Hannibal Enemy of Rome (25 page)

Bostar was first to reach the highest point of the smashed wall. The clouds of dust sent up by the towers’ collapse formed a choking cloud that hid any defenders from sight. Perhaps there were none? wondered Bostar. His heart leaped, but then he glanced around and cursed. In his haste, he’d outstripped his soldiers. The nearest were twenty paces down the slope. ‘Get a move on,’ he roared. ‘This isn’t a walking party!’

An instant later, Sapho arrived from the gloom. He had a dozen or more Libyans in tow; more were hauling themselves up nearby. A happy smile spread across his face when he saw that Bostar was alone. ‘On your own
still? It’s not surprising, really. Nothing like the promise of gold to speed things along.’

Bostar bit back his instinctive response. ‘This is not the time for such bullshit,’ he snarled. ‘Let’s seize the damn breach. We can argue later.’

Sapho gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘As you wish.’ He levelled his spear. ‘Third Phalanx! On me! Form a line!’

Only four of Bostar’s men had arrived. He watched in frustration as his brother led his spearmen forward. Of course he would be following in the blink of an eye, but it still rankled. A moment later, Bostar was glad that he hadn’t been first into the gap. Like avenging ghosts, scores of screaming Saguntines emerged from the dust cloud. Every one of them carried a
falarica
, a long javelin with a burning ball of pitch-soaked tow wrapped around the middle of the shaft.

‘Look out!’ Bostar screamed, knowing that his warning was already too late.

Responding to an officer’s command, the Saguntines drew back and released. They aimed short. Clouds of flaming missiles scudded through the air. Horror-struck, Sapho and his soldiers slowed down. And then the falaricae landed. Driving through shields. Maiming, killing and setting men alight.

Cursing, Bostar counted his spearmen. There were about twenty of them now. It wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t just stand by. If he did, Sapho would be killed, and his soldiers would run away. Their chance would be lost. ‘Forward!’ Raising his shield, Bostar ran at the enemy. He did not look back. To his immense relief, he felt his men’s presence at each shoulder. Death might take them all, thought Bostar, but at least they followed him through loyalty, not lust for gold.

He aimed for the spot where it looked as if Sapho’s soldiers might be overwhelmed. Seeing him, the nearest Saguntines took aim and released their falaricae. Hunching his shoulders, Bostar ran on. Streaming flames, the javelins hummed right past him. There was a strangled scream, and he looked around. He wished he hadn’t. A falarica had struck the man to his rear in the shoulder, driving deep into his flesh. In turn, the burning section had set alight the soldier’s tunic. Gobbets of white-hot tow were dropping on to his face and neck. His screams were ear-splitting. Bostar’s nostrils filled with the stench of cooking flesh. ‘Leave him!’ he roared at the men
who instinctively went to help. ‘Keep moving!’ Grateful it wasn’t him, and hoping the soldier died quickly, he spun back to the front.

If there was one small advantage to be gained from the enemy’s secret weapon, it was that after launching them, the defenders were momentarily defenceless. In addition, many weren’t even wearing armour. Snarling with fury, Bostar charged at a skinny Saguntine who was frantically trying to tug free his sword. He didn’t succeed. Bostar’s spear took him through the chest, punching through his ribcage with ease. The man’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets with the force of the impact. He was dead before Bostar pulled free his weapon, showering the ground in gouts of blood.

Panting, Bostar rounded on the next soldier within reach, a youth who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Despite his rusty sword and bloodcurdling cries, he looked petrified.

Bostar parried his clumsy blows with little difficulty before sliding his spear into the youngster’s belly. He killed two more defenders before an opportunity presented itself to assess the situation.

Perhaps a hundred of his own men were present; more were still arriving. A similar number of Sapho’s soldiers were battling steadily around them. No doubt their father and Alete’s phalanxes were trying to reach them too. Remarkably, however, they were being held back by the Saguntines, who were performing acts of heroism and suicidal bravery. No ground had been gained at all. Bostar realised why as he took in hundreds of civilians, who, just a few steps from the periphery of the fighting, were frantically repairing the breach with their bare hands. He could see old men, women and even children heaving rocks into place. Grudging respect filled him. Knowing that their loved ones were so close would make any man, soldier or not, fight like a demon. Bostar was not dismayed. Even now, thousands more troops would be climbing the slope to join them. Against such overwhelming numbers, even the gallant Saguntines could not hold for much longer. All they needed to do was to press home the attack.

Abruptly, his attention was drawn back to the present. Through the dust, he could make out a line of flickering flame approaching from the enemy citadel. Bostar’s stomach clenched as the vision came into full focus. It was two further waves of warriors, carrying scores more burning falaricae. ‘Shields up!’ he yelled. ‘Incoming javelins!’

His men hurried to obey.

Responding to a shouted order, the enemy lines came to a halt perhaps fifty paces away. Drawing back, the Saguntines threw their falaricae up in a steep arc, far over their own men. Over Bostar and Sapho’s soldiers.

‘Clever bastards,’ Bostar muttered. ‘They don’t want to hit us.’ He watched in total dread as the flaming javelins turned to point downwards. Like deadly shooting stars, they returned to earth to land amidst the still ascending Carthaginian troops. Thanks to the clouds of dust, these densely packed men had no idea what was about to hit them until the very last moment. Understandably, the falaricae caused utter chaos. Practically every one found a home in human flesh, running through shields and mail shirts with impunity. Yet their effect was far more profound. It was why the Saguntines had aimed at the unsuspecting soldiers to the rear, thought Bostar as the screams and wails of the injured filled his ears. The falaricae struck fear into the heart of every man who stood in their path. He knew exactly why. Who could bear to watch his comrades being turned into pillars of flame, or having the flesh blistered from their bones? No amount of training could prepare soldiers for that.

The entire advance below him had already come to a halt. As Bostar watched, the second wave of enemy javelins came rocketing down. An instant later, the Carthaginian attack became a rout. Despite the shouts of their officers, hundreds of men turned and fled. They hurled themselves down the slope with such abandon that many fell and were trampled by those following. The soldiers to either side, who had not been struck by the enemy volley, took one look at their retreating comrades and stopped dead. Then, as one, they turned on the spot and began running too.

Bostar cursed. The moment was lost. No one, even Hannibal, could turn this situation around. He caught the arm of the nearest spearman. ‘Pull back! Our reinforcements are withdrawing. We have to save ourselves. Spread the word.’ Repeating his command to every soldier he passed, Bostar fought his way through the press to Sapho’s side. Oblivious to the volley’s effect, his brother was urging a quartet of spearmen forward at a bunch of poorly armed defenders.

‘Sapho!’ Bostar yelled. ‘Sapho!’

Eventually his brother heard him. ‘What?’ he snarled over his shoulder.

‘We must pull back!’

Sapho’s face contorted with anger. ‘You’re crazy! Any moment, the whoresons will break, and then we’ll have them. Victory is at hand!’

‘No, it isn’t!’ Bostar bellowed. ‘We have to retreat. NOW.’

Some of Sapho’s soldiers began to look uneasy.

Sapho glared furiously at Bostar, but realised that he was serious. Shouting encouragement to his men, Sapho elbowed his way out of the front rank. With his arms and face covered in blood, he was like some creature from the underworld. ‘Have you entirely lost your wits?’ he hissed. ‘The enemy is giving ground at last. Another big push, and they’ll break.’

‘It’s too late,’ Bostar replied in a flat tone. ‘Have you not seen what those fucking falaricae have done to the troops behind us?’

Sapho’s rejoinder was instantaneous. ‘No. I keep my eyes to the front, not the back.’

Bostar’s fists clenched at the imputation. ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘let me tell you, our entire attack has come to a halt.’

Sapho bared his teeth. ‘So? Those motherless curs will turn and run any moment. Then we’ll get a foothold inside the walls.’

‘Where we will be cut off and annihilated.’ Bostar jabbed a finger into Sapho’s chest for emphasis. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re on our own up here!’

‘Coward!’ Sapho screamed. ‘You’re scared of dying, that’s all.’

Bostar’s anger surged out of control. ‘When the time comes, I will fight and die for Hannibal,’ he shouted. ‘What’s more, I will do it proudly. But there’s a difference between dying well, and like a fool. There’s nothing to be gained from sacrificing your life, or those of your men, here.’

Spitting on the ground, Sapho made to return to the fight.

‘Stop!’ Bostar’s order was like the crack of a whip.

Stiff-backed, Sapho came to a halt, but he did not turn to face Bostar.

‘As your superior officer, I command you to withdraw your men at once,’ Bostar cried, making sure that every soldier within earshot heard him.

Defeated, Sapho spun around. ‘Yes,
sir
,’ he snarled. He raised his voice. ‘You heard the order! Fall back!’

It didn’t take long for Sapho’s men to get the idea. Re-energised by the effect that their volleys had had on the ascending Carthaginian troops, the defenders were beginning to advance again. Behind them, freshly lit falaricae were being carried forward. Encouraged by this, even the civilians
who were repairing the breach joined in, hurling stones and fist-sized pieces of masonry at the spearmen.

This increased the ignominy and fuelled Sapho’s anger to new levels, all the more because he could now see that Bostar had been right to sound the recall. ‘Fool,’ he told himself nonetheless. ‘It was there for the taking.’

Hannibal was waiting with Malchus and Alete at the bottom of the slope. The general greeted the brothers warmly. ‘We were getting worried about you,’ he declared.

Malchus rumbled in agreement.

‘Sapho here didn’t want to leave the fight,’ said Bostar generously.

‘Last on the field?’ Hannibal clapped Sapho on the shoulder. ‘But still with the sense to withdraw. Good man! Once the whoresons had panicked your reinforcements, there was no point staying there, eh?’

Sapho flushed and hung his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘It was a good effort from both of you,’ said Malchus encouragingly. ‘But it wasn’t to be.’

Hannibal took Sapho’s reaction to be disappointment. ‘Never mind, man. My spies tell me that their food is fast running out. We’ll take the place soon! Now, see to your injured.’ He waved a hand in dismissal.

‘Come on,’ said Bostar, leading Sapho away.

‘Let go!’ Sapho whispered after a few steps. ‘I’m not a child!’

‘Stop acting like one then!’ said Bostar, releasing his grip. ‘The least you could do is thank me. I didn’t have to cover up for you there.’

Sapho’s lip curled. ‘I’m damned if I’ll do that.’

Bostar threw his eyes to heaven. ‘Of course not! Why would you recognise that I just saved your arse from a severe reprimand?’

‘Fuck you, Bostar,’ Sapho snapped. He felt completely backed into a corner. ‘You’re always right, aren’t you? Everyone loves you, the perfect fucking officer!’ Turning on his heel, he stalked off.

Bostar watched him go. Why couldn’t he have gone fishing instead of Hanno? he thought. His remorse for even thinking such a thing was instant, but the feeling lingered as he began organising rescue parties for the injured.

For the next two months, the siege went on in much the same fashion. Every full frontal assault made by the Carthaginians was met with dogged, undying determination by the defenders. The vineae regularly smashed
more holes in the outer wall, but the attackers could not press home their advantage fully, despite their overwhelming superiority of numbers. Relations between Bostar and Sapho did not improve, and the constant activity meant that it was easy to avoid each other. When they weren’t fighting, they were sleeping or looking after their wounded. Malchus, who had not only his own phalanx to deal with, but the extra duties given him by Hannibal, remained unaware of the feud.

Incensed by the manner in which the siege was dragging on, Hannibal eventually ordered the construction of more siege engines: vineae, which protected the men within, and an immense multi-storey tower on wheels. This last, holding catapults and hundreds of soldiers on its various levels, could be moved to whichever point was weakest on a particular day. Its firepower was so great that the battlements could be cleared of defenders within a short time, allowing the wooden terraces which would protect the attacking infantry to be carried forward without hindrance. Fortunately for the Carthaginians, the ramparts had been built on a base of clay, not cement. Using pickaxes, the troops in the terraces set to work, undermining the base of the walls. In this way, a further breach was made, and the attackers’ spirits were briefly lifted. Yet all was not as it seemed. Beyond the gaping hole, the Carthaginians found that a crescent-shaped fortification of earth had been thrown up in preparation for this exact eventuality. From behind its protection came repeated volleys of the terrifying falaricae.