But the Scand still tried to talk to Nelo. ‘Please! Fabius, his men take us, he speaks to us. Offers us gold and bread, more than the Hatti, if we fight for him. He will give us back to our families, when Hatti are gone. That’s what he said.’
‘Shut up!’ Another blow with the back of the hand.
‘That’s what he said! Gold and bread! Look, look-’ But, pinned, he could not reach whatever he was after. Some proof of a contract with Fabius? ‘That’s what he said-’
At last Suniatus drew his blade across the neck. The man died, choking on his own blood, gaze still fixed on Nelo.
As Suniatus removed the head, Nelo said, ‘Sir. He was speaking Northlander.’
‘What of it?’
‘He said the general recruited them. General Fabius, sir.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘He gave them gold and bread, and told them-’
Gisco stalked over to Nelo and loomed over him. ‘No, he didn’t, aurochs. You didn’t hear him say any such thing. Because if you did I’d have to cut off your precious artist’s hands, and then I’d let Suni finish you off like the rest of these treacherous scum, and maybe I’ll do that anyhow because you annoy me, Nelo, you’re a waste of good muscle. Now. Did this man say anything to you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Right. Where to next?’
64
There were two more items on Gisco’s list, two more addresses. Two more heads to collect. By the time they were done it was mid-morning, and Suniatus had to take three of the heads from Nelo to carry in a separate sack.
Now they had a fresh appointment, Gisco said.
He led them through the streets of the lower city to the ancient inner wall that enclosed the Byrsa, the citadel. People were going about their business, to work if they had it, or to queue for the daily dole of grey bread and water if not. Nelo was aware of the glances they attracted, for the sacks dribbled blood, but people knew not to stare at soldiers.
They reached a gate in the citadel wall where more soldiers had gathered, with more bloody sacks. Comrades hailed each other, and made black jokes about what their sacks contained. Gisco spoke quietly to other officers, and they scrutinised each others’ lists, comparing notes. Nobody asked why they were waiting, or what for, or why the heads were needed. You weren’t supposed to ask such questions.
With permission, Suniatus went off and bought shrivelled apples from a trader in a sparsely populated marketplace nearby, and handed them around. Suniatus made a pretence of offering one to Nelo, then threw the fruit in his sack instead. ‘Let these Scand fight over it in Valhalla.’
Then there was a gathering noise, the murmur of a crowd, along with footsteps, some laughter and cheers, and the rattle of wheels. The soldiers dumped their apple cores and straightened up, fixing helmets and mail coats.
A war chariot, a big two-horse machine stolen in a raid from the Hatti, came clattering into view around a bend. With driver and spear man, Fabius was aboard, resplendent in a polished breastplate, scarlet tunic and purple cloak. With his helmet off he was unmistakable, and the men cheered as he approached. A couple of carts followed behind him — and they were laden with severed heads, Nelo saw, dozens of them heaped up like turnips on farmers’ carts. They were all men, all bearded, all red-haired — all Rus or Scand. A guard detail jogged along beside chariot and carts.
Behind Fabius came the crowd, citizens of Carthage. They were a ragged, grimy lot, Nelo thought; not only was there no food to be had but there were no new clothes to buy in the market, not even soap and fresh water to spare to clean the old. But today the great general Fabius was putting on some kind of spectacle, and on impulse the people came out to see what was going on. And it helped, Nelo saw, that a few more soldiers followed behind the guard, carrying satchels from which they threw stuff out to the crowd — peas, beans perhaps, small items that people leapt for and scrapped over.
The chariot pulled up at the gate. Fabius beckoned Gisco over, while Nelo and Suniatus emptied out their own sacks onto the heap on the carts. ‘More fruit for my harvest I see, Gisco.’
‘I’ve spoken to the other commanders, sir. I think we got them all.’
‘Good, good, a thorough job. The city thanks you for it — or it will, before the day is done. Ah, there’s my scribbling Northlander. Up here, boy, ride with me. Do you have your satchel? By the gods, what’s that mess on your clothes?’
‘Sir-’
‘You. Give him your tunic, man. Just do it! He can’t be facing the Tribunal of One Hundred and Four with Rus brains all over his bib.’
The soldier, picked out at random, reluctantly stripped down to his breeches and handed his tunic to Nelo. His companions whistled and mocked.
Nelo climbed onto the chariot, hideously self-conscious. He dared to ask, ‘The Tribunal, sir? What are we going to do there?’
‘You’ll see, boy. Just record everything, Nelo, regardless of how well you understand it. Once again we are going to witness history. No — we are going to make history.’ He stood on his chariot, and turned to face the crowd and the soldiers. ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what I said?’ He had the leathery lungs a commander always needed, and at his bellow the murmur of the crowd subsided. ‘I said that today, we, all of you, are going to make history!’
That won him a ragged, slightly bemused cheer.
Fabius dramatically pointed to the Byrsa. ‘There are men up there, old men, men who are fat in these times when even a soldier goes hungry, men who would today hold me to account. That’s their job, you might say. That’s the purpose of the One Hundred and Four. Well, so it is. That’s their duty. That’s their privilege. That’s their right. But such duty requires immense wisdom. And what wisdom do they show? They question the conduct of the war. My conduct of it.’
‘You’ve not won it yet,’ somebody dared call out.
There was a mutter, people looked at each other, and soldiers prowled menacingly.
‘No!’ shouted Fabius. ‘No, let him be. He speaks the truth, after all. This war is not yet won. The siege is not lifted. It might take months yet. Years. But, if it were not for me, if not for my vigilance and the vigilance of my men, the war would already have been lost.’ He turned to Nelo, and murmured, ‘Pass me one of those heads, boy. And for Jupiter’s sake keep the innards from spilling on your clean tunic.’
When he had the trophy, Fabius held it aloft, its red hair grasped in one strong fist. People gasped and turned away.
‘Do you see?’ Fabius cried. ‘Do you see what my men found in your city? Do you see what we are up against? If we had not rooted them out, these infiltrators would have opened up the gates in the night, and slaughtered you men in your beds — your children next — and then they would have fallen on your daughters and your wives. This is the horror that I have averted. This very morning!’ He pitched the head into the crowd, and people flinched back out of its way as it bounced and rolled. ‘I cannot promise you a quick victory. Nobody could. But I can promise you there will be no quick defeat. I can promise you that Carthage will throw off these wolves at the gate, and will rise again. I can promise you all this. Here, you see the proof! What can the old men on that hill promise you, but to bring me down?
‘Well, this morning I have been summoned to account for my actions. I am a good Roman, and a good Carthaginian. I will obey the summons. But will you come with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you be at my side?’
‘Yes!’
‘Will you, will you?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
At that moment Fabius’ driver whipped his horses, and the chariot lurched forward, through the gate and into the Byrsa. The cart followed, the piled-up heads rolling and rattling perilously, and then came the gathering crowd. Nelo saw Gisco take brisk command, ensuring that the general was secure, and that the chariot was escorted by flanking soldiers.