Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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.