Hannibal "& His War With Rome"

By Nick Box

Hannibal Barca, general of the Carthaginian army, strikes terror in the hearts of his Roman foes. Hannibal is determined to march on Italy and attack the people he has pledged to hate. After a victory in Saguntum, an Iberian ally of Rome, the legendary general presses onward.

Carthage’s strength and growth threaten the Roman reputation and ego, and Rome’s pride prevents any peace. It is said, “Saguntum was the flint and Hannibal the rock, but it was Roman-laid tinder that ignited.” Yet a Roman consul, Old Scipio, and his son, Young Scipio, nobles of Rome, have little fear of such an enemy. Their army is superior in weaponry and numbers, and they ride out to battle, confident in a victory. Although it seems impossible, somehow the shrewd and fearless barbarian general turns the Roman advantage on its head.

A general who can successfully bring an entire army—and a herd of war-elephants—through the bitter cold and harsh conditions of the Alps is an enemy rightly to be feared. With allies like the African king Masinissa and the barbarian princess Frederix, Hannibal is poised for what history will call the Second Punic War. He neither knows nor cares about Old Scipio’s message to Carthage: “Submission or death: those are the choices Rome gives you.”

He was undermanned, under-armed, and yet he would play by the rules, even if the Romans he fought would not. How could he ever expect to win? By being that damn good. His tactics would redefine war. His principles would redefine man.

This thrilling novel brings to life the ancient and epic battle between General Hannibal Barca, one of the greatest generals of all time, and the might of the Roman Empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781621833291

Nick Box

Nicholas Baksh, writing under the pseudonym Nick Box, is an American writer of West Indian decent. His family hails from Trinidad and Tobago, and though he has never lived there, Caribbean culture is alive and well in his family and in him. He loves nothing more than a hot doubles, with slight pepper, and an orange, not red solo.Born in New York, but raised in the once quiet suburbs of Tampa, FL, his foundations have more to do with the books he read and the movies he saw than the people around him. Classics and epics were his teachers; Poe his favorite.He attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 2000 where he studied Mechanical Engineering and Finance. And though he has worked in both fields because the world requires it, he has never found it fulfilling. Science and math are what we do to survive, but what we do in the silent corner of our room, when no one is watching, is why we are alive.He lives to write; hoping to combine the pretty metric phrases of poetry with the meaningful stories of prose and make people smile, think, and feel; most of all, he wants people to feel.

Book preview

Hannibal

&

His War With Rome

Nick Box

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2015

ISBN 13: 978-1-62183-329-1

Ebook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction based upon actual history. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chapter One

Saguntum

The first time the Young Scipio left his villa in Rome, he left for war. He was arrogant and foolish, particularly in the art of war, as all Romans of this era seemed to be. He was to meet with his father in Gaul, who, already engineering Young Scipio’s consulship, had arranged for his son to deliver terms to the new Carthaginian general. Young Scipio, fresh from the streets of Rome, had been charged with ordering the barbarian hordes of Carthage from the wilds of Iberia back to Africa.

Carthage had lost to Rome in the previous war, and with their defeat came constant castigation and repression. Carthage was subject to the will of the Roman Senate, and Rome would not allow their former enemies to regain any strength in their newly forged Mediterranean empire. Carthage would not be allowed to expand unchecked into Iberia and Gaul for fear that they would grow to rival Rome again. In true Roman spirit, the Romans sought to kill the child before he became a man; however, they would eventually fail at this endeavor.

Unaware of these circumstances, Young Scipio traveled through Gaul without pause; departing to Iberia very soon after he arrived, his lips fat and wet with anticipation. He couldn’t hide his giddy schoolboy smile from the soldiers his father had assigned to his security. He had never seen a barbarian before, and in his naiveté, he was looking forward to such sights. He was too young to experience any fear at first, but that would quickly change; minutes spent dying can bear fruit as ages spent living.

Mesmerized by aristocratic ambition and foreign wonder, Young Scipio only realized his father had assigned a full contingent of men to his security when they had sat to eat after a full day of travel. This was far more than was customary for similar diplomatic negotiations in Northern Italy and far more than could be attributed to the over precautions of an overprotective father.

The presence of so many soldiers assigned to his security did much more to augment his fear than his calm. More tall than bulbous, but bulbous nonetheless, with muscles rippling across their limbs and chest, these soldiers only appeared to be like the soldiers Scipio had trained with in Rome. They wore the standard red soldier’s garb, used their sirs and said their thank yous, but their eyes lacked the haughty superiority that most had come to expect from the strong arm of the empire. Hardened by war, death had marred their once smooth faces with wrinkles and stubble, embedding them with blood stains that no amount of washing could remove. When these men sat side by side in their shining bronze armor, gnawing at their food, one could not help but see the savage means by which Rome enforced its will, and the toll those means took on its soldiers. Each one of these men had killed for Rome, and they would kill again, never doubting the Roman disposition to conquer and control.

In Rome, these men could no longer serve any legitimate purpose but to fight and kill in the arena. Most would have eventually been jailed or executed by the state. No respectable work would be available to them. Here, however, at the outer rim of the empire, in places where the more barbaric traits of the human species still lingered, men like this were needed. Young Scipio was no longer in Rome, or even Italy. Here, power emanated from numbers and brute force, not titles or wealth. The weight of his voice would depend on the strength of his men, not the solid, ruby-red ring on his finger. Very quickly he realized what his father knew: barbarians respect what they see people do, not the gold they have or the titles they bear. They are a very different type of people from those in Rome.

***

In Iberia, south of the River Ebro, Hannibal’s army stood poised to take the city state of Saguntum. The stone city, constructed atop a manmade plateau, was an oasis of Roman civilization amidst an untamed and barren land. No shrubs or underbrush—just sand and death in every direction. Elevated on the plateau some fifty feet, the city constantly cast its shadow dauntingly upon the dry and lifeless ground, completely hiding the sun and leaving the entire army in darkness. Fires lit and food uncooked, soldiers ate and warmed indiscriminately with horse and elephant. Man and beast, swaying harmoniously as one to song by fire, shared last rights as equals. Elephants roared, horses neighed, and men sang, drunk with fear and faith before battle.

Today we fight, today we win,

We fight and win with Hannibal.

He takes our souls, commands our lives

And now we live for Hannibal.

***

Young Scipio too approached the encampment with a mixture of fear and faith—fear of the unknown, but faith in Rome. He couldn’t tell man from animal, and he didn’t dare stare long enough to try. He approached atop his horse, amidst his contingent of shiny, armored foot soldiers and cavalrymen, eyes seemingly fixed forward as he was taught, but actually locked as stricken with rigor mortis in shock.

When he reached the outer perimeter of the Carthaginian army, the drunken song was far too loud for him to say anything that could be heard above it, though he desperately tried. Fortunately his security head, his father’s second and longtime friend, Fabeous Bateo, shouted from his horse without request, Here stands the envoy of Rome, victor of the wars between us, and we demand peaceful arbitration, as is our right by the countless treaties before us. Fabeous Bateo hurled a sack of scrolls at the feet of the Carthaginian guard and stared at them with a brazen disdain.

Bateo, as he preferred to be called, was the model Roman citizen: both soldier and aspiring politician, and of course, an unquestioning patriot—the best kind of patriot, according to Scipio’s father. Never force a man to do anything when you can persuade him to volunteer, went the saying. Make him think your best interests are his best interests. This is the difference between ephemeral and everlasting control.

These words, written on the face of every Roman soldier, spoken so often and precariously by the Roman aristocracy, rang most true when applied to Fabeous Bateo. More muscular than his men, but skinnier as well, Bateo was an attractive fellow of sorts. His roughshod commoner somehow reflected his august patriotism and perseverance, rather than his impoverished beginnings and barbarism. Wavy black hair complemented his dark eyes and olive complexion. Oh yes, women loved Bateo, and as he spoke from the shadows, shouting furiously at the Carthaginians, one couldn’t help but notice his impressive silver silhouette against the backdrop of the city and see why.

But be wary of muscles and machismo, not simply masculine makeup; they often disguise insecurity. Insecure men are only faithful to those who provide them with security.

Bateo’s voice seemed to open Hannibal’s army by force of will rather than communication and comprehension. After all, Bateo didn’t speak barbarian, but like a child removed since birth, his subconscious movements and demeanor struck a rapport with the Africans, casting some indigenous spell. They parted, as if a giant arrow had been shot through them, casting soldiers and animals aside in sequential fashion and opening a path directly to Hannibal. But Bateo could not be African; Hannibal must have been expecting them.

Ever on his guard, Bateo ordered most of the men to stay behind and ride to Gaul if they failed to hear from him before the day had ended. He and Scipio at the center, along with ten soldiers and four cavalrymen, entered the path that had been cleared. The dark shadow of the city created a perpetual dusk around the camp, obscuring the Romans’ vision from places far beyond the corridor the Africans had created. Rather than man and animal singing and eating, the Romans experienced whirlwinds of blackish outlines and streaky figures on both sides, some large, some small—all frightening. An amalgamation of the army’s noises blended in the Roman ear as fear, speeding heartbeats and quickening their pace. The Romans, cautious to disguise their paranoia, would stealthily race up the path to the tent of the dreaded Hannibal Barca.

***

He was not black, but dark, very dark brown—similar to the burnt sands of his land. He wore no shirt or pants, but rather a thin sea green skirt, leaving all that he could exposed. Patches of silky black hair grew wild on his body’s front, sprouting thickly from his broad chest and slender abs, softening his well-defined, muscular lines. He had similar hair on his head, and though he kept it long like a lion’s mane, he let it fall as it may, unkempt and disheveled. It appeared he had shaved his face in the past, but hadn’t for a while; leaving his cheeks and neck coarse with stubble. It gave his face a rather hard and wary look, but rugged and seductive as well, like the chiseled statue of some hero born before the domestication of man; primal, yet permanent. He neither looked nor dressed any different from the soldiers around him, and yet his presence, despite his short stature, was enough to tell Scipio that he was Hannibal Barca.

The tent was long and bare—nothing but long wooden tables with plates and wares for eating. He spoke their language and gave them Roman food but didn’t partake himself. While they dined, he sat and stared, as if deaf and dumb in awe. But his silence, mistaken for admiration, was nothing but utter disgust. Treaties his father had signed—treaties he would honor—denied him the pleasure of killing these Romans, but at least he could savor the thought and temper his appetite while they satisfied theirs. When they had fed, and their stomachs were full and fat, he gestured for his men to leave. Bateo, being quite satiated, motioned for his men to do the same. Formalities ended there, as the barbarian straightened a bit to speak. He addressed them as Romans, but then stopped suddenly. Hannibal had never met a Roman before, and while mouthing the words, he could not hide his own giddy smile.

What can I do for the empire of Rome? Hannibal said, emphasizing the word empire in an overly derisive tone.

Sensing the implication, Bateo shot back, Rome’s a republic, Carthaginian. He spoke in a voice that echoed an innate hate that only war breeds. To Bateo, there was no worse insult than to call someone a Carthaginian. Twenty years had passed since the last war, but the grudges still remained on both sides, etched into the memories of the old, ingrained in the minds of the young.

Before Bateo could continue, Scipio, having regained his composure after many glasses of wine, silenced him with his hand. There was no need to enrage the barbarian when aristocratic chicanery would suffice.

My friend, in peace we have both found prosperity, where war brought us both misfortune and death. Rome has interests in Saguntum and in Iberia as a whole. Further, an alliance has been signed. The treaties your father signed forbid your armies from attacking a Roman ally. Go home now, and no offense will be taken. Peace and prosperity shall continue to blanket both our nations.

A deep, guttural roar conjured in Hannibal’s gut, and he could not keep his mouth shut. It climbed his throat, forcing him to his feet. Looking down at the Romans, Hannibal bellowed in a loud, raspy tone that sounded more like a lion’s roar than intelligible words. Roman red scum! Do you not think I know your interests are due to my interests? Romans let Saguntines starve for sport and gamble. Romans care only for themselves. You are here only to deny us the prosperity you speak of. He cast his gaze on Bateo with a certain angry familiarity in his face and tone. But like cowards, Romans declare war with terms of peace. The words seem to expel from his mouth with wind enough to blow Young Scipio back.

Stunned, Scipio could not stop Bateo from drawing his blade in defense, but Hannibal did. Hannibal placed his foot on the hilt of Bateo’s gladius, preventing him from unsheathing it, and smirked at Bateo. I will not kill you here, Roman, under a guise of truce. He paused momentarily for emphasis and then bellowed mockingly, No, I am not Roman! He could not help but laugh sardonically as he said this, Romans never trusted anyone because no one in Rome can be trusted.

Hannibal extended his leg forcefully, pushing Bateo to the ground. Bateo, jumping to his feet quicker than he fell, drew his sword. Scipio, only now realizing his mission could be nothing more than an errand of appearance, stopped Bateo and gestured for them to leave. Bateo reluctantly agreed and moved toward the entrance, but as he exited the hut, he turned back to Hannibal and said, It is not always cowardly to kill without warning, but only cowards kill children.

Hannibal, truly losing his temper for the first time, launched himself at Bateo, his limbs spread and bent like a praying mantis caught in a tidal wave. He soared through the air, landing with his left knee on Bateo’s chest, forcing them both to the ground. Hannibal clenched his right fist and punched the ground next to Bateo’s head. He put his nose to Bateo’s and spoke from his soul in a cold, roaring whisper. I do not kill children, I kill Romans, and if you tempt me again, I will forget my nature and satisfy my appetite with your blood. Hannibal rose slowly, his eyes locked on Bateo in a glossy, entranced stare, and released his foe. Shocked, Bateo lay still for a moment before realizing he had dropped his sword. He scrambled for it, but Hannibal had already turned his back and walked away. As quickly as the wave had crashed, the waters receded and the calm had returned.

Bateo’s heart was racing and his adrenaline was pumping; his face beamed a brilliant Roman red in fury. But being a soldier, when Scipio told him to leave, he did what he was trained to do: he followed orders. He stomped his feet as they left, his visage glowing hot with anger.

Young Scipio looked back at the barbarian one last time and forced himself to speak clearly and concisely for fear of his father’s temper, but it was with a hesitant voice he spoke. If you attack Saguntum, there will be war.

For the first time, Hannibal’s eyes met Young Scipio’s. Clearly they were at different stages and on different levels, but each saw something in the other. Similar boys do not always amount to similar men; fathers always have their say.

As Young Scipio, Bateo, and the Roman company rejoined their men outside the Carthaginian camp, Scipio began to see something more than barbarism behind the general’s actions. He would not mention it, for he wasn’t sure, and his father had taught him that it was better to wait and be sure than to speak and be wrong. Appearances are everything.

And he could not help but wonder that he might be wrong, seeing through the spectacles of an innocent child mistaking carnal instincts for intellect. For if the barbarian had indeed intended war, the entire Roman contingent including Bateo and Young Scipio should be dead. Fewer Romans on the battlefield meant easier victories for Carthage. There was no point in honoring the treaty if war was inevitable.

Scipio rode on to Gaul, torn between his own opposing views of Hannibal, yet still aware that war was at hand.

***

Saguntum fell with ease; now it was time to do the same to Rome. Hannibal didn’t fear this war, rather he hastened the time of peace. But with no ships, Italy lay on the other side of a fifteen-mile trek through an iced-over hell of terrain that no army had ever crossed. Even men born there could not thrive there, and Africans, neither man nor beast, liked the cold. He didn’t have to tell his men what lay ahead because he knew their faith in him would keep them warm. This life to the next, they would follow him because he would die for them.

He was their leader because they had chosen him to be—as it should be in war when life itself is currency.

Chapter Two

Carthage

The sun had set in ancient Carthage, but the city remained curiously awake; too anxious to quiet, too scared to darken with night. Fires flickered from inside the windows of the mud brick huts, casting intermittent shadows along the frequently trodden paths. Structures focused and faded as the flames swayed to and fro like the punctuated notes of some fantastic visual symphony.

Masinissa strolled these streets on horseback. His body so skinny from travel that the contours of his bones pressed through his stretched and emaciated skin. Tonight the fires favored his dark complexion, blending his outline and that of his horse seamlessly into the black of night, except for an eerie blue that seemed to highlight his marble white teeth and grainy, silhouetted bones like a pale skeletal structure. Only his eyes were clearly visible. Glossy and incendiary, the fire’s composition was reflected in them. He looked like war and death aflame, aimlessly gliding on the winds of destiny to the Carthaginian senate room.

He had ridden from Iberia through night and weather to be in Carthage tonight. He wasn’t a soldier returning home, but a mamba in a mongoose pit. Unlike the other kings of his dark continent, his cavalry had earned him a seat at this table. He wasn’t merely the only non-Carthaginian allowed in Carthage tonight; he was the only man there loyal to the Barcid dynasty—Hannibal’s dynasty.

He reached his destination with lightning haste and stormed into the meeting room. Rows of muttering Carthaginians sat on granite-clad stone benches before him; all but one were dressed as Hannibal, in a simple, sea green skirt alone. Minimalism and conformity were revered in Carthage, to the point that individuals were hard to find. And although Masinissa dressed the same, among men of so few differences, his foreign birth and dark skin served as a striking aberration to many. But he was used to this.

Uninvited, he walked directly into the center of the semicircular room. Bare and bland, it was as great Queen Dido had preferred—just pillars and walls for enclosure and support. All in pristine, unpainted marble, except for the double door entrance toward the back of stage center. The doors were of oiled, varnished, and slatted wood. There were no windows; light was always from fire in this room.

Masinissa’s lanky body dwarfed the wooden javelin he held, yet he stood hunched over as if he needed it for support. Bald and black, he gritted his whitest of white teeth for all to hear and see while he tensed his muscles with fury. They twitched when he spoke, like serpents slithering up and down his skinny, clean-shaven form. All could see he was a man who would revel in revenge. His lusterless black eyes glared with disgust at each man in the room, monotonously transitioning two by two.

In the prolonged silence another rose to speak, but Masinissa pounded his javelin upon the ground and growled at the so-called senators with a deep, booming voice: "Are you cowards or carpet, afraid to fight, or has Hanno actually convinced you