‘These fellows, with their ridiculous red hair and their inability to hide, are of course a fiction, a plant. But the city is riddled with spies, informants, would-be traitors. That’s the greater truth. And it’s only my strict control of the city, my soldiers’ thorough rooting-out of it all, that keeps us safe. It’s hard and it’s not pretty, but it’s the truth.
‘The Tribunal of One Hundred and Four think this isn’t enough. Some of them are impatient for war. They want me to ride out with the phalanxes and meet the Hatti on open ground. That would lose us the war for sure, and I suspect some of them know it in their hearts, but the siege has so ground them down that they’d rather lose it than carry on. I have seen sieges, I’ve laid them, I’ve survived them. Most sieges last
‘Others, meanwhile, want to clip my wings. They are envious of my power, my position, and so on. Such envy is a constant in the affairs of human beings. Some, indeed, think my appointment with the cross is overdue.’ He glanced at his hands, flexing them, as if his palms itched. ‘Again, they want this even though they know it will lose them the war, or at least they suspect it. They want me downed even so. But I, you see, cannot allow that, Nelo, for my duty is to save Carthage, despite the difficulties I am having with some of the Carthaginians.
‘So it is true that I have rigged this business of the red-headed saboteurs. I’m sure you won’t be the last to spot it. But I am doing it to force the Tribunal, and the elders, the suffetes and the rest, even the
Nelo thought he understood. ‘You’re going to take over the government.’
Fabius grinned. ‘It’s happened before, as I know very well, for all literate Romans are perforce taught a great deal about Carthaginian history. A man called Bomilcar, for example, back in the days even before Carthage went to war with Rome. Not that his coup succeeded, but he had the right idea.
‘It is quite a feat I am attempting,’ he said now. ‘A foreign general who won’t call his troops out to fight the besieging enemy. Hardly a basis for great popularity with the people, you’d think. Yet here I am, strolling up the Byrsa with a mob at my back.’
‘And if you win today, sir? What then?’
‘Two things. I’m going to want to talk to your people, Nelo.’
‘My people?’
‘The Northlanders. I’m aware there’s quite a community of you here, having fled from your own frozen country. And I’m also aware you’ve brought treasure with you.’
‘Treasure?’
Fabius rapped his temple. ‘Up here. Secrets. That’s what I intend to acquire next.’
Nelo thought of his enigmatic conversation with Ontin the doctor, his talk of secretive House of Crow projects, work Nelo had never been able to progress but perhaps others had. .
‘That’s the first thing,’ Fabius went on. ‘And the second — I will rewrite history, for all time. A Roman defeating Carthage at last! In a manner of speaking at least. How the Carthaginian historians of the future will spit and fume as they are forced to copy out my name, over and over! And all of this, my boy, you are going to capture with your clever scribbles. Scribbles that will some day be etched into stone friezes that will cover the walls of the new buildings that will flourish in this miserable old city.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now they approached a grand, square building, sitting on a stone pavement on the terraced summit of the hill.
‘Is the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four in session, Gisco?’
The sergeant jogged up to interrogate the guard at the door, then turned. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get those big doors open.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gisco snapped commands to a soldier nearby. Soon a group of men were running at the doors, swords in hand.
When the doors were open Fabius urged his driver to drive the chariot right into the great palace, into the central chamber itself, to shouts of outrage from the white-robed men who sat in their rows within. The cart with the severed heads followed too, its wheels leaving trails of blood and mud on the marble floor. Fabius leapt down, ignoring the shouts and pointed fingers of the outraged Tribunal members, and he started hauling the heads from the cart and throwing them at the members. ‘This is why you need me! And this, and this! This is what I protect the city from!’ The delegates flinched back, as blood and grey skull-matter splashed over their white robes.
Nelo saw it all, everything that came about that day, and fixed it all on paper, scribbling, scribbling.
65
The ship sailed on, heading west, making for the Sea of the Arabs. The crew toiled to repair the storm damage. Pyxeas grumpily put his notes in order and rewrote those that had been spoiled by water from the leaks. The weather, for now, was calm.
Then the pirates struck.
Avatak and the scholar were immersed in a deep technical discussion on the absorption of fixed air by a given unit area of farmland, and its production by the burning of the same unit area of forest. ‘Once men hunted the worldwide forests,’ Pyxeas said. ‘Now they farm — not in Northland and its hinterland, but elsewhere, they farm. It must make a difference. It must! I nearly have it, Avatak — I nearly have it-’
Bayan burst into the cabin, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Pyxeas glared. ‘What’s this? I left clear instructions not to be disturbed.’
‘Pirates,’ said the boy. His eyes were wide, he was bathed in sweat, and Avatak saw that his shirt was stained red with blood. ‘Yes-yes-yes. Hide me!’ He dived at the floor, into the heaps of scrolls and books, and burrowed in like a rat into garbage.
‘Get out of there!’ Pyxeas ineffectually pawed at the papers.
‘I’ve never seen pirates like these. Monsters. Killers! Yes-yes-yes!’
Avatak was bemused.
‘They killed al-Quds! Slit his throat with a single swipe — near enough clean took his head off — they killed him, yes-yes-yes, the first heartbeat they were aboard! Oh, they’re coming, they’re coming. .’
Avatak heard it now, heavy footsteps, shouting, the scrape of steel — screams. He tried to think. ‘Maybe we can block the door — maybe if we hide-’
It was too late. The door crashed open, smashing off its iron hinges, sending Avatak tumbling back into the little cabin, landing on top of Bayan in a mess of scrolls and parchments.
Pyxeas stood and faced the intruders. ‘You have no business here-’
A gloved fist slammed into the scholar’s mouth, and Avatak heard the crunch of breaking teeth. Pyxeas fell back, landing against the outer wall with a thump, his mouth a bloody mess.
Two men pushed through the door. They seemed huge, their arms and necks bare, their trousers blood- soaked leather, their hair tied back. They had weapons at their waists, cruel-looking swords and axes. Each had his face covered in intricate tattoos, like a tracery of black-walled veins. Avatak scrambled back against the bunks and reached for his own weapon, a blade hidden in his mattress. Before he got there one of the pirates grabbed him by the shirt front, raised him with one unbelievably strong arm, and drove his fist into Avatak’s belly. Avatak fell back, doubled up, hollowed out by pain.
Bayan took his chance. The little Mongol scurried on all fours through the men’s legs and out of the cabin.
As Avatak and Pyxeas lay helplessly, one pirate brutally rummaged through the cabin, lifting the bunks, ripping through heaps of paper, shaking out bundles of clothes. Uzzia’s coat, with the jewels sewn into the quilting, hung unnoticed on the back of the sagging door.
The other man, who had punched Avatak, grabbed him again. ‘You! The old man’s bum boy, are you?’ He spoke a guttural Persian. With his free hand he roughly frisked Avatak, soon finding his pouches of coins. ‘That what you are? Bum boy?’
