Sicily? My father, the Barcas, and a handful of others. No one else.’ He’d barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Why should I be surprised? Our ancestors were traders, not soldiers. To gain our rightful revenge, we must follow Hannibal. He’s a natural soldier and a born leader — as his father was. Carthage never gave Hamilcar the chance to beat Rome, but we can offer it to his son. When the time is right.’
A red-faced, portly senator shoved past with a curse. Startled, Hanno recognised Hostus, one of his father’s most implacable enemies. The self-important politician was in such a hurry that he didn’t even notice whom he’d collided with. Hanno hawked and spat, although he was careful not to do it in Hostus’ direction. He and his windbag friends complained endlessly about Hannibal, yet were content to accept the shiploads of silver sent from his mines in Iberia. Lining their own pockets with a proportion of this wealth, they had no desire to confront Rome again. Hanno, on the other hand, was more than prepared to lay down his life fighting their old enemy, but the fruit of revenge wasn’t ripe. Hannibal was preparing himself in Iberia, and that was good enough. For now, they had to wait.
The pair skirted the edge of the Agora, avoiding the worst of the crowds. Around the back of the Senate, the buildings soon became a great deal less grand, looking as shabby as one would expect close to a port. Nonetheless, the slum stood in stark contrast to the splendour just a short walk away. There were few businesses, and the single- or twin-roomed houses were miserable affairs made of mud bricks, all apparently on the point of collapse. The iron-hard ruts in the street were more than a handspan deep, threatening to break their ankles if they tripped. No work parties to fill in the holes with sand here, thought Hanno, thinking of Byrsa Hill. He felt even more grateful for his elevated position in life.
Snot-nosed, scrawny children wearing little more than rags swarmed in, clamouring for a coin or a crust, while their lank-haired, pregnant mothers gazed at them with eyes deadened by a life of misery. Half-dressed girls posed provocatively in some doorways, their rouged cheeks and lips unable to conceal the fact that they were barely out of childhood. Unshaven, ill-clad men lounged around, rolling sheep tail bones in the dirt for a few worn coins. They stared suspiciously, but none dared hinder the friends’ progress. At night it might be a different matter, but already they were under the shadow of the great wall, with its smartly turned-out sentries marching to and fro along the battlements. Although common, lawlessness was punished where possible by the authorities, and a shout of distress would bring help clattering down one of the many sets of stairs.
The tang of salt grew strong in the air. Gulls keened overhead, and the shouts of sailors could be heard from the ports. Feeling his excitement grow, Hanno charged down a narrow alleyway, and up the stone steps at the end of it. Suniaton was right behind him. It was a steep climb, but they were both fit, and reached the top without breaking sweat. A red concrete walkway extended the entire width of the wall — thirty paces — just as it did for the entire length of the defensive perimeter. Strongly built towers were positioned every fifty steps or so. The soldiers visible were garrisoned in the barracks, which were built at intervals below the ramparts.
The nearest sentries, a quartet of Libyan spearmen, glanced idly at the pair but, seeing nothing of concern, looked away. In peacetime, citizens were allowed on the wall during the hours of daylight. Perfunctorily checking the turquoise sea below their section, the junior officer fell back to gossiping with his men. Hanno trotted past, admiring the soldiers’ massive round shields, which were even larger than those used by the Greeks. Although fashioned from wood, they were covered in goatskin, and rimmed with bronze. The same demonic face was painted on each, and denoted their unit.
Trumpets blared one after another from the naval port, and Suniaton jostled past. ‘Quick,’ he shouted. ‘They might be launching a quinquereme!’
Hanno chased eagerly after his friend. The view from the walkway into the circular harbour was second to none. In a masterful feat of engineering, the Carthaginian warships were invisible from all other positions. Protected from unfriendly eyes on the seaward side by the city wall, they were concealed from the moored merchant vessels by the naval port’s slender entrance, which was only just wider than a quinquereme, the largest type of warship.
Hanno scowled as they reached a good vantage point. Instead of the imposing sight of a warship sliding backwards into the water, he saw a purple-cloaked admiral strutting along the jetty that led from the periphery of the circular docks to the central island, where the navy’s headquarters were. Another fanfare of trumpets sounded, making sure that every man in the place knew who was arriving. ‘What has he got to swagger about?’ Hanno muttered. Malchus reserved much of his anger for the incompetent Carthaginian fleet, so he had learned to feel the same way. Carthage’s days as a superpower of the sea were long gone, their fleet smashed into so much driftwood by Rome during the two nations’ bitter struggle over Sicily. Remarkably, the Romans had been a non-seafaring race before the conflict. Undeterred by this major disadvantage, they had learned the skills of naval warfare, adding a few tricks of their own in the process. Since her defeat, Carthage had done little to reclaim the waves.
Hanno sighed. Truly, all their hopes lay on the land, with Hannibal.
Some time later, Hanno had forgotten all his worries. Half a mile offshore, their little boat was positioned directly over a mass of tunny. The shoal’s location had not been hard to determine, thanks to the roiling water created by the large silver fish as they hunted sardines. Small boats dotted the location and clouds of seabirds swooped and dived overhead, attracted by the prospect of food. Suniaton’s source had been telling the truth, and neither youth had been able to stop grinning since their arrival. Their task was simple: one rowed, the other lowered their net into the sea. Although they had seen better days, the plaited strands were still capable of landing a catch. Pieces of wood along the top of the net helped it to float, while tiny lumps of lead pulled its lower edge down into the water. Their first throw had netted nearly a dozen tunny, each one longer than a man’s forearm. Subsequent attempts were just as successful, and now the bottom of the boat was calf-deep in fish. Any more, and they would risk overloading their craft.
‘A good morning’s work,’ pronounced Suniaton.
‘Morning?’ challenged Hanno, squinting at the sun. ‘We’ve been here less than an hour. It couldn’t have been easier, eh?’
Suniaton regarded him solemnly. ‘Don’t put yourself down. I think our efforts deserve a toast.’ With a flourish, he produced a small amphora from his pack.
Hannibal laughed; Suniaton was incorrigible.
Encouraged, Suniaton went on talking as if he were serving guests at an important banquet. ‘Not the most expensive wine in Father’s collection, I recall, but a palatable one nonetheless.’ Using his knife, he prised off the wax seal and removed the lid. Raising the amphora to his lips, he gulped a large mouthful. ‘Acceptable,’ he declared, handing over the clay vessel.
‘Philistine. Sip it slowly.’ Hanno took a small swig and rolled it around his mouth as Malchus had taught him. The red wine had a light and fruity flavour, but little undertone. ‘It needs a few more years, I think.’
‘Now who’s being pompous?’ Suniaton kicked a tunny at him. ‘Shut up and drink!’
Grinning, Hanno obeyed, taking more this time.
‘Don’t finish it,’ cried Suniaton.
Despite his protest, the amphora was quickly drained. At once the ravenous pair launched into the bread, nuts and fruit that Suniaton had bought. With their bellies full, and their work done, it was the most natural thing in the world to lie back and close their eyes. Unaccustomed to consuming much wine, before long they were both snoring.
It was the cold wind on his face that woke Hanno. Why was the boat moving so much? he wondered vaguely. He shivered, feeling quite chilled. Opening gummy eyes, he took in a prone Suniaton opposite, still clutching the empty amphora. At his feet, the heaps of blank-eyed fish, their bodies already rigid. Looking up, Hanno felt a pang of fear. Instead of the usual clear sky, all he could see were towering banks of blue-black clouds. They were pouring in from the northwest. He blinked, refusing to believe what he was seeing. How could the weather have changed so fast? Mockingly, the first spatters of rain hit Hanno’s upturned cheeks an instant later. Scanning the choppy waters, he could see no sign of the fishing craft that had surrounded theirs earlier. Nor could he see the land. Real alarm seized him.
He leaned over and shook Suniaton. ‘Wake up!’
The only response was an irritated grunt.
‘Suni!’ This time, Hanno slapped his friend across the face.
‘Hey!’ Suniaton cried, sitting up. ‘What’s that for?’
Hanno didn’t answer. ‘Where in the name of the gods are we?’ he shouted.
All semblance of drunkenness fell away as Suniaton turned his head from side to side. ‘Sacred Tanit above,’
