Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘What are you waiting for?’ Malchus demanded, who had missed the exchange. ‘Get into position!’

With a quick salute to Hannibal, Bostar and Sapho sprinted off to join their respective phalanxes. Each was in charge of one of the vineae, and their increasingly bitter rivalry meant that both burned to command the siege engine which smashed the decisive hole in the walls, and allowed their comrades a way into Saguntum. Of course it might not be they who succeeded, thought Bostar. Their father commanded the third vinea, and Alete, a doughty veteran whom both brothers admired, had the last.

Malchus waited until they were in place before he chopped his arm downward. ‘Forward!’ he shouted.

Using whistles, the officers encouraged the Libyans towards the walls. Dozens of men who had been selected earlier handed their spears to comrades and ran to place their shoulders against the backs of the vineae, or to stand alongside the wheels. Scores of others used their large shields to form protective screens around those who were now unprotected. More commands rang out, and the soldiers around the siege engines began to push. With loud creaks, the vineae rumbled forward, past Hannibal. When the machines were perhaps fifty paces up the slope, the remaining Libyans began to follow in tight phalanxes.

As they drew nearer, Bostar’s stomach clenched. He could clearly see the faces of those above, the defenders who were waiting to rain death down upon him and his men. Upon his father and brother. Baal Saphon, let us smash the enemy’s walls asunder, he prayed. Keep your shield over all of us. As the first missiles came pattering down, Bostar couldn’t help wondering if Sapho was asking for similar protection for him.

He doubted it.

Taking great care, Bostar peered out at the ramparts above him. Perhaps an hour had passed, and the assault was going well. The battering rams suspended in the bottoms of the vineae were smashing great holes in the base of the wall. Thanks to the siege engines’ wooden and leather roofs, which had been pre-soaked in water, the defenders’ clouds of fire arrows, stones and spears were having limited effect. Bostar had lost fifteen men, which was perfectly acceptable. The phalanxes on either side, those of Sapho and Alete, looked to have suffered much the same.

Soon after, a large section of the wall collapsed. A wry grin split Bostar’s face at the sight. The area lay directly between his and Sapho’s positions, so neither could claim the credit. That wasn’t the point now, of course. Hannibal was watching them. Bostar roared at his men to redouble their efforts. He fancied he heard Sapho’s voice above the din, enjoining his soldiers to do the same. Their efforts were not in vain. Before long, two, and then three, towers had fallen outwards, crushing dozens of the garrison, and spearmen, to death. But a sizeable breach had now been forced, large enough to gain entry. Bostar did not wait until the dust had settled. This opportunity had to be seized by the throat, before the bewildered defenders had a chance to react. Screaming at his men to pick up their weapons and follow him, he climbed on to the mounds of broken masonry that stood before the siege engines. He was pleased to note that Sapho’s soldiers were also spilling into view. Catching sight of his brother twenty paces away, Bostar raised his spear in salute. ‘I’ll see you inside!’

‘Not if I get there before you,’ Sapho snarled back. He turned to his soldiers, who were straining like hunting dogs on the leash. ‘Five gold pieces to the first man to get within the walls. Forward!’

Bostar sighed. Even this had to be a contest. So be it, he thought angrily.

The race was on.

Pursued by their men, the two brothers scrambled up towards the breach. They risked their lives with every step, not just from the continuing rain of missiles from the ramparts to either side, but from the treacherous footing beneath. Carrying a spear in one hand and a shield in the other made it even more difficult to balance. Bostar kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. The enemy missiles were beyond his control, but he could make sure that he didn’t break an ankle in the ascent. He’d seen it happen before, consigning the unfortunates affected to being trampled by their comrades, or killed by the torrent of death being thrown by the Saguntines.

Bostar was first to reach the highest point of the smashed wall. The clouds of dust sent up by the towers’ collapse formed a choking cloud that hid any defenders from sight. Perhaps there were none? wondered Bostar. His heart leaped, but then he glanced around and cursed. In his haste, he’d outstripped his soldiers. The nearest were twenty paces down the slope. ‘Get a move on,’ he roared. ‘This isn’t a walking party!’