‘Victory! Victory! Victory!’ chanted the soldiers.
Raising his hands for silence, Hannibal stepped forward. ‘I told you of my dream. You have heard the soothsayer make his pronouncement. Now, who will follow me across the Alps?’
The watching troops surged forward, shouting their acceptance.
Looking elated, Malchus and Bostar were among them. Sapho followed, telling himself that everything would be all right. The knot of fear and unease in his belly told another story, however.
Four days later, Sapho was beginning to wonder if his misgivings had been overblown. While the Carthaginians had encountered some resistance from the Allobroges, it had been swept aside by Hannibal’s fierce response. Life in the mountains had settled into a reassuring routine, the same as they’d followed for months. Rise at dawn. Strike camp. Eat a cold breakfast. Assemble the men. Assume position at the head of the enormous column. Join the path eastwards. March. Sapho was immensely proud that Hannibal had picked his unit to lead the army. Let Bostar suck on that, he thought. His brother’s phalanx marched behind his. Malchus and his soldiers were with the rearguard, more than ten miles back down the stony track.
His duty carried with it huge responsibility. Sapho was on the lookout for danger at all times. For the thousandth time that morning, he eyed the heights around the flat-bottomed valley in which they currently found themselves. Nothing. Intimidated by Hannibal’s seizure of their main settlement and, with it, all their supplies, the Allobroges had vanished into the bare rocks. ‘Good enough for the cowardly scumbags,’ muttered Sapho. He spat contemptuously.
‘Sir!’ cried one of the guides, a warrior of the Insubres tribe. ‘Look!’
To Sapho’s surprise, the figures of men could be seen appearing on the track ahead. Where in the name of hell had they come from? He lifted his right arm. ‘Halt!’ At once the order began passing back down the line. Sapho’s jaw clenched nervously as he listened to it. He was stopping the progress of the entire army. It had to be done, however. Until proven otherwise, every person they encountered was an enemy.
‘Should we advance to meet them, sir?’ asked an officer.
‘Not bloody likely. It could be a trap,’ Sapho replied. ‘The fuckers can come to us.’
‘What if they don’t, sir?’
‘Of course they will. Why else do you think they’ve slunk out of their rat holes?’
Sapho was right. Gradually, the newcomers approached: a group of perhaps twenty warriors. They were typical-looking Gauls, well built with long hair and moustaches. Although some wore tunics, many were bare-chested under their woollen cloaks. Baggy woven trousers were ubiquitous. Some wore helmets, but only a handful had mail shirts. All were armed with tall, oval shields and swords or spears. Interestingly, the men at the front were carrying willow branches.
‘Are the dogs coming in peace?’ asked Sapho.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the guide. ‘They’re Vocontii, I think.’ He saw Sapho’s blank look. ‘Neighbours — and enemies — of the Allobroges.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ sneered Sapho. ‘Do any of you Gauls get on with each other?’
The guide grinned. ‘Not too often, sir. There’s always something to fight over.’
‘I’m sure,’ Sapho said dryly. He glanced to either side. ‘Front rank, shields up! First and second ranks, ready spears!’
Wood clattered off wood as the spearmen obeyed his command. An instant later, the phalanx presented a solid wall of overlapping shields to its front. Over the shield rims, scores of spear tips poked forward like the spines on a forest of sea urchins.
Looking alarmed, the warriors stopped.
Sapho’s lips peeled upwards. ‘Tell them that if they come in peace, they have nothing to fear.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The guide bellowed a few words in Gaulish.
There was a brief pause, and then the Vocontii continued walking towards them. When they were twenty paces away, Sapho held up his hand. ‘That’s close enough.’
The guide translated his words, and the tribesmen dutifully halted.
‘Ask them what they want,’ Sapho ordered. He fixed his attention on the one man who had answered all the guide’s questions. A fine mail shirt covered the middle-aged warrior’s barrel chest, and three gold torcs announced his wealth and status. What Sapho didn’t like, or trust, was the man’s wall-eye and permanent leer.
‘They have heard of the size of our army and of our victories over the Allobroges, sir, and wish to assure us of their friendship,’ said the guide. ‘They want to guide us through their territory, to the easiest pass over the Alps.’
‘How charming,’ Sapho replied caustically. ‘And why in Melqart’s name should we believe them?’
There was a shifty smile from the wall-eyed warrior as the guide interpreted. A wave of his hand saw several fat heifers herded into view.
‘Apparently, they have a hundred of these to offer us, sir.’
Sapho didn’t let his pleasure show. That quantity of fresh meat would be very welcome. ‘The beasts don’t count for much if the Vocontii steal them straight back. Hannibal needs far more assurance than that. What kind of guarantee of safe passage can the dirtbags offer?’
A moment later, fully half of the tribesmen took a step forward. Most obvious was the wide-faced young warrior with blond pigtails and finely made weapons. He looked decidedly disgruntled. An explanation from the deputation’s leader followed.
‘Apparently, the youngster is the chieftain’s youngest son, sir. The rest are high-ranking warriors,’ said the guide. ‘They are to be our hostages.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Sapho. He turned to the nearest of his officers. ‘Go and find the general. Tell him what’s happened. I think he’ll want to hear their offer for himself.’ As the officer hurried off to do his bidding, Sapho resumed his study of the heights above. The fact that they were bare did not reassure him in any way. Gut feeling told him that the Vocontii were as trustworthy as a nest of snakes.
It wasn’t long before Hannibal appeared. When he wasn’t marching near the army’s head, the general was to be found at its tail, and today it was the former. Sapho was flattered that Hannibal was not accompanied by any of his senior officers. He saluted crisply. ‘Sir!’
‘Sapho.’ Hannibal reached his side. ‘So this is the deputation from the Vocontii, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sapho replied. ‘The shifty-looking bastard over there is the leader.’
‘Tell me again what they’ve said,’ Hannibal ordered, scanning the warriors.
Sapho obeyed.
Hannibal rubbed his chin. ‘A hundred cattle and ten hostages. Plus the guides who will stay with us. It’s not a bad offer, is it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’re not happy,’ said Hannibal with a shrewd look. ‘Why?’
‘What’s to stop them from simply rustling the beasts back from us, sir?’ Sapho answered. ‘Who’s to say that the hostages aren’t peasants, whom the Vocontii chieftain wouldn’t ever miss if they were executed?’
‘Should I reject their offer?’
Sapho’s stomach did a somersault. Give the wrong answer now, and Hannibal probably wouldn’t ask him to lead the army again. Give the correct one, and he would rise in the general’s estimation. Sapho was desperate for the latter. ‘There’s no point, sir.’
‘Why not?’ Hannibal demanded.
Sapho met his general’s fierce gaze. ‘Because if you did, we’d have to fight our way through their territory, sir. If we play along instead, there’s a reasonable chance of anticipating possible attacks while continuing the march without hindrance. If they prove to be trustworthy, so much the better. If not, then we at least gave it a try.’
Hannibal did not reply immediately, and Sapho began to worry that he’d said the wrong thing. He was thinking of retracting his words when the general spoke.
‘I like your thinking, Sapho, son of Malchus. It is easier to avoid treading on a serpent that is watched than to find it under any one of a thousand stones. It would be foolish not to take steps to prevent disaster, though. The baggage train and the cavalry must be moved to a position just behind the vanguard. They’re the most vulnerable to being cut off.’