Sapho’s face darkened, but before he could reply, loud cheering broke out. Men began stamping their feet on the ground in a repetitive, infectious rhythm. The other officers did nothing to intervene. This was what they had all been waiting for. The noise grew and grew, until gradually a single word became audible. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’
Bostar grinned. One could not help but be infected by the soldiers’ enthusiasm. Even Sapho was craning his neck to see.
Eventually, a small party emerged from the midst of the spearmen. It was a hollow square, formed by perhaps two dozen scutarii. These Iberian infantry were some of Hannibal’s best troops. As always, the scutarii were wearing their characteristic black cloaks over simple tunics and small breastplates. Their fearsome array of weapons included various types of heavy throwing spear, most notably the all-iron saunion, as well as long, straight swords, and daggers. Within their formation walked a lone figure, partially obscured from view. This was who everyone wanted to see. Finally, nearing Malchus and his sons, the scutarii fanned out in two lines. The man within was revealed.
Hannibal Barca.
Bostar gazed at his general with frank admiration. Like most senior Carthaginian officers, Hannibal wore a simple Hellenistic gilded bronze helmet. Sunlight flashed off its surface, reflecting into the soldiers’ eyes. The blinding light concealed Hannibal’s face apart from his beard. A dark purple cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Under it, he wore a tunic of the same colour, and an ornate muscled bronze cuirass, its details picked out in silver. Layered strips of linen guarded the general’s groin, and polished bronze greaves covered his lower legs. His feet were encased in sturdy leather sandals. A hide baldric swept down from his right shoulder to his left hip, suspending a falcata sword in a well-worn scabbard. He moved forward, limping slightly.
The commander of the scutarii barked an order, and in unison his soldiers slammed their brightly painted shields on to the rock. The crashing sound instantly silenced the assembled troops. ‘Your general, the lion of Carthage, Hannibal Barca!’ screamed the officer.
Everyone stiffened to attention and saluted.
‘General!’ cried Malchus. ‘You honour us with your presence.’
The corners of Hannibal’s mouth tugged up. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’ He made his way to Malchus’ side. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, sir. We have checked over the siege engines twice. Every man knows his task.’
Malchus’ sons muttered in agreement.
Hannibal glanced at each of them in turn before giving a satisfied nod. ‘You will do well.’
‘May Baal Saphon strike us down if we do not,’ said Sapho fervently.
Hannibal looked a little surprised. ‘I hope not. The city will fall eventually, but we haven’t succeeded so far. Who’s to say that today will be any different? And valuable officers are hard to come by.’ Ignoring Sapho’s obvious discomfort, he smiled at Malchus. ‘Understand that you’re only being granted this chance because I can’t run.’ He touched the heavy strapping on his right thigh.
‘Your injury was most unfortunate, sir,’ said Malchus, ‘but we are grateful for the opportunity that it has granted us today.’
Hannibal smiled. ‘Your eagerness is commendable.’
Bostar could still picture the heart-stopping moment several weeks previously, during an assault similar to the one they were about to lead. As was his nature, Hannibal had been at the front. Bostar wished it had been he who had taken the arrow through the thigh. ‘How’s it healing, sir?’
‘Slowly enough.’ Hannibal grimaced. ‘I should be thankful, I suppose, that the defenders aren’t better archers.’
Father and sons laughed nervously. That eventuality was something no one wanted to entertain.
‘Well, don’t let me stand in your way. The Saguntines await you.’ Hannibal indicated the walls, which were thickly manned. He pointed back down the steep slope at the other companies of troops: reinforcements should the attack break through. ‘So do they.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Malchus lifted his sword.
His men, who had been watching closely, stiffened.
‘Gods, but I wish Hanno were here,’ muttered Bostar.
Sapho’s face hardened. ‘Eh? Why?’
‘He spent his time dreaming about things like this.’
‘Well, he’s dead,’ Sapho whispered back savagely. ‘So you’re wasting your time.’
Bostar gave him a furious stare. ‘Don’t you miss him?’
Sapho had no chance to reply.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Malchus demanded, who had missed the exchange. ‘Get into position!’
With a quick salute to Hannibal, Bostar and Sapho sprinted off to join their respective phalanxes. Each was in charge of one of the vineae, and their increasingly bitter rivalry meant that both burned to command the siege engine which smashed the decisive hole in the walls, and allowed their comrades a way into Saguntum. Of course it might not be they who succeeded, thought Bostar. Their father commanded the third vinea, and Alete, a doughty veteran whom both brothers admired, had the last.
Malchus waited until they were in place before he chopped his arm downward. ‘Forward!’ he shouted.
Using whistles, the officers encouraged the Libyans towards the walls. Dozens of men who had been selected earlier handed their spears to comrades and ran to place their shoulders against the backs of the vineae, or to stand alongside the wheels. Scores of others used their large shields to form protective screens around those who were now unprotected. More commands rang out, and the soldiers around the siege engines began to push. With loud creaks, the vineae rumbled forward, past Hannibal. When the machines were perhaps fifty paces up the slope, the remaining Libyans began to follow in tight phalanxes.
As they drew nearer, Bostar’s stomach clenched. He could clearly see the faces of those above, the defenders who were waiting to rain death down upon him and his men. Upon his father and brother. Baal Saphon, let us smash the enemy’s walls asunder, he prayed. Keep your shield over all of us. As the first missiles came pattering down, Bostar couldn’t help wondering if Sapho was asking for similar protection for him.
He doubted it.
Taking great care, Bostar peered out at the ramparts above him. Perhaps an hour had passed, and the assault was going well. The battering rams suspended in the bottoms of the vineae were smashing great holes in the base of the wall. Thanks to the siege engines’ wooden and leather roofs, which had been pre-soaked in water, the defenders’ clouds of fire arrows, stones and spears were having limited effect. Bostar had lost fifteen men, which was perfectly acceptable. The phalanxes on either side, those of Sapho and Alete, looked to have suffered much the same.
Soon after, a large section of the wall collapsed. A wry grin split Bostar’s face at the sight. The area lay directly between his and Sapho’s positions, so neither could claim the credit. That wasn’t the point now, of course. Hannibal was watching them. Bostar roared at his men to redouble their efforts. He fancied he heard Sapho’s voice above the din, enjoining his soldiers to do the same. Their efforts were not in vain. Before long, two, and then three, towers had fallen outwards, crushing dozens of the garrison, and spearmen, to death. But a sizeable breach had now been forced, large enough to gain entry. Bostar did not wait until the dust had settled. This opportunity had to be seized by the throat, before the bewildered defenders had a chance to react. Screaming at his men to pick up their weapons and follow him, he climbed on to the mounds of broken masonry that stood before the siege engines. He was pleased to note that Sapho’s soldiers were also spilling into view. Catching sight of his brother twenty paces away, Bostar raised his spear in salute. ‘I’ll see you inside!’
‘Not if I get there before you,’ Sapho snarled back. He turned to his soldiers, who were straining like hunting dogs on the leash. ‘Five gold pieces to the first man to get within the walls. Forward!’