Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XV: The Alps

Hunching his shoulders against the early-morning chill, Bostar emerged from his tent. He gazed in awe at the towering mountains that reared up before him. The range stretched from north to south above the fertile plain, and occupied the entire eastern horizon. A dense network of pine trees covered the lower slopes, concealing any potential routes of ascent. The sky was clear, but the jagged peaks above were hidden yet by shrouds of grey cloud. Despite this, they were a magnificent sight.

‘Lovely to look at, eh?’

Bostar jumped. Not many of the soldiers were stirring, but it was no surprise that his father was already up. ‘They are incredible, yes.’

‘And we’ve got to cross them.’ Malchus grimaced. ‘Our passage of the River Rhodanus seems trivial now, doesn’t it?’

Bostar’s laugh was a trifle hollow. If anyone had made such a statement a few weeks before, he wouldn’t have believed it. Looking at the harsh slopes above, he knew that his father might well be correct. Expecting more than fifty thousand men, thousands of pack animals and thirty-seven elephants to climb into the realm of gods and demons bordered on genius — or madness. Feeling disloyal for even thinking the latter, Bostar glanced around. He was surprised to see Sapho approaching. After the Rhodanus, the brothers had ostensibly patched up their relationship, but the reconciliation had been little more than a facade for their father’s benefit. The two avoided each other if at all possible. Bostar forced a smile. ‘Sapho.’ Try as he might, he could not help but feel hurt when his brother silently responded with a salute.

‘That’s not necessary, is it?’ Malchus’ tone was sharp.

‘Sorry,’ said Sapho offhandedly. ‘I’m still half asleep.’

‘Yes, it’s not exactly your time of day, is it?’ retorted Bostar acidly. ‘That would be more like midday.’

‘Enough!’ barked Malchus before Sapho could respond. ‘Why can’t you at least be civil to each other? There’s far more at stake here than your stupid feud.’

As always, their father’s outburst silenced the brothers. Unusually, it was Sapho who made the first effort. ‘What were you talking about?’ he asked.

His attempt made Bostar feel obliged to reply. ‘Those.’ He pointed at the mountains.

Sapho’s face soured. ‘Ill fortune awaits us up there. Countless men will be lost, I know it.’ He made the sign against evil.

‘We’ve had such good fortune since the Rhodanus, though,’ protested Bostar. ‘The Romans didn’t pursue us. Then the Cavares gave us gifts of food, shoes and warm clothing. Since we entered their territory, their warriors have kept the Allobroges at bay. Who’s to say that the gods won’t continue to smile on us?’

‘The year’s practically over. Winter will be here soon. It will be a superhuman task.’ An impossible task, thought Sapho dourly. Hell awaits us. He had never liked heights, and the prospect of ascending the Alps — especially in late autumn — filled him with a murmuring dread. Of course he could not admit to that, nor to his resentment of Hannibal for choosing such a difficult route, or for favouring Bostar above him. He jerked his head towards the south. ‘We should have travelled along the coast of Gaul.’

‘That would have meant a pitched battle with the forces our cavalry encountered near the Rhodanus, which was something Hannibal wanted to avoid.’ Despite his robust words, Bostar felt his spirits being dragged down. With the friendly Cavares returning to their homes, and nowhere to go other than up, there was no denying what they had let themselves in for. He was grateful when his father intervened.

‘I want to hear no more talk like that. It’s bad for morale,’ growled Malchus. He had similar concerns, but he wouldn’t admit them to anyone. ‘We must keep faith with Hannibal, as he does with us. His spirits were high last night, weren’t they?’ He glared at his sons.

‘Yes, Father,’ Sapho conceded.

‘He doesn’t have to wander around his men’s campfires for half the night, sharing their poxy rations and listening to their miserable life stories,’ Malchus continued sternly. ‘He doesn’t sleep alongside them, wrapped only in his cloak, for the good of his health! Hannibal does it because he loves his soldiers as if they were his children. The least we can do is to return that love with utmost fealty.’

‘Of course,’ Sapho muttered. ‘You know that my loyalty is beyond question.’

‘And mine,’ added Bostar fervently.

Malchus’ scowl eased. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I know that the next few weeks will be our toughest test yet, but it’s officers such as we who will have to give an example. To lead the men when they falter. We must show no weakness, just a steely resolve to reach the top of whichever pass Hannibal chooses. Don’t forget that from there, we will fall upon Cisalpine Gaul, and after it, Italy, like ravening wolves.’

Finally, the two brothers gave each other a pleased look. It lasted only an instant before they broke eye contact.

Malchus was already ten strides away. ‘Get a move on. Hannibal wants us all to see the sacrifice.’

The brothers followed.

The flat, well-watered land where the Carthaginians were camped had provided respite to man and beast before the rigours that were to come. It also offered, Bostar realised, a place where Hannibal could address his troops, as he had at New Carthage before they’d left. Even though his forces were now considerably smaller, there were still far too many soldiers to be able to witness personally their general make an offering to the gods. That was why the commanders of every unit in the army had been ordered to bring a score or more of their men to the ceremony.

They made their way past rank-smelling Balearic slingers clad in animal skins and slender, dark-skinned Numidians with oiled ringlets in their hair. Burly scutarii and caetrati in sinew helmets and crimson-edged tunics stood with their arms folded. Alongside was Alete with twenty of his Libyan spearmen. Groups of bare-chested Gauls, their necks and arms decorated with torcs of gold, eyed the others present with supercilious stares.

Before the gathered soldiers stood a strongly built low wooden platform, and upon it a makeshift altar of stone slabs had been erected. In front stood fifty of Hannibal’s bodyguards. A ramp led from the foot of the dais to the top, and beside it, a large black bull had been tethered. Six robed priests waited with the beast, which was snorting with unease. As Malchus led them to a position within a dozen steps of the soothsayers, Bostar shivered. In their gnarled hands — through the divination to come — lay the power to raise the army’s morale, or to send it into the depths. Gazing at the nearby soldiers, Bostar saw the same concern twisting their faces that he was experiencing. There was little conversation; indeed an air of apprehension hung over the entire gathering. Bostar glanced at Sapho, whom he could read like a book. His brother was feeling the same way, or worse. Bostar sighed. Despite the ease of the last few days, the mountains’ physical immensity had cast a shadow over men’s hearts. There was only one person who could cast out that gloom, he thought. Hannibal.

The man himself bounded into view a moment later, ascending the ramp as if he were on the last lap of a foot race. A loud cheer met his arrival. Hannibal’s bronze helmet and breastplate had been polished until they shone as if lit from within. In his right hand his falcata sword glinted dangerously; in his left, he carried a magnificent shield emblazoned with the image of a prowling male lion. Without a word, Hannibal strode to the edge of the platform and lifted his arm so everyone could see his blade. He let the troops focus on it before he pointed it to his rear.

‘After so long, there they are! The Alps,’ Hannibal cried. ‘We have halted at our enemies’ very gates to prepare for our ascent. I can see by your faces that you are worried. Scared. Even exhausted.’ The general’s eyes moved from soldier to soldier, daring them to hold his gaze. None could. ‘Yet after the brutal campaign in Iberia, and the crossing of the Rhone, what are the Alps?’ he challenged. ‘Can they be anything worse than high mountains?’ He paused, glancing around questioningly as his words were translated. ‘Well?’

Bostar felt worried. Despite the truth in Hannibal’s words, few men looked convinced.

‘No, sir,’ Malchus answered loudly. ‘Great heaps of rock and ice is all they are.’

Hannibal’s lips tightened in satisfaction. ‘That’s right! They can be climbed, by those with the strength and heart to do so. It’s not as if we will be the first to cross them either. The Gauls who conquered Rome passed by this same way, did they not?’

Again the delay as the interpreters did their work. Finally, there was a mutter of accord.

‘Yet you despair of even being able to get near that city? I tell you, the Gauls brought their women and children through these mountains! As soldiers carrying nothing but our weapons, can we not do the same?’ Hannibal raised his sword again, threateningly this time. ‘Either confess that you have less courage than the Romans, who we have defeated on many occasions in the past, or steel your hearts and march forward with me, to the plain which stands between the River Tiber and Rome! There we will find greater riches than any of you can imagine. There will be slaves and booty and glory for all!’

Malchus waited as the general’s words were translated into Gaulish, Iberian and Numidian, but as a rumble of agreement began to sweep through the assembled troops, he raised a fist into the air. ‘Hannibal!’ he roared. ‘Hannibal!’

Quickly, Bostar joined in. He noted that Sapho was slow to do the same.

Shamed by their general’s words, the soldiers bellowed a rippling wave of approval. The Gauls chanted in deep voices, the Libyans sang and the Numidians made shrill ululating sounds. The cacophony rose into the crisp air, bouncing off the imposing walls of rock before the gathering and thence up into the empty sky. The startled bull jerked futilely at the rope tethering its head. No one paid it any heed. Everyone’s gaze was locked on Hannibal.

‘Last night, I had a dream,’ he cried.

The cheering quickly died away, and was replaced by an expectant hush.

‘I was in a foreign landscape, which was full of farms and large villages. I wandered for many hours, lost and without friends, until a ghost appeared.’ Hannibal nodded as his words spread and the superstitious soldiers glanced nervously at each other. ‘He was a young man, handsome, and clad in a simple Greek tunic, but there was an ethereal glow about him. When I asked who he was, he laughed and offered to guide me, as long as I did not look back. Although I was unsure, I accepted his proposal.’

Hannibal had everyone’s attention now, even that of the priests. Men were making the sign against evil, and rubbing their lucky amulets. Bostar’s heart was thudding off his ribs.

‘We walked for maybe a mile before I became aware of a loud crashing noise behind us,’ Hannibal went on. ‘I tried not to turn and see what was going on, but the sound grew so great that I could not help myself. I glanced around. What I saw made my throat close with fear. There was a snake of wondrous size following us, crushing every tree and bush in its path. Black thunderclouds sat in the sky above it, and lightning bolts flashed repeatedly through the air. I froze in terror.’ Hannibal paused.

‘What happened next, sir?’ cried one of Alete’s Libyans. ‘Tell us!’

An inchoate roar of agreement followed. Bostar found himself shouting too. Visions like this — for surely that was what Hannibal had had — could portend a man’s future, for good or ill. Dread filled Bostar that it was the latter.

Sapho could not dispel his unease about what lay before them. ‘He’s making it up. So we’ll follow him up into those damn mountains,’ he muttered.

Bostar gave him a disbelieving glance. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

Sapho’s jealousy of his brother grew. ‘Really? With so much at stake?’ he retorted.

‘Stop it! You’ll anger the gods!’ said Bostar.

Belatedly scared by what he’d said, Sapho looked away.

‘Wait,’ hissed Malchus. ‘There’s more.’

‘The young man took my arm, and ordered me not to be afraid,’ shouted Hannibal suddenly. ‘I asked him what the snake signified, and he told me. Do you want to hear what he said?’

There was a short pause.

‘Yes!’ The bellow exceeded anything that had gone before.

‘The devastation represents what will happen to Rome at the hands of my army!’ the general said triumphantly. ‘The gods favour us!’

‘Hurrah!’ Bostar was so thrilled that he threw an arm around Sapho’s shoulders and hugged him. His brother tensed, before stiffly returning the gesture. The exhilaration in the air was infectious. Even Malchus’ normal solemnity had been replaced by a broad smile.

‘Hann-i-bal! Hann-i-bal! Hann-i-bal!’ yelled the delighted soldiers.

While his troops cheered themselves hoarse, Hannibal made a gesture to the priests. With the aid of a dozen scutarii, the bellowing bull was hauled up the ramp until it stood in front of the altar. Hannibal stood to one side. At once the applause died away, and the worried looks returned to men’s faces. Success was by no means guaranteed yet. The omens from the sacrifice also had to be good. Bostar found himself clenching his fists.

‘O Great Melqart, accept this prize beast as a sacred offering, and as a gesture of our good faith,’ intoned the high priest, an old man with a grey beard and fleshy cheeks. His companions repeated his words. Raising the hood on his robe, the priest then accepted a long dagger. The bull’s head was pulled forward, stretching its neck. Without further ado, the old man extended his arm and yanked it back, drawing the blade across the underside of the bull’s throat with savage force. Blood gouted from the large wound, covering the priest’s feet. The kicking beast collapsed to the platform, and the unneeded scutarii were waved back. Swiftly, the old man moved to kneel between the bull’s front and back legs. With sure strokes, he slit open the skin and abdominal muscles. Steaming loops of bowel slithered into view. The priest barely glanced at them as, still gripping the dagger, he shoved both his arms deep into the abdominal cavity.

‘He’s seen nothing bad so far. That’s good,’ whispered Bostar.

It’s probably all been arranged in advance, thought Sapho sourly, but he no longer dared speak his mind.

A moment later, the old man stood up to face Hannibal. His arms were bloodied to the shoulder, and the front of his saturated robe had turned crimson. In his hands, he held a purple, glistening lump of tissue. ‘The beast’s liver, sir,’ he said gravely.

‘What does it tell you?’ There was the slightest trace of a quaver in Hannibal’s voice.

‘We shall see,’ replied the priest, studying the organ.

‘Told you!’ Bostar gave Sapho a hefty nudge. ‘Even Hannibal is unsure.’

Sapho looked at Hannibal, whose face was now etched with worry. If their general was an actor, he was a damn good one. Fear suddenly clogged Sapho’s throat. What was I thinking to call Hannibal’s dream into question? Sapho couldn’t think of a better way to call down the gods’ wrath than to say what he just had. And there was Bostar, beside him, who was unable to put a foot wrong. Bitterness coursed through his veins.

‘It is very clear,’ the priest announced loudly.

Every man present craned his neck forward, eager to hear.

‘The passage of the mountains will be difficult, but not impossible. The army will descend upon Cisalpine Gaul, and there allies will flock to our cause. The legions that come to meet us will be swept away, as the mightiest of trees are by a winter storm. Victory awaits!’

‘Victory! Victory! Victory!’ chanted the soldiers.

Raising his hands for silence, Hannibal stepped forward. ‘I told you of my dream. You have heard the soothsayer make his pronouncement. Now, who will follow me across the Alps?’

The watching troops surged forward, shouting their acceptance.

Looking elated, Malchus and Bostar were among them. Sapho followed, telling himself that everything would be all right. The knot of fear and unease in his belly told another story, however.

Four days later, Sapho was beginning to wonder if his misgivings had been overblown. While the Carthaginians had encountered some resistance from the Allobroges, it had been swept aside by Hannibal’s fierce response. Life in the mountains had settled into a reassuring routine, the same as they’d followed for months. Rise at dawn. Strike camp. Eat a cold breakfast. Assemble the men. Assume position at the head of the enormous column. Join the path eastwards. March. Sapho was immensely proud that Hannibal had picked his unit to lead the army. Let Bostar suck on that, he thought. His brother’s phalanx marched behind his. Malchus and his soldiers were with the rearguard, more than ten miles back down the stony track.

His duty carried with it huge responsibility. Sapho was on the lookout for danger at all times. For the thousandth time that morning, he eyed the heights around the flat-bottomed valley in which they currently found themselves. Nothing. Intimidated by Hannibal’s seizure of their main settlement and, with it, all their supplies, the Allobroges had vanished into the bare rocks. ‘Good enough for the cowardly scumbags,’ muttered Sapho. He spat contemptuously.

‘Sir!’ cried one of the guides, a warrior of the Insubres tribe. ‘Look!’

To Sapho’s surprise, the figures of men could be seen appearing on the track ahead. Where in the name of hell had they come from? He lifted his right arm. ‘Halt!’ At once the order began passing back down the line. Sapho’s jaw clenched nervously as he listened to it. He was stopping the progress of the entire army. It had to be done, however. Until proven otherwise, every person they encountered was an enemy.

‘Should we advance to meet them, sir?’ asked an officer.

‘Not bloody likely. It could be a trap,’ Sapho replied. ‘The fuckers can come to us.’

‘What if they don’t, sir?’

‘Of course they will. Why else do you think they’ve slunk out of their rat holes?’

Sapho was right. Gradually, the newcomers approached: a group of perhaps twenty warriors. They were typical-looking Gauls, well built with long hair and moustaches. Although some wore tunics, many were bare-chested under their woollen cloaks. Baggy woven trousers were ubiquitous. Some wore helmets, but only a handful had mail shirts. All were armed with tall, oval shields and swords or spears. Interestingly, the men at the front were carrying willow branches.

‘Are the dogs coming in peace?’ asked Sapho.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the guide. ‘They’re Vocontii, I think.’ He saw Sapho’s blank look. ‘Neighbours — and enemies — of the Allobroges.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ sneered Sapho. ‘Do any of you Gauls get on with each other?’

The guide grinned. ‘Not too often, sir. There’s always something to fight over.’

‘I’m sure,’ Sapho said dryly. He glanced to either side. ‘Front rank, shields up! First and second ranks, ready spears!’

Wood clattered off wood as the spearmen obeyed his command. An instant later, the phalanx presented a solid wall of overlapping shields to its front. Over the shield rims, scores of spear tips poked forward like the spines on a forest of sea urchins.

Looking alarmed, the warriors stopped.

Sapho’s lips peeled upwards. ‘Tell them that if they come in peace, they have nothing to fear.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The guide bellowed a few words in Gaulish.

There was a brief pause, and then the Vocontii continued walking towards them. When they were twenty paces away, Sapho held up his hand. ‘That’s close enough.’

The guide translated his words, and the tribesmen dutifully halted.

‘Ask them what they want,’ Sapho ordered. He fixed his attention on the one man who had answered all the guide’s questions. A fine mail shirt covered the middle-aged warrior’s barrel chest, and three gold torcs announced his wealth and status. What Sapho didn’t like, or trust, was the man’s wall-eye and permanent leer.

‘They have heard of the size of our army and of our victories over the Allobroges, sir, and wish to assure us of their friendship,’ said the guide. ‘They want to guide us through their territory, to the easiest pass over the Alps.’

‘How charming,’ Sapho replied caustically. ‘And why in Melqart’s name should we believe them?’

There was a shifty smile from the wall-eyed warrior as the guide interpreted. A wave of his hand saw several fat heifers herded into view.

‘Apparently, they have a hundred of these to offer us, sir.’

Sapho didn’t let his pleasure show. That quantity of fresh meat would be very welcome. ‘The beasts don’t count for much if the Vocontii steal them straight back. Hannibal needs far more assurance than that. What kind of guarantee of safe passage can the dirtbags offer?’

A moment later, fully half of the tribesmen took a step forward. Most obvious was the wide-faced young warrior with blond pigtails and finely made weapons. He looked decidedly disgruntled. An explanation from the deputation’s leader followed.

‘Apparently, the youngster is the chieftain’s youngest son, sir. The rest are high-ranking warriors,’ said the guide. ‘They are to be our hostages.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Sapho. He turned to the nearest of his officers. ‘Go and find the general. Tell him what’s happened. I think he’ll want to hear their offer for himself.’ As the officer hurried off to do his bidding, Sapho resumed his study of the heights above. The fact that they were bare did not reassure him in any way. Gut feeling told him that the Vocontii were as trustworthy as a nest of snakes.

It wasn’t long before Hannibal appeared. When he wasn’t marching near the army’s head, the general was to be found at its tail, and today it was the former. Sapho was flattered that Hannibal was not accompanied by any of his senior officers. He saluted crisply. ‘Sir!’

‘Sapho.’ Hannibal reached his side. ‘So this is the deputation from the Vocontii, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sapho replied. ‘The shifty-looking bastard over there is the leader.’

‘Tell me again what they’ve said,’ Hannibal ordered, scanning the warriors.

Sapho obeyed.

Hannibal rubbed his chin. ‘A hundred cattle and ten hostages. Plus the guides who will stay with us. It’s not a bad offer, is it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re not happy,’ said Hannibal with a shrewd look. ‘Why?’

‘What’s to stop them from simply rustling the beasts back from us, sir?’ Sapho answered. ‘Who’s to say that the hostages aren’t peasants, whom the Vocontii chieftain wouldn’t ever miss if they were executed?’

‘Should I reject their offer?’

Sapho’s stomach did a somersault. Give the wrong answer now, and Hannibal probably wouldn’t ask him to lead the army again. Give the correct one, and he would rise in the general’s estimation. Sapho was desperate for the latter. ‘There’s no point, sir.’

‘Why not?’ Hannibal demanded.

Sapho met his general’s fierce gaze. ‘Because if you did, we’d have to fight our way through their territory, sir. If we play along instead, there’s a reasonable chance of anticipating possible attacks while continuing the march without hindrance. If they prove to be trustworthy, so much the better. If not, then we at least gave it a try.’

Hannibal did not reply immediately, and Sapho began to worry that he’d said the wrong thing. He was thinking of retracting his words when the general spoke.

‘I like your thinking, Sapho, son of Malchus. It is easier to avoid treading on a serpent that is watched than to find it under any one of a thousand stones. It would be foolish not to take steps to prevent disaster, though. The baggage train and the cavalry must be moved to a position just behind the vanguard. They’re the most vulnerable to being cut off.’

At the front that could never happen, thought Sapho. ‘Yes, sir.’ He tried not to feel disappointed that Hannibal was taking charge. At least he’d led the army for a few days.

Hannibal surprised him. ‘We still need infantry to lead us. You’ve been doing an excellent job, so I want you to continue in your position.’

Sapho grinned. ‘Thank you, sir!’

‘I also want you to guard the hostages. At the slightest sign of treachery, you know what to do.’

‘I’ll have them tortured and then crucified in full view of their compatriots, sir.’

‘Excellent. Do whatever you see fit.’ Hannibal clapped him on the arm. ‘I’ll have the cavalry move up to your position at once. Start marching again as soon as they’re in place.’

‘What about the mules, sir?’

‘Getting them into position would be far too awkward now. We’ll keep our fingers crossed for today and do it tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Delighted, Sapho watched his general disappear back down the track. The passage of the mountains was proving to be far more rewarding than he could have anticipated.

For two days, the party of Vocontii led Sapho through their lands. The cavalry and baggage train followed slowly behind them, and after them came the rest of the army. Although there had been no attacks on the column, Sapho’s distrust of the tribesmen who guided him remained. It grew stronger when, on the morning of the third day, the Vocontii chose a track that entered a valley much narrower than that in which they’d been marching. There was barely enough room for the ubiquitous pine trees to grow up its steep sides. Halting his soldiers, Sapho summoned the wall-eyed warrior. ‘Why aren’t we staying on this path?’ Sapho indicated the larger way to the right, which continued off into the distance. ‘It’s wider, and the terrain looks to remain flatter.’

The guide repeated his words in the local tongue.

The warrior launched into a long, rambling explanation, which involved much pointing and gesticulating.

‘Apparently it ends in a sheer cliff face about five miles away, sir. We’d just have to turn around and come back here. This narrow one, on the other hand, leads gradually upwards and will take us to the lowest pass in the area.’

Sapho glared at the warrior, who simply shrugged. One of his eyes was looking at him, while the other was staring off into the sky. Sapho found it infuriating. It also made judging whether the warrior was lying exceptionally hard. He made up his mind. Sending a runner to ask Hannibal, who was with the rearguard, would entail a delay of three hours or more. ‘Fine,’ he growled. ‘We’ll do as he says. Tell him, though, that if there’s any trickery, he’ll be the first to die.’ Sapho was pleased to see the warrior’s throat work nervously when his threat was translated. He led the way confidently enough, however, allaying Sapho’s concern a fraction.

His unease soon returned. It wasn’t the stony and uneven track. That was much the same as those they’d followed since entering the Alps. No, thought Sapho, it was the sheer rock faces that pressed in from both sides. They went on and on with no sign of widening out. It created a feeling of real claustrophobia. He didn’t know exactly how high the cliffs were, but it was enough to reduce significantly the light on the valley floor. Sapho wasn’t alone in disliking the situation. He could hear his men muttering uneasily to each other. Behind, there were indignant brays from the mules. Many of the cavalrymen were dismounting in order to lead their reluctant horses forward.

Sapho set his jaw. He had committed the army to this route. With a ten-mile column following, there was no turning back now. They just had to get on with it. Loosening his sword in his scabbard, Sapho ensured that he stayed close to the wall-eyed warrior. If anything happened, he would carry out his threat.

Pleasingly, they made slow but continuous progress for what remained of the morning. Men’s spirits rose, and even the animals grew used to the confined space. Sapho remained on edge, constantly scanning the skyline above for any sign of movement. He tried to ignore the crick that was developing in his neck from always looking straight up in the air.

What attracted Sapho’s attention first was not motion, but sound. One moment all that he could hear was the noises he’d heard daily since leaving New Carthage. Soldiers gossiping with each other. An occasional laugh, or curse. Officers barking orders. The creak of leather and jingle of harness. Hacking coughs from those with bad chests. The sound of men spitting. Brays from mules. Horses’ whinnies. The next moment, Sapho’s ears rang with a terrible, screeching resonance. He flinched instinctively. It was the noise of rock scraping off rock. With a terrible sense of dread, he looked up.

For a moment, Sapho saw nothing, but then the irregular edge of a block of stone appeared at the edge of the cliff far above. Frantically, Sapho raised a hand to his mouth. ‘We’re under attack! Raise shields! Raise shields!’ In the same instant, his head was turning, searching for the wall-eyed warrior. As the air filled with panicked shouts, Sapho saw the man had already elbowed past his comrades and was shouting at them to follow him. ‘You treacherous bastard!’ Sapho shouted, drawing his sword. He was too late. Enraged, he watched as the Vocontii disappeared into a fissure in the rock not twenty paces away. Sapho cursed savagely. He had to stay where he was, and do what he could for his men. If he wasn’t killed himself. One thing was certain: if any of the hostages, who were kept deep in the middle of his phalanx, survived, they would die the instant he could get to them.

The air filled with a rumbling thunder and Sapho glanced upwards again. It was a terrifying sound, amplified a thousand times by the confining valley walls. Awestruck, he watched as several boulders, each the size of a horse, were pushed over the edge high above them. They picked up speed fast, and tumbled with ever-increasing speed down the vertiginous cliff face. Relief battled with horror as Sapho realised that none would strike him. Loud screams rose from the soldiers directly underneath the rocks, who could do nothing but watch their death hurtle towards them. Their cries revealed their awful, helpless terror. Aghast, Sapho could not take his eyes off the plummeting pieces of stone. A hot tide of acid flooded the back of his mouth as they struck their targets with deafening thumps, silencing their victims for ever.

Their ordeal wasn’t over, either. Further down the cliff tops, in a position over the cavalry and the baggage train, Sapho could see more boulders being pushed towards the edge. He groaned. There was nothing he could do for those men and beasts either. Sapho took a deep breath. Best see to the injured, he thought. At least those can be helped.

The scream of battle cries filled their ears before they could do a thing. To Sapho’s fury, files of Vocontii warriors came spilling from the fissure into which their guides had just vanished. More issued from another one alongside it. A red mist of rage replaced Sapho’s dismay. He recognised the wall-eyed man and others of their guides among their number. Raising his spear, he roared, ‘Eyes front! Enemy attack!’ His soldiers responded with alacrity. ‘Shields up! Ready spears!’

From the shouts behind them, Sapho could tell that the column had been attacked in other places too. ‘Rear five ranks, about turn!’ he bellowed. ‘Advance to meet the enemy. Engage at will.’ That done, Sapho spun to face the Vocontii before them. The tribesmen were closing in fast, weapons held high. Sapho levelled his spear at the wall-eyed warrior. ‘You’re dead meat, you stinking whoreson!’

His answer was an inarticulate snarl.

To Sapho’s frustration, he did not get to close with the other. The phalanx’s rigid structure meant that he could not move from his position, and the warrior was heading for a different part of the front rank. Sapho had to forget about him, as a tribesman with a dense red beard thrust his sword at his face. Rather than ducking below his shield rim, thereby losing sight of his enemy, Sapho jerked his head to one side. The blade whistled past his left ear, and Sapho thrust forward with his spear. There was a grating feeling as it slipped between two ribs, and then it ran deep into the other’s unprotected chest. Sapho had no chance to pull free his weapon from the dying man’s flesh. Releasing his grip on the shaft, he dragged free his sword. The warrior slumped to the ground, a disbelieving expression still twisting his features, and was immediately replaced.

Sapho’s second foe was a bellowing bull of a man with a thick neck and hugely muscled arms. To Sapho’s shock, the triangular point of his enemy’s spear punched clean through the bronze and leather facing of his shield and smacked into his cuirass. A ball of agony exploded from Sapho’s lower belly, and he reeled several steps backwards, dropping his sword. Fortunately, the soldier behind was ready, and leaned forward, thereby preventing Sapho from falling over. Jammed in Sapho’s shield, the tribesman’s weapon was no longer usable. Quick as a flash, however, he ripped out a long dagger and reached over the top of Sapho’s shield to lunge at his throat. Desperately, Sapho jerked his head backwards. Slash after slash followed, and he knew that it would only be a moment before his throat was ripped open by the wickedly wielded blade.

It was with the utmost relief that Sapho saw a spear come in from the side to pierce the warrior’s throat. It stabbed right through, emerging scarlet-tipped from the right side of his neck. A dreadful, choking sound left the Gaul’s gaping mouth. It was followed by a tide of bright red blood, which spattered the front of Sapho’s shield and, below, his feet. The spear was withdrawn, letting the dead warrior collapse on top of Sapho’s first opponent.

‘Gods above,’ Sapho muttered. He’d never been so close to death. He turned his head to regard his saviour. ‘Thank you.’

The spearman, a gap-toothed youth, grinned. ‘You’re welcome, captain. Are you all right?’

Sapho reached a hand under the bottom edge of his cuirass, which had a great dent in it. He probed upwards, wincing at the pain this caused. When he pulled out his fingers, he was relieved to see that there was no blood on them. ‘I seem to be,’ he answered with relief. He stooped to pick up his sword. Returning his gaze to the fight, Sapho was gratified to see that the Vocontii charge had smashed apart against the phalanx’s solid wall of shields. He wasn’t surprised. While a few of his men might have been killed, it would take more than a charge by disorganised tribesmen to break them. It was time to lead a counter charge, thought Sapho. All reason left him, however, as he saw the wall-eyed warrior no more than twenty steps away, stooping to kill an injured Libyan even as he himself retreated. Dropping his useless shield, Sapho leaped forward. His desire to kill the deceitful tribesman gave him extra speed and he had covered maybe a third of the ground between them before the other even saw him. The warrior took one look and fled for his life. So did his comrades.

‘Come back, you fucking coward!’ Sapho screamed. He was oblivious to the fact that the phalanx’s front-rankers had followed him. He increased his pace to a sprint, aware that if the other reached the gap in the rock, any chance of catching him would disappear. It was no good. The warrior seemed to have winged heels. But then fate intervened, and Sapho’s enemy tripped on a protruding rock. He stumbled and fell to one knee. Sapho was on him like a dog cornering a rat. Instead of killing the tribesman, he smashed the hilt of his sword across the back of his head. Straightening, Sapho was able to slash another warrior’s arm as he ran past. With a howl, the man blundered into the fissure and out of sight.

‘Don’t go in there!’ Sapho shouted as the first of his spearmen arrived and made for the gap in the rock. ‘It’s a death trap.’

The soldiers reluctantly obeyed.

‘I want twenty men stationed right here to make sure they don’t try a counter attack.’ Sapho kicked the wall-eyed warrior, who groaned. ‘Someone, pick up this sack of shit. Find any of his compatriots who are alive, and tie them all up.’

‘What are you going to do with them, sir?’ asked an officer.

‘You’ll see,’ Sapho replied with a wolfish smile. ‘First, though, we need to see what’s going on behind us.’

By the time they had reached the rear of the phalanx, the Vocontii who had been attacking there were gone. The corpses of fifteen or more warriors were sprawled on the ground, but that was of little satisfaction to Sapho. In this small section alone, at least fifty Carthaginian soldiers had been critically injured or crushed to death. Just beyond, so had the same number of mules and cavalry mounts. The ground was covered with blood, and the mangled bodies of men and beasts lay everywhere. The screaming of the injured, especially those who had been trapped when the boulders finally came to rest, was awful. Sapho closed his ears to their clamour, and concentrated on finding out what else had happened. Bostar was among the officers who reported to him.

Panicked by the falling rocks, an elephant had dashed three men to death with its trunk, before charging backwards into the column, there to cause untold damage. Fortunately, its companions had been kept calm by their mahouts. The most frustrating discovery was that the Vocontii had stolen dozens of mules, leading them up the same precipitous paths that had served to launch their daring attack. They had even seized some captives. Despite this, Sapho knew that there was no point in pursuing the raiders. Moving on was more important than trying to save a few unfortunate soldiers. Once the dead and the blocks of stone had been rolled out of the way, the column would have to resume its advance.

Before that, however, there was something that Sapho had to do.

He made his way back to where the Vocontii prisoners were. With the ten hostages, they had twenty-two in total, sitting together and surrounded by a ring of spearmen. The only one who did not look fearful was the wall-eyed warrior, who spat at Sapho as he approached.

‘Shall we execute them, sir?’ asked an officer eagerly.

An angry mutter of agreement went up from the Libyans.

‘No,’ Sapho replied. He ignored his men’s shocked response. ‘Tell them that despite their brethren’s treachery, they are not to be killed,’ he said to the interpreter. As his words were translated, Sapho was gratified to see traces of hope appear in some warriors’ faces. He waited for a moment, enjoying his power.

‘Please, sir, reconsider!’ an officer enjoined. ‘They can’t go unpunished. Think of our casualties.’

Sapho’s lips peeled into a snarl. ‘Did I say that they would go unpunished?’

The officer looked confused. ‘No, sir.’

‘We shall do to them what they did to us,’ Sapho pronounced. ‘Do not translate that,’ he snapped at the interpreter. ‘I want them to watch, and wonder.’

‘What do you want us to do, sir?’

‘Tie the shitbags in a line. Next, get one of the elephants. Use it to shift a large rock. A rock so big that no men could ever move it.’

A slow smile spread across the officer’s face. ‘To dash out their brains, sir?’

‘No,’ reproached Sapho. ‘We’re not going to kill them, remember? I want the boulders dropped on their legs.’

‘And then, sir?’

Sapho shrugged cruelly. ‘We’ll just leave them there.’

The officer grinned. ‘It’ll be dark before their scumbag companions can return. They’ll be begging for death by that stage, sir.’

‘Precisely. They might think before attacking us a second time.’ Sapho clapped his hands. ‘See to it!’

He watched as the Vocontii prisoners were forced to lie down by a rocky outcrop. Sapho intervened to make sure that the wall-eyed warrior was last in the line. There was a short delay as an elephant was brought up from its position with the baggage train. Sapho waited with the interpreter by the first of the warriors, whose eyes were now bulging with fear.

Sapho looked up at the mahout. ‘Can you shift that boulder there?’ He pointed.

‘Yes, sir. Where?’

‘On to these men’s legs. But they mustn’t be killed.’

The mahout’s eyes widened. ‘I think so, sir.’

‘Get on with it, then.’

‘Sir.’ Leaning forward, the mahout whispered in his huge mount’s ear before tapping it behind the ear with his hooked staff. The elephant lumbered up to the stone that Sapho had indicated, and gripped the top of it with its trunk. There was a moment’s silence before the slab began to move out of its resting place. The mahout muttered another command, and the elephant stepped up to rest the front of its head against the boulder, preventing it from picking up speed. Slowly, the beast reversed towards the prisoners, controlling its load’s progress down the slight slope. Realising at last what was about to happen, the Vocontii warriors began to wail in fear.

Sapho laughed. He scanned the heights above, and fancied he saw movement. ‘Yes, you fuckers,’ he screamed. ‘Look! We’re about to give your friends a dose of their own medicine.’

Several steps from the captives, the mahout made the elephant pause. He looked at Sapho questioningly.

‘Do it.’

A murmured word in its ear, and the elephant moved aside, letting the stone roll on to the first three warrior’s legs. Strangled screams shredded the air. The sound was met by an immense cheer from the hundreds of watching Carthaginian soldiers. This, in their eyes, was vengeance for their dead comrades. Meanwhile, the tribesmen’s companions struggled uselessly against their bonds, which had been pegged to the ground.

‘Tell them that this is Hannibal’s retribution for double-crossing us,’ Sapho thundered.

Pale-faced, the interpreter did as he was told. His words were met by a gabble of terrified voices. ‘Some are saying that they didn’t know that we would be attacked,’ he muttered.

‘Ha! They’re liars, or fools, or both.’

‘They’re asking just to be killed.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Sapho waved a hand at the mahout. ‘Do it again. Don’t stop.’

Rock after rock was lowered into place, smashing the legs of all but the last Vocontii warrior. When the elephant had manoeuvred the final piece of stone into place, Sapho ordered the mahout to wait. Clicking his fingers to make sure that the interpreter followed him, he made his way to where the wall-eyed warrior lay. Purple-faced with rage, the tribesman spat a string of obscenities.

‘Don’t bother,’ said Sapho with a sneer as the interpreter began to speak. ‘I know what he’s saying. Tell him that this is repayment for his deceit, and that a coward like him will never reach the warriors’ paradise. Instead, his soul will rot for all eternity in hell.’ He eyed the mahout. ‘When he’s finished, let the stone fall.’

The elephant driver nodded.

‘What in the name of all the gods is going on?’ Somehow Bostar’s voice penetrated the cacophony of screams echoing throughout the narrow gorge.

The interpreter stopped speaking. The mahout sat motionless atop his beast. Stiff-backed with fury, Sapho turned to find his brother regarding him with an outraged expression. He inclined his head mockingly. ‘I’m punishing these worthless whoresons. What does it look like?’

Bostar’s face twisted. ‘Could you think of a crueller way to kill them?’

‘Several ways, actually,’ Sapho replied amiably. ‘They all took too long, though. This method might be crude, but it’s effective. It will also send a strong message to the rest of their pox-ridden, louse-infested tribe that to fuck with us carries a heavy price.’

‘You’ve already made your point!’ Bostar indicated the line of screaming men. ‘Why not just stab this man in the throat and have done?’

‘Because this one’ — and Sapho kicked the wall-eyed warrior in the head — ‘is their leader. I’ve saved him until last, so he could watch his comrades suffer, and anticipate his own fate.’

Bostar recoiled. ‘You’re sick,’ he spat. ‘I command you to halt this outrage.’

‘You might outrank me still, brother, but Hannibal entrusted the vanguard to me, not you,’ Sapho said in a loud voice. ‘I’m sure that our general would love to hear why you countermanded his orders.’

‘Hannibal ordered you to kill any prisoners like this?’ Bostar muttered in disbelief.

‘He said I was to do as I saw fit,’ snarled Sapho. ‘Which I am doing. Now stand back!’ He was delighted when, with slumped shoulders, Bostar obeyed. Sapho looked down for a final time at the wall-eyed warrior, who tried to spit at him again. Inspiration seized Sapho and he drew his dagger. Kneeling down, he shoved the tip into the man’s right eye socket. With a savage wrench, he hooked out the eyeball. His victim’s courage disappeared and a shriek of pure agony ripped free of his throat. Wiping his bloody hands on the warrior’s tunic, Sapho stood. ‘I’m leaving him one eye so that he can watch the mightiest army in the world pass by,’ he said to the interpreter. ‘Tell him that.’ He glanced at Bostar. ‘Watch and learn, little brother. This is how enemies of Carthage should be treated.’ Without waiting for a response, Sapho jerked his head at the mahout. ‘Finish it.’

Full of impotent anguish, Bostar walked away. He was unwilling to watch. Unfortunately, he couldn’t block out the screams. What had his older brother become? he wondered. Why was Hanno the one who had been carried out to sea?

For the first time, Bostar allowed himself that thought without guilt.