Hannibal 02: Fields of Blood Read online

  They passed under the arched gateway, stepping over the cracked planking of the gate. Just a few steps further, the carnage began. The street was strewn with the dead, almost all of them Roman. Gaping hack wounds to the neck, chest or limbs decorated many of the corpses. More than one had been decapitated. The entire area had been stained a shocking red colour. Discarded equipment was strewn here and there, left by the men who had run. Sapho felt a new respect for the Gauls. This was proof of the effectiveness of their charge on a disorganised enemy.

  ‘Let’s hope they’ve left some for us, eh?’ he shouted.

  His men bellowed their bloodlust back at him.

  They moved down the main street, while behind them the Iberians spread out into every side alley. Sapho had no idea that Hanno, still living, was so close. Or that his fate hung by the slimmest of threads.

  Hanno was woken by shouting. Cursing. Grunts of pain. As his eyes opened, the agony from his neck wound returned with new force. What he saw instantly made him forget his own discomfort, however. Bomilcar had been strung by his neck from an overhead beam by a length of rope. A strip of cloth was tied round his head, gagging him. A trio of Iberian infantrymen stood in a circle, taking it in turns to boot him from one to another. With each blow, Bomilcar struggled not to fall over. If he did, he would choke to death. The Iberians were passing a cracked amphora around, and their flushed cheeks told Hanno that they’d already consumed plenty of its contents. That was probably the reason that Bomilcar was still alive. How much longer he would survive was debatable, though. One man had drawn his falcata and was whetting its blade with an oilstone.

  Why haven’t they done the same to me? Hanno moved a hand, disturbing a pile of hay. Understanding hit home. Only his head was visible. Bomilcar had scattered hay over him as a blanket and the Iberians hadn’t noticed him. Heart pounding, Hanno lay back down. If he didn’t move, chances were that they would never discover his hiding place, which was fifteen paces deeper into the barn. By the next morning, it would be safe to go out on the streets again. He would be reunited with his family.

  His pleasure at that thought was washed away by a surging guilt. To do that, he would have to watch Bomilcar die, tortured to death as he would have been by Pera. Hanno could no more do that than he could have slain Quintus after the ambush. He had to act, and fast. What was his best tactic? The rigid length by his side had to be the gladius, but standing up with that in his fist would guarantee a quick death. Better to be unarmed. Less of a threat. New fear caressed his spine. What if the Iberians didn’t speak enough Carthaginian to understand him? Many of the lower ranking troops in Hannibal’s army knew little to none of their General’s tongue. There was no need because their officers could.

  The man with the falcata tested the edge of his blade with his thumb and grimaced in approval. His gaze moved to Bomilcar.

  He would have to take the chance, decided Hanno. Otherwise, it would be too late. Brushing the hay from his body, he sat up, careful not to touch the gladius.

  No one noticed him, so he stood up and coughed.

  Three startled faces spun to regard him. There was an instant’s delay, and then the Iberians were drawing their weapons and swarming towards him.

  ‘HANNIBAL!’ shouted Hanno as loudly as he could.

  That brought them to a screeching stop.

  ‘Hannibal is my leader too,’ he said in Carthaginian. ‘You understand?’

  Blank looks from two of the men, but the third scowled. He spat a question in Iberian.

  Hanno didn’t understand a word. He repeated Hannibal’s name over and over, but the Iberians didn’t look impressed. Raising their swords, they padded towards him, reminding him of how deadly they were in battle. It hasn’t worked. I’m dead, he thought wearily.

  That was when one of them pointed at him and asked another question.

  Hanno looked down in confusion. He glanced at their crimson-edged tunics and then at his own red one. Understanding, he tugged at the fabric like a maniac. ‘Yes! I am the commander of a phalanx! Libyan spearmen! Libyans!’

  ‘Pha-lanx?’ demanded one of the Iberians, adding in accented Carthaginian, ‘You from Carthage?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Hanno. ‘I am from Carthage! The other man is Carthaginian too.’

  The tension vanished as the smell of a dead carcase is carried off by the wind. Suddenly, the Iberians were all smiles. ‘Carthaginians!’ they roared. ‘Hannibal!’ Bomilcar was ungagged and cut down with many apologies; both of them were given some wine. When Hanno’s wound was spotted, there were hisses of dismay. One Iberian produced a clean strip of cloth, which he insisted on wrapping around Hanno’s neck. ‘Surgeon,’ he kept repeating. ‘You need . . . surgeon.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘But first I need to find my father, or my brothers.’

  The Iberian didn’t understand, but he heard the urgency in Hanno’s voice. ‘Wait,’ he ordered.

  Hanno was happy to obey. Sitting beside Bomilcar, with the first warm flush of the wine coursing through his veins, he felt vaguely human. ‘We made it,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’

  Bomilcar grinned. ‘I can’t believe it. For the first time in five years, I’m free.’

  ‘You’ll be well rewarded for what you’ve done,’ swore Hanno. ‘And I’ll always be in your debt.’

  They gripped hands to seal a new bond of friendship.

  The Iberian soon returned with one of his officers, who spoke better Carthaginian. Hearing Hanno’s story, he arranged for a stretcher to be brought and for a messenger to find Malchus.

  ‘I need to see my father first,’ Hanno insisted.

  ‘You’re as pale as a ghost. He can find you in the field hospital,’ replied the officer.

  ‘No.’ Hanno tried to stand, but his legs gave way beneath him.

  It was the last thing he remembered.

  Hanno woke to the sound of raised voices. His mind filled with an image of the Iberians who had attacked Bomilcar and his eyes jerked open. To his confusion, the first face he saw was Bostar’s. His brother looked angry; he was gesticulating at someone beyond Hanno’s range of vision. Overhead, there was tent fabric. He was in a bed, not the hay barn. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Praise all the gods! He’s come back to us,’ cried Bostar, his expression softening. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘A-all right, I suppose.’ Without thinking, Hanno’s hand rose to his neck. He had enough time to feel the thick bandage before Bostar’s hand closed over his.

  ‘Don’t touch. The surgeon says it’s just starting to heal.’

  Hanno felt a dull throbbing from the area. ‘It doesn’t hurt like it did.’

  ‘That will be thanks to the poppy juice. The surgeon has been dosing you with it three to four times a day.’

  A series of fractured images flashed past Hanno’s vision. He did have a vague recollection of bitter-tasting liquid being forced down his throat.

  ‘Bomilcar has told us a lot of what went on,’ said Sapho in an enquiring tone.

  Hanno managed to sit up, wincing at a jag of pain from his wound. ‘After I was taken prisoner?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bostar gently. ‘And Mutt told us the first part of the story.’

  Hanno saw his favourite brother’s eyes travel to his neck. ‘It’s bad, eh?’

  Bostar didn’t answer.

  ‘What has the surgeon said?’ demanded Hanno.

  ‘At first, that you wouldn’t survive. But you made it through the first night and day, and then the next. It was a surprise to all of us.’ Bostar cast his eyes at Sapho, who nodded to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘If prayer can help, then the gods had a hand in your recovery. We spent most of the time on our knees. Even Father joined in!’

  Hanno began to appreciate the relief in his brothers’ faces, especially that of Bostar. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Six days so far,’ replied Bostar. ‘You seemed to turn a corner yesterday, though, when the fever broke. The surgeon said tha
t the wound was weeping less and starting to close over.’

  ‘It’s not a wound. It’s a Latin letter “F”,’ said Hanno bitterly. ‘“F” for fugitivus.’

  ‘You’re no slave!’ cried Sapho angrily. Bostar echoed his words.

  ‘I had told the officer who was interrogating me about my enslavement,’ Hanno explained. ‘He wanted to mark me out as a runaway for the last few hours of my life. It was supposed to be in the centre of my forehead, but I managed to move at the last moment. Better to have the brand on my neck, eh?’ He pulled a grim smile.

  Neither brother laughed. ‘Where did the filthy son of a whore go?’ spat Sapho.

  ‘To defend the walls, I think. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. Bomilcar must have told you how he then came in and killed my guard. If it hadn’t been for him . . .’ Hanno’s voice trailed away.

  ‘Yes. He’s a good man. His actions won’t be forgotten,’ said Bostar. ‘A shame we didn’t know what had happened as we entered Victumulae. Although seeking you would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Did many get away?’ asked Hanno resignedly. He didn’t doubt that a cur like Pera would find a way to escape even the sacking of a town.

  ‘Only the non-citizens, and there were precious few of them,’ Sapho replied with a savage leer. ‘Our men won’t have known who your officer was, but he’s still deader than a fly-blown corpse that’s been on a crucifix for a week.’

  ‘I’d have liked to slay him myself, though,’ said Hanno. It felt fortunate – and odd – that Pera had refused to grant him an easy death. If the Roman had granted his request, he wouldn’t be lying where he was. That didn’t stop Hanno from wishing that Pera had died screaming.

  ‘There will be plenty more opportunities to kill men like him,’ said Sapho. ‘New Roman armies will come to meet us.’

  ‘Good!’ Hanno couldn’t wait to be part of it. He wanted some tangible revenge for what had been done to him. He would have preferred Pera, but any Roman would do.

  ‘Soon we march south. Hannibal wants all of us ready for the journey, including you,’ added Bostar.

  ‘He has asked for me?’ asked Hanno, surprised.

  ‘Asked for you? He has visited twice,’ declared Sapho.

  ‘He said that you have more lives than a cat!’ Bostar winked. ‘Even he has heard how all of our spearmen think of you as something of a talisman. “Let him bring us good luck as we march,” he said.’

  Hanno’s heart leaped. It seemed that he was returning to Hannibal’s good books, which was most unexpected. Something good had come of his rash behaviour after all.

  Chapter V

  Outside Placentia

  QUINTUS SCOWLED AS he caught sight of his father approaching. A lot had happened in the month since his hunting trip, but one thing had been constant: Fabricius’ towering anger at what he had done. It hadn’t been as evident during the week he’d spent in the camp hospital, having his wound cleaned and monitored, and poultices applied to it twice a day. Once the surgeon had discharged Quintus, however, things had changed. Fabricius had subjected him to a long lecture about his stupidity. Leaving the camp without permission. Taking so few men with him. Attacking the Gauls instead of trying to avoid them. He had gone on and on until Quintus thought his head would explode. He’d tried to justify his actions, tried to explain how their casualties had been light compared to those suffered by the warriors. It had been like banging his head on a wall. As his father, Fabricius could say and do what he wished. It was even permissible for the head of a Roman family to strike his children dead if they displeased him. That wasn’t likely, but Fabricius swore that Quintus was to return home the moment he’d sufficiently recovered. His father had also declared that, if needs be, he had enough friends in high places to ensure that Quintus didn’t serve in the military again. That didn’t bear thinking about.

  The worst thing about his convalescence was that he couldn’t train with Calatinus and his comrades, or go on patrol, during these, the last opportunities he would have for a long time, possibly ever. His ribs had healed and the strength was returning to his left arm, but Quintus still couldn’t hold a shield for long. He spent a couple of hours every day riding his horse, but his interest in that had palled long since. Fabricius kept him busy running errands around the camp, but that felt demeaning. Quintus had taken to avoiding his father. He would lurk in his tent after his comrades had left for the morning, playing endless games of Three in a Line on Calatinus’ small clay board. In between, he’d lift his shield to strengthen his left arm. Of course Fabricius knew where to find him, which was no doubt why he was here now. Quintus thought about retreating further into the tent, but there was no point. He threw his shoulders back and stepped outside instead. ‘Father.’

  ‘I find you here, again.’

  Quintus gave a careless shrug. ‘I was lifting weights with my arm.’

  Fabricius’ lips thinned. ‘You were supposed to come to my quarters first thing.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  Slap! Fabricius’ palm struck his cheek, and Quintus yelped.

  ‘You’re not too big yet for me to take a whip to your back. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Do what you wish,’ said Quintus with a curl of his lip. ‘I can’t stop you.’

  Fury flared in Fabricius’ eyes. ‘Lucky for you, I need an important message taken somewhere. Otherwise, I would tan your hide right now!’

  Quintus felt a sour delight at his father’s frustration. He waited.

  Fabricius produced a tightly rolled parchment. ‘You’re to find a centurion by the name of Marcus Junius Corax. He serves in Longus’ first legion, and commands a maniple of hastati.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Fabricius rarely told him anything, but Quintus was curious. Cavalry and infantry didn’t often have much to do with each other.

  ‘None of your business!’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Just deliver the damn message.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Biting his lip, Quintus took the parchment.

  ‘Wait for a reply, and then find me on the open ground beyond the camp.’ Fabricius was already half a dozen paces away.

  Quintus threw a poisonous stare after him. Upon his return, he’d have to traipse around after Fabricius, acting as his unofficial messenger for the rest of the day. He rubbed at the purple scar on the front of his bicep, willing it to recover. It was time for another offering to Aesculapius, the god of healing. He could do that this evening. Donning his cloak, Quintus set out for the legionaries’ tent lines. Taking his horse didn’t appeal; holding the reins quickly tired out his weak arm.

  Despite the losses at the Trebia, the camp had still been erected as a double consular one, albeit smaller than usual. The fact that Corax was in one of Longus’ legions meant a long walk indeed. The consuls’ quarters were placed back to back and the legionary tent lines extended to the furthest rampart.

  Quintus’ spirits rose a little as he walked. His interest in legionaries and what made them the men they were had persisted, but he never got to spend any time with them. Cavalrymen were a social class above infantry, and the two rarely mixed. Quintus longed to push through that barrier, if only for a while. He wanted to know what it had felt like to drive through the Carthaginian centre. Perhaps Corax wouldn’t give him an immediate reply, which would give him time to talk to some of his men.

  His search took a long time, but Quintus finally came upon Corax’s maniple’s tent lines. They lay not far from Longus’ headquarters, but the centurion wasn’t there. As a cynical-looking hastatus told him, Corax liked to get out and about. He was drilling his men, ‘Somewhere on the training ground.’ Trying not to feel frustrated, Quintus headed for the porta praetoria, the entrance that lay furthest from his own tent.

  Beyond the walls and the deep defensive ditch lay the area designated for the soldiers’ training. As usual, it was filled with thousands of men. The four types of legionary were for the most part easy to differentiate one from another,
which made Quintus’ task a little easier. Many of the velites, or skirmishers, had been on sentry duty at each of the gates, but the rest were hurling javelins while junior officers looked on. These were the youngest and poorest members of the army. Some could be distinguished by the strips of wolf skin adorning their helmets. In another section, the triarii, the most experienced legionaries who formed the third rank in battle, stood out thanks to their mail shirts and long thrusting spears. The hastati and principes, who made up the first and second ranks respectively, were harder to differentiate. Both these types of soldier wore simple bronze helmets, although some had triple feather crests; square breastplates protected their chests. Only the wealthiest men wore mail shirts similar to those seen on the veteran triarii. Their weapons and shields were similar too. There were thousands of them marching, halting, presenting arms and assuming battle formation in maniples, or double centuries. Volleys of javelins followed, and then a charge, before the whole procedure was repeated. Centurions and optiones looked on, roaring orders and reprimands in equal measure. The maniples’ standards were present, but the writing on each was so small that Quintus would have to approach each one. With a sigh, he walked to the nearest.

  By the tenth maniple, he was getting angry. From the occasional snickers that followed him, Quintus felt sure that he was deliberately being sent astray. The eleventh unit he approached was some distance from the rest. The two centurions had separated their soldiers into their individual centuries. Each man carried a wooden shield and sword. Over and over, they charged each other, slowing at the last moment before smashing together in a loud crash that wasn’t dissimilar to what Quintus had heard in battle. The thrusts he saw being delivered were as savage as the real thing too. It was so very different to fighting from the back of a horse, which, thanks to its mobile nature, rarely involved more than an exchange of one or two blows. Engrossed by the scene, Quintus drew quite near to the centurions without realising.

  ‘It’s tough work,’ said a voice.