Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

His cry made no difference. More spears were launched, and this time one struck his mule in the rump. Rearing in pain, it threw Hanno to the ground. The air shot from his lungs, winding him. He was vaguely aware of his mount trotting away, limping heavily. Within the blink of an eye, he had been surrounded by a ring of jeering Numidians. Three jumped down and approached, javelins at the ready. What a way to die, Hanno thought bitterly. Killed by my own side because they don’t even speak my language.

From nowhere, inspiration hit him. He’d learned a few words of the sibilant Numidian tongue once. ‘Stop,’ Hanno mumbled. ‘I… friend.’

Looking confused, the trio of Numidians paused. A barrage of questions in their tongue followed. Hanno barely understood one word in ten of what the warriors were saying. ‘I not Roman, I friend,’ he repeated, over and over.

His protests weren’t enough. Drawing back his foot, one of the tribesmen kicked Hanno in the belly. Stars flashed across his vision, and he nearly passed out from the pain. More blows landed, and he tensed, expecting at any moment to feel a javelin slide into his flesh.

Instead, an angry voice intervened.

The beating stopped at once.

Warily, Hanno looked up to see a rider with tightly curled black hair standing before him. Unusually for a Numidian, he was wearing a sword. An officer, thought Hanno dully.

‘Did I hear you speaking Carthaginian?’ the man demanded.

‘Yes.’ Relieved and surprised that someone present spoke his tongue, Hanno sat up. He winced in pain. ‘I’m from Carthage.’

The other’s eyebrows rose. ‘What in Melqart’s name are you doing alone in the middle of this godforsaken, freezing land?’

‘I was sold into slavery among the Romans some time ago,’ explained Hanno. ‘Hearing the news of Hannibal’s invasion, I escaped to join him.’

The Numidian didn’t look convinced. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Hanno,’ he said proudly. ‘I am a son of Malchus, who serves as a senior officer among our Libyan spearmen. If I reach Hannibal’s army, I hope to be reunited with him, and my brothers.’

There was a long silence, and Hanno felt his fear return. Do not desert me now, great Tanit, he prayed.

‘An unlikely story. Who’s to say that you are not a spy?’ the officer mused out loud. Several of his more eager men lifted their javelins, and Hanno’s heart sank. If they killed him now, no one would ever know.

‘Hold!’ snapped the officer. ‘If this man has really spent much time among the Romans, he may be useful to Hannibal.’ He grinned at Hanno. ‘And if you are telling the truth, I suspect that your father, whether he is with the army or no, would rather see you alive than dead.’

Hanno’s joy knew no bounds. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

The officer barked an order and the Numidians swarmed in, hauling Hanno to his feet. His wrists were bound with rope, but he was offered no further violence. As the warriors mounted up, Hanno was picked up and thrown roughly across the neck of a horse, in front of its rider. He didn’t protest. With his mule injured, there was no other way of returning to the Carthaginian camp at speed. At least they weren’t dragging him behind one of the mounts.

As the Numidians began to ride west, Hanno gave thanks to every god he could think of, but most importantly to Tanit, whom he’d forgotten to address before leaving his home in Carthage.

He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but he felt that she was smiling on him once more.

Upon reaching Hannibal’s camp, Hanno was lowered to the ground. He gazed around him in wonderment, absolutely exhilarated to see a Carthaginian host so near the Italian border. His heart throbbed with an unquenchable joy. He was back with his people! Yet Hanno was concerned by the army’s size. It was far smaller than he’d expected. He was alarmed too by the soldiers’ faces. Suffering was etched deep into every single one. Most had unkempt beards, and looked half starved. The pack animals, and particularly the elephants, looked even worse. Hanno shot a worried glance at the Numidian officer. ‘The crossing of the Alps must have been terrible,’ he said.

‘You cannot even imagine it,’ the Numidian replied with a scowl. ‘Hostile natives. Landslides. Ice. Snow. Starvation. Between desertions and fatalities, we lost nearly twenty-five thousand men in a month. Practically half our army.’

Hanno’s mouth fell open in horror. Immediately, he thought of his father and brothers, who could easily be among the dead. He caught the Numidian watching him. ‘Why tell me this?’ he stuttered.

‘I can say what I like. The Romans will never find out,’ replied the other amiably. ‘It’s not as if you could escape my men on foot.’

Hanno swallowed. ‘No.’

‘Just as well you were telling the truth about who you were, eh?’

Hanno met the Numidian’s gimlet stare. A sudden pang of terror struck him. What if no one could be found to vouch for his identity? ‘Yes, it is,’ he snapped, praying that the gods would not dash the cup of success from his lips at this late stage. ‘Take me to the Libyans’ tent lines.’