A couple of hours later and Hanno had almost forgotten that he was a soldier at war in a foreign land. The countryside was empty of life, its inhabitants long since fled to the safety of areas unoccupied by the Carthaginians. The nearest Roman forces lay to the north and west. With no need to worry about enemy troops, the camaraderie of the hunt had taken over. They travelled at an easy pace across the open farmland, a large group of men laughing and joking among themselves. At the rear, a dozen or more Gauls trotted along, armed with spears. In front of several of the warriors, big, rough-coated hounds strained at their leashes. Behind them came a handful of servants, leading mules laden down with small tents and provisions, insurance against a possible night outdoors.
Skins of wine were being handed around the horsemen, wagers made, boastful stories told. Mago rode in the centre, a lean, muscular figure who exuded energy. Naturally enough, most of the officers present wanted to share Hannibal’s brother’s company. They all clustered around him, but it was Sapho who sat on his horse to Mago’s right. Currently, Cuttinus was on his left. Hanno had exchanged greetings with Mago, but he had no interest in currying favour, in hanging off the man’s every word. He didn’t care to admit it, but he was also wary of saying the wrong thing. He had been in hot water enough times with Hannibal not to want to risk it with Mago too. Therefore he rode with Bostar and Zamar a short distance behind the main body. In their company, it was hard not to feel carefree. ‘This is just like home, eh, brother?’ he commented happily. ‘When we used to go hunting together outside Carthage.’
‘It is,’ cried Bostar, laughing.
Hanno turned to Zamar, whose only concession to the weather was a cloak over his open-necked, sleeveless tunic. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
A shrug. ‘This is what it’s like in winter in the mountains at home. It will warm up soon. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t prefer the African sun on my face. But this is better than sitting on our arses in camp. It will clear out the cobwebs, and if the gods are with us, we’ll have roast pork to fill our bellies tonight.’
Hanno’s mouth watered at the thought.
By the time they had ridden to the foot of the huge mountainous promontory that jutted into the Adriatic, sent out the Gauls and the dogs to find scent, and spent hours trudging uphill, often on foot, leading their horses, Hanno was famished. His spirits were still high, however. The banter with Bostar and Zamar had been unending, and fresh meat was now a definite prospect. A middling-sized boar had been brought to bay by the dogs soon after they’d set off up the slope. Mago had dismounted and speared it through the chest. A couple of Gauls had remained behind with the body, their job to butcher it and to begin cooking the meat. By the time the hunters returned, the feast would be ready.
The rest had continued upwards; they were spread out through the trees in a long line: Mago in the middle, Sapho beside him, the others to either side. Hanno and Bostar rode to the far left of Mago; Zamar was just out of earshot to their right. The brothers spent the time poking at the vegetation with their spears, listening to the sounds of the Gauls and hounds to their front, and talking. It was as if the gods had answered Hanno’s prayers. He had thought that when the army went into camp with the onset of winter there would be plenty of opportunities to seek out Bostar for such chats. Yet that had not been so. All the more reason to relish this, therefore. He had asked Bostar about Sapho once before, but had not got much out of him. Perhaps this was a better time, he thought. ‘So Sapho is good friends with Mago now, eh?’
‘He seems to be,’ replied Bostar, trying not to sound irritated, but failing.
His brother’s back had gone up already, Hanno judged, so things between them weren’t good. He hadn’t been sure that was the case, but it was no surprise. The pair’s animosity had been clear from the moment he’d made it back to Hannibal’s army. ‘Has Sapho been spending much time with him?’
‘Trying to, anyway. Mago’s a busy man, but Sapho’s been persistent. I’ll give him that,’ Bostar added.
‘Always wants to be the best, doesn’t he? Be the most popular. Yet it always seems to come back and bite him in the arse.’
‘Until now,’ added Bostar. ‘Mago was impressed with us both at the Trebia, but it was Sapho who sought him out afterwards. He’s been doing so ever since.’
‘Why didn’t you do the same?’
A phhhh of contempt. ‘Not my way, brother, you know that.’
There was a chorus of barks and excited shouts from off to their right. The pair exchanged a look. ‘That sounds promising,’ said Hanno, grinning.
‘It does, but we have to keep our place in the line, or anything that comes this way will get away.’
Hanno grimaced, because it was true. ‘Will we see any damn game?’
‘Trust in the gods, little brother,’ advised Bostar, ducking under a low branch.
‘Watch whom you call “little”,’ warned Hanno, but there was none of the anger in his voice that there would have been had it been Sapho who’d uttered the words. Somehow Bostar’s affection for him always came through, whereas with his oldest brother there was a constant sense that Sapho wanted to dominate him. Why couldn’t Sapho be more like Bostar? he wondered sadly.
They rode past a holm oak that had been struck by lightning. Its blackened trunk and branches were a stark contrast to the greenery of its companions all around. It reminded Hanno of a corpse left among the living. ‘Do you trust Sapho?’ he asked, before he could rein in the words.
Bostar’s head turned. ‘Do I trust Sapho?’
Shit, I should have kept my mouth shut, Hanno thought, but the words could not be unsaid. He decided to brazen it out, make light of it. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s an odd question.’
Hanno was going to blurt that it was about a wager he’d won against Sapho, which his brother was refusing to pay, but he managed to stop himself. There was nothing like silence to give a man room to speak, indeed to put pressure on him to do so.
‘Are you asking because you know he and I don’t get on?’
‘No,’ replied Hanno, squirming a little beneath Bostar’s gimlet stare. ‘It’s because of something that happened.’
‘What?’
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, Hanno thought angrily. He’d wanted Bostar to reveal his thoughts first. ‘It was probably nothing,’ he began.
A frenzy of barks and growls interrupted. Men roared excitedly; a horse whinnied. They heard the sound of something heavy thrashing off up the slope to their right. Curses followed it. A series of shouted conversations between those strung out along the line, and then they heard Zamar yell, ‘Keep moving!’
‘Whatever it was got away,’ observed Bostar.
‘There’s hope for us yet,’ said Hanno brightly, hoping that his brother would not enquire further.
No such luck.
‘What happened then?’ asked Bostar.
‘When?’ replied Hanno casually.
‘Don’t be all coy with me. You know exactly what I mean!’
Hanno could see by the cut of Bostar’s jaw that he wouldn’t be fobbed off. Praying that he hadn’t made a big mistake, he related the tale of his passage across the swamps with Sapho, and of how he’d fallen into the pool. Bostar chortled a little at that, but the fierce concentration on his face didn’t waver. ‘Sapho’s expression was so fleeting that I told myself I’d imagined it. I put it from my mind,’ said Hanno. ‘But I remembered it a few months ago, when I got back from patrol.’
‘Why?’
Gods, he was going to have to reveal how he’d deserted his command. Hanno could feel his cheeks reddening, could sense Bostar’s interest growing. He kneed his horse forward, avoiding his brother’s gaze. ‘I have no idea how, but he knew about me, em, leaving my unit for a short time.’
A heartbeat’s shocked silence. Then: ‘Leaving your unit?’