Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Quintus thought of the tattooed Gaul, whose primary duty had been working in the fields. His skill with the hunting dogs had merely been an added bonus. ‘He needs to be young and physically fit. Good teeth are important too.’ He paused, thinking.

‘Anything else?’ Agesandros barked.

Quintus was surprised by the change in the Sicilian, whose usual genial manner had disappeared. ‘There should be no obvious infirmities or signs of disease. Hernias, poorly healed fractures, dirty wounds and so on.’

Aurelia screwed up her face in distaste.

‘Is that it?’

Irritated, Quintus shook his head. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Agesandros pulled out his dagger, and Aurelia gasped. ‘You’re forgetting the most important thing,’ the Sicilian said, raising the blade. ‘Look in his eyes, and decide how much spirit he has. Ask yourself: will this whoreson ever try to cut my throat? If you think he might, walk away and choose another. Otherwise you might regret it one dark night.’

‘Wise words,’ Quintus said, levelly. Now, put him on the back foot, he thought. ‘What did my father think when he looked in your eyes?’

It was Agesandros’ turn to be surprised. His eyes flickered, and he lowered the dagger. ‘I believe he saw another soldier,’ he answered curtly. Turning on his heel, he plunged into the crowd. ‘Follow me.’

‘He’s just playing games, that’s all. Trying to impress me,’ Quintus lied to Aurelia. He actually reckoned that Agesandros had been trying to scare him. It had partially worked too. The only reply he got, though, was a scowl. His sister was still angry with him for not telling her what he thought of her chances of happiness in an arranged marriage. Quintus walked off. I’ll sort it out later.

The Sicilian ignored the first slaves on offer, and then stopped by a line of Nubians, poking and prodding several, and even opening the mouth of one. Their owner, a scrawny Phoenician with gold earrings, instantly scuttled to Agesandros’ side, and began waxing lyrical about their quality. Quintus joined them, leaving Aurelia to simmer in the background. After a moment, Agesandros moved on, ignoring the Phoenician’s offers. ‘Every tooth in that Nubian’s head was rotten,’ he muttered to Quintus. ‘He wouldn’t last more than a few years.’

They wandered up and down for some time. The Sicilian said less and less, allowing Quintus to decide which individuals fitted the bill. He found several, but with each Agesandros found a reason not to buy. Quintus decided to stand his ground when he found the next suitable slave. A moment later, two dark-skinned young men with tightly curled black hair caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed them before. Neither was especially tall, but both were well muscled. One kept his gaze firmly directed at the ground, while the other, who had a snub nose and green eyes, glanced at Quintus, before looking away. He paused to assess the pair. There was enough spare chain for the slaves to step out of line. Beckoning the first forward, Quintus began his examination, watched closely by the Sicilian.

The youth was about his age, in excellent physical condition, with a good set of teeth. Nothing he did made the slave look at him, which increased his interest. Agesandros’ warning was still fresh in his mind, so Quintus grabbed the other’s chin and lifted it. Startlingly, the slave’s eyes were a vivid green colour, like those of his companion. Quintus saw no defiance there, just an inconsolable sadness. He’s perfect, he thought. ‘I’ll take this one,’ he said to Agesandros. ‘He meets your requirements.’

The Sicilian glanced the youth up and down. ‘Where are you from?’ he demanded in Latin.

The slave blinked, but did not answer.

He understood that question, thought Quintus with surprise.

Agesandros appeared not to have noticed, though. He repeated his question in Greek.

Again no reply.

Sensing their interest, the dealer, a dour Latin, moved in. ‘He’s Carthaginian. His friend too. Strong as oxen.’

‘Guggas, eh?’ Agesandros spat on the ground. ‘They’ll be no damn use.’

Quintus and Aurelia were both shocked at the change in his demeanour. The abusive term meant ‘little rat’. Immediately, Agesandros’ past came to Quintus’ mind. It was Carthaginians who had sold the Sicilian into slavery. That wasn’t a reason not to buy the slave, however.

‘There’s been a lot of interest in them this morning,’ said the dealer persuasively. ‘Good gladiator material, they are.’

‘You haven’t managed to sell them, though,’ replied Quintus sarcastically; beside him, Agesandros snorted in agreement. ‘How much are you asking?’

‘Solinus is an honest man. 150 didrachms each, or 300 for the pair.’