‘He has thrown a bridge over the Padus, and was intending to march west on the day I fled.’
Hannibal leaned forward. ‘When was that?’
‘Three days ago, sir.’
‘So he cannot be far away. Excellent news!’ Hannibal smacked a fist into his palm. ‘What of his forces?’
Hanno did his best to recount all that he had seen and heard since leaving Rome.
‘Well done, young man,’ said Hannibal when he was done, making Hanno flush beetroot. ‘We shall face the first of our great tests soon. What we are about to observe now seems even more apt. Stay here with me and watch, if you will.’
Stuttering his thanks, Hanno stood with Hannibal, Malchus and his brothers and watched as dozens of prisoners were led out into the open area before them.
‘Who are they?’ Hanno asked.
‘Allobroges and Vocontii, prisoners taken during the passage of the Alps,’ replied his father.
Hanno’s stomach clenched. The men looked terrified.
A fanfare from the musicians’ horns and carnyxes prevented any further conversation. Hannibal stood forth when it finished. At once an expectant hush fell over the gathered troops. Everyone watched as a line of slaves carried out bronze trays, some of which were laden with glittering mail shirts. On others, helmets were piled high. There were gold arm rings and torcs, fine cloaks decorated with wolf fur and gilt-handled swords.
Hannibal let the prisoners feast their eyes on the treasure before he spoke. ‘You have been brought here to make a simple choice.’ He paused to allow his message to be relayed to the captives. ‘I will offer six men the chance to win their freedom. You will divide into pairs, and fight each other to the death. The three who survive will receive a good horse, their choice of everything on show and a guarantee that they will ride out of here unharmed. Those who do not volunteer will be sold as slaves.’ Again Hannibal waited.
A moment later, the warriors began shouting and raising their clenched fists in the air.
The lead interpreter turned to Hannibal. ‘They all want the honour, sir. Every last one.’
Hannibal smiled broadly. ‘Announce that to my troops,’ he ordered.
A loud sigh of appreciation rose from the watching soldiers as the Allobroges’ reply was translated.
Malchus bent to whisper in Hanno’s ear. ‘Single combat to the death is much revered among the Gauls. This end is far superior to a life of slavery.’
Hanno still didn’t understand.
‘I will not allow every man to do this,’ Hannibal proclaimed. ‘Form up in two lines.’ He waited as the prisoners were shoved into position. ‘Pick out every fourth man until you have six,’ he bellowed. His command was obeyed at once, and the remainder of the captives were shepherded to one side. The half-dozen warriors who had been chosen were each handed a sword and shield and, at a signal, were ordered to begin fighting. They went at each other like men possessed, and soon first blood had been spilled on the rock-hard ground.
‘What’s the point of this?’ Sapho muttered after a few moments. ‘We should just kill them all and have done.’
‘Your damn response to everything,’ Bostar retorted angrily.
‘Shhh!’ hissed Malchus. ‘Hannibal does nothing by accident.’
Again Hanno was surprised by the degree of acrimony between his brothers, but he was granted no chance to dwell on this troubling development.
The duels were short, and savage. Before long, three bloodied warriors stood over the bodies of their opponents, waiting for Hannibal’s promise to be fulfilled. And it was. Each man was allowed his choice of the rich goods on the trays, before selecting a horse from those tethered nearby. Then, with the cheers of everyone present ringing in their ears, they were allowed to leave.
‘Even more than this can be yours,’ shouted Hannibal to his men. ‘For you the prize of victory is not to possess horses and cloaks, but to be the most envied of mankind, masters of all the wealth of Rome.’
The immense roar that followed his words rose high into the winter sky.
Impressed by Hannibal’s tactic, Hanno glanced at Bostar.
‘He will take us to the enemy’s very gates,’ said his brother.
‘That’s right,’ declared Malchus.
‘Where we’ll slaughter every last one of the whoresons,’ Sapho snarled.
Hanno’s spirits soared. Rome would be defeated. He felt sure of it.
Chapter XX: Setbacks
Some days later, Quintus was huddled around a campfire with a group of his new comrades. It was a dank, cold afternoon. A gusty wind set lowering clouds scudding over the camp, threatening snow and increasing the general misery.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ moaned Licinius, a garrulous Tarentine who was one of Quintus’ tent mates. ‘To have lost our first battle against the guggas. It’s shameful.’
‘It was only a skirmish,’ said Quintus morosely.
‘Maybe so,’ agreed Calatinus, another of the men who shared their tent. Sturdily built, he was a year older than Quintus, but of similar outlook. ‘It was a damn big one, though. I bet you’re all glad to be sitting here now, eh?’ He nodded as his companions shook their heads in agreement. ‘Look at our casualties! Most of our cavalry and hundreds of velites killed. Six hundred legionaries taken prisoner, and Publius gravely injured. Hardly a good start, was it?’
‘Too true,’ said Cincius, their last tent mate, a huge, ruddy-faced man with a shock of red hair. ‘We’ve also retreated since. What must Hannibal think of us?’
‘Why in Hades did we even pull back?’ Licinius demanded. ‘After the bridge had been destroyed, the Carthaginians had no way of crossing the Ticinus to get at us.’
Calatinus made sure no one else was in earshot. ‘I reckon the consul panicked. It’s not surprising, really, with him being out of action and all.’
‘How would you know what Publius thinks?’ Quintus challenged irritably. ‘He’s far from a fool.’
‘As if you’d know what the consul’s like, new boy,’ Cincius snapped.
Quintus scowled, but had the wisdom not to reply. Cincius looked ready for a fight, and he was twice Quintus’ size.
‘Why didn’t Publius take his chance when Hannibal offered battle before our camp?’ Cincius went on. ‘What an opportunity to miss, eh?’
There was a gloomy mutter of agreement.
‘I say it’s downright cowardly,’ said Cincius, warming to his theme.
Quintus’ anger flared. ‘It’s best to fight on the ground of one’s choosing, at a time of one’s choosing,’ he declared, remembering what his father had said. ‘You all know that! At the moment, we can do neither, and with Publius injured, that position is unlikely to change in the near future. It made far more sense to remain in a position of security, here in the camp. Consider what might happen otherwise.’
Cincius glared at Quintus, but, seeing the others subside into a grumpy silence, chose to say no more for the moment.
Quintus felt no happier. While Publius’ courage was in little doubt, that of Flaccus was a different matter. It had taken a sea change in his view of his prospective brother-in-law as a hero even to countenance such a thought, but the reality of what had happened at the Ticinus could not be denied. Flaccus had ridden out with the cavalry on the ill-fated reconnaissance mission at his own request. Still ecstatic about being allowed to accompany the patrol, Quintus had been there too. He and his father had seen Flaccus as the clash began, but not after that. He hadn’t reappeared until afterwards, when the battered remnants of the patrol retreated over the River Ticinus and reached the Roman camp. Apparently, he’d been swept out of harm’s way by the tide of battle. Seeing that the Carthaginians had the upper hand, Flaccus had ridden for help. Naturally, the senior tribunes had declined to lead their legions, an infantry force, across a temporary bridge to face an enemy entirely made up of cavalry. What else could he have done? Flaccus had earnestly asked.
Of course there was no way of questioning Flaccus’ account. Events were moving apace. They would just
