was critical. Despite Hanno’s weariness, each new day of freedom felt better than the last.
His luck continued to hold. Early on the third day, Hanno reached a crossing point over the Padus. A collection of small huts huddled around the ford, but there was no one about. The days were short, and work on the land had ceased until spring. Like most peasants at this time of year, the inhabitants went to bed shortly after sunset and rose late. Nonetheless, Hanno felt very vulnerable as he stripped off by the water’s edge. Placing his clothing in his pack, he rolled up the oiled leather tightly and tied it with thongs. Then, naked as the day he was born, he led the protesting mule into the river. The water was shockingly cold. Hanno knew that if they didn’t cross it fast, his muscles would freeze up and he would drown. Winter rainfall ensured that its level was high, however, and for a time, his mount struggled against the current. Hanno, who was holding on to its reins and swimming as hard as he could, felt panic swelling in his chest. Thankfully, the mule possessed enough strength to carry them both into the shallows on the far side, and from there, on to the bank. The biting wind struck Hanno savagely, setting his teeth to chattering. Fortunately, only a small amount of water had entered his pack, meaning that his clothes were mostly dry. He dressed quickly. Then, wrapping his blanket around himself for extra warmth, he remounted and resumed his journey.
The day wore on and Hanno’s excitement grew. He was deep in Insubres territory; Hannibal’s army could not be far away. Since he’d been captured by the pirates, it had seemed impossible that he would ever be in such a position. Thanks to Quintus, it was now a reality. Hanno prayed that his friend would come through the impending war unharmed. Naturally enough, he quickly returned to thoughts of a reunion with his family. For the first time, Hanno’s attention lapsed.
A short time later, he was brought back to reality with a jolt. Halfway down into a hollow, Hanno heard a blackbird sounding its alarm call, sharp and insistent. Scanning the trees on either side, he could see no reason for its distress. Yet birds did not react like that without cause. Acid-tipped claws of fear clutched at his belly. This was the perfect place for an ambush. For bandits to attack and murder a lone traveller.
Terror filled Hanno as, in the same instant, a pair of javelins scudded out of the bushes to his left and flew over his head. Praying that his attackers were on foot, he dug his heels into his mule’s sides. It responded to his fear, and pounded gamely up out of the dip. Several more javelins hissed into the air behind them, but when Hanno glanced over his shoulder, his hopes vanished entirely. A group of mounted figures had emerged from the cover on each side. Six of them at least, and on horses. There was no chance of outriding his pursuers on a mule. Hanno cursed savagely. This was surely the cruellest turn of fate since he’d been washed out to sea. To have gone through all that he had, only to be murdered by a bunch of brigands a few miles from where Hannibal’s forces lay.
He wasn’t surprised when more horses and riders appeared on the road ahead, blocking it entirely. Gripping the dagger that was his solitary weapon, Hanno prepared to sell his life dearly. As the horsemen approached, however, his heart leaped. He had not seen any Numidian cavalry since leaving Carthage, but there could be no mistaking their identity. What other mounted troops scorned the use of saddles, bridles and bits? Or wore open- sided tunics even in winter?
Even as he opened his mouth to greet the Numidians, another flurry of javelins was hurled in his direction. This time, two barely missed him. Frantically, Hanno raised both his hands in the air, palms outwards. ‘Stop! I am Carthaginian,’ he shouted in his native tongue. ‘I am Carthaginian!’
His cry made no difference. More spears were launched, and this time one struck his mule in the rump. Rearing in pain, it threw Hanno to the ground. The air shot from his lungs, winding him. He was vaguely aware of his mount trotting away, limping heavily. Within the blink of an eye, he had been surrounded by a ring of jeering Numidians. Three jumped down and approached, javelins at the ready. What a way to die, Hanno thought bitterly. Killed by my own side because they don’t even speak my language.
From nowhere, inspiration hit him. He’d learned a few words of the sibilant Numidian tongue once. ‘Stop,’ Hanno mumbled. ‘I… friend.’
Looking confused, the trio of Numidians paused. A barrage of questions in their tongue followed. Hanno barely understood one word in ten of what the warriors were saying. ‘I not Roman, I friend,’ he repeated, over and over.
His protests weren’t enough. Drawing back his foot, one of the tribesmen kicked Hanno in the belly. Stars flashed across his vision, and he nearly passed out from the pain. More blows landed, and he tensed, expecting at any moment to feel a javelin slide into his flesh.
Instead, an angry voice intervened.
The beating stopped at once.
Warily, Hanno looked up to see a rider with tightly curled black hair standing before him. Unusually for a Numidian, he was wearing a sword. An officer, thought Hanno dully.
‘Did I hear you speaking Carthaginian?’ the man demanded.
‘Yes.’ Relieved and surprised that someone present spoke his tongue, Hanno sat up. He winced in pain. ‘I’m from Carthage.’
The other’s eyebrows rose. ‘What in Melqart’s name are you doing alone in the middle of this godforsaken, freezing land?’
‘I was sold into slavery among the Romans some time ago,’ explained Hanno. ‘Hearing the news of Hannibal’s invasion, I escaped to join him.’
The Numidian didn’t look convinced. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Hanno,’ he said proudly. ‘I am a son of Malchus, who serves as a senior officer among our Libyan spearmen. If I reach Hannibal’s army, I hope to be reunited with him, and my brothers.’
There was a long silence, and Hanno felt his fear return. Do not desert me now, great Tanit, he prayed.
‘An unlikely story. Who’s to say that you are not a spy?’ the officer mused out loud. Several of his more eager men lifted their javelins, and Hanno’s heart sank. If they killed him now, no one would ever know.
‘Hold!’ snapped the officer. ‘If this man has really spent much time among the Romans, he may be useful to Hannibal.’ He grinned at Hanno. ‘And if you are telling the truth, I suspect that your father, whether he is with the army or no, would rather see you alive than dead.’
Hanno’s joy knew no bounds. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
The officer barked an order and the Numidians swarmed in, hauling Hanno to his feet. His wrists were bound with rope, but he was offered no further violence. As the warriors mounted up, Hanno was picked up and thrown roughly across the neck of a horse, in front of its rider. He didn’t protest. With his mule injured, there was no other way of returning to the Carthaginian camp at speed. At least they weren’t dragging him behind one of the mounts.
As the Numidians began to ride west, Hanno gave thanks to every god he could think of, but most importantly to Tanit, whom he’d forgotten to address before leaving his home in Carthage.
He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but he felt that she was smiling on him once more.
Upon reaching Hannibal’s camp, Hanno was lowered to the ground. He gazed around him in wonderment, absolutely exhilarated to see a Carthaginian host so near the Italian border. His heart throbbed with an unquenchable joy. He was back with his people! Yet Hanno was concerned by the army’s size. It was far smaller than he’d expected. He was alarmed too by the soldiers’ faces. Suffering was etched deep into every single one. Most had unkempt beards, and looked half starved. The pack animals, and particularly the elephants, looked even worse. Hanno shot a worried glance at the Numidian officer. ‘The crossing of the Alps must have been terrible,’ he said.
‘You cannot even imagine it,’ the Numidian replied with a scowl. ‘Hostile natives. Landslides. Ice. Snow. Starvation. Between desertions and fatalities, we lost nearly twenty-five thousand men in a month. Practically half our army.’
Hanno’s mouth fell open in horror. Immediately, he thought of his father and brothers, who could easily be among the dead. He caught the Numidian watching him. ‘Why tell me this?’ he stuttered.
‘I can say what I like. The Romans will never find out,’ replied the other amiably. ‘It’s not as if you could escape my men on foot.’
Hanno swallowed. ‘No.’
‘Just as well you were telling the truth about who you were, eh?’
Hanno met the Numidian’s gimlet stare. A sudden pang of terror struck him. What if no one could be found to vouch for his identity? ‘Yes, it is,’ he snapped, praying that the gods would not dash the cup of success from his lips at this late stage. ‘Take me to the Libyans’ tent lines.’
