Hannibal: Fields of Blood (42 page)

‘You’re sure? If something happens, I don’t want to see your men taking to their heels and leaving us in the shit.’

‘I give you my word,’ swore Hanno. ‘My phalanx is made up of veterans, remember? They crossed the Alps with you and the rest. Learning how to fight with new weapons is just a reason to grumble. You know what soldiers are like. When it comes to a fight, they’ll stand as firm as any man in the army, I guarantee it.’

‘Fair enough.’ Sapho raised his cup once more. ‘We shall march out together, and return with sufficient grain to feed the entire army for weeks. And may the gods have pity on any Romans who are foolish enough to cross swords with us!’

Hanno laughed with anticipation. ‘Hannibal will be pleased.’

‘He’ll also see what a fine soldier you are,’ added Sapho.

Hanno beamed at this rare compliment. The wine tasted even better as it ran down his gullet. He poured refills for them both.

‘I’d like nothing more than to get hammered,’ said Sapho as they drank another toast, ‘but we’ll need clear heads tomorrow.’

‘Just what I was going to say,’ replied Hanno, although he’d been fully prepared to keep drinking. He was grateful that Sapho, who must have seen that in his face, made no comment. A warm feeling towards his eldest brother flowed through him. Hanno was sure now that he’d been wrong about Sapho. ‘We can get pissed when we get back.’

‘I’ll see if I can persuade Hannibal to come as well.’

‘He wouldn’t bother with the likes of us, surely?’ asked Hanno in surprise.

‘I don’t know. I’ve had the honour of sharing wine with him a few times; if he decides to put his cares aside, he’s quite a sociable type. Leave it with me,’ said Sapho with a wink.

Impressed and pleased, Hanno beamed at his brother. He was ever more determined to prove himself on the patrol.

Indicating to Mutt that his men should keep marching, Hanno stepped out of line. As ever, his purpose was to scan the horizon behind them. To his relief, he saw nothing. It was almost too good to be true. Thus far, the raid had gone without any major hitches. They had left the army’s main camp well before dawn. The Numidian cavalry sent to escort them had set out at the same time, reporting back regularly that they had found no signs of enemy troops in the surrounding area. They had reached their objective by mid-morning and met almost no resistance; as soon as the elderly owner realised how large was the force sent against him, he had surrendered. Hanno had been impressed by Sapho’s restraint towards the man, who had been executed without torture after he’d revealed the contents of his farm buildings. The slaves had not been harmed.

In the space of an hour, the place had been ransacked. The sheds had been emptied entirely and Hanno, Sapho or their officers had ensured that the most valuable items were taken from the residential quarters. The mules had been loaded up with sacks of grain, sides of cured meat and hundreds of amphorae full of wine and oil. Only a handful of soldiers had had to be disciplined for drinking some of the wine. Hanno suspected that a number of female slaves had been raped, but he had seen no direct evidence so there had been no point in trying to do anything about it. The purpose of the mission was to gather supplies and return safely with them, not to concern himself with the plight of a few unfortunate women.

Satisfied that there was no pursuit, Hanno hurried back to his position at the front of his phalanx. The road was narrow, but his troops could march six abreast, which satisfied him: wide enough for them to fight if needs be, as well as to manoeuvre. Clouds of exhaled breath billowed above the files of marching soldiers. Frost crunched beneath their sandals. Mail shirts jingled, spear shafts knocked off other men’s shields. Although no one had given the order to do so, conversation was muted. Still unused to their new appearance, which was similar to that of Roman legionaries, Hanno studied them as he passed by. Most were wearing their original conical bronze helmets, a small but pleasing detail. As usual he followed his father’s advice and offered greetings here, gave out praise there, laughed at the ribald jokes that were being told. Unsurprisingly, spirits were high. Hanno was grateful for that (although he was careful not to allow it to take control) for it was infectious and helped lift his own mood. He had been keen the day before, but now that he was in the situation, his nerves were jangling. It was commonplace for their foraging parties to be attacked, and not unheard of for them to suffer heavy casualties. He would not relax until they reached the Carthaginian camp at Gerunium. And watching the file of laden-down mules ambling along before them, Hanno knew
that
would not come to pass until near sundown.

‘See anything, sir?’ asked Mutt.

‘No.’

‘Happy?’

Hanno glanced at Mutt, wondering if his dour second-in-command felt any of the misgivings he did. ‘Not entirely,’ he said in an undertone.

‘Thinking about the river, sir?’

‘Among other things, yes. That would be the best place to attack us.’

‘It would, sir. All being well, nothing like that will happen.’ Here, a characteristic sigh. ‘It doesn’t hurt to wish that the cavalry are as alert as they were on the outward journey, though. If they are, they’ll soon root out any nasty surprises.’

Hanno grunted, wishing that the cavalry captain, a swarthy man whom he hadn’t met until that morning, were Zamar. Stop thinking like that, he told himself. The fellow must be more than capable, or Sapho would not have chosen him.

‘Never thought I’d say this, but the cold weather has done us a favour,’ commented Mutt, jerking a thumb at the frozen ground. ‘Imagine the dust that we’d be breathing in if this were summertime. For all that this is the position of honour, we would be cursing Sapho for taking the vanguard.’

Surprised by this outburst, for Mutt often went miles without saying a word, Hanno smiled. ‘True enough, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Marching in the cold isn’t so bad, eh?’ He tapped his scutum and his bronze cuirass with the shaft of his spear. ‘All this doesn’t feel as heavy as it does in Africa.’

‘Careful, sir,’ warned Mutt. ‘You’ll be turning into a bloody Roman next.’

‘There isn’t much chance of that happening,’ said Hanno with a sour chuckle. He rubbed at the base of his neck. ‘It was a Roman who gave me this, remember? I will never forget that, nor will I stop seeking revenge for it until the day I die. If I’m blessed, it will be Pera, but any other Roman will do.’

‘Sorry, sir. I had forgotten,’ said Mutt, with a look of respect.

Hanno nodded. Deep inside, his conviction was not quite as absolute when it came to Quintus and, more particularly, Aurelia, but he was not going to admit that to a soul. The chances of him ever being tested on it were slim to none, which meant that he could wholly concentrate on two things: exacting retribution from every other Roman who came within reach of his sword – something he positively looked forward to – and doing his duty, which was to fight for Hannibal and Carthage. He would do that until the very last drop of blood drained from his veins. Pera’s torture had not done that to Hanno. There were other, much older reasons for his loathing of Rome. Throughout his childhood, his father had inculcated into him the details of every defeat suffered against the Republic in the first great struggle between it and Carthage. The loss of that twenty-three-year war, as well as control of the Mediterranean and Sicily, had been immensely humiliating. Yet Rome had not been content to leave it at that, forcing Carthage to pay immense reparations as further punishment. More evidence of the Romans’ perfidy had come a few years after the first war’s end, when Hanno’s people had been coerced into ceding Sardinia and Corsica to Rome as well. Yet with a little luck, there would be no fighting today. Hanno scanned the horizon to either side once more, but saw nothing. Despite his wish to kill the enemy, escorting the mules and their precious cargo back to the camp was more important than adding a few more casualties to the list of the Roman dead. Bringing back the grain and proving to Hannibal that he was capable was what counted.

Time passed, and the patrol edged its way south towards the river that separated them from the rest of the army. An air of anticipation became palpable. The pace picked up a little, even among the mules. It was as if they sensed that once across the watercourse, they would be safe, thought Hanno. Roman soldiers had not been seen on the far bank – the Carthaginian side – for some time, and with good reason. Squadrons of Numidian cavalry patrolled the area daily, ensuring that any enemy forces were discovered and wiped out. Hanno could feel his soldiers’ excitement growing; his spirits also rose. Once the mission had been accomplished, there was no way that Hannibal could fail to acknowledge what Sapho and he had done. Perhaps this expedition would fully restore him to his general’s favour? He had felt that Hannibal’s poor opinion of him was easing, but at a slower rate than Hanno liked.

The column came to a sudden halt. It was perhaps a mile from the river. Hanno chafed with impatience as they waited for information. Soon a rider brought the expected news that Sapho’s phalanx had reached the bank. A small number of his men had begun to cross; the remainder were guarding the approach to the water, where the mules were being gathered by their handlers. It would not be long, said the messenger, before the mules also began to enter the ford. Hanno and his men were to act as a rearguard until the last of the vital supplies had been transported to the other side.

‘What are you to do?’ Hanno asked, hoping that some of the cavalry at least would remain on this bank to act as his eyes and ears.

‘The bulk of us have been ordered across the river, sir,’ replied the rider apologetically. ‘I am to remain with you as a messenger; so too are five of my comrades. They’ll be here any moment.’

This development was unsurprising – Hannibal’s horsemen were among his most valuable troops and therefore exposed to as little risk as possible – but that didn’t stop Hanno’s stomach from clenching. Without scouts on their flanks and to their rear, they had to remain in their current position, blind. He mightn’t have minded as much if there hadn’t been trees pressing in on both sides. Bare of leaves, they afforded little shelter for potential ambushers, but their effect was still to funnel the Carthaginians together more closely than he liked. ‘Very good,’ he said with an attempt at nonchalance. ‘Tell Sapho that we’ll withdraw gradually as the mules go across. Order your companions to ride back along the road for a distance and make sure that there has been no pursuit.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The Numidian was already wheeling his horse back the way he had come.

‘Have the men turn to our rear,’ directed Hanno. ‘Let’s be cautious. I want the first two ranks on each side facing the trees. They’re to walk sideways. We’ll move in that fashion to the river.’

Mutt didn’t bat an eyelid at this odd command. ‘Yes, sir!’ He stalked off, barking orders, leaving Hanno to watch. He was pleased by his soldiers’ response to their orders. The change in formation was assumed with few mistakes and minimal fuss. A new sense of urgency and excitement settled over the phalanx. Men began to mutter prayers to their favourite gods, to rub the amulets that hung from their necks or to make over-loud jokes.

Hanno clashed the tip of his javelin off his shield to gain their attention. ‘This is just a precaution, lads. There is no need to worry. The nearest Romans are miles away,’ he shouted. ‘The mules are going to start crossing any moment. Our job is to act as a screen until they are safely over. Then we’ll do the same. When we get back to camp, I will see to it that you have enough wine tonight to drink yourselves unconscious.’

That got him a loud roar of approval. ‘All the same, I want you to go over your equipment as usual.’ There were a few grumbles at this, but he saw many more nods of approval. Satisfied, Hanno went through the little ritual that had become his routine before a battle. Wipe his hands clean of sweat. Check that his helmet straps were tight. Loosen his sword in its scabbard. Test the edge on his spear head with a thumb. Ensure that he had a firm grip of his scutum. Lastly, a quick glance at his sandals to make sure that the lacing wasn’t about to come undone. His father once told him the story of a soldier who had tripped on his own laces and been killed by an enemy; it was a stupid mistake that Hanno had resolved never to make for himself.

The pounding of hooves drew his attention like a wasp to a piece of overripe fruit. It was the Numidian who had just spoken to him, and his companions. At least they would have some eyes now, he thought. He raised a hand to beckon the riders.

A soft whirring sound filled the air. Long, dark shadows hissed in from the edge of Hanno’s vision. Instinctively realising what they were, his throat closed with horror. In slow motion, his eyes swivelled, taking in the swarm of arrows arcing towards his men and the group of figures in the trees to his left, who stood with bows still raised. ‘Ambush!’ he roared. ‘All ranks, raise shields!’ He lifted his own scutum and ducked down behind it. Where the hell had the archers come from? One thing was certain in his mind: they would not be alone. He would have to seize control, warn Sapho if the situation were not to turn disastrous. A wary glance around the side of his shield made him curse bitterly. It was already too late. Of the six Numidians, only one remained astride his mount. The others were dead, wounded or had been thrown by their injured mounts. Frantic neighs. Bucking, rearing. Roars of pain from the wounded men. Even as Hanno’s mouth opened to order the last horseman to tell Sapho what was going on, a flurry of arrows struck him with soft, sinuous thumps. He went down screaming.

Through the trees, Hanno could see the shapes of men closing in. Legionaries. Scores and scores of the bastards. It was the same on the other side. Already they were outnumbered, and this would be a fraction of the force facing them, of that he had no doubt. Whoever had sprung this ambush had known what he was doing. Like their own trap at Lake Trasimene, it had been timed to perfection. ‘If we fight, we die. Retreating to the river is our only chance,’ he muttered.