Hannibal: Fields of Blood (6 page)

Men nodded, made grunts of assent. Looped their reins around their left hands. Gripped their spears tightly with their right. Two of the more confident men even nocked shafts to their bowstrings. Villius wasn’t one of them. They moved off, urging their mounts into an immediate trot. Quintus took the centre; Calatinus rode to his right. Villius was directly to his rear. No one had brought a shield. Quintus felt naked without his. The Gauls had spears and arrows and would be good shots. He’d have to trust in the gods that their charge panicked the warriors, that any missiles they launched would miss. He shoved the thought from his mind.
Stay focused.
They had covered half the distance to the stream now. Through the trees, he caught sight of a cloaked figure. A heartbeat later, the warrior stiffened as he saw Quintus. Perhaps a hundred paces separated them.

‘Charge!’ Quintus shouted, urging his mount on. ‘Remember our comrades who died at the Trebia!’

A swelling cry of anger from the other riders. Calatinus was swearing and throwing insults at the tribesmen. ‘Roma! Roma!’ roared a voice.

As the air filled with the thunder of hooves, the Gaul vanished behind a beech. Blood pounded in Quintus’ ears. He readied his spear and prayed that at least one warrior came within his reach. This was the third occasion that he had charged an enemy and, for the first time, he felt no fear. Just a mad exhilaration that he had engineered the attack and that, in some small way, retribution might be gained for what they had suffered at the Trebia.

Quintus caught a glimpse of the stream. Then another. His heart leaped. One, two, three, four figures were sprinting down the slope towards the water. ‘They’re running!’ he yelled. ‘Charge!’ Low branches whipped past his head as his horse reached a full gallop. At the edges of his vision, Quintus could see two other riders, one of whom was Calatinus; the noise to his rear told him that someone – Villius? – was still there.

In his excitement, Quintus forgot that there might have been more than four Gauls. The next thing he knew, a figure was darting in from the protection of a tree to his left. He glanced down in horror, saw the spear heading straight for him. It was pure luck that the blade rammed into his horse’s flesh rather than his own. It struck the beast high in the shoulder, just in front of Quintus’ thigh. The horse’s near foreleg dropped, and its charge came to a convulsive halt. Quintus was unable to prevent himself being thrown off. Air whistled past his ears. There was a jarring impact as his left side hit the hard ground. The pain was intense; he suspected that a couple of his ribs had broken, but he kept rolling, managing to come to his feet with his spear still clutched in his fist. The world was spinning. Shaking his head, Quintus hissed in dismay. His horse – maybe his only way out of here – was staggering down the slope. He had no time to dwell on his misfortune. The Gaul was on him already, a big bear of a man, snarling in his guttural tongue and sweeping an unpleasant-looking dagger at Quintus’ belly. He rammed his spear at the warrior’s face, forcing him to back off.

A torrent of abuse followed.

Quintus went on the attack, and the Gaul had to retreat. He did not seem scared, which Quintus found odd. A man with a knife had no chance against an enemy with a spear. An instant later, he almost missed the flash of triumph in the other’s eyes. Almost. Quintus threw himself the only way he could. Down, and to his left, on to his bad side. As the pain from his ribs surged through him, he heard a familiar sound.
Hiss
. An arrow shot through the space he’d just vacated, and the Gaul cursed. Quintus clambered up, shooting a glance to his rear. Thirty paces away, among the trees, stood a warrior with a bow. He was already fitting another shaft to his string.

Hooves hammered the ground, and Villius arrived. He took in Quintus, and the warrior with the knife, and slowed his horse. Quintus felt a surge of relief, but it vanished almost at once. Seeing the bowman, Villius changed his mind. Without as much as a second look, he drove his mount down the slope to safety.

The warrior with the knife let out an ugly laugh.

Hiss.
The barbed shaft ripped a hole in Quintus’ tunic, tearing an agonising trail through his skin before it thumped into a tree a few paces away.

‘You’re bastards, all of you!’ cried Quintus. Eyes swivelling from one Gaul to the other, he jabbed his spear at the knifeman, putting him on the back foot. If he wasn’t to be slain by the bowman, he had to down his opponent. Fast. Quintus’ skin crawled. He could almost feel the next arrow sinking into his back. Or his side. Inspiration struck, and he darted off to his left before turning to face the Gaul again. His enemy roared with anger as he realised what Quintus had done.

Protected from the arrows by the other’s body, Quintus stabbed his spear forward again. The warrior dodged, but Quintus anticipated the move. With a mighty shove, he slid the spear point deep into the Gaul’s belly. An ear-splitting shriek rent the air, and he twisted the blade for good measure, before wrenching it free. The warrior staggered. His dagger fell to the ground unnoticed. He clutched at his stomach, but he couldn’t stop a couple of loops of bowel from slithering out of the hole in his tunic. His knees buckled, but he fought himself upright.

Quintus remembered the bear that he’d fought near home, a lifetime ago it seemed. It had taken an injury as severe as this, but had still nearly killed him. As his father was fond of saying, a man was dangerous until he was dead. He stepped in and thrust his spear deep into the Gaul’s chest. The man’s expression grew startled; his lips worked; a deep groan issued forth and then the light went from his eyes. He sagged down, a dead weight on the spear, but Quintus did not let him fall. Protected by the corpse, he peered over its shoulder. He was just in time to see an arrow punch into the Gaul’s back.

That was enough. With a great heave, he pushed the body off his blade. Blood drenched his arms, chest and face, but Quintus paid it no heed. Spinning on his heel, he sprinted for the stream, biting back the nausea that swelled in his throat. Everything now was about speed and tactics. How far he could get from the bowman before the next shaft was loosed. How difficult a target he could make of himself. After fifteen paces, he turned to his right. Ten steps further on, he zigzagged to his left.
Hiss.
An arrow struck the ground close to his feet. Quintus gasped with a mixture of relief and terror but didn’t dare to look back. On the count of ten, he changed direction once more. The Gaul missed again, and Quintus risked running straight down the slope for a bit before darting off to the right. The following shaft missed him by a good distance, and his heart leaped. He had to be more than a hundred steps from the treeline. The stream was drawing near. If he reached it without being hit, the bowman’s chances of success would be slim indeed.

One of his companions was halfway across the ford. Hope filled him until he saw it was Villius. The cur had a bow, but he wasn’t even looking back. Quintus’ order that each man was to save himself seemed stupid now.
Bastard.
He could be distracting the Gaul.
Of the rest, Quintus saw no sign. He turned and sprinted left, heading in a diagonal direction to the watercourse. Twenty steps, then a jink to the right. Five steps and an about-turn. The lapse since the last arrow was longer than before, and Quintus’ guts churned. He risked a look at the warrior, and wished he hadn’t. The man was tracking his every move, and had an arrow aimed straight at him.

For the first time, panic ripped at Quintus. He couldn’t stop or slow down. His only choice was to keep going, to continue changing direction and hope that the Gaul didn’t second-guess his move. Given the number of times he’d evaded being struck, however, his luck had to be wearing thin. The bank was less than twenty paces away now. Eighteen. Sixteen. On impulse, Quintus decided to make a break for it. At full speed, he’d reach it in four heartbeats, maybe five. He would dive into the water and swim across. See if the whoreson could hit him then.

He ducked his head and sprinted forward.

Quintus had only gone a few steps when he felt a tremendous blow hit his upper left arm. The tiniest delay, and then pain such as he’d never felt before. Looking down, he saw a bloody arrow tip protruding from his left bicep. Moving, I have to keep moving, he thought. Otherwise the bastard will get me in the back with the next one. To his relief, the bank was now very close. He lunged into the water, gasping at the biting chill. Swimming wasn’t an option, so Quintus began wading across, praying that the Gaul had not been emboldened enough to come out of the safety of the trees to take another shot. On the other side, he’d be at the very limit of most bows’ range. A splash off to his right – another arrow – provided a little relief, but it wasn’t long before the extreme cold of the water began to sap his strength. His legs seemed to have lead weights attached; waves of agony from his arm were washing over him. Desperate for a rest, Quintus ground to a halt. He could taste acid in his mouth. The Gaul would keep releasing as long as he could. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears. The warrior was aiming high in the air to give his arrow more distance. Quintus had no desire to drown in the stream, choking on his own blood, so he ducked down until the water met his chin. Walking like a crab, he battled on.

The sight of Calatinus, on foot but with a bow, and one of the others, armed similarly, on the far bank was as welcome as any he could remember. In unison, they released arrows in a massive arc that took them high overhead. Quintus couldn’t stop himself from looking again. The shafts landed within twenty steps of the Gaul, who turned and fled back into the safety of the trees. The slope opposite was empty now. Drained, relieved, Quintus waded ashore. He staggered as he clambered up the bank, but strong arms stopped him from falling.

Quintus shoved them away. ‘I’m all right.’

‘No, you’re not! How bad is it?’ Calatinus’ voice was concerned.

‘I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly have time to examine it,’ he replied with a flash of humour.

‘Come on. Get under cover. We can look at it there.’

With the other rider covering them, they entered the shelter of the trees. A few steps in, Quintus saw three more of his companions. They greeted him with real relief.

‘Seen any Gauls on this bank?’ he asked.

‘Not a sign, thank the gods,’ came the answer. ‘They’re probably still running.’

Quintus yelped as Calatinus’ fingers probed at the point where the arrow entered his arm.

‘Sorry.’

‘What can you see?’

‘You’re lucky. It looks to have missed the bone. Once it’s been removed and cleaned up, the wound should heal all right.’

‘Take it out now!’ demanded Quintus. ‘Get it over with.’

Calatinus’ forehead creased. ‘That’s not a good idea. It’s not bleeding that much now, and I have no saw to cut the shaft. If I try to remove the arrow by breaking it in two, I’m bound to set it haemorrhaging again. We haven’t got time to hang around trying to stem the flow of blood. We killed at least three warriors—’

‘Four,’ interrupted Quintus.

Calatinus grinned. ‘But only the gods know how many others might be out there.’

There were loud murmurs of agreement.

Quintus scowled, but he knew his friend was right. ‘Very well.’

‘You can ride behind me,’ said Quintus. ‘We’ll be back in the camp before you know it.’

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Quintus followed Calatinus through the trees. It was only then that he began to wonder how his father would react. Surely he’d be pleased? They had slain most of the Gauls and put to flight the rest – without any apparent losses. That had to be a good thing. Deep in his belly, however, Quintus wasn’t so sure.

Get back to the camp first, he told himself savagely. You can worry about it then.

By unhappy chance, Fabricius happened to be near the camp’s southern gate when the exhausted party got back. Snow was falling thickly, coating the ramparts, the ground and the soldiers’ cloaks and helmets, but that didn’t stop him from focusing on the nine riders as they passed through the entrance. His face twisted in disbelief as he recognised first Calatinus, and then Quintus. ‘Stop right there!’ he bellowed.

Their relief at reaching the camp dissipated a little, but they reined in. Quintus, numb with cold and half-conscious, mumbled a curse.

‘Curb your tongue, you insolent brat!’ roared Fabricius, approaching. He came in from their right, so he did not see the arrow in his son’s arm.

Quintus coloured. He made to speak again, but the combination of his father’s glare and his weakness held him silent.

Fabricius pinned Calatinus with his eyes. ‘What is the meaning of this? Where have you been?’

‘We, er, went hunting, sir.’

‘Hunting?’ Fabricius’ voice rose in disbelief. ‘In this weather? When you had a patrol to go on?’

‘The conditions weren’t too bad when we left, sir’ – here Calatinus looked to his companions for support – ‘and I think we’re still in time for the patrol.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Fabricius’ gaze moved along the line of horses, searching for bodies slung over their backs. Seeing nothing, his lips thinned. ‘Did you manage to bring down anything then?’

‘No game, sir, no.’ Calatinus couldn’t stop himself from grinning. ‘But we did kill four Gauls.’

‘Eh? What happened?’

Quintus’ mouth opened, but his father silenced him with a look.

Calatinus quickly told the story of the clash by the stream. As he mentioned Quintus being struck by an arrow, Fabricius rushed to his son’s side. ‘Where were you hit?’

‘I’m f-f-fine.’ Vaguely aware that he was slurring his words, Quintus tried to lift his left arm, but was unable to.

‘Hades below! You must go to the hospital at once.’ Fabricius took the horse’s reins. ‘Was anyone else injured?’

‘Our tenth companion didn’t appear at the appointed meeting place, sir,’ admitted Calatinus. ‘We waited for a little while, but the weather was worsening, so we carved the word “camp” on a tree trunk before we left, and hoped he would see that.’