Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  Like most Iberian tribesmen, few of the Ausetani were dressed identically. Most were bareheaded. Those who wore headgear sported sinew, bronze bowl or triple-crested helmets. The majority carried a shield, although these also varied in size and shape: tall and straight-sided with rounded ends, oval, or round with a conical iron boss. All were brightly painted with swirling serpents, diamonds, or alternating thick bands of colour. The Ausetani were also heavily armed. Every man carried at least one saunion, but many had two. In addition, each warrior had a dagger and either a kopis or a typical Celtiberian straight-edged sword.

  Malchus turned his head. ‘Tell them who we are, and why we’re here.’

  ‘We are Carthaginians,’ said Bostar loudly. ‘We come in peace.’ He ignored the sniggers that met this remark. ‘With a message for your chieftain, from our leader, Hannibal Barca.’

  ‘Never heard of the prick,’ bellowed a hulking figure with a black beard. Hoots of amusement from his comrades followed. Encouraged by this, the warrior shoved his way out of the throng. Long raven tresses spilled out from under his bronze helmet. His black quilted linen tunic could not conceal the massive muscles of his chest and upper arms, and his sinew greaves barely fitted around his trunk-like calves. He was so big that the shield and saunion clutched in his ham fists looked like child’s toys. The warrior gave the Libyans and scutarii a contemptuous glance, before returning his cold gaze to Bostar. ‘Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t just kill you all,’ he snarled.

  Snarls of agreement followed his challenge, and the Ausetani moved forward a step.

  Bostar tensed, but managed to keep his hands in his lap, on his reins. He watched Sapho sidelong and was relieved when his brother didn’t reach for his sword either.

  ‘The guide was telling the truth,’ Malchus remarked dryly under his breath. He raised his voice. ‘Tell him that we bring a message, and gifts, for his leader from our general. His chieftain will not be pleased if he does not hear these words for himself.’

  Carefully, Bostar repeated his father’s words in Iberian. It was exactly the right thing to say. Confusion and anger mixed on the big man’s face for a moment, but a moment later, he stood back. When one of his companions queried his action, the warrior simply shoved him aside with an irritated grunt. Relief flooded through Bostar. The first hurdle had been crossed. It was like watching a landslide beginning. First one man moved out of the way, then a second and a third, followed by several more, until the process took on a life of its own. Soon the group of Ausetani had split apart, leaving the track that led to the village’s front gate clear apart from the warrior with the black beard. He trotted ahead to carry the news of their arrival.

  Without looking to left or right, Malchus urged his horse up the slope.

  The rest of the party followed, shadowed closely by the mass of warriors.

  Inside, the settlement was like a hundred others Bostar had seen before. A central open area was ringed by dozens of single-storey wooden and brick huts, the outermost of which had been built right up against the palisade. Plumes of smoke rose from the roofs of many. Small children and dogs played in the dirt, oblivious to the drama about to unfold. Hens and pigs scuffled about, searching for food. Women and old people stood in the doorways of their houses, watching impassively. The acrid smell of urine and faeces, both animal and human, laced the air. At the far side of the open space stood a high-backed wooden chair, which was occupied by a man in late middle age, and flanked by ten warriors in mail shirts and crimson-crested helmets. The bearded hulk was there too, busily muttering to the chieftain.

  Without hesitation, Malchus headed for this group. Reaching it, he dismounted, indicating that his sons should do the same. At once three Libyan spearmen darted forward to take the horses’ reins. Malchus made a deep bow towards the chief. Bostar quickly copied him. It was prudent to treat the Ausetani leader with respect, he thought. The man was head of a tribe, after all. Yet he looked an untrustworthy ruffian. The chieftain’s red linen tunic might be woven from quality fabric, and the sword and dagger on his belt well made, but the tresses of lank, greasy hair that dangled on to his pockmarked cheeks told a different story. So did his flat, dead eyes, which reminded Bostar of a lizard. Sapho was last of all to bend from the waist. His gesture was shallower than the others had been. His insolence did not go unnoticed; several of the nearby warriors snarled with anger. Bostar glared at his brother, but the harm had been done.

  The trio of Carthaginians and the Ausetani leader stared at each other in silence for a moment, each trying to gauge the other. The chieftain spoke first. He aimed his words at Malchus, the embassy’s obvious leader.

  ‘He says that our message must indeed be important to keep his men from their sport,’ muttered Bostar.

  ‘He’s playing with us. Trying to put fear in our hearts,’ Malchus murmured contemptuously. ‘He’s not about to kill us out of hand, or his warriors would have done so already. The news of our presence in the area must have reached him before now, and he wants to hear what we have to say for himself. Tell him what we told the other leaders. Lay it on thick about the size of our army.’

  Bostar did as he was told, politely explaining how Hannibal and his host would arrive in the next few months, seeking only safe passage to Gaul. There would be well-paid jobs for Ausetani warriors who wished to serve as guides. Any supplies required by the Carthaginians would be purchased. Looting and theft of the locals’ property or livestock would be forbidden, on pain of death. As he spoke, Bostar studied the chief intently but was frustrated in his attempt to gauge what the man was thinking. All he could do was to continue in a confident, self-assured vein. Hope for the best.

  Bostar began to wax lyrical about the different groups that made up Hannibal’s immense force, describing the thousands of spearmen and scutarii like those who stood behind him; the slingers and skirmishers who softened up an enemy before the real fighting began; the peerless Numidian cavalry, whose stinging attacks no soldiers in the world could withstand; and the elephants, which were capable of smashing apart troop formations like so much firewood. Bostar was still in mid-flow when the chieftain peremptorily held up his hand, stopping him. ‘And you say this army is how big?’ he demanded.

  ‘A hundred thousand men. At the very least.’ The instant the words had left his lips, Bostar could see that the Ausetani leader did not believe him. His spirits fell. It was an enormous figure to take in, yet the other tribes visited by the embassy had done so. Perhaps, thought Bostar, it was because they were a lot smaller than the Ausetani. In those villages, the fifty Carthaginian soldiers had seemed altogether more intimidating than they did here. This tribe was a different proposition; reportedly, there were numerous other villages like this one. Combined, the Ausetani might be able to field a force of two or even three thousand warriors, which for Iberia was a considerable achievement. Imagining a host thirty to fifty times larger than that number called for a good imagination.

  Sure enough, the chief and his bodyguards exchanged a series of disbelieving looks.

  ‘Scum,’ Sapho whispered furiously in Carthaginian. ‘They’ll shit themselves when they actually see the army.’

  Not knowing what else to do, Bostar ploughed on. ‘Some evidence of our good faith.’ He clicked his fingers and a quartet of scutarii trotted forward, carrying heavy, clinking bags and armfuls of tightly rolled leather. Placing the items in front of the chieftain, they returned to their positions.

  The gifts were opened and examined with unseemly speed. Avarice glittered in the faces of every Ausetani watching as mounds of silver coins showered on to the ground. There were loud mutters of appreciation too for the shining weaponry that emerged into view as the leather bundles were unrolled.

  Malchus’ attitude was still confident, or appeared to be so. ‘Ask the chief what answer he would have us take back to Hannibal,’ he directed Bostar.

  Bostar obeyed.

  The Ausetani leader’s face grew thoughtful. For the space of
twenty heartbeats, he sat regarding the riches laid out before him. Finally, he asked a short question.

  ‘He wants to know how much more they can expect when Hannibal arrives,’ Bostar relayed unhappily.

  ‘Greedy bastard,’ Sapho hissed.

  Malchus’ eyebrows drew together in disapproval, yet he did not look surprised. ‘I can promise him the same again, and the dog will probably let us go,’ he said. ‘But I have no idea if Hannibal will agree with my decision. We’ve already handed over a fortune.’ He glanced at his sons. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Hannibal will think we are fools, pure and simple,’ muttered Sapho, his nostrils flaring. ‘All the other tribes have accepted our gifts, yet this one got twice as much?’

  ‘We can’t offer him more or the son of a whore will think we’re a walkover,’ Bostar conceded. He scowled. ‘Hannibal’s goodwill should be more than enough for him!’

  ‘But I don’t think it will be,’ said Malchus grimly. ‘If that amount of silver and weaponry hasn’t done it, then a vague promise certainly won’t.’

  Bostar could see no way out that didn’t involve major loss of face. Although he and his companions were few in number, they were the representatives of a major power, not these cut-throats around them. To accede to the chieftain’s demand would show fear on their part, and by implication, weakness on the part of their general. His eyes narrowed as an idea struck. ‘You could promise him a private meeting with Hannibal,’ he suggested. ‘Suggest that an alliance between his people and Carthage would be beneficial to both parties.’

  ‘We don’t have the authority to grant that,’ growled Sapho.

  ‘Of course we don’t,’ Bostar replied witheringly. ‘But it’s not a climb-down either.’

  ‘I like it,’ breathed Malchus. He glanced at Sapho, who gave a sulky shrug. ‘I think it’s our best shot. Tell him.’

  Calmly, Bostar delivered their answer.

  A ferocious scowl spread across the chieftain’s face straightaway, and he spat out an irate, lengthy response. It was delivered so fast that Malchus and Sapho struggled to understand much of it. Bostar did not bother translating before he replied. At once the leader’s bodyguards and the huge warrior moved forward in unison. Simultaneously, the men who had followed the Carthaginians inside fanned out on either side of the party, surrounding it.

  ‘What in the name of all the gods did he say?’ Malchus demanded.

  Bostar’s lips thinned. ‘That the Ausetani have no need of an alliance with the louse-ridden son of a Phoenician whore.’

  Sapho clenched his fists. ‘How did you answer?’

  ‘I told him that an immediate sincere apology might mean Hannibal’s clemency when the army arrives. Otherwise, he and his entire tribe could expect to be annihilated.’

  Malchus clapped him on the arm. ‘Well said!’

  Even Sapho gave Bostar a look of grudging admiration.

  Malchus eyed the circle of warriors around them. ‘It appears that our road ends here then,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘We will never have the opportunity to avenge Hanno. Yet we can die well. Like men!’ He turned towards their escorts, and repeated his words. He was pleased when, as one, they laid hands to their weapons.

  ‘On your command, sir,’ muttered the officers in charge.

  ‘Wait,’ interrupted Sapho. ‘I have an idea.’ Without asking for Malchus’ approval, he drew his sword and moved to stand in front of the hulk who had laughed at them when they arrived. The warrior leered unpleasantly. ‘Can this freak actually fight?’ Sapho demanded in reasonable Iberian.

  The Ausetani leader couldn’t believe his ears. Sapho barely reached up to the warrior’s shoulder. ‘That’s my eldest son. He’s never been beaten in single combat.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Bostar whispered to Malchus.

  For once, Malchus looked worried. ‘I don’t know, but I hope the gods are smiling on him.’

  Sapho raised his voice. ‘If I defeat him, then you will apologise, accept Hannibal’s gifts and allow us to leave unharmed. When our army arrives, you will offer it safe passage.’

  The chieftain laughed. So did everyone within earshot. ‘Of course. If you fail, though, he will take your head, and those of all your companions, as trophies.’

  ‘I would expect no less,’ Sapho replied disdainfully.

  The chieftain gave a callous shrug. At his command, the mass of warriors formed a large, hollow circle. Malchus seized the initiative and used his soldiers to force a passage through so that they could form part of what was to be the combat area. He and Bostar stood at the very front. Many of the Ausetani did not like this move, and began pushing and shoving at the Carthaginian troops, until an angry shout from their leader stopped them. Surrounded by his bodyguards, the chief took up a position directly opposite Malchus.

  Gripping his drawn sword, Sapho stalked through a narrow corridor of leering, unfriendly faces. A few paces behind him, the huge warrior received a rapturous welcome. When they were both in the centre of the circle, the crowd of Ausetani closed ranks. From a distance of perhaps a dozen paces, the two faced each other. Sapho was armed with a sword and a dagger. In contemptuous concession, his opponent had laid aside his shield and saunion, leaving him with a long, straight, double-edged blade. It still looked like a totally uneven match.

  Bostar’s gorge rose. Sapho was a skilled swordsman, but he’d never faced a prospect like this. Judging by his father’s clenched jaw and fixed expression, he was thinking similar thoughts. Whatever he had been thinking about Sapho recently, Bostar didn’t want him to die losing to this giant. Closing his eyes, he prayed to Baal Saphon, the god of war, to help his brother. To help them all.

  Sapho rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles and wondering what was his best course of action. Why had he thrown down such a stupid challenge? The explanation was simple. Since Bostar had saved Hannibal’s life, Sapho’s jealousy had soared to new heights. There had always been a keen rivalry between them, but this was a step too far. In the months since they’d left Saguntum, Sapho had appeared to go along with Bostar’s wish to lay the matter to rest, but the feeling gnawed constantly at his guts like a malignant growth. Perhaps now some of his wounded pride could be reclaimed. Sapho studied his opponent’s bulging muscles and tried not to despair. What chance had he of succeeding? He had only one, Sapho realised with a thrill. His speed.

  The chieftain raised his right arm, and a hushed silence fell. Glancing at both men to ensure they were ready, he made a downward chopping gesture.

  With an almighty roar, the warrior launched himself forward, his sword raised high. For him, the contest was to be ended quickly. Brutally. Closing in on Sapho, he hammered down an immense blow. Instead of cleaving flesh, the blade whistled through the air to clash off the pebble-strewn ground, sending up a shower of sparks. Sapho was gone, dancing nimbly around to his opponent’s rear. The warrior bellowed with rage and spun to face him. Again he swung at Sapho, to no avail. He didn’t seem to care. With greater strength and reach, and a longer weapon, he had all the advantage.

  Speed isn’t enough, thought Sapho. Desperately, he twisted away from a thrust that would have driven through both his bronze breastplate and his ribcage had it connected. So far, the warrior’s quilted linen tunic had turned away the glancing blows he had managed to land. Without getting dangerously close, it was impossible to do any more. Backing away from his sneering opponent, Sapho did not see one of the Ausetani stretch out his foot. An instant later, he tripped over it and fell backwards on to the hard packed dirt. Fortunately, he retained hold of his sword.

  The warrior stepped closer and Sapho saw death looking him in the eyes. He waited until his enemy had begun to swing downwards, and then, with all his might, he rolled away into the centre of the circle. Behind him, Sapho heard his opponent’s sword slam into the ground with a bone-jarring thump. Knowing that speed was of the essence, he turned over and over before trying to get up. Mocking laughs from the watching Ausetani filled the
air, and the huge warrior raised his arms in anticipation of victory. Rage filled Sapho at their treachery. He knew too that this fight couldn’t be won by ordinary means. It was time to cast the dice. Take his chance. He drew his dagger with his left hand, ignoring the jeers this provoked.

  Breathing deeply, Sapho waited. What he needed the warrior to do was take a great sideways slash at him. The only way he could think of drawing the hulk in was to stay put – without defending himself. It was a complete gamble. If the other didn’t take the bait and respond exactly as he wished, he’d be dead, but Sapho couldn’t think of anything else to do. Weariness threatened to overcome him, and his shoulders slumped.

  The huge warrior shuffled in, grinning.

  With a thrill, Sapho realised that his opponent thought he’d given up. He didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Prepare to die,’ the warrior growled. Lifting his right arm, he swung his sword around in a curving arc, aiming for the junction between Sapho’s neck and shoulders. The blow was delivered with unstoppable force, at a target that was standing stock still. To those watching, it looked as if the duel was over.

  At the last moment, Sapho dropped to his knees, letting the other’s blade split the air over his head. Throwing himself forward, he stretched out his arm and plunged his dagger into the warrior’s left thigh. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but nor was it meant to be. As he landed helplessly on his chest, Sapho heard a loud scream of pain. A grimace of satisfaction twisted his lips as he scrambled to his feet, still clutching his sword. A few steps away, the bleeding warrior was listing to one side like a ship in a storm. All his attention was focused on pulling the knife from his leg. Stabbing him in the back would be simple.

  A quick glance at the snarling faces surrounding them helped Sapho to make a snap decision. Mercy would be far more useful here than ruthlessness. Swiftly, he swept in and completed the task. Drawing his blade across the back of his enemy’s left leg, he hamstrung him. As the bellowing warrior collapsed, Sapho stamped on his right hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. Touching the point of his blade to the other’s chest, he growled, ‘Yield.’