Hannibal: Fields of Blood (12 page)

‘I have to.’ Hanno locked his knees to stop his legs from buckling.
I have to make it that far.

There was no more discussion. They crossed the courtyard in a diagonal, straight to the main gate. Bomilcar didn’t pause as he reached it. Hanno stayed on his heels, keeping his gaze on the ground before him. The gladius, which he’d tucked into his right armpit, threatened to slip from his grip with every step. All he could do was to clench his arm even tighter against his body and pray.

‘Where are you going?’ barked a voice.

‘Taking some acetum to the men on the ramparts, sir,’ replied Bomilcar.

‘On whose say so?’

‘One of the centurions, sir. I don’t know his name.’

Silence for a moment. Then, ‘Be off with you! My comrades’ tongues will be hanging out with thirst.’

Muttering his thanks, Bomilcar headed off to the left. Hanno followed, taking in only the sentry’s lower legs and
caligae
. Bomilcar’s speed was such that he could barely keep up. Despite his anguish, Hanno dared not slow down. He could feel the soldier’s eyes boring into his back. Flutters of panic rose from his stomach, but he shoved them away.

‘Hey!’

Hanno almost dropped his amphora.

‘Keep moving. Pretend you didn’t hear!’ hissed Bomilcar without turning his head. ‘He can’t desert his post.’

‘You! Slave!’

They kept walking. Ten paces, then twenty. The sentry spat an oath, but he did not follow them. When Bomilcar turned to his right, on to a wider way, Hanno cried out with relief. His wound and the muscles of his neck were screaming in protest. He could feel fluid oozing down on to his tunic. The moment he was around the corner, he let the amphora slip from his shoulder.

Bomilcar grabbed the bottom before it hit the ground. ‘Careful! If it breaks, you’ll draw attention. The same if anyone sees that damn sword.’ He shoved the gladius, which had slipped down, back up under Hanno’s cloak.

‘Sorry.’ Hanno sagged against the wall, uncaring. It took all of his strength not to fall in a heap.

Bomilcar glanced around the corner. ‘We’re in luck. The sentry hasn’t moved.’

‘Just as well. I couldn’t run anywhere.’ Despite the cold, sweat was pouring down Hanno’s face.

‘You’ll never reach the inn like this. I’ll get rid of the amphorae. Pull your hood up and wait here.’

Hanno obeyed. He didn’t even see Bomilcar go. Eyes closed, he tried to manage the alternating waves of nausea and stabbing torment that consumed his very being. Around him, he was dimly aware of panicked voices moving past. He heard the name ‘Hannibal’ being repeated again and again. That’s right, you bastards, Hanno thought. Be scared. He’s coming.

‘Ready?’

Bomilcar’s voice made him jump. ‘What did you do with the amphorae?’

‘I left them down an alleyway.’ Bomilcar’s face was concerned. ‘Can you keep going?’

Hanno rallied what was left of his strength and shoved himself upright. ‘I’m not staying here.’

‘Good.’ Bomilcar’s teeth flashed. ‘It’s about two hundred and fifty paces to the inn. We’ll take it slowly. Pretend you’re a slave. Don’t look at anyone.’

Gritting his teeth, Hanno followed his rescuer. The walk seemed to last an eternity. Most of the traffic was heading away from the gate as men led their wives and families from the fighting. Slaves tottered behind, carrying valuables or leading mules weighed down with food and blankets. Where were they going? Hanno wondered vaguely. There was no escape. The town had to be surrounded. A few soldiers were hurrying the same way that they were, but, locked in discussion about what was happening, they paid the pair no attention. Hanno was glad. He was incapable of fighting. The amphora’s weight had distracted him from his neck, but now his wound was sending stabs of pain into every part of his body. They even reached his toes. Lights flashed in front of his eyes and he struggled not to retch constantly. Lightheaded, Hanno had trouble keeping Bomilcar in focus. With a supreme effort, he kept his gaze locked on the Carthaginian’s back. By counting his steps in groups of ten, he gave himself tiny goals to reach. Each time he succeeded felt as if he’d run a mile, and by the time Bomilcar halted, Hanno was ready to collapse.

‘Nearly there. Another fifty paces and we’ve made it.’

Hanno’s eyes moved down the street. A painted sign depicting a man with a bow and arrows jutted out from a building on the left. ‘The Hunter’s Rest?’

‘That’s the one.’

The din of fighting was clearly audible now. Hanno’s heart lifted to hear it. The dull booming sound had to be the battering ram smashing into the main gate. The noise of lighter impacts would be stones from Hannibal’s catapults. Men were shouting, screaming, crying out. Best of all, he could hear the clash of weapons off each other.
Hannibal is here!
‘D’you hear that?’

Bomilcar frowned. ‘What?’

‘The sound of metal on metal. It means that Carthaginian soldiers have reached the ramparts! We need to hurry. Best to be out of sight until they’ve cleared the streets near the gate.’

Bomilcar cast a glance up and down the street before taking Hanno’s right arm and placing it over his shoulder, holding it in place with his own right hand. ‘I can make it,’ Hanno protested, but the Carthaginian was having none of it.

‘There’s almost no one about. You’re weak, and it will be quicker this way.’

Grateful for the assistance, Hanno did not protest further. He remembered little of the rest of their journey. A pair of wounded soldiers limping past on their way to the surgeon. A glance from a curious child. The suspicious stare of the ostler at the stables. His expression changing to a welcoming smile as Bomilcar slipped him a couple of coins. A barn full of hay. The nicker of a nearby horse. And then nothing.

The men of Sapho’s phalanx cheered as the main gate cracked and fell inwards, its timbers shattered and riven. Clouds of dust rose. Cries of dismay could be heard from within the walls. The Gauls at the entrance dropped their battering ram and swarmed into the gap, screaming like men possessed. Hundreds of their fellows, prepared for this moment, were hot on their heels. Bare-chested, or clad in tunics or mail shirts, the heavily armed warriors tore into the breach, striking the waiting Romans with an almighty crash. Sapho and his men roared with approval. The Gauls would smash apart the shocked legionaries, clearing the way for them to advance.

Sapho’s chest swelled with pride. A stocky man with curly black hair and a broad nose, he took after their father. He was here because Hannibal had not lost his trust in him. His unit would be the first of the regular Carthaginian forces to enter Victumulae. The danger might not be extreme, but there would be ample opportunity to slay Romans. Hannibal’s order had deprived them of their right to live. The more that died, the merrier. His general had given the order, and he would follow it to the letter. Like his brothers, Sapho had grown up on tales of the wrongs done to Carthage by Rome. This war, this battle provided the chance for revenge. If he was lucky, there might be opportunity to secure the grain stores, which would surely raise him in Hannibal’s regard. Sapho didn’t suppose that anyone would happen upon Hanno, but that was possible too. The garrison buildings would need to be searched. It would please their father if his body were found. Despite Sapho’s jealousy of Hanno, who had always seemed Malchus’ favourite, his youngest brother deserved a decent burial.

He shot a spiteful glance in the direction of Bostar’s phalanx. At last he was receiving more recognition than his younger brother. It was unfortunate that he was out of sight. Sapho would have loved to see Bostar’s unhappy expression before he entered the town. Behind him, Sapho suddenly became aware of his men’s eagerness. Their ranks were swaying forward and back several steps. To their rear, a large group of Iberian infantry were shouting and calling for him to advance. It was time to move. Hannibal was watching.

‘Form up, six men wide. Close order. Those at the front and sides, raise shields. Expect missiles, and have your spears at the ready.’ Placing himself in the centre of the first rank, Sapho led his spearmen forward at a slow walk. His eyes carefully scanned the ramparts, searching for any indication of an attack. To his satisfaction, the defenders he could see were concentrating on their attempts to repel the Gauls who were ascending more than half a dozen ladders. Sapho kept his guard up until they had reached the wall. Even then, he did not relax. A single legionary with a javelin could be dangerous.

They passed under the arched gateway, stepping over the cracked planking of the gate. Just a few steps further, the carnage began. The street was strewn with the dead, almost all of them Roman. Gaping hack wounds to the neck, chest or limbs decorated many of the corpses. More than one had been decapitated. The entire area had been stained a shocking red colour. Discarded equipment was strewn here and there, left by the men who had run. Sapho felt a new respect for the Gauls. This was proof of the effectiveness of their charge on a disorganised enemy.

‘Let’s hope they’ve left some for us, eh?’ he shouted.

His men bellowed their bloodlust back at him.

They moved down the main street, while behind them the Iberians spread out into every side alley. Sapho had no idea that Hanno, still living, was so close. Or that his fate hung by the slimmest of threads.

Hanno was woken by shouting. Cursing. Grunts of pain. As his eyes opened, the agony from his neck wound returned with new force. What he saw instantly made him forget his own discomfort, however. Bomilcar had been strung by his neck from an overhead beam by a length of rope. A strip of cloth was tied round his head, gagging him. A trio of Iberian infantrymen stood in a circle, taking it in turns to boot him from one to another. With each blow, Bomilcar struggled not to fall over. If he did, he would choke to death. The Iberians were passing a cracked amphora around, and their flushed cheeks told Hanno that they’d already consumed plenty of its contents. That was probably the reason that Bomilcar was still alive. How much longer he would survive was debatable, though. One man had drawn his
falcata
and was whetting its blade with an oilstone.

Why haven’t they done the same to me? Hanno moved a hand, disturbing a pile of hay. Understanding hit home. Only his head was visible. Bomilcar had scattered hay over him as a blanket and the Iberians hadn’t noticed him. Heart pounding, Hanno lay back down. If he didn’t move, chances were that they would never discover his hiding place, which was fifteen paces deeper into the barn. By the next morning, it would be safe to go out on the streets again. He would be reunited with his family.

His pleasure at that thought was washed away by a surging guilt. To do that, he would have to watch Bomilcar die, tortured to death as he would have been by Pera. Hanno could no more do that than he could have slain Quintus after the ambush. He had to act, and fast. What was his best tactic? The rigid length by his side had to be the gladius, but standing up with that in his fist would guarantee a quick death. Better to be unarmed. Less of a threat. New fear caressed his spine. What if the Iberians didn’t speak enough Carthaginian to understand him? Many of the lower ranking troops in Hannibal’s army knew little to none of their General’s tongue. There was no need because their officers could.

The man with the falcata tested the edge of his blade with his thumb and grimaced in approval. His gaze moved to Bomilcar.

He would have to take the chance, decided Hanno. Otherwise, it would be too late. Brushing the hay from his body, he sat up, careful not to touch the gladius.

No one noticed him, so he stood up and coughed.

Three startled faces spun to regard him. There was an instant’s delay, and then the Iberians were drawing their weapons and swarming towards him.

‘HANNIBAL!’ shouted Hanno as loudly as he could.

That brought them to a screeching stop.

‘Hannibal is my leader too,’ he said in Carthaginian. ‘You understand?’

Blank looks from two of the men, but the third scowled. He spat a question in Iberian.

Hanno didn’t understand a word. He repeated Hannibal’s name over and over, but the Iberians didn’t look impressed. Raising their swords, they padded towards him, reminding him of how deadly they were in battle. It hasn’t worked. I’m dead, he thought wearily.

That was when one of them pointed at him and asked another question.

Hanno looked down in confusion. He glanced at their crimson-edged tunics and then at his own red one. Understanding, he tugged at the fabric like a maniac. ‘Yes! I am the commander of a phalanx! Libyan spearmen! Libyans!’

‘Pha-lanx?’ demanded one of the Iberians, adding in accented Carthaginian, ‘You from Carthage?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Hanno. ‘I am from Carthage! The other man is Carthaginian too.’

The tension vanished as the smell of a dead carcase is carried off by the wind. Suddenly, the Iberians were all smiles. ‘Carthaginians!’ they roared. ‘Hannibal!’ Bomilcar was ungagged and cut down with many apologies; both of them were given some wine. When Hanno’s wound was spotted, there were hisses of dismay. One Iberian produced a clean strip of cloth, which he insisted on wrapping around Hanno’s neck. ‘Surgeon,’ he kept repeating. ‘You need . . . surgeon.’

‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘But first I need to find my father, or my brothers.’

The Iberian didn’t understand, but he heard the urgency in Hanno’s voice. ‘Wait,’ he ordered.

Hanno was happy to obey. Sitting beside Bomilcar, with the first warm flush of the wine coursing through his veins, he felt vaguely human. ‘We made it,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’

Bomilcar grinned. ‘I can’t believe it. For the first time in five years, I’m free.’

‘You’ll be well rewarded for what you’ve done,’ swore Hanno. ‘And I’ll always be in your debt.’

They gripped hands to seal a new bond of friendship.

The Iberian soon returned with one of his officers, who spoke better Carthaginian. Hearing Hanno’s story, he arranged for a stretcher to be brought and for a messenger to find Malchus.

‘I need to see my father first,’ Hanno insisted.