by Ben Kane
Hanno clenched his teeth. He too could see the danger.
‘Caecilius? Fallen over your own prick?’ demanded Balbus.
There was no answer. A moment later, a bulky-framed man with long greasy hair emerged partially into view. It took the blink of an eye for him to notice his companion’s body, to take in the arrow protruding from his chest. A strangled cry left Balbus’ throat. Frantic to regain the safety of the hut, he spun on his heel.
Quintus released. His shaft flew straight and true, driving deep into Balbus’ right side with a meaty thump. The bandit cursed in pain, but managed to get through the doorway. ‘Help me,’ he cried. ‘I’m hit.’
Shouts of confusion and anger rang out from within. Hanno heard Balbus growl, ‘Caecilius is dead. An arrow to the chest. No, Sejanus, I don’t fucking know who did it.’ Then, apart from low muttering, everything went silent.
‘They know that I’m just outside,’ Quintus whispered, suddenly wondering if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. ‘But they have no idea that I’m on my own. How will they react?’
Hanno scowled. You’re not on your own, you arrogant fool. ‘What would you do?’
‘Try to get away,’ Quintus said, fumbling for an arrow.
In the same instant, loud cracking sounds filled the air and the back wall of the hut disintegrated in a cloud of dust. Three bandits burst into the open air, hurtling straight towards them. In the lead was a skinny man in a wine-stained tunic. He grasped a hunting spear in both hands. This had to be Pollio, thought Hanno. Beside him ran a massive figure carrying a club. Hanno blinked in surprise. It was not Balbus, because he was two steps behind, clutching the arrow in his side with one hand and a rusty sword with the other. Despite being twice Balbus’ size, the big man was his spitting image. The pair had to be brothers.
The two sides goggled at each other for a heartbeat.
Pollio was the first to react. ‘They’re only children. And one isn’t even armed,’ he screamed. ‘Kill them!’ His companions needed no encouragement. Bellowing with rage, the trio charged forward.
Perhaps fifteen paces now divided them. ‘Quick,’ Hanno shouted. ‘Take one of the bastards down.’
Quintus’ heart hammered in his chest, and he struggled to notch his arrow correctly. Finally it slipped on to the string, but, desperate to even the odds, he loosed too soon. His shaft flashed over Pollio’s shoulder and into the wreckage of the hut. He had no time to reach for another. The bandits were virtually upon them. Dropping his bow, he pulled the gladius from his belt. ‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘You know what to do!’
Facing certain death if he stayed without a weapon, Hanno turned and fled.
‘Let him go!’ shouted Pollio. ‘The shitbag looks as if he can run like the wind.’
Quintus had just enough time to throw up a prayer of thanks to Jupiter before Pollio, leaping over a fallen log, reached him.
‘So you’re the one who would murder a man while he takes a piss,’ the bandit snarled, lunging forward with his spear.
Quintus dodged sideways. ‘He got what was coming to him.’
Leering, Pollio stabbed at him again. ‘It was a quicker death than the shepherd had.’
Quintus tried not to think of Libo, or of the fact that he was outnumbered three to one. Holding his gladius with both hands, he swept the spear shaft away. Sejanus, the big man, was still a few steps away, but already there was no sign of Balbus. Where is the son of a whore? Quintus wondered frantically. He might be wounded, but he’s still armed. The realisation made him want to vomit. The bastard’s coming to stab me in the back. All Quintus could think of doing was to place himself against a tree. Driving Pollio off with a flurry of blows, he sprinted towards the nearest one he could see, a cypress with a thick trunk. He could make a stand there.
To Quintus’ exhilaration, he made it.
The only trouble was that, a heartbeat later, he had the grinning bandits ringed around him in a semicircle.
‘Surrender now, and we’ll give you an easy death,’ said Pollio. ‘Not like the poor shepherd had.’
Even the wounded Balbus laughed.
What have I done? Somehow, Quintus swallowed down his fear. ‘You’re fucking scum! I’ll kill you all,’ he shouted.
‘You think?’ sneered Pollio. ‘It’s your choice.’ Without warning, he thrust his spear at Quintus’ midriff.
Quintus threw himself sideways. Too late, he realised that Sejanus had aimed his club at the very spot he was heading for. In utter desperation, he deliberately fell to the ground. With an almighty crack, the club smacked into the treetrunk. The knowledge that the blow would have brained him if it had landed drove Quintus to his feet. Seizing his opportunity, he slashed out at Sejanus’ arm and was delighted when his blade connected with the big man’s right arm. The flesh wound it cut was enough for Sejanus to bellow in pain and stagger backwards, out of the way. Quintus’ relief lasted no more than an instant. The injury wouldn’t be enough to stop the brute from rejoining the fight. To survive, he immediately had to disable or kill one of the other two.
With that, a sword hilt smashed into the side of his head. Stars burst across Quintus’ vision, and his knees buckled. Half-conscious, he dropped to the ground.
* * *
Hanno had probably run fifty paces before he glanced over his shoulder. Delighted that no one was pursuing him, he sprinted on for another fifty before looking back again. He was on his own. In the clear. Safe. So too, therefore, was Aurelia.
What of Quintus? he wondered with a thrill of dread.
You ran. Coward! Hanno’s conscience screamed.
Quintus told me to, he thought defensively. The idiot couldn’t bring himself to trust me with a gladius.
Does that mean you should leave him to die? his conscience shot back. What chance has he against three grown men?
Hanno screeched to a halt. Turning, he ran uphill as fast as his legs could take him. He took care to count his steps. At eighty, he slowed to a trot. Peering through the trees, he saw the three bandits standing over a motionless figure. Claws of fear savaged Hanno’s guts as he took refuge behind a bush. No! He can’t be dead! When Pollio’s kick made Quintus moan, Hanno was nearly sick with relief. Quintus was alive still. Clearly, he wouldn’t be for long. Hanno clenched his empty fists. What in the name of Baal Saphon can I do?
‘Let’s take him back to the hut,’ Pollio declared.
‘Why?’ complained Balbus. ‘We can just kill the fucker here.’
‘That’s where the fire is, stupid! It won’t have gone out yet,’ replied Pollio with a laugh. ‘I know you’re injured, but Sejanus and I can carry him between us.’
A cruel smile spread across Balbus’ face. ‘Fair enough. There’ll be more sport with some heat, I suppose.’ He watched each of his comrades take one of Quintus’ arms and begin dragging him towards the hut. There was little resistance, but they retained their weapons nonetheless.
This is my chance. All three men had their backs to him, and half a dozen steps separated Balbus from the others. Hanno’s mouth felt very dry. His prospects of success were tiny. Like as not, he’d end up dead, or being tortured alongside Quintus. He could still run. A wave of self-loathing swept over him. He saved you from Agesandros, remember?
Clenching his teeth, Hanno emerged from his hiding place. Grateful for the damp vegetation, which muffled the sound of his feet, he stole forward as fast as he could. Balbus was limping after his comrades, who were alternately grumbling about how much Quintus weighed and waxing lyrical about what they’d do to him. Hanno fixed his gaze on the rusty sword that dangled from Balbus’ right hand. First, he had to arm himself. After that, he had to kill one of the bandits. After that … Hanno didn’t know. He’d have to trust in the gods.
To Hanno’s relief, his first target didn’t hear him coming. Taking careful aim, he thumped Balbus near the point where Quintus’ arrow had entered his flesh, before neatly catching the sword as it dropped from the screaming
bandit’s fingers. Switching it to his right hand, Hanno sprinted for the other two. ‘Hey!’ he shouted.
Their faces twisted with alarm, but Hanno’s delight turned to fear as they dropped Quintus like a sack of grain. Do not let him be hurt, Hanno prayed. Please.
‘You must be a slave,’ Pollio growled. ‘You were unarmed before. Why don’t you join us?’
‘We’ll let you kill your master,’ offered Sejanus. ‘Any way you want.’
Hanno did not dignify the proposal with a reply. Sejanus was nearest, so he went for him first. The big man might have been injured, but he was still deadly with his club. Hanno ducked under one almighty swing, and dodged out of the way of another before seeing Pollio’s spear come thrusting in at him. Desperate, Hanno retreated a few paces. Sejanus lumbered in immediate pursuit, blocking his comrade’s view of Hanno. There was a loud curse from Pollio, and Sejanus’ attention lapsed a fraction.
Hanno darted forward. As the other’s eyes widened in disbelief, Hanno slid his sword deep into his belly. The blade made a horrible, sucking sound as it came out. Blood spurted on to the ground. Sejanus roared with agony; his club fell from his nerveless fingers and both his hands came up to clutch at his abdomen.
Hanno was already spinning to meet Pollio’s attack. The little bandit’s spear stabbed in, narrowly missing his right arm. His heart pounding, Hanno shuffled backwards. His eyes flickered to the side. Despite being in obvious pain, Balbus was about to join the fray. He’d picked up a thick branch. It wouldn’t kill, thought Hanno, but if Balbus landed a blow, he’d easily knock him from his feet. Panic bubbled in his throat, and his sword arm began to tremble.
Get a grip of yourself! Quintus needs you.
Hanno’s breathing steadied. He fixed Balbus with a hard stare. ‘Want a blade in the guts as well as that arrow?’
Balbus flinched, and Hanno went for the kill. ‘Creating fear in an enemy’s heart wins half the battle,’ his father had been fond of saying. ‘Carthage!’ he bellowed, and charged forward. Even if Pollio took him down from behind, Hanno was determined that Balbus would die.
Balbus saw the suicidal look in Hanno’s eyes. He dropped his length of wood and raised both his hands in the air. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he begged.
Hanno didn’t trust the bandit as far as he could throw him; he didn’t know what Pollio was doing either. Dropping his right shoulder, he crashed into Balbus’ chest, sending him flying.
When he turned to face Pollio, the skinny bandit was gone. Pumping his arms and legs as if Cerberus himself were after him, he tore up the slope and was soon lost to view among the trees. Let the bastard go, Hanno thought wearily. He won’t come back. A few steps away, Balbus was in the foetal position, moaning. Further off, Sejanus was already semiconscious from the blood he’d lost.
The fight was over.
Elation filled Hanno for a moment – before he remembered Quintus.
He rushed to the Roman’s side. To his immense relief, Quintus smiled up at him. ‘Are you all right?’ Hanno asked.
Wincing, Quintus lifted a hand to the side of his head. ‘There’s an apple-sized lump here, and it feels as if Jupiter is letting off thunderbolts inside my skull. Apart from that, I’ll be fine, I think.’
‘Thank the gods,’ said Hanno fervently.
‘No,’ replied Quintus. ‘Thank you – for coming back. For disobeying my orders.’
Hanno coloured. ‘I’d never have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t.’
‘But you didn’t have to do it. Even when you did, you could have taken up the bandits’ offer. Turned on me.’ A trace of wonder entered Quintus’ voice. ‘Instead, you took on the three of them, and won.’
‘I—’ Hanno faltered.
‘I’m only alive because of you,’ interrupted Quintus. ‘You have my thanks.’
Seeing Quintus’ sincerity, Hanno inclined his head. ‘You’re welcome.’
As the realisation sank in that they had survived the most desperate of situations, the two grinned at each other like maniacs. These were strange circumstances for both. Master saved by his slave. Roman allied with Carthaginian. Yet both were very aware of a new bond: that of comradeship forged in combat.
It was a good feeling.
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.
