Hannibal: Clouds of War (41 page)

Pox Face hesitated, and Hanno jabbed the dagger’s tip into his flesh. ‘Move. I just want to talk to you.’

In the depths of terror, men clutch at the shortest of straws. Pox Face ducked inside the darkened space, which was no more than four paces wide. Broken pottery crunched underfoot. The air was fetid, laced with the smell of human piss and shit, and the rotten food that had been flung from above. Hanno glanced up and was glad to see none of the apartments’ residents framed in the windows. He stopped Pox Face fifteen paces in. ‘That’s far enough.’

‘Don’t kill me, please.’ Pox Face turned his head a little to try and catch Hanno’s eye. ‘Please.’

Hanno had been about to use his dagger, but at such close range, he’d cover himself in blood. That wouldn’t do. He had to be able to emerge from the alley and walk away without raising suspicion. ‘Shut up.’
Keep him thinking that he might live.
‘Where were you going?’

‘Nowhere. I—’

Pox Face didn’t get a chance to continue his lie. Releasing his grip on the other’s shoulder, Hanno threw his left arm around Pox Face’s neck and squeezed as hard as he could. Pox Face made a horrible, choking sound and fought back like a man possessed. He tried kicking backwards, smacking Hanno painfully on the knee a couple of times. His hands reached back, pulling at Hanno’s hair, his ears, his arm. Tightening his grip, Hanno buried his face in Pox Face’s smelly tunic to avoid getting a finger in the eye. All the while, he kept the knife ready as a last resort.

For a small man, Pox Face possessed considerable strength. Hanno had lost a few clumps of hair and had a bleeding ear before his opponent’s struggling weakened. At last, though, his arms fell to his sides. He went limp in Hanno’s grasp. Suddenly worried that there might be witnesses, Hanno glanced at the alley’s mouth. There was no one there. Dropping his dagger, he threw Pox Face to the ground and rolled him over. His victim’s eyes flickered and opened. Hanno met his gaze as he placed his hands around Pox Face’s neck and began to choke him again. Pox Face’s hands came up and pawed ineffectually at him.

‘Thought that you’d sell out my woman, did you?’ Hanno hissed, digging his thumbs right into Pox Face’s Adam’s apple. ‘You piece of filth!’

He had killed many men, but never by strangling. It wasn’t pleasant, but Pox Face
had
to die silently. Hanno watched, unmoved, as the other’s face suffused with blood, as his engorged tongue poked out from between his lips. Pox Face’s reddened eyeballs bulged from their sockets. They stared at Hanno with a mad, pleading intensity. ‘Rot in hell,’ he grated, digging in with his thumbs. There was a low
crunch
as the cartilage in Pox Face’s throat gave way. His tongue retracted a little into his mouth, and the light went from his eyes. Hanno didn’t let up. He didn’t take his hands away until there had been no movement from his victim for another twenty heartbeats. Carefully, he felt for a pulse in Pox Face’s purpled neck, and again over his heart. Nothing. Hanno let out a long, slow breath. He had done it.

The danger wasn’t over, however. Noises from the street reminded him that there were people very close by. Replacing his dagger in its sheath, he brushed back his hair, dabbed at his bloody ear, palmed the sweat from his face. Hanno waited until he was stepping into the street before adjusting his tunic in the manner of a man who has been emptying his bladder. A carpenter crouched over a half-sawn plank looked up, and then returned to his work. No one else appeared to notice. With a little luck, thought Hanno, Pox Face’s body wouldn’t be found for a few days. By then, the rats would have been at him; it would be a miracle if he could even be identified. Hippocrates would remain unaware of Aurelia’s presence in the city.

Hanno’s step was light as he strode down the street, but scarcely thirty paces later, a familiar voice cried, ‘Ho! Is that my Carthaginian officer I see?’

Hanno felt sick.
Of all the bad luck.
He turned and saluted. ‘It is I, sir.’

Hippocrates drew near, with several of his cavalry officers close behind. Their breastplates glistened; their helmets and scabbards had been polished. They were going somewhere important. ‘What are you doing here?’ Hippocrates gave him a disapproving glance. ‘And in such a state? You’re filthy – and your ear’s bleeding.’

Hanno ignored the curling lips of the officers at Hippocrates’ back. ‘I was just taking a stroll, sir. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Tripped up, and landed on my head in the dirt.’ He gave silent thanks as Hippocrates all but ignored his reply. Evidently, the general hadn’t seen him until that very moment, had no idea of what he’d been up to.

‘Walk with me,’ Hippocrates ordered. ‘I was going to summon you later.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Hanno looked around for the carpenter, the only person to witness him leaving the alley. To his immense relief, the man had vanished. Where, it didn’t matter.

‘The year’s campaign is about to start.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘As I’d expect,’ came the sharp retort. ‘Recent intelligence suggests that the Roman legions encamped around Syracuse won’t be moving any time soon. Himilco and I intend to give them a nasty surprise.’

‘That sounds good, sir!’ Part of Hanno was delighted, part dismayed. He tried again not to worry about Aurelia.

Hippocrates’ expression grew spiteful. ‘Sadly, you won’t be part of the attack.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Hanno, fighting a sudden feeling of dread.

‘My brother Epicydes must know of our plan, so that he can launch a simultaneous assault on the enemy. You will carry word to him inside the city.’

Now, Hanno struggled to conceal his pleasure. Getting through the Roman lines would not be without danger, but if he could take Aurelia with him, this would be a way to remove her from the twin dangers of being a camp follower, and having her identity revealed for a second time. It was also a chance to get away from Hippocrates, and if he could send word, Hannibal would be pleased to learn of this development.

‘Have you nothing to say?’

‘As ever, I will follow your orders to the last detail, sir,’ replied Hanno stolidly, praying that in his message Hippocrates wouldn’t try to poison Epicydes’ mind towards him.

Hippocrates looked disappointed. ‘Entering Syracuse will prove risky,’ he warned. ‘The blockade is much tighter than when we broke out. Epicydes
must
receive my letter, so I will send a number of messengers. One of you will make it,’ he added with a touch more vitriol.

‘At least one of us, sir,’ said Hanno, giving thanks to the gods.

And if I have anything to do with it, he thought, two will.

Chapter XVIII

QUINTUS WAS PACING
. The section of fortification that he and his tent mates had to man measured approximately eight hundred paces. The hastati marched in four pairs, and each set had a quarter of the distance to cover. Two hundred paces, six stops. At each, a pause to scrutinise the ground that separated Roman-held terrain from the walls of Syracuse. Quintus and his comrades had been patrolling the same part of the rampart since returning from Enna the previous summer. They’d tramped up and down for the whole winter. Now, in early spring, all of them knew it like the back of their hands.

Syracuse lay half a mile away, which meant safety from even the most powerful of Archimedes’ catapults. Before the siege, the no man’s land had been farmed, but the inhabitants had long since fled or been killed. Their grain had been reaped the previous autumn by the legionaries. No one had tilled the soil after that, or planted new crops, not on such dangerous territory. The harsh winter weather had rotted the stubble into the ground whence it came, leaving only mud.

It was a pity that there would be no wheat to harvest in the summer, Quintus mused, but the lack of vegetation made the sentry’s job easy. Movement of any kind could be spotted at once. Not that the Syracusans ever ventured beyond the confines of their city. There hadn’t been an enemy patrol sighted in this area since the previous autumn. With their defences secure, the Syracusans had no need to assault the Roman fortifications. It was far wiser to stay behind the safety of their massive walls, Quintus thought sourly, warmed no doubt by the fires in the regular towers that decorated the parapets. There had been no Roman attacks either, since that horrendous first day, almost a year previously. Instead Marcellus had tightened the blockade around Syracuse as much as possible. Frustratingly, that didn’t stop the Carthaginians from running in regular supply convoys. In its current form, the siege would not end soon.

The wind whistled in from the north and Quintus hunched his shoulders. Yet again, he cursed the feathers on his helmet that prevented him from lifting up the hood of his cloak. Having a warm head wasn’t worth the risk of taking the helmet off. If an officer saw him, severe punishment would follow. Wearing two woollen neck cloths, one overlapping the other, was the best he could do.

‘Cold?’ asked Urceus.

‘Of course. You must be too!’

‘Not at all.’

Quintus aimed a kick at Urceus, which he avoided by walking away. They played out the same types of routine every day. It helped to alleviate their boredom.

‘How long left, d’you think?’ asked Urceus.

Quintus aimed a look at the sun, which was nearing the horizon. ‘Not long.’

‘That’s what I thought, thank the gods. Back to the tent. Warm blankets. A fire. Best of all, it’s not my bloody night to cook!’

‘Ha! You’ve forgotten whose turn it is, though.’

Urceus scowled. ‘Not Marius?’

‘How could you not remember that?’ asked Quintus, laughing.

‘Fuck. Burned bread. Raw meat, and boiled vegetables still covered in mud. I’ll be lucky to escape a dose of the shits.’

‘You could always offer to cook for him.’

‘No bloody way!’ retorted Urceus. ‘I’ll take my chances. Maybe tonight will be better than his last effort.’

They walked on, reaching the end of their section. There they met Marius, and Mattheus’ replacement Placidus, a sleepy type who suited his name. Urceus took the opportunity to rain abuse on Marius about his cooking. ‘You’d better produce something edible tonight,’ he threatened. ‘Me and the boys won’t eat any more of your slop.’

Marius laughed. ‘Careful I don’t piss in your stew, Jug.’

Urceus purpled. ‘Do that and I’ll shit in your blankets!’

Quintus and Placidus stood by and chuckled. This too was part of the routine. No one would do such a thing to the rest of his tent mates, but the same did not apply to the men in different maniples. Practical jokes such as dropping a dead mouse or a rotten cabbage into the cooking pot weren’t unknown, although of late it had become increasingly difficult to get away with this. Soldiers in other units became suspicious if any of their neighbours came calling around meal times.

A trumpet blared from their camp, and they all grinned.

‘Time to go!’ said Urceus. ‘I’m so bloody hungry that I’m even looking forward to the shit you produce, Marius.’

‘You’ll love tonight’s offering,’ declared Marius. ‘Stewed neck of mutton, with vegetables. Delicious! It’s an old recipe that my mother used to prepare.’

Urceus gave him a jaundiced look. ‘No disrespect to your mother, but I’ll be the judge of whether it’s tasty or not.’

Some time later, the eight hastati were arranged comfortably around the ring of stones that formed the fireplace outside their tent. An iron tripod was still in place over the flames, but the bronze vessel that had contained Marius’ offering for the night lay by Urceus’ feet. Everyone had agreed that the mutton stew was good, yet it had been Urceus, Marius’ greatest critic, who had insisted on scraping the pot clean. ‘I’ll expect that standard from now on,’ he’d said. Typically, Marius had promised nothing of the sort.

‘The weather’s getting warmer,’ said Quintus with a smile. ‘It wasn’t that long ago that we couldn’t have sat outside like this.’

Urceus belched. ‘Aye. Soon we won’t need our blankets wrapped around us, or a fire, apart from to cook on.’

‘There’ll be a few weeks of lovely weather and then it’ll be too hot again. Months of humping water from the river, sunburn all day and mosquitos all night,’ said Placidus dolefully.

‘Shut it!’ growled Marius. ‘Don’t remind us.’

‘Have some wine,’ said Quintus, passing over the skin that they were sharing. ‘And cheer up, for Jupiter’s sake.’

Glowering at the laugh that this produced, Placidus took the skin and drank deep.

‘Tell us a story,’ said Quintus, feeling a little bad. As the newest member of the contubernium, Placidus bore the brunt of everyone’s ribbing. His major redeeming feature, however, was his ability to weave a yarn.

‘Aye.’

‘I want the one about Hercules’ Twelve Labours.’ ‘No, the tale of Romulus and Remus!’ The tent mates’ voices competed with one another.

Placidus seemed appeased. ‘I’ll choose,’ he said importantly.

‘Make it a cheerful one,’ urged Urceus. ‘I don’t want to go to bed feeling miserable.’

Placidus thought for a moment. ‘How about the one with Horatius, Herminius and Lartius on the bridge?’