‘A shekel for your thoughts,’ said a deep, gravelly voice.
Bostar’s head turned. A short but distinguished-looking officer in a pilos helmet with a scarlet horsehair crest stood before him. An iron cuirass decorated with gold and silver inlay protected his midriff; layered pteryges concealed his groin. Under his armour, he wore a red short-sleeved tunic and a padded jerkin, and he was armed with a stabbing sword that hung in its sheath from a baldric over his right shoulder. To either side, Bostar’s men were grinning and saluting. ‘Father,’ he said, dipping his head in respect.
‘You were a world away as I walked up,’ declared Malchus. ‘Thinking about Hanno, I’d wager.’
‘Of course.’
‘My thoughts are full of him too.’ Malchus scratched at a tight grey curl that had escaped from under his felt liner. ‘The best we can hope for is that he died bravely.’
That’s not much consolation, thought Bostar sadly, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he nodded. ‘It would be good to discover what happened to him.’
A grimace. ‘With the mood the Gauls are in after Hannibal’s speech, I wouldn’t bank on finding many Romans alive after the town falls.’
‘That was partly why I wanted to take part in the initial assault,’ whispered Bostar.
Malchus sighed. ‘You know why Hannibal sent in the Gauls first. Disobeying his orders again would not be advisable, however good your reason. The needs of the army come before our own.’
Although the sentiment was true, it was hard to accept. Bostar did his best. He was sure now that Hanno had been attempting to discover information of potential use to Hannibal. If he’d succeeded, it would have been a first step in restoring himself to favour. Instead, it was a move that had ended with his death. Now Bostar was about to lose the only chance of finding out what had happened to his younger brother. He swallowed his anger. Hannibal was their leader. He knew best. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘The gods give, and the gods take away. But at least we will have our vengeance this day.’ Malchus’ lips peeled into a snarl, and he raised his voice. ‘In order that the surrounding towns understand that resistance is futile, Hannibal has ordered that the Romans’ attempt to surrender this morning is to be ignored. Every citizen within the walls is to be killed.’
That set Bostar’s spearmen to cheering.
It wasn’t Bostar’s way to find commands of this type appealing — as Sapho did — but the thought of what Hanno might have been put through made his blood boil. He spun to regard his men. ‘The Gauls had best leave some alive for us, eh?’
‘Yes!’ They bellowed their enthusiasm. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’
The chant was taken up from the phalanx that stood a short distance to their right. Bostar raised a hand to the figure who stood at its head. Mutt returned the gesture. With Hanno gone, he had been given temporary command of the unit.
‘Those lads will fight you for a position on the ladders,’ said Malchus. ‘The Romans have to learn the harshest of lessons for there to be any chance of us succeeding in our mission. They won’t be won over by lenient treatment of their towns and of the prisoners we take.’
Malchus took no joy in killing civilians. Nor did Bostar, yet it had to be done. Why did Sapho have to enjoy it? he wondered.
‘That’s why Hannibal is sending in a man like Sapho in the first wave,’ said Malchus, as if reading his mind.
Bostar said nothing.
Malchus gave him a sharp look. ‘You two, eh? Always quarrelling. Hannibal knows that your skills lie elsewhere. Nor will he have forgotten how you saved his life at Saguntum. He will call on you again in the future. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need Sapho too.’
‘I understand.’ Secretly, Bostar wished that things were different. That Sapho had been the one to have been captured and killed, not Hanno. He’d thought it at other times, but never so strongly and with so little guilt.
‘Maybe you two can see this as a way to move on. To come together a little.’
Their father had no idea of the depth of bitterness between him and Sapho, thought Bostar. Their feud had been going on since they had left Hannibal’s base in southern Iberia more than a year and a half previously. It had alleviated somewhat during the elation after the victory at the Trebia, but it had soon returned. Sapho would stop at nothing to become one of Hannibal’s favoured officers. His desire for Roman blood seemed unquenchable. But Bostar’s conscience nagged at him. Sapho was still his brother. His only living brother, who had saved his life in the Alps — despite not really wanting to. Bostar had sworn to repay the debt. Until that had been achieved, he’d have to make a pretence for his father’s sake. Maybe their relationship would improve as a consequence. He pulled a weary smile. ‘I’ll talk to him, Father, I promise.’
‘Hanno would approve.’
‘He’d also like to know that we sent him on his way with a fitting sacrifice,’ said Bostar, giving the walls of Victumulae a pitiless stare.
‘I think we can guarantee him that,’ growled Malchus.
Hanno woke, lying on the floor, screaming. The pain was even worse than before. A constant thrumming sensation centred in his neck. It made all his other hurts disappear. It consumed Hanno as flames eat away at dry tinder. All he wanted was for it to end. ‘Help,’ he mumbled. ‘Help.’
A soft voice answered.
Hanno didn’t recognise it. He opened his eyes, puzzled. Instead of the Roman officer, he saw a dark-skinned figure crouched over him, a man he vaguely recognised. He licked dry lips. ‘W-who are you?’
‘I’m called Bomilcar.’
‘Bomilcar?’ As confusion filled Hanno, the darkness took him again.
When he awoke, he could feel something cool trickling into his mouth. Water. His eyes blinked open. Bomilcar was leaning over him, holding a cup to his lips. Hanno’s thirst was overwhelming, but terror consumed him at the thought of the agony that swallowing would cause.
‘You must drink,’ urged Bomilcar.
Hanno had seen men drop from lack of water during the summers in Carthage. Since his capture, all he’d had was the few mouthfuls the officer had given him. He forced himself to take a tiny sip. The pain in his throat was extreme, but the pleasure as the liquid hit his stomach was worth it. He kept swallowing until he could take no more. The effort used up a lot of his strength. Hanno lay back on the cold stone, wondering where the officer and his two men were, but feeling too tired to care. His eyelids fluttered and closed.
‘Wake up! You can’t sleep. Not now.’
Hanno felt a hand take his arm. The movement set off a fresh wave of pain in his neck. ‘Gods, that hurts! Leave me alone,’ he snarled.
‘If you want to live, you need to get up.’
Bomilcar’s urgent tone sank in. Hanno eyed him askance. ‘You have a Carthaginian name.’
‘That’s right. I was brought here to translate what your comrade said, remember?’
Slowly, it came back to Hanno. ‘You’re the slave?’
A flicker of emotion. ‘Yes.’
Suspicion filled Hanno. ‘Have they sent you to see what you can find out from me on your own?’
Sounds from beyond the cell. A man shouting.
Bomilcar’s gaze shot to the door. After a few heartbeats, the noise died away and he relaxed a fraction. ‘No. I’m here to get you out.’