Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

For the third time since dawn, Bostar scrambled up the muddy slope towards the sentry’s position. More than anything, he wanted to warm up. Unfortunately, the climb wasn’t long enough to shift the chill from his muscles. He glanced down at the steep-sided riverbank below him. It was filled with Mago’s men: 1,000 Numidians and their horses, and 1,000 infantry, a mixture of Libyan skirmishers and spearmen. Despite the fact that the warmly dressed soldiers were packed as tightly as apples in a barrel, it seemed an eternity since they had arrived. In fact, it was barely five hours. Men are not supposed to spend a winter’s night outdoors in this godforsaken land, thought Bostar bitterly. His bones ached at the idea of the warm sunshine that bathed Carthage daily.

Reaching the top of the bank, Bostar crouched down, using the scrubby bushes that regularly dotted the ground as cover. He peered into the distance, but saw nothing. There had been no movement since the Numidian cavalry had quietly passed by, heading for the Roman side of the river. Bostar sighed. It would be hours before anything of importance happened. Nonetheless, he had to keep his guard up. Hannibal had given them the most important task of any soldiers in his army. For what felt like the thousandth time, Bostar slowly turned in a circle, scanning the landscape with eagle eyes.

The watercourse that formed their hiding place was a small tributary of the Trebia, and ran north-south across the plain that lay before the Carthaginian camp. Following Hannibal’s instructions, they had secreted themselves half a mile to the south of the area upon which he wished to fight. The general’s reasons were simple. Behind them, the ground began to climb towards the low hills that filled the horizon. If the Romans took the bait, they were unlikely to march in this direction. It was a good place to hide, thought Bostar. He just hoped that Hannibal’s plan worked, and that they weren’t too far away from the fighting if, or when, the time came to move.

He found Mago lying alongside the sentry in a shallow dip, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Bostar liked the youngest Barca brother. Like Hannibal, Mago was charismatic and brave. He was also indomitably cheerful, which provided a counterweight to Hannibal’s sometimes serious disposition. Smaller than Hannibal, Mago reminded Bostar of a hunting dog: lean, muscular and always eager to be slipped from the leash. ‘Seen anything, sir?’ he whispered.

Mago turned his head. ‘Restless, aren’t you?’

Bostar shrugged. ‘The same as everyone else, sir. It’s difficult waiting down there without a clue what’s going on.’

Mago smiled. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘The Romans will come.’

‘How can you be sure, sir?’

‘Because Hannibal believes that they will, and I trust in him.’

Bostar nodded. It was a good answer, he thought. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’

‘I know you will. That’s why Hannibal picked you and your brother,’ Mago replied.

‘We’re very grateful for the opportunity, sir,’ said Bostar, thinking sour thoughts about Sapho. He and his older brother hadn’t spoken since Hannibal’s reprimand. Bostar felt regret that he’d only had the briefest of words with Hanno before they’d left the camp. He’d been angry that his younger brother seemed to be friendly with Sapho. Really, it was none of his business.

Mago got to his feet. ‘Have the men eaten yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, if I’m famished, they must be too,’ Mago declared. ‘Let’s break out the rations. It won’t be a hot breakfast, like the lucky dogs back at camp will get, but anything’s better than nothing. A man with a full belly sees the world with different eyes, eh?’ He glanced at the sentry. ‘You won’t miss out. I’ll send someone up to relieve you soon.’

The man grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Lead on,’ Mago said.

Bostar obeyed. Mention of the encampment brought his father and Hanno to mind. If it came to a battle, they would be in the front line. Not quite in the centre – that honour had been given to Hannibal’s new recruits, the Gaulish tribesmen – but still in a dangerous position. The fighting everywhere would be intense. He sighed. The gods protect us all, he prayed. If it comes to it, let us die well.

Combining his riders with Publius’ depleted horsemen gave Sempronius Longus just over four thousand cavalry. The moment that the assembled turmae had heard their orders, they were sent out from behind the protection of the fortifications. Fabricius and his men were among the first to exit the camp.