A Land Aflame

by Ben Kane

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

211 BC: Hannibal's struggle against the Romans in Italy continues, but the Carthaginians have been utterly defeated on Sicily. Fleeing the island to Spain, Hanno and Aurelia are shipwrecked, and taken prisoner by local tribesmen. Unless they escape, a life of slavery and brutal treatment awaits.

Aurelia's brother Quintus is posted with his comrades to Spain, where a new commander - Scipio - has been given the task of defeating the Carthaginian generals who hold sway over most of the peninsula.

Here, on the third front, there will be marches of incredible endurance, epic sieges and huge set piece battles. The very outcome of the war hangs in the balance.

Who will emerge victorious, Rome or Carthage? Only the gods can tell.

What your favourite authors have to say about Ben Kane:
'A rip-roaring epic' PAUL FINCH
'A truly vibrant and gripping read' HELENA GUMLEY-MASON
'An epic tale' MATTHEW HARRFY
'Historical fiction has never been more visceral' JAMES ROLLINS
'A tour de force on an epic scale' DOUGLAS JACKSON


Readers are loving Ben Kane:
'Powerful evocation of our history' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'An engaging and exciting read' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'Gripped me from start to finish' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'Epic tales, gorgeous prose, non-stop action' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'Rich in period detail and lively in narrative' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: July 2, 2026

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

Many readers will be unfamiliar with Hannibal’s struggle against Rome and the Punic wars in general. To set the scene: in the early third century BC, Carthage was a powerful city-state in modern-day Tunisia, and Rome was not an empire, but a Republic. It controlled much of Italy, but not all, and had no foreign territories.

The first Punic war did not involve Hannibal, and lasted a staggering twenty-three years, from 264 to 241 BC. Describing the conflict is beyond the remit of this book, but a few details are pertinent. The war centred on Sicily and in the waters around the island, and by the end of the war, Rome unexpectedly emerged victorious.

Soon after the Carthaginians’ defeat, Hamilcar Barca, a general who had fought in Sicily, relocated to Spain with his young son Hannibal. He carved out a vast personal kingdom in the years following, backed by an army which was loyal to him, not Carthage. This disparate force evolved into the host led by Hannibal to Italy.

The second Punic war ‘officially’ began in 218 BC. At the head of up to one hundred thousand men, Hannibal marched from Spain into France. A chance encounter with Roman forces saw him take the fateful decision of entering Italy via the Alps rather than the easier coastal route. Savage weather and hostile local tribes meant his army suffered fifty per cent casualties during the crossing of the mountains. Replenishing his strength with Gauls, Hannibal bested the first Roman force sent to confront him in December 218 BC.

He did so again in June 217 BC, at Lake Trasimene in north-central Italy. Many thousands of legionaries died, and a cavalry force sent to the legions’ aid soon after was utterly destroyed. Little over a year later, Hannibal’s victory at Cannae was even more decisive. Almost the entire Roman army was wiped from the face of the earth. This devastating blow saw much of central and southern Italy go over to Hannibal.

The Republic did not surrender.

The Romans began a strategic war, avoiding Hannibal’s forces and striking his allies instead. When he responded to their calls for aid, the legions withdrew and attacked a different ally. In the years following, he succeeded in ambushing and defeating Roman armies on occasion, but failed to deliver another hammer blow like Cannae.

The war between Rome and Carthage also took place in other theatres. On the island of Sicily there was a prolonged siege of the ancient, walled city of Syracuse, as well as significant land battles and naval clashes. The balance of power see-sawed over several years, but by 212 BC, Rome had emerged as the dominant force.

In Spain, however, everything was still to play for …

Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. Vast clouds raced just above the sea, a white-crested, ravening beast. Hanno crouched stubbornly at the prow, peering into the sheeting rain, holding on for dear life. The heavy-bellied ship was being thrown around like a twig, one instant perched atop a towering wave, the next slipping down a precipitous descent to the dark waters below. He would have long since been thrown overboard but for the rope around his waist.

He thought of Aurelia, who was also aboard. She had been vehemently against setting sail, against leaving the relative safety of Akragas on Sicilia. He felt otherwise. After the disaster of Syrako’s fall, most of the island had gone over to the Romans. With Akragas threatened next, he’d told her, reaching a safe, Carthaginian-held city was worth the risks of a voyage so late in the year. There had been heated discussion. Anyone sane stayed ashore from autumn until spring, Aurelia argued: the Ides of November to the Ides of March. He hadn’t contested the point. In Carthage, the period to avoid sailing was similar: it began with the setting of the Hydai constellation, drawing to a close when the growing leaves of fig trees were as large as crows’ feet.

Today was close to the year’s end, far from both those dates.

He hadn’t bullied her into acceptance, though. The stalemate between them ended with the annihilation of a patrol scouting the countryside around Akragas. Suddenly, the Romans were in the area in force. With panic widespread among the city’s understrength garrison, he managed to change her mind.

Spray lashed Hanno’s face, took him back to the present. He was drenched, and cold, and getting colder. Eyes salt-stinging, he could see the length of a spear cast, but desperate for an idea of where they were headed, he clung on, trying to make out a promontory, a shore, anywhere that indicated they were not being washed away to the end of the world. The possibility made his stomach clench with fear.

Their destination had been Qart Hadasht, some days’ sail to the east, where his father had an agent. Loyal and trusted, there was no reason to suppose he was not still looking after Malchus’ business concerns, and through him, Hanno intended to access the silver necessary to secure a house for him and Aurelia. His plans had been set awry by Roman triremes lurking in the waters near Qart Hadasht. Sexi, a port further along the coast, perhaps a day to the east of their current position, had also had enemy ships patrolling the vicinity.

Returning to Sicilia was not what Hanno, Aurelia or the captain wished to do. Their options were, therefore, to take a loop south, hoping on their return to find Qart Hadasht or Sexi safe to approach, or to voyage beyond the Pillars of Herakles to the city of Gadir. The captain, who’d spent his life plying the seas, preferred the first option. Hanno, sure the Roman ships would remain in position, had thought otherwise. Although unhappy, Aurelia went along with his idea. He prevailed over the captain in the end, with coin.

At first their passage augured well, the waters between the Pillars calm and placid, with not a sail, friendly or otherwise, to be seen. A pod of dolphins had swum in the bow wave, uplifting to watch, and a sure sign of the sea god’s goodwill. In a happier mood, the captain declared Gadir would be on the horizon by the morning. Clasping Aurelia’s hand, Hanno decided his gamble had paid off.

He felt differently now. He had been a fool to bribe the sea-wily captain and should have listened to his advice. Some hours after passing between the Pillars of Herakles, a storm had come roaring up the African coast, carrying them westward, out into the immeasurably vast ocean. Staring into the rain-lashed gloom, Hanno’s spirits faltered. No one knew how far the ocean continued, but they were being carried at a fierce rate. Death seemed the only possible outcome.

They had to make landfall, even if it meant being wrecked.

A wave broke over the prow, a torrent of bone-chilling water. Hanno held on for dear life, and it crashed over him, sluicing away between the gaps in the deck timbers. Teeth chattering, he turned and worked his way along the ship using the rope. One of the sailors at the mast, also roped, gave him a grim look. His companions had their eyes closed, lips moving in prayer. Hanno threw up one of his own.

The captain was by the rudder, his post from the storm’s outset. He and the helmsman, a wiry Iberian, stood together, legs braced, holding the rudder straight.

‘Well?’ the captain shouted.

‘Nothing,’ Hanno replied.

An accepting nod. ‘The sails are reefed. The oars are in. We are running with the wind. Our lives are in the gods’ hands.’

Hanno sucked on the marrow of that bitter truth. If the ship sank, they would drown. If it didn’t, they were being carried to a horrific end somewhere in the fierce, boundless ocean. Guilt flayed him. He didn’t care about himself, but Aurelia would die because of his insistence that they flee Akragas. Nothing could be done, however. He set his jaw. ‘Need any help?’

A shake of the head.

Hanno took him at his word, and staggering as the ship tossed and leapt, made his way to the small cabin at the stern. Inside were Aurelia and a pair of sick crewmen. Entering, the unpleasant tang of faeces was unmistakable. It was warm, though, and out of the wind.

He stooped beside her. She was kneeling by a crewman who had unwisely held on to an out-of-control oar. It smacked him into the oar behind, cracking ribs and perhaps worse. ‘Doing all right?’ Hanno asked.

The crewman gave him a glassy smile. ‘She gave me poppy juice. I can’t feel a thing.’

Aurelia gripped Hanno’s hand; he had to use it to brace himself against the motion. ‘How is it out there?’ she asked.

‘Terrible. What about the other patient?’

‘See for yourself.’

Hanno looked and wished he hadn’t. The guttering light couldn’t hide the sheen of sweat on the man’s face. His eyes were closed, breathing barely perceptible. The cause of his illness was uncertain; he had a high fever, and diarrhoea.

‘He’s been unconscious for a while. Probably a blessing.’

They sat between the two crewmen, wedging their backs against the wall, hands flat on the deck for support. Her eyes met his. Quietly, she said, ‘Are we going to drown?’

The ship yawed sharply to the left. Hanno was glad he could not see over the side. He held his breath, and gradually, the ship came upright, only to aim its prow down into what would be another abyss. It was pointless lying, he decided, guilt continuing to lash him. ‘I hope not.’

A sigh. ‘Any sign of land?’

‘No.’ He was grateful she didn’t start in with ‘I told you this was a bad idea’, a natural response, considering the starkness of their situation.

‘So, we pray.’ Her voice shook a little.

He squeezed her hand. ‘You to your gods, and I to mine.’ Hanno doubted whether prayers would offer more chance of survival, but it was unwise to speak such thoughts out loud.

At sunrise the following day, they were still alive, still afloat. The mast had broken, killing a sailor as it crashed to the deck, but the ship had weathered the storm, and had only minor leaks. Row hard for a couple of days, the captain confidently declared, and the Iberian coast would come into sight.

His bold attitude was enough to see the oars manned by the disgruntled crew. His second-in-command took up the flute, the cadence pitched to a slow, regular speed. Hanno joined in. They were short of men, and hard physical activity might quell the guilt and fear jostling for supremacy in his mind. It didn’t. He brooded instead. Returning to Hannibal in Italia might have kept her safe. Some in his army had women accompanying them, but no captains in Akragas had been willing to take the risk of that voyage. The Roman navy patrolled the waters around Sicilia, especially the narrow strait between the island and the mainland. They should have stayed in Akragas, or taken a ship to Carthage, a shorter distance than Iberia. He had offered the chance to Aurelia, but she’d refused, saying he would have been miserable and impossible to live with, forever wishing he were playing an active part in the war. The assessment was fair.

It was pointless dwelling on what might have been, he told himself savagely, leaning back on the bench and pulling with all his strength. They were on this vessel, for better or worse, and Aurelia would come to no harm. Unable to quieten his thoughts entirely, in grim mood, he heaved and pulled, pulled and heaved.

After a time, the rhythm, the repetitive effort became comforting. Lean forward, and back. Watch the oar’s end rise from the water, a trail of sparkling droplets falling in its wake. Bring it down, entering the sea in unison with its fellows. Lift it up. Over and again. Hanno’s worries began to fade. All would be well, he decided.

‘We’ll never reach the coast.’

Hanno, who hadn’t spoken much to his oarmate, a walnut-skinned, wiry man of indeterminate age, ignored the comment.

‘Dead men, we are, dead men rowing to the underworld.’

Once more Hanno said nothing.

‘The storm carried us too far out. Might as well give up now.’

The heads of the pair at the oar in front turned.

‘Shut your mouth!’ said Hanno. ‘Row!’

A sneer. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’

The oar was almost at their bellies. Next, they would bring it up out of the water. Hanno seized the instant, boxing his neighbour in the head. The blow’s force snapped the man’s teeth shut. Hanno took the entire weight of the oar, and moved it through the air, bringing it down to bite into the water.

‘Row!’ Hanno’s tone was fierce.

His neighbour, a runnel of blood marking where he’d bitten his lip, obeyed. ‘No need to hit me.’

‘I thought there was,’ Hanno snarled. ‘The captain is in charge, and he says, “row”. Until he orders otherwise, that is what we shall do.’

He got a sullen look, but no further argument.

They rowed on, the sea a beaten mirror of bronze, no relation to the wild beast that had played, uncaring, with their lives the previous night. Hanno squinted up at the burning blue now and then. Other than the sun’s blinding white orb, however, the sky was empty.

The captain, mindful of his crew, silenced the flautist at regular intervals. His slave, a slip of a lad, moved along the benches with a wooden bucket and ladle. Each man got a few mouthfuls. It wasn’t as much water as they wanted, but complaints were muttered rather than said out loud.

There was no sign of a coastline by sunset. Hanno, returning to Aurelia’s side, was pleased by her continuing calm. ‘Are you not worried?’

‘I am with you.’ She smiled. ‘That is all I need.’

Heart swelling, he kissed her dry, cracked lips. Their long years of separation, and the ordeals they had been through since being reunited, had forged an unbreakable bond. Even if they died, he thought, they were together. He almost convinced himself, but the guilt soon returned. Persuading her to embark on the perilous voyage had been foolish, and largely driven by his desire to rejoin the fight against Roma as soon as possible. Seeing out the winter in Carthage would have been far more prudent and delayed him by only a few months.

The crew were less happy. Sitting outside the cabin – it was too hot to remain within – with the two sick men laid alongside, Hanno watched them. There were frequent angry glances thrown at the captain, and when his slave brought the bucket around before the evening meal, there were indignant demands for more than he was doling out. Afraid of the crew, freemen when he was not, he acceded.

Hanno went straight to the captain, who, furious, delivered a lecture. Water had to be rationed, as did their food. Why, if land was close by, came the truculent response. A rumble of agreement followed, an indication of the general unhappiness. Because it paid to be cautious, replied the captain. ‘You haven’t the first idea of where we are!’ roared the loudest of the crew. A muscular Iberian fond of the sound of his voice, he stood up from his bench. ‘Face it, brothers,’ he said loudly. ‘We are lost at sea, and it’s his fault.’ He threw a malevolent glance at the captain.

Hanno was on his feet in the blink of an eye. He shoved the Iberian, who went backwards over his bench, landing on the two men behind. He rose, swearing, and Hanno punched him in the sweet spot below his sternum. Down he went, mouth a surprised ‘O’. He didn’t get up.

Hanno, hand near the hilt of his dagger, idled his gaze over the crew. ‘He had it coming,’ he said conversationally. ‘The captain’s in charge.’

‘Aye.’ The captain kicked the Iberian, then banged his iron-shod staff on the deck. ‘Anyone else care to question my authority?’

No one spoke. No one looked up.

The captain stalked along the central walkway, glowering. The second-in-command was two steps behind, a whip trailing after.

Hanno didn’t say a word to the captain; no acknowledgement came either. He’d handed over the coin in secret, but there was no privacy aboard. It was possible their conversations about where to take the ship had been overheard, and conclusions drawn. When it came time for the next rest period, he walked back to the cabin. The faces watching him were sullen and resentful.

Aurelia hadn’t heard the Iberian’s sour-as-curdled-milk comment. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.

‘The crew are blaming the captain for our predicament.’

‘How ridiculous. He can’t control the weather!’

‘Frightened, ill-informed men make frightened, ill-informed decisions. A mutiny could easily erupt. I acted to prevent that.’

‘A mutiny?’ Aurelia’s composure cracked a little.

She was intelligent, could imagine what might unfold, thought Hanno, again cursing his decision to embark on this voyage. Terrible images filled his mind. If there was a successful mutiny, he would have to kill Aurelia. It would be a kindness. She had already suffered terrible degradations in Syrako. It could not happen again at the hands of the crew. ‘We will reach land before anything similar happens.’

‘And if we don’t?’

‘We will fight to the end, and die together.’

She gripped his hand; he could not meet her gaze.

Baal Safon, god of the sea, Hanno prayed. Help us.

There was no more trouble that evening. The night was also peaceful, a southerly breeze providing welcome cool. Wary of trouble, Hanno slept little and kept weapons to hand. Nobody attacked under the cover of darkness, which was a relief, but trouble was merely being delayed. Unless a sign became evident, whether sea birds or sight of land, the crew’s unhappiness would swell. They were constantly talking in huddles, and more than once, he’d seen the Iberian’s ugly look. If he won over a dozen men, and their plight continued for another day or two, the rest would follow their lead.

Hanno said as much to the captain, who had reached the same grim conclusion. ‘It will not come to that, gods willing. The current is weak, but it is taking us south. Row in a southeasterly direction, and chances are we’ll see the coast if not today, tomorrow.’

Sensibly, he didn’t push the crew as hard as the previous day. There were the inevitable complaints, but they weren’t vociferous, and the Iberian, wary of Hanno’s baleful attention, confined himself to glowers. In a stroke of genius, the captain ordered an amphora of wine lifted from the hold after the evening meal and shared it among the crew. The second-in-command diluted it down in the Greek fashion, pleased if the wine was complimented, tutting if men threw it back too quickly. The tension on board dissipated as men began telling stories, tongues loosened by the wine. There was singing, even poetry.

‘I have a good feeling,’ Aurelia said to Hanno. ‘Tomorrow we will make landfall.’

‘We’ll be in Gadir before you know it.’

She smiled, and relieved by her optimism, Hanno offered up what must have been his thousandth heartfelt prayer since the storm. Let them have an unremarkable voyage back through the Pillars of Herakles. Let them reach Carthaginian territory without further incident. He couldn’t help adding the refrain he’d intoned for many years: let Roma be defeated.

There was scant wind the third day after the storm, and not a cloud to be seen. With the sea reflecting the sun’s light and heat, the temperature climbed steeply. Weary from two days at the oars, nervous, resentful, the crew rowed with little enthusiasm. Hanno tried to raise spirits with a bawdy, easy-to-join-in chant, but there were no takers. On his rowing bench opposite, the Iberian was busy talking in a low, intense voice. Men were listening. Casting furtive looks at the captain. At Hanno.

It’s starting, he thought grimly. The captain needed to be told, but he couldn’t let go of his oar. He called out to the second-in-command, playing his flute a short distance along the walkway. ‘Time for a rest?’

Hanno wasn’t one for slacking; the second-in-command knew that. He nodded, and ended his tune. Hanno got up from his bench. Speed was of the essence; the respite would also give the malcontents an opportunity. Sure enough, the Iberian was gesticulating, and there were men murmuring in agreement. He wondered about quickly slitting the Iberian’s throat, but despite his fears for Aurelia if a mutiny took place, loathed the cold-blooded idea. He approached the captain, at his usual place by the rudder.

‘Now!’ cried the Iberian. A growl of assent followed.

Hanno cursed. He should just have murdered the troublesome Iberian.

‘LAND!’ It was the lookout in the prow.

Hanno’s heart leapt.

‘What?’ roared the captain.

‘Land dead ahead!’

‘What did I tell you, boys?’ The captain was jubilant. If he’d noticed the Iberian’s attempts to stir unrest, he was giving no sign of it. ‘You did it!’

‘You did it!’ The second-in-command had noticed the Iberian.

‘Land!’ Hanno saw it too, shimmering in the haze. He pointed. ‘Look!’

Men stood, shielding their eyes from the sun. Gasps went up. Relieved laughs. A cheer began, faded, caught once more. Swelled. ‘LAND!’

Hanno watched the Iberian, who knew his chance had gone. He regarded the eastern horizon with a jaundiced expression, as if it had cheated him of something. Then, muttering imprecations, he sat down.

Hanno caught Aurelia’s eye – she was by the cabin at the stern – and smiled. She responded in the same way. The gods had answered his prayers, he told himself. All was well.

‘ROW!’ ordered the captain.

Rather than a protest, another cheer rose.

The crew’s enthusiasm was palpable. The flute sounding, they met its cadence within two strokes. Hanno’s companion on their oar was pleased enough to brown peg-tooth smile at him, the friendliest he’d ever been.

The captain passed on his way to the prow. He gave Hanno a meaningful look. Returning, he announced loudly that the coastline was an hour’s row from their position. He’d recognised a mountain from previous voyages up the Lusitanian coast. Gadir was less than a day’s voyage away. Baal Safon had been their guide, and needed to be thanked. The crew approved. They liked it even more when, with great ceremony, he intoned a prayer and emptied a krater of wine into the sea, tossing the empty vessel in after.

The captain was in an expansive mood. He was also, Hanno decided, acutely aware of how close the crew had come to mutiny. He signalled the second-in-command, and the flute fell silent. His slave came along the walkway, to everyone’s delight offering ladles of diluted wine, not water.

‘One each,’ the captain announced.

Laughter. Protests.

‘Get to the coast, you dogs, and maybe there’ll be another one!’

An appreciative roar.

‘Find safe anchorage tonight, and you can get a drop more. Then, Gadir in the morning, where you can drink yourselves stupid, eh? Row!’

Hanno was intrigued by the change in the crewmen’s demeanour. They had been on the verge of seizing control of the ship. Now they were eating out of the captain’s hand, readily obeying his commands. He’d seen it before, in battle. Morale could change in the blink of an eye, soldiers in one moment sure of victory, in the next fearing defeat and death. Human nature was fickle.

They rowed. The coastline drew near. Blunted peaks jutted above forest. Rugged red cliffs gave onto rocky beaches and secluded coves. The latter were possible safe places to drop anchor, but the ship went no closer. They should continue south, the captain said, a little agitated. The closer to Gadir they were by sunset, the better.

Hanno suspected the reason for the captain’s nerves. They were a long way northwest of Carthaginian territory; the shore running along their left side was Lusitania. A wild, mountainous region, its tribes were fiercely independent, acknowledging no rulers save their own. Like all peoples who lived near the sea, he decided, they would have seagoing craft; like all opportunists, they would look on merchant ships as potential prey.

They had been through enough, surely, thought Hanno, trying not to think of Aurelia’s fate if they were attacked.

All went well for a time, the crew willing and able to keep the ship gliding south through the crystal-clear waters. He had a chance to think, the first he’d really had since before the storm. He was torn. For years, his main focus had been to fight with Hannibal until the Romans were defeated. His priorities had changed somewhat since he and Aurelia had found each other again the previous year, against all the odds, during the sacking of Syrako by the Romans. His determination to be involved in the war remained, but he did not want to be separated from her again. And yet, if he went to war, there was no other option.

She would be safe in Qart Hadasht – Gadir, he corrected himself – and he would be able to return each winter when hostilities traditionally paused.

He remembered her saying, with a suggestive look, that she would be content if there was a baby to care for. Heart leaping, he had asked if she was pregnant. A fleeting sadness had crossed her face. She’d thought she was, because her monthly bleed was a little late, but it had come the previous day. Hanno’s heart squeezed, and he hoped that she did fall pregnant soon.

‘Boats!’ The lookout had his arm outstretched.

Everyone’s eyes went to the left. Bunched together near the shore, were three low craft. They were packed with men, which meant one thing.

Fear replaced Hanno’s joy. He should never have taken her on this voyage. Ruthless, he set aside his guilt. This was no time to be faint of heart. ‘Row,’ shouted the captain. ‘If you want to live, row!’

It was a losing battle from the start. The fat-bellied merchantman was meant to travel under sail power. Even with the entire crew rowing, they could not match the speed of the sleek craft scything through the water towards them. Light, manoeuvrable, and fast-moving, they were wolves to the merchantman’s sheep. Before long, the boats were near enough to make out the men aboard: armed to the teeth, emitting fierce cries.

‘Captain!’ Hanno roared, desperate to keep Aurelia safe.

‘Aye?’

‘We have to fight!’

The captain did not answer. There was no eager response from around Hanno either. What he would have given for the presence of Mutt and his Libyans, the soldiers he’d led in Italia. He tried again. ‘Did you hear me?’

The captain, whose fear had aged him twenty years, was oblivious. He told the second-in-command to stop playing. The flute’s silence brought the rowing to an end, and gave out a clear message. There would be no resistance.

Hanno ran for the cabin. Aurelia, her expression fearful, handed him his mail shirt. He had never donned armour so fast. It would make no difference, he thought bitterly, trying to find the courage to end her life when the time came.

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

‘It is not your fault.’

‘Carthage would have been a better option.’

‘It was a joint decision not to go there.’ She had his spear in her hand. ‘I will fight too.’

Pride filled him, because she knew it would not change the outcome, but was willing, nonetheless. ‘We will die together,’ he lied, thinking with shame, you will have to be first.

She had tears in her eyes.

‘What is your intention, captain?’ Hanno shouted out the door of the cabin. ‘To offer the goods in the hold in return for safe passage?’

A closed expression, an involuntary glance at Aurelia from his position a short distance along the walkway.

But for the thunks telling him the pirates were alongside and about to board, Hanno would have charged out and slain the captain for a traitorous dog. Gods, he had been so stupid. He steeled his resolve. He had to tell her. ‘If things go badly—’

She cut across him. ‘I have a dagger. They will not take me alive.’

‘Good.’ He was glad she didn’t look at him and read his intention on his face.

Hands appeared on the ship’s timber side. Lusitanians spilt over and onto the deck, brandishing spears, ready for battle. Slight, wiry, brown-skinned, in rough tunics, they resembled the Iberian warriors in Hannibal’s army. Ten, twenty, thirty, Hanno counted, and still they kept appearing. They spread out along the walkway, glaring and shouting threats at the crew, who cowered on their benches.

Jaw clenching, Hanno wondered how many he could take down before he was overwhelmed. It depended on how determined they were. Putting his back against the cabin, he told Aurelia to do the same.

They had been seen. So had the captain.

Warriors quickly ringed the captain on the walkway, who began speaking in stumbling Lusitanian. Hard faces turned towards Hanno and Aurelia, and an instant later, a half circle had formed around them, spears aimed inwards. From the lascivious comments and looks, the raiders had one thing in mind.

A guttural demand, a gesture at the deck, from a shaggy-haired warrior older than the rest.

‘He wants us to lay down our arms,’ said Hanno, knowing the captain had offered them up as sacrifices.

‘Do we fight?’ Aurelia’s voice was firm.

Hanno was so proud of her. ‘Not yet.’ He had the germ of an idea, and there was nothing left to lose. He caught the shaggy-haired warrior’s eye, and asked in halting Iberian, ‘Are you … chieftain?’

A scornful shake of the head, a chin jerk at a helmeted figure carrying a falcata sword.

‘Tell your chief this woman …’ he indicated Aurelia ‘… is a Roman noblewoman. Her family – or the Carthaginians – will pay for her safe release.’

The warrior appraised Aurelia long and hard, then called out in his tongue.

‘What did you say?’ Aurelia demanded.

‘I