Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Delighted, Sapho watched his general disappear back down the track. The passage of the mountains was proving to be far more rewarding than he could have anticipated.

For two days, the party of Vocontii led Sapho through their lands. The cavalry and baggage train followed slowly behind them, and after them came the rest of the army. Although there had been no attacks on the column, Sapho’s distrust of the tribesmen who guided him remained. It grew stronger when, on the morning of the third day, the Vocontii chose a track that entered a valley much narrower than that in which they’d been marching. There was barely enough room for the ubiquitous pine trees to grow up its steep sides. Halting his soldiers, Sapho summoned the wall-eyed warrior. ‘Why aren’t we staying on this path?’ Sapho indicated the larger way to the right, which continued off into the distance. ‘It’s wider, and the terrain looks to remain flatter.’

The guide repeated his words in the local tongue.

The warrior launched into a long, rambling explanation, which involved much pointing and gesticulating.

‘Apparently it ends in a sheer cliff face about five miles away, sir. We’d just have to turn around and come back here. This narrow one, on the other hand, leads gradually upwards and will take us to the lowest pass in the area.’

Sapho glared at the warrior, who simply shrugged. One of his eyes was looking at him, while the other was staring off into the sky. Sapho found it infuriating. It also made judging whether the warrior was lying exceptionally hard. He made up his mind. Sending a runner to ask Hannibal, who was with the rearguard, would entail a delay of three hours or more. ‘Fine,’ he growled. ‘We’ll do as he says. Tell him, though, that if there’s any trickery, he’ll be the first to die.’ Sapho was pleased to see the warrior’s throat work nervously when his threat was translated. He led the way confidently enough, however, allaying Sapho’s concern a fraction.

His unease soon returned. It wasn’t the stony and uneven track. That was much the same as those they’d followed since entering the Alps. No, thought Sapho, it was the sheer rock faces that pressed in from both sides. They went on and on with no sign of widening out. It created a feeling of real claustrophobia. He didn’t know exactly how high the cliffs were, but it was enough to reduce significantly the light on the valley floor. Sapho wasn’t alone in disliking the situation. He could hear his men muttering uneasily to each other. Behind, there were indignant brays from the mules. Many of the cavalrymen were dismounting in order to lead their reluctant horses forward.

Sapho set his jaw. He had committed the army to this route. With a ten-mile column following, there was no turning back now. They just had to get on with it. Loosening his sword in his scabbard, Sapho ensured that he stayed close to the wall-eyed warrior. If anything happened, he would carry out his threat.

Pleasingly, they made slow but continuous progress for what remained of the morning. Men’s spirits rose, and even the animals grew used to the confined space. Sapho remained on edge, constantly scanning the skyline above for any sign of movement. He tried to ignore the crick that was developing in his neck from always looking straight up in the air.

What attracted Sapho’s attention first was not motion, but sound. One moment all that he could hear was the noises he’d heard daily since leaving New Carthage. Soldiers gossiping with each other. An occasional laugh, or curse. Officers barking orders. The creak of leather and jingle of harness. Hacking coughs from those with bad chests. The sound of men spitting. Brays from mules. Horses’ whinnies. The next moment, Sapho’s ears rang with a terrible, screeching resonance. He flinched instinctively. It was the noise of rock scraping off rock. With a terrible sense of dread, he looked up.

For a moment, Sapho saw nothing, but then the irregular edge of a block of stone appeared at the edge of the cliff far above. Frantically, Sapho raised a hand to his mouth. ‘We’re under attack! Raise shields! Raise shields!’ In the same instant, his head was turning, searching for the wall-eyed warrior. As the air filled with panicked shouts, Sapho saw the man had already elbowed past his comrades and was shouting at them to follow him. ‘You treacherous bastard!’ Sapho shouted, drawing his sword. He was too late. Enraged, he watched as the Vocontii disappeared into a fissure in the rock not twenty paces away. Sapho cursed savagely. He had to stay where he was, and do what he could for his men. If he wasn’t killed himself. One thing was certain: if any of the hostages, who were kept deep in the middle of his phalanx, survived, they would die the instant he could get to them.