Hannibal: Fields of Blood (34 page)

‘That’s the main reason I will say nothing, sir. Plus, I owe you.’

‘I’m grateful.’

A snort of amusement. ‘It’s not just that you saved my life near Victumulae, sir. You’re a valuable commodity. There are so few other officers around. If you die, there will be no time to train another one. This war is hotting up, and when the next big battle comes, I don’t want to die because the unit doesn’t have a commander.’

Hanno had to chuckle at Mutt’s pragmatism, which felt mildly insulting but made sense. ‘What if I don’t come back?’

‘Then I’ll curse you for a damn fool, sir, and regret not tying you up right here and now.’

‘You’re a good man, Mutt. Thank you.’

‘Why don’t you piss off, sir? The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back.’

‘I’ll find you at the road junction we talked about, three days hence.’

‘We’ll be there, sir, unless a Roman patrol has slaughtered us all.’

Hanno gritted his teeth and tried not to think about that eventuality. ‘Fare well,’ he said, swinging up on to his horse’s back.

But Mutt was already walking away, back to their camp.

Deflated, Hanno clicked his tongue and aimed his mount’s head west, towards Capua. It would all be worth it when he saw Aurelia again, he told himself; when he revenged Suni’s murder. Deep in his gut, though, Hanno knew that this wasn’t really about Suni. He wanted vengeance for his friend, but seeing Aurelia came before that. Scourged by his conscience at that admission, he made an oath to ride past Fabricius’ estate as well. Despite what she’d said, Aurelia might be there again. Making that additional detour would mean Hanno risked missing the meeting with Mutt and his men, but the chance might never come his way again. The whole enterprise was insane, he thought. Was he making the biggest mistake of his life?

His misgivings grew over the following day and night. Even when he crossed the Apennines, things did not get better. The marks of war were everywhere, from the burned-out villas and farmhouses to the empty villages and roadside inns. He grew used to the scatters of crows and vultures that congregated over dead animals and humans alike, rising lazily into the air at his approach. At the Trebia and Trasimene, Hanno had seen more corpses than he could have dreamed of. After those horrors, he’d thought that he had become inured to the sight, but he was mistaken. The warm weather had returned, causing the bloated bodies to rot fast. The sight of maggots in a child’s eye sockets, purple tongues that no longer fitted in mouths and the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh turned his journey into an ordeal. Many of the rivers and streams had also been fouled by corpses, meaning he did not dare to drink from them. Instead he forced himself into the yards of abandoned houses once a day in search of a well. Water was all Hanno needed. The sights he saw quelled his appetite more thoroughly than a dose of the flux.

There were other perils as well. More than once, he spotted Roman patrols. They were only small, doubtless because Fabius’ main strength was east of the mountains, but Hanno was on his own and an easy target. He took to riding through the fields, parallel to the roads. In this way, he was able to avoid contact with the enemy by hiding in patches of woodland. The added benefit was that he did not have to meet any other travellers – not that there were many. Early one morning, spotting the figures of men hiding in a roadside ditch, he realised that his tactic had also prevented him from being waylaid by latrones.

Finding Aurelia’s home empty was not a complete surprise, but it let him off the hook with regard to Agesandros. Yet how could he know where the Sicilian had gone? Capua was the most logical place, because that was where Aurelia and her mother would be, but how would he find Agesandros – or, come to that, Aurelia – there? The idea of entering a city brought home the madness of what he was about to do. It was as foolish – and possibly as dangerous – as standing on the tail of a venomous snake. There was little chance of being personally recognised but his foreign accent, dark complexion and green eyes stood out. It would take but one denunciation by a suspicious citizen for him to be seized and interrogated before enduring a lingering and painful death. Only the gods knew whether he would come through the experience alive. He had not prayed as much since being washed out to sea from Carthage. As Hanno drew nearer to Capua, his unease grew. Strong parties of socii troops grew common, sent out to protect the farms close to the city. None gave him more than a passing glance, but his stomach was in a constant state of anxiety. Three things kept him riding. The memory of Aurelia’s kisses, the thought of what Mutt would think if he returned in failure, and a stubborn refusal to admit defeat.

It was around midday on the second day when Hanno arrived at the main gate on the west side of Capua, the point at which travellers from the coast would arrive. Seeing the mighty stone walls again reminded him why Hannibal wasn’t attacking cities. Reducing such a place would take many months, as the siege of Saguntum had shown, time in which the Romans would be free to cut off all supply routes and thus the Carthaginians’ ability to remain in the field. Far smarter to do as Hannibal had, and to fight the Romans in open battle. The number of guards at the arched gateway made Hanno’s stomach clench. None of the other travellers were keen to talk, which suited him. There was time for a prayer that no difficult questions would be hurled his way. When his turn came, the sentries seemed satisfied with Hanno’s explanation, delivered in his best Greek accent, that he worked for a merchant who had recently landed at the nearest port. He slapped his saddlebags and pronounced them full of letters for his employer’s customers. The guard studied him for a moment, his eyes moving to the horse. Hanno began to sweat. Not only were his saddlebags empty, but his short sword was lying hidden under the saddlecloth. Then, to his relief, the man waved him in without further query, even giving him advice about where to find stabling for his horse.

Their information was as good as any, he decided. A short time later, having secured a small bedchamber and a place in the stables for his horse in a rundown establishment called the Sheaf of Wheat, Hanno headed out to get his bearings. He left his blade under the mattress in his room. After so long away from centres of population, the experience was a shock to the senses. The narrow, unpaved streets were jammed with a mass of humanity, their speed reduced to that of a snail. Capua, it seemed, was filled to bursting point with refugees from the surrounding countryside. The effect on the city was noticeable. The shops had less on offer than he would have expected. He heard prices bellowed for ordinary goods such as bread and fruit that were eye-watering. A burst sewer at one junction spewed liquid filth that was spreading in every direction. The smell was overpowering, and that was without the run-off from the dungheaps in many alleyways. Beggars lounged in every available space, hands outstretched, and gaunt-faced children ran hither and thither, grabbing purses and stealing what they could from the food stalls. Because of the press, the enraged shopkeepers could do little but throw abuse after the thieves.

Realising that his decision to come to Capua had been rash indeed, Hanno wandered aimlessly at first. He had no clue where to start. Think, he told himself, think. Buying a fresh flat loaf at a baker’s, he moved to the doorway of a temple and racked his brains as he ate. Quintus’ friend had been called Gaius. But what had his family name been?

It wouldn’t come to him.

Frustrated, he wandered on, hoping for a sight of Aurelia, her mother or even Agesandros. His luck was not in, however, and his mood wasn’t helped when he stumbled on to the slave market. The war hadn’t stopped business here. Lines of naked men, women and children, their feet chalked and with chains around their necks, filled the roped-off area behind the forum. Prospective buyers walked up and down, assessing the specimens on offer. Bad memories flooded back. This was where he’d been sold for the second time. Parted from Suniaton. Met Agesandros, who would make his life a living hell.

‘Looking for a slave? A pretty girl?’

Startled, he found a pox-scarred dealer with lank grey hair regarding him. He indicated his slaves, half a dozen girls who ranged from no more than six or seven up to adulthood. They all seemed terrified. Hanno curled his lip. ‘No.’

A greasy smile. ‘You prefer boys? A friend of mine has several who might interest you. Come, come!’ The dealer beckoned.

Hanno could feel his temper rising. Keen not to make a scene, he turned his back and strode off. Unsure where to go next, his feet took him down a street that he’d not been on before. A blast of warm, moist air from a doorway to his left made his head turn. Above the lintel, he read the words ‘BATHHOUSE. JULIUS FESTUS, PROPRIETOR. HOT WATER AT ALL TIMES. PRICES REASONABLE.’ He could hear the chatter of conversation within and a voice calling, ‘Fresh pastries, fresh pastries. Just baked! A quarter of an
as
each, or five for one as.’ Hanno stopped, but not because of the food. He hadn’t had a proper bath in many months – and if Carthage was anywhere to go by, there was no better place to eavesdrop on conversations. He was about to duck inside when something made him glance to his right. A pair of bruisers were leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the forge opposite. They scowled; Hanno averted his gaze. No point picking a fight when there was no need.

A pasty-faced fat man was sitting behind a desk by the entrance. On top of the desk lay a tabby cat, which was cleaning its face with its paw while the attendant stroked its ears and whispered to it. Hanno waited for a moment. The cat cocked its head at him, but the man did not look up. Irritated, he cleared his throat.

Finally, an uninterested glance. ‘Wanting a bath?’

‘Yes,’ he growled.

‘One as. That includes a drying cloth. Two asses if you want a strigil and oil as well.’

‘That’s bloody robbery!’

‘Times are hard. That’s the price. If you don’t want to pay . . .’ His eyes flickered to the right, and Hanno spotted the other doorman, a grinning brute with no teeth who gripped a club as thick as his thigh.

‘Fine.’ He slapped down two bronze coins.

The attendant eyed Hanno again. ‘If you’re after a massage, the slaves, male and female, offer other
services
as well, but they cost more—’

‘A bath will be sufficient.’

‘As you wish. The
apodyterium
is that way.’ He waved at the door on the far side of the little room, his attention returning to the cat.

Hanno didn’t bother to reply. Throwing a scornful look at the brute, he made his way into the rectangular changing room beyond, which was nicely decorated with a mosaic floor and swirling aquatic murals on the walls. At once a pastry-seller – whose voice he must have heard – lifted his platter in Hanno’s direction, but he waved it away. There were a couple of other men undressing; they handed their clothes to a slave who placed them into individual numbered partitions on the wooden shelves that hung at eye height. Hanno was about to start disrobing himself when a sudden realisation froze him on the spot. His scar. He’d forgotten his damn scar! Anyone who saw it would take him for a slave. Devilment and irritation made him decide not to walk out. If he left the strip of fabric that protected his neck in place, no one would see the incriminating ‘F’. If asked about the cloth, he would explain it away with a story about a non-healing wound. The surgeon had told him to keep it covered, especially in the baths.

He stripped and handed his garments and sandals over. ‘I want nothing stolen while I’m bathing.’ It wasn’t his imagination that the slave sniffed. Hanno’s lips quirked. ‘They might smell ripe, but some thieves will take anything.’ He handed over an as, and the slave’s expression warmed.

‘I’ll keep good watch over them, sir. Would you like your clothes laundered?’

‘Maybe another time.’

The slave threw a curious glance at his neck, but Hanno was already heading for the
frigidarium
. He didn’t intend to spend long there: few people tended to linger in this room. Sure enough, there was only one occupant of the cold pool – one of the other customers he’d seen in the apodyterium, a middle-aged man with a shock of white hair and a beak of a nose. They exchanged nods; his neck cloth got another inquisitive look. To keep up the pretence, Hanno was careful not to get it wet. He waded quickly from one side of the pool to the other and climbed out. The
tepidarium
, the next room, would be more to his taste. The brief immersion had brought up goose bumps all over him.

In the tepidarium, he took a seat on one of the long wooden benches that ran down each side of the room. The air was pleasantly warm; the walls were decorated with images of dolphins, fish and sea monsters. A number of men sat nearby, or opposite. Three were talking together in low tones while supping wine from clay beakers; a pair were playing dice on the floor; one leaned back against the wall, dozing. Hanno closed his eyes and pretended to do the same. In reality, he was listening with all his might.

‘A drachm on the next roll, as before?’ asked the first gamer.

‘Aye, I suppose,’ said his companion none too happily.

‘Two fives! Beat that if you can, my friend!’

‘Did you go down on Fortuna last night?’ asked the second man sourly. ‘She’s giving you all the luck.’ He rolled the dice. Then, a triumphant cry: ‘A six and a five! I win at last.’

The pair continued to play and bicker, and Hanno’s attention moved on to the three men who were sitting together. Because they were opposite him, he continued to pretend that he was asleep. Thanks to this, or perhaps the wine, their tones gradually became louder.

‘The damn war shows no signs of ending,’ grumbled the oldest, a greyhair with knobbly jointed hands and feet. ‘No doubt it will drag on as long as the last one did. I remember—’

‘Calavius, have some more wine,’ said the man on the left, a short individual with brown eyes and oiled ringlets. ‘Your cup is empty.’

Although he had interrupted, Hanno noted that his manner was obsequious. There was a difference in social status here: his companions were possibly nobles. This added hugely to his frustration. Capua was not that big a city. These men probably knew Aurelia’s parents. If only he could ask them where she was!