Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Long before the winter sun had tinted the eastern horizon, they assembled some fifty paces from the walls. Behind them, reaching all the way to the bottom of the slope, were units from every section of the army except the cavalry. Apart from the occasional jingle of mail or muted cough, the soldiers made little noise. The breath of thousands plumed the chill, damp air, the only manifestation of the excitement every man felt. As reward for their long struggle and because of the Saguntines’ refusal to parley, Hannibal had told his troops that they had free rein when the city fell. Carthage would take some of the spoils, but the rest was theirs, including the inhabitants: men, women and children.

In serried ranks, they waited as the wooden terraces were pushed forward by torchlight. There was no longer any need for the huge tower with its slingers, spearmen and catapults. Either from lack of men, or missiles, the defenders had recently given up trying to destroy the Carthaginian siege engines. This good fortune meant that the work to undermine the fortifications had been able to proceed much faster than before. According to the engineer in charge, the citadel itself would fall by mid-morning at the latest.

His prediction was accurate. As the first orange fingers of sunlight crept into the sky, ominous rumbles began to fill the air. Within moments, great clouds of smoke began to rise from the centre of the citadel. The crackle of burning wood could also be heard. The Carthaginians paid it no heed. They no longer cared what the Saguntines were doing. With all possible speed, the majority of the soldiers at work in the terraces were pulled back. The danger of being crushed had grown too great. Yet, despite the extreme danger, some remained to finish the task.

They did not have to wait long. With frightening speed, a large piece of the citadel wall suddenly tumbled to the ground. In a chain reaction, it precipitated the thunderous collapse of other, bigger sections. With loud cracks, brickwork and carved stones, which had been in place for decades, even centuries, crumbled and gave way. The noise as they fell more than five storeys was deafening. Inevitably, some of those in the wooden terraces failed to escape in time. A short chorus of strangled screams announced their horrifying demise. Bostar clenched his jaw at the sound. It was what he had expected. As his father had said, ordinary soldiers were expendable. The loss of a certain number meant nothing. And yet to Bostar it did, like the widespread rape, torture and killing of civilians that would shortly take place. Malchus’ grim nature and Sapho’s even darker personality appeared not to be affected by such things, but Bostar felt it damage his soul. He did not let his determination weaken, however. There were too many things at stake. The defeat of Rome. Revenge for his beloved younger brother, Hanno. The building of a new relationship with Sapho. Whether he would ever achieve any of them, Bostar had no idea. Somehow the last seemed the most unlikely.

Immense clouds of dust clogged the air, but as they finally began to clear, the waiting Carthaginians could see an indefensible breach had been created. A swelling cheer rippled down the slope. At last, victory was at hand.

Bostar felt his spirits rise. He threw Sapho a tight smile, but all he got in return was a scowl.

Drawing his falcata sword, Hannibal led the advance.

It was at this precise moment, because of a warning from the surviving defenders on the battlements perhaps, that the screams began. Ululating, despairing, yet still with shreds of dignity, they filled the air. The Carthaginians’ heads shot up. No one could ignore such terrible sounds.

‘It’s the nobility burning themselves to death.’ Malchus’ voice revealed an unusual respect. ‘They’re too proud to become slaves. May it never fall to that in Carthage.’

‘Ha! That day will never come,’ Sapho replied.

Bostar’s instinctive reaction, however, was to utter a prayer to Baal Hammon. Watch over our city for ever, he prayed. Keep it safe from savages such as the Romans.

Hannibal wasn’t listening to the noise. He was keen to end the matter. ‘Charge!’ he screamed in Iberian, and then, for the benefit of the Libyans, he repeated it in his own tongue. Followed by his faithful scutarii, he trotted towards the gaping hole in the citadel. Bellowing the same command, Malchus, Sapho and Bostar sprang forward with their men. Behind them, the order rang out in half a dozen languages, and, like so many thousand ants, the host of soldiers followed.