granted us today.’
Hannibal smiled. ‘Your eagerness is commendable.’
Bostar could still picture the heart-stopping moment several weeks previously, during an assault similar to the one they were about to lead. As was his nature, Hannibal had been at the front. Bostar wished it had been he who had taken the arrow through the thigh. ‘How’s it healing, sir?’
‘Slowly enough.’ Hannibal grimaced. ‘I should be thankful, I suppose, that the defenders aren’t better archers.’
Father and sons laughed nervously. That eventuality was something no one wanted to entertain.
‘Well, don’t let me stand in your way. The Saguntines await you.’ Hannibal indicated the walls, which were thickly manned. He pointed back down the steep slope at the other companies of troops: reinforcements should the attack break through. ‘So do they.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Malchus lifted his sword.
His men, who had been watching closely, stiffened.
‘Gods, but I wish Hanno were here,’ muttered Bostar.
Sapho’s face hardened. ‘Eh? Why?’
‘He spent his time dreaming about things like this.’
‘Well, he’s dead,’ Sapho whispered back savagely. ‘So you’re wasting your time.’
Bostar gave him a furious stare. ‘Don’t you miss him?’
Sapho had no chance to reply.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Malchus demanded, who had missed the exchange. ‘Get into position!’
With a quick salute to Hannibal, Bostar and Sapho sprinted off to join their respective phalanxes. Each was in charge of one of the vineae, and their increasingly bitter rivalry meant that both burned to command the siege engine which smashed the decisive hole in the walls, and allowed their comrades a way into Saguntum. Of course it might not be they who succeeded, thought Bostar. Their father commanded the third vinea, and Alete, a doughty veteran whom both brothers admired, had the last.
Malchus waited until they were in place before he chopped his arm downward. ‘Forward!’ he shouted.
Using whistles, the officers encouraged the Libyans towards the walls. Dozens of men who had been selected earlier handed their spears to comrades and ran to place their shoulders against the backs of the vineae, or to stand alongside the wheels. Scores of others used their large shields to form protective screens around those who were now unprotected. More commands rang out, and the soldiers around the siege engines began to push. With loud creaks, the vineae rumbled forward, past Hannibal. When the machines were perhaps fifty paces up the slope, the remaining Libyans began to follow in tight phalanxes.
As they drew nearer, Bostar’s stomach clenched. He could clearly see the faces of those above, the defenders who were waiting to rain death down upon him and his men. Upon his father and brother. Baal Saphon, let us smash the enemy’s walls asunder, he prayed. Keep your shield over all of us. As the first missiles came pattering down, Bostar couldn’t help wondering if Sapho was asking for similar protection for him.
He doubted it.
Taking great care, Bostar peered out at the ramparts above him. Perhaps an hour had passed, and the assault was going well. The battering rams suspended in the bottoms of the vineae were smashing great holes in the base of the wall. Thanks to the siege engines’ wooden and leather roofs, which had been pre-soaked in water, the defenders’ clouds of fire arrows, stones and spears were having limited effect. Bostar had lost fifteen men, which was perfectly acceptable. The phalanxes on either side, those of Sapho and Alete, looked to have suffered much the same.
Soon after, a large section of the wall collapsed. A wry grin split Bostar’s face at the sight. The area lay directly between his and Sapho’s positions, so neither could claim the credit. That wasn’t the point now, of course. Hannibal was watching them. Bostar roared at his men to redouble their efforts. He fancied he heard Sapho’s voice above the din, enjoining his soldiers to do the same. Their efforts were not in vain. Before long, two, and then three, towers had fallen outwards, crushing dozens of the garrison, and spearmen, to death. But a sizeable breach had now been forced, large enough to gain entry. Bostar did not wait until the dust had settled. This opportunity had to be seized by the throat, before the bewildered defenders had a chance to react. Screaming at his men to pick up their weapons and follow him, he climbed on to the mounds of broken masonry that stood before the siege engines. He was pleased to note that Sapho’s soldiers were also spilling into view. Catching sight of his brother twenty paces away, Bostar raised his spear in salute. ‘I’ll see you inside!’
‘Not if I get there before you,’ Sapho snarled back. He turned to his soldiers, who were straining like hunting dogs on the leash. ‘Five gold pieces to the first man to get within the walls. Forward!’
Bostar sighed. Even this had to be a contest. So be it, he thought angrily.
The race was on.
Pursued by their men, the two brothers scrambled up towards the breach. They risked their lives with every step, not just from the continuing rain of missiles from the ramparts to either side, but from the treacherous footing beneath. Carrying a spear in one hand and a shield in the other made it even more difficult to balance. Bostar kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. The enemy missiles were beyond his control, but he could make sure that he didn’t break an ankle in the ascent. He’d seen it happen before, consigning the unfortunates affected to being trampled by their comrades, or killed by the torrent of death being thrown by the Saguntines.
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.
