Chapter XV: The Alps
Hunching his shoulders against the early-morning chill, Bostar emerged from his tent. He gazed in awe at the towering mountains that reared up before him. The range stretched from north to south above the fertile plain, and occupied the entire eastern horizon. A dense network of pine trees covered the lower slopes, concealing any potential routes of ascent. The sky was clear, but the jagged peaks above were hidden yet by shrouds of grey cloud. Despite this, they were a magnificent sight.
‘Lovely to look at, eh?’
Bostar jumped. Not many of the soldiers were stirring, but it was no surprise that his father was already up. ‘They are incredible, yes.’
‘And we’ve got to cross them.’ Malchus grimaced. ‘Our passage of the River Rhodanus seems trivial now, doesn’t it?’
Bostar’s laugh was a trifle hollow. If anyone had made such a statement a few weeks before, he wouldn’t have believed it. Looking at the harsh slopes above, he knew that his father might well be correct. Expecting more than fifty thousand men, thousands of pack animals and thirty-seven elephants to climb into the realm of gods and demons bordered on genius — or madness. Feeling disloyal for even thinking the latter, Bostar glanced around. He was surprised to see Sapho approaching. After the Rhodanus, the brothers had ostensibly patched up their relationship, but the reconciliation had been little more than a facade for their father’s benefit. The two avoided each other if at all possible. Bostar forced a smile. ‘Sapho.’ Try as he might, he could not help but feel hurt when his brother silently responded with a salute.
‘That’s not necessary, is it?’ Malchus’ tone was sharp.
‘Sorry,’ said Sapho offhandedly. ‘I’m still half asleep.’
‘Yes, it’s not exactly your time of day, is it?’ retorted Bostar acidly. ‘That would be more like midday.’
‘Enough!’ barked Malchus before Sapho could respond. ‘Why can’t you at least be civil to each other? There’s far more at stake here than your stupid feud.’
As always, their father’s outburst silenced the brothers. Unusually, it was Sapho who made the first effort. ‘What were you talking about?’ he asked.
His attempt made Bostar feel obliged to reply. ‘Those.’ He pointed at the mountains.
Sapho’s face soured. ‘Ill fortune awaits us up there. Countless men will be lost, I know it.’ He made the sign against evil.
‘We’ve had such good fortune since the Rhodanus, though,’ protested Bostar. ‘The Romans didn’t pursue us. Then the Cavares gave us gifts of food, shoes and warm clothing. Since we entered their territory, their warriors have kept the Allobroges at bay. Who’s to say that the gods won’t continue to smile on us?’
‘The year’s practically over. Winter will be here soon. It will be a superhuman task.’ An impossible task, thought Sapho dourly. Hell awaits us. He had never liked heights, and the prospect of ascending the Alps — especially in late autumn — filled him with a murmuring dread. Of course he could not admit to that, nor to his resentment of Hannibal for choosing such a difficult route, or for favouring Bostar above him. He jerked his head towards the south. ‘We should have travelled along the coast of Gaul.’
‘That would have meant a pitched battle with the forces our cavalry encountered near the Rhodanus, which was something Hannibal wanted to avoid.’ Despite his robust words, Bostar felt his spirits being dragged down. With the friendly Cavares returning to their homes, and nowhere to go other than up, there was no denying what they had let themselves in for. He was grateful when his father intervened.
‘I want to hear no more talk like that. It’s bad for morale,’ growled Malchus. He had similar concerns, but he wouldn’t admit them to anyone. ‘We must keep faith with Hannibal, as he does with us. His spirits were high last night, weren’t they?’ He glared at his sons.
‘Yes, Father,’ Sapho conceded.
‘He doesn’t have to wander around his men’s campfires for half the night, sharing their poxy rations and listening to their miserable life stories,’ Malchus continued sternly. ‘He doesn’t sleep alongside them, wrapped only in his cloak, for the good of his health! Hannibal does it because he loves his soldiers as if they were his children. The least we can do is to return that love with utmost fealty.’
‘Of course,’ Sapho muttered. ‘You know that my loyalty is beyond question.’
‘And mine,’ added Bostar fervently.
Malchus’ scowl eased. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I know that the next few weeks will be our toughest test yet, but it’s officers such as we who will have to give an example. To lead the men when they falter. We must show no weakness, just a steely resolve to reach the top of whichever pass Hannibal chooses. Don’t forget that from there, we will fall upon Cisalpine Gaul, and after it, Italy, like ravening wolves.’
Finally, the two brothers gave each other a pleased look. It lasted only an instant before they broke eye contact.
Malchus was already ten strides away. ‘Get a move on. Hannibal wants us all to see the sacrifice.’
The brothers followed.
The flat, well-watered land where the Carthaginians were camped had provided respite to man and beast before the rigours that were to come. It also offered, Bostar realised, a place where Hannibal could address his troops, as he had at New Carthage before they’d left. Even though his forces were now considerably smaller, there were still far too many soldiers to be able to witness personally their general make an offering to the gods. That was why the commanders of every unit in the army had been ordered to bring a score or more of their men to the ceremony.
They made their way past rank-smelling Balearic slingers clad in animal skins and slender, dark-skinned Numidians with oiled ringlets in their hair. Burly scutarii and caetrati in sinew helmets and crimson-edged tunics stood with their arms folded. Alongside was Alete with twenty of his Libyan spearmen. Groups of bare-chested Gauls, their necks and arms decorated with torcs of gold, eyed the others present with supercilious stares.
Before the gathered soldiers stood a strongly built low wooden platform, and upon it a makeshift altar of stone slabs had been erected. In front stood fifty of Hannibal’s bodyguards. A ramp led from the foot of the dais to the top, and beside it, a large black bull had been tethered. Six robed priests waited with the beast, which was snorting with unease. As Malchus led them to a position within a dozen steps of the soothsayers, Bostar shivered. In their gnarled hands — through the divination to come — lay the power to raise the army’s morale, or to send it into the depths. Gazing at the nearby soldiers, Bostar saw the same concern twisting their faces that he was experiencing. There was little conversation; indeed an air of apprehension hung over the entire gathering. Bostar glanced at Sapho, whom he could read like a book. His brother was feeling the same way, or worse. Bostar sighed. Despite the ease of the last few days, the mountains’ physical immensity had cast a shadow over men’s hearts. There was only one person who could cast out that gloom, he thought. Hannibal.
The man himself bounded into view a moment later, ascending the ramp as if he were on the last lap of a foot race. A loud cheer met his arrival. Hannibal’s bronze helmet and breastplate had been polished until they shone as if lit from within. In his right hand his falcata sword glinted dangerously; in his left, he carried a magnificent shield emblazoned with the image of a prowling male lion. Without a word, Hannibal strode to the edge of the platform and lifted his arm so everyone could see his blade. He let the troops focus on it before he pointed it to his rear.