Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  Bostar threw his eyes to heaven. ‘Of course not! Why would you recognise that I just saved your arse from a severe reprimand?’

  ‘Fuck you, Bostar,’ Sapho snapped. He felt completely backed into a corner. ‘You’re always right, aren’t you? Everyone loves you, the perfect fucking officer!’ Turning on his heel, he stalked off.

  Bostar watched him go. Why couldn’t he have gone fishing instead of Hanno? he thought. His remorse for even thinking such a thing was instant, but the feeling lingered as he began organising rescue parties for the injured.

  For the next two months, the siege went on in much the same fashion. Every full frontal assault made by the Carthaginians was met with dogged, undying determination by the defenders. The vineae regularly smashed more holes in the outer wall, but the attackers could not press home their advantage fully, despite their overwhelming superiority of numbers. Relations between Bostar and Sapho did not improve, and the constant activity meant that it was easy to avoid each other. When they weren’t fighting, they were sleeping or looking after their wounded. Malchus, who had not only his own phalanx to deal with, but the extra duties given him by Hannibal, remained unaware of the feud.

  Incensed by the manner in which the siege was dragging on, Hannibal eventually ordered the construction of more siege engines: vineae, which protected the men within, and an immense multi-storey tower on wheels. This last, holding catapults and hundreds of soldiers on its various levels, could be moved to whichever point was weakest on a particular day. Its firepower was so great that the battlements could be cleared of defenders within a short time, allowing the wooden terraces which would protect the attacking infantry to be carried forward without hindrance. Fortunately for the Carthaginians, the ramparts had been built on a base of clay, not cement. Using pickaxes, the troops in the terraces set to work, undermining the base of the walls. In this way, a further breach was made, and the attackers’ spirits were briefly lifted. Yet all was not as it seemed. Beyond the gaping hole, the Carthaginians found that a crescent-shaped fortification of earth had been thrown up in preparation for this exact eventuality. From behind its protection came repeated volleys of the terrifying falaricae.

  At this point, despite the showers of burning javelins, the Carthaginians’ relentless determination and superior numbers began to tell. The Saguntines did not have time to rebuild the new damage to their defences properly, and repeated waves of attack finally smashed a passage behind the walls. Despite the defenders’ heroism, the position was held. Further successes followed in the subsequent days, but then, with winter approaching, Hannibal was called away by a major rebellion of the fierce tribes that lived near the River Tagus. Maharbal, the officer he left in command, proceeded vigorously with the assault. He gained further ground, driving the weakened defenders into the citadel. The attackers’ situation was strengthened by the fact that cholera and other illnesses were now causing heavy casualties among the Saguntines; their food and supplies were also running dangerously low.

  By the time Hannibal had put down the uprising and returned, the end was near. The Carthaginian general offered terms to the Saguntine leaders. Incredibly, they were rejected out of hand. With the end of the year nigh, preparations were made for a final, decisive assault. Thanks to their repeated valour, Malchus, his sons and their spearmen had been chosen to be part of the last attack. Typically, Hannibal and his corps of scutarii were also present.

  Long before the winter sun had tinted the eastern horizon, they assembled some fifty paces from the walls. Behind them, reaching all the way to the bottom of the slope, were units from every section of the army except the cavalry. Apart from the occasional jingle of mail or muted cough, the soldiers made little noise. The breath of thousands plumed the chill, damp air, the only manifestation of the excitement every man felt. As reward for their long struggle and because of the Saguntines’ refusal to parley, Hannibal had told his troops that they had free rein when the city fell. Carthage would take some of the spoils, but the rest was theirs, including the inhabitants: men, women and children.

  In serried ranks, they waited as the wooden terraces were pushed forward by torchlight. There was no longer any need for the huge tower with its slingers, spearmen and catapults. Either from lack of men, or missiles, the defenders had recently given up trying to destroy the Carthaginian siege engines. This good fortune meant that the work to undermine the fortifications had been able to proceed much faster than before. According to the engineer in charge, the citadel itself would fall by mid-morning at the latest.

  His prediction was accurate. As the first orange fingers of sunlight crept into the sky, ominous rumbles began to fill the air. Within moments, great clouds of smoke began to rise from the centre of the citadel. The crackle of burning wood could also be heard. The Carthaginians paid it no heed. They no longer cared what the Saguntines were doing. With all possible speed, the majority of the soldiers at work in the terraces were pulled back. The danger of being crushed had grown too great. Yet, despite the extreme danger, some remained to finish the task.

  They did not have to wait long. With frightening speed, a large piece of the citadel wall suddenly tumbled to the ground. In a chain reaction, it precipitated the thunderous collapse of other, bigger sections. With loud cracks, brickwork and carved stones, which had been in place for decades, even centuries, crumbled and gave way. The noise as they fell more than five storeys was deafening. Inevitably, some of those in the wooden terraces failed to escape in time. A short chorus of strangled screams announced their horrifying demise. Bostar clenched his jaw at the sound. It was what he had expected. As his father had said, ordinary soldiers were expendable. The loss of a certain number meant nothing. And yet to Bostar it did, like the widespread rape, torture and killing of civilians that would shortly take place. Malchus’ grim nature and Sapho’s even darker personality appeared not to be affected by such things, but Bostar felt it damage his soul. He did not let his determination weaken, however. There were too many things at stake. The defeat of Rome. Revenge for his beloved younger brother, Hanno. The building of a new relationship with Sapho. Whether he would ever achieve any of them, Bostar had no idea. Somehow the last seemed the most unlikely.

  Immense clouds of dust clogged the air, but as they finally began to clear, the waiting Carthaginians could see an indefensible breach had been created. A swelling cheer rippled down the slope. At last, victory was at hand.

  Bostar felt his spirits rise. He threw Sapho a tight smile, but all he got in return was a scowl.

  Drawing his falcata sword, Hannibal led the advance.

  It was at this precise moment, because of a warning from the surviving defenders on the battlements perhaps, that the screams began. Ululating, despairing, yet still with shreds of dignity, they filled the air. The Carthaginians’ heads shot up. No one could ignore such terrible sounds.

  ‘It’s the nobility burning themselves to death.’ Malchus’ voice revealed an unusual respect. ‘They’re too proud to become slaves. May it never fall to that in Carthage.’

  ‘Ha! That day will never come,’ Sapho replied.

  Bostar’s instinctive reaction, however, was to utter a prayer to Baal Hammon. Watch over our city for ever, he prayed. Keep it safe from savages such as the Romans.

  Hannibal wasn’t listening to the noise. He was keen to end the matter. ‘Charge!’ he screamed in Iberian, and then, for the benefit of the Libyans, he repeated it in his own tongue. Followed by his faithful scutarii, he trotted towards the gaping hole in the citadel. Bellowing the same command, Malchus, Sapho and Bostar sprang forward with their men. Behind them, the order rang out in half a dozen languages, and, like so many thousand ants, the host of soldiers followed.

  Sapho and Bostar’s rivalry resurfaced with a vengeance. Whoever reached the top of the breach first would win praise from Hannibal and the respect of the entire army. Outstripping their men, they clambered neck and neck across the uneven and treacherous piles of rubble and broken masonry. Wit
h their spears in one hand, and their shields in the other, they had no way of breaking a fall. It was lunacy, but there was no going back now. Hannibal was leading, and they must follow. Soon, the brothers had drawn alongside their leader, who was two steps in front of his scutarii. Hannibal gave them an encouraging grin, which they reciprocated, before glaring at each other.

  Glancing over his shoulder an instant later, Bostar’s eyes widened. The downward angle of the gradient afforded him a perfect view of the Carthaginian attack. It was a magnificent and terrible sight, guaranteed to drive terror into the hearts of the defenders who remained on the walls. Bostar doubted that any would dare. With the leaders immolating themselves rather than surrender, the ordinary soldiers would be cowering in their homes with their families, or also committing suicide.

  He was wrong. Not all the Saguntines had given up the struggle.

  As his gaze returned to the slope before him, his attention was drawn by movement up and to the right, on a section of the battlements that was still complete. There Bostar saw six men crouched around an enormous block of stone. Working together, they were pushing it towards the broken end of the walkway that ran along the top of the wall. Bostar followed the trajectory the block would take when it fell, and his heart leaped into his mouth. While the Saguntines’ purpose was to cause as many casualties as possible, the potential cost to the Carthaginians was far greater. Bostar could see that within a few heartbeats, Hannibal would be standing full square in the stone’s path. A glance at Sapho, and at Hannibal himself, told Bostar that he was the only one to have seen the danger.

  When he looked up again, the irregularly shaped block was already teetering on the edge. As Bostar opened his mouth in a warning shout, it tipped forward and fell. Gathering speed unbelievably fast, the stone tumbled and bounced down the slope. Its passage sent showers of brick and masonry into the air, each piece of which was capable of smashing a man’s skull. Screaming with delight, the defenders turned and fled, secure in the knowledge that their final effort would kill dozens of Carthaginians.

  Bostar did not think. He simply reacted. Dropping his spear, he charged sideways at Hannibal. The air filled with a sudden thunder. Bostar did not look up, for fear of soiling himself. Several scutarii, whose advance his action was checking, mouthed confused curses. Bostar paid no heed. He just prayed that none of the Iberians would think he was trying to harm Hannibal and get in his way. Now he had covered six steps. A dozen. Sensing Bostar’s approach, Hannibal turned his head. Confused, he frowned. ‘What in the name of Baal Hammon are you doing?’ he demanded.

  Bostar didn’t answer. Leaping forward, he swept his right arm around Hannibal’s body and drove them both to the ground, with the general trapped beneath. With his left arm, Bostar raised his shield to cover both their heads. There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then the earth shook. Their ears were filled with a reverberation of sound that threatened to deafen them. Thankfully it did not last, but diminished as the block crashed down the slope.

  Bostar’s first concern was not for himself. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

  Hannibal’s voice was muffled. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Thank the gods, thought Bostar. Gingerly, he moved his arms and legs. To his delight, they all seemed to work. Discarding his shield, he sat up, helping Hannibal to do the same.

  The general swore softly. Perhaps three steps from their position, lay a scutarius. Or at least, what had once been a scutarius. The man had not so much been broken apart as smeared across the uneven ground. His bronze helmet had provided little protection. Chunks of brain matter were spread like white paste on the rocks, providing a sharp contrast to the bright red blood that oozed from the tangled mess of tissue that had been his body. Jagged pieces of brick protruded from the scutarius’ back, poking holes in his tunic. His limbs were bent at unnatural, terrible angles, exposing in multiple places the gleaming white ends of broken bones.

  He was just the first casualty. Below the corpse stretched a swathe of destruction as far as the eye could see. Bostar had never witnessed anything like it. Dozens of soldiers, perhaps more, had been killed. No. Pulverised, Bostar thought. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he struggled not to be sick.

  Hannibal’s voice startled him. ‘It appears that I owe you my life.’

  Numbly, Bostar nodded.

  ‘My thanks. You are a fine soldier,’ said Hannibal, clambering to his feet. He helped Bostar to do the same.

  In the same instant, those of Hannibal’s scutarii who had not been harmed came swarming in, their faces twisted with alarm. Naturally, the attack had been stalled by the Saguntines’ daring action. Anxious questions filled the air as the Iberians established that their beloved commander had not been hurt. Hannibal quickly brushed them off. Picking up his falcata sword, which had fallen to the ground, he looked at Bostar. ‘Are you ready to finish what we started?’ he asked.

  Bostar was stunned by the speed at which Hannibal’s composure had returned. He himself was still in shock. He managed to nod his head. ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Hannibal with a brief smile. He indicated that Bostar should advance beside him.

  Retrieving his spear, Bostar obeyed. He barely took in the pleased grin that Malchus gave him, and the equally poisonous expression on Sapho’s face. Elation had replaced his terror, and he could try to patch things up with his brother later.

  For now, it was all about following Hannibal.

  A true leader of men.

  Chapter IX: Minucius Flaccus

  Near Capua, Campania

  HANNO LEANED AGAINST the wall of the kitchen, admiring the view as Elira bent over a table laden down with food. Her dress rode up, exposing her shapely calves and tightening over the swell of her buttocks. Hanno’s groin throbbed, and he shifted position to avoid his excitement being obvious. Elira and Quintus were still lovers, but that didn’t mean Hanno couldn’t admire her from a distance. Alarmingly, Elira had noticed his glances, and returned them with smouldering ones of her own, but Hanno had not risked taking things any further. His newly born – and potentially valuable – friendship with Quintus was too fragile to survive a revelation like that.

  Since the fight at the hut, his circumstances had become much easier. Fabricius had been impressed by Quintus’ account of the fight and the physical evidence of two live, if wounded, prisoners. Hanno’s reward was to be made a household slave. His manacles were removed and he was allowed to sleep in the house. Initially, Hanno was delighted. At one stroke, he had been removed from Agesandros’ grasp. Weeks later, he was not so sure. The harsh reality of his situation seemed starker than ever before.

  Three times a day, Hanno had to attend the family at their meals. Naturally, he was not allowed to eat with them. He saw Aurelia and Quintus daily from morning to night, but could not talk to them unless no one else was about. Even then, conversations were hurried. It was all so different from the time they had spent together in the woods. Despite the enforced distance between them, Hanno was relieved that the palpable air of comradeship – which had so recently sprung up – had not vanished. Quintus’ occasional winks and Aurelia’s shy smiles now lit up his days. Lastly, there was Elira, whose bedroll was not twenty paces from his, on the floor of the atrium, and whom he dared not approach. Hanno knew that he should be grateful for his lot. On the occasions that he and Agesandros came face to face, it was patently clear that the Sicilian still wished him harm.

  ‘Father!’ Aurelia’s delighted voice echoed from the courtyard. ‘You’re back!’

  As curious as any, Hanno followed the other kitchen slaves to the door. Fabricius hadn’t been expected home for at least two weeks.

  Dressed in a belted tunic and sandals, Fabricius stood by the main fountain. A broad smile creased his face as Aurelia raced up to him. ‘I’m filthy,’ he warned. ‘Covered in dust from the journey.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ She wrapped her arms around him. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  He ga
ve her an affectionate hug. ‘I have missed you too.’

  A pang of sadness at his own plight plucked at Hanno’s heart, but he did not allow himself to dwell on it.

  ‘Husband. Thank the gods for your safe return.’ With a sedate smile, Atia joined her husband and daughter. Aurelia pulled away, allowing Fabricius to kiss his wife on the cheek. They gave each other a pleased look, which spoke volumes. ‘You must be thirsty.’

  ‘My throat’s as dry as a desert riverbed,’ Fabricius replied.

  Atia’s eyes swivelled to the kitchen doorway, and the gaggle of watching slaves. She caught Hanno’s gaze first. ‘Bring wine! The rest of you, back to work.’

  The doorway emptied in a flash. Every slave knew not to cross Atia, who ruled the household with a silken yet iron-hard grip. Quickly, Hanno reached down four of the best glasses from the shelf and placed them on a tray. Julius, the friendly slave who ran the kitchen, was already reaching for an amphora. Hanno watched as he diluted the wine in the Roman fashion with four times the amount of water. ‘There you go,’ Julius muttered, placing a full jug on the tray. ‘Get out there before she calls again.’

  Hanno hurried to obey. He was keen to know what had brought about Fabricius’ early return. With pricked ears, he carried the tray towards the family, who had just been joined by Quintus.

  Quintus grinned broadly, before he remembered that he was now a man. ‘Father,’ he said solemnly. ‘It is good to see you.’

  Fabricius pinched his son’s cheek. ‘You’ve grown even more.’

  Quintus blushed. To cover his embarrassment, he turned expectantly to Hanno. ‘Come on, then. Fill them up.’

  Hanno stiffened at the order, but did as he was told. His hand paused over the fourth glass, and he looked to Atia.

  ‘Yes, yes, pour one for Aurelia too. She’s practically a woman.’

  Aurelia’s happy expression slipped away. ‘Have you found me a husband?’ she asked accusingly. ‘Is that why you’ve come back?’