by Ben Kane
That, and a war to look forward to.
Checking that Agesandros was nowhere in sight, Hanno pulled the mules to a halt. The sweating beasts did not protest. It was nearly midday, and the temperature in the farmyard was scorching. Hanno jerked his head at one of the others who was threshing the wheat with him. ‘Water.’
The Gaul made a reflex check for the Sicilian before putting down his pitchfork, and fetching the leather skin which lay by the storage shed. After drinking deeply, he replaced the stopper and tossed it through the air.
Hanno nodded his thanks. He swallowed a dozen mouthfuls, but was careful to leave plenty of the warm liquid for the others. He threw the bag to Cingetorix, another Gaul.
When he was done, Cingetorix wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Gods, but it’s hot.’ He spoke in Latin, which was the only language he and his countrymen had to communicate with Hanno. ‘Does it never rain in this cursed place? At home …’ He wasn’t allowed to finish.
‘We know,’ growled Galba, a short man whose sunburnt torso was covered with swirling tattoos. ‘It rains much more. Don’t remind us.’
‘Not in Carthage,’ said Hanno. ‘It’s as dry there as it is here.’
Cingetorix scowled. ‘You must feel right at home then.’
Despite himself, Hanno grinned. For perhaps two months after his arrival, the Gauls, with whom he shared sleeping quarters, had ignored him completely, speaking their own rapid-fire, guttural tongue at all times. He’d done his best to win them over, but it had made no difference. When it came, the change had been gradual. Hanno wasn’t sure whether the extra, unwanted attention he received from Agesandros was what had prompted the tribesmen to extend the hand of friendship to him, but he no longer cared. The camaraderie they now shared was what made his existence bearable. That, and the news that Hannibal’s iron grip on Saguntum had tightened. Apparently, the city would fall before the end of the year. Hanno prayed for the Carthaginian army’s success every night. He also asked that one day he be granted an opportunity to kill Agesandros.
There were five of them in the yard altogether, continuing the work which had begun weeks previously with the harvest. It was late summer, and Hanno had grown used to life on the farm, and the immense labour expected of him every day. Things were made much harder by the heavy iron fetters that had been attached to his ankles, preventing him moving at any speed faster than a shuffle. Hanno had thought he was fit beforehand, but soon realised otherwise. Working twelve or more hours a day in summer heat, wearing manacles and fed barely enough, he was a taut, wiry shadow of his former self. His hair fell in long, shaggy tresses either side of his bearded face. The muscles on his torso and limbs now stood out like whipcord, and every part of exposed skin had darkened to a deep brown colour. The Gauls looked no different. We’re like wild beasts, Hanno thought. It was no wonder that they rarely saw Fabricius or his family.
Catching sight of Agesandros in the distance, he whistled the agreed signal to alert his companions. Swiftly, the skin was hurled back to its original position. Hanno dragged his mules into action again, pulling a heavy sledge over the harvested wheat, which had been laid right across the hard-packed dirt of the large farmyard. The Gauls began winnowing the threshed crop, tossing it into the air with their pitchforks so that the breeze could carry away the unwanted chaff. Their tasks were time-consuming and mind-numbing, but they had to be done before the wheat could be shovelled into the back of a wagon and deposited in the nearby storage sheds, which were built on brick stilts to prevent rodent access.
When Agesandros arrived a few moments later, he stood in the shade cast by the buildings and watched them silently. Uneasy, the five slaves worked hard, trying not to look in the Sicilian’s direction. Soon a fresh coat of sweat coated their bodies.
Every time he turned the sledge, Hanno caught a glimpse of Agesandros, who was staring relentlessly at him. He was unsurprised when the overseer stalked in his direction.
‘You’re walking the mules too fast! Slow down, or half the wheat won’t come off the stalks.’
Hanno tugged on the nearest animal’s lead rope. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.
‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you,’ Agesandros snarled.
‘At once, sir,’ Hanno repeated loudly.
‘Stinking gugga. You’re all the damn same. Useless!’ Agesandros drew his whip.
Hanno steeled himself. It didn’t seem to matter what he did. The mules’ speed was just the latest example. His technique with the scythe and pitchfork, and how long he took to fetch water from the well had also recently been called into question. Everything he did was wrong, and the Sicilian’s response was the same every time.
‘You’re all idle bastards.’ Lazily, Agesandros drew the long rawhide lash along the ground. ‘Motherless curs. Cowards. Vermin.’
Hanno clicked his tongue at the mules, trying to block out the insults.
‘Maybe you did have a mother,’ Agesandros admitted. He paused. ‘She must have been the most diseased whore in Carthage, though, to spawn something that looks like you.’
Hanno’s knuckles tightened with fury on the lead rope, and his shoulders bunched. From the corner of his eye, he saw Galba, who was behind the Sicilian, shaking his head in a gesture that said ‘No’. Hanno forced himself to relax, but Agesandros had already seen his barb’s effect.
‘Didn’t like that?’ The Sicilian laughed, and raised his right arm. A heartbeat later, the whip came singing in to wrap itself across Hanno’s back and under his right armpit. Crack went the tip as it opened the skin under his right nipple. The pain was intense. Hanno stiffened, and his pace decreased a fraction. It was all Agesandros needed. ‘Did I tell you to slow down?’ he screamed. The whip was withdrawn, only to return. Hanno counted three, six, a dozen lashes. Although he did his utmost not to make a sound, eventually he couldn’t help but moan.
The overseer smiled at this proof of Hanno’s weakness, and ceased. His skill with the lash was such that Hanno was always left in extreme pain, but still able to work. ‘That should keep you moving at the right speed,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Hanno muttered.
Satisfied, Agesandros gave the Gauls a hard stare and made as if to go.
Hanno did not relax. There was always more.
Sure enough, Agesandros turned. ‘You’ll find your bed softer tonight,’ he confided.
Slowly, Hanno raised his gaze to meet that of the Sicilian.
‘I’ve pissed in it for you.’
Hanno did not speak. This was even worse than Agesandros spitting in his food, or halving his water ration. His anger, which had been reduced to a tiny glow in the centre of his soul, was suddenly fanned to a white-hot blaze of outrage and indignation. With supreme effort, he kept his face blank. Now is not the time, he told himself. Wait.
Agesandros sneered. ‘Nothing to say?’
I won’t give the bastard what he wants, thought Hanno furiously. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Cheated, Agesandros snorted and walked away.
‘Dirty fucker,’ whispered Galba when he was out of earshot. There was a rumble of agreement from the others. ‘You can have some of our bedding. We’ll replace the wet stuff in the morning in case he checks up on you.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Hanno absently. He was imagining running after the overseer and killing him. Thanks to Agesandros’ expert needling, his warrior spirit had just reawakened. If he was to meet Suniaton in the next world, he wanted to be able to hold his head up high. Things would come to a head soon, Hanno realised. But it didn’t matter. Death would be better than this daily indignity.
Unusually, Quintus found himself at a loose end one fine morning. It had rained overnight, and the temperature was cooler than it had been for many months. Invigorated by the crisp, fresh air, he decided to make amends with Aurelia. Over the previous few months, much to her displeasure, Aurelia had been put in the care of a strict tutor, a sour-faced Greek slave loaned to Atia by Martialis. Rather than roaming t
he farm as she pleased, nowadays Aurelia had to sit demurely and learn Greek and mathematics. Atia continued to teach her how to weave and sew, and how to comport herself in polite company. Aurelia’s protests fell on deaf ears. ‘It’s time you learned to be a lady, and that’s an end to it,’ Atia had snapped a number of times. ‘If you keep protesting, I’ll give you a good whipping.’ Aurelia dutifully obeyed, but her stony silences at the dinner table since revealed her true opinion.
Fabricius knew better than to intervene in his wife’s business, which left Quintus as Aurelia’s only possible ally. However, he felt caught in the middle. While he felt guilty at his sister’s plight, he also knew that an arranged marriage was the best thing for the family. All his attempts to lighten her mood failed, and so Quintus began to avoid her company when his day’s work was done. Hurt, Aurelia spent more and more time in her room. It was a vicious circle from which there seemed no way out.
Meanwhile Quintus had been fully occupied with the work his father set him: paperwork, errands to Capua and regular lessons in the use of the gladius. Despite the time that had passed, Quintus still missed his sister keenly. He made a snap decision. It was time to make her an apology and move on. They did not have for ever. Although Fabricius had found no suitable husband for Aurelia yet, he had begun the search during his visits to Rome.
Throwing some food into a pack, Quintus headed for the chamber off the courtyard where Aurelia took her lessons. Barely pausing to knock, he entered. The tutor glanced up, a small frown of disapproval creasing his brow. ‘Master Quintus. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Quintus drew himself up to his full height. He was now three fingers width taller than his father, which meant that he towered over most people. ‘I am taking Aurelia on a tour of the farm,’ he announced grandly.
The tutor looked taken aback. ‘Who sanctioned this?’
‘I did,’ Quintus replied.
The tutor blew out his cheeks with displeasure. ‘Your parents—’
‘Would approve wholeheartedly. I will explain everything to them later.’ Quintus made an airy gesture. ‘Come on,’ he said to Aurelia.
Her attempt to look angry faded away, and she jumped to her feet. Her writing tablet and stylus clattered unnoticed to the floor, drawing reproving clucks from the tutor. Yet the elderly Greek did not challenge Quintus further, and the siblings made their way outside unhindered.
Since killing the bear, Quintus’ confidence had grown leaps and bounds. It felt good. He grinned at Aurelia.
Abruptly, she remembered their feud. ‘What’s going on?’ she cried. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks, and then suddenly you barge into my lessons unannounced.’
He took Aurelia’s hand. ‘I’m sorry for deserting you.’ To his horror, tears formed in her eyes, and Quintus realised how hurt she had been. ‘Nothing I said seemed to make any difference,’ he muttered. ‘I couldn’t think of a way to help you. Forgive me.’
She smiled through her grief. ‘I was at fault too, staying in a mood for days. But come, you’re here now.’ A mischievous look stole across her face. ‘A tour of the farm? What have I not seen a thousand times before?’
‘It was all I could think of,’ he replied, embarrassed. ‘Something to get you out of there.’
Grinning, she nudged him. ‘It was enough to shut up the old fool. Thank you. I don’t care where we go.’
Arm in arm, they strolled along the path that led to the olive groves.
Hanno could see that Agesandros was in a bad mood. Any slave who so much as missed a step was getting a tongue-lashing. Ten of them were walking ahead of the Sicilian, carrying wicker baskets. Fortunately, Hanno was near the front, which meant that Agesandros was paying him little attention. Their destination was the terraces containing plum trees, the fruit of which had lately, and urgently, become ripe. Picking the juicy crop would be an easy task compared to the work of the previous weeks, and Hanno was looking forward to it. Agesandros could only be so vigilant. Before the day was over, plenty of plums would have ended up in his grumbling belly.
A moment later, he cursed his optimism.
Galba, the man behind him, missed his footing and fell heavily to the ground. There was a grunt of pain, and Hanno turned to see a nasty gash on his comrade’s right shin. It had been caused by a sharp piece of rock protruding from the earth. Blood welled in the wound, running down Galba’s muscular calf and on to the dry soil, where it was soaked up at once.
‘That’s your day over,’ Hanno said in a low voice.
‘I doubt Agesandros would agree,’ Galba replied, grimacing. ‘Help me up.’
Hanno bent to obey, but it was too late.
Shoving past the other slaves, the Sicilian had reached them in a dozen strides. ‘What in the name of Hades is going on?’
‘He fell and hurt his leg,’ Hanno began to explain.
Agesandros spun around, his eyes like chips of flint. ‘Let the piece of shit explain for himself,’ he hissed before turning back to Galba. ‘Well?’
‘It’s as he said, sir,’ said the Gaul carefully. ‘I tripped and landed on this rock.’
‘You did it deliberately, to get out of work for a few days,’ Agesandros snarled.
‘No, sir.’
‘Liar!’ The Sicilian tugged free his whip and began belabouring Galba.
Hanno’s fury overflowed at last. ‘Leave him alone,’ he shouted. ‘He didn’t do anything.’
Agesandros delivered several more strokes and a hefty kick before he paused. Nostrils flaring, he glared at Hanno. ‘What did you say?’
‘Picking plums is an easy job. Why would he try and get out of it?’ he growled. ‘The man tripped. That’s it.’
The Sicilian’s eyes opened wide with disbelief and rage. ‘You dare to tell me what to do? You piece of maggot-blown filth!’
Hanno would have given anything for a sword in that instant. He had nothing, though, but his anger. In the rush of adrenaline, it felt enough. ‘Is that what I am?’ he spat back. ‘Well, you’re nothing but low-born Sicilian scum! Even if my feet were covered in shit, I wouldn’t wipe them on you.’
Something inside Agesandros snapped. Raising his whip, he smashed the metal-tipped butt into Hanno’s face.
There was a loud crunch and Hanno felt the cartilage in his nose break. Half blinded by the intense pain, he reeled backwards, raising his hands protectively against the blow he knew would follow. He had no opportunity to pick up a rock, anything to defend himself. Agesandros was on him like a lion on its prey. Down came the whip across Hanno’s shoulders, its tip licking around to snap into the flesh of his back. It whirled away but came singing back a heartbeat later, lacing cut after cut across his bare torso. He backed away, but the laughing Sicilian followed. When Hanno stumbled on a tree root, Agesandros shoved him in the chest, sending him sprawling. Winded, he could do nothing as the other loomed over him, his face twisted in triumph. A mighty kick in the chest followed, and the ribs broken by Varsaco cracked for the second time. The pain was unbearable and, hating himself, Hanno screamed. Worse was to follow. The beating went on until he was barely conscious. Finally, Agesandros rolled him on to his back. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered. Prompted by more kicks, Hanno managed to open his eyes. The moment he did, the Sicilian lifted his right leg high, revealing the hobnailed sole of his sandal. ‘This is for all my comrades,’ he muttered. ‘And my family.’
Hanno had no idea what Agesandros was talking about. The bastard is going to kill me, he thought dazedly. Strangely, he didn’t really care. At least his suffering would be over. He felt a numbing sense of sorrow that he would never see his family again. There would be no opportunity to apologise to his father either. Let it be so. Resigned, Hanno closed his eyes and waited for Agesandros to end it.
The blow never fell.
Instead, a commanding voice shouted, ‘Agesandros! Stop!’
Initially, Hanno didn’t grasp what was going on, but when the order was repeated, and he sensed the Sicilian back away,
the realisation sank in. Someone had intervened. Who? He lay back on the hard ground, unable to do anything more than draw shallow breaths. Each movement of his ribcage stabbed knives of pain through every part of his being. It was the only thing that kept him from lapsing into unconsciousness. He was aware of Agesandros throwing hate-filled glances in his direction, but the Sicilian did nothing further to him.
A heartbeat later, Quintus and Aurelia, Fabricius’ children, appeared at the edge of Hanno’s vision. Outrage filled both their faces.
‘What have you done?’ Aurelia cried, dropping to her knees by Hanno’s side. Although the bloodied Carthaginian was almost unrecognisable, her stomach still fluttered at the sight of him.
Hanno tried to smile at her. After Agesandros’ cruel features, she resembled a nymph or other suchlike creature.
‘Well?’ Quintus’ voice was stony. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘Your father leaves the running of the farm, and the care of the slaves, to me,’ Agesandros blustered. ‘That’s the way it has been since before you were born.’
‘And if you killed a slave? What would he say then?’ Aurelia challenged.
Agesandros was taken aback. ‘Come now,’ he said in a placating manner. ‘I was administering a beating, nothing more.’
Quintus’ laugh was derisory. ‘You were about to stamp on his head. On this rocky ground, a blow like that could stave a man’s skull in.’
Agesandros did not reply.
‘Couldn’t it?’ Quintus demanded. His fury at the Sicilian, who had looked intent on murder, had doubled when he realised the victim’s identity. Any residual awe he felt towards Agesandros had evaporated. ‘Answer me, by all the gods.’