Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

  ‘Sit down, will you?’ growled Marius. ‘The noise of your damn hobs is giving me a headache.’

  Quintus ignored him, and kept walking back and forth. The evening meal was over; they’d washed it down with water from the public fountain. The locals used that themselves, so no one had fouled it, but it wasn’t wine. The day had been long and hot, and the inhabitants even more surly than usual. Gods, but what he’d give for a drink!

  ‘What’s got into you?’ asked Urceus from his bed. Carpenters had been given the task of building bunks and now every contubernium had a set in their room. After months of living in tents, it felt properly luxurious.

  ‘My tongue is hanging out for some wine.’

  ‘Not for some pussy?’ asked Mattheus. ‘That’s what I’d like!’

  ‘I’d like both!’ said Marius, and everyone laughed.

  ‘Have some of mine.’ Mattheus tapped the small amphora that protruded from beneath his bunk. ‘There’s still a drop left.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t,’ said Quintus. ‘That stuff’s like liquid gold, what with the ban.’

  ‘Stop whingeing, then,’ advised Marius with a shrug. In some ways, he had taken Wolf’s place as the one who wasn’t afraid to say what he thought. He was friendlier than Wolf had been, but more dangerous, Quintus had decided. His skill with sword and shield was impressive; Quintus was glad that they were on the same side.

  ‘I’m not whingeing.’ Quintus aimed a half-kick at Marius, who had to roll to the far side of his bunk to avoid being hit. ‘I’m planning something.’

  Marius rolled right back to the near edge, his eyes agleam. ‘What kind of something?’

  Quintus glanced around and saw that he had the attention of every man in the room. ‘It involves wine, as you might have guessed. And an inn – one where we will be welcomed.’

  ‘The only place you’ll find a place like that is back in Italy,’ declared Mattheus scornfully.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Quintus, deciding that he was going to defy Corax’s order. He could almost hear the wine at the Harvest Moon calling him.

  ‘Bullshit!’ said Mattheus. ‘Who in this armpit of a town is going to give us free wine?’

  Disbelief radiated from everyone else apart from Urceus, who was grinning. ‘The other day …’ and Quintus launched into a quick explanation of what had happened. There was a uniform rumble of approval when he was done.

  ‘The innkeeper must love you,’ said Marius, chuckling. ‘We’re in for a right session!’

  Quintus had known that Corax wasn’t around. He, Vitruvius and the optiones were in Pinarius’ quarters, attending the daily debriefing on the day’s events. The hastati who were guarding the door of the house that Quintus’ contubernium was stationed in – two soldiers of their own century – weren’t taken in by their story of going for a walk. ‘Fresh air, is it?’ one had asked, grinning. ‘Eight of you, battle ready at this time of night?’ Smiling, Quintus had told them to shut their damn mouths and get out of the way. Advising them that the wine, whores or both had better be worth whatever punishment Corax devised for them all, the pair of sentries had stood aside.

  It was just after sunset, and the streets were empty apart from an occasional leper or stray dog. Even in small towns, people didn’t like to be abroad once the light went from the sky. The seven men that Quintus had taken with him – his entire contubernium – didn’t carry torches. It wasn’t far to the Harvest Moon, and they didn’t want to attract any more attention than they already would with their hobnailed sandals. Quintus heard the rattle of shutters above as they tramped down the main thoroughfare; he felt the unfriendly stares of those who watched from their houses. Sick of the inhabitants’ antipathy towards him and his comrades, he ignored the sounds. Let them come if they dislike us that much, he thought fiercely. We’re fully armoured, and they’ll get a sharp iron welcome from my gladius.

  They reached the entrance of the Harvest Moon without incident, however. The door was shut and barred from within. Not a chink of light came from behind its shuttered windows. Undeterred, Quintus hammered on the timbers.

  There was no response.

  ‘You’ve brought us on a fool’s errand, Crespo,’ said Marius. ‘It’s shut. There’s no one at home, or if there is, he ain’t opening for business tonight.’

  Quintus banged on the door again.

  Nothing.

  His comrades stamped unhappily from foot to foot.

  ‘Let us in!’ cried Quintus. This time, he used the iron butt spike of his javelin on the door. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. ‘Open up, I say!’

  ‘Or we’ll burn your tavern to the ground,’ said Urceus with a snigger.

  The others chuckled, and Quintus was glad that they were his comrades, and were still sober. In different circumstances, especially if their blood was up, they might well be capable of such a thing. He used his javelin butt a second time. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

  At last he heard movement within. Feet shuffled up to the door, stopped just the other side. There was silence for a moment. He’s probably terrified, thought Quintus. We might be Pera’s men, returned for our revenge. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he said in Greek. ‘It’s the two soldiers who saved your daughter.’

  A heartbeat’s pause, and then a short laugh. ‘You must be thirsty!’ Iron grated off iron as the bolt was thrown back, and the door opened a fraction, revealing the innkeeper’s face. He gasped at the sight of so many legionaries, and Quintus quickly said, ‘It’s all right, they’re my tent mates. I’m not alone in being thirsty, you see.’

  The innkeeper didn’t look too happy, but he pulled open the door nonetheless.

  Quintus, Urceus and the rest barrelled in, and the door slammed shut behind them. The room – empty of customers – was even more dimly lit than before, but the hastati didn’t care. Setting aside their shields and pila, they sat themselves down at a couple of benches near the bar.

  ‘What have you got for us to drink?’ cried Marius, slapping his hand on the wooden top.

  ‘Your finest vintage!’ added Mattheus, leering.

  ‘After what your friends did, I’m more than happy to give you an amphora of my best wine,’ replied the innkeeper.

  ‘Excuse my friends,’ said Quintus. ‘We’ll drink whatever you give us.’

  ‘Only the best for the men who saved my daughter’s virtue.’ He hurried off behind the bar, and Quintus shot a reproving look at Urceus, who was already waxing lyrical about the girl’s attractions.

  The wine produced by the innkeeper, whose name was Thersites, was delicious. The hastati raised their cups in appreciation, and he half bowed, clearly pleased. They set to with a vengeance, and before long the small amphora had been drained. Another was brought forth from the back, and it too was of fine quality.

  Quintus felt a tinge of guilt. ‘We’ll beggar him if this keeps up,’ he said behind his hand to Urceus.

  ‘No chance! He’s been in the trade for years; anyone can see that. The next amphora that comes out, or maybe the one after that, will be the cheap stuff. We won’t be able to tell by then, and he knows that.’

  Urceus’ simple explanation made Quintus feel a little foolish. Even after years spent with ordinary soldiers, his privileged upbringing still showed him up on occasion. He began to watch Thersites like a hawk each time he appeared with fresh wine. Sure enough, the fourth amphora was newer looking than the previous ones. He nudged Urceus. ‘It’s clean, so it’s from the most consumed stock – in other words, the cheapest.’

  Urceus gave him a solemn wink. ‘It’ll do us fine, though, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Despite his best efforts, Quintus found it impossible to taste the difference between the fresh wine and that which they had drunk up to that point. ‘It tastes good to me,’ he said ruefully.

  Urceus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re half pissed.’

  ‘True.’ He gazed around at their comrades and took in their flushed faces and loud voic
es. ‘We’d best not have too much more, or Corax will string us up by the balls.’

  ‘One more, for the road, and to ask the gods that we leave the shithole they call Enna soon!’ declared Urceus, clinking his cup off that of Quintus.

  Quintus drank deep, relishing the warm feeling as the wine slid down his throat.

  At that point, Thersites emerged with a platter of bread, cheese and olives. The hastati descended on it with eager cries, Quintus among them. Another amphora of wine immediately followed, and he forgot about getting back to their quarters. Neither Urceus nor his comrades spoke up. The occasion was fast becoming one of those all-night affairs, when tomorrow is another day and the only thing that matters is the banter and the next drink.

  Late on in the night, Quintus’ fuddled gaze chanced upon Thersites. Something made him look again. The innkeeper appeared troubled. Assuming that he and his friends were the cause, he lumbered over to the bar.

  ‘More wine?’ Thersites was already reaching for the amphora on the rack behind him.

  ‘I’ve had enough for the moment. You seem unhappy. Do you wish us to leave?’

  ‘No, no. You can stay as long as you wish.’

  The wine had washed away Quintus’ inhibitions. ‘What is it then?’

  Thersites stared at him, as if in assessment, before saying, ‘You’re a decent man. So is your friend.’

  ‘We try to do the right thing,’ he admitted.

  ‘And these men are your friends, so they must be the same.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Quintus.

  ‘The town’s leaders tell us that all Romans are bloodthirsty killers, who are incapable of any kindness.’

  ‘Well, that’s not true,’ replied Quintus, bristling.

  ‘I’ve never really believed it. Having met you and these others, I now know it to be a lie. You are men, the same as us.’ Thersites lowered his voice. ‘Nor are the Carthaginians all good, as they would have us believe.’

  Quintus suddenly felt very sober. ‘They talk of the Carthaginians in that way?’

  Thersites’ eyes were dark pools of concern. ‘Yes. Our leaders want the town to switch allegiances, as so many others have done of recent weeks. Remember the old days, they say, before Rome took Sicily for itself. Things were so much better then. Carthage is a more gentle master.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘As far as I remember, those times were no different to the years before this war began. Powers such as Rome and Carthage care nothing for places such as Enna, as long as the taxes are paid and the grain supplies flow.’

  ‘What do you want, Thersites?’

  A long sigh. ‘I want peace. Peace, so I don’t have to lie awake at night worrying about my two daughters being raped, or my inn being burned down around our ears.’ He made a placating gesture. ‘I refer not just to Romans. Carthaginian soldiers are more than capable of such things, I know.’

  Quintus thought of his family estate, which had had to be abandoned because of Hannibal’s incursions into Campania. Thersites was probably unable to leave Enna, as his mother and Aurelia were powerless to return home. The whole of Sicily was in conflict; thousands of innocent people were affected in the same way. ‘War is a tidal wave that sweeps everything in its path away,’ he said heavily. ‘And there is nothing we can do about it other than try not to drown.’

  ‘We can do other things,’ ventured Thersites. He hesitated, and Quintus saw the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Speak,’ he urged.

  ‘Keeping Enna in Roman hands would avoid a battle within its walls, which is what will happen if the town’s leaders get their way. They want the keys to the gate so that they can admit Himilco’s troops in the middle of the night. Pinarius is far too clever to hand the keys over, however, and our leaders are talking now of a siege by the Carthaginians, during which we could help them over the ramparts or some such madness. I’ve heard the stories from other towns where that happened. It wouldn’t matter that we were coming over to Carthage. The place would be sacked, and the population murdered.’

  ‘You want to prevent that? Even if it means that Enna remains in Roman hands?’

  ‘I don’t care who rules us if things can remain peaceful. If it means that a massacre can be prevented. One day, if you have children, you will understand.’

  In his mind’s eye, Quintus saw the battlefield at Cannae as they had fled. Most Roman families had lost a son there that terrible day. Feeling old, he nodded. ‘I think I already do.’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘Why are you telling me this, and not Pinarius or another officer?’

  Thersites’ smile was knowing. ‘Every wall here has eyes and ears. I couldn’t go within a hundred paces of Pinarius’ quarters without being taken for a traitor. Do you trust your commanding officer?’

  ‘With my life.’

  ‘And Pinarius?’

  ‘He’s a bit stiff, but he’s supposed to be a straight type.’

  ‘I thought that too.’ Thersites licked lips that had gone dry. ‘If I gave you the names of the main conspirators, could you pass them on to your commander?’

  Quintus shot a look at his companions and was relieved that they seemed oblivious to his conversation with Thersites. ‘I could, yes.’

  ‘Would he be able to guarantee safety for me and my daughters? I think that the remaining leaders will want to side with Rome, and they can sway the townsmen. Some men may wish me ill if they suspect what I’ve done, however.’

  Quintus swallowed. He couldn’t lie. ‘I don’t know. I’m only an ordinary soldier, but I swear to you that I will do my best to ensure that that happens.’

  Another sigh. ‘I can ask for no more.’

  The loud banter and laughs from behind him died away. Quintus was aware of a pulse beating behind his eyeballs, of the rough wooden counter under his fingertips, of the fear writ large on Thersites’ face.

  ‘Simmias and Zenodoros are the two most active voices in Carthage’s cause. Along with Ochos.’

  ‘Simmias? The merchant who supplies us with grain?’ asked Quintus in disbelief. He had always seemed pleased to deal with the legionaries.

  ‘One and the same.’ Thersites began reeling off more names, and Quintus raised a hand to stop him. ‘I’m too drunk,’ he said. ‘You must write them down.’ Thersites looked horrified.

  ‘You need not sign the parchment. I’ll hand it to my centurion myself,’ Quintus promised.

  ‘Ho, innkeeper! More wine!’ bellowed Marius.

  ‘Of course!’ replied Thersites. In an undertone, he said to Quintus, ‘I’ll give it to you the next time you go to empty your bladder.’

  Already wishing that he hadn’t drunk as much – reporting something this momentous to Corax, or more particularly, Pinarius, would not look good when hungover – Quintus made his way back to the table. No one even noticed him return, which suited him. For the moment, it was best that few people knew what he’d just been told.

  He set about downing beakers of water in an effort to wash out the wine he’d drunk, and, when his head was a little clearer, and the piece of parchment from Thersites was safely stowed in his leather purse, Quintus began the lengthy process of persuading his comrades to leave the inn. He needed some rest, but he wasn’t prepared to leave them behind – apart from Thersites’ revelation, he wanted to make sure none tried to have a look at the innkeeper’s daughter.

  By the time that they eventually returned to their quarters, Quintus was drained, but sleep proved evasive. Shafts of light were coming through the gaps in the shutters when he managed to succumb. It seemed that he’d only been asleep for a moment before the optio was banging on their door and ordering them to get up, if they didn’t want their arses kicked back to Syracuse.

  Quickly, Quintus told Urceus what Thersites had told him. ‘I wasn’t dreaming,’ he hissed, opening his hand to show his friend the parchment.

  ‘Vulcan’s fucking balls,’ said Urceus, who looked as bad as Quintus felt. ‘You’ve got to tell Corax.’


  ‘That’s what I’m about to do.’

  ‘Fuck it,’ growled Urceus. ‘That’ll be more punishment duty. Rather you than me, though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Quintus sourly. He had the presence of mind to stick his head in a bucket of water and don his clean tunic before seeking out Corax. He still felt like shit, but hopefully he didn’t look too bad. Hopefully.

  The door to the centurion’s quarters, an entire apartment on the first floor, was ajar. Through the doorway, Quintus could see Corax sitting at a table, wolfing bread and honey. His servant, a monosyllabic slave, waited upon him. As Quintus was about to knock, Corax’s head turned. ‘Crespo – is that you?’ he barked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus knocked, feeling foolish.

  ‘Stop loitering outside. Come in.’ Corax appraised him as he approached, and Quintus cringed inwardly, wishing again that he had been more temperate the previous night.

  He came to a halt a few steps from Corax and saluted. ‘Sir.’

  There was a short silence, during which Quintus could feel beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Of course, he had to ignore them, while Corax’s eyes traced their complete path.

  ‘You wished to see me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Strange. You look as if you were on the piss last night.’

  ‘Sir, I, er …’ Quintus floundered. What was the point lying? he decided. Corax wasn’t blind or lacking a sense of smell. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Corax’s lips pressed together for a moment. ‘This, despite my orders?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t come here to confess what you’d done, though.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Quintus proffered the piece of parchment, which he’d been clutching unseen in his right hand.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s a list of names, sir, of those who are plotting to turn the town over to the Carthaginians.’

  At this, Corax looked decidedly more interested. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From an innkeeper, sir.’

  Corax’s eyebrow rose – Quintus hoped it wasn’t in disbelief – and he said, ‘Not the proprietor of whichever hole you were drinking in?’