Glancing around, Quintus sensed his unhappiness. Despite his excitement, he pulled himself up short. ‘It’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Eh? Why not?’ Hanno cried. ‘This is a perfect opportunity for you.’
‘Maybe so, but it isn’t for you.’
Hanno coloured. He didn’t know what to say.
Quintus pre-empted him. ‘What possibility is there that Father will honour your manumission?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hanno muttered. ‘Not much, I suppose.’
‘Exactly,’ Quintus replied. ‘Which is the reason I’m staying right here. With you.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Hanno, caught off guard.
‘Have you forgotten last night already?’ Quintus cuffed him on the side of the head. ‘You promised to accompany me to Iberia, even though you no longer had any need to go there. Plus you didn’t make a run for it just now, which most people would have done. I have to repay your honour. Fair’s fair.’
‘It’s not that simple.’ Hanno indicated Fabricius, who was about to disappear from view. ‘Maybe he’s not going with the consul.’
‘I’d say he is, but you’re right. We should make sure.’ Quintus strode off. ‘Come on, let’s follow him.’
Hanno hurried to catch up. ‘What if he’s going back to Iberia?’
‘We’ll talk about that afterwards,’ Quintus answered. ‘In that eventuality, I suppose it would make sense to split up. Otherwise, I’m travelling with you to Cisalpine Gaul.’
Hanno chuckled. ‘You’re crazy!’
‘Perhaps.’ Quintus gave him a lopsided smile. ‘But I still have to do the right thing.’
‘And once we get there?’ Hanno asked uneasily.
‘We’ll part company. I’ll find Father, and you’ — there was an awkward pause — ‘can seek out Hannibal’s army.’
Hanno gripped Quintus’ arm. ‘Thank you.’
Quintus nodded. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
The army that straggled down into the green foothills of the Alps was a shadow of what it had been. All semblance of marching formation had long gone. Gaunt-faced, hollow-cheeked figures stumbled along, holding on to each other for support. The ribs on every surviving horse and mule stood out like the bare frame of a new-built ship. Although few had died, the elephants had suffered extraordinarily too. Bostar thought that they now looked like nothing more than giant skeletons covered by sagging folds of grey skin. The heaviest toll, however, was the number of men and beasts that had been lost during the passage of the mountains. The scale of it was hard to take in, but it was impossible to deny. Hannibal had insisted on a tally as his troops entered the flat plain where, exhausted beyond belief, they had first camped. Even when a margin of error was allowed for, the count revealed that perhaps 24,000 foot soldiers and more than 5,000 pack animals had deserted, run away or perished. Approximately 26,000 men remained, just a quarter of the number that had left New Carthage, and little more than one Roman consular army.
It was a sobering figure, thought Bostar worriedly, especially when there were peoples to fight other than the Romans. He was standing with other senior officers outside the fortified walls of Taurasia. It was the main stronghold of the Taurini, the hostile tribe into whose lands Hannibal’s force had descended. To his left was Sapho’s phalanx, and to his right, his father’s. Alete was positioned beyond Malchus. Fully half of the Libyans were present: six thousand of Hannibal’s best troops.
‘Gentlemen.’
At the sound of Hannibal’s voice, Bostar turned. He scarcely recognised the shambling figure before him, clad in a ragged military cloak. Dank tresses of brown hair fell from under a simple bronze helmet, framing a gaunt face streaked with filth. The man sported a padded linen cuirass, which had clearly seen better days, a thrusting spear and an old, battered shield. He was the worst dressed Libyan spearman Bostar had ever seen, and he stank to high heaven. Bostar glanced at the other officers, who appeared as stunned as he. ‘Is that you, sir?’
The belly laugh was definitely Hannibal’s. ‘It is. Don’t look at me as if I am mad.’
Bostar flushed. ‘Sorry, sir. May I ask why are you dressed like that?’
‘Two reasons. Firstly, as an ordinary soldier, I’m far less of a target to the enemy. Secondly, being anonymous allows me to mix with the troops and assess their mood. I’ve been doing that since we came down out of the mountains,’ Hannibal revealed. He turned to include all those present. ‘What do you think I’ve heard?’
Most of the officers, Bostar included, took a sudden interest in their fingernails, or a strap on their harness that needed tightening. Even Malchus cleared his throat awkwardly.
‘Come now,’ said Hannibal in a bluff tone. ‘Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out how low morale really is? Spirits are high amongst the cavalry, but that’s because I looked after them so well in the mountains. Far fewer of them died. But they’re unusual. Many of the men think we’ll be annihilated the first time we encounter the Romans, don’t they?’
‘They’ll fight anyway, sir!’ Malchus cried. ‘They love you as no other.’
Hannibal’s smile was warm. ‘Worthy Malchus, I can always rely on you and your sons. I know that your soldiers will stay true, and so will the bulk of the army. But we require an immediate victory to raise the men’s spirits. More importantly, we need food to put in their bellies. Our intelligence tells me that the stores behind those walls’ — he indicated the fortress — ‘are full of grain. I would have bought it from the Taurini, but they rejected my overtures out of hand. Now they will learn the price of their foolishness.’
‘What shall we do, sir?’ Sapho asked eagerly.
‘Take the place by storm.’
‘Prisoners?’
‘Leave none alive. Not a man, woman or child.’
Sapho’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, sir!’
His words were echoed by a rumble of agreement from the others.
Hannibal stared at Bostar. ‘What is it? Are you unhappy with my command?’
‘Must everyone die, sir?’ Terrible images from the fall of Saguntum filled Bostar’s mind.
Hannibal scowled. ‘Unfortunately, yes. Know that I order this for a particular reason. We are in a very fragile position. If a Roman army presented itself tomorrow, we would indeed struggle to defeat it. When they hear of our weakness, the Boii and Insubres will think twice before giving us the aid that they so eagerly promised last year. If that happens, we will have failed in our task before it has even begun. Is that what you want?’
‘Of course not, sir,’ Bostar replied indignantly.
‘Good,’ said Hannibal with a pleased look. ‘Slaughtering the inhabitants of Taurasia will send a clear message to the area’s tribes. We are still a lethal fighting force, and they either stand with us, or against us. There is no ground in between.’
Humbled, Bostar glanced down. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t understand.’
‘Some of the others probably didn’t either,’ answered Hannibal, ‘but they didn’t have the courage to ask.’
‘I understood, sir,’ Sapho snarled.
‘Which is the reason you’re standing here today,’ said Hannibal grimly. ‘Monomachus too.’ He nodded at a squat man with a bald head. ‘The rest of you are present because I know that, as my finest officers, you will do exactly what I have ordered.’ He pointed his spear at the fortress walls. ‘I want the place reduced by nightfall. After that, your men can have the rest they so well deserve.’
Bostar joined in the cheering with more enthusiasm this time. He caught a sneering Sapho trying to catch his eye, and ignored him. He would follow Hannibal’s orders, but for a very different reason to his brother. Loyalty, rather than sheer bloodthirstiness.
Despite Quintus’ generosity in accompanying him north, Hanno found the journey grating. He still had to act like a slave. Quintus rode a horse, while he had to sit astride a cantankerous mule. He could not eat with Quintus, or share the same room. Instead, he had to take his meals with the domestic slaves and servants of the roadside inns they frequented, and to bed down in the stables with the animals. Oddly, Hanno’s physical separation from Quintus began to restore the invisible differences between them.