Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

The air filled with a rumbling thunder and Sapho glanced upwards again. It was a terrifying sound, amplified a thousand times by the confining valley walls. Awestruck, he watched as several boulders, each the size of a horse, were pushed over the edge high above them. They picked up speed fast, and tumbled with ever-increasing speed down the vertiginous cliff face. Relief battled with horror as Sapho realised that none would strike him. Loud screams rose from the soldiers directly underneath the rocks, who could do nothing but watch their death hurtle towards them. Their cries revealed their awful, helpless terror. Aghast, Sapho could not take his eyes off the plummeting pieces of stone. A hot tide of acid flooded the back of his mouth as they struck their targets with deafening thumps, silencing their victims for ever.

Their ordeal wasn’t over, either. Further down the cliff tops, in a position over the cavalry and the baggage train, Sapho could see more boulders being pushed towards the edge. He groaned. There was nothing he could do for those men and beasts either. Sapho took a deep breath. Best see to the injured, he thought. At least those can be helped.

The scream of battle cries filled their ears before they could do a thing. To Sapho’s fury, files of Vocontii warriors came spilling from the fissure into which their guides had just vanished. More issued from another one alongside it. A red mist of rage replaced Sapho’s dismay. He recognised the wall-eyed man and others of their guides among their number. Raising his spear, he roared, ‘Eyes front! Enemy attack!’ His soldiers responded with alacrity. ‘Shields up! Ready spears!’

From the shouts behind them, Sapho could tell that the column had been attacked in other places too. ‘Rear five ranks, about turn!’ he bellowed. ‘Advance to meet the enemy. Engage at will.’ That done, Sapho spun to face the Vocontii before them. The tribesmen were closing in fast, weapons held high. Sapho levelled his spear at the wall-eyed warrior. ‘You’re dead meat, you stinking whoreson!’

His answer was an inarticulate snarl.

To Sapho’s frustration, he did not get to close with the other. The phalanx’s rigid structure meant that he could not move from his position, and the warrior was heading for a different part of the front rank. Sapho had to forget about him, as a tribesman with a dense red beard thrust his sword at his face. Rather than ducking below his shield rim, thereby losing sight of his enemy, Sapho jerked his head to one side. The blade whistled past his left ear, and Sapho thrust forward with his spear. There was a grating feeling as it slipped between two ribs, and then it ran deep into the other’s unprotected chest. Sapho had no chance to pull free his weapon from the dying man’s flesh. Releasing his grip on the shaft, he dragged free his sword. The warrior slumped to the ground, a disbelieving expression still twisting his features, and was immediately replaced.

Sapho’s second foe was a bellowing bull of a man with a thick neck and hugely muscled arms. To Sapho’s shock, the triangular point of his enemy’s spear punched clean through the bronze and leather facing of his shield and smacked into his cuirass. A ball of agony exploded from Sapho’s lower belly, and he reeled several steps backwards, dropping his sword. Fortunately, the soldier behind was ready, and leaned forward, thereby preventing Sapho from falling over. Jammed in Sapho’s shield, the tribesman’s weapon was no longer usable. Quick as a flash, however, he ripped out a long dagger and reached over the top of Sapho’s shield to lunge at his throat. Desperately, Sapho jerked his head backwards. Slash after slash followed, and he knew that it would only be a moment before his throat was ripped open by the wickedly wielded blade.

It was with the utmost relief that Sapho saw a spear come in from the side to pierce the warrior’s throat. It stabbed right through, emerging scarlet-tipped from the right side of his neck. A dreadful, choking sound left the Gaul’s gaping mouth. It was followed by a tide of bright red blood, which spattered the front of Sapho’s shield and, below, his feet. The spear was withdrawn, letting the dead warrior collapse on top of Sapho’s first opponent.

‘Gods above,’ Sapho muttered. He’d never been so close to death. He turned his head to regard his saviour. ‘Thank you.’

The spearman, a gap-toothed youth, grinned. ‘You’re welcome, captain. Are you all right?’