‘Better than that, sir. I happened to spot the captain and some of his crew this morning. They were in a tavern, maybe four streets away. Much the worse for wear too.’ The veteran hesitated, looking awkward.
Even the poorest can have pride, thought Malchus. ‘You will be well rewarded.’
Clutching his homemade crutch with renewed vigour, the smiling veteran hobbled off.
Malchus was one step behind him.
A short time later, they had arrived at the hostelry, a miserable low-roofed brick structure with crudely hewn benches and tables arrayed outside. Although it was early, this tavern was packed. Sailors, merchants and lowlifes of every nationality under the sun sat cheek by jowl with each other, swigging from clay cups or singing out of tune. Prostitutes with painted faces were sitting on men’s laps, whispering in their ears in an attempt to win some business. Amidst the pieces of broken pottery littering the sawdust-covered ground, scrawny mongrels fought over half-gnawed bones. Malchus’ stomach turned at the stench of cheap wine and urine, but he followed the veteran to an empty table. They both took a seat. Neither looked at the other customers. Instead they occupied themselves by trying to attract the attention of the tavern keeper or his assistant, a rough-looking woman in a low-cut dress.
Finally, they succeeded. A glazed red jug and two beakers arrived at the table soon after, borne by the owner. He cast an idle glance at the mismatched pair, but was called away before he could decide what to make of them. The veteran poured the wine, and handed a cup to Malchus.
He took a sip, and wrinkled his face with disgust. ‘This is worse than horse piss.’
The veteran took a deep swallow. He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Tastes fine to me, sir.’
There was silence then, and the customers’ din washed over them.
‘They’re right behind me,’ whispered the veteran at length. ‘Four men. One looks like an Egyptian. Another is the ugliest man you’ve ever seen, with scars all over his mug. The others could be Greek. Do you see them?’
Casually, Malchus glanced over the other’s shoulder. At the next table, he saw a thin, pale-skinned figure with black hair sitting beside a barrel of a man whose scarred features could have been carved from granite. Their two companions had their backs towards Malchus, but he could see from their dark skin and raven hair that the veteran’s guess at their nationality was probably correct. Dressed in ochre and grey woollen tunics, with daggers at their belts, the quartet were similar to many of the other customers. And yet they weren’t. Malchus studied them carefully from the corner of his eye. Their faces were cruel, almost hatchet-like. Not the faces of merchants.
Gradually, Malchus began to discern their voices from the others around them. They were speaking in Greek, which was not unusual when individuals of more than one nationality crewed together. It was, after all, the predominant language used at sea. ‘It’s good to visit a big city at last,’ mumbled one of the men with his back to Malchus. ‘Not like where we usually berth. At least here there’s more than one tavern to visit.’
‘Plenty of whorehouses too, with decent-looking women,’ growled the figure beside him.
‘And boys,’ added the scarred man with a leer.
The Egyptian laughed unpleasantly. ‘Never change, do you, Varsaco?’
Varsaco smirked. He lowered his voice slightly. ‘I just want a piece of Carthaginian arse.’
The Egyptian wagged a reproachful finger.
One of their companions sniggered, and Varsaco scowled.
‘You’ve got a long memory,’ said the last man. ‘Is this revenge for the one that got away?’
‘Watch your mouth,’ the Egyptian snarled, confirming Malchus’ suspicion that he was the leader of the group. A subdued silence fell for a moment before Varsaco and the Egyptian began whispering to each other. They cast frequent glances at the other tables.
At once, Malchus looked down. Carefully, he considered what he’d heard and seen. The men did not visit cities often. They looked a lot tougher than merchants should do. The veteran thought the same of their shipmates. Tellingly, they had had a Carthaginian crewmember in the recent past. Or had he been a prisoner? Alarm bells were now ringing in Malchus’ mind. Not once since Hanno’s disappearance had he had anything to go on like this. It wasn’t much, but Malchus didn’t care. Sliding a coin across the table with a fingertip, he watched the veteran’s eyes widen. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered. ‘If I haven’t returned by the time they leave, follow them. Use a street urchin to bring me news of their location.’
‘Where are you going?’
Malchus’ smile was mirthless. ‘To get some help.’
Malchus went straight to Sapho’s commanding officer. His status was such that the captain fell over himself to be of assistance. At once, a dozen Libyan spearmen were put at Malchus’ disposal. Although they had little idea of their mission, the men liked the sound of escaping weapons drill.
Sapho had been asleep when Malchus arrived, but the mention of possible news about Hanno sent him leaping from his bed. While Bostar had the guilt of knowing he should have made Hanno and Suniaton stay in the city, Sapho was saddled with the fact that he should not have given way. His darkest secret was that part of him was glad that Hanno was gone. Hanno had never done what Malchus wanted, while he, Sapho, did everything according to the book. Yet it was Hanno who had made their father’s eyes light up. Of course Bostar knew nothing of Sapho’s feelings. Unsurprisingly, the two brothers had fallen out over the matter anyway, and it hadn’t been long before they were barely speaking. The issue had only subsided with Bostar’s recent departure for Iberia. Hearing Malchus’ news scraped raw Sapho’s guilt. As he threw on his long tunic and bronze muscled cuirass, and donned his Thracian helmet and greaves, he bombarded his father with questions. Malchus had the answers to almost none of them.
‘The sooner we get down there, the sooner we’ll find out something,’ he growled.
Half an hour after he’d left the tavern, Malchus returned with Sapho and the spearmen in tow. The Libyans wore simple conical bronze helmets, and each was clad in a beltless, knee-length red tunic. They were armed with short thrusting spears.
Malchus was mightily relieved to see that the veteran and the four men he’d been watching over were still at their respective tables. The Greeks were dozing; Varsaco was talking to the Egyptian. As Malchus and his companions came to a halt outside the tavern, the two sailors looked around. Their faces twisted briefly with concern, but they did not move a muscle.
‘Where are they?’ demanded Sapho.
There was no need for concealment any longer. Malchus pointed. He was delighted when the Egyptian and Varsaco jumped to their feet and tried to escape. ‘Seize them,’ he shouted.
The soldiers swarmed forward and surrounded the pair with a circle of threatening spear points. The two sleeping men were kicked awake and heaved into the ring with their companions. All four were forced to throw down their daggers. Ignoring the bleary stares of the other customers, Malchus stalked forward and into view.
‘What’s this about?’ asked the Egyptian in fluent Carthaginian. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I’ll be the one to decide on that,’ replied Malchus. He jerked his head.
‘Back to the barracks,’ Sapho ordered. ‘Quickly!’
The veteran looked on in amazement as the captives were escorted away. A metallic clunk drew his attention back to the table surface. On it lay four gold coins, their faces decorated with the image of Hannibal Barca.
‘One for each of the whoresons,’ said Malchus. ‘If they turn out to be the right men, I’ll give you the same again.’ Leaving the veteran stuttering his thanks, he followed Sapho and the soldiers.
There was urgent business to attend to.
It didn’t take long to reach the Libyans’ quarters, which were located east of the Agora, in the wall that faced on to the sea. Whole series of rooms, on two tiers, stretched for hundreds of paces in either direction. Dormitories led to eating and bathing areas. Officers’ quarters were situated beside armouries, administrative and quartermasters’ offices. Like any military base, there were also cells. It was to these last that Sapho guided the spearmen. Nodding in a friendly manner at the gaolers, he directed the party into a large room with a plain concrete floor. It was empty apart from the sets of manacles that hung from rings on the wall, a glowing brazier and a table covered in a variety of lethal-looking metal instruments and tools.
As the last man entered, Sapho slammed the door shut and locked it.
‘Chain them up,’ ordered Malchus.
As one, the soldiers placed their spears aside, and turned on the prisoners. Struggling uselessly, the four were restrained side by side. Terror filled the two Greeks’ eyes, and they began to wail. Varsaco and the Egyptian tried to maintain their composure, filling the air with questions and pleas. Studying the implements on the table, Malchus ignored them until silence fell.
‘What are you doing in Carthage?’
