Hannibal Enemy of Rome (2011)

by Ben Kane

  ‘A good morning’s work,’ pronounced Suniaton.

  ‘Morning?’ challenged Hanno, squinting at the sun. ‘We’ve been here less than an hour. It couldn’t have been easier, eh?’

  Suniaton regarded him solemnly. ‘Don’t put yourself down. I think our efforts deserve a toast.’ With a flourish, he produced a small amphora from his pack.

  Hannibal laughed; Suniaton was incorrigible.

  Encouraged, Suniaton went on talking as if he were serving guests at an important banquet. ‘Not the most expensive wine in Father’s collection, I recall, but a palatable one nonetheless.’ Using his knife, he prised off the wax seal and removed the lid. Raising the amphora to his lips, he gulped a large mouthful. ‘Acceptable,’ he declared, handing over the clay vessel.

  ‘Philistine. Sip it slowly.’ Hanno took a small swig and rolled it around his mouth as Malchus had taught him. The red wine had a light and fruity flavour, but little undertone. ‘It needs a few more years, I think.’

  ‘Now who’s being pompous?’ Suniaton kicked a tunny at him. ‘Shut up and drink!’

  Grinning, Hanno obeyed, taking more this time.

  ‘Don’t finish it,’ cried Suniaton.

  Despite his protest, the amphora was quickly drained. At once the ravenous pair launched into the bread, nuts and fruit that Suniaton had bought. With their bellies full, and their work done, it was the most natural thing in the world to lie back and close their eyes. Unaccustomed to consuming much wine, before long they were both snoring.

  It was the cold wind on his face that woke Hanno. Why was the boat moving so much? he wondered vaguely. He shivered, feeling quite chilled. Opening gummy eyes, he took in a prone Suniaton opposite, still clutching the empty amphora. At his feet, the heaps of blank-eyed fish, their bodies already rigid. Looking up, Hanno felt a pang of fear. Instead of the usual clear sky, all he could see were towering banks of blue-black clouds. They were pouring in from the northwest. He blinked, refusing to believe what he was seeing. How could the weather have changed so fast? Mockingly, the first spatters of rain hit Hanno’s upturned cheeks an instant later. Scanning the choppy waters, he could see no sign of the fishing craft that had surrounded theirs earlier. Nor could he see the land. Real alarm seized him.

  He leaned over and shook Suniaton. ‘Wake up!’

  The only response was an irritated grunt.

  ‘Suni!’ This time, Hanno slapped his friend across the face.

  ‘Hey!’ Suniaton cried, sitting up. ‘What’s that for?’

  Hanno didn’t answer. ‘Where in the name of the gods are we?’ he shouted.

  All semblance of drunkenness fell away as Suniaton turned his head from side to side. ‘Sacred Tanit above,’ he breathed. ‘How long were we asleep?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hanno growled. ‘A long time.’ He pointed to the west, where the sun’s light was just visible behind the storm clouds. Its position told them that it was late in the afternoon. He stood, taking great care not to capsize the boat. Focusing on the horizon, where the sky met the threatening sea, he spent long moments trying to make out the familiar walls of Carthage, or the craggy promontory that lay to the north of the city.

  ‘Well?’ Suniaton could not keep the fear from his voice.

  Hanno sat down heavily. ‘I can’t see a thing. We’re fifteen or twenty stades from shore. Maybe more.’

  What little colour there had been in Suniaton’s face drained away. Instinctively, he clutched at the hollow gold tube that hung from a thong around his neck. Decorated with a lion’s head at one end, it contained tiny parchments covered with protective spells and prayers to the gods. Hanno wore a similar one. With great effort, he refrained from copying his friend. ‘We’ll row back,’ he announced.

  ‘In these seas?’ screeched Suniaton. ‘Are you mad?’

  Hanno glared back. ‘What other choice have we? To jump in?’

  His friend looked down. Both were more confident in the water than most, but they had never swum long distances, especially in conditions as bad as these.

  Seizing the oars from the floor, Hanno placed them in the iron rowlocks. He turned the boat’s rounded bow towards the west and began to row. Instantly, he knew that his attempt was doomed to fail. The power surging at him was more potent than anything he’d ever felt in his life. It felt like a raging, out-of-control beast, with the howling wind providing its terrifying voice. Ignoring his gut feeling, Hanno concentrated on each stroke with fierce intensity. Lean back. Drag the oars through the water. Lift them free. Bend forward, pushing the handles between his knees. Over and over he repeated the process, ignoring his pounding head and dry mouth, and cursing their foolishness in drinking all of the wine. If I had listened to my father, I’d still be at home, he thought bitterly. Safe on dry land.

  Finally, when the muscles in his arms were trembling with exhaustion, Hanno stopped. Without looking up, he knew that their position would have changed little. For every three strokes’ progress, the current carried them at least two further out to sea. ‘Well?’ he shouted. ‘Can you see anything?’

  ‘No,’ Suniaton replied grimly. ‘Move over. It’s my turn, and this is our best chance.’

  Our last chance, Hanno thought, gazing at the darkening sky.

  Gingerly, they exchanged places on the little wooden thwarts that were the boat’s only fittings. Thanks to the mass of slippery fish underfoot, it was even more difficult than usual. While his friend laboured at the oars, Hanno strained for a glimpse of land over the waves. Neither spoke. There was no point. The rain was now drumming down on their backs, combining with the wind’s noise to form a shrieking cacophony that made normal speech impossible. Only the sturdy construction of their boat had prevented them from capsizing thus far.

  At length, his energy spent, Suniaton shipped the oars. He looked at Hanno. There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  Hanno shook his head once.

  ‘It’s supposed to be the summer!’ Suniaton cried. ‘Gales like this shouldn’t happen without warning.’

  ‘There would have been signs,’ Hanno snapped back. ‘Why do you think there are no other boats out here? They must have headed for the shore when the wind began to get up.’

  Suniaton flushed and hung his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s my fault. I should never have taken Father’s wine.’

  Hanno gripped his friend’s knee. ‘Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t force me to drink it. That was my choice.’

  Suniaton managed a half-smile. That was, until he looked down. ‘No!’

  Hanno followed his gaze and saw the tunny floating around his feet. They were shipping water, and enough of it to warrant immediate action. Trying not to panic, he began throwing the precious fish overboard. Survival was far more important than money. With the floor clear, he soon found a loose nail in one of the planks. Removing one of his sandals, he used the iron-studded sole to hammer the nail partially home, thereby reducing the influx of seawater. Fortunately, there was a small bucket on board, containing spare pieces of lead for the net. Grabbing it, Hanno began bailing hard. To his immense relief, it didn’t take long before he’d reduced the water to an acceptable level.

  A loud rumble of thunder overhead nearly deafened him.

  Suniaton moaned with fear, and Hanno jerked upright.

  The sky overhead was now a menacing black colour, and in the depths of the clouds a flickering yellow-white colour presaged lightning. The waves were being whipped into a frenzy by the wind, which was growing stronger by the moment. The storm was approaching its peak. More water slopped into the boat, and Hanno redoubled his efforts with the bucket. Any chance of rowing back to Carthage was long gone. They were going one direction. East. Into the middle of the Mediterranean. He tried not to let his panic show.

  ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Suniaton asked plaintively.

  Realising that his friend was seeking reassurance, Hanno tried to think of an optimistic answer, but couldn’t. The only outcome
possible was an early meeting for them both with Melqart, the marine god.

  In his palace at the bottom of the sea.

  Chapter II: Quintus

  Near Capua, Campania

  QUINTUS WOKE SOON after dawn, when the first rays of sunlight crept through the window. Never one to linger in bed, the sixteen-year-old threw off his blanket. Wearing only a licium, or linen undergarment, he padded to the small shrine in the far corner of his room. Excitement coursed through him. Today he would lead a bear hunt for the first time. It was not long until his birthday, and Fabricius, his father, wanted him to mark his transition to manhood in fitting fashion. ‘Assuming the toga is all well and good,’ he’d said the night before, ‘but you have Oscan blood in your veins too. What better way to prove one’s courage than by killing the biggest predator in Italy?’

  Quintus knelt before the altar. Closing his eyes, he sent up his usual prayers requesting that he and his family remain healthy and prosperous. Then he added several more. That he would be able to find a bear’s trail, and not lose it. That his courage would not fail him when it came to confronting the beast. That his spear thrust would be swift and true.

  ‘Don’t worry, brother,’ came a voice from behind him. ‘Today will go well.’

  Surprised, Quintus turned to regard his sister, who was peering around the half-open door. Aurelia was almost three years younger than he, and loved her sleep. ‘You’re up early,’ he said with an indulgent smile.

  She yawned, running a hand through her dense black hair, a longer version of his own. Sharing straight noses, slightly pointed chins and grey eyes, they were clearly siblings. ‘I couldn’t sleep, thinking about your hunt.’

  ‘Are you worried for me?’ he teased, glad to be distracted from his own concerns.

  Aurelia came a little further into the room. ‘Of course not. Well, a little. I’ve prayed to Diana, though. She will guide you,’ she declared solemnly.

  ‘I know,’ Quintus replied, expressing a confidence that he did not entirely feel. Bowing to the figures on the altar, he rose. Ducking his head into the bronze ewer that stood by the bed, he rubbed the water from his face and shoulders with a piece of linen. ‘I’ll tell you all about it this evening.’ He shrugged on a short-sleeved tunic, and then sat to lace up his sandals.

  She frowned. ‘I want to see it for myself.’

  ‘Women don’t go hunting.’

  ‘It’s so unfair,’ she protested.

  ‘Many things are unfair,’ Quintus answered. ‘You have to accept that.’

  ‘But you taught me how to use a sling.’

  ‘Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,’ Quintus muttered. Much to his surprise, Aurelia had proved to be a deadly shot, which had naturally re-doubled her desire to partake of forbidden activities. ‘We’ve managed to keep our secrets safe so far, but imagine Mother’s reaction if she found out.’

  ‘You’re on the brink of womanhood,’ said Aurelia, mimicking Atia, their mother. ‘Such behaviour does not befit a young lady. It must come to an immediate end.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Quintus replied, ignoring her scowl. ‘Never mind what she’d say if she knew you were riding a horse.’ He didn’t want to lose his favourite companion, but this matter was beyond his control. ‘That’s how life is for women.’

  ‘Cooking. Weaving. Taking care of the garden. Supervising the slaves. It’s so boring,’ Aurelia retorted hotly. ‘Not like hunting or learning to use a sword.’

  ‘It’s not as if you’re strong enough to wield something like a spear anyway.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Aurelia rolled up one sleeve of her nightdress and flexed her biceps. She smiled at his surprise. ‘I’ve been lifting stones like you do.’

  ‘Eh?’ Quintus’ jaw dropped further. Keen to get as fit as possible, he’d been doing extra training in the woods above the villa. He’d clearly failed to conceal his tracks. ‘You’ve been spying on me? And copying me?’

  She grinned with delight. ‘Of course. Once my lessons and duties are over, it’s easy enough to slip away without being noticed.’

  Quintus shook his head. ‘Determined, aren’t you?’ Persuading her to give it all up would be harder than he had thought. He was glad that the duty wouldn’t fall to him. Guiltily, Quintus remembered hearing his parents talking about how it would soon be time to find her a husband. He knew how Aurelia would take that announcement. Badly.

  ‘I know that it can’t go on for ever,’ she declared gloomily. ‘They’ll be looking to marry me off shortly, no doubt.’

  Quintus hid his shock. Even if Aurelia hadn’t heard that particular conversation, it wasn’t surprising that she was aware of what would happen. Maybe he could help, then, rather than pretending it would never come to pass? ‘There’s a lot to be said for arranged marriages,’ he ventured. It was true. Most nobles arranged unions for their children that were mutually beneficial to both parties. It was how the country ran. ‘They can be very happy.’

  Aurelia gave him a scornful look. ‘Do you expect me to believe that? Anyway, our parents married for love. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Their situation was unusual. It’s not likely to happen to you,’ he countered. ‘Besides, Father would keep your interests at heart, not just those of the family.’

  ‘Will I be happy, though?’

  ‘With the help of the gods, yes. Which is more than might happen to me,’ he added, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I could end up with an old hag who makes my life a misery!’ Quintus was glad, though, to be male. No doubt he would eventually wed, but there would be no unseemly rush to marry him off. Meanwhile, his adolescent libido was being satisfied by Elira, a striking slave girl from Illyricum. She was part of the household, and slept on the floor of the atrium, which facilitated sneaking her into his room at night. Quintus had been bedding her for two months, ever since he’d realised that her sultry looks were being directed at him. As far as he was aware, no one else had any idea of their relationship.

  Finally, she smiled. ‘You’re far too handsome for that to happen.’

  He laughed off her compliment. ‘Time for breakfast,’ he announced, continuing to move away from the awkward subject of marriage.

  To his relief, Aurelia nodded. ‘You’ll need a decent meal to give you energy for the hunt.’

  A knot of tension formed in Quintus’ belly, and what appetite he’d had vanished. He would have to eat something, though, even if it was only for appearance’s sake.

  Leaving Aurelia chatting to Julius, the avuncular slave who ran the kitchen, Quintus sloped out of the door. He had barely eaten, and he hoped that Aurelia hadn’t noticed. A few steps into the peristyle, or courtyard, he met Elira. She was carrying a basket of vegetables and herbs from the villa’s garden. As usual, she gave him a look full of desire. It was wasted on Quintus this morning. He gave her a reflex smile and brushed past.

  ‘Quintus!’

  He jumped. The voice was one of the most recognisable on the estate. Atia, his mother. Quintus could see no one, which meant that she was probably in the atrium, the family’s primary living space. He hurried past the pattering fountain in the centre of the colonnaded courtyard, and into the cool of the tablinum, the reception room that led to the atrium, and thence the hallway.

  ‘She’s a good-looking girl.’

  Quintus spun to find his mother standing in the shadows by the doors, a good vantage point to look into the peristyle. ‘W-what?’ he stammered.

  ‘Nothing wrong with bedding a slave, of course,’ she said, approaching. As always, Quintus was struck by her immense poise and beauty. Oscan nobility through and through, Atia was short and slim and took great care with her appearance. A dusting of ochre reddened her high cheekbones. Her eyebrows and the rims of her eyelids had been finely marked out with ash. A dark red stola, or long tunic, belted at the waist, was complemented by a cream shawl. Her long raven-black hair was pinned back by ivory pins, and topped by a diadem. ‘But don’t make it so frequent. It gives them ideas above their
station.’

  Quintus’ face coloured. He’d never discussed sex with his mother, let alone had his activities commented upon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that it was she who had brought it up, though, rather than his father. Fabricius was a soldier, but as he often liked to say, his wife had only been prevented from being one by virtue of her sex. Much of the time, Atia was sterner than he was. ‘How did you know?’

  Her grey eyes fixed him to the spot. ‘I’ve heard you at night. One would have to be deaf not to.’

  ‘Oh,’ Quintus whispered. He didn’t know where to look. Mortified, he studied the richly patterned mosaic beneath his feet, wishing it would open up and swallow him. He’d thought they’d been so discreet.

  ‘Get over it. You’re not the first noble’s son to plough the furrow with a pretty slave girl.’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  She waved her hands dismissively. ‘Your father did the same when he was younger. Everyone does.’

  Quintus was stunned by his mother’s sudden openness. It must be part of becoming a man, he thought. ‘I see.’

  ‘You should be safe enough with Elira. She is clean,’ Atia announced briskly. ‘But choose new bed companions carefully. When visiting a brothel, make it an expensive one. It’s very easy to pick up disease.’

  Quintus’ mouth opened and closed. He didn’t ask how his mother knew that Elira was clean. As Atia’s ornatrix, the Illyrian had to help dress her each morning. No doubt she’d been grilled as soon as Atia had become aware of her involvement with him. ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Ready for the hunt?’

  He twisted beneath her penetrating scrutiny, wondering if she could see his fear. ‘I think so.’

  To his relief, his mother made no comment. ‘Have you prayed to the gods?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let us do it again.’

  They made their way into the atrium, which was lit by a rectangular hole in the ceiling. A downward-sloping roof allowed rainwater to fall into the centre of the room, where it landed in a specially built pool. The walls were painted in rich colours, depicting rows of columns that led on to other, imaginary chambers. The effect made the space seem even bigger. This was the central living area of the large villa, and off it were their bedrooms, Fabricius’ office, and a quartet of storerooms. A shrine was situated in one of the corners nearest to the garden.