‘I could go ten didrachms more, but that’s it,’ said Quintus.
Solinus shook his head vehemently.
Quintus was incensed by Agesandros’ delighted look. ‘I’ll give you 125,’ he snapped.
Agesandros leaned in close. ‘I haven’t got that much,’ he muttered sourly.
‘I’ll sell the bear pelt, then. That’s worth at least twenty-five didrachms,’ Quintus retorted. He’d planned on using it as a bed cover, but winning this situation came first.
Suddenly keen, Solinus stepped forward. ‘It’s a fair price,’ he said.
Agesandros’ fists closed over the purse.
‘Give it to him,’ ordered Quintus. When the Sicilian did not react, his anger boiled over. ‘I am the master here. Do as I say!’
Reluctantly, Agesandros obeyed.
The small victory pleased Quintus no end. ‘That’s a hundred. My man here will bring the rest later,’ he said.
Even as he pocketed the money, Solinus’ mouth opened in protest.
‘My father is Gaius Fabricius, an equestrian,’ Quintus growled. ‘The balance will be paid before nightfall.’
Solinus backed off at once. ‘Of course, of course.’ Pulling a bunch of keys from his belt, he selected one. He reached up to the iron ring around the Carthaginian’s neck. There was a soft click, and the slave stumbled forward, freed.
For the first time, Aurelia looked at him. I have never seen anyone so handsome, she thought, her heart pounding at the sight of his naked flesh.
The Carthaginian’s dazed expression told Quintus that he hadn’t quite taken in what was happening. It was only when his companion muttered something urgent in Carthaginian that the realisation sank in. Tears welled in his eyes, and he turned to Quintus.
‘Buy my friend as well, please,’ he said in fluent Latin.
I was right, thought Quintus triumphantly. ‘You speak my language.’
‘Yes.’
Agesandros glowered, but the siblings ignored him.
‘How come?’ Aurelia asked.
‘My father insisted I learn it. Greek too.’
Aurelia was fascinated, while Quintus was delighted. He had made a good choice. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hanno,’ the Carthaginian answered. He indicated his comrade. ‘That’s Suniaton. He’s my best friend.’
‘Why didn’t you answer the overseer’s question?’
For the first time, Hanno met his gaze. ‘Would you?’
Quintus was thrown by his directness. ‘No… I suppose not.’
Encouraged, Hanno turned to Aurelia. ‘Buy us both — I beg you. Otherwise my friend could be sold as a gladiator.’
Quintus and Aurelia glanced at each other in surprise. This was no peasant from a faraway land. Hanno was well educated, and from a good family. So was his friend. It was a bizarre, and uncomfortable, feeling.
‘We require one slave. Not two.’ Agesandros’ clarion voice was a harsh call back to reality.
‘We could come to some arrangement, I’m sure,’ said Solinus ingratiatingly.
‘No, we couldn’t,’ the Sicilian snarled, cowing him into submission. He addressed Quintus. ‘The last thing the farm needs is an extra mouth to feed. Your father will already want to know why we spent so much. Best not blow any more of his money, eh?’
Quintus wanted to argue, but Agesandros was right. They only needed one slave. He gave Aurelia a helpless look. Her tiny, anguished shrug told him she felt the same way. ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said to Hanno.
The smirk of satisfaction that flickered across Agesandros’ lips went unnoticed by all except Hanno.
The two slaves exchanged a long glance, laden with feeling. ‘May the gods guide your path,’ Hanno said in Carthaginian. ‘Stay strong. I will pray for you every day.’
Suniaton’s chin trembled. ‘If you ever get home, tell my father that I am sorry,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Ask him for his forgiveness.’
‘I swear it,’ vowed Hanno, his voice choking. ‘And he will grant it, you may be sure of that.’
Quintus and Aurelia could not speak Carthaginian but it was impossible to misunderstand the overwhelming emotion passing between the two slaves. Quintus took his sister’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t buy every slave in the market.’ He led her away, without looking at Suniaton again.
Agesandros waited until they were out of earshot, then he whispered venomously in Hanno’s ear, in Carthaginian. ‘It wasn’t my choice to buy a gugga. But now you and I are going to have a pleasant time on the farm. Don’t think you can run away either. See those types over there?’
Hanno studied the gang of unshaven, roughly dressed men some distance away. Every one was heavily armed, and they were watching the proceedings like hawks.
‘They are fugitivarii,’ Agesandros explained. ‘For the right price, they’ll track down any man. Bring him back alive, or dead. With his balls, or without. Even in little pieces. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’ A leaden feeling of dread filled Hanno’s belly.
‘Good. We understand each other.’ The Sicilian grinned. ‘Follow me.’ He strode off after Quintus and Aurelia.
Hanno turned to look at Suniaton one last time. His heart felt as if it was going to rip apart. It hurt even to breathe. Whatever his fate, Suni’s would undoubtedly be worse.
‘You can’t help me,’ Suniaton mouthed. Remarkably, his face was calm. ‘Go.’
Hot tears blinded Hanno at last. He turned and stumbled away.
Chapter V: Malchus
Carthage
In what had become his daily routine, Malchus finished his breakfast and left the house. Although Bostar had already shipped for Iberia, Sapho was still at home. However, he mostly stayed at his rooms in the garrison’s quarters. When Sapho did call by, it was rare for him even to mention Hanno, which Malchus found slightly odd. It was his eldest son’s way of dealing with bereavement, he supposed. His was to shun all human contact. It meant that apart from the rare occasions when he had visitors, Malchus’ only companions were the domestic slaves. It had been thus since Hanno’s disappearance a few weeks before. Scared of Malchus’ fierce temper and obvious sorrow, the slaves tiptoed around, trying not to attract his attention. In consequence, Malchus was even more aware of — and annoyed by them. While he longed to lash out, the slaves were not to blame, so he bit down on his anger, bottling it up. Yet he could not bear to stay indoors, staring at the four walls, obsessed with thoughts of Hanno, his beloved youngest son — his favourite son — whom he would never see again.
Malchus headed towards the city’s twin harbours. Alone. The adage that one’s grief eased with time was utter nonsense, he thought bitterly. In fact, it grew by the day. Sometimes he wondered if his sorrow would overcome him. Render him unable to carry on. A moment later, Malchus caught sight of Bodesmun. He cursed under his breath. He found it increasingly hard even to look at Suniaton’s father. The opposite seemed true of the priest, who sought him out at every opportunity.
Bodesmun raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘Malchus. How are you today?’
Malchus scowled. ‘The same. And you?’
Bodesmun’s face crumpled with anguish. ‘Not good.’
Malchus sighed. The same thing happened every time they met. Priests were supposed to lead by example, not crack under pressure. He had enough problems of his own without having to deal with Bodesmun’s too. Was he not carrying the weight of two losses on his shoulders? Malchus’ rational side knew that he was not responsible for the death of either Arishat, his wife, or Hanno, but the rest of him did not. During the frequent nights when he lay awake, Malchus had become painfully aware that his self-righteousness was partly to blame for Hanno’s bad behaviour. After Arishat’s death, he had become somewhat of a fanatic, interested in nothing except Hannibal Barca’s plans for the future. There had been no brightness or light in the house, no laughter or fun. Sapho and
