He shot a spiteful glance in the direction of Bostar’s phalanx. At last he was receiving more recognition than his younger brother. It was unfortunate that he was out of sight. Sapho would have loved to see Bostar’s unhappy expression before he entered the town. Behind him, Sapho suddenly became aware of his men’s eagerness. Their ranks were swaying forward and back several steps. To their rear, a large group of Iberian infantry were shouting and calling for him to advance. It was time to move. Hannibal was watching.
‘Form up, six men wide. Close order. Those at the front and sides, raise shields. Expect missiles, and have your spears at the ready.’ Placing himself in the centre of the first rank, Sapho led his spearmen forward at a slow walk. His eyes carefully scanned the ramparts, searching for any indication of an attack. To his satisfaction, the defenders he could see were concentrating on their attempts to repel the Gauls who were ascending more than half a dozen ladders. Sapho kept his guard up until they had reached the wall. Even then, he did not relax. A single legionary with a javelin could be dangerous.
They passed under the arched gateway, stepping over the cracked planking of the gate. Just a few steps further, the carnage began. The street was strewn with the dead, almost all of them Roman. Gaping hack wounds to the neck, chest or limbs decorated many of the corpses. More than one had been decapitated. The entire area had been stained a shocking red colour. Discarded equipment was strewn here and there, left by the men who had run. Sapho felt a new respect for the Gauls. This was proof of the effectiveness of their charge on a disorganised enemy.
‘Let’s hope they’ve left some for us, eh?’ he shouted.
His men bellowed their bloodlust back at him.
They moved down the main street, while behind them the Iberians spread out into every side alley. Sapho had no idea that Hanno, still living, was so close. Or that his fate hung by the slimmest of threads.
Hanno was woken by shouting. Cursing. Grunts of pain. As his eyes opened, the agony from his neck wound returned with new force. What he saw instantly made him forget his own discomfort, however. Bomilcar had been strung by his neck from an overhead beam by a length of rope. A strip of cloth was tied round his head, gagging him. A trio of Iberian infantrymen stood in a circle, taking it in turns to boot him from one to another. With each blow, Bomilcar struggled not to fall over. If he did, he would choke to death. The Iberians were passing a cracked amphora around, and their flushed cheeks told Hanno that they’d already consumed plenty of its contents. That was probably the reason that Bomilcar was still alive. How much longer he would survive was debatable, though. One man had drawn his falcata and was whetting its blade with an oilstone.
Why haven’t they done the same to me? Hanno moved a hand, disturbing a pile of hay. Understanding hit home. Only his head was visible. Bomilcar had scattered hay over him as a blanket and the Iberians hadn’t noticed him. Heart pounding, Hanno lay back down. If he didn’t move, chances were that they would never discover his hiding place, which was fifteen paces deeper into the barn. By the next morning, it would be safe to go out on the streets again. He would be reunited with his family.
His pleasure at that thought was washed away by a surging guilt. To do that, he would have to watch Bomilcar die, tortured to death as he would have been by Pera. Hanno could no more do that than he could have slain Quintus after the ambush. He had to act, and fast. What was his best tactic? The rigid length by his side had to be the gladius, but standing up with that in his fist would guarantee a quick death. Better to be unarmed. Less of a threat. New fear caressed his spine. What if the Iberians didn’t speak enough Carthaginian to understand him? Many of the lower ranking troops in Hannibal’s army knew little to none of their General’s tongue. There was no need because their officers could.
The man with the falcata tested the edge of his blade with his thumb and grimaced in approval. His gaze moved to Bomilcar.
He would have to take the chance, decided Hanno. Otherwise, it would be too late. Brushing the hay from his body, he sat up, careful not to touch the gladius.
No one noticed him, so he stood up and coughed.
Three startled faces spun to regard him. There was an instant’s delay, and then the Iberians were drawing their weapons and swarming towards him.
‘HANNIBAL!’ shouted Hanno as loudly as he could.
That brought them to a screeching stop.
‘Hannibal is my leader too,’ he said in Carthaginian. ‘You understand?’
Blank looks from two of the men, but the third scowled. He spat a question in Iberian.
Hanno didn’t understand a word. He repeated Hannibal’s name over and over, but the Iberians didn’t look impressed. Raising their swords, they padded towards him, reminding him of how deadly they were in battle. It hasn’t worked. I’m dead, he thought wearily.
That was when one of them pointed at him and asked another question.
Hanno looked down in confusion. He glanced at their crimson-edged tunics and then at his own red one. Understanding, he tugged at the fabric like a maniac. ‘Yes! I am the commander of a phalanx! Libyan spearmen! Libyans!’
‘Pha-lanx?’ demanded one of the Iberians, adding in accented Carthaginian, ‘You from Carthage?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Hanno. ‘I am from Carthage! The other man is Carthaginian too.’
The tension vanished as the smell of a dead carcase is carried off by the wind. Suddenly, the Iberians were all smiles. ‘Carthaginians!’ they roared. ‘Hannibal!’ Bomilcar was ungagged and cut down with many apologies; both of them were given some wine. When Hanno’s wound was spotted, there were hisses of dismay. One Iberian produced a clean strip of cloth, which he insisted on wrapping around Hanno’s neck. ‘Surgeon,’ he kept repeating. ‘You need. . surgeon.’
‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘But first I need to find my father, or my brothers.’
The Iberian didn’t understand, but he heard the urgency in Hanno’s voice. ‘Wait,’ he ordered.
Hanno was happy to obey. Sitting beside Bomilcar, with the first warm flush of the wine coursing through his veins, he felt vaguely human. ‘We made it,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’
Bomilcar grinned. ‘I can’t believe it. For the first time in five years, I’m free.’
‘You’ll be well rewarded for what you’ve done,’ swore Hanno. ‘And I’ll always be in your debt.’
They gripped hands to seal a new bond of friendship.
The Iberian soon returned with one of his officers, who spoke better Carthaginian. Hearing Hanno’s story, he arranged for a stretcher to be brought and for a messenger to find Malchus.
‘I need to see my father first,’ Hanno insisted.
‘You’re as pale as a ghost. He can find you in the field hospital,’ replied the officer.
‘No.’ Hanno tried to stand, but his legs gave way beneath him.
It was the last thing he remembered.
Hanno woke to the sound of raised voices. His mind filled with an image of the Iberians who had attacked Bomilcar and his eyes jerked open. To his confusion, the first face he saw was Bostar’s. His brother looked angry; he was gesticulating at someone beyond Hanno’s range of vision. Overhead, there was tent fabric. He was in a bed, not the hay barn. ‘Where am I?’
‘Praise all the gods! He’s come back to us,’ cried Bostar, his expression softening. ‘How are you feeling?’