‘Silence!’ cried the officer. He clicked his fingers. ‘Find me that gugga slave who was mentioned earlier.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The wall-eyed soldier moved towards the door.
‘There’s no need for the slave. I speak Latin well enough,’ said Hanno.
The officer mastered his shock well. ‘How do you know my tongue?’ he barked.
‘I had a Greek tutor as a boy.’
The officer’s eyebrows rose. ‘A civilised gugga, eh?’
‘Plenty of us are well educated,’ replied Hanno stiffly.
A surprised look. ‘Does your man also speak Latin?’
‘Bogu? No.’
‘There are differences between the classes then, as there are here,’ mused the officer, with a scornful glance at his soldiers. ‘Your Latin accent is not that of a Greek-speaker, though. It sounds more as if you come from Campania.’
It was Hanno’s turn to feel startled. Yet it wasn’t surprising that he spoke like Quintus and his family. ‘I have lived in southern Italy,’ he admitted.
The Roman prowled closer. He pushed Hanno between the shoulders so that he swung forward, off the tips of his toes. His arms wrenched back in their sockets, and Hanno bawled with pain. ‘Don’t lie to me!’ shouted the officer.
Desperate to relieve the pressure on his shoulders, Hanno pushed downwards with all the power in his legs and managed — just — to stop himself from swinging back and having the agony rip through him again. ‘I–It’s true. I was captured at sea between Carthage and Sicily with a friend of mine. We were sold into slavery. A Campanian family bought me. I lived near Capua for over a year.’
‘What’s your owner’s name?’ demanded the officer, quick as a flash.
Hanno’s pride reared up. ‘I don’t have an owner.’
A punch in the solar plexus knocked the air from his lungs; more pain as his shoulders took the strain of his body weight. An involuntary retch brought up a little fluid from his stomach.
The officer waited a moment before shoving his face into Hanno’s purple, wheezing one. ‘I doubt very much whether your master granted you manumission so that you could fuck off and join Hannibal’s army. If he didn’t, that means that you’re still his slave. Understand?’
Arguing was futile, but Hanno was furious. ‘Being captured by pirates doesn’t turn me into a damn slave. I’m a free man. A Carthaginian!’
His reward was another powerful punch. Hanno vomited what liquid remained in his belly. He was sorry that it didn’t hit the officer’s feet, but the Roman had stepped well back. He waited patiently until Hanno had finished. Then he muttered in Hanno’s ear, ‘If you’ve been sold to a Roman citizen, you’re his slave whether you like it or not. I’m not going to argue about it, and if you’ve any sense, neither are you. What’s your master’s name?’
‘Gaius Fabricius.’
‘Never heard of him.’
Hanno waited for another punch, but it didn’t land. ‘His wife’s called Atia. They have two children, called Quintus and Aurelia. Their farm is about half a day’s walk from Capua.’
‘Continue.’
Hanno described the details of his life in Quintus’ household, including his relationships with Quintus and Aurelia, and the visit of Caius Minucius Flaccus — an extremely high-ranking nobleman — to their house. He didn’t mention Agesandros, the overseer who had made his life a misery, or his search for Suniaton, his friend.
‘All right, that’s enough. Maybe you were a slave in Capua.’ The officer’s gaze became calculating. ‘So you ran away when you heard Hannibal had entered Cisalpine Gaul?’
Hanno was damned if he was going to pretend that he had skulked off like a wolf in the night. ‘No. Quintus, my master’s son, let me go.’
Disbelief twisted the officer’s face. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s true.’
An incredulous hiss. ‘Where was his father while this was going on? And his mother?’
‘Fabricius was away with the army. Atia had no idea what Quintus was up to.’
‘What a little viper! Not a son I’d wish to have.’ The officer shook his head. ‘This is all neither here nor there, however. What’s far more important is discovering why you and your men were prowling around that villa at night.’
It didn’t matter if the officer knew, thought Hanno. ‘I hoped to find someone who knew how many defenders there are in the town.’
‘And you did! Me!’ crowed the officer. ‘But I’m not going to tell you.’
You prick.
‘So you were scouting for Hannibal?’
Hanno nodded.
‘They say his army is heading here. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
A heartbeat’s pause. ‘How many soldiers has he?’
‘Fifty thousand or so,’ lied Hanno.
The officer’s face grew thunderous, and Hanno felt a dark joy. ‘More Gauls arrive to join him every day.’ The instant the truthful words had left his mouth, Hanno knew that he’d pushed the officer too far. The next punch was the hardest yet. Hanno felt pain so intense that he blacked out. He came to with the officer slapping him across the face.
‘You think that’s bad? It’s nothing compared to the suffering to come. You’ll be nothing but a shell when my men have finished with you.’
Hanno’s eyes followed the officer’s to the tools on the table. He felt his gorge rise. How long before he was begging for mercy? Pissing himself? Would he be granted a quick end if he mentioned sparing the Roman’s life? Shame filled him. Have some pride!
‘Roman scum,’ croaked Bogu in poor Latin. ‘Wait. For. . pain. . Hannibal’s army inflict. . you. Hannibal. . better general than any. . you have.’
Hanno shot a warning look at Bogu, but it was too late.
‘Heat me an iron!’ cried the officer. He stalked over and drove a balled fist right into the middle of the bloodstain on Bogu’s belly.
Bogu roared in agony, and the officer laughed.
‘Leave him alone. He’s injured!’ shouted Hanno.
‘Which means he’ll talk more easily. When the dog dies, I’ll still have you.’
Hanno felt instant relief, but guilt tore at him because Bogu would suffer first. Perhaps that had been the spearman’s motive, though.
‘Fetch that gugga slave! I need to understand what this injured piece of shit says, and I can’t trust the other to translate.’
The wall-eyed soldier beat a hasty exit.
The officer stood over the brazier, tapping his foot with impatience until the second legionary declared that the iron was hot enough. Using a thick piece of blanket, the Roman seized the cool end of the instrument and held it aloft. Hanno’s skin crawled. The tip was a bright orange-red colour. He struggled to free his wrists, but all he did was hurt himself even more.
‘This might stop the bleeding,’ mused the officer.
Bogu’s eyes bulged with horror as the Roman casually approached but, to Hanno’s admiration, he did not utter a word.
Hissss. The officer scowled with concentration, twisting the iron around in the spearman’s belly wound.
Bogu let out a long, ear-splitting shriek.
‘You cruel bastard!’ roared Hanno, forgetting his own pain.
The officer whirled around, thrusting the still-glowing end at Hanno’s face. Terrified, he shoved backward with the tips of his toes until he could go no further. Grinning, the Roman brought it within a finger’s width of his right eye. ‘Do you want a piece of this as well?’
Hanno couldn’t answer. He was still aware of Bogu’s screams, but it was taking all of his strength to hold himself still. He could already feel the muscles in his legs protesting, could feel cramp developing in his toes. A few heartbeats, and his eyeball would rupture on the red-hot iron. Great Baal Saphon, he prayed. Help me!
The door opened, and the wall-eyed soldier entered. He was followed by a brown-skinned man in a threadbare tunic. With his tight, curly black hair and dark complexion, he could have been any one of thousands of Hanno’s fellow Carthaginians. The officer turned, lowering his iron. ‘Finally.’ He gave the slave a hard look. ‘You speak Latin?’