That was the plan, anyway.
He set off at a brisk pace, fighting his urge to run. It would be stupid to squander the only opportunity to silence Pox Face because his sandals’ iron hobs had given him away. There was no question of intimidating his quarry. To be sure Hippocrates heard nothing, he had to murder him. At any other time, Hanno would have avoided slaying someone who was in effect one of his own. With his and Aurelia’s survival at stake, he didn’t give it a second thought.
At each alley or side street, Hanno slowed long enough to look for anyone with Pox Face’s slight build. On one occasion, he followed a man thirty paces into a narrow lane to find that he had wasted his time. Hoping that the delay wouldn’t cost him dearly, he ran for a bit to regain the ground he’d lost. Eventually, Hippocrates’ house, a grand affair lent to him by one of the city’s leaders, drew near. Hanno had passed scores of people, male, female, young, old, rich and poor, without as much as a sign of Pox Face. His initial optimism began to fade, but he rallied his courage. Maybe Pox Face had gone into a tavern to boast about whom he’d seen?
It was worth going right to Hippocrates’ gate, Hanno decided. If Pox Face had reached the entrance, he could still be there. A lowly soldier would not be admitted without some kind of delay. There might be a chance to distract him, to force him into an alleyway.
The junction with the street upon which Hippocrates’ residence was situated was no more than a hundred paces away when Hanno spotted a slight figure in a military tunic ahead of him. His mouth went dry, and he began to walk faster, stealing through the other passers-by to within a dozen steps of the man. Frustration filled him. Even at this short distance, he couldn’t be sure from behind that it was Pox Face. Hanno ventured closer, his nerves taut as wire, wondering if he should act. But what if he killed the wrong man?
The gods smiled on him then. A woman laughed from a first-floor balcony, and his quarry’s head turned, looking for the sound’s source. In the process, he revealed his cheek, covered in characteristic pockmarks. Hanno exulted, but he had to act quickly — the junction was less than fifty paces away. His eyes darted left and right, spotted an alley that ran between a derelict building and a block of apartments. He had no idea if it would be empty, but he’d run out of time. It would have to do.
Drawing his dagger and holding it unobtrusively by his side, he ran forward. Too late, Pox Face heard Hanno’s footsteps. His face registered first alarm, then recognition of Hanno, and last of all pure fear. He didn’t make a sound, though, because Hanno had an iron grip on his left shoulder and a blade jammed up against his liver. ‘Call for help, and you’re dead,’ Hanno muttered. ‘Disobey me, and you’re dead. Understand?’
Pox Face nodded.
‘Left. Into the alley.’ They’d drawn level with its mouth.
Pox Face hesitated, and Hanno jabbed the dagger’s tip into his flesh. ‘Move. I just want to talk to you.’
In the depths of terror, men clutch at the shortest of straws. Pox Face ducked inside the darkened space, which was no more than four paces wide. Broken pottery crunched underfoot. The air was fetid, laced with the smell of human piss and shit, and the rotten food that had been flung from above. Hanno glanced up and was glad to see none of the apartments’ residents framed in the windows. He stopped Pox Face fifteen paces in. ‘That’s far enough.’
‘Don’t kill me, please.’ Pox Face turned his head a little to try and catch Hanno’s eye. ‘Please.’
Hanno had been about to use his dagger, but at such close range, he’d cover himself in blood. That wouldn’t do. He had to be able to emerge from the alley and walk away without raising suspicion. ‘Shut up.’ Keep him thinking that he might live. ‘Where were you going?’
‘Nowhere. I-’
Pox Face didn’t get a chance to continue his lie. Releasing his grip on the other’s shoulder, Hanno threw his left arm around Pox Face’s neck and squeezed as hard as he could. Pox Face made a horrible, choking sound and fought back like a man possessed. He tried kicking backwards, smacking Hanno painfully on the knee a couple of times. His hands reached back, pulling at Hanno’s hair, his ears, his arm. Tightening his grip, Hanno buried his face in Pox Face’s smelly tunic to avoid getting a finger in the eye. All the while, he kept the knife ready as a last resort.
For a small man, Pox Face possessed considerable strength. Hanno had lost a few clumps of hair and had a bleeding ear before his opponent’s struggling weakened. At last, though, his arms fell to his sides. He went limp in Hanno’s grasp. Suddenly worried that there might be witnesses, Hanno glanced at the alley’s mouth. There was no one there. Dropping his dagger, he threw Pox Face to the ground and rolled him over. His victim’s eyes flickered and opened. Hanno met his gaze as he placed his hands around Pox Face’s neck and began to choke him again. Pox Face’s hands came up and pawed ineffectually at him.
‘Thought that you’d sell out my woman, did you?’ Hanno hissed, digging his thumbs right into Pox Face’s Adam’s apple. ‘You piece of filth!’
He had killed many men, but never by strangling. It wasn’t pleasant, but Pox Face had to die silently. Hanno watched, unmoved, as the other’s face suffused with blood, as his engorged tongue poked out from between his lips. Pox Face’s reddened eyeballs bulged from their sockets. They stared at Hanno with a mad, pleading intensity. ‘Rot in hell,’ he grated, digging in with his thumbs. There was a low crunch as the cartilage in Pox Face’s throat gave way. His tongue retracted a little into his mouth, and the light went from his eyes. Hanno didn’t let up. He didn’t take his hands away until there had been no movement from his victim for another twenty heartbeats. Carefully, he felt for a pulse in Pox Face’s purpled neck, and again over his heart. Nothing. Hanno let out a long, slow breath. He had done it.
The danger wasn’t over, however. Noises from the street reminded him that there were people very close by. Replacing his dagger in its sheath, he brushed back his hair, dabbed at his bloody ear, palmed the sweat from his face. Hanno waited until he was stepping into the street before adjusting his tunic in the manner of a man who has been emptying his bladder. A carpenter crouched over a half-sawn plank looked up, and then returned to his work. No one else appeared to notice. With a little luck, thought Hanno, Pox Face’s body wouldn’t be found for a few days. By then, the rats would have been at him; it would be a miracle if he could even be identified. Hippocrates would remain unaware of Aurelia’s presence in the city.
Hanno’s step was light as he strode down the street, but scarcely thirty paces later, a familiar voice cried, ‘Ho! Is that my Carthaginian officer I see?’
Hanno felt sick. Of all the bad luck. He turned and saluted. ‘It is I, sir.’
Hippocrates drew near, with several of his cavalry officers close behind. Their breastplates glistened; their helmets and scabbards had been polished. They were going somewhere important. ‘What are you doing here?’ Hippocrates gave him a disapproving glance. ‘And in such a state? You’re filthy — and your ear’s bleeding.’
Hanno ignored the curling lips of the officers at Hippocrates’ back. ‘I was just taking a stroll, sir. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Tripped up, and landed on my head in the dirt.’ He gave silent thanks as Hippocrates all but ignored his reply. Evidently, the general hadn’t seen him until that very moment, had no idea of what he’d been up to.
‘Walk with me,’ Hippocrates ordered. ‘I was going to summon you later.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Hanno looked around for the carpenter, the only person to witness him leaving the alley. To his immense relief, the man had vanished. Where, it didn’t matter.
‘The year’s campaign is about to start.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘As I’d expect,’ came the sharp retort. ‘Recent intelligence suggests that the Roman legions encamped around Syracuse won’t be moving any time soon. Himilco and I intend to give them a nasty surprise.’