Hannibal: The Patrol Page 4

  It was fine to have a drink, Mutt decided. He elbowed his way onto a bench full of his soldiers and shouted until someone handed him a brimming cup. He downed it in one, his eyes watering as the acidity of the wine hit his taste buds. ‘Melqart’s hairy arse, but that tastes like vinegar!’

  ‘That’s because it is vinegar, sir!’ yelled Bogu, to roars of laughter.

  ‘But it gets you pissed double quick, sir,’ said another man, grinning. ‘That’s what counts!’

  They hammered their fists and cups on the table top in agreement.

  Mutt saluted Bogu with another drink. ‘I’ll drink to that. Your health! The same to all of you. May you come through the war unscathed, with your cock and balls intact. And missing no more than one limb each.’

  They loved that. Mutt let them laugh for a moment before adding, ‘One more thing — may Hannibal lead us to victory!’

  Inevitably, the cry started up. The soldiers all around joined in at once. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’

  Mutt smiled. This was going to be a good night, he could feel it in his bones.

  A hand on his shoulder. ‘Can I join you?’

  Mutt turned, recognised Aios. ‘Of course!’ He nudged the man to his right. ‘Move over.’

  Aios squeezed himself into the tiny space, taking care not to spill his own drink. ‘Your soldiers are enjoying themselves, it seems.’

  ‘It’s impossible for them not to,’ said Mutt. ‘Thanks to your fine hospitality. Fires. Wine. Food. What more could a man want?’ He didn’t mention the women, always a source of potential trouble.

  ‘Let’s not forget women,’ said Aios, wrong-footing him.

  ‘Aye. They can be good company,’ Mutt replied awkwardly. ‘Is it all right with your chief if anything, err, happens?’ He indicated the group of women. ‘Will your menfolk not rise up in arms if some of my soldiers lie with them?’

  A surprised laugh. ‘Why would that happen?’ He saw the incomprehension in Mutt’s face. ‘Our unmarried girls can couple with whomever they choose. No one cares.’

  ‘Really?’ Mutt twisted around to look again. Most of the women were passable-looking, and two were pretty by any man’s standards. ‘Maybe I should go over. See if I can get lucky.’ He wasn’t entirely joking. How long had it been since he hadn’t handed over coin to have a woman go to bed with him? Five years? No, it was more than that, he concluded regretfully. Army life meant that the only females he’d met were whores, or captives taken in war, who had no rights of their own.

  ‘Go on,’ encouraged Aios, using an elbow. ‘When they hear that you’re second-in-command, you’ll be in there!’

  Aios wasn’t joking, realised Mutt, feeling even more tempted. He sat his arse back down on the bench, though, and took another swig of his wine. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Why? You mightn’t get the same chance again for months!’

  It could be far longer, thought Mutt ruefully. ‘I’d best keep an eye on my men.’

  Aios saw the resolve in his eyes and let his arm fall. ‘Duty comes first, eh?’

  ‘Always,’ replied Mutt with a sigh. ‘A few more cups of wine, and that’s me.’

  ‘The perils of command in your army!’ said Aios with a grin. ‘Fortunately, I have no need to lead my warriors in the morning.’ He downed his drink in one go.

  A shout dragged their attention away from conversation. Men opposite were turning around on their benches. Mutt craned his neck to see. A huge warrior stood over the next table, glowering at the soldiers who were seated there. Mutt’s stomach clenched; he half stood, hoping that this wasn’t what it looked like. With considerable amounts of drink taken on both sides, it wouldn’t take that much for a mass brawl to start. If things degenerated that far, it was all too easy for lives to be lost, and if that happened—

  ‘Another thing that we Cenomani love as much as wine, is wrestling.’ Aios’ voice was by his ear. ‘That’s Acco, one of the best wrestlers in the village. He’ll be wanting a match with one of your men.’

  Mutt felt relief that a fight wasn’t about to break out, but he wasn’t sure if a wrestling contest was a good idea either. What he thought was irrelevant, however. Ithobaal had already stood up to thunderous cheers from his fellows. ‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ the spearmen shouted.

  Firelight glittered off the silver coin in Aios’ fingers. ‘This for Acco to win,’ he said, grinning.

  Mutt glanced at Acco’s bulging muscles and winced inwardly. Even if he was more pissed than Ithobaal — quite a likely prospect, given how he was swaying — he was still half again as big as his opponent. Yet it could possibly be considered rude not to wager with his host. ‘My purse is in my tent,’ he began.

  ‘I will take your word for it,’ interjected Aios.

  ‘Fine.’ They shook hands.

  A ring of baying men quickly formed, with the two protagonists in the centre. Aios stepped within and took up a position between the contestants. He explained the rules to Ithobaal. Mutt listened intently. There was to be no punching, biting or gouging. The contest had to stay within the circle. It would end when one man spoke or signalled with his hand that he gave up. Other than that, there were no conditions. Ithobaal nodded his understanding. Acco growled his eagerness.

  Aios raised and lowered his hand before retreating at speed. Shouts and roars of encouragement broke out from the supporters on both sides.

  Gods, don’t let him injure Ithobaal too badly, Mutt asked. He didn’t care about the silver coin that he would lose.

  The pair fell upon each other like wild beasts. Acco tried to throw his arms around Ithobaal, attempting to crush him, but the Ithobaal was too fast. He ducked under Acco’s swinging arms, swept his own right arm around the his back and flipped him around and over his hip. Acco fell heavily, to a chorus of jeers from Ithobaal’s supporters. Ithobaal’s immediate attempt to land on top of Acco and pin him down, however, was a stunning failure. Acco managed to roll onto his back, and grabbed Ithobaal in a mighty bear hug.

  Mutt watched in astonishment as Ithobaal struggled to break free. Although Ithobaal was much stronger than he was, his efforts still looked like those of an insect trying to free itself from a spider’s web. Ithobaal strained and roared and kicked his legs. All his efforts came to nothing. In frustration, he tried to headbutt Acco. Anticipating the move, Acco twisted and met the blow with his cheekbone — and laughed, tightening his grip.

  ‘Acco’s as strong as an ox!’ cried Aios in delight.

  ‘Clearly,’ growled Mutt, hearing Ithobaal groan.

  A moment later, to great roars from the tribesmen, Ithobaal conceded. He did so with poor grace, barely accepting Acco’s friendly handshake.

  ‘A one-sided contest,’ said Mutt, clapping Aios on the shoulder. ‘Acco is a true champion.’

  ‘He’s also one of the best warriors in the tribe.’

  ‘Look. Another of my soldiers wants to take him on.’ This time it was the biggest man in the phalanx, a simple fellow who went by the nickname of ‘The Bull’. He’d have more chance against Acco, thought Mutt, the wine strengthening his conviction.

  ‘This will be more of a contest,’ said Aios, his eyes glinting. ‘Double or nothing on our last wager?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Mutt. His luck might be better now.

  But it wasn’t. Before long, ‘The Bull’ had also been beaten, and after him, one of Mutt’s spearmen who had always claimed that he’d been trained by a Greek wrestler.

  By now, Mutt had lost three coins to Aios. Acco stood in the centre of the circle, bare chested now, covered in sweat. He looked undefeatable, like a statue of a god come to life. No more of Mutt’s men were prepared to fight him.

  ‘Fancy a bout against him yourself?’ asked Aios.

  Mutt snorted. ‘Are you out of your mind? He’d crush me like a beetle.’

  Aios looked around the circle, but the spearmen were all staying put. ‘It seems that there are no further contenders. The Cenomani win this battle,
I think.’

  ‘They do. Without doubt,’ replied Mutt. Inside, though, he was feeling sore. Would your warriors stand against my phalanx, he wondered. I’m not so sure. With luck, though, that would never happen. Instead, Devorix and his men would join Hannibal and his army on their quest to defeat Rome.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Aios. ‘The struggle is not over!’

  Mutt couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ithobaal, ‘The Bull’, and the Greek-trained soldier had all attacked Acco at the same time. Ithobaal had grabbed one arm and ‘The Bull’ another while their comrade did his best to knock Acco’s legs from under him. Shit, Mutt thought. Every Gaul who’s here will join in now. He roared at his men to stop, but there was no way in hell that they could hear. The noise from the entire audience had become deafening.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Aios. ‘They’ll be disciplined for this.’

  To his surprise, Aios laughed. ‘I like their spirit,’ he cried.

  By now, several tribesmen had advanced into the ring now, clearly intent on helping Acco. Aios moved swiftly, darting between them and the heaving mass that was Acco and his three assailants. He shouted an order, and all but two of the warriors backed off. Aios withdrew to Mutt’s side. ‘It’s a bit more even now, eh?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Mutt, unable to stop himself from chuckling at the situation.

  The three-way struggle went on for some time, long enough for Mutt to sink two more cups of wine. Inevitably, Acco beat ‘The Bull’ again, but Ithobaal and the Greek-trained soldier both overcame their opponents. Mutt’s men went crazy when the last tribesman conceded defeat.

  Mutt worried that things might turn nasty at this point, but the warriors around him seemed to take the whole thing in good spirit, laughing and clapping the nearest of his men on the back. He turned to Aios. ‘Two contests apiece now. That makes us even!’

  ‘Your soldiers are to be commended for not giving up.’ Aios saluted him with his cup. ‘Perhaps you and I should have a bout now, to finish it?’

  The blond Gaul had five years on him at least, thought Mutt. He was probably less pissed too, given the way the wine was now fizzing through his veins. ‘Another day, maybe,’ he said. ‘When I’m not so drunk.’

  Aios chuckled. ‘You’re a prudent man, Mutt. I can see why you’ve got to your position. Don’t enter a fight unless you’re sure of a victory.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Mutt agreed.

  ‘Come, let’s share another cup of wine before you go.’

  So he did.

  *

  The next morning, Mutt overslept for the first time in many months. He’d been up half the night, pissing and drinking water, so it was no surprise really, he chided himself. Bogu, who had woken him, had a little smile on his face that he chose to ignore.

  ‘I’m up, I’m up,’ he growled. Bogu nodded and pulled his head out of Mutt’s tent. ‘Tell the men to break camp,’ Mutt called after him.

  ‘They’re already doing it, sir,’ came the reply.

  Mutt sank back onto the ground with a little groan. Just a moment or two more rest, he thought. Gods, but he wished that he hadn’t had that last drink. It was always the one that seemed to guarantee the headache, the cold sweats and the pounding heart. It was his own fault, he conceded. He should have stopped after a few. That was the rub, though. It was so hard to refuse another drink once that familiar glow had taken hold of his body.

  Heaving himself up, he stripped off his tunic and shoved his way out of the tent, stark naked. Icy air caressed his body. He grabbed for the hide bucket that he’d left there for just this purpose. Lifting it high, Mutt emptied the contents — river water — over his head. Ice that had formed on top of the water shattered on his head, and a torrent of freezing liquid followed. The shock and pain was exquisite.

  ‘Baal Hammon’s balls!’ he shouted.

  ‘Have a few too many?’

  He spun to find Hanno watching him wryly. ‘I might have, sir, yes,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Any trouble?’

  He could tell Hanno about the wrestling match when the opportunity arose, Mutt decided. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good. The sentries reported nothing eventful either.’ Hanno was already turning away. ‘Best get your kit on. We’re moving out soon.’

  Suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were on him and what passed for his manhood, Mutt made a show of stretching his arms wide as if he had just climbed out of a comfortable bed. When things are not normal, he remembered his father saying, act as if they are. After a casual yawn, he re-entered his tent. There was laughter, but not much, and it was stifled. He could live with that.

  Once Mutt had got moving, he began to feel more normal. Drinking a skin full of spring water helped as well. He was grateful to feel better, because that meant the impending march would not be a total hell.

  Aios and Devorix came out of the village to bid them farewell. Both were clad in fur cloaks. Their reddened eyes and tousled hair was the only evidence of the previous night’s activities.

  ‘My father asks that you speak with Hannibal of our friendship,’ said Aios. ‘We plan to meet you with our warriors at the walls of Victumulae.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ Hanno promised. ‘And you have my thanks for your hospitality.’

  ‘And mine,’ added Mutt in Latin. He saw the astonishment in Hanno’s face. Aios too looked surprised. ‘Your second-in-command is a man of many abilities,’ observed Aios.

  ‘So I am learning,’ replied Hanno with a long look at Mutt.

  ‘May we all meet again,’ said Aios.

  Clasping hands with each other, they took their leave. Hanno ordered the men to move out.

  They took off on a track that traced its way northwards across the fields. Aios had told them it led to Victumulae. Scores of tribesmen waved them off, and Mutt’s spearmen raised a cheer of thanks, then whistled and hurled catcalls at the handful of women who stood waving from the ramparts. Mutt wished that he had rolled one of them in the hay after all. Take your chances when they present themselves, he thought ruefully.

  Hanno eyed Mutt sidelong. ‘Quite the dark horse, aren’t you?’

  ‘We all have a past, sir.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true.’ Hanno’s face turned pensive.

  Mutt didn’t pry. If Hanno wanted to tell him, he would. And if he didn’t, that was fine as well. ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll fall back to the middle of the column.’

  Deep in thought, Hanno just nodded.

  By mid-afternoon, Mutt’s hangover had worn off. His men had resumed their usual banter, and the wounded were bearing up to the march. Even Ithobaal wasn’t complaining. Best of all, the clouds had lifted, and there had even been a glimpse of the sun from time to time. The general mood was good. Soon after, Mutt was grateful for the high morale. The scouts, who had been sent out much further than previously, brought back word of a Roman patrol setting up camp a mile to their north.

  Hanno called Mutt to his side upon hearing the news; together, they grilled the pair of scouts again.

  ‘How many do you think there were?’ demanded Hanno.

  ‘Hard to say exactly, sir,’ answered the first, a grey-haired veteran whom Mutt trusted. ‘The treeline ended more than two hundred paces from their defensive ditch. But there were definitely less of them than there are of us.’

  The second scout muttered in agreement.

  ‘I wonder what they’re doing here,’ said Hanno. ‘Maybe they’re looking for more Cenomani villages to punish.’

  ‘They’re not expecting any of our forces, that’s for sure, sir,’ said Mutt. ‘Otherwise there’d be far more of them.’

  Hanno’s reply was a feral grin.

  ‘And they’ve halted for the day?’ Mutt asked the veteran.

  ‘Looks like it, sir. They’re still digging the ditch around their camp.’

  ‘At least half of them will have a spade in their hands, sir. A good time to hit them, if you had a mind to it,’ said Mutt.
r />   ‘I do.’ Hanno’s eyes were glinting.

  Mutt felt the old familiar feeling of fear and excitement that presaged a fight. He let a small smile tug its way onto his face. ‘We’d best get ready then, sir.’

  An hour later, Mutt eyed his surroundings and scowled. The forest that they’d been marching through, and in which the Cenomani village had been, had come to an end for a while at least, and the muddy track that they had followed led straight out of the trees, onto reasonably flat ground. Other than a few bushes, there was no cover between them and the line of the Roman rampart, some two hundred and fifty paces away.

  ‘Their commander has chosen the site for his camp well, sir,’ said Mutt dourly.

  Hanno grunted irritably by way of reply. ‘What do you think? Better not to attack?’

  Hanno had never been so frank with him before. It had to have something to do with the fact that they were alone, Mutt decided. The men were secreted further back in the trees, awaiting orders. He and Hanno had crept to the edge of the open ground to assess the situation. But it was also a sign that he was winning his commander’s trust. That felt good.

  Mutt studied the Roman camp again. Trails of smoke were rising in a few places, signifying the fires that would allow the Romans to cook their evening meal. He could see sentries pacing to and fro just inside the defences. A score of men were returning from the river with what were probably leather water bags. It didn’t look much different to their own camp after a day’s march had finished. How best to take it, however? If they charged from here, the Romans would see them at once. They would arrive at the rampart with burning muscles, while the enemy would be fresh and prepared. Maybe they should just withdraw, he thought.

  ‘We would lose too many men if we attacked now,’ said Hanno. The disappointment was thick in his voice.

  Sudden inspiration struck Mutt. ‘Wait an hour, sir, until it’s nearly dark. Move then. The sentries won’t see us until we’re too close for their alarm call to make any difference. The legionaries will be snug inside their tents, with full bellies. They’ll have taken off their armour. We’ll smash them!’