far greater. Bostar could see that within a few heartbeats, Hannibal would be standing full square in the stone’s path. A glance at Sapho, and at Hannibal himself, told Bostar that he was the only one to have seen the danger.
When he looked up again, the irregularly shaped block was already teetering on the edge. As Bostar opened his mouth in a warning shout, it tipped forward and fell. Gathering speed unbelievably fast, the stone tumbled and bounced down the slope. Its passage sent showers of brick and masonry into the air, each piece of which was capable of smashing a man’s skull. Screaming with delight, the defenders turned and fled, secure in the knowledge that their final effort would kill dozens of Carthaginians.
Bostar did not think. He simply reacted. Dropping his spear, he charged sideways at Hannibal. The air filled with a sudden thunder. Bostar did not look up, for fear of soiling himself. Several scutarii, whose advance his action was checking, mouthed confused curses. Bostar paid no heed. He just prayed that none of the Iberians would think he was trying to harm Hannibal and get in his way. Now he had covered six steps. A dozen. Sensing Bostar’s approach, Hannibal turned his head. Confused, he frowned. ‘What in the name of Baal Hammon are you doing?’ he demanded.
Bostar didn’t answer. Leaping forward, he swept his right arm around Hannibal’s body and drove them both to the ground, with the general trapped beneath. With his left arm, Bostar raised his shield to cover both their heads. There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then the earth shook. Their ears were filled with a reverberation of sound that threatened to deafen them. Thankfully it did not last, but diminished as the block crashed down the slope.
Bostar’s first concern was not for himself. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’
Hannibal’s voice was muffled. ‘I don’t think so.’
Thank the gods, thought Bostar. Gingerly, he moved his arms and legs. To his delight, they all seemed to work. Discarding his shield, he sat up, helping Hannibal to do the same.
The general swore softly. Perhaps three steps from their position, lay a scutarius. Or at least, what had once been a scutarius. The man had not so much been broken apart as smeared across the uneven ground. His bronze helmet had provided little protection. Chunks of brain matter were spread like white paste on the rocks, providing a sharp contrast to the bright red blood that oozed from the tangled mess of tissue that had been his body. Jagged pieces of brick protruded from the scutarius’ back, poking holes in his tunic. His limbs were bent at unnatural, terrible angles, exposing in multiple places the gleaming white ends of broken bones.
He was just the first casualty. Below the corpse stretched a swathe of destruction as far as the eye could see. Bostar had never witnessed anything like it. Dozens of soldiers, perhaps more, had been killed. No. Pulverised, Bostar thought. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he struggled not to be sick.
Hannibal’s voice startled him. ‘It appears that I owe you my life.’
Numbly, Bostar nodded.
‘My thanks. You are a fine soldier,’ said Hannibal, clambering to his feet. He helped Bostar to do the same.
In the same instant, those of Hannibal’s scutarii who had not been harmed came swarming in, their faces twisted with alarm. Naturally, the attack had been stalled by the Saguntines’ daring action. Anxious questions filled the air as the Iberians established that their beloved commander had not been hurt. Hannibal quickly brushed them off. Picking up his falcata sword, which had fallen to the ground, he looked at Bostar. ‘Are you ready to finish what we started?’ he asked.
Bostar was stunned by the speed at which Hannibal’s composure had returned. He himself was still in shock. He managed to nod his head. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Excellent,’ replied Hannibal with a brief smile. He indicated that Bostar should advance beside him.
Retrieving his spear, Bostar obeyed. He barely took in the pleased grin that Malchus gave him, and the equally poisonous expression on Sapho’s face. Elation had replaced his terror, and he could try to patch things up with his brother later.
For now, it was all about following Hannibal.
A true leader of men.
Chapter IX: Minucius Flaccus
Near Capua, Campania
Hanno leaned against the wall of the kitchen, admiring the view as Elira bent over a table laden down with food. Her dress rode up, exposing her shapely calves and tightening over the swell of her buttocks. Hanno’s groin throbbed, and he shifted position to avoid his excitement being obvious. Elira and Quintus were still lovers, but that didn’t mean Hanno couldn’t admire her from a distance. Alarmingly, Elira had noticed his glances, and returned them with smouldering ones of her own, but Hanno had not risked taking things any further. His newly born — and potentially valuable — friendship with Quintus was too fragile to survive a revelation like that.
Since the fight at the hut, his circumstances had become much easier. Fabricius had been impressed by Quintus’ account of the fight and the physical evidence of two live, if wounded, prisoners. Hanno’s reward was to be made a household slave. His manacles were removed and he was allowed to sleep in the house. Initially, Hanno was delighted. At one stroke, he had been removed from Agesandros’ grasp. Weeks later, he was not so sure. The harsh reality of his situation seemed starker than ever before.
Three times a day, Hanno had to attend the family at their meals. Naturally, he was not allowed to eat with them. He saw Aurelia and Quintus daily from morning to night, but could not talk to them unless no one else was about. Even then, conversations were hurried. It was all so different from the time they had spent together in the woods. Despite the enforced distance between them, Hanno was relieved that the palpable air of comradeship — which had so recently sprung up — had not vanished. Quintus’ occasional winks and Aurelia’s shy smiles now lit up his days. Lastly, there was Elira, whose bedroll was not twenty paces from his, on the floor of the atrium, and whom he dared not approach. Hanno knew that he should be grateful for his lot. On the occasions that he and Agesandros came face to face, it was patently clear that the Sicilian still wished him harm.
‘Father!’ Aurelia’s delighted voice echoed from the courtyard. ‘You’re back!’
As curious as any, Hanno followed the other kitchen slaves to the door. Fabricius hadn’t been expected home for at least two weeks.
Dressed in a belted tunic and sandals, Fabricius stood by the main fountain. A broad smile creased his face as Aurelia raced up to him. ‘I’m filthy,’ he warned. ‘Covered in dust from the journey.’
‘I don’t care!’ She wrapped her arms around him. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
He gave her an affectionate hug. ‘I have missed you too.’
A pang of sadness at his own plight plucked at Hanno’s heart, but he did not allow himself to dwell on it.
‘Husband. Thank the gods for your safe return.’ With a sedate smile, Atia joined her husband and daughter. Aurelia pulled away, allowing Fabricius to kiss his wife on the cheek. They gave each other a pleased look, which spoke volumes. ‘You must be thirsty.’
‘My throat’s as dry as a desert riverbed,’ Fabricius replied.
Atia’s eyes swivelled to the kitchen doorway, and the gaggle of watching slaves. She caught Hanno’s gaze first. ‘Bring wine! The rest of you, back to work.’
The doorway emptied in a flash. Every slave knew not to cross Atia, who ruled the household with a silken yet iron-hard grip. Quickly, Hanno reached down four of the best glasses from the shelf and placed them on a tray. Julius, the friendly slave who ran the kitchen, was already reaching for an amphora. Hanno watched as he diluted the wine in the Roman fashion with four times the amount of water. ‘There you go,’ Julius muttered, placing a full jug on the tray. ‘Get out there before she calls again.’
Hanno hurried to obey. He was keen to know what had brought about Fabricius’ early return. With pricked ears, he carried the tray towards the family, who had just been joined by Quintus.
Quintus grinned broadly, before he remembered that he was now a man. ‘Father,’ he said solemnly. ‘It is good to see you.’
Fabricius pinched his son’s cheek. ‘You’ve grown even more.’
