Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

Bomilcar frowned. ‘What?’

‘The sound of metal on metal. It means that Carthaginian soldiers have reached the ramparts! We need to hurry. Best to be out of sight until they’ve cleared the streets near the gate.’

Bomilcar cast a glance up and down the street before taking Hanno’s right arm and placing it over his shoulder, holding it in place with his own right hand. ‘I can make it,’ Hanno protested, but the Carthaginian was having none of it.

‘There’s almost no one about. You’re weak, and it will be quicker this way.’

Grateful for the assistance, Hanno did not protest further. He remembered little of the rest of their journey. A pair of wounded soldiers limping past on their way to the surgeon. A glance from a curious child. The suspicious stare of the ostler at the stables. His expression changing to a welcoming smile as Bomilcar slipped him a couple of coins. A barn full of hay. The nicker of a nearby horse. And then nothing.

The men of Sapho’s phalanx cheered as the main gate cracked and fell inwards, its timbers shattered and riven. Clouds of dust rose. Cries of dismay could be heard from within the walls. The Gauls at the entrance dropped their battering ram and swarmed into the gap, screaming like men possessed. Hundreds of their fellows, prepared for this moment, were hot on their heels. Bare-chested, or clad in tunics or mail shirts, the heavily armed warriors tore into the breach, striking the waiting Romans with an almighty crash. Sapho and his men roared with approval. The Gauls would smash apart the shocked legionaries, clearing the way for them to advance.

Sapho’s chest swelled with pride. A stocky man with curly black hair and a broad nose, he took after their father. He was here because Hannibal had not lost his trust in him. His unit would be the first of the regular Carthaginian forces to enter Victumulae. The danger might not be extreme, but there would be ample opportunity to slay Romans. Hannibal’s order had deprived them of their right to live. The more that died, the merrier. His general had given the order, and he would follow it to the letter. Like his brothers, Sapho had grown up on tales of the wrongs done to Carthage by Rome. This war, this battle provided the chance for revenge. If he was lucky, there might be opportunity to secure the grain stores, which would surely raise him in Hannibal’s regard. Sapho didn’t suppose that anyone would happen upon Hanno, but that was possible too. The garrison buildings would need to be searched. It would please their father if his body were found. Despite Sapho’s jealousy of Hanno, who had always seemed Malchus’ favourite, his youngest brother deserved a decent burial.

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.