Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

A succession of explosive cracks suddenly drowned out all sound. Chunks of stone were hurled high into the air, and one of the scutarii collapsed as if poleaxed. His skull had been neatly staved in by a piece of rock no bigger than a hen’s egg. His panicked companion jumped to safety, and the soldiers who had been tending the fire all retreated at speed. More cracking sounds followed, and then the rock broke into several large parts. Parts that could be moved by men, or smashed into pieces by hammers. The cheering that followed rose to the very clouds. As word spread down the column, the noise increased in volume until it seemed that the mountains themselves were rejoicing.

Elated, Bostar and Sapho rushed separately to their father’s side. Joyfully, they embraced him one by one. They were joined by Hannibal, who greeted Malchus like a brother. ‘Our ordeal is nearly over,’ the general cried. ‘The path to Cisalpine Gaul lies open.’

The two friends’ first sight of the capital was formed by the immense Servian wall, which ringed the city and dwarfed Capua’s defences. ‘The fortifications are nearly two hundred years old,’ Quintus explained excitedly. ‘They were built after Rome was sacked by the Gauls.’

May Hannibal be the next to do so, Hanno prayed.

‘How does Carthage compare?’

‘Eh?’ said Hanno, coming back to reality. ‘Many of her defences are much more recent.’ They’re still far more spectacular, he thought.

‘And its size?’

Hanno wasn’t going to lie about that one. ‘Carthage is much bigger.’

Quintus did his best not to look disgruntled, and failed.

Hanno was surprised that within the walls, Carthage’s similarities with Rome grew. The streets were unpaved, and most were no more than ten paces across. After months of hot weather, their surfaces were little more than an iron-hard series of wheel ruts. ‘They’ll be a muddy morass come the winter,’ he said, pointing. ‘That’s what happens if it rains a lot at home.’

‘As in Capua,’ agreed Quintus. He wrinkled his nose as they passed an alleyway used as a dung heap. The acrid odour of human faeces and urine hung heavy in the air. ‘Lucky it’s autumn and not the height of summer. The smell then is apparently unbearable.’

‘Do many buildings have sewerage systems?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not much different to parts of Carthage,’ Hanno replied. It was strange to feel homesick because of the smell of shit.

The fuggy atmosphere was aided by the fact that the closely built structures were two, three and even four storeys tall, creating a dimly lit, poorly ventilated environment on the street. Compared to the fresh air and open spaces of the Italian countryside, it was an alternative world. Most structures were open-fronted shops at ground level, with stairs at the side that snaked up to the flats above. Quintus was shocked by the filth of it all. ‘They’re where the majority of people live,’ he explained.

‘In Carthage, they’re mostly constructed from mud bricks.’

‘That sounds a lot safer. The cenaculae are built of wood. They’re disease-ridden, hard to heat and easy to destroy.’

‘Fire’s a big problem, then,’ said Hanno, imagining how easy it would be to burn down the city if it fell to Hannibal’s army.

Quintus grimaced. ‘Yes.’

Along with its sights and smells, the capital provided plenty of noise. The air was filled with the clamour of shopkeepers competing for business, the shrieks of playing children and the chatter of neighbours gossiping on the street corners. Beggars of every hue abounded, adding their cries for alms to the din. The clang of iron being pounded on anvils carried from smithies, and the sound of carpenters hammering echoed off the tall buildings. In the distance, cattle bellowed from the Forum Boarium.

Of course Rome was not their main destination: that was the port of Pisae, from which Publius and his army had set sail. Yet the temptation of visiting Rome had been too much for either of the friends to resist. They wandered through the streets for hours, drinking in the sights. When they were hungry, they filled their bellies with hot sausages and fresh bread bought from little stalls. Juicy plums and apples finished off their satisfying meal.

Inevitably, Quintus was drawn to the massive temple of Jupiter, high on the Capitoline Hill. He gaped at its roof of beaten gold, rows of columns the height of ten men and facade of brightly painted terracotta. He came to a halt by the immense statue of a bearded Jupiter, which stood in front of the complex, giving it a view over much of Rome.

Feeling resentful, Hanno also stopped.

‘This must be bigger than any of the shrines in Carthage,’ said Quintus with a questioning look.

‘There’s one which is as big,’ Hanno replied proudly. ‘It’s in honour of Eshmoun.’

‘What god is that?’ asked Quintus curiously.

‘He represents fertility, good health and well-being.’

Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘And is he the leading deity in Carthage?’

‘No.’

‘Why has his temple the most prominent position then?’