"Hannibal: Enemy of Rome" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kane Ben)

Chapter III: Capture

The Mediterranean Sea

Hours passed in a blur of driving rain and pounding waves. Darkness fell, which increased the magnitude of the friends’ terror manyfold. The small boat was tossed up and down, back and forth, helpless before the sea’s immense power. It took all of Hanno’s energy just to stay on board. Both of them were sick multiple times, vomiting a mixture of food and wine over themselves and the vessel’s floor. Eventually there was nothing left but bile to come up. Flashes of lightning regularly illuminated the pathetic scene. Hanno wasn’t sure which was worse: not being able to see his hand in front of his face, or looking at Suniaton’s wan, terrified features and puke-spattered clothes.

Slumped on the bench opposite, his friend alternated between hysterical bouts of weeping, and praying to every god he could think of. Somehow Suniaton’s distress helped Hanno to remain in control of his own terror. He was even able to take some solace from their situation. If Melqart had wanted to drown them, they would already be dead. The storm had not reached the heights it would have done in winter, nor had their boat capsized. Besides these minor miracles, there had been no further leaks. Sturdily built from cypress planks, its seams were sealed with lengths of tightly packed linen fibre as well as a layer of beeswax. They had not lost the oars, which meant that they could row to land, should the opportunity arise. Moreover, every stretch of coastline had its Carthaginian trading post. There they could make themselves known, promising rich reward for a passage home.

Hanno pinched himself out of the fantasy. Don’t get your hopes up, he thought bitterly. The bad weather showed no signs of letting up. Any one of the waves rolling in their direction was capable of flipping the boat. Melqart hadn’t drowned them yet, but deities were capricious by nature, and the sea god was no different. All it would take was a tiny extra surge in the water for their craft to overturn. Hanno struggled to hold back his own tears. What real chance had they? Even if they survived until sunrise and their families worked out where they had gone, the likelihood of being found on the open sea was slim to none. Adrift with no food or water, they would both die, painfully, within a few days. At this stark realisation Hanno closed his eyes and asked for a quick death instead.

Despite the heavy rain which had soaked him to the skin, Malchus had returned from the meeting with the Council of Elders in excellent humour. He stood now, a cup of wine in hand, under the sloping portico that ran around the house’s main courtyard, watching the raindrops splashing off the white marble mosaic half a dozen steps away. His impassioned speech had gone down as he ’d wished, which relieved him greatly. Since Hannibal’s messenger had given him the weighty task a week before of announcing to the elders and suffetes that the general planned to attack Saguntum, Malchus had been consumed by worry. What if the council did not back the Barca? The stakes were higher than he’d ever known.

Saguntine reprisals against the tribes allied to Carthage were purportedly the reason for Hannibal’s assault, but, as everyone knew, its intent was to provoke Rome into a response. Yet, thanks to the general’s perfect timing, that response would not be militaristic. Severe unrest in Illyricum meant that the Republic had already committed both consuls and their armies to conflict in the East. For the upcoming campaign season, Rome would only be able to issue empty threats. After that, however, retribution would undoubtedly follow. Hannibal was not worried. He was convinced that the time for war with their old enemy was ripe, and Malchus agreed with him. Nonetheless, bringing those who led Carthage round to the same opinion had been a daunting prospect.

It was a pity, thought Malchus, that Hanno had not been there to witness his finest oratory yet. By the end, he’d had the entire council on their feet, cheering at the idea of renewed conflict with Rome. Meanwhile Hanno had most likely been fishing. News of the huge shoals of tunny offshore that day had swept the city. Now Hanno was probably spending the proceeds of his catch on wine and whores. Malchus sighed. A moment later, hearing Sapho and Bostar’s voices in the corridor that led to the street, his mood lifted. At least two of his sons had been there. They soon emerged into view, wringing out their sodden cloaks.

‘A wonderful speech, Father,’ said Sapho in a hearty tone.

‘It was excellent,’ agreed Bostar. ‘You had them in the palm of your hand. They could only respond in one way.’

Malchus made a modest gesture, but inside he was delighted. ‘Finally, Carthage is ready for the war that we have been preparing for these years past.’ He moved to the table behind him, upon which sat a glazed red jug and several beakers. ‘Let us raise a toast to Hannibal Barca.’

‘Shame Hanno didn’t hear your speech too,’ said Sapho, throwing a meaningful glance at Bostar. Busily pouring wine, their father didn’t see it.

‘Indeed,’ Malchus replied, handing each a full cup. ‘Such occasions do not come often. For the rest of his life, the boy will regret that he was playing truant while history was made.’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Have you seen him?’

There was a short, awkward silence.

He looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’

‘We ran into him this morning,’ Sapho admitted. ‘On our way to the Agora. He was with Suniaton.’

Malchus swore. ‘That must have been just after he’d scarpered out of the house. The little ruffian ignored my shouts! Did the pair of them give you the slip?’

‘Not exactly,’ Sapho replied awkwardly, giving Bostar another pointed stare.

Malchus caught the tension between his sons. ‘What’s going on?’

Bostar cleared his throat. ‘We talked, and then let them go.’ He rephrased his words. ‘ I let them go.’

‘Why?’ Malchus cried angrily. ‘You knew how important my speech was.’

Bostar flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Father. Perhaps I acted wrongly, but I couldn’t help thinking that, like us, Hanno will soon be at war. For the moment, though, he’s still a boy. Let him enjoy himself while he can.’

Tapping a finger against his teeth, Malchus turned to Sapho. ‘What did you say?’

‘Initially, I thought that we should force Hanno to come with us, Father, but Bostar had a point. As he was the senior officer present, I gave way to his judgement.’ Bostar tried to interrupt, but Sapho continued talking. ‘In hindsight, it was possibly the wrong decision. I should have argued with him.’

‘How dare you!’ Bostar cried. ‘I made no mention of rank! We made the decision together.’

Sapho’s lip curled. ‘Did we?’

Malchus held up his hands. ‘Enough!’

Throwing each other angry looks, the brothers fell silent.

Malchus thought for a moment. ‘I am sorely disappointed in you, Sapho, for not protesting more at your brother’s desire to let Hanno do as he wished.’ He regarded Bostar next. ‘Shame on you, as a senior officer, for forgetting that our primary purpose is to gain revenge on Rome. In comparison, frivolities such as fishing are irrelevant!’ Ignoring their muttered apologies, Malchus raised his cup. ‘Let us forget Hanno and his wastrel friend, and drink a toast to Hannibal Barca, and to our victory in the coming war with Rome!’

They followed his lead, but neither brother clinked his beaker off the other’s.

Hanno’s wish for an easy death was not granted. Eventually the storm passed, and the ferocious waves died down. Dawn arrived, bringing with it calm seas and a clear sky. The wind changed direction; it was now coming from the northeast. Hanno’s hopes rose briefly, before falling again. The breeze was not strong enough to carry them back home, and the current continued to carry their small vessel eastwards. Silence reigned; all the seabirds had been driven off by the inclement weather. Suniaton’s exhaustion had finally got the better of him, and he lay slumped on the boat’s sole, snoring.

Hanno grimaced at the irony of it. The peaceful scene could not have been more at odds with what they had endured overnight. His sodden clothes were drying fast in the warm sunshine. The boat rocked gently from side to side, wavelets slapping off the hull. A pod of dolphins broke the surface nearby, but the sight did not bring the usual smile to Hanno’s face. Now, their graceful shapes and gliding motion were an acute reminder that he belonged on the land, which was nowhere to be seen. Apart from the dolphins, they were utterly alone.

Regret, and an unfamiliar feeling, that of humility, filled Hanno. I should have done my duty, he thought. Gone to that meeting with Father. The idea of listening to dirtbags like Hostus and his cronies was now most appealing. Hanno stared bleakly at the western horizon, knowing that he would never see his home, or his family, again. Suddenly, his sorrow became overwhelming. Hanno’s eyes filled with tears, and he was grateful that Suniaton was asleep. Their friendship ran deep, but he had no wish to be seen crying like a child. He did not despise Suni for his extreme reaction during the storm, though. Thinking that a calm mien might help his friend was all that had prevented him from acting similarly.

A short time later, Suniaton awoke. Hanno, who was still feeling fragile, was surprised and irritated to see that his spirits had risen somewhat.

‘I’m hungry,’ Suniaton declared, glancing around with greedy eyes.

‘Well, there’s nothing to eat. Or drink,’ Hanno replied sourly. ‘Get used to it.’

Hanno’s foul mood was obvious and Suniaton had the wisdom not to reply. Instead he busied himself by bailing out the handsbreadth of water in the bottom of the boat. His housekeeping complete, he lifted the oars and placed them in their rowlocks. Squinting at the horizon and then the sun, he began rowing due south. After a moment, he started whistling a ditty that was currently popular in Carthage.

Hanno scowled. The tune reminded him of the good times they had spent carousing in the rough taverns near the city’s twin ports. The pleasurable hours he had spent with plump Egyptian whores in the room above the bar. ‘Isis’, as she called herself, had been his favourite. He pictured her kohl-rimmed eyes, her carmine lips framing encouraging words, and his groin throbbed. It was too much to bear. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped.

Hurt, Suniaton obeyed.

Hanno was spoiling for a fight now. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, pointing at the oars.

‘Rowing,’ Suniaton replied sharply. ‘What does it look like?’

‘What’s the point?’ Hanno cried. ‘We could be fifty miles out to sea.’

‘Or five.’

Hanno blinked, and then chose to ignore his friend’s sensible answer. He was so angry he could hardly think. ‘Why choose south? Why not north, or east?’

Suniaton gave him a withering glance. ‘Numidia is the nearest coastline, in case you hadn’t realised.’

Hanno flushed and fell silent. Of course he knew that the southern shore of the Mediterranean was closer than Sicily or Italy. In the circumstances, Suniaton’s plan was a good one. Nonetheless, Hanno felt unwilling to back down, so he sat and stared sulkily at the distant horizon.

Stubbornly, Suniaton continued to paddle southwards.

Time passed, and the sun climbed high in the sky.

After a while, Hanno found his voice. ‘Let me take a turn,’ he muttered.

‘Eh?’ Suniaton barked.

‘You’ve been rowing for ages,’ said Hanno. ‘It’s only fair that you have a break.’

‘“What’s the point?”’ Suniaton angrily repeated his friend’s words.

Hanno swallowed his pride. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, all right? Heading south is as good a plan as any.’

Suniaton’s nod was grudging. ‘Fair enough.’

They changed position, and Hanno took control of the oars. A more comfortable atmosphere fell, and Suniaton’s good humour returned. ‘At least we’re still alive, and still together,’ he said. ‘How much worse would it have been if one of us had been washed overboard? There’d be no one to throw insults at!’

Hanno grimaced in agreement. He lifted his gaze to the burning disc that was the sun. It had to be nearly midday. It was baking hot now, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. What I’d give for a cup of water, he thought longingly. His spirits reached a new low, and a moment later, he shipped the oars, unable to work up the enthusiasm to continue rowing.

‘My turn,’ said Suniaton dutifully.

Hanno saw the resignation he was feeling reflected in his friend’s eyes. ‘Let’s just rest for a while,’ he murmured. ‘It looks set to remain calm. What does it matter where we make landfall?’

‘True enough.’ Despite the lie, Suniaton managed to smile. He didn’t vocalise what they were both thinking: if, by some miracle, they did manage to reach the Numidian coastline, would they find water before succumbing to their thirst?

Some time later, they both took another turn at the oars, applying themselves to the task with a vigour born of desperation. Their exertions produced no discernible result: all around, the horizon was empty. They were totally alone. Lost. Abandoned by the gods. At length, exhausted by thirst and the extreme heat, the friends gave up and lay down in the bottom of the boat to rest. Sleep soon followed.

Hanno dreamed that he was on one side of a door while his father was on the other, hammering on the timbers with a balled fist and demanding he open it at once. Hanno was desperate to obey, but could find no handle or keyhole on the door’s featureless surface. Malchus’ blows grew heavier and heavier, until finally Hanno became aware that he was dreaming. Waking to a pounding headache and a feeling of distinct disorientation, he opened his eyes. Above, the limitless expanse of the blue sky. Beside him, Suniaton’s slumbering form. To Hanno’s amazement, the thumping in his head was replaced by a regular, and familiar, cadence: that of men singing. There was another voice too, shouting indistinct commands. It was a sailor, calling the tune for the oarsmen, thought Hanno disbelievingly. A ship!

All weariness fell away, and he sat bolt upright. Turning his head, Hanno searched for the source of the noise. Then he spotted it: a low, predatory shape not three hundred paces distant, its decks lined with men. It had a single mast with a square sail supported by a complex set of rigging, and two banks of oars. The red-coloured stern was curved like a scorpion’s tail, and there was a small forecastle at the prow. Amidst his exultation, Hanno felt the first tickle of unease. This didn’t look like a merchant vessel; it was clearly no fishing smack either. However, it was not large enough to be a Carthaginian, or even a Roman, warship. These days, Carthage had very few biremes or triremes, relying instead on the bigger, more powerful quinqueremes and, to a lesser extent, quadriremes. Rome possessed some smaller ships, but he could see none of their standards. Yet the craft had a distinctly military air.

He nudged Suniaton. ‘Wake up!’

His friend groaned. ‘What is it?’

‘A ship.’

Suniaton shot into a sitting position. ‘Where?’ he demanded.

Hanno pointed. The bireme was beating a northward course, which would bring it to within a hundred paces of their little boat. It was in a hurry to be using both its sail and the power of its oars, and it seemed no one had seen them. Hanno’s stomach lurched. If he didn’t act, it might pass them by.

He stood up. ‘Here! Over here,’ he began shouting in Carthaginian. Suniaton joined in, waving his arms like a man possessed. Hanno repeated his cry in Greek. For a few heart-stopping moments, nothing happened. Finally, a man’s head turned. With the sea almost flat calm, it was impossible not to see them. Guttural shouts rang out, and the chanting voices halted abruptly. The oars on the port side, which was facing them, slowed and stopped, reducing the bireme’s speed at once. Another set of bellowed commands, and the sail was reefed, allowing the ship to bear away from the wind. The nearest banks of oars began to back water, turning the bireme towards them. Soon they could see the base of the bronze ram that was attached to the bow. Carved in the shape of a creature’s head, it was only possible to make out the top of the skull and the eyes. Now pointing straight at them, the vessel gave off a most threatening air.

The two friends looked at each other, suddenly unsure.

‘Who are they?’ whispered Suniaton.

Hanno shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe we should have kept quiet,’ said Suniaton. He began muttering a prayer.

Hanno’s certainty weakened, but it was far too late now.

The sailor who led the oarsmen’s chant began a slower rhythm than before. In unison, the oars on both sides lifted and swept gracefully through the air before arcing down to split the sea’s surface with a loud, splashing sound. Encouraged by the shouts of their overseer, the oarsmen sang and heaved together, dragging their oars, carved lengths of polished spruce, through the water.

Before long, the bireme had drawn alongside. Its superstructure was decorated red like the stern, but around each oar hole a swirling blue design had been painted. It was still bright and fresh, showing the work had been done recently. Hanno’s heart sank as he studied the grinning men – a mixture of nationalities from Greek and Libyan to Iberian – lining the rails and forecastle. Most were clad in little more than a loincloth, but all were armed to the teeth. He could see catapults on the deck as well. He and Suniaton had only their daggers.

‘They’re fucking pirates,’ Suniaton muttered. ‘We’re dead meat. Slaves, if we’re lucky.’

‘Would you rather die of thirst? Or exposure?’ Hanno retorted, furious at himself for not seeing the bireme for what it was. For not keeping silent.

‘Maybe,’ Suniaton snapped back. ‘We’ll never know now, though.’

They were hailed by a thin figure near the prow. With black hair and a paler complexion than most of his dark-skinned comrades, he could have been Egyptian. Nonetheless, he spoke in Greek, the dominant language of the sea. ‘Well met. Where are you bound?’

His companions snorted with laughter.

Hanno decided to be bold. ‘Carthage,’ he declared loudly. ‘But, as you can see, we have no sail. Can we take passage with you?’

‘What are you doing so far out to sea in just a rowing boat?’ the Egyptian asked.

There were more hoots of amusement from the crew.

‘We were carried away by a storm,’ Hanno replied. ‘The gods were smiling, however, and we survived.’

‘You were lucky indeed,’ agreed the other. ‘Yet I wouldn’t give much for your chances if you stay out here. By my reckoning, it is at least sixty miles to the nearest landfall.’

Suniaton gestured towards the south. ‘Numidia?’

The Egyptian threw back his head and laughed. It was an unpleasant, mocking sound. ‘Have you no sense of direction, fool? I talk of Sicily!’

Hanno and Suniaton gaped at one another. The storm had carried them much further than they could have imagined. They had been mistakenly rowing out into the Mediterranean. ‘We have even more reason to thank you,’ said Hanno boldly. ‘As our fathers will, when you return us safely to Carthage.’

The Egyptian’s lips pulled up, revealing a sharp set of teeth. ‘Come aboard. We can talk more comfortably in the shade,’ he said, indicating the awning in the forecastle.

The friends exchanged a loaded glance. This hospitality was at odds with what their eyes were telling them. Every man in sight looked capable of slitting their throats without even blinking. ‘Thank you,’ said Hanno with a broad smile. He rowed around to the back of the bireme. There they found a jolly boat about the same size as theirs tied to an iron ring. A knotted rope had already been lowered to their level from above. A pair of grinning sailors waited to haul them up.

‘Trust in Melqart,’ Hanno said quietly, tying their boat fast.

‘We didn’t drown, which means he has a purpose for us,’ Suniaton replied, desperate for something to believe in. Yet his fear was palpable.

Struggling not to lose his own self-control, Hanno studied the planks before him. This close, he could see the black tar that covered the hull below the waterline. Telling himself that Suniaton was right, Hanno took hold of the rope. How else could they have survived that storm? It must have been Melqart. Helped by the sailors, he ascended, using his feet to grip on the warm wood.

‘Welcome,’ said the Egyptian as Hanno reached the deck. He raised a hand, palm outwards, in the Carthaginian manner.

Pleased by this, Hanno did the same.

Suniaton arrived a moment later, and the Egyptian greeted him similarly. Leather water bags were then proffered, and the two drank greedily, slaking their fierce thirst. Hanno began to wonder if his gut instinct had been wrong.

‘You’re from Carthage?’ The question was innocent enough.

‘Yes,’ replied Hanno.

‘Do you sail there?’ asked Suniaton.

‘Not often,’ the Egyptian replied.

His men sniggered, and Hanno noticed many were lustfully eyeing the gold charms that hung from their necks. ‘Can you take us there?’ he asked boldly. ‘Our families are wealthy, and will reward you well for our safe return.’

The Egyptian rubbed his chin. ‘Will they indeed?’

‘Of course,’ Suniaton asserted.

A prolonged silence fell, and Hanno grew more uneasy.

At last the Egyptian spoke. ‘What do you think, boys?’ he asked, scanning the assembled men. ‘Shall we sail to Carthage and collect a handsome prize for our efforts?’

‘No bloody way,’ snarled a voice. ‘Just kill them and have done.’

‘Reward? We’d all be crucified, more like,’ shouted another.

Suniaton gasped, and Hanno felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Crucifixion was one of the punishments reserved for lawbreakers of the worst kind. Pirates, in other words.

Raising his eyebrows mockingly, the Egyptian lifted a hand, and his companions relaxed. ‘Unfortunately, people like us aren’t welcome in Carthage,’ he explained.

‘It doesn’t have to be Carthage itself,’ Hanno said nonchalantly. Beside him, Suniaton nodded in nervous agreement. ‘Any town on the Numidian coast will do.’

Raucous laughter met his request, and now Hanno struggled not to despair. He glanced at Suniaton, but he had no inspiration to offer.

‘Supposing we agreed to that,’ said the grinning Egyptian, ‘how would we get paid?’

‘I would meet you afterwards with the money, at a place of your choosing,’ Hanno replied, flushing. The pirate captain was playing with him.

‘And you’d swear that on your mother’s life, I suppose?’ the Egyptian sneered. ‘If you had one.’

Hanno swallowed his anger. ‘I did, and I would.’

Catching him off guard, the Egyptian swung forward and delivered a solid punch to his solar plexus. The air shot from Hanno’s lungs, and he folded over in complete agony. ‘Enough of this shit,’ the Egyptian announced abruptly. ‘Take their weapons. Tie them up.’

‘No!’ Hanno mumbled. He tried to stand upright, but strong hands grabbed his arms from behind, pinioning them to his sides. He felt his dagger being removed, and a moment later the gold charm around his neck was torn away. Weaponless and without the talisman he had worn since infancy, Hanno felt utterly naked. Alongside, the same was happening to Suniaton, who screamed as his earrings were ripped out. Greedy hands pulled and tugged at their valuables as the pirates fought for a share of the spoils. Hanno glared at the Egyptian. ‘What are you going to do with us?’

‘You’re both young and strong. Should fetch a good price on the slave block.’

‘Please,’ begged Suniaton, but the pirate captain had already turned away.

Hanno hawked and spat after him, and received a heavy blow across the head for his pains. They then had their arms tied tightly behind their backs and were bundled unceremoniously below decks, into the cramped space where the slaves sat on two tiers of benches. Slumped over their oars, and with barely enough room to sit erect, they sat twenty-five to each row, fifty on each side of the bireme. At the base of the steps, on a central walkway, stood a lone slave, the man whose chant had woken Hanno. Near the stern, a narrow iron cage contained a dozen or so prisoners. Hanno and Suniaton glanced at each other. They weren’t alone.

It was hot outside, but here the presence of more than a hundred sweating men increased the temperature to that of an oven. Countless pairs of deadened eyes stared at the newcomers, but not a single slave spoke. The reason soon became apparent. Bare feet slapped off the timbers as a short barrel of a man approached. The friends stood head and shoulders over him, but the crop-haired newcomer’s muscles were enormous, reminding Hanno of Greek wrestlers he’d seen. His only garment was a leather skirt, but he exuded authority, not least because of the knotted whip dangling from his right fist. His scarred features were roughly hewn, as if from granite, his lips a mere slit in the stone.

Still winded, Hanno couldn’t stop himself from meeting the overseer’s cold, calculating eyes.

‘Fresh meat, eh?’ His voice was nasal and irritating.

‘Two more for the slave market, Varsaco,’ answered one of the men holding Hanno.

‘Consider yourself lucky. Most prisoners end up on the benches, but we have a full complement at the moment.’ Varsaco gestured at the long-haired wretches all around them. ‘So you get to stay in our select accommodation.’ He jerked a thumb at the cage and laughed.

Hanno felt a thrill of dread. Their fate would be no better than that of the oarsmen. They would be totally at the mercy of whoever bought them.

Suniaton’s eyes were pools of terror. ‘We could end up anywhere,’ he whispered.

His friend was right, thought Hanno. The Carthaginians’ weakened navy no longer had the power to keep the western Mediterranean free of pirates, and thus far the Romans had not bothered to police the high seas. The bireme could roam wherever it wanted. There were few ports indeed where the security inspection was more than cursory. Sicily, Numidia or Iberia were possibilities. As was Italy. Every decent-sized town had a slave market. Hanno felt as if he was drowning in an ocean of despair.

The Egyptian’s voice carried from the deck above. ‘Varsaco!’

The overseer answered straightaway. ‘Captain?’

‘Resume former course and speed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hanno and Suniaton were ignored as Varsaco bellowed orders at the oarsmen on the starboard side. Leaning into the task, the slaves used their oars to back water until the overseer gestured at them to stop. At once the figure on the walkway began singing a chant that set the oarsmen into a steady rhythm.

His duties in hand, Varsaco returned. There was a predatory look in his eyes that had not been there before. ‘You’re a handsome boy,’ he said, running his stubby fingers down Hanno’s arm. He slipped a hand under Hanno’s tunic and tweaked a nipple. Hanno shuddered and tried to pull away, but with a man either side of him, he could not go far. ‘I prefer those with a bit more meat on their bones, though,’ Varsaco confided. He moved to Suniaton’s side and roughly squeezed his buttocks. Suniaton twisted away, but the pirates holding him tightened their grip. ‘But look, you’re hurt.’ Varsaco touched one of Suniaton’s still oozing earlobes, then, to Hanno’s horror, licked the blood off his fingertip.

Suniaton wailed with fear.

‘Leave him alone, you whoreson,’ Hanno roared, struggling uselessly to free himself.

‘Or what?’ teased Varsaco. Abruptly, his voice hardened. ‘I am the master below decks. I do as I please. Take him over there!’

Tears of rage streamed down Hanno’s face as he watched his friend being dragged to a large block of wood nailed down near the bow. Its surface, approximately the length of a man’s torso, was covered in irregular, dark patches, and heavy iron fetters were in place at each corner at floor level. Releasing Suniaton from his bonds, the pirates slammed him face down on to the wood. He kicked and struggled, but his captors were too many. An instant later, the manacles clicked shut around his wrists and ankles.

Varsaco moved to stand behind him and, realising what was about to happen, Suniaton began to scream. His protests intensified as the overseer was handed a knife and used it to slit his breeches from waistband to crotch. Varsaco did the same to Suniaton’s undergarment, laughing as the tip of the blade snagged in his flesh, causing him to moan with pain. Finally, the overseer pulled apart the cut fabric, and his face twisted with lust. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered.

‘No!’ cried Suniaton.

It was too much for Hanno to bear. Summoning every reserve of his strength, he twisted and bucked like a wild horse. Engrossed by the spectacle, the two men holding him were caught unawares, and he slipped their grasp. Sprinting forward, he reached Varsaco in a dozen steps. The overseer’s broad back was towards him, and he was busily unbuckling the belt that held up his leather skirt. It dropped to the floor and he sighed with satisfaction, shuffling forward to complete the outrage.

Panting with fury, Hanno steadied himself and did the only thing he could think of. Drawing back his right leg, he swung it through the air and between Varsaco’s thighs. With a meaty thump, the front of his sandal connected with the soft mass of the overseer’s dangling scrotum. Letting out a high-pitched scream, Varsaco collapsed to the deck in a heap. Hanno snarled with delight. ‘How do you like that?’ he screamed, stamping his iron-studded sole on the side of Varsaco’s head for good measure. He managed to deliver several more kicks before the men who had been holding him came barrelling in. Hanno saw one raising the butt of his sword. He half turned, awkward because of the ropes binding his arms, but was unable to avoid the blow. Stars exploded across Hanno’s vision as the hilt connected with the back of his head. His knees buckled and he toppled forward to land on the semi-conscious Varsaco. A rain of blows followed and he slipped into the darkness.

‘Wake up!’

Hanno felt someone nudge him in the back. Slowly, he came to. He was lying on his side, still trussed up like a hen for the pot. Every part of his body hurt. His head, belly and groin had obviously received special attention, however. It was agony to breathe in, and Hanno suspected that two or three of his ribs were cracked. He could taste blood, and warily he used his tongue to check that all his teeth were still in place. They were, thankfully, although two felt loose, and his top lip was bruised and swollen.

He was prodded again.

‘Hanno! It’s me, Suniaton.’

Finally, Hanno focused on his friend, who was lying only a few steps away. To his surprise, they were on the forecastle deck, under the cloth awning he had spied earlier. As far as he could tell, they were alone.

‘You’ve been unconscious for hours.’ Suniaton’s voice was concerned.

The temperature had dropped significantly, Hanno realised. In the gap between the gunwale and the awning, he could see an orange tinge to the sky. It was nearly sunset. ‘I’ll live,’ he croaked. His last memories came flooding back. ‘What about you? Did Varsaco…?’ He couldn’t finish the question.

Suniaton screwed up his face. ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. Amazingly, he grinned. ‘Varsaco couldn’t stand for a long time, you know.’

‘Good! The fucking bastard.’ Hanno frowned. ‘Why didn’t his men kill me?’

‘They were going to,’ whispered Suniaton. ‘But-’

Hearing the stairs that led to the main deck creak, he fell silent. Someone was approaching. A moment later, the Egyptian stooped over Hanno. ‘You’ve come back to us,’ he said. ‘Good. A man who sleeps too long after a beating like that often doesn’t wake.’

Hanno glared.

‘Don’t give me that look,’ said the Egyptian reproachfully. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead by now. Raped before you died, like as not.’

Suniaton flinched, but Hanno’s fury knew no bounds. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’

The Egyptian squatted down alongside him. ‘Spirited, aren’t you? A different prospect to your friend.’ He nodded in approval. ‘I hope to sell you as a gladiator. You’d be wasted as an agricultural or household slave. Are you able to get up?’

Hanno let the other help him to a sitting position. A stabbing pain from his chest made him grimace in pain.

‘What is it?’

Hanno was disconcerted by the Egyptian’s concern. ‘It’s nothing. Just a couple of broken ribs.’

‘That’s all?’

‘I think so.’

The Egyptian smiled. ‘Good. I thought I’d come too late. It wouldn’t be the first time that one of Varsaco’s little games got out of hand.’

‘“Little games”?’ Suniaton asked faintly.

The Egyptian made an offhand gesture. ‘Usually, he’s content to screw whichever poor bastard takes his fancy. Several times a day, normally. As long as that’s it, I don’t mind. It doesn’t affect their sale value. After what you did, though, he would have killed you both. I don’t mind him having his fun, but there’s no point destroying valuable merchandise. That’s why you’re up here, where I sleep. Varsaco has a key to the cage, and I wouldn’t trust him not to slip a knife between your ribs one night.’

Hanno longed to wrap his fingers around the captain’s throat, choking the life out of him, ridding his face of its perpetual smug expression. It stung that their lives had been saved for purely financial reasons. Deep down, though, Hanno was unsurprised by the Egyptian’s action. He’d once seen his father stop a slave from beating a mule for much the same reason.

‘This is the best place on the ship. You’re out of the sun here, and it catches the evening breeze as well.’ The Egyptian got to his feet. ‘Make the most of it. We’re on course for Sicily, and then Italy,’ he said, disappearing from view.

‘At least in Iberia or Numidia, we might have had a chance of getting word to Carthage,’ muttered Suniaton despairingly.

Hanno’s nod was bitter. Instead, they were to be sold to their people’s worst enemies, as gladiators. ‘Melqart can’t be solely responsible for this ill fortune. There’s more to it.’ He cast his mind about, wondering why they should suffer such a terrible fate. All at once, the memory of how he had left home came crashing back. Hanno cursed. ‘I’m a fool.’

Suniaton threw him a confused look. ‘What is it?’

‘I didn’t ask for Tanit’s blessing as I walked out of the front door.’

Suniaton’s face paled. Although she was a virginal mother figure, Tanit was the most important Carthaginian deity. She was also the goddess of war. Angering her carried the risk of severe punishment. ‘It’s not a crime to forget,’ he said, before quickly adding, ‘but you could ask pardon of her anyway.’

In a cold sweat, Hanno did as his friend advised.

Great Mother, he pleaded. Forgive me. Do not forget us, please.

The next morning, Hanno had not returned home. In itself, that was not particularly unusual. But the hours passed, and still there was no sign of him. At midday, Bostar began to look worried. He paced up and down the corridor from the courtyard, checking the street for his youngest brother. By the early afternoon, he could take it no more. ‘Where is Hanno?’

‘Nursing a hangover somewhere, probably,’ Sapho growled.

Bostar pursed his lips. ‘He’s never been this late before.’

‘Maybe he heard about Father’s speech, and got even drunker than normal.’ Sapho looked at their father for approval. Surprisingly, he got none.

Malchus’ face now also registered concern. ‘You’re right, Bostar. Hanno always comes back in time for his lessons. I’d forgotten, but this afternoon, at his request, we were to discuss the battle of Ecnomus again.’

Sapho frowned. ‘He wouldn’t miss it then.’

‘Precisely.’

Suddenly, the situation felt very different.

A familiar voice cut through their dismay. ‘Malchus? Are you at home?’

All three turned to see a stout, bearded man appearing in the courtyard’s entrance. A long cream linen robe reached almost to his feet, and a headcloth concealed his hair.

Bowing, Malchus hurried forward. ‘Bodesmun. I am honoured by your presence.’

Behind him, Sapho and Bostar were also making obeisance. Eshmoun was not their family’s favoured god, but he was an important deity. His temple at the top of Byrsa Hill was the largest in Carthage, and Bodesmun was one of the senior priests there.

‘Can I offer you refreshment?’ asked Malchus. ‘Some wine or pomegranate juice? Bread and honey?’

Bodesmun waved a podgy hand in dismissal. His round, gentle face was worried. ‘Thank you, but no.’

Malchus was nonplussed. He had little in common with a peace-loving priest. ‘How can I help you?’ he enquired awkwardly.

‘It’s about Suniaton.’

Malchus’ response was instant. ‘What’s Hanno made him do?’

Bodesmun managed a weak grin. ‘It’s nothing like that. Have you seen Suni today?’

Malchus’ heart gave an involuntary leap. ‘No. I could ask you the same about Hanno.’

The smile left Bodesmun’s face. ‘He hasn’t returned yet either?’

‘No. Apparently, the tunny were running in their thousands yesterday. Any fool with a net could catch a boatload, and I’m sure they did the same. When Hanno didn’t return, I presumed they had gone out to celebrate,’ Malchus replied heavily, his imagination already running riot. ‘It’s odd that you should arrive when you did. I was just starting to get worried. Hanno has never skipped a lesson on tactics before.’

‘Suni has never missed the devotions in the temple at midday either.’

Bostar’s face fell. Even Sapho frowned.

The two older men stared at each other in disbelief. All at once, they had a great deal in common. Bodesmun was close to tears. ‘What should we do?’ he asked in a quavering voice.

Malchus refused to let the panic that had flared in his breast grow. He was a soldier. ‘There’ll be some easy explanation to this,’ he declared. ‘We might have to check every inn and whorehouse in Carthage, but we’ll find them.’

Bodesmun’s normal commanding demeanour had disappeared. He nodded meekly.

‘Sapho! Bostar!’

‘Yes, Father,’ they replied in unison, eager to be given something to do. By now, Bostar was distraught. Sapho didn’t look happy either.

‘Rouse as many soldiers as you can from the barracks,’ Malchus ordered. ‘I want the city combed from top to bottom. Concentrate on their favourite haunts around the ports. You know the ones.’

They nodded.

Despite his best efforts, Malchus’ temper frayed. ‘Go on, then! When you’re done, find me here, or in the Agora.’

Bostar turned at the entrance to the corridor. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Talk to the fishermen at the Choma,’ Malchus answered grimly. His mind was full of the storm that had battered the city the previous night. ‘I want to know if anyone saw them yesterday.’ He glanced at Bodesmun. ‘Coming?’

The priest pulled himself together. ‘Of course.’

With a sinking feeling in their bellies, they left the house.

On the Choma, Malchus and Bodesmun found scores of the fishermen who plied the waters off the city. Their day’s work was long done. With their boats tied up nearby, they lounged about, gossiping and repairing holes in their nets. Unsurprisingly, the appearance of a noble and a high-ranking priest filled them with awe. Most went their entire lives without ever being in the presence of someone so far up the social scale. Their guttural argot was also quite hard to understand. Consequently, it was hard to get a word of sense out of them.

‘We’re wasting our time. They’re all idiots,’ Malchus muttered in frustration. He forced himself not to scream and lash out with rage. Losing his temper would be completely counterproductive. The best chance of discovering anything about their sons’ disappearance was surely to be found here.

‘Not all, perhaps.’ Bodesmun indicated a wiry figure sitting on an upturned boat, whose silver hair marked him out as older than his companions. ‘Let’s ask him.’

They strolled over. ‘Well met,’ Bodesmun said politely. ‘The blessings of the gods be upon you.’

‘The same to you and your friend,’ replied the old man respectfully.

‘We come in search of answers to some questions,’ Malchus announced.

The other nodded, unsurprised. ‘I was thinking that you were after more than fresh fish.’

‘Were you out on the water yesterday?’

There was a faint smile. ‘With the tunny running like they were? Of course I was. It’s just a shame that the weather changed so early, or it would have been the best day’s catch in the last five years.’

‘Did you see a small skiff, perhaps?’ Malchus asked. ‘With two crew. Young men, well dressed.’

His urgent tone and Bodesmun’s anxious stance would have been obvious to all but an imbecile. Nonetheless, the old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes.

Each instant that went by felt like an eternity to Malchus. He clenched his fists to stop himself from grabbing the other by the throat.

It was Bodesmun who cracked first. ‘Well?’

The old man’s eyes opened. ‘I did spot them, yes. A tall lad and a shorter, stockier one. Well dressed, as you say. They’re out here regularly. A friendly pair.’

Malchus and Bodesmun gave each other a look full of hope, and fear.

‘When did you last see them?’

The old man’s expression became wary. ‘I’m not sure.’

Malchus knew when he was being lied to. A tidal wave of dread swamped him. There was only one reason for the other to withhold the truth. ‘Tell us,’ he commanded. ‘You will come to no harm. I swear it.’

The old man studied Malchus’ face for a moment. ‘I believe you.’ Taking a deep breath, he began. ‘When the wind rose sharply, I saw that a storm was coming. I quickly pulled my net on board and headed for the Choma. Everyone else was doing the same. Or so I thought. When I was safe on dry land, I saw one skiff still over the tunny. I knew it for the young men’s craft by its shape. At first I imagined that they had been consumed by greed and were trying to catch even more fish, but as it was carried out of sight, I realised I was mistaken.’

‘Why?’ Bodesmun’s voice was strangled.

‘The boat appeared to be empty. I wondered if they’d fallen overboard and drowned. That seemed improbable, for the sea was still not that rough yet.’ The old man frowned. ‘I came to the assumption that they were asleep. Oblivious to the weather.’

‘What do you take us for?’ cried Malchus. ‘One dozing, maybe, but both of them?’

The old man quailed before Malchus’ wrath, but Bodesmun laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘That is a possibility.’

Wild-eyed, Malchus turned on Bodesmun. ‘Eh?’

‘A flask of good wine is missing from my cellar.’

Malchus gave him a blank look. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Suniaton is the likely culprit,’ Bodesmun revealed sadly. ‘They must have drunk the wine and then fallen asleep.’

‘When the wind began to rise, they didn’t even notice,’ Malchus whispered in horror.

Tears formed in Bodesmun’s eyes.

‘So they were just washed out to sea?’ Malchus muttered in disbelief. ‘You are old. I can understand why you might have held back, but those?’ Furiously, he indicated the younger fishermen. ‘Why did none of them help?’

The old man found his voice once more. ‘They were your sons, I take it?’

Anguish overtook Malchus’ fury, and he nodded.

The other’s eyes filled with an unhealed sorrow. ‘I lost my only child to the sea ten years hence. A son. It is the gods’ way.’ There was a short pause. ‘The rules of survival are simple. When a storm strikes, it is every craft for itself. Even then, death is quite likely. Why would those men risk their own lives for two youths they barely knew? Otherwise Melqart would likely have had more corpses entering his kingdom.’ He fell silent.

Part of Malchus wanted to have every person in sight crucified, but he knew that it would be a pointless gesture. Glancing back at the old man, he was struck by his calm manner. All his deference had vanished. Looking once more into the other’s eyes, Malchus understood why. What difference would threats make here? The man’s only son was dead. He felt strangely humbled. At least he still had Sapho and Bostar.

Beside him, silent sobs racked Bodesmun’s shoulders.

‘Two deaths is enough,’ Malchus acknowledged with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m grateful for your time.’ He began fumbling in his purse.

‘I need no payment,’ the old man intoned. ‘Such terrible news is beyond a price.’

Mumbling his thanks, Malchus walked away. He was barely aware of a weeping Bodesmun following him. While he retained his composure, Malchus too was riven by grief. He had expected to lose one son – perhaps more – in the impending war with Rome, but not beforehand, and so easily. Had Arishat’s death not been enough unexpected tragedy for one lifetime? At least he’d been able to say goodbye to her. With Hanno, there hadn’t even been that chance.

It all seemed so cruel, and so utterly pointless.

Several days went by. The friends were kept on the forecastle and given just enough food to keep them alive: crusts of stale bread, a few mouthfuls of cold millet porridge and the last, brackish drops from a clay water gourd. Their bonds were untied twice a day for a short period, allowing them to stretch the cramped muscles in their arms and upper backs. They soon learned to answer calls of nature at these times, because at others their guards would laugh at any request for help. On one occasion, desperate, Hanno had been forced to soil himself.

Fortunately, Varsaco was not allowed near them, although he sent frequent murderous glances in their direction. Hanno was pleased to note that the overseer walked with a decided limp for days. Other than making sure Hanno was recovering from his injuries, the Egyptian ignored them, even moving his blankets to the base of the mast. Strangely, Hanno felt some pride at this clear indication of their value. Their solitude also meant that the pair had plenty of occasions to confer with each other. They spent all their time plotting ways to escape. Of course both knew that their fantasies were merely an attempt to keep their spirits up.

The bireme reached the rugged coastline of Sicily, travelling past the walled towns of Heraclea, Acragas and Camarina. Keeping a reasonable distance out to sea meant that any Roman or Sicilian triremes could be avoided. The Egyptian made sure that the friends saw Mount Ecnomus, the peak off which the Carthaginians had suffered one of their greatest defeats to the Romans. Naturally, Hanno had heard the story many times. Sailing over the very water where so many of his countrymen had lost their lives nearly forty years before filled him with a burning rage: partly against the Egyptian for his lascivious telling of the tale, but mainly against the Romans, for what they had done to Carthage. The corvus, a spiked boarding bridge suspended from a pole on every enemy trireme, had been an ingenious invention. Once dropped on to the Carthaginian ships’ decks, it had allowed the legionaries to storm across, fighting just as they would on land. In one savage day, Carthage had lost nearly a hundred ships, and her navy had never recovered from the blow.

A day or so after rounding Cape Pachynus, the southernmost point of Sicily, the bireme neared the magnificent stronghold of Syracuse. Originally built by the Corinthians more than five hundred years before, its immense fortifications sprawled from the triangular-shaped plateau of Epipolae on the rocky outcrop above the sea, right down to the island of Ortygia at the waterline. Syracuse was the capital of a powerful city-state, which controlled the eastern half of Sicily and was ruled by the aged tyrant Hiero, a long-term ally of the Republic, and enemy of Carthage. The Egyptian took his ship to within half a mile of the port before deciding not to enter it. Large numbers of Roman triremes were visible, the captains of which would relish crucifying any pirates who fell into their hands.

It mattered little to Hanno and Suniaton where they landed. In fact, the longer their journey continued, the better. It delayed the reality of their fate.

Rather than make for the towns located on the toe or heel of Italy, the Egyptian guided the bireme into the narrow strait between Sicily and the mainland. Only a mile wide, it afforded a good view of both coasts.

‘It’s easy to see why the Romans began the war with Carthage, isn’t it?’ Hanno muttered to Suniaton. Sicily dominated the centre of the Mediterranean, and, historically, whoever controlled it, ruled the waves. ‘It’s so close to Italy. Our troops’ presence must have been perceived as a threat.’

‘Imagine if our people hadn’t lost the war,’ Suniaton replied sadly. ‘We would have stood a chance of being rescued by one of our ships now.’

It was another reason for Hanno to hate Rome.

In the port of Rhegium, on the Italian mainland, the pirate captain prepared to sell his captives. The street gossip soon changed his mind. The forthcoming games at Capua, further up the coast, had produced an unprecedented demand for slaves. It was enough to make the Egyptian set sail for Neapolis, the nearest shore town to the Campanian capital.

As the end of their voyage drew near, Hanno found that his increasing familiarity with the pirates was, oddly, more comforting than the unknown fate that awaited him. But then he remembered Varsaco: remaining on the bireme was an impossibility for it would only be a matter of time before the brutal overseer took his revenge. It was with a sense of relief, therefore, that two days later Hanno clambered on to the dock at Neapolis. The walled city, formerly a Greek settlement, had been one of the socii, allies of the Republic, for over a hundred years. It possessed one of the largest ports south of Rome, a deep-water harbour filled with warships, fishing boats and merchant vessels from all over the Mediterranean. The place was jammed, and it had taken the Egyptian an age to find a suitable mooring spot.

With Hanno were Suniaton and the other captives, a mixture of young Numidians and Libyans. The Egyptian and six of his burliest men accompanied the party. To prevent any attempt at escape, the iron ring around each captive ’s neck was connected to the next by a length of chain. Enjoying the solidity of the quayside’s broad stone slabs beneath his feet, Hanno found himself beside a heap of roughly cut cedar planks from Tyre. Alongside those lay golden mounds of Sicilian grain and bulging bags of almonds from Africa. Beyond, stacked higher than a man, were wax-sealed amphorae full of wine and olive oil. Fishermen bantered with each other as they hauled their catch of tunny, mullet and bream ashore. Off-duty sailors in their striking blue tunics swaggered along the dock in search of the town’s fleshpots. Laden down by their equipment, a squad of marines prepared to embark on a nearby trireme. Spotting them, the sailors filled the air with jibes. Bristling, the marines began shouting back. The groups were only stopped from coming to blows by the intervention of a pug-nosed optio.

Hanno couldn’t help himself from drinking the hectic scene in. It was so reminiscent of home, and his heart ached with the pain of it. Then, amidst the shouts in Latin, Greek and Numidian, Hanno heard someone speaking Carthaginian, and being answered in turn. Complete shock, then joy, filled him. At least two of his countrymen were here! If he could speak with them, word might be carried to his father. He glanced at Suniaton. ‘Did you hear that?’

Stricken, his friend nodded.

Hanno frantically stood on tiptoe, but the press on the quay was too great.

With a brutal yank, the Egyptian pulled on the chain, forcing his captives to follow. ‘It’s only a short walk to the slave market,’ he announced with a cruel smile.

Hanno dragged his feet, but the pull around his neck was inexorable. To his immense distress, within a dozen paces he could no longer discern his mother tongue from the plethora of other languages being spoken. It was as if the last window of opportunity had been shut in their faces. It felt a crueller blow than anything that had befallen them thus far.

A tear rolled down Suniaton’s cheek.

‘Courage,’ Hanno whispered. ‘Somehow we will survive.’

How? his mind screamed. How?