by Ben Kane
Bostar’s laugh was a trifle hollow. If anyone had made such a statement a few weeks before, he wouldn’t have believed it. Looking at the harsh slopes above, he knew that his father might well be correct. Expecting more than fifty thousand men, thousands of pack animals and thirty-seven elephants to climb into the realm of gods and demons bordered on genius - or madness. Feeling disloyal for even thinking the latter, Bostar glanced around. He was surprised to see Sapho approaching. After the Rhodanus, the brothers had ostensibly patched up their relationship, but the reconciliation had been little more than a facade for their father’s benefit. The two avoided each other if at all possible. Bostar forced a smile. ‘Sapho.’ Try as he might, he could not help but feel hurt when his brother silently responded with a salute.
‘That’s not necessary, is it?’ Malchus’ tone was sharp.
‘Sorry,’ said Sapho offhandedly. ‘I’m still half asleep.’
‘Yes, it’s not exactly your time of day, is it?’ retorted Bostar acidly. ‘That would be more like midday.’
‘Enough!’ barked Malchus before Sapho could respond. ‘Why can’t you at least be civil to each other? There’s far more at stake here than your stupid feud.’
As always, their father’s outburst silenced the brothers. Unusually, it was Sapho who made the first effort. ‘What were you talking about?’ he asked.
His attempt made Bostar feel obliged to reply. ‘Those.’ He pointed at the mountains.
Sapho’s face soured. ‘Ill fortune awaits us up there. Countless men will be lost, I know it.’ He made the sign against evil.
‘We’ve had such good fortune since the Rhodanus, though,’ protested Bostar. ‘The Romans didn’t pursue us. Then the Cavares gave us gifts of food, shoes and warm clothing. Since we entered their territory, their warriors have kept the Allobroges at bay. Who’s to say that the gods won’t continue to smile on us?’
‘The year’s practically over. Winter will be here soon. It will be a superhuman task.’ An impossible task, thought Sapho dourly. Hell awaits us. He had never liked heights, and the prospect of ascending the Alps - especially in late autumn - filled him with a murmuring dread. Of course he could not admit to that, nor to his resentment of Hannibal for choosing such a difficult route, or for favouring Bostar above him. He jerked his head towards the south. ‘We should have travelled along the coast of Gaul.’
‘That would have meant a pitched battle with the forces our cavalry encountered near the Rhodanus, which was something Hannibal wanted to avoid.’ Despite his robust words, Bostar felt his spirits being dragged down. With the friendly Cavares returning to their homes, and nowhere to go other than up, there was no denying what they had let themselves in for. He was grateful when his father intervened.
‘I want to hear no more talk like that. It’s bad for morale,’ growled Malchus. He had similar concerns, but he wouldn’t admit them to anyone. ‘We must keep faith with Hannibal, as he does with us. His spirits were high last night, weren’t they?’ He glared at his sons.
‘Yes, Father,’ Sapho conceded.
‘He doesn’t have to wander around his men’s campfires for half the night, sharing their poxy rations and listening to their miserable life stories,’ Malchus continued sternly. ‘He doesn’t sleep alongside them, wrapped only in his cloak, for the good of his health! Hannibal does it because he loves his soldiers as if they were his children. The least we can do is to return that love with utmost fealty.’
‘Of course,’ Sapho muttered. ‘You know that my loyalty is beyond question.’
‘And mine,’ added Bostar fervently.
Malchus’ scowl eased. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I know that the next few weeks will be our toughest test yet, but it’s officers such as we who will have to give an example. To lead the men when they falter. We must show no weakness, just a steely resolve to reach the top of whichever pass Hannibal chooses. Don’t forget that from there, we will fall upon Cisalpine Gaul, and after it, Italy, like ravening wolves.’
Finally, the two brothers gave each other a pleased look. It lasted only an instant before they broke eye contact.
Malchus was already ten strides away. ‘Get a move on. Hannibal wants us all to see the sacrifice.’
The brothers followed.
The flat, well-watered land where the Carthaginians were camped had provided respite to man and beast before the rigours that were to come. It also offered, Bostar realised, a place where Hannibal could address his troops, as he had at New Carthage before they’d left. Even though his forces were now considerably smaller, there were still far too many soldiers to be able to witness personally their general make an offering to the gods. That was why the commanders of every unit in the army had been ordered to bring a score or more of their men to the ceremony.
They made their way past rank-smelling Balearic slingers clad in animal skins and slender, dark-skinned Numidians with oiled ringlets in their hair. Burly scutarii and caetrati in sinew helmets and crimson-edged tunics stood with their arms folded. Alongside was Alete with twenty of his Libyan spearmen. Groups of bare-chested Gauls, their necks and arms decorated with torcs of gold, eyed the others present with supercilious stares.
Before the gathered soldiers stood a strongly built low wooden platform, and upon it a makeshift altar of stone slabs had been erected. In front stood fifty of Hannibal’s bodyguards. A ramp led from the foot of the dais to the top, and beside it, a large black bull had been tethered. Six robed priests waited with the beast, which was snorting with unease. As Malchus led them to a position within a dozen steps of the soothsayers, Bostar shivered. In their gnarled hands - through the divination to come - lay the power to raise the army’s morale, or to send it into the depths. Gazing at the nearby soldiers, Bostar saw the same concern twisting their faces that he was experiencing. There was little conversation; indeed an air of apprehension hung over the entire gathering. Bostar glanced at Sapho, whom he could read like a book. His brother was feeling the same way, or worse. Bostar sighed. Despite the ease of the last few days, the mountains’ physical immensity had cast a shadow over men’s hearts. There was only one person who could cast out that gloom, he thought. Hannibal.
The man himself bounded into view a moment later, ascending the ramp as if he were on the last lap of a foot race. A loud cheer met his arrival. Hannibal’s bronze helmet and breastplate had been polished until they shone as if lit from within. In his right hand his falcata sword glinted dangerously; in his left, he carried a magnificent shield emblazoned with the image of a prowling male lion. Without a word, Hannibal strode to the edge of the platform and lifted his arm so everyone could see his blade. He let the troops focus on it before he pointed it to his rear.
‘After so long, there they are! The Alps,’ Hannibal cried. ‘We have halted at our enemies’ very gates to prepare for our ascent. I can see by your faces that you are worried. Scared. Even exhausted.’ The general’s eyes moved from soldier to soldier, daring them to hold his gaze. None could. ‘Yet after the brutal campaign in Iberia, and the crossing of the Rhone, what are the Alps?’ he challenged. ‘Can they be anything worse than high mountains?’ He paused, glancing around questioningly as his words were translated. ‘Well?’
Bostar felt worried. Despite the truth in Hannibal’s words, few men looked convinced.
‘No, sir,’ Malchus answered loudly. ‘Great heaps of rock and ice is all they are.’
Hannibal’s lips tightened in satisfaction. ‘That’s right! They can be climbed, by those with the strength and heart to do so. It’s not as if we will be the first to cross them either. The Gauls who conquered Rome passed by this same way, did they not?’
Again the delay as the interpreters did their work. Finally, there was a mutter of accord.
‘Yet you despair of even being able to get near that city? I tell you, the Gauls brought their women and children through these mountains! As soldiers carrying nothing but our weapons, can we not do the same?’ Hannibal raised his sword again, threa
teningly this time. ‘Either confess that you have less courage than the Romans, who we have defeated on many occasions in the past, or steel your hearts and march forward with me, to the plain which stands between the River Tiber and Rome! There we will find greater riches than any of you can imagine. There will be slaves and booty and glory for all!’
Malchus waited as the general’s words were translated into Gaulish, Iberian and Numidian, but as a rumble of agreement began to sweep through the assembled troops, he raised a fist into the air. ‘Hannibal!’ he roared. ‘Hannibal!’
Quickly, Bostar joined in. He noted that Sapho was slow to do the same.
Shamed by their general’s words, the soldiers bellowed a rippling wave of approval. The Gauls chanted in deep voices, the Libyans sang and the Numidians made shrill ululating sounds. The cacophony rose into the crisp air, bouncing off the imposing walls of rock before the gathering and thence up into the empty sky. The startled bull jerked futilely at the rope tethering its head. No one paid it any heed. Everyone’s gaze was locked on Hannibal.
‘Last night, I had a dream,’ he cried.
The cheering quickly died away, and was replaced by an expectant hush.
‘I was in a foreign landscape, which was full of farms and large villages. I wandered for many hours, lost and without friends, until a ghost appeared.’ Hannibal nodded as his words spread and the superstitious soldiers glanced nervously at each other. ‘He was a young man, handsome, and clad in a simple Greek tunic, but there was an ethereal glow about him. When I asked who he was, he laughed and offered to guide me, as long as I did not look back. Although I was unsure, I accepted his proposal.’
Hannibal had everyone’s attention now, even that of the priests. Men were making the sign against evil, and rubbing their lucky amulets. Bostar’s heart was thudding off his ribs.
‘We walked for maybe a mile before I became aware of a loud crashing noise behind us,’ Hannibal went on. ‘I tried not to turn and see what was going on, but the sound grew so great that I could not help myself. I glanced around. What I saw made my throat close with fear. There was a snake of wondrous size following us, crushing every tree and bush in its path. Black thunderclouds sat in the sky above it, and lightning bolts flashed repeatedly through the air. I froze in terror.’ Hannibal paused.
‘What happened next, sir?’ cried one of Alete’s Libyans. ‘Tell us!’
An inchoate roar of agreement followed. Bostar found himself shouting too. Visions like this - for surely that was what Hannibal had had - could portend a man’s future, for good or ill. Dread filled Bostar that it was the latter.
Sapho could not dispel his unease about what lay before them. ‘He’s making it up. So we’ll follow him up into those damn mountains,’ he muttered.
Bostar gave him a disbelieving glance. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’
Sapho’s jealousy of his brother grew. ‘Really? With so much at stake?’ he retorted.
‘Stop it! You’ll anger the gods!’ said Bostar.
Belatedly scared by what he’d said, Sapho looked away.
‘Wait,’ hissed Malchus. ‘There’s more.’
‘The young man took my arm, and ordered me not to be afraid,’ shouted Hannibal suddenly. ‘I asked him what the snake signified, and he told me. Do you want to hear what he said?’
There was a short pause.
‘YES!’ The bellow exceeded anything that had gone before.
‘The devastation represents what will happen to Rome at the hands of my army!’ the general said triumphantly. ‘The gods favour us!’
‘Hurrah!’ Bostar was so thrilled that he threw an arm around Sapho’s shoulders and hugged him. His brother tensed, before stiffly returning the gesture. The exhilaration in the air was infectious. Even Malchus’ normal solemnity had been replaced by a broad smile.
‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ yelled the delighted soldiers.
While his troops cheered themselves hoarse, Hannibal made a gesture to the priests. With the aid of a dozen scutarii, the bellowing bull was hauled up the ramp until it stood in front of the altar. Hannibal stood to one side. At once the applause died away, and the worried looks returned to men’s faces. Success was by no means guaranteed yet. The omens from the sacrifice also had to be good. Bostar found himself clenching his fists.
‘O Great Melqart, accept this prize beast as a sacred offering, and as a gesture of our good faith,’ intoned the high priest, an old man with a grey beard and fleshy cheeks. His companions repeated his words. Raising the hood on his robe, the priest then accepted a long dagger. The bull’s head was pulled forward, stretching its neck. Without further ado, the old man extended his arm and yanked it back, drawing the blade across the underside of the bull’s throat with savage force. Blood gouted from the large wound, covering the priest’s feet. The kicking beast collapsed to the platform, and the unneeded scutarii were waved back. Swiftly, the old man moved to kneel between the bull’s front and back legs. With sure strokes, he slit open the skin and abdominal muscles. Steaming loops of bowel slithered into view. The priest barely glanced at them as, still gripping the dagger, he shoved both his arms deep into the abdominal cavity.
‘He’s seen nothing bad so far. That’s good,’ whispered Bostar.
It’s probably all been arranged in advance, thought Sapho sourly, but he no longer dared speak his mind.
A moment later, the old man stood up to face Hannibal. His arms were bloodied to the shoulder, and the front of his saturated robe had turned crimson. In his hands, he held a purple, glistening lump of tissue. ‘The beast’s liver, sir,’ he said gravely.
‘What does it tell you?’ There was the slightest trace of a quaver in Hannibal’s voice.
‘We shall see,’ replied the priest, studying the organ.
‘Told you!’ Bostar gave Sapho a hefty nudge. ‘Even Hannibal is unsure.’
Sapho looked at Hannibal, whose face was now etched with worry. If their general was an actor, he was a damn good one. Fear suddenly clogged Sapho’s throat. What was I thinking to call Hannibal’s dream into question? Sapho couldn’t think of a better way to call down the gods’ wrath than to say what he just had. And there was Bostar, beside him, who was unable to put a foot wrong. Bitterness coursed through his veins.
‘It is very clear,’ the priest announced loudly.
Every man present craned his neck forward, eager to hear.
‘The passage of the mountains will be difficult, but not impossible. The army will descend upon Cisalpine Gaul, and there allies will flock to our cause. The legions that come to meet us will be swept away, as the mightiest of trees are by a winter storm. Victory awaits!’
‘Victory! Victory! Victory!’ chanted the soldiers.
Raising his hands for silence, Hannibal stepped forward. ‘I told you of my dream. You have heard the soothsayer make his pronouncement. Now, who will follow me across the Alps?’
The watching troops surged forward, shouting their acceptance.
Looking elated, Malchus and Bostar were among them. Sapho followed, telling himself that everything would be all right. The knot of fear and unease in his belly told another story, however.
Four days later, Sapho was beginning to wonder if his misgivings had been overblown. While the Carthaginians had encountered some resistance from the Allobroges, it had been swept aside by Hannibal’s fierce response. Life in the mountains had settled into a reassuring routine, the same as they’d followed for months. Rise at dawn. Strike camp. Eat a cold breakfast. Assemble the men. Assume position at the head of the enormous column. Join the path eastwards. March. Sapho was immensely proud that Hannibal had picked his unit to lead the army. Let Bostar suck on that, he thought. His brother’s phalanx marched behind his. Malchus and his soldiers were with the rearguard, more than ten miles back down the stony track.
His duty carried with it huge responsibility. Sapho was on the lookout for danger at all times. For the thousandth time that morning, he eyed the heights around
the flat-bottomed valley in which they currently found themselves. Nothing. Intimidated by Hannibal’s seizure of their main settlement and, with it, all their supplies, the Allobroges had vanished into the bare rocks. ‘Good enough for the cowardly scumbags,’ muttered Sapho. He spat contemptuously.
‘Sir!’ cried one of the guides, a warrior of the Insubres tribe. ‘Look!’
To Sapho’s surprise, the figures of men could be seen appearing on the track ahead. Where in the name of hell had they come from? He lifted his right arm. ‘Halt!’ At once the order began passing back down the line. Sapho’s jaw clenched nervously as he listened to it. He was stopping the progress of the entire army. It had to be done, however. Until proven otherwise, every person they encountered was an enemy.
‘Should we advance to meet them, sir?’ asked an officer.
‘Not bloody likely. It could be a trap,’ Sapho replied. ‘The fuckers can come to us.’
‘What if they don’t, sir?’
‘Of course they will. Why else do you think they’ve slunk out of their rat holes?’
Sapho was right. Gradually, the newcomers approached: a group of perhaps twenty warriors. They were typical-looking Gauls, well built with long hair and moustaches. Although some wore tunics, many were bare-chested under their woollen cloaks. Baggy woven trousers were ubiquitous. Some wore helmets, but only a handful had mail shirts. All were armed with tall, oval shields and swords or spears. Interestingly, the men at the front were carrying willow branches.
‘Are the dogs coming in peace?’ asked Sapho.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the guide. ‘They’re Vocontii, I think.’ He saw Sapho’s blank look. ‘Neighbours - and enemies - of the Allobroges.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ sneered Sapho. ‘Do any of you Gauls get on with each other?’
The guide grinned. ‘Not too often, sir. There’s always something to fight over.’
‘I’m sure,’ Sapho said dryly. He glanced to either side. ‘Front rank, shields up! First and second ranks, ready spears!’
