by Ben Kane
‘Of course I will,’ he murmured. ‘Father will also.’
Nervously, Aurelia fixed her eyes on Hanno. ‘You too,’ she whispered.
Quintus’ mouth opened as the two words hung in the air.
Hanno was stunned. Aurelia was promised to another, and a high-ranking Roman at that. Did she really mean what he thought? He studied her face for a moment.
‘I will,’ he said finally. ‘One day.’
Chapter XIV: Confrontation
Massilia, on the southern coast of Gaul
FABRICIUS STARED AT the Greek columns on the temples opposite the quay and smiled. ‘Very different to those at home,’ he said. ‘It feels good to be in a foreign land at last.’
Five days before, the Roman fleet and its commander, the consul Publius Cornelius Scipio, had finally set sail. Fabricius and Flaccus had been on board one of the sixty quinqueremes that had left from Pisae, on the west coast of Italy. Hugging the Ligurian shoreline all the way to the Greek city of Massilia, a long-term Roman ally on the south coast of Gaul, the flotilla had arrived not two hours previously.
‘Too many months were spent talking,’ Flaccus agreed. ‘It’s time now to carry war to the Carthaginians, and settle the matter swiftly.’ He eyed Fabricius, who was nodding in vigorous agreement. ‘You don’t like sitting on your hands, eh?’
‘No.’ His recent spell in Rome had brought home to Fabricius the fact that he was no politician. He’d stayed in the capital because he was eager to fight. His desire for action, however, had vanished beneath a wave of debates in the Senate, just one of which could take more than a week. ‘I know that the politicians’ original reasons for delaying were simple,’ he admitted. ‘With most of the army disbanded, it was logical to wait for the new consuls to be appointed before making any far-reaching decisions. But to take so long after that?’
‘Don’t forget the other matters of foreign policy which had to be discussed.’ Flaccus’ tone was reproving. ‘Rome has many concerns other than what goes on in Iberia.’
‘Of course.’ Fabricius sighed. That had been one of the hardest lessons for him to learn.
‘Philip V of Macedon has never been the greatest friend of Rome,’ said Flaccus. ‘But giving refuge to Demetrius of Pharos showed that he really wishes us ill.’
‘True.’ Demetrius, the deposed King of Illyricum, had himself been the cause of much recent trouble to the Republic. ‘Is a month of debates about the two of them really necessary, though?’
Flaccus’ face took on a pompous expression. ‘Such is the Senate’s way, as it has been for nearly three hundred years. Who are we to question such a hallowed process?’
Fabricius bit back his pithy response. In his mind, the Senate would work far more efficiently if only the debates were better controlled. He smiled diplomatically. ‘To be fair, it reacted fast when word came of the unrest among the Gaulish tribes.’
Flaccus looked pleased. ‘And as soon as it became clear that the proposed new Latin colonies at Placentia and Cremona would not be enough, it requisitioned one of the legions from our expeditionary force. While I was stuck in Rome, raising and training the new units that were required, at least you got a taste of action!’ He wagged a finger at Fabricius. ‘Three months of it.’
Fabricius had grown used to the other’s patronising manner, but still found it irritating. ‘You weren’t there. The Boii and Insubres are no pushover,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you remember Telamon? We did well to end it so swiftly. Hundreds of our soldiers were slain, and many more were injured.’
Flaccus flushed. ‘I apologise. I did not mean to belittle your efforts, or those of the men who died.’
‘Good,’ Fabricius replied, placated. ‘It doesn’t take away from the fact that we should have been in Iberia three months ago!’
Flaccus made a conciliatory gesture. ‘At least we’re in Massilia now. Soon the Saguntines will be avenged.’
‘A bit late, isn’t it?’ demanded Fabricius sourly. The Senate’s refusal to act had meant leaving the Saguntines to their fate, which had not sat well with his conscience. It still didn’t.
‘Come now,’ entreated Flaccus. ‘We’ve just been through all that.’
‘I know,’ Fabricius replied heatedly. ‘But an ally of Rome should never be treated as Saguntum was.’
Flaccus’ voice grew soft. ‘You know that I agree with you. Did I not speak repeatedly in the Senate about the dishonour of abandoning the city?’
‘You did.’ Yet you probably knew that your words would make little difference, thought Fabricius. It had sounded good, however, and showed a pleasingly combative side to his prospective son-in-law’s character.
‘Thank all the gods that we’re serving under Publius rather than Tiberius Sempronius Longus,’ said Flaccus. ‘We shall see action far sooner than they will. Last I heard, Longus’ fleet wasn’t going to be ready for another month.’
‘How frustrating.’
‘Whereas we can set sail the moment that the fleet’s supplies of food and water have been renewed.’ Flaccus rattled the hilt of his ornamental sword.
‘Let’s not forget to hear what information the local intelligence has gathered,’ warned Fabricius. ‘Nothing has been heard of Hannibal for several months.’
‘That’s because he’s sitting on his hairy gugga arse in Iberia, drinking local wine and waiting for us to arrive!’ Flaccus sneered.
‘Maybe he is,’ said Fabricius with a smile, ‘but being forewarned is to be forearmed.’
He had no idea that, within the next few hours, his words would be proven true.
Hannibal was no longer in Iberia.
According to the exhausted Massiliote messengers who rode in on lathered mounts, he was probably no more than a day’s march away.
Flaccus and the other senior officers received an immediate summons to attend Publius in his headquarters, a sprawling tent at the centre of one of the legions’ temporary forts. Fabricius was pleased and surprised to receive a similar order less than an hour later. As he arrived, Fabricius saw Flaccus standing outside with the other high-ranking officers, including Gnaeus, Publius’ elder brother, a former consul who was also his legatus, or second-in-command. Fabricius saluted, and nodded at Flaccus. To his surprise, his future son-in-law barely acknowledged the gesture. Indeed, his face wore such a thunderous expression that Fabricius wondered what had gone on in the moments prior. He had no time to find out. Recognising Fabricius, the officer in charge of the sentries ushered him inside at once.
They found Publius talking animatedly with a young Massiliote soldier over a table on which a crudely drawn map had been laid out. Both men were wearing Hellenistic bronze cuirasses, layered pteryges, which protected the groin and the tops of the thighs, and bronze greaves. Yet there was no question, even to the untrained eye, who was in charge. The Massiliote’s armour was well made, but, with its magnificent depiction of Hercules’ face, Publius’ positively exuded quality and wealth. The same could be said of his ornate plumed Attic helmet, which sat on a nearby stool. Although the Massiliote towered over the grey-haired consul, Publius’ confidence more than made up for the difference in height. Fabricius had come to know his commander a little, and liked him. Publius’ calm presence and direct manner were popular with everyone, from the rank and file to the military tribunes. Gnaeus, his brother, was no different.
Publius looked up. ‘Ah, Fabricius! Thank you for coming.’
Fabricius saluted. ‘How can I be of service, sir?’
‘First meet the commander of the unit that brought us the dramatic news. Fabricius, this is Clearchus. Clearchus, meet Fabricius, of whom I have spoken.’
The two exchanged courteous nods.
‘Obviously, you have heard about Hannibal’s whereabouts,’ Publius enquired archly. ‘You’d have to be deaf not to.’
Fabricius grinned. The news had been shouted from the rooftops. ‘They say that he and his army have crossed the Rhodanus, sir, and are camped on the eastern shore.�
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‘Indeed.’ Publius regarded the Massiliote. ‘Clearchus?’
‘Since word came that Hannibal had crossed into Gaul, we have been patrolling deep inland, using small, highly mobile cavalry units. One such sighted the Carthaginians about two weeks ago, and shadowed them to the river’s western bank. It’s a long day’s ride from here.’
Fabricius’ heart thumped in his chest. The rumour was true. ‘And their number?’
‘Perhaps fifty thousand men all told. Not quite a quarter of that is made up of cavalry.’
Fabricius’ eyebrows rose. This was a larger army than he’d ever faced in Sicily.
Publius saw his reaction. ‘I was surprised too. Hannibal means to attack Italy. Fortuna had been generous indeed to alert us to his purpose before he arrived. Go on, Clearchus.’
‘They camped by the river for several days, constructing rafts and boats, and no doubt planning their tactics against the Volcae, the hostile natives on the eastern side. The result was extraordinary, sir. Hannibal sent a strong force upriver, which crossed undetected and fell on the tribesmen’s rear.’ Clearchus made a circle of his thumb and forefinger. ‘They crushed them with ease. Nearly the whole army has traversed safely since then. Only the elephants remain on the far bank.’
‘Imagine if we had landed a week earlier, and been there to contest the passage of the river. The war might already be over!’ Publius cried in frustration. His face turned cunning. ‘We still might have a chance, though, Clearchus?’
‘That’s right, sir. Getting the elephants across will take at least two to three days. Perhaps more. Several attempts have already failed.’
‘Excellent. Now, I need someone to take a look at the Carthaginian army. A Roman officer.’ Publius glanced at Clearchus. ‘Not to belittle our Massiliote allies in any way.’
‘No insult taken, sir,’ said Clearchus, raising his hands.
‘Naturally, others wanted this job, but I felt that the task was suited to a veteran. A man who knows how to keep his cool. I thought of you.’ Publius fixed his eyes on Fabricius. ‘Well?’
Fabricius felt his breath quicken. Had Flaccus asked for the duty, and been turned down? That might explain his sour expression. ‘Of course I’ll do it, sir.’
Publius gave a small smile of approval. ‘Speed is of the essence. If you leave at once, you could be back by tomorrow night. The next day, at the latest. I will want good estimates of their numbers, and a breakdown of the troop types.’
Fabricius wasn’t going to back down from a challenge like this. ‘I will do my best, sir.’
‘How many men have you?’
‘About two hundred and fifty, sir.’
‘Take all of them. Clearchus will guide you.’ Publius looked at the Massiliote. ‘How strong is your force?’
‘Two hundred riders, sir, all experienced.’
‘It should be enough.’ Publius turned back to Fabricius. ‘You’re in charge. Avoid contact with the enemy unless it cannot be helped. Return quickly. I’ll have the army ready to march the moment you return.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fabricius saluted crisply; Clearchus did the same.
They left the consul poring over his map.
Fabricius wasted no time. Less than an hour later, he led the ten turmae - cavalry units - under his command out of the camp and towards Massilia’s north gate. It was a pity that he hadn’t had time to replace his losses from the recent campaign, thought Fabricius. Still, he was reasonably happy with the rest of his cavalrymen, who had fought well during the summer. As citizen cavalry, his men were equestrians, and most dressed in a Hellenistic style similar to his own. They wore Boeotian helmets and bleached white tunics, which had a purple stripe running from each shoulder to the hem. Sturdy leather boots that completely enclosed the feet were ubiquitous. All carried thrusting spears, and round cavalry shields, made of ox hide. Few carried swords. The heavy cavalry cloak, or sagum, owned by each man and used in bad weather, was tied up in a roll behind the saddlecloth.
They met Clearchus and his riders just outside the city walls. The Massiliote cavalry were irregulars, and no two were dressed alike. With their helmets, spears and small shields, however, they were similar in appearance to the Roman cavalrymen. Fabricius was reassured by Clearchus’ calm manner, and the way his men responded to his orders. If it came to a fight, they’d probably do all right.
With the Massiliotes in the lead, they rode north, stopping only when it grew too dark to continue. Clearchus knew the countryside well, but, as he confided to Fabricius, it was possible that Carthaginian patrols could be operating in the area too. There was no point exposing themselves to unnecessary danger, and riding at night fell into that category. Fabricius did not argue. Clearchus’ judiciousness made perfect sense. Ordering no fires to be lit, he had the men set up camp. Double the normal number of sentries were stationed around the perimeter. Long after the soldiers had retired, Fabricius walked from picket to picket, his ears pricked. This was a mission of the utmost importance. If that meant hardly any sleep, then so be it. Nothing could go wrong. Thankfully, he heard nothing other than the occasional screech of an owl.
He and Clearchus had their men up long before dawn. Tension among both sets of riders was immediately palpable. Contact with the enemy was likely before the day was out. After a brief chat with Clearchus, Fabricius sent ten Massiliote riders to scout the trail a mile in advance of the main party. One turma, under the command of his best decurion, accompanied them. Their orders were to return at the slightest hint of anything untoward.
Fabricius’ hunch turned out to be the best decision he had ever made.
They had ridden for an hour or so when an outrider returned at the gallop. He dragged his horse to a stop beside Fabricius and Clearchus, who were riding together, and saluted.
Fabricius took a deep breath. ‘What news?’
‘We’ve spotted a group of Numidians, sir. Perhaps two miles away.’
Fabricius went very still. His memories of fighting against the lightly armed African horsemen were exclusively bad. ‘Did they see you?’
The cavalryman grinned. ‘No, sir. We were able to get behind a stand of trees.’
Fabricius hissed in relief. Their mission had escaped discovery - for the moment. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Perhaps three hundred in total, sir.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. The decurion said to tell you that there’s a copse about a mile from here that would make a perfect place for an ambush. If you move fast, you could get in place before the Numidians reach it.’
Fabricius’ mouth went dry. Publius had ordered him to avoid confrontation at all costs. How was that possible in this situation, however? To let the enemy cavalry pass while continuing with their own mission would leave his patrol at risk of attack from behind. Aware that everyone’s eyes were on him, Fabricius closed his eyes. ‘Three hundred men, you say?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, sir.’
Fabricius made up his mind. They were 450 strong. Easily enough. Opening his eyes, he laid a hand to his sword and was pleased by Clearchus’ fierce nod of agreement. ‘Swiftly, then,’ he said. ‘Take us to the copse.’
A short time later, Fabricius found himself in an excellent position overlooking the narrow track they had been following. Thanks to Clearchus’ quick-witted suggestion, the entire patrol had ridden up and out of view well before the far entrance to the stand of trees. The trap would be sprung long before the Numidians saw their incriminating tracks - he hoped. Fabricius also wished that they could have concealed themselves better, and effected some method of preventing the Numidians from retreating. With time running out, that had not been possible. Instead, they had to place their trust in the gods. He glanced to either side, seeing the same tense expression on his riders’ faces that he felt twisting his own.
The reasons were simple.
Soon, they would set eyes upon the first Carthaginian troops to act in aggression against Rome for
more than twenty years. The enemy were not on Sicily either, their historical hunting grounds. The unthinkable had happened, and Fabricius still couldn’t quite take it in. Hannibal was in Gaul, and heading for Italy! Calm down, he thought. Of more relevance right now was the fact that if he and his men weren’t very lucky, the approaching Numidians would spot them and flee before the ambush began.
The following quarter of an hour felt like eternity to Fabricius. Focusing his gaze on the point where the track entered the copse, he ignored the faint jingle of harness around him, and bird song from the branches above. He couldn’t block out all sound, however. A horse stamped a hoof as it grew restless. Someone coughed, drawing a muttered rebuke from the nearest officer. Fabricius glared at the rider responsible before returning his attention to the path. Spotting movement, he blinked. Then his arm shot out, pointing. ‘Pssst!’ he hissed to the man on either side. A judder of anticipation rippled through the line of waiting cavalrymen.
Amazingly, the pair of enemy scouts who emerged into view were only a short distance in front of the main body of their countrymen. The Numidians appeared no different to the men Fabricius had fought in Sicily. Dark-skinned, lithe, athletic, they rode small horses without saddles, bridles or bits. Their loose tunics had large armholes and were pinned at the shoulder and belted at the waist. The Numidians carried javelins and light, round shields without bosses. Instead of looking around for danger, they were busy talking to each other. Given the empty countryside, thought Fabricius delightedly, it wasn’t that surprising. He’d made similar mistakes himself before, and been lucky enough to get away with it.
In they rode, without so much as a glance up the gentle slopes where the Romans and Massiliotes lay hidden. Fabricius held his breath, counting the distance. Eighty, then fifty paces. The front ranks of Numidians entered the copse, and Fabricius’ mind flashed back to the war in Sicily. They did not look like much, but these were some of the finest cavalry in the world. Sublime horsemen, they were best at skirmishing, and frustrating the enemy with their stinging attacks. He knew from personal experience that the Numidians’ pursuit of a vanquished foe was even more deadly.
