Hannibal: The Patrol (3 page)

His own strength was waning too, Mutt gambled everything, waiting until the Gaul pulled hard on his spear, then let go of it. Unbalanced, the Gaul stumbled backwards, and Mutt followed through with an almighty thump of his shield against the man’s belly, sending him sprawling back into his fellows.

It was far too dangerous to pursue him, so Mutt simply moved back into position. ‘Spear! Someone give me a damn spear!’ he roared. His men were well used to handing weapons forward in combat, and a heartbeat later, the shaft of a spear appeared beside his right cheek. Mutt seized it as a drowning man might grab at a log. He had to use it immediately, shoving it into the open mouth of a young warrior who’d leaped over the bearded brute.

Gods, but that had to be a bad way to die, thought Mutt as the iron blade sliced away the man’s tongue and sank deep into the back of his throat. Gouts of crimson fluid followed the spear out as Mutt withdrew it, showering the front of his shield. The warrior’s eyes bulged; more blood gushed; he made a hideous, choking sound and dropped from sight.

No one took his place, and Mutt took the chance to look to left and right. Many of the Gauls were pulling back, and hope leaped in his breast. It was not a retreat, however. Twenty paces away, they halted, took their helmets off, wiped sweat from their brows, and checked their comrades’ wounds. It was time for his men to do the same, thought Mutt. Combat was exhausting; any opportunities to rest had to be seized.

He bellowed a few commands, went through the routines he’d done so many times before. Checked — by shouting questions — that those further down the column were all right. Made sure the soldiers at the front had serviceable shields and spears. Had the injured tended as much as was possible. Ordered men to drink and to piss; told them that they’d done well; and fought his own misgivings about their situation. Despite the fact that they had not suffered heavy casualties in the initial assault, they were now definitely outnumbered. He could see scores and scores of warriors in the trees. What was their best plan? he wondered, fresh worry clawing at him. ‘Sir?’ he shouted.

‘Mutt. How are things with you?’

‘Fine, sir. We’re holding. What are your orders, sir?’

Mutt saw the men’s body language change. They stiffened, waiting for Hanno’s response, which could determine their fate.

‘Stand fast until I say otherwise!’ cried Hanno.

‘Very good, sir.’ There was an underlying implication that they might have to retreat, Mutt was sure of it. Let that not come to pass, he prayed. Their casualties
would soar. Yet as the Gauls began to advance again, he knew this might be their only option. I don’t want to die in a shithole like this, he thought bitterly. ‘Ready, lads! This time, I want you to teach them a real lesson. One that will send them home crying for their mothers. Can you do that?’

The guttural roar that answered him still had plenty of energy in it. They weren’t going to give in just yet, Mutt decided.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
. The sound came from some distance to the rear of the nearest Gauls.

‘Not more of the whoresons, please,’ said a soldier off to Mutt’s right.

‘If it is, we’re dead men,’ a second, familiar voice commented.

Just like that, the mood soured. Fear blossomed on faces. Men began to pray.

‘Ithobaal, shut your fucking mouth,’ Mutt roared. ‘The rest of you keep quiet too.’

Chastened, the men did as he ordered.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
. There were several instruments sounding. It was probably reinforcements, thought Mutt wearily. Maybe they
were
going to die here. If there was a time to pull back, this was it.

He opened his mouth, ready to yell that question at Hanno.

The cry died in his throat, because the Gauls’ advance had halted. Heads began to turn. Warriors conferred with one another. Angry shouts and questions rang out. Warriors turned to stare at whomever was advancing towards
them
.

They’re not happy, Mutt decided. Why?

An instant later, he blinked. ‘They’re fucking retreating! I don’t believe it!’

It was an orderly withdrawal, but there was no doubt that that’s what it was. With barely a second glance at the phalanx, the Gauls faded away into the trees.

Mutt’s men began to cheer. ‘Run, you maggots!’ shouted Ithobaal. ‘Back to your mothers’ skirts!’

That’s what you would have done if you’d had half a chance, thought Mutt dourly. Bogu, who was small but as hard as nails, was far more reliable. ‘Bogu!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are they going on your side too?’

‘Disappearing like morning mist, sir!’

Thank all the gods, Mutt thought, relief flooding through him.

‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘They’re leaving!’ Hanno could not control the delight in his voice.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Who was it that scared them off?’

‘We’ll soon find out, sir, I imagine.’

‘Get up here.’

‘Sir!’ Mutt eyed the men around him. ‘Treat the wounded. Check your weapons. Stay alert. We may have to fight again. Pass the word on.’ Without a backward glance, he broke into a fast walk, cursing as his large round shield caught
off the branches protruding from bushes to the side of the track. Its size did not make it an easy thing to move quickly with. At times like this, he was grateful for his thrusting spear, which worked as a staff, helping him to step over the numerous Gaulish bodies. As he neared the front, Mutt judged that their own casualties had not been too heavy. Good, he thought. Libyan spearmen were like gold dust — and for the moment, impossible to replace.

Seeing new figures emerging from the woods, he hurried to Hanno’s side. ‘More Gauls, sir?’

‘Looks like it,’ muttered Hanno. He cast a look at Mutt. ‘You’re unhurt?’

‘Fine, sir. And you?’

Hanno wiped his brow. ‘I’m all right. How are the men?’

‘Ready to fight again if they have to, sir,’ answered Mutt with more confidence then he felt.

Hanno seemed relieved. ‘Let’s hope that’s not necessary.’

They watched with clenched jaws as a group of four tribesmen reached the track. Similar to their attackers, they were hairy, moustached men in cloaks, wool tunics and patterned trousers. They were also armed to the teeth with spears, swords and daggers. Tellingly, there was no blood visible on their weapons. The men who had ambushed the phalanx had gone without a fight. Mutt thought that these warriors’ expressions weren’t unfriendly — he prayed that this was the case. For their attackers to vanish so fast, there had to be a lot of them.

The leader, a middle-aged figure with a luxuriant moustache, began holding forth in his own tongue. His words were clearly directed at Hanno, who had moved forward a little from his men. Two paces to his rear, Mutt listened hard. He couldn’t understand a word. When the Gaulish warrior finished, Mutt glanced at Hanno. ‘D’you know what he said, sir?’

‘I’ve no fucking idea,’ replied Hanno in an undertone. ‘Well, I understood the occasional word. “Gauls.” “Romans.” “Hannibal”. “Fight.”’

‘That could mean anything, sir,’ said Mutt warily.

‘I know. There was much mention of “drink” and “wine”, however. And he spat every time he mentioned Romans and Gauls. So did his men. When he spoke of Hannibal, he grinned like a lunatic. As he is now.’ He gestured at the warrior. ‘Latin? Speak Latin?’

The Gaullaughed and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Who knows if we can trust this lot, but they don’t seem friendly with the ones who ambushed us, sir.’

Hanno’s eyes flickered to the trees on either side. ‘If they wished us harm, surely they would have attacked by now?’

Mutt looked around him. Once again, the treeline was full of armed figures. His knuckles whitened on the shaft of his spear. ‘Agreed, sir.’

‘Best continue talking,’ Hanno whispered. ‘Keep the men calm.’

Mutt eyed the nearest soldiers, who looked distinctly unhappy. ‘No one is to make a move. Any man who does will lose his fucking balls! Pass it on, quickly.’

‘No Latin,’ said the Gaulish leader, spitting a copious lump of phlegm into the mud. He jerked a thumb at the man to his left, a younger warrior with blond hair. ‘Him. Latin. Yes.’

Hanno half bowed. ‘I thank you and your companions for driving off that war party,’ he said in Latin.

‘You speak your enemy’s tongue?’ The blond warrior’s tone was surprised.

‘I do,’ replied Hanno, smiling. ‘As do you.’

‘My father sent me to Placentia to learn to read and write,’ said the warrior resentfully. ‘I had to study Latin as well.’

‘I speak it because I was once slave to a Roman family,’ revealed Hanno.

Mutt was grateful for the couple of years that he’d spent crewing a merchant vessel before he’d joined the army. One of his oarmates had been a friendly Latin. During the long days of rowing, they had taught one another how to get by in their respective languages. His Latin was rusty, but if Mutt concentrated, he could understand most of what was being said.

The blond warrior looked surprised. ‘And now you follow your leader, Hannibal, to war.’

‘That’s right. I am on patrol with my men.’

You are heading for Victumulae?’

‘We were, until we were ambushed. Do you know who our attackers were?’

‘Cenomani.’

At once things became clearer for Mutt. Although there were Cenomani serving with the other Gauls in their army, Mutt knew, until very recently, some members of the tribe had also fought for Rome. Clearly, their attackers still wanted to do so.

‘Many Gauls have joined our army,’ Hanno declared. ‘Boii and Insubres for the most part, yet there are some Cenomani also. Not those ones, obviously.’

Mutt didn’t like the scowl the blond warrior gave by way of reply, nor the way his leader reacted to the mention of the first tribes. Gods, let us not make enemies of them because of a tribal blood feud, he prayed. The leader barked a few words at the blond Gaul in their own language.

‘Our people have little love for either the Boii or Insubres,’ said the blond warrior haughtily.

‘We can’t all get along with everyone. I quarrel with my own brothers for instance,’ said Hanno lightly, relieving Mutt. ‘Excuse my ignorance, for I know little of this land. If not Boii, Insubres or Cenomani, what people are you?’

‘We are Cenomani, like those who ambushed you,’ came the proud reply.

‘I see,’ said Hanno calmly. ‘And are you friend or foe to Rome?’ Under his breath, he added to Mutt, ‘Be ready to order the men to fight.’

‘Sir.’ Mutt watched the blond warrior closely, praying that it didn’t come to that. Even if they managed to get away — bearing in mind that the Gauls probably outnumbered them — their losses would be heavy.

‘Rome is our enemy, as is the Cenomani clan who ambushed you. Those tribesmen had been raiding our lands.’

Mutt heard Hanno let out a long, slow breath of relief. He felt the same way.

‘The Romans have always been our foes,’ declared the blond warrior in a loud voice. He spat a few words in his own language, which made his companions shake their fists and shout what could only be curses. ‘We loathed what they stood for before Telamon, but since then we have sworn to fight the legions with every last drop of our blood.’

‘That is good news, for so have we,’ said Hanno, stepping forward and offering the leader his hand.

The leader accepted the grip with a broad smile. A barrage of Gaulish followed. It was interspersed with much licking of the lips and slapping of his belly.

‘He’s offering us hospitality, sir,’ said Mutt happily.

‘Yes.’

‘My father wishes to know if you accept his offer of food and drink,’ said the blond Gaul.

‘Of course!’ cried Hanno, performing a half bow to the leader. ‘If we are not too many?’

A dismissive shake of the head. ‘Enough cattle will be slaughtered to feed us all. No man sits at Devorix’s table and goes hungry.’

‘My men will be very grateful,’ declared Hanno. ‘Devorix is your leader’s name?’

‘De-vor-ix,’ interjected the leader, jabbing his own chest.

‘He is my father; more than three hundred warriors call him chieftain,’ said the blond warrior proudly.

Devorix pointed at Hanno with an enquiring look, and said something. ‘What’s your name?’ asked his son.

‘Hanno. And this is Mutt, my second-in-command.’

‘Ha-nno. Mutt. Mutt!’ A huge grin split Devorix’ face.

‘Mutt,’ Mutt repeated, nodding. He pulled a smile. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that ‘Mutt’ was amusing in Gaulish. He had grown up having the piss taken out of him over his name, the full version of which was Muttumbaal. It might mean ‘Gift of Baal’, he thought dourly, but it didn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Still, he liked Mutt well enough, even if that made men laugh too.

‘I am Aios. You are welcome to our lands,’ said the blond warrior.

‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno, visibly relaxing.

‘We have had word of your army. I assume that it — and you — are marching on Victumulae because you need the grain within its walls.’

‘We need it badly,’ answered Hanno with a smile. ‘Tens of thousands of mouths require a lot of feeding.’

‘Come. Our village is not far, perhaps five miles down the track. There is grain — and wine — aplenty there for your men, for one night at least. Our druid can also treat your wounded.’

‘We are honoured by your hospitality,’ averred Hanno. Mutt echoed his words, but inside he was still not sure if these tribesmen were trustworthy. Once a man had consumed a bellyful of wine, he tended to forget the thought of treachery or a knife between the ribs.

As Devorix and Aios waited, Hanno issued his soldiers with orders to gather the wounded and slain. Everyone knew how to fashion makeshift litters for the wounded using two spears with a cloak tied between. But even their dead — four men — were to be carried, Hanno commanded. They could be buried near the tribesmen’s village.

When finished, he turned to Mutt. ‘Despite their friendly words, we must stay on our guard,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The men must not drink too much later.’