kept happy.’
She pretended to look shocked. ‘You know I’ll do that every day.’
Fabricius chuckled. ‘I do. Just as you know that I’ll pray daily to Mars and Jupiter for their protection.’
Atia’s face became solemn. ‘Are you still sure that Flaccus is a good choice for Aurelia?’
His brows lowered. ‘Eh?’
‘Is he the right man?’
‘I thought he came across well last night,’ said Fabricius with a surprised look. ‘Arrogant, of course, but one expects that from someone of his rank. He was plainly taken with Aurelia too, which was good. He’s ambitious, presentable and wealthy.’ He eyed Atia. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
She pursed her lips.
‘Atia?’
‘I can’t put my finger on it,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘You need more than a vague idea, surely, for me to break off a betrothal with this potential?’ asked Fabricius, looking irritated. ‘Remember how much money we owe!’
‘I’m not saying that you should call off the arrangement,’ she said in a conciliatory tone.
‘What then?’
‘Just keep an eye on Flaccus when you’re in Rome. You’ll be spending plenty of time with him. That will give you a far better measure of the man than we could ever gain in one night.’ She caressed his arm. ‘That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘No,’ he murmured. A relenting smile twitched across his lips, and he bent to kiss her. ‘You do have a knack of sniffing out the rotten apple in the barrel. I’ll trust you one more time.’
‘Stop teasing me,’ she cried. ‘I’m serious.’
‘I know you are, my love. And I’ll do what you say.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Flaccus won’t have a clue, but I’ll be watching his every move.’
Atia’s expression lightened. ‘Thank you.’
Fabricius gave her backside an affectionate squeeze. ‘Now, why don’t we say goodbye properly?’
Atia’s look grew kittenish. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea.’ Taking his hand, she led him into the house.
An hour later, and a deathly quiet hung over the house. Promising a quick victory over the Carthaginians, Fabricius and Flaccus had departed for Rome. Feeling thoroughly depressed, Quintus sought out Hanno. There was little left to do in the way of household chores, and the Carthaginian could not refuse when Quintus asked him out into the courtyard.
An awkward silence fell the instant they were alone.
I’m not going to speak first, thought Hanno. He was still furious.
Quintus scuffed the toe of one sandal along the mosaic. ‘About last night,’ he began.
‘Yes?’ snapped Hanno. His voice, his manner was not that of a slave. At that moment, he didn’t care.
Quintus bit back his reflex, angry response. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said sharply. ‘I was drunk, and I didn’t mean what I said.’
Hanno looked in Quintus’ eyes and saw that, despite his tone, the apology was genuine. Immediately, he was on the defensive. This wasn’t what he had expected, and he wasn’t yet willing to back down himself. ‘I am a slave,’ he growled. ‘You can address me in whatever way you please.’
Quintus’ face grew pained. ‘First and foremost, you are my friend,’ he said. ‘And I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did last night.’
Hanno considered Quintus’ words in silence. Before being enslaved, any foreigner with the presumption to call him ‘gugga’ would have received a bloody nose, or worse. Here, he had to smile and accept it. Not for much longer, Hanno told himself furiously. Just keep up the pretence for now. He nodded in apparent acceptance. ‘Very well. I acknowledge your apology.’
Quintus grinned. ‘Thank you.’
Neither knew quite what to say next. Despite Quintus’ attempt to make amends, a distance now yawned between them. As a patriotic Roman citizen, Quintus would back his government’s decision to enter into conflict with Carthage to the hilt. Hanno, while unable to join Hannibal’s army, would do the same for his people. It drove a wedge deep into their friendship, and neither knew how to remove it.
Long moments dragged by, and still neither spoke. Quintus didn’t want to mention the impending war because both had such strong feelings about it. He wanted to suggest some weapons practice, but that also seemed like a bad idea: for all that he now trusted Hanno, it seemed too much like the impending combat between Roman and Carthaginian. Irritated, he waited for Hanno to speak first. Angry yet, and fearful of giving away something of his escape plan, Hanno kept his lips firmly shut.
Both wished that Aurelia were present. She would have laughed and dissipated the tension in a heartbeat. There was no sign of her, however.
This is pointless, thought Hanno at last. He took a step towards the kitchen. ‘I’d best get back to work.’
Irritated, Quintus moved out of his way. ‘Yes,’ he said stiffly.
As he walked away, Hanno was surprised to feel sadness rising in his chest. For all of his current resentment, he and Quintus shared a strong bond, forged by the incredible, random manner of his purchase, followed by the fight at the shepherd’s hut. Another thought struck Hanno. It must have taken a lot for Quintus to come and apologise, particularly because of their difference in status. Yet here he was, haughtily walking off as if he were the master, and not the slave. Hanno turned, an apology rising to his lips, but it was too late.
Quintus was gone.
Several weeks passed, and the weather grew warm and sunny. Encouraged by the officers, widespread rumours of Hannibal’s intentions had spread throughout the huge tented encampment outside the walls of New Carthage. It was all part of the general’s plan. Because of the vastness of his host, it was impossible to inform every soldier directly about what was going to happen. This way, the message could be put across rapidly. By the time Hannibal called for a meeting of his commanders, everyone knew that they would be heading for Italy.
The entire army assembled in formations before a wooden platform not far from the gates. The soldiers covered an enormous area of ground. There were thousands of Libyans and Numidians, and even greater numbers of Iberians from dozens of tribes. Roughly dressed men from the Balearic Islands waited alongside rows of proud, imperious Celtiberians. Hundreds of Ligurians and Gauls were also present, men who had left their lands and homes weeks before so that they could join the general who would wage war on Rome. A small proportion of the soldiers would be able to see and hear whoever stood before them, but interpreters had been positioned at regular intervals to relay the news to the rest. There would only be a short delay before everyone present heard Hannibal’s words.
Malchus, Sapho and Bostar stood proudly at the front of their Libyan spearmen, whose bronze helmets and shield bosses glittered in the morning sun. The trio knew exactly what was going to happen, but the same nervous excitement controlled them all. Since returning from their mission weeks before, Bostar and Sapho had put their differences aside to prepare for this moment. Now history was about to be made, in much the same fashion as when Alexander of Macedon had set forth on his extraordinary journey more than a hundred years previously. The greatest adventure of their lives was just beginning. With it, as their father said, came the chance of further revenge for Hanno. Although he didn’t voice it, Malchus treasured a tiny, deeply buried hope that he might actually be alive. So too did Bostar, but Sapho had given up trying to feel anything similar. He was still glad that Hanno was gone. Malchus gave Sapho more attention and praise now than he could ever remember receiving before. And Hannibal knew his name!
The army did not have to wait long. Followed by his brothers Hasdrubal and Mago, the cavalry commander Maharbal, and the senior infantry officer Hanno, Hannibal approached the platform and climbed into view. A group of trumpeters came last, and filed around in front of the general’s position, where they waited for their orders. Their leaders’ appearance caused spontaneous cheering to break out among the assembled troops. Even the officers joined in. The men whistled and shouted, stamped their feet on the ground and clashed their weapons off their shields. As those who could not see joined in, the clamour swelled immeasurably. On and on it went, louder and louder, in a dozen tongues. And, as he had done on similar occasions, Hannibal did nothing to stop it. Raising both his arms, he let his soldiers’ acclaim wash over him. This was his hour, which he had spent years preparing for, and moments like this boosted morale infinitely more than a host of minor victories.
