Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘I was in a foreign landscape, which was full of farms and large villages. I wandered for many hours, lost and without friends, until a ghost appeared.’ Hannibal nodded as his words spread and the superstitious soldiers glanced nervously at each other. ‘He was a young man, handsome, and clad in a simple Greek tunic, but there was an ethereal glow about him. When I asked who he was, he laughed and offered to guide me, as long as I did not look back. Although I was unsure, I accepted his proposal.’

Hannibal had everyone’s attention now, even that of the priests. Men were making the sign against evil, and rubbing their lucky amulets. Bostar’s heart was thudding off his ribs.

‘We walked for maybe a mile before I became aware of a loud crashing noise behind us,’ Hannibal went on. ‘I tried not to turn and see what was going on, but the sound grew so great that I could not help myself. I glanced around. What I saw made my throat close with fear. There was a snake of wondrous size following us, crushing every tree and bush in its path. Black thunderclouds sat in the sky above it, and lightning bolts flashed repeatedly through the air. I froze in terror.’ Hannibal paused.

‘What happened next, sir?’ cried one of Alete’s Libyans. ‘Tell us!’

An inchoate roar of agreement followed. Bostar found himself shouting too. Visions like this – for surely that was what Hannibal had had – could portend a man’s future, for good or ill. Dread filled Bostar that it was the latter.

Sapho could not dispel his unease about what lay before them. ‘He’s making it up. So we’ll follow him up into those damn mountains,’ he muttered.

Bostar gave him a disbelieving glance. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

Sapho’s jealousy of his brother grew. ‘Really? With so much at stake?’ he retorted.

‘Stop it! You’ll anger the gods!’ said Bostar.

Belatedly scared by what he’d said, Sapho looked away.

‘Wait,’ hissed Malchus. ‘There’s more.’

‘The young man took my arm, and ordered me not to be afraid,’ shouted Hannibal suddenly. ‘I asked him what the snake signified, and he told me. Do you want to hear what he said?’

There was a short pause.

‘YES!’ The bellow exceeded anything that had gone before.

‘The devastation represents what will happen to Rome at the hands of my army!’ the general said triumphantly. ‘The gods favour us!’

‘Hurrah!’ Bostar was so thrilled that he threw an arm around Sapho’s shoulders and hugged him. His brother tensed, before stiffly returning the gesture. The exhilaration in the air was infectious. Even Malchus’ normal solemnity had been replaced by a broad smile.

‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ yelled the delighted soldiers.

While his troops cheered themselves hoarse, Hannibal made a gesture to the priests. With the aid of a dozen scutarii, the bellowing bull was hauled up the ramp until it stood in front of the altar. Hannibal stood to one side. At once the applause died away, and the worried looks returned to men’s faces. Success was by no means guaranteed yet. The omens from the sacrifice also had to be good. Bostar found himself clenching his fists.

‘O Great Melqart, accept this prize beast as a sacred offering, and as a gesture of our good faith,’ intoned the high priest, an old man with a grey beard and fleshy cheeks. His companions repeated his words. Raising the hood on his robe, the priest then accepted a long dagger. The bull’s head was pulled forward, stretching its neck. Without further ado, the old man extended his arm and yanked it back, drawing the blade across the underside of the bull’s throat with savage force. Blood gouted from the large wound, covering the priest’s feet. The kicking beast collapsed to the platform, and the unneeded scutarii were waved back. Swiftly, the old man moved to kneel between the bull’s front and back legs. With sure strokes, he slit open the skin and abdominal muscles. Steaming loops of bowel slithered into view. The priest barely glanced at them as, still gripping the dagger, he shoved both his arms deep into the abdominal cavity.

‘He’s seen nothing bad so far. That’s good,’ whispered Bostar.

It’s probably all been arranged in advance, thought Sapho sourly, but he no longer dared speak his mind.

A moment later, the old man stood up to face Hannibal. His arms were bloodied to the shoulder, and the front of his saturated robe had turned crimson. In his hands, he held a purple, glistening lump of tissue. ‘The beast’s liver, sir,’ he said gravely.

‘What does it tell you?’ There was the slightest trace of a quaver in Hannibal’s voice.

‘We shall see,’ replied the priest, studying the organ.

‘Told you!’ Bostar gave Sapho a hefty nudge. ‘Even Hannibal is unsure.’