Dozens of figures – large and small – were ranked on low tables. Hanno recognised every god and goddess in the Carthaginian pantheon. There sat a regal, crowned Ba'al Hammon, the protector of Carthage, on his throne; beside him Tanit was depicted in the Egyptian manner – a shapely woman's body in a well cut dress, but with the head of a lioness. A smiling Astarte clutched a tambourine. Her consort, Melqart, known as the 'King of the City', was among other things, the god of the sea. Various brightly coloured figures depicted him emerging from crashing waves riding a fearful-looking monster and clutching a trident in one fist. Ba'al Safon, the god of storm and war, sat astride a fine charger, wearing a helmet with a long, flowing crest. Also on display were a selection of hideous, grinning painted masks – tattooed, bejewelled demons and spirits of the underworld – tomb offerings designed to ward off evil.
Hanno shivered, remembering his mother's funeral only three years before. Since her death – of a fever – his father, never the most warm of men, had become a grim and forbidding presence who only lived to gain his revenge on Rome. For all his youth, Hanno knew that Malchus was portraying a controlled mask to the world. He must still be grieving, as surely as he and his brothers were. Arishat, Hanno's mother, had been the light to Malchus' dark, the laughter to his gravitas, the softness to his strength. The centre to the family, she had been taken from them in two horrific days and nights. Harangued by an inconsolable Malchus, the best surgeons in Carthage had toiled over her to no avail. Every last detail of her final hours was engraved in Hanno's memory. The cups of blood drained from her in a vain attempt to cool her raging temperature. Her gaunt, fevered face. The sweat-soaked sheets. His brothers trying not to cry, and failing. And lastly, her still form on the bed, smaller than she had ever been in life. Malchus kneeling alongside, great sobs wracking his muscular frame. That was the only time Hanno had ever seen his father weep. The incident had never been mentioned since, nor had his mother. He swallowed hard, and checking that the patrol had passed by, moved on. It hurt too much to think about such things.
A moment later, Suniaton, who had not noticed Hanno's distress, paused to buy some bread, almonds and figs. Keen to lift his sombre mood, Hanno had eyes only for the blacksmith's forge off to one side. Wisps of smoke rose from its roughly built chimney, and the air was rich with the smells of charcoal, burning wood and oil. Harsh metallic sounds reached his ears too. In the recesses of the open-fronted establishment, he glimpsed a figure in a leather apron carefully lifting a piece of glowing metal from the anvil with a pair of tongs. There was a loud hiss as the sword blade was plunged into a vat of cold water. Hanno felt his feet move towards the forge. He knew the smith, had spent long hours in his company, learning something of his craft. Much of the weaponry for Carthaginian officers was made in places like this. He'd even helped to make his own iron sword there. A typical example of the blade wielded by his race, it was straight – the length of his extended hand and forearm – and double-edged. The simple pommel and hilt were made of carved wood and bone. It was Hanno's most prized possession.
'Hey! We've got better things to do. Like making money,' cried Suniaton, blocking his path. He shoved a bulging bag of almonds at Hanno. 'Carry that.'
'No! You'll eat them all anyway.' Hanno pushed his friend out of the way and ran off, laughing. It was a standing joke between them that his favourite pastime was getting covered in ash and grime while Suniaton would rather plan his next meal.
Soon they had reached the Agora. Its four sides, each a stade in length, were made up of grand porticoes and covered walkways. The beating heart of the city, it was home to the Senate, government buildings, a library, numerous temples and shops. It was also where, on summer evenings, the better-off young men and women would gather in groups, a safe distance apart, to eye each other up. Socialising with the opposite sex was frowned upon, and chaperones for the girls were never far away. Despite this, inventive methods to approach the object of one's desire were constantly being invented. Of recent months, this had become one of the friends' favourite pastimes. Fishing beat it still, but not by much, thought Hanno wistfully, scanning the crowds for any sign of attractive female flesh.
Instead of gaggles of coy young beauties though, the Agora was full of serious-looking politicians, merchants and high-ranking soldiers heading for one place. The Senate. Within its hallowed walls, in a grand pillared debating chamber, more than three hundred senators met on a regular basis, as, for more than half a millennium, their predecessors had done. Overseen by the two suffetes – the yearly elected rulers – they, the most important men in Carthage, decided everything from trading policy to negotiations with foreign states. Their range of powers did not end there. The Senate was also where declarations of war and peace were made – yet they did not appoint the army's generals any longer. Since the war with Rome, that had been left to the people. The only prerequisites for candidature of the Senate were citizenship, wealth, an age of thirty or more, and the demonstration of ability, whether that be in the agricultural, mercantile, or military fields.
Ordinary citizens could participate in politics via the Assembly of the People, which congregated once a year, by the order of the suffetes, in the Agora. During times of great crisis, it was permitted to gather spontaneously and debate the issues of the day. While its powers were limited, they included electing the suffetes, and the generals. Hanno was looking forward to the next meeting, which would be the first he'd attend as an adult, entitled to vote. Although Hannibal's enormous public popularity guaranteed his reappointment as the commander-in-chief of Carthage's armies in Iberia, Hanno wanted to show his support for the Barca clan. It was the only way he could at the moment. Despite his requests, Malchus would not let him join Hannibal's army, as Sapho and Bostar had done after their mother's death. Instead, he had to finish his education. Hanno did not fight his father on this: there was no point. Once Malchus had spoken, he never went back on a decision.
Following Carthaginian tradition, Hanno had continued to sleep at home from the age of fourteen, but he had largely fended for himself, working in the forge among other places. In this way, he'd earned enough to live on without committing any crimes or shameful acts. This was similar to, but not as harsh, as the Spartan way. He had also had taken classes in Greek, Iberian and Latin. Hanno did not especially enjoy languages, but he had come to accept that such a skill would prove useful among the polyglot of nationalities which formed the Carthaginian army. His people did not take naturally to war, so they hired mercenaries, or enlisted their subjects, to fight on their behalf. Libyans, Spaniards, Gauls and Balearic tribesmen each brought their own qualities to Carthage's forces.
Naturally, Hanno's favourite part of his instruction was that dedicated to military matters. Malchus himself taught him the history of war, from the battles of Xenophon and Thermopylae to the victories won by Alexander of Macedon. Central to his father's lessons were the intricate details of tactics and planning. Particular attention was paid to Carthaginian defeats in the war with Rome, and the reasons for them. 'We lost because of our leaders' lack of determination. All they thought about was how to contain the conflict, not win it. How to minimise cost, not disregard it in the total pursuit of victory,' Malchus thundered during one memorable lesson. 'The Romans are motherless curs, but by all the gods, they possess strength of purpose. Whenever they lost a battle, they did not give up. No, they recruited more men, and rebuilt their ships. When the public purse was empty, their leaders willingly spent their own wealth. Their damn Republic means everything to them. Yet who in Carthage offered to send us the supplies and soldiers we needed so badly in Sicily? My father, the Barcas, and a handful of others. No one else.' He barked a short, angry laugh. 'Why should I be surprised? Our ancestors were traders, not soldiers.' He fixed his dark, deep-set eyes on Hanno. 'To gain our rightful revenge, we must follow Hannibal. He's a natural soldier, a born leader – as his father was. Carthage never gave Hamilcar the chance to beat Rome, but we can offer it to his son. When the time is right.'