Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘Wait,’ interrupted Sapho. ‘I have an idea.’ Without asking for Malchus’ approval, he drew his sword and moved to stand in front of the hulk who had laughed at them when they arrived. The warrior leered unpleasantly. ‘Can this freak actually fight?’ Sapho demanded in reasonable Iberian.

The Ausetani leader couldn’t believe his ears. Sapho barely reached up to the warrior’s shoulder. ‘That’s my eldest son. He’s never been beaten in single combat.’

‘What’s he doing?’ Bostar whispered to Malchus.

For once, Malchus looked worried. ‘I don’t know, but I hope the gods are smiling on him.’

Sapho raised his voice. ‘If I defeat him, then you will apologise, accept Hannibal’s gifts and allow us to leave unharmed. When our army arrives, you will offer it safe passage.’

The chieftain laughed. So did everyone within earshot. ‘Of course. If you fail, though, he will take your head, and those of all your companions, as trophies.’

‘I would expect no less,’ Sapho replied disdainfully.

The chieftain gave a callous shrug. At his command, the mass of warriors formed a large, hollow circle. Malchus seized the initiative and used his soldiers to force a passage through so that they could form part of what was to be the combat area. He and Bostar stood at the very front. Many of the Ausetani did not like this move, and began pushing and shoving at the Carthaginian troops, until an angry shout from their leader stopped them. Surrounded by his bodyguards, the chief took up a position directly opposite Malchus.

Gripping his drawn sword, Sapho stalked through a narrow corridor of leering, unfriendly faces. A few paces behind him, the huge warrior received a rapturous welcome. When they were both in the centre of the circle, the crowd of Ausetani closed ranks. From a distance of perhaps a dozen paces, the two faced each other. Sapho was armed with a sword and a dagger. In contemptuous concession, his opponent had laid aside his shield and saunion, leaving him with a long, straight, double-edged blade. It still looked like a totally uneven match.

Bostar’s gorge rose. Sapho was a skilled swordsman, but he’d never faced a prospect like this. Judging by his father’s clenched jaw and fixed expression, he was thinking similar thoughts. Whatever he had been thinking about Sapho recently, Bostar didn’t want him to die losing to this giant. Closing his eyes, he prayed to Baal Saphon, the god of war, to help his brother. To help them all.

Sapho rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles and wondering what was his best course of action. Why had he thrown down such a stupid challenge? The explanation was simple. Since Bostar had saved Hannibal’s life, Sapho’s jealousy had soared to new heights. There had always been a keen rivalry between them, but this was a step too far. In the months since they’d left Saguntum, Sapho had appeared to go along with Bostar’s wish to lay the matter to rest, but the feeling gnawed constantly at his guts like a malignant growth. Perhaps now some of his wounded pride could be reclaimed. Sapho studied his opponent’s bulging muscles and tried not to despair. What chance had he of succeeding? He had only one, Sapho realised with a thrill. His speed.

The chieftain raised his right arm, and a hushed silence fell. Glancing at both men to ensure they were ready, he made a downward chopping gesture.

With an almighty roar, the warrior launched himself forward, his sword raised high. For him, the contest was to be ended quickly. Brutally. Closing in on Sapho, he hammered down an immense blow. Instead of cleaving flesh, the blade whistled through the air to clash off the pebble-strewn ground, sending up a shower of sparks. Sapho was gone, dancing nimbly around to his opponent’s rear. The warrior bellowed with rage and spun to face him. Again he swung at Sapho, to no avail. He didn’t seem to care. With greater strength and reach, and a longer weapon, he had all the advantage.

Speed isn’t enough, thought Sapho. Desperately, he twisted away from a thrust that would have driven through both his bronze breastplate and his ribcage had it connected. So far, the warrior’s quilted linen tunic had turned away the glancing blows he had managed to land. Without getting dangerously close, it was impossible to do any more. Backing away from his sneering opponent, Sapho did not see one of the Ausetani stretch out his foot. An instant later, he tripped over it and fell backwards on to the hard packed dirt. Fortunately, he retained hold of his sword.