by Ben Kane
On the other side, the wagons were moving off, guarded by some of the Libyans who had made it across. A rearguard remained, safely out of javelin range, perhaps a hundred soldiers and all of the Numidians. Hanno recognised a familiar figure at the Libyans’ head: Mutt. At least his second-in-command had made it, he thought with some satisfaction. He glanced at the ford. None of the Romans were attempting to cross, but there were far too many of them standing around for him to be able to enter the water at that point. There was nothing for it: he would have to swim. That meant taking off his cuirass. In his current state, Hanno didn’t feel strong enough to brave the crossing with its extra weight. By removing his armour, however, he would expose himself as an enemy. The Romans would turn on him like a pack of feral dogs. He swallowed. Just act as if everything is entirely normal, he decided.
Heart pounding, Hanno walked to a point on the bank where there were fewer legionaries, shedding his baldric as he did. At the water’s edge, he didn’t look back. Fiddling with the buckles at the side of his cuirass, he undid them. He reached for the upper ones. The effort – and the pain that caused – was too much for him. He paused, waiting until his strength returned a little.
‘You! What in Pluto’s name do you think you’re doing?’
Panic constricted Hanno’s throat. With a final effort, he managed to undo the last buckle. The breastplate dropped from his arms, landing at his feet with a metallic thump. Angry shouts came from his rear; he heard the noise of men running towards him. He didn’t dare to check how close they were. Taking a deep breath, he jumped in, feet first. The river was much colder than he’d remembered. Coming up to the surface in a fountain of water, he took in a lungful of air and began swimming for the opposite bank. By now, he could hear a chorus of angry voices behind him. Don’t let any of them come after me, he begged. He hadn’t the reserves left to fight another man, out of his depth. A familiar sound, a rush of air, and a pilum hit the surface not five paces to his left. His head twisted. A line of legionaries had formed, several of whom had javelins. Wagers and jokes were being traded over who would hit him first. Nausea washed over Hanno. They were no more than fifteen paces away – easy killing range.
Damn them all, he thought, turning away and kicking his arms and legs. On he swam, expecting with each heartbeat to feel the agony of a pilum striking him in the back. Five strokes. Ten. In the distance, Hanno heard more shouts. They might have been from the Carthaginian side of the river, but he wasn’t sure. Another javelin hit the water behind him. At last he drew close enough to the bank to try putting his feet down. The feeling of mud beneath his feet was incredible, euphoric. Only the luckiest of throws would hit him at this stage.
‘Let’s get you out of there.’
Shocked, Hanno looked up to see a hand reaching down to him. Incredibly, it belonged to Mutt.
The hand beckoned. ‘It’s not a bath you’re having! Come on, sir.’
‘Thank you!’ Grinning like a fool, Hanno reached up and accepted the grip. As Mutt heaved him on to dry land, he saw a dozen or more Numidians riding up and down, hurling abuse and spears in equal measure at the Romans. The legionaries had prudently withdrawn out of range. ‘I reckon that makes us even, eh?’
A rare smile. ‘Maybe, sir.’
‘You saw me, then?’
Mutt led him away from the bank. ‘One of the lads did, sir. I thought he was making it up, but the spray of water you sent up gave the lie to that. Only one of our lot would have jumped in the water, so I told the Numidians to give whoever it was covering volleys of spears. For all Sapho’s orders, I couldn’t just ignore the poor bastard – you, sir.’ Mutt chuckled. ‘Begging your pardon.’
‘Sapho’s orders?’ repeated Hanno stupidly.
‘Yes, sir. Once we’d reached this side, I sent word to him that you weren’t with us and asking for permission to lead a group back over to look for you.’
Hanno’s heart filled. ‘Wanting to die today, were you?’
‘I didn’t get the chance, sir. Sapho said that the grain was all that mattered now and that we had to move it fast, in case the Romans crossed the river.’
‘Harsh, but true,’ muttered Hanno. He caught the way Mutt’s mouth turned down. ‘What?’ There was no immediate answer, so he asked again.
‘He didn’t seem overly concerned that it was you I was talking about, sir,’ admitted Mutt reluctantly. ‘It was as if you were just another soldier, not his brother.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Hanno, brushing it off. ‘It’s not as if he had time to sit and think about it. There was every possibility that the Romans would counter-attack, that he might still lose the grain. His priority was to see it delivered to our camp, nothing else.’
‘If you say so, sir.’ Mutt’s face told a different story, however.
Hanno refused to give credence to the idea that Sapho might have wished him ill when he’d ordered his phalanx to retreat without warning. It was too shocking, too harsh. He shoved the matter from his mind as they walked slowly towards the rearguard. The grain and wine had not been lost; the army would be fed. He was alive. Not too many of their men had been lost. Hannibal would be pleased.
That was what was important. That was enough.
Chapter XV
SAPHO’S FACE WAS the picture of surprise when he first saw Hanno appear. Hanno wondered if there was a flicker of another emotion in his brother’s eyes, but it was gone so fast that he could not be sure. Sapho enveloped him in a bear hug, gave thanks to every god in the pantheon and insisted that they crack open one of the amphorae that they’d seized. ‘We’ll drink as we march,’ he shouted. ‘After an adventure like that, we deserve it!’ Hanno’s head was still thumping with pain, but, delighted at his semi-miraculous escape, he again buried his concern that Sapho might have intended him to die. Yet he welcomed the dulling of his senses granted by the wine. Mutt and the rest of the officers were also thirsty. Once it was clear that there would be no pursuit, they let the men start drinking too. The march back to the camp passed in a blur of singing, bawdy jokes and increasingly inflated versions of what they had all done. By the time that Hannibal arrived to take a look at the wagons, they were both the worse for wear.
Hanno’s palms grew slick with sweat as their general came to hear their account. What would the punishment be for drunkenness? he wondered. His worries were unfounded. Hannibal listened attentively to Sapho, smiled as Hanno recounted his mad charge at the enemy cavalry and clapped him on the shoulder when he’d finished. ‘Not only have you brought back all the grain, which is much needed, but you did it even when ambushed by a superior force. Casualties?’
‘Between fifty and sixty men, sir,’ replied Sapho. ‘Plenty of walking wounded, but most of them will recover.’
‘I can ill afford to lose my Libyans,’ said Hannibal, ‘but it seems that today I was lucky not to lose more. Both of you have done well today. My thanks.’ His gaze moved to Hanno’s water skin. ‘I presume there’s wine in that?’
‘Er, yes, sir.’ Hanno felt his cheeks redden.
‘Does a man have to die of thirst around here before he gets offered a drink?’
‘Of course not, sir.’ Grinning with relief, Hanno handed it over.
And that had been that. Hannibal had shared a drink with them and, with a last congratulation, departed, calling for his quartermaster. ‘The wagonloads of grain, oil and wine need to be divided up.’
Hanno had needed no further excuse to get uproariously drunk. He was grateful to Sapho for asking him on the patrol, to Mutt for rescuing him and to Hannibal for recognising what they had done. For the moment, all was well with the world and it seemed as if things could only get better. There was the matter of Aurelia, of course, but he drowned out thoughts of her with more wine. He was vaguely aware of Mutt helping him back to his tent long after sundown and that was it.
Hanno woke with a bad hangover and a mouth that tasted as if something had died in it. The pain from the blow to his head w
as no worse than it had been the day before, which told him that no lasting damage had been done. Regretting the excesses of the patrol’s aftermath a little, he struggled outside his tent and emptied a bucket of water over his head. There were knowing smiles from a few of his men, but he was too weary to care. Even officers were allowed to relax now and again. A few mouthfuls of wine and a piece of stale bread taken sitting in the sun restored him somewhat. His duties were calling, but Hanno decided that they could wait. Mutt would be taking care of things anyway. The new equipment he now needed would still be in the quartermaster’s stores later on. For the moment, he could rest on the laurels of what they’d done the previous day.
‘Here he is, the hero of the hour. Dozing!’
Hanno’s eyes jerked open. Sapho was standing over him, the trace of a mocking smile playing over his lips. He fought his irritation. ‘There’s nothing needs doing that Mutt can’t deal with right now.’
‘How’s the head?’
‘Not too bad. And yours?’
Sapho shrugged. ‘A little tender, but it will soon pass.’
‘We did well yesterday,’ said Hanno.
‘Indeed we did. You’re not a boy any longer.’
‘No, I’m not. I’ve been through too much since I was washed out to sea with Suni that day.’ Hanno fingered his scar. Many of his memories were dark and unpleasant and better forgotten. ‘Maybe I should have listened to you, eh?’
Unbelievably, Sapho’s chest puffed up. ‘Well, I haven’t said so before, but—’
Hanno’s irritation became real anger. ‘Piss off, Sapho! You always know best, eh? You didn’t have a clue a storm would blow up that day any more than I did. Admit it: you were just being your usual overbearing self by trying to stop me and Suni going fishing.’
Sapho’s face went bright red. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’
‘I’ll do as I please,’ Hanno retorted, getting to his feet. ‘Just fucking try and stop me. I’ll soon put you right.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ Sapho’s eyes glittered with anger.
Breathing hard, they glared at each other. Hanno was not prepared to back down. He’d had enough of being the younger brother, the one who was patronised. After the patrol’s success, he’d assumed that Sapho would see him through different eyes. Clearly not. In that moment, all his concerns about his brother’s previous actions returned to haunt him. Did Sapho yet hold a grudge against him? he thought furiously. He wanted to leap upon his brother, fists pounding, but to his surprise, Sapho made a conciliatory move.
‘I didn’t come here for an argument,’ he said.
‘I didn’t invite you in for one,’ Hanno admitted. He stuck out his jaw, unwilling to give any more ground without good reason. ‘What did you come here for?’
‘I was going to invite you on a hunt. The mountains on the peninsula to the east are reported to be rich in game.’
‘Now?’ Riding all day was the last thing Hanno wanted to do, hunt or not.
‘No, tomorrow.’
‘We’d need permission to go that far, surely?’
Sapho couldn’t stop his smugness from returning. ‘There’s no need to worry. Mago is coming too.’
‘Mago?’ Hanno had been in the same tent as Hannibal’s brother a number of times, but never done more than exchange polite greetings with him. Sapho, on the other hand, had been with Mago – and Bostar – when he’d led two thousand men to ambush the Romans’ rear at the Trebia. They must have hit it off well since, Hanno thought. Sapho’s star was indeed rising if he now hobnobbed with one of the most senior officers in the army.
‘Yes. He tried to persuade Hannibal to join us, but had no luck. Our general is too busy. He’s given his blessing to the expedition, though,’ Sapho drawled. ‘Says it will do us all good. Especially for you and me, after the patrol.’
‘Who else is going?’
‘Bostar, Cuttinus. A few other phalanx commanders. The Numidian Zamar will be there too. That was his condition for lending us the horses.’
Hanno’s enthusiasm grew. He got on well with Bostar. Zamar and Cuttinus, another phalanx commander, were good company too. ‘Father?’
‘No! You know what he’s like,’ answered Sapho with a laugh. ‘He’s far too serious.’
Hanno chuckled at the truth of that. ‘I’d love to tag along.’
The tension eased at once. Sapho slapped a hand off his knee. ‘Excellent. The more, the merrier.’
‘Have some more wine,’ said Hanno, leaning over to pour.
‘I don’t mind if I do.’ Sapho smacked his lips after swallowing. ‘That’s not bad stuff. Where did you get it?’
‘It’s some of what we took on the patrol.’
‘You didn’t steal it from the whorehouse then?’ Sapho smirked, and Hanno fought his irritation again. ‘Peace,’ said his brother, raising a hand, ‘I don’t want to start fighting again.’
Hanno grunted, not in a friendly way but not arguing either.
‘Just think,’ said Sapho after a moment. ‘We’re here in a shitting tent. All right, we’ve got some half-decent wine, but we’ve frozen our balls off all winter. Soon, we’ll be baking in summer heat. Suni, however, has probably been enjoying the spring sunshine in Carthage. Drinking in one of the inns near the Choma. Maybe he’s even balling a whore right now, while we’re stuck in the arsehole of Italy with nothing better to talk about than hunting. Have you thought about that?’
The wine coursed through Hanno’s veins. He scowled at his brother. ‘Suni’s not doing any of those things.’
‘Eh?’ scoffed Sapho. ‘Have you learned to divine the future, or to read men’s minds from afar?’
‘He’s fucking dead!’ shouted Hanno, his anger bubbling over again. ‘He’s rotting in a grave near Capua.’
‘Dead? How can you be sure?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I just know.’
Sapho’s eyes grew calculating. ‘You can only have found that out when you left your men that time. My gods, did you go back to the estate where you’d been enslaved?’
Hanno stared at the glowing wood in the brazier and said nothing.
‘You must have.’
‘I talked to a slave there, yes. I wanted to find out if Suni had left safely. You remember that I told you he’d been injured.’ Let him swallow that, Hanno thought. It wasn’t so far from the truth.
Sapho’s eyes studied his for a moment before they dropped away. ‘You two were always thick as thieves. It’s a damn shame that he’s dead. What happened to him?’
‘He’d been found in the woods – I don’t know how – and taken in as a runaway. He played dumb, but for some reason the overseer became suspicious of him. The bastard accused Suni of stealing a knife from the kitchens,’ lied Hanno. ‘He was executed in punishment.’
‘Fucking Romans. They’re bloodthirsty savages.’ Sapho drew a hand across his throat. ‘This for them all.’
Except Aurelia. And Quintus. Even their parents weren’t all bad. Hanno grunted in agreement, relieved that his brother appeared to have accepted his story. ‘Forget about the Romans. There’ll be time enough to think about them in the months to come. Tell me about this hunt. Have we any hounds?’
Sapho nodded happily. ‘We’re taking along a group of Gauls to use as beaters. Some of them have hunting dogs.’
‘It looks to be a promising outing, then. We will be sure to find some game.’
‘I haven’t hunted since before we crossed the River Rhodanus.’
‘And I since leaving Carthage!’
They grinned at one another, their argument forgotten – temporarily at least.
Spring was well under way, but the chill had been evident through Hanno’s blankets nonetheless. It was nothing like the winter had been, however. He had grown used to extreme weather by now, but he was still glad that the worst of it had passed some time since. As he emerged from his tent, he smiled at the beauty of the dawn. Above, the rising sun had turned the sky every imaginable sh
ade of red, orange and pink. The rock-hard ground glittered with dew; here and there it was possible to see lines of footprints made by men who had been up before the dawn. A layer of condensation coated every tent in sight. Plumes of exhaled breath meandered up from between them, marking the path of walking soldiers. Grey clouds of it hung over the cavalry’s horse pens. Little trails of smoke rose from the cooking fires that had been lit.
Hanno stamped his feet, already glad that he had donned socks before lacing up his boots. Underneath his woollen cloak, he was wearing a thick tunic. Remembering the tale of Quintus’ bear hunt, he had impulsively put on a mail shirt as well, cinching it at the waist with a belt. Hanno had seen the tusks on dead boars at Quintus’ house. The risk might be small, but it wasn’t worth taking. One thrust to the groin or the belly and a man’s life was over. He put the macabre idea from his mind, offering up a quick prayer. Today would be about companionship and good sport, nothing else. He shook his limbs. It was time to find Mutt and make a quick circuit of his men’s tents before shovelling down a bowl of porridge and meeting the others.
A couple of hours later and Hanno had almost forgotten that he was a soldier at war in a foreign land. The countryside was empty of life, its inhabitants long since fled to the safety of areas unoccupied by the Carthaginians. The nearest Roman forces lay to the north and west. With no need to worry about enemy troops, the camaraderie of the hunt had taken over. They travelled at an easy pace across the open farmland, a large group of men laughing and joking among themselves. At the rear, a dozen or more Gauls trotted along, armed with spears. In front of several of the warriors, big, rough-coated hounds strained at their leashes. Behind them came a handful of servants, leading mules laden down with small tents and provisions, insurance against a possible night outdoors.
