Hannibal: The Patrol (9 page)

Then everything went black.

Hanno woke, coughing and spluttering, as a tide of icy water was emptied over his head. Fear and rage surged through him as he tried to get his bearings. He was lying on the flat of his back on a cold stone floor — where, he had no idea. He struggled to rise, but his arms and legs were bound. Trying to ignore the worst headache he could remember, Hanno blinked to clear his eyes of water. Two men — triarii from the look of them — were studying him, sneers twisting their faces. Above them, the low roof of a cell. Panic made his heart flutter. Where in hell’s name was he?

‘Enjoyed your little sleep?’ asked the man on his left, a shifty-looking type with a wall eye.

‘You’ve been out for long enough,’ added his companion in a falsely solicitous tone. ‘But now it’s time for a little chat.’

Hanno sensed that would involve a lot of pain. He strained his ears. There was no sound of fighting. No clash of arms. His heart sank. Mutt and his men were gone — if he was even still in the villa.

A scornful laugh from the first man, who saw what he was doing. ‘You’ll get no help here. We’re safe inside Victumulae.’

A moan. Hanno’s gaze shot to his left. Bogu was lying a few paces away. A large bloodstain on the tunic over his belly and a wound to his lower right leg didn’t bode well.

It’s just me and Bogu.
Hanno spat several ripe curses in Carthaginian. Another snort of amusement. ‘Wondering why your men didn’t break down the door, eh?’

That
was
what Hanno was thinking, but he kept his face blank. They would have no idea that he could speak Latin.

‘They pissed off as soon as we sounded the alarm,’ said the second soldier to his comrade. ‘We couldn’t believe our luck. They must have thought reinforcements would be sent out from the town. Stupid bastards.’

A tide of weariness washed over Hanno. They were just following my orders, he thought.

The second man leered. ‘If only they’d known that the sound of the trumpets was all the back-up we were going to get!’

Hanno felt sick at the very thought. He closed his eyes, but the kick to his ribs that followed made them shoot open again with pain. He tried to roll away from the next kick, and it caught him in the back instead. He steeled himself for the next.

‘Enough,’ snapped a voice. ‘I’ll decide how and when he and the other maggot are to be punished.’

The sound of men snapping to attention. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Get him up.’

Hanno felt hands grabbing him under his armpits; he was lifted to a standing position. His surroundings were grim: a square, stone-flagged chamber with no windows. Three small lamps shed enough light to see the damp running down the walls and the table to one side upon which sat a frightening array of metal instruments, every one of them barbed or sporting a cruel blade. A glowing brazier promised more varieties of pain. Watched in impassive silence by the officer who had entered, Hanno’s arms were raised and the rope around his wrists was looped over a hook that dangled from the ceiling. As his shoulder sockets took his entire body weight, Hanno’s agony reached new heights. Desperate, he reached down with his feet. The floor was agonisingly close — he could brush it with the tips of his sandals, but couldn’t support himself for more than a few moments. Gasping with frustration and pain, he looked up.

To Hanno’s utter shock, he recognised the stocky officer — square-chinned, clean-shaven, about thirty-five — before him. It was the man who’d been beneath his blade during the fight with a Roman patrol a week or more earlier. The enemy he had let live, so that he could save Mutt’s life.
I should have killed him.
Hanno felt terrible for even thinking such a thing. Doing that would have ensured this man’s death, but also that of Mutt.
He
would still be a prisoner, and merely faced with a different torturer. Hanno noted that the man did not appear to have recognised him. There was a tiny chance that that might work to his advantage. He held fiercely on to that hope.

The officer gave him a mirthless smile. ‘Excruciating, isn’t it? Count yourself lucky that I didn’t tell them to tie your hands behind your back first. That would have dislocated your shoulders the moment they hauled you aloft.’ A scowl when Hanno didn’t answer. ‘You can’t understand a word I say, can you?’

Hanno said nothing.

‘Hang the other one up too,’ commanded the officer.

Hanno watched with helpless rage as Bogu was dragged up, moaning, and suspended beside him. Eventually, the spearman’s eyes came into focus; he tried to smile, but grimaced instead. ‘We’ll be fine,’ Hanno whispered.

‘’S’ll right, sir. You don’t need to lie to me.’

Hanno’s next words died in his throat. Fresh blood had already soaked through Bogu’s tunic from his belly wound. They were both going to die in this room. Bogu knew it. He knew it. There was no point pretending. ‘May the gods give us a safe passage.’

‘Silence!’ cried the officer. He clicked his fingers. ‘Find me that gugga slave who was mentioned earlier.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The wall-eyed soldier moved towards the door.

‘There’s no need for the slave. I speak Latin well enough,’ said Hanno. The officer mastered his shock well. ‘How do you know my tongue?’ he barked.

‘I had a Greek tutor as a boy.’

The officer’s eyebrows rose. ‘A civilised gugga, eh?’

‘Plenty of us are well educated,’ replied Hanno stiffly.

A surprised look. ‘Does your man also speak Latin?’

‘Bogu? No.’

‘There are differences between the classes then, as there are here,’ mused the officer, with a scornful glance at his soldiers. ‘Your Latin accent is not that of a Greek-speaker, though. It sounds more as if you come from Campania.’

It was Hanno’s turn to feel startled. Yet it wasn’t surprising that he spoke like Quintus and his family. ‘I have lived in southern Italy,’ he admitted.

The Roman prowled closer. He pushed Hanno between the shoulders so that he swung forward, off the tips of his toes. His arms wrenched back in their sockets, and Hanno bawled with pain. ‘Don’t lie to me!’ shouted the officer.

Desperate to relieve the pressure on his shoulders, Hanno pushed downwards with all the power in his legs and managed — just — to stop himself from swinging back and having the agony rip through him again. ‘I—It’s true. I was captured at sea between Carthage and Sicily with a friend of mine. We were sold into slavery. A Campanian family bought me. I lived near Capua for over a year.’

‘What’s your owner’s name?’ demanded the officer, quick as a flash.

Hanno’s pride reared up. ‘I don’t have an owner.’

A punch in the solar plexus knocked the air from his lungs; more pain as his shoulders took the strain of his body weight. An involuntary retch brought up a little fluid from his stomach.

The officer waited a moment before shoving his face into Hanno’s purple, wheezing one. ‘I doubt very much whether your master granted you manumission so that you could fuck off and join Hannibal’s army. If he didn’t, that means that you’re still his slave. Understand?’

Arguing was futile, but Hanno was furious. ‘Being captured by pirates doesn’t turn me into a damn slave. I’m a free man. A Carthaginian!’

His reward was another powerful punch. Hanno vomited what liquid remained in his belly. He was sorry that it didn’t hit the officer’s feet, but the Roman had stepped well back. He waited patiently until Hanno had finished. Then he muttered in Hanno’s ear, ‘If you’ve been sold to a Roman citizen, you’re his slave whether you like it or not. I’m not going to argue about it, and if you’ve any sense, neither are you. What’s your master’s name?’

‘Gaius Fabricius.’

‘Never heard of him.’

Hanno waited for another punch, but it didn’t land. ‘His wife’s called Atia. They have two children, called Quintus and Aurelia. Their farm is about half a day’s walk from Capua.’

‘Continue.’

Hanno described the details of his life in Quintus’ household, including his relationships with Quintus and Aurelia, and the visit of Caius Minucius Flaccus — an extremely high-ranking nobleman — to their house. He didn’t mention Agesandros, the overseer who had made his life a misery, or his search for Suniaton, his friend.

‘All right, that’s enough. Maybe you were a slave in Capua.’ The officer’s gaze became calculating. ‘So you ran away when you heard Hannibal had entered Cisalpine Gaul?’

Hanno was damned if he was going to pretend that he had skulked off like a wolf in the night. ‘No. Quintus, my master’s son, let me go.’ Disbelief twisted the officer’s face. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ ‘It’s true.’

An incredulous hiss. ‘Where was his father while this was going on? And his mother?’

‘Fabricius was away with the army. Atia had no idea what Quintus was up to.’

‘What a little viper! Not a son I’d wish to have.’ The officer shook his head. ‘This is all neither here nor there, however. What’s far more important is discovering why you and your men were prowling around that villa at night.’

It didn’t matter if the officer knew, thought Hanno. ‘I hoped to find someone who knew how many defenders there are in the town.’

‘And you did! Me!’ crowed the officer. ‘But I’m not going to tell you.’

You prick.

‘So you were scouting for Hannibal?’

Hanno nodded.

‘They say his army is heading here. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

A heartbeat’s pause. ‘How many soldiers has he?’

‘Fifty thousand or so,’ lied Hanno.

The officer’s face grew thunderous, and Hanno felt a dark joy. ‘More Gauls arrive to join him every day.’ The instant the truthful words had left his mouth, Hanno knew that he’d pushed the officer too far. The next punch was the hardest yet. Hanno felt pain so intense that he blacked out. He came to with the officer slapping him across the face.

‘You think that’s bad? It’s nothing compared to the suffering to come. You’ll be nothing but a shell when my men have finished with you.’

Hanno’s eyes followed the officer’s to the tools on the table. He felt his gorge rise. How long before he was begging for mercy? Pissing himself?

Would he be granted a quick end if he mentioned sparing the Roman’s life? Shame filled him.
Have some pride!

‘Roman scum,’ croaked Bogu in poor Latin. ‘Wait. For . . . pain . . . Hannibal’s army inflict . . . you. Hannibal . . . better general than any . . . you have.’

Hanno shot a warning look at Bogu, but it was too late.

‘Heat me an iron!’ cried the officer. He stalked over and drove a balled fist right into the middle of the bloodstain on Bogu’s belly.

Bogu roared in agony, and the officer laughed.

‘Leave him alone. He’s injured!’ shouted Hanno.

‘Which means he’ll talk more easily. When the dog dies, I’ll still have you.’

Hanno felt instant relief, but guilt tore at him because Bogu would suffer first. Perhaps that had been the spearman’s motive, though.

‘Fetch that gugga slave! I need to understand what this injured piece of shit says, and I can’t trust the other to translate.’

The wall-eyed soldier beat a hasty exit.

The officer stood over the brazier, tapping his foot with impatience until the second legionary declared that the iron was hot enough. Using a thick piece of blanket, the Roman seized the cool end of the instrument and held it aloft. Hanno’s skin crawled. The tip was a bright orange-red colour. He struggled to free his wrists, but all he did was hurt himself even more.

‘This might stop the bleeding,’ mused the officer.

Bogu’s eyes bulged with horror as the Roman casually approached but, to Hanno’s admiration, he did not utter a word.

Hissss.
The officer scowled with concentration, twisting the iron around in the spearman’s belly wound.

Bogu let out a long, ear-splitting shriek.

‘You cruel bastard!’ roared Hanno, forgetting his own pain.

The officer whirled around, thrusting the still-glowing end at Hanno’s face. Terrified, he shoved backward with the tips of his toes until he could go no further. Grinning, the Roman brought it within a finger’s width of his right eye. ‘Do you want a piece of this as well?’

Hanno couldn’t answer. He was still aware of Bogu’s screams, but it was taking all of his strength to hold himself still. He could already feel the muscles in his legs protesting, could feel cramp developing in his toes. A few heartbeats, and his eyeball would rupture on the red-hot iron. Great Baal Saphon, he prayed. Help me!

The door opened, and the wall-eyed soldier entered. He was followed by a brown-skinned man in a threadbare tunic. With his tight, curly black hair and dark complexion, he could have been any one of thousands of Hanno’s fellow Carthaginians. The officer turned, lowering his iron. ‘Finally.’ He gave the slave a hard look. ‘You speak Latin?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The slave glanced at Hanno and Bogu. A flicker of emotion flared in his brown eyes, but it was instantly masked.

‘Good. I want you to interpret every word that this wretch says.’ The iron stabbed towards Bogu before the officer replaced it in the brazier and selected another. ‘How big is Hannibal’s host?’

The slave translated.

Bogu mumbled something.

‘What did he say?’ demanded the officer.

‘It’s greater than any army that Rome can raise,’ said the slave warily.

‘Gods above, this one is also too stupid to give me the truth!’ The officer leaned down and laid the iron on to the shallow cut on Bogu’s left thigh. More hissing. More roars of pain. Bogu moved his leg away, but he was too weak to stop the Roman from following it with the hot metal. ‘It’s fifty thousand strong,’ he shouted.

The slave repeated his words in Latin.

The officer’s eyes swivelled to Hanno, who would have shrugged if he could. ‘That’s what I told you.’ He thought that the Roman had swallowed the bait, but the scowl that followed soon told him otherwise.

The officer went searching through the instruments on the table. There was an exclamation of delight as he lifted a length of iron the end of which had been fashioned into the shape of a letter ‘F’. He brandished it at Hanno in triumph. ‘See this? F stands for
fugitivus.
You won’t survive our little session here, but with this mark on you, there’ll be no way of forgetting what you are during whatever time is left to you.’