With pride Hamilcar noticed the prosperity that infused every aspect of the street, the bustling stalls and storefronts, the haggling traders and customers, money changing hands over handshakes and platitudes, his mind and senses automatically ignoring the beggars and street urchins that swarmed about his feet. Carthage was an empire built on trade and Hamilcar was always fascinated by the multitude of minute transactions that took place every day in almost every street across the city’s domains, triggering events and decisions that shaped the very empire.
As Hamilcar moved up and around the hill of Byrsa, the streets became less crowded, the stalls more sporadic and the loud drone and buzz of the streets gave way to near silence so Hamilcar could once more hear the hobnails of his sandals on the cobblestones beneath him. These were the streets of the military families, the ancient nobility. They were all descendents of traders but now the wealth of each family was handled exclusively by agents, men who traded on their behalf. It distanced men like Hamilcar from the daily grind of commerce and he knew little of how the wealth of his family was generated and maintained. He did however know intimately the power that wealth wielded and the respect for money that was passed down father to son was strong in the Barcid family.
Hamilcar arrived at a modest but stout wooden door midway along one of the narrow streets. He paused for a second, touching the door lightly, feeling the grain beneath his fingers. He knocked with a clenched fist and then stood back. The door was opened within a minute by one of the senior servants, whose face lit up as he recognised his master’s son. Hamilcar returned the smile, touching the servant lightly on the arm as he brushed past him into the outer courtyard.
The house within the walls was sprawling and lavish. It had been expanded many times over its lifetime and the diverse mix of extensions and ancillary buildings spoke to the house’s long service over the lifetimes of many generations of the Barcids. Hamilcar moved inside, his ears picking up the sounds of excitement within and he marvelled as always at how fast the servants could transmit news across the house. As he crossed the main atrium he caught sight of his mother and father entering from the other side. His mother rushed to greet him while his father, Hasdrubal, approached with a measured stride, his hand extended, his expression warm with an undertone of surprise and curiosity at his son’s unexpected visit.
Hamilcar was led by his parents into an informal family room, an area bedecked with couches and low tables, with doorways in every wall leading to inner courtyards and gardens. They talked easily for an hour about inconsequential matters, a year’s worth of daily life and talk compressed with ease and in comfort. Hamilcar’s mother soon recognised a subtle turn in the conversation however, as her husband began to touch on matters in Sicily and she rose to make arrangements for the evening meal, kissing her son fondly before leaving the room.
‘What news of the campaign?’ Hasdrubal asked, sitting forward, his face taking on an expression of intense concentration.
Hamilcar relayed the entire events of the previous three months. His father knew of Mylae, but only through dispatches, and he took the opportunity to question his son extensively on the causes of their defeat. He then listened in silence as his son outlined his preparations for ambush at Thermae, nodding approvingly in places, his respect for his son’s abilities further reinforced. Hamilcar then spoke of how his well laid plan was thwarted by Hanno’s interference and he told his father of his confrontation with the councillor earlier that day. Again Hasdrubal listened in silence but his expression changed to one of anger and then concern.
‘Hanno,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘we must step carefully around him.’
‘Why, father?’ Hamilcar asked. ‘Surely many would think his interference borders on treason.’
Hasdrubal smiled although there was no humour there. ‘There are many that believe the city’s campaign on Sicily borders on treason.’
Hamilcar’s expression became puzzled, prompting his father to continue. ‘Hanno is the leader of a faction within the Supreme Council which is opposed to the war against Rome.’
‘Opposed? Why?’
‘They believe the empire’s destiny lies in Africa and that the conquest of Sicily is a misguided venture, a waste of our resources.’
‘But Sicily guards our northern flank and the island sits astride the northern Mediterranean sea-lanes,’ Hamilcar protested. ‘If the Romans are not held there, there is no telling where they will strike next.’
Hasdrubal nodded. He knew well the dangers inherent in allowing Rome control over Sicily. Hamilcar could sense the weariness in his agreement, as if he had said those exact words a thousand times in the council chamber to no avail. The two men lapsed into silence.
‘Can we thwart Hanno’s efforts to disrupt the war in Sicily?’ Hamilcar asked after a minute.
‘We must,’ his father replied, ‘and soon. Hanno will strike for the position of Suffet next year. If he successfully becomes the leader of the Council he will withdraw every resource from Sicily and the campaign will be strangled to death.’
Hamilcar nodded, sensing his father had already devised a solution. ‘What can I do?’ he asked.
‘Hanno’s faction was in the minority before the defeat at Mylae. Now it is steadily gaining numbers. What I, and those opposed to Hanno need, is a significant victory in Sicily, something to inspire the people and the council into backing the war fully once more.’
Again Hamilcar nodded, a knowing smile spreading across his face.
‘Then you need not worry,’ he said, marshalling his thoughts so as to outline the plan in detail to his father, a plan that he had already put in motion and would certainly deliver the victory that Carthage desired. In fact, he smiled as he began, if the plan was entirely successful, Sicily would be the least of the prizes won.
‘So why are we here?’ Atticus asked, his head propped up on his forearms as he looked out the chest high window onto the courtyard of the castrum. The sun was falling away to the west and more than half of the courtyard was in shadow, but the hectic activity of the castrum continued unabated. Atticus turned to face Septimus, who was sitting on one of the two cots in the tiny room. The centurion had shrugged off his leather breastplate and was tracing the imprint of an eagle on the leather with the tip of his finger. He looked up, pausing briefly as he picked up the voices of many other men, their words muted by the thick walls that separated the rooms. The entire crew of sailors and marines were locked in similar rooms, some larger than others but all with stout wooden doors that were locked from the outside.
‘Why do you think?’ Septimus asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Atticus replied frustratedly. ‘I can understand Varro wanting me arrested but why are the rest of the crew here? They weren’t complicit, they were following my orders. And you, you weren’t even on the Aquila when I hit him.’
Septimus chuckled, ‘This isn’t about you, Atticus. From what you’ve told me, and Varro’s reaction when he came back on board at Brolium, those senators who witnessed you hit Varro at Thermae will deny the incident so I don’t think you’ll face formal charges. In any case you’re not Varro’s biggest problem at the minute.’
Atticus nodded, almost but not quite feeling sorry for the tribune. Bearing news of a defeat was something every commander dreaded.
‘What’s happened since we arrived?’ Septimus asked.
Atticus thought for a second, recalling the events of the previous few hours in his mind. ‘We were escorted off the Aquila,’ he said, ‘practically rushed here, locked up and we haven’t seen anyone since.’
‘Exactly,’ Septimus said. ‘We haven’t seen anyone. We’re in isolation.’
‘Isolation? Why?’
‘Where is Varro now?’ Septimus asked.
‘Varro?’ Atticus replied, perplexed, ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll tell you where. He’s preparing to stand before the Senate tomorrow morning. He’s preparing the speech that will decide his future in Rome.’
‘So? What has that to do with us?’
‘My family have never been part of the Senate,’ Septimus said, ‘but every Roman knows how the Senate works, how the system works. Varro’s version of events has to be the first to be heard. It’s the only way he can control the Senate’s reaction. He’ll have to stick close to the truth but the bias he uses, the slant he puts on the events will be all important. His version has got to show him in the best light.’
‘So he can’t have us wandering around telling everyone our version of the defeat before he gets a chance to deliver the news his way,’ Atticus concluded.
‘Exactly,’ Septimus nodded.
