Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  ‘I was sold into slavery among the Romans some time ago,’ explained Hanno. ‘Hearing the news of Hannibal’s invasion, I escaped to join him.’

  The Numidian didn’t look convinced. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Hanno,’ he said proudly. ‘I am a son of Malchus, who serves as a senior officer among our Libyan spearmen. If I reach Hannibal’s army, I hope to be reunited with him, and my brothers.’

  There was a long silence, and Hanno felt his fear return. Do not desert me now, great Tanit, he prayed.

  ‘An unlikely story. Who’s to say that you are not a spy?’ the officer mused out loud. Several of his more eager men lifted their javelins, and Hanno’s heart sank. If they killed him now, no one would ever know.

  ‘Hold!’ snapped the officer. ‘If this man has really spent much time among the Romans, he may be useful to Hannibal.’ He grinned at Hanno. ‘And if you are telling the truth, I suspect that your father, whether he is with the army or no, would rather see you alive than dead.’

  Hanno’s joy knew no bounds. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The officer barked an order and the Numidians swarmed in, hauling Hanno to his feet. His wrists were bound with rope, but he was offered no further violence. As the warriors mounted up, Hanno was picked up and thrown roughly across the neck of a horse, in front of its rider. He didn’t protest. With his mule injured, there was no other way of returning to the Carthaginian camp at speed. At least they weren’t dragging him behind one of the mounts.

  As the Numidians began to ride west, Hanno gave thanks to every god he could think of, but most importantly to Tanit, whom he’d forgotten to address before leaving his home in Carthage.

  He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but he felt that she was smiling on him once more.

  Upon reaching Hannibal’s camp, Hanno was lowered to the ground. He gazed around him in wonderment, absolutely exhilarated to see a Carthaginian host so near the Italian border. His heart throbbed with an unquenchable joy. He was back with his people! Yet Hanno was concerned by the army’s size. It was far smaller than he’d expected. He was alarmed too by the soldiers’ faces. Suffering was etched deep into every single one. Most had unkempt beards, and looked half starved. The pack animals, and particularly the elephants, looked even worse. Hanno shot a worried glance at the Numidian officer. ‘The crossing of the Alps must have been terrible,’ he said.

  ‘You cannot even imagine it,’ the Numidian replied with a scowl. ‘Hostile natives. Landslides. Ice. Snow. Starvation. Between desertions and fatalities, we lost nearly twenty-five thousand men in a month. Practically half our army.’

  Hanno’s mouth fell open in horror. Immediately, he thought of his father and brothers, who could easily be among the dead. He caught the Numidian watching him. ‘Why tell me this?’ he stuttered.

  ‘I can say what I like. The Romans will never find out,’ replied the other amiably. ‘It’s not as if you could escape my men on foot.’

  Hanno swallowed. ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well you were telling the truth about who you were, eh?’

  Hanno met the Numidian’s gimlet stare. A sudden pang of terror struck him. What if no one could be found to vouch for his identity? ‘Yes, it is,’ he snapped, praying that the gods would not dash the cup of success from his lips at this late stage. ‘Take me to the Libyans’ tent lines.’

  With a mocking bow, the Numidian led the way. He hailed the first spearman they met. ‘We are looking for an officer by the name of …’ He looked questioningly at Hanno.

  ‘Malchus.’

  To Hanno’s utter joy, the man jerked a thumb behind him. ‘His tent is three ranks back. It’s bigger than the rest.’

  ‘So far, so good,’ said the officer, dismounting gracefully. He indicated that Hanno should follow him. Three of his warriors took up the rear, their javelins at the ready. Carefully, they weaved their way between the closely packed tents.

  ‘This looks like the one.’ The officer came to a halt outside a large leather pavilion. It was held up by multiple guy ropes staked into the ground. A pair of spearmen stood on guard outside.

  A volcanic wave of emotion battered Hanno. Terror that his father would not be within. Joy that he might. Relief that, after all his ordeals, he was perhaps about to be reunited with his family. He turned to the officer. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘Eh? You’re not in charge,’ the Numidian growled. ‘Until I hear otherwise, you’re a damn prisoner.’

  ‘My hands are tied! Where am I going to go?’ Hanno snapped back. ‘Stick a fucking spear in my back if I even try. But I’m walking over there on my own.’

  The Numidian saw the steel in Hanno’s eyes. Suddenly, he realised that his captive might outrank him considerably. There was a gruff nod. ‘We’ll wait here,’ he said.

  Hanno made no acknowledgement. Stiff-backed, he walked towards the tent.

  One of the spearmen started forward. ‘What’s your business?’ he demanded in a brusque tone.

  ‘Are these Malchus’ quarters?’ asked Hanno politely.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ came the surly reply.

  The last of Hanno’s patience ran out. ‘Damn your insolence,’ he snarled. ‘Father? Are you there?’

  The spearman, who had advanced a step, stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Father?’ called Hanno again.

  Someone coughed inside the tent. ‘Bostar? Is that you?’

  Hanno began to grin uncontrollably. Bostar had also survived!

  A moment later, Malchus emerged, fully dressed for battle. He looked at his guards first, and frowned. ‘Who called my name?’

  ‘It was I, Father,’ answered Hanno joyfully, stepping forward. ‘I have returned.’

  Malchus went as white as a sheet. ‘H-Hanno?’ he stuttered.

  With tears of happiness filling his eyes, Hanno nodded.

  ‘Praise all the gods. This is a miracle!’ cried Malchus. ‘But what are you doing, tied up like this?’

  Hanno jerked his head at the Numidians, who were looking decidedly awkward. ‘They weren’t sure whether to believe my story or not.’

  Drawing his dagger, Malchus sawed at the ropes that bound Hanno’s wrists. The instant they had dropped away, he drew his son into his arms. Great shudders of emotion racked his frame, and for long moments, he clung to Hanno with a grip of iron. Hanno delightedly returned the embrace. Finally, Malchus stepped back to study him. ‘It is you,’ he breathed. A rare smile split his face. ‘How you’ve grown. You’re a man!’

  In contrast, Hanno could not get over how his father had aged. Deep lines now creased his forehead and cheeks. There were bags of exhaustion under his eyes, and his hair was more grey than black. But Malchus had a new lightness about him, an air Hanno had not seen since well before his mother’s death. It was, he realised with a thrill, because of his return. ‘I heard you call out Bostar’s name. Is Sapho here too?’

  ‘Yes, yes, they both are. The pair of them should be back any moment,’ Malchus replied, filling Hanno with more joy. He glanced at the Numidians. ‘To whom do I owe my thanks?’

  Saluting, the officer hurried forward. ‘Zamar, section leader, at your service, sir.’

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘About ten miles east of here, sir.’ Zamar shot an uneasy glance at Hanno. ‘I’m sorry for the rough treatment, sir.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Hanno replied. ‘Your men couldn’t be expected to know that I was Carthaginian. At least you stopped them from killing me, and listened to my story.’

  Zamar dipped his head in gratitude.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered Malchus. Hurrying into the tent, he emerged with a large leather purse. ‘A token of my appreciation,’ he said, handing it over.

  Zamar’s eyes widened as he accepted the clinking gift, and his men exchanged excited looks. It didn’t matter what was inside. The bag’s obvious weight spoke volumes. ‘Thank you, sir. I am delighted to have been of service.’ Zamar made a deep bow, and withdrew.

/>   ‘Come inside,’ Malchus muttered. Ushering Hanno within, he fussed over him as he hadn’t done in years. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’

  Gratefully accepting a cup of wine, Hanno took a seat on a three-legged stool he remembered from their house in Carthage. Malchus sat opposite. Neither could take their eyes off the other, or stop smiling. ‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ Hanno said.

  ‘Likewise,’ Malchus murmured. ‘I had given you up for dead. To first of all survive a storm at sea … well, Melqart must have laid his hand upon you and Suniaton.’ His brows lowered. ‘Is Suni dead?’

  Hanno grinned. ‘No! He couldn’t travel because he was injured, but he is being cared for by a friend. Soon he will be making his way to Carthage.’

  Malchus’ frown cleared. ‘The gods be thanked. Now, you must tell me what happened.’

  Hanno laughed. ‘I could say the same thing, Father, seeing you here, on the wrong side of the Alps.’

  ‘That is a story worth hearing,’ Malchus agreed. ‘But I want to listen to yours first.’ He cocked his head. The sound of approaching voices carried inside, and he smiled. ‘I guess it will have to wait a while. You won’t want to be telling it twice.’

  Hanno’s face lit up. ‘Is that Sapho and Bostar?’

  ‘Yes.’ His father winked. ‘Just sit there. Don’t say a word until they see you.’

  Hanno watched excitedly as Malchus moved towards the front of the tent.

  A moment later, two familiar figures entered. Hanno had to grip his stool to stop himself leaping up to greet them. ‘Good news, Father. Apparently, more than ten thousand Gaulish warriors are on their way to join us,’ Bostar announced.

  ‘Excellent news,’ Malchus replied offhandedly.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased?’ asked Sapho.

  ‘We have an unexpected visitor.’

  Sapho snorted. ‘Who could be more interesting than that information?’

  Silently, Malchus turned and indicated Hanno.

  Sapho blanched. ‘Hanno?’

  ‘No!’ Bostar exclaimed. ‘It cannot be true!’

  Hanno could not contain himself any longer. He leaped up and ran to greet his brothers. Laughing and crying at the same time, Bostar wrapped him in a huge bear hug. ‘We thought you were dead.’

  Laughing too, Hanno managed to extricate himself from Bostar’s grip. ‘I should be, but the gods did not forget me.’ He reached out to Sapho, who awkwardly drew him into an embrace. Surely he can’t still be angry about what happened in Carthage? Hanno wondered.

  Sapho stepped back after only a moment. ‘How in hell did you get here?’ he cried.

  ‘Where is Suniaton?’ Bostar demanded.

  A stream of questions poured from their lips.

  Malchus intervened. ‘Let him tell the whole story.’

  Hanno cleared his throat. All he could think of was the manner in which he’d left the family house on that fateful morning. He looked guiltily at Malchus. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘I ought never to have run off like that. I should have stayed to do my duty.’

  ‘The meeting was of small consequence anyway. Like most of them,’ Malchus admitted with a sigh. ‘If I had been more understanding, you might have been less bored by such things. Put it behind you, and tell us how you survived that storm.’

  Taking a deep breath, Hanno began. His father and brothers hung off his every word. When he explained how he and Suniaton had been captured by the pirates, Sapho let out a grim chuckle. ‘They got their just deserts eventually.’

  ‘Eh?’ Hanno gave his brother a confused look.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ said Malchus. ‘Go on.’

  Quelling his curiosity, Hanno obeyed. His family’s fury over the pirates was as nothing compared with their reaction to his purchase by Quintus.

  ‘Roman bastard!’ Sapho spat. ‘I’d love to have him here right now.’

  Hanno was surprised by the defensive feelings that flared up at once. ‘Not all Romans are bad. If it wasn’t for him and his sister, I wouldn’t be here.’

  Sapho scoffed. Even Bostar looked unconvinced. Malchus alone did not react.

  ‘It’s true,’ Hanno cried. ‘You haven’t heard all of my story yet.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Bostar.

  Sapho raised an eyebrow. ‘Surprise us,’ he said.

  Amazed by the speed at which his customary anger towards his eldest brother had returned, Hanno continued with his story. He emphasised how Quintus had engineered not only his escape, but that of Suniaton, and how the young equestrian had accompanied him to Cisalpine Gaul rather than be reunited with his father in Rome.

  ‘He sounds like a decent person. So does his sister, for all that she is a child. That in turn means that their father must be an honourable man,’ Malchus agreed. His jaw hardened. ‘It is a shame that the Roman Senate does not possess the same morals. You heard from the horse’s mouth how the whoresons demanded Hannibal be handed over to receive Roman “justice”, how they lied about us breaking the treaty which confined us to the area below the River Iberus. Their arrogance is without parallel! That’s before dragging up Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica.’

  Sapho and Bostar growled in agreement.

  Hanno felt a momentary sadness. Yet it was time to forget the kindness he had received. His father’s words had made old resentment bubble up from the depths. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Finally, I am where I longed to be, he thought. With my family. With Hannibal’s army. And I am a soldier of Carthage. The Romans are our enemies. So be it. ‘You’re right, Father. What is Hannibal’s plan?’

  Malchus gave him a wolfish smile. ‘To attack! We continue our march east tomorrow, in search of their legions.’

  ‘I know exactly where they are,’ Hanno replied, trying, and failing, not to think of Quintus.

  ‘We’d best take you to Hannibal then,’ said Malchus, looking pleased.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. He’ll want to hear everything you know.’

  Hanno turned to his brothers. ‘I’m to meet Hannibal!’ he cried delightedly. Bostar grinned, but Hanno caught Sapho shooting him a sour glance. Old emotions flared up yet again. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘Are you not pleased?’

  Sapho blinked. ‘Yes,’ he muttered.

  ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Hanno hotly.

  ‘That’s because he isn’t,’ Bostar growled. ‘Our older brother gets jealous of anyone who might win favour from our general.’

  The veins in Sapho’s neck bulged with fury. ‘Fuck you,’ he snapped.

  ‘Sapho!’ shouted Malchus. ‘Curb your tongue! You too, Bostar. Can we not forget our differences for once, on this most joyful of days?’

  Shame-faced, Sapho and Bostar nodded.

  Taking Hanno by the hand, Malchus led him away. ‘Come on,’ he ordered over his shoulder. Pointedly ignoring each other, Sapho and Bostar followed.

  Hanno couldn’t get over the level of animosity between his brothers. What on earth had happened between them? He was amazed too at the ease with which Sapho still got his back up. Seeing Hannibal’s tent in the distance, Hanno put his concerns from his mind. He was going to meet the finest Carthaginian general in history. The man who dared to attack Rome on its own territory.

  With a ragtag, half-starved army, his cynical side added. Hanno could not let go of this worrying thought as his father led him and his brothers onward. How could they ever match the numbers of soldiers Rome could call upon?

  Soon they had reached a large open area before their general’s headquarters. The place was thronged. Hanno’s eyes widened. Flanking the perimeter were hundreds of soldiers from all over the Mediterranean, men whom he’d heard much about, but never seen. Numidian and Iberian infantry mixed with Lusitanians. Spiky-haired, bare-chested Gauls stood shoulder to shoulder with Balearic slingers and Ligurian warriors. There were several nationalities of cavalrymen: Iberian, Gaulish and Numidian. Outside the main tent stood a large group of senior officers, resplendent
in their polished muscled cuirasses, pteryges and crested helmets. Hannibal’s purple cloak made him easy to pick out. A group of musicians was positioned nearby, their instruments at the ready: curved ceramic horns and carnyxes, vertical trumpets made of bronze, each topped by a depiction of a wild boar.

  Hanno glanced at his father. ‘What’s going on?’

  Even Sapho and Bostar looked confused.

  Frustratingly, Malchus did not answer. He walked on, up to the party of officers. A quick word in the ear of one of Hannibal’s bodyguards saw them led straight to their leader’s side. Recognising Malchus, Hannibal smiled. Hanno felt as if he were in a dream come true.

  Malchus saluted. ‘A word, if I may, sir?’

  ‘Of course. Make it quick, though,’ Hannibal replied.

  ‘Yes, sir. You know two of my sons, Sapho and Bostar,’ said Malchus. ‘But there is a third, Hanno.’

  Hannibal gave Hanno a curious look. ‘I seem to remember a tragedy at sea in which he’d been lost.’

  ‘You have a fine memory, sir. I discovered afterwards, however, that by some miracle, Hanno had not been drowned. Instead, he and his friend were found adrift by some pirates. They sold both into slavery. In Italy.’

  Hannibal’s eyebrows rose. ‘This couldn’t be him?’

  Malchus grinned. ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘Gods above!’ Hannibal exclaimed. ‘Come here!’

  Self-conscious in his ragged, filthy clothes, Hanno did as he was told.

  Hannibal appraised him for several, breath-holding moments. ‘You have the look of Malchus all right.’

  Hanno didn’t dare reply. His heart was thumping off his ribs like that of a wild bird.

  ‘How did you escape?’

  ‘My owner’s son let me go, sir.’

  ‘Did he, by Melqart’s beard? Why?’

  ‘I saved his life once, sir.’

  ‘Intriguing.’ Hannibal stroked his chin. ‘Have you travelled far?’

  ‘No, sir. He released me near Placentia.’

  ‘You are welcome. Your father and brothers are valuable officers. I hope that you will be too.’

  Hanno made an awkward half-bow. ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  Hannibal made a gesture of dismissal.