‘That would have meant a pitched battle with the forces our cavalry encountered near the Rhodanus, which was something Hannibal wanted to avoid.’ Despite his robust words, Bostar felt his spirits being dragged down. With the friendly Cavares returning to their homes, and nowhere to go other than up, there was no denying what they had let themselves in for. He was grateful when his father intervened.
‘I want to hear no more talk like that. It’s bad for morale,’ growled Malchus. He had similar concerns, but he wouldn’t admit them to anyone. ‘We must keep faith with Hannibal, as he does with us. His spirits were high last night, weren’t they?’ He glared at his sons.
‘Yes, Father,’ Sapho conceded.
‘He doesn’t have to wander around his men’s campfires for half the night, sharing their poxy rations and listening to their miserable life stories,’ Malchus continued sternly. ‘He doesn’t sleep alongside them, wrapped only in his cloak, for the good of his health! Hannibal does it because he loves his soldiers as if they were his children. The least we can do is to return that love with utmost fealty.’
‘Of course,’ Sapho muttered. ‘You know that my loyalty is beyond question.’
‘And mine,’ added Bostar fervently.
Malchus’ scowl eased. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I know that the next few weeks will be our toughest test yet, but it’s officers such as we who will have to give an example. To lead the men when they falter. We must show no weakness, just a steely resolve to reach the top of whichever pass Hannibal chooses. Don’t forget that from there, we will fall upon Cisalpine Gaul, and after it, Italy, like ravening wolves.’
Finally, the two brothers gave each other a pleased look. It lasted only an instant before they broke eye contact.
Malchus was already ten strides away. ‘Get a move on. Hannibal wants us all to see the sacrifice.’
The brothers followed.
The flat, well-watered land where the Carthaginians were camped had provided respite to man and beast before the rigours that were to come. It also offered, Bostar realised, a place where Hannibal could address his troops, as he had at New Carthage before they’d left. Even though his forces were now considerably smaller, there were still far too many soldiers to be able to witness personally their general make an offering to the gods. That was why the commanders of every unit in the army had been ordered to bring a score or more of their men to the ceremony.
They made their way past rank-smelling Balearic slingers clad in animal skins and slender, dark-skinned Numidians with oiled ringlets in their hair. Burly scutarii and caetrati in sinew helmets and crimson-edged tunics stood with their arms folded. Alongside was Alete with twenty of his Libyan spearmen. Groups of bare-chested Gauls, their necks and arms decorated with torcs of gold, eyed the others present with supercilious stares.
Before the gathered soldiers stood a strongly built low wooden platform, and upon it a makeshift altar of stone slabs had been erected. In front stood fifty of Hannibal’s bodyguards. A ramp led from the foot of the dais to the top, and beside it, a large black bull had been tethered. Six robed priests waited with the beast, which was snorting with unease. As Malchus led them to a position within a dozen steps of the soothsayers, Bostar shivered. In their gnarled hands — through the divination to come — lay the power to raise the army’s morale, or to send it into the depths. Gazing at the nearby soldiers, Bostar saw the same concern twisting their faces that he was experiencing. There was little conversation; indeed an air of apprehension hung over the entire gathering. Bostar glanced at Sapho, whom he could read like a book. His brother was feeling the same way, or worse. Bostar sighed. Despite the ease of the last few days, the mountains’ physical immensity had cast a shadow over men’s hearts. There was only one person who could cast out that gloom, he thought. Hannibal.
The man himself bounded into view a moment later, ascending the ramp as if he were on the last lap of a foot race. A loud cheer met his arrival. Hannibal’s bronze helmet and breastplate had been polished until they shone as if lit from within. In his right hand his falcata sword glinted dangerously; in his left, he carried a magnificent shield emblazoned with the image of a prowling male lion. Without a word, Hannibal strode to the edge of the platform and lifted his arm so everyone could see his blade. He let the troops focus on it before he pointed it to his rear.
‘After so long, there they are! The Alps,’ Hannibal cried. ‘We have halted at our enemies’ very gates to prepare for our ascent. I can see by your faces that you are worried. Scared. Even exhausted.’ The general’s eyes moved from soldier to soldier, daring them to hold his gaze. None could. ‘Yet after the brutal campaign in Iberia, and the crossing of the Rhone, what are the Alps?’ he challenged. ‘Can they be anything worse than high mountains?’ He paused, glancing around questioningly as his words were translated. ‘Well?’
Bostar felt worried. Despite the truth in Hannibal’s words, few men looked convinced.
‘No, sir,’ Malchus answered loudly. ‘Great heaps of rock and ice is all they are.’
Hannibal’s lips tightened in satisfaction. ‘That’s right! They can be climbed, by those with the strength and heart to do so. It’s not as if we will be the first to cross them either. The Gauls who conquered Rome passed by this same way, did they not?’
Again the delay as the interpreters did their work. Finally, there was a mutter of accord.
‘Yet you despair of even being able to get near that city? I tell you, the Gauls brought their women and children through these mountains! As soldiers carrying nothing but our weapons, can we not do the same?’ Hannibal raised his sword again, threateningly this time. ‘Either confess that you have less courage than the Romans, who we have defeated on many occasions in the past, or steel your hearts and march forward with me, to the plain which stands between the River Tiber and Rome! There we will find greater riches than any of you can imagine. There will be slaves and booty and glory for all!’
Malchus waited as the general’s words were translated into Gaulish, Iberian and Numidian, but as a rumble of agreement began to sweep through the assembled troops, he raised a fist into the air. ‘Hannibal!’ he roared. ‘Hannibal!’
Quickly, Bostar joined in. He noted that Sapho was slow to do the same.
Shamed by their general’s words, the soldiers bellowed a rippling wave of approval. The Gauls chanted in deep voices, the Libyans sang and the Numidians made shrill ululating sounds. The cacophony rose into the crisp air, bouncing off the imposing walls of rock before the gathering and thence up into the empty sky. The startled bull jerked futilely at the rope tethering its head. No one paid it any heed. Everyone’s gaze was locked on Hannibal.
‘Last night, I had a dream,’ he cried.
The cheering quickly died away, and was replaced by an expectant hush.
‘I was in a foreign landscape, which was full of farms and large villages. I wandered for many hours, lost and without friends, until a ghost appeared.’ Hannibal nodded as his words spread and the superstitious soldiers glanced nervously at each other. ‘He was a young man, handsome, and clad in a simple Greek tunic, but there was an ethereal glow about him. When I asked who he was, he laughed and offered to guide me, as long as I did not look back. Although I was unsure, I accepted his proposal.’
Hannibal had everyone’s attention now, even that of the priests. Men were making the sign against evil, and rubbing their lucky amulets. Bostar’s heart was thudding off his ribs.
‘We walked for maybe a mile before I became aware of a loud crashing noise behind us,’ Hannibal went on. ‘I tried not to turn and see what was going on, but the sound grew so great that I could not help myself. I glanced around. What I saw made my throat close with fear. There was a snake of wondrous size following us, crushing every tree and bush in its path. Black thunderclouds sat in the sky above it, and lightning bolts flashed repeatedly through the air. I froze in terror.’ Hannibal paused.
‘What happened next, sir?’ cried one of Alete’s Libyans. ‘Tell us!’
An inchoate roar of agreement followed. Bostar found himself shouting too. Visions like this — for surely that was what Hannibal had had — could portend a man’s future, for good or ill. Dread filled Bostar that it was the latter.
Sapho could not dispel his unease about what lay before them. ‘He’s making it up. So we’ll follow him up into those damn mountains,’ he muttered.
Bostar gave him a disbelieving glance. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’
Sapho’s jealousy of his brother grew. ‘Really? With so much at stake?’ he retorted.
‘Stop it! You’ll anger the gods!’ said Bostar.
Belatedly scared by what he’d said, Sapho looked away.
‘Wait,’ hissed Malchus. ‘There’s more.’
‘The young man took my arm, and ordered me not to be afraid,’ shouted Hannibal suddenly. ‘I asked him
