Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XVI: Journeys

Naturally, the via Appia, the main road to Rome, led straight out of Capua. Not wishing to enter the town, Quintus first bypassed his father’s farm and then took a smaller, cross-country track that meandered through a number of hamlets and past countless farms to join the larger way some miles to the north. Quintus rode his horse. As a supposed slave, Hanno sat on the back of an irritable mule, which was also laden down with equipment. They travelled in silence for the first hour. Both had much to think about.

Quintus now felt confident of finding his father. He was sad to have left Aurelia behind, but that was the way of the world. Their mother would look after her well. However, Quintus felt uneasy. Once their objective — that of finding his father — had been achieved, Hanno would depart to join the Carthaginian forces. Did that mean that they were already enemies? Thoroughly unsettled by this notion, Quintus tried not to think of it.

Hanno prayed that Suniaton would be all right and that they would find Fabricius swiftly. Then he would be free. He asked to be reunited with his father and brothers. If they were still alive, of course. Hanno tried to be upbeat, and concentrated on imagining marching to war against the Romans. At once, however, another disquieting image popped up. Quintus and Fabricius would be serving in the legions. Unknowingly, Hanno had the same disturbing thought as Quintus, and buried it deeply in the recesses of his mind.

Not long after they had joined the Via Appia, they came upon a party of infantry marching south.

‘Oscans,’ said Quintus, relieved to have something to talk about. ‘They’re heading for the port.’

Hanno knew that the River Volturnus ran in a southwesterly direction past Capua to terminate at the coast. ‘To be transported to Iberia?’

Ill at ease again, Quintus nodded.

Hanno ignored him, focusing instead on the approaching group. Apart from Fabricius’ escort, he hadn’t seen many soldiers in Italy. These were socii, not regular legionaries, but such men would constitute up to half of any army that faced Hannibal’s. They were the enemy.

Some of the Oscans were bareheaded, but most wore bronze Attic helmets decorated in striking fashion with horsehair or feathers, which were dyed red, black, white or yellow. Their short wool tunics were also eye-catching, ranging from red to ochre to grey. Few wore shoes or sandals, but all had a broad leather belt covered in bronze sheeting, which was fastened with elaborate hooks. The soldiers were armed with light javelins and thrusting spears of different lengths; the rare men with swords carried the slashing kopis, a curved weapon originally used by the Greeks. The majority of their shields were similar to scuta, concave and ribbed, but smaller.

‘It wasn’t many generations ago that they were fighting Rome,’ Quintus revealed. ‘Capua has only been under Roman rule for just over a century. Many locals think it should reclaim its independence.’

Hanno goggled. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. It’s a favourite argument between Martialis and my father, especially when they’ve been drinking.’ Quintus frowned, wondering if his mother felt similarly. She’d never said as much, but he knew that she was fiercely proud of her heritage.

Hanno was fascinated. His knowledge of the Republic’s structure, and its relationship with the non-Roman cities and peoples of Italy, was patchy at best. It was interesting that natives of such a large and important city were unhappy being ruled by Rome. Could there be others who felt the same way? he wondered.

As one of the junior tribunes of a legion, Flaccus should have accompanied his unit to Iberia. After his foolish outburst in front of Publius, it would also have been wise for him to lay low for a time. As Fabricius rapidly discovered, that was not his way. Discovering that, in addition to Fabricius’ cavalry, the consul was taking a single cohort back to Italy, Flaccus begged to be included. One tribune was needed to command the legionaries, he reasoned. Why should it not be he? To Fabricius’ utter amazement, Publius did not explode at the request. While clearly annoyed, the consul acceded. ‘By Jupiter, but you have a brass neck,’ he muttered. ‘Now get out of my tent.’

Fabricius took a mental note of the incident, which revealed how far the power of the Minucii stretched. Although it mattered little which tribune accompanied Publius, Flaccus’ gall in asking would have been punished had he been anyone else. Rather than punishment, though, he had got his wish. As he said smugly to Fabricius later, the Minucii had a finger in every pie. ‘By the time we arrive in Italy, the clan will probably know about Hannibal’s intentions.’ The only way that could happen, thought Fabricius, was if you had sent a message ahead of us. He couldn’t believe that was the case. Had Atia been right about Flaccus? Wishing that his prospective son-in-law were less of a braggart, Fabricius consoled himself by imagining how his family would benefit from the Minucii’s influence once Aurelia was married.

For his part, Fabricius was delighted to be heading for Italy. Although there would be plenty of action there, he wanted to be part of the army that faced the main threat. Naturally, this was Hannibal, not the commander he had left in Iberia.

Sapho’s brutal treatment of the prisoners did not stop the Vocontii from mounting further attacks. If anything, it increased their ferocity. More rocks were rolled down the slopes, causing heavy casualties among the soldiers and pack animals. During the late afternoon, the fighting grew so intense that the vanguard, including the cavalry and the baggage train, became separated from Hannibal and the bulk of the infantry. It remained so for the duration of the night. The following morning, to everyone’s relief, the Vocontii had disappeared. Most supposed that their losses had eventually become heavy enough to make stealing supplies pointless. Yet the tribesmen had wreaked more than simple physical damage on the army. The terrifying ordeal helped morale to plummet among the less motivated units. Each night, hundreds of men vanished under cover of darkness. Hannibal had ordered that no one was to stop them. ‘Soldiers who are coerced into fighting make poor comrades,’ he said to Malchus.

The host marched on.

For eight days, the miserable, cold and footsore Carthaginians climbed. Their enemies were no longer the Vocontii or the Allobroges, but the elements and the terrain, which grew ever more treacherous. Wind chill, frostbite and exposure began to take their toll. From dawn until dusk, soldiers dropped to the ground like flies. At night they simply died in their sleep. They were weakened by hunger, exhaustion, insufficient clothing, or a combination of all three.

Hannibal’s response to Sapho’s robust defence of the vanguard had been to promote him. He had also left Sapho in charge of leading the column. Despite his joy at being equal to Bostar in rank, his responsibility was a double-edged sword. It was down to him and his men to act as trailbreakers, which was an utterly exhausting task. Boulders had to be moved. The track regularly needed repairing or strengthening. Casualties among Sapho’s men soared. By the eighth night, he was on the point of physical and mental collapse. His dread of their passage of the mountains had been proved well founded. In his mind, they were all doomed. They would never find the promised pass that marked the high point of their journey. All that kept Sapho going was his pride. Asking Hannibal to relieve him of his command would be worse than jumping off a cliff. Yet Sapho didn’t want to do that either. Incredibly, life was still better than death. Wrapped in five blankets, he huddled over a lukewarm brazier in his tent and tried to feel grateful. None of his men had the luxury of fuel to burn.

After a while, Sapho stirred. Although he didn’t want to, it was time to check the sentries. It was also good for morale for him to be seen. He shed his blankets, pulled on a second cloak and wrapped a scarf around his head. As he unlaced the leather ties and opened the tent flap, a gust of bitingly cold wind entered. Sapho flinched, before forcing himself outside. Two sentries, Libyans, stood by the entrance. A pitch-soaked torch held upright by a small pile of stones cast a faint pool of light around them.

The pair stiffened to attention as they saw him. ‘Sir,’ they both mumbled through lips that were blue with cold.

‘Anything to report?’

‘No, sir.’

‘It’s as cold as ever.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the nearest man replied. He doubled over as a paroxysm of coughing took him.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said his companion nervously. ‘He can’t help it.’

‘It’s all right,’ Sapho replied irritably. He eyed the first soldier, who was wiping bloody sputum from his lips. A dead man walking, he thought. Sudden pity filled him. ‘Take the wretch inside to the brazier. Try and get him warm. You can stay there until I get back from my rounds.’

Stunned, the second Libyan stammered his thanks. Sapho grabbed the torch and stalked off into the darkness. He would only be gone for a quarter of an hour, but it might provide the sick man with some relief. A sour smile traced his chapped lips. I’m getting soft, like Bostar. Sapho hadn’t seen his brother since their argument over the Vocontii prisoners. As far as he was concerned, that was fine.

Taking great care on the icy ground, Sapho traced his way past his soldiers’ tents. He glanced at the pair of elephants Hannibal had ordered to stay with the vanguard. The miserable beasts stood side by side, trying to maximise their warmth. Sapho even pitied them. Soon after, he reached the first sentries, who were stationed some two hundred steps from his tent. They were in a line across the path where the advance had stopped for the night. Exposed on three sides, it was the worst place to stand watch in the whole army. No fire could survive in the vicious, snow-laden wind that whistled down from the peaks. In order that the soldiers here didn’t all die from exposure, Sapho had ordered their periods on duty shortened to just an hour at a time. Even so, he lost men every night.

‘Seen anything?’ he shouted at the officer in charge.

‘No, sir! Even the demons are in bed tonight!’

‘Very good. As you were.’ Pleased by the officer’s attempt at humour, Sapho began to retrace his steps. He had only to check the sentries at the rear of the phalanx, and then he was done. Peering into the gloom, he was surprised to see a figure emerging around the corner of the outermost tent. Sapho frowned. The cliff might be twenty steps from the tent lines, but the wind was so powerful that a man could easily be carried over the edge. He had seen it happen several times already. Consequently, everyone walked between the tents, not around them. The man was carrying a torch, which meant that he was no enemy. Yet he’d just taken the most dangerous route past his phalanx. Why? What had he to hide?

‘Hey!’ Sapho shouted. ‘Stop right there!’

The figure straightened, and the hood of his cloak whipped back. ‘Sapho?’

‘Bostar?’ said Sapho incredulously.

‘Yes,’ his brother replied. ‘Can we talk?’

Sapho staggered as a particularly savage gust of wind struck him. He watched, aghast, as it buffeted an unsuspecting Bostar sideways and on to one knee. As he struggled to stand up, another blast of air hit, carrying him backwards and out into the blackness.

Sapho couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran to the edge of the precipice, where he was astonished to find his brother clinging desperately to the protruding branch of a stunted bush several steps below him.

‘Help me!’ Bostar shouted.

Silently, Sapho stared down at him. Why should I? he asked himself. Of what benefit is it to me?

‘What are you waiting for?’ Bostar’s voice cracked. ‘This damn branch will never hold!’ Seeing the look in Sapho’s eyes, he blanched. ‘You want me to die, don’t you? Just as you were happy when Hanno was lost.’

Sapho’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with guilt. How could Bostar know that? Still he didn’t act.

The branch split.

‘Fuck you to hell and gone!’ screamed Bostar. Letting go with his left hand, he threw himself forward, searching for a fingerhold on the track. There would only be a moment before his body weight pulled him backwards and into the abyss. Knowing this, Bostar scrabbled frantically to gain any kind of purchase in the rock-hard, ice-covered earth. He found none. With a despairing cry, he started to slide backwards.

Sapho’s gut instinct took over, and he leaned forward to grab his brother by the shoulders. With a great yank, he pulled him up and over the edge. A second effort saw them several paces away, on safer ground. They lay side by side for a few moments, their chests heaving. Bostar was the first to sit up. ‘Why did you save me?’

Sapho met his gaze with difficulty. ‘I’m not a murderer.’

‘No,’ Bostar snapped. ‘But you were glad when Hanno vanished, weren’t you? With him out of the way, you had a chance to become Father’s favourite.’

Shame filled Sapho. ‘I-’

‘It’s strange,’ said Bostar, interrupting. ‘If I had died just now, you’d have Father all to yourself. Why didn’t you let me slip into oblivion?’

‘You’re my brother,’ Sapho protested weakly.

‘I might be, but you still stood there, looking at me when I first fell,’ Bostar retorted furiously. He regained control of himself. ‘Yet I have you to thank for saving my life. I am grateful, and I will repay my debt if I can.’ He carefully spat on the ground between them. ‘After that, you will be dead to me.’

Sapho’s mouth gaped. He watched as Bostar got up and walked away. ‘What will you tell Father?’ he called out.

Bostar turned, a contemptuous expression twisting his face. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll say nothing.’ With that, he was gone.

Right on cue, a blast of icy wind hit Sapho, chilling him to the bone.

He had never felt more alone.

Quintus’ and Hanno’s departure left Aurelia feeling abandoned. Finding an excuse to head off to visit Suniaton was far from easy. She could not confide in her mother for obvious reasons, and she didn’t like, or trust, her old Greek tutor. She was friendly with Elira, but the Illyrian had been in a bad mood recently, which made her poor company. Julius was the only other household slave Aurelia could be bothered with. After the excitement of her trips to the woods, however, discussion about what was on next week’s menu was of little interest. Inevitably, she spent most of her time with her mother, who, since they’d been left alone, had thrown herself into household tasks with a vengeance. It was, Aurelia supposed, Atia’s way of coping with Quintus’ disappearance.

Foremost among their jobs was dealing with the vast amount of wool stockpiled in one of the sheds in the yard. It had been shorn from the sheep during the summer, and in the subsequent months, the women slaves had stripped the twigs and vegetation from the fleeces, before dyeing them a variety of colours: red, yellow, blue and black. Once dyed, the wool was ready for spinning, and then weaving. Although the majority of this work was done by slaves, Atia also contributed to the effort. She insisted Aurelia did so as well. Day after day, they sat in or walked around the courtyard, distaffs and spindles in hand, retreating to the atrium only if it rained.

‘It’s the job of a woman to keep the house and work in wool,’ said Atia one crisp morning. Deftly pulling a few unspun fibres from the bundle on her distaff, she attached them to her spindle and set it spinning. Her eyes lifted to Aurelia. ‘Are you listening, child?’

‘Yes,’ Aurelia replied, grateful that Atia hadn’t noticed her rolling eyes. ‘You’ve told me that a thousand times.’

‘That’s because it’s true,’ her mother replied primly. ‘It’s the mark of a good wife to be proficient at spinning and weaving. You’d do well to remember that.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said Aurelia dutifully. Inside, she imagined that she was practising with a gladius.

‘No doubt your father and Quintus will be grateful for any cloaks and tunics that we can send them too. I believe that the winters in Iberia can be harsh.’

Guiltily, Aurelia applied herself to her task with more vigour. This was the only tangible way of helping her brother. She was shocked to find herself wishing that she could do the same for Hanno. He’s one of the enemy now, she told herself. ‘Has there been any more news?’

‘You know there hasn’t.’ There was an unmistakable trace of irritation in Atia’s voice. ‘Father will have no time to write to us. With the gods’ blessing, however, he’ll have reached Iberia by now.’

‘With luck, Quintus will find him soon,’ Aurelia responded.

Atia’s composure cracked for an instant, revealing the sorrow beneath. ‘What was he thinking to go on his own?’

Aurelia’s heart bled to see her mother so upset. Until now, she hadn’t mentioned that Hanno had left with her brother. Saying nothing made things far simpler. Now, though, her resolve wavered.

A discreet cough prevented her from saying a word. Aurelia was annoyed to see Agesandros standing by the atrium doors.

In the blink of an eye, Atia’s self-possession returned. ‘Agesandros.’

‘My lady,’ he said, bowing. ‘Aurelia.’

Aurelia gave the Sicilian a withering look. Since his accusation of Hanno, she had avoided him like the plague. Now he had stopped her from consoling her mother.

‘What is it?’ asked Atia. ‘A problem with the olive harvest?’

‘No, mistress.’ He hesitated. ‘I have come to make an apology. To Aurelia.’

Atia’s eyebrows rose. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing that I shouldn’t have, mistress,’ said Agesandros reassuringly. ‘But the whole business with the Carthaginian slave was most… unfortunate.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Aurelia interjected acidly.

Atia raised a hand, stalling her protest. ‘Continue.’

Publius was incensed, upon his arrival in Pisae nearly a week later, to be greeted by a messenger from the Senate. The consul’s only thought was to travel north, to Cisalpine Gaul, and there take control of the legions presently commanded by a praetor, Lucius Manlius Vulso. Yet the note Publius was handed suggested in no uncertain terms that it would be judicious to report to the Senate before taking further action against Hannibal. This was necessary because, as Publius spat at Flaccus, he had ‘“exceeded his consular remit, by deciding not to proceed to Iberia with his army”.’

Flaccus innocently studied his fingernails.

‘Someone must have sent word before we left Massilia,’ Publius raged, staring pointedly at Flaccus. ‘Yet nowhere do I see any mention of the word provocatio. In other words, I could ignore this disrespectful note. I probably should. With every day that goes by, Hannibal and his army march closer to our northern borders. Sempronius has no chance of travelling from Sicily quicker than I can reach the north. Journeying to Rome will delay me by two weeks, or more. If Hannibal turns up during that time, the result could be catastrophic.’

‘That would scarcely be my fault,’ Flaccus replied smoothly.

Publius’ nostrils flared white with fury. ‘Is that so?’

Flaccus had the sense not to answer.

Reading the missive again, Publius composed himself. ‘I will return to Rome as asked, but any responsibility for what happens because of the delay will fall on the heads of the Minucii, and on you particularly. Should Hannibal already be in the area when I eventually reach Cisalpine Gaul, I will make sure to position you in the front line every time we encounter the Carthaginians.’ Flaccus looked up in alarm, and Publius snarled, ‘There you can win all the glory you desire. Posthumously, I expect.’ Ignoring Flaccus’ shock, Publius turned to Fabricius. ‘We shall take but a single turma to Rome. I want two spare horses for every rider. Your other men can buy new mounts, and then head north to join Vulso with the cohort of infantry. See to it. We ride out in an hour.’

Flaccus followed Fabricius as he supervised the unloading of the mounts and equipment. The quayside at Pisae was a hive of activity. Freshly disembarked soldiers retrieved their equipment from piles on the dock and formed up in lines under their officers’ eagle eyes. Fabricius’ cavalrymen watched as specially constructed wooden frames lifted their horses out of the ships’ bellies and on to dry land once more. Grooms stepped in, reassuring their unsettled charges, before leading them off to one side where they could be readied for the impending journey. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Fabricius rounded on Flaccus. ‘What in the name of Hades is going on?’

Flaccus made a show of innocence. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Any fool knows that the best thing is not for Publius to go to Rome, but to Cisalpine Gaul, and with all haste. Yet you have conspired to make sure that he does the former.’

Flaccus looked shocked. ‘Who’s to say that I had anything to do with the news reaching Rome? Anyhow, I cannot answer for the actions of more senior members of my clan. They are men greater than you or I, men whose only interest is that of Rome. They also know Publius for an arrogant individual whose main aim is to gain glory for himself; his recent actions prove this. He must be brought to book by his fellows and reminded of his position before it’s too late.

‘It’s not as if we are without forces in the north,’ Flaccus went on persuasively. ‘Lucius Manlius Vulso is already in the area with a full-sized consular army. Vulso is an experienced commander, and I have no doubt that he is skilled enough to face, and beat, the rabble Hannibal will lead out of the mountains. Would you not agree?’

Fabricius felt his position waver. Publius’ confident decision to send his army on to Iberia while he himself returned to Italy had certainly been out of the ordinary. Initially, Fabricius had thought Publius was showing genuine foresight, but Flaccus’ words sowed doubt in his mind. It was hard to credit that a faction in Rome would endanger the Republic just to score points over a political rival. The Minucii must have their reasons for demanding to see Publius, he reasoned. In theory, the legions in Cisalpine Gaul were fully capable of defending their northern border. Fabricius glanced at Flaccus, and saw nothing but genuine concern. ‘I suppose so,’ he muttered.

‘Good. Let us travel to the capital without worrying about Hannibal, and see what our betters in the Senate would say to Publius,’ said Flaccus earnestly. ‘The gugga can be dealt with immediately afterwards, if Vulso has not already wiped him from the face of the earth. Are we agreed?’ He stuck out his right arm in the soldier’s fashion.

Fabricius felt uneasy. One moment Flaccus was talking as if those in Rome always acted unselfishly, and the next he was implying that Publius’ recall was a political tactic made with scant consideration of the danger posed by Hannibal. There was far more going on here than met the eye. In Fabricius’ mind, the sole issue at hand was Hannibal, and how to deal with him. Those who sat in the Senate obviously did not appreciate that. Yet did it really matter, he wondered, if they went to Rome before Cisalpine Gaul? If Hannibal did succeed in crossing the Alps, his army would need a prolonged period of rest to recover from their ordeal. Forewarned, Vulso would be ready, and Publius would not take long to travel from the capital. ‘We are agreed,’ he said, accepting Flaccus’ grip.

‘Excellent.’ Flaccus’ eyes glittered with satisfaction. ‘By the way, don’t take anything my brother says to heart. He is greatly looking forward to meeting you in private.’

Feeling rather out of his depth, Fabricius nodded.

Hannibal’s army reached the top of the pass the next day. Thrillingly, the watery sunshine revealed flat plains far below. The distant image could have been a mirage for all the use it was to them, thought Bostar bitterly. The slopes that led down towards Cisalpine Gaul were covered in frozen snow, which entirely concealed the path. Achieving a secure footing from now on would be more difficult than ever, and the price of failure was no less lethal than it had been since they’d entered the mountains.

To relieve his troops’ suffering, Hannibal let them rest for two days at the summit. Of course there was more to his decision than simple kindness. Hundreds of stragglers, soldiers who would have died otherwise, managed to catch up with their comrades in this time, where they were greeted with relief but little sympathy. Even if they’d wanted to speak of their ordeal, few would have found an audience. Despair clawed constantly at men’s hearts, rendering them insensible to the suffering of others.

Remarkably, hundreds of mules that had gone missing during the ascent also made their way into the camp. Although the majority had lost their baggage, they were still a welcome sight. In an effort to raise morale, Hannibal allowed the weakest beasts, numbering two hundred or more, to be slaughtered on the last evening before the descent. The fires needed to cook this meal consumed most of the army’s remaining wood, but for the first time in weeks, his soldiers went to sleep with fresh meat in their bellies.

Bostar’s deeply held hope that Hanno was still alive, and the presence of his father, were what sustained him through the agonies of the following day and night. He tried not to think of Sapho at all, instead concentrating on helping his soldiers. If Bostar had thought that the journey through the mountains up to that point had been difficult, then the descent was twice as bad. After more than a week above the snow line, the troops were chilled to the bone. Despite the Cavares’ gifts of clothing and footwear, many were still not suitably attired for the freezing, hazardous conditions. Slowed by the cold, the Carthaginians stumbled over the slightest obstacles, walked into snowdrifts and collided with each other. This, when a simple trip meant death, instantly from the fall, or by slipping away into a sleep from which there was no wakening.

The soldiers died in other ways as well. Sections of the path cracked away under the weight of snow and men, sending hundreds into oblivion, and forcing those behind to repair the track in order to continue. The unfortunate mules were now prone to panic at the slightest thing, and their struggles were the cause of more casualties. Bostar found that the only way not to go mad in the face of so much death and destruction was to act as if nothing had happened. To keep putting one foot in front of the other. Step by grim step, he plodded on.

Just when he thought that things could get no worse, they did. Late the next morning, the vanguard arrived at a point where a landslide had carried away the track for a distance of one and a half stades. Sapho sent word back that neither man nor beast could proceed without losing their life. Here the drop was at least five hundred paces. Undeterred, Hannibal ordered his Numidians to begin constructing a new path across the obstacle. The rest of the army was ordered to rest as best it could. The news made many soldiers break down and weep. ‘Will our suffering never end?’ wailed one of Bostar’s men. Bostar was quick to issue a reprimand. Morale was painfully low, without being made worse by open despair.

All they had to go on were the garbled messages occasionally passed back from the vanguard. Bostar didn’t know which to believe. The cavalry mounts were useful in pulling large boulders out of the way. Most of the work had to be done by bare hand. Hannibal had offered a hundred gold pieces to the first man over the obstacle. Ten men had fallen to their deaths when a section of the track had given way. It would take a week or more to clear the way for the elephants.

As darkness fell, Bostar’s spirits were raised somewhat by a Numidian officer who was passing through Bostar’s phalanx as he returned to his tent.

‘Progress was good today. We’ve laid a new path over more than two-thirds of the landslide. If things proceed like this tomorrow, we should be able to continue.’

Bostar breathed a huge sigh of relief. After nearly a month in the mountains, Cisalpine Gaul would be within reach at last.

His optimism vanished within an hour of work resuming the following morning when the cavalrymen exposed a huge boulder. It completely blocked the way forward. With a diameter greater than the height of two men, the rock was positioned such that only a few soldiers could approach at a time. Horses weren’t strong enough to move it, and there was no space to lead an elephant in to try.

As time passed, Bostar could see the last vestiges of hope disappearing from men’s eyes. He felt the same way himself. Although they weren’t speaking, Sapho looked similarly deflated. It wasn’t long before Hannibal came to survey the problem. Bostar’s usual excitement at seeing his general did not materialise. How could anyone, even Hannibal, find a way to overcome this obstacle? As if the gods were laughing, more snow began to fall. Bostar’s shoulders slumped.

A moment later, he was surprised to see his father hurrying to speak with Hannibal. When Malchus returned, he had a new air of calmness about him. Bostar squinted at the soldiers who were hurrying back along the column. He grabbed his father’s arm. ‘What’s going on?’

‘All is not lost,’ Malchus replied with a small smile. ‘You will see.’

Soon after, the soldiers returned, each man bent double under a pile of firewood. Load after load was carried past and set carefully around the base of the rock. When the timber had been piled high, Malchus ordered it lit. Still Bostar did not understand, but his father would answer no questions. Leaving his sons to observe with increasing curiosity, he returned to Hannibal’s side.

The soldiers who could see were also intrigued, but after the fire had been burning for more than an hour without any result, they grew bored. Grumbles about wasting the last of their wood began. For the first time since leaving New Carthage, Bostar did not immediately react. His own disillusionment was reaching critical levels. Whatever crackpot idea his father had had was not going to work. They might as well lie down and die now, because that was what would surely happen when night fell.

Bostar missed the construction of a wooden framework that allowed a man to stand over the top of the rock. It was only when the first amphorae were carried past that he looked up. Finally, his curiosity got the better of his despair. The clay vessels contained sour wine, the troops’ staple drink. Bostar saw his father gesturing excitedly as Hannibal watched. Quickly, two strapping scutarii climbed the frame. To combat the extreme heat now radiating from the rock, they had both soaked their clothes in water. The instant they had reached the top, the pair lowered ropes to the ground. Men below tied amphorae to the cables, which were hauled up. Without further ado, the scutarii cracked open the wax seals and poured the vessels’ contents all over the boulder. The liquid sizzled and spat, sending a powerful smell of hot wine into the faces of those watching. Realisation of what they were trying to do struck Bostar like a hammer blow. He turned to tell Sapho before biting his lip and saying nothing.

The empty containers were discarded and replaced by full ones, and the process was repeated. There was more loud bubbling as the wine boiled on the superheated rock, but nothing else happened. The scutarii looked uncertainly at Malchus. ‘Keep going! As fast as you can!’ he shouted. Hastily, they obeyed, upending two more amphorae. Then it was four. Still the rock sat there, immovable, immutable. Malchus roared at the soldiers who stood close by to add more fuel to the blaze. The flames licked up, threatening to consume the platform upon which the scutarii stood, but they were not allowed to climb down. Malchus moved to stand at the frame’s base, and exhorted the soldiers to even greater efforts. Another two amphorae were emptied over the boulder, to no avail. Bostar’s hopes began to ebb away.

A succession of explosive cracks suddenly drowned out all sound. Chunks of stone were hurled high into the air, and one of the scutarii collapsed as if poleaxed. His skull had been neatly staved in by a piece of rock no bigger than a hen’s egg. His panicked companion jumped to safety, and the soldiers who had been tending the fire all retreated at speed. More cracking sounds followed, and then the rock broke into several large parts. Parts that could be moved by men, or smashed into pieces by hammers. The cheering that followed rose to the very clouds. As word spread down the column, the noise increased in volume until it seemed that the mountains themselves were rejoicing.

Elated, Bostar and Sapho rushed separately to their father’s side. Joyfully, they embraced him one by one. They were joined by Hannibal, who greeted Malchus like a brother. ‘Our ordeal is nearly over,’ the general cried. ‘The path to Cisalpine Gaul lies open.’

The two friends’ first sight of the capital was formed by the immense Servian wall, which ringed the city and dwarfed Capua’s defences. ‘The fortifications are nearly two hundred years old,’ Quintus explained excitedly. ‘They were built after Rome was sacked by the Gauls.’

May Hannibal be the next to do so, Hanno prayed.

‘How does Carthage compare?’

‘Eh?’ said Hanno, coming back to reality. ‘Many of her defences are much more recent.’ They’re still far more spectacular, he thought.

‘And its size?’

Hanno wasn’t going to lie about that one. ‘Carthage is much bigger.’

Quintus did his best not to look disgruntled, and failed.

Hanno was surprised that within the walls, Carthage’s similarities with Rome grew. The streets were unpaved, and most were no more than ten paces across. After months of hot weather, their surfaces were little more than an iron-hard series of wheel ruts. ‘They’ll be a muddy morass come the winter,’ he said, pointing. ‘That’s what happens if it rains a lot at home.’

‘As in Capua,’ agreed Quintus. He wrinkled his nose as they passed an alleyway used as a dung heap. The acrid odour of human faeces and urine hung heavy in the air. ‘Lucky it’s autumn and not the height of summer. The smell then is apparently unbearable.’

‘Do many buildings have sewerage systems?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not much different to parts of Carthage,’ Hanno replied. It was strange to feel homesick because of the smell of shit.

The fuggy atmosphere was aided by the fact that the closely built structures were two, three and even four storeys tall, creating a dimly lit, poorly ventilated environment on the street. Compared to the fresh air and open spaces of the Italian countryside, it was an alternative world. Most structures were open-fronted shops at ground level, with stairs at the side that snaked up to the flats above. Quintus was shocked by the filth of it all. ‘They’re where the majority of people live,’ he explained.

‘In Carthage, they’re mostly constructed from mud bricks.’

‘That sounds a lot safer. The cenaculae are built of wood. They’re disease-ridden, hard to heat and easy to destroy.’

‘Fire’s a big problem, then,’ said Hanno, imagining how easy it would be to burn down the city if it fell to Hannibal’s army.

Quintus grimaced. ‘Yes.’

Along with its sights and smells, the capital provided plenty of noise. The air was filled with the clamour of shopkeepers competing for business, the shrieks of playing children and the chatter of neighbours gossiping on the street corners. Beggars of every hue abounded, adding their cries for alms to the din. The clang of iron being pounded on anvils carried from smithies, and the sound of carpenters hammering echoed off the tall buildings. In the distance, cattle bellowed from the Forum Boarium.

Of course Rome was not their main destination: that was the port of Pisae, from which Publius and his army had set sail. Yet the temptation of visiting Rome had been too much for either of the friends to resist. They wandered through the streets for hours, drinking in the sights. When they were hungry, they filled their bellies with hot sausages and fresh bread bought from little stalls. Juicy plums and apples finished off their satisfying meal.

Inevitably, Quintus was drawn to the massive temple of Jupiter, high on the Capitoline Hill. He gaped at its roof of beaten gold, rows of columns the height of ten men and facade of brightly painted terracotta. He came to a halt by the immense statue of a bearded Jupiter, which stood in front of the complex, giving it a view over much of Rome.

Feeling resentful, Hanno also stopped.

‘This must be bigger than any of the shrines in Carthage,’ said Quintus with a questioning look.

‘There’s one which is as big,’ Hanno replied proudly. ‘It’s in honour of Eshmoun.’

‘What god is that?’ asked Quintus curiously.

‘He represents fertility, good health and well-being.’

Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘And is he the leading deity in Carthage?’

‘No.’

‘Why has his temple the most prominent position then?’

Hanno gave an awkward shrug. ‘I don’t know.’ He remembered his father saying that their people differed from the Romans by being traders first and foremost. This temple complex proved that Quintus’ kind placed power and war before everything else. Thank all the gods that we have a real warrior in Hannibal Barca, he thought. If fools like Hostus were in charge, we would have no hope.

Quintus had come to his own conclusion. How could a race who gave pride of place to a fertility god’s temple ever defeat Rome? And when the inevitable happens, what will happen to Hanno? his conscience suddenly screamed. Where will he be? Quintus didn’t want to answer the question. ‘We’d better find a bed for the night,’ he suggested. ‘Before it gets dark.’

‘Good idea,’ replied Hanno, grateful for the change of subject.

Agesandros gave a tiny nod of thanks and turned to Aurelia. ‘I should have handled the matter far better. I wanted to apologise for it, and ask if we can make a new start.’

‘A new start?’ Aurelia snapped. ‘But you’re only a slave! What you think means nothing.’ She was pleased to see pain flare in his eyes.

‘Enough!’ Atia exclaimed. ‘Agesandros has served us loyally for more than twenty years. At the least, you should listen to what he has to say.’

Aurelia flushed, mortified at being reprimanded in front of a slave. She was damned if she’d just give in to her mother’s wishes. ‘Why would you bother apologising now?’ she muttered.

‘It’s simple. The master and Quintus may be gone for a long time. Who knows? It could be years. Perhaps you’ll have more of a hand with the running of the farm.’ Encouraged by Atia’s nod of acquiescence, he continued, ‘I want nothing more than to do my best for you and the mistress here.’ Agesandros made an almost plaintive gesture. ‘A good working relationship is essential if we are to succeed.’

‘He’s right,’ said Atia.

‘You owe me an explanation before I agree to anything,’ said Aurelia angrily.

The Sicilian sighed. ‘True. I did treat the gugga slave harshly.’

‘Harshly? Where do you get the gall?’ Aurelia cried. ‘You were going to sell a man to someone who would make him fight his best friend to the death!’

‘I have my reasons,’ Agesandros replied. A cloud passed across his face. ‘If I were to tell you that the Carthaginians tortured and murdered my entire family in Sicily, would you think differently of me?’

Aurelia’s mouth opened in horror.

‘They did what?’ demanded her mother.

‘I was away, fighting at the other end of the island, mistress. A surprise Carthaginian attack swept through the town, destroying all in its path.’ Agesandros swallowed. ‘They slaughtered everyone in the place: men, women, children. The old, the sick, even the dogs.’

Aurelia could scarcely breathe. ‘Why?’

‘It was punishment,’ the Sicilian replied. ‘Historically, we had sided with Carthage, but had switched to give our allegiance to Rome. Many settlements had done the same. Ours was the first to be captured. A message had to be delivered to the rest.’

Aurelia knew that terrible things happened in war. Men died, or were injured terribly, often in their thousands. But the massacre of civilians?

‘Go on,’ said Atia gently.

‘I had a wife and two children. A girl and a boy.’ For the first time, Agesandros’ voice cracked. ‘They were just babies. Three and two.’

Aurelia was stunned to see tears in his eyes. She had not thought the vilicus capable of such emotion. Incredibly, she felt sorry for him.

‘I found them some days later. They were dead. Butchered, in fact.’ Agesandros’ face twitched. ‘Have you ever seen what a spear blade can do to a little child? Or what a woman looks like after a dozen soldiers have violated her?’

‘Stop!’ Atia cried in distaste. ‘That’s quite enough.’

He hung his head.

Aurelia was reeling with horror. Her mind was filled with a series of terrifying images. It was no wonder, she thought, that Agesandros had treated Hanno as he had.

‘Finish your story,’ Atia commanded. ‘Quickly.’

‘I didn’t really want to live after that,’ said Agesandros obediently, ‘but the gods did not see fit to grant my wish of dying in battle. Instead, I was taken prisoner, and sold into slavery. I was taken to Italy, where the master bought me.’ He shrugged. ‘Here I have been ever since. That pair were some of the first guggas I had seen for two decades.’

‘Hanno is innocent of any crime towards your family,’ Aurelia hissed. ‘The war in Sicily took place before he had even been born!’

‘Let me deal with this,’ said her mother sharply. ‘Were you seeking revenge the first time that you attacked the Carthaginian?’

‘Yes, mistress.’

‘I understand. While it doesn’t excuse your actions, it explains them.’ Atia’s expression hardened. ‘Did you lie about finding the knife and purse among the slave’s belongings?’

‘No, mistress! As the gods are my witness, I told the truth,’ said the Sicilian earnestly.

Liar, thought Aurelia furiously, but she dared say nothing. Her mother was nodding in approval. A moment later, her worries materialised.

‘Agesandros is right,’ Atia declared. ‘Things will be hard enough in the months to come. Let us all make a new start.’ She stared expectantly at Aurelia. Agesandros’ expression was milder, but mirrored hers.

‘Very well,’ Aurelia whispered, feeling more isolated than ever.