Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Hanno demanded, worried that Mutt was about to mention his illegal forays before Cannae. Despite Bomilcar being a friend, the fewer who knew, the better.

  Mutt gave him a glance as if to say, ‘You don’t need to worry.’ He winked at Bomilcar, and then regarded Hanno. ‘It’s the look in your eyes, sir. You’re like a moonstruck calf.’

  Is it that obvious? wondered Hanno, grateful the darkness didn’t reveal the colour of his cheeks.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Bomilcar.

  Damn it, thought Hanno, what did it matter if Bomilcar knew? It wasn’t the act of a traitor to have feelings for a woman who happened to be one of the enemy. ‘She’s the sister of the Roman who bought me. Aurelia is her name.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’ Mutt’s face was eager.

  ‘Very.’ He pictured her as she’d been the night they had met at her family’s estate. Grown up – a woman, with woman’s curves. His erection stiffened, and he shifted position to hide it.

  The others chuckled. ‘She must be good-looking, for you to remember her after this long,’ said Bomilcar.

  Hanno was glad that Mutt didn’t say a word. He brooded on the fact that Aurelia would now have been married for some time. For all he knew, she had a child or two. It was all too possible that she had died in childbirth—Stop it. She’s alive, he told himself.

  ‘You want me to seek her out in Capua?’ asked Bomilcar in a low voice. ‘Give her a message?’

  ‘That’s good of you, but she won’t be there.’ Quickly, Hanno explained, before poking a stick into the fire in frustration.

  ‘Forget about her, sir. You’ll never see her again,’ advised Mutt. He raised his cup and gave it an appreciative caress. ‘Best give your love to this. You’ll never find a place where you can’t find some. Might be vinegary, or off, but it will still do the job.’

  Hanno glared at Mutt. That’s what I thought when I escaped with Quintus, but then I did meet her once more. To extinguish the dream that he might do so again seemed too brutal. Everything else in his life was about war and death, and duty to Hannibal and Carthage. This one thing was his alone. ‘This is different,’ he muttered.

  ‘First love!’ said Mutt. ‘Oh, to be young again.’

  Hanno threw the dregs from his cup over him.

  Mutt shut up.

  ‘Tell me what you would say to Aurelia,’ urged Bomilcar. ‘I will try to find her in Capua. Even if I fail, I might hear word of where she has gone.’

  Hanno sensed that Bomilcar was just humouring him, but he didn’t care. Was it not better that he carry a message of some kind – any kind – than nothing at all? His heart ached at the idea that Bomilcar might actually meet Aurelia. ‘Tell her … that I think of her often. Often. Tell her that with the gods’ help, we will see each other again one day …’ His voice died away.

  No one spoke. Hanno glanced at Mutt, saw sympathy in his eyes. Bomilcar’s expression was also understanding. Even in the midst of a war, we don’t have to be unfeeling, Hanno thought. He took a swig of wine and stared out into the blackness.

  ‘If I find her, rest assured that I will tell her,’ said Bomilcar.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno gruffly.

  The knowledge would make his journey to Sicily that little bit easier.

  Chapter III

  North of Syracuse, Sicily

  LIFTING A HAND against the rising sun’s rays, a Roman legionary squinted into the distance.

  A tall man with black hair, Quintus Fabricius was in a clearing, halfway up a small, tree-covered hill. Below his position, a road led south, to Leontini and, beyond that, Syracuse. It was empty of traffic. So it had been since he and his comrade Urceus had taken over from the previous sentries in the pre-dawn chill, several hours before. Satisfied, Quintus glanced casually around him. There was no great need to worry about attack from anywhere other than the south, but it paid to be vigilant. To his back, about a mile away, loomed the mass that was Mount Etna, its lower slopes covered in farms and vineyards. Northwards, the road ran up towards Messana, into Roman-held, secure territory. To the east, the sea was a deep, inviting blue. The mainland was only a mile or so across the strait; the mountains that ran down to the point of the ‘boot’ were clearly visible. There were no sails on the water yet – it was too early. Yawning, Quintus stood; he leaned his pilum and shield against the rock that had been his seat and walked up and down a few paces, stretching his muscles to get the blood flowing again.

  ‘Cold?’ asked Urceus. Short, brave, funny, he’d been nicknamed Urceus, which meant ‘jug’, because of his prominent, handle-like ears. No one, even Quintus, knew what his real name was. It was a source of endless interest to the maniple. Corax, their centurion, might have known – he’d been the one to take Urceus’ oath when he joined up – but he never let on.

  ‘Two tunics and a heavy cloak and I’m still chilled to the bone,’ Quintus grumbled.

  ‘You shouldn’t sit on your arse so much then.’

  ‘Piss off!’ retorted Quintus, his grey eyes dancing.

  ‘At least there’s been sod all to look out for,’ said Urceus. ‘For the moment anyway.’

  ‘It’s peaceful around here,’ agreed Quintus. ‘It makes me think of home.’ His mind turned to his family, and sadness took him. In Rome, the sun was rising on his mother Atia, his beloved sister Aurelia, and her little son Publius. The gods keep you safe, he prayed. One day, I’ll see you again. Lucius, Aurelia’s husband, might be with them, but according to Aurelia’s most recent letter, it was more likely he’d be in Rhegium, on business. Quintus saluted in the direction of the port, which kept supplies flowing to the Roman troops on the island. He had met Lucius once, just after Cannae; he’d seemed a decent man, and Aurelia made no complaints.

  Urceus threw him a quizzical look. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘My brother-in-law. The one I told you about, who has business in Rhegium.’

  ‘Loved ones. It’s hard not to think of them when we’re stuck here, eh?’

  ‘It is.’ The familiar bitterness rolled in, and Quintus spat. ‘We fought until we could fight no more at Cannae. We retreated when the battle was lost, so that we could fight another day. And our reward?’

  ‘To be exiled to Sicily – for life,’ snarled Urceus. ‘Fuck the Senate and everyone in it.’

  Once, Quintus would have been shocked by such sentiments. Now, he nodded in agreement.

  ‘May Fortuna be smiling on my brothers,’ muttered Urceus. ‘They’ll be seeing more action than we are.’ His two brothers had joined the army after Cannae, and had been assigned to a different legion. Roman soldiers in Italy saw more frequent action, the troops of many areas having gone over to Hannibal.

  ‘Still no word?’ asked Quintus. He knew the answer, but it showed solidarity to enquire.

  ‘Course not. Paying a scribe to write a letter would seem like a waste of money to my brothers, same as me! We can but pray to the gods and hope that all of us make it.’ He threw Quintus a sympathetic look. ‘It’s the same even if you can write, isn’t it? Sicily is far enough from the mainland that it might as well be the damn moon.’

  Quintus nodded in agreement. Not for the first time, he remembered the messages he’d sent to Gaius, his oldest friend from Capua. There had been no replies. Was Gaius dead, or had he and his father Martialis gone over to Hannibal? The latter notion wasn’t unlikely, Quintus had reluctantly concluded. Gaius and his father held Roman citizenship, but they were Oscan nobility through and through. Their people had only been conquered by Rome two generations before. When Capua had changed sides after Cannae, severing its ties with Rome, the majority of its leaders and ruling class had done so too. Quintus couldn’t think of a reason that Gaius wouldn’t have done the same. He didn’t have it in himself to hate his friend if that was the case. They’d known each other since they were babies, had shared almost every experience of life from early childhood to the date that they had taken the toga. Wherever you a
re, Gaius, he thought, I hope you are well. If you fight for Hannibal, I pray that we never meet.

  ‘To my brothers. To old friends and comrades!’ said Urceus. He poured a small measure of wine from his skin on the ground as a libation before taking a swig. He handed the bag to Quintus, who echoed his salutation. To Gaius, he said silently. Out loud, he added, ‘To Calatinus.’ Then he took a mouthful. The wine was vinegary, but Quintus enjoyed the warming feeling as it went down his neck. He slugged another.

  ‘Calatinus was your cavalry comrade from the battle of the Trebia.’

  ‘Good memory,’ said Quintus. ‘I’ve hardly seen him since joining the infantry.’ Until Urceus came along, Calatinus had been the comrade he’d missed the most. Fortunately, they had bumped into one another before Cannae, and afterwards too. The mere fact that they’d both survived the bloodiest defeat in the Republic’s history had been enough excuse to get drunk together. That was the last time they had met. Quintus had no idea where on the Italian mainland Calatinus was serving now, so he saluted from northeast to southeast, encompassing the entire peninsula. ‘May Mars keep his shield over you, my friend. May we meet again, in happier times.’

  Urceus was watching. ‘You made it happen. Not seeing him again, I mean. Ordinary foot soldiers don’t mix with equestrians, Crespo.’

  Quintus smiled. Crespo was the name he’d taken when he had enlisted in the infantry. It had taken him a long time to reveal his true name, and identity – that of an equestrian – to Urceus. Finally, though, he’d mentioned it one night when they’d had plenty to drink. His friend had made little of it, which had been a relief, but even now, more than a year later, Quintus was wary of talking frankly about the life he’d led before joining the infantry.

  ‘You were mad to leave the cavalry,’ opined Urceus, not for the first time. ‘You wouldn’t be stuck here, on fucking Sicily, if you’d stayed.’

  Quintus had thought about this countless times, yet he still wouldn’t have changed the way he’d done things. Humble citizens they might be, but Urceus and his comrades were as dear to him – dearer – than anyone but his family. ‘If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have anyone to keep you out of trouble,’ he shot back.

  Urceus chuckled. ‘Listen to you! It’s the other way round, you know that! If not for me, you’d be dead a dozen times over.’

  The truth of it was that they had both saved each other’s lives more than once, but the banter was part of their routine. ‘Enlisting in the velites was the only way that I could continue to fight Hannibal. My father, gods rest his soul, was so angry with me that he’d ordered me back to Capua.’

  ‘I remember. But the lowliest class of infantry?’ Urceus tapped his head with a finger. ‘Choosing that, when you could have been sunning yourself on the family farm?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that I wasn’t going to sit at home, not with Hannibal roaming the land. Becoming a veles was the best choice I had.’

  ‘Bloody fool,’ said Urceus, but the affection in his voice took all the sting from the insult.

  ‘Besides, I’ve risen in the world since.’

  ‘A fine hastatus you may be, but I’d wager your mother still doesn’t approve.’

  ‘She will have come to accept it by now,’ Quintus said. Once she had recovered from the shock and relief of seeing him alive after Cannae, Atia had been quick to express her displeasure that he was a foot soldier. Until that point in his life, Quintus had always obeyed his mother. Not that day. He’d listened to her outburst and then told her that he would be remaining in the infantry. To his surprise, she had backed down. ‘Just stay alive,’ she had whispered.

  ‘Mothers are good at accepting what their sons do. It’s part of their job. Least that’s what mine used to say.’ Urceus jabbed a thumb at the trees. ‘I’m going for a piss.’

  Quintus grunted. He was thinking about his former friend Hanno. Was he dead? Four and a half years had passed since their last meeting. In that time, there had been scores of battles between the legions and Hannibal’s army. Hanno could easily have been slain. If he had survived, he would be on the mainland, for none of Hannibal’s troop had yet landed on Sicily. That knowledge made Quintus grateful. Hanno was one of the enemy, and it would be preferable if they never met again. He couldn’t prevent a sneaky thought that wished Hanno still alive. There were worse men in the Roman ranks than he. Quintus couldn’t quite bring himself to pray for Hanno, but he did not wish him dead. Enough good men had lost their lives, including his father, at Cannae.

  ‘Gods, but I needed that,’ said Urceus, returning. ‘There was enough in my bladder to put out a burning house.’

  ‘It’s the wine you drank last night. If Corax caught you tipsy on sentry duty, he’d fucking kill you.’

  ‘But he won’t, because we’re two of his best men, so he leaves us be,’ Urceus said, grinning. ‘Besides, I wasn’t tipsy. Just happy.’

  Quintus snorted, but Urceus was probably right. He could hold wine the way a barrel of sawdust soaked up water. Quintus’ tolerance was far lower, which annoyed and pleased him in equal measure. He could do without the ribbing he got from his comrades for holding back, but it was good to feel normal the morning after a piss-up when the rest of them were grey-faced, sweating and vomiting. His eyes roved the landscape again. Far off to the south, a flash of light on the road drew his attention like a vulture to a corpse. ‘Look!’

  Urceus shot to his side, the banter forgotten. ‘What?’

  Quintus pointed. ‘I saw sun glinting off metal. There it is again. And again. That’s more than a couple of travellers.’

  ‘It isn’t going to be a merchant caravan. They’re rare nowadays.’

  ‘A Syracusan patrol then.’ They watched as the group drew nearer. Corax would want details, and the newcomers were far enough away to risk waiting. That didn’t stop them both gripping the hilts of their swords. Eventually, they could see the force was made up of horsemen and foot soldiers.

  ‘How many?’ asked Urceus.

  ‘I’d say upwards of fifty riders, and four or five times that number of infantry. You?’

  ‘About that. What in Hades’ name are they up to?’

  ‘Scouting around Leontini, perhaps? They won’t be happy that we took it a while back.’

  ‘You could be right. Maybe Hippocrates and Epicydes want to prove that they’ve got balls. This lot could be scouts for a larger force that will attack Leontini.’ Urceus gave him a huge nudge. ‘Either way, Corax will want to know. You keep an eye on them. I’ll go.’

  ‘Fine.’ Quintus was already preparing himself for the fight. Since Hippocrates and Epicydes had taken control of the city, all Syracusans had become enemies. Corax wouldn’t let this force by. His duty was to defend the road that led north. It wouldn’t matter that the Syracusans outnumbered his men. He would want to give the enemy troops a bloody nose at the very least.

  It was a pity that the approaching soldiers weren’t Carthaginians. They were the ones who had started this damn war, who had killed his father. The Syracusans had reneged on a time-honoured treaty with Rome, though. They were the foe here. If we kill enough of the whoresons, Quintus decided, if we slay so many of them that we can build a bridge to the mainland with their skulls, the Senate will have to reinstate us. Frustration stung him, because even if they displayed such extreme savagery there was no certainty that it would convince the Senate of their loyalty. It seemed more likely that he would end his days on Sicily. That he would never see his mother or Aurelia again.

  ‘What have we got to look forward to?’

  The familiar voice dragged Quintus back to reality. He spun, saluted. ‘A strong enemy patrol, sir.’

  Corax, a middle-aged man with a narrow face and deep-set eyes, returned his salute casually. His eyes scanned the road to the south. ‘I see the miserable dogs – moving along as bold as brass, eh? Like they own the damn place.’

  ‘They must think we have no forces in the area, sir,’ said Quintus.


  ‘A stupid mistake to make,’ replied Corax with a nasty leer. ‘We’ll have to teach them the error of their ways, eh?’

  Quintus and Urceus exchanged a look. Corax had always been a tough taskmaster, but since he’d saved all of their lives at Cannae, his status had risen close to that of a god. Despite the familiar nervous feeling that presaged combat, they both grinned. ‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Best get a move on. We want to be in position long before they reach us.’

  Corax had picked a spot for their camp close to a massive old holm oak that had been torn down in a winter storm some months prior; its fall had entirely blocked the road. In peacetime, local landowners would have removed the obstruction. These days, travellers had simply hacked away enough of the smaller branches to be able to pass single file along one side of the carriageway.

  ‘Marcellus will want the trunk shifted when he leads the legions to Syracuse,’ Corax had declared when they’d arrived, ‘but until then we’ll leave it be.’

  ‘Good idea not to move the tree, wasn’t it?’ Quintus whispered now. ‘It’s a perfect place for an ambush.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Urceus replied, chuckling.

  Quintus didn’t voice the concern that kept twisting in his guts. What if the Syracusans saw them?

  Corax, who was pacing up and down behind them, whacked Urceus across the calves with his vine cane, and they fell silent.

  Quintus, Urceus and the rest of the eighty men in Corax’s century were hidden in the thick scrub nearest the ‘passage’ through the branches of the fallen tree. Sections of juniper bushes had been cut and laid in great heaps to conceal them. Every fifteen paces or so, there was a ‘gateway’ in the roughly made ‘wall’, covered over by a wedge of branches; a hastatus had been assigned to each, his job to pull the vegetation out of the way when Corax gave the word. Half of Corax’s hastati had been placed some way beyond the blockage, and half before it. Quintus and Urceus were with Corax in the latter group; Ammianus, the century’s second-in-command, led the former. Vitruvius, the maniple’s junior centurion, lay on the other side of the road with his eighty soldiers, his force similarly divided.