Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  ‘I need no payment,’ the old man intoned. ‘Such terrible news is beyond a price.’

  Mumbling his thanks, Malchus walked away. He was barely aware of a weeping Bodesmun following him. While he retained his composure, Malchus too was riven by grief. He had expected to lose one son – perhaps more – in the impending war with Rome, but not beforehand, and so easily. Had Arishat’s death not been enough unexpected tragedy for one lifetime? At least he’d been able to say goodbye to her. With Hanno, there hadn’t even been that chance.

  It all seemed so cruel, and so utterly pointless.

  Several days went by. The friends were kept on the forecastle and given just enough food to keep them alive: crusts of stale bread, a few mouthfuls of cold millet porridge and the last, brackish drops from a clay water gourd. Their bonds were untied twice a day for a short period, allowing them to stretch the cramped muscles in their arms and upper backs. They soon learned to answer calls of nature at these times, because at others their guards would laugh at any request for help. On one occasion, desperate, Hanno had been forced to soil himself.

  Fortunately, Varsaco was not allowed near them, although he sent frequent murderous glances in their direction. Hanno was pleased to note that the overseer walked with a decided limp for days. Other than making sure Hanno was recovering from his injuries, the Egyptian ignored them, even moving his blankets to the base of the mast. Strangely, Hanno felt some pride at this clear indication of their value. Their solitude also meant that the pair had plenty of occasions to confer with each other. They spent all their time plotting ways to escape. Of course both knew that their fantasies were merely an attempt to keep their spirits up.

  The bireme reached the rugged coastline of Sicily, travelling past the walled towns of Heraclea, Acragas and Camarina. Keeping a reasonable distance out to sea meant that any Roman or Sicilian triremes could be avoided. The Egyptian made sure that the friends saw Mount Ecnomus, the peak off which the Carthaginians had suffered one of their greatest defeats to the Romans. Naturally, Hanno had heard the story many times. Sailing over the very water where so many of his countrymen had lost their lives nearly forty years before filled him with a burning rage: partly against the Egyptian for his lascivious telling of the tale, but mainly against the Romans, for what they had done to Carthage. The corvus, a spiked boarding bridge suspended from a pole on every enemy trireme, had been an ingenious invention. Once dropped on to the Carthaginian ships’ decks, it had allowed the legionaries to storm across, fighting just as they would on land. In one savage day, Carthage had lost nearly a hundred ships, and her navy had never recovered from the blow.

  A day or so after rounding Cape Pachynus, the southernmost point of Sicily, the bireme neared the magnificent stronghold of Syracuse. Originally built by the Corinthians more than five hundred years before, its immense fortifications sprawled from the triangular-shaped plateau of Epipolae on the rocky outcrop above the sea, right down to the island of Ortygia at the waterline. Syracuse was the capital of a powerful city-state, which controlled the eastern half of Sicily and was ruled by the aged tyrant Hiero, a long-term ally of the Republic, and enemy of Carthage. The Egyptian took his ship to within half a mile of the port before deciding not to enter it. Large numbers of Roman triremes were visible, the captains of which would relish crucifying any pirates who fell into their hands.

  It mattered little to Hanno and Suniaton where they landed. In fact, the longer their journey continued, the better. It delayed the reality of their fate.

  Rather than make for the towns located on the toe or heel of Italy, the Egyptian guided the bireme into the narrow strait between Sicily and the mainland. Only a mile wide, it afforded a good view of both coasts.

  ‘It’s easy to see why the Romans began the war with Carthage, isn’t it?’ Hanno muttered to Suniaton. Sicily dominated the centre of the Mediterranean, and, historically, whoever controlled it, ruled the waves. ‘It’s so close to Italy. Our troops’ presence must have been perceived as a threat.’

  ‘Imagine if our people hadn’t lost the war,’ Suniaton replied sadly. ‘We would have stood a chance of being rescued by one of our ships now.’

  It was another reason for Hanno to hate Rome.

  In the port of Rhegium, on the Italian mainland, the pirate captain prepared to sell his captives. The street gossip soon changed his mind. The forthcoming games at Capua, further up the coast, had produced an unprecedented demand for slaves. It was enough to make the Egyptian set sail for Neapolis, the nearest shore town to the Campanian capital.

  As the end of their voyage drew near, Hanno found that his increasing familiarity with the pirates was, oddly, more comforting than the unknown fate that awaited him. But then he remembered Varsaco: remaining on the bireme was an impossibility for it would only be a matter of time before the brutal overseer took his revenge. It was with a sense of relief, therefore, that two days later Hanno clambered on to the dock at Neapolis. The walled city, formerly a Greek settlement, had been one of the socii, allies of the Republic, for over a hundred years. It possessed one of the largest ports south of Rome, a deep-water harbour filled with warships, fishing boats and merchant vessels from all over the Mediterranean. The place was jammed, and it had taken the Egyptian an age to find a suitable mooring spot.

  With Hanno were Suniaton and the other captives, a mixture of young Numidians and Libyans. The Egyptian and six of his burliest men accompanied the party. To prevent any attempt at escape, the iron ring around each captive ’s neck was connected to the next by a length of chain. Enjoying the solidity of the quayside’s broad stone slabs beneath his feet, Hanno found himself beside a heap of roughly cut cedar planks from Tyre. Alongside those lay golden mounds of Sicilian grain and bulging bags of almonds from Africa. Beyond, stacked higher than a man, were wax-sealed amphorae full of wine and olive oil. Fishermen bantered with each other as they hauled their catch of tunny, mullet and bream ashore. Off-duty sailors in their striking blue tunics swaggered along the dock in search of the town’s fleshpots. Laden down by their equipment, a squad of marines prepared to embark on a nearby trireme. Spotting them, the sailors filled the air with jibes. Bristling, the marines began shouting back. The groups were only stopped from coming to blows by the intervention of a pug-nosed optio.

  Hanno couldn’t help himself from drinking the hectic scene in. It was so reminiscent of home, and his heart ached with the pain of it. Then, amidst the shouts in Latin, Greek and Numidian, Hanno heard someone speaking Carthaginian, and being answered in turn. Complete shock, then joy, filled him. At least two of his countrymen were here! If he could speak with them, word might be carried to his father. He glanced at Suniaton. ‘Did you hear that?’

  Stricken, his friend nodded.

  Hanno frantically stood on tiptoe, but the press on the quay was too great.

  With a brutal yank, the Egyptian pulled on the chain, forcing his captives to follow. ‘It’s only a short walk to the slave market,’ he announced with a cruel smile.

  Hanno dragged his feet, but the pull around his neck was inexorable. To his immense distress, within a dozen paces he could no longer discern his mother tongue from the plethora of other languages being spoken. It was as if the last window of opportunity had been shut in their faces. It felt a crueller blow than anything that had befallen them thus far.

  A tear rolled down Suniaton’s cheek.

  ‘Courage,’ Hanno whispered. ‘Somehow we will survive.’

  How? his mind screamed. How?

  Chapter IV: Manhood

  THE BEAR LUNGED at his feet, and Quintus lashed out, delivering a flurry of kicks in its direction. He had to bite his tongue not to scream in terror. At this rate, the animal would seize him by the thigh, or groin. The pain would be unbelievable, and his death lingering, rather than the swift end suffered by the Gaul. Quintus could think of no way out. Desperately, he continued flailing out with his caligae. Confused, the animal growled, and it batted at him with a giant paw. It half ripped off
one of Quintus’ sandals.

  A moan of fear ripped free of his lips at last.

  Footsteps pounded towards Quintus, and relief poured through his veins. His life might not be over. He was simultaneously consumed by shame. He did not want to live the rest of his days known as the coward who had had to be rescued from a bear.

  ‘HOLD!’ shouted his father.

  ‘But Quintus—’ Agesandros protested.

  ‘Must do this on his own. He said so himself,’ Fabricius muttered. ‘Stand back!’

  Waves of terror washed over Quintus. In obeying his wishes, his father was consigning him to certain death. He closed his eyes. Let it be quick, please. A moment later, he realised that the bear had not pressed home its attack. Quintus peered at the animal, which was still only a few steps away. Was it Agesandros’ charge, or his father’s voice that had caused it to hesitate? He wasn’t sure, but it gave him an idea. Taking a deep breath, Quintus let out a piercing cry. The animal’s small ears flattened, which encouraged him to repeat the shrill sound. This time, he waved his arms as well.

  To Quintus’ immense relief, the bear backed off a pace. He was able to climb to his feet, still shrieking his head off. Unfortunately, his spear was beyond his reach. It lay right beneath the animal’s front paws. Quintus knew that without it, he had no chance of success. Nor would there be any pride to be had in driving off the bear with noise. He had to regain his weapon and kill it. Swinging his arms like a madman, he took a step towards it. The animal’s head swung suspiciously from side to side, but it gave way. Remembering Agesandros’ advice about what to do if confronted by a bear in the forest, Quintus redoubled his efforts. His damaged sandal was still attached to his calf by its straps, and he had to take great care how he placed his feet. Despite this hindrance, it wasn’t long before he regained his spear.

  Quintus could have cheered. The animal was now looking all around it, searching for a way to escape, but there was no easy way. Fabricius had directed the others to spread out. They formed a loose circle around the pair. The remaining dogs filled the air with an eager clamour. His courage renewed, Quintus went on the offensive. After all, the bear was wounded. It had to be within his ability to kill it now.

  He was mistaken.

  Every time he stabbed his spear at the animal, it either snapped at the blade, or swept it out of the way with its massive arms. Quintus’ heart thumped off his ribs. He would have to go a lot closer. How, though, could he deliver a death stroke without coming within range of its deadly claws? The bear’s reach was prodigious. He could think of only one way. He’d seen pigs slaughtered many times in the farmyard, had even wielded the knife himself on occasion. With their tough skin and thick layer of subcutaneous fat, they were difficult animals to kill, quite unlike sheep or oxen. The best way was to run the blade into their flesh directly under the chin, cutting the major vessels that exited the heart. Quintus prayed that bears’ anatomy was similar, and that the gods granted him a chance to finish the matter like this.

  Before he could carry out his plan, the animal lunged forward on all fours, catching Quintus off guard. He backed away hastily, forgetting his damaged sandal. Within a few steps, the studded sole snagged on a protruding root. They pulled the straps attached to his calf taut, in the process unbalancing him. Quintus fell heavily, landing this time on his backside. Somehow, he hung on to his spear, which landed flat on the glade floor beside him. That didn’t stop his heart from shrivelling with fear. The bear’s attention focused in on him and, moving incredibly fast, it swarmed in his direction.

  Quintus’ eyes flickered to one side. The shocked expression on his father’s face said it all. He was about to die.

  Despite his horror, Fabricius kept his oath. He did not budge from his position.

  Quintus’ gaze returned to the bear. Its gaping mouth was no more than a handsbreadth from his feet. He had but the briefest instant to react before it ripped one of his legs off. Fortunately, the end of his spear protruded beyond his sandals. Gripping the shaft, he raised it off the ground. Sunlight flashed off the polished iron tip, and bounced into the bear’s eyes, distracting it, and causing it to snap irritably at the blade. Swiftly, Quintus pulled his legs to one side. At the same time, he jammed the weapon’s butt into the earth by his elbow and gripped it fiercely with both hands.

  When the bear closed in, he aimed the sharp point at the flesh below its wide-open jaws. Intent on seizing him, it paid no attention. Lowering its head, it lunged at his legs. Desperately, Quintus slid them away as fast as he could. The movement brought the animal right on to his spear, and its momentum was great enough for the razor-sharp iron to slice through the skin. There was a grating feeling as it pushed over the larynx before running onwards into the deeper, softer tissues. Fully capable of tearing him apart yet, the bear bucked and reared, its immense strength threatening to rip Quintus’ weapon from his hands. He hung on for dear life as, half suspended above him, the animal clawed furiously at the thick wooden shaft. It was so close that his nostrils were filled with its pungent odour. He could almost touch the fangs that had torn apart the Gaul and three of the dogs.

  It was utterly terrifying.

  The animal’s immense weight eventually worked against it, forcing the deadly blade further into its flesh. Quintus was far from happy, however. The bear was very much alive, and it was drawing ever nearer. It filled his entire range of vision – a great angry mass of teeth and claws. Any closer and it would rip him to shreds. Could the protruding spikes at the base of the iron shank take the strain? Quintus’ mouth was bone dry with fear. Die, you whoreson. Just die.

  It lurched a further handsbreadth down the spear shaft.

  He thought his heart would stop.

  Abruptly, the bear gagged, and a bright red tide of blood sprayed from its mouth, covering the ground beyond Quintus. He had sliced through a large artery! Jupiter, let its heart be next, he prayed. Before it reaches me. The shaft juddered as the iron spikes slammed against the creature’s neck, and it came to an abrupt stop. It snarled in Quintus’ face, and he closed his eyes. There was no more he could do.

  To his immense relief, the bear stopped struggling. Another torrent of blood poured from its gaping jaws, covering Quintus’ face and shoulders. Disbelieving, he looked up, stunned to see the light in its amber eyes weaken, and then go out. All at once, the bear was a dead weight on the end of his spear. Quintus’ exhausted muscles could take the pressure no longer, and he let go.

  The animal landed on top of him.

  To Quintus’ immense relief, it did not move. And although he could barely breathe, he was alive.

  An instant later, he felt the bear’s body being hauled off.

  ‘You’re unhurt,’ his father cried. ‘Praise be!’

  Agesandros growled his agreement.

  Quintus sat up gingerly. ‘Someone was watching over me,’ he muttered, wiping some of the bear’s blood away from his eyes.

  ‘They were indeed, but that doesn’t take away from what you’ve done,’ said Fabricius. There was tangible relief in his voice. ‘I was sure you were going to be killed. But you held your nerve! Few men can do that when faced with certain death. You should be proud. Not only have you proved your courage, but you’ve honoured our ancestors in the finest way possible.’

  Quintus glanced at Agesandros and the two slaves, who were regarding him with new respect. His chin lifted. He had succeeded! Thank you, Diana and Mars, he thought. I will make a generous offering to you both. Inevitably, though, Quintus’ eyes were drawn to the tattooed slave ’s body. Guilt seized him. ‘I should have saved him too,’ he muttered.

  ‘Come now!’ Fabricius replied. ‘You are not Hercules. The fool should have known better than to risk his life for a dog. Your achievement is worthy of any Roman.’ He drew Quintus to his feet and embraced him warmly.

  Quintus’ emotions suddenly became overwhelming: sadness at the Gaul’s death mixed with relief that he had triumphed over his fear. He struggled not to c
ry. During the fight, he’d forgotten about becoming a man. Somehow, he had achieved the task set out by his father.

  At last they drew apart.

  ‘How does it feel?’ Fabricius asked.

  ‘No different,’ Quintus replied with a grin.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Quintus stared at the bear and realised that things had changed. Before, he’d been unsure of his ability to kill such a magnificent creature. Indeed, he’d nearly failed because of his terror. Staring death in the face was a lot worse than he’d imagined. Yet wanting to survive had been a gut instinct. He looked back to find Fabricius studying him intently.

  ‘I saw that you were afraid,’ his father said. ‘I would have intervened, but you had made me promise not to.’

  Quintus flushed, and opened his mouth to speak.

  Fabricius raised a hand. ‘Your reaction was normal, despite what some might say. But your determination to succeed, even if you died in the attempt, was stronger than your fear. You were right to make me swear not to step in.’ He clapped Quintus on the arm. ‘The gods have favoured you.’

  Quintus remembered the two woodpeckers he’d seen, and smiled.

  ‘As you are to be a soldier, we shall have to visit the temple of Mars as well as that of Diana.’ Fabricius winked. ‘There’s also the small matter of buying a toga.’

  Quintus beamed. Visits to Capua were always to be looked forward to. Living in the countryside afforded few opportunities for socialising or pleasure. They could visit the public baths and his father’s old comrade, Flavius Martialis. Flavius’ son, Gaius, was the same age as he was, and the two got along famously. Gaius would love to hear the story of the bear hunt.

  First, though, he had to tell Aurelia and his mother. They would be waiting eagerly for news.

  While Agesandros and the slaves stayed to bury the tattooed Gaul and to fashion carrying poles for the bear, Quintus and his father headed for home.