Hannibal: Fields of Blood (11 page)

‘The gods give, and the gods take away. But at least we will have our vengeance this day.’ Malchus’ lips peeled into a snarl, and he raised his voice. ‘In order that the surrounding towns understand that resistance is futile, Hannibal has ordered that the Romans’ attempt to surrender this morning is to be ignored. Every citizen within the walls is to be killed.’

That set Bostar’s spearmen to cheering.

It wasn’t Bostar’s way to find commands of this type appealing – as Sapho did – but the thought of what Hanno might have been put through made his blood boil. He spun to regard his men. ‘The Gauls had best leave some alive for us, eh?’

‘Yes!’ They bellowed their enthusiasm. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

The chant was taken up from the phalanx that stood a short distance to their right. Bostar raised a hand to the figure who stood at its head. Mutt returned the gesture. With Hanno gone, he had been given temporary command of the unit.

‘Those lads will fight you for a position on the ladders,’ said Malchus. ‘The Romans have to learn the harshest of lessons for there to be any chance of us succeeding in our mission. They won’t be won over by lenient treatment of their towns and of the prisoners we take.’

Malchus took no joy in killing civilians. Nor did Bostar, yet it had to be done. Why did Sapho have to enjoy it? he wondered.

‘That’s why Hannibal is sending in a man like Sapho in the first wave,’ said Malchus, as if reading his mind.

Bostar said nothing.

Malchus gave him a sharp look. ‘You two, eh? Always quarrelling. Hannibal knows that your skills lie elsewhere. Nor will he have forgotten how you saved his life at Saguntum. He will call on you again in the future. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need Sapho too.’

‘I understand.’ Secretly, Bostar wished that things were different. That Sapho had been the one to have been captured and killed, not Hanno. He’d thought it at other times, but never so strongly and with so little guilt.

‘Maybe you two can see this as a way to move on. To come together a little.’

Their father had no idea of the depth of bitterness between him and Sapho, thought Bostar. Their feud had been going on since they had left Hannibal’s base in southern Iberia more than a year and a half previously. It had alleviated somewhat during the elation after the victory at the Trebia, but it had soon returned. Sapho would stop at nothing to become one of Hannibal’s favoured officers. His desire for Roman blood seemed unquenchable. But Bostar’s conscience nagged at him. Sapho was still his brother. His only living brother, who had saved his life in the Alps – despite not really wanting to. Bostar had sworn to repay the debt. Until that had been achieved, he’d have to make a pretence for his father’s sake. Maybe their relationship would improve as a consequence. He pulled a weary smile. ‘I’ll talk to him, Father, I promise.’

‘Hanno would approve.’

‘He’d also like to know that we sent him on his way with a fitting sacrifice,’ said Bostar, giving the walls of Victumulae a pitiless stare.

‘I think we can guarantee him that,’ growled Malchus.

Hanno woke, lying on the floor, screaming. The pain was even worse than before. A constant thrumming sensation centred in his neck. It made all his other hurts disappear. It consumed Hanno as flames eat away at dry tinder. All he wanted was for it to end. ‘Help,’ he mumbled. ‘Help.’

A soft voice answered.

Hanno didn’t recognise it. He opened his eyes, puzzled. Instead of the Roman officer, he saw a dark-skinned figure crouched over him, a man he vaguely recognised. He licked dry lips. ‘W-who are you?’

‘I’m called Bomilcar.’

‘Bomilcar?’ As confusion filled Hanno, the darkness took him again.

When he awoke, he could feel something cool trickling into his mouth. Water. His eyes blinked open. Bomilcar was leaning over him, holding a cup to his lips. Hanno’s thirst was overwhelming, but terror consumed him at the thought of the agony that swallowing would cause.

‘You must drink,’ urged Bomilcar.

Hanno had seen men drop from lack of water during the summers in Carthage. Since his capture, all he’d had was the few mouthfuls the officer had given him. He forced himself to take a tiny sip. The pain in his throat was extreme, but the pleasure as the liquid hit his stomach was worth it. He kept swallowing until he could take no more. The effort used up a lot of his strength. Hanno lay back on the cold stone, wondering where the officer and his two men were, but feeling too tired to care. His eyelids fluttered and closed.

‘Wake up! You can’t sleep. Not now.’

Hanno felt a hand take his arm. The movement set off a fresh wave of pain in his neck. ‘Gods, that hurts! Leave me alone,’ he snarled.

‘If you want to live, you need to get up.’

Bomilcar’s urgent tone sank in. Hanno eyed him askance. ‘You have a Carthaginian name.’

‘That’s right. I was brought here to translate what your comrade said, remember?’

Slowly, it came back to Hanno. ‘You’re the slave?’

A flicker of emotion. ‘Yes.’

Suspicion filled Hanno. ‘Have they sent you to see what you can find out from me on your own?’

Sounds from beyond the cell. A man shouting.

Bomilcar’s gaze shot to the door. After a few heartbeats, the noise died away and he relaxed a fraction. ‘No. I’m here to get you out.’

‘I-I don’t understand.’

‘Can you sit up?’ Bomilcar extended both his hands.

Struggling to understand, Hanno let the other help him to a sitting position. The first thing he saw was Bogu, hanging limp from his bonds. A fool could tell he was dead. Go well, thought Hanno dully. I will see you in the afterlife. His eyes flickered to the brazier, which had gone cold. Hours, maybe more must have passed. ‘Where are the Romans?’

‘Gone to defend the town.’

Shock filled Hanno before a stab of hope struck home. ‘Hannibal’s army has arrived?’

‘Yes. The Romans marched out to meet him, but he routed them on the road. Hundreds of legionaries were killed, many of them within sight of the town. Hannibal’s troops are attacking from all sides as we speak. The garrison is massively outnumbered. It won’t be long before our men get a foothold on the ramparts.’

Our men.
Hanno’s head swirled. He had no doubt that Bostar and Sapho, his brothers, would be among those in the assault’s vanguard. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘A day and two nights. We need to move. Pera swore to come back and kill you once the end was near.’

‘Pera?’

‘The officer who tortured you.’

‘You’re really here to free me?’ whispered Hanno.

‘Of course. You’re a Carthaginian, like me. But if we don’t move fast, it won’t happen at all.’

Hanno’s heart filled. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Bomilcar offered his hand. ‘Can you stand?’

Hanno was lightheaded with pain, but his desire to live was still strong. He took the grip and let the other haul him upright. That was when he saw the gladius in Bomilcar’s other fist. ‘Where did you get that?’

A conspiratorial wink. ‘I took it from the guard outside – after I’d smashed an amphora over his head and cut his throat with his own dagger.’ He proffered the sword. ‘The knife’s enough of a weapon for me. Can you use this?’

Hanno reached out eagerly. His fingers closed on the hilt. He hefted the blade, which was heavier than his own sword. Gods, but it felt good to be armed again, although he knew in his bones that he was no real match for a legionary right now. Hanno was about to hand it back when he saw the admiration in Bomilcar’s eyes. To him, Hannibal’s arrival outside the town must seem like an intervention by the gods. Hanno’s protest died in his throat. Despite his weakened condition, he had more chance in a fight than Bomilcar, who had probably never handled an edged weapon until a few moments before. ‘Just show me a bastard Roman,’ he muttered.

Bomilcar grinned. ‘With Baal Hammon’s help, that won’t be necessary.’

‘What’s your plan?’

‘I brought you a cloak like mine. Once it’s on, most people won’t give either of us a second look.’ Bomilcar eased it over Hanno’s shoulders, taking care not to touch his wound. He lifted the hood, which concealed Hanno’s neck. ‘We’ll head for the main gate. That’s where Hannibal’s attack is concentrated. They’re using a battering ram on the doors, and catapults have wreaked havoc on the defenders atop the wall.’

‘We can’t just stand around in the street waiting for them to break in.’

‘No. There’s a stable belonging to an inn close to the gate. It’s not far. We can hide in the adjacent hay barn. Once our men get inside the town, we’ll go out and you can make yourself known.’

‘That will be easier said than done,’ replied Hanno, remembering Bostar’s tales of the madness that had descended on Hannibal’s soldiers when Saguntum, in Iberia, had fallen. It would be all too easy for them to be slain in the confusion. He saw Bomilcar’s incomprehension but thought it better not to elaborate. ‘But it’s the best we can do. Lead on.’

‘I’ll take it as slow as I can. Stay close.’ Bomilcar padded to the door, which lay ajar, and peered into the passage beyond. ‘All clear.’

Scarcely believing that his legs would carry him, Hanno followed. The acute pain in his neck had lessened a little. Was it thanks to his level of excitement and fear? Hanno didn’t know, but he prayed that his newfound strength lasted – and that if it came to it, he would have the energy to fight.

Outside the cell, a flickering oil lamp in an alcove shed a dim light on a scene of carnage. A dead legionary lay in an ever-widening puddle of blood. Hanno felt a grim satisfaction at the rictus of dismay twisting the corpse’s face. It was the wall-eyed soldier. He hoped that the opportunity to kill Pera and the other legionary also arose. Don’t be rash, his more prudent side shot back. You couldn’t best a child, let alone a hale legionary. Everything now was about survival. Swallowing his desire for vengeance, Hanno shuffled around the crimson pool.

The dank corridor led from his cell past a number of other doors. Hanno stopped by one and listened. After a moment, he heard a faint moan. What wretch lay on the other side? he wondered.

‘We don’t have time to help anyone else,’ hissed Bomilcar.

Numbing himself to the fate of the anonymous prisoner, Hanno did as he was told. Every step was sheer agony, but he forced his legs to keep moving. Trying to keep up with Bomilcar’s slow pace was difficult, however, and Hanno had to ask him to pause before the end of the passage. The gladius felt as if it were made of lead, but he kept a deathlike grip on it.

At last Bomilcar turned left. Motioning Hanno to stay put, he crept up a stone staircase. He soon returned, looking pleased. ‘It’s the same as when I came in. There’s only one guard on duty. The rest have been sent to man the defences.’

‘Why did he let you through?’

‘I told him that Pera had given me a message for the guard on your door.’ Another wink. ‘He won’t suspect a thing until my dagger has cut him a new smile.’

‘I’ll come too,’ Hanno protested.

‘No. Our best chance is if I go alone. Wait here until I call you.’

Hanno’s wound was throbbing with a new intensity. He could do little but nod.

Padding as silently as a cat, Bomilcar vanished up the staircase.

Trying to ignore his racing heart, Hanno listened with all his might. The murmur of voices, both friendly. A low laugh. The sound of studded sandals moving fast. A question, followed by a cry, cut short. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Silence.

Who had died? Unsure, Hanno raised the gladius and prepared to meet his end fighting. When Bomilcar appeared, he let out a relieved sigh. ‘You did it.’

‘The dog didn’t know what hit him.’ Bomilcar’s tone was wondering. ‘I wish I’d done this a long time ago.’

Hanno managed an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunities to hone your skills in Hannibal’s army. A man like you will be most welcome.’

Bomilcar gave him a pleased look. ‘Best keep moving.’

At the top of the staircase was a small, square guard chamber. A pair of empty bunk beds lined one wall; chunky logs smouldered in a fireplace. Oil lamps guttered from a few spots around the room. Bronze pots and cooking implements lay to one side of the fire, along with loaves of flat bread and a joint of meat. The man who’d been left to watch over the cells was sprawled on his back before the fire, his three-legged stool lying between his legs. A deep wound in the side of his neck still oozed blood.

They skirted the body, making for the only door. Hanno’s stomach twisted as Bomilcar opened it. Who knew what lay beyond it? The Carthaginian saw his uncertainty. ‘We go up another set of stairs, and then out into the courtyard of the garrison buildings. It’s virtually deserted. Every man who can fight is on the walls.’

‘There’ll be guards on the gate, surely?’

‘Only one.’

‘We’ll have to kill him.’

‘That’s too risky. Lots of people are going by on the street beyond. There’s a storeroom to one side of the prison, though. If we each take an amphora of
acetum
from there, I can say that we’ve been ordered to take them to the soldiers on the frontline.’

‘I’ll have to take down my hood. What if he sees my neck?’

Bomilcar frowned in concentration. ‘I think he’s standing to the right of the entrance. He won’t see it.’

Knowing that they had no other option, Hanno nodded in acceptance. May the gods be with us, he prayed. They would need all the help they could get.

After his incarceration, stepping outside felt odd. The chill air stung his wound, but it provided a little relief from the pain. Hanno scanned the cobbled courtyard, which was bordered by barrack buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Overhead, the sky was a dramatic mix of dark reds and pinks. It was early morning and the sun had returned at last, with the promise of blood. Bomilcar led the way to the store, where they both picked up a small amphora. Hanno staggered as he raised his to his left shoulder, sending jagged waves of pain through his body. ‘He won’t see it now.’

Bomilcar gave him an encouraging look. ‘Good idea. Can you make it to the first corner? You can rest there.’