paced threateningly up and down, screaming abuse at the Carthaginians and bragging of their exploits. Bostar was thrilled. The enemy’s camp had been abandoned, and every man’s gaze was fixed on the flotilla of vessels opposite. It was time to move. ‘Light the fires!’ he hissed. ‘Quickly!’
A trio of kneeling spearmen, who had been regarding him nervously, struck their flints together. Clack, clack, clack, went the stones. Sparks dropped on to the little mounds of dry tinder before each man. Bostar sighed with relief as a tiny flame licked first up the side of one pile, and then another. The third heap took flame a moment later. The soldiers encouraged the fires by blowing on them vigorously.
Fretfully chewing a fingernail, Bostar waited until each blaze was strong enough. ‘Add the green leaves,’ he ordered. He watched intently as thick eddies of smoke from the damp foliage curled up into the air and climbed above the tops of the trees. The instant it had, Bostar’s gaze shot to the opposite bank. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘You have to be able to see it now.’
His prayers were answered as Hannibal and his soldiers sprang into action. Boat after boat was pushed out into the water. The larger craft, carrying the cavalrymen, who were each leading six or seven horses, stayed upstream. Their size and number helped to reduce the impact of the powerful current on the smaller vessels containing the infantry. The Volcae responded at once. Every man with a bow or spear pushed forward to the water’s edge and waited for his chance.
‘Come on,’ muttered Bostar to his three spearmen. ‘It’s time to give those shitbags a surprise they’ll never forget.’
Moments later, he and most of his force were trotting down the slope towards the riverbank. The remainder, a hundred scutarii, were heading for the Volcae camp. They ran in silence, hard and fast. Rivulets of sweat ran from under Bostar’s bronze helmet to coat his face. He did his best to ignore it, counting his steps instead. During the long wait, he had made repeated estimates of the distance from where they had lain hidden to the water’s edge. Five hundred paces, Bostar told himself. To the enemy tents, it was only 350. It seemed an eternity, but the Volcae were so busy shouting at the approaching boats that they had soon covered a hundred paces without being challenged. Then it was 150; 175. Hannibal’s boats had reached the midpoint of the river. As Bostar counted two hundred, he saw a figure turn to address one of his companions. An expression of stunned disbelief crossed the man’s face as he took in the mass of soldiers running towards him. Bostar had covered another ten steps before the warrior’s warning cry ripped through the air. It came far too late, he thought triumphantly.
Bostar threw back his head and roared, ‘Charge! For Hannibal and Carthage!’
There was an inarticulate roar of agreement from his men as they closed in on the bewildered Volcae, who were already wailing in fright at the prospect of being attacked from the front and rear. Suddenly, their enemies’ distress grew even greater and Bostar glanced over his shoulder. To his delight, the Volcae tents were going up in flames. The scutarii were following their orders perfectly.
The warriors’ disarray helped greatly to reduce the Carthaginian casualties. The tribesmen were far more concerned with protecting their own backs than aiming missiles at the helpless troops in their boats. However, their poor discipline and general panic meant that the Volcae had little success with Bostar’s soldiers either. They loosed their spears and arrows in ragged, early volleys that had barely enough power to reach the spearmen’s front ranks. Fewer than two dozen men had been downed before they had come within what Bostar considered proper range.
Calmly, he ordered his soldiers to throw their spears. This massed effort stood in stark comparison to the tribesmen’s pathetic efforts. Hundreds of shafts curved up into the air, to fall in dense shoals among the unprepared Volcae, most of whom were not wearing armour. The volley caused heavy casualties. The screams of the injured and dying served to increase the warriors’ fear and confusion. Bostar laughed at the magnificence of Hannibal’s plan. One moment, the Volcae had been waiting for an easy slaughter, and the next, they were being attacked from behind while their tents went up in flames.
It was then that the lead Carthaginian boats pulled into the riverbank. Led by their general, scores of scutarii and caetrati threw themselves into the shallows. Their fierce battle cries were the final straw for the terrified Volcae, who could take no more. Faces twisted in fear, they broke and ran. ‘Draw swords!’ Bostar shouted delightedly, leading his men to complete the rout. The crossing of the river was theirs, which proved that the gods were still smiling on Hannibal and his army.
Within a quarter of an hour, it was all over. Hundreds of Volcae lay dead or dying on the grass, while the broken survivors ran for their lives into the nearby woods. Squadrons of whooping Numidians were already in pursuit. Few of the fugitives would live to tell the tale of the ambush, thought Bostar. But some would, and the legend of Hannibal’s passing would spread. Bloody lessons such as this were like the siege of Saguntum. They sent a clear message to the surrounding tribes that to resist the Carthaginian army resulted in just one thing. Total defeat. Bostar wished vainly that it proved to be this simple with the Romans.
His task completed, he stood his men down and went in search of Hannibal. By now, the bank was thronged with infantry, slingers and cavalrymen leading their horses away from the river. Officers shouted in frustration, trying to assemble their scattered units. The river was dotted with dozens of boats travelling in each direction. The mammoth task of ferrying tens of thousands of men and vast quantities of supplies over the Rhodanus was under way.
Bostar threaded his way through the soldiers, scanning the faces for his family. When he saw Malchus, his heart leaped with joy. Sapho was by his side. Bostar hesitated, before recognising that he felt relief at the sight of his brother. He was grateful for this gut instinct. Whatever the circumstances of their parting, blood was thicker than water.
Telling himself that all would be well, Bostar raised a hand. ‘Father!’ Sapho!’ he shouted.
It rapidly became clear that Suniaton would take months to recover; that was, if his wounds ever healed fully. Hanno was not at all sure they would. Certainly, his friend would never be fit to fight again. There was little doubt now that Suniaton’s heavy limp would be lifelong. But, as he repeatedly told Hanno, at least he was alive.
Hanno nodded and smiled, trying to ignore the resentment that clawed at his happiness over Suniaton’s rescue. He failed, because his friend was not fit to journey on his own, and might never be. Hanno grew irritable and withdrawn, and took to spending his time outside the hut, away from Suniaton. This made him feel even worse, but when he returned, determined to make amends, and saw his friend hobbling about on his home-made crutch, Hanno’s anger always returned.
On the fourth day, the pair had an unexpected visit from Quintus and Aurelia. ‘It’s all right, there’s been no news from Capua,’ Quintus said as he dismounted.
Hanno relaxed a fraction. ‘What brings you here then?’
‘I thought you’d want to know. Father and Flaccus are about to leave. Finally, Publius Cornelius Scipio and his legions are ready.’
Hanno’s heart stopped for a moment. ‘Are they headed for Iberia?’
‘Yes. The northeast coast. That’s where they think that Hannibal is,’ replied Quintus in a neutral tone.
‘I see,’ said Hanno, fighting to remain calm. Inside, his desire to leave had resurfaced. ‘And the army that’s bound for Carthage?’
‘It will be leaving soon too.’ Quintus looked awkward. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ Hanno muttered gruffly. ‘It’s not your doing.’
Quintus was still uncomfortable, because he moved off to check Suniaton’s injured thigh without answering. Hanno thought guiltily, I should be doing that. For all the good it would do, his mind retorted. He’ll never walk properly again.
Aurelia’s voice cut into his reverie. ‘We won’t see Father for months,’ she said sadly. ‘And Quintus never stops talking about going to join him. Before long, Mother and I may be left alone.’
Hanno made a sympathetic gesture, but he wasn’t concentrating; all he could think of was following Publius’ army to Iberia.
Aurelia mistook his silence for sorrow. ‘How could I be so thoughtless? Who knows when you will see your family?’
Hanno scowled, but not because of what she’d said. Hannibal and his host would shortly face a Roman consular army. Meanwhile, he was stuck here with Suniaton.
‘Hanno? What is it?’
‘Eh?’ he answered. ‘Nothing.’
Aurelia followed his gaze to Suniaton, who was gingerly following Quintus’ instructions. The realisation hit her
