Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  Chapter XVIII: Cisalpine Gaul

  THERE WERE ONLY two occasions when the two friends heard something of what was going on inside. The first was when alarmed shouts rang out; the second, which followed directly after, was the sound of loud cheering. Almost at once, news spread through the assembled crowds that the Senate had given Publius its resounding support. Now the consul was to head north with all speed, there to confront Hannibal. Before the pair had time to take the momentous information in, several figures hurried from the Curia. Suddenly, Quintus came to life. He gave Hanno a violent nudge. ‘Look,’ he hissed, taking a step forward. ‘It’s Father!’

  ‘So it is,’ Hanno muttered. He was even more shocked than Quintus. Why was Fabricius here? His next thought was far more worrying. How would Quintus explain his presence? A wave of terror struck him. What chance was there of Fabricius accepting Quintus’ grant of freedom? Precious little. Hanno couldn’t help thinking he should walk away into the crowd. He would be lost to sight in an instant. Free to make his own way north. Hanno wavered, but then his pride took over. I am no coward who runs away and hides.

  Glancing around, Quintus sensed his unhappiness. Despite his excitement, he pulled himself up short. ‘It’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Eh? Why not?’ Hanno cried. ‘This is a perfect opportunity for you.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it isn’t for you.’

  Hanno coloured. He didn’t know what to say.

  Quintus pre-empted him. ‘What possibility is there that Father will honour your manumission?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hanno muttered. ‘Not much, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Quintus replied. ‘Which is the reason I’m staying right here. With you.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ asked Hanno, caught off guard.

  ‘Have you forgotten last night already?’ Quintus cuffed him on the side of the head. ‘You promised to accompany me to Iberia, even though you no longer had any need to go there. Plus you didn’t make a run for it just now, which most people would have done. I have to repay your honour. Fair’s fair.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’ Hanno indicated Fabricius, who was about to disappear from view. ‘Maybe he’s not going with the consul.’

  ‘I’d say he is, but you’re right. We should make sure.’ Quintus strode off. ‘Come on, let’s follow him.’

  Hanno hurried to catch up. ‘What if he’s going back to Iberia?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that afterwards,’ Quintus answered. ‘In that eventuality, I suppose it would make sense to split up. Otherwise, I’m travelling with you to Cisalpine Gaul.’

  Hanno chuckled. ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Quintus gave him a lopsided smile. ‘But I still have to do the right thing.’

  ‘And once we get there?’ Hanno asked uneasily.

  ‘We’ll part company. I’ll find Father, and you’ – there was an awkward pause – ‘can seek out Hannibal’s army.’

  Hanno gripped Quintus’ arm. ‘Thank you.’

  Quintus nodded. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  The army that straggled down into the green foothills of the Alps was a shadow of what it had been. All semblance of marching formation had long gone. Gaunt-faced, hollow-cheeked figures stumbled along, holding on to each other for support. The ribs on every surviving horse and mule stood out like the bare frame of a new-built ship. Although few had died, the elephants had suffered extraordinarily too. Bostar thought that they now looked like nothing more than giant skeletons covered by sagging folds of grey skin. The heaviest toll, however, was the number of men and beasts that had been lost during the passage of the mountains. The scale of it was hard to take in, but it was impossible to deny. Hannibal had insisted on a tally as his troops entered the flat plain where, exhausted beyond belief, they had first camped. Even when a margin of error was allowed for, the count revealed that perhaps 24,000 foot soldiers and more than 5,000 pack animals had deserted, run away or perished. Approximately 26,000 men remained, just a quarter of the number that had left New Carthage, and little more than one Roman consular army.

  It was a sobering figure, thought Bostar worriedly, especially when there were peoples to fight other than the Romans. He was standing with other senior officers outside the fortified walls of Taurasia. It was the main stronghold of the Taurini, the hostile tribe into whose lands Hannibal’s force had descended. To his left was Sapho’s phalanx, and to his right, his father’s. Alete was positioned beyond Malchus. Fully half of the Libyans were present: six thousand of Hannibal’s best troops.

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  At the sound of Hannibal’s voice, Bostar turned. He scarcely recognised the shambling figure before him, clad in a ragged military cloak. Dank tresses of brown hair fell from under a simple bronze helmet, framing a gaunt face streaked with filth. The man sported a padded linen cuirass, which had clearly seen better days, a thrusting spear and an old, battered shield. He was the worst dressed Libyan spearman Bostar had ever seen, and he stank to high heaven. Bostar glanced at the other officers, who appeared as stunned as he. ‘Is that you, sir?’

  The belly laugh was definitely Hannibal’s. ‘It is. Don’t look at me as if I am mad.’

  Bostar flushed. ‘Sorry, sir. May I ask why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘Two reasons. Firstly, as an ordinary soldier, I’m far less of a target to the enemy. Secondly, being anonymous allows me to mix with the troops and assess their mood. I’ve been doing that since we came down out of the mountains,’ Hannibal revealed. He turned to include all those present. ‘What do you think I’ve heard?’

  Most of the officers, Bostar included, took a sudden interest in their fingernails, or a strap on their harness that needed tightening. Even Malchus cleared his throat awkwardly.

  ‘Come now,’ said Hannibal in a bluff tone. ‘Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out how low morale really is? Spirits are high amongst the cavalry, but that’s because I looked after them so well in the mountains. Far fewer of them died. But they’re unusual. Many of the men think we’ll be annihilated the first time we encounter the Romans, don’t they?’

  ‘They’ll fight anyway, sir!’ Malchus cried. ‘They love you as no other.’

  Hannibal’s smile was warm. ‘Worthy Malchus, I can always rely on you and your sons. I know that your soldiers will stay true, and so will the bulk of the army. But we require an immediate victory to raise the men’s spirits. More importantly, we need food to put in their bellies. Our intelligence tells me that the stores behind those walls’ – he indicated the fortress – ‘are full of grain. I would have bought it from the Taurini, but they rejected my overtures out of hand. Now they will learn the price of their foolishness.’

  ‘What shall we do, sir?’ Sapho asked eagerly.

  ‘Take the place by storm.’

  ‘Prisoners?’

  ‘Leave none alive. Not a man, woman or child.’

  Sapho’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, sir!’

  His words were echoed by a rumble of agreement from the others.

  Hannibal stared at Bostar. ‘What is it? Are you unhappy with my command?’

  ‘Must everyone die, sir?’ Terrible images from the fall of Saguntum filled Bostar’s mind.

  Hannibal scowled. ‘Unfortunately, yes. Know that I order this for a particular reason. We are in a very fragile position. If a Roman army presented itself tomorrow, we would indeed struggle to defeat it. When they hear of our weakness, the Boii and Insubres will think twice before giving us the aid that they so eagerly promised last year. If that happens, we will have failed in our task before it has even begun. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ Bostar replied indignantly.

  ‘Good,’ said Hannibal with a pleased look. ‘Slaughtering the inhabitants of Taurasia will send a clear message to the area’s tribes. We are still a lethal fighting force, and they either stand with us, or against us. There is no ground in between.�
��

  Humbled, Bostar glanced down. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t understand.’

  ‘Some of the others probably didn’t either,’ answered Hannibal, ‘but they didn’t have the courage to ask.’

  ‘I understood, sir,’ Sapho snarled.

  ‘Which is the reason you’re standing here today,’ said Hannibal grimly. ‘Monomachus too.’ He nodded at a squat man with a bald head. ‘The rest of you are present because I know that, as my finest officers, you will do exactly what I have ordered.’ He pointed his spear at the fortress walls. ‘I want the place reduced by nightfall. After that, your men can have the rest they so well deserve.’

  Bostar joined in the cheering with more enthusiasm this time. He caught a sneering Sapho trying to catch his eye, and ignored him. He would follow Hannibal’s orders, but for a very different reason to his brother. Loyalty, rather than sheer bloodthirstiness.

  Despite Quintus’ generosity in accompanying him north, Hanno found the journey grating. He still had to act like a slave. Quintus rode a horse, while he had to sit astride a cantankerous mule. He could not eat with Quintus, or share the same room. Instead, he had to take his meals with the domestic slaves and servants of the roadside inns they frequented, and to bed down in the stables with the animals. Oddly, Hanno’s physical separation from Quintus began to restore the invisible differences between them.

  In a bizarre way, both were relieved by this. What they’d seen and heard in Rome had hammered reality home as never before, shredding the camaraderie that had developed on the farm. They were travelling to a place where there could be no friendship between Carthaginian and Roman, only combat and death. Not speaking to each other obviated the need to think about what might happen in the future. Of course their silently adopted tactic did not work. Both felt great pain at their impending separation, which in all likelihood would be permanent.

  The three hundred miles from Rome to Placentia dragged by, but the pair finally reached their destination having encountered few problems. All the empty ground outside the town was taken up with vast temporary encampments, full of legionaries, socii and cavalry. The tracks were jammed with units of marching men and ox carts laden with supplies. Stalls lined the margins of every way, hawking food, wine and equipment. Soothsayers offered their services alongside blacksmiths, butchers and whores. Musicians played drums and bone whistles, acrobats jumped and tumbled, tricksters promised a cure for every ailment under the sun. Snot-nosed children darted to and fro, playing with scrawny mongrels.

  It was utter chaos, thought Hanno, but there was no denying that Hannibal had set himself a Herculean task. There were already tens of thousands of Roman troops in the area.

  Quintus wasted no time. He hailed a passing centurion. ‘Has the consul arrived from Rome?’

  ‘You’re behind the times! He got here four days ago.’

  Quintus was unsurprised. Unlike them, Publius and his party would have been changing their mounts every day. ‘Where are his headquarters?’

  The centurion gave him an odd look, but did not ask why. While young, Quintus was clearly an equestrian. He pointed down the road. ‘That way. It’s about a mile.’

  Quintus nodded his thanks. ‘What news of Hannibal?’

  Hanno stiffened. This was the question he had been burning to ask.

  The centurion’s face darkened. ‘Well, believe it or not, the whoreson succeeded in crossing the Alps. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Amazing.’ Quintus did not want to look at Hanno in case he was gloating. ‘What has he been up to since?’

  ‘He attacked the Taurini stronghold of Taurasia, and massacred its inhabitants. Apparently, he’s now on his way here, to Placentia. We’re blocking his route to the scumbag Boii and Insubres, see?’ The centurion half drew his gladius from its scabbard and slammed it home again. ‘There ’ll be one hell of a fight very soon.’

  ‘May Mars and Jupiter keep us in the palm of their hands,’ said Quintus.

  ‘Aye. Now, I’d best be off, or my tribune will string me up by my balls.’ With a cordial nod, the centurion marched away.

  Quintus and Hanno looked at each other. Neither spoke.

  ‘You’re taking up half the fucking road. Get out of the damn way!’ shouted a man leading a train of mules.

  They led their mounts to one side and into a gap between two stalls.

  ‘This is it, then,’ said Quintus unhappily.

  ‘Yes,’ Hanno muttered. He felt awful.

  ‘What will you do?’

  Hanno shrugged. ‘Travel west until I run into some of our forces.’

  Your forces, thought Quintus, not mine. ‘The gods grant you a safe passage.’

  ‘Thank you. May you find your father quickly.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ Quintus replied, smiling.

  ‘Even you would find it hard to get lost now,’ joked Hanno.

  Quintus laughed.

  ‘I wish that we could part under different circumstances,’ said Hanno.

  ‘So do I,’ answered Quintus passionately.

  ‘But we both have to do our duty by our people.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll meet again one day. In peacetime.’ Hanno cringed inwardly. His words sounded false even to his own ears.

  Quintus did not rebuke him, however. ‘I would like that too, but it will never happen,’ he said gently. ‘Go well. Stay safe. May your gods protect you.’

  ‘The same to you.’ At last, Hanno’s eyes filled with tears. Clumsily, he reached out and embraced Quintus. ‘Thank you for saving me and Suniaton. I will never forget that,’ he whispered.

  Quintus’ emotions welled up. He awkwardly clapped Hanno on the back. ‘You saved my life too, remember?’

  Hanno’s nod was jerky.

  ‘Come on,’ said Quintus, growing businesslike. ‘You need to get as far from here by nightfall as you can. No point having to try and explain yourself to one of our patrols, is there?’

  Hanno drew back. ‘No.’

  ‘Help me up.’ Quintus lifted his left foot.

  Grateful for the distraction, Hanno linked his hands together so that Quintus could step up and climb on to his horse’s back. When it was done, he forced a smile. ‘Farewell.’

  ‘Farewell.’ Quickly, Quintus pulled his horse’s head around and urged it on to the roadway.

  Hanno watched as his friend was swallowed up by the mass of men jostling along on the muddy track. It was only when he could no longer see Quintus that Hanno realised he had forgotten to send a last farewell to Aurelia. Sadly, he clambered aboard his mule and headed in the opposite direction. Despite the inevitability of their parting, Hanno felt a void inside. Let us never meet again, he prayed. Unless it happens in peacetime.

  A hundred paces away, Quintus felt the same way. Only now could he allow himself to grieve the loss of a friend. They had been through a great deal together. If Hanno were a Roman, Quintus thought, I would be proud to stand beside him in battle. Sadly, it was only the opposite that could ever come to pass. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, never let this happen, he prayed.

  Not long after, Quintus found the consul’s headquarters, a large pavilion surrounded by the cavalry tent lines. The vexillum, a red flag on a pole, made sure that every soldier could see Publius’ position. A few questions guided Quintus in the direction of his father, whom he found outside his tent, talking to a pair of decurions. To his relief, Fabricius did not immediately explode. Instead he quietly dismissed the junior officers. The moment that they were gone, however, he rounded on Quintus. ‘Look who it is!’ Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

  ‘Father.’ Feeling distinctly nervous, Quintus dismounted. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Fabricius replied. His eyebrows arched. ‘Surprised, though. Annoyed and disappointed too. You should be at home, looking after your mother and sister, not here.’

  Quintus shuffled his feet.

  ‘Not going to answer that charge?’ his father sna
pped. ‘Why are you not on a ship to Iberia? After all, that’s where I should be.’

  ‘I travelled to Rome first,’ Quintus muttered. ‘I was there when Publius spoke in the Curia. I caught a glimpse of you outside.’

  Fabricius frowned. ‘Why in Jupiter’s name didn’t you come up to me there?’

  ‘The press was too great to reach you, Father. I didn’t know where you were staying, or even that you were heading north with the consul,’ Quintus lied. ‘I found out later. It was easy enough to follow you.’

  ‘I see. Fortuna must have been guiding your path. The tribesmen around here aren’t the friendliest,’ said Fabricius dourly. ‘It’s a shame that you didn’t make yourself known to me in Rome. You’d already be in Capua by now, or my name isn’t Gaius Fabricius.’ His dark eyes regarded Quintus carefully. ‘And so you travelled up here alone?’

  Quintus cursed inwardly. This was going even worse than he’d expected. He was such a poor liar when asked a direct question. ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Who was with you? Gaius, probably. He listens to Martialis as little as you do to me.’

  ‘No,’ Quintus mumbled.

  ‘Who, then?’

  Dreading his father’s response, Quintus said nothing.

  Fabricius’ anger bubbled over. ‘Answer me!’

  ‘Hanno.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of our … your … slaves.’

  Fabricius’ face purpled. ‘That’s not enough! Do you expect me to remember the name of every damn one?’

  ‘No, Father,’ Quintus said quickly. ‘He’s the Carthaginian that I bought after the bear hunt.’

  ‘Oh, him. Where is the dirtbag? Putting up your tent?’