One of Hannibal’s messengers regularly came to bring his father news from Iberia, and had visited 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. Sapho and Bostar, his older brothers, had been allowed to stand in on the meetings for some time. Swearing Hanno to secrecy, Bostar had filled him in afterwards. Now, if he was able, Hanno simply eavesdropped. In a nutshell, Hannibal had charged Malchus and his allies with the task of ensuring that the politicians continued to back his actions. A showdown with the city of Saguntum was imminent, but conflict with Rome, Carthage’s old enemy, was some way off yet.

The deep, gravelly voice called out again, echoing down the corridor that led to the central courtyard. There was a hint of annoyance in it now. ‘Hanno? 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 three 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. For some reason, Malchus expected more of him than he did of Sapho and Bostar. At least that’s how it seemed to Hanno. Yet 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. His brothers would be sailing for Iberia any day. There, no doubt, they would cover themselves in glory in the taking of Saguntum. Frustration and resentment filled Hanno. All he could do was practise his riding and weapons skills. Life as ordained by his father was so boring, he thought, choosing to ignore Malchus’ oft-repeated statement: ‘Be patient. All good things come to those who wait.’