Hannibal Enemy of Rome (39 page)

Checking the street yet again, Gaius rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles. There was no response from within, and Hanno began to panic. He glanced at the myriad of stars that lit the night sky. Eshmoun, he begged, do not forget Suniaton, your devoted follower, and son of your priest in Carthage. Great Tanit, have mercy.

His prayers were answered a moment later when, with a faint creak, the door opened inwards. ‘Who is it?’

‘Gaius.’

A short man emerged cautiously on to the street. Seeing Quintus and Hanno, he stiffened. Gaius was quick to jump in with the reassurance that they were friends, and the figure relaxed a fraction. His receding hair, long nose, and darting eyes made him resemble a rat, thought Hanno distastefully. It was no surprise that he fucked little boys. Yet this was the major-domo of the house, who was also about to set Suniaton free.

‘Well, where’s the Carthaginian?’ demanded Gaius.

‘Just inside. I’ll get him,’ the major-domo replied, bobbing his head. ‘And you’ll say nothing to my master?’

‘I give you my word,’ Gaius answered dryly.

The other nodded uneasily, knowing that this was all he’d get. ‘Very well.’

He scuttled from view, and Hanno felt a tinge of suspicion at his speed. There was a short delay before he heard the sound of shuffling feet. Then Hanno saw a stooped figure framed in the doorway, and he leaped forward. ‘Suniaton?’

‘Hanno?’ croaked the other.

Throwing his arms around Suniaton, Hanno clung to his friend like a drowning man. He was dimly aware of the door shutting and a bolt sliding across to lock it. Hanno didn’t care. Hot tears of joy scalded his cheeks; he felt moisture soak into his tunic as Suniaton wept too. For a moment, they just stood there, each revelling in the fact that the other was still alive. Abruptly, Suniaton’s knees gave way beneath him. Hanno had to stop him from falling. He studied Suniaton’s face. Gone was the round-faced young man he was familiar with. In his place stood a gaunt-cheeked, unshaven wretch with long hair. ‘You’re half starved,’ Hanno cried.

‘It’s not that,’ replied Suniaton. His eyes were deep pools of pain. ‘I’m hurt.’

Suddenly, Hanno understood the reason for Suniaton’s hunched posture. ‘How badly?’

‘I’ll live.’ Despite his brave words, Suniaton grimaced. ‘I got beaten in a fight two days ago. I’ve got several wounds, but the worst is a slash across the top of my right thigh.’

Gaius thumped on the door. ‘Treacherous bastard! You said nothing about this.’

To his surprise, the major-domo replied. ‘I was told only to bring him out at the appointed hour. No one said anything about whether he was well or not.’

‘You whoreson!’ hissed Hanno. ‘I should cut your balls off.’ He leaned his shoulder against the timbers and heaved.

Quintus intervened. ‘It’s not safe here.’ He moved to stand by Suniaton. ‘You take one arm, and I’ll take the other,’ he said to Hanno.

Hanno nodded. There was no point wasting time. The major-domo could take his own chances now. Only the gods knew whether the drugging of the doorman would fool his master. It mattered not at all. They
had to get Suniaton back to Gaius’ house, where they could examine his wounds.

Fortunately, Suniaton was proved to be right about his injuries. Although he was in considerable pain, the clean sword cuts were not life-threatening. As far as Hanno could tell, they had been stitched reasonably well. Yet the worst wound concerned him greatly. The biggest muscle in Suniaton’s right thigh had nearly been severed. There was nothing they could do about it, and so they prepared to leave. They had to get to safety before dawn. Bidding farewell to Gaius, the pair heaved Suniaton up on to Quintus’ mount. Having bribed a sentry, they passed out of the town with relative ease. The horse’s movement caused Suniaton so much pain, however, that he soon passed out. Hanno could do nothing but support his friend as he walked alongside. He would ask Quintus to get some papaverum from Elira later. For now, he thanked Tanit and Eshmoun, and asked for their continued blessing. Hopefully, Suniaton just needed time. Hanno was desperate to head for Iberia, but he would not leave his friend behind now.

The war would have to wait.

Bostar eyed the figures on the other side of the Rhodanus. Although the deep, fast-flowing water was more than five hundred paces across at this point, the Volcae camp was easy to make out between the trees that dotted the far bank. There were scores of tents and lines of tethered horses, denoting the presence of hundreds of warriors. Sentries patrolled the water-line day and night. Given that the tribesmen normally lived on both sides of the river, their intent could not be more plain. They would pay dearly for their combative stance, thought Bostar. Hannibal had given him his orders not an hour since. Once he’d made an offering to the gods, it was time to go. His phalanx and the three hundred scutarii the general had insisted he also take were already assembled beyond the Libyans’ tent lines. Their destination, an island at a narrow point in the river, was a day’s march to the north.

Sapho’s voice made him jump. ‘Why couldn’t the stupid bastards be like the other tribes around here?’

‘Sell us boats and supplies, you mean?’ Bostar asked, trying to look pleased to see his brother. What was Sapho, who still had no idea of his
mission, doing here at this early hour? Why did I mention it to Father? thought Bostar, panicking. He took a deep breath. Calm down. I asked him not to mention it to a soul. He won’t have.

‘Yes. Instead, they’ll kill a tiny fraction of our troops before being annihilated themselves. Even simple savages such as they must know that our army can’t be stopped from crossing the Rhodanus.’

Bostar shrugged. ‘I suppose they’re like the Ausetani. Defending their territory is a matter of pride. It doesn’t matter how badly they’re outnumbered. Death in battle is not something to be ashamed of.’

‘Sheep-shagging inbreds,’ said Sapho with a derisive snort. ‘Why can’t they understand that all we want to do is cross this poxy river and be on our way?’

Bostar refrained from asking the obvious question: wasn’t the response of the Volcae how Sapho, or he, might act in a similar situation? ‘Never mind. Hannibal gave them their chance. Now, what was it that you wanted? I was about to take my phalanx out on a march,’ he lied bluffly, unable to think of what else to say.

‘Gods, your men must
love
you. Haven’t we done enough of that recently? That explains why you’re in full uniform at this hour.’ Sapho made a dismissive gesture. ‘It was nothing that can’t wait. Just that I noticed plenty of game trails leading down to the water’s edge. I thought I’d follow them beyond the camp. Would you like to come along?’

Bostar was completely taken aback by this. ‘What, and go looking for boar?’ he faltered.

‘Or deer.’ Sapho threw him a crooked, awkward grin. ‘Anything to vary our current diet.’

‘A bit of fresh meat wouldn’t go amiss,’ Bostar admitted ruefully. He felt torn. The proposal was clearly a bridge-building effort on Sapho’s part, but he couldn’t disobey Hannibal’s orders; nor could he reveal them. They were still top secret. What to say? ‘I’d love to, but not today,’ he managed eventually. ‘Who knows what time I’ll get back?’

Sapho wasn’t to be put off. ‘How about tomorrow?’ he asked cheerfully.

Bostar’s anguish grew. Great Melqart, he thought, what have I done to deserve this? He and his men would only be getting into position by the following evening. On the far bank. ‘I’m not sure …’ he began.

Sapho’s good humour fell away. ‘So you’d rather spend time with your men than your own brother?’

‘It’s not that,’ Bostar protested. ‘Going hunting with you sounds wonderful.’

‘What is it then?’ Sapho snarled.

Bostar’s mind was empty of ideas. ‘I can’t say,’ he muttered.

Sapho’s lip curled even further. ‘Admit it. I’m not good enough for you, am I? Never have been!’

‘That’s not true. How can you say such a thing?’ Bostar cried, horrified.

‘Bostar!’ Their father’s cheerful voice cut across the argument like a knife. Startled, both brothers glanced around. Malchus was approaching from the direction of his tent lines. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now,’ he said as he drew nearer.

‘I was just leaving,’ replied Bostar uneasily. Let me get away without any more problems, Baal Saphon, he prayed. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Bostar’s plea was not answered; Malchus gave him a broad wink. ‘Good luck.’

‘Eh?’ said Sapho with a puzzled frown. ‘Why would he need that on a training march?’

Malchus looked uncomfortable. ‘You never know, he might break an ankle. The trails around here are very uneven.’

‘That’s a lie if I ever heard one. Besides, when have you ever wished us luck for so trivial a matter?’ Sapho scoffed. He turned on Bostar. ‘Something else is going on, isn’t it? That’s why you won’t come hunting!’

Bostar felt his face grow red. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he muttered, picking up his shield.

Furious, Sapho blocked his path. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Get out of my way,’ said Bostar.

‘Is that an order,
sir
?’ Contempt dripped from the last word.

‘Move, Sapho!’ snapped Malchus. ‘Your brother’s orders come from Hannibal himself.’

‘It’s like that, is it?’ Sapho stepped aside, his eyes filled with jealousy. ‘You could have said. Just a hint.’

Bostar looked at him, and knew he’d made a mistake. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Sapho hissed. He lowered his voice even further. ‘Lickarse. Perfect fucking officer.’

A towering fury took hold of Bostar. Somehow, he managed to keep it in check. ‘Actually, I said nothing because I didn’t want you to feel that you’d been overlooked.’

‘You’re so fucking kind,’ Sapho shouted, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘I hope you get killed wherever you’re going.’

Malchus’ mouth opened in rebuke, but Bostar held his hand up. Oddly, his anger had been replaced by sorrow. ‘I trust that you wish the mission to be successful at least?’

Shame filled Sapho’s face, but he had no chance to reply.

Bostar turned to Malchus. ‘Farewell, Father.’

Malchus’ eyes were dark pools of sorrow. ‘May the gods watch over you and your men.’

Bostar nodded and walked away.

‘Bostar!’

He ignored Sapho’s cry.

It felt as if he’d just lost another brother.

Two days later, Bostar and his men were in position. Theirs had been a hard journey. After a long march on the first day, their guides had brought them to a fork in the Rhodanus. The island in the centre of the river had made their crossing much easier. Not knowing if there were any Volcae on the opposite bank, they had waited until nightfall. Then, using rafts constructed from a combination of chopped-down trees and inflated animal skins, Bostar and ten handpicked men had swum to the other side. To their immense relief, the woods had been empty of all but owls and foxes. Soon after, the remaining soldiers had safely joined him. Bostar had not forgotten to give thanks to the gods for this good fortune. Hannibal and the entire army were relying on them. If they failed, hundreds, or even thousands, of men would die at the hands of the Volcae when the Carthaginian forces began to cross.

At sunrise, they had marched south, halting only when the enemy encampment had been identified. Leaving his party to rest in the dense thickets that occupied the high ground overlooking the river, Bostar and a few sentries had spent the night on their bellies, watching the Volcae sitting around their fires. The tribesmen seemed oblivious to any danger, which pleased him. Somehow that made his anguish over the argument
with Sapho easier to bear. Bostar had no wish to be enemies with his brother. Let us both survive the struggle to come, he prayed, and make our peace afterwards.

As dawn arrived, it became possible to make out the enormous Carthaginian camp on the far bank. With growing tension, Bostar waited until he could see troops near the water’s edge, cavalrymen climbing into the larger craft, and infantry scrambling into the canoes. He even spied Hannibal in his burnished cuirass, directing operations. Still Bostar held on. Picking the right moment to charge was vital. Too soon, and he and his men risked being slaughtered; too late, and innumerable soldiers in the boats would die.

It wasn’t long before the Volcae sentinels noticed the activity opposite their position and raised the alarm. Clutching their weapons, hundreds of warriors emerged from their tents and ran down to the bank. There they paced threateningly up and down, screaming abuse at the Carthaginians and bragging of their exploits. Bostar was thrilled. The enemy’s camp had been abandoned, and every man’s gaze was fixed on the flotilla of vessels opposite. It was time to move. ‘Light the fires!’ he hissed. ‘Quickly!’

A trio of kneeling spearmen, who had been regarding him nervously, struck their flints together.
Clack
,
clack
,
clack
, went the stones. Sparks dropped on to the little mounds of dry tinder before each man. Bostar sighed with relief as a tiny flame licked first up the side of one pile, and then another. The third heap took flame a moment later. The soldiers encouraged the fires by blowing on them vigorously.

Fretfully chewing a fingernail, Bostar waited until each blaze was strong enough. ‘Add the green leaves,’ he ordered. He watched intently as thick eddies of smoke from the damp foliage curled up into the air and climbed above the tops of the trees. The instant it had, Bostar’s gaze shot to the opposite bank. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘You have to be able to see it now.’