Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘A hundred thousand men. At the very least.’ The instant the words had left his lips, Bostar could see that the Ausetani leader did not believe him. His spirits fell. It was an enormous figure to take in, yet the other tribes visited by the embassy had done so. Perhaps, thought Bostar, it was because they were a lot smaller than the Ausetani. In those villages, the fifty Carthaginian soldiers had seemed altogether more intimidating than they did here. This tribe was a different proposition; reportedly, there were numerous other villages like this one. Combined, the Ausetani might be able to field a force of two or even three thousand warriors, which for Iberia was a considerable achievement. Imagining a host thirty to fifty times larger than that number called for a good imagination.

Sure enough, the chief and his bodyguards exchanged a series of disbelieving looks.

‘Scum,’ Sapho whispered furiously in Carthaginian. ‘They’ll shit themselves when they actually see the army.’

Not knowing what else to do, Bostar ploughed on. ‘Some evidence of our good faith.’ He clicked his fingers and a quartet of scutarii trotted forward, carrying heavy, clinking bags and armfuls of tightly rolled leather. Placing the items in front of the chieftain, they returned to their positions.

The gifts were opened and examined with unseemly speed. Avarice glittered in the faces of every Ausetani watching as mounds of silver coins showered on to the ground. There were loud mutters of appreciation too for the shining weaponry that emerged into view as the leather bundles were unrolled.

Malchus’ attitude was still confident, or appeared to be so. ‘Ask the chief what answer he would have us take back to Hannibal,’ he directed Bostar.

Bostar obeyed.

The Ausetani leader’s face grew thoughtful. For the space of twenty heartbeats, he sat regarding the riches laid out before him. Finally, he asked a short question.

‘He wants to know how much more they can expect when Hannibal arrives,’ Bostar relayed unhappily.

‘Greedy bastard,’ Sapho hissed.

Malchus’ eyebrows drew together in disapproval, yet he did not look surprised. ‘I can promise him the same again, and the dog will probably let us go,’ he said. ‘But I have no idea if Hannibal will agree with my decision. We’ve already handed over a fortune.’ He glanced at his sons. ‘What do you think?’

‘Hannibal will think we are fools, pure and simple,’ muttered Sapho, his nostrils flaring. ‘All the other tribes have accepted our gifts, yet this one got twice as much?’

‘We can’t offer him more or the son of a whore will think we’re a walkover,’ Bostar conceded. He scowled. ‘Hannibal’s goodwill should be more than enough for him!’

‘But I don’t think it will be,’ said Malchus grimly. ‘If that amount of silver and weaponry hasn’t done it, then a vague promise certainly won’t.’

Bostar could see no way out that didn’t involve major loss of face. Although he and his companions were few in number, they were the representatives of a major power, not these cut-throats around them. To accede to the chieftain’s demand would show fear on their part, and by implication, weakness on the part of their general. His eyes narrowed as an idea struck. ‘You could promise him a private meeting with Hannibal,’ he suggested. ‘Suggest that an alliance between his people and Carthage would be beneficial to both parties.’

‘We don’t have the authority to grant that,’ growled Sapho.

‘Of course we don’t,’ Bostar replied witheringly. ‘But it’s not a climb-down either.’

‘I like it,’ breathed Malchus. He glanced at Sapho, who gave a sulky shrug. ‘I think it’s our best shot. Tell him.’

Calmly, Bostar delivered their answer.

A ferocious scowl spread across the chieftain’s face straightaway, and he spat out an irate, lengthy response. It was delivered so fast that Malchus and Sapho struggled to understand much of it. Bostar did not bother translating before he replied. At once the leader’s bodyguards and the huge warrior moved forward in unison. Simultaneously, the men who had followed the Carthaginians inside fanned out on either side of the party, surrounding it.

‘What in the name of all the gods did he say?’ Malchus demanded.

Bostar’s lips thinned. ‘That the Ausetani have no need of an alliance with the louse-ridden son of a Phoenician whore.’

Sapho clenched his fists. ‘How did you answer?’

‘I told him that an immediate sincere apology might mean Hannibal’s clemency when the army arrives. Otherwise, he and his entire tribe could expect to be annihilated.’

Malchus clapped him on the arm. ‘Well said!’

Even Sapho gave Bostar a look of grudging admiration.

Malchus eyed the circle of warriors around them. ‘It appears that our road ends here then,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘We will never have the opportunity to avenge Hanno. Yet we can die well. Like men!’ He turned towards their escorts, and repeated his words. He was pleased when, as one, they laid hands to their weapons.

‘On your command, sir,’ muttered the officers in charge.