by Ben Kane
Aurelia squeezed his hand. ‘They did. Something told me to come up here. Obviously, you were the reason why.’
‘But I can’t stay here,’ Suniaton said despairingly. ‘One heavy fall of snow and the roof will give way.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Aurelia cried. ‘My horse can carry both of us.’
His expression was bleak. ‘Where to, though? My leg will take months to heal, if it does at all.’
‘To the farm,’ she replied boldly. ‘I will tell Mother and Agesandros that I found you wandering in the woods. I couldn’t just leave you to die.’
‘He might remember me,’ Suniaton protested.
She squeezed his hand. ‘He won’t. You look terrible. Totally different from that day in Capua.’
Suniaton scowled. ‘It’s obvious that I am an escaped slave.’
‘But there won’t be any way of proving who you are,’ Aurelia cried in triumph. ‘You can act mute.’
‘Will that work?’ he asked with a dubious frown.
‘Of course,’ Aurelia declared robustly. ‘And when you’re better, you can leave.’
A spark of hope lit in Suniaton’s weary eyes. ‘If you’re sure,’ he whispered.
‘I am,’ Aurelia replied, patting his hand. Inside, however, she was terrified.
What other choice had they, though? her mind screamed.
More than two weeks later, Quintus was wandering through the camp with Calatinus and Cincius. The general mood had been improved dramatically seven days before by the arrival of Tiberius Sempronius Longus, the second consul. His army, which consisted of two legions and more than 10,000 socii, infantry and cavalry, had swelled the Roman forces to nearly 40,000 men.
Inevitably enough, the trio found their feet taking them in the direction of the camp headquarters. So far, there had been little news of what Longus, who had assumed control of all Republican forces, planned to do about Hannibal.
‘He’ll have been encouraged by what happened yesterday,’ declared Calatinus. ‘Our cavalry and velites gave the guggas a hiding that they won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘Stupid bastards got what was coming to them,’ said Cincius. ‘The Gauls are supposed to be their allies. If they go pillaging local settlements, it’s natural that the tribesmen will come looking for help.’
‘There were heavy enemy casualties,’ Quintus admitted, ‘but I’m not sure it was the total victory Longus is claiming.’
Both of his friends looked at him in astonishment.
‘Think about it,’ urged Quintus. It was what his father had said to him when he’d raved about the engagement. ‘We had the upper hand from the start, but things changed immediately once Hannibal came on the scene. The Carthaginians held their ground then, didn’t they?’
‘So what?’ Cincius responded. ‘They lost three times more men than we did!’
‘Aren’t you pleased that we finally got the better of them?’ demanded Calatinus.
‘Of course I am,’ said Quintus. ‘We shouldn’t underestimate Hannibal, that’s all.’
Cincius snorted derisively. ‘Longus is an experienced general. And in my book, any man who can march his army more than a thousand miles in less than six weeks shows considerable ability.’
‘You’ve seen Longus a few times since his arrival. The man positively exudes energy,’ added Calatinus. ‘He’s keen for a fight too.’
‘You’re right,’ said Quintus at last. ‘Our troops are better fed, and better armed than Hannibal’s. We outnumber the Carthaginians too.’
‘We just need the right opportunity,’ declared Cincius.
‘That will come,’ said Calatinus. ‘All the recent omens have been good.’
Quintus grinned. It was impossible not to feel enthused by his friends’ words, and the recent change in their fortunes. As always when Quintus thought of the enemy, an image of Hanno popped into his mind. He shoved it away.
There was a war on.
Friendship with a Carthaginian had no place in his heart any longer.
Several days passed, and the weather grew dramatically worse. The biting wind came incessantly from the north, bringing with it heavy showers of sleet and snow. Combined with the shortened daylight, it made for a miserable existence. Hanno saw little of either his father or brothers. The Carthaginian soldiers huddled in their tents, shivering and trying to stay warm. Even venturing outside to answer a call of nature meant getting soaked to the skin or chilled to the bone.
Hanno was stunned, therefore, by the news that Sapho brought one afternoon. ‘We’ve had word from Hannibal!’ he hissed. ‘We move out tonight.’
‘In weather like this?’ asked Hanno incredulously. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Maybe.’ Sapho grinned. ‘If I am, though, so too is Hannibal. He has ordered Mago himself to lead us.’
‘You and Bostar?’
Sapho nodded grimly. ‘Plus five hundred skirmishers, and a thousand Numidian cavalry.’
Hanno smiled to cover his disappointment at not also being picked. ‘Where are you going?’
‘While we’ve been hiding in our tents, Hannibal has been scouting the whole area. He discovered a narrow river that runs across the plain,’ Sapho revealed. ‘It’s bounded on both sides by steep, heavily overgrown banks. We have to lie in wait there until the opportunity comes - if it comes - to fall upon the Roman rear.’
‘What makes Hannibal think that they’ll cross the river?’
Sapho’s expression grew fierce. ‘He plans to irritate them into doing so.’
‘That means using the Numidians,’ guessed Hanno.
‘You’ve got it. They’re going to attack the enemy camp at dawn. Sting and withdraw, sting and withdraw. You know the way they do it.’
‘Will it drag the whole Roman army out of camp, though?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I wish I’d been chosen too,’ said Hanno fervently.
Sapho chuckled. ‘Save your regrets. The whole damn enterprise might be a waste of time. While Bostar and I are freezing our balls off in a ditch, you and the rest of the army will be warmly wrapped up in your blankets. And if a battle does look likely, it’s not as if you’ll miss out, is it? We’ll all have to fight!’
A grin slowly spread across Hanno’s face. ‘True enough.’
‘We’ll meet in the middle of the Roman line!’ declared Sapho. ‘Just think of that moment.’
Hanno nodded. It was an appealing image. ‘The gods watch over you both,’ he said. I must go and speak to Bostar, he thought. Say goodbye.
‘And you, little brother.’ Sapho reached out and ruffled Hanno’s hair, something he hadn’t done for years.
Quintus was in the middle of a fantasy about Elira when he became aware of someone shaking him. He did his best to stay asleep, but the insistent tugging on his arm proved too much. Opening his eyes irritably, Quintus found not Elira, but Calatinus crouched over him. Before he could utter a word of rebuke, he heard the trumpets sounding the alarm over and over. He sat bolt upright. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Our outposts beyond the camp perimeter are under attack. Get up!’
The last of Quintus’ drowsiness vanished. ‘Eh? What time is it?’
‘Not long after dawn. The sentries started shouting when I was in the latrines.’ Calatinus scowled. ‘Didn’t help my diarrhoea, I can tell you.’
Smiling at the image, Quintus threw off the covers and began scrambling into his clothes. ‘Have we had any orders yet?’
‘Longus wants every man ready to leave a quarter of an hour ago,’ replied Calatinus, who was already fully dressed. ‘I’ve been shouting at you to no avail. The others are readying their mounts.’
‘Well, I’m here now,’ muttered Quintus, kneeling to strap on his sandals.
Before long, they had joined their comrades outside, by their tethered horses.
It was bitterly cold, and the north wind was whipping vicious little flurries of snow across the tent tops. The camp was in uproar as thousands of men
scrambled to get ready. It wasn’t just the cavalry who had been ordered to prepare themselves for battle. Large groups of velites were being addressed by their officers. Unhappy-looking hastati and principes - the men who stood in the legion’s first two ranks - left their breakfasts to burn on their campfires as they ran to get their equipment. Messengers hurried to and fro, relaying information between different units. On the battlements, the trumpeters kept up their clarion call to arms. Quintus swallowed nervously. Was this the moment he had been waiting for? It certainly felt like it. Soon after, he was relieved to see his father’s figure striding towards them from the direction of the camp’s headquarters. Excited murmurs rippled through the surrounding cavalrymen. As one, they stiffened to attention.
‘This is no parade. At ease,’ said Fabricius, waving a hand. ‘We ride out at once. Longus is deploying our entire cavalry force, as well as six thousand velites. He wants this attack thrown back across the Trebia without delay. We’re taking no more nonsense from Hannibal.’
‘And the rest of the army, sir?’ cried a voice. ‘What about them?’
Fabricius smiled tightly. ‘They will be ready to follow us very soon.’
These words produced a rousing cheer. Quintus joined in. He wanted this victory as much as anyone else. The fact that his father hadn’t mentioned Publius must mean that the injured consul agreed with his colleague’s decision, or had been overruled by him. Either way, they weren’t going to sit by and do nothing.
Fabricius waited until the noise had died down. ‘Remember to do everything I’ve taught you. Check your horse’s harness is tightly fastened. Take a leak before you mount up. There’s nothing worse than pissing yourself in the middle of a fight.’ Hoots of nervous laughter met this comment, and Fabricius smiled. ‘Ensure that your spear tip is sharp. Tie the chinstrap on your helmet. Watch each other’s backs.’ He scanned the faces around him with grave eyes. ‘May the gods be with you all.’
‘And with you, sir!’ shouted Calatinus.
Fabricius inclined his head in recognition. Then, giving Quintus a re-assuring look, he made towards his horse.
For the third time since dawn, Bostar scrambled up the muddy slope towards the sentry’s position. More than anything, he wanted to warm up. Unfortunately, the climb wasn’t long enough to shift the chill from his muscles. He glanced down at the steep-sided riverbank below him. It was filled with Mago’s men: 1,000 Numidians and their horses, and 1,000 infantry, a mixture of Libyan skirmishers and spearmen. Despite the fact that the warmly dressed soldiers were packed as tightly as apples in a barrel, it seemed an eternity since they had arrived. In fact, it was barely five hours. Men are not supposed to spend a winter’s night outdoors in this godforsaken land, thought Bostar bitterly. His bones ached at the idea of the warm sunshine that bathed Carthage daily.
Reaching the top of the bank, Bostar crouched down, using the scrubby bushes that regularly dotted the ground as cover. He peered into the distance, but saw nothing. There had been no movement since the Numidian cavalry had quietly passed by, heading for the Roman side of the river. Bostar sighed. It would be hours before anything of importance happened. Nonetheless, he had to keep his guard up. Hannibal had given them the most important task of any soldiers in his army. For what felt like the thousandth time, Bostar slowly turned in a circle, scanning the landscape with eagle eyes.
The watercourse that formed their hiding place was a small tributary of the Trebia, and ran north-south across the plain that lay before the Carthaginian camp. Following Hannibal’s instructions, they had secreted themselves half a mile to the south of the area upon which he wished to fight. The general’s reasons were simple. Behind them, the ground began to climb towards the low hills that filled the horizon. If the Romans took the bait, they were unlikely to march in this direction. It was a good place to hide, thought Bostar. He just hoped that Hannibal’s plan worked, and that they weren’t too far away from the fighting if, or when, the time came to move.
He found Mago lying alongside the sentry in a shallow dip, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Bostar liked the youngest Barca brother. Like Hannibal, Mago was charismatic and brave. He was also indomitably cheerful, which provided a counterweight to Hannibal’s sometimes serious disposition. Smaller than Hannibal, Mago reminded Bostar of a hunting dog: lean, muscular and always eager to be slipped from the leash. ‘Seen anything, sir?’ he whispered.
Mago turned his head. ‘Restless, aren’t you?’
Bostar shrugged. ‘The same as everyone else, sir. It’s difficult waiting down there without a clue what’s going on.’
Mago smiled. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘The Romans will come.’
‘How can you be sure, sir?’
‘Because Hannibal believes that they will, and I trust in him.’
Bostar nodded. It was a good answer, he thought. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’
‘I know you will. That’s why Hannibal picked you and your brother,’ Mago replied.
‘We’re very grateful for the opportunity, sir,’ said Bostar, thinking sour thoughts about Sapho. He and his older brother hadn’t spoken since Hannibal’s reprimand. Bostar felt regret that he’d only had the briefest of words with Hanno before they’d left the camp. He’d been angry that his younger brother seemed to be friendly with Sapho. Really, it was none of his business.
Mago got to his feet. ‘Have the men eaten yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, if I’m famished, they must be too,’ Mago declared. ‘Let’s break out the rations. It won’t be a hot breakfast, like the lucky dogs back at camp will get, but anything’s better than nothing. A man with a full belly sees the world with different eyes, eh?’ He glanced at the sentry. ‘You won’t miss out. I’ll send someone up to relieve you soon.’
The man grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Lead on,’ Mago said.
Bostar obeyed. Mention of the encampment brought his father and Hanno to mind. If it came to a battle, they would be in the front line. Not quite in the centre - that honour had been given to Hannibal’s new recruits, the Gaulish tribesmen - but still in a dangerous position. The fighting everywhere would be intense. He sighed. The gods protect us all, he prayed. If it comes to it, let us die well.
Combining his riders with Publius’ depleted horsemen gave Sempronius Longus just over four thousand cavalry. The moment that the assembled turmae had heard their orders, they were sent out from behind the protection of the fortifications. Fabricius and his men were among the first to exit the camp.
Quintus blinked with surprise. Beyond the sentry posts lay open ground that rolled down to the river. It was normally empty of all but the figures of training soldiers or returning patrols. Now, it was occupied by thousands of Numidian tribesmen. Waves of yelling warriors were galloping into the Roman positions and loosing their javelins, before wheeling their horses in a tight circle and retreating. The unfortunate sentries, who only numbered four or five per outpost, received no respite. Scarcely had one set of Numidians disappeared before another arrived, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs.
‘Form a battle line!’ Fabricius shouted. His call was already being echoed by other officers who were emerging from the camp.
With a pounding heart, Quintus obeyed. So did Calatinus, Cincius and his comrades, each turma fanning out six ranks wide and five riders deep. The instant they were ready, Fabricius shouted, ‘Charge!’
His men went from the trot into a canter. This was followed immediately by a gallop. For maximum impact, they had to hit the Numidians at full speed. That was if the enemy riders stayed to fight, thought Quintus suspiciously. His experience with the fierce tribesmen had taught him otherwise. Yet Longus was doing the right thing. He could not just let his sentries be massacred within sight of his camp. Hannibal’s men had to be driven off. With six thousand velites following hot on their heels, that would not be difficult.
The thunder of hundreds of hooves drowned out all sound except the occasional
encouraging shout from Fabricius: ‘Forward!’ As they closed in, each man let go of his reins and transferred the spear from his left hand, which also held his shield, to his right. From here on in, they would guide their horses with their knees. Now the months of careful instruction they had received would pay off. For all his comrades’ skill, Quintus was still wary of the Numidians, who learned to ride almost before they could walk. He was heartened by the thought of the velites. Their help would make all the difference.
‘Look! They’ve seen us!’ shouted Calatinus, pointing at the beleaguered sentries, whose terrified expressions were being replaced by elation. ‘Hold on!’
‘The poor bastards must have got the shock of their lives when the Numidians suddenly appeared,’ replied Quintus.
‘We’re coming none too soon,’ Calatinus added. ‘Many of the outposts have no defenders left.’
They had closed to within fifty paces of the enemy.
‘Time to even up the score,’ cried Quintus, picking out a slight Numidian with braided hair as his target.
Cincius’ lip curled. ‘They’ll turn and run any moment now, the way they always do.’
Instead, to their amazement, the enemy riders turned and began driving their horses straight at the Roman cavalry.
‘They’re going to fight, not run.’ Quintus felt faintly nauseous, but he kept his eye on the Numidian, who was riding straight at him. Oddly, it seemed the warrior had also chosen him.
‘Pick your targets,’ Fabricius shouted, praying that the outcome of this clash proved different to the one at the Ticinus. ‘Make every spear count.’
Seeing the Numidian loose a javelin in his direction, Quintus panicked. Fortunately, it missed, sailing between him and Calatinus. Quintus cursed savagely. The Numidian still had two javelins. Even as the thought went through his mind, the next one scudded his way. He bent low over his horse’s neck, hearing it whistle overhead. Claws of desperation tore at him. How long would his luck hold out? He was fewer than twenty paces from his enemy. At that range and closing, the warrior could hardly miss.
