Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XIX: Reunion

Hanno did not dare to try crossing the makeshift bridge over the Padus with his mount. He had tempted fate enough by riding out of the camp alone on his mule, a likely slave. There had to be at least two centuries of legionaries guarding the road that ran up to the crossing. No matter how dull their duty, Hanno doubted that they were stupid enough to let a dark-skinned man who spoke accented Latin pass by without question. He therefore rode west along the southern bank, searching for a suitable place to ford the river.

Winter gales had stripped the leaves from the trees, leaving the flat landscape stark and bare. It made it easy to spot movement of any kind. This suited Hanno down to the ground. Unarmed apart from a dagger, he had no desire to meet anyone until he crossed the river into the territory of the Insubres. They were mostly hostile towards the Romans. Even there, however, Hanno wanted to avoid human contact. In reality, he could trust no one but his own people, or the soldiers who fought for them. Although he was by no means safe yet, Hanno could not help feeling exhilarated. He could almost sense the presence of Hannibal’s army nearby.

Hanno hardly dared to wonder if his own father and brothers were still alive, or with the Carthaginian forces. There was absolutely no way of telling. For all he knew, they could yet be in Iberia. Maybe they had been posted back to Carthage. What would he do if that were the case? Whom would he report to? At that moment, Hanno did not overly care. He had escaped, and, gods willing, would soon place himself under Hannibal’s command: another soldier of Carthage.

For two days and nights, Hanno travelled west. He avoided settlements and farms, camping rough in dips and hollows where there was little chance of being discovered. Despite the severe cold, he forbore from lighting fires. His blankets were sufficient to prevent frostbite, but not to allow much sleep. It didn’t matter. Staying alert now was critical. Despite Hanno’s weariness, each new day of freedom felt better than the last.

His luck continued to hold. Early on the third day, Hanno reached a crossing point over the Padus. A collection of small huts huddled around the ford, but there was no one about. The days were short, and work on the land had ceased until spring. Like most peasants at this time of year, the inhabitants went to bed shortly after sunset and rose late. Nonetheless, Hanno felt very vulnerable as he stripped off by the water’s edge. Placing his clothing in his pack, he rolled up the oiled leather tightly and tied it with thongs. Then, naked as the day he was born, he led the protesting mule into the river. The water was shockingly cold. Hanno knew that if they didn’t cross it fast, his muscles would freeze up and he would drown. Winter rainfall ensured that its level was high, however, and for a time, his mount struggled against the current. Hanno, who was holding on to its reins and swimming as hard as he could, felt panic swelling in his chest. Thankfully, the mule possessed enough strength to carry them both into the shallows on the far side, and from there, on to the bank. The biting wind struck Hanno savagely, setting his teeth to chattering. Fortunately, only a small amount of water had entered his pack, meaning that his clothes were mostly dry. He dressed quickly. Then, wrapping his blanket around himself for extra warmth, he remounted and resumed his journey.

The day wore on and Hanno’s excitement grew. He was deep in Insubres territory; Hannibal’s army could not be far away. Since he’d been captured by the pirates, it had seemed impossible that he would ever be in such a position. Thanks to Quintus, it was now a reality. Hanno prayed that his friend would come through the impending war unharmed. Naturally enough, he quickly returned to thoughts of a reunion with his family. For the first time, Hanno’s attention lapsed.

A short time later, he was brought back to reality with a jolt. Halfway down into a hollow, Hanno heard a blackbird sounding its alarm call, sharp and insistent. Scanning the trees on either side, he could see no reason for its distress. Yet birds did not react like that without cause. Acid-tipped claws of fear clutched at his belly. This was the perfect place for an ambush. For bandits to attack and murder a lone traveller.

Terror filled Hanno as, in the same instant, a pair of javelins scudded out of the bushes to his left and flew over his head. Praying that his attackers were on foot, he dug his heels into his mule’s sides. It responded to his fear, and pounded gamely up out of the dip. Several more javelins hissed into the air behind them, but when Hanno glanced over his shoulder, his hopes vanished entirely. A group of mounted figures had emerged from the cover on each side. Six of them at least, and on horses. There was no chance of outriding his pursuers on a mule. Hanno cursed savagely. This was surely the cruellest turn of fate since he’d been washed out to sea. To have gone through all that he had, only to be murdered by a bunch of brigands a few miles from where Hannibal’s forces lay.

He wasn’t surprised when more horses and riders appeared on the road ahead, blocking it entirely. Gripping the dagger that was his solitary weapon, Hanno prepared to sell his life dearly. As the horsemen approached, however, his heart leaped. He had not seen any Numidian cavalry since leaving Carthage, but there could be no mistaking their identity. What other mounted troops scorned the use of saddles, bridles and bits? Or wore open-sided tunics even in winter?

Even as he opened his mouth to greet the Numidians, another flurry of javelins was hurled in his direction. This time, two barely missed him. Frantically, Hanno raised both his hands in the air, palms outwards. ‘Stop! I am Carthaginian,’ he shouted in his native tongue. ‘I am Carthaginian!’

His cry made no difference. More spears were launched, and this time one struck his mule in the rump. Rearing in pain, it threw Hanno to the ground. The air shot from his lungs, winding him. He was vaguely aware of his mount trotting away, limping heavily. Within the blink of an eye, he had been surrounded by a ring of jeering Numidians. Three jumped down and approached, javelins at the ready. What a way to die, Hanno thought bitterly. Killed by my own side because they don’t even speak my language.

From nowhere, inspiration hit him. He’d learned a few words of the sibilant Numidian tongue once. ‘Stop,’ Hanno mumbled. ‘I… friend.’

Looking confused, the trio of Numidians paused. A barrage of questions in their tongue followed. Hanno barely understood one word in ten of what the warriors were saying. ‘I not Roman, I friend,’ he repeated, over and over.

His protests weren’t enough. Drawing back his foot, one of the tribesmen kicked Hanno in the belly. Stars flashed across his vision, and he nearly passed out from the pain. More blows landed, and he tensed, expecting at any moment to feel a javelin slide into his flesh.

Instead, an angry voice intervened.

The beating stopped at once.

Warily, Hanno looked up to see a rider with tightly curled black hair standing before him. Unusually for a Numidian, he was wearing a sword. An officer, thought Hanno dully.

‘Did I hear you speaking Carthaginian?’ the man demanded.

‘Yes.’ Relieved and surprised that someone present spoke his tongue, Hanno sat up. He winced in pain. ‘I’m from Carthage.’

The other’s eyebrows rose. ‘What in Melqart’s name are you doing alone in the middle of this godforsaken, freezing land?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanno swallowed. ‘No.’

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

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

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

‘Malchus.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Father?’ called Hanno again.

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

Hanno began to grin uncontrollably. Bostar had also survived!

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

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

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

With tears of happiness filling his eyes, Hanno nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where did you find him?’

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

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

Zamar dipped his head in gratitude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Excellent news,’ Malchus replied offhandedly.

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ asked Sapho.

‘We have an unexpected visitor.’

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

Silently, Malchus turned and indicated Hanno.

Sapho blanched. ‘Hanno?’

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

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

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

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

‘Where is Suniaton?’ Bostar demanded.

A stream of questions poured from their lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘True,’ admitted Bostar.

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

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

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

Sapho and Bostar growled in agreement.

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

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

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

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

‘Really?’

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

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

Sapho blinked. ‘Yes,’ he muttered.

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

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

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

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

Shame-faced, Sapho and Bostar nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

Even Sapho and Bostar looked confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malchus grinned. ‘It is, sir.’

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

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

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

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

‘How did you escape?’

‘My owner’s son let me go, sir.’

‘Did he, by Melqart’s beard? Why?’

‘I saved his life once, sir.’

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

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

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

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

Hannibal made a gesture of dismissal.

‘Wait, sir,’ said Malchus eagerly. ‘Hanno’s awe at meeting you has curdled his brains. He didn’t say that Placentia is where Publius and his army were camped.’

Hannibal’s face came alive with interest. ‘Publius, you say? One of the Scipiones?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Hanno replied, aware that every officer within earshot was now listening. ‘After missing you at the Rhodanus, he returned to Italy with all speed.’

There was a general gasp of dismay.

‘Has he brought his entire army with him?’ asked Hannibal softly.

‘No, sir. He sent it to Iberia, under the command of his brother.’

‘A shrewd general, then.’ Hannibal let out a slow breath. ‘Hasdrubal and Hanno will also have a fight on their hands. It is to be expected, I suppose.’ He fixed Hanno with his dark eyes again. ‘What of Publius now?’

‘He has thrown a bridge over the Padus, and was intending to march west on the day I fled.’

Hannibal leaned forward. ‘When was that?’

‘Three days ago, sir.’

‘So he cannot be far away. Excellent news!’ Hannibal smacked a fist into his palm. ‘What of his forces?’

Hanno did his best to recount all that he had seen and heard since leaving Rome.

‘Well done, young man,’ said Hannibal when he was done, making Hanno flush beetroot. ‘We shall face the first of our great tests soon. What we are about to observe now seems even more apt. Stay here with me and watch, if you will.’

Stuttering his thanks, Hanno stood with Hannibal, Malchus and his brothers and watched as dozens of prisoners were led out into the open area before them.

‘Who are they?’ Hanno asked.

‘Allobroges and Vocontii, prisoners taken during the passage of the Alps,’ replied his father.

Hanno’s stomach clenched. The men looked terrified.

A fanfare from the musicians’ horns and carnyxes prevented any further conversation. Hannibal stood forth when it finished. At once an expectant hush fell over the gathered troops. Everyone watched as a line of slaves carried out bronze trays, some of which were laden with glittering mail shirts. On others, helmets were piled high. There were gold arm rings and torcs, fine cloaks decorated with wolf fur and gilt-handled swords.

Hannibal let the prisoners feast their eyes on the treasure before he spoke. ‘You have been brought here to make a simple choice.’ He paused to allow his message to be relayed to the captives. ‘I will offer six men the chance to win their freedom. You will divide into pairs, and fight each other to the death. The three who survive will receive a good horse, their choice of everything on show and a guarantee that they will ride out of here unharmed. Those who do not volunteer will be sold as slaves.’ Again Hannibal waited.

A moment later, the warriors began shouting and raising their clenched fists in the air.

The lead interpreter turned to Hannibal. ‘They all want the honour, sir. Every last one.’

Hannibal smiled broadly. ‘Announce that to my troops,’ he ordered.

A loud sigh of appreciation rose from the watching soldiers as the Allobroges’ reply was translated.

Malchus bent to whisper in Hanno’s ear. ‘Single combat to the death is much revered among the Gauls. This end is far superior to a life of slavery.’

Hanno still didn’t understand.

‘I will not allow every man to do this,’ Hannibal proclaimed. ‘Form up in two lines.’ He waited as the prisoners were shoved into position. ‘Pick out every fourth man until you have six,’ he bellowed. His command was obeyed at once, and the remainder of the captives were shepherded to one side. The half-dozen warriors who had been chosen were each handed a sword and shield and, at a signal, were ordered to begin fighting. They went at each other like men possessed, and soon first blood had been spilled on the rock-hard ground.

‘What’s the point of this?’ Sapho muttered after a few moments. ‘We should just kill them all and have done.’

‘Your damn response to everything,’ Bostar retorted angrily.

‘Shhh!’ hissed Malchus. ‘Hannibal does nothing by accident.’

Again Hanno was surprised by the degree of acrimony between his brothers, but he was granted no chance to dwell on this troubling development.

The duels were short, and savage. Before long, three bloodied warriors stood over the bodies of their opponents, waiting for Hannibal’s promise to be fulfilled. And it was. Each man was allowed his choice of the rich goods on the trays, before selecting a horse from those tethered nearby. Then, with the cheers of everyone present ringing in their ears, they were allowed to leave.

‘Even more than this can be yours,’ shouted Hannibal to his men. ‘For you the prize of victory is not to possess horses and cloaks, but to be the most envied of mankind, masters of all the wealth of Rome.’

The immense roar that followed his words rose high into the winter sky.

Impressed by Hannibal’s tactic, Hanno glanced at Bostar.

‘He will take us to the enemy’s very gates,’ said his brother.

‘That’s right,’ declared Malchus.

‘Where we’ll slaughter every last one of the whoresons,’ Sapho snarled.

Hanno’s spirits soared. Rome would be defeated. He felt sure of it.