Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter VIII: The Siege

Outside the walls of Saguntum, Iberia

Malchus regarded the immense fortifications with a baleful eye and spat on the ground. ‘They’re determined, you have to give them that,’ he growled. ‘They must know now that there’s no help coming from Rome. But the pig-headed Greek bastards still won’t give up.’

‘Neither will we,’ Sapho responded fiercely. His breath plumed in the cool, autumn air. ‘And when we get inside, the defenders will regret the day they slammed the gates in our faces. The whoresons won’t know what hit them. Eh, Bostar?’ He elbowed his brother in the ribs.

‘The sooner the city falls, the better. Hannibal will find a way,’ Bostar replied confidently, sidestepping Sapho’s needling. In the months since their argument in New Carthage, their relationship had improved somewhat, but Sapho never missed an opportunity to undermine him, or to call into question his loyalty to their cause. Just because I don’t enjoy torturing enemy prisoners, thought Bostar sadly. What has he become?

In a way, though, it was unsurprising that Sapho resorted to violence in his attempts to garner intelligence that might gain them entry. Nearly six months had elapsed since Hannibal’s immense army had begun the siege, and they were not much nearer to taking Saguntum. A mile from the sea, it sat on a long, naked piece of rock that towered three to four hundred paces above the plain below. The position was one of confident dominance, and made it a fearsome prospect to besiege. The only way of approaching the city, which was encircled by strongly built fortifications, was from the west, where the slope was least steep. Naturally, it was here that the defences were strongest. Surrounded by thick walls, a mighty tower sat astride the tallest part of the rock. Hannibal had encamped the majority of his forces below this point. He had also ordered the erection of a wall that ran all the way around the base of the rock. The circumvallation was dotted with towers whose function was merely to ensure that no enemy messengers escaped.

‘The gods willing, we are that way,’ Malchus added.

Both his sons nodded. Hannibal had shown their family considerable honour by picking their units to lead the impending attack. The rest of those who would take part, thousands of Libyans and Iberians, waited on the slopes below.

Sapho’s face twitched, and he gestured at the massed ranks of their spearmen, who were arrayed around the massive shapes of four vineae, or ‘covered ways’, attacking towers with a massive battering ram at their base. These would form the basis for their assault. ‘The men are nervous. It’s no surprise either. We’ve been waiting for an hour. Where is he?’

Bostar could see that Sapho was right. Some soldiers were chatting loudly with each other, their voices a tone higher than normal. Others remained silent, but their lips moved in constant prayer. A nervous air hung over every phalanx. Hannibal will come soon, he told himself.

‘Patience,’ advised Malchus.

Reluctantly, Sapho obeyed, but he burned to prove himself once and for all. Show his father that he was the bravest of his sons.

Moments later, their attention was drawn by murmurs of anticipation, which began spreading forward from the rear of the throng.

‘Listen!’ said Malchus in triumph. ‘Hannibal is talking to them as he passes by. There are many things that make a good general, and this is one of them. It’s not just about leading from the front. You have to engage with your soldiers as well.’ He gave Bostar an approving nod, which made Sapho mutter something under his breath.

Bostar’s temper frayed. This was an area he paid a lot of attention to. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘If you tried that instead of punishing every tiny infraction of the rules, your troops might respect you more.’

Sapho’s face darkened, but before he could reply, loud cheering broke out. Men began stamping their feet on the ground in a repetitive, infectious rhythm. The other officers did nothing to intervene. This was what they had all been waiting for. The noise grew and grew, until gradually a single word became audible. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’

Bostar grinned. One could not help but be infected by the soldiers’ enthusiasm. Even Sapho was craning his neck to see.

Eventually, a small party emerged from the midst of the spearmen. It was a hollow square, formed by perhaps two dozen scutarii. These Iberian infantry were some of Hannibal’s best troops. As always, the scutarii were wearing their characteristic black cloaks over simple tunics and small breastplates. Their fearsome array of weapons included various types of heavy throwing spear, most notably the all-iron saunion, as well as long, straight swords, and daggers. Within their formation walked a lone figure, partially obscured from view. This was who everyone wanted to see. Finally, nearing Malchus and his sons, the scutarii fanned out in two lines. The man within was revealed.

Hannibal Barca.

Bostar gazed at his general with frank admiration. Like most senior Carthaginian officers, Hannibal wore a simple Hellenistic gilded bronze helmet. Sunlight flashed off its surface, reflecting into the soldiers’ eyes. The blinding light concealed Hannibal’s face apart from his beard. A dark purple cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Under it, he wore a tunic of the same colour, and an ornate muscled bronze cuirass, its details picked out in silver. Layered strips of linen guarded the general’s groin, and polished bronze greaves covered his lower legs. His feet were encased in sturdy leather sandals. A hide baldric swept down from his right shoulder to his left hip, suspending a falcata sword in a well-worn scabbard. He moved forward, limping slightly.

The commander of the scutarii barked an order, and in unison his soldiers slammed their brightly painted shields on to the rock. The crashing sound instantly silenced the assembled troops. ‘Your general, the lion of Carthage, Hannibal Barca!’ screamed the officer.

Everyone stiffened to attention and saluted.

‘General!’ cried Malchus. ‘You honour us with your presence.’

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth tugged up. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’ He made his way to Malchus’ side. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, sir. We have checked over the siege engines twice. Every man knows his task.’

Malchus’ sons muttered in agreement.

Hannibal glanced at each of them in turn before giving a satisfied nod. ‘You will do well.’

‘May Baal Saphon strike us down if we do not,’ said Sapho fervently.

Hannibal looked a little surprised. ‘I hope not. The city will fall eventually, but we haven’t succeeded so far. Who’s to say that today will be any different? And valuable officers are hard to come by.’ Ignoring Sapho’s obvious discomfort, he smiled at Malchus. ‘Understand that you’re only being granted this chance because I can’t run.’ He touched the heavy strapping on his right thigh.

‘Your injury was most unfortunate, sir,’ said Malchus, ‘but we are grateful for the opportunity that it has granted us today.’

Hannibal smiled. ‘Your eagerness is commendable.’

Bostar could still picture the heart-stopping moment several weeks previously, during an assault similar to the one they were about to lead. As was his nature, Hannibal had been at the front. Bostar wished it had been he who had taken the arrow through the thigh. ‘How’s it healing, sir?’

‘Slowly enough.’ Hannibal grimaced. ‘I should be thankful, I suppose, that the defenders aren’t better archers.’

Father and sons laughed nervously. That eventuality was something no one wanted to entertain.

‘Well, don’t let me stand in your way. The Saguntines await you.’ Hannibal indicated the walls, which were thickly manned. He pointed back down the steep slope at the other companies of troops: reinforcements should the attack break through. ‘So do they.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Malchus lifted his sword.

His men, who had been watching closely, stiffened.

‘Gods, but I wish Hanno were here,’ muttered Bostar.

Sapho’s face hardened. ‘Eh? Why?’

‘He spent his time dreaming about things like this.’

‘Well, he’s dead,’ Sapho whispered back savagely. ‘So you’re wasting your time.’

Bostar gave him a furious stare. ‘Don’t you miss him?’

Sapho had no chance to reply.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Malchus demanded, who had missed the exchange. ‘Get into position!’

With a quick salute to Hannibal, Bostar and Sapho sprinted off to join their respective phalanxes. Each was in charge of one of the vineae, and their increasingly bitter rivalry meant that both burned to command the siege engine which smashed the decisive hole in the walls, and allowed their comrades a way into Saguntum. Of course it might not be they who succeeded, thought Bostar. Their father commanded the third vinea, and Alete, a doughty veteran whom both brothers admired, had the last.

Malchus waited until they were in place before he chopped his arm downward. ‘Forward!’ he shouted.

Using whistles, the officers encouraged the Libyans towards the walls. Dozens of men who had been selected earlier handed their spears to comrades and ran to place their shoulders against the backs of the vineae, or to stand alongside the wheels. Scores of others used their large shields to form protective screens around those who were now unprotected. More commands rang out, and the soldiers around the siege engines began to push. With loud creaks, the vineae rumbled forward, past Hannibal. When the machines were perhaps fifty paces up the slope, the remaining Libyans began to follow in tight phalanxes.

As they drew nearer, Bostar’s stomach clenched. He could clearly see the faces of those above, the defenders who were waiting to rain death down upon him and his men. Upon his father and brother. Baal Saphon, let us smash the enemy’s walls asunder, he prayed. Keep your shield over all of us. As the first missiles came pattering down, Bostar couldn’t help wondering if Sapho was asking for similar protection for him.

He doubted it.

Taking great care, Bostar peered out at the ramparts above him. Perhaps an hour had passed, and the assault was going well. The battering rams suspended in the bottoms of the vineae were smashing great holes in the base of the wall. Thanks to the siege engines’ wooden and leather roofs, which had been pre-soaked in water, the defenders’ clouds of fire arrows, stones and spears were having limited effect. Bostar had lost fifteen men, which was perfectly acceptable. The phalanxes on either side, those of Sapho and Alete, looked to have suffered much the same.

Soon after, a large section of the wall collapsed. A wry grin split Bostar’s face at the sight. The area lay directly between his and Sapho’s positions, so neither could claim the credit. That wasn’t the point now, of course. Hannibal was watching them. Bostar roared at his men to redouble their efforts. He fancied he heard Sapho’s voice above the din, enjoining his soldiers to do the same. Their efforts were not in vain. Before long, two, and then three, towers had fallen outwards, crushing dozens of the garrison, and spearmen, to death. But a sizeable breach had now been forced, large enough to gain entry. Bostar did not wait until the dust had settled. This opportunity had to be seized by the throat, before the bewildered defenders had a chance to react. Screaming at his men to pick up their weapons and follow him, he climbed on to the mounds of broken masonry that stood before the siege engines. He was pleased to note that Sapho’s soldiers were also spilling into view. Catching sight of his brother twenty paces away, Bostar raised his spear in salute. ‘I’ll see you inside!’

‘Not if I get there before you,’ Sapho snarled back. He turned to his soldiers, who were straining like hunting dogs on the leash. ‘Five gold pieces to the first man to get within the walls. Forward!’

Bostar sighed. Even this had to be a contest. So be it, he thought angrily.

The race was on.

Pursued by their men, the two brothers scrambled up towards the breach. They risked their lives with every step, not just from the continuing rain of missiles from the ramparts to either side, but from the treacherous footing beneath. Carrying a spear in one hand and a shield in the other made it even more difficult to balance. Bostar kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. The enemy missiles were beyond his control, but he could make sure that he didn’t break an ankle in the ascent. He’d seen it happen before, consigning the unfortunates affected to being trampled by their comrades, or killed by the torrent of death being thrown by the Saguntines.

Bostar was first to reach the highest point of the smashed wall. The clouds of dust sent up by the towers’ collapse formed a choking cloud that hid any defenders from sight. Perhaps there were none? wondered Bostar. His heart leaped, but then he glanced around and cursed. In his haste, he’d outstripped his soldiers. The nearest were twenty paces down the slope. ‘Get a move on,’ he roared. ‘This isn’t a walking party!’

An instant later, Sapho arrived from the gloom. He had a dozen or more Libyans in tow; more were hauling themselves up nearby. A happy smile spread across his face when he saw that Bostar was alone. ‘On your own still? It’s not surprising, really. Nothing like the promise of gold to speed things along.’

Bostar bit back his instinctive response. ‘This is not the time for such bullshit,’ he snarled. ‘Let’s seize the damn breach. We can argue later.’

Sapho gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘As you wish.’ He levelled his spear. ‘Third Phalanx! On me! Form a line!’

Only four of Bostar’s men had arrived. He watched in frustration as his brother led his spearmen forward. Of course he would be following in the blink of an eye, but it still rankled. A moment later, Bostar was glad that he hadn’t been first into the gap. Like avenging ghosts, scores of screaming Saguntines emerged from the dust cloud. Every one of them carried a falarica, a long javelin with a burning ball of pitch-soaked tow wrapped around the middle of the shaft.

‘Look out!’ Bostar screamed, knowing that his warning was already too late.

Responding to an officer’s command, the Saguntines drew back and released. They aimed short. Clouds of flaming missiles scudded through the air. Horror-struck, Sapho and his soldiers slowed down. And then the falaricae landed. Driving through shields. Maiming, killing and setting men alight.

Cursing, Bostar counted his spearmen. There were about twenty of them now. It wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t just stand by. If he did, Sapho would be killed, and his soldiers would run away. Their chance would be lost. ‘Forward!’ Raising his shield, Bostar ran at the enemy. He did not look back. To his immense relief, he felt his men’s presence at each shoulder. Death might take them all, thought Bostar, but at least they followed him through loyalty, not lust for gold.

He aimed for the spot where it looked as if Sapho’s soldiers might be overwhelmed. Seeing him, the nearest Saguntines took aim and released their falaricae. Hunching his shoulders, Bostar ran on. Streaming flames, the javelins hummed right past him. There was a strangled scream, and he looked around. He wished he hadn’t. A falarica had struck the man to his rear in the shoulder, driving deep into his flesh. In turn, the burning section had set alight the soldier’s tunic. Gobbets of white-hot tow were dropping on to his face and neck. His screams were ear-splitting. Bostar’s nostrils filled with the stench of cooking flesh. ‘Leave him!’ he roared at the men who instinctively went to help. ‘Keep moving!’ Grateful it wasn’t him, and hoping the soldier died quickly, he spun back to the front.

If there was one small advantage to be gained from the enemy’s secret weapon, it was that after launching them, the defenders were momentarily defenceless. In addition, many weren’t even wearing armour. Snarling with fury, Bostar charged at a skinny Saguntine who was frantically trying to tug free his sword. He didn’t succeed. Bostar’s spear took him through the chest, punching through his ribcage with ease. The man’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets with the force of the impact. He was dead before Bostar pulled free his weapon, showering the ground in gouts of blood.

Panting, Bostar rounded on the next soldier within reach, a youth who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Despite his rusty sword and bloodcurdling cries, he looked petrified.

Bostar parried his clumsy blows with little difficulty before sliding his spear into the youngster’s belly. He killed two more defenders before an opportunity presented itself to assess the situation.

Perhaps a hundred of his own men were present; more were still arriving. A similar number of Sapho’s soldiers were battling steadily around them. No doubt their father and Alete’s phalanxes were trying to reach them too. Remarkably, however, they were being held back by the Saguntines, who were performing acts of heroism and suicidal bravery. No ground had been gained at all. Bostar realised why as he took in hundreds of civilians, who, just a few steps from the periphery of the fighting, were frantically repairing the breach with their bare hands. He could see old men, women and even children heaving rocks into place. Grudging respect filled him. Knowing that their loved ones were so close would make any man, soldier or not, fight like a demon. Bostar was not dismayed. Even now, thousands more troops would be climbing the slope to join them. Against such overwhelming numbers, even the gallant Saguntines could not hold for much longer. All they needed to do was to press home the attack.

Abruptly, his attention was drawn back to the present. Through the dust, he could make out a line of flickering flame approaching from the enemy citadel. Bostar’s stomach clenched as the vision came into full focus. It was two further waves of warriors, carrying scores more burning falaricae. ‘Shields up!’ he yelled. ‘Incoming javelins!’

His men hurried to obey.

Responding to a shouted order, the enemy lines came to a halt perhaps fifty paces away. Drawing back, the Saguntines threw their falaricae up in a steep arc, far over their own men. Over Bostar and Sapho’s soldiers.

‘Clever bastards,’ Bostar muttered. ‘They don’t want to hit us.’ He watched in total dread as the flaming javelins turned to point downwards. Like deadly shooting stars, they returned to earth to land amidst the still ascending Carthaginian troops. Thanks to the clouds of dust, these densely packed men had no idea what was about to hit them until the very last moment. Understandably, the falaricae caused utter chaos. Practically every one found a home in human flesh, running through shields and mail shirts with impunity. Yet their effect was far more profound. It was why the Saguntines had aimed at the unsuspecting soldiers to the rear, thought Bostar as the screams and wails of the injured filled his ears. The falaricae struck fear into the heart of every man who stood in their path. He knew exactly why. Who could bear to watch his comrades being turned into pillars of flame, or having the flesh blistered from their bones? No amount of training could prepare soldiers for that.

The entire advance below him had already come to a halt. As Bostar watched, the second wave of enemy javelins came rocketing down. An instant later, the Carthaginian attack became a rout. Despite the shouts of their officers, hundreds of men turned and fled. They hurled themselves down the slope with such abandon that many fell and were trampled by those following. The soldiers to either side, who had not been struck by the enemy volley, took one look at their retreating comrades and stopped dead. Then, as one, they turned on the spot and began running too.

Bostar cursed. The moment was lost. No one, even Hannibal, could turn this situation around. He caught the arm of the nearest spearman. ‘Pull back! Our reinforcements are withdrawing. We have to save ourselves. Spread the word.’ Repeating his command to every soldier he passed, Bostar fought his way through the press to Sapho’s side. Oblivious to the volley’s effect, his brother was urging a quartet of spearmen forward at a bunch of poorly armed defenders.

‘Sapho!’ Bostar yelled. ‘Sapho!’

Eventually his brother heard him. ‘What?’ he snarled over his shoulder.

‘We must pull back!’

Sapho’s face contorted with anger. ‘You’re crazy! Any moment, the whoresons will break, and then we’ll have them. Victory is at hand!’

‘No, it isn’t!’ Bostar bellowed. ‘We have to retreat. NOW.’

Some of Sapho’s soldiers began to look uneasy.

Sapho glared furiously at Bostar, but realised that he was serious. Shouting encouragement to his men, Sapho elbowed his way out of the front rank. With his arms and face covered in blood, he was like some creature from the underworld. ‘Have you entirely lost your wits?’ he hissed. ‘The enemy is giving ground at last. Another big push, and they’ll break.’

‘It’s too late,’ Bostar replied in a flat tone. ‘Have you not seen what those fucking falaricae have done to the troops behind us?’

Sapho’s rejoinder was instantaneous. ‘No. I keep my eyes to the front, not the back.’

Bostar’s fists clenched at the imputation. ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘let me tell you, our entire attack has come to a halt.’

Sapho bared his teeth. ‘So? Those motherless curs will turn and run any moment. Then we’ll get a foothold inside the walls.’

‘Where we will be cut off and annihilated.’ Bostar jabbed a finger into Sapho’s chest for emphasis. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re on our own up here!’

‘Coward!’ Sapho screamed. ‘You’re scared of dying, that’s all.’

Bostar’s anger surged out of control. ‘When the time comes, I will fight and die for Hannibal,’ he shouted. ‘What’s more, I will do it proudly. But there’s a difference between dying well, and like a fool. There’s nothing to be gained from sacrificing your life, or those of your men, here.’

Spitting on the ground, Sapho made to return to the fight.

‘Stop!’ Bostar’s order was like the crack of a whip.

Stiff-backed, Sapho came to a halt, but he did not turn to face Bostar.

‘As your superior officer, I command you to withdraw your men at once,’ Bostar cried, making sure that every soldier within earshot heard him.

Defeated, Sapho spun around. ‘Yes, sir,’ he snarled. He raised his voice. ‘You heard the order! Fall back!’

It didn’t take long for Sapho’s men to get the idea. Re-energised by the effect that their volleys had had on the ascending Carthaginian troops, the defenders were beginning to advance again. Behind them, freshly lit falaricae were being carried forward. Encouraged by this, even the civilians who were repairing the breach joined in, hurling stones and fist-sized pieces of masonry at the spearmen.

This increased the ignominy and fuelled Sapho’s anger to new levels, all the more because he could now see that Bostar had been right to sound the recall. ‘Fool,’ he told himself nonetheless. ‘It was there for the taking.’

Hannibal was waiting with Malchus and Alete at the bottom of the slope. The general greeted the brothers warmly. ‘We were getting worried about you,’ he declared.

Malchus rumbled in agreement.

‘Sapho here didn’t want to leave the fight,’ said Bostar generously.

‘Last on the field?’ Hannibal clapped Sapho on the shoulder. ‘But still with the sense to withdraw. Good man! Once the whoresons had panicked your reinforcements, there was no point staying there, eh?’

Sapho flushed and hung his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘It was a good effort from both of you,’ said Malchus encouragingly. ‘But it wasn’t to be.’

Hannibal took Sapho’s reaction to be disappointment. ‘Never mind, man. My spies tell me that their food is fast running out. We’ll take the place soon! Now, see to your injured.’ He waved a hand in dismissal.

‘Come on,’ said Bostar, leading Sapho away.

‘Let go!’ Sapho whispered after a few steps. ‘I’m not a child!’

‘Stop acting like one then!’ said Bostar, releasing his grip. ‘The least you could do is thank me. I didn’t have to cover up for you there.’

Sapho’s lip curled. ‘I’m damned if I’ll do that.’

Bostar threw his eyes to heaven. ‘Of course not! Why would you recognise that I just saved your arse from a severe reprimand?’

‘Fuck you, Bostar,’ Sapho snapped. He felt completely backed into a corner. ‘You’re always right, aren’t you? Everyone loves you, the perfect fucking officer!’ Turning on his heel, he stalked off.

Bostar watched him go. Why couldn’t he have gone fishing instead of Hanno? he thought. His remorse for even thinking such a thing was instant, but the feeling lingered as he began organising rescue parties for the injured.

For the next two months, the siege went on in much the same fashion. Every full frontal assault made by the Carthaginians was met with dogged, undying determination by the defenders. The vineae regularly smashed more holes in the outer wall, but the attackers could not press home their advantage fully, despite their overwhelming superiority of numbers. Relations between Bostar and Sapho did not improve, and the constant activity meant that it was easy to avoid each other. When they weren’t fighting, they were sleeping or looking after their wounded. Malchus, who had not only his own phalanx to deal with, but the extra duties given him by Hannibal, remained unaware of the feud.

Incensed by the manner in which the siege was dragging on, Hannibal eventually ordered the construction of more siege engines: vineae, which protected the men within, and an immense multi-storey tower on wheels. This last, holding catapults and hundreds of soldiers on its various levels, could be moved to whichever point was weakest on a particular day. Its firepower was so great that the battlements could be cleared of defenders within a short time, allowing the wooden terraces which would protect the attacking infantry to be carried forward without hindrance. Fortunately for the Carthaginians, the ramparts had been built on a base of clay, not cement. Using pickaxes, the troops in the terraces set to work, undermining the base of the walls. In this way, a further breach was made, and the attackers’ spirits were briefly lifted. Yet all was not as it seemed. Beyond the gaping hole, the Carthaginians found that a crescent-shaped fortification of earth had been thrown up in preparation for this exact eventuality. From behind its protection came repeated volleys of the terrifying falaricae.

At this point, despite the showers of burning javelins, the Carthaginians’ relentless determination and superior numbers began to tell. The Saguntines did not have time to rebuild the new damage to their defences properly, and repeated waves of attack finally smashed a passage behind the walls. Despite the defenders’ heroism, the position was held. Further successes followed in the subsequent days, but then, with winter approaching, Hannibal was called away by a major rebellion of the fierce tribes that lived near the River Tagus. Maharbal, the officer he left in command, proceeded vigorously with the assault. He gained further ground, driving the weakened defenders into the citadel. The attackers’ situation was strengthened by the fact that cholera and other illnesses were now causing heavy casualties among the Saguntines; their food and supplies were also running dangerously low.

By the time Hannibal had put down the uprising and returned, the end was near. The Carthaginian general offered terms to the Saguntine leaders. Incredibly, they were rejected out of hand. With the end of the year nigh, preparations were made for a final, decisive assault. Thanks to their repeated valour, Malchus, his sons and their spearmen had been chosen to be part of the last attack. Typically, Hannibal and his corps of scutarii were also present.

Long before the winter sun had tinted the eastern horizon, they assembled some fifty paces from the walls. Behind them, reaching all the way to the bottom of the slope, were units from every section of the army except the cavalry. Apart from the occasional jingle of mail or muted cough, the soldiers made little noise. The breath of thousands plumed the chill, damp air, the only manifestation of the excitement every man felt. As reward for their long struggle and because of the Saguntines’ refusal to parley, Hannibal had told his troops that they had free rein when the city fell. Carthage would take some of the spoils, but the rest was theirs, including the inhabitants: men, women and children.

In serried ranks, they waited as the wooden terraces were pushed forward by torchlight. There was no longer any need for the huge tower with its slingers, spearmen and catapults. Either from lack of men, or missiles, the defenders had recently given up trying to destroy the Carthaginian siege engines. This good fortune meant that the work to undermine the fortifications had been able to proceed much faster than before. According to the engineer in charge, the citadel itself would fall by mid-morning at the latest.

His prediction was accurate. As the first orange fingers of sunlight crept into the sky, ominous rumbles began to fill the air. Within moments, great clouds of smoke began to rise from the centre of the citadel. The crackle of burning wood could also be heard. The Carthaginians paid it no heed. They no longer cared what the Saguntines were doing. With all possible speed, the majority of the soldiers at work in the terraces were pulled back. The danger of being crushed had grown too great. Yet, despite the extreme danger, some remained to finish the task.

They did not have to wait long. With frightening speed, a large piece of the citadel wall suddenly tumbled to the ground. In a chain reaction, it precipitated the thunderous collapse of other, bigger sections. With loud cracks, brickwork and carved stones, which had been in place for decades, even centuries, crumbled and gave way. The noise as they fell more than five storeys was deafening. Inevitably, some of those in the wooden terraces failed to escape in time. A short chorus of strangled screams announced their horrifying demise. Bostar clenched his jaw at the sound. It was what he had expected. As his father had said, ordinary soldiers were expendable. The loss of a certain number meant nothing. And yet to Bostar it did, like the widespread rape, torture and killing of civilians that would shortly take place. Malchus’ grim nature and Sapho’s even darker personality appeared not to be affected by such things, but Bostar felt it damage his soul. He did not let his determination weaken, however. There were too many things at stake. The defeat of Rome. Revenge for his beloved younger brother, Hanno. The building of a new relationship with Sapho. Whether he would ever achieve any of them, Bostar had no idea. Somehow the last seemed the most unlikely.

Immense clouds of dust clogged the air, but as they finally began to clear, the waiting Carthaginians could see an indefensible breach had been created. A swelling cheer rippled down the slope. At last, victory was at hand.

Bostar felt his spirits rise. He threw Sapho a tight smile, but all he got in return was a scowl.

Drawing his falcata sword, Hannibal led the advance.

It was at this precise moment, because of a warning from the surviving defenders on the battlements perhaps, that the screams began. Ululating, despairing, yet still with shreds of dignity, they filled the air. The Carthaginians’ heads shot up. No one could ignore such terrible sounds.

‘It’s the nobility burning themselves to death.’ Malchus’ voice revealed an unusual respect. ‘They’re too proud to become slaves. May it never fall to that in Carthage.’

‘Ha! That day will never come,’ Sapho replied.

Bostar’s instinctive reaction, however, was to utter a prayer to Baal Hammon. Watch over our city for ever, he prayed. Keep it safe from savages such as the Romans.

Hannibal wasn’t listening to the noise. He was keen to end the matter. ‘Charge!’ he screamed in Iberian, and then, for the benefit of the Libyans, he repeated it in his own tongue. Followed by his faithful scutarii, he trotted towards the gaping hole in the citadel. Bellowing the same command, Malchus, Sapho and Bostar sprang forward with their men. Behind them, the order rang out in half a dozen languages, and, like so many thousand ants, the host of soldiers followed.

Sapho and Bostar’s rivalry resurfaced with a vengeance. Whoever reached the top of the breach first would win praise from Hannibal and the respect of the entire army. Outstripping their men, they clambered neck and neck across the uneven and treacherous piles of rubble and broken masonry. With their spears in one hand, and their shields in the other, they had no way of breaking a fall. It was lunacy, but there was no going back now. Hannibal was leading, and they must follow. Soon, the brothers had drawn alongside their leader, who was two steps in front of his scutarii. Hannibal gave them an encouraging grin, which they reciprocated, before glaring at each other.

Glancing over his shoulder an instant later, Bostar’s eyes widened. The downward angle of the gradient afforded him a perfect view of the Carthaginian attack. It was a magnificent and terrible sight, guaranteed to drive terror into the hearts of the defenders who remained on the walls. Bostar doubted that any would dare. With the leaders immolating themselves rather than surrender, the ordinary soldiers would be cowering in their homes with their families, or also committing suicide.

He was wrong. Not all the Saguntines had given up the struggle.

As his gaze returned to the slope before him, his attention was drawn by movement up and to the right, on a section of the battlements that was still complete. There Bostar saw six men crouched around an enormous block of stone. Working together, they were pushing it towards the broken end of the walkway that ran along the top of the wall. Bostar followed the trajectory the block would take when it fell, and his heart leaped into his mouth. While the Saguntines’ purpose was to cause as many casualties as possible, the potential cost to the Carthaginians was far greater. Bostar could see that within a few heartbeats, Hannibal would be standing full square in the stone’s path. A glance at Sapho, and at Hannibal himself, told Bostar that he was the only one to have seen the danger.

When he looked up again, the irregularly shaped block was already teetering on the edge. As Bostar opened his mouth in a warning shout, it tipped forward and fell. Gathering speed unbelievably fast, the stone tumbled and bounced down the slope. Its passage sent showers of brick and masonry into the air, each piece of which was capable of smashing a man’s skull. Screaming with delight, the defenders turned and fled, secure in the knowledge that their final effort would kill dozens of Carthaginians.

Bostar did not think. He simply reacted. Dropping his spear, he charged sideways at Hannibal. The air filled with a sudden thunder. Bostar did not look up, for fear of soiling himself. Several scutarii, whose advance his action was checking, mouthed confused curses. Bostar paid no heed. He just prayed that none of the Iberians would think he was trying to harm Hannibal and get in his way. Now he had covered six steps. A dozen. Sensing Bostar’s approach, Hannibal turned his head. Confused, he frowned. ‘What in the name of Baal Hammon are you doing?’ he demanded.

Bostar didn’t answer. Leaping forward, he swept his right arm around Hannibal’s body and drove them both to the ground, with the general trapped beneath. With his left arm, Bostar raised his shield to cover both their heads. There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then the earth shook. Their ears were filled with a reverberation of sound that threatened to deafen them. Thankfully it did not last, but diminished as the block crashed down the slope.

Bostar’s first concern was not for himself. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

Hannibal’s voice was muffled. ‘I don’t think so.’

Thank the gods, thought Bostar. Gingerly, he moved his arms and legs. To his delight, they all seemed to work. Discarding his shield, he sat up, helping Hannibal to do the same.

The general swore softly. Perhaps three steps from their position, lay a scutarius. Or at least, what had once been a scutarius. The man had not so much been broken apart as smeared across the uneven ground. His bronze helmet had provided little protection. Chunks of brain matter were spread like white paste on the rocks, providing a sharp contrast to the bright red blood that oozed from the tangled mess of tissue that had been his body. Jagged pieces of brick protruded from the scutarius’ back, poking holes in his tunic. His limbs were bent at unnatural, terrible angles, exposing in multiple places the gleaming white ends of broken bones.

He was just the first casualty. Below the corpse stretched a swathe of destruction as far as the eye could see. Bostar had never witnessed anything like it. Dozens of soldiers, perhaps more, had been killed. No. Pulverised, Bostar thought. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he struggled not to be sick.

Hannibal’s voice startled him. ‘It appears that I owe you my life.’

Numbly, Bostar nodded.

‘My thanks. You are a fine soldier,’ said Hannibal, clambering to his feet. He helped Bostar to do the same.

In the same instant, those of Hannibal’s scutarii who had not been harmed came swarming in, their faces twisted with alarm. Naturally, the attack had been stalled by the Saguntines’ daring action. Anxious questions filled the air as the Iberians established that their beloved commander had not been hurt. Hannibal quickly brushed them off. Picking up his falcata sword, which had fallen to the ground, he looked at Bostar. ‘Are you ready to finish what we started?’ he asked.

Bostar was stunned by the speed at which Hannibal’s composure had returned. He himself was still in shock. He managed to nod his head. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Excellent,’ replied Hannibal with a brief smile. He indicated that Bostar should advance beside him.

Retrieving his spear, Bostar obeyed. He barely took in the pleased grin that Malchus gave him, and the equally poisonous expression on Sapho’s face. Elation had replaced his terror, and he could try to patch things up with his brother later.

For now, it was all about following Hannibal.

A true leader of men.