‘No. I told you, he’s Greek. His name’s Lysander.’
From nowhere, a dagger appeared in Agesandros’ hand. He pricked it to Suniaton’s throat. ‘Are you a gugga?’ There was no response, and the vilicus moved his blade to Suni’s groin. ‘Do you want your balls cut off?’
Petrified, Suniaton shook his head vehemently.
‘Speak, then!’ Agesandros shouted, returning the dagger to Suni’s neck. ‘Are you from Carthage?’
Suniaton’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yes.’
‘You can talk!’ crowed the Sicilian. He rounded on Aurelia. ‘So you lied to me.’
‘What if I have?’ Aurelia cried, genuinely angry now. ‘I know what you think of Carthaginians.’
Agesandros’ eyes narrowed. ‘It was odd when this scumbag arrived, half-dead. With a recently healed sword injury. I bet he’s the runaway gladiator.’ Like a hawk, he pounced on Suniaton’s reactive flinch. ‘I knew it!’
Think! Aurelia told herself. Quickly, she drew herself up to her full height. ‘Surely not?’ she snapped haughtily. ‘That creature would have fled long ago.’
‘He might have fooled you, but there’s no drawing the wool over my eyes.’ Agesandros leaned on his blade. ‘You’re no simpleton, are you?’
‘No,’ Suniaton mumbled wearily.
‘Where’s your friend?’ the Sicilian demanded.
Don’t say anything, thought Aurelia pleadingly. He’s still not sure.
To her horror, Suniaton’s courage flared one last time. ‘Hanno? He’s long gone. With any luck, he’ll be in Hannibal’s army by now.’
‘Shame,’ murmured Agesandros. ‘You’re of no further use, then.’ Smoothly, he brought down his dagger and slipped it between Suniaton’s ribs, guiding it into his heart.
Suniaton’s eyes bulged in shock, and he let out a shuddering gasp of pain. His limbs went rigid before relaxing slowly. With an odd tenderness, Agesandros let him down. A rapid flow of blood soaked the front of Suni’s tunic and spread on to the tile floor. He did not move again.
‘No! You monster!’ Aurelia shrieked.
Agesandros straightened. He studied his bloodied blade carefully.
Panicking, Aurelia took a step backwards, into the kitchen. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Julius! Help me!’
At last, the portly slave came hurrying to her side. ‘What have you done, Agesandros?’ he muttered in horror.
The Sicilian didn’t move. ‘I have done the master and mistress a service.’
Aurelia couldn’t believe her ears. ‘W-what?’
‘How do you think he’d feel to discover that a dangerous fugitive — a gladiator — had contrived to join the household, placing his wife and his only daughter in danger of their lives?’ asked Agesandros righteously. He kicked Suniaton. ‘Death is too good for scum like this.’
Aurelia felt herself grow faint. Suniaton was dead, and it was all her fault. She could do nothing about it either. She felt like a murderess. In her mother’s eyes, the Sicilian’s actions would be completely justifiable. A sob escaped her lips.
‘Why don’t you attend to the mistress?’ There was iron below Agesandros’ apparent solicitousness.
Aurelia rallied herself. ‘He’s to have a decent burial,’ she ordered.
The Sicilian’s lips quirked. ‘Very well.’
Aurelia stalked from the kitchen. She needed privacy. To wail. To weep. She might as well be dead, like Suniaton — and her father. All she had to look forward to from now on was her marriage to Flaccus.
Suddenly, an outrageous image popped into Aurelia’s mind. It was of her, standing on the deck of a ship as it sailed out from the Italian coast. Towards Carthage.
I could run away, she thought. Find Hanno. He-
Leave everything you’ve ever known behind to find one of the enemy? Aurelia’s heart shouted. That’s madness.
It was only the bones of an idea, but her spirits were lifted by its mere existence.
It would give her the strength to carry on.
Quintus didn’t notice Fabricius appearing by his side. The first thing he knew was when his reins were grabbed from his hands and his horse’s head was yanked around to face to the rear. Using his knees to control his own mount, Fabricius headed east. Quintus’ steed was happy enough to follow. Although it had been trained for cavalry service, the middle of a battle was still a most unnatural place to be. Quintus’ initial joy at seeing his father alive exceeded his desire to fight for a moment, but then the balance reversed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Saving your life,’ his father shot back. ‘Are you not glad?’
Quintus glanced over his shoulder. There wasn’t a living Roman cavalryman in sight, just a swarming mass of enemy horsemen and riderless mounts. Thankfully, the Gauls who’d been heading for him had already given up the chase. Like their compatriots, they had dismounted to hunt for trophies. A huge sense of relief filled Quintus. Despite his decision to stand his ground, he was glad to be alive. Unlike poor Calatinus, Cincius and his other comrades, who were probably dead. Shame followed swiftly on the heels of this emotion. He grabbed back his reins and concentrated on the ride. On either side, scores of other cavalrymen were also fleeing for their lives.
Their common destination seemed to be the Trebia.
Off to one side, both sets of opposing infantry were now locked together in a bitter struggle, the outcome of which was totally unclear. On the fringes of the conflict, Quintus could see the shapes of the enemy’s elephants battering the allied foot soldiers. The massive beasts were supported by horsemen, and he guessed it had to be the Numidians. It could only be a matter of time before the Roman flanks folded. Then Hannibal’s soldiers would be free to swing around and attack their rear. That was even before the rest of the Carthaginian cavalry returned to the conflict. Quintus blinked away tears of frustration and rage. How could this have happened? Just two hours before, they had been pursuing an enemy in disarray over the Trebia.
Hoarse shouting dragged Quintus’ attention back to his own surroundings. To his horror, the Gauls to their rear had resumed the chase. With their gory trophies taken, the tribesmen were eager for more blood. His stomach churned. In their present state, the nearest cavalrymen were in no state to turn, stand and fight. Nor was he, he realised with shame. Quintus wondered if it was the same on the other flank, where the allied horse had been positioned. Had they too broken and fled?
Fabricius had also seen their new pursuers. ‘Let’s head that way.’ Surprisingly, he pointed north. He saw Quintus’ questioning look. ‘There’ll be too many trying to ford the river where we crossed before. It will be a slaughter.’
Quintus remembered the narrow approach to the main crossing point and shuddered. ‘Where should we aim for?’
‘Placentia,’ his father replied ominously. ‘No point returning to the camp. Hannibal could take that with little difficulty. We need the protection of stone walls.’
Quintus nodded in miserable acceptance.
Doing their best to bring along as many others as they could, they turned their horses’ heads. Towards Placentia, where they might find refuge.
It was ironic, thought Hanno, that his life had been saved by Roman efficiency. It wasn’t because he and his men had been victorious. Far from it. The Libyans’ position adjoining the Gauls meant that many of them had shared the tribesmen’s fate. When the Gauls had finally crumbled before the mass of heavily armed legionaries, some of the phalanxes had been dragged in. The spearmen in question were slaughtered to a man. Sheer luck had determined that Malchus and Hanno’s units had not been affected. Battered and bloodied, they had fought on, even as they were pushed to one side by the massive block of Roman soldiers.
Somehow, Hanno utilised the natural breaks in the fighting to regain better control of his phalanx. He ordered the spearmen to the rear to pass their shields forward. The same was done with spears, allowing his unit to resume, at the front at least, a more normal appearance. Malchus emulated Hanno. With their defensive shield walls restored, the two phalanxes were a much harder proposition to overcome. Without their pila, the Romans had to rely on their gladii, which were shorter than the Libyans’ spears. It did not take the legionaries facing Hanno’s unit long to realise this. Seeing the hastati and principes to their right advancing without difficulty through the remnants of the Gauls, they broke away to follow their comrades.