by Ben Kane
Father and sons saluted crisply.
‘You will know my brother Hasdrubal,’ said Hannibal, nodding at the corpulent, brooding man with a florid complexion and full lips beside him. ‘And Mago.’ He indicated the tall, thin figure whose eager, hawk-like face and eyes threatened to fix one to the spot. ‘This is Maharbal, my cavalry commander, and Hanno, one of my top infantry officers.’ The first man had a mop of unruly black hair and a ready smile, and the other a stolid but dependable look.
The trio saluted again.
‘For many years, Malchus acted as my eyes and ears in Carthage,’ Hannibal explained. ‘Yet when the time came for first his sons, and then he himself, to join me here in Iberia, no one was better pleased than I. They are good men all, and they proved their worth more than once during the siege, most recently when Bostar saved my life.’
The officers murmured in loud appreciation.
Malchus inclined his head, while Bostar flushed at the attention. Beside him, he was aware of Sapho glowering. Bostar cursed inwardly, praying that the fragile peace between him and his brother had not just been broken.
Hannibal clapped his hands together. ‘To business! Come and join us.’
They eagerly crossed to the table, where the others made room.
At once Bostar’s eyes drank in the undulating coast of Africa, and Carthage, their city. The island of Sicily, almost joining their homeland to its arch-enemy, Italy.
‘Obviously, we are here, at Saguntum.’ Hannibal tapped his right forefinger halfway up the east coast of the Iberian peninsula. ‘And our destination is here.’ He thumped the boot-like shape of Italy. ‘How best to strike at it?’
Silence reigned. It was an affront to every Carthaginian’s pride that Rome enjoyed supremacy over the western Mediterranean, an historical preserve of Carthage. Transporting the army by ship would be foolish in the extreme. Yet no one dared to suggest the only alternative.
Hannibal took the initiative. ‘There will be no assault by sea. Even if we took the short route to Genua, our entire enterprise could be undone in a single battle.’ He moved his finger northeast, across the River Iberus, to the narrow ‘waist’ that joined Iberia to Gaul. ‘This is the route we shall take.’ Hannibal continued to the Alps, where he paused for a moment before moving into Cisalpine Gaul, and thence into northern Italy.
Bostar’s heart quickened. Although Malchus had told him of Hannibal’s plan, the general’s daring still took his breath away. A glance at Sapho told him that his brother shared his feeling. Their father’s face, however, remained expressionless. How much does he know? Bostar wondered. He himself had no idea how the immense task Hannibal had just mentioned would be achieved.
Hannibal saw Sapho straining forward eagerly. He raised an eyebrow.
‘When do we march, sir?’
‘In the spring. Until then, our Iberian allies have permission to return to their families, and the rest of the army can rest at New Carthage.’ He saw Sapho’s disappointed look and chuckled. ‘Come now! Winter is no time to wage war, and things will be hard enough for us as it is.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Sapho muttered awkwardly.
‘There are some things in our favour, however. Earlier in the year, my messengers journeyed to Cisalpine Gaul. They were received favourably by nearly all the tribes that they encountered,’ Hannibal said. ‘In fact, the Boii and the Insubres promised immediate aid when we arrive.’
Malchus and his two sons exchanged pleased glances. This was new information for all of them. Hannibal’s companions did not react, however, instead studying the trio intently.
Hannibal held up a warning finger. ‘There are many hurdles to cross before we reach these possible allies. Traversing the Alps will be the greatest by far, but another will be the fierce natives north of the Iberus, who will undoubtedly give violent resistance. We already have plans in train for our journey through these regions. However, there is an area about which we know very little.’ Hannibal’s forefinger returned to the mountains between Iberia and Gaul. He tapped the map meaningfully.
Bostar’s mouth went dry.
Hannibal stared at Malchus. ‘I need someone to sound out the tribes’ possible reactions to a massive army entering their land. To discover how many might fight us. I must have this information by the onset of spring. Can you do it?’
Malchus’ eyes glittered. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good.’ Hannibal regarded Bostar and Sapho next. ‘The old lion might lead the pack, but he still needs young males to hunt successfully. Will you accompany your father?’
‘Yes, sir!’ the brothers cried in unison. ‘You show our family great honour by entrusting this mission to us, sir,’ Sapho added.
The general smiled. ‘I am sure that you will repay my trust amply.’
Delighted by this recognition of Sapho, Bostar gave his brother a small, pleased look. He was rewarded with a fierce nod.
‘What are your thoughts, Malchus?’
‘We’ll need to set out at once, sir. It’s a long way to the Iberus.’
‘Nearly three thousand stades,’ agreed Hannibal. ‘As you know, it is generally peaceful as far as the river. After that, up to the border with Gaul, may be a different matter. The place is a jumble of mountains, valleys and passes, and the tribes there are rumoured to be fiercely independent.’ He paused. ‘How many men will you require?’
‘Winning our passage by force of arms is simply not an option. Nor is it our purpose. We are to be an embassy, not an army,’ said Malchus. ‘What’s important are the abilities to move fast and to see off possible attacks by bandits.’ He looked at his sons, who nodded in agreement. ‘Two dozen of my spearmen and the same number of scutarii should be sufficient, sir.’
‘You shall have the pick of any unit you wish. And now, a toast to your success!’ Hannibal clicked his fingers and a slave appeared from the rear of the tent. ‘Wine!’ As the man scurried off, the general looked solemnly at each of those around the table. ‘Let us ask Melqart and Baal Saphon, Tanit and Baal Hammon to guide and protect these valiant officers on their mission.’
As the room filled with muttered agreement, Bostar added a request of his own. Let Sapho and I put aside our differences once and for all.
Braving frost, mud and bitter winter wind, the embassy slogged its way to the Iberus. Thereafter, the inhabitants inland could not be trusted, and so Malchus led them along the more secure coastal route, a densely inhabited area full of towns used to traders from overseas. The party passed by Adeba and Tarraco, before safely reaching the city of Barcino, which was located at the mouth of the River Ubricatus.
There were several routes through the mountains that led to Gaul, and Hannibal had advised that he would probably divide his army between them. This necessitated visiting the tribe that controlled each of the passes. A period of unseasonably calm, dry weather prompted Malchus to head north into the mountainous terrain first, rather than starting with the easiest way into Gaul, that which hogged the coastline via the towns of Gerunda and Emporiae. That could be left until last. Hiring locals as guides, the embassy spent many days on narrow paths that wound and twisted into the hills and valleys. Inevitably, the weather worsened, and a journey that might have taken several weeks stretched into two months. Pleasingly, their ordeals were not all in vain. The chieftains who received the Carthaginians seemed impressed with the tales of Hannibal’s military victories throughout Iberia, and the descriptions of his enormous army. Most importantly, though, they welcomed the gifts Malchus offered: the bags of silver coinage, the finely made kopides and Celtiberian short swords.
Eventually, the only people left to contact were the Ausetani, who controlled the coastal route into Gaul. Having returned to the town of Emporiae to reshoe their horses and stock up on supplies, Malchus retired to the one inn which was large enough to quarter all of his men. He immediately demanded a meeting with their guides, three swarthy hunters. Soon after sunset, they convened around a table in his room. Small oval o
il lamps cast a warm amber glow on to the grubby plaster on the wall. Malchus’ sons sat opposite each other. Their relationship remained civil, even fairly cordial, but Bostar had stopped trying to be Sapho’s friend. Each time he’d tried, his brother had remained indifferent to his advances. So be it, Bostar decided. It’s better than fighting all the time. Such thoughts always brought Hanno, and his guilty wish that it had been Sapho who had been lost at sea, to mind. Disquieted, Bostar shoved away the idea.
Malchus himself served the guides with wine. ‘Tell me about this tribe,’ he commanded in rough Iberian.
The three glanced at one another. The oldest, a wiry man with a nut-brown, weather-beaten face, leaned forward on his chair. ‘Their main village is in the foothills above the town, sir. It’s a straightforward journey.’
‘Not like the paths that we had to take before, then?’
‘No, sir, nothing like that.’
Bostar and Sapho were both relieved. Neither had enjoyed the days spent on winding, treacherous tracks, where a single slip meant a precipitous fall.
‘How far?’
‘It’s not quite a day’s ride, sir.’
‘Excellent! We’ll set out at dawn,’ Malchus declared. He eyed his sons. ‘A night’s rest upon our return, and we’ll head south. Spring is around the corner, and we mustn’t keep Hannibal waiting any longer.’
The lead guide cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, sir, we were wondering if …’ His nerve failed him and he stopped.
Keen to get in before Bostar, Sapho jumped in. ‘What?’
The man rallied his courage. ‘We wondered if you could pay us and make your own way there,’ he said falteringly. ‘We’ve spent so long away from our wives and families, you see?’
Malchus’ brows lowered.
‘The directions are simple. There’s no way that you could get lost.’ He looked at his two companions, who shook their heads in vigorous agreement.
Malchus did not answer. Instead, he glanced at Bostar and Sapho. ‘What do you think?’ he asked in Carthaginian.
Sapho bared his teeth. ‘He’s lying,’ he snarled in Iberian. ‘I say we tie the double-crossing dog down on the table and see what he says after I’ve cut a few strips of skin off him.’ He calmly placed a dagger before him. ‘This will make the shitbag sing like a caged bird.’
‘Bostar?’ asked Malchus.
Bostar studied the three guides, who seemed absolutely terrified. Then he looked at his brother, who was tapping his blade off the table’s surface. He didn’t want to upset Sapho, but nor was he prepared to see innocent individuals suffer for no reason. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for torture,’ Bostar said in Iberian, ignoring Sapho’s scowl. ‘These men have been with us day and night for weeks. They’ve had no chance to commit treachery. I think they’re probably scared of the Ausetani. But I see no reason why they shouldn’t fulfil their oath, which was to guide us until we discharged them.’
Malchus considered their answers in silence. At length, he turned to the lead guide. ‘Has my son the right of it? Are you frightened of the Ausetani?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re prone to banditry.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Or worse.’
Alarm filled Bostar. Before he could react, Sapho butted in again. ‘When, precisely, were you going to tell us this?’ he demanded.
He got no answer.
Sapho threw a triumphant look at Bostar. ‘Why don’t we just get the directions, and then kill them?’
Perhaps his brother was correct, thought Bostar resentfully. He didn’t want to admit that he’d made a bad judgement by trusting the guides.
His father’s challenge surprised him. ‘And if they had warned us? What would we have done?’
A flush spread slowly up Sapho’s face and neck. ‘Gone to the village anyway,’ he muttered.
‘Precisely,’ replied Malchus evenly. He glared at the guides. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t end your miserable lives for withholding vital information, but I see no point in killing you when we would have followed the same course of action anyway.’
The three stammered their thanks. ‘We will be honoured to guide you to the Ausetani settlement tomorrow, sir,’ said the lead guide.
‘That’s right. You will.’ Malchus’ tone was silky soft, but there was no mistaking the threat in it. ‘Myrcan! Get in here.’
A broad-chested spearman entered from the corridor. ‘Sir?’
‘Take these men’s weapons and escort them to their quarters. Set guards at the windows and door.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Myrcan held out a meaty hand and the guides meekly handed over their knives before following him from the room.
‘It appears you both still have something to learn about judging men’s characters,’ Malchus admonished. ‘Not everyone is as honourable as you, Bostar. Nor do they all require torturing, Sapho.’
Both of his sons took a sudden interest in the tabletop before them.
‘Get some rest,’ Malchus said in a more kindly voice. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’
‘Yes, Father.’ As one, the brothers shoved back their chairs and headed for the door.
Neither spoke on the way to their bedchambers.
The guide’s estimate of the distance to the Ausetani village was accurate. After nearly a day’s ride, the fortified settlement finally came into view at the end of a long, narrow valley. Perhaps half a mile away, it occupied a high, easily defensible point. Like many such in Iberia, it was ringed by a wooden palisade. The tiny figures of sentries could be seen patrolling the ramparts. Flocks of sheep and goats grazed the slopes to either side. It was a peaceful scene, but the guides looked most unhappy.
Malchus gave them a long, contemptuous stare. ‘Go!’
The three men goggled at him.
‘You heard me,’ Malchus growled. ‘Unless you’d like to spend some time with Sapho here.’
They needed no further encouragement and had the sense not to mention payment. Turning their mules’ heads, the trio fled.
‘It appears that we are about to enter a den of hungry wolves.’ Malchus regarded each of his sons in turn. ‘What’s our best option?’
‘Go straight in there and demand to see the headman,’ Sapho declared boldly. ‘As we did in every other village.’
‘We can’t go back to Hannibal without some information,’ Bostar admitted. ‘But nor should we foolishly place our heads on the executioner’s block.’
Sapho’s top lip curled. ‘Are you afraid even to enter that excuse for a settlement?’
‘No,’ retorted Bostar hotly. ‘I’m just saying that we know nothing about these whoresons. If they’re as untrustworthy as the guide said, charging in there like raging bulls will get their backs up from the very outset.’
Sapho shot him a disbelieving look. ‘So what? We’re emissaries of Hannibal Barca, not some pisspot Iberian chieftain.’
They glared at each other.
‘Peace,’ said Malchus after a moment. ‘As usual, both your opinions have some merit. If we had the time, I would perhaps advise waylaying one of their hunting parties. A few hostages would make a powerful bargaining tool before we made an entry. That might take days, however, and we must act now.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Not in quite the way you advised. We will take a more peaceable approach. Remember, the stroked cat is less likely to scratch or bite. Yet we must be confident or, like a cat, they will turn on us anyway.’
Turning to their escorts, Malchus laid out the situation in Carthaginian and basic Iberian. There was little reaction. The Libyans and scutarii had been chosen for their loyalty and bravery. They would fight and, if necessary, die, for Hannibal. Wherever, and whenever, they were ordered to.
‘Which of you two speaks the best Iberian?’ Malchus asked his sons. While rusty, his command of the language sufficed most of the time. In a dangerous situation, however, it was best to minimise the chance of miscommunication.
‘I do,’ replied Bostar at once. Although he and Sapho had spent roughly
the same amount of time in Iberia, it was he who had shown more aptitude for the rapid-fire, musical tribal tongues.
Sapho concurred with a reluctant nod.
‘You act as interpreter, then,’ Malchus directed.
Bostar didn’t try to hide his smirk.
Without further ado, they set off. Malchus took the lead, with Bostar and a glowering Sapho following. Their escorts marched to their rear, first the spearmen, and last the scutarii. The party had not gone far when a horn blared out from the nearest hillside. It was quickly echoed by another nearer the village. Shouts rang out on the ramparts. When they were about four hundred paces from the settlement, the front gates creaked open, and a tide of warriors poured out. Forming up in an unruly mass that blocked the entrance, they waited for the Carthaginians to approach.
Bostar felt his stomach clench. He glanced sidelong at Sapho, who was half pulling his sword from its sheath before slamming it home again. He’s worried too, thought Bostar. In front, the only sign of tension in their father was his rigid back. Bostar took heart from Malchus’ self-assurance. Show no fear, he told himself. They will smell it the way a wolf scents its prey. Taking a deep breath, he fixed his features into a stony expression. Coming to the same realisation, Sapho let go of his sword hilt. Their escorts marched solidly behind them, reassurance that if there was trouble, plenty of men would die before they did.
Malchus rode his horse straight up to the mob of Ausetani. Taken aback by his confidence and the size of his mount, some of the warriors retreated a little. The advantage did not last long. Prompted by their companions’ angry mutters, the men stepped forward once more, raising their weapons threateningly. Shouted challenges rang out, but Malchus did not move a muscle.
Like most Iberian tribesmen, few of the Ausetani were dressed identically. Most were bareheaded. Those who wore headgear sported sinew, bronze bowl or triple-crested helmets. The majority carried a shield, although these also varied in size and shape: tall and straight-sided with rounded ends, oval, or round with a conical iron boss. All were brightly painted with swirling serpents, diamonds, or alternating thick bands of colour. The Ausetani were also heavily armed. Every man carried at least one saunion, but many had two. In addition, each warrior had a dagger and either a kopis or a typical Celtiberian straight-edged sword.
