Enemy of Rome

Book 1: Hannibal

by Ben Kane

Genres: War & Military

Synopsis

As Rome rose to power in the 3rd century BCE there was only one real rival in the Mediterranean—Carthage. In the First Punic War, the Roman legions defeated and humiliated Carthage. Now Hannibal, a brilliant young Carthaginian general, is out for revenge.

Caught up in the maelstrom are two young boys, Hanno, the son of a distinguished soldier and confidant of Hannibal, and Quintus, son of a Roman equestrian and landowner. A disastrous adventure will see Hanno sold into slavery and bought by Quintus's father. Although an unexpected friendship springs up between the two boys—and with Quintus's sister, Aurelia—the fortunes of the two warring empires will tear them apart. In Ben Ken's Hannibal: Enemy of Rome, they find themselves on opposite sides of the conflict and an alliance forged through slavery will be played out to its stunning conclusion in battle.

"A master of his discipline rightly hailed as one of the best historical novelists writing today." --Daily Express

Release date: July 14, 2015

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 496

Sample

I


HANNO
CARTHAGE, SPRING
"Hanno!" His father's voice echoed off the painted stucco walls. "It's time to go."
Stepping carefully over the gutter that carried liquid waste out to the soakaway in the street, Hanno looked back. He was torn between his duty and the urgent gestures of his friend, Suniaton. The political meetings his father had recently insisted he attend bored him to tears. Each one he'd been to followed exactly the same path. A group of self-important, bearded elders, clearly fond of the sound of their own voices, made interminable speeches about how Hannibal Barca's actions in Iberia were exceeding the remit granted to him. Malchus—his father—and his closest allies, who supported Hannibal, said little or nothing until the graybeards had fallen silent, when they would stand forth one by one. Invariably, Malchus spoke last of all. His words seldom varied. Hannibal, who had been commander in Iberia for just three years, was doing an outstanding job in cementing Carthage's hold over the wild native tribes, forming a disciplined army and, most importantly, filling the city's coffers with the silver from his mines. Who else was pursuing such heroic and worthy endeavors while simultaneously enriching Carthage? In defending the tribes who had been attacked by Saguntum, a city allied to Rome, he was merely reinforcing their people's sovereignty in Iberia. On these grounds, the young Barca should be left to his own devices.
Hanno knew that what motivated the politicians was fear, partly assuaged by the thought of Hannibal's forces, and greed, partly satisfied by the shiploads of precious metal from Iberia. Malchus' carefully chosen words therefore normally swayed the Senate in Hannibal's favor, but only after endless hours of debate. The interminable politicking made Hanno want to scream, and to tell the old fools what he really thought of them. Of course he would never shame his father in that manner, but nor could he face yet another day stuck indoors. The idea of a fishing trip held too much appeal.
One of Hannibal's messengers regularly came to bring his father news from Iberia, and had visited not a week since. The nighttime rendezvous were supposed to be a secret, but Hanno had soon come to recognize the cloaked, sallow-skinned officer. Sapho and Bostar, his older brothers, had been allowed to stand in on the meetings for some time. Swearing Hanno to secrecy, Bostar had filled him in afterward. Now, if he was able, Hanno simply eavesdropped. In a nutshell, Hannibal had charged Malchus and his allies with the task of ensuring that the politicians continued to back his actions. A showdown with the city of Saguntum was imminent, but conflict with Rome, Carthage's old enemy, was some way off yet.
The deep, gravelly voice called out again, echoing down the corridor that led to the central courtyard. There was a hint of annoyance in it now. "Hanno? We'll be late."
Hanno froze. He wasn't afraid of the dressing down his father would deliver later, more of the disappointed look in his eyes. A scion of one of Carthage's oldest families, Malchus led by example, and expected his three sons to do the same. At seventeen, Hanno was the youngest. He was also the one who most often failed to meet these exacting standards. For some reason, Malchus expected more of him than he did of Sapho and Bostar. At least that's how it seemed to Hanno. Yet farming, the traditional source of their wealth, interested him little. Warfare, his father's preferred vocation, and Hanno's great fascination, was barred to him still, thanks to his youth. His brothers would be sailing for Iberia any day. There, no doubt, they would cover themselves in glory in the taking of Saguntum. Frustration and resentment filled Hanno. All he could do was practice his riding and weapons skills. Life as ordained by his father was so boring, he thought, choosing to ignore Malchus' oft-repeated statement: "Be patient. All good things come to those who wait."
"Come on!" urged Suniaton, thumping Hanno on the arm. His gold earrings jingled as he jerked his head in the direction of the harbor. "The fishermen found huge shoals of tunny in the bay at dawn. With Melqart's blessing, the fish won't have moved far. We'll catch dozens. Think of the money to be made!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I've taken an amphora of wine from Father's cellar. We can share it on the boat."
Unable to resist his friend's offer, Hanno blocked his ears to Malchus' voice, which was coming closer. Tunny was one of the most prized fish in the Mediterranean. If the shoals were close to shore, this was an opportunity too good to miss. Stepping into the rutted street, he glanced once more at the symbol etched into the stone slab before the flat-roofed house's entrance. An inverted triangle topped by a flat line and then a circle, it represented his people's preeminent deity. Few dwellings were without it. Hanno asked Tanit's forgiveness for disobeying his father's wishes, but his excitement was such that he forgot to ask for the mother goddess's protection.
"Hanno!" His father's voice was very near now.
Without further ado, the two young men darted off into the crowd. Both their families dwelled near the top of Byrsa Hill. At the summit, reached by a monumental staircase of sixty steps, was an immense temple dedicated to Eshmoun, the god of fertility, health and well-being. Suniaton lived with his family in the sprawling complex behind the shrine, where his father served as a priest. Named in honor of the deity, Eshmuniaton—abbreviated to Suniaton or simply Suni—was Hanno's oldest and closest friend. The pair had scarcely spent a day out of each other's company since they were old enough to walk.
The rest of the neighborhood was primarily residential. Byrsa was one of the richer quarters, as its wide, straight thoroughfares and right-angled intersections proved. The majority of the city's winding streets were no more than ten paces across, but here they averaged more than twice this width. In addition to wealthy merchants and senior army officers, the suffetes—judges—and many elders also called the area home. For this reason, Hanno ran with his gaze directed at the packed earth and the regular soakaway holes beneath his feet. Plenty of people knew who he was. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped and challenged by one of Malchus' numerous political opponents. To be dragged back home by the ear would be embarrassing and bring dishonor to his family.
As long as they didn't catch anyone's eye, he and his friend would pass unnoticed. Bareheaded and wearing tight-fitting red woolen singlets, with a central white stripe and a distinctive wide neckband, and breeches that reached to the knee, the pair looked no different from other well-to-do youths. Their garb was far more practical than the long straight wool tunics and conical felt hats favored by most adult men, and more comfortable than the ornate jacket and pleated apron worn by those of Cypriot extraction. Sheathed daggers hung from simple leather straps thrown over their shoulders. Suniaton carried a bulging pack on his back.
Although people said that they could pass for brothers, Hanno couldn't see it most of the time. While he was tall and athletic, Suniaton was short and squat. Naturally, they both had tightly curled black hair and a dark complexion, but there the resemblance ended. Hanno's face was thin, with a straight nose and high cheekbones, while his friend's round visage and snub nose were complemented by a jutting chin. They did both have green eyes, Hanno conceded. That feature, unusual among the brown-eyed Carthaginians, was probably why they were thought to be siblings.
A step ahead of him, Suniaton nearly collided with a carpenter carrying several long cypress planks. Rather than apologize, he thumbed his nose and sprinted toward the citadel walls, now only a hundred paces away. Stifling his desire to finish the job by tipping over the angry tradesman, Hanno dodged past too, a grin splitting his face. Another similarity he and Suniaton shared was an impudent nature, quite at odds with the serious manner of most of their countrymen. It frequently got both of them in trouble, and was a constant source of irritation to their fathers.
A moment later, they passed under the immense ramparts, which were thirty paces deep and nearly the same in height. Like the outer defenses, the wall was constructed from great quadrilateral blocks of sandstone. Frequent coats of whitewash ensured that the sunlight bounced off the stone, magnifying its size. Topped by a wide walkway and with regular towers, the fortifications were truly awe-inspiring. Yet the citadel was only a small part of the whole. Hanno never tired of looking down on the expanse of the sea wall that came into view as he emerged from under the gateway's shadow. Running down from the north along the city's perimeter, it swept southeast to the twin harbors, curling protectively around them before heading west. On the steep northern and eastern sides, and to the south, where the sea gave its added protection, one wall was deemed sufficient, but on the western, landward side of the peninsula, three defenses had been constructed: a wide trench backed by an earthen bank, and then a huge rampart. The walls, which were in total over 180 stades in length, also contained sections with two-tiered living quarters. These could hold many thousands of troops, cavalry and their mounts, and hundreds of war elephants.
Home to nearly a quarter of a million people, the city also demanded attention. Directly below lay the Agora, the large open space bordered by government buildings and countless shops. It was the area where residents gathered to do business, demonstrate, take the evening air, and vote. Beyond it lay the unique ports: the huge outer, rectangular merchant harbor, and the inner, circular naval docks with its small, central island. The first contained hundreds of berths for trading ships, while the second could hold more than ten-score triremes and quinqueremes in specially constructed covered sheds. To the west of the ports was the old shrine of Baal Hammon, no longer as important as it had previously been, but still venerated by many. To the east lay the Choma, the huge man-made landing stage where fishing smacks and small vessels tied up. It was also their destination.
Hanno was immensely proud of his home. He had no idea what Rome, Carthage's old enemy, looked like, but he doubted it matched his city's grandeur. He had no desire to compare Carthage with the Republic's capital, though. The only view he ever wanted of Rome was when it fell—to a victorious Carthaginian army—before seeing it burned to the ground. As Hamilcar Barca, Hannibal's father, had inculcated a hatred of all things Roman in his sons, so had Malchus in Hanno and his brothers. Like Hamilcar, Malchus had served in the first war against the Republic, fighting in Sicily for ten long, thankless years.
Unsurprisingly, Hanno and his siblings knew the details of every land skirmish and naval battle in the conflict, which had actually lasted for more than a generation. The cost to Carthage in loss of life, territory and wealth had been huge, but the city's wounds ran far deeper. Her pride had been trampled in the mud by the defeat, and this ignominy was repeated just three years after the war's conclusion. Carthage had been unilaterally forced by Rome to give up Sardinia, as well as paying more indemnities. The shabby act proved beyond doubt, Malchus would regularly rant, that all Romans were treacherous dogs, without honor. Hanno agreed, and looked forward to the day hostilities were reopened once more. Given the depth of anger still present in Carthage toward Rome, conflict was inevitable, and it would originate in Iberia. Soon.
Suniaton turned. "Have you eaten?"
Hanno shrugged. "Some bread and honey when I got up."
"Me too. That was hours ago, though." Suniaton grinned and patted his belly. "Best get a few supplies."
"Good idea," Hanno replied. They kept clay gourds of water in their little boat with their fishing gear, but no food. Sunset, when they would return, was a long way off.
The streets descending Byrsa Hill did not follow the regular layout of the summit, instead radiating out like so many tributaries of a meandering river. There were far more shops and businesses visible now: bakers, butchers and stalls selling freshly caught fish, fruit and vegetables stood beside silver- and coppersmiths, perfume merchants and glass blowers. Women sat outside their doors, working at their looms, or gossiping over their purchases. Slaves carried rich men past in litters or swept the ground in front of shops. Dye-makers' premises were everywhere, their abundance due to the Carthaginian skill in harvesting the local Murex shellfish and pounding its flesh to yield a purple dye that commanded premium prices all over the Mediterranean. Children ran hither and thither, playing catch and chasing each other up and down the regular sets of stairs that broke the street's steep descent. Deep in conversation, a trio of well-dressed men strolled past. Recognizing them as elders, who were probably on their way to the very meeting he was supposed to be attending, Hanno took a sudden interest in the array of terra-cotta outside a potter's workshop.
Dozens of figures—large and small—were ranked on low tables. Hanno recognized every deity in the Carthaginian pantheon. There sat a regal, crowned Baal Hammon, the protector of Carthage, on his throne; beside him Tanit was depicted in the Egyptian manner: a shapely woman's body in a well-cut dress, but with the head of a lioness. A smiling Astarte clutched a tambourine. Her consort, Melqart, known as the "King of the City," was, among other things, the god of the sea. Various brightly colored figures depicted him emerging from crashing waves riding a fearful-looking monster and clutching a trident in one fist. Baal Saphon, the god of storm and war, sat astride a fine charger, wearing a helmet with a long, flowing crest. Also on display was a selection of hideous, grinning painted masks—tattooed, bejeweled demons and spirits of the underworld—tomb offerings designed to ward off evil.
Hanno shivered, remembering his mother's funeral three years before. Since her death of a fever his father, never the most warm of men, had become a grim and forbidding presence who lived only to gain his revenge on Rome. For all his youth, Hanno knew that Malchus was portraying a controlled mask to the world. He must still be grieving, as surely as he and his brothers were. Arishat, Hanno's mother, had been the light to Malchus' dark, the laughter to his gravitas, the softness to his strength. The center of the family, she had been taken from them in two horrific days and nights. Harangued by an inconsolable Malchus, the best surgeons in Carthage had toiled over her to no avail. Every last detail of her final hours was engraved in Hanno's memory. The cups of blood drained from her in a vain attempt to cool her raging temperature. Her gaunt, fevered face. The sweat-soaked sheets. His brothers trying not to cry, and failing. And lastly, her still form on the bed, tinier than she had ever been in life. Malchus kneeling alongside, great sobs racking his muscular frame. That was the only time Hanno had ever seen his father weep. The incident had never been mentioned since, nor had his mother. He swallowed hard and, checking that the elders had passed by, moved on. It hurt too much to think about such things.
Suniaton, who had not noticed Hanno's distress, paused to buy some bread, almonds and figs. Keen to lift his somber mood, Hanno eyed the blacksmith's forge off to one side. Wisps of smoke rose from its roughly built chimney, and the air was rich with the smells of charcoal, burning wood and oil. Harsh metallic sounds reached his ears. In the recesses of the open-fronted establishment, he glimpsed a figure in a leather apron using a pair of tongs to carefully lift a piece of glowing metal from the anvil. There was a loud hiss as the sword blade was plunged into a vat of cold water. Hanno felt his feet begin to move.
Suniaton blocked his path. "We've got better things to do. Like making money," he cried, shoving forward a bulging bag of almonds. "Carry that."
"No! You'll eat them all anyway." Hanno pushed his friend out of the way with a grin. It was a standing joke between them that his favorite pastime was getting covered in ash and grime while Suniaton would rather plan his next meal. He was so busy laughing that he didn't see the approaching group of soldiers—a dozen Libyan spearmen—until it was too late. With a thump, Hanno collided with the first man's large, round shield.
This was no street urchin, and the spearman bit back an instinctive curse. "Mind your step," he cried.
Catching sight of two Carthaginian officers in the soldiers' midst, Hanno cursed. It was Sapho and Bostar. Both were dressed in their finest uniforms. Bell-shaped helmets with thick rims and yellow-feathered crests covered their heads. Layered linen pteryges hung below their polished bronze cuirasses to cover the groin, and contoured greaves protected their lower legs. No doubt they too were on their way to the meeting. Muttering an apology to the spearman, Hanno backed away, looking at the ground in an attempt not to be recognized.
Oblivious to Sapho and Bostar's presence, Suniaton was snorting with amusement at Hanno's collision. "Come on," he urged. "We don't want to get there too late."
"Hanno!" Bostar's voice was genial.
He pretended not to hear.
"Hanno! Come back!" barked a deeper, more commanding voice, that of Sapho.
Unwillingly, Hanno turned.
Suniaton tried to sidle away, but he had also been spotted.
"Eshmuniaton! Get over here," Sapho ordered.
With a miserable expression, Suniaton shuffled to his friend's side.
Hanno's brothers shouldered their way forward to stand before them.
"Sapho. Bostar," Hanno said with a false smile. "What a surprise."
"Is it?" Sapho demanded, his thick eyebrows meeting in a frown. A short, compact man with a serious manner like Malchus, he was twenty-two. Young to be a midranking officer, but like Bostar, his ability had shone through during his training. "We're all supposed to be heading to listen to the elders. Why aren't you with Father?"
Flushing, Hanno looked down. Damn it, he thought. In Sapho's eyes, duty to Carthage was all-important. In a single moment, their chances of a day on the boat had vanished.
Sapho gave Suniaton a hard stare, taking in his pack and the provisions in his hands. "Because the pair of you were skiving off, that's why! Fishing, no doubt?"
Suniaton scuffed a toe in the dirt.
"Cat got your tongue?" Sapho asked acidly.
Hanno moved in front of his friend. "We were going to catch some tunny, yes," he admitted.
Sapho's scowl grew deeper. "And that's more important than listening to the Council of Elders?"
As usual, his brother's high-handed attitude rankled with Hanno. This type of lecture was all too common. Most often, it felt as if Sapho was trying to be their father. Unsurprisingly, Hanno resented this. "It's not as if the graybeards will say anything that hasn't been said a thousand times before," he retorted. "Just about every one is full of hot air."
Suniaton sniggered. "Like someone else not too far away." He saw Hanno's warning look and fell silent.
Sapho's jaw clenched. "You pair of impudent—" he began.
Bostar's lips twitched, and he lifted a hand to Sapho's shoulder. "Peace," he said. "Hanno has a point. The elders are rather fond of the sound of their own voices."
Hanno and Suniaton tried to hide their smiles.
Sapho missed Bostar's amusement, but he lapsed into a glowering silence. He was acutely aware, and resentful, that he was not the senior officer present. Although Sapho was a year older, Bostar had been promoted before him.
"It's not as if this meeting will be a matter of life and death," Bostar continued reasonably. His wink—unseen by Sapho—told Hanno that all hope was not lost. He slyly returned the gesture. Like Hanno, Bostar resembled their mother, Arishat, with a thin face and piercing green eyes. Where Sapho's nose was broad, his was long and narrow. Rangy and athletic, his long black hair was tied in a ponytail, which emerged from under his helmet. Hanno had far more in common with the gentle Bostar than he did with Sapho. Currently, his feelings for his eldest brother often verged on dislike. "Does our father know where you are?"
"No," admitted Hanno.
Bostar turned to Suniaton. "I would assume, therefore, that Bodesmun is also in the dark?"
"Of course he is," Sapho butted in, eager to regain control. "As usual where these two are concerned."
Bostar ignored his brother's outburst. "Well?"
"Father thinks I'm at home, studying," Suniaton revealed.
Sapho's expression grew a shade more self-righteous. "Let's see what Bodesmun and Father have to say when they discover what you were both really up to. We have enough time to do that before the Council meets." He jerked a thumb at the spearmen. "Get in among them."
Hanno scowled, but there was little point arguing. Sapho was in a particularly zealous mood. "Come on," he muttered to Suniaton. "The shoals will be there another day."
Before they could move a step, Bostar spoke. "I don't see why they shouldn't go fishing."
Hanno and Suniaton stared at each other, amazed.
Sapho's brows rose. "What do you mean?"
"Such activities will shortly be impossible for both of us, and we'll miss them." Bostar made a face. "That same day will come for Hanno soon enough. Let him have his fun while he can."
Hanno's heart leaped; the gravity of Bostar's words was lost on him.
Sapho's face grew thoughtful. After a moment, though, his sanctimonious frown returned. "Duty is duty," he declared.
"Lighten up, Sapho. You're twenty-two, not fifty-two!" Bostar threw a glance at the spearmen, who were uniformly grinning. "Who would notice Hanno's absence apart from us and Father? And you're not Suni's keeper any more than I am."
Sapho's lips thinned at the teasing, but he relented. The idea of Bostar pulling rank on him was too much to bear. "Father won't be happy," he said gruffly, "but I suppose you're right."
Hanno could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Thank you!" His cry was echoed by Suniaton.
"Go on, before I change my mind," Sapho warned.
The friends didn't need any further prompting. With a grateful look at Bostar, who threw them another wink, the pair disappeared into the crowd. Broad grins creased both their faces. They would still be held to account, thought Hanno, but not until that evening. Visions of a boat full of tunny filled his mind once more.
"Sapho's a serious one, isn't he?" Suniaton commented.
"You know how he is," Hanno replied. "In his eyes, things like fishing are a waste of time."
Suniaton nudged him. "Just as well I didn't tell him what I was thinking, then." He grinned at Hanno's inquiring look. "That it would do him good to relax more—perhaps by going fishing!"
Hanno's mouth opened with shock, before he laughed. "Thank the gods you didn't say that! There's no way he would have let us go."
Smiling with relief, the friends continued their journey. Soon they had reached the Agora. Its four sides, each a stade in length, were made up of grand porticoes and covered walkways. The beating heart of the city, it was home to the building where the Council of Elders met, as well as government offices, a library, numerous temples and shops. It was also where, on summer evenings, the better-off young men and women would gather in groups, a safe distance apart, to eye each other up. Socializing with the opposite sex was frowned upon, and chaperones for the girls were never far away. Despite this, inventive methods to approach the object of one's desire were constantly being invented. Of recent months, this had become one of the friends' favorite pastimes. Fishing beat it still, but not by much, thought Hanno wistfully, scanning the crowds for any sign of attractive female flesh.
Instead of gaggles of coy young beauties, though, the Agora was full of serious-looking politicians, merchants and high-ranking soldiers. They were heading for one place. The central edifice, within the hallowed walls of which more than three hundred elders met on a regular basis as, for nearly half a millenium, their predecessors had done. Overseen by the two suffetes—the rulers elected every year—they, the most important men in Carthage, decided everything from trading policy to negotiations with foreign states. Their range of powers did not end there. The Council of Elders also had the power to declare war and peace, even though it no longer appointed the army's generals. Since the war with Rome, that had been left to the people. The only prerequisites for candidature of the council were citizenship, wealth, an age of thirty or more, and the demonstration of ability, whether in the agricultural, mercantile, or military fields.
Ordinary citizens could participate in politics via the Assembly of the People, which congregated once a year, by the order of the suffetes, in the Agora. During times of great crisis, it was permitted to gather spontaneously and debate the issues of the day. While its powers were limited, they included electing the suffetes and the generals. Hanno was looking forward to the next meeting, which would be the first he'd attend as an adult, entitled to vote. Although Hannibal's enormous public popularity guaranteed his reappointment as the commander-in-chief of Carthage's forces in Iberia, Hanno wanted to show his support for the Barca clan. It was the only way he could at the moment. Despite his requests, Malchus would not let him join Hannibal's army, as Sapho and Bostar had done after their mother's death. Instead, he had to finish his education. There was no point fighting his father on this. Once Malchus had spoken, he never went back on a decision.
Following Carthaginian tradition, Hanno had largely fended for himself from the age of fourteen, although he continued to sleep at home. He'd worked in a forge, among other places, and thus earned enough to live on without committing any crimes or shameful acts. This was similar to, but not as harsh, as the Spartan way. He had also taken classes in Greek, Iberian and Latin. Hanno did not especially enjoy languages, but he had come to accept that such a skill would prove useful among the polyglot of nationalities that formed the Carthaginian army. His people did not take naturally to war, so they hired mercenaries, or enlisted their subjects, to fight on their behalf. Libyans, Iberians, Gauls and Balearic tribesmen were among those who brought their differing qualities to Carthage's forces.
Hanno's favorite subject was military matters. Malchus himself taught him the history of war, from the battles of Xenophon and Thermopylae to the victories won by Alexander of Macedon. Central to his father's lessons were the intricate details of tactics and planning. Particular attention was paid to Carthaginian defeats in the war with Rome, and the reasons for them. "We lost because of our leaders' lack of determination. All they thought about was how to contain the conflict, not win it. How to minimize cost, not disregard it in the total pursuit of victory," Malchus had thundered during one memorable lesson. "The Romans are motherless curs, but by all the gods, they possess strength of purpose. Whenever they lost a battle, they recruited more men, and rebuilt their ships. They did not give up. When the public purse was empty, their leaders willingly spent their own wealth. Their damn Republic means everything to them. Yet who in Carthage offered to send us the supplies and soldiers we needed so badly in Sicily? My father, the Barcas, and a handful of others. No one else." He'd barked a short, angry laugh. "Why should I be surprised? Our ancestors were traders, not soldiers. To gain our rightful revenge, we must follow Hannibal. He's a natural soldier and a born leader—as his father was. Carthage never gave Hamilcar the chance to beat Rome, but we can offer it to his son. When the time is right."
A red-faced, portly senator shoved past with a curse. Startled, Hanno recognized Hostus, one of his father's most implacable enemies. The self-important politician was in such a hurry that he didn't even notice whom he'd collided with. Hanno hawked and spat, although he was careful not to do it in Hostus' direction. He and his windbag friends complained endlessly about Hannibal, yet were content to accept the shiploads of silver sent from his mines in Iberia. Lining their own pockets with a proportion of this wealth, they had no desire to confront Rome again. Hanno, on the other hand, was more than prepared to lay down his life fighting their old enemy, but the fruit of revenge wasn't ripe. Hannibal was preparing himself in Iberia, and that was good enough. For now, they had to wait.
The pair skirted the edge of the Agora, avoiding the worst of the crowds. Around the back of the Senate, the buildings soon became a great deal less grand, looking as shabby as one would expect close to a port. Nonetheless, the slum stood in stark contrast to the splendor just a short walk away. There were few businesses, and the single- or twin-roomed houses were miserable affairs made of mud bricks, all apparently on the point of collapse. The iron-hard ruts in the street were more than a handspan deep, threatening to break their ankles if they tripped. No work parties to fill in the holes with sand here, thought Hanno, thinking of Byrsa Hill. He felt even more grateful for his elevated position in life.
Snot-nosed, scrawny children wearing little more than rags swarmed in, clamoring for a