So Dark A Cloud

By Alasdair Stroyan and White Magic Studios

Bade in Rome, it was business as usual.

Even with so dark a cloud hanging over them.

In many villas across the city, children were being chastised by their mothers for bad behavior. Fathers were away, and mo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maple Publishers
• Release date: Apr 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915796523

Book preview

So Dark A Cloud

Author: Alasdair Stroyan

Copyright © Alasdair Stroyan (2023)

The right of Alasdair Stroyan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Published in 2023

ISBN 978-1-915796-51-6 (Paperback)

978-1-915796-52-3 (eBook)

Book cover design and Book layout by:

White Magic Studios

www.whitemagicstudios.co.uk

Published by:

Maple Publishers

Fairbourne Drive, Atterbury,

Milton Keynes,

MK10 9RG, UK

www.maplepublishers.com

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated by any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

The book is a work of fiction, while some of the main characters, Roman and Carthaginian, are factual, as are the battles, other characters are imagined. The places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental, and the Publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

SO DARK A CLOUD

(The romanticised saga on the life of Hannibal.......)

Contents

Prologue

Part One – The Oath

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two – Hispania

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Three – The Alps

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Four – Italia

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Glossary

Prologue

"No wrecking storm, no crackling forest fire,

No natural disaster, devil’s ire,

Has ever seeped with such a woeful dread,

Or through so great an empire boldly spread

Such awesome fear, or cast so dark a cloud,

As has a Carthaginian Barca’s son, proud

Hannibal – who, so far from Spanish home,

Near vanquished all the lofty majesty of Rome."

(STROYAN 1974)

Hannibal waits.

He waits for death as daylight fades.

He can hear the clattering of armour, and the guttural grunts of Roman legionaries, as they start to batter their shields against the gates.

The legendary leader, who has known no fear, is sixty two years old.

Will this be his greatest moment?

This vice which grips him, seems like apprehension – or is it anticipation?

He will die with a peculiar dignity – isolated and far from home.

Echoes of these Roman tormentors reverberate through empty marble hallways. King Prusias of Bithynia is his protector now, and has been, for the last three years.

Hannibal had known in his heart that the Romans still feared him, even in his impotence and old age.

They would never let him live his last years in peace.

He no longer possessed the strength, the desire, or indeed the followers, to raise an army against the might and machinery which was Rome.

They knew that.

But still they worry, and still they seek him out.

Several weeks before, Titus Flaminius had been dispatched to demand his surrender, and Prusias was mindful of his country’s position.

Fly now, he had pleaded. Live out your days back in Carthage – we can stall them as you make your escape.

The cries of hate approach ever closer. Hannibal tries to reassure his protector.

Prusias, my friend, I appreciate your situation, but I have tired of seeking new refuge.

Beads of sweat cling to Hannibal’s forehead, and yet he shivers in the chill of the night air.

Prusias stays silent, resigned to the will of his redoubtable guest. The approach of heavy sandals throbs towards them through cavernous ante chambers. The tread is deliberate, and menacing.

For Hannibal, life’s last precious moments are soon to slip away.

Beckoning now, are the final, tranquil calms of deliverance. Glorious rapids of youth stretch back into the mists and mountains of time.

The uncertainties of eternity will soon release him from this limbo.

Prusias can see in the eyes of his friend, that it is useless to plead further.

It saddens me that I cannot dissuade you from your action...

Worry no longer, friend. Hannibal wipes away a trickle of moisture from all that is left of his right eye.

How much longer do we have?

The Bithynian guards can be heard now, in the outer chambers, frantically stalling the approach of Flaminius and his executioners.

A few moments, that is all – I do not wish to incite a pitched battle.

You will not have to – I am ready to say my goodbyes – and you must leave me to do what I have to do...

Prusias is too moved to speak.

The two men embrace tearfully, but briefly. They both realise that to delay is futile. The moment is agonising for each, as Prusias turns away, his eyes puffy with emotion.

He stumbles sadly from the chamber. There is no glance back at Hannibal as he closes the doors reverently behind him.

It is a short time before Hannibal’s mind has cleared. The next task needs to be tackled without emotion.

To the left of the large window which overlooks the king’s stables, there is a loose brick about halfway up the wall. Nobody but Hannibal knows of its existence.

He applies the minimum of pressure, and it slides inwards. From the opening now visible, he reaches for the small earthenware vessel.

He holds it nervously at first, with trembling fingers, unable to deliberate, as if its deadly contents had the power to paralyse by their proximity alone.

His joints are stiff: but his mind is suddenly sharper than his short blade sword.

Steadying his resolve, he removes the lid, and stares unflinchingly at the cherry coloured syrup of death. The elixir of eternity.....

Hannibal crosses once more to the window, and gazes across the pink roof of the old palace for the last time.

As he takes his first sip, and feels the thick liquid trickle irretrievably down the back of his throat, he knows that the long journey home has begun.

He searches upwards into the velvet void of a purple night. Soon he will feel the stabs of pain.

Before too long, he will gasp for breath as his lungs tighten and constrict.

He tilts back the vessel, and downs the last of the poison. As yet, he feels no sensation of discomfort.

Yet, in his mind’s eye, he is far away. The rudely barked commands outside the door, seem to be emanating from another age, many years in the past.

The images in his left eye dissolve around memories of a Carthaginian twilight long before, and his reeling brain transports him back to a time when life is young, and so full of promise.......

Part One – The Oath

Chapter One

(Narrated by Hannibal himself)

The thing I remember most about my childhood was the never ending sun. The heat burnt through my leather sandals and scorched the soles of my feet. Whitewashed walls at our villa in Thapsus were too hot to touch, and the evening winds from the desert would blow sand into my eyes, making them smart and sting.

The only relief – blessed relief – that I remember, was to take off my sandals, and slide my raw feet across the smooth, blissful marble floor, as I made my way to the beckoning waters of the pool.

Stepping into this lukewarm paradise was always the treat of my day, and Bodeshmun would hover with the robe, ready to wipe me down.

Time for dinner, young Hannibal, he would say, as his leathery arms held out my evening tunic. I would skip to the table, with Bodeshmun always just a few steps behind. He was my constant companion, timekeeper, and friend.

To me, all those years ago, he seemed timeless, tireless, and ever present.

He was with me when I woke, when I retired for the night, after a long day of study, and when the vapours and stench from the lagoon at Leptis Minor affected my breathing in the high summer heat.

Hannibal, it is time for your lesson with Sakarbaal, he would repeat, day after day, as the sun hovered above the lower rooftops of Thapsus, shimmering in the blue haze.

Did I say timekeeper? He was also my conscience.

And today, we will have less of the day dreaming – do you think you can manage that?

He would wink – he would always wink – but this was involuntary. One day, many years before, he had been bitten by a scorpion, just below his left eye, as he slept, out on a desert excursion. He had nearly died, and the venom had left its legacy.

He was an insignificant looking man, with no redeeming physical features, balding grey hair and a gnarled face, but I loved him like a father, or at least as much as I loved my real father, Hamilcar.

Bodeshmun was a Carthaginian, born and bred, and that was all I knew of his background. At the age of nine, I was not going to pry further.

Sakarbaal, my tutor and philosopher, was a learned scholar from Neapolis, a small town to the north. He was a lot younger than Bodeshmun, in his late twenties, but much wiser and more astute than many men twice his age.

He always prepared each tutorial meticulously, and never laboured the point.

He would mix Carthaginian politics with Greek military strategy, the Roman psyche with the history of Phoenician trade. He would question me ad nauseam – Whom do you admire most? He would ask. Why? He would follow up, and then he would explain why I was wrong. I knew I wasn’t, not all the time, anyway – but I soaked up all his wisdom like a sponge, and the information served me mightily well during my later years.

Unfortunately, he was a fragile specimen, and would never have survived any physical hardship. He succumbed all too easily to any infection, and even Eshmoun, the god of healing, would all too often ignore our sacrifices on his behalf, when he lay abed, wracked with winter coughing fits.

Apart from Bodeshmun and Sakarbaal, there were Sophonisba, my humanities tutor, a silver haired priestess of the virgin goddess Tanit, and my two closest playmates, Philosir and Carthalo.

Both were older than me, and both, like me, were headstrong.

Philosir had striking curly blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. He was stocky, pigeon toed, and never stopped laughing. If I became too serious, he would bring me down to earth with a bump.

I have to return to my strategy studies, I would say.

For Baal’s sake, Hannibal, there is more to life than Alexander’s campaigns in Persia... He would still be saying this to me years and years later.

His father, Adherbal, was one of Carthage’s greatest admirals, and still spent most of his time at sea. Philosir had grown up quickly with the absence of his father, and was more of a man at his age, than I would ever be.

Carthalo was a quieter character altogether, with a bundle of black curls which writhed across his forehead in snakelike fashion.

As a young boy, he and I were of a like mind. Unlike Philosir, he always knew when to shut up – but in Baal’s name, could he fight!

He soon became my official sparring partner as we grew up together. Brothers in arms, we would practise hand to hand close combat, swordsmanship, and use of the javelin.

We learnt a lot under the fierce scrutiny of Gisgo, a hardened veteran of the latest campaigns in Sicilia.

Gisgo was a trusted lieutenant of my father. He was not blessed with the astutest of brains, but he knew more about hand to hand combat than anyone except my father. He would prove to be as staunchly loyal to me as anyone. He was the only man I knew who terrified me merely by grinning! This threat resided in a row of jagged, blackened teeth – charred stumps which still amazingly, clung to his gums!

I have only vague recollections of my mother Similce.

I was four when she died. That year was a sombre one for Carthage, and all who lived in North Africa.

Many succumbed to a disease which arrived in March with no warning, and lasted until November. Fevers, sweats, and numerous boils, would attack even the most healthy of individuals. The lake at Leptis Minor stank like rotten eggs in the summer heat.

The plague and trachoma hung over the cities without respite, and tinctures of eucalyptus, potions of pomegranates and almonds, and hot wine and citrus, brought only light relief.

My mother lay for a week in great distress, scarcely able to draw breath, until one night, as my father sat with her, she lost her will to live.

I remember my father holding me close, and comforting me – one of the rare occasions we enjoyed physical contact – and I wished so much there had been more.

I am left with blurring visions of my mother now, when she stood, olive skinned and elegant, upon the verandah, at one of my father’s important functions.

Her long black hair, and limpid brown eyes, were offset by her intricate ear pendants, and necklace of jacinth, turquoise and gold.

Everywhere on her person she wore jewellery incorporating snakes and crescents, and her finger rings had seals of jasper and comelian. Her long, lithe legs were decorated by anklets of silver, and her fragrance! The memory of her perfume will remain with me for ever – the lavender and jasmine which lingered in my room, long after she had bid me goodnight.

My two younger siblings would never remember these things, and I was sad for them both.

So what of my father, the great, omniscient Hamilcar Barca, creator of the new, vibrant Carthage?

As a boy of nine tender years, he seemed to me less of a father, more of a deity.

I gazed upon him in awe, and I treasured every word, since he was a man of few words, and even less affection.

He was not a man I could go to with my problems. Bodeshmun took care of those.

He was hardly ever around to offer me advice, and the business of empire and matters of state filled most of his days. To him, the daily domestic chores of fatherhood were almost a hindrance.

But one day, not long after the death of my mother, my cocooned routine of everyday life changed, abruptly, and forever.

Bodeshmun came running into the atrium. His breath was laboured, as indeed it might have been, as I had never seen Bodeshmun running in all my nine years.

Your father has called for you, young master – he sounded flustered, and the beads of sweat clung profusely to his forehead. "And he has sent a chariot for the two of us, to join him at the temple of Baal. We must hurry!’’

If my father spoke, even though the mouth of a manservant, you listened.

But he has never sent for me before, I replied. He deals in the world of men, and I am but a boy.

Boy or not, put this toga on, and prepare yourself – the chariot awaits, and your father is an impatient man, as you well know.

Bodeshmun handed me the cloak I wore twice a year for my spiritual renewal, along with the brown leather belt, to which was attached my short dagger in its silver sheath.

Our two faithful horses Yaroah and Shafat stood patiently at the harness. A swarthy charioteer waited for us to board, then whisked us away in the gloom of dusk to our destination.

We lurched along the cobbles beside the seashore, through Leptis Minor, Ruspina, and Hadrumetum. We sped north through the dunes of the gulf of Hammamet, before cutting cross country through the sand and scrub between Neapolis and Tunis.

The moon was rising, casting a silver gleam over the roofs of Carthage, as we began our descent into the old town.

There were a few merchants plying their late evening trade, and some of the locals threw us a second glance, but most just scurried about their business.

Through the inner walls of Byrsa, and up onto the hill which overlooked the bay of Kram – and there it stood!

Probably the most impressive edifice in the entire city of Carthage, and one which never failed to take my breath away. Many centuries before, the Greeks had helped us raise it block by block, with massive marble pillars holding up the elegantly sculptured roof.

This then, was the temple of Baal, with next to it, and almost equally impressive, the temple of the virgin goddess Tanit.

Night was falling with an eerie silence. The noises from the city dissipated into the darkness. Most of the inhabitants scuttled into their homes when daylight ceased, and the waters on both sides of the isthmus shimmered in the pale moonlight.

The chariot came to a halt, and as Bodeshmun helped me down to the ground, my father Hamilcar came down the steps to greet us.

Come Hannibal, we have work to do – this moment can wait no longer.

I looked up at his eager countenance in puzzlement. What on earth could possess him to drag me out here so late in the day? My whole body trembled with anticipation.

To be summoned thus, in the dead of night, sent a tingle down my nine year old spine.

Bodeshmun, you must wait here with Abdosir – we will not keep you long.

My father’s gruff tones encouraged the immediate obsequious bow from my mentor, while Abdosir remained expressionless at the reins.

I followed my father’s lead up the steps, and into the cavernous interior, lit only by braziers throwing flickers of flame up onto the ceiling.

We came to a halt in front of the altar to our most revered god and master.

I looked sideways at my father, whose body suddenly seemed rigid with intent, and fierce passion.

Hamilcar was not a tall man, but in this moment, he gained in stature and determination. His brown eyes glinted menacingly amid the flickering flames which danced all around us, and he turned to me all of a sudden...

He took my hands in his.

In all my young life, I had never experienced such a warmth, such a deliberate gesture. This was an action full of purpose.

Upon the altar were the remains of an animal. I recoiled. I had seen rotting and desiccated flesh in the desert many times, but these were fresh, and bloody.

The entrails of a goat, Hannibal – the daily sacrifice to Baal, upon which we must both lay our hands, and swear an oath.

I saw two priests scurrying away into the shadows, fearful that they might eavesdrop.

At this time of evening, the temple is quiet. This solitude suits the moment.

I pulled back in trepidation, but he gripped my hands even more firmly, and placed them on the entrails, which were damp and clammy to the touch.

What oath, father? I experienced the intensity of his gaze.

An oath which you, the oldest son of the new generation of Barcas, must uphold for the rest of your life, until Carthage is no more.

He looked deep into my eyes, and spoke in hushed tones.

As you lay your’ hands upon the sacrifice, swear that you will never be a friend to the Roman people, that you will defy them day after day, every year of your life, to your last breath, until you bring them to their knees, so that they will hear the name of Hannibal, and quake with fear.

For just a few seconds, my heart ceased to beat, and my knees turned to water.

Could I comprehend the enormity of this moment at my tender age?

Take your time, my son.

‘My son’ – he had never called me that as long as I had known him. He pressed my hands even more firmly onto the entrails.

Repeat slowly after me....l will never be a friend to the Roman people.....

I will never be a friend to the Roman people.... I stuttered, swaying like a palm frond in the desert wind – I will defy them day after day, every year of my life, to my last breath.... I paused again, beginning to realise that life was taking on new meaning – until I bring them to their knees, so that they will hear the name of Hannibal, and...... my mind went blank all of a sudden – and quake with fear, my father cajoled, as I once again came to my senses.....

Quake with fear... I whispered in a monotone, as my knees finally gave way.

My father held me up, and gave me what, in his own way, was a tender embrace.

He nodded at me sagely, as my eyes briefly blurred over.

I knew then, that my first steps from boyhood to manhood had begun.

As we left the temple, our tread reverberated around the sculptured stone surrounds, a heavy sound which seemed to echo into the beckoning future.

It was as if the two of us represented the heavy footfall of a great army of foot soldiers on the move, destination preordained in the mists of time.

Reality was a chilly chariot, as the sea winds gained in intensity – perhaps the winds of change for a young boy named Hannibal?

Chapter Two

We spent that night at my father’s official residence at Taemia, between the bay of Kram and the lake of Tunis.

It was less grand than the villa at Thapsus, and he hinted that I would, from now on, be spending more time here rather than down the coast.

The hustle and bustle of Carthage was to be my education from now on, with Bodeshmun and Sakarbaal to give me my usual tutoring. It seemed that the pleasures of my youth would cease rather abruptly!

My father told me in no uncertain terms, that there would be less frivolity, and more responsibility. I reminded him that I was barely ten, but my protestations fell on deaf ears!

There is a fascinating world out there, Hannibal, and you will soon be exploring its many facets, here in Carthage, and further afield.

I listened to his words with a tinge of sadness at what was past, yet I thrilled with anticipation at what lay ahead.

One day, you will lead this great nation, and undertake the mantle of all we swore at the temple of Baal – but you will be well prepared, and years from now, you will appreciate that base of learning and instruction.

Will I still see Philosir and Carthalo?

Of course. We will still go down to Thapsus for a few days at a time, and they can come up here when days permit. It is important that you maintain your close friendships, and friends upon whose loyalty you can rely.

We chatted long into that afternoon, sharing a pomegranate, chewing endlessly on local almonds, and olives from Hispania. I listened intently to what he had planned for me in the years ahead.

One proposition both scared me, and excited my imagination.

I want you to accompany me on one of my desert caravans to Niger. I think it would be useful for you to experience the hardships and travails your men will have to endure on long marches through alien territory – it will not be easy – this will be your first sally into the real world.

He looked for my reaction.

He could see it from the widening of my eyes, and the dryness of my mouth forcing me to swallow in an exaggerated manner.

My mind was racing – most ten year olds in Carthage were running through narrow streets, playing their daily games amongst the archways and market stalls, with only a thought as to what their mothers would be giving them to eat for their next meal.

I assumed this next adventure would be immediate. I was wrong.

We leave within the week. I have a little annoying and pressing business to complete with the peoples’ assembly, and the council of elders. The pitfalls of working with politicians – they have to give their permission for all matters we undertake. They fail to see the world through military eyes, as you will find out when you are older. We will set out to meet Gisgo as he returns from Niger with enormous bounty – we hope. Emeralds, Chalcedony, Carbuncles, and gold dust from the Sahara.

Can Philosir and Carthalo come with us, father? My continual questions must have seemed irksome.

I don’t see why not. They are older than you, and in the future, they will prove to be loyal companions. In the meantime, I must leave you in the tender care of Bodeshmun, and tomorrow, we will go down to the harbour, and watch the fleet returning from Cyprus and Egypt. Precious cargoes of linen and copper will be unloaded, and you must learn as much about the intricacies of trade and diplomacy, as you have learnt about the military.

I watched the great Hamilcar Barca stride off to do his duty, and turned my attention to the weightier matter of what Bodeshmun was preparing for our supper.

The semolina and freshly cut chicken looked tempting, and the array of spices from Arabia sent delicious aromas wafting through the cool marble hallways.

I’m going to miss Thapsus – right now I could do with a bathe in the pool.

Bodeshmun nodded. He put down the olive oil, and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"We return to Thapsus tomorrow evening, after you have toured the harbour.

Admiral Bomilcar will be showing you the magnificent multi deck craft which make up our navy."

So I was to be shown round a Qunquireme! I had heard all about them, with their five decks, and banks of oars.

I went to bed with a heightened expectancy, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Needless to say, I slept little.

The next morning, my father came through to my room earlier than usual.

How did your meeting go? I asked, more out of politeness than interest.

Well, at least we have the money to raise an army for Hispania – and you, young man, will be coming with me. In a few weeks, we will have to say goodbye to Carthage for a very long time, possibly for ever, and you will begin a new chapter of your life on foreign soil.

What, leave Carthage for ever? For a moment, I froze at the thought. For all my awareness of what he had planned for me, and despite my status in the future scheme of things, I was fearful at the speed of change. For all my exalted position, I was still just a boy who yearned to do boyish things, preferably at my own pace, and with my own friends. I knew what I wanted out of life at this moment, and it had little to do with the almighty Hamilcar’s designs. I almost felt a little resentment, along with the throes of resignation.

Surprisingly, my father was aware of my thoughts.

Do not worry, Hannibal. All this may be a lot to digest just now, so after today’s tour, and our little trek into the desert, there will be time for you to rest, and enjoy the pool at Thapsus.

He did not smile on many occasions, but this was an exception. I almost detected a glint of pride in his mahogany eyes, which seemed reward enough to me for all the sacrifices I was making.

Come now, the harbour awaits. Bomilcar looks forward to showing you around.

I skipped down the steps to the chariot, and Abdosir whisked us away to the large rectangular basin above Taemia, with the bay of Kram to the right. Further in from the sea, in a circular basin, stood the naval base, where military quinquiremes floated side by side, always ready for sea battles with the Romans.

Bomilcar was waiting for us at the quayside. He was much taller than my father, with a deep chestnut tan, gained from weeks at sea. His eyes were a luminous blue, and danced mischievously from side to