Their faces twisted with alarm, but Hanno’s delight turned to fear as they dropped Quintus like a sack of grain. Do not let him be hurt, Hanno prayed. Please.
‘You must be a slave,’ Pollio growled. ‘You were unarmed before. Why don’t you join us?’
‘We’ll let you kill your master,’ offered Sejanus. ‘Any way you want.’
Hanno did not dignify the proposal with a reply. Sejanus was nearest, so he went for him first. The big man might have been injured, but he was still deadly with his club. Hanno ducked under one almighty swing, and dodged out of the way of another before seeing Pollio’s spear come thrusting in at him. Desperate, Hanno retreated a few paces. Sejanus lumbered in immediate pursuit, blocking his comrade’s view of Hanno. There was a loud curse from Pollio, and Sejanus’ attention lapsed a fraction.
Hanno darted forward. As the other’s eyes widened in disbelief, Hanno slid his sword deep into his belly. The blade made a horrible, sucking sound as it came out. Blood spurted on to the ground. Sejanus roared with agony; his club fell from his nerveless fingers and both his hands came up to clutch at his abdomen.
Hanno was already spinning to meet Pollio’s attack. The little bandit’s spear stabbed in, narrowly missing his right arm. His heart pounding, Hanno shuffled backwards. His eyes flickered to the side. Despite being in obvious pain, Balbus was about to join the fray. He’d picked up a thick branch. It wouldn’t kill, thought Hanno, but if Balbus landed a blow, he’d easily knock him from his feet. Panic bubbled in his throat, and his sword arm began to tremble.
Get a grip of yourself! Quintus needs you.
Hanno’s breathing steadied. He fixed Balbus with a hard stare. ‘Want a blade in the guts as well as that arrow?’
Balbus flinched, and Hanno went for the kill. ‘Creating fear in an enemy’s heart wins half the battle,’ his father had been fond of saying. ‘Carthage!’ he bellowed, and charged forward. Even if Pollio took him down from behind, Hanno was determined that Balbus would die.
Balbus saw the suicidal look in Hanno’s eyes. He dropped his length of wood and raised both his hands in the air. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he begged.
Hanno didn’t trust the bandit as far as he could throw him; he didn’t know what Pollio was doing either. Dropping his right shoulder, he crashed into Balbus’ chest, sending him flying.
When he turned to face Pollio, the skinny bandit was gone. Pumping his arms and legs as if Cerberus himself were after him, he tore up the slope and was soon lost to view among the trees. Let the bastard go, Hanno thought wearily. He won’t come back. A few steps away, Balbus was in the foetal position, moaning. Further off, Sejanus was already semiconscious from the blood he’d lost.
The fight was over.
Elation filled Hanno for a moment — before he remembered Quintus.
He rushed to the Roman’s side. To his immense relief, Quintus smiled up at him. ‘Are you all right?’ Hanno asked.
Wincing, Quintus lifted a hand to the side of his head. ‘There’s an apple-sized lump here, and it feels as if Jupiter is letting off thunderbolts inside my skull. Apart from that, I’ll be fine, I think.’
‘Thank the gods,’ said Hanno fervently.
‘No,’ replied Quintus. ‘Thank you — for coming back. For disobeying my orders.’
Hanno coloured. ‘I’d never have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t.’
‘But you didn’t have to do it. Even when you did, you could have taken up the bandits’ offer. Turned on me.’ A trace of wonder entered Quintus’ voice. ‘Instead, you took on the three of them, and won.’
‘I-’ Hanno faltered.
‘I’m only alive because of you,’ interrupted Quintus. ‘You have my thanks.’
Seeing Quintus’ sincerity, Hanno inclined his head. ‘You’re welcome.’
As the realisation sank in that they had survived the most desperate of situations, the two grinned at each other like maniacs. These were strange circumstances for both. Master saved by his slave. Roman allied with Carthaginian. Yet both were very aware of a new bond: that of comradeship forged in combat.
It was a good feeling.
Chapter VIII: The Siege
Outside the walls of Saguntum, Iberia
Malchus regarded the immense fortifications with a baleful eye and spat on the ground. ‘They’re determined, you have to give them that,’ he growled. ‘They must know now that there’s no help coming from Rome. But the pig-headed Greek bastards still won’t give up.’
‘Neither will we,’ Sapho responded fiercely. His breath plumed in the cool, autumn air. ‘And when we get inside, the defenders will regret the day they slammed the gates in our faces. The whoresons won’t know what hit them. Eh, Bostar?’ He elbowed his brother in the ribs.
‘The sooner the city falls, the better. Hannibal will find a way,’ Bostar replied confidently, sidestepping Sapho’s needling. In the months since their argument in New Carthage, their relationship had improved somewhat, but Sapho never missed an opportunity to undermine him, or to call into question his loyalty to their cause. Just because I don’t enjoy torturing enemy prisoners, thought Bostar sadly. What has he become?
In a way, though, it was unsurprising that Sapho resorted to violence in his attempts to garner intelligence that might gain them entry. Nearly six months had elapsed since Hannibal’s immense army had begun the siege, and they were not much nearer to taking Saguntum. A mile from the sea, it sat on a long, naked piece of rock that towered three to four hundred paces above the plain below. The position was one of confident dominance, and made it a fearsome prospect to besiege. The only way of approaching the city, which was encircled by strongly built fortifications, was from the west, where the slope was least steep. Naturally, it was here that the defences were strongest. Surrounded by thick walls, a mighty tower sat astride the tallest part of the rock. Hannibal had encamped the majority of his forces below this point. He had also ordered the erection of a wall that ran all the way around the base of the rock. The circumvallation was dotted with towers whose function was merely to ensure that no enemy messengers escaped.
‘The gods willing, we are that way,’ Malchus added.
Both his sons nodded. Hannibal had shown their family considerable honour by picking their units to lead the impending attack. The rest of those who would take part, thousands of Libyans and Iberians, waited on the slopes below.
Sapho’s face twitched, and he gestured at the massed ranks of their spearmen, who were arrayed around the massive shapes of four vineae, or ‘covered ways’, attacking towers with a massive battering ram at their base. These would form the basis for their assault. ‘The men are nervous. It’s no surprise either. We’ve been waiting for an hour. Where is he?’
Bostar could see that Sapho was right. Some soldiers were chatting loudly with each other, their voices a tone higher than normal. Others remained silent, but their lips moved in constant prayer. A nervous air hung over every phalanx. Hannibal will come soon, he told himself.
‘Patience,’ advised Malchus.
Reluctantly, Sapho obeyed, but he burned to prove himself once and for all. Show his father that he was the bravest of his sons.
Moments later, their attention was drawn by murmurs of anticipation, which began spreading forward from the rear of the throng.
‘Listen!’ said Malchus in triumph. ‘Hannibal is talking to them as he passes by. There are many things that make a good general, and this is one of them. It’s not just about leading from the front. You have to engage with your soldiers as well.’ He gave Bostar an approving nod, which made Sapho mutter something under his breath.
Bostar’s temper frayed. This was an area he paid a lot of attention to. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘If you tried that instead of punishing every tiny infraction of the rules, your troops might respect you more.’