Hannibal: Fields of Blood (26 page)

‘I sent a message informing you of the new arrangements. The first payment will be with you next month,’ Atia muttered.

‘When first we talked, you promised that I would have the money within a month. To try to change our agreement without consulting me about it is unacceptable,’ said Phanes sharply.

A pause. ‘It has been more difficult than I thought to raise the funds.’

‘As well it might. We live in times of war. What assurance have I, however, that you will meet this new deadline? I would be entirely within my rights to bring proceedings against you at once.’

‘Gods above, what more proof do you need than my word?’

Aurelia could hear the strain in her mother’s voice. Anger coursed through her, but she too was helpless. Martialis, who might have come to their aid, had gone on his daily outing to the baths and wouldn’t be back for hours.

‘Do you want my jewellery, is that it?’ Atia’s bracelets clinked off one another as she began stripping them from her wrists.

‘Keep your trinkets. They are of little consequence against a debt of this size,’ retorted Phanes, his tone thick with contempt. ‘I will agree to the later date on the condition that the interest rate is increased to six drachms in every hundred. Calculated weekly.’

‘That’s daylight robbery!’ cried Atia.

Aurelia felt Gaius tense with fury. Her own blood was boiling now. She peeked around Jupiter’s foot. Phanes had still not replied. He was just looking at her mother, a little smile playing across his thin lips. ‘Call it what you will,’ he said at last. ‘That’s my offer. You can take it or not, as you wish. If you refuse, I will instruct my lawyer to petition the courts this afternoon.’

A short silence.

‘You leave me no choice,’ said Atia, her shoulders sagging. ‘I agree to your terms.’

The low-down prick, thought Aurelia. Her anger was so all-consuming that she didn’t realise she’d leaned too far forward until it was too late. The next thing she knew, she was sprawling forward and landing flat on her face. She looked up to find her mother regarding her with horror. Phanes was smirking.

‘Have you been eavesdropping?’ demanded Atia.

‘Clearly,’ said Phanes. ‘And not very well either.’

‘I-I’m sorry, Mother,’ stuttered Aurelia, getting to her feet.

‘You will pay for this! Go to your room!’

Before Aurelia could move, Gaius had stepped out from behind Jupiter. ‘My pardon, Atia, it is I you should blame.’

Atia’s lips thinned, while Phanes’ expression verged on delight. ‘Explain yourself,’ hissed Atia.

‘We heard voices. Aurelia recognised that of the
moneylender
.’ He loaded the word with disdain. ‘She’d told me of your . . . difficulties . . . and wanted to listen. She was scared to, but I encouraged her. It was wrong, and I apologise.’ He stuck out his chin a little.

‘I see.’ Atia’s gaze shot from Gaius to Aurelia and back again. Both were careful not to look away. She scowled, momentarily defeated. ‘Your father will hear of this shocking behaviour. I do not expect to be eavesdropped upon whilst I am dealing with my family’s private business matters.’

Gaius bowed his head in acceptance. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Leave us, both of you,’ ordered Atia.

Aurelia began to breathe again. She turned to go, but Phanes’ voice coiled around her as a whip might. ‘Touching how close the two of them are, is it not?’ he asked.

‘What is it to do with you?’ Atia’s tone was glacial.

‘Nothing, nothing at all. I merely wonder if Melito is aware of their . . .
intimacy
?’

‘You go too far, you piece of filth!’ shouted Atia. A slave on the far side of the courtyard, who was watering the plants, looked up in surprise. She lowered her voice. ‘How dare you impugn my daughter’s honour?’

‘I would never do such a thing,’ protested Phanes, but his eyes told a different story.

‘Get out, before I have the slaves throw you on to the street!’ Atia pointed towards the atrium.

‘I am at your command.’ Phanes made as if to go, but then turned back. ‘I wonder how well Melito will take it when he hears how his betrothed cavorted with a family friend before my very eyes. The first time I saw them together, I told myself I had to be imagining it, but there is no denying their fascination with each other now.’ He bowed. ‘I will expect the first payment by the date agreed.’

Atia let him go.

Aurelia was stunned that her mother could react in this way. When Phanes told him, Lucius would break off their betrothal, she was sure of it. Gaius’ expression said the same thing. Whether Lucius believed Phanes or not, it wouldn’t matter. Jealousy was a terrible beast, her mother said. Once its claws sank into someone’s flesh, they never came out. The Greek was nearly at the door now. He hadn’t looked back once.

‘Phanes,’ Atia called out.

He turned.

‘What would it take for you not to speak with Melito?’

A smirk. ‘And I thought you had nothing to hide?’

‘I don’t! How much?’

Now, a broad grin. ‘The interest rate will be ten drachms in every hundred. It will also be calculated every week. Do you find that acceptable?’

‘Yes,’ said Atia. She sounded very tired.

Phanes gave her a mocking bow. To Aurelia’s horror, he winked at her. And then he was gone.

Atia’s gaze was baleful as it fell on Aurelia. ‘Why could you not have stayed in your room? You have ruined us, child.’

Guilt-ridden, overwhelmed, Aurelia heard her mother’s voice as if through a long tunnel. Her knees gave way, and she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

The Adriatic coast of Picenum

Hanno shifted from foot to foot, excited, but also hot and sweaty in his full uniform. He eyed the glittering blue sea, which lay tantalisingly close. Off-duty soldiers were splashing about in the shallows, shrieking like happy children. The contrast to the last body of water he’d seen – Lake Trasimene, during the aftermath of the battle – could not have been more stark. Hanno’s men and the other Libyans had been too exhausted to pursue the Roman legionaries after they had broken through their lines. Leaving Mutt to take charge of the injured, he’d walked down to the lake, where the battle had been won.

The first shock had been the immeasurably vast area of water that had been stained red. When Hanno had managed to drag his eyes from that horror, they had been drawn to the shoreline, which had been crowded with thousands of bloody, mutilated corpses. Velites and hastati, principes and triarii, centurions and other officers had sprawled ignominiously together, their ranks irrelevant in death. Gauls and Numidians had been roaming the scene in their hundreds, killing any living Romans and looting the dead. Headless corpses lay everywhere, the grisly handiwork of warriors who wanted the ultimate trophy. That hadn’t been the worst of it, though . . .

Plenty of legionaries had still been alive. With nowhere else to go, they had retreated into the water, where, if their armour hadn’t pulled them under, they’d served as sport for the enemy cavalry. Hanno had seen men making wagers with each other over who could hit a particular legionary in the head with a spear from twenty paces, or who could slice off a head as he urged his horse past. Some legionaries had slain one another rather than end their lives so miserably; others had simply walked out into the deep water to drown. Despite his hatred of Romans, Hanno had been repulsed. What other choice had they had, however? he thought harshly. They couldn’t have taken them all prisoner, and Rome had to learn its lesson for the humiliations that it had heaped upon Carthage in the past. If they didn’t learn something from the loss of fifteen thousand legionaries and one of their consuls, and three days later, more than four thousand cavalry, they were damn fools. Deep in his belly, however, Hanno knew that their latest victory wouldn’t be enough. More blood would have to be spilled, more defeats inflicted on their old enemy.

‘It’d be good to have a swim now, eh?’ whispered Sapho.

He jerked back to reality. ‘Yes. Hopefully, we can have a dip after Hannibal’s done with us.’

‘That would be good. I’ve hardly seen you in days.’

‘You know how it is. There’s so much to do after each day’s march. The injured need extra care. So too do the rest of the men. Thank the gods for the stores of oil Bostar found on that farm. Adding that to their food seems to have improved their health.’ The whole army had been exhausted by the long march from Cisalpine Gaul, the swamps and the battle, during which their rations had not always been good. Men had been complaining of aches in their joints; of feeling fatigued all the time; others had had badly bleeding gums. Yet Hanno knew that he was dodging the issue – and his brother. For some reason, he couldn’t shake his memory of the look on Sapho’s face when he’d fallen into the pool. There was no one he could talk to about it without feeling like a traitor. Sapho was his flesh and blood.

‘True enough. Let’s change that this evening, though.’

‘Good.’ He caught Bostar’s eye. ‘Fancy a dip later?’

‘Maybe,’ answered Bostar with a smile. ‘It depends what Hannibal has in mind for us.’

‘Do you know, Father?’ asked Hanno.

Malchus, who was standing a few steps away with Bostar, Maharbal – Hannibal’s cavalry commander – and a group of other senior officers, looked around. ‘Even if I do, I’m not telling you. Wait until your general gets here.’

The mention of Hannibal made Hanno wish he could vanish. He had felt awkward enough as it was around his general, but since the battle at the lake, he had avoided him if at all possible. He told himself that he was being stupid. Their victory had been resounding; moreover, the vast majority of the six thousand legionaries who had battered through their units had been surrounded the following day. In a magnanimous gesture, the non-Roman citizens among them had been set free with the message from Hannibal that he had no quarrel with their peoples. Apart from a few senior officers held as captives, the remainder had been slain. Why then did he feel such a failure? Even their father had told him that no one was to blame; Sapho and (particularly) Bostar had agreed, but Hanno fancied he could see the same unease in his brothers’ faces that he felt inside. The Libyan spearmen – their spearmen – had been the only units in the entire army to fail at the task set them by Hannibal.

‘Here he comes,’ muttered Bostar.

Hanno’s eyes followed everyone else’s. He saw the block of scutarii first, some of Hannibal’s black-cloaked crack troops. They went everywhere with the general, unless he was on one of his regular undercover missions, when he would don a disguise and go among his soldiers to gauge their mood. The scutarii came to a halt; their ranks parted and Hannibal strode forward. Today he had left his armour and weapons behind. Few men would mistake him for anyone else however. His confident bearing, deep purple tunic and the similarly coloured strip of fabric that covered his right eye made him stand out a mile. Close up, it was evident that Hannibal had also suffered during the previous weeks. His brown complexion was pastier than normal. There were new lines on his broad face, and grey hairs that had not been there before in his short beard. Despite this, his one remaining eye still danced with energy. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said, acknowledging their salutes. ‘It’s more pleasant to meet here than my tent. Sun. Sea. Sand. What more could a man want?’

‘Perhaps a few women, sir?’ suggested Maharbal with a cheeky grin.

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose.

‘Chance would be a fine thing. What’s wrong with your horses?’ called a voice from the gaggle of soldiers who had been drawn by the presence of their general.

Maharbal pretended to scowl. ‘They all have mange! Haven’t you seen us bathing them in the old wine?’

‘Is that where it’s all gone? Meanwhile, our tongues are hanging out with thirst.’

‘If you like, you can have the wine to drink after the horses have been washed in it,’ declared Hannibal.

The anonymous soldier went silent, while his companions fell about the place, hooting with laughter.

‘Lost your thirst?’ shouted Hannibal.

No answer.

‘Stand forth, soldier.’

There was a moment’s pause.

‘Do I have to say it twice?’ Hannibal’s voice was cold.

A short man with a slight limp pushed his way to the front of the group. He looked most unhappy.

‘Don’t you fancy the horses’ wine?’ asked Hannibal lightly.

‘Yes, sir. No, sir. I don’t know, sir.’

More laughter, but it was a little uneasy this time. For all of his charisma, their general was known for his toughness.

‘I’m joking with you,’ said Hannibal warmly. ‘The horses have to be treated, you know that. They’re vital to us.’

The men nodded.

‘Now I need to talk to my officers. In private.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ muttered the short soldier.

‘You’re good men.’ Hannibal glanced at his scribe, who stood alongside, parchment and stylus in hand. ‘See that these soldiers are issued with a small amphora of wine from my personal supply. Small, mind,’ he added with a smile as the men began cheering.

‘Me and the lads will follow you anywhere, sir. Even if it’s to hell and back,’ cried the short soldier.

His comrades shouted even more loudly. Hanno never failed to be impressed by his general’s leadership. With a few words and a little wine, Hannibal had just turned his men’s resentment into adoration once more. ‘He makes it look so effortless,’ he whispered to Sapho. Instantly, he realised that it was a mistake. Sapho’s face twisted with bitterness.

‘It’s a skill, little brother. Some people have it, some people don’t.’

‘I wish I had it,’ said Hanno, fully aware that Sapho led his men through fear, not devotion, whereas he tried to emulate his father and Bostar, who led by example.

‘So do I,’ said Sapho, giving him a suspicious glare.

‘Gather round,’ ordered Hannibal.

Hanno felt a momentary relief that Sapho would not be able to jibe at him, but it didn’t last. There were no Gaulish chieftains or Numidian officers present, only Carthaginians. He felt sure that Hannibal was going to talk about the battle, and his and his family’s failures. The brunt of the blame would fall on him, because his phalanx had been the first to crumble. How would he be punished? Demotion seemed most likely. He steeled himself for the inevitable.