Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

  Thump! Bang! Bang! Thump! The bolts landed. More screams, more choked sounds of pain, more bodies hitting the deck. Thankfully, none were close to Quintus. Because of the throng, he could not see the base of the walls. ‘How far have we to go?’ he yelled to no one in particular.

  ‘Almost there,’ Corax replied. ‘Hold steady, lads!’

  Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Now Quintus could hear the cries of the defenders. He made out shouted orders in Greek, curses and demands for more ammunition. The air filled with agonised shrieking; there were splashes as men who’d been hit fell overboard. Quintus’ guts roiled, and he closed his eyes, offering up yet another beseeching prayer. Mars, keep your shield over us still.

  ‘Urceus?’

  A wave of relief washed over him when his friend replied. ‘I’m all right. You?’

  ‘So far, yes,’ said Quintus, grinning like a fool.

  With a solid thump, the ram on their quinquereme struck the rocks that formed the breakwater at the base of the fortifications.

  This is it, thought Quintus. This is fucking it. His eyes shot to those of the sailor whom he was shielding. In them, he saw utter fear, but determination too. ‘Do your job,’ the sailor muttered, ‘And I’ll do mine.’

  Encouraged, Quintus nodded.

  ‘LOWER THAT LADDER!’ Corax cried.

  The sailor beside Quintus began to let the rope slide between his fingers. Quintus watched it with a mixture of dread and fascination. When it went slack, the ladder would be resting against the enemy battlements. The artillery barrage would become even heavier, and he and Urceus would be stuck here, on the deck, which was not where he wanted to be.

  Clunk. Amid the crescendo of sound, Quintus somehow heard the ladder come to a halt.

  ‘UP! UP! UP!’ yelled Corax. ‘Fast as you can!’

  If Quintus turned his head away from his shield, he could see beyond the sailor to a section of the ladder which extended from about his own height to ten paces above him. Already the wood was creaking and moving beneath the weight of men ascending it. A heartbeat later, he saw the first hastatus appear. It didn’t surprise him that it was one of the oldest and steadiest men in the maniple, a veteran who wouldn’t have flinched from Corax’s order to take the lead. Gods, but I’m glad that it isn’t me, thought Quintus. ‘Fortuna be with you,’ he shouted, but the soldier didn’t hear him. A scowl of determination twisted his face as he went up the rungs as fast as a man could with a scutum on his back and a long sword dangling from his right hip. A moment later, he vanished inside the hide framework that extended almost to the ladder’s top. Its purpose was to shield the attackers from enemy missiles, and it would now be put to the test.

  Another hastatus immediately came into view, and then another and another. The rain of enemy bolts and stones was still hammering down, but Quintus couldn’t resist a look around the side of his shield, up at the wall. It towered above their position, an imposing rampart of stone blocks that was at least thirty paces in height. The defenders’ faces were clearly distinguishable: so too were their arms as they leaned out and hurled spears or loosed sling bullets at their foes. Quintus recalled again the Syracusan officer he had interrogated. Where was Kleitos? Looking down at him right now? Twang! went a catapult that he could actually see. He jerked back in reflex as it shot a bolt at the ladder.

  ‘Up you go, that’s it! Come on, brothers!’ roared Corax. ‘To the top!’

  Five or so men fitted on the ladder. More than a score were waiting their turn at the bottom. He and Urceus wouldn’t have to move for a bit yet. Quintus’ head twisted. To their left, another pair of quinqueremes had come to rest; its crew were in the process of elevating its sambuca. Bolts and stones were hissing down in response. He saw a number of sailors killed, but the officers on board soon did as Corax had, rushing soldiers forward to protect the crew on the ropes. Hastati began swarming up the rungs the instant that it reached the ramparts. Quintus’ stomach lurched as he saw a group of defenders push a long, forked piece of wood out from an embrasure to one side of the point where the ladder met the defences. ‘Look out!’

  Of course he was too far away to be heard, too far away to do anything but watch in horror as the fork made contact and was swiftly pushed outwards, forcing the ladder into a vertical position. There it stayed for a sickening moment before the Syracusans heaved again and tipped the ladder backwards. The hastati at the bottom were able to jump clear, but the rest were hurled to their deaths on the deck of their own ship, or in the sea. The ladder came to rest against the mast with one soldier still hanging on for dear life near the top. ‘Thank the gods,’ whispered Quintus. ‘Hold on.’

  An enemy bolt lanced out from the walls and punched the hastatus clean off the ladder. He dropped into the water below without a sound.

  Quintus swallowed and looked away. Forget him, he told himself. Concentrate on what’s happening here. THUMP! The force of the impact threw him back on his heels. Regaining his balance, Quintus gaped at the barbed head that had slammed through his shield. It had missed his left fist, holding the central grip, by two fingers’ width, and his head by less than that.

  ‘Are you hit?’ shouted Urceus from behind.

  ‘No! A bollock hair nearer and I would have been dead, though,’ Quintus gasped. He wouldn’t be able to hold up his shield for long, that was clear. The weight of the iron bolt was already telling on his arm muscles. With a few wrenches, he managed to tug the thing through his scutum and drop it to the deck. A large hole remained in the shield, but at least he was able to raise it aloft again.

  ‘Your comrades have a foothold up there, lads!’ roared Corax. ‘Keep climbing!’

  Quintus peered around the edge of his shield again. To his delight, he saw that their centurion was correct. Somehow, a handful of hastati had reached over the battlements and secured the top of the ladder so that others could follow. His heart leaped. Perhaps they would make it after all?

  His hopes continued to rise as two and then three more of his comrades clambered over the defences to join the fray. Corax continued to urge his men onwards, but they had seen what was going on. Now, they were eager to ascend.

  A moment later, Quintus’ heart stopped. ‘What in fucking Hades’ name is that?’ he heard Urceus say. An outlandish-looking device was emerging over the edge of the ramparts. It was a long, broad piece of wood, about fifty paces in length. From its end dangled a chain and a great three-pronged hook. Even as he watched, the chain was lowered down, towards their ship. Quintus had never seen anything like this before, but he didn’t need to be told what it might do. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Is it going to pick us up?’ growled Urceus.

  ‘I’d say so.’ Quintus looked at his mail shirt and cursed. The bloody armour would be the death of him. Urceus’ decision to wear a chest and back plate like Unlucky’s seemed more than wise now.

  Corax had noticed the new weapon too. ‘Climb that ladder!’ he screamed. He blew his whistle to try and attract the attention of the soldiers on the battlements, but they were enmeshed in their own struggle for survival.

  Plus, Quintus reckoned, those men were too far from the device to make a difference anyway. At least a hundred paces and scores of defenders separated them from its position. It couldn’t be taken. Perhaps the hooks could be cut off the arm? he wondered desperately.

  The air was filling with shouts of dismay. Everyone had seen the iron claw.

  ‘Crespo, Urceus, Unlucky. Put down your shields. With me.’ Corax went striding past, towards the prow. Towards where the hook looked as if it would hit.

  Sweat sluiced down Quintus’ back the way it might if he were in a caldarium. ‘Here.’ He handed his scutum to the sailor whom he’d been protecting and hurried after Corax. ‘What’s your plan, sir?’

  Corax’s expression was bleak. ‘I don’t have a fucking plan, Crespo. But if we don’t stop that thing, we’re all going to drown.’

  They weaved their way to the front of the ship, through their fearful
comrades. Quintus studied the hook as it loomed overhead. There appeared to be no cables or bindings that they could use their swords on. Panic bubbled up inside him. What could they do with their bare hands? A quick glance at Urceus and Unlucky told him that they were no less unhappy. They were here, as he was, because of their devotion to Corax. Quintus’ lead foot caught on something and he stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding falling overboard. Cursing, he kicked at the coiled length of rope that had been responsible, and then an idea flashed into his mind. ‘Sir!’

  Corax turned with a scowl. ‘What?’

  Quintus lifted the rope. ‘If we could throw this around one of the prongs, we might be able to pull it out of the way. Stop it grabbing hold of the ship.’

  ‘That’s bloody clever! Bring it here!’

  The men nearest the prow didn’t need to be told to make way. A space cleared around Corax, Quintus and the rest as they unrolled the rope and tied one end into a great loop with a sliding knot. ‘Are any of you used to roping cattle?’ asked Corax.

  Feeling stupid, Quintus shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ muttered Urceus, ‘but I’ll give it a go.’ Unlucky didn’t say a word.

  Corax’s lips turned downwards. ‘Fuck it. It’s my job.’

  ‘I can do it, sir,’ said Unlucky out of the blue.

  Their eyes turned in unison. ‘Speak up. Quickly!’ ordered Corax.

  ‘It’s been a few years, sir, but I used to help round up the cattle on our farm every summer. Time was that I could catch a cow from thirty paces away.’

  ‘Now’s your chance,’ said Corax, handing over the rope.

  Quintus shot an encouraging glance at Unlucky, who looked as if he wished he’d said nothing. Urceus slapped him on the back. Unlucky moved to stand in front of them, hefting the loop of rope in his right hand. The hook was now little more than twenty paces over their heads. Quintus was alarmed to see that it no longer appeared to be aiming for the deck. Instead, the men controlling it were going to try and snag the bronze ram that protruded from the front of the ship. Unlucky’s task had just been made immeasurably harder. His first attempt failed. So too did his second, and Quintus’ hope began to vanish. Then, against all odds, the loop landed on the hook and caught on one of its prongs. Unlucky yelled with delight and tugged on the line, sliding the knot closed. ‘I’ve done it, sir!’

  ‘Grab the rope, all of you!’ roared Corax. ‘Pull on it like you’ve never pulled your cocks!’

  Quintus, Urceus and Corax made to seize the rope. Their fingers were just closing on it when an arrow took Unlucky in the chest, to the left of his pectoral plate. Whoever had aimed the shot – no coincidence, surely – was a master bowman. Unlucky’s grip on the rope slackened; it pulled through his palm, leaving the others scrabbling to catch it. Unlucky’s eyes bulged with pain; he looked down at the rope, knowing he had to keep hold of it. Instead of regaining control, however, he dribbled pink-red froth from his lips and let go entirely. Before their horrified gaze, the rope ran over the side, where it dangled from the hook into the sea. Unlucky dropped to the deck in a tangle of limbs. Corax bellowed his frustration. Quintus stooped and picked up another length of rope. ‘Here!’ he said to Urceus. ‘You have a go. We might still manage to grab it.’

  Cursing, Urceus tied a running knot as before. Holding the rope with both hands, he approached the point where the low rails that ran along the ship’s sides came together at the prow. Quintus watched with jangling nerves. Already the hook was being lowered into position over the ram. Urceus threw and missed; he pulled in the rope and tried again. That attempt failed too.

  ‘Help us, Fortuna,’ Quintus cried. He wanted to add, but didn’t dare, ‘You old bitch, like you should have helped poor Unlucky.’

  Urceus was readying himself for one last effort when an enemy bowman – the same one who’d slain Unlucky? – loosed an arrow that scythed down to take him through the left arm. With a scream of pain, he dropped the rope. Even as Corax and Quintus grabbed for it, the hook struck the ram with a resounding clang. It was raised at once, but it hadn’t found a purchase and rose into the air again. The men operating it manoeuvred the hook a fraction and lowered it once more. Corax threw the rope, but it fell short, into the sea. With a despairing curse, he hurled it a second time. Quintus didn’t see it miss, because his eyes were locked in horror on the hook, which dropped neatly into the water alongside the ram. The chain suspending it began to rise a heartbeat later and Quintus almost vomited when it jarred to a stop. It had snagged the ram.

  ‘It’s caught. Pull as you’ve never pulled!’ The shout in Greek, from above, could not be missed.

  Insults and roars of triumph carried down from the battlements.

  ‘The arm’s going to shoot up in the air, sir!’ Quintus roared at Corax.

  ‘Save yourselves,’ yelled Corax at the gaggle of soldiers and crew who were watching them. ‘Jump! Jump overboard!’ He began shoving men towards the rail. ‘There’s no time. Jump, if you want to live!’

  Quintus looked down at his mail shirt, which would pull him under, and then at Urceus, whose injured arm would be the death of him in the water. He wouldn’t be able to help his friend with his armour on, but with it off, he had the slimmest of chances. Moving as fast as he could, he unbuckled his belt and baldric, grabbed the hem of the mail and heaved it up to the middle of his chest. He stooped. Normally, this was the point when a comrade grabbed it with both hands and pulled it over his shoulders. On one’s own, it was damn tricky. Quintus shook his torso, but nothing happened. His bladder twinged painfully, and he tried not to panic. Drowning would be bad enough, but to die with a mail shirt over his head was a horror that plumbed the depths. He could have wept with relief as he felt a hand – Urceus’ good one – take hold of the armour and wrench it up towards his head. Quintus used all the strength in his arms to force it up and off his body. It landed on the deck with an almighty crash.

  ‘Mind my feet,’ said Urceus with a crooked grin.

  ‘You mad fuck!’ retorted Quintus. Already the deck had started to tilt upwards. Men were shouting in alarm, leaping into the sea. Corax was shoving anyone who came within his reach after them. ‘Hold on to me,’ directed Quintus. He reached out to Urceus’ right side and grabbed him around the midriff. ‘To the edge of the deck.’

  They had just reached the railing when the world turned upside down.

  The decking beneath their feet came up to meet them; the sky tilted at a crazy angle; both of them lost their balance. In quick succession, Quintus saw the prow rise up until it was almost vertical, the ramparts lined with cheering defenders, a jumble of men and weapons and armour – the other soldiers on the ship – the sun, the sea and Urceus’ mouth, which was screaming a curse that he could not hear.

  And then he was falling, falling into the sea.

  Quintus hit the water still somehow gripping Urceus. At the last moment, he held his breath, hoped his friend did the same. The force of the impact ripped them apart; Quintus had no time to react, to hold on to Urceus. He was lost at once in his own war for survival. Buffeted, spun this way and that, he lost all sense of direction. Swirling streams of air bubbles surrounded him; the bodies of men, alive and dead, flashed past too. What filled Quintus with more terror, however, was the knowledge that when the claw was released from the arm – for that was surely its purpose – anyone beneath it would be drowned. The instant that he’d stopped sinking, he began kicking his legs like a maniac. Up, he had to get up to the surface and away to the side. But which way? Underwater, he had no idea where the ship lay. He twisted his head frantically, and through the debris of weapons and corpses, was rewarded with the sight of a great black mass – the stern of their quinquereme, which was pointing down into the depths.

  It moved a little, shifting towards a more upright position, and Quintus wasn’t sure if he wet himself with fear. He began to swim away from the ship, arms and legs powering him with all of his strength. Neptune, I beg you, he prayed. Do not drag me down to your
kingdom.

  One, two heartbeats later Quintus felt rather than saw the quinquereme being dropped. A wall of water hit him from behind. He was picked up and bowled along like a twig dropped on to the surface of a fast-flowing river. His feet swept past his head as he was turned end over end. Everything went light, dark, light, dark as the depths and the sky above flashed by Quintus’ straining, disorientated eyes. Thunk. Something solid – a man, an oar? – struck him in the midriff. Pain lanced through him and it took a mighty effort not to suck in a lungful of seawater.

  Then another object hit him on one shin – smack – and Quintus’ lips almost opened in reflex agony. He couldn’t take much more. His lungs were bursting with the need to take in fresh air. He had to get to the surface, quickly. Another impact was a certainty, and when it happened, he would die. I’m not going to make it, he thought. Let go and all of the pain will go away …

  Somewhere deep inside, he found a last glowing ember of hope. One last effort. You can make one last effort. Quintus twisted his head, saw the light, prayed that his mind was not playing him false and struck out for it. Kicked with his legs. Swept forward with his arms. Did it again, and again. Blackness tugged at the edge of his vision. He took another stroke, and another, but the strength was fast leaching from his muscles.

  Just as he had lost all faith, his head burst out of the sea. Quintus gasped in air as he’d never done in his life, great juddering mouthfuls of it. He inhaled some water, but he was able to cough it up. His nose ran, his eyes stung from the salt, but he didn’t care. He was alive.

  His eyes swivelled, trying to make out what was going on. Around him, scores of heads bobbed on the water. Men roared at each other, cursed and pleaded with the gods, cried for their mothers. Quintus saw few faces that he recognised. Of Urceus and Corax there was no sign. Beyond the survivors, some fifty paces away, floated the battered shape of his quinquereme. Half its oars had been shorn away and the mast had been smashed. The ladder hung out over the side, like a tree blown down in a storm. The decks were empty. Everyone had been hurled overboard, thought Quintus numbly.