Wincing, Quintus lifted a hand to the side of his head. ‘There’s an apple-sized lump here, and it feels as if Jupiter is letting off thunderbolts inside my skull. Apart from that, I’ll be fine, I think.’
‘Thank the gods,’ said Hanno fervently.
‘No,’ replied Quintus. ‘Thank you — for coming back. For disobeying my orders.’
Hanno coloured. ‘I’d never have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t.’
‘But you didn’t have to do it. Even when you did, you could have taken up the bandits’ offer. Turned on me.’ A trace of wonder entered Quintus’ voice. ‘Instead, you took on the three of them, and won.’
‘I-’ Hanno faltered.
‘I’m only alive because of you,’ interrupted Quintus. ‘You have my thanks.’
Seeing Quintus’ sincerity, Hanno inclined his head. ‘You’re welcome.’
As the realisation sank in that they had survived the most desperate of situations, the two grinned at each other like maniacs. These were strange circumstances for both. Master saved by his slave. Roman allied with Carthaginian. Yet both were very aware of a new bond: that of comradeship forged in combat.
It was a good feeling.
Chapter VIII: The Siege
Outside the walls of Saguntum, Iberia
Malchus regarded the immense fortifications with a baleful eye and spat on the ground. ‘They’re determined, you have to give them that,’ he growled. ‘They must know now that there’s no help coming from Rome. But the pig-headed Greek bastards still won’t give up.’
‘Neither will we,’ Sapho responded fiercely. His breath plumed in the cool, autumn air. ‘And when we get inside, the defenders will regret the day they slammed the gates in our faces. The whoresons won’t know what hit them. Eh, Bostar?’ He elbowed his brother in the ribs.
‘The sooner the city falls, the better. Hannibal will find a way,’ Bostar replied confidently, sidestepping Sapho’s needling. In the months since their argument in New Carthage, their relationship had improved somewhat, but Sapho never missed an opportunity to undermine him, or to call into question his loyalty to their cause. Just because I don’t enjoy torturing enemy prisoners, thought Bostar sadly. What has he become?
In a way, though, it was unsurprising that Sapho resorted to violence in his attempts to garner intelligence that might gain them entry. Nearly six months had elapsed since Hannibal’s immense army had begun the siege, and they were not much nearer to taking Saguntum. A mile from the sea, it sat on a long, naked piece of rock that towered three to four hundred paces above the plain below. The position was one of confident dominance, and made it a fearsome prospect to besiege. The only way of approaching the city, which was encircled by strongly built fortifications, was from the west, where the slope was least steep. Naturally, it was here that the defences were strongest. Surrounded by thick walls, a mighty tower sat astride the tallest part of the rock. Hannibal had encamped the majority of his forces below this point. He had also ordered the erection of a wall that ran all the way around the base of the rock. The circumvallation was dotted with towers whose function was merely to ensure that no enemy messengers escaped.
‘The gods willing, we are that way,’ Malchus added.
Both his sons nodded. Hannibal had shown their family considerable honour by picking their units to lead the impending attack. The rest of those who would take part, thousands of Libyans and Iberians, waited on the slopes below.
Sapho’s face twitched, and he gestured at the massed ranks of their spearmen, who were arrayed around the massive shapes of four vineae, or ‘covered ways’, attacking towers with a massive battering ram at their base. These would form the basis for their assault. ‘The men are nervous. It’s no surprise either. We’ve been waiting for an hour. Where is he?’
Bostar could see that Sapho was right. Some soldiers were chatting loudly with each other, their voices a tone higher than normal. Others remained silent, but their lips moved in constant prayer. A nervous air hung over every phalanx. Hannibal will come soon, he told himself.
‘Patience,’ advised Malchus.
Reluctantly, Sapho obeyed, but he burned to prove himself once and for all. Show his father that he was the bravest of his sons.
Moments later, their attention was drawn by murmurs of anticipation, which began spreading forward from the rear of the throng.
‘Listen!’ said Malchus in triumph. ‘Hannibal is talking to them as he passes by. There are many things that make a good general, and this is one of them. It’s not just about leading from the front. You have to engage with your soldiers as well.’ He gave Bostar an approving nod, which made Sapho mutter something under his breath.
Bostar’s temper frayed. This was an area he paid a lot of attention to. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘If you tried that instead of punishing every tiny infraction of the rules, your troops might respect you more.’
Sapho’s face darkened, but before he could reply, loud cheering broke out. Men began stamping their feet on the ground in a repetitive, infectious rhythm. The other officers did nothing to intervene. This was what they had all been waiting for. The noise grew and grew, until gradually a single word became audible. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I- BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’
Bostar grinned. One could not help but be infected by the soldiers’ enthusiasm. Even Sapho was craning his neck to see.
Eventually, a small party emerged from the midst of the spearmen. It was a hollow square, formed by perhaps two dozen scutarii. These Iberian infantry were some of Hannibal’s best troops. As always, the scutarii were wearing their characteristic black cloaks over simple tunics and small breastplates. Their fearsome array of weapons included various types of heavy throwing spear, most notably the all-iron saunion, as well as long, straight swords, and daggers. Within their formation walked a lone figure, partially obscured from view. This was who everyone wanted to see. Finally, nearing Malchus and his sons, the scutarii fanned out in two lines. The man within was revealed.
Hannibal Barca.
Bostar gazed at his general with frank admiration. Like most senior Carthaginian officers, Hannibal wore a simple Hellenistic gilded bronze helmet. Sunlight flashed off its surface, reflecting into the soldiers’ eyes. The blinding light concealed Hannibal’s face apart from his beard. A dark purple cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Under it, he wore a tunic of the same colour, and an ornate muscled bronze cuirass, its details picked out in silver. Layered strips of linen guarded the general’s groin, and polished bronze greaves covered his lower legs. His feet were encased in sturdy leather sandals. A hide baldric swept down from his right shoulder to his left hip, suspending a falcata sword in a well-worn scabbard. He moved forward, limping slightly.
The commander of the scutarii barked an order, and in unison his soldiers slammed their brightly painted shields on to the rock. The crashing sound instantly silenced the assembled troops. ‘Your general, the lion of Carthage, Hannibal Barca!’ screamed the officer.
Everyone stiffened to attention and saluted.
‘General!’ cried Malchus. ‘You honour us with your presence.’
The corners of Hannibal’s mouth tugged up. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’ He made his way to Malchus’ side. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, sir. We have checked over the siege engines twice. Every man knows his task.’
Malchus’ sons muttered in agreement.
Hannibal glanced at each of them in turn before giving a satisfied nod. ‘You will do well.’
‘May Baal Saphon strike us down if we do not,’ said Sapho fervently.
Hannibal looked a little surprised. ‘I hope not. The city will fall eventually, but we haven’t succeeded so far. Who’s to say that today will be any different? And valuable officers are hard to come by.’ Ignoring Sapho’s obvious discomfort, he smiled at Malchus. ‘Understand that you’re only being granted this chance because I can’t run.’ He touched the heavy strapping on his right thigh.
‘Your injury was most unfortunate, sir,’ said Malchus, ‘but we are grateful for the opportunity that it has
