, that had been left to the people. The only prerequisites for candidature of the council were citizenship, wealth, an age of thirty or more, and the demonstration of ability, whether in the agricultural, mercantile, or military fields.

  Ordinary citizens could participate in politics via the Assembly of the People, which congregated once a year, by the order of the suffetes, in the Agora. During times of great crisis, it was permitted to gather spontaneously and debate the issues of the day. While its powers were limited, they included electing the suffetes and the generals. Hanno was looking forward to the next meeting, which would be the first he’d attend as an adult, entitled to vote. Although Hannibal’s enormous public popularity guaranteed his reappointment as the commander-in-chief of Carthage’s forces in Iberia, Hanno wanted to show his support for the Barca clan. It was the only way he could at the moment. Despite his requests, Malchus would not let him join Hannibal’s army, as Sapho and Bostar had done after their mother’s death. Instead, he had to finish his education. There was no point fighting his father on this. Once Malchus had spoken, he never went back on a decision.

  Following Carthaginian tradition, Hanno had largely fended for himself from the age of fourteen, although he continued to sleep at home. He’d worked in a forge, among other places, and thus earned enough to live on without committing any crimes or shameful acts. This was similar to, but not as harsh, as the Spartan way. He had also taken classes in Greek, Iberian and Latin. Hanno did not especially enjoy languages, but he had come to accept that such a skill would prove useful among the polyglot of nationalities that formed the Carthaginian army. His people did not take naturally to war, so they hired mercenaries, or enlisted their subjects, to fight on their behalf. Libyans, Iberians, Gauls and Balearic tribesmen were among those who brought their differing qualities to Carthage’s forces.

  Hanno’s favourite subject was military matters. Malchus himself taught him the history of war, from the battles of Xenophon and Thermopylae to the victories won by Alexander of Macedon. Central to his father’s lessons were the intricate details of tactics and planning. Particular attention was paid to Carthaginian defeats in the war with Rome, and the reasons for them. ‘We lost because of our leaders’ lack of determination. All they thought about was how to contain the conflict, not win it. How to minimise cost, not disregard it in the total pursuit of victory,’ Malchus had thundered during one memorable lesson. ‘The Romans are motherless curs, but by all the gods, they possess strength of purpose. Whenever they lost a battle, they recruited more men, and rebuilt their ships. They did not give up. When the public purse was empty, their leaders willingly spent their own wealth. Their damn Republic means everything to them. Yet who in Carthage offered to send us the supplies and soldiers we needed so badly in Sicily? My father, the Barcas, and a handful of others. No one else.’ He’d barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Why should I be surprised? Our ancestors were traders, not soldiers. To gain our rightful revenge, we must follow Hannibal. He’s a natural soldier and a born leader – as his father was. Carthage never gave Hamilcar the chance to beat Rome, but we can offer it to his son. When the time is right.’

  A red-faced, portly senator shoved past with a curse. Startled, Hanno recognised Hostus, one of his father’s most implacable enemies. The self-important politician was in such a hurry that he didn’t even notice whom he’d collided with. Hanno hawked and spat, although he was careful not to do it in Hostus’ direction. He and his windbag friends complained endlessly about Hannibal, yet were content to accept the shiploads of silver sent from his mines in Iberia. Lining their own pockets with a proportion of this wealth, they had no desire to confront Rome again. Hanno, on the other hand, was more than prepared to lay down his life fighting their old enemy, but the fruit of revenge wasn’t ripe. Hannibal was preparing himself in Iberia, and that was good enough. For now, they had to wait.

  The pair skirted the edge of the Agora, avoiding the worst of the crowds. Around the back of the Senate, the buildings soon became a great deal less grand, looking as shabby as one would expect close to a port. Nonetheless, the slum stood in stark contrast to the splendour just a short walk away. There were few businesses, and the single- or twin-roomed houses were miserable affairs made of mud bricks, all apparently on the point of collapse. The iron-hard ruts in the street were more than a handspan deep, threatening to break their ankles if they tripped. No work parties to fill in the holes with sand here, thought Hanno, thinking of Byrsa Hill. He felt even more grateful for his elevated position in life.

  Snot-nosed, scrawny children wearing little more than rags swarmed in, clamouring for a coin or a crust, while their lank-haired, pregnant mothers gazed at them with eyes deadened by a life of misery. Half-dressed girls posed provocatively in some doorways, their rouged cheeks and lips unable to conceal the fact that they were barely out of childhood. Unshaven, ill-clad men lounged around, rolling sheep tail bones in the dirt for a few worn coins. They stared suspiciously, but none dared hinder the friends’ progress. At night it might be a different matter, but already they were under the shadow of the great wall, with its smartly turned-out sentries marching to and fro along the battlements. Although common, lawlessness was punished where possible by the authorities, and a shout of distress would bring help clattering down one of the many sets of stairs.

  The tang of salt grew strong in the air. Gulls keened overhead, and the shouts of sailors could be heard from the ports. Feeling his excitement grow, Hanno charged down a narrow alleyway, and up the stone steps at the end of it. Suniaton was right behind him. It was a steep climb, but they were both fit, and reached the top without breaking sweat. A red concrete walkway extended the entire width of the wall – thirty paces – just as it did for the entire length of the defensive perimeter. Strongly built towers were positioned every fifty steps or so. The soldiers visible were garrisoned in the barracks, which were built at intervals below the ramparts.

  The nearest sentries, a quartet of Libyan spearmen, glanced idly at the pair but, seeing nothing of concern, looked away. In peacetime, citizens were allowed on the wall during the hours of daylight. Perfunctorily checking the turquoise sea below their section, the junior officer fell back to gossiping with his men. Hanno trotted past, admiring the soldiers’ massive round shields, which were even larger than those used by the Greeks. Although fashioned from wood, they were covered in goatskin, and rimmed with bronze. The same demonic face was painted on each, and denoted their unit.

  Trumpets blared one after another from the naval port, and Suniaton jostled past. ‘Quick,’ he shouted. ‘They might be launching a quinquereme!’

  Hanno chased eagerly after his friend. The view from the walkway into the circular harbour was second to none. In a masterful feat of engineering, the Carthaginian warships were invisible from all other positions. Protected from unfriendly eyes on the seaward side by the city wall, they were concealed from the moored merchant vessels by the naval port’s slender entrance, which was only just wider than a quinquereme, the largest type of warship.

  Hanno scowled as they reached a good vantage point. Instead of the imposing sight of a warship sliding backwards
into the water, he saw a purple-cloaked admiral strutting along the jetty that led from the periphery of the circular docks to the central island, where the navy’s headquarters were. Another fanfare of trumpets sounded, making sure that every man in the place knew who was arriving. ‘What has he got to swagger about?’ Hanno muttered. Malchus reserved much of his anger for the incompetent Carthaginian fleet, so he had learned to feel the same way. Carthage’s days as a superpower of the sea were long gone, their fleet smashed into so much driftwood by Rome during the two nations’ bitter struggle over Sicily. Remarkably, the Romans had been a non-seafaring race before the conflict. Undeterred by this major disadvantage, they had learned the skills of naval warfare, adding a few tricks of their own in the process. Since her defeat, Carthage had done little to reclaim the waves.

  Hanno sighed. Truly, all their hopes lay on the land, with Hannibal.

  Some time later, Hanno had forgotten all his worries. Half a mile offshore, their little boat was positioned directly over a mass of tunny. The shoal’s location had not been hard to determine, thanks to the roiling water created by the large silver fish as they hunted sardines. Small boats dotted the location and clouds of seabirds swooped and dived overhead, attracted by the prospect of food. Suniaton’s source had been telling the truth, and neither youth had been able to stop grinning since their arrival. Their task was simple: one rowed, the other lowered their net into the sea. Although they had seen better days, the plaited strands were still capable of landing a catch. Pieces of wood along the top of the net helped it to float, while tiny lumps of lead pulled its lower edge down into the water. Their first throw had netted nearly a dozen tunny, each one longer than a man’s forearm. Subsequent attempts were just as successful, and now the bottom of the boat was calf-deep in fish. Any more, and they would risk overloading their craft.