Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘Listen!’ said Malchus in triumph. ‘Hannibal is talking to them as he passes by. There are many things that make a good general, and this is one of them. It’s not just about leading from the front. You have to engage with your soldiers as well.’ He gave Bostar an approving nod, which made Sapho mutter something under his breath.

Bostar’s temper frayed. This was an area he paid a lot of attention to. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘If you tried that instead of punishing every tiny infraction of the rules, your troops might respect you more.’

Sapho’s face darkened, but before he could reply, loud cheering broke out. Men began stamping their feet on the ground in a repetitive, infectious rhythm. The other officers did nothing to intervene. This was what they had all been waiting for. The noise grew and grew, until gradually a single word became audible. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’

Bostar grinned. One could not help but be infected by the soldiers’ enthusiasm. Even Sapho was craning his neck to see.

Eventually, a small party emerged from the midst of the spearmen. It was a hollow square, formed by perhaps two dozen scutarii. These Iberian infantry were some of Hannibal’s best troops. As always, the scutarii were wearing their characteristic black cloaks over simple tunics and small breastplates. Their fearsome array of weapons included various types of heavy throwing spear, most notably the all-iron saunion, as well as long, straight swords, and daggers. Within their formation walked a lone figure, partially obscured from view. This was who everyone wanted to see. Finally, nearing Malchus and his sons, the scutarii fanned out in two lines. The man within was revealed.

Hannibal Barca.

Bostar gazed at his general with frank admiration. Like most senior Carthaginian officers, Hannibal wore a simple Hellenistic gilded bronze helmet. Sunlight flashed off its surface, reflecting into the soldiers’ eyes. The blinding light concealed Hannibal’s face apart from his beard. A dark purple cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Under it, he wore a tunic of the same colour, and an ornate muscled bronze cuirass, its details picked out in silver. Layered strips of linen guarded the general’s groin, and polished bronze greaves covered his lower legs. His feet were encased in sturdy leather sandals. A hide baldric swept down from his right shoulder to his left hip, suspending a falcata sword in a well-worn scabbard. He moved forward, limping slightly.

The commander of the scutarii barked an order, and in unison his soldiers slammed their brightly painted shields on to the rock. The crashing sound instantly silenced the assembled troops. ‘Your general, the lion of Carthage, Hannibal Barca!’ screamed the officer.

Everyone stiffened to attention and saluted.

‘General!’ cried Malchus. ‘You honour us with your presence.’

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth tugged up. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’ He made his way to Malchus’ side. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, sir. We have checked over the siege engines twice. Every man knows his task.’

Malchus’ sons muttered in agreement.

Hannibal glanced at each of them in turn before giving a satisfied nod. ‘You will do well.’

‘May Baal Saphon strike us down if we do not,’ said Sapho fervently.

Hannibal looked a little surprised. ‘I hope not. The city will fall eventually, but we haven’t succeeded so far. Who’s to say that today will be any different? And valuable officers are hard to come by.’ Ignoring Sapho’s obvious discomfort, he smiled at Malchus. ‘Understand that you’re only being granted this chance because I can’t run.’ He touched the heavy strapping on his right thigh.

‘Your injury was most unfortunate, sir,’ said Malchus, ‘but we are grateful for the opportunity that it has granted us today.’

Hannibal smiled. ‘Your eagerness is commendable.’

Bostar could still picture the heart-stopping moment several weeks previously, during an assault similar to the one they were about to lead. As was his nature, Hannibal had been at the front. Bostar wished it had been he who had taken the arrow through the thigh. ‘How’s it healing, sir?’

‘Slowly enough.’ Hannibal grimaced. ‘I should be thankful, I suppose, that the defenders aren’t better archers.’

Father and sons laughed nervously. That eventuality was something no one wanted to entertain.

‘Well, don’t let me stand in your way. The Saguntines await you.’ Hannibal indicated the walls, which were thickly manned. He pointed back down the steep slope at the other companies of troops: reinforcements should the attack break through. ‘So do they.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Malchus lifted his sword.

His men, who had been watching closely, stiffened.

‘Gods, but I wish Hanno were here,’ muttered Bostar.

Sapho’s face hardened. ‘Eh? Why?’

‘He spent his time dreaming about things like this.’

‘Well, he’s dead,’ Sapho whispered back savagely. ‘So you’re wasting your time.’

Bostar gave him a furious stare. ‘Don’t you miss him?’

Sapho had no chance to reply.