Hannibal Enemy of Rome (49 page)

As darkness fell, Bostar’s spirits were raised somewhat by a Numidian officer who was passing through Bostar’s phalanx as he returned to his tent.

‘Progress was good today. We’ve laid a new path over more than two-thirds of the landslide. If things proceed like this tomorrow, we should be able to continue.’

Bostar breathed a huge sigh of relief. After nearly a month in the mountains, Cisalpine Gaul would be within reach at last.

His optimism vanished within an hour of work resuming the following morning when the cavalrymen exposed a huge boulder. It completely blocked the way forward. With a diameter greater than the height of two men, the rock was positioned such that only a few soldiers could approach at a time. Horses weren’t strong enough to move it, and there was no space to lead an elephant in to try.

As time passed, Bostar could see the last vestiges of hope disappearing from men’s eyes. He felt the same way himself. Although they weren’t speaking, Sapho looked similarly deflated. It wasn’t long before Hannibal came to survey the problem. Bostar’s usual excitement at seeing his general did not materialise. How could anyone, even Hannibal, find a way to overcome this obstacle? As if the gods were laughing, more snow began to fall. Bostar’s shoulders slumped.

A moment later, he was surprised to see his father hurrying to speak with Hannibal. When Malchus returned, he had a new air of calmness about him. Bostar squinted at the soldiers who were hurrying back along the column. He grabbed his father’s arm. ‘What’s going on?’

‘All is not lost,’ Malchus replied with a small smile. ‘You will see.’

Soon after, the soldiers returned, each man bent double under a pile of firewood. Load after load was carried past and set carefully around the base of the rock. When the timber had been piled high, Malchus ordered it lit. Still Bostar did not understand, but his father would answer no questions. Leaving his sons to observe with increasing curiosity, he returned to Hannibal’s side.

The soldiers who could see were also intrigued, but after the fire had been burning for more than an hour without any result, they grew bored. Grumbles about wasting the last of their wood began. For the first time since leaving New Carthage, Bostar did not immediately react. His own disillusionment was reaching critical levels. Whatever crackpot idea his father had had was not going to work. They might as well lie down and die now, because that was what would surely happen when night fell.

Bostar missed the construction of a wooden framework that allowed a man to stand over the top of the rock. It was only when the first amphorae were carried past that he looked up. Finally, his curiosity got the better of his despair. The clay vessels contained sour wine, the troops’ staple drink. Bostar saw his father gesturing excitedly as Hannibal watched. Quickly, two strapping scutarii climbed the frame. To combat the extreme heat now radiating from the rock, they had both soaked their clothes in water. The instant they had reached the top, the pair lowered ropes to the ground. Men below tied amphorae to the cables, which were hauled up. Without further ado, the scutarii cracked open the wax seals and poured the vessels’ contents all over the boulder. The liquid sizzled and spat, sending a powerful smell of hot wine into the faces of those watching. Realisation of what they were trying to do struck Bostar like a hammer blow. He turned to tell Sapho before biting his lip and saying nothing.

The empty containers were discarded and replaced by full ones, and the process was repeated. There was more loud bubbling as the wine boiled on the superheated rock, but nothing else happened. The scutarii looked uncertainly at Malchus. ‘Keep going! As fast as you can!’ he shouted. Hastily, they obeyed, upending two more amphorae. Then it was four. Still the rock sat there, immovable, immutable. Malchus roared at the soldiers who stood close by to add more fuel to the blaze. The flames licked up, threatening to consume the platform upon which the scutarii stood, but they were not allowed to climb down. Malchus moved to stand at the frame’s
base, and exhorted the soldiers to even greater efforts. Another two amphorae were emptied over the boulder, to no avail. Bostar’s hopes began to ebb away.

A succession of explosive cracks suddenly drowned out all sound. Chunks of stone were hurled high into the air, and one of the scutarii collapsed as if poleaxed. His skull had been neatly staved in by a piece of rock no bigger than a hen’s egg. His panicked companion jumped to safety, and the soldiers who had been tending the fire all retreated at speed. More cracking sounds followed, and then the rock broke into several large parts. Parts that could be moved by men, or smashed into pieces by hammers. The cheering that followed rose to the very clouds. As word spread down the column, the noise increased in volume until it seemed that the mountains themselves were rejoicing.

Elated, Bostar and Sapho rushed separately to their father’s side. Joyfully, they embraced him one by one. They were joined by Hannibal, who greeted Malchus like a brother. ‘Our ordeal is nearly over,’ the general cried. ‘The path to Cisalpine Gaul lies open.’

The two friends’ first sight of the capital was formed by the immense Servian wall, which ringed the city and dwarfed Capua’s defences. ‘The fortifications are nearly two hundred years old,’ Quintus explained excitedly. ‘They were built after Rome was sacked by the Gauls.’

May Hannibal be the next to do so, Hanno prayed.

‘How does Carthage compare?’

‘Eh?’ said Hanno, coming back to reality. ‘Many of her defences are much more recent.’ They’re still far more spectacular, he thought.

‘And its size?’

Hanno wasn’t going to lie about that one. ‘Carthage is much bigger.’

Quintus did his best not to look disgruntled, and failed.

Hanno was surprised that within the walls, Carthage’s similarities with Rome grew. The streets were unpaved, and most were no more than ten paces across. After months of hot weather, their surfaces were little more than an iron-hard series of wheel ruts. ‘They’ll be a muddy morass come the winter,’ he said, pointing. ‘That’s what happens if it rains a lot at home.’

‘As in Capua,’ agreed Quintus. He wrinkled his nose as they passed an alleyway used as a dung heap. The acrid odour of human faeces and urine
hung heavy in the air. ‘Lucky it’s autumn and not the height of summer. The smell then is apparently unbearable.’

‘Do many buildings have sewerage systems?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not much different to parts of Carthage,’ Hanno replied. It was strange to feel homesick because of the smell of shit.

The fuggy atmosphere was aided by the fact that the closely built structures were two, three and even four storeys tall, creating a dimly lit, poorly ventilated environment on the street. Compared to the fresh air and open spaces of the Italian countryside, it was an alternative world. Most structures were open-fronted shops at ground level, with stairs at the side that snaked up to the flats above. Quintus was shocked by the filth of it all. ‘They’re where the majority of people live,’ he explained.

‘In Carthage, they’re mostly constructed from mud bricks.’

‘That sounds a lot safer. The
cenaculae
are built of wood. They’re disease-ridden, hard to heat and easy to destroy.’

‘Fire’s a big problem, then,’ said Hanno, imagining how easy it would be to burn down the city if it fell to Hannibal’s army.

Quintus grimaced. ‘Yes.’

Along with its sights and smells, the capital provided plenty of noise. The air was filled with the clamour of shopkeepers competing for business, the shrieks of playing children and the chatter of neighbours gossiping on the street corners. Beggars of every hue abounded, adding their cries for alms to the din. The clang of iron being pounded on anvils carried from smithies, and the sound of carpenters hammering echoed off the tall buildings. In the distance, cattle bellowed from the Forum Boarium.

Of course Rome was not their main destination: that was the port of Pisae, from which Publius and his army had set sail. Yet the temptation of visiting Rome had been too much for either of the friends to resist. They wandered through the streets for hours, drinking in the sights. When they were hungry, they filled their bellies with hot sausages and fresh bread bought from little stalls. Juicy plums and apples finished off their satisfying meal.

Inevitably, Quintus was drawn to the massive temple of Jupiter, high on the Capitoline Hill. He gaped at its roof of beaten gold, rows of columns the height of ten men and facade of brightly painted terracotta. He came
to a halt by the immense statue of a bearded Jupiter, which stood in front of the complex, giving it a view over much of Rome.

Feeling resentful, Hanno also stopped.

‘This must be bigger than any of the shrines in Carthage,’ said Quintus with a questioning look.

‘There’s one which is as big,’ Hanno replied proudly. ‘It’s in honour of Eshmoun.’

‘What god is that?’ asked Quintus curiously.

‘He represents fertility, good health and well-being.’

Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘And is he the leading deity in Carthage?’

‘No.’

‘Why has his temple the most prominent position then?’

Hanno gave an awkward shrug. ‘I don’t know.’ He remembered his father saying that their people differed from the Romans by being traders first and foremost. This temple complex proved that Quintus’ kind placed power and war before everything else. Thank all the gods that we have a real warrior in Hannibal Barca, he thought. If fools like Hostus were in charge, we would have no hope.

Quintus had come to his own conclusion. How could a race who gave pride of place to a fertility god’s temple ever defeat Rome? And when the inevitable happens, what will happen to Hanno? his conscience suddenly screamed. Where will he be? Quintus didn’t want to answer the question. ‘We’d better find a bed for the night,’ he suggested. ‘Before it gets dark.’

‘Good idea,’ replied Hanno, grateful for the change of subject.

Agesandros gave a tiny nod of thanks and turned to Aurelia. ‘I should have handled the matter far better. I wanted to apologise for it, and ask if we can make a new start.’

‘A new start?’ Aurelia snapped. ‘But you’re only a slave! What you think means nothing.’ She was pleased to see pain flare in his eyes.

‘Enough!’ Atia exclaimed. ‘Agesandros has served us loyally for more than twenty years. At the least, you should listen to what he has to say.’

Aurelia flushed, mortified at being reprimanded in front of a slave. She was damned if she’d just give in to her mother’s wishes. ‘Why would you bother apologising now?’ she muttered.

‘It’s simple. The master and Quintus may be gone for a long time. Who
knows? It could be years. Perhaps you’ll have more of a hand with the running of the farm.’ Encouraged by Atia’s nod of acquiescence, he continued, ‘I want nothing more than to do my best for you and the mistress here.’ Agesandros made an almost plaintive gesture. ‘A good working relationship is essential if we are to succeed.’

‘He’s right,’ said Atia.

‘You owe me an explanation before I agree to anything,’ said Aurelia angrily.

The Sicilian sighed. ‘True. I did treat the gugga slave harshly.’

‘Harshly? Where do you get the gall?’ Aurelia cried. ‘You were going to sell a man to someone who would make him fight his best friend to the death!’

‘I have my reasons,’ Agesandros replied. A cloud passed across his face. ‘If I were to tell you that the Carthaginians tortured and murdered my entire family in Sicily, would you think differently of me?’

Aurelia’s mouth opened in horror.

‘They did what?’ demanded her mother.

‘I was away, fighting at the other end of the island, mistress. A surprise Carthaginian attack swept through the town, destroying all in its path.’ Agesandros swallowed. ‘They slaughtered everyone in the place: men, women, children. The old, the sick, even the dogs.’

Aurelia could scarcely breathe. ‘Why?’

‘It was punishment,’ the Sicilian replied. ‘Historically, we had sided with Carthage, but had switched to give our allegiance to Rome. Many settlements had done the same. Ours was the first to be captured. A message had to be delivered to the rest.’

Aurelia knew that terrible things happened in war. Men died, or were injured terribly, often in their thousands. But the massacre of civilians?

‘Go on,’ said Atia gently.

‘I had a wife and two children. A girl and a boy.’ For the first time, Agesandros’ voice cracked. ‘They were just babies. Three and two.’

Aurelia was stunned to see tears in his eyes. She had not thought the vilicus capable of such emotion. Incredibly, she felt sorry for him.

‘I found them some days later. They were dead. Butchered, in fact.’ Agesandros’ face twitched. ‘Have you ever seen what a spear blade can do to a little child? Or what a woman looks like after a dozen soldiers have violated her?’

‘Stop!’ Atia cried in distaste. ‘That’s quite enough.’

He hung his head.

Aurelia was reeling with horror. Her mind was filled with a series of terrifying images. It was no wonder, she thought, that Agesandros had treated Hanno as he had.

‘Finish your story,’ Atia commanded. ‘Quickly.’

‘I didn’t really want to live after that,’ said Agesandros obediently, ‘but the gods did not see fit to grant my wish of dying in battle. Instead, I was taken prisoner, and sold into slavery. I was taken to Italy, where the master bought me.’ He shrugged. ‘Here I have been ever since. That pair were some of the first guggas I had seen for two decades.’