Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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 wanted 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.