Fields of Blood

Chapter IV

Victumulae, Cisalpine Gaul

Hanno’s admiration for Bogu had risen considerably. The spearman had been tougher than he could ever have imagined. He had soaked up the officer’s punishment, answering questions only when he could take the pain no more. Somehow Bogu had managed to give only snippets of information, which meant that the officer had to keep probing him for more. He had done so with great zeal, using sharp pliers to remove Bogu’s fingernails. Now reddish serum oozed from the letter ‘F’ on the spearman’s forehead. There were burns all over his body. He’d had glowing pokers shoved into both of his wounds. After a few hours, his great strength had ebbed away. Weakened by blood loss and the unremitting agony of his injuries, he had lapsed into unconsciousness. Two buckets of water roused him a little, but not enough to face further interrogation. Now Bogu hung like a discarded puppet from the rope, his head lolling on to his chest. It would be a miracle if he survived to see the morning, thought Hanno bitterly. Whenever that would be. In the windowless cell, time meant nothing.

Before Bogu died, however, Hanno would face the same treatment. The irons were ready; the legionaries watching; the slave waiting to interpret. The officer had left, promising to be back soon. Hanno’s fate was sealed. His guts roiled in fear. The stabbing pain in his belly took his mind off the throbbing ache in his shoulder joints, for a moment at least. He could no longer feel his hands below the wrists. Not that that mattered. He would be dead soon, and his last few hours would be excruciating. Shameful too, because he feared his ability to take pain would be as nothing compared to Bogu’s. Why could he not have died in battle, fighting for Hannibal? That death he could have borne.

Steps outside. A loud creak as the door opened inwards to reveal the smiling officer.

Sweat slicked down Hanno’s back.

‘That’s better.’ The Roman slapped his stomach. ‘I had a hunger on me like a wild beast. Now I’m ready to start work again.’

Work? You’re a damn monster, thought Hanno.

The triarii shared an envious glance. There had been no mention of food for them.

‘Rations might be tight, but for the right price, there’s still meat and cheese to be found.’ He leered at Hanno. ‘Fancy that?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

A dirty chuckle; a gesture at Bogu. ‘I’m not surprised. He’d put anyone off their dinner. Bet you’re thirsty, eh?’

Hanno’s mouth was as dry as a riverbed in high summer, but he didn’t utter a word.

The officer picked up a red clay jug from the table, and placed it to Hanno’s lips. ‘Drink.’

It’s piss, thought Hanno, keeping his mouth firmly shut.

The officer tipped the jug up. A little fluid poured out. To Hanno’s surprise, it didn’t smell bad. His thirst got the better of him. He tasted it and was amazed. The liquid was stale, warm, but it was water. Opening his mouth, he let the officer pour more down his throat. Unable to swallow it fast enough, some went into his windpipe. He jerked his head away, coughing. The movement made fresh pain radiate from his shoulders.

The officer laughed. ‘Had enough?’

He was only being offered it so that he’d be able to endure more torture, but Hanno was so thirsty that he didn’t care. ‘More.’ He managed to swallow three mouthfuls before the officer took away the jug.

‘Right. Back to business.’ Using a piece of cloth to protect his hand from the heat, the officer trailed his fingers over the irons that jutted from the brazier. ‘Which one shall we start with?’ He pulled out the length of metal with the ‘F’ on the end of it, and the triarii sniggered. Hanno thought he would lose control of his sphincter. Not that, please.

‘It’s too soon for that one.’ He selected another, a simple poker. Its end glowed white hot as it emerged from the fire. The officer studied it with a bemused look.

Eshmoun, Hanno prayed. Lend me some of your strength, for I am weak. He tensed as the officer stalked over. Bogu had revealed a substantial amount about Hannibal’s army. What else would the Roman want to know?

Without a word, the officer reached up and placed the poker against his left armpit.

Shock that there hadn’t even been a question filled Hanno, but the burning agony from the hot metal was far worse. A bellow ripped free of his lips, and he was unable to stop himself from jerking away to try and escape his tormentor. This in turn nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets. He sagged back down, straight on to the poker. ‘AAAAAHHHHH!’ Hanno screamed, pushing backwards with his toes.

With a sneer, the officer moved his hand a fraction, bringing the poker back into contact with Hanno’s flesh. This time, he could not move away from it. There was a sizzling sound, and his nostrils filled with the smell of cooking flesh. He shrieked again. To his shame, his bladder voided itself. Warm urine soaked through his garments and ran down his legs.

‘Look! The gugga has pissed himself!’ crowed the officer. He stepped back to study his handiwork.

Hanno mustered his strength, and what was left of his pride. ‘Come closer. I was trying to piss on you,’ he croaked.

‘You filth. Still got a bit of spirit, eh?’

Hanno glowered at him.

‘So you’re this maggot’s commander?’

‘I am.’

‘You’re young to lead a phalanx. Hannibal must have few choices if he selects a child to command some of his best men.’

‘There were many casualties crossing the Alps.’ Hanno said nothing about his father having Hannibal’s ear.

A phhhh of contempt. ‘There must have been junior officers who had survived, or veterans who had proved themselves.’

Hanno didn’t reply.

The officer’s face grew crafty. ‘In the Roman army, it’s often about whom you know. I doubt it’s any different among the guggas. Who’s your father? Or your brother?’ Hanno didn’t answer, so he brought the poker towards his face.

Hanno’s fear swelled. What’s in a name? he thought. ‘My father is called Malchus.’

‘What rank does he hold?’

‘He’s just a phalanx commander, like me.’

‘You’re lying, I can tell!’

‘I’m not.’

‘We’ll see about that later,’ retorted the officer, eyeing Bogu. ‘Was your man telling the truth about the size of Hannibal’s army? Thirty-odd thousand soldiers?’

Answering truthfully wouldn’t tell the Roman anything more than a good scout would find out. ‘That’d be about right, but it’s growing in size. More Gauls and Ligurians are joining every day.’

‘Tribal scum! Most of them would turn on their own mothers if they thought there was any gain to it.’ The officer paced up and down, brooding. ‘Hannibal wants our grain, I take it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if we give it to him?’

Hanno doubted the officer had the authority to open the gates. He was asking because he was scared. That gave him a little satisfaction. Hanno had no idea how many of the inhabitants of Victumulae were citizens. Most, he supposed. Non-citizens had no need to live behind the protection of high walls. Did they know what lay in store for them when the town fell? Hannibal had begun using a clever new tactic, exploiting the fact that Cisalpine Gaul was not fully under the Republic’s control. All non-Romans who surrendered to his forces were being spared. They were told that Carthage had no quarrel with them, and sent on their way. Captured Romans, on the other hand, were executed or enslaved. The policy was designed to foment unrest among Rome’s allies. The strategy was in its early stages, but Hannibal had high hopes for its success.

The officer would know, or at least suspect, what might happen when Hannibal’s army stormed in, Hanno decided. That knowledge alone would ensure him an agonising death. He might as well put the fear of Hades into the whoreson. ‘Most of the citizens here will be enslaved; some will be executed. Their properties will be confiscated or destroyed.’

His tormentor’s lips pinched white; behind him, the triarii growled with anger. ‘And the non-citizens?’ asked the officer.

‘They will not be harmed. Carthage wishes them no ill.’ Hannibal’s concept was a bloody clever one, Hanno thought.

‘D’you hear this whoreson?’ cried the officer. ‘He’s got some nerve, eh?’

‘Let me have a turn with him, sir,’ pleaded the wall-eyed soldier.

‘And me!’ added his companion.

The officer studied Hanno’s face. Although his fear was rising to new heights, Hanno managed to glare back. A long moment passed, but neither would look down first.

‘I know a better way of making the dog suffer,’ said the officer. ‘What made him most angry was when I called him a slave.’

Sheer terror convulsed Hanno as the Roman pulled the iron with the ‘F’ on the end of it from the fire. Not that, Eshmoun, please! Baal Hammon, save me! Melqart, do something!

His pleas were in vain.

‘This is what stings your gugga pride, isn’t it?’ The officer brandished the iron as he approached. ‘The fact that you’ll be marked as a slave for the rest of your miserable life!’

More than anything, Hanno longed to have a sword in his hand, so he could run his tormentor through. But his reality could not have been more different. Gritting his teeth, he steeled himself for the worst pain of all.

The officer glanced at the triarii. ‘Of course he’ll be halfway to Hades in a few hours, but who’s counting?’

The soldiers’ roars of laughter rang in Hanno’s ears as the ‘F’ moved up towards his face.

His fear got the better of him. ‘Don’t do it. I spared your life.’

‘What are you talking about? Have you gone mad?’ cried the officer, but he stayed his arm.

‘About a week ago, you and your men were ambushed in your camp. The fighting was vicious and many of your men were slain. You were retreating when I got the better of you. I let you go, when I could have killed you.’ As shock filled the officer’s face, Hanno prayed that he didn’t know the real reason that he yet lived. All he, Hanno, had been trying to do was save Mutt’s life.

His prayer seemed to have been answered, as the officer smiled. ‘By Jupiter, you were there! How else could you know those details?’

‘I ask for a quick end, that’s all,’ said Hanno quickly.

Silence fell.

Let him just kill me. Please.

‘You should have slain me. It’s what I would have done to you,’ said the officer with a cruel smile. ‘It changes nothing. For invading our land, you guggas deserve everything that comes your way. Hold him,’ he ordered. ‘He’ll buck like a mule.’

Hanno bit down on his disappointment and terror, and gambled all on something utterly crazy. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘I can take the pain.’

The officer’s eyebrows rose. ‘The gugga reconciles himself to his fate.’

His tormentor took great care to aim the iron right at the centre of Hanno’s forehead. The heat radiating from it was unbearable, but Hanno waited until the last moment before he jerked his head up and to the left. The officer swore, but was unable to stop himself planting the ‘F’ on the right side of Hanno’s neck, just below the angle of his jaw.

Hiss. Stars of white-hot agony burst across Hanno’s vision. Waves of it tore from his neck and down into his chest. They shot up into his very brain. He screeched at the top of his voice. He cursed. His bladder emptied itself again. As his legs gave way beneath him, his shoulders took all of his body weight. Yet the pain of that was as nothing compared to the excruciating hurt where the iron had met his flesh. The smell of burned meat filled his nostrils, caught in the back of his throat. He retched; up came a few mouthfuls of bile. And then he was falling, falling, down a bottomless well. At the mouth of the well, he could dimly make out the officer’s face, which was twisted with fury. The Roman was shouting something, but Hanno could not make out the words. He wanted to reply, to say, ‘I’m no slave,’ but his throat wouldn’t work. A door slammed; other voices were raised. They too were unintelligible.

Confusion filled Hanno as he slipped away into the blackness.

Bostar burned with anger as he gazed at Victumulae, which lay a quarter of a mile distant. It was entirely surrounded by the antlike figures of thousands of men. The air was filled with the tramp of feet on the hard ground and shouted orders as the units designated for the attack marched into position. There were regular twangs from the light ballistae as they shot at the ramparts. The stones landed with dull thumps, which were often followed by screams. Bands of Balearic slingers in light tunics whirled and spun before the walls, adding their slingshots to the showers of missiles. Large formations of Gauls advanced, chanting war songs and blowing their carnyxes in a deafening crescendo of sound. Ringed by his senior officers and a group of scutarii, his best Iberian infantry, Hannibal watched the operation from the back of his horse, some two hundred paces away. The remaining elephants stood nearby, their mere presence designed to intimidate the defenders.

After the rousing speech that Hannibal had just given, Bostar longed to be with the Gauls who were advancing with ladders to the foot of the walls, or with those who were already battering at the main gate with a ram fashioned from the trunk of a massive oak. Hannibal had praised every man in his army. Told them that he was proud of how they had overcome all obstacles in their path. He was impressed by their discipline, their bravery and fortitude. He’d said that their loyalty to him could be repaid in only one way — with a deep loyalty of his own. ‘I will do anything for you, my men,’ Hannibal had cried. ‘I will endure the same hardships. Sleep on the same rough ground. Fight the same enemies. Shed my blood. And if I have to, I will lay down my life for you!’ Those last words had stirred Bostar’s passions deeply, and from the mighty roar that had followed, he judged it to have had the same effect on every soldier within earshot. All he’d wanted to do after that was to attack. Yet he and his spearmen had been ordered to stay put. As at the Trebia, Hannibal was conserving his veterans. They had seen some action during a vicious mêlée on the road the previous day, but that was it. Bostar’s fist clenched on the hilt of his sword. There had better be some Romans for me to kill when we get into the town. His desire to shed blood wasn’t just because of Hannibal’s rallying call. Hanno’s presumed death by drowning had been hard enough to bear. The grief of it had scourged Bostar for many months. Why couldn’t the gods have taken Sapho, his other brother, with whom he had a fractious relationship? To have been reunited with Hanno out of the blue had seemed the most incredible of divine gifts, but to lose him again so soon was too cruel. It wasn’t as if he could even blame Hanno’s second-in-command. Mutt had asked to be punished, but, as Hannibal had said, it was clear that, misguided or not, Hanno had brought his own fate down on his head. Why did he act so rashly? wondered Bostar yet again.

‘A shekel for your thoughts,’ said a deep, gravelly voice.

Bostar’s head turned. A short but distinguished-looking officer in a pilos helmet with a scarlet horsehair crest stood before him. An iron cuirass decorated with gold and silver inlay protected his midriff; layered pteryges concealed his groin. Under his armour, he wore a red short-sleeved tunic and a padded jerkin, and he was armed with a stabbing sword that hung in its sheath from a baldric over his right shoulder. To either side, Bostar’s men were grinning and saluting. ‘Father,’ he said, dipping his head in respect.

‘You were a world away as I walked up,’ declared Malchus. ‘Thinking about Hanno, I’d wager.’

‘Of course.’

‘My thoughts are full of him too.’ Malchus scratched at a tight grey curl that had escaped from under his felt liner. ‘The best we can hope for is that he died bravely.’

That’s not much consolation, thought Bostar sadly, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he nodded. ‘It would be good to discover what happened to him.’

A grimace. ‘With the mood the Gauls are in after Hannibal’s speech, I wouldn’t bank on finding many Romans alive after the town falls.’

‘That was partly why I wanted to take part in the initial assault,’ whispered Bostar.

Malchus sighed. ‘You know why Hannibal sent in the Gauls first. Disobeying his orders again would not be advisable, however good your reason. The needs of the army come before our own.’

Although the sentiment was true, it was hard to accept. Bostar did his best. He was sure now that Hanno had been attempting to discover information of potential use to Hannibal. If he’d succeeded, it would have been a first step in restoring himself to favour. Instead, it was a move that had ended with his death. Now Bostar was about to lose the only chance of finding out what had happened to his younger brother. He swallowed his anger. Hannibal was their leader. He knew best. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘The gods give, and the gods take away. But at least we will have our vengeance this day.’ Malchus’ lips peeled into a snarl, and he raised his voice. ‘In order that the surrounding towns understand that resistance is futile, Hannibal has ordered that the Romans’ attempt to surrender this morning is to be ignored. Every citizen within the walls is to be killed.’

That set Bostar’s spearmen to cheering.

It wasn’t Bostar’s way to find commands of this type appealing — as Sapho did — but the thought of what Hanno might have been put through made his blood boil. He spun to regard his men. ‘The Gauls had best leave some alive for us, eh?’

‘Yes!’ They bellowed their enthusiasm. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

The chant was taken up from the phalanx that stood a short distance to their right. Bostar raised a hand to the figure who stood at its head. Mutt returned the gesture. With Hanno gone, he had been given temporary command of the unit.

‘Those lads will fight you for a position on the ladders,’ said Malchus. ‘The Romans have to learn the harshest of lessons for there to be any chance of us succeeding in our mission. They won’t be won over by lenient treatment of their towns and of the prisoners we take.’

Malchus took no joy in killing civilians. Nor did Bostar, yet it had to be done. Why did Sapho have to enjoy it? he wondered.

‘That’s why Hannibal is sending in a man like Sapho in the first wave,’ said Malchus, as if reading his mind.

Bostar said nothing.

Malchus gave him a sharp look. ‘You two, eh? Always quarrelling. Hannibal knows that your skills lie elsewhere. Nor will he have forgotten how you saved his life at Saguntum. He will call on you again in the future. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need Sapho too.’

‘I understand.’ Secretly, Bostar wished that things were different. That Sapho had been the one to have been captured and killed, not Hanno. He’d thought it at other times, but never so strongly and with so little guilt.

‘Maybe you two can see this as a way to move on. To come together a little.’

Their father had no idea of the depth of bitterness between him and Sapho, thought Bostar. Their feud had been going on since they had left Hannibal’s base in southern Iberia more than a year and a half previously. It had alleviated somewhat during the elation after the victory at the Trebia, but it had soon returned. Sapho would stop at nothing to become one of Hannibal’s favoured officers. His desire for Roman blood seemed unquenchable. But Bostar’s conscience nagged at him. Sapho was still his brother. His only living brother, who had saved his life in the Alps — despite not really wanting to. Bostar had sworn to repay the debt. Until that had been achieved, he’d have to make a pretence for his father’s sake. Maybe their relationship would improve as a consequence. He pulled a weary smile. ‘I’ll talk to him, Father, I promise.’

‘Hanno would approve.’

‘He’d also like to know that we sent him on his way with a fitting sacrifice,’ said Bostar, giving the walls of Victumulae a pitiless stare.

‘I think we can guarantee him that,’ growled Malchus.

Hanno woke, lying on the floor, screaming. The pain was even worse than before. A constant thrumming sensation centred in his neck. It made all his other hurts disappear. It consumed Hanno as flames eat away at dry tinder. All he wanted was for it to end. ‘Help,’ he mumbled. ‘Help.’

A soft voice answered.

Hanno didn’t recognise it. He opened his eyes, puzzled. Instead of the Roman officer, he saw a dark-skinned figure crouched over him, a man he vaguely recognised. He licked dry lips. ‘W-who are you?’

‘I’m called Bomilcar.’

‘Bomilcar?’ As confusion filled Hanno, the darkness took him again.

When he awoke, he could feel something cool trickling into his mouth. Water. His eyes blinked open. Bomilcar was leaning over him, holding a cup to his lips. Hanno’s thirst was overwhelming, but terror consumed him at the thought of the agony that swallowing would cause.

‘You must drink,’ urged Bomilcar.

Hanno had seen men drop from lack of water during the summers in Carthage. Since his capture, all he’d had was the few mouthfuls the officer had given him. He forced himself to take a tiny sip. The pain in his throat was extreme, but the pleasure as the liquid hit his stomach was worth it. He kept swallowing until he could take no more. The effort used up a lot of his strength. Hanno lay back on the cold stone, wondering where the officer and his two men were, but feeling too tired to care. His eyelids fluttered and closed.

‘Wake up! You can’t sleep. Not now.’

Hanno felt a hand take his arm. The movement set off a fresh wave of pain in his neck. ‘Gods, that hurts! Leave me alone,’ he snarled.

‘If you want to live, you need to get up.’

Bomilcar’s urgent tone sank in. Hanno eyed him askance. ‘You have a Carthaginian name.’

‘That’s right. I was brought here to translate what your comrade said, remember?’

Slowly, it came back to Hanno. ‘You’re the slave?’

A flicker of emotion. ‘Yes.’

Suspicion filled Hanno. ‘Have they sent you to see what you can find out from me on your own?’

Sounds from beyond the cell. A man shouting.

Bomilcar’s gaze shot to the door. After a few heartbeats, the noise died away and he relaxed a fraction. ‘No. I’m here to get you out.’

‘I–I don’t understand.’

‘Can you sit up?’ Bomilcar extended both his hands.

Struggling to understand, Hanno let the other help him to a sitting position. The first thing he saw was Bogu, hanging limp from his bonds. A fool could tell he was dead. Go well, thought Hanno dully. I will see you in the afterlife. His eyes flickered to the brazier, which had gone cold. Hours, maybe more must have passed. ‘Where are the Romans?’

‘Gone to defend the town.’

Shock filled Hanno before a stab of hope struck home. ‘Hannibal’s army has arrived?’

‘Yes. The Romans marched out to meet him, but he routed them on the road. Hundreds of legionaries were killed, many of them within sight of the town. Hannibal’s troops are attacking from all sides as we speak. The garrison is massively outnumbered. It won’t be long before our men get a foothold on the ramparts.’

Our men. Hanno’s head swirled. He had no doubt that Bostar and Sapho, his brothers, would be among those in the assault’s vanguard. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘A day and two nights. We need to move. Pera swore to come back and kill you once the end was near.’

‘Pera?’

‘The officer who tortured you.’

‘You’re really here to free me?’ whispered Hanno.

‘Of course. You’re a Carthaginian, like me. But if we don’t move fast, it won’t happen at all.’

Hanno’s heart filled. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Bomilcar offered his hand. ‘Can you stand?’

Hanno was lightheaded with pain, but his desire to live was still strong. He took the grip and let the other haul him upright. That was when he saw the gladius in Bomilcar’s other fist. ‘Where did you get that?’

A conspiratorial wink. ‘I took it from the guard outside — after I’d smashed an amphora over his head and cut his throat with his own dagger.’ He proffered the sword. ‘The knife’s enough of a weapon for me. Can you use this?’

Hanno reached out eagerly. His fingers closed on the hilt. He hefted the blade, which was heavier than his own sword. Gods, but it felt good to be armed again, although he knew in his bones that he was no real match for a legionary right now. Hanno was about to hand it back when he saw the admiration in Bomilcar’s eyes. To him, Hannibal’s arrival outside the town must seem like an intervention by the gods. Hanno’s protest died in his throat. Despite his weakened condition, he had more chance in a fight than Bomilcar, who had probably never handled an edged weapon until a few moments before. ‘Just show me a bastard Roman,’ he muttered.

Bomilcar grinned. ‘With Baal Hammon’s help, that won’t be necessary.’

‘What’s your plan?’

‘I brought you a cloak like mine. Once it’s on, most people won’t give either of us a second look.’ Bomilcar eased it over Hanno’s shoulders, taking care not to touch his wound. He lifted the hood, which concealed Hanno’s neck. ‘We’ll head for the main gate. That’s where Hannibal’s attack is concentrated. They’re using a battering ram on the doors, and catapults have wreaked havoc on the defenders atop the wall.’

‘We can’t just stand around in the street waiting for them to break in.’

‘No. There’s a stable belonging to an inn close to the gate. It’s not far. We can hide in the adjacent hay barn. Once our men get inside the town, we’ll go out and you can make yourself known.’

‘That will be easier said than done,’ replied Hanno, remembering Bostar’s tales of the madness that had descended on Hannibal’s soldiers when Saguntum, in Iberia, had fallen. It would be all too easy for them to be slain in the confusion. He saw Bomilcar’s incomprehension but thought it better not to elaborate. ‘But it’s the best we can do. Lead on.’

‘I’ll take it as slow as I can. Stay close.’ Bomilcar padded to the door, which lay ajar, and peered into the passage beyond. ‘All clear.’

Scarcely believing that his legs would carry him, Hanno followed. The acute pain in his neck had lessened a little. Was it thanks to his level of excitement and fear? Hanno didn’t know, but he prayed that his newfound strength lasted — and that if it came to it, he would have the energy to fight.

Outside the cell, a flickering oil lamp in an alcove shed a dim light on a scene of carnage. A dead legionary lay in an ever-widening puddle of blood. Hanno felt a grim satisfaction at the rictus of dismay twisting the corpse’s face. It was the wall-eyed soldier. He hoped that the opportunity to kill Pera and the other legionary also arose. Don’t be rash, his more prudent side shot back. You couldn’t best a child, let alone a hale legionary. Everything now was about survival. Swallowing his desire for vengeance, Hanno shuffled around the crimson pool.

The dank corridor led from his cell past a number of other doors. Hanno stopped by one and listened. After a moment, he heard a faint moan. What wretch lay on the other side? he wondered.

‘We don’t have time to help anyone else,’ hissed Bomilcar.

Numbing himself to the fate of the anonymous prisoner, Hanno did as he was told. Every step was sheer agony, but he forced his legs to keep moving. Trying to keep up with Bomilcar’s slow pace was difficult, however, and Hanno had to ask him to pause before the end of the passage. The gladius felt as if it were made of lead, but he kept a deathlike grip on it.

At last Bomilcar turned left. Motioning Hanno to stay put, he crept up a stone staircase. He soon returned, looking pleased. ‘It’s the same as when I came in. There’s only one guard on duty. The rest have been sent to man the defences.’

‘Why did he let you through?’

‘I told him that Pera had given me a message for the guard on your door.’ Another wink. ‘He won’t suspect a thing until my dagger has cut him a new smile.’

‘I’ll come too,’ Hanno protested.

‘No. Our best chance is if I go alone. Wait here until I call you.’

Hanno’s wound was throbbing with a new intensity. He could do little but nod.

Padding as silently as a cat, Bomilcar vanished up the staircase.

Trying to ignore his racing heart, Hanno listened with all his might. The murmur of voices, both friendly. A low laugh. The sound of studded sandals moving fast. A question, followed by a cry, cut short. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Silence.

Who had died? Unsure, Hanno raised the gladius and prepared to meet his end fighting. When Bomilcar appeared, he let out a relieved sigh. ‘You did it.’

‘The dog didn’t know what hit him.’ Bomilcar’s tone was wondering. ‘I wish I’d done this a long time ago.’

Hanno managed an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunities to hone your skills in Hannibal’s army. A man like you will be most welcome.’

Bomilcar gave him a pleased look. ‘Best keep moving.’

At the top of the staircase was a small, square guard chamber. A pair of empty bunk beds lined one wall; chunky logs smouldered in a fireplace. Oil lamps guttered from a few spots around the room. Bronze pots and cooking implements lay to one side of the fire, along with loaves of flat bread and a joint of meat. The man who’d been left to watch over the cells was sprawled on his back before the fire, his three-legged stool lying between his legs. A deep wound in the side of his neck still oozed blood.

They skirted the body, making for the only door. Hanno’s stomach twisted as Bomilcar opened it. Who knew what lay beyond it? The Carthaginian saw his uncertainty. ‘We go up another set of stairs, and then out into the courtyard of the garrison buildings. It’s virtually deserted. Every man who can fight is on the walls.’

‘There’ll be guards on the gate, surely?’

‘Only one.’

‘We’ll have to kill him.’

‘That’s too risky. Lots of people are going by on the street beyond. There’s a storeroom to one side of the prison, though. If we each take an amphora of acetum from there, I can say that we’ve been ordered to take them to the soldiers on the frontline.’

‘I’ll have to take down my hood. What if he sees my neck?’

Bomilcar frowned in concentration. ‘I think he’s standing to the right of the entrance. He won’t see it.’

Knowing that they had no other option, Hanno nodded in acceptance. May the gods be with us, he prayed. They would need all the help they could get.

After his incarceration, stepping outside felt odd. The chill air stung his wound, but it provided a little relief from the pain. Hanno scanned the cobbled courtyard, which was bordered by barrack buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Overhead, the sky was a dramatic mix of dark reds and pinks. It was early morning and the sun had returned at last, with the promise of blood. Bomilcar led the way to the store, where they both picked up a small amphora. Hanno staggered as he raised his to his left shoulder, sending jagged waves of pain through his body. ‘He won’t see it now.’

Bomilcar gave him an encouraging look. ‘Good idea. Can you make it to the first corner? You can rest there.’

‘I have to.’ Hanno locked his knees to stop his legs from buckling. I have to make it that far.

There was no more discussion. They crossed the courtyard in a diagonal, straight to the main gate. Bomilcar didn’t pause as he reached it. Hanno stayed on his heels, keeping his gaze on the ground before him. The gladius, which he’d tucked into his right armpit, threatened to slip from his grip with every step. All he could do was to clench his arm even tighter against his body and pray.

‘Where are you going?’ barked a voice.

‘Taking some acetum to the men on the ramparts, sir,’ replied Bomilcar.

‘On whose say so?’

‘One of the centurions, sir. I don’t know his name.’

Silence for a moment. Then, ‘Be off with you! My comrades’ tongues will be hanging out with thirst.’

Muttering his thanks, Bomilcar headed off to the left. Hanno followed, taking in only the sentry’s lower legs and caligae. Bomilcar’s speed was such that he could barely keep up. Despite his anguish, Hanno dared not slow down. He could feel the soldier’s eyes boring into his back. Flutters of panic rose from his stomach, but he shoved them away.

‘Hey!’

Hanno almost dropped his amphora.

‘Keep moving. Pretend you didn’t hear!’ hissed Bomilcar without turning his head. ‘He can’t desert his post.’

‘You! Slave!’

They kept walking. Ten paces, then twenty. The sentry spat an oath, but he did not follow them. When Bomilcar turned to his right, on to a wider way, Hanno cried out with relief. His wound and the muscles of his neck were screaming in protest. He could feel fluid oozing down on to his tunic. The moment he was around the corner, he let the amphora slip from his shoulder.

Bomilcar grabbed the bottom before it hit the ground. ‘Careful! If it breaks, you’ll draw attention. The same if anyone sees that damn sword.’ He shoved the gladius, which had slipped down, back up under Hanno’s cloak.

‘Sorry.’ Hanno sagged against the wall, uncaring. It took all of his strength not to fall in a heap.

Bomilcar glanced around the corner. ‘We’re in luck. The sentry hasn’t moved.’

‘Just as well. I couldn’t run anywhere.’ Despite the cold, sweat was pouring down Hanno’s face.

‘You’ll never reach the inn like this. I’ll get rid of the amphorae. Pull your hood up and wait here.’

Hanno obeyed. He didn’t even see Bomilcar go. Eyes closed, he tried to manage the alternating waves of nausea and stabbing torment that consumed his very being. Around him, he was dimly aware of panicked voices moving past. He heard the name ‘Hannibal’ being repeated again and again. That’s right, you bastards, Hanno thought. Be scared. He’s coming.

‘Ready?’

Bomilcar’s voice made him jump. ‘What did you do with the amphorae?’

‘I left them down an alleyway.’ Bomilcar’s face was concerned. ‘Can you keep going?’

Hanno rallied what was left of his strength and shoved himself upright. ‘I’m not staying here.’

‘Good.’ Bomilcar’s teeth flashed. ‘It’s about two hundred and fifty paces to the inn. We’ll take it slowly. Pretend you’re a slave. Don’t look at anyone.’

Gritting his teeth, Hanno followed his rescuer. The walk seemed to last an eternity. Most of the traffic was heading away from the gate as men led their wives and families from the fighting. Slaves tottered behind, carrying valuables or leading mules weighed down with food and blankets. Where were they going? Hanno wondered vaguely. There was no escape. The town had to be surrounded. A few soldiers were hurrying the same way that they were, but, locked in discussion about what was happening, they paid the pair no attention. Hanno was glad. He was incapable of fighting. The amphora’s weight had distracted him from his neck, but now his wound was sending stabs of pain into every part of his body. They even reached his toes. Lights flashed in front of his eyes and he struggled not to retch constantly. Lightheaded, Hanno had trouble keeping Bomilcar in focus. With a supreme effort, he kept his gaze locked on the Carthaginian’s back. By counting his steps in groups of ten, he gave himself tiny goals to reach. Each time he succeeded felt as if he’d run a mile, and by the time Bomilcar halted, Hanno was ready to collapse.

‘Nearly there. Another fifty paces and we’ve made it.’

Hanno’s eyes moved down the street. A painted sign depicting a man with a bow and arrows jutted out from a building on the left. ‘The Hunter’s Rest?’

‘That’s the one.’

The din of fighting was clearly audible now. Hanno’s heart lifted to hear it. The dull booming sound had to be the battering ram smashing into the main gate. The noise of lighter impacts would be stones from Hannibal’s catapults. Men were shouting, screaming, crying out. Best of all, he could hear the clash of weapons off each other. Hannibal is here! ‘D’you hear that?’

Bomilcar frowned. ‘What?’

‘The sound of metal on metal. It means that Carthaginian soldiers have reached the ramparts! We need to hurry. Best to be out of sight until they’ve cleared the streets near the gate.’

Bomilcar cast a glance up and down the street before taking Hanno’s right arm and placing it over his shoulder, holding it in place with his own right hand. ‘I can make it,’ Hanno protested, but the Carthaginian was having none of it.

‘There’s almost no one about. You’re weak, and it will be quicker this way.’

Grateful for the assistance, Hanno did not protest further. He remembered little of the rest of their journey. A pair of wounded soldiers limping past on their way to the surgeon. A glance from a curious child. The suspicious stare of the ostler at the stables. His expression changing to a welcoming smile as Bomilcar slipped him a couple of coins. A barn full of hay. The nicker of a nearby horse. And then nothing.

The men of Sapho’s phalanx cheered as the main gate cracked and fell inwards, its timbers shattered and riven. Clouds of dust rose. Cries of dismay could be heard from within the walls. The Gauls at the entrance dropped their battering ram and swarmed into the gap, screaming like men possessed. Hundreds of their fellows, prepared for this moment, were hot on their heels. Bare-chested, or clad in tunics or mail shirts, the heavily armed warriors tore into the breach, striking the waiting Romans with an almighty crash. Sapho and his men roared with approval. The Gauls would smash apart the shocked legionaries, clearing the way for them to advance.

Sapho’s chest swelled with pride. A stocky man with curly black hair and a broad nose, he took after their father. He was here because Hannibal had not lost his trust in him. His unit would be the first of the regular Carthaginian forces to enter Victumulae. The danger might not be extreme, but there would be ample opportunity to slay Romans. Hannibal’s order had deprived them of their right to live. The more that died, the merrier. His general had given the order, and he would follow it to the letter. Like his brothers, Sapho had grown up on tales of the wrongs done to Carthage by Rome. This war, this battle provided the chance for revenge. If he was lucky, there might be opportunity to secure the grain stores, which would surely raise him in Hannibal’s regard. Sapho didn’t suppose that anyone would happen upon Hanno, but that was possible too. The garrison buildings would need to be searched. It would please their father if his body were found. Despite Sapho’s jealousy of Hanno, who had always seemed Malchus’ favourite, his youngest brother deserved a decent burial.

He shot a spiteful glance in the direction of Bostar’s phalanx. At last he was receiving more recognition than his younger brother. It was unfortunate that he was out of sight. Sapho would have loved to see Bostar’s unhappy expression before he entered the town. Behind him, Sapho suddenly became aware of his men’s eagerness. Their ranks were swaying forward and back several steps. To their rear, a large group of Iberian infantry were shouting and calling for him to advance. It was time to move. Hannibal was watching.

‘Form up, six men wide. Close order. Those at the front and sides, raise shields. Expect missiles, and have your spears at the ready.’ Placing himself in the centre of the first rank, Sapho led his spearmen forward at a slow walk. His eyes carefully scanned the ramparts, searching for any indication of an attack. To his satisfaction, the defenders he could see were concentrating on their attempts to repel the Gauls who were ascending more than half a dozen ladders. Sapho kept his guard up until they had reached the wall. Even then, he did not relax. A single legionary with a javelin could be dangerous.

They passed under the arched gateway, stepping over the cracked planking of the gate. Just a few steps further, the carnage began. The street was strewn with the dead, almost all of them Roman. Gaping hack wounds to the neck, chest or limbs decorated many of the corpses. More than one had been decapitated. The entire area had been stained a shocking red colour. Discarded equipment was strewn here and there, left by the men who had run. Sapho felt a new respect for the Gauls. This was proof of the effectiveness of their charge on a disorganised enemy.

‘Let’s hope they’ve left some for us, eh?’ he shouted.

His men bellowed their bloodlust back at him.

They moved down the main street, while behind them the Iberians spread out into every side alley. Sapho had no idea that Hanno, still living, was so close. Or that his fate hung by the slimmest of threads.

Hanno was woken by shouting. Cursing. Grunts of pain. As his eyes opened, the agony from his neck wound returned with new force. What he saw instantly made him forget his own discomfort, however. Bomilcar had been strung by his neck from an overhead beam by a length of rope. A strip of cloth was tied round his head, gagging him. A trio of Iberian infantrymen stood in a circle, taking it in turns to boot him from one to another. With each blow, Bomilcar struggled not to fall over. If he did, he would choke to death. The Iberians were passing a cracked amphora around, and their flushed cheeks told Hanno that they’d already consumed plenty of its contents. That was probably the reason that Bomilcar was still alive. How much longer he would survive was debatable, though. One man had drawn his falcata and was whetting its blade with an oilstone.

Why haven’t they done the same to me? Hanno moved a hand, disturbing a pile of hay. Understanding hit home. Only his head was visible. Bomilcar had scattered hay over him as a blanket and the Iberians hadn’t noticed him. Heart pounding, Hanno lay back down. If he didn’t move, chances were that they would never discover his hiding place, which was fifteen paces deeper into the barn. By the next morning, it would be safe to go out on the streets again. He would be reunited with his family.

His pleasure at that thought was washed away by a surging guilt. To do that, he would have to watch Bomilcar die, tortured to death as he would have been by Pera. Hanno could no more do that than he could have slain Quintus after the ambush. He had to act, and fast. What was his best tactic? The rigid length by his side had to be the gladius, but standing up with that in his fist would guarantee a quick death. Better to be unarmed. Less of a threat. New fear caressed his spine. What if the Iberians didn’t speak enough Carthaginian to understand him? Many of the lower ranking troops in Hannibal’s army knew little to none of their General’s tongue. There was no need because their officers could.

The man with the falcata tested the edge of his blade with his thumb and grimaced in approval. His gaze moved to Bomilcar.

He would have to take the chance, decided Hanno. Otherwise, it would be too late. Brushing the hay from his body, he sat up, careful not to touch the gladius.

No one noticed him, so he stood up and coughed.

Three startled faces spun to regard him. There was an instant’s delay, and then the Iberians were drawing their weapons and swarming towards him.

‘HANNIBAL!’ shouted Hanno as loudly as he could.

That brought them to a screeching stop.

‘Hannibal is my leader too,’ he said in Carthaginian. ‘You understand?’

Blank looks from two of the men, but the third scowled. He spat a question in Iberian.

Hanno didn’t understand a word. He repeated Hannibal’s name over and over, but the Iberians didn’t look impressed. Raising their swords, they padded towards him, reminding him of how deadly they were in battle. It hasn’t worked. I’m dead, he thought wearily.

That was when one of them pointed at him and asked another question.

Hanno looked down in confusion. He glanced at their crimson-edged tunics and then at his own red one. Understanding, he tugged at the fabric like a maniac. ‘Yes! I am the commander of a phalanx! Libyan spearmen! Libyans!’

‘Pha-lanx?’ demanded one of the Iberians, adding in accented Carthaginian, ‘You from Carthage?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Hanno. ‘I am from Carthage! The other man is Carthaginian too.’

The tension vanished as the smell of a dead carcase is carried off by the wind. Suddenly, the Iberians were all smiles. ‘Carthaginians!’ they roared. ‘Hannibal!’ Bomilcar was ungagged and cut down with many apologies; both of them were given some wine. When Hanno’s wound was spotted, there were hisses of dismay. One Iberian produced a clean strip of cloth, which he insisted on wrapping around Hanno’s neck. ‘Surgeon,’ he kept repeating. ‘You need. . surgeon.’

‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘But first I need to find my father, or my brothers.’

The Iberian didn’t understand, but he heard the urgency in Hanno’s voice. ‘Wait,’ he ordered.

Hanno was happy to obey. Sitting beside Bomilcar, with the first warm flush of the wine coursing through his veins, he felt vaguely human. ‘We made it,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’

Bomilcar grinned. ‘I can’t believe it. For the first time in five years, I’m free.’

‘You’ll be well rewarded for what you’ve done,’ swore Hanno. ‘And I’ll always be in your debt.’

They gripped hands to seal a new bond of friendship.

The Iberian soon returned with one of his officers, who spoke better Carthaginian. Hearing Hanno’s story, he arranged for a stretcher to be brought and for a messenger to find Malchus.

‘I need to see my father first,’ Hanno insisted.

‘You’re as pale as a ghost. He can find you in the field hospital,’ replied the officer.

‘No.’ Hanno tried to stand, but his legs gave way beneath him.

It was the last thing he remembered.

Hanno woke to the sound of raised voices. His mind filled with an image of the Iberians who had attacked Bomilcar and his eyes jerked open. To his confusion, the first face he saw was Bostar’s. His brother looked angry; he was gesticulating at someone beyond Hanno’s range of vision. Overhead, there was tent fabric. He was in a bed, not the hay barn. ‘Where am I?’

‘Praise all the gods! He’s come back to us,’ cried Bostar, his expression softening. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘A-all right, I suppose.’ Without thinking, Hanno’s hand rose to his neck. He had enough time to feel the thick bandage before Bostar’s hand closed over his.

‘Don’t touch. The surgeon says it’s just starting to heal.’

Hanno felt a dull throbbing from the area. ‘It doesn’t hurt like it did.’

‘That will be thanks to the poppy juice. The surgeon has been dosing you with it three to four times a day.’

A series of fractured images flashed past Hanno’s vision. He did have a vague recollection of bitter-tasting liquid being forced down his throat.

‘Bomilcar has told us a lot of what went on,’ said Sapho in an enquiring tone.

Hanno managed to sit up, wincing at a jag of pain from his wound. ‘After I was taken prisoner?’

‘Yes,’ said Bostar gently. ‘And Mutt told us the first part of the story.’

Hanno saw his favourite brother’s eyes travel to his neck. ‘It’s bad, eh?’

Bostar didn’t answer.

‘What has the surgeon said?’ demanded Hanno.

‘At first, that you wouldn’t survive. But you made it through the first night and day, and then the next. It was a surprise to all of us.’ Bostar cast his eyes at Sapho, who nodded to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘If prayer can help, then the gods had a hand in your recovery. We spent most of the time on our knees. Even Father joined in!’

Hanno began to appreciate the relief in his brothers’ faces, especially that of Bostar. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Six days so far,’ replied Bostar. ‘You seemed to turn a corner yesterday, though, when the fever broke. The surgeon said that the wound was weeping less and starting to close over.’

‘It’s not a wound. It’s a Latin letter “F”,’ said Hanno bitterly. ‘“F” for fugitivus.’

‘You’re no slave!’ cried Sapho angrily. Bostar echoed his words.

‘I had told the officer who was interrogating me about my enslavement,’ Hanno explained. ‘He wanted to mark me out as a runaway for the last few hours of my life. It was supposed to be in the centre of my forehead, but I managed to move at the last moment. Better to have the brand on my neck, eh?’ He pulled a grim smile.

Neither brother laughed. ‘Where did the filthy son of a whore go?’ spat Sapho.

‘To defend the walls, I think. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. Bomilcar must have told you how he then came in and killed my guard. If it hadn’t been for him. .’ Hanno’s voice trailed away.

‘Yes. He’s a good man. His actions won’t be forgotten,’ said Bostar. ‘A shame we didn’t know what had happened as we entered Victumulae. Although seeking you would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Did many get away?’ asked Hanno resignedly. He didn’t doubt that a cur like Pera would find a way to escape even the sacking of a town.

‘Only the non-citizens, and there were precious few of them,’ Sapho replied with a savage leer. ‘Our men won’t have known who your officer was, but he’s still deader than a fly-blown corpse that’s been on a crucifix for a week.’

‘I’d have liked to slay him myself, though,’ said Hanno. It felt fortunate — and odd — that Pera had refused to grant him an easy death. If the Roman had granted his request, he wouldn’t be lying where he was. That didn’t stop Hanno from wishing that Pera had died screaming.

‘There will be plenty more opportunities to kill men like him,’ said Sapho. ‘New Roman armies will come to meet us.’

‘Good!’ Hanno couldn’t wait to be part of it. He wanted some tangible revenge for what had been done to him. He would have preferred Pera, but any Roman would do.

‘Soon we march south. Hannibal wants all of us ready for the journey, including you,’ added Bostar.

‘He has asked for me?’ asked Hanno, surprised.

‘Asked for you? He has visited twice,’ declared Sapho.

‘He said that you have more lives than a cat!’ Bostar winked. ‘Even he has heard how all of our spearmen think of you as something of a talisman. “Let him bring us good luck as we march,” he said.’

Hanno’s heart leaped. It seemed that he was returning to Hannibal’s good books, which was most unexpected. Something good had come of his rash behaviour after all.