Hannibal: The Patrol

by Ben Kane

  Mutt heard Hanno let out a long, slow breath of relief. He felt the same way.

  ‘The Romans have always been our foes,’ declared the blond warrior in a loud voice. He spat a few words in his own language, which made his companions shake their fists and shout what could only be curses. ‘We loathed what they stood for before Telamon, but since then we have sworn to fight the legions with every last drop of our blood.’

  ‘That is good news, for so have we,’ said Hanno, stepping forward and offering the leader his hand.

  The leader accepted the grip with a broad smile. A barrage of Gaulish followed. It was interspersed with much licking of the lips and slapping of his belly.

  ‘He’s offering us hospitality, sir,’ said Mutt happily.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My father wishes to know if you accept his offer of food and drink,’ said the blond Gaul.

  ‘Of course!’ cried Hanno, performing a half bow to the leader. ‘If we are not too many?’

  A dismissive shake of the head. ‘Enough cattle will be slaughtered to feed us all. No man sits at Devorix’s table and goes hungry.’

  ‘My men will be very grateful,’ declared Hanno. ‘Devorix is your leader’s name?’

  ‘De-vor-ix,’ interjected the leader, jabbing his own chest.

  ‘He is my father; more than three hundred warriors call him chieftain,’ said the blond warrior proudly.

  Devorix pointed at Hanno with an enquiring look, and said something. ‘What’s your name?’ asked his son.

  ‘Hanno. And this is Mutt, my second-in-command.’

  ‘Ha-nno. Mutt. Mutt!’ A huge grin split Devorix’ face.

  ‘Mutt,’ Mutt repeated, nodding. He pulled a smile. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that ‘Mutt’ was amusing in Gaulish. He had grown up having the piss taken out of him over his name, the full version of which was Muttumbaal. It might mean ‘Gift of Baal’, he thought dourly, but it didn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Still, he liked Mutt well enough, even if that made men laugh too.

  ‘I am Aios. You are welcome to our lands,’ said the blond warrior.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno, visibly relaxing.

  ‘We have had word of your army. I assume that it — and you — are marching on Victumulae because you need the grain within its walls.’

  ‘We need it badly,’ answered Hanno with a smile. ‘Tens of thousands of mouths require a lot of feeding.’

  ‘Come. Our village is not far, perhaps five miles down the track. There is grain — and wine — aplenty there for your men, for one night at least. Our druid can also treat your wounded.’

  ‘We are honoured by your hospitality,’ averred Hanno. Mutt echoed his words, but inside he was still not sure if these tribesmen were trustworthy. Once a man had consumed a bellyful of wine, he tended to forget the thought of treachery or a knife between the ribs.

  As Devorix and Aios waited, Hanno issued his soldiers with orders to gather the wounded and slain. Everyone knew how to fashion makeshift litters for the wounded using two spears with a cloak tied between. But even their dead — four men — were to be carried, Hanno commanded. They could be buried near the tribesmen’s village.

  When finished, he turned to Mutt. ‘Despite their friendly words, we must stay on our guard,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The men must not drink too much later.’

  That will be easier said than done, thought Mutt. They’ll be like horses that haven’t drunk all day being presented with a stream. He’d have to lay down the law to them in no uncertain terms. Few things made soldiers behave as well as the threat of a good beating. That, and the promise that any loot they took would be forfeit — to him.

  *

  Most of the warriors faded away into the trees. Mutt assumed that they were making their way on different paths. He took heart. This was more evidence that the tribesmen did not mean them harm. A short time later, the Libyans set out with Devorix and Aios, and their two companions.

  By the time that they had nearly reached the Gauls’ village, Mutt had decided that if Devorix was planning to murder them, he was doing an admirable job of concealing it. The chieftain had talked all the way, impatiently waiting each time Aios translated his words. If Devorix was to be believed, he was merely waiting until the Carthaginian army reached the area before lending his support to Hannibal.

  As yet, they had not mounted an open attack on Roman troops from Victumulae, Aios had reported, because their settlement lay too close to the town. ‘When word came of what had happened at the Trebia, another clan of our tribe massacred a Roman patrol. A few legionaries got away, however, brought back word of what had happened,’ Aios had said. ‘A day later, the commander of the forces inside Victumulae sent out five hundred soldiers. They razed the village to the ground. Killed everyone, even the livestock and the dogs. Bastards!’

  At that point, Devorix had launched into a long and bitter tirade, prompting Aios to explain that his sister, married to the chief of the clan, had been among the dead.

  Hanno and Mutt had exchanged a look then that needed no words. This was surely proof that these warriors were on their side.

  The trees died away eventually and were replaced by empty, roughly tilled fields. Small groups of raucous crows threw themselves into the air from the frozen, furrowed earth as the party approached the village. Two small, snot-nosed boys gawped from their positions at the rear of a flock of sheep; a scrawny dog raised its hackles and barked a shrill welcome. The settlement was a typical, circular stockaded affair, reached by an even muddier offshoot of the trail that they’d been following. Trails of smoke rose over the rampart from the many fires within. Voices — those of men, women and children — competed with each other. Mutt could hear cattle lowing, and the sound of metal being hammered.

  A pang of homesickness hit him. He hadn’t seen his home in Libya for many years, but the everyday sounds here were no different to the seaside hamlet where he’d grown up. His father had died when Mutt was a small child, but could his mother still be alive there? He asked the gods that it were so. No doubt his brother, who’d stood to inherit their little farm, was still working the land. His sisters would be married women, with families of their own. Mutt felt a little sad; he liked children. Would the chance to settle down with a wife and set about making some ever come his way? he wondered.

  ‘You can set up your tents here,’ said Aios, indicating the ground to each side of the gate. He had stayed behind while Devorix and the rest of his companions continued on into the village. ‘The dead can be buried on the other side of the stockade, where our people are laid to rest.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hanno. ‘Mutt?’

  Mutt pulled himself together. ‘Yes, sir. We’ll put the tents in this spot, as Aios says. And then dig graves for the dead lads around the far side.’ He nodded his thanks to Aios.

  ‘I would ask that you place your latrine trenches in the trees yonder.’ Aios pointed at a thicket about two hundred paces away.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Mutt. Everyone knew that shitting too close to home was an invitation for diseases such as dysentery.

  Aios inclined his head. ‘The preparations for the celebrations will take a few hours, but there is a tavern of sorts in the village. Your men are welcome to drink there until it’s time for the feasting to begin.’

  Mutt was reassured when Hanno immediately replied, ‘I’m grateful for the offer, but it’s still early. There could be Romans about.’

  A derisive snort. ‘There isn’t a scumbag legionary within five miles. Our scouts tell us any time a boar as much as farts around here.’

  Mutt had to smile at that, but was pleased that Hanno maintained his position. ‘It’s good to know that you have ears and eyes throughout the area,’ said Hanno. ‘Nonetheless, I’ll keep my soldiers on a tight leash. Until later.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Aios with a laugh and a wink. ‘I’ll ask the druid to attend your injured. If you need anything else, the tavern is where you’ll fi
nd me. I look forward to sharing a drink with you.’ He strode off.

  Mutt spent a short while directing the men to set up camp. By the time he’d finished, all the Gauls had gone. ‘What do you reckon, sir? Can we trust them?’

  ‘I think so. You?’

  Mutt pursed his lips, recalling everything that Devorix and Aios had said. ‘I’d say they’re all right, sir. Gauls are renowned for being simple folk. Brave as you like; quick to anger; slow to forgive. Excepting the Vocontii and the Cenomani who had recently changed sides, they’re not known for their treachery. You can generally take them as you find them.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I have heard too,’ said Hanno. ‘Devorix seems decent enough, and I like Aios.’ He cast a curious look at Mutt. ‘Who are the Vocontii?’

  ‘The motherless curs who led us astray in the Alps, sir. Hundreds of our men were killed in their ambush.’ Mutt could still hear the screams of the soldiers who had fallen to their deaths or who’d had limbs crushed by the falling rocks. ‘We paid them back in kind, though, your brother Sapho especially.’ A flash of emotion — anger? — flashed across Hanno’s face, but it was gone before Mutt could make sense of it.

  ‘Nonetheless, I want the camp prepared as normal. Build a defensive ditch outside it, and a rampart as tall as a man,’ ordered Hanno. ‘When that’s been done, half the phalanx can be allowed into the village. They can have the evening off. The rest are to remain in camp, with triple the normal number of sentries. If there is any treachery, we won’t be caught completely off guard.’

  This command wouldn’t be popular, thought Mutt. He’d take Bogu as extra muscle when delivering it. ‘How shall I pick those who stay and those who go, sir?’

  ‘Choosing them by lot is the fairest way, I suppose. To sweeten the medicine, tell them that I will make sure that plenty of the food comes their way. There’ll be wine too — just not in the same volume that the others will be swilling down.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Mutt’s respect for Hanno grew a little further. It was shrewd not to deny half of his men the pleasure that their luckier comrades would enjoy that evening. It would have been nice to join in the revelries, but Hanno would want him to keep an eye on things while he went and got drunk. It was one of the privileges of being a commander, he thought.

  ‘You can go in this evening, after I’ve got back.’

  Surprise filled him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Devorix will expect to see me at the start, naturally. I’ll stay for an hour or two, then make my excuses. You can go once I return.’

  Mutt felt an unaccustomed grin breaking out. ‘You’re sure, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it, Mutt.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He threw off a crisp salute. ‘I’d best get a move on, then. The camp won’t build itself.’

  Mutt could feel Hanno’s eyes on him as he walked off. The boy’s clever, he thought. It seemed that Hanno had learned his lessons from his father, Malchus well. The gods grant that he leads us for the rest of this war, Mutt prayed. Good commanders were even scarcer than Libyan spearmen, and to be treasured.

  He waited until the earthen perimeter had been thrown up before telling the men of the night’s arrangements. If he’d done so beforehand, the unlucky ones would have still been digging come nightfall. With the defences in place and the tents up, however, there was a natural window in the day’s duties. It was when his soldiers were normally left to themselves. Assembling them briefly, Mutt told them how it was going to be. To his relief, there was less complaining than he’d expected.

  This might have been to do with the merciless ribbing that he had given Ithobaal, one of the soldiers who was to be allowed into the village. Acutely aware that those who had to remain would be unhappy — to say the least — he made sure to go on and on about Ithobaal’s good fortune. He would, Mutt declared, have to drink himself stupid, but at the same time he must remember to carry back plenty of wine for his long-suffering comrades, who had to put up with his never-ending complaints. There were whoops of delight and gales of laughter at this. Ithobaal, red-faced and fuming, was able to do nothing except to promise that he would not forget his friends.

  ‘Are you going, sir?’ asked Bogu, who had also picked a winning straw from Mutt’s fist.

  ‘Possibly, later on. I’ll be sober, though, and that’s the way I will stay. So be on your best behaviour. I don’t want anyone picking a fight with a Gaul, or worse still, molesting one of their women — at least without their permission. If I hear of, or catch any fool doing something he shouldn’t be, he will answer to me! And he’ll rue the damn day he was born. Am I clear?’ He glared at them until they nodded their acceptance. ‘You can go into the village once the sun goes down.’ Having picked the sentries for the night, Mutt dismissed the men. He would never admit it, but he was pleased for them. Since the descent from the Alps, life had improved, but not by as much as everyone had hoped. A celebration such as the one that beckoned would raise morale, and give the soldiers a much needed break from the cold, the monotony of marching and fighting and — his belly rumbled on cue — feeling constantly hungry.

  Several hours later…

  Seeing Hanno’s familiar shape outlined by the glow of light that rose above the village rampart, Mutt grinned. He had checked on the sentries and the wounded, and ensured that the men who remained in camp weren’t getting into any mischief. Now, despite his determination to remain sober, he was looking forward to another drink. In the centre of the village, the noise of singing, music and general ribaldry had been growing ever louder, and the wine and food that had been carried out to the camp by half a dozen Gaulish boys had not lasted long. Stay calm, Mutt thought. Hanno might have changed his mind. I’m not getting away until he says I am.

  Mutt walked over to greet him, curious to see if he was pissed. ‘Evening, sir.’

  ‘Mutt. Any sign of the enemy?’

  ‘I took a patrol on a circuit about half a mile out from the camp an hour ago, sir. The only creature we saw was an owl. Nothing else is moving out there.’

  Hanno visibly relaxed.

  ‘How are things in the village, sir?’

  Hanno laughed. ‘It’s fucking mayhem! I’ve never seen men get stuck into wine quite the way those tribesmen do. It’s like pouring water into barrels of sawdust! Naturally, our men are doing their best to keep up, but there’s enough wine to drown an army. The amount of food is incredible too. There are drinking and arm-wrestling competitions going on. Dancing. Music. I tell you, Mutt, we fell on our feet meeting Devorix. If he orders his men to cut our throats in the middle of the night, then I’m no judge of character.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, sir.’ Hanno still seemed sober, Mutt noted with pleasure. Despite the entertainment on offer, he hadn’t forgotten his position as commander.

  ‘It’s your turn now,’ announced Hanno.

  Mutt’s spirits rose, but he just said, ‘Is that all right, sir?’

  ‘Piss off, Mutt, and enjoy yourself. Keep an eye out for any of the men fighting or suchlike. We don’t want trouble.’

  ‘I’ll watch them like a hawk, sir.’

  ‘In the morning, we’ll march an hour later than normal. No harm letting the lads have a little more sleep.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ replied Mutt gladly. ‘Good night.’

  Waving a hand in dismissal, Hanno walked off into the darkness.

  Reaching under his cloak, Mutt touched the hilt of his small dagger for reassurance — no matter where he was, he didn’t like being unarmed. Then he headed for the main gate. A burning torch had been shoved into a metal bracket on either side, illuminating the entrance. At first, he could see no sign of a sentry, but then Mutt made out the shape of a warrior sprawled in the dirt just inside the ramparts. A jug lay on its side beside the man, who was snoring fit to wake the dead. Just as well that there are no sodding Romans nearby, he thought wryly.

  Within the walls, the noise was much louder. Mutt could h
ear the deep voices of men chanting, and the pounding of a drum. Booooooooo. Someone was blowing a horn. Flutes and hand bells could also be discerned, mixed with laughter and shouted conversation. He followed the muddy track between the small huts, aiming towards the centre of the village. On the way, he was passed by a number of small boys, chasing each other and shrieking at the tops of their voices. A man and woman walked by, talking in low tones and with their arms entwined. The sound of people coupling carried from a nearby hut. A beady-eyed crone in ragged clothing glared at Mutt from the open doorway of a tumbledown shack, and he mouthed a prayer against bad luck. Just because Devorix had made them welcome didn’t meant that everyone here felt the same. The old woman was the nearest thing he’d seen to a witch for a while.

  Emerging into a packed, central open area, Mutt felt his concerns ease again. A massive bonfire lit up the place as brightly as day. It looked as if every inhabitant of the village was here. Groups of men and women danced around the blaze, following the swirling tune played by a group of musicians. Three fire pits, with iron frames over, were being used to cook haunches of beef. Despite risk of being burned, hungry warriors were reaching in to slice off chunks of meat with their knives. The biggest crowd was around a pyramid of amphorae, however, in front of which tables and benches had been set up. Here scores of men were sitting, drinking, talking, laughing at jokes. It was also where the bulk of Mutt’s soldiers were. No surprise there, he thought.

  He drew close to the revellers without being noticed, which gave him a useful chance to observe things. As was to be expected, his men were clustered together around half a dozen large tables. Scores of tribesmen manned the rest. The majority of those present seemed quite drunk, but Mutt could see no arguments, which pleased him. An occasional spearman had joined his men; at least two were arm-wrestling with soldiers. It looked as if another was trying to teach one of the spearmen a song. Yet more of his men were standing by the makeshift bar, which was nothing more than planks laid atop four planed down tree stumps. These individuals were deep in conversation with a bunch of Gaulish women. Judging by the giggles and fluttering of eyelashes that was going on, they were getting along fine despite the language barrier.