Ben Kane: Clouds of War

‘I will do my best, sir,’ said Bostar with a resolute nod.

‘Good.’ Hannibal rounded on Sapho, who flinched a little. ‘You, I will keep by my side. Don’t think that that means life will be easy. For a start, you and your phalanx will be on extended patrols for the next three months.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sapho stolidly. ‘We will do all that is asked of us.’

Why did it have to be Bostar who was sent away? thought Hanno furiously. He might never see his favourite brother again. That idea was terrible to contemplate. Hannibal’s attention fell on him then, and Hanno forgot about his brothers. Where was he to be sent?

‘And so to you, youngest son of Malchus,’ said Hannibal.

A pulse hammered at the base of Hanno’s throat. Punishment would be forthcoming, of that he had no doubt.

‘Your father was ever a valiant servant of Carthage. His loss was a personal sorrow for you and your brothers, of course, but I too grieve for him still,’ said Hannibal.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Hanno replied. It helped to have his father’s sacrifice acknowledged. Bostar and Sapho also seemed pleased.

‘Malchus would be proud of you today. What age are you now?’

‘Twenty-three, sir.’

‘Young still. Your actions were impressive.’

Uneasy with the praise, Hanno shifted to and fro. ‘Th-thank you, sir.’

‘I have need of a trustworthy officer to undertake a dangerous mission. I had thought to send someone else, but what I have just seen has changed my mind. You will go instead.’

Hanno’s heart began to thump even faster. ‘Where, sir?’

Hannibal lowered his voice. ‘To Sicily.’

‘Sicily, sir?’ Hanno repeated, like a fool. Glancing at Mutt, his heartstrings tugged painfully. Mutt and his men felt like family. Besides, what use could he be without his soldiers? ‘Who will command my unit in my absence?’ he asked, stalling.

‘Why, Mutt here. Not as if he hasn’t done it before, is it?’

Panic flared in Hanno’s belly. Did his general know about his unauthorised leave of absence, before Cannae, when he had sought out Aurelia? His eyes went from Hannibal to Mutt, whose expression was as innocent as a babe’s, and back again.

‘The original officer who led your phalanx died in the crossing of the Alps. Mutt looked after them until I appointed you,’ said Hannibal.

‘Of course, sir.’ How could he have doubted Mutt? Hanno smiled as if he’d understood Hannibal’s meaning all along.

‘Come by my tent as soon as you’ve finished with your men.’

‘Very good, sir!’ Proud yet sad at what this meant, Hanno threw off a parade-ground salute.

‘As you were.’ Hannibal waved a hand in dismissal. Slipping up his hood, he walked off, just another ordinary soldier again.

‘So you two get special treatment while I have to stay in Italy.’ Sapho’s voice was sour.

‘You’re staying with the most important general in Carthage,’ retorted Hanno.

‘It’s as honourable to remain with Hannibal as it is to be sent overseas,’ added Bostar in a surprisingly conciliatory tone. ‘Hannibal values you. He’s said as much before.’

‘True,’ Sapho conceded, but the jealousy in his eyes gave the lie to his answer.

Sapho wouldn’t be happy whatever the outcome, thought Hanno. He felt a whisper of relief that he would soon be far away from his oldest brother, yet that emotion was mixed with a contradictory sadness that he would be parted from not just Bostar, Mutt and his men, but Sapho too. There was every chance that they would never see each other again.

‘We’ll have to get together before any of us leave. Offer a sacrifice to Father’s memory.’ He paused. ‘And then get royally pissed.’

The light was fading as Hanno arrived at Hannibal’s pavilion, his head full of thoughts of Sicily. Since losing the huge island in the first war with Rome, every Carthaginian had wanted it back. After all, much of it had been colonised by Carthage for nigh on two hundred years.

Half a dozen scutarii were on duty outside his general’s tent. Hanno gave his name, which saw him ushered inside. A massive scutarius led the way.

The rich interior made Hanno feel as if he were stepping inside the house of one of his father’s wealthy friends in Carthage. Fabric partitions divided the space up into rooms. Thick carpets covered the floors. In the larger chambers, bronze candelabras had been suspended from the rods that held up the roof. The hardwood furniture — chests, chairs and even couches — was heavy, and of good quality. They passed straight through the spacious meeting area where he and other officers sometimes received orders from Hannibal, and Hanno’s stomach twisted a little. The fact that he was being guided to his general’s private quarters was more proof that his mission was important.

The scutarius halted at a final partition, before which stood a similarly large specimen, notable for the massive scar across his nose. This hulk eyed Hanno with open suspicion. ‘He’s here to see the boss. Hanno, commander of a Libyan phalanx,’ said the first soldier.

Scarface gave Hanno a salute that did what it was supposed to but still managed to convey a level of contempt. Hanno just stared back. Everyone but the inner circle — men such as Maharbal — received the same treatment from Hannibal’s bodyguards. Scarface turned his head. ‘Sir?’ he called.

From within came a familiar voice. ‘Yes?’

‘Hanno, phalanx commander, is here, sir.’

‘Send him in.’

‘After you, sir,’ said Scarface to Hanno, with a trace more civility. He pulled aside the drape and waved him in. The first scutarius vanished back to the entrance.

Self-conscious, for all that he had shaved, washed his hair and was wearing his finest tunic, Hanno stepped inside. Hannibal was sitting at a desk, with his back towards him. He half turned, smiled. ‘Come. Sit.’ He waved a hand at the chair that stood to one side of his table.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Nervously, Hanno obeyed.

Hannibal’s one eye regarded him kindly. ‘Welcome. Wine?’

‘Please, sir.’

‘Sosian, do the necessary, will you?’

Hanno took not a little pleasure from the way that Sosian — Scarface — hurried to obey, becoming the servant rather than the threatening bodyguard. When both of them had a full cup, Hannibal raised his towards Hanno. ‘To your father, Malchus. A brave heart and a loyal servant to Carthage.’

Hanno swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. ‘To my father,’ he said.

They drank. Hanno offered up a prayer to the gods, asking that they look after both of his parents.

‘To victory against the Romans,’ said Hannibal.

‘I’ll drink to that, sir,’ said Hanno eagerly.

‘May it come sooner rather than later.’

Hanno studied Hannibal’s face, trying to read his thoughts on that matter. He couldn’t discern a thing, and didn’t dare to ask. They drained their cups. Scarface moved in, refilled them both.

‘It’s to your taste?’ asked Hannibal.

‘Yes, sir. It’s delicious.’

‘It comes from a little estate near Cannae, funnily enough. There’s not much of it left now. I keep it for special occasions.’

Hanno’s nerves gnawed at him afresh. ‘I see, sir.’

Hannibal chuckled. ‘Relax. I won’t bite you.’

Hanno had felt the edge of Hannibal’s temper before. That’s not why he was here tonight, though. He nodded. ‘Very well, sir.’

‘Tell me what you know of Sicily.’

‘It’s a rich island, sir. My father used to tell me that it was littered with large farms and prosperous towns.’

Hannibal’s eye twinkled. ‘So did mine. The bread basket of Italy, he called it. What else?’