Hannibal Enemy of Rome (2011)

by Ben Kane

  Before that, however, there was something that Sapho had to do.

  He made his way back to where the Vocontii prisoners were. With the ten hostages, they had twenty-two in total, sitting together and surrounded by a ring of spearmen. The only one who did not look fearful was the wall-eyed warrior, who spat at Sapho as he approached.

  ‘Shall we execute them, sir?’ asked an officer eagerly.

  An angry mutter of agreement went up from the Libyans.

  ‘No,’ Sapho replied. He ignored his men’s shocked response. ‘Tell them that despite their brethren’s treachery, they are not to be killed,’ he said to the interpreter. As his words were translated, Sapho was gratified to see traces of hope appear in some warriors’ faces. He waited for a moment, enjoying his power.

  ‘Please, sir, reconsider!’ an officer enjoined. ‘They can’t go unpunished. Think of our casualties.’

  Sapho’s lips peeled into a snarl. ‘Did I say that they would go unpunished?’

  The officer looked confused. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘We shall do to them what they did to us,’ Sapho pronounced. ‘Do not translate that,’ he snapped at the interpreter. ‘I want them to watch, and wonder.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, sir?’

  ‘Tie the shitbags in a line. Next, get one of the elephants. Use it to shift a large rock. A rock so big that no men could ever move it.’

  A slow smile spread across the officer’s face. ‘To dash out their brains, sir?’

  ‘No,’ reproached Sapho. ‘We’re not going to kill them, remember? I want the boulders dropped on their legs.’

  ‘And then, sir?’

  Sapho shrugged cruelly. ‘We’ll just leave them there.’

  The officer grinned. ‘It’ll be dark before their scumbag companions can return. They’ll be begging for death by that stage, sir.’

  ‘Precisely. They might think before attacking us a second time.’ Sapho clapped his hands. ‘See to it!’

  He watched as the Vocontii prisoners were forced to lie down by a rocky outcrop. Sapho intervened to make sure that the wall-eyed warrior was last in the line. There was a short delay as an elephant was brought up from its position with the baggage train. Sapho waited with the interpreter by the first of the warriors, whose eyes were now bulging with fear.

  Sapho looked up at the mahout. ‘Can you shift that boulder there?’ He pointed.

  ‘Yes, sir. Where?’

  ‘On to these men’s legs. But they mustn’t be killed.’

  The mahout’s eyes widened. ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  ‘Sir.’ Leaning forward, the mahout whispered in his huge mount’s ear before tapping it behind the ear with his hooked staff. The elephant lumbered up to the stone that Sapho had indicated, and gripped the top of it with its trunk. There was a moment’s silence before the slab began to move out of its resting place. The mahout muttered another command, and the elephant stepped up to rest the front of its head against the boulder, preventing it from picking up speed. Slowly, the beast reversed towards the prisoners, controlling its load’s progress down the slight slope. Realising at last what was about to happen, the Vocontii warriors began to wail in fear.

  Sapho laughed. He scanned the heights above, and fancied he saw movement. ‘Yes, you fuckers,’ he screamed. ‘Look! We’re about to give your friends a dose of their own medicine.’

  Several steps from the captives, the mahout made the elephant pause. He looked at Sapho questioningly.

  ‘Do it.’

  A murmured word in its ear, and the elephant moved aside, letting the stone roll on to the first three warrior’s legs. Strangled screams shredded the air. The sound was met by an immense cheer from the hundreds of watching Carthaginian soldiers. This, in their eyes, was vengeance for their dead comrades. Meanwhile, the tribesmen’s companions struggled uselessly against their bonds, which had been pegged to the ground.

  ‘Tell them that this is Hannibal’s retribution for double-crossing us,’ Sapho thundered.

  Pale-faced, the interpreter did as he was told. His words were met by a gabble of terrified voices. ‘Some are saying that they didn’t know that we would be attacked,’ he muttered.

  ‘Ha! They’re liars, or fools, or both.’

  ‘They’re asking just to be killed.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Sapho waved a hand at the mahout. ‘Do it again. Don’t stop.’

  Rock after rock was lowered into place, smashing the legs of all but the last Vocontii warrior. When the elephant had manoeuvred the final piece of stone into place, Sapho ordered the mahout to wait. Clicking his fingers to make sure that the interpreter followed him, he made his way to where the wall-eyed warrior lay. Purple-faced with rage, the tribesman spat a string of obscenities.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Sapho with a sneer as the interpreter began to speak. ‘I know what he’s saying. Tell him that this is repayment for his deceit, and that a coward like him will never reach the warriors’ paradise. Instead, his soul will rot for all eternity in hell.’ He eyed the mahout. ‘When he’s finished, let the stone fall.’

  The elephant driver nodded.

  ‘What in the name of all the gods is going on?’ Somehow Bostar’s voice penetrated the cacophony of screams echoing throughout the narrow gorge.

  The interpreter stopped speaking. The mahout sat motionless atop his beast. Stiff-backed with fury, Sapho turned to find his brother regarding him with an outraged expression. He inclined his head mockingly. ‘I’m punishing these worthless whoresons. What does it look like?’

  Bostar’s face twisted. ‘Could you think of a crueller way to kill them?’

  ‘Several ways, actually,’ Sapho replied amiably. ‘They all took too long, though. This method might be crude, but it’s effective. It will also send a strong message to the rest of their pox-ridden, louse-infested tribe that to fuck with us carries a heavy price.’

  ‘You’ve already made your point!’ Bostar indicated the line of screaming men. ‘Why not just stab this man in the throat and have done?’

  ‘Because this one’ - and Sapho kicked the wall-eyed warrior in the head - ‘is their leader. I’ve saved him until last, so he could watch his comrades suffer, and anticipate his own fate.’

  Bostar recoiled. ‘You’re sick,’ he spat. ‘I command you to halt this outrage.’

  ‘You might outrank me still, brother, but Hannibal entrusted the vanguard to me, not you,’ Sapho said in a loud voice. ‘I’m sure that our general would love to hear why you countermanded his orders.’

  ‘Hannibal ordered you to kill any prisoners like this?’ Bostar muttered in disbelief.

  ‘He said I was to do as I saw fit,’ snarled Sapho. ‘Which I am doing. Now stand back!’ He was delighted when, with slumped shoulders, Bostar obeyed. Sapho looked down for a final time at the wall-eyed warrior, who tried to spit at him again. Inspiration seized Sapho and he drew his dagger. Kneeling down, he shoved the tip into the man’s right eye socket. With a savage wrench, he hooked out the eyeball. His victim’s courage disappeared and a shriek of pure agony ripped free of his throat. Wiping his bloody hands on the warrior’s tunic, Sapho stood. ‘I’m leaving him one eye so that he can watch the mightiest army in the world pass by,’ he said to the interpreter. ‘Tell him that.’ He glanced at Bostar. ‘Watch and learn, little brother. This is how enemies of Carthage should be treated.’ Without waiting for a response, Sapho jerked his head at the mahout. ‘Finish it.’

  Full of impotent anguish, Bostar walked away. He was unwilling to watch. Unfortunately, he couldn’t block out the screams. What had his older brother become? he wondered. Why was Hanno the one who had been carried out to sea?

  For the first time, Bostar allowed himself that thought without guilt.

  Chapter XVI: Journeys

  NATURALLY, THE VIA Appia, the main road to Rome, led straight out of Capua. Not wishing to enter the town, Quintus first bypassed his father’s farm and then took a sm
aller, cross-country track that meandered through a number of hamlets and past countless farms to join the larger way some miles to the north. Quintus rode his horse. As a supposed slave, Hanno sat on the back of an irritable mule, which was also laden down with equipment. They travelled in silence for the first hour. Both had much to think about.

  Quintus now felt confident of finding his father. He was sad to have left Aurelia behind, but that was the way of the world. Their mother would look after her well. However, Quintus felt uneasy. Once their objective - that of finding his father - had been achieved, Hanno would depart to join the Carthaginian forces. Did that mean that they were already enemies? Thoroughly unsettled by this notion, Quintus tried not to think of it.

  Hanno prayed that Suniaton would be all right and that they would find Fabricius swiftly. Then he would be free. He asked to be reunited with his father and brothers. If they were still alive, of course. Hanno tried to be upbeat, and concentrated on imagining marching to war against the Romans. At once, however, another disquieting image popped up. Quintus and Fabricius would be serving in the legions. Unknowingly, Hanno had the same disturbing thought as Quintus, and buried it deeply in the recesses of his mind.

  Not long after they had joined the Via Appia, they came upon a party of infantry marching south.

  ‘Oscans,’ said Quintus, relieved to have something to talk about. ‘They’re heading for the port.’

  Hanno knew that the River Volturnus ran in a southwesterly direction past Capua to terminate at the coast. ‘To be transported to Iberia?’

  Ill at ease again, Quintus nodded.

  Hanno ignored him, focusing instead on the approaching group. Apart from Fabricius’ escort, he hadn’t seen many soldiers in Italy. These were socii, not regular legionaries, but such men would constitute up to half of any army that faced Hannibal’s. They were the enemy.

  Some of the Oscans were bareheaded, but most wore bronze Attic helmets decorated in striking fashion with horsehair or feathers, which were dyed red, black, white or yellow. Their short wool tunics were also eye-catching, ranging from red to ochre to grey. Few wore shoes or sandals, but all had a broad leather belt covered in bronze sheeting, which was fastened with elaborate hooks. The soldiers were armed with light javelins and thrusting spears of different lengths; the rare men with swords carried the slashing kopis, a curved weapon originally used by the Greeks. The majority of their shields were similar to scuta, concave and ribbed, but smaller.

  ‘It wasn’t many generations ago that they were fighting Rome,’ Quintus revealed. ‘Capua has only been under Roman rule for just over a century. Many locals think it should reclaim its independence.’

  Hanno goggled. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a favourite argument between Martialis and my father, especially when they’ve been drinking.’ Quintus frowned, wondering if his mother felt similarly. She’d never said as much, but he knew that she was fiercely proud of her heritage.

  Hanno was fascinated. His knowledge of the Republic’s structure, and its relationship with the non-Roman cities and peoples of Italy, was patchy at best. It was interesting that natives of such a large and important city were unhappy being ruled by Rome. Could there be others who felt the same way? he wondered.

  As one of the junior tribunes of a legion, Flaccus should have accompanied his unit to Iberia. After his foolish outburst in front of Publius, it would also have been wise for him to lay low for a time. As Fabricius rapidly discovered, that was not his way. Discovering that, in addition to Fabricius’ cavalry, the consul was taking a single cohort back to Italy, Flaccus begged to be included. One tribune was needed to command the legionaries, he reasoned. Why should it not be he? To Fabricius’ utter amazement, Publius did not explode at the request. While clearly annoyed, the consul acceded. ‘By Jupiter, but you have a brass neck,’ he muttered. ‘Now get out of my tent.’

  Fabricius took a mental note of the incident, which revealed how far the power of the Minucii stretched. Although it mattered little which tribune accompanied Publius, Flaccus’ gall in asking would have been punished had he been anyone else. Rather than punishment, though, he had got his wish. As he said smugly to Fabricius later, the Minucii had a finger in every pie. ‘By the time we arrive in Italy, the clan will probably know about Hannibal’s intentions.’ The only way that could happen, thought Fabricius, was if you had sent a message ahead of us. He couldn’t believe that was the case. Had Atia been right about Flaccus? Wishing that his prospective son-in-law were less of a braggart, Fabricius consoled himself by imagining how his family would benefit from the Minucii’s influence once Aurelia was married.

  For his part, Fabricius was delighted to be heading for Italy. Although there would be plenty of action there, he wanted to be part of the army that faced the main threat. Naturally, this was Hannibal, not the commander he had left in Iberia.

  Sapho’s brutal treatment of the prisoners did not stop the Vocontii from mounting further attacks. If anything, it increased their ferocity. More rocks were rolled down the slopes, causing heavy casualties among the soldiers and pack animals. During the late afternoon, the fighting grew so intense that the vanguard, including the cavalry and the baggage train, became separated from Hannibal and the bulk of the infantry. It remained so for the duration of the night. The following morning, to everyone’s relief, the Vocontii had disappeared. Most supposed that their losses had eventually become heavy enough to make stealing supplies pointless. Yet the tribesmen had wreaked more than simple physical damage on the army. The terrifying ordeal helped morale to plummet among the less motivated units. Each night, hundreds of men vanished under cover of darkness. Hannibal had ordered that no one was to stop them. ‘Soldiers who are coerced into fighting make poor comrades,’ he said to Malchus.

  The host marched on.

  For eight days, the miserable, cold and footsore Carthaginians climbed. Their enemies were no longer the Vocontii or the Allobroges, but the elements and the terrain, which grew ever more treacherous. Wind chill, frostbite and exposure began to take their toll. From dawn until dusk, soldiers dropped to the ground like flies. At night they simply died in their sleep. They were weakened by hunger, exhaustion, insufficient clothing, or a combination of all three.

  Hannibal’s response to Sapho’s robust defence of the vanguard had been to promote him. He had also left Sapho in charge of leading the column. Despite his joy at being equal to Bostar in rank, his responsibility was a double-edged sword. It was down to him and his men to act as trailbreakers, which was an utterly exhausting task. Boulders had to be moved. The track regularly needed repairing or strengthening. Casualties among Sapho’s men soared. By the eighth night, he was on the point of physical and mental collapse. His dread of their passage of the mountains had been proved well founded. In his mind, they were all doomed. They would never find the promised pass that marked the high point of their journey. All that kept Sapho going was his pride. Asking Hannibal to relieve him of his command would be worse than jumping off a cliff. Yet Sapho didn’t want to do that either. Incredibly, life was still better than death. Wrapped in five blankets, he huddled over a lukewarm brazier in his tent and tried to feel grateful. None of his men had the luxury of fuel to burn.

  After a while, Sapho stirred. Although he didn’t want to, it was time to check the sentries. It was also good for morale for him to be seen. He shed his blankets, pulled on a second cloak and wrapped a scarf around his head. As he unlaced the leather ties and opened the tent flap, a gust of bitingly cold wind entered. Sapho flinched, before forcing himself outside. Two sentries, Libyans, stood by the entrance. A pitch-soaked torch held upright by a small pile of stones cast a faint pool of light around them.

  The pair stiffened to attention as they saw him. ‘Sir,’ they both mumbled through lips that were blue with cold.

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s as cold as ever.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the nearest man replied. He
doubled over as a paroxysm of coughing took him.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said his companion nervously. ‘He can’t help it.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Sapho replied irritably. He eyed the first soldier, who was wiping bloody sputum from his lips. A dead man walking, he thought. Sudden pity filled him. ‘Take the wretch inside to the brazier. Try and get him warm. You can stay there until I get back from my rounds.’

  Stunned, the second Libyan stammered his thanks. Sapho grabbed the torch and stalked off into the darkness. He would only be gone for a quarter of an hour, but it might provide the sick man with some relief. A sour smile traced his chapped lips. I’m getting soft, like Bostar. Sapho hadn’t seen his brother since their argument over the Vocontii prisoners. As far as he was concerned, that was fine.

  Taking great care on the icy ground, Sapho traced his way past his soldiers’ tents. He glanced at the pair of elephants Hannibal had ordered to stay with the vanguard. The miserable beasts stood side by side, trying to maximise their warmth. Sapho even pitied them. Soon after, he reached the first sentries, who were stationed some two hundred steps from his tent. They were in a line across the path where the advance had stopped for the night. Exposed on three sides, it was the worst place to stand watch in the whole army. No fire could survive in the vicious, snow-laden wind that whistled down from the peaks. In order that the soldiers here didn’t all die from exposure, Sapho had ordered their periods on duty shortened to just an hour at a time. Even so, he lost men every night.

  ‘Seen anything?’ he shouted at the officer in charge.

  ‘No, sir! Even the demons are in bed tonight!’

  ‘Very good. As you were.’ Pleased by the officer’s attempt at humour, Sapho began to retrace his steps. He had only to check the sentries at the rear of the phalanx, and then he was done. Peering into the gloom, he was surprised to see a figure emerging around the corner of the outermost tent. Sapho frowned. The cliff might be twenty steps from the tent lines, but the wind was so powerful that a man could easily be carried over the edge. He had seen it happen several times already. Consequently, everyone walked between the tents, not around them. The man was carrying a torch, which meant that he was no enemy. Yet he’d just taken the most dangerous route past his phalanx. Why? What had he to hide?