Hannibal, page 52
This spy had barely escaped the Roman camp with his life. Indeed, a sentry had noted his solitary departure. Before he had made contact with Carthaginian forces he had found himself running from a band of Roman cavalry. He was bashed about his helmeted head with a sword, cut on the shoulder. He swatted away a flying javelin with one hand, gashing his palm in the process. He escaped by plunging down a ravine too steep for his mounted pursuers. The fall was nearly vertical. He bounced from rock to rock, ricocheted off the trunks of trees, and ended his flight suspended in a clump of shrubs so thick that he only broke free of them with some difficulty. For all this, the Roman cavalry was still chasing him when he sprinted into sight of the Carthaginian outposts. The Romans drew up at the last moment, considered the view of the amused Carthaginians and of the Numidians riding out from the main camp. And then they bolted, suddenly recalling that there was a more substantial threat to their safety than anything that lone man might represent.
When all this was reported to Hasdrubal he had the bound man brought to him. He studied the pox-scarred olive skin, the squat build, the wide forehead, and the simple garments that marked him as a legionary. He turned and waved Silenus nearer, as a translator. One of the guards standing at the man’s side said that was not necessary: the man spoke their tongue. Hasdrubal’s forehead creased at this, four jagged lines that did not relax until he asked, simply, ‘What have you to say?’
The man bowed his head and kissed his fingertips in the way of the Theveste people. He spoke perfect Carthaginian, laced with rich tones that matched his greeting. He offered himself as a servant of Baal and praised all those who were likewise. He said that though he was of Roman blood and could speak Latin he had been loyal to Carthage since his father had been captured in the first great war. He was born of an African mother in the, same region as Didobal, wife of Hamilcar. He had trained from birth in the ways of his father’s people so that he might eventually be of some service to his adopted nation. In the second year of this war he had found his way into the Roman ranks, having received instructions that issued from Bostar himself. But since that man’s tragic death, he had been orphaned inside the enemy host with no connection to Hannibal and no-one to report to. He bided his time and stayed true to the gods they shared and waited for the right moment to break free. He had found that now, and the news he brought was grave beyond any he had held before.
‘And what is that?’
The man bowed his head again, kissed his fingertips. Then he pushed his hand out to either side in a gesture that meant he pushed away deceit and now spoke pure truth. ‘You are sitting in a trap,’ he said. ‘The messengers you sent did not reach Hannibal. Nero captured them near Tarentum and found the correspondence meant for your brother. He knows everything. I am a soldier in his army, one of the six thousand he selected. He left the south seven days ago, claiming to march on Lucania, but he turned north once out of your brother’s sight. He marched us like a madman and two days ago joined our forces with those of Livius Salinator.’
‘Six thousand men?’ Hasdrubal asked.
The man nodded. ‘And a thousand cavalry.’
‘I saw no such thing,’ Noba said.
‘We arrived at night. Not all of us have mustered on the field. Many stay among the camp followers. We sleep cramped in the other men’s tents or on the open ground. We await only Lucius Licinius. He’s shadowed you down from Placentia and now blocks the Via Flaminia. When he arrives with his ten thousand, all will be in place.’
‘They’ll outnumber us by fifteen thousand,’ Hasdrubal said quietly, his voice tinged with disbelief.
‘What Nero is this?’ Silenus asked. ‘If you speak of Claudius Nero, I don’t believe you. He has a long record and none of it as bold as what you describe.’
The man regarded the scribe, then turned back to Hasdrubal to answer. ‘The Greek speaks the truth. But so do I. I cannot explain it, but please believe me, my lord.’
‘And Hannibal knows nothing of this?’ Noba asked.
The man shook his head. ‘Not from the mouths of the men you sent. They talk no more.’
Hasdrubal received this last statement with the slightest shake of his head. He looked up at Noba, at which sign the Ethiopian stepped close to interrogate the man further. To each question the man had a reasonable answer. And each answer boomed like a mighty drum struck in the distance, moving closer with each blow. If he spoke truly, they found themselves in an even graver situation than Baecula. For now they were in the enemy’s land, Hannibal still far away, unaware of them . . . But only if the spy spoke truly.
‘We don’t know him,’ Noba said, after the man had been taken away. ‘He says he reported to Bostar, but I’ve never heard of him before. Perhaps this is a ploy.’
‘To what purpose?’ Hasdrubal asked.
‘To confuse us. To make us flee. To lead us into some error.’
The creases of Hasdrubal’s brow fixed in a way that Silenus found uncomfortable just to look at. He bit one corner of his lips, chewed on it, gnawed like a mongrel at a scrap of sinew. ‘He knew of my message,’ he said. ‘He knew the number of men and where I sent them. His speech was accented with the tongue of the Theveste.’
‘There are numberless means of deceit,’ Noba said. ‘Can he not be made to prove himself? What thing could we ask him—’
‘No,’ Hasdrubal snapped. ‘If he’s been coached in how to lie to us, how can we prove it for sure? Do we torture him? If he tells the truth, then he can only tell the truth. If he lies, he can only keep on lying, because he’ll know the worth of his life if he confesses. I cannot see my way clear on this. Why is nothing straightforward? Not one thing happens as it should. Not one thing . . .’
He cut off his words, bit his lip again, turned, and fixed the scribe in his glare. ‘Silenus, what does your heart tell you?’
The Greek raised his hands, palms upward, and groaned at being brought into the discussion. He looked between the frame created by his hands and shook his head. ‘These things are not for me—’
‘What does your heart tell you? Just say it!’
‘I believe the man,’ Silenus said.
‘Noba?’
The Ethiopian said, ‘We must be cautious. Send scouts—’
‘The same question I asked the Greek! Answer it.’
‘If I must . . . The spy is true. I believe him.’
‘I do, as well,’ Hasdrubal said. ‘So we withdraw. Noba, send your scouts to prove or deny the man’s story, but unless they do so conclusively we withdraw this very night. That’s my decision.’
At the first call to march, the guides slunk away into the dimness, never to be heard from again. Hasdrubal damned them, but then said it did not matter. They would follow the Metaurus River through the night, then chart a better course in the light of the next day and ascend into the Apennines to find cover in the rougher terrain. But from its first moments the retreat went foul. Even in the full light of day the river’s course would have been difficult to follow. The channel cut a deep meandering confusion of a trench through the plain; the ground was thickly wooded, with sloping banks, with stones tilted at strange angles and roots that looped up from the earth and grabbed men’s feet. In the pitch dark the forest came alive with malicious intent. Men could barely take a step without stumbling under the packs, spilling food and weapons around them, cursing. The river became a giant serpent, flexing and squirming, never where it should be. Groups lost their way and shouted to one another, but the uneven landscape played tricks with their voices and led them into greater confusion.
The Gauls did not fear the woods as much as the Africans did, but they grew frustrated and lit torches to see by. Others yelled for them to douse the lights, complaining that the patches of wavering brilliance just made the dark more frightening, distorting the land even more, casting shapes about so that some yelled that the Romans were upon them. Then someone dropped a torch and failed to pick it up fast enough. The flame scorched through the pine needles, to the dry bark of several trees, and up them as quickly as a squirrel fleeing. Within moments the forest was afire above their heads. Horses went wild with fear beneath them. Cattle yanked free of the tenders and searched out dark places and then grew frightened there and ran back towards the light.
For much of the night, Silenus walked slowly, paused often, held his hands either out in front of him to ward off branches or to his temples to calm himself. This was all wrong. They should have kept to the open ground, away from the river. Even if they had marched without direction they would have made better time than they were making now. He knew this, and he knew that Hasdrubal must know it. That was why the general worked so hard. His voice rang through the trees, pulling lost men in, redirecting their course. Several times he rode splashing through the river itself, urging men on, keeping sanity with the power of his voice alone.
Hasdrubal did not sleep at all that night. He should have been exhausted, drained, senseless from the continuous labour. But the next morning he shone with a vigour Silenus had never seen in him. He seemed to feed on the direness of the situation they found themselves in and showed no sign of the melancholy that had plagued him through the winter. When Silenus commented lightly on this, Hasdrubal answered seriously. He said, ‘I suffer. I wish Rome to suffer with me.’
In the first light of the new day, Hasdrubal explained to all the men just what was going to happen. The Romans were upon them. They would fight that day. If they did not, they would be slaughtered as they ran, and he had no desire to run any more. He led them away from the river and onto the clearer, undulating ground upon which the day would be decided. As soon as they were out of the trees they could see the waiting mass of the joined Roman forces. The great numbers testified to the truth of the spy’s information. They were already in position, drawing up into battle formation.
Hasdrubal called for his forces to do the same. Before long he strode before the front ranks with his sword unsheathed. He seemed taller than ever he had, hardened from his normal physical perfection into something still more statuesque. He wore no leg or shoulder armour, but walked with his chiselled arms and legs bare; they flexed and quivered and jerked with energy. Even the muscles of his neck snapped into and out of view as he lifted his chin and called out his instructions over the masses. He ordered a narrower front line than usual, as the terrain would hamper the wings.
Hasdrubal’s gaze met Silenus’, but before the Greek could acknowledge him with a gesture the general turned away and the battle commenced. Silenus stood some distance behind Hasdrubal’s command position, but the view he got of things to come was much the same. The two forces collided as if each were nothing but a barbarian horde. The Romans hurled their mighty timed volleys, but Hasdrubal had his men rush through these opening manoeuvres and draw in to close quarters quickly. Order broke from the early moments and there was nothing of art in the combat. Nothing resembling finesse or strategy. Nothing except for the pure slashing panic of men trying to kill before they were killed. The Gauls bellowed their war cries and blew their animal-headed horns and swung with such force that their braids snapped about them like whips. The Libyans worked with their spears, thrusting overhand like the quiet killers they were, piercing a face here and a shoulder there, twisting the prongs as they withdrew so that Roman flesh tore free of the tendons and bones that held it. The Iberians worked with their double-bladed swords, cutting arms and legs to the bone, and then through the bone, slitting unprotected bellies, spilling loops of guts about the ground. To all of this, the Romans gave as good as they received.
And so it might have carried on until one side gradually tipped the balance in its favour. But Nero, Silenus saw, played one move that changed the balance in an instant. He must have realized that the troops of his right wing, nearer to the river, were tangled in the broken ground there and could find no-one to fight. Nor could they progress and keep formation. He had several of these cohorts withdraw, turn, and march behind the bulk of the army to the far end. They then turned again, moved forward, and fell upon the opposite Carthaginian side. In a few moments they caused so much mayhem that the whole battlefield shimmied away from them, rocked by a wave of confusion that must have meant little to those fighting in the centre. The move, it was clear, had decided the battle. The Romans seemed to recognize that the advantage was theirs, and they fought the harder for it.
Silenus drew his eyes in nearer and searched out Hasdrubal. For some time he could not see him, but then he saw his standard and picked out his form and that of Noba beside him, both rushing to join the mêlée. His throat tightened so much that he could barely breathe. For the first time in his life, Silenus called upon the gods to intervene. He asked them to prove themselves just this once, to save Hasdrubal Barca from that pack of wolves. He wanted to look away. He wanted to avert his gaze so that the gods might work their magic with subtlety. And also he wanted to snatch up what he could of his scrolls and records and run with them clutched to his chest and put all the distance his bowed legs could between him and this scene.
But he did not. Only his eyes were capable of motion, and they followed that lion standard and Hasdrubal’s helmet so near it. He saw him join the thick of the fighting and saw how quickly he became the centre of the battle. The Romans must have recognized him for who he was. They swarmed towards him. Silenus saw him fall, engulfed in a mass of enemy soldiers. Ten and then twenty and then more of them surrounded the spot into which he had disappeared, all of them stabbing, thrusting, shoulders and elbows popping into and out of view, reaching over one another to pierce Barca flesh over and over, as if they so feared that he would rise again that they could not stop.
Hanno had visited Cirta, the Libyan capital, as a child. Now, as his quinquereme rowed into its harbour, the city seemed smaller than it had back then. It sat low on the horizon, not as imposing as Carthage, nor as breathtaking in its situation as many of the Iberian fortresses. It was the same dull colour as the soil around it, with few embellishments other than inlaid shells outlining certain portions of the walls, and bright red and orange tapestries hanging to seal out the heat of the sun. The Libyans might have grown powerful in recent years, but to Hanno’s eyes they were not yet completely committed to abandoning their nomadic traditions in favour of city-building.
There was something about the place that he despised from the start, although this may well have been a product of the circumstances that brought him here. Both he and Mago had been beaten by Publius, deserted by allies, expelled from Iberia, and forced to abandon the expanse that their father had once called his empire. At least they were persevering; none could fault them for that. They had not given up. Despite their fatigue, both of them had embarked on new missions. When he left Iberia, Mago and Masinissa had been preparing for a voyage to the Balearic Islands. They hoped to recruit soldiers there, to inspire them with tales of Hannibal’s victories, and then to land a force on the Italian mainland. To Hanno fell this return to Africa. First, he was to call on Syphax, the Libyan king, and find some way to bring him and his thronging army into the conflict. Libyan mercenaries had long been the backbone of the Carthaginian army, but Hanno intended to push for more – not just soldiers, but a true alliance that would commit Syphax to their cause completely. After this, he intended to go home to Carthage, to report all to the Council. If they did not crucify or behead him, he would do everything he could to sail another army towards Rome. Now more than ever he craved victory. They had lost so much; they had no choice but to fight on.
He did not notice the Roman ships until his feet were on the stones of the dock and he had begun a brisk walk towards the city. The sight of the two vessels stopped him in his tracks. Roman galleys, one flying the flag of a consul, moored and at rest in an African harbour. Never had he expected such a thing. For a moment he considered dashing back to his ship and sailing for Carthage. Before he could decide to do this, he saw the dignitaries walking out to meet him. They moved in grand formality, a small, tight pack of men surrounded by all manner of servants, clearing the way for them, fanning their every step with palm fronds. They gave no sign that things were amiss, so Hanno carried on towards them, behind a procession of his own – men bearing presents to honour the king. He had allocated all he thought he could spare from the treasures he had managed to leave Iberia with, but already he wished he had more.
In the hours to come he found himself in a stranger situation than he could have imagined. At the main meal, where he was to meet Syphax for the first time, he found himself introduced to a man whose face he had many times tried to imagine, a nebulous visage ever changing in his mind, that he had found a thousand ways to hate. Now before him was the real face: thin-lipped, with a crooked nose, and eyes that were intelligent if slightly uneven. Dark hair framed the features in a manner that made the whole more handsome than the parts might have indicated separately. Hanno stared at the man until he opened his mouth and spoke, in Latin.
‘Believe me, General,’ Publius Scipio said, ‘I am as surprised by this as you. My mission here is diplomatic, as I’m sure yours is. Let us be statesmen just now, warriors later.’
Hanno looked round the room. Syphax was nowhere to be seen. Cats roamed the chamber at their ease. They were large specimens, well fed and not too far removed from their feral ancestors. They wore bells on their necks, which tinkled as they moved or preened themselves or snapped bits of meat from the table. There were other guests, but these hung off at a distance, propping up the walls, speaking in whispers and with shifting eyes. Hanno ignored them and spoke, knowing that his voice would carry round the room.
‘Certainly,’ he said.
He sat down on the other side of the low table and studied the bowls of dates and grapes set there. His mind reeled from one thought to the next, one question to another. He knew Publius had returned to Rome and been elected consul, but what, what, what was the consul doing in Africa? Had something happened to Hannibal, so that he was no longer a threat? Had Syphax already struck a deal with Rome? Was he dining in the enemy’s lair? Would he ever get out of it? Did Rome now have designs on Africa?
