‘We need to remember what we are up against,’ Fabius said. ‘Hasdrubal is not a reasonable man like Hannibal. He’s defiant, and will hold out to the death. If he’s infected his fighters with the same spirit, then they will give up this place dearly. The men needed for suicide attacks down those streets would not be mercenaries. You can pay a man to risk his life, but not to face certain death. They could only be Carthaginian citizens.’
Scipio nodded. ‘If they’ve put such thought into building these defences, they will also have trained men for that purpose: men who have a fanatical allegiance to Carthage, perhaps under the sway of the priests. It would be a cohort of suicide warriors with only one objective: to throw themselves at an attacker in these streets.’
They had reached a mass of buildings below the edge of the Byrsa, where the slopes began to angle more steeply towards the temple platform on top of the hill. To their right they could see the processional way that rose up the Byrsa in a westerly direction, a place where the morning sun would cast a brilliant light on the stone steps. But the street they were on came to an end before a dense accumulation of houses, structures joined by ladders and stairways on the rooftops that allowed overhead access between the buildings. Whereas they had passed few others in the street on the way up, the alleyways ahead were teeming with people: slaves carrying amphorae and other goods on their shoulders, women making their way between houses with baskets of food, children running and playing. Fabius planted his spear in the ground and stood as if on guard. ‘This looks like an old quarter, like the descriptions of ancient towns in the east that I have heard slaves in Rome talk about,’ he said. ‘It looks as if the rebuilding programme has not extended this far yet. Perhaps this quarter has special significance, like the house of Romulus on the Palatine Hill, preserved because it was the first settled part of the city.’
Scipio squinted at the houses. ‘I think there’s more to it than that. I think it’s been left like this deliberately. If an attack force managed to push through to this point, the surviving Carthaginians could fall back among these houses, holing themselves up. This is the last-ditch line of defence in depth.’
‘If you were to take this quarter without incurring massive casualties, you would need to drive your men without hesitation into the houses, having stoked up their ardour for individual combat. Hasdrubal might hold back his best warriors for this fight.’
Scipio nodded. ‘All right. I’ve seen all I need to see. We’ve got all the ammunition we need to give Polybius and Cato for their fight with the Senate. We should return now.’
They took one last look at the Punic houses and the Byrsa beyond, the shining white of its marble backlit by the red sheen in the late afternoon sky. Fabius wondered whether they would ever be here again, and whether the street they were standing on would be a river of blood. They turned and walked quickly back down in the direction of the harbours, turning sharply as the street opened out into a wider avenue just beyond the fortified frontage that formed the second line of defence. They heard a clashing of arms and shouted commands to their right. Scipio stopped and turned to Fabius. ‘That sounds like a training ground. Let’s take a look.’
In front of them was a space where the buildings had been cleared away to create open ground. A low wall had been built across it to maintain a street frontage, linking the fortified houses of the approach to the Byrsa with the buildings below. In the centre of the wall was an open entrance, and two guards. To Fabius they looked like mountain men from northern Macedonia or Thrace, huge men with dark eyes and thick beards. Scipio strode brazenly up to them, speaking in Greek. ‘Message from Hasdrubal to the strategos,’ he said. Fabius tensed, keeping his arm ready beside his sword, watching as the guard to the left eyed them suspiciously.
The man spoke in Greek. ‘I haven’t seen you two before,’ he said. ‘You’re not Iberian, or Greek. You look Roman.’
Scipio snorted, and spat. ‘Roman by birth, but not by allegiance. We fought as legionaries at Pydna, but then deserted. The generals thought we were fighting solely for the honour of Rome, so they took all of the loot for themselves. Can you believe it? I tell you, when the Romans run short of men they’re going to come looking for mercenaries, but don’t think of joining them. Anyway, we had too much to drink one night in Tyre and woke up chained to the oars in a galley, but managed to escape when the galley put into the harbour here a few weeks ago, and we offered our services.’ He had spotted the distinctive shape of the bow slung on the man’s back, confirming his nationality. ‘It’s good to see Thracians again. We spent ten years after Pydna with a band of Thracian mercenaries, drinking and whoring our way around the kingdoms of the east, working wherever the pay was right. They say that one day, when the star of Rome has faded, a Thracian will rise who will put Alexander the Great in the pale, leading an army to conquer all of those lands. From what I’ve seen of Thracians, I wouldn’t doubt it.’
The guard looked Scipio hard in the eyes, and then grunted, cracking a lopsided smile. ‘You’re all right. When we’re off-duty, we go to a tavern by the sea that serves Thracian wine. Just ask for the tavern of Menander. Meet us there this evening. The owner has two Egyptian girls who are always up for fresh meat. You can show us what you’re worth.’ He jerked his head to the door. ‘Take your message inside. Just don’t linger too long. If you do, they’ll use you for sword practice.’
‘Mercenaries?’
The man shook his head. ‘Carthaginians. Not much more than boys, and none of them has seen battle. But they’ve been training like this, day in and day out, for as long as we’ve been stationed here. It’s said that they’re the first-born sons of Carthaginian nobility, spared sacrifice in the Tophet so that they could train to be the last-ditch defenders of Carthage, Hasdrubal’s personal suicide force for when the Romans finally have the guts to assault this place. I tell you, when that happens, Skylax here and me, we’ll be long gone. We’ll chain ourselves to a galley to get out. Among the mercenaries, only the bone-headed Celtiberians will stick around, because they fight for honour and not for loot. Staying here when the Romans appear on the horizon will be a one-way ticket to Hades.’
Scipio stared at the man, looked around and then spoke quietly. ‘We know a kybernetes who can help you. He’s not looking for slaves, but for the best mercenaries he can find, for an elite force to join Andriscus the Macedonian in his attempt to regain the kingdom of Alexander.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled out a leather bag, opening it and spilling out gold coins into his hand. ‘These are staters of Alexander the Great, made from Thracian gold. There’s more gold in this one bag than you’ll get for a year serving Carthage, and this is just for starters.’ He put the coins back into the bag and pulled out another bag, handing one to each of the men. ‘There’s another bag for each of you on the ship, and another when you get to Macedonia. Once we’re there, the real pay starts. You’ll form part of Andriscus’ personal bodyguard, a stone’s throw from Thrace. You’ll be sent there to recruit others to the Macedonian army. You’ll arrive home rich men.’
The Thracian looked at his companion, stared at Scipio again and slowly nodded, weighing the bag in his hand and then slipping it under his tunic. ‘We’ve been looking for a way out for months.’
‘Wait for us here. When we’ve delivered our message, we’ll go down to the harbour together. There will be others.’
The man jerked his head at the entranceway. ‘You still want to go in there?’
‘The kybernetes knows a Roman who’s willing to pay for intelligence. If I can say that I’ve seen these Carthaginians with my own eyes, he’ll believe it. The Roman pays well, and there will be a cut in it for you.’