chamber in the shadow of the Byrsa citadel.
Hamilcar slowed as he approached the Council chamber, his eyes ranging over the groups of men standing near the entrance to the chamber, searching for the familiar figure of his father. He was not to be seen however and Hamilcar continued on into the inner chamber, his vision quickly adjusting to the gloom within. He spotted Hanno almost immediately, holding court amongst a group of fellow councillors. He had a massive frame, made all the more imposing by a habit of flaying his hands about before him as he spoke. Hamilcar approached without hesitation, his military uniform and the metallic jangle of his personal arms drawing the attention of many in the chamber, all of whom recognised the young man. Hamilcar could see that Hanno had spotted him out of the corner of his eye but the councillor continued to speak uninterrupted, his face showing neither surprise nor expectation.
‘Councillor Hanno,’ Hamilcar called, immediately opening the circle around Hanno.
‘Hamilcar Barca,’ Hanno replied, his deep, booming voice friendly as the group around him opened their ranks further to allow Hamilcar to stand before the councillor. ‘How is the campaign on Sicily progressing?’
‘It is going well, Councillor,’ Hamilcar answered evenly although his eyes were now hostile, a look only Hanno could see and one which had not escaped his notice, ‘although,’ he continued, ‘the disposition of my forces has suffered from meddling from a civilian outsider.’ Hamilcar spat the last word and as he did a shadow seemed to pass over Hanno’s expression. The councillor drew in a deep breath before exhaling slowly, the smell of his breath washing over Hamilcar.
‘Meddling,’ Hanno said, with a definite edge to his voice. ‘A very unfortunate choice of words.’
‘But an appropriate one,’ Hamilcar said, the other councillors around him forgotten as he struggled to rein in his temper.
Hanno seemed ready to reply but he hesitated, his eyes darting left and right to the group of councillors surrounding them. This was not the forum to reveal his plans to every prying ear.
Hanno laughed suddenly, the outburst throwing Hamilcar off balance, ‘You are your father’s son,’ his congeniality almost convincing. ‘Come, Hamilcar, let us discuss this matter you speak of in more detail,’ he said, stepping forward and taking Hamilcar by the elbow. Hamilcar resisted for a second before allowing himself to be turned and he walked with Hanno to the quiet of an ante-chamber. Once there Hanno looked over his shoulder to ensure they were alone.
‘You would do well to temper your words, young Barca,’ he spat, his face becoming mottled with anger as he brought his full will to bear on Hamilcar.
‘By what right do you change my orders on Sicily?’ Hamilcar shot back, ‘Because of you, total victory was snatched from us at Thermae.’
‘Thermae,’ Hanno said in disgust. ‘What do I, what does Carthage care for Thermae, or Sicily for that matter?’
‘But…’ Hamilcar said, thrown slightly by Hanno’s casual attitude to the war.
‘By what right do you summon our fleet from Iberia to fight your war on Sicily?’ Hanno accused, cutting across Hamilcar, neatly turning the focus of the confrontation.
‘I need those ships to reassert our control over northern Sicily,’ Hamilcar replied, now on the defensive.
‘Those galleys are needed to protect the shipping lanes of the empire. They are not yours to personally command!’
Hamilcar hesitated, his mind searching for a way to turn the argument once more in his favour. He suddenly recalled Hanno’s sudden inexplicable laughter moments before and how he had led Hamilcar away from the other councillors. Hamilcar gambled. ‘Does the Council know of your interference?’ he asked.
Hanno hesitated for a mere second before he recovered. ‘What the Council does or does not know is none of your concern, Barca,’ he replied, a hard edge of anger once more infusing his words.
‘But it is my father’s concern,’ Hamilcar replied.
‘Have a care Barca,’ Hanno said menacingly. ‘These are matters far beyond your reach. I would caution you. A few well chosen words by me in the right ears might reignite a debate amongst the Hundred and Four about your summary execution of Hannibal Gisco.’
Again Hamilcar was forced to hesitate. The Hundred and Four was a council of judges that oversaw all military matters in the empire, including the appointment and dismissal of commanders. By right, only they could condemn a failed commander to death, a decision Hamilcar had usurped after the defeat at Mylae. He had escaped censure however, a pardon he was sure his father had secured.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ Hanno said, making to brush past Hamilcar, ‘I have more important matters than your tantrum to attend to.’
Hamilcar shot out his hand and grasped Hanno’s arm, holding him firm, his fingers biting into the soft flesh.
Hanno shot around, his face twisted in fury.
‘You dare strike a member of the Supreme Council of Carthage?’ he growled. ‘Take your hand off me before I have you and your family flayed alive.’
Hamilcar withdrew his hand immediately, knowing he had gone too far, pushed too hard. Hanno shot him one last look of pure contempt before he strode away leaving Hamilcar standing alone in the ante-chamber, drained by the encounter, the elation he had felt upon returning to Carthage shattered in the very heart of the city.
A complete hush descended upon the entire Senate chamber as the leader of the house slowly made his way towards the podium. He moved at a torturous pace, the seniority of his years that had warranted his appointment to the position of princeps senatus, a ceremonial and near powerless apolitical position, forcing him to shuffle forward and an audible moan escaped the more impatient senators as they waited in anticipation.
The vote for the senior consulship was now in its third count, the first two inconclusive votes merely adding uncertainty to an election that Duilius had split wide open the day before. The first vote had been an open show of hands as each of the two names on the ballot was called in turn, Regulus and Longus. It instantly became apparent however that the vote was too close to call, the scattered raised hands for each candidate across the house impossible to count and so the princeps senatus called for a second vote, a division of the house, where the senators would physically move to the side of the chamber occupied by their preferred candidate, Longus on the left, Regulus on the right. Both sides claimed victory as the final seats were taken but again it was impossible to discern a clear majority on either side and so a third vote was called, an actual count by the leader of the house of each individual senator’s vote.
‘Senators of Rome,’ the leader called out, ‘I have counted the votes for each candidate and I can now inform you that one of the candidates has achieved a majority.’
A half-hearted cheer escaped from some of the younger senators before the silence in the chamber quickly reasserted itself. Duilius looked across at Regulus before shifting his gaze to the senators surrounding him, the division of the house still in force. Scipio was there, two levels behind Regulus and to his right, a distance that spoke of a complete separation that Duilius knew to be false.
Duilius vividly recalled the anxiety he had experienced the day before when he had spotted Scipio staring at him, suspecting instantly that he was behind Regulus’s nomination. It had struck him like a hammer blow but he had tempered his alarm, knowing that to suspect Scipio on instinct alone was pointless. His proof had come later however when Appius, his spy master, reported that both Amaury and Tiago, the two spies he had placed in Scipio’s house, had disappeared. After that there could be no doubt save for one question. Did Amaury and Tiago voluntarily betray him or were they somehow exposed by Scipio and tricked into delivering false information? Either way they were dead men.
Now as Duilius watched Scipio intently, he cursed his own naivety. It had been a perfect trap, the bait impossible to ignore, the threat to his fortune a flawless strike at his weakest point. He saw Scipio turn towards his side of the house, his enemy’s eyes sweeping the chamber until his gaze came to rest on Duilius. He stared impassively, his expression unreadable, and Duilius matched his gaze as both men awaited the next words of the leader of the house.
‘I am honoured to announce,’ the leader continued, ‘that the new senior consul of Rome is Marcus Atilius Regulus.’
The Senate erupted as the announcement was made, the leader’s following words of congratulation lost amidst the cheers of the right. Scipio simply smiled and Duilius turned away. He had been outmanoeuvred by the very foe he thought he had beaten and the realisation steeled his will. He would not be so complacent again.
