To think, Hannibal’s father used to say, that Carthage was responsible for Rome’s existence. If it weren’t for our help, they would never have overthrown their old kings. Now look what they’ve done to our great nation. We are but a shadow of our former glory. You, Hannibal, you and your brothers, will reclaim Carthage’s honour and restore our rightful place at the head of Mediterranean – as it should be. Those words had echoed through Hannibal’s memory since he was a boy, resonating with him more so now than ever before. But he was not just acting on behalf of his father’s memory, or for Carthaginian domination, but for himself as well. If he could do what kings and warlords, barbarians and Greeks could not do before – topple the Roman Republic – he would be a god made flesh, forever immortalized as one of the greatest generals of all time, maybe superior even to his own idol, Alexander the Great.
The man whom Hannibal sighted – a boy no more than fourteen – manned the fortress, holding a bow in his hand and drawing arrow after arrow. He never saw Hannibal coming. He was so focused on his duty that he only stopped firing when Hannibal’s sword ripped through the soft flesh of his neck in one effortless motion.
The second man whom Hannibal sighted was another archer, older by a decade, who only just managed to glimpse his enemy before Hannibal drew his sword in a violent horizontal arch, and sliced across the man’s face. The right eye socket exploded with gore as the eyeball ruptured while the impossibly sharp iron blade tore through flesh. The man screamed in pain, clutching his face as he stumbled forward. His cries were silenced as he plunged over the edge of the wall and fell onto the group of densely packed Spanish and Carthaginian soldiers down below.
Hannibal moved with blinding speed as he attacked his third enemy. By now the walls were choked with dying men, as more of Hannibal’s soldiers had joined him, fighting up and down the length of the narrow walkway that was set between two forty-foot stone towers.
A spear shot in a high arch towards Hannibal’s head, but he managed to raise his shield just in time to parry the blow away. Striking low, Hannibal countered the attack by jabbing his sword into his opponent’s right knee. Blood and bone jetted out from the wide wound as the man bellowed in agony before Hannibal rose back to his feet and rammed his shield as hard as he could against the man’s broad chest.
As the defender fell to the ground, Hannibal stood over the dying man and rammed the bottom of his shield into his mouth, shattering teeth as the layers of wood sliced all the way through the man’s cheeks, nearly cleaving his head in two.
Hannibal winced in pain as a sword slashed across his exposed flank, cutting deep in the flat of his back. Already he could feel his blood gushing out, but thankfully his chainmail armour had protected him from most of the damage.
Turning sharply, Hannibal drove his sword into the man’s face. His sword lodged fast at the back of his skull for a moment, causing Hannibal a great deal of difficulty in trying to pry his weapon free. It was then that he heard the pounding footsteps of several heavily armed men rushing behind him. He glanced back for a moment and saw infantry charging up a set of stone steps, hoping they could repel the attackers before the walls fell.
Hannibal was trapped. He was forced to stop his attempts to retake his sword from the man he had killed and instead turned to face the charging infantry. Raising his shield while holding it firmly against his shoulder, Hannibal screamed a battle cry before he charged. He threw all two-hundred and thirty pounds of weight plus armour against the infantry, driving his shield into the first man, who gasped as air was knocked out from his lungs on impact. Hannibal cursed under his breath as he was cut once, twice, and then again across the arm and legs – not deep enough to slow him down, but painful enough to sap what strength he had left.
With one final burst of energy Hannibal bellowed a murderous roar and pushed against his shield, throwing the dozen men who stood against him back, but in the process he lost hold of his only defence as it was stripped from his grip and cast aside.
Hannibal, his head dripping with crimson blood, bared his teeth as he raised his fists. He would not fall easily he vowed, but as he drew himself up to face his foe, the first foot soldier was struck dead-centre by a well-aimed spear throw.
The soldier staggered back into his comrades as many more spears thrown from behind Hannibal easily found their mark.
Hannibal turned and saw his bodyguards and Carthaginian soldiers rushing towards him, crying out, “Save Hannibal! Defend the General!”
Ordax, one of Hannibal’s Spanish-born bodyguards, handed him a new sword as the remaining groups of infantry and archers on the wall were easily dealt with. Soon after the only men on the south wall were Hannibal’s, and they raised their weapons to the sky and roared his name in one thunderous body, “HANNIBAL! HANNIBAL! HANNIBAL!”
“Do you want this city?!” Hannibal bellowed joyfully.
“Yes!” they roared.
“Then open the gates and take what is rightfully ours!”
Hannibal, with his bodyguards and a dozen other men, charged down the stone steps. Most of Saguntum’s defenders were in a blind panic running for their lives once they realized the walls had fallen. A few officers, however, tried to form a phalanx and repel the invaders, but their efforts were not enough as Hannibal charged forward, his destination the southern gatehouse.
Most of the men Hannibal cut down as they turned and fled, dropping their swords or spears, and even more foolish, their shields. Those that stood their ground died just as easily. As brave as these men might have been, they weren’t warriors. The wealth that poured into Saguntum made its people fat and lazy, much like the Romans. If this had been a Gallic stronghold Hannibal knew he would have had to fight tooth and nail to claim his victory.
Hannibal’s eyes opened wide with surprise and a small smile cracked in the corner of his mouth as he spotted a well-dressed, well armoured officer he knew by the name of Ballista. Ballista had marshalled Saguntum’s defence over the past eight months but what made this captain of the guard valuable beyond his rank was that he was also a Roman soldier, sent by his Senate when Saguntum declared its loyalty to the Republic some years ago. The man had been a constant annoyance to Hannibal as he had represented the city elders during the various negotiations. Stubbornly, Ballista had been confident in his defiance’s, which had now collapsed all around him.
“Hannibal, you shit-eating dog, face me yourself, if you have the courage!” Ballista sneered with bitterness as he held his ground; sword and shield at the ready with a dozen trusted men standing before the gatehouse, each refusing to leave.
Hannibal grinned, “Finally, a Roman,” he said under his breath. “The Roman is mine! Slaughter the rest,” he demanded as his men roared their excitement before they charged in a mad rage towards the waiting defenders.
Ballista squared himself as Hannibal neared him, but did not move to attack. Hannibal could see from the man’s age and various scars that the Roman was seasoned from many battles hard fought and won. A worthy adversary, or so Hannibal hoped.
“I always knew you were a barbarous dog,” Ballista barked hoping to break Hannibal’s concentration and force him to attack irrationally, but Hannibal would not allow himself to be baited.
“You should have given me the city when you had the chance. It would have spared you a lot of pain, Roman,” Hannibal snarled as he slowly advanced. He held no shield but wielded a heavier sword than Ballista, which allowed him to be on the offensive as Ballista remained fixed behind the thick wooden layers of his blue painted shield, his gladius held low to the side – the tip just barely visible.
“Even if Saguntum falls, Rome will make you–”
Hannibal lunged forward, attacking Ballista before he could finish his sentence, and despite his large size, the sudden outburst of speed and the fury of Hannibal’s attack threw Ballista off guard as he was forced to fall behind his shield for protection.
The Roman captain barely managed to hold his ground. He did not seem
used to such savagery in combat. Hannibal fought like a caged bear, swinging his large iron sword as if it weighed nothing, causing thick chunks of wood to splinter free from Ballista’s shield with each violent bash.
Ballista was driven back, falling to the ground as he tried desperately to keep his shield held firm. To lose it now would put him at a severe disadvantage as his short sword, good for thrusting, was not ideal against Hannibal’s longer cavalry blade.
After a dozen devastating blows which made Ballista’s arm feel as if every bone in it had been broken, he could not bear the onslaught anymore and his shield was knocked free.
Ballista screamed in agony as a bone in his wrist snapped. His shield, now broken into three pieces, dropped into the mud-soaked ground. Before he could react Ballista only saw the blur of Hannibal’s blade come racing toward his face. A moment later he felt a sharp sting as the tip of the iron blade was drawn across his brow, down his nose, unzipping his flesh and tearing out a chunk of his right cheek.
Hannibal’s strike was done purposely. He did not intend to kill Ballista, not yet.
“You filthy whore!” Ballista spat a mouthful of blood, which landed against Hannibal’s broad leg as he stood poised over him. “You think you’ve won a great victory here? You’ve accomplished nothing! Rome will see you crucified for this crime. I only hope you live long enough to see Carthage burn, and its people sold into slavery!”
Hannibal smiled as drizzles of Ballista’s blood dripped from his sword tip.
“It is Rome that will burn, and it is your Senate that will lick the shit from my feet before I’m done. Nevertheless, I’m afraid you won’t be alive to see that day come to pass.” Hannibal reached back, bringing his sword high over his head before he plunged it down with all his power.
The heavy iron blade sliced into Ballista’s head, splitting his skull. Brain and bone mixed with hair and blood gushed over Hannibal as he held his sword firm for a long moment, savouring his kill – the first Roman he’d ever slain in battle. He knew with eager anticipation that Ballista represented the start of many more to come. Even if it took years Hannibal would build on his victory and march across Gaul, over the Alps and into Italy. The people there would rise and join him to be free of the Republic’s yoke and with his will and the armies he would establish in the coming years, gods willing, the walls of Rome would be torn down, and the arrogant people made to bow before him, begging with their dying breath for his mercy.
The rest of Ballista’s men were dealt with in short order as Hannibal’s guards slaughtered all those that stood firm against their overwhelming numbers. Within moments the first men stormed into the gatehouse, butchering those defenders still within the ramparts before freeing the city gates from their chains.
The ground rumbled as Hannibal stood among the dead. As the southern gate opened his brother Mago along with twenty riders charged into Saguntum, followed by hundreds more soldiers who ran in all directions roaring with murder on their minds as they advanced deeper into the city.
“Well done brother. I’m sorry you left me so few to kill,” Mago grinned as he stopped his horse near Hannibal, who looked almost unrecognizable covered as he was with the gore of his enemies.
“There are plenty more waiting to face our iron, brother. Do not let them wait much longer,” Hannibal replied. Mago laughed hard as he reared his horse and ordered his men forward. The city was open to them and in a few hours there would be no men left alive to defend it.
*
“Please general, I beg you!” The cries of the city-father were cut short as the axe blade sliced through the soft flesh of his neck, freeing his body of the burden of his head, which rolled carelessly onto the blood-soaked ground before it was picked up by one of Hannibal’s men and tossed into a pile of two dozen skulls that were lined against the citadel walls. This same scene had been repeated numerous times over the past hour as Hannibal, standing with his brother by his side, watched his enemies fall before him one by one.
The sun was still set high in the sky, beaming its blazing heat down upon the ruins of Saguntum, which burned as its streets and buildings were filled with the terrifying screams of women being raped, and men writhing in agony. The blood that had soaked Hannibal caked and dried like that of an erred lake bed as he took a long swig of wine before passing it to his brother.
“Ah, it was a hard fight – long and brutal, but you did it, my brother. You truly did it!” Mago grinned as the warm honey wine drizzled down his gullet. “But shouldn’t we spare at least a few of these vermin to ransom to Rome?”
“No. Rome and all those that hear of this victory will learn what it means to defy me, brother,” Hannibal replied harshly as another man was dragged forth – an older man, fat, wearing a Roman toga, looking to be in his early sixties. He begged for his life as so many others had before him, offering his captives all the riches they could ever hope to spend. Little did he know Hannibal had everything the man owned, save for his life, which he would take momentarily.
“So what now? One victory does not make us conquerors,” Mago said bitterly.
Hannibal snorted. Mago was the most pragmatic of his brothers. However, it was his realistic view of the world that made him valuable to Hannibal’s campaigns. He wasn’t interested in fawning over those above him to gain favour like that of a Roman consul.
“No, it does not. Even so, this victory will go a long way in subduing those Gallic tribes that stand in our way. Those that were not fearful of us will now back off, and those that will stand before us we can pay off.”
“And those that don’t do either?” Mago asked.
Hannibal turned towards him. “We crush them,” he answered sharply.
As the old man’s head was taken and his body, which twitched violently, was dragged away, Hannibal reached out and took the wineskin before taking a deep breath. “But Rome is not Saguntum. It shall not prove as easy.”
“Eight months, I would hardly call what we’ve done easy,” Mago commented, knowing full well that wasn’t what his brother was speaking of.
“Indeed. There will be many more battles, harder fought, that we will encounter, brother. And our men must be ready. I want only the strongest for this journey. The trek and those we face on the path to Rome will weed out the weak. When we reach Italy, Rome will be facing an army the likes of which it has never seen before.”
Mago smiled as he slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Then my brother, we have a lot of work to do before your war with Rome can begin. Maybe even a years’ worth before the first drop of Roman blood can be spilled.”
Hannibal smiled as his mind drifted to thoughts of the days and months, perhaps years, to come; it did not matter how long it took as he was one step closer today to his goal than he had been yesterday. After a lifetime, his family’s wrath was finally being turned where it was meant to be directed. Rome and all those that serve under its banner would bleed.
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A Fragile Peace Page 14