Calatinus had seen the same thing. ‘The fucking dogs!’ he screamed.
‘Yellow-livered sons of whores!’ Cincius bellowed.
A towering rage also filled Quintus. He wasn’t going to flee from cowards like these. Men who would kill others as they slept. I would rather die, he thought. Quintus raised his spear and chose a target, a warrior on a sturdy grey horse. The magnificent gold torc visible over the top of the Gaul’s mail shirt revealed him to be an important individual. So did the three human heads bouncing off his mount’s chest. He would be a good start, Quintus decided.
However, the tide of battle swept Quintus away from the Gaul he’d aimed for. In hindsight, it was a good thing. The tribesman was immensely skilled. Quintus watched in horror as a Roman rider fewer than twenty paces away was skewered through the chest by the Gaul’s weapon. The force of the impact punched the man off his saddle blanket, dropping him dead to the dirt below. The horse behind stumbled over the corpse, unbalancing its rider, and rendering him easy prey for the Gaul, who was now swinging a long sword. He took off the cavalryman’s head with a great sideways lop. Quintus had never seen blood spray so high in the air. Gouts of it went everywhere as the panicked horse galloped off. It was perhaps a dozen steps before its dead rider toppled off.
At once the Gaul sawed on his mount’s reins and jumped down. Quintus’ amazement turned to disgust. The warrior was after another head. He would have given anything just then to be able to reach the Gaul, but it was not to be. He nearly lost his own head to a swinging sword, managing to dodge it only because its bearer uttered a loud war cry as his killing stroke came down. As it was, Quintus nearly fell off his horse. With a speed born of utter desperation, he managed to regain his seat in time to parry his opponent’s next powerful blow.
Fortuna was smiling on him in that instant, for the warrior was even younger than he, and, as Quintus realised, far less skilled. A more experienced man would have already despatched him. The Gaul was not lacking in bravery, however, and they hammered fiercely at each other for a few moments before Quintus found an opportunity to strike. The other’s wild swings left his right armpit exposed. Taking a gamble that he could react faster than his enemy, Quintus did not defend against the next strike. Instead, bending low over his horse’s neck, he listened to it whistle overhead. While the Gaul was still coming to the end of his swing, Quintus came up like a striking snake. He buried his spear in the other’s side, sliding it neatly into the armhole of his mail shirt. With nothing but a tunic to stop its progress, the blade slid between the man’s ribs, through one lung and into his heart. It was as clean a stroke as Quintus had ever made, killing instantaneously. He would always remember it not for that, however, but for the brief burst of shock and pain in the Gaul’s eyes before they went dark for ever.
When Quintus looked up, he quailed. Most of the nearby Roman riders had been cut down. The others were fleeing. There was no sign of Calatinus, Cincius or his father. Quintus’ vision was filled with Gauls. Behind them came hundreds of Iberians. He would be dead long before those riders arrived, however. Three Gaulish warriors were heading straight for him. Despairing, Quintus picked the man he thought would reach him first. It would make little difference, but he didn’t care. His father was dead, and the cavalry battle half lost. What did it matter if he also fell? Raising his spear, Quintus screamed a final cry of defiance. ‘Come on, then, you bastards!’
The trio of warriors roared an inarticulate response.
A horrifying image of his own head as a trophy filled his mind. He banished the image. Just let the end be quick, Quintus prayed.
Chapter XXV: Unexpected Tactics
BOSTAR HAD BARELY been able to contain himself since the sentry’s report that the enemy were crossing the river. He and Sapho had clambered up the bank to lie beside Mago, who was trembling with excitement. With every nerve stretched taut, they’d watched as the Roman cavalry and velites were gradually followed by the allied infantry and the regular legionaries. Only then did it sink in.
‘The Roman commander has no interest in nibbling at the bait,’ muttered Mago excitedly. ‘He’s swallowed it in one great bite. That’s his whole fucking army!’
They exchanged nervous grins.
‘The fighting will start soon,’ said Sapho eagerly.
‘It’s not time to move yet,’ interjected Bostar at once.
‘That’s right. We have to wait until the perfect moment to fall upon the Romans’ rear,’ warned Mago. ‘Moving too early could cost us the battle.’
Knowing that Mago was correct, the brothers reluctantly stayed put. The wait that followed was the longest of Bostar’s life. Mago’s incessant twitching and the savagery with which Sapho bit his nails told him that they felt the same way. It was no more than three to four hours, but at the time it seemed like an eternity. Naturally, the news that the Romans were on the move had spread through their two thousand soldiers like wildfire. Soon it became difficult to keep them silent. It was understandable, thought Bostar. There was only so long that one could take pleasure in being out of harm’s way rather than facing mortal danger – especially when one’s comrades were about to fight for their lives.
Even when the clash of arms became audible, Mago did not move. Bostar forced himself to remain calm. The rival forces of skirmishers would meet first, and then pull back. Sure enough, the screams and cries soon abated. They were replaced by the unmistakable sound of thousands of feet tramping the ground in unison.
‘The Roman infantry are advancing,’ said Mago in an undertone. ‘Melqart, watch over our men.’
A knot of tension formed in Bostar’s belly. Facing so many of the enemy would be terrifying.
Beside him, Sapho shifted uneasily. ‘The gods protect Father and Hanno,’ he whispered. Their enmity momentarily forgotten, Bostar muttered the same prayer.
The crashing sound that reached their ears a moment later was as deafening as thunder. Yet there were no threatening storm clouds above, no flashes of lightning to sear their eyeballs. It was something altogether more lethal. More terrifying. Bostar trembled to hear it. He had witnessed terrible things since the war started: the immense block of stone that had nearly killed Hannibal; the scenes at the fall of Saguntum; avalanches sweeping away scores of screaming men in the Alps. But he had never heard the sound of tens of thousands of soldiers striking each other for the first time. It promised death in any number of appalling ways, and Hanno and his father were caught up in it. Somehow Bostar kept still, trying his best to block out the screams that were now discernible amid the crescendo of sound. His tactic didn’t work for long. He looked at Mago, who gave him a tiny encouraging nod.
‘Is it time yet, sir?’ Bostar asked.
Mago’s eyes glittered eagerly. ‘Soon. Prepare your men to move out. Tell the same to the officer commanding the Numidians. At my signal, bring them up.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Bostar and Sapho grinned at each other as they hadn’t done in an age, and hurried to obey.
From then on, time moved in a blur, a continuum that Bostar could only remember afterwards in a series of fractured images. The frisson of excitement that shivered through the waiting soldiers when they heard their orders. Mago’s head silhouetted as he peered over the riverbank, and his beckoning arm. Reaching the top, and being awestruck by the colossal struggle going on over to their left. Who was winning? Was Hanno still alive? Mago shaking his arm and telling him to keep focused. Telling the men to unsling their shields from their backs and ready their weapons. Assembling their phalanxes in open order. Watching the thousand Numidians split, placing half their number on each side of the infantry. Mago’s raised sword pointing at the enemy and his cry, ‘For Hannibal and for Carthage!’
And the run. Bostar would never forget the run.
They did not sprint. It was more than half a mile to the battlefield. Exhausting themselves would give away all the advantage they had been granted. Instead they moved at a fast trot, leaving plumes of exhaled breath in
their wake. The cold air was filled with the low, repetitive thuds of horses’ hooves and men’s boots and sandals on the hard ground. No one spoke. No one wanted to. Everyone’s eyes were locked on what was unfolding before them. Amid the confusion, one thing was clear. There was no sign of the enemy’s cavalry, which meant that the Iberian and Gaulish horsemen must have driven them off. On the Roman flanks, the allied infantry were struggling against the Carthaginian elephants, skirmishers and Numidian horsemen. In itself, these were major achievements, and Bostar wanted to cheer. But he did not utter a word. The battle’s outcome still hung in the balance. As they drew closer, he saw that the fighting in the centre was incredibly fierce. The legionaries there had actually moved in front of their wings, which meant that they had pushed the Gauls who formed the central part of Hannibal’s line backwards.
They had come not an instant too soon, thought Bostar.
Mago came to the realisation at the same time. ‘Charge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’
With a wordless roar, Bostar, Sapho and his soldiers obeyed, increasing their speed to a dangerous, breakneck pace. Any man who tripped now risked breaking an ankle or a leg. But no one cared. All they wanted to do was to start shedding their opponents’ blood. To bury their weapons in Roman flesh.
The last moments of their run were surreal. Exhilarating. Thanks to the deafening sounds of battle, there was no need to worry about how much noise they made. The triarii in the enemy’s third rank – their targets – were not looking behind them. Unsurprisingly, the veterans were engrossed by the bitter struggle going on to their front, and were preparing to join in. They had no idea that two thousand Carthaginian soldiers were about to strike their rear at a full charge. Bostar would always remember the first faces that turned, casually, for whatever reason, to look around. The sheer disbelief and terror that twisted those faces to find a group of the enemy fewer than thirty paces away. The hoarse screams as the small number of triarii who were aware tried to warn their comrades of their deadly peril. And the satisfaction as they smashed into the Roman ranks, drawing their weapons down on the backs of men who did not even know they were about to die.
For the first time in his life, Bostar was overcome by battle rage. In the red mist surrounding him, it was easy to lose count of the number of men he killed. It was like stabbing fish in a rock pool off the coast of Carthage. Thrust forward. Run the blade in as deep as possible. Withdraw. Select another target. When eventually his blunted spear stuck in a triarius’ backbone, Bostar simply discarded it and pulled out his sword. He was vaguely aware that his arm was bloody to the elbow, but he didn’t care. I’m coming, little brother. Stay alive, Father.
Eventually, the veteran legionaries managed to turn and face their attackers. The fight became harder, but the advantage was still with Mago’s men, who could now see that the enemy’s flanks had broken. Bostar exulted. The combined wave of Carthaginian troops and cavalry on the allied infantry’s undefended side had proved too much. Prevented from wheeling to face the threat, they had been mercilessly hacked to pieces.
Now, dropping their weapons, the survivors turned and ran for the Trebia. Bostar threw back his head and let free an animal howl of triumph. To the rear, he glimpsed thousands of their cavalrymen waiting for just such an eventuality. The allied troops would not go far. Suddenly, a veteran with a notched sword blade drove at him and Bostar was reminded that their own task was not over. Although the triarii were suffering heavy casualties, the rest of the legionaries were still moving forward into, and through, the lines of Gauls. Like a battering ram, they could only be resisted for so long. Bostar’s elation died away as he realised that some of the Libyan phalanxes had also given way. They quickly crumbled before the legionaries’ relentless assault. Catching Sapho’s attention, Bostar pointed. His brother’s face twisted in rage. With renewed energy, they both threw themselves at the triarii.
‘Hanno! Father!’ Bostar shouted. ‘We’re coming!’
Too late, his heart screamed back.
* * *
When Aurelia entered the bedroom, her mother barely stirred. Elira, who was sitting by the bed, turned.
‘How is she?’ Aurelia whispered.
‘Better,’ the Illyrian replied. ‘Her fever has broken.’
Some of the tension went from Aurelia’s shoulders. ‘Thank the gods. Thank you.’
‘Hush,’ murmured Elira reassuringly. ‘She was never that ill. It’s a bad winter chill, that’s all. She’ll be up and about by Saturnalia.’
Aurelia nodded gratefully. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. It’s not just caring for Mother these past few days. You made all the difference in Suni’s—’ She looked over her shoulder guiltily. To her relief, there was no one in the atrium. ‘I mean Lysander’s recovery.’
Elira waved a hand in dismissal. ‘He’s young, and strong. All he needed was some food and warmth.’
‘Well, I’m thankful to you nonetheless,’ said Aurelia. ‘So is he.’
Elira bobbed her head, embarrassed.
Things had moved on since she had returned to the farm with a half-conscious Suniaton two weeks previously, thought Aurelia, looking down at her sleeping mother. Fortunately, Atia had not questioned her story of finding him in the woods. In a real stroke of luck, a heavy snowstorm later that night had concealed the evidence of her tracks up to the hut. Unsurprisingly, everyone had taken Suniaton for a runaway slave. As agreed, he had pretended to be mute. He also put on a good show of appearing simple. Agesandros had been suspicious, of course, but there had been no trace of recognition in his eyes at any stage.
Aurelia had given the Sicilian no chance to have anything to do with Suniaton. Any master who wanted his property back could come looking for the boy, she had said to her mother. Until then, she was going to keep him. ‘Lysander, I’ll call him, because he looks Greek.’
Atia had smiled in acceptance. ‘Very well. If he even survives,’ she’d joked.
Well, he had, thought Aurelia triumphantly. Suni’s leg had recovered enough for him to limp about the kitchen under Julius’ instruction. For the moment, he was safe.
What frustrated Aurelia most was the fact that she could rarely talk to him. The best they could manage was an occasional snatched conversation in the evenings, when the other kitchen slaves had gone to bed. Aurelia used these moments to ask Suni about Hanno. She now knew much about his childhood and family, his interests, and where he had lived. Aurelia’s reason for wanting to know about Hanno was quite simple. It was a way of not thinking about her betrothal. Even if Flaccus had been killed with her father, her mother would soon find her another husband. If Flaccus had survived, they would be wed within the year. One way or another, she would have an arranged marriage.
‘Aurelia.’
Her mother’s voice jerked Aurelia back to the present. ‘You’re awake! How do you feel?’
‘Weak as a newborn,’ Atia murmured. ‘But better than I did yesterday.’
‘Praise all the gods.’ Tears leaped unbidden to Aurelia’s eyes.
Finally, things were looking up.
Her mother’s improvement lifted Aurelia’s mood considerably. For the first time in days, she went for a walk. The chill weather meant that the snow that had fallen over the previous few days had not melted. Aurelia didn’t want to go far from her mother or Suni. Just venturing a short distance along the track towards Capua felt wonderful, however. She relished the crunch of the frozen snow beneath her sandals. Even the way her cheeks rapidly went numb felt refreshing after all the time she’d spent indoors. Feeling more cheerful than she had in a while, Aurelia let herself picture a scenario in which her father had not been killed. She imagined the joy of seeing him walk through the front doors.
With this optimistic thought uppermost in her mind, she returned to the house.
As Aurelia crossed the courtyard, she saw Suniaton. He had his back to her, and was carrying a basket of vegetables into the kitchen. Her spirits lifted even higher. If he was abl
e to do that, his leg must have improved further. She hurried after him. Reaching the door, Aurelia saw Suniaton lifting his load on to the work surface. All the other slaves were busy in other parts of the room. ‘Suni!’ she hissed.
He didn’t react.
‘Pssst! Suni!’ Aurelia stepped inside the kitchen.
Still he did not respond. It was then that Aurelia noticed his stiff-backed stance. Claws of fear raked her belly. ‘Sunny, it’s so sunny outside,’ she said loudly.
‘I could have sworn you said S-u-n-i,’ Agesandros purred, stepping from the shadows beside the kitchen door.
Aurelia blanched. ‘No. I said it was sunny. Can’t you see? The weather’s changed.’ She gestured outside at the blue sky above the courtyard.
She might as well have been speaking to a statue. ‘Suni – Suniaton – is a gugga name,’ said the Sicilian coldly.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Aurelia retorted desperately. Her gaze shot to Julius and the other slaves, but they were carefully pretending not to notice what was going on. Despair filled her. She wasn’t the only one who was scared of the vilicus. And her mother was still sick in bed.
‘Is this miserable wretch Carthaginian?’
‘No. I told you, he’s Greek. His name’s Lysander.’
From nowhere, a dagger appeared in Agesandros’ hand. He pricked it to Suniaton’s throat. ‘Are you a gugga?’ There was no response, and the vilicus moved his blade to Suni’s groin. ‘Do you want your balls cut off?’
Petrified, Suniaton shook his head vehemently.
‘Speak, then!’ Agesandros shouted, returning the dagger to Suni’s neck. ‘Are you from Carthage?’
Suniaton’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yes.’
‘You can talk!’ crowed the Sicilian. He rounded on Aurelia. ‘So you lied to me.’