Hannibal: Clouds of War (40 page)

‘Gods, but that was tasty. This place’s reputation is well deserved,’ said Hanno. ‘Well done, Kleitos.’

‘It was good, eh?’ Wiping his lips, Kleitos burped. His eyes shot to Aurelia’s. ‘My pardon.’

‘Stop worrying about me,’ she ordered. ‘I grew up listening to my brother fart and belch at every opportunity.’

Kleitos grinned. ‘If you hadn’t spoken for Aurelia, my friend—’

‘I’m a lucky man,’ said Hanno, moving to kneel beside Aurelia.

‘You’re not the only one who’s lucky,’ she replied, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Kleitos’ eyes grew sad.

‘You will find another woman,’ said Aurelia gently. ‘It’s obvious from a mile away that you’re a decent, good man.’

‘Maybe, one day.’ Kleitos poured himself more wine. He raised the overflowing cup. ‘But for now, my lover is this.’

An awkward silence followed; Hanno and Aurelia waited to see if Kleitos wanted to talk further, but he didn’t.

‘If the truth be told, I’m ready for bed.’ Hanno stifled a yawn and glanced at Aurelia, who nodded. ‘I’m no longer in your league when it comes to drinking, Kleitos.’

‘Who said you ever were?’ retorted Kleitos, but with an affectionate grin.

‘That sounds like a challenge, yet it’s one I’ll have to answer another time.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘I am.’

‘I’ll walk back with you.’

‘Don’t you want to stay on for a while?’

‘Aye. I’ll return when I’ve seen you to your door.’

‘The Lenaia is calling him!’ said Aurelia with a wink.

‘Maybe it is,’ Kleitos admitted, the wine having banished his earlier embarrassment. ‘These type of events don’t come around too often, especially during a war. A single man must make the most of his opportunities, eh?’

Aurelia got to her feet. ‘Come on. We mustn’t delay Kleitos.’

Chuckling, Hanno led the way towards the door. The others followed, but Hanno didn’t notice that after a few steps, Kleitos had stopped to talk with an officer he knew. Aurelia’s shocked gasp also took him by surprise. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried in Greek.

‘I’ll do as I damn well please,’ said a man’s voice. ‘You’re good-looking for a whore, I have to say. Why don’t you and I go somewhere more private?’

Hanno spun, taking in Aurelia’s outraged face and, over her shoulder, a pox-scarred local soldier in a wine-spattered tunic whose hand still rested somewhere on her. In two steps, he had moved around Aurelia to stand chest to chest with her assailant, who looked none too happy.

‘What’s your problem?’ the soldier snarled.

‘She’s no whore,
and
she’s with me,’ growled Hanno. ‘Piss off.’

Pox Face’s lip curled. ‘I think she’d prefer my company.’

‘Come away, Hanno. Leave it.’

He caught the warning tone in Aurelia’s voice; his eyes flickered to a nearby table. Pox Face had three friends, all of whom were watching proceedings with an intense, predatory interest.
Where the fuck is Kleitos?
Finally, he saw him, deep in conversation about fifteen paces away. Hanno cursed inside. If it came to a fight, that distance was as far as the moon. He decided that diplomacy was a better route to take. ‘She’s my wife, friend.’

‘You’re full of shit. No one takes their wife into a place like this during the Lenaia.’ He leered. ‘Unless you’re planning to take her to the orgy afterwards!’

‘Why don’t we get started now?’ asked one of his friends, standing up. Pox Face and the others laughed.

Hanno’s fingers tightened on his cudgel, which was down by his side. If he brought it up quickly, he could down Pox Face with one blow. He’d probably take the first of his friends too, but only the gods knew what would happen when the last two reached him. Plenty of the customers were armed; they could well be too.

‘Let’s keep things friendly, eh?’ Kleitos’ voice had never been more welcome to Hanno’s ears. His friend loomed behind the soldier who’d stood up; he pressed the tip of his knife into side of the man’s neck. ‘You can do what you like with the ladies at the sanctuary, but as you’ve been told, this one is spoken for.’

Pox Face’s head turned; he saw Kleitos. His gaze wandered to his other friends.

Hanno seized his chance. Drawing his dagger, he nudged it against Pox Face’s belly. The prick brought Pox Face’s attention – fearful now – back to him at once. ‘There’s no need for trouble,’ he said softly. ‘We were just leaving. Sit back down and have a drink with your comrades, and we can forget that this ever happened.’

Pox Face wasn’t without balls. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘I’ll bury this to the hilt in your guts. My friend will cut your mate’s throat. After that, we’ll sort out the others. Do as you wish. It’s your choice.’

Pox Face studied him, as if memorising his features. Then, breathing heavily through his nose, he took a step backwards. ‘I need a drink,’ he announced.

A wave of relief washed over Hanno. Kleitos was a hard man; he was no slouch either, but fights in places like this were always risky. It would have taken little for a mass brawl to start, and with drink on board, men grew vicious. Sliding a knife between someone’s ribs and slipping off into the confusion was easily done in such a crowded space.

Kleitos released his man, and joined Hanno. Casting warning looks at the soldiers, they headed for the door with Aurelia between them.

‘Your woman’s no Sicilian, is she?’

The question made Hanno turn. ‘What’s it to you?’ he demanded.

‘She’s not dark-skinned enough to be a Carthaginian either, like you,’ said Pox Face knowingly. ‘Where’s she from? I want to be able to ask for one like her in the whorehouse.’

‘Go fuck yourself!’

The festival of Lenaia departed as quickly as it had arrived, although that didn’t stop Kleitos from telling Hanno about it for days afterwards. It seemed that he’d had the time of his life, with two women simultaneously, one a priestess and the other a local noblewoman. Hanno wasn’t sure he believed Kleitos, but it made a good story. Moreover, it seemed to have lifted Kleitos’ mood.

In the weeks and months that followed, life inside the city returned to its peaceful ways. Lengthening days, buds on tree branches and warmer weather announced the arrival of spring. Hanno was glad to see the back of winter; after months of relative inactivity, he was chafing to get out of the city. Yet the knowledge that a new campaigning season would soon begin was not altogether welcome. Much of the time, it sat like a lead weight in his belly. If he and Aurelia weren’t to be parted for months on end, taking her with him was the only option, but to do so would expose her to all kinds of danger. It had been pure luck that she’d escaped harm among the camp followers accompanying Hippocrates’ patrol. In a vain hope that the issue would go away, he avoided mentioning it. Aurelia did not bring it up either, but it was clear from her ill humour that the prospect was also affecting her adversely. Ten days passed in this unhappy fashion, with neither caring to address the burning issue.

Matters came to a head one afternoon, but not as either of them might have expected. Hanno had been out since before dawn, drilling his soldiers, but he’d returned earlier than his new norm. Aurelia wasn’t in their rooms; he assumed she was out shopping for the evening’s meal. She still hadn’t returned when he’d come back from a quick trip to the public baths. Unconcerned, for she had been befriended by a couple of women neighbours, he lay down on the bed for a short rest. Soon, he’d drifted off.

He was dragged from the depths of an unpleasant dream by the sound of sobbing. Aurelia was standing inside the door that led to the landing, which in turn gave on to the stairs to the street. He was at her side in an instant. She fell into his arms, weeping. ‘Everything will be all right, my love,’ he murmured, sure that her upset was to do with the upcoming campaign. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ll buy a male slave, a strapping type who can fight. He’ll travel with you, be your protector when I can’t be with you.’

Her sobbing eased. She looked up, her tear-stained face full of confusion. ‘That’s not why I’m upset.’

‘Oh,’ said Hanno, feeling worried and a little foolish. ‘What is it then?’

‘It was someone on the street, just now. Do you remember that soldier who accosted me that time in the Ox and Plough? The one—’

‘Yes, yes, I remember the cocksucker.’
Pox Face. He called you a whore.
‘You’ve seen him again?’

‘By chance, yes. I nearly walked into him as I came out of the baker’s down the street. He recognised me at once.’

Hanno felt a white-hot rage pulse behind his eyes. ‘Did he touch you?’

‘He tried mauling me, but he seemed a little drunk. I managed to slap him off.’

‘The goat-fucking whoreson. I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.’ Hanno scooped up his cudgel. As an extra precaution, he strapped on a belt and dagger.

‘Hanno.’

Her sombre tone refocused his attention. ‘Yes?’

‘I shouted at him, and he realised from my accent that I was a Roman. Then h-he …’ She hesitated for an instant. ‘… mentioned something about his commander recently having drinks with Hippocrates, who was bemoaning the loss of a female slave back in Syracuse. A Roman woman. “I thought of you when I heard it,” he said, smirking. “The whole thing’s probably a coincidence, but it’s worth carting you before Hippocrates to see if you’re his missing piece of meat.”’

‘Did he see you enter the house?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t stop him from following me. I’m sorry, I was frightened.’ She began to cry again.

‘It’s all right.’ Despite his reassuring words, Hanno had broken out in a cold sweat. This changed everything. A beating was no longer sufficient. ‘Was he on his own?’

‘I think so.’

That was some consolation at least. ‘Stay here. Bolt the door after me, and don’t open it to anyone but me or Kleitos.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

‘Sort it out,’ Hanno replied grimly. He went down the stairs two at a time, pushing past an errand boy, who dropped his basket of vegetables. Caution overtook Hanno at the entrance, and he peered out from the safety of a doorjamb. There was no one standing opposite, and his worry soared.
Let him still be close by, please.
The only people he could see to the left, however, were a couple of housewives chatting outside the baker’s. To the right, a builder and his apprentice were unloading a small cart full of bricks. Pox Face had vanished. The first trace of panic rippled in Hanno’s chest. If the soldier managed to speak with Hippocrates—

He quelled the thought, taking a moment to deliberate. Would Pox Face continue drinking, perhaps in the company of his fellows, or would he want to find out immediately if his discovery would reap any reward? Or would he do something altogether different, such as find a brothel? His heart battered the inside of his ribcage as he vacillated. Baal Saphon, help me, please, he prayed. Guide me.

When the answer came out of nowhere, it was so simple that he laughed out loud. He’d head for Hippocrates’ residence, which lay about five stadia away. If Pox Face was going in that direction, Hanno would soon catch him up. If he had sought out his comrades and more wine, however, there’d be a lag period that would grant Hanno the time to return from Hippocrates’ house and glance inside every hostelry for half a dozen streets around.

That was the plan, anyway.

He set off at a brisk pace, fighting his urge to run. It would be stupid to squander the only opportunity to silence Pox Face because his sandals’ iron hobs had given him away. There was no question of intimidating his quarry. To be sure Hippocrates heard nothing, he had to murder him. At any other time, Hanno would have avoided slaying someone who was in effect one of his own. With his and Aurelia’s survival at stake, he didn’t give it a second thought.

At each alley or side street, Hanno slowed long enough to look for anyone with Pox Face’s slight build. On one occasion, he followed a man thirty paces into a narrow lane to find that he had wasted his time. Hoping that the delay wouldn’t cost him dearly, he ran for a bit to regain the ground he’d lost. Eventually, Hippocrates’ house, a grand affair lent to him by one of the city’s leaders, drew near. Hanno had passed scores of people, male, female, young, old, rich and poor, without as much as a sign of Pox Face. His initial optimism began to fade, but he rallied his courage. Maybe Pox Face
had
gone into a tavern to boast about whom he’d seen?

It was worth going right to Hippocrates’ gate, Hanno decided. If Pox Face had reached the entrance, he could still be there. A lowly soldier would not be admitted without some kind of delay. There might be a chance to distract him, to force him into an alleyway.

The junction with the street upon which Hippocrates’ residence was situated was no more than a hundred paces away when Hanno spotted a slight figure in a military tunic ahead of him. His mouth went dry, and he began to walk faster, stealing through the other passers-by to within a dozen steps of the man. Frustration filled him. Even at this short distance, he couldn’t be sure from behind that it was Pox Face. Hanno ventured closer, his nerves taut as wire, wondering if he should act. But what if he killed the wrong man?

The gods smiled on him then. A woman laughed from a first-floor balcony, and his quarry’s head turned, looking for the sound’s source. In the process, he revealed his cheek, covered in characteristic pockmarks. Hanno exulted, but he had to act quickly – the junction was less than fifty paces away. His eyes darted left and right, spotted an alley that ran between a derelict building and a block of apartments. He had no idea if it would be empty, but he’d run out of time. It would have to do.

Drawing his dagger and holding it unobtrusively by his side, he ran forward. Too late, Pox Face heard Hanno’s footsteps. His face registered first alarm, then recognition of Hanno, and last of all pure fear. He didn’t make a sound, though, because Hanno had an iron grip on his left shoulder and a blade jammed up against his liver. ‘Call for help, and you’re dead,’ Hanno muttered. ‘Disobey me, and you’re dead. Understand?’

Pox Face nodded.

‘Left. Into the alley.’ They’d drawn level with its mouth.