Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XI: The Quest for Safe Passage

After the fall of Saguntum, Bostar took to visiting his wounded men every morning, talking to those who were conscious and passing his hand over those who were still asleep, or who would never wake. There were more than thirty soldiers in the large tent, of whom half would probably never fight again. Despite the horror of his soldiers’ injuries, Bostar had begun to feel grateful for his losses. All things considered, they had been slight. Far more Saguntines had died when Hannibal’s troops had entered the city, howling like packs of rabid wolves. For an entire day, the predominant sound throughout Saguntum had been that of screams. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. Bostar squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget, but he couldn’t. Butchering unarmed civilians and engaging in widespread rape was not how he made war. While he hadn’t tried to stop his men — had Hannibal not promised them a free rein? — Bostar had not taken part in the slaughter. Commanded by their general to guard the chests of gold and silver that had been found in the citadel, Malchus had not either. Bostar sighed. Inevitably, Sapho had.

A moment later, Malchus’ touch on his shoulder made him jump. ‘It’s good that you’re up so early checking on them.’ Malchus indicated the injured men in their blankets.

‘It’s my job,’ Bostar replied modestly, knowing that his father would have already visited his own casualties.

‘It is.’ Malchus fixed him with a solemn stare. ‘And I think Hannibal has another one for you. Us.’

Bostar’s heart thudded off his ribs. ‘Why?’

‘We’ve all been summoned to the general’s tent. I wasn’t told why.’

Excitement filled Bostar. ‘Does Sapho know?’

‘No. I thought you could tell him.’

‘Really?’ Bostar tried to keep his tone light. ‘If you wish.’

Malchus gave him a knowing look. ‘Do you think I haven’t noticed how you two have been with each other recently?’

‘It’s nothing serious,’ lied Bostar.

‘Then why are you avoiding my gaze?’ demanded Malchus. ‘It’s about Hanno, isn’t it?’

‘That’s how it started,’ Bostar replied. He began to explain, but his father forestalled him.

‘There are only two of you now,’ said Malchus sadly. ‘Life is short. Resolve your differences, or one of you might find that it’s too late.’

‘You’re right,’ replied Bostar firmly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘As you always do.’ Malchus’ voice was proud.

A pang of sadness tore at Bostar’s heart. Did I do my best by letting Hanno go? he wondered.

‘I’ll see you both outside the headquarters in half an hour.’ Malchus left him to it.

After telling his orderly to polish his armour, Bostar headed straight for Sapho’s tent. There wasn’t much time for getting ready, never mind a reconciliation. But their father had asked, so he would try.

Recognising the tent lines of Sapho’s phalanx by their standard, Bostar quickly located the largest tent, which, like his, was pitched on the unit’s right. The main flap was closed, which meant that his brother was either still in bed, or busy with his duties. Given his brother’s recent habits, Bostar suspected the former. ‘Sapho?’ he called.

There was no answer.

Bostar tried again, louder.

Nothing.

Bostar took a step away. ‘He must be with his men,’ he said to himself in surprise.

‘Who is it?’ demanded an annoyed voice.

‘Of course he’s not,’ Bostar muttered, turning back. He untied the thong that kept the tent flap closed. ‘Sapho! It’s me.’ A moment later, he threw wide the leather. Sunlight flooded inside, and Bostar lifted a hand to his nose. The reek of stale sweat and spilt wine was overpowering. Stepping over the threshold, he picked his way over discarded pieces of clothing and equipment. Bostar was shocked to see that every item was filthy. Sapho’s shield, spear and sword were the only things that had been cleaned. They leaned against a wooden stand to the side. He came to a halt before Sapho’s bed, a jumble of blankets and animal skins. His brother’s bleary eyes regarded him from its depths. ‘Good morning,’ said Bostar, trying to ignore the smell. He hasn’t even washed, he thought with disgust.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Sapho’s voice was acid.

‘We’ve been summoned to a meeting with Hannibal.’

Sapho’s lips thinned. ‘The general told you that over breakfast, did he?’

Bostar sighed. ‘Despite what you may think, I didn’t save Hannibal’s life to curry favour, or to make you jealous. You know I’m not like that.’ He was pleased when Sapho’s eyes dropped away. He waited, but there was no further response. Bostar pressed on. ‘Father sent me. We need to be there in less than half an hour.’

Finally, Sapho sat up. He winced. ‘Gods, my head hurts. And it tastes like something died in my mouth.’

Bostar kicked the amphora at his feet. ‘Drank too much of this?’

Sapho gave him a rueful grin. ‘Not half! Some of my men broke into a wine merchant’s when the city fell. We’ve kept it under guard since. You should see the place. There’s vintage stuff from all over the Mediterranean!’ His expression grew hawkish. ‘Shame his three daughters aren’t still alive. We had some fun with them, I can tell you.’

Bostar wanted to punch Sapho in the face, but instead he proffered a hand. ‘Get up. We don’t want to be late. Father thinks Hannibal has a task for us.’

Sapho looked at Bostar’s outstretched arm for a moment before he accepted it. Swaying gently, he looked around at the chaos of his tent floor. ‘I suppose I’d better start cleaning my breastplate and helmet. Can’t appear in front of Hannibal with filthy gear, can I?’

‘Can’t your orderly do it?’

Sapho made a face. ‘No. He’s down with the flux.’

Bostar frowned. Sapho was in no state to wash himself, prepare his uniform and present himself to their general in the time remaining. Part of him wanted to leave his brother to it. That’s what he deserves, Bostar thought. The rest of him felt that their feud had been going on too long. He made a snap judgement. His own servant would have everything ready by now. It would only take him a few moments to get ready. ‘Go and stick your head in a barrel of water. I’ll clean your armour and helmet.’

Sapho’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s kind of you,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t think I’m going to do it for you every day,’ Bostar warned. He gave Sapho a shove. ‘Get a move on. We don’t want to be late. Hannibal must have something special lined up for us.’

At this, Sapho’s pace picked up. ‘True,’ he replied. He stopped by the tent’s entrance.

Bostar, who was already following with Sapho’s filthy breastplate, paused. ‘What?’

‘Thank you,’ said Sapho.

Bostar nodded. ‘That’s all right.’

The air between them grew a shade lighter, and for the first time in months, they smiled at each other.

Bostar and Sapho found their father waiting for them near Hannibal’s tent. Malchus eyed their gleaming armour and helmets and gave an approving nod.

‘What’s this about, Father?’ asked Sapho.

‘Let’s go and find out,’ Malchus answered. He led the way to the entrance, where two dozen smartly turned-out scutarii stood. ‘The general is expecting us.’

Recognising Malchus, the lead scutarius saluted. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir.’

As they were led inside, Bostar winked at Sapho, who returned the gesture. Excitement gripped them both. Although they had met Hannibal before, this was the first time they’d been invited into his headquarters.

In the tent’s main section, they found Hannibal, his brothers Hasdrubal and Mago, and two other senior officers grouped around a table upon which a large map was unrolled. The scutarius came to a halt and announced them.

Hannibal turned. ‘Malchus. Bostar and Sapho. Welcome!’

Father and sons saluted crisply.

‘You will know my brother Hasdrubal,’ said Hannibal, nodding at the corpulent, brooding man with a florid complexion and full lips beside him. ‘And Mago.’ He indicated the tall, thin figure whose eager, hawk-like face and eyes threatened to fix one to the spot. ‘This is Maharbal, my cavalry commander, and Hanno, one of my top infantry officers.’ The first man had a mop of unruly black hair and a ready smile, and the other a stolid but dependable look.

The trio saluted again.

‘For many years, Malchus acted as my eyes and ears in Carthage,’ Hannibal explained. ‘Yet when the time came for first his sons, and then he himself, to join me here in Iberia, no one was better pleased than I. They are good men all, and they proved their worth more than once during the siege, most recently when Bostar saved my life.’

The officers murmured in loud appreciation.

Malchus inclined his head, while Bostar flushed at the attention. Beside him, he was aware of Sapho glowering. Bostar cursed inwardly, praying that the fragile peace between him and his brother had not just been broken.

Hannibal clapped his hands together. ‘To business! Come and join us.’

They eagerly crossed to the table, where the others made room.

At once Bostar’s eyes drank in the undulating coast of Africa, and Carthage, their city. The island of Sicily, almost joining their homeland to its arch-enemy, Italy.

‘Obviously, we are here, at Saguntum.’ Hannibal tapped his right forefinger halfway up the east coast of the Iberian peninsula. ‘And our destination is here.’ He thumped the boot-like shape of Italy. ‘How best to strike at it?’

Silence reigned. It was an affront to every Carthaginian’s pride that Rome enjoyed supremacy over the western Mediterranean, an historical preserve of Carthage. Transporting the army by ship would be foolish in the extreme. Yet no one dared to suggest the only alternative.

Hannibal took the initiative. ‘There will be no assault by sea. Even if we took the short route to Genua, our entire enterprise could be undone in a single battle.’ He moved his finger northeast, across the River Iberus, to the narrow ‘waist’ that joined Iberia to Gaul. ‘This is the route we shall take.’ Hannibal continued to the Alps, where he paused for a moment before moving into Cisalpine Gaul, and thence into northern Italy.

Bostar’s heart quickened. Although Malchus had told him of Hannibal’s plan, the general’s daring still took his breath away. A glance at Sapho told him that his brother shared his feeling. Their father’s face, however, remained expressionless. How much does he know? Bostar wondered. He himself had no idea how the immense task Hannibal had just mentioned would be achieved.

Hannibal saw Sapho straining forward eagerly. He raised an eyebrow.

‘When do we march, sir?’

‘In the spring. Until then, our Iberian allies have permission to return to their families, and the rest of the army can rest at New Carthage.’ He saw Sapho’s disappointed look and chuckled. ‘Come now! Winter is no time to wage war, and things will be hard enough for us as it is.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Sapho muttered awkwardly.

‘There are some things in our favour, however. Earlier in the year, my messengers journeyed to Cisalpine Gaul. They were received favourably by nearly all the tribes that they encountered,’ Hannibal said. ‘In fact, the Boii and the Insubres promised immediate aid when we arrive.’

Malchus and his two sons exchanged pleased glances. This was new information for all of them. Hannibal’s companions did not react, however, instead studying the trio intently.

Hannibal held up a warning finger. ‘There are many hurdles to cross before we reach these possible allies. Traversing the Alps will be the greatest by far, but another will be the fierce natives north of the Iberus, who will undoubtedly give violent resistance. We already have plans in train for our journey through these regions. However, there is an area about which we know very little.’ Hannibal’s forefinger returned to the mountains between Iberia and Gaul. He tapped the map meaningfully.

Bostar’s mouth went dry.

Hannibal stared at Malchus. ‘I need someone to sound out the tribes’ possible reactions to a massive army entering their land. To discover how many might fight us. I must have this information by the onset of spring. Can you do it?’

Malchus’ eyes glittered. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Good.’ Hannibal regarded Bostar and Sapho next. ‘The old lion might lead the pack, but he still needs young males to hunt successfully. Will you accompany your father?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the brothers cried in unison. ‘You show our family great honour by entrusting this mission to us, sir,’ Sapho added.

The general smiled. ‘I am sure that you will repay my trust amply.’

Delighted by this recognition of Sapho, Bostar gave his brother a small, pleased look. He was rewarded with a fierce nod.

‘What are your thoughts, Malchus?’

‘We’ll need to set out at once, sir. It’s a long way to the Iberus.’

‘Nearly three thousand stades,’ agreed Hannibal. ‘As you know, it is generally peaceful as far as the river. After that, up to the border with Gaul, may be a different matter. The place is a jumble of mountains, valleys and passes, and the tribes there are rumoured to be fiercely independent.’ He paused. ‘How many men will you require?’

‘Winning our passage by force of arms is simply not an option. Nor is it our purpose. We are to be an embassy, not an army,’ said Malchus. ‘What’s important are the abilities to move fast and to see off possible attacks by bandits.’ He looked at his sons, who nodded in agreement. ‘Two dozen of my spearmen and the same number of scutarii should be sufficient, sir.’

‘You shall have the pick of any unit you wish. And now, a toast to your success!’ Hannibal clicked his fingers and a slave appeared from the rear of the tent. ‘Wine!’ As the man scurried off, the general looked solemnly at each of those around the table. ‘Let us ask Melqart and Baal Saphon, Tanit and Baal Hammon to guide and protect these valiant officers on their mission.’

As the room filled with muttered agreement, Bostar added a request of his own. Let Sapho and I put aside our differences once and for all.

Braving frost, mud and bitter winter wind, the embassy slogged its way to the Iberus. Thereafter, the inhabitants inland could not be trusted, and so Malchus led them along the more secure coastal route, a densely inhabited area full of towns used to traders from overseas. The party passed by Adeba and Tarraco, before safely reaching the city of Barcino, which was located at the mouth of the River Ubricatus.

There were several routes through the mountains that led to Gaul, and Hannibal had advised that he would probably divide his army between them. This necessitated visiting the tribe that controlled each of the passes. A period of unseasonably calm, dry weather prompted Malchus to head north into the mountainous terrain first, rather than starting with the easiest way into Gaul, that which hogged the coastline via the towns of Gerunda and Emporiae. That could be left until last. Hiring locals as guides, the embassy spent many days on narrow paths that wound and twisted into the hills and valleys. Inevitably, the weather worsened, and a journey that might have taken several weeks stretched into two months. Pleasingly, their ordeals were not all in vain. The chieftains who received the Carthaginians seemed impressed with the tales of Hannibal’s military victories throughout Iberia, and the descriptions of his enormous army. Most importantly, though, they welcomed the gifts Malchus offered: the bags of silver coinage, the finely made kopides and Celtiberian short swords.

Eventually, the only people left to contact were the Ausetani, who controlled the coastal route into Gaul. Having returned to the town of Emporiae to reshoe their horses and stock up on supplies, Malchus retired to the one inn which was large enough to quarter all of his men. He immediately demanded a meeting with their guides, three swarthy hunters. Soon after sunset, they convened around a table in his room. Small oval oil lamps cast a warm amber glow on to the grubby plaster on the wall. Malchus’ sons sat opposite each other. Their relationship remained civil, even fairly cordial, but Bostar had stopped trying to be Sapho’s friend. Each time he’d tried, his brother had remained indifferent to his advances. So be it, Bostar decided. It’s better than fighting all the time. Such thoughts always brought Hanno, and his guilty wish that it had been Sapho who had been lost at sea, to mind. Disquieted, Bostar shoved away the idea.

Malchus himself served the guides with wine. ‘Tell me about this tribe,’ he commanded in rough Iberian.

The three glanced at one another. The oldest, a wiry man with a nut-brown, weather-beaten face, leaned forward on his chair. ‘Their main village is in the foothills above the town, sir. It’s a straightforward journey.’

‘Not like the paths that we had to take before, then?’

‘No, sir, nothing like that.’

Bostar and Sapho were both relieved. Neither had enjoyed the days spent on winding, treacherous tracks, where a single slip meant a precipitous fall.

‘How far?’

‘It’s not quite a day’s ride, sir.’

‘Excellent! We’ll set out at dawn,’ Malchus declared. He eyed his sons. ‘A night’s rest upon our return, and we’ll head south. Spring is around the corner, and we mustn’t keep Hannibal waiting any longer.’

The lead guide cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, sir, we were wondering if…’ His nerve failed him and he stopped.

Keen to get in before Bostar, Sapho jumped in. ‘What?’

The man rallied his courage. ‘We wondered if you could pay us and make your own way there,’ he said falteringly. ‘We’ve spent so long away from our wives and families, you see?’

Malchus’ brows lowered.

‘The directions are simple. There’s no way that you could get lost.’ He looked at his two companions, who shook their heads in vigorous agreement.

Malchus did not answer. Instead, he glanced at Bostar and Sapho. ‘What do you think?’ he asked in Carthaginian.

Sapho bared his teeth. ‘He’s lying,’ he snarled in Iberian. ‘I say we tie the double-crossing dog down on the table and see what he says after I’ve cut a few strips of skin off him.’ He calmly placed a dagger before him. ‘This will make the shitbag sing like a caged bird.’

‘Bostar?’ asked Malchus.

Bostar studied the three guides, who seemed absolutely terrified. Then he looked at his brother, who was tapping his blade off the table’s surface. He didn’t want to upset Sapho, but nor was he prepared to see innocent individuals suffer for no reason. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for torture,’ Bostar said in Iberian, ignoring Sapho’s scowl. ‘These men have been with us day and night for weeks. They’ve had no chance to commit treachery. I think they’re probably scared of the Ausetani. But I see no reason why they shouldn’t fulfil their oath, which was to guide us until we discharged them.’

Malchus considered their answers in silence. At length, he turned to the lead guide. ‘Has my son the right of it? Are you frightened of the Ausetani?’

‘Yes, sir. They’re prone to banditry.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Or worse.’

Alarm filled Bostar. Before he could react, Sapho butted in again. ‘When, precisely, were you going to tell us this?’ he demanded.

He got no answer.

Sapho threw a triumphant look at Bostar. ‘Why don’t we just get the directions, and then kill them?’

Perhaps his brother was correct, thought Bostar resentfully. He didn’t want to admit that he’d made a bad judgement by trusting the guides.

His father’s challenge surprised him. ‘And if they had warned us? What would we have done?’

A flush spread slowly up Sapho’s face and neck. ‘Gone to the village anyway,’ he muttered.

‘Precisely,’ replied Malchus evenly. He glared at the guides. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t end your miserable lives for withholding vital information, but I see no point in killing you when we would have followed the same course of action anyway.’

The three stammered their thanks. ‘We will be honoured to guide you to the Ausetani settlement tomorrow, sir,’ said the lead guide.

‘That’s right. You will.’ Malchus’ tone was silky soft, but there was no mistaking the threat in it. ‘Myrcan! Get in here.’

A broad-chested spearman entered from the corridor. ‘Sir?’

‘Take these men’s weapons and escort them to their quarters. Set guards at the windows and door.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Myrcan held out a meaty hand and the guides meekly handed over their knives before following him from the room.

‘It appears you both still have something to learn about judging men’s characters,’ Malchus admonished. ‘Not everyone is as honourable as you, Bostar. Nor do they all require torturing, Sapho.’

Both of his sons took a sudden interest in the tabletop before them.

‘Get some rest,’ Malchus said in a more kindly voice. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’

‘Yes, Father.’ As one, the brothers shoved back their chairs and headed for the door.

Neither spoke on the way to their bedchambers.

The guide’s estimate of the distance to the Ausetani village was accurate. After nearly a day’s ride, the fortified settlement finally came into view at the end of a long, narrow valley. Perhaps half a mile away, it occupied a high, easily defensible point. Like many such in Iberia, it was ringed by a wooden palisade. The tiny figures of sentries could be seen patrolling the ramparts. Flocks of sheep and goats grazed the slopes to either side. It was a peaceful scene, but the guides looked most unhappy.

Malchus gave them a long, contemptuous stare. ‘Go!’

The three men goggled at him.

‘You heard me,’ Malchus growled. ‘Unless you’d like to spend some time with Sapho here.’

They needed no further encouragement and had the sense not to mention payment. Turning their mules’ heads, the trio fled.

‘It appears that we are about to enter a den of hungry wolves.’ Malchus regarded each of his sons in turn. ‘What’s our best option?’

‘Go straight in there and demand to see the headman,’ Sapho declared boldly. ‘As we did in every other village.’

‘We can’t go back to Hannibal without some information,’ Bostar admitted. ‘But nor should we foolishly place our heads on the executioner’s block.’

Sapho’s top lip curled. ‘Are you afraid even to enter that excuse for a settlement?’

‘No,’ retorted Bostar hotly. ‘I’m just saying that we know nothing about these whoresons. If they’re as untrustworthy as the guide said, charging in there like raging bulls will get their backs up from the very outset.’

Sapho shot him a disbelieving look. ‘So what? We’re emissaries of Hannibal Barca, not some pisspot Iberian chieftain.’

They glared at each other.

‘Peace,’ said Malchus after a moment. ‘As usual, both your opinions have some merit. If we had the time, I would perhaps advise waylaying one of their hunting parties. A few hostages would make a powerful bargaining tool before we made an entry. That might take days, however, and we must act now.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Not in quite the way you advised. We will take a more peaceable approach. Remember, the stroked cat is less likely to scratch or bite. Yet we must be confident or, like a cat, they will turn on us anyway.’

Turning to their escorts, Malchus laid out the situation in Carthaginian and basic Iberian. There was little reaction. The Libyans and scutarii had been chosen for their loyalty and bravery. They would fight and, if necessary, die, for Hannibal. Wherever, and whenever, they were ordered to.

‘Which of you two speaks the best Iberian?’ Malchus asked his sons. While rusty, his command of the language sufficed most of the time. In a dangerous situation, however, it was best to minimise the chance of miscommunication.

‘I do,’ replied Bostar at once. Although he and Sapho had spent roughly the same amount of time in Iberia, it was he who had shown more aptitude for the rapid-fire, musical tribal tongues.

Sapho concurred with a reluctant nod.

‘You act as interpreter, then,’ Malchus directed.

Bostar didn’t try to hide his smirk.

Without further ado, they set off. Malchus took the lead, with Bostar and a glowering Sapho following. Their escorts marched to their rear, first the spearmen, and last the scutarii. The party had not gone far when a horn blared out from the nearest hillside. It was quickly echoed by another nearer the village. Shouts rang out on the ramparts. When they were about four hundred paces from the settlement, the front gates creaked open, and a tide of warriors poured out. Forming up in an unruly mass that blocked the entrance, they waited for the Carthaginians to approach.

Bostar felt his stomach clench. He glanced sidelong at Sapho, who was half pulling his sword from its sheath before slamming it home again. He’s worried too, thought Bostar. In front, the only sign of tension in their father was his rigid back. Bostar took heart from Malchus’ self-assurance. Show no fear, he told himself. They will smell it the way a wolf scents its prey. Taking a deep breath, he fixed his features into a stony expression. Coming to the same realisation, Sapho let go of his sword hilt. Their escorts marched solidly behind them, reassurance that if there was trouble, plenty of men would die before they did.

Malchus rode his horse straight up to the mob of Ausetani. Taken aback by his confidence and the size of his mount, some of the warriors retreated a little. The advantage did not last long. Prompted by their companions’ angry mutters, the men stepped forward once more, raising their weapons threateningly. Shouted challenges rang out, but Malchus did not move a muscle.

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.’

Moaning with pain, the warrior extended both his hands upwards, palms extended.

Sapho lifted his gaze to the chieftain, whose face registered stunned disbelief. ‘Well?’ he asked simply.

Eventually, the chief managed to compose himself. ‘I apologise for insulting Hannibal, your leader. The Ausetani accept these generous gifts, with thanks,’ he muttered with bad grace. ‘You and your companions are free to go.’

‘Excellent,’ replied Sapho with a broad smile. ‘Your son will be coming with us.’

The chief jumped to his feet. ‘He needs medical attention.’

‘Which he will receive in plenty. We will leave him in the care of the best surgeon in Emporiae. You have my word on that.’ Sapho leaned on his sword slightly, eliciting a loud moan from the huge warrior. ‘Or I can end it right here. It’s your choice.’

The chieftain’s lips peeled back with fury, but he was powerless in the face of Sapho’s resolve. ‘Very well,’ he replied.

Only then did Sapho glance at his father and Bostar. Both gave him fierce nods of encouragement. Sapho found himself grinning like an idiot. Against all the odds, he had redeemed the situation, won his father’s approval and his brother’s admiration. Inside, though, he knew that the Ausetani would have to be defeated before this particular passage to Gaul was safe.