Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

  ‘Wait, sir,’ said Malchus eagerly. ‘Hanno’s awe at meeting you has curdled his brains. He didn’t say that Placentia is where Publius and his army were camped.’

  Hannibal’s face came alive with interest. ‘Publius, you say? One of the Scipiones?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hanno replied, aware that every officer within earshot was now listening. ‘After missing you at the Rhodanus, he returned to Italy with all speed.’

  There was a general gasp of dismay.

  ‘Has he brought his entire army with him?’ asked Hannibal softly.

  ‘No, sir. He sent it to Iberia, under the command of his brother.’

  ‘A shrewd general, then.’ Hannibal let out a slow breath. ‘Hasdrubal and Hanno will also have a fight on their hands. It is to be expected, I suppose.’ He fixed Hanno with his dark eyes again. ‘What of Publius now?’

  ‘He has thrown a bridge over the Padus, and was intending to march west on the day I fled.’

  Hannibal leaned forward. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Three days ago, sir.’

  ‘So he cannot be far away. Excellent news!’ Hannibal smacked a fist into his palm. ‘What of his forces?’

  Hanno did his best to recount all that he had seen and heard since leaving Rome.

  ‘Well done, young man,’ said Hannibal when he was done, making Hanno flush beetroot. ‘We shall face the first of our great tests soon. What we are about to observe now seems even more apt. Stay here with me and watch, if you will.’

  Stuttering his thanks, Hanno stood with Hannibal, Malchus and his brothers and watched as dozens of prisoners were led out into the open area before them.

  ‘Who are they?’ Hanno asked.

  ‘Allobroges and Vocontii, prisoners taken during the passage of the Alps,’ replied his father.

  Hanno’s stomach clenched. The men looked terrified.

  A fanfare from the musicians’ horns and carnyxes prevented any further conversation. Hannibal stood forth when it finished. At once an expectant hush fell over the gathered troops. Everyone watched as a line of slaves carried out bronze trays, some of which were laden with glittering mail shirts. On others, helmets were piled high. There were gold arm rings and torcs, fine cloaks decorated with wolf fur and gilt-handled swords.

  Hannibal let the prisoners feast their eyes on the treasure before he spoke. ‘You have been brought here to make a simple choice.’ He paused to allow his message to be relayed to the captives. ‘I will offer six men the chance to win their freedom. You will divide into pairs, and fight each other to the death. The three who survive will receive a good horse, their choice of everything on show and a guarantee that they will ride out of here unharmed. Those who do not volunteer will be sold as slaves.’ Again Hannibal waited.

  A moment later, the warriors began shouting and raising their clenched fists in the air.

  The lead interpreter turned to Hannibal. ‘They all want the honour, sir. Every last one.’

  Hannibal smiled broadly. ‘Announce that to my troops,’ he ordered.

  A loud sigh of appreciation rose from the watching soldiers as the Allobroges’ reply was translated.

  Malchus bent to whisper in Hanno’s ear. ‘Single combat to the death is much revered among the Gauls. This end is far superior to a life of slavery.’

  Hanno still didn’t understand.

  ‘I will not allow every man to do this,’ Hannibal proclaimed. ‘Form up in two lines.’ He waited as the prisoners were shoved into position. ‘Pick out every fourth man until you have six,’ he bellowed. His command was obeyed at once, and the remainder of the captives were shepherded to one side. The half-dozen warriors who had been chosen were each handed a sword and shield and, at a signal, were ordered to begin fighting. They went at each other like men possessed, and soon first blood had been spilled on the rock-hard ground.

  ‘What’s the point of this?’ Sapho muttered after a few moments. ‘We should just kill them all and have done.’

  ‘Your damn response to everything,’ Bostar retorted angrily.

  ‘Shhh!’ hissed Malchus. ‘Hannibal does nothing by accident.’

  Again Hanno was surprised by the degree of acrimony between his brothers, but he was granted no chance to dwell on this troubling development.

  The duels were short, and savage. Before long, three bloodied warriors stood over the bodies of their opponents, waiting for Hannibal’s promise to be fulfilled. And it was. Each man was allowed his choice of the rich goods on the trays, before selecting a horse from those tethered nearby. Then, with the cheers of everyone present ringing in their ears, they were allowed to leave.

  ‘Even more than this can be yours,’ shouted Hannibal to his men. ‘For you the prize of victory is not to possess horses and cloaks, but to be the most envied of mankind, masters of all the wealth of Rome.’

  The immense roar that followed his words rose high into the winter sky.

  Impressed by Hannibal’s tactic, Hanno glanced at Bostar.

  ‘He will take us to the enemy’s very gates,’ said his brother.

  ‘That’s right,’ declared Malchus.

  ‘Where we’ll slaughter every last one of the whoresons,’ Sapho snarled.

  Hanno’s spirits soared. Rome would be defeated. He felt sure of it.

  Chapter XX: Setbacks

  SOME DAYS LATER, Quintus was huddled around a campfire with a group of his new comrades. It was a dank, cold afternoon. A gusty wind set lowering clouds scudding over the camp, threatening snow and increasing the general misery.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ moaned Licinius, a garrulous Tarentine who was one of Quintus’ tent mates. ‘To have lost our first battle against the guggas. It’s shameful.’

  ‘It was only a skirmish,’ said Quintus morosely.

  ‘Maybe so,’ agreed Calatinus, another of the men who shared their tent. Sturdily built, he was a year older than Quintus, but of similar outlook. ‘It was a damn big one, though. I bet you’re all glad to be sitting here now, eh?’ He nodded as his companions shook their heads in agreement. ‘Look at our casualties! Most of our cavalry and hundreds of velites killed. Six hundred legionaries taken prisoner, and Publius gravely injured. Hardly a good start, was it?’

  ‘Too true,’ said Cincius, their last tent mate, a huge, ruddy-faced man with a shock of red hair. ‘We’ve also retreated since. What must Hannibal think of us?’

  ‘Why in Hades did we even pull back?’ Licinius demanded. ‘After the bridge had been destroyed, the Carthaginians had no way of crossing the Ticinus to get at us.’

  Calatinus made sure no one else was in earshot. ‘I reckon the consul panicked. It’s not surprising, really, with him being out of action and all.’

  ‘How would you know what Publius thinks?’ Quintus challenged irritably. ‘He’s far from a fool.’

  ‘As if you’d know what the consul’s like, new boy,’ Cincius snapped.

  Quintus scowled, but had the wisdom not to reply. Cincius looked ready for a fight, and he was twice Quintus’ size.

  ‘Why didn’t Publius take his chance when Hannibal offered battle before our camp?’ Cincius went on. ‘What an opportunity to miss, eh?’

  There was a gloomy mutter of agreement.

  ‘I say it’s downright cowardly,’ said Cincius, warming to his theme.

  Quintus’ anger flared. ‘It’s best to fight on the ground of one’s choosing, at a time of one’s choosing,’ he declared, remembering what his father had said. ‘You all know that! At the moment, we can do neither, and with Publius injured, that position is unlikely to change in the near future. It made far more sense to remain in a position of security, here in the camp. Consider what might happen otherwise.’

  Cincius glared at Quintus, but, seeing the others subside into a grumpy silence, chose to say no more for the moment.

  Quintus felt no happier. While Publius’ courage was in little doubt, that of Flaccus was a different matter. It had taken a sea change in his view of his prospectiv
e brother-in-law as a hero even to countenance such a thought, but the reality of what had happened at the Ticinus could not be denied. Flaccus had ridden out with the cavalry on the ill-fated reconnaissance mission at his own request. Still ecstatic about being allowed to accompany the patrol, Quintus had been there too. He and his father had seen Flaccus as the clash began, but not after that. He hadn’t reappeared until afterwards, when the battered remnants of the patrol retreated over the River Ticinus and reached the Roman camp. Apparently, he’d been swept out of harm’s way by the tide of battle. Seeing that the Carthaginians had the upper hand, Flaccus had ridden for help. Naturally, the senior tribunes had declined to lead their legions, an infantry force, across a temporary bridge to face an enemy entirely made up of cavalry. What else could he have done? Flaccus had earnestly asked.

  Of course there was no way of questioning Flaccus’ account. Events were moving apace. They would just have to accept it. While Fabricius had not said as much to Quintus, he was clearly troubled by the possibility that Flaccus was a coward. Quintus felt the same way. Although he’d been terrified during the fight, at least he had stood his ground and fought the enemy. Aurelia must not marry a man, however well connected, who did not stick by his comrades in battle. Quintus poked a stick into the fire and tried not to think about it. He was annoyed to realise that the others had resumed their doleful conversation.

  ‘My groom was drinking with some of the legionaries who guard Publius’ tent,’ said Licinius. ‘They said that a huge Carthaginian fleet has attacked Lilybaeum in Sicily.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Cincius.

  Licinius nodded mournfully. ‘There’s no question of Sempronius Longus coming to our relief now.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ demanded Quintus.

  ‘The soldiers swore on their mothers’ graves it was true.’

  Quintus gave him a dubious look. ‘Why haven’t we heard it from anyone else, then?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be top secret,’ muttered Licinius.

  ‘Well, I heard that the entire Boii tribe is marching north to join Hannibal,’ interjected Cincius. ‘If that’s right, we’ll be caught in a pincer attack between them and the guggas.’

  Quintus remembered what his father had told him. A monstrous calf, which was somehow turned inside out to expose all of its internal organs, had been cut out of a cow that could not give birth on a farm nearby. The damn thing had been alive too. An officer whom Fabricius knew had seen it while on patrol. Stop it, thought Quintus, setting his jaw. ‘Let’s not get overexcited,’ he advised. ‘These stories are all too far-fetched.’

  ‘Are they? What if the gods are angry with us?’ retorted Licinius. ‘I went to the temple of Placentia to make an offering yesterday, and the priests said that the sacred chickens would not eat. What better evidence do you need?’

  Quintus’ anger overflowed. ‘Should we just surrender to Hannibal?’

  Licinius flushed. ‘Of course not!’

  Quintus rounded on Cincius, who shook his head. ‘Shut your damn mouths, then! Talk like that is terrible for morale. We’re equestrians, remember? The ordinary soldiers look to us to set an example, not to put the fear of Hades in their hearts.’

  Shame-faced, the others took a sudden interest in their sandals.

  ‘I’ve had enough of your whingeing,’ Quintus growled. He got up. ‘See you later.’ Without waiting for a response, he stalked off. His father would be able to shed a more positive light on what was going on. Quintus hoped so, because he was struggling with a real sense of despondency. He hid it well, but the savage clash with Hannibal’s deadly Numidian horsemen had shaken him to the core. They were all lucky to have survived. No wonder his comrades were susceptible to the rumours sweeping the camp. Quintus had to work hard not to let his own fear become overwhelming.

  His father was not in his tent. One of the sentries said that he’d gone to the consul’s headquarters. The walk would do him good, Quintus decided. Blow out the cobwebs. His route took him past the tents of the Cenomani, local Gaulish tribesmen who fought for Rome. There were more than two thousand of the tribesmen, mostly infantry but with a scattering of cavalry. They were a clannish lot, and the language barrier compounded this difference. There was, however, a palpable air of comradeship between them and the Romans, which Quintus had come to enjoy. He hailed the first warrior he saw, a strapping brute who was sitting on a stool outside his tent. To his surprise, the man looked away, busying himself with the sword he was oiling. Quintus thought nothing of it, but a moment later, the same thing happened again. A bunch of warriors not ten steps from where he was walking gave him cold, stony stares, before turning their backs.

  It’s nothing, Quintus told himself. Scores of their men were killed the other day too. Half of them have probably lost a father or a brother.

  ‘Aurelia! Aurelia!’

  Atia’s voice dragged Aurelia reluctantly from a pleasing dream, which had involved both Quintus and Hanno. Importantly, they’d still been friends. Despite the impossibility of this situation, and the urgency in her mother’s tone, she was in a good mood. ‘What is it, Mother?’

  ‘Get out here!’

  Aurelia shot out of bed. Pulling open her door, she was surprised to see Gaius standing in the atrium with her mother. Both looked decidedly serious. Suddenly self-conscious, Aurelia darted back and threw a light tunic over her woollen nightdress. Then she hurried out of her bedroom. ‘Gaius,’ she cried. ‘How nice to see you.’

  He bobbed his head awkwardly. ‘And you, Aurelia.’

  His grave manner made Aurelia’s stomach lurch. She glanced at her mother and was horrified to see that her eyes were bright with tears. ‘W-what is it?’ Aurelia stammered.

  ‘Word has come from Cisalpine Gaul,’ said Gaius. ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘Has our army been defeated?’ Aurelia asked in surprise.

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied Gaius. ‘But there was a big skirmish near the River Ticinus several days ago. Hannibal’s Numidians caused heavy casualties among our cavalry and velites.’

  Aurelia felt faint. ‘Is Father all right?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ Her mother’s eyes were dark pools of sorrow.

  ‘The situation is still very confused,’ muttered Gaius. ‘He’s probably fine.’

  ‘Heavy casualties,’ repeated Aurelia slowly. ‘How heavy, exactly?’

  There was no answer.

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Gaius?’

  ‘They say that out of three thousand riders, perhaps five hundred made it back to camp,’ he answered, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘How in the name of Hades can you say that Father is alive, then?’ Aurelia shouted. ‘It’s far more likely that he’s dead.’

  ‘Aurelia!’ barked Atia. ‘Gaius is just trying to give us some hope.’

  Gaius flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Atia reached out to take his hand. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for. You have ridden out here at first light to bring us what information there is. We’re very grateful.’

  ‘I’m not! How could I be grateful for such news?’ Aurelia yelled. Sobbing wildly, she ran towards the front door. Ignoring the startled doorman, she pulled it open and plunged outside. She ignored the cries that followed her.

  Aurelia’s feet led her to the stables. They had long been her refuge when feeling upset. She went straight to the solitary horse of her father’s that had been left behind. A sturdy grey, it had been lame at the time of his departure. Seeing her, it whinnied in greeting. At once Aurelia’s sorrow burst its banks and she dissolved in floods of tears. For a long time, she stood sobbing, her mind filled with images of her father, whom she would never see again. It was only when she felt the horse nibbling at her hair that Aurelia managed to regain some control. ‘You want an apple, don’t you?’ she whispered, stroking its nose. ‘And I’ve stupidly come empty-handed. Wait a moment. I’ll get you one.’

  Grateful for the interruption, Aurelia went to the food store at the
end of the stables. Picking the largest apple she could find, she walked back. The horse’s eagerly pricked ears and nickers of excitement made her sorrow surge back with a vengeance, however. Aurelia calmed herself with the only thing she could think of. ‘At least Quintus is safe in Iberia,’ she whispered. ‘May the gods watch over him.’

  Fabricius was closeted with Publius, so Quintus didn’t manage to meet with his father until later in the afternoon. When told about Quintus’ comrades’ scaremongering, Fabricius’ reaction was typically robust. ‘Despite the rumours, Publius is doing fine. He’ll be up and about in a couple of months. The rumour about a Carthaginian fleet attacking Sempronius Longus I also know to be untrue. Publius would have mentioned it to me. It’d be the same if he’d had any intelligence about the Boii rising up. As for these bad omens – has a single one of your companions actually witnessed one?’ Fabricius laughed as Quintus shook his head. ‘Of course not. Apart from that calf, which was just a freak of nature, no one ever has. The chickens in Jupiter’s temple might not be eating, but that’s to be expected. Poultry are frail bloody creatures. They’re forever falling sick, especially in weather like this.’ He pointed to his head, and then his heart, and last of all at his sword. ‘Trust in these before you worry about what other men say.’

  Quintus was heartened by Fabricius’ attitude. He was also grateful that his father no longer mentioned sending him home. Nothing had been said since the defeat at the Ticinus. Whether it was because of the number of riders who had fallen, or because Fabricius had become reconciled to the idea of him serving in the cavalry, Quintus did not know – or care. His good humour was added to by the bellyful of wine and hearty stew that his father had provided, and he left in much better spirits than he’d arrived.

  His good mood did not last long, however. The currents of air that whipped around Quintus as he struggled back towards his tent were even more vicious than earlier in the day. They cut clean through his cloak, chilling his flesh to the bone. It was so easy to imagine the gods sending the storm down as punishment. There was an awful inevitability about the snow that began falling a moment later. His worries, only recently allayed, returned with a vengeance.