Plenty of legionaries had still been alive. With nowhere else to go, they had retreated into the water, where, if their armour hadn’t pulled them under, they’d served as sport for the enemy cavalry. Hanno had seen men making wagers with each other over who could hit a particular legionary in the head with a spear from twenty paces, or who could slice off a head as he urged his horse past. Some legionaries had slain one another rather than end their lives so miserably; others had simply walked out into the deep water to drown. Despite his hatred of Romans, Hanno had been repulsed. What other choice had they had, however? he thought harshly. They couldn’t have taken them all prisoner, and Rome had to learn its lesson for the humiliations that it had heaped upon Carthage in the past. If they didn’t learn something from the loss of fifteen thousand legionaries and one of their consuls, and three days later, more than four thousand cavalry, they were damn fools. Deep in his belly, however, Hanno knew that their latest victory wouldn’t be enough. More blood would have to be spilled, more defeats inflicted on their old enemy.
‘It’d be good to have a swim now, eh?’ whispered Sapho.
He jerked back to reality. ‘Yes. Hopefully, we can have a dip after Hannibal’s done with us.’
‘That would be good. I’ve hardly seen you in days.’
‘You know how it is. There’s so much to do after each day’s march. The injured need extra care. So too do the rest of the men. Thank the gods for the stores of oil Bostar found on that farm. Adding that to their food seems to have improved their health.’ The whole army had been exhausted by the long march from Cisalpine Gaul, the swamps and the battle, during which their rations had not always been good. Men had been complaining of aches in their joints; of feeling fatigued all the time; others had had badly bleeding gums. Yet Hanno knew that he was dodging the issue – and his brother. For some reason, he couldn’t shake his memory of the look on Sapho’s face when he’d fallen into the pool. There was no one he could talk to about it without feeling like a traitor. Sapho was his flesh and blood.
‘True enough. Let’s change that this evening, though.’
‘Good.’ He caught Bostar’s eye. ‘Fancy a dip later?’
‘Maybe,’ answered Bostar with a smile. ‘It depends what Hannibal has in mind for us.’
‘Do you know, Father?’ asked Hanno.
Malchus, who was standing a few steps away with Bostar, Maharbal – Hannibal’s cavalry commander – and a group of other senior officers, looked around. ‘Even if I do, I’m not telling you. Wait until your general gets here.’
The mention of Hannibal made Hanno wish he could vanish. He had felt awkward enough as it was around his general, but since the battle at the lake, he had avoided him if at all possible. He told himself that he was being stupid. Their victory had been resounding; moreover, the vast majority of the six thousand legionaries who had battered through their units had been surrounded the following day. In a magnanimous gesture, the non-Roman citizens among them had been set free with the message from Hannibal that he had no quarrel with their peoples. Apart from a few senior officers held as captives, the remainder had been slain. Why then did he feel such a failure? Even their father had told him that no one was to blame; Sapho and (particularly) Bostar had agreed, but Hanno fancied he could see the same unease in his brothers’ faces that he felt inside. The Libyan spearmen – their spearmen – had been the only units in the entire army to fail at the task set them by Hannibal.
‘Here he comes,’ muttered Bostar.
Hanno’s eyes followed everyone else’s. He saw the block of scutarii first, some of Hannibal’s black-cloaked crack troops. They went everywhere with the general, unless he was on one of his regular undercover missions, when he would don a disguise and go among his soldiers to gauge their mood. The scutarii came to a halt; their ranks parted and Hannibal strode forward. Today he had left his armour and weapons behind. Few men would mistake him for anyone else however. His confident bearing, deep purple tunic and the similarly coloured strip of fabric that covered his right eye made him stand out a mile. Close up, it was evident that Hannibal had also suffered during the previous weeks. His brown complexion was pastier than normal. There were new lines on his broad face, and grey hairs that had not been there before in his short beard. Despite this, his one remaining eye still danced with energy. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said, acknowledging their salutes. ‘It’s more pleasant to meet here than my tent. Sun. Sea. Sand. What more could a man want?’
‘Perhaps a few women, sir?’ suggested Maharbal with a cheeky grin.
Hannibal’s eyebrows rose.
‘Chance would be a fine thing. What’s wrong with your horses?’ called a voice from the gaggle of soldiers who had been drawn by the presence of their general.
Maharbal pretended to scowl. ‘They all have mange! Haven’t you seen us bathing them in the old wine?’
‘Is that where it’s all gone? Meanwhile, our tongues are hanging out with thirst.’
‘If you like, you can have the wine to drink after the horses have been washed in it,’ declared Hannibal.
The anonymous soldier went silent, while his companions fell about the place, hooting with laughter.
‘Lost your thirst?’ shouted Hannibal.
No answer.
‘Stand forth, soldier.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Do I have to say it twice?’ Hannibal’s voice was cold.
A short man with a slight limp pushed his way to the front of the group. He looked most unhappy.
‘Don’t you fancy the horses’ wine?’ asked Hannibal lightly.
‘Yes, sir. No, sir. I don’t know, sir.’
More laughter, but it was a little uneasy this time. For all of his charisma, their general was known for his toughness.
‘I’m joking with you,’ said Hannibal warmly. ‘The horses have to be treated, you know that. They’re vital to us.’
The men nodded.
‘Now I need to talk to my officers. In private.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ muttered the short soldier.
‘You’re good men.’ Hannibal glanced at his scribe, who stood alongside, parchment and stylus in hand. ‘See that these soldiers are issued with a small amphora of wine from my personal supply. Small, mind,’ he added with a smile as the men began cheering.
‘Me and the lads will follow you anywhere, sir. Even if it’s to hell and back,’ cried the short soldier.
His comrades shouted even more loudly. Hanno never failed to be impressed by his general’s leadership. With a few words and a little wine, Hannibal had just turned his men’s resentment into adoration once more. ‘He makes it look so effortless,’ he whispered to Sapho. Instantly, he realised that it was a mistake. Sapho’s face twisted with bitterness.
‘It’s a skill, little brother. Some people have it, some people don’t.’
‘I wish I had it,’ said Hanno, fully aware that Sapho led his men through fear, not devotion, whereas he tried to emulate his father and Bostar, who led by example.
‘So do I,’ said Sapho, giving him a suspicious glare.
‘Gather round,’ ordered Hannibal.
Hanno felt a momentary relief that Sapho would not be able to jibe at him, but it didn’t last. There were no Gaulish chieftains or Numidian officers present, only Carthaginians. He felt sure that Hannibal was going to talk about the battle, and his and his family’s failures. The brunt of the blame would fall on him, because his phalanx had been the first to crumble. How would he be punished? Demotion seemed most likely. He steeled himself for the inevitable.
‘Our victory at Lake Trasimene was well earned,’ said Hannibal, eyeing them all.
‘Your plan made it easy, sir,’ said Maharbal. ‘It was a stroke of genius to set the trap as you did.’
Hannibal smiled. ‘A general is only as good as his officers and men. Which is why we’re here.’
Bostar glanced uneasily at Malchus, whose jaw was clenching and unclenchin
g. Sapho flushed. Hanno studied the ground between his feet. Every officer within sight, apart from Maharbal, was doing something similar.
‘Everything went according to plan at the lake, except for one thing. As you know, the Libyan phalanxes broke before a sustained assault by thousands of legionaries.’
Hanno looked up to find Hannibal staring at him. Him, when he could have looked at a score of others. His mouth went as dry as a bone. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We should have held them,’ he began.
‘Peace. I do not know if even I could have stopped the Romans breaking through,’ said Hannibal, surprising him entirely. ‘The phalanx has been used for hundreds of years, by generals who led their armies to victories at places such as Marathon and Gaugamela. But those battles were fought against soldiers who also fought in phalanxes. The Roman legionary fights in an altogether different style. He’s more mobile, and can instantly respond to a change in his orders. The men of a phalanx cannot do that. They’ve never been able to and they never will.’
Hanno could not believe his ears. Were they being absolved of blame? He didn’t dare to look at Malchus or his brothers for confirmation. All his attention was locked on Hannibal. What use were the Libyan spearmen if they could not defeat the enemy?
‘Your Libyans’ – here Hannibal eyed them, one by one – ‘are among the finest soldiers I have. Their failure at Lake Trasimene is not a thing to be ashamed of. You could have done no more than you did.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Malchus, an uncharacteristic gruffness to his voice. Hanno felt as if an immense weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. His failure had not been down to poor leadership. He threw a look at his brothers, who seemed no less relieved than he felt.
‘Yet the same cannot happen again,’ warned Hannibal. ‘On a different day, what happened at Trasimene could have signalled disaster. The ship I sent to Carthage yesterday might have been carrying an altogether different message than the one it does.’
‘How can we serve you better in future, then?’ asked Malchus.
‘A man must always use the tools to hand,’ replied Hannibal with a sly grin.
He had them all now, thought Hanno, scanning the ring of intent faces. His own stomach twisted with excitement – and with admiration for his leader, who always seemed to have another trick up his sleeve.
‘Many of your men took mail shirts from the dead after the battle, which was an intelligent move. As you know, I ordered that the shields and swords of the enemy fallen also be collected.’ Hannibal smiled at the gasps of surprise. ‘Yes, I would have you train your troops to use pilum, gladius and scutum. If we cannot beat Rome with the phalanx, then we shall beat it by turning our Libyans into legionaries. After we have done that, we shall march south. Like the Gauls, the inhabitants of the southern part of the peninsula have no love for Rome. Moreover, their lands are fertile and will keep us in supplies. When the legions come to meet us again, we shall be well fed, better prepared and have allies at our backs.’
Around Hanno, the other officers were chuckling and muttering excitedly to each other. He grinned and pretended to listen to what his father was saying to him and his brothers. South. How far south would they go? he wondered. To Capua? He thought of Aurelia. ‘Come back safely,’ she’d said to Quintus. Then she had looked at him and whispered, ‘You too.’ With a thumping heart, he had answered, ‘I will. One day.’ Hanno had thought his promise would not be feasible for many years, if ever. He had buried his confused feelings for Aurelia deep. Now, he felt them take flame again. Gods, but it would be good to see her! Despite the intrinsic dangers, the possibility had just been made real. And that felt very good indeed. So too did finding out what had happened to his friend Suni.
The Apennines, on the Via Latina, southeast of Rome
A burst of laughter made Quintus’ head turn. Through the darkness, it was still possible to make out the maniple’s tent lines, some distance away. Orange glows marked the fires built by each contubernium. In the dim light beyond, he could see the glitter of the mules’ eyes from the animal pens. By counting carefully, Quintus was able to make out the canvas shape that was his tent. Like most troops in the camp, his comrades – his men, he corrected himself – were sitting around outside, talking and drinking whatever wine they had managed to buy or steal that day. He had no desire to share their company. Urceus would have been a logical choice to lead the ten-man section, but his injuries had meant he’d been left behind at Ocriculum, where the battered survivors of Trasimene had marched to meet their new commander, Quintus Fabius Maximus, recently appointed as dictator by a panicked Senate. Rutilus had been chosen by Corax to become the section leader, but it had been even more of a surprise when Quintus had been elevated to lead a ‘five’. When he had protested, Corax had told him to shut up, that he had earned it. Eyeing the new recruits, who had looked scared and as green as young saplings, Quintus had done as he was told. The strip of wolf skin on his helmet had barely been in place for a week.
Macerio had been incandescent with jealousy at being passed over; their enmity had grown even deeper as a result. Rutilus was now Quintus’ only friend in the unit, and he had formed a relationship with Severus, one of the new arrivals. Quintus barely saw him any more, except when they were marching. His father was alive – a couple of sneaky trips to the cavalry tent lines had established that Fabricius had come through Trasimene unscathed – but Quintus couldn’t exactly approach him for a friendly chat. With no one to turn to, he had grown to prefer solitude. In the midst of an army, that wasn’t often possible. The hours after the day’s duties ended were therefore his favourite time. As soon as the evening meal was over, it had become his norm to steal away to the camp’s rampart for some peace and quiet. As long as he kept out of the way of the duty officer, the sentries let him be.
In the blackness, he could grieve and let his guilt gnaw at him afresh. Several weeks had passed since the defeat at Trasimene, but the magnitude of those events and what had happened since still hadn’t quite become real. Against all the odds, Corax had led them through the surrounding ring of enemy troops after their breakout during the battle. More than five thousand of the legionaries who’d followed in their footsteps had not been so lucky; apart from a few senior officers, the citizens among them had been slain. Quintus felt a burning fury about their deaths, as he did about the thousands more who had died by the lake. He was sorry too that Big Tenner was gone – he’d been a decent man. But by far the greatest sorrow – and remorse – that he felt were reserved for Calatinus.
His friend was dead. He had to be. Shocking news had come a few days after the battle. Servilius’ four thousand cavalry had been annihilated. Hearing of Flaminius’ defeat, the other consul had sent his horse to reconnoitre the area. They had been ambushed by an enemy force and virtually wiped out. The very thought of it made Quintus feel sick with remorse. Despite his father’s orders, he should have been with Calatinus and the rest. For his friend to survive the Trebia only to be killed a few months later seemed too cruel. It proved how capricious the gods could be.
Quintus Fabius Maximus seemed of the same mind. Upon his appointment as dictator, he had ordered the priests to consult the Sibylline Books. Like the election of a dictator – a magistrate with supreme power over the Republic – this was something that was only done in times of great crisis. Innumerable other religious rites had been performed; dedications and vows had been made in an attempt to win the gods’ favour. None of it had made Hannibal disappear, thought Quintus bleakly. The bastard was still leading them a merry dance. The last he’d heard, the Carthaginian was laying waste to half of Apulia. That was bad enough, but what if Hannibal led his army over the Apennines and into Campania? Fabius had ordered that unfortified towns and farms near the enemy were to be abandoned, and all property and crops that could not be removed should be destroyed, but Quintus couldn’t envisage his mother leaving their home, let alone torching their stores of grain and wine. She was too stubborn. He closed his eyes,
imagining a band of Numidians – like the men they’d ambushed – riding up to their farm. That made him feel guilty about not obeying his father. Jupiter, never let that happen, he prayed with all his might. By way of reply, he heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. As usual. He wanted to shriek his frustration, to curse the gods, but he did not dare. Had they abandoned Rome altogether? Much of the time, it felt like it. Quintus wondered about sending his mother a warning letter, something that his father might have done already. It would serve a second purpose, that of telling her and Aurelia that he was alive. But he wouldn’t be able to tell them about joining the velites, so they would think he was even more of a coward. The idea increased his misery.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
Rutilus’ soft voice made Quintus jump. ‘Hades, you’re as quiet as a cat.’
His friend grinned. ‘I can be silent when I want to. Feel like some company?’
Quintus bridled. ‘Won’t Severus miss you?’
‘He’s asleep.’
‘I should have known that would be the reason.’
Rutilus thumped him on the arm. ‘You know what first love is like – when you can’t get enough of the other person. When every spare moment has to be spent together.’
‘I’ve heard it talked about.’ Quintus could feel Rutilus’ eyes on him, but he didn’t turn his head to meet them. Instead he stared out beyond the rampart, angry at himself for resenting Rutilus – and Severus – and the fact that he’d never been in love.
‘You’ve never been with a woman?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He thought longingly of Elira, the attractive slave at home whom he’d bedded on countless occasions. ‘I haven’t been in love with one, that’s all.’