Hannibal 02: Fields of Blood

  Chapter XIV

  Hannibal’s camp, outside the town of Gerunium, Samnium, spring

  HEARING SAPHO’S VOICE close by, Hanno scowled. It was too late to leave his tent without being seen. What did Sapho want? he wondered.

  His relationship with his eldest brother had always been prickly, but during the period of his enslavement, he had largely forgotten the details. When he had been reunited with him, Hanno had fancied things had changed between him and Sapho. They had got on famously for a short while, but then the pair had fallen into their old pattern of clashing regularly.

  Most recently, there had been the look on Sapho’s face when he had nearly drowned. As he had before, Hanno had convinced himself that that had been his imagination running riot. Had Sapho not revealed Hannibal’s plan to him before the battle at Lake Trasimene? They had also spent many subsequent nights drinking wine together. Which was why his brother’s reaction when Hanno had returned from patrol with Mutt and his men the previous year had not been what he expected. Sapho had looked smug, to say the least. Knowing, as well. That hadn’t surprised Hanno overmuch. What had was the edge to Sapho’s voice. ‘Emptied your balls, have you?’ his brother had repeatedly asked. Startled and angered, Hanno had denied everything, but Sapho had persisted until he’d demanded to know who in his phalanx had been telling tales. Sapho had winked and said he had his source, who’d told him that their commander had vanished in the direction of Capua. ‘Gone for three days, I hear. It must have been a good whorehouse to risk your skin like that!’

  Despite the double edge to this comment – Sapho could have meant the threat of either the Romans capturing him or Hannibal finding out what he had done – Hanno had breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t thought it was Mutt who had informed on him, but this was proof. Sapho didn’t know why he’d left his soldiers; he had been making a shrewd guess as to the reason. Yet Hanno had felt most uneasy that someone had spoken out of turn. If Sapho knew, others might also find out. Hanno had no doubt, either, that his brother had been showing his power over him: if he said a word to any of the senior officers, Hanno’s life was over. When he’d challenged Sapho about it, his brother had laughed it off, saying he’d never do anything of the kind.

  Why does he always have to make such jokes? thought Hanno angrily. Bostar doesn’t. For all of his veiled threats and sarcasm, however, that time Sapho had been right. It had been rash to leave his command and seek out Aurelia. Naturally, Hanno wouldn’t ever admit that to Sapho. A quick grin sloped across his face. He didn’t want to end his life nailed to a cross, that was for sure, but part of him was still glad about what he’d done. If only he had managed to see Aurelia in Capua! Stop it, he told himself. Months have passed. She’s married now, and you’ll never see her again. Best to forget her. Doing that, though, was easier said than done. He had tried to do so before and failed.

  ‘Ho! Hanno, where are you?’

  ‘I’m in here.’ He lifted the tent flap and grimaced. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That’s a strange welcome for a man’s brother,’ said Sapho, scowling. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Hanno. Now he felt bad. He stood aside so that his brother could enter. ‘Take a seat.’

  Sapho sat on one of the two stools and extended his feet towards the glowing brazier with a happy sigh. Spring had arrived, but the temperatures still dropped considerably at night. ‘Got any wine?’

  ‘A little.’ Taking a pair of plain clay beakers from the bronze tray that sat on his clothes chest, Hanno gave them a quick wipe with a rag. He filled them both from the jug that sat alongside. ‘Here.’

  Sapho saluted him with his cup. ‘To our general Hannibal, and victory over the Romans!’

  Hanno echoed the words, and they both drank. He wanted to ask what brought Sapho to his tent, but that would be too direct. It wasn’t easy to think of something else to say. For all that Hanno was his own man, Sapho still had a way of making him feel like his little brother. Relax, he thought. Enjoy his company. He’s merely come for a friendly chat. ‘How are your men finding the new formations?’ he asked. His had done little but complain since the order had come down that they were to arm themselves with Roman weapons and learn to fight like legionaries.

  ‘It took a while, a few lashes of the whip, but they’re proficient now,’ growled Sapho. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Getting them to react as one when I shout an order has taken a bloody age,’ admitted Hanno. ‘They’re getting there, I suppose.’

  ‘If you need any help or advice—’ Sapho began, but Hanno interrupted.

  ‘I’ll manage, thanks.’

  ‘I know you will,’ said Sapho with a warm smile.

  Again Hanno felt bad for being so prickly. He trusts me. He knows I’m a man now.

  ‘You say that there’s no prospect of a battle, yet that doesn’t mean we can’t bloody some Romans’ noses from time to time.’

  Hanno’s ears pricked. ‘On patrol, you mean?’ Hannibal’s army went through a vast amount of food every day, and through the winter it had become harder and harder to find supplies. The soldiers who were sent out on these missions often had to range quite far afield and were therefore the most likely to see combat.

  ‘Yes. Hannibal has ordered me to accompany a foraging party tomorrow. He’s had reports of a large estate, as yet unplundered, and with a large amount of grain. It’s about fifteen miles to the northwest of here, on the other side of the river. A lot of men and mules will be needed to carry the wheat, so a strong force is required. I’m to ask another phalanx commander to come along. I thought of you. But if your men aren’t ready—’

  Fiercely eager, Hanno cut him off. This was another chance to fight the enemy, to win Hannibal’s favour. ‘They would jump at the chance of getting out of camp! So would I. If we happen to clash with a few Romans, we’ll teach them a damn good lesson.’

  ‘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 g
one 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 li
ttle 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.