landward side of the peninsula, three defences had been constructed: a wide trench backed by an earthen bank, and then a huge rampart. The walls, which were in total over 180 stades in length, also contained sections with two-tiered living quarters. These could hold many thousands of troops, cavalry and their mounts, and hundreds of war elephants.
Home to nearly a quarter of a million people, the city also demanded attention. Directly below lay the Agora, the large open space bordered by government buildings and countless shops. It was the area where residents gathered to do business, demonstrate, take the evening air, and vote. Beyond it lay the unique ports: the huge outer, rectangular merchant harbour, and the inner, circular naval docks with its small, central island. The first contained hundreds of berths for trading ships, while the second could hold more than ten-score triremes and quinqueremes in specially constructed covered sheds. To the west of the ports was the old shrine of Baal Hammon, no longer as important as it had previously been, but still venerated by many. To the east lay the Choma, the huge man-made landing stage where fishing smacks and small vessels tied up. It was also their destination.
Hanno was immensely proud of his home. He had no idea what Rome, Carthage’s old enemy, looked like, but he doubted it matched his city’s grandeur. He had no desire to compare Carthage with the Republic’s capital, though. The only view he ever wanted of Rome was when it fell — to a victorious Carthaginian army — before seeing it burned to the ground. As Hamilcar Barca, Hannibal’s father, had inculcated a hatred of all things Roman in his sons, so had Malchus in Hanno and his brothers. Like Hamilcar, Malchus had served in the first war against the Republic, fighting in Sicily for ten long, thankless years.
Unsurprisingly, Hanno and his siblings knew the details of every land skirmish and naval battle in the conflict, which had actually lasted for more than a generation. The cost to Carthage in loss of life, territory and wealth had been huge, but the city’s wounds ran far deeper. Her pride had been trampled in the mud by the defeat, and this ignominy was repeated just three years after the war’s conclusion. Carthage had been unilaterally forced by Rome to give up Sardinia, as well as paying more indemnities. The shabby act proved beyond doubt, Malchus would regularly rant, that all Romans were treacherous dogs, without honour. Hanno agreed, and looked forward to the day hostilities were reopened once more. Given the depth of anger still present in Carthage towards Rome, conflict was inevitable, and it would originate in Iberia. Soon.
Suniaton turned. ‘Have you eaten?’
Hanno shrugged. ‘Some bread and honey when I got up.’
‘Me too. That was hours ago, though.’ Suniaton grinned and patted his belly. ‘Best get a few supplies.’
‘Good idea,’ Hanno replied. They kept clay gourds of water in their little boat with their fishing gear, but no food. Sunset, when they would return, was a long way off.
The streets descending Byrsa Hill did not follow the regular layout of the summit, instead radiating out like so many tributaries of a meandering river. There were far more shops and businesses visible now: bakers, butchers and stalls selling freshly caught fish, fruit and vegetables stood beside silver- and coppersmiths, perfume merchants and glass blowers. Women sat outside their doors, working at their looms, or gossiping over their purchases. Slaves carried rich men past in litters or swept the ground in front of shops. Dye-makers’ premises were everywhere, their abundance due to the Carthaginian skill in harvesting the local Murex shellfish and pounding its flesh to yield a purple dye that commanded premium prices all over the Mediterranean. Children ran hither and thither, playing catch and chasing each other up and down the regular sets of stairs that broke the street’s steep descent. Deep in conversation, a trio of well-dressed men strolled past. Recognising them as elders, who were probably on their way to the very meeting he was supposed to be attending, Hanno took a sudden interest in the array of terracotta outside a potter’s workshop.
Dozens of figures — large and small — were ranked on low tables. Hanno recognised every deity in the Carthaginian pantheon. There sat a regal, crowned Baal Hammon, the protector of Carthage, on his throne; beside him Tanit was depicted in the Egyptian manner: a shapely woman’s body in a well-cut dress, but with the head of a lioness. A smiling Astarte clutched a tambourine. Her consort, Melqart, known as the ‘King of the City’, was, among other things, the god of the sea. Various brightly coloured figures depicted him emerging from crashing waves riding a fearful-looking monster and clutching a trident in one fist. Baal Saphon, the god of storm and war, sat astride a fine charger, wearing a helmet with a long, flowing crest. Also on display was a selection of hideous, grinning painted masks — tattooed, bejewelled demons and spirits of the underworld — tomb offerings designed to ward off evil.
Hanno shivered, remembering his mother’s funeral three years before. Since her death of a fever his father, never the most warm of men, had become a grim and forbidding presence who lived only to gain his revenge on Rome. For all his youth, Hanno knew that Malchus was portraying a controlled mask to the world. He must still be grieving, as surely as he and his brothers were. Arishat, Hanno’s mother, had been the light to Malchus’ dark, the laughter to his gravitas, the softness to his strength. The centre of the family, she had been taken from them in two horrific days and nights. Harangued by an inconsolable Malchus, the best surgeons in Carthage had toiled over her to no avail. Every last detail of her final hours was engraved in Hanno’s memory. The cups of blood drained from her in a vain attempt to cool her raging temperature. Her gaunt, fevered face. The sweat-soaked sheets. His brothers trying not to cry, and failing. And lastly, her still form on the bed, tinier than she had ever been in life. Malchus kneeling alongside, great sobs racking his muscular frame. That was the only time Hanno had ever seen his father weep. The incident had never been mentioned since, nor had his mother. He swallowed hard and, checking that the elders had passed by, moved on. It hurt too much to think about such things.
Suniaton, who had not noticed Hanno’s distress, paused to buy some bread, almonds and figs. Keen to lift his sombre mood, Hanno eyed the blacksmith’s forge off to one side. Wisps of smoke rose from its roughly built chimney, and the air was rich with the smells of charcoal, burning wood and oil. Harsh metallic sounds reached his ears. In the recesses of the open-fronted establishment, he glimpsed a figure in a leather apron using a pair of tongs to carefully lift a piece of glowing metal from the anvil. There was a loud hiss as the sword blade was plunged into a vat of cold water. Hanno felt his feet begin to move.
Suniaton blocked his path. ‘We’ve got better things to do. Like making money,’ he cried, shoving forward a bulging bag of almonds. ‘Carry that.’
‘No! You’ll eat them all anyway.’ Hanno pushed his friend out of the way with a grin. It was a standing joke between them that his favourite pastime was getting covered in ash and grime while Suniaton would rather plan his next meal. He was so busy laughing that he didn’t see the approaching group of soldiers — a dozen Libyan spearmen — until it was too late. With a thump, Hanno collided with the first man’s large, round shield.
This was no street urchin, and the spearman bit back an instinctive curse. ‘Mind your step,’ he cried.
Catching sight of two Carthaginian officers in the soldiers’ midst, Hanno cursed. It was Sapho and Bostar. Both were dressed in their finest uniforms. Bell-shaped helmets with thick rims and yellow-feathered crests covered their heads. Layered linen pteryges hung below their polished bronze cuirasses to cover the groin, and contoured greaves protected their lower legs. No doubt they too were on their way to the meeting. Muttering an apology to the spearman, Hanno backed away, looking at the ground in an attempt not to be recognised.
Oblivious to Sapho and Bostar’s presence, Suniaton was snorting with amusement at Hanno’s collision. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We don’t want to get there too late.’
‘Hanno!’ Bostar’s voice was genial.
He pretended not to hear.
‘Hanno! Come back!’ barked a deeper, more commanding voice, that of Sapho.
Unwillingly, Hanno turned.
Suniaton tried to sidle away, but he had also been spotted.
‘Eshmuniaton! Get over here,’ Sapho ordered.
With a miserable expression, Suniaton shuffled to his friend’s side.
Hanno’s brothers shouldered their way forward to stand before them.
‘Sapho. Bostar,’ Hanno said with a false smile. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Is it?’ Sapho demanded, his thick eyebrows meeting in a frown. A short, compact man with a serious manner like Malchus, he was twenty-two. Young to be a mid-ranking officer, but like Bostar, his ability had shone through during his training. ‘We’re all supposed to be heading to listen to the elders. Why aren’t you with Father?’
Flushing, Hanno looked down. Damn it, he thought. In Sapho’s eyes, duty to Carthage was all-important. In a single moment, their chances of a day on the boat had vanished.
Sapho gave Suniaton a hard stare, taking in his pack and the provisions in his hands. ‘Because the pair of you were skiving off, that’s why! Fishing, no doubt?’
