by Ben Kane
Quintus looked around, startled. One of the centurions, a man in early middle age with deep-set eyes and a narrow face, was staring straight at him. ‘It looks it, sir.’
‘You’re here on business.’ He pointed at the parchment in Quintus’ fist.
‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to be taken as the spoilt son of a cavalry officer. He adopted a rougher accent than his usual one. ‘Have you any idea where I’d find Marcus Junius Corax, centurion of hastati in Longus’ First Legion?’
A sardonic smile. ‘Look no further. Why do you want me?’
‘This, sir.’ Quintus hurried forward. ‘It’s from Gaius Fabricius, cavalry commander.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’ Taking the parchment, Corax slit the wax seal and unrolled it. His lips moved silently as he read. ‘Interesting,’ he said after a moment.
Quintus didn’t hear. All his attention was on the nearest hastati, who were striving to knock one another over with great shoves of their scuta.
‘It’s filthy, dirty work,’ said Corax. ‘Not like the glory stuff the cavalry boys get to take part in.’
‘There isn’t too much glory being in the cavalry these days,’ Quintus replied bitterly.
‘No, I don’t suppose there is. I’ve heard good things about Fabricius, though.’
‘I’m sure you have, sir.’ Quintus failed to keep all the sarcasm from his voice.
He was relieved when Corax didn’t comment.
‘When does he want a reply?’
‘He just told me to wait, sir.’
‘Fine. I won’t be long.’ Corax barked an order, and his men pulled apart, their chests heaving. He stalked over to them and issued new orders. This time, his soldiers formed into two lines and began trotting up and down, at speed.
Quintus watched, fascinated. This was fitness training as he’d never seen it. The wooden training equipment was twice as heavy as the real thing, and soon the hastati were sweating heavily. That was when Corax had them sprint back and forth ten times. His father never had his men train this hard, thought Quintus critically. Just because they rode horses didn’t mean that it wasn’t a good idea. He wondered again what it would be like to fight on foot, surrounded by dozens of comrades. Would it feel better than being a cavalryman?
‘You’re interested.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ever thought of joining the infantry?’
Quintus struggled for an answer. His assumed accent, simple cloak and plain tunic had made Corax think he was nothing more than Fabricius’ servant. ‘As it happens, I have, sir.’
‘Well, we need velites as much as any type of soldier.’
Quintus tried to look pleased. His fantasy had been that of becoming a heavy infantryman, but Corax’s words had put a madcap plan into his head. For it ever to have any chance of becoming reality, he had to continue the charade. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your master might not be too happy, but we’d be pleased to have you. If you make it through the initial training, of course. Some officers don’t bother making the new recruits do too much, but not me.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’d be honoured.’ Would I? Quintus wondered. He’d heard it said before that the velites were the dregs at the bottom of the amphora. Yet joining their number would be better than the shame of being sent home. Of never serving in the army again.
‘Don’t be honoured. Give some serious thought to it. Rome needs men like you in its legions. After a year or two’s service, you could be promoted. Become a hastatus.’
Excitement gripped Quintus at that idea, but a twinge from his left arm put paid to any sudden decisions. Even if he were to start training with the velites, his injury would soon be discovered. Explaining away a wound that had been caused by an arrow would be nigh-on impossible. Besides, he needed time to consider his options. ‘I’ll think about it, sir.’
Corax studied him for a moment, but then his optio shouted a question and he was gone.
Yet by the time that Corax had scribbled a reply at the bottom of Fabricius’ message, Quintus’ mind was racing. With his father’s threats to send him home about to be realised, what better way was there of remaining in the army? Moving to another cavalry unit wouldn’t work – Fabricius certainly wouldn’t allow that, and every officer knew who he was anyway. But this, this might work. If he fought well, he’d be promoted to serve as a hastatus. It seemed a good plan, and Quintus’ stride was light as he made his way back to the cavalry lines. All he needed to implement it was for his left arm to regain its strength.
A few hours later, he wasn’t so sure. Calatinus’ initial reaction had been one of disbelief. ‘Your father won’t send you home, surely!’ he had cried. But when he’d seen that Quintus was convinced that that would happen, he had done his best to dissuade him from the idea of enlisting in the infantry. Quintus’ identity would be revealed in no time; thanks to his accent, his new comrades would never accept him; that was without considering the high casualty rates suffered by the velites in battle. (‘Remember the number of men we lost at the Trebia?’ Quintus had protested.) Yet it was Calatinus’ final shot which had hit home the hardest. ‘What about me?’ he’d asked. ‘You would leave me with no friends. Don’t do that to me, please.’
‘All right,’ Quintus had muttered, trying not to think of his father. ‘I’ll stay.’
Inside, however, he wasn’t sure how long he could stick it.
Etruria, spring
Feeling a tickle, Hanno brushed at the scar on his neck for the hundredth time. The flesh where the brand had burned him had healed, but for some reason, it attracted flies like a fresh cowpat. He swatted the air in frustration. ‘Piss off!’
‘There aren’t that many flies around, sir,’ said Mutt in a mild tone. ‘Count yourself lucky it’s not later in the year.’
‘They say the air is black with them then,’ added Sapho.
Hanno threw them both an irritable look, but they were right. He’d seen the midsummer clouds of midges over the marshy ground near Quintus’ home, knew what it was like to have every visible piece of flesh covered in bites. It was easy to find something else to be irritated about, however. There was a loud sucking sound as he pulled his left foot out of the calf-deep mud and tried to find a drier spot to step on to next. He failed. ‘This place is a hellhole,’ Hanno grumbled.
‘That it is, sir. And you’re going to find the way out of it, aren’t you?’
Hanno wondered if he was being mocked, but Mutt’s dirty face was as serene as a baby’s. ‘Yes. I am. Me, or Sapho here.’ His brother grinned at him. Not for the first time, Hanno wondered if his offer to Hannibal had been rash. A day earlier, he had gone to his general and asked to lead a reconnaissance party, his purpose to find a more rapid way through the marshes in which the army found itself. To his surprise and pleasure, Sapho had offered to come with him, ‘as moral support’, he’d put it.
Hanno had been grateful when Hannibal had acceded to his request. ‘One more set of scouts won’t do any harm. If anyone can find a way, you can. Being the lucky one that you are, eh?’ he’d growled, wiping at the reddish fluid that ran from under the bandage over his right eye. Despite being pleased at the praise, Hanno had had to force himself not to look away. Men said that Hannibal was going to go blind, that they were going to lose as many soldiers as they had during the crossing of the Alps. Hanno came down hard on anyone he heard spreading the rumours. Hannibal had brought his army over the Alps, in winter. His general would find a way through this, with or without him, Hanno had told himself. Yet here, in this godforsaken wilderness, without Hannibal, he didn’t feel quite so certain.
‘Maybe the army should have taken a different path,’ he muttered.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ retorted Sapho.
Hanno sighed. ‘I know. There was little else we could do without a fight.’ With the arrival of spring, word had come that Gaius Flaminius, one of the new consuls, had moved his legions to Arretium, in the Apennines. Hannibal�
�s response was to avoid Flaminius by crossing the floodplain of the River Arnus, which ran westwards to the sea through the heart of Etruria.
‘It’s been difficult, but the ploy has worked,’ said Sapho. ‘There’s been no sign of Roman troops for several days.’
‘Course not! Why would they even think of marching in here?’ Hanno gestured angrily at the water all around them.
‘It will soon be over,’ declared Sapho jovially.
Hanno let out an irritable grunt by way of reply. Things had been getting steadily worse since they had entered the delta. Thanks to heavy spring rains, the Arnus was running a lot higher than normal. With much of the land covered in water, often the only method of finding a way through was to choose a path and start walking. This proved hazardous in the extreme, with scores of men drowning in deep pools, or being swept away by powerful, unseen currents. The pack animals were no less susceptible. Some panicked and swam away from their handlers to a certain death. Others sank to their bellies in the mire and could not be extricated. The more fortunate of these beasts were slaughtered, but many were just stripped of everything that could be carried and abandoned. As things deteriorated, the same had happened to men. A careless step off the path taken by those in front could be fatal. Trapped in glutinous mud up to their chests or chins, the trapped soldiers had begged to be saved. At first, men tried to help their comrades but as lives were lost in repeated unsuccessful attempts, they gave up. Hanno’s phalanx had been lucky to lose only three men. The unit Bomilcar had been assigned to had had many times that number of casualties. Unwilling to leave his soldiers to suffocate in the mud, Hanno had ended their suffering himself with a bow.
The Gauls had been most badly affected by the savage conditions. After a number had deserted, Hannibal had ordered the undisciplined warriors into the middle of the column. The Iberian and Libyan infantry had taken the van, while the heavy cavalry made up the rear. The Numidian horsemen under Mago, Hannibal’s brother, had prevented any escape on the flanks. The move had prevented mass desertion, thought Hanno bleakly, but it had not stopped men’s spirits from being sucked ever downwards, like the poor bastards who’d suffocated in the mud. He had been grateful for Bostar’s and his father’s ability to remain steadfast in the face of difficulty. Even Sapho had been a help, making macabre jokes about the worst things he’d seen. Yet despite his family’s support, the horror had continued.
The temperatures had risen just enough for any fresh provisions to rot, meaning hunger became a new enemy. Stocks of water and wine had run low, forcing men to drink from the river. Inevitably, many who did so went down with vomiting and diarrhoea. Most were able to continue the march but some became too weak to go on. Like the trapped mules, they were left behind. Night-time, a usual source of respite, had been no better. Conditions had been so damp that fires had proved impossible to light. Cold, ravenous and with nowhere dry to lie down, soldiers had tried to sleep on top of their equipment. Hanno had even seen men dozing on the corpses of dead mules.
Going to Hannibal hadn’t just been about regaining his general’s approval, therefore. Anything had to be better than trudging through a mire without end, in a world that consisted of only sky and water. Hanno hadn’t been surprised when almost every spearman in his phalanx had volunteered to go with him. In the end, he’d taken twenty of the strongest soldiers. He would have preferred to leave Mutt in charge, but the dour officer would not be left behind. ‘I lost you once before, and I’m not having it happen again,’ he’d muttered. ‘And I owe you one.’
Hanno glanced at Mutt again, deciding that his comment a moment before had been genuine, not sardonic. During a clash with a Roman patrol before reaching Victumulae, he had saved his second-in-command’s life. He hadn’t done it to ensure Mutt’s loyalty, but the fact that that had been one of the results felt good. Hanno determined to live up to Mutt’s devotion. He had to prove himself to Sapho too.
They had left the column behind at dawn, taking only their spears, some water and food. Hanno judged that it was now some time after midday. They’d been gone for more than five hours and, in that time, hadn’t found any dry ground that persisted for more than a few score paces. Everywhere he looked, there was still endless water. Grateful that the clouds had parted, Hanno checked the position of the sun. At least he could use that to maintain a rough course to the south. They would keep moving in that direction and, with the gods’ help, find a path that the army could take.
He trudged on, each step feeling more difficult than the last.
Time passed, and the sun fell towards the western horizon. The midges continued to focus on Hanno’s neck. The scar ached, his belly grumbled and his throat was parched. The clods of mud on his feet grew so heavy that he was forced to stop and scrape them off from time to time. He didn’t know why he bothered. The relief granted lasted on average all of twenty steps before the operation needed to be repeated. Hanno began to think that a fight against a Roman force far stronger than his own would be preferable. Anything to stop the torment.
His gaze roamed from left to right, taking in the usual clumps of rushes. Beyond them, far away, a line of trees. And something else. ‘What’s that?’
‘What, sir?’ Using his spear as a crutch, Mutt squelched to his side.
‘That.’ Hanno pointed slightly off to their left.
Mutt squinted for a moment, and then his dour expression cracked. ‘It’s a small boat, sir.’
‘By all the gods, so it is,’ said Sapho.
Hanno fought his excitement. They’d seen hardly a soul since entering the floodplain. It wasn’t surprising that the local inhabitants had fled, but it had meant there had been no chance to hire guides. ‘It’ll be someone fishing.’
‘Could be, sir,’ said Mutt.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Sapho, making no attempt to take charge.
‘If they see twenty of us, they’ll vanish.’
‘You’re not going on your own, sir,’ said Mutt at once.
‘I’ll come,’ offered Sapho.
Hanno’s lips tugged into a smile. ‘You’re like two old women. But I suppose I’d better not go alone, or I’ll never hear the end of it.’
Even though there was precious little dry ground to sit on, the spearmen were content at the idea of a break. Ordering them to keep out of sight, Hanno set off with Sapho. They left their helmets and shields behind, taking just their spears. A peasant would be terrified by the sight of soldiers – any soldiers – so Hanno wanted to pose as little threat as possible.
They crept along quietly. Hanno was so busy watching the boat through the breaks in the rushes and shrubby bushes that he paid less heed to where he was going than before. Suddenly, the ground underfoot vanished. He lurched forward into a deep pool, remembering somehow not to cry out, for fear of alerting their quarry. As the water closed over his head, Hanno struck out with one arm, trying to right himself. The other arm was useless to swim with thanks to his spear, yet he instinctively clung on to it. He reached down with tiptoes, trying to find the bottom.
After what felt like eternity, he felt something solid. Relief turned to horror as his right sandal sank deep into mud. His arms splashed the surface as he struggled to free it. He thrashed about with his other leg, but it made no difference. Water sloshed into Hanno’s open mouth, and he began to cough, in the process swallowing some more. It was difficult to keep his chin above the surface. His eyes were blurred, full of water. Panic tore at him. I could easily drown here, he thought. His head spun frantically, looking for Sapho. If he reached out with his spear, his brother might be able to drag him out.
It might have been Hanno’s imagination, but as he focused on Sapho’s face, he could have sworn it bore a curious, satisfied look, like that on a cat’s when it has trapped a mouse. Hanno blinked, and it was gone. ‘Help!’ he hissed. ‘My foot is stuck in the mud.’
‘I thought you were enjoying a swim.’
It was an odd time to make a joke, thought Hanno. He was so
desperate, however, that the thought vanished. ‘Can you reach this?’ He shoved his spear in Sapho’s direction.
Using his own weapon to probe for secure footing, Sapho moved a few steps towards him. Before long, he was able to grab the spear’s tip. ‘Hold on!’
Hanno had rarely felt so relieved as he did when he felt his sandal suck free of the mud at the bottom. Drowning was not the way he wanted to die. The damp soggy ground beneath his feet felt wonderful. ‘Thanks.’
‘Anything for a brother. You all right?’
‘Just wet, but that’s nothing new.’
Sapho clapped him on the shoulder, and they moved on, using their spears to assess the water’s depth with even more care than before. Fortunately, the ground became a little drier for some distance, allowing them to close in on the boat. At about two hundred paces, Hanno reckoned that its occupant hadn’t been disturbed by the noise of his immersion. The craft had not moved at all. The figure within was busy leaning over the side, adjusting what looked like a fishing net. Hanno’s pace picked up. Perhaps another thirty paces later, his foot came out of the mud with an extra loud sucking noise. He cursed and ducked down, but it was too late. The figure stiffened, stared in their direction and straightaway began pulling his net out of the water.
Shit, thought Hanno. This was what he’d worried would happen.
‘He’ll be long gone before we can get close,’ observed Sapho dourly.
‘I know.’ Hanno cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Help!’ he shouted in Latin.
The fisherman’s urgency did not waver.
‘Come on,’ said Hanno. ‘The instant that he’s taken in that net, he’ll be gone.’
Half walking, half swimming, they managed to narrow the gap by half before the last strands of the net had been heaved aboard. The fisherman seized his oars and set them in the rowlocks. Leaning forward, he began to row.
Utter frustration took Hanno. ‘Please,’ he roared. ‘Help us, please! We mean you no harm.’
The figure stared at them, hesitated and then renewed his efforts at the oars.
