Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

After the rousing speech that Hannibal had just given, Bostar longed to be with the Gauls who were advancing with ladders to the foot of the walls, or with those who were already battering at the main gate with a ram fashioned from the trunk of a massive oak. Hannibal had praised every man in his army. Told them that he was proud of how they had overcome all obstacles in their path. He was impressed by their discipline, their bravery and fortitude. He’d said that their loyalty to him could be repaid in only one way — with a deep loyalty of his own. ‘I will do anything for you, my men,’ Hannibal had cried. ‘I will endure the same hardships. Sleep on the same rough ground. Fight the same enemies. Shed my blood. And if I have to, I will lay down my life for you!’ Those last words had stirred Bostar’s passions deeply, and from the mighty roar that had followed, he judged it to have had the same effect on every soldier within earshot. All he’d wanted to do after that was to attack. Yet he and his spearmen had been ordered to stay put. As at the Trebia, Hannibal was conserving his veterans. They had seen some action during a vicious mêlée on the road the previous day, but that was it. Bostar’s fist clenched on the hilt of his sword. There had better be some Romans for me to kill when we get into the town. His desire to shed blood wasn’t just because of Hannibal’s rallying call. Hanno’s presumed death by drowning had been hard enough to bear. The grief of it had scourged Bostar for many months. Why couldn’t the gods have taken Sapho, his other brother, with whom he had a fractious relationship? To have been reunited with Hanno out of the blue had seemed the most incredible of divine gifts, but to lose him again so soon was too cruel. It wasn’t as if he could even blame Hanno’s second-in-command. Mutt had asked to be punished, but, as Hannibal had said, it was clear that, misguided or not, Hanno had brought his own fate down on his head. Why did he act so rashly? wondered Bostar yet again.

‘A shekel for your thoughts,’ said a deep, gravelly voice.

Bostar’s head turned. A short but distinguished-looking officer in a pilos helmet with a scarlet horsehair crest stood before him. An iron cuirass decorated with gold and silver inlay protected his midriff; layered pteryges concealed his groin. Under his armour, he wore a red short-sleeved tunic and a padded jerkin, and he was armed with a stabbing sword that hung in its sheath from a baldric over his right shoulder. To either side, Bostar’s men were grinning and saluting. ‘Father,’ he said, dipping his head in respect.

‘You were a world away as I walked up,’ declared Malchus. ‘Thinking about Hanno, I’d wager.’

‘Of course.’

‘My thoughts are full of him too.’ Malchus scratched at a tight grey curl that had escaped from under his felt liner. ‘The best we can hope for is that he died bravely.’

That’s not much consolation, thought Bostar sadly, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he nodded. ‘It would be good to discover what happened to him.’

A grimace. ‘With the mood the Gauls are in after Hannibal’s speech, I wouldn’t bank on finding many Romans alive after the town falls.’

‘That was partly why I wanted to take part in the initial assault,’ whispered Bostar.

Malchus sighed. ‘You know why Hannibal sent in the Gauls first. Disobeying his orders again would not be advisable, however good your reason. The needs of the army come before our own.’

Although the sentiment was true, it was hard to accept. Bostar did his best. He was sure now that Hanno had been attempting to discover information of potential use to Hannibal. If he’d succeeded, it would have been a first step in restoring himself to favour. Instead, it was a move that had ended with his death. Now Bostar was about to lose the only chance of finding out what had happened to his younger brother. He swallowed his anger. Hannibal was their leader. He knew best. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘The gods give, and the gods take away. But at least we will have our vengeance this day.’ Malchus’ lips peeled into a snarl, and he raised his voice. ‘In order that the surrounding towns understand that resistance is futile, Hannibal has ordered that the Romans’ attempt to surrender this morning is to be ignored. Every citizen within the walls is to be killed.’

That set Bostar’s spearmen to cheering.

It wasn’t Bostar’s way to find commands of this type appealing — as Sapho did — but the thought of what Hanno might have been put through made his blood boil. He spun to regard his men. ‘The Gauls had best leave some alive for us, eh?’

‘Yes!’ They bellowed their enthusiasm. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

The chant was taken up from the phalanx that stood a short distance to their right. Bostar raised a hand to the figure who stood at its head. Mutt returned the gesture. With Hanno gone, he had been given temporary command of the unit.

‘Those lads will fight you for a position on the ladders,’ said Malchus. ‘The Romans have to learn the harshest of lessons for there to be any chance of us succeeding in our mission. They won’t be won over by lenient treatment of their towns and of the prisoners we take.’

Malchus took no joy in killing civilians. Nor did Bostar, yet it had to be done. Why did Sapho have to enjoy it? he wondered.

‘That’s why Hannibal is sending in a man like Sapho in the first wave,’ said Malchus, as if reading his mind.

Bostar said nothing.

Malchus gave him a sharp look. ‘You two, eh? Always quarrelling. Hannibal knows that your skills lie elsewhere. Nor will he have forgotten how you saved his life at Saguntum. He will call on you again in the future. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need Sapho too.’

‘I understand.’ Secretly, Bostar wished that things were different. That Sapho had been the one to have been captured and killed, not Hanno. He’d thought it at other times, but never so strongly and with so little guilt.

‘Maybe you two can see this as a way to move on. To come together a little.’

Their father had no idea of the depth of bitterness between him and Sapho, thought Bostar. Their feud had been going on since they had left Hannibal’s base in southern Iberia more than a year and a half previously. It had alleviated somewhat during the elation after the victory at the Trebia, but it had soon returned. Sapho would stop at nothing to become one of Hannibal’s favoured officers. His desire for Roman blood seemed unquenchable. But Bostar’s conscience nagged at him. Sapho was still his brother. His only living brother, who had saved his life in the Alps — despite not really wanting to. Bostar had sworn to repay the debt. Until that had been achieved, he’d have to make a pretence for his father’s sake. Maybe their relationship would improve as a consequence. He pulled a weary smile. ‘I’ll talk to him, Father, I promise.’

‘Hanno would approve.’

‘He’d also like to know that we sent him on his way with a fitting sacrifice,’ said Bostar, giving the walls of Victumulae a pitiless stare.

‘I think we can guarantee him that,’ growled Malchus.

Hanno woke, lying on the floor, screaming. The pain was even worse than before. A constant thrumming sensation centred in his neck. It made all his other hurts disappear. It consumed Hanno as flames eat away at dry tinder. All he wanted was for it to end. ‘Help,’ he mumbled. ‘Help.’

A soft voice answered.

Hanno didn’t recognise it. He opened his eyes, puzzled. Instead of the Roman officer, he saw a dark-skinned figure crouched over him, a man he vaguely recognised. He licked dry lips. ‘W-who are you?’

‘I’m called Bomilcar.’

‘Bomilcar?’ As confusion filled Hanno, the darkness took him again.