Hannibal Enemy of Rome (47 page)

NATURALLY, THE VIA
Appia, the main road to Rome, led straight out of Capua. Not wishing to enter the town, Quintus first bypassed his father’s farm and then took a smaller, cross-country track that meandered through a number of hamlets and past countless farms to join the larger way some miles to the north. Quintus rode his horse. As a supposed slave, Hanno sat on the back of an irritable mule, which was also laden down with equipment. They travelled in silence for the first hour. Both had much to think about.

Quintus now felt confident of finding his father. He was sad to have left Aurelia behind, but that was the way of the world. Their mother would look after her well. However, Quintus felt uneasy. Once their objective - that of finding his father - had been achieved, Hanno would depart to join the Carthaginian forces. Did that mean that they were
already
enemies? Thoroughly unsettled by this notion, Quintus tried not to think of it.

Hanno prayed that Suniaton would be all right and that they would find Fabricius swiftly. Then he would be free. He asked to be reunited with his father and brothers. If they were still alive, of course. Hanno tried to be upbeat, and concentrated on imagining marching to war against the Romans. At once, however, another disquieting image popped up. Quintus and Fabricius would be serving in the legions. Unknowingly, Hanno had the same disturbing thought as Quintus, and buried it deeply in the recesses of his mind.

Not long after they had joined the Via Appia, they came upon a party of infantry marching south.

‘Oscans,’ said Quintus, relieved to have something to talk about. ‘They’re heading for the port.’

Hanno knew that the River Volturnus ran in a southwesterly direction past Capua to terminate at the coast. ‘To be transported to Iberia?’

Ill at ease again, Quintus nodded.

Hanno ignored him, focusing instead on the approaching group. Apart from Fabricius’ escort, he hadn’t seen many soldiers in Italy. These were socii, not regular legionaries, but such men would constitute up to half of any army that faced Hannibal’s. They were the enemy.

Some of the Oscans were bareheaded, but most wore bronze Attic helmets decorated in striking fashion with horsehair or feathers, which were dyed red, black, white or yellow. Their short wool tunics were also eye-catching, ranging from red to ochre to grey. Few wore shoes or sandals, but all had a broad leather belt covered in bronze sheeting, which was fastened with elaborate hooks. The soldiers were armed with light javelins and thrusting spears of different lengths; the rare men with swords carried the slashing kopis, a curved weapon originally used by the Greeks. The majority of their shields were similar to
scuta
, concave and ribbed, but smaller.

‘It wasn’t many generations ago that they were fighting Rome,’ Quintus revealed. ‘Capua has only been under Roman rule for just over a century. Many locals think it should reclaim its independence.’

Hanno goggled. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. It’s a favourite argument between Martialis and my father, especially when they’ve been drinking.’ Quintus frowned, wondering if his mother felt similarly. She’d never said as much, but he knew that she was fiercely proud of her heritage.

Hanno was fascinated. His knowledge of the Republic’s structure, and its relationship with the non-Roman cities and peoples of Italy, was patchy at best. It was interesting that natives of such a large and important city were unhappy being ruled by Rome. Could there be others who felt the same way? he wondered.

As one of the junior tribunes of a legion, Flaccus should have accompanied his unit to Iberia. After his foolish outburst in front of Publius, it would also have been wise for him to lay low for a time. As Fabricius rapidly discovered, that was not his way. Discovering that, in addition to Fabricius’ cavalry, the consul was taking a single cohort back to Italy,
Flaccus begged to be included. One tribune was needed to command the legionaries, he reasoned. Why should it not be he? To Fabricius’ utter amazement, Publius did not explode at the request. While clearly annoyed, the consul acceded. ‘By Jupiter, but you have a brass neck,’ he muttered. ‘Now get out of my tent.’

Fabricius took a mental note of the incident, which revealed how far the power of the Minucii stretched. Although it mattered little which tribune accompanied Publius, Flaccus’ gall in asking would have been punished had he been anyone else. Rather than punishment, though, he had got his wish. As he said smugly to Fabricius later, the Minucii had a finger in every pie. ‘By the time we arrive in Italy, the clan will probably know about Hannibal’s intentions.’ The only way that could happen, thought Fabricius, was if you had sent a message ahead of us. He couldn’t believe that was the case. Had Atia been right about Flaccus? Wishing that his prospective son-in-law were less of a braggart, Fabricius consoled himself by imagining how his family would benefit from the Minucii’s influence once Aurelia was married.

For his part, Fabricius was delighted to be heading for Italy. Although there would be plenty of action there, he wanted to be part of the army that faced the main threat. Naturally, this was Hannibal, not the commander he had left in Iberia.

Sapho’s brutal treatment of the prisoners did not stop the Vocontii from mounting further attacks. If anything, it increased their ferocity. More rocks were rolled down the slopes, causing heavy casualties among the soldiers and pack animals. During the late afternoon, the fighting grew so intense that the vanguard, including the cavalry and the baggage train, became separated from Hannibal and the bulk of the infantry. It remained so for the duration of the night. The following morning, to everyone’s relief, the Vocontii had disappeared. Most supposed that their losses had eventually become heavy enough to make stealing supplies pointless. Yet the tribesmen had wreaked more than simple physical damage on the army. The terrifying ordeal helped morale to plummet among the less motivated units. Each night, hundreds of men vanished under cover of darkness. Hannibal had ordered that no one was to stop them. ‘Soldiers who are coerced into fighting make poor comrades,’ he said to Malchus.

The host marched on.

For eight days, the miserable, cold and footsore Carthaginians climbed. Their enemies were no longer the Vocontii or the Allobroges, but the elements and the terrain, which grew ever more treacherous. Wind chill, frostbite and exposure began to take their toll. From dawn until dusk, soldiers dropped to the ground like flies. At night they simply died in their sleep. They were weakened by hunger, exhaustion, insufficient clothing, or a combination of all three.

Hannibal’s response to Sapho’s robust defence of the vanguard had been to promote him. He had also left Sapho in charge of leading the column. Despite his joy at being equal to Bostar in rank, his responsibility was a double-edged sword. It was down to him and his men to act as trailbreakers, which was an utterly exhausting task. Boulders had to be moved. The track regularly needed repairing or strengthening. Casualties among Sapho’s men soared. By the eighth night, he was on the point of physical and mental collapse. His dread of their passage of the mountains had been proved well founded. In his mind, they were all doomed. They would never find the promised pass that marked the high point of their journey. All that kept Sapho going was his pride. Asking Hannibal to relieve him of his command would be worse than jumping off a cliff. Yet Sapho didn’t want to do that either. Incredibly, life was still better than death. Wrapped in five blankets, he huddled over a lukewarm brazier in his tent and tried to feel grateful. None of his men had the luxury of fuel to burn.

After a while, Sapho stirred. Although he didn’t want to, it was time to check the sentries. It was also good for morale for him to be seen. He shed his blankets, pulled on a second cloak and wrapped a scarf around his head. As he unlaced the leather ties and opened the tent flap, a gust of bitingly cold wind entered. Sapho flinched, before forcing himself outside. Two sentries, Libyans, stood by the entrance. A pitch-soaked torch held upright by a small pile of stones cast a faint pool of light around them.

The pair stiffened to attention as they saw him. ‘Sir,’ they both mumbled through lips that were blue with cold.

‘Anything to report?’

‘No, sir.’

‘It’s as cold as ever.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the nearest man replied. He doubled over as a paroxysm of coughing took him.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said his companion nervously. ‘He can’t help it.’

‘It’s all right,’ Sapho replied irritably. He eyed the first soldier, who was wiping bloody sputum from his lips. A dead man walking, he thought. Sudden pity filled him. ‘Take the wretch inside to the brazier. Try and get him warm. You can stay there until I get back from my rounds.’

Stunned, the second Libyan stammered his thanks. Sapho grabbed the torch and stalked off into the darkness. He would only be gone for a quarter of an hour, but it might provide the sick man with some relief. A sour smile traced his chapped lips. I’m getting soft, like Bostar. Sapho hadn’t seen his brother since their argument over the Vocontii prisoners. As far as he was concerned, that was fine.

Taking great care on the icy ground, Sapho traced his way past his soldiers’ tents. He glanced at the pair of elephants Hannibal had ordered to stay with the vanguard. The miserable beasts stood side by side, trying to maximise their warmth. Sapho even pitied them. Soon after, he reached the first sentries, who were stationed some two hundred steps from his tent. They were in a line across the path where the advance had stopped for the night. Exposed on three sides, it was the worst place to stand watch in the whole army. No fire could survive in the vicious, snow-laden wind that whistled down from the peaks. In order that the soldiers here didn’t all die from exposure, Sapho had ordered their periods on duty shortened to just an hour at a time. Even so, he lost men every night.

‘Seen anything?’ he shouted at the officer in charge.

‘No, sir! Even the demons are in bed tonight!’

‘Very good. As you were.’ Pleased by the officer’s attempt at humour, Sapho began to retrace his steps. He had only to check the sentries at the rear of the phalanx, and then he was done. Peering into the gloom, he was surprised to see a figure emerging around the corner of the outermost tent. Sapho frowned. The cliff might be twenty steps from the tent lines, but the wind was so powerful that a man could easily be carried over the edge. He had seen it happen several times already. Consequently, everyone walked between the tents, not around them. The man was carrying a torch, which meant that he was no enemy. Yet he’d just taken the most dangerous route past his phalanx. Why? What had he to hide?

‘Hey!’ Sapho shouted. ‘Stop right there!’

The figure straightened, and the hood of his cloak whipped back. ‘Sapho?’

‘Bostar?’ said Sapho incredulously.

‘Yes,’ his brother replied. ‘Can we talk?’

Sapho staggered as a particularly savage gust of wind struck him. He watched, aghast, as it buffeted an unsuspecting Bostar sideways and on to one knee. As he struggled to stand up, another blast of air hit, carrying him backwards and out into the blackness.

Sapho couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran to the edge of the precipice, where he was astonished to find his brother clinging desperately to the protruding branch of a stunted bush several steps below him.

‘Help me!’ Bostar shouted.

Silently, Sapho stared down at him. Why should I? he asked himself. Of what benefit is it to me?

‘What are you waiting for?’ Bostar’s voice cracked. ‘This damn branch will never hold!’ Seeing the look in Sapho’s eyes, he blanched. ‘You want me to die, don’t you? Just as you were happy when Hanno was lost.’

Sapho’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with guilt. How could Bostar know that? Still he didn’t act.

The branch split.

‘Fuck you to hell and gone!’ screamed Bostar. Letting go with his left hand, he threw himself forward, searching for a fingerhold on the track. There would only be a moment before his body weight pulled him backwards and into the abyss. Knowing this, Bostar scrabbled frantically to gain any kind of purchase in the rock-hard, ice-covered earth. He found none. With a despairing cry, he started to slide backwards.

Sapho’s gut instinct took over, and he leaned forward to grab his brother by the shoulders. With a great yank, he pulled him up and over the edge. A second effort saw them several paces away, on safer ground. They lay side by side for a few moments, their chests heaving. Bostar was the first to sit up. ‘Why did you save me?’

Sapho met his gaze with difficulty. ‘I’m not a murderer.’

‘No,’ Bostar snapped. ‘But you were glad when Hanno vanished, weren’t you? With him out of the way, you had a chance to become Father’s favourite.’

Shame filled Sapho. ‘I—’

‘It’s strange,’ said Bostar, interrupting. ‘If I had died just now, you’d have Father all to yourself. Why didn’t you let me slip into oblivion?’

‘You’re my brother,’ Sapho protested weakly.

‘I might be, but you still stood there, looking at me when I first fell,’ Bostar retorted furiously. He regained control of himself. ‘Yet I have you to thank for saving my life. I am grateful, and I will repay my debt if I can.’ He carefully spat on the ground between them. ‘After that, you will be dead to me.’

Sapho’s mouth gaped. He watched as Bostar got up and walked away. ‘What will you tell Father?’ he called out.