by Ben Kane
‘Hey!’ Sapho shouted. ‘Stop right there!’
The figure straightened, and the hood of his cloak whipped back. ‘Sapho?’
‘Bostar?’ said Sapho incredulously.
‘Yes,’ his brother replied. ‘Can we talk?’
Sapho staggered as a particularly savage gust of wind struck him. He watched, aghast, as it buffeted an unsuspecting Bostar sideways and on to one knee. As he struggled to stand up, another blast of air hit, carrying him backwards and out into the blackness.
Sapho couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran to the edge of the precipice, where he was astonished to find his brother clinging desperately to the protruding branch of a stunted bush several steps below him.
‘Help me!’ Bostar shouted.
Silently, Sapho stared down at him. Why should I? he asked himself. Of what benefit is it to me?
‘What are you waiting for?’ Bostar’s voice cracked. ‘This damn branch will never hold!’ Seeing the look in Sapho’s eyes, he blanched. ‘You want me to die, don’t you? Just as you were happy when Hanno was lost.’
Sapho’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with guilt. How could Bostar know that? Still he didn’t act.
The branch split.
‘Fuck you to hell and gone!’ screamed Bostar. Letting go with his left hand, he threw himself forward, searching for a fingerhold on the track. There would only be a moment before his body weight pulled him backwards and into the abyss. Knowing this, Bostar scrabbled frantically to gain any kind of purchase in the rock-hard, ice-covered earth. He found none. With a despairing cry, he started to slide backwards.
Sapho’s gut instinct took over, and he leaned forward to grab his brother by the shoulders. With a great yank, he pulled him up and over the edge. A second effort saw them several paces away, on safer ground. They lay side by side for a few moments, their chests heaving. Bostar was the first to sit up. ‘Why did you save me?’
Sapho met his gaze with difficulty. ‘I’m not a murderer.’
‘No,’ Bostar snapped. ‘But you were glad when Hanno vanished, weren’t you? With him out of the way, you had a chance to become Father’s favourite.’
Shame filled Sapho. ‘I—’
‘It’s strange,’ said Bostar, interrupting. ‘If I had died just now, you’d have Father all to yourself. Why didn’t you let me slip into oblivion?’
‘You’re my brother,’ Sapho protested weakly.
‘I might be, but you still stood there, looking at me when I first fell,’ Bostar retorted furiously. He regained control of himself. ‘Yet I have you to thank for saving my life. I am grateful, and I will repay my debt if I can.’ He carefully spat on the ground between them. ‘After that, you will be dead to me.’
Sapho’s mouth gaped. He watched as Bostar got up and walked away. ‘What will you tell Father?’ he called out.
Bostar turned, a contemptuous expression twisting his face. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll say nothing.’ With that, he was gone.
Right on cue, a blast of icy wind hit Sapho, chilling him to the bone.
He had never felt more alone.
Quintus’ and Hanno’s departure left Aurelia feeling abandoned. Finding an excuse to head off to visit Suniaton was far from easy. She could not confide in her mother for obvious reasons, and she didn’t like, or trust, her old Greek tutor. She was friendly with Elira, but the Illyrian had been in a bad mood recently, which made her poor company. Julius was the only other household slave Aurelia could be bothered with. After the excitement of her trips to the woods, however, discussion about what was on next week’s menu was of little interest. Inevitably, she spent most of her time with her mother, who, since they’d been left alone, had thrown herself into household tasks with a vengeance. It was, Aurelia supposed, Atia’s way of coping with Quintus’ disappearance.
Foremost among their jobs was dealing with the vast amount of wool stockpiled in one of the sheds in the yard. It had been shorn from the sheep during the summer, and in the subsequent months, the women slaves had stripped the twigs and vegetation from the fleeces, before dyeing them a variety of colours: red, yellow, blue and black. Once dyed, the wool was ready for spinning, and then weaving. Although the majority of this work was done by slaves, Atia also contributed to the effort. She insisted Aurelia did so as well. Day after day, they sat in or walked around the courtyard, distaffs and spindles in hand, retreating to the atrium only if it rained.
‘It’s the job of a woman to keep the house and work in wool,’ said Atia one crisp morning. Deftly pulling a few unspun fibres from the bundle on her distaff, she attached them to her spindle and set it spinning. Her eyes lifted to Aurelia. ‘Are you listening, child?’
‘Yes,’ Aurelia replied, grateful that Atia hadn’t noticed her rolling eyes. ‘You’ve told me that a thousand times.’
‘That’s because it’s true,’ her mother replied primly. ‘It’s the mark of a good wife to be proficient at spinning and weaving. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Aurelia dutifully. Inside, she imagined that she was practising with a gladius.
‘No doubt your father and Quintus will be grateful for any cloaks and tunics that we can send them too. I believe that the winters in Iberia can be harsh.’
Guiltily, Aurelia applied herself to her task with more vigour. This was the only tangible way of helping her brother. She was shocked to find herself wishing that she could do the same for Hanno. He’s one of the enemy now, she told herself. ‘Has there been any more news?’
‘You know there hasn’t.’ There was an unmistakable trace of irritation in Atia’s voice. ‘Father will have no time to write to us. With the gods’ blessing, however, he’ll have reached Iberia by now.’
‘With luck, Quintus will find him soon,’ Aurelia responded.
Atia’s composure cracked for an instant, revealing the sorrow beneath. ‘What was he thinking to go on his own?’
Aurelia’s heart bled to see her mother so upset. Until now, she hadn’t mentioned that Hanno had left with her brother. Saying nothing made things far simpler. Now, though, her resolve wavered.
A discreet cough prevented her from saying a word. Aurelia was annoyed to see Agesandros standing by the atrium doors.
In the blink of an eye, Atia’s self-possession returned. ‘Agesandros.’
‘My lady,’ he said, bowing. ‘Aurelia.’
Aurelia gave the Sicilian a withering look. Since his accusation of Hanno, she had avoided him like the plague. Now he had stopped her from consoling her mother.
‘What is it?’ asked Atia. ‘A problem with the olive harvest?’
‘No, mistress.’ He hesitated. ‘I have come to make an apology. To Aurelia.’
Atia’s eyebrows rose. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing that I shouldn’t have, mistress,’ said Agesandros reassuringly. ‘But the whole business with the Carthaginian slave was most … unfortunate.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ Aurelia interjected acidly.
Atia raised a hand, stalling her protest. ‘Continue.’
Publius was incensed, upon his arrival in Pisae nearly a week later, to be greeted by a messenger from the Senate. The consul’s only thought was to travel north, to Cisalpine Gaul, and there take control of the legions presently commanded by a praetor, Lucius Manlius Vulso. Yet the note Publius was handed suggested in no uncertain terms that it would be judicious to report to the Senate before taking further action against Hannibal. This was necessary because, as Publius spat at Flaccus, he had ‘“exceeded his consular remit, by deciding not to proceed to Iberia with his army”.’
Flaccus innocently studied his fingernails.
‘Someone must have sent word before we left Massilia,’ Publius raged, staring pointedly at Flaccus. ‘Yet nowhere do I see any mention of the word provocatio. In other words, I could ignore this disrespectful note. I probably should. With every day that goes by, Hannibal and his army march closer to our northern borders. Semproniu
s has no chance of travelling from Sicily quicker than I can reach the north. Journeying to Rome will delay me by two weeks, or more. If Hannibal turns up during that time, the result could be catastrophic.’
‘That would scarcely be my fault,’ Flaccus replied smoothly.
Publius’ nostrils flared white with fury. ‘Is that so?’
Flaccus had the sense not to answer.
Reading the missive again, Publius composed himself. ‘I will return to Rome as asked, but any responsibility for what happens because of the delay will fall on the heads of the Minucii, and on you particularly. Should Hannibal already be in the area when I eventually reach Cisalpine Gaul, I will make sure to position you in the front line every time we encounter the Carthaginians.’ Flaccus looked up in alarm, and Publius snarled, ‘There you can win all the glory you desire. Posthumously, I expect.’ Ignoring Flaccus’ shock, Publius turned to Fabricius. ‘We shall take but a single turma to Rome. I want two spare horses for every rider. Your other men can buy new mounts, and then head north to join Vulso with the cohort of infantry. See to it. We ride out in an hour.’
Flaccus followed Fabricius as he supervised the unloading of the mounts and equipment. The quayside at Pisae was a hive of activity. Freshly disembarked soldiers retrieved their equipment from piles on the dock and formed up in lines under their officers’ eagle eyes. Fabricius’ cavalrymen watched as specially constructed wooden frames lifted their horses out of the ships’ bellies and on to dry land once more. Grooms stepped in, reassuring their unsettled charges, before leading them off to one side where they could be readied for the impending journey. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Fabricius rounded on Flaccus. ‘What in the name of Hades is going on?’
Flaccus made a show of innocence. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Any fool knows that the best thing is not for Publius to go to Rome, but to Cisalpine Gaul, and with all haste. Yet you have conspired to make sure that he does the former.’
Flaccus looked shocked. ‘Who’s to say that I had anything to do with the news reaching Rome? Anyhow, I cannot answer for the actions of more senior members of my clan. They are men greater than you or I, men whose only interest is that of Rome. They also know Publius for an arrogant individual whose main aim is to gain glory for himself; his recent actions prove this. He must be brought to book by his fellows and reminded of his position before it’s too late.
‘It’s not as if we are without forces in the north,’ Flaccus went on persuasively. ‘Lucius Manlius Vulso is already in the area with a full-sized consular army. Vulso is an experienced commander, and I have no doubt that he is skilled enough to face, and beat, the rabble Hannibal will lead out of the mountains. Would you not agree?’
Fabricius felt his position waver. Publius’ confident decision to send his army on to Iberia while he himself returned to Italy had certainly been out of the ordinary. Initially, Fabricius had thought Publius was showing genuine foresight, but Flaccus’ words sowed doubt in his mind. It was hard to credit that a faction in Rome would endanger the Republic just to score points over a political rival. The Minucii must have their reasons for demanding to see Publius, he reasoned. In theory, the legions in Cisalpine Gaul were fully capable of defending their northern border. Fabricius glanced at Flaccus, and saw nothing but genuine concern. ‘I suppose so,’ he muttered.
‘Good. Let us travel to the capital without worrying about Hannibal, and see what our betters in the Senate would say to Publius,’ said Flaccus earnestly. ‘The gugga can be dealt with immediately afterwards, if Vulso has not already wiped him from the face of the earth. Are we agreed?’ He stuck out his right arm in the soldier’s fashion.
Fabricius felt uneasy. One moment Flaccus was talking as if those in Rome always acted unselfishly, and the next he was implying that Publius’ recall was a political tactic made with scant consideration of the danger posed by Hannibal. There was far more going on here than met the eye. In Fabricius’ mind, the sole issue at hand was Hannibal, and how to deal with him. Those who sat in the Senate obviously did not appreciate that. Yet did it really matter, he wondered, if they went to Rome before Cisalpine Gaul? If Hannibal did succeed in crossing the Alps, his army would need a prolonged period of rest to recover from their ordeal. Forewarned, Vulso would be ready, and Publius would not take long to travel from the capital. ‘We are agreed,’ he said, accepting Flaccus’ grip.
‘Excellent.’ Flaccus’ eyes glittered with satisfaction. ‘By the way, don’t take anything my brother says to heart. He is greatly looking forward to meeting you in private.’
Feeling rather out of his depth, Fabricius nodded.
Hannibal’s army reached the top of the pass the next day. Thrillingly, the watery sunshine revealed flat plains far below. The distant image could have been a mirage for all the use it was to them, thought Bostar bitterly. The slopes that led down towards Cisalpine Gaul were covered in frozen snow, which entirely concealed the path. Achieving a secure footing from now on would be more difficult than ever, and the price of failure was no less lethal than it had been since they’d entered the mountains.
To relieve his troops’ suffering, Hannibal let them rest for two days at the summit. Of course there was more to his decision than simple kindness. Hundreds of stragglers, soldiers who would have died otherwise, managed to catch up with their comrades in this time, where they were greeted with relief but little sympathy. Even if they’d wanted to speak of their ordeal, few would have found an audience. Despair clawed constantly at men’s hearts, rendering them insensible to the suffering of others.
Remarkably, hundreds of mules that had gone missing during the ascent also made their way into the camp. Although the majority had lost their baggage, they were still a welcome sight. In an effort to raise morale, Hannibal allowed the weakest beasts, numbering two hundred or more, to be slaughtered on the last evening before the descent. The fires needed to cook this meal consumed most of the army’s remaining wood, but for the first time in weeks, his soldiers went to sleep with fresh meat in their bellies.
Bostar’s deeply held hope that Hanno was still alive, and the presence of his father, were what sustained him through the agonies of the following day and night. He tried not to think of Sapho at all, instead concentrating on helping his soldiers. If Bostar had thought that the journey through the mountains up to that point had been difficult, then the descent was twice as bad. After more than a week above the snow line, the troops were chilled to the bone. Despite the Cavares’ gifts of clothing and footwear, many were still not suitably attired for the freezing, hazardous conditions. Slowed by the cold, the Carthaginians stumbled over the slightest obstacles, walked into snowdrifts and collided with each other. This, when a simple trip meant death, instantly from the fall, or by slipping away into a sleep from which there was no wakening.
The soldiers died in other ways as well. Sections of the path cracked away under the weight of snow and men, sending hundreds into oblivion, and forcing those behind to repair the track in order to continue. The unfortunate mules were now prone to panic at the slightest thing, and their struggles were the cause of more casualties. Bostar found that the only way not to go mad in the face of so much death and destruction was to act as if nothing had happened. To keep putting one foot in front of the other. Step by grim step, he plodded on.
Just when he thought that things could get no worse, they did. Late the next morning, the vanguard arrived at a point where a landslide had carried away the track for a distance of one and a half stades. Sapho sent word back that neither man nor beast could proceed without losing their life. Here the drop was at least five hundred paces. Undeterred, Hannibal ordered his Numidians to begin constructing a new path across the obstacle. The rest of the army was ordered to rest as best it could. The news made many soldiers break down and weep. ‘Will our suffering never end?’ wailed one of Bostar’s men. Bostar was quick to issue a reprimand. Morale was painfully low, without being made worse by open despair.
As darkness fell, Bostar’s spirits were raised somewhat by a Numidian officer who was passing through Bostar’s phalanx as he returned to his tent.
‘Progress was good today. We’ve laid a new path over more than two-thirds of the landslide. If things proceed like this tomorrow, we should be able to continue.’
Bostar breathed a huge sigh of relief. After nearly a month in the mountains, Cisalpine Gaul would be within reach at last.
His optimism vanished within an hour of work resuming the following morning when the cavalrymen exposed a huge boulder. It completely blocked the way forward. With a diameter greater than the height of two men, the rock was positioned such that only a few soldiers could approach at a time. Horses weren’t strong enough to move it, and there was no space to lead an elephant in to try.
As time passed, Bostar could see the last vestiges of hope disappearing from men’s eyes. He felt the same way himself. Although they weren’t speaking, Sapho looked similarly deflated. It wasn’t long before Hannibal came to survey the problem. Bostar’s usual excitement at seeing his general did not materialise. How could anyone, even Hannibal, find a way to overcome this obstacle? As if the gods were laughing, more snow began to fall. Bostar’s shoulders slumped.