by Ben Kane
The slaves detailed to guard the house’s entrance were waiting by the door, clubs in hand. ‘Open the viewing port,’ she ordered. They eyed her warily, but when Lucius jerked his head, they rushed to obey. Swallowing her irritation that they had not done so at her command, Aurelia stepped up to the narrow rectangular opening. It was an unusual feature, but it meant the occupants could see whether it was safe to admit potential visitors. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight outside. A sturdy figure in a filthy, bloody tunic stood with his back to her. A battered helmet, missing its feathers, covered his head; a square plate protected the upper part of his torso front and back; she could see that he was armed with a sword. By the set of his slumped shoulders, he was exhausted.
‘Well?’ hissed Lucius.
‘He’s facing in the other direction.’ Aurelia coughed to attract the soldier’s attention.
He turned, and her mouth fell open. The unexpected uniform, the line of scabs on his jaw, the rings beneath his grey eyes, the layer of grime on every part of his exposed skin could not conceal who it was. ‘Quintus!’
‘Aurelia?’ He covered the ground to the door in a heartbeat. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, yes, it is I!’ Weeping with joy, she ripped at the bolts.
‘It’s your brother?’ Lucius was by her side, helping.
‘Yes. Thank all the gods, he’s alive!’
Brother and sister fell into each other’s arms the instant the door opened. They clung to one another with a fierceness and a joy that neither had ever felt before. Uncaring of who might see or hear, that Quintus stank of sweat and blood, that Lucius might disapprove, Aurelia sobbed her heart out. He shook with emotion, but shed no tears, instead transferring his feelings into their embrace.
‘I thought you had joined the socii infantry,’ said Aurelia eventually, remembering his letter.
‘I only said that in case Father tried to find me.’
She laughed. ‘What does it matter where you were? I cannot believe you are here. The news was so bad. It seemed impossible that you could have survived.’
He pulled back a little and gave her a sad smile. ‘I damn near didn’t.’ She let out another laugh, but nervous this time, and his face grew even more serious. ‘It was Corax, my centurion, who saved us. He kept the maniple together even when the units around us were collapsing and trying to flee. Rounded up a few more men. Spotted the weak point in the enemy line and smashed a hole in it wide enough for us to escape. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Thank all the gods! Have you seen Father, or heard any news of him? Or of Gaius?’ Or Hanno? she wanted to add, even though he could have no way of knowing that.
‘Gaius I have seen, but Father . . .’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘He wasn’t among the few cavalrymen who joined up with us at Canusium after our retreat, nor with those who straggled in over the following couple of days. Word came that about fifty riders had escaped with the consul Varro to Venusia, so I went there as well. I had no joy.’ A heavy sigh. ‘I would have searched the battlefield, massive as it is, but the enemy camp is still close by. To venture anywhere near the place is to commit suicide.’
Aurelia’s heart sank. ‘You did what you could. We will pray that he reappears out of nowhere, like you and Gaius,’ she said, determined to remain positive. ‘If one miracle can happen, why not two?’
He nodded. ‘Let us hope so.’
It was even possible that Hanno had not been killed, thought Aurelia. She did not feel traitorous for adding him to her prayers. ‘Come in. Mother will be overjoyed to see you.’
His face lit up. ‘Martialis said I would find her here too.’ Entering, he offered his hand to Lucius. ‘My pardon for not introducing myself immediately. I am Aurelia’s brother, Quintus Fabricius. You must be Aurelia’s husband.’
‘Lucius Vibius Melito,’ said Lucius, clasping Quintus’ hand with his own. ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘Likewise. My congratulations on your union.’ He saw Lucius staring at his garb. ‘You’re wondering why I am dressed as an ordinary hastatus?’
‘It is . . . unusual,’ Lucius replied, a little awkwardly.
‘I never would have imagined you as an infantryman,’ said Aurelia, smiling.
‘It’s a long story. I can tell you later.’
‘This way.’ Aurelia led the way, eager to find their mother. ‘Have you been granted leave?’
A derisive snort. ‘No one has been allowed that. Varro is gradually regrouping the army, but it will take weeks before order is restored. So many of the officers are dead; the majority of men have been separated from their units – if those units even exist any more. Basically, it’s complete chaos. Corax told us that he wouldn’t “notice” if any of his men wanted to go and visit their families, as long as we swore to return within a couple of weeks. He said that the consuls had’ – here he threw an embarrassed look at Lucius – ‘fucked up so much that we were entitled to it. Gaius has had no such luck. His commander is a complete martinet. I had to carry the good news of his survival to Martialis on his behalf.’
‘Your centurion sounds like quite a man,’ said Lucius thoughtfully.
A gurgling cry from Publius carried down the hallway. Quintus laughed. ‘That must be your baby. Martialis spoke fondly of him.’
Aurelia beamed. ‘It’s our son, Publius. He was born a few weeks ago.’
‘It is good to know that life is still entering the world.’ The light in Quintus’ eyes darkened for a moment, but he rallied himself. ‘It’s another reason to raise a toast.’
‘Life goes on. Publius is part of the new generation,’ said Aurelia, remembering with dread how she’d taunted the gods, and praying that nothing further came of it. ‘Mother says that he looks a little like you at the same age.’
‘Aha! I cannot wait to meet him.’ Quintus grinned and for the first time, Aurelia really saw her brother again through the grime. On impulse, she entwined her arm with his.
‘It is so wonderful to see you!’
‘And you, sister. After what has happened, I did not think ever to see such a happy day again.’
Walking with Quintus and Lucius to find her son and Atia, Aurelia let her heart sing. Her grief for her father had not diminished, but she would return to it another time. For now, she would live in this moment. Rejoice that her remaining family had been reunited, and that Gaius had also come through the inferno of Cannae. Cherish in her heart the hope that, somewhere to the south, Hanno was alive too.
After the horror of the previous days, that seemed enough.
Author’s Note
When the opportunity to write a set of novels about the Second Punic War (218–201 BC) came my way, I jumped at the chance. I have been fascinated by the time period since I was a boy, and I, like many, regard this as one of history’s most hallowed episodes. The word ‘epic’ is overused today, but I feel that its use is justified with reference to this seventeen-year struggle, the balance of which was uncertain on so many occasions. If it had tipped but a fraction in the opposite direction during a number of those situations, life in Europe today would be very different. The Carthaginians were quite unlike the Romans, and not in all the bad ways ‘history’ would have us believe. They were intrepid explorers and inveterate traders, shrewd businessmen and brave soldiers. Where Rome’s interests so often lay in conquest by war, theirs lay more in assuming power through controlling commerce and natural resources. It may be a small point, but my use of the word ‘Carthaginian’ rather than the Latin ‘Punic’ when referring to their language is quite deliberate. The Carthaginians would not have used the latter term.
Many readers will know the broad brush strokes of Hannibal’s war with Rome; others will know less; a very few will be voracious readers of the ancient authors Livy and Polybius, the main sources for this period. For the record, I have done my best to stick to the historical details that have survived. In places, however, I have either changed even
ts slightly to fit in with the story’s development, or invented things. Such is the novelist’s remit, as well as his/her bane. If I have made any errors, I apologise for them.
The term ‘Italy’ was in use in the third century BC as a geographical expression; it encompassed the entire peninsula south of Liguria and Cisalpine Gaul. The term did not become a political one until Polybius’ time (mid second century BC). I decided to use it anyway. It simplified matters, and avoided constant reference to the different parts of the Republic: Rome, Campania, Latium, Lucania, etc.
Describing Carthaginian soldiers, both native and non-native, is a whole minefield of its own. We have little historical information about the uniforms that Carthaginian citizens and the host of nationalities who fought for them wore, or the type of equipment and weapons that they carried. Without several textbooks and articles, which I’ll name later, I would have been lost. A little more detail survives about the Roman army of the time, but it’s still a case of having to make assumptions and logical leaps of faith. Another obstacle course to negotiate was Carthaginian names. Basically, there aren’t very many, or at least not many that have survived the test of time. Most of the ones that have come down to us are unpronounceable, or sound awful. Some are both! Hillesbaal and Ithobaal don’t exactly roll off the tongue. I could not stop myself from using Muttumbaal, however. There’s a modern ring to the nickname ‘Mutt’! There were a number of important historical characters named Hanno, but I desperately needed a good name for my hero, and they were in very short supply, hence the choice.
The novel begins soon after the first in the series, Hannibal: Enemy of Rome, ended. Not much is known of Hannibal’s activities in the few months after his victory at the Trebbia. A town named Victumulae was sacked by his forces, however, and its population put to the sword. The terrible trek through the floodplain of the River Arno happened; in the process, Hannibal is known to have lost an eye. The stunning ambush at Lake Trasimene took place much as I’ve described. My attempt to produce words that sounded like the Gauls’ carnyxes came about after listening repeatedly to John Kenny, a modern musician, playing a modern replica of this vertical trumpet. It sounds terrifying. Listen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYM0xB5Jrc0.
In my opinion, the best detail about Trasimene is that you can still visit its exact location, a unique selling point when it comes to ancient battlefields. The sites of such clashes have almost always been lost. Not so Trasimene, because the natural features described by the ancient historians (the lakeshore, the pinch point etc.) are so unusual and because they can still be identified today. If you can, go there in late June one year, when Italian and Spanish re-enactors recreate the battle. It’s an amazing sight, as well as a wonderful part of Italy.
However unlikely it is that an equestrian would have abandoned his exalted position to join up as a lowly veles, it wouldn’t be the first time that a young man did something that makes no sense. Think Beau Geste! Besides, I had to come up with a way to take Quintus away from the cavalry. In my mind, he had to be a legionary at Cannae. The oath he took is very similar to the one made by soldiers to this day.
The re-equipping of Hannibal’s Libyans with Roman armour is known to have happened. We don’t know if they were also armed with enemy weapons and trained to fight differently, but it makes sense that they might have been. The dramatic ruse of the burning torches tied to the horns of cattle is recorded. So too are the details of the marriage ceremony. I have changed the wording of the marital vow, however. For the record – and I wish I’d made this clear in earlier books – it was not unusual for a girl of Aurelia’s age to be wed. There are still places in the world today where it is normal for girls to marry this young, so let’s not be surprised that it took place in Rome two thousand years ago! For those of you who find my use of the Fword/F-bomb objectionable or even ‘incorrect’, I say to you that the Romans were incredibly foulmouthed. Why not look up the Latin verb ‘futuere’ as well? It means ‘to fuck’. That’s enough evidence for me, and the end of my mini-rant.
It’s also important to remember that women occupied a far lower station in life in ancient Rome than they do in our society today. Although they were not without power, their main role in life was to produce children and to oversee the running of a family home. Little is known of Roman midwifery, but I have used what information I could find. ‘Kicking the enemy in the stomach’ is a phrase that survives from this time. Minucius Flaccus was a fictitious character (in the first novel), but Minucius Rufus, his brother, was a real man who served as Master of the Horse under Fabius, the ‘Delayer’, who was also known as Verrucosus (‘Warty’).
Many of you had probably heard of Cannae before you read this book. It’s no surprise that you had, and that the battle is still talked about nearly 2,200 years after it happened. For more than two millennia, it was one of, if not the, bloodiest day of combat ever to take place. It wasn’t until the invention of the machine gun and the outbreak of the First World War that a greater number of casualties were caused by a single battle. On the morning of the battle, nearly 130,000 soldiers and around 16,000 horses were packed into an area of a few square kilometres. By the end of the day, in excess of 50,000 Roman troops were dead. Beside them on the field lay 8,000 or so of Hannibal’s men. But it isn’t just the scale of the casualties that makes Cannae so remarkable: it is the ingenuity of Hannibal’s plan, and the discipline with which it was executed.
In ancient times, officers usually lost the power to control most of their men from the moment that battle commenced. There were no radios or walkie-talkies to communicate with, and it would have been impossible to see what was going on outside one’s immediate surroundings. Battles were therefore often won by the side that led the best initial charge, say, or the side that achieved the first major advantage. Hannibal could not have been instructing his senior officers on the wings or among his cavalry during the fighting, which tells us that they knew in advance what he expected of them. What is more, they fulfilled their duty. It was relatively unsurprising that the Carthaginian heavy cavalry should succeed in driving off their Roman counterparts – they were a superior force in every way. However, for them to refrain from pursuing their fleeing enemies and to set about first one task – aiding the Numidians to attack the socii horsemen – and then another – falling upon the rear of the Roman bloc of legionaries – was truly remarkable. So too was the manner in which the Gaulish and Iberian infantry held against overwhelming enemy numbers. The fact that they were able to regroup and return to the fray after being broken is also incredible, this being unheard of in ancient warfare.
The battlefield of Cannae was farmland in 216 BC and it still is today, which means that a visit there is incredibly atmospheric. A hill rises conveniently close to the site, affording a bird’s-eye view of the entire area. I urge you to visit it if you can. It lies a short distance to the west of the town of Barletta in Apulia, and only 50 kilometres north of Bari airport, which is serviced by budget airlines. I have been to Cannae three times now, and each visit brings a new appreciation of the place. I shot a short video piece there in November 2012, which can be seen at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91-xrPJl0lg&feature=youtu.be.
After a defeat of the magnitude of Cannae, most ancient peoples would have surrendered. Yet the depths of Roman determination knew no bounds. Even though their standing army had all but been wiped off the face of the earth, they would not give in. Their strength of character in remaining defiant at such a time is amazing, and to be admired. Yet what might have happened if, in the immediate aftermath of Cannae, Hannibal had marched his army to Rome? It’s one of history’s great unanswered questions, and another potential minefield in which everyone tends to have a different opinion. All I’ll say on the matter is that I like to think that the sight of Hannibal’s victorious forces outside the walls would perhaps have been enough to make the Senate sue for peace. Would it have made any difference in the long run, though? I doubt it. Rome would have found a pre
text for war, for revenge, as it did anyway, in 149 BC, when the third and final war against Carthage began.
But that’s jumping over a lot of history, and most of the Second Punic War. Suffice it to say that Hannibal’s war in Italy went on after Cannae, and so too did the struggle in Sicily and Iberia. The next volume of the series, working title Hannibal: Clouds of War, will continue the stories of Hanno, Quintus and Aurelia, on the island of Sicily. I hope that you feel the need to find out what happens to them next!
A bibliography of the textbooks I used while writing Fields of Blood would run to several pages, so I will mention only the most important, in alphabetical order by author: The Punic Wars by Nigel Bagnall, The Punic Wars by Brian Caven, Greece and Rome at War by Peter Connolly, Hannibal by Theodore A. Dodge, The Fall of Carthage and Cannae, both by Adrian Goldsworthy, Love in Ancient Rome by Pierre Grimal, Armies of the Macedonian and Punic Wars by Duncan Head, Sexual Life in Ancient Rome by Otto Kiefer, Hannibal’s War by J. F. Lazenby, Carthage Must Be Destroyed by Richard Miles, Daily Life in Carthage (at the Time of Hannibal) by G. C. Picard, The Life and Death of Carthage by G. C. & C. Picard, Love in Ancient Rome by E. Royston Pike, Roman Politics 220–150 BC by H. H. Scullard, Carthage and the Carthaginians by Reginald B. Smith and Warfare in the Classical World by John Warry. I’m grateful to Osprey Publishing for numerous excellent volumes, to Oxford University Press for the outstanding Oxford Classical Dictionary, and to Ancient Warfare magazine for the superb article in Volume III, Issue 4: ‘Forging a professional army: armies of the Barcids’ by Alberto Perez and Paul McDonnell-Staff. Thanks, as always, to the members of romanarmytalk.com, whose rapid answers to my odd questions are so often of great use.
I owe gratitude too to a legion of people at my publishers, Random House. There’s Selina Walker, my wonderful new editor; Katherine Murphy, my managing editor; latterly Rob Waddington, and more recently, Aslan Byrne, who worked and work to get my novels into every possible UK outlet; Jennifer Doyle, who organises some wonderfully inventive marketing; Richard Ogle who has designed my amazing new jackets; Amelia Harvell, who secures me all kinds of great publicity; Monique Corless and Caroline Sloan, who persuade so many foreign editors to buy my books; David Parrish, who makes sure that bookshops abroad do so too. My sincere thanks to you all. Your hard work is very much appreciated.
