Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

  ‘A bit of fresh meat wouldn’t go amiss,’ Bostar admitted ruefully. He felt torn. The proposal was clearly a bridge-building effort on Sapho’s part, but he couldn’t disobey Hannibal’s orders; nor could he reveal them. They were still top secret. What to say? ‘I’d love to, but not today,’ he managed eventually. ‘Who knows what time I’ll get back?’

  Sapho wasn’t to be put off. ‘How about tomorrow?’ he asked cheerfully.

  Bostar’s anguish grew. Great Melqart, he thought, what have I done to deserve this? He and his men would only be getting into position by the following evening. On the far bank. ‘I’m not sure …’ he began.

  Sapho’s good humour fell away. ‘So you’d rather spend time with your men than your own brother?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Bostar protested. ‘Going hunting with you sounds wonderful.’

  ‘What is it then?’ Sapho snarled.

  Bostar’s mind was empty of ideas. ‘I can’t say,’ he muttered.

  Sapho’s lip curled even further. ‘Admit it. I’m not good enough for you, am I? Never have been!’

  ‘That’s not true. How can you say such a thing?’ Bostar cried, horrified.

  ‘Bostar!’ Their father’s cheerful voice cut across the argument like a knife. Startled, both brothers glanced around. Malchus was approaching from the direction of his tent lines. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now,’ he said as he drew nearer.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ replied Bostar uneasily. Let me get away without any more problems, Baal Saphon, he prayed. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Bostar’s plea was not answered; Malchus gave him a broad wink. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Sapho with a puzzled frown. ‘Why would he need that on a training march?’

  Malchus looked uncomfortable. ‘You never know, he might break an ankle. The trails around here are very uneven.’

  ‘That’s a lie if I ever heard one. Besides, when have you ever wished us luck for so trivial a matter?’ Sapho scoffed. He turned on Bostar. ‘Something else is going on, isn’t it? That’s why you won’t come hunting!’

  Bostar felt his face grow red. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he muttered, picking up his shield.

  Furious, Sapho blocked his path. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ said Bostar.

  ‘Is that an order, sir?’ Contempt dripped from the last word.

  ‘Move, Sapho!’ snapped Malchus. ‘Your brother’s orders come from Hannibal himself.’

  ‘It’s like that, is it?’ Sapho stepped aside, his eyes filled with jealousy. ‘You could have said. Just a hint.’

  Bostar looked at him, and knew he’d made a mistake. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Sapho hissed. He lowered his voice even further. ‘Lickarse. Perfect fucking officer.’

  A towering fury took hold of Bostar. Somehow, he managed to keep it in check. ‘Actually, I said nothing because I didn’t want you to feel that you’d been overlooked.’

  ‘You’re so fucking kind,’ Sapho shouted, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘I hope you get killed wherever you’re going.’

  Malchus’ mouth opened in rebuke, but Bostar held his hand up. Oddly, his anger had been replaced by sorrow. ‘I trust that you wish the mission to be successful at least?’

  Shame filled Sapho’s face, but he had no chance to reply.

  Bostar turned to Malchus. ‘Farewell, Father.’

  Malchus’ eyes were dark pools of sorrow. ‘May the gods watch over you and your men.’

  Bostar nodded and walked away.

  ‘Bostar!’

  He ignored Sapho’s cry.

  It felt as if he’d just lost another brother.

  Two days later, Bostar and his men were in position. Theirs had been a hard journey. After a long march on the first day, their guides had brought them to a fork in the Rhodanus. The island in the centre of the river had made their crossing much easier. Not knowing if there were any Volcae on the opposite bank, they had waited until nightfall. Then, using rafts constructed from a combination of chopped-down trees and inflated animal skins, Bostar and ten handpicked men had swum to the other side. To their immense relief, the woods had been empty of all but owls and foxes. Soon after, the remaining soldiers had safely joined him. Bostar had not forgotten to give thanks to the gods for this good fortune. Hannibal and the entire army were relying on them. If they failed, hundreds, or even thousands, of men would die at the hands of the Volcae when the Carthaginian forces began to cross.

  At sunrise, they had marched south, halting only when the enemy encampment had been identified. Leaving his party to rest in the dense thickets that occupied the high ground overlooking the river, Bostar and a few sentries had spent the night on their bellies, watching the Volcae sitting around their fires. The tribesmen seemed oblivious to any danger, which pleased him. Somehow that made his anguish over the argument with Sapho easier to bear. Bostar had no wish to be enemies with his brother. Let us both survive the struggle to come, he prayed, and make our peace afterwards.

  As dawn arrived, it became possible to make out the enormous Carthaginian camp on the far bank. With growing tension, Bostar waited until he could see troops near the water’s edge, cavalrymen climbing into the larger craft, and infantry scrambling into the canoes. He even spied Hannibal in his burnished cuirass, directing operations. Still Bostar held on. Picking the right moment to charge was vital. Too soon, and he and his men risked being slaughtered; too late, and innumerable soldiers in the boats would die.

  It wasn’t long before the Volcae sentinels noticed the activity opposite their position and raised the alarm. Clutching their weapons, hundreds of warriors emerged from their tents and ran down to the bank. There they paced threateningly up and down, screaming abuse at the Carthaginians and bragging of their exploits. Bostar was thrilled. The enemy’s camp had been abandoned, and every man’s gaze was fixed on the flotilla of vessels opposite. It was time to move. ‘Light the fires!’ he hissed. ‘Quickly!’

  A trio of kneeling spearmen, who had been regarding him nervously, struck their flints together. Clack, clack, clack, went the stones. Sparks dropped on to the little mounds of dry tinder before each man. Bostar sighed with relief as a tiny flame licked first up the side of one pile, and then another. The third heap took flame a moment later. The soldiers encouraged the fires by blowing on them vigorously.

  Fretfully chewing a fingernail, Bostar waited until each blaze was strong enough. ‘Add the green leaves,’ he ordered. He watched intently as thick eddies of smoke from the damp foliage curled up into the air and climbed above the tops of the trees. The instant it had, Bostar’s gaze shot to the opposite bank. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘You have to be able to see it now.’

  His prayers were answered as Hannibal and his soldiers sprang into action. Boat after boat was pushed out into the water. The larger craft, carrying the cavalrymen, who were each leading six or seven horses, stayed upstream. Their size and number helped to reduce the impact of the powerful current on the smaller vessels containing the infantry. The Volcae responded at once. Every man with a bow or spear pushed forward to the water’s edge and waited for his chance.

  ‘Come on,’ muttered Bostar to his three spearmen. ‘It’s time to give those shitbags a surprise they’ll never forget.’

  Moments later, he and most of his force were trotting down the slope towards the riverbank. The remainder, a hundred scutarii, were heading for the Volcae camp. They ran in silence, hard and fast. Rivulets of sweat ran from under Bostar’s bronze helmet to coat his face. He did his best to ignore it, counting his steps instead. During the long wait, he had made repeated estimates of the distance from where they had lain hidden to the water’s edge. Five hundred paces, Bostar told himself. To the enemy tents, it was only 350. It seemed an eternity, but the Volcae were so busy shouting at the approaching boats that they had soon covered a hundred paces without being challenged. Then it was 150; 175. Hannibal’s boats had reached the midp
oint of the river. As Bostar counted two hundred, he saw a figure turn to address one of his companions. An expression of stunned disbelief crossed the man’s face as he took in the mass of soldiers running towards him. Bostar had covered another ten steps before the warrior’s warning cry ripped through the air. It came far too late, he thought triumphantly.

  Bostar threw back his head and roared, ‘Charge! For Hannibal and Carthage!’

  There was an inarticulate roar of agreement from his men as they closed in on the bewildered Volcae, who were already wailing in fright at the prospect of being attacked from the front and rear. Suddenly, their enemies’ distress grew even greater and Bostar glanced over his shoulder. To his delight, the Volcae tents were going up in flames. The scutarii were following their orders perfectly.

  The warriors’ disarray helped greatly to reduce the Carthaginian casualties. The tribesmen were far more concerned with protecting their own backs than aiming missiles at the helpless troops in their boats. However, their poor discipline and general panic meant that the Volcae had little success with Bostar’s soldiers either. They loosed their spears and arrows in ragged, early volleys that had barely enough power to reach the spearmen’s front ranks. Fewer than two dozen men had been downed before they had come within what Bostar considered proper range.

  Calmly, he ordered his soldiers to throw their spears. This massed effort stood in stark comparison to the tribesmen’s pathetic efforts. Hundreds of shafts curved up into the air, to fall in dense shoals among the unprepared Volcae, most of whom were not wearing armour. The volley caused heavy casualties. The screams of the injured and dying served to increase the warriors’ fear and confusion. Bostar laughed at the magnificence of Hannibal’s plan. One moment, the Volcae had been waiting for an easy slaughter, and the next, they were being attacked from behind while their tents went up in flames.

  It was then that the lead Carthaginian boats pulled into the riverbank. Led by their general, scores of scutarii and caetrati threw themselves into the shallows. Their fierce battle cries were the final straw for the terrified Volcae, who could take no more. Faces twisted in fear, they broke and ran. ‘Draw swords!’ Bostar shouted delightedly, leading his men to complete the rout. The crossing of the river was theirs, which proved that the gods were still smiling on Hannibal and his army.

  Within a quarter of an hour, it was all over. Hundreds of Volcae lay dead or dying on the grass, while the broken survivors ran for their lives into the nearby woods. Squadrons of whooping Numidians were already in pursuit. Few of the fugitives would live to tell the tale of the ambush, thought Bostar. But some would, and the legend of Hannibal’s passing would spread. Bloody lessons such as this were like the siege of Saguntum. They sent a clear message to the surrounding tribes that to resist the Carthaginian army resulted in just one thing. Total defeat. Bostar wished vainly that it proved to be this simple with the Romans.

  His task completed, he stood his men down and went in search of Hannibal. By now, the bank was thronged with infantry, slingers and cavalrymen leading their horses away from the river. Officers shouted in frustration, trying to assemble their scattered units. The river was dotted with dozens of boats travelling in each direction. The mammoth task of ferrying tens of thousands of men and vast quantities of supplies over the Rhodanus was under way.

  Bostar threaded his way through the soldiers, scanning the faces for his family. When he saw Malchus, his heart leaped with joy. Sapho was by his side. Bostar hesitated, before recognising that he felt relief at the sight of his brother. He was grateful for this gut instinct. Whatever the circumstances of their parting, blood was thicker than water.

  Telling himself that all would be well, Bostar raised a hand. ‘Father!’ Sapho!’ he shouted.

  It rapidly became clear that Suniaton would take months to recover; that was, if his wounds ever healed fully. Hanno was not at all sure they would. Certainly, his friend would never be fit to fight again. There was little doubt now that Suniaton’s heavy limp would be lifelong. But, as he repeatedly told Hanno, at least he was alive.

  Hanno nodded and smiled, trying to ignore the resentment that clawed at his happiness over Suniaton’s rescue. He failed, because his friend was not fit to journey on his own, and might never be. Hanno grew irritable and withdrawn, and took to spending his time outside the hut, away from Suniaton. This made him feel even worse, but when he returned, determined to make amends, and saw his friend hobbling about on his home-made crutch, Hanno’s anger always returned.

  On the fourth day, the pair had an unexpected visit from Quintus and Aurelia. ‘It’s all right, there’s been no news from Capua,’ Quintus said as he dismounted.

  Hanno relaxed a fraction. ‘What brings you here then?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know. Father and Flaccus are about to leave. Finally, Publius Cornelius Scipio and his legions are ready.’

  Hanno’s heart stopped for a moment. ‘Are they headed for Iberia?’

  ‘Yes. The northeast coast. That’s where they think that Hannibal is,’ replied Quintus in a neutral tone.

  ‘I see,’ said Hanno, fighting to remain calm. Inside, his desire to leave had resurfaced. ‘And the army that’s bound for Carthage?’

  ‘It will be leaving soon too.’ Quintus looked awkward. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ Hanno muttered gruffly. ‘It’s not your doing.’

  Quintus was still uncomfortable, because he moved off to check Suniaton’s injured thigh without answering. Hanno thought guiltily, I should be doing that. For all the good it would do, his mind retorted. He’ll never walk properly again.

  Aurelia’s voice cut into his reverie. ‘We won’t see Father for months,’ she said sadly. ‘And Quintus never stops talking about going to join him. Before long, Mother and I may be left alone.’

  Hanno made a sympathetic gesture, but he wasn’t concentrating; all he could think of was following Publius’ army to Iberia.

  Aurelia mistook his silence for sorrow. ‘How could I be so thoughtless? Who knows when you will see your family?’

  Hanno scowled, but not because of what she’d said. Hannibal and his host would shortly face a Roman consular army. Meanwhile, he was stuck here with Suniaton.

  ‘Hanno? What is it?’

  ‘Eh?’ he answered. ‘Nothing.’

  Aurelia followed his gaze to Suniaton, who was gingerly following Quintus’ instructions. The realisation hit her at once. Like a cat, she pounced. ‘You want to go to war too,’ she whispered. ‘But you can’t, because of your loyalty to Suni.’

  Stricken, Hanno stared at the ground.

  Aurelia touched his arm. ‘There is no greater love you could show a friend than standing by him in his time of need. It requires true courage.’

  Hanno swallowed hard. ‘I should be happy to stay with him, though, not angry.’

  ‘You can’t help it.’ Aurelia sighed. ‘You’re a soldier, like my father and brother.’

  Almost on cue, Quintus came striding over. ‘What’s that?’

  Neither Aurelia nor Hanno answered.

  Quintus grinned. ‘What’s the big secret? Have you guessed that I’m going to go and find Father?’

  Aurelia’s mouth opened in horror. Hanno was similarly shocked, but before either could respond, Suniaton joined them, obviously intent on speaking. Surprised by the Carthaginian’s interruption, Quintus deferred to him. Suni’s words struck everyone dumb. ‘I know how hard it is for you, Hanno. Waiting for me to recover, when all you want to do is join Hannibal’s army.’

  Hanno’s guilt swelled immeasurably. ‘I will stay with you as long as necessary. That’s all there is to it,’ he declared. Quickly, he turned to Quintus. ‘What made you decide to leave now?’

  ‘I have to tell Father about the way Agesandros has been carrying on. Power has gone to his head.’

  Aurelia butted in angrily. ‘That’s not your reason. It would be crazy to get rid of an experienced overseer at a time like thi
s, and you know it. Besides, Agesandros hasn’t done enough to warrant being replaced. We’ll have to live with him.’

  Quintus set his jaw. ‘Well, I’m going anyway. My training is finished. The war could be over in a few months. I’ll miss it if I just wait to be called up.’

  You underestimate Hannibal, thought Hanno darkly.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ accused Aurelia. ‘How will you find Father in the middle of a war?’

  A flicker of fear flashed across Quintus’ face. ‘I’ll reach him before that,’ he declared, full of apparent bravado. ‘All I need to do is take passage to the Iberian port that Publius made for. I’ll buy a horse there, and follow the legions. By the time I find Father, it will be far too late to send me back.’ He glared, daring Hanno and his sister to challenge him.

  ‘It’s madness to talk about travelling so far on your own,’ Aurelia cried. ‘You’ve never been further than Capua before.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Quintus muttered, glowering.

  ‘Really?’ demanded Aurelia sarcastically. She was surprised by how angry she felt when she’d known this was going to happen sooner or later.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Quintus shot back.

  An awkward silence fell.

  Suniaton cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you go with Quintus?’ he asked, astonishing Hanno. ‘Two swords on the road will be better than one.’

  Suddenly, Aurelia’s heart started pounding. Shocked by her emotions, she had to bite her lip not to protest aloud.

  Hanno saw the flash of hope in Quintus’ eyes. To his surprise and shame, he felt the same emotion in his heart. ‘I’m not leaving you, Suni,’ he protested.

  ‘You’ve done more than enough for me, especially when it’s my fault that we’re here in the first place,’ insisted Suniaton. ‘You have been waiting your whole life for this war. I have not. You know that I’d rather be a priest than a soldier. So, with Quintus’ and Aurelia’s permission, I will remain here.’ Quintus nodded his acquiescence, and Suniaton continued, ‘When I’m fully recovered, I will travel to Carthage, alone.’