Hannibal Enemy of Rome (2011) Read online

  The terrifying sound made a hot tide of acid surge up Quintus’ throat. Another piercing yelp told him that a second dog had been hurt, or killed. Ashamed of his fear, Quintus willed away his nausea. This was no time for holding back. The dogs were doing their job, and he must do his. Muttering more prayers to Diana, he pounded towards the din.

  As he burst into a large clearing, Quintus frowned in recognition. He had often picked berries here with Aurelia. A sprawl of thorny brambles, taller than a man, ran across the floor of the glade, which was bathed in dappled sunlight. A stream pattered down the slope towards the valley below. Fallen boughs lay here and there amidst a profusion of wildflowers, but what drew Quintus’ eyes was the struggle going on in the shadow cast by a nearby lofty cypress. Four dogs had a bear cornered against the tree’s trunk. Growling with fury, the creature made frequent lunges at its tormentors, but the hounds dodged warily to and fro, just beyond reach. Each time the bear moved away from the tree, the dogs ran in to bite at its haunches or back legs. It was a stalemate - if the bear left the tree’s protection, the dogs swarmed in from all sides, but if the beast remained where it was, they could not overcome it.

  Two motionless shapes lay outside the semicircle, the casualties Quintus had heard. A cursory glance told him that one dog might survive. It was bleeding badly from deep claw wounds on its ribcage, but he could see no other injuries. The second, on the other hand, would definitely not make it. Shallow movements of its chest told him it still lived, but half its face had been torn off, and shiny, jagged ends of freshly broken bone protruded from a terrible injury to its left foreleg, the result of a bite from the bear’s powerful jaws.

  Quintus approached with care. Rushing in would carry a real risk of being knocked over, and the Gauls would soon be here. Once they called off the hounds, his task would begin in earnest. He studied the bear, eager for any clue that might help him kill it. Preoccupied with the snapping dogs, it paid him little notice. Its sheer size meant that it had to be a male. The creature’s dense fur was yellowish-brown, and it had a typical large, rounded head and small ears. Massive shoulders and a squat body at least three times bigger than his own reinforced Quintus’ awareness of just how dangerous his prey was. He could feel his pulse hammering in the hollow at the base of his throat, its speed reminding him that he was not in total control. Calm down, he thought. Breathe deeply. Concentrate.

  ‘Thinking of the berries was a good idea,’ said Fabricius from behind him. ‘You’ve found a big bear too. A worthy foe.’

  Startled, Quintus turned his head. The others had arrived. All eyes were on him. ‘Yes,’ he replied, hoping that the growling and snarling a dozen steps away would hide the fear in his voice.

  Fabricius moved closer. ‘Are you ready?’

  Quintus quailed mentally. His father had seen his anxiety, and was prepared to step in. A fleeting look at Agesandros and the slaves was enough to see that they also understood the question’s double meaning. A trace of disappointment flashed across the Sicilian’s visage, and the Gauls slyly eyed each other. Damn them all, Quintus thought, his guts churning. Have they never been scared? ‘Of course,’ he replied loudly.

  Fabricius gave him a measured stare. ‘Very well,’ he said, coming to a halt.

  Quintus wasn’t sure that his worried father would obey. There was more at stake than his life now, though. Killing the bear would prove nothing if the Sicilian and the slaves thought he was a coward, who relied on Fabricius for back-up. ‘Do not interfere,’ he shouted. ‘This is my fight. I must do this on my own, whatever the outcome.’ He glanced at his father, who did not immediately respond.

  ‘Swear it!’

  ‘I swear,’ Fabricius said reluctantly, stepping back.

  Quintus was satisfied to see the first signs of respect return to the others’ faces.

  A dog howled as the bear caught it with a sweeping arm. It was thrown through the air by the powerful blow, landing with an ominous thud by Quintus’ feet. He squared his shoulders and prepared himself. Three hounds weren’t enough to contain the quarry. If he didn’t act at once, it had a chance of escaping. ‘Call them back,’ he shouted.

  With shrill whistles, the Gauls obeyed. When the enraged dogs did not comply, the tattooed man ran in. Ignoring the bear, and using a leash as a whip, he beat them backwards, out of the way. His actions worked for two of the hounds, but the largest, its lips and teeth reddened with the bear’s blood, did not want to withdraw. Cursing, the Gaul half turned, trying to kick it out of the way. He missed, and it darted past him, intent on rejoining the fray.

  Aghast, Quintus watched as the dog jumped, sinking its teeth into the side of the bear’s face. Rearing up in pain, the bear lifted it right into the air. At once this allowed it to use its front legs, raking the dog’s body repeatedly with its claws. Far from releasing its grip, the hound clamped its jaws tighter than ever. It had been bred to endure pain, to hold on no matter what. Quintus had heard of such dogs having to be knocked unconscious before their mouths could be prised open. Yet this stubborn courage would not be enough: it needed help from its companions, which were now restrained. Or from him. The Gaul was in the way, though, screaming his anger and distress. He swung the useless leash across the bear’s head, once, twice, three times. It harmed the beast not at all, but would hopefully distract it from killing his favourite dog. That was the theory, anyway.

  The Gaul’s plan failed. With the skin and hair on both sides of the hound’s abdomen ripped away, the bear eviscerated it with several powerful rakes of its claws. Slippery loops of pink bowel tumbled out into the air, only to be sheared off like so many fat sausages. Sensing the dog’s grip on its face weaken, the bear redoubled its efforts. Quintus felt his gorge rise as purple lumps of liver tissue cascaded to the ground. Finally a claw connected with a major blood vessel, tearing it asunder. Gouts of dark red blood sprayed from the ruin of the dog’s belly, and its jaws loosened.

  A moment later, it dropped lifelessly away from the bear.

  ‘Get back!’ Quintus screamed, but the Gaul ignored him.

  Instead, the wild-eyed slave launched another attack. The loss of his canine friend had driven him into battle rage, which Quintus had often heard of, but never seen. The Romans and Gauls were enemies of old and had fought numerous times. More than a hundred and seventy years before, Rome itself had been sacked by the fierce tribesmen. Just six years previously, more than seventy thousand of them had invaded northern Italy again. They had been defeated, but stories still abounded of berserker warriors who, fighting naked, threw themselves at oncoming legionaries with complete disregard for their own safety.

  This man was no such enemy, however. He might be a slave, but his life was still worth saving. Quintus jumped forward, shoving his spear at the bear. To his horror, the animal moved at the last moment, and his blade ran deep into its side rather than its chest, as he had intended. His blow was not mortal, nor was it enough to stop the beast reaching up to seize the Gaul by the neck. A short choking cry left the man’s lips, and the bear shook him as a dog would a rat.

  Not knowing what else to do, Quintus thrust his spear even deeper. The only reaction was an annoyed growl. In his haste, he’d stabbed into the creature’s abdomen. It was potentially a mortal wound, but not one that would stop it quickly. Satisfied that the Gaul was dead, the bear flung him to one side. Naturally, its gaze next fell upon Quintus, who panicked. Although his spear was buried in its flesh, the creature’s deep-set eyes showed no fear, just a searing anger. Bears normally avoided conflict with humans, but when aroused they became extremely aggressive. This individual was irate. It snapped at his spear shaft and splinters flew into the air.

  There was nothing for it. Quintus took a deep breath and pulled his spear free. Roaring with pain, the bear revealed a genuinely fearsome set of teeth, the largest of which were as long as Quintus’ middle fingers. Its red, gaping mouth was big enough to fit his entire head inside, and was well capable of crushing his skull. Quintus wan
ted to move away, but his muscles were paralysed by terror.

  The bear took a step towards him. Gripping his spear in both hands, Quintus aimed the point at its chest. Advance, he told himself. Go on the attack. Before he could move, the animal lunged at him. Catching the end of the spear, it swept the shaft to one side as though it were a twig. With nothing between them, they stared at each other for a breathless moment. In slow motion, Quintus saw its muscles tense in preparation to jump. He nearly lost control of his bladder. Hades was a whisker away, and he could do nothing about it.

  For whatever reason, however, the bear did not leap at once, and Quintus was able to bring down his spear again.

  His relief was momentary.

  As Quintus moved to the attack, he slipped on a piece of intestine. Both of his feet went from under him, and he landed flat on his back. With a rush, all the air left his lungs, winding him. Quintus was vaguely aware of the butt of his spear catching in the dirt and wrenching itself free of his grasp. Frantically, he lifted his head. To his utter horror, he could see the bear not five paces away, just beyond his sandals. It roared again, and this time Quintus received the full force of its fetid breath. He blinked, knowing that death was at hand.

  He had failed.

  Chapter III: Capture

  The Mediterranean Sea

  HOURS PASSED IN a blur of driving rain and pounding waves. Darkness fell, which increased the magnitude of the friends’ terror manyfold. The small boat was tossed up and down, back and forth, helpless before the sea’s immense power. It took all of Hanno’s energy just to stay on board. Both of them were sick multiple times, vomiting a mixture of food and wine over themselves and the vessel’s floor. Eventually there was nothing left but bile to come up. Flashes of lightning regularly illuminated the pathetic scene. Hanno wasn’t sure which was worse: not being able to see his hand in front of his face, or looking at Suniaton’s wan, terrified features and puke-spattered clothes.

  Slumped on the bench opposite, his friend alternated between hysterical bouts of weeping, and praying to every god he could think of. Somehow Suniaton’s distress helped Hanno to remain in control of his own terror. He was even able to take some solace from their situation. If Melqart had wanted to drown them, they would already be dead. The storm had not reached the heights it would have done in winter, nor had their boat capsized. Besides these minor miracles, there had been no further leaks. Sturdily built from cypress planks, its seams were sealed with lengths of tightly packed linen fibre as well as a layer of beeswax. They had not lost the oars, which meant that they could row to land, should the opportunity arise. Moreover, every stretch of coastline had its Carthaginian trading post. There they could make themselves known, promising rich reward for a passage home.

  Hanno pinched himself out of the fantasy. Don’t get your hopes up, he thought bitterly. The bad weather showed no signs of letting up. Any one of the waves rolling in their direction was capable of flipping the boat. Melqart hadn’t drowned them yet, but deities were capricious by nature, and the sea god was no different. All it would take was a tiny extra surge in the water for their craft to overturn. Hanno struggled to hold back his own tears. What real chance had they? Even if they survived until sunrise and their families worked out where they had gone, the likelihood of being found on the open sea was slim to none. Adrift with no food or water, they would both die, painfully, within a few days. At this stark realisation Hanno closed his eyes and asked for a quick death instead.

  Despite the heavy rain which had soaked him to the skin, Malchus had returned from the meeting with the Council of Elders in excellent humour. He stood now, a cup of wine in hand, under the sloping portico that ran around the house’s main courtyard, watching the raindrops splashing off the white marble mosaic half a dozen steps away. His impassioned speech had gone down as he ‘d wished, which relieved him greatly. Since Hannibal’s messenger had given him the weighty task a week before of announcing to the elders and suffetes that the general planned to attack Saguntum, Malchus had been consumed by worry. What if the council did not back the Barca? The stakes were higher than he’d ever known.

  Saguntine reprisals against the tribes allied to Carthage were purportedly the reason for Hannibal’s assault, but, as everyone knew, its intent was to provoke Rome into a response. Yet, thanks to the general’s perfect timing, that response would not be militaristic. Severe unrest in Illyricum meant that the Republic had already committed both consuls and their armies to conflict in the East. For the upcoming campaign season, Rome would only be able to issue empty threats. After that, however, retribution would undoubtedly follow. Hannibal was not worried. He was convinced that the time for war with their old enemy was ripe, and Malchus agreed with him. Nonetheless, bringing those who led Carthage round to the same opinion had been a daunting prospect.

  It was a pity, thought Malchus, that Hanno had not been there to witness his finest oratory yet. By the end, he’d had the entire council on their feet, cheering at the idea of renewed conflict with Rome. Meanwhile Hanno had most likely been fishing. News of the huge shoals of tunny offshore that day had swept the city. Now Hanno was probably spending the proceeds of his catch on wine and whores. Malchus sighed. A moment later, hearing Sapho and Bostar’s voices in the corridor that led to the street, his mood lifted. At least two of his sons had been there. They soon emerged into view, wringing out their sodden cloaks.

  ‘A wonderful speech, Father,’ said Sapho in a hearty tone.

  ‘It was excellent,’ agreed Bostar. ‘You had them in the palm of your hand. They could only respond in one way.’

  Malchus made a modest gesture, but inside he was delighted. ‘Finally, Carthage is ready for the war that we have been preparing for these years past.’ He moved to the table behind him, upon which sat a glazed red jug and several beakers. ‘Let us raise a toast to Hannibal Barca.’

  ‘Shame Hanno didn’t hear your speech too,’ said Sapho, throwing a meaningful glance at Bostar. Busily pouring wine, their father didn’t see it.

  ‘Indeed,’ Malchus replied, handing each a full cup. ‘Such occasions do not come often. For the rest of his life, the boy will regret that he was playing truant while history was made.’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Have you seen him?’

  There was a short, awkward silence.

  He looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’

  ‘We ran into him this morning,’ Sapho admitted. ‘On our way to the Agora. He was with Suniaton.’

  Malchus swore. ‘That must have been just after he’d scarpered out of the house. The little ruffian ignored my shouts! Did the pair of them give you the slip?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Sapho replied awkwardly, giving Bostar another pointed stare.

  Malchus caught the tension between his sons. ‘What’s going on?’

  Bostar cleared his throat. ‘We talked, and then let them go.’ He rephrased his words. ‘I let them go.’

  ‘Why?’ Malchus cried angrily. ‘You knew how important my speech was.’

  Bostar flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Father. Perhaps I acted wrongly, but I couldn’t help thinking that, like us, Hanno will soon be at war. For the moment, though, he’s still a boy. Let him enjoy himself while he can.’

  Tapping a finger against his teeth, Malchus turned to Sapho. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Initially, I thought that we should force Hanno to come with us, Father, but Bostar had a point. As he was the senior officer present, I gave way to his judgement.’ Bostar tried to interrupt, but Sapho continued talking. ‘In hindsight, it was possibly the wrong decision. I should have argued with him.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Bostar cried. ‘I made no mention of rank! We made the decision together.’

  Sapho’s lip curled. ‘Did we?’

  Malchus held up his hands. ‘Enough!’

  Throwing each other angry looks, the brothers fell silent.

  Malchus thought for a moment. ‘I am sorely disappointed in you, Sapho, for not protesting more at your br
other’s desire to let Hanno do as he wished.’ He regarded Bostar next. ‘Shame on you, as a senior officer, for forgetting that our primary purpose is to gain revenge on Rome. In comparison, frivolities such as fishing are irrelevant!’ Ignoring their muttered apologies, Malchus raised his cup. ‘Let us forget Hanno and his wastrel friend, and drink a toast to Hannibal Barca, and to our victory in the coming war with Rome!’

  They followed his lead, but neither brother clinked his beaker off the other’s.

  Hanno’s wish for an easy death was not granted. Eventually the storm passed, and the ferocious waves died down. Dawn arrived, bringing with it calm seas and a clear sky. The wind changed direction; it was now coming from the northeast. Hanno’s hopes rose briefly, before falling again. The breeze was not strong enough to carry them back home, and the current continued to carry their small vessel eastwards. Silence reigned; all the seabirds had been driven off by the inclement weather. Suniaton’s exhaustion had finally got the better of him, and he lay slumped on the boat’s sole, snoring.

  Hanno grimaced at the irony of it. The peaceful scene could not have been more at odds with what they had endured overnight. His sodden clothes were drying fast in the warm sunshine. The boat rocked gently from side to side, wavelets slapping off the hull. A pod of dolphins broke the surface nearby, but the sight did not bring the usual smile to Hanno’s face. Now, their graceful shapes and gliding motion were an acute reminder that he belonged on the land, which was nowhere to be seen. Apart from the dolphins, they were utterly alone.