Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

It was especially hard to look at the soldiers who had lost their extremities. The lucky ones were already dead, but the rest were screaming for their mothers while what blood was left in them spurted and dribbled out on to the semi-frozen earth. It was a mercy to kill them. Yet for every gruesome sight that Hanno beheld, there was another one to exceed it. It was the suffering of those of his own side that tore at his heart the most. He had to force himself to examine these unfortunates. It was his job to judge the severity of their injuries and make a snap decision if they should live or die.

It was usually the latter.

Gritting his teeth, Hanno killed men who were shuddering their way into oblivion, holding their intestines, the rank smell of their own shit filling their nostrils. Those who lay moaning and coughing up the pink froth that signified a lung wound also had to be slain. More fortunate were the men who wailed and thrashed about, clutching at the arm that had been sliced open to the bone, or the leg that had been hamstrung. Their reaction to Hanno and his soldiers, the lone uninjured figures among them, was uniform. It did not matter whether they were Libyan, Gaulish or Roman. They reached out with bloodied hands, beseeching him for help. Muttering reassurances to the Carthaginian troops, Hanno offered the enemy wounded nothing but silence and a flashing blade. It was far worse than the savagery of close-quarters combat, and soon Hanno was utterly sick of it. All he wanted to do was find his brothers’ bodies and return to the camp.

When first the familiar voice of Sapho, and then Bostar, called out his name, Hanno didn’t react. As their shouts grew more urgent, he was thunderstruck. There they were, not fifty paces away, in the midst of Mago’s men. It was a miracle, Hanno thought dazedly. It had to be, for all four of them to survive this industrial-scale butchery.

‘Hanno? Is that you?’ Sapho demanded, unable to keep the disbelief – and joy – from his voice.

Hanno blinked away his tears. ‘It is.’

‘Father?’ Bostar’s tone was strangled.

‘He’s unhurt,’ Hanno yelled back, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the event, he did both. So did Bostar. An instant later, even Sapho had tears in his eyes as the three came together in a fierce embrace. Each stank of sweat, blood, mud and other smells too foul to imagine, but none of them cared.

Their arguments had been forgotten for the moment.

The only thing that mattered was that they were still alive.

At last, grinning like fools, the brothers pulled apart. Not quite believing their own eyes, they held on to one another’s arms or shoulders for a long time afterwards. Inevitably, though, their gaze was drawn to the devastation all around. Instead of the din of battle, their ears rang with the sound of screams. The voices of the countless injured and maimed, men who were desperate to be found before darkness fell and a certain fate claimed them for ever.

‘We won,’ said Hanno in a wondering tone. ‘The legionaries might have escaped, but the rest of them broke and ran.’

‘Or died where they stood,’ Sapho snarled, his customary hardness already creeping back. ‘After what they’ve done to us, the whoresons had it coming!’

Bostar winced as Sapho gestured at the piles of dead, but he nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t think that the war has been won,’ he warned. ‘This is just the start.’

Hanno thought of Quintus and his dogged determination. ‘I know,’ he replied heavily.

‘Rome must pay even more for all the wrongs it has done to Carthage,’ intoned Bostar, raising his reddened right fist.

‘In blood,’ Sapho added. He reached up to clasp Bostar’s hand with his own.

Both looked expectantly at Hanno.

An image of Aurelia, smiling, popped into Hanno’s head, filling him with confusion. It took but an instant, however, before he savagely buried the picture in the recesses of his mind. What was he thinking? Aurelia was one of the enemy. Like her brother and father. Hanno could not truly bring himself to wish any of the three ill, but nor could they be friends. How could that ever be possible after what had gone on here today? On the spot, Hanno decided never to think of them again. It was the only way he could deal with it.

‘In blood,’ he growled, lifting his hand to enclose those of his brothers.

They exchanged a fierce, wolfish smile.

That is what we are, thought Hanno proudly. Carthaginian wolves come to harry and tear at the fat Roman sheep in their fields. Let the farmers of Italy tremble in their beds, for we shall leave no corner of their land untouched.