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Chapter I: Hanno
Carthage, late summer 220 BC 'Hanno!' His father's voice echoed off the painted stucco walls. 'It's time to go.'
Stepping carefully over the gutter which 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 which 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, would say little or nothing until the greybeards had fallen silent, when they stood forth one by one. Invariably, Malchus spoke last of all. His words seldom varied. Hannibal, who had only been commander in Iberia for a year, was doing an incredible 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 performing such heroic and worthy endeavours, while simultaneously enriching Carthage? On these grounds, the young Barca should be left to his own purposes.
Hanno knew that the first, and particularly the second, reasons were what motivated Malchus, but it was his last point which elicited the loudest reaction, the most nods of approval. The majority of Carthage's leaders were, first and foremost, traders, whose primary interest was profit. According to Malchus though, their financial acuity – and greed – did not grant them the gift of political or military foresight. His carefully chosen words therefore normally swayed the Senate in favour, which was why Hanno didn't want to waste yet another day which could be spent fishing. The interminable politicking in the hallowed but airless debating chamber made him want to shout and 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 the hour of final reckoning so often predicted by Malchus wouldn't come to pass today, Hanno was sure of that.
One of Hannibal's messengers regularly visited to bring his father news from Iberia, and had been not a week since. The night time rendezvous were supposed to be a secret, but Hanno had soon come to recognise the cloaked, sallow-skinned officer. Before Sapho and Bostar, his older brothers, had joined the army, they'd been allowed to stand in on the meetings. Swearing Hanno to secrecy, they had filled him in afterwards. Now the pair were gone, he simply eavesdropped. To his knowledge, there had been no mention so far of attacking Saguntum, a Greek city in Iberia which was allied to Rome. Yet the tension was rising. Saguntum had recently accused a tribe supported by Carthage of raiding its territory, and claimed substantial recompense. Hannibal had answered in his allies' stead, dismissing Saguntum's demands out of hand. His gesture possessed far more intent than just the defence of an ally: it was intended to offend Rome. Malchus and his allies had been charged by Hannibal's messenger with the task of ensuring that the Carthaginian Senate continued to back his actions.
The deep, gravelly voice called out again, echoing down the corridor which led to the central courtyard. There was a hint of annoyance in it now. 'Hanno? Where are you? 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 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. 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. Frustration, and resentment, filled him. All he could do was practise his riding and weapons skills. Life according to his father was so boring, Hanno 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 harbour. '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 we'll make!' 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.
Eager to avoid Malchus, the two young men darted off into the crowd. Both their families lived near the top of Byrsa Hill. At the summit, reached by a monumental staircase of sixty steps, was a immense temple dedicated to Eshmoun, the god of 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 honour 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.