‘Yes,’ Hanno had replied, too fast. ‘Take care.’
‘I will, sir. You too.’ Mutt’s eyes had met his for a moment, before they flickered away.
‘Gods damn it!’ Hanno had stepped forward and enveloped Mutt in a bear hug. After a slight hesitation, Mutt’s arms had come up to grip his back. ‘I’ll miss you,’ Hanno had muttered. ‘You’re an excellent officer.’
‘So are you, sir.’ Mutt had released his grip; quickly, Hanno had done the same. Mutt had gazed at him, without smiling, as was his way. ‘The gods protect you, sir. You’ll need it, where you’re going.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Fortune seems to favour you, that’s for sure, sir.’ Mutt’s excuse for a smile had appeared. ‘The gods grant it always be that way.’
‘And the same for you.’ Hanno had wanted to say more, but didn’t have the words.
Mutt’s eyes had been understanding. ‘Go on, sir.’
‘May we meet again.’
‘I hope so, sir. One day.’
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hanno had walked away. When he’d glanced back, Mutt’s hand had been raised in farewell.
Tears stung Hanno’s eyes at the memory, and he was glad that Alcimos was looking the other way.
He studied the horizon, searching it for sails, but saw nothing. Hanno had been a little surprised to see signs of the war on the sea. A Roman liburnian, one of the fastest ocean-going craft, had rowed north the day that they’d set out. He’d had no idea what it was doing until Alcimos muttered something about ‘official messages’ being sent to the Senate in Rome. Hanno had fantasised about taking the liburnian, and its communications, to Hannibal, but even if it had been possible, this was not his mission. They had been passed several times by Roman triremes, powering south to join the fleet being assembled near Syracuse. On the first occasion, Hanno had been very nervous. From a distance, he looked the same as any other fisherman — deeply tanned and clad in only a loincloth — but the vessel was so tiny that there was really nowhere to conceal his gear. Even the most cursory of searches would find his gear and sword under a pile of netting.
The trireme hadn’t even slowed down. The lookout had seen them, and called down to the deck; Hanno had seen the captain at the helm raise a hand to his eyes and stare in their direction, but that had been it. Each of the other warships had treated them in the same manner. So too had the great transports, of which there had been many, lumbering empty down the coast to Rhegium where they would be used to ferry soldiers, equipment and supplies across the straits to Messana. Eventually, Hanno had grown more relaxed about the sight of a sail. Thanks to the number of Roman ships on the waves, pirates in these parts were now rare. The fact that he was soon to go ashore wrenched him back to stark reality. This part of Sicily was possibly in Roman hands — Hanno had no idea how the war here had been going of recent days — and from the moment his feet hit the beach, danger would beckon.
A sense of melancholy stole over him. If anything went wrong from hereon in, there would be no salvation. Mutt and his soldiers, his brothers and Hannibal were all a long way away. Until he gained the walls of Syracuse, everyone he met was likely to be an enemy. He threw up a prayer to Tanit, the goddess who protected Carthaginians and their homes, asking for her help, and clutched Hannibal’s ring through the fabric of his undergarment.
‘We’re nearing the shallows. I don’t want to linger,’ said Alcimos. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Hanno glanced over the side. The water was crystal clear, and the rocky bottom was no deeper than his height. The shore was only a hundred paces distant. He fumbled in the leather bag that contained his clothing, sword, dagger, money and food. He took a gold piece from his purse; it was worth far more than the cost of his passage, but he had been given plenty by Hannibal, and Alcimos was a good man. ‘Here.’ Sunlight glittered off the coin as he proffered it.
Alcimos’ eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Take it, and forget that you ever saw me.’
It disappeared into Alcimos’ gnarly hand and for the first time since they’d met, a broad smile creased his weather-beaten face. ‘I am blind to you, my Carthaginian friend.’ With the ease of long practice, he furled the small sail. At once the boat slowed in the water; only the slight swell kept it moving towards the beach. ‘It’s chest deep. In you go. I’ll pass you your bag.’
It would be so easy for Alcimos to sail away with his possessions, thought Hanno, but a man had to trust sometimes. There was no simple way to get in other than jump, so that’s what he did. Knowing that the water would be cold made little difference as he went in. It took Hanno’s breath away, and he was grateful that his feet soon touched the bottom. When he looked up, Alcimos was holding out his bag. Hanno felt ashamed that he had even considered him capable of treachery. ‘My thanks,’ he said, placing it on his head to keep it dry.
‘May your gods keep you from harm. With luck, you’ll make Syracuse before sunset.’
Hanno nodded gratefully. ‘Let your return voyage to Bruttium be swift.’
‘I’ll take that, and full nets too, if I can.’ Alcimos was raising the sail again.
By the time that Hanno had waded ashore, the fisherman and his boat were five score paces offshore and more. As if he were already fulfilling his promise to forget Hanno, Alcimos didn’t look back. Hanno blocked the feeling of loneliness that rose in his chest. His mission had begun. Hannibal was relying on him. A glance up and down revealed that the beach was still empty; apart from Alcimos’ craft, so too was the sea around. Hanno delved in his bag again. A few moments later, he had clad himself in a worn labourer’s chiton. A neck cloth covered the scar on his neck, and a thin strip of leather served as his belt, and to hold his dagger at his waist. His intention, as he walked towards Syracuse, was to look like just another homeless peasant, carrying his worldly possessions on his back. If he was stopped by a Roman patrol, well …
Don’t even think about it. It won’t happen.
Willing his hope to be true, Hanno struck inland, off the beach.
Hanno’s troubles began when he’d reached the Hexapyla gate, the main entrance on Syracuse’s northern wall. He’d arrived outside the city the evening before, having seen no Roman patrols. The sun had been right on the horizon when the Hexapyla had come into sight, however, and he’d heard the guards calling to each other as they began to close the great wooden doors. Travellers seeking entrance to a city at such a time were far more likely to fall under suspicion, even more so when there was a war on. Despite the fact that he carried Hannibal’s ring and letter of introduction, he looked like a ragged-arse peasant without an obol to his name. It wasn’t impossible that he would be accused of stealing the items, and his sword, but until he had the ear of a sympathetic or alert officer, it paid to be cautious. Frustrated and hungry, he had found a discreet spot under a tree some distance from the road, and there he had curled up in his woollen cloak.
After a poor night’s sleep, he had risen stiff and cold the following morning. Careful monitoring of the traffic on the road towards the city allowed him to approach the Hexapyla at the same time as a good number of others. The Romans might be near at hand, but people needed to enter and leave. Farmers and merchants had produce to sell, and labourers their time to offer. There were other travellers too, groups of soldiers returning from patrol, and conscripts from the surrounding countryside, answering Syracuse’s summons. Hanno tagged along behind a group of the latter, hoping that the guards wouldn’t pay him any heed.
His tactic didn’t work. Most of the sentries were enjoying rude banter with the conscripts, but one eagle-eyed individual saw that Hanno was on his own. ‘You there!’ he barked in Greek.
Hanno considered running for it, into the city, but it seemed unwise. Ignorant of Syracuse’s layout, he risked immediate capture as a ‘spy’. The wise thing to do was to stay calm and see what happened. He should have nothing to fear. That knowledge didn’t stop his pulse from beating a pounding staccato at the base of his throat. He looked up, casually, vacantly. ‘Me, sir?’ he said, answering in the same tongue.