Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

by Ben Kane

  ‘Whichever lot we hit from behind will break,’ replied Urceus, panting.

  ‘If that happens, the other group will shatter as well.’

  ‘Aye.’

  A moment later, five of their six comrades arrived, having killed or put to flight the remaining Syracusans. Two were bleeding from minor wounds, but all had fierce grins plastered across their faces.

  Quintus laughed. It wasn’t amusement; escaping Death’s grasp did odd things to a man. ‘Ready? One more effort and we’ll nail the bastards’ hides to the wall.’

  The hastati roared their bloodlust back at him. Quickly, they formed up again, four wide with the three remaining men behind.

  Quintus roared, ‘ROMA!’ and they charged.

  Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

  Even with the battle fury running through him, Quintus heard Corax’s whistle. He spat in the direction of the fleeing Syracusans whom he was pursuing, a mob of perhaps thirty men. They were in full flight to the south. Shieldless, weaponless, many not even wearing their helmets, the enemy soldiers did not look back as they ran. Their injured comrades who had fallen were forgotten. Everything was forgotten in their overwhelming desire to get away.

  Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

  Quintus’ training kicked in, and he came to a gradual halt. Sanity returned with each heaving breath. Soon he was glad to have been called back. Cutting down the Syracusans had been easy when they’d broken, and for the first few hundred paces of their headlong retreat. Yet a stage had come, as it always did, when chasing men who were no longer encumbered by weapons and armour became a real test of one’s endurance. Quintus was grateful for the extra protection of his mail shirt, but it weighed ten times more than the bronze chest- and backplates that he’d worn as a newly promoted hastatus.

  He shouted after his companions who appeared not to have heard the summons. Nearby, Urceus was doing the same. Only a handful of men who needed recalling. They had all been through enough war to know when to call it a day. Everyone knew of soldiers who had pursued so eagerly that they had become isolated and turned on by their prey. And that, Corax had drummed into them, was yet another stupid way to die.

  They wandered back up the road, twenty-odd hastati, stripping the dead of water skins and dispatching the badly wounded Syracusans as they went. It was hard to be sure how many enemy infantry lay scattered around, but it was easily a hundred. The cavalrymen had fared even worse. Quintus had seen two or three riders galloping away from the slaughter, but that was it. Despite the sneezing hastatus, the ambush had been a resounding success. Those of the enemy who could walk were herded towards the main ambush site, some distance to the north.

  Corax was interrogating a prisoner. He broke off from his questioning with their arrival. The side of his mouth lifted a fraction: it was his excuse for a smile. ‘You heard my whistle?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Quintus.

  ‘Any fools still chasing the Syracusans?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good. Any officers among those you’ve got there?’

  ‘Not a one, sir.’

  ‘Kill them then. I’ve got the second-in-command here. One way or another, he’ll sing like a canary.’

  ‘Sir.’ Quintus wasn’t surprised. Corax wanted information, and if they couldn’t provide that, captives were of no use. They had scant rations for themselves as it was; they could spare neither food nor men to guard even a few prisoners. He took no joy in killing men in cold blood, but the order had to be obeyed. He eyed his companions, readied his sword arm. ‘You heard the centurion, brothers.’

  ‘Not you, Crespo.’

  Quintus stared at Corax in surprise. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Speak any Greek?’

  The mere fact that the centurion had asked spoke volumes. Quintus had long wondered if Corax suspected that his origins were not what he’d said when enlisting. Quintus didn’t know why; it was just the way that Corax looked at him sometimes. He hesitated for a heartbeat, aware that the longer he left it before replying, the more it appeared as if he were lying. ‘A little, sir, yes.’ Feeling awkward, he began to lie, ‘I learned it when–’

  ‘Save the explanation. Mine is as rusty as hell. Come here and translate.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Doubly relieved – that he’d escaped further questioning, and that he wouldn’t have to help execute the prisoners – Quintus turned his back on the sobbing Syracusans, who were bunching together as Urceus and the rest closed in on them.

  The well-built officer, who was bearded and a few years older than Quintus, had a shallow cut on his right arm but was otherwise unharmed. He regarded Quintus proudly. ‘Are all of my men to be slain?’

  Corax understood. ‘Yes. Each one dead is a sword arm less on the walls of Syracuse,’ he said.

  Quintus looked at the officer. ‘Did you understand that?’

  A lip curl. ‘Not really.’

  Quintus translated.

  ‘Is the same going to happen to me?’

  Quintus didn’t answer at once, and the officer said, ‘Your commander’s Greek is shit.’

  Quintus glanced at Corax, who laughed. ‘He’s a confident prick, I’ll give him that,’ Corax said. ‘He’s right too. I’ve gathered that his name is Kleitos, and that he’s second-in-command of a phalanx, half of which was on patrol. The commander was one of the cavalrymen. He’s lying over there, missing half of his head. I can’t make out any more of what he says.’

  ‘What do you want me to ask him, sir?’

  ‘The purpose of their patrol. Are there more of their forces in the area? Start with that.’

  Quintus regarded Kleitos. ‘Do you speak any Latin?’

  ‘A few words, that’s all.’ This with a disdainful shrug. ‘Decent Syracusans don’t have much use for your tongue. Why would we?’ He jerked his chin at the captives taken by Quintus and Urceus, many of whom had already been slain. ‘You’re fucking savages.’

  ‘As if your soldiers aren’t capable of the same,’ Quintus replied, unmoved. ‘I’m surprised by your lack of interest in Latin. Hiero was a faithful ally to the Republic for half a century.’

  Another scornful look. ‘He was a damn tyrant! Not everyone supported him, you know. There are plenty of nobles who are happy to see power now resting in the hands of Hippocrates and Epicydes.’

  ‘I see.’ Quickly, Quintus translated for Corax before regarding Kleitos again. ‘What were you doing here?’

  ‘Taking the air. Around Mount Etna, it’s meant to be especially good for the health.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Quintus, his temper flaring. ‘We’ll get the information from you, the easy way or the hard. Those men being executed are only the start. Trust me, you don’t want to piss off my centurion.’

  Kleitos looked a little less certain, but then his chin jutted again. ‘Why would I tell you anything? You’ll kill me anyway.’

  ‘Are there more Syracusan troops in the area?’

  Kleitos stared balefully at him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Corax.

  ‘He thinks that we’re going to get rid of him when we’re done, sir,’ replied Quintus. In an undertone, he added, ‘Are we?’

  ‘That depends,’ rumbled Corax. ‘If the dog tells me something worth knowing, I could release him. If he doesn’t, well—’

  Quintus felt uneasy at the idea of pushing his centurion, but he didn’t want to lead Kleitos on under false pretences. ‘Have I your word on that, sir?’

  ‘You’ve got some balls, boy.’ Corax’s gimlet eyes pinned Quintus, but he didn’t back down. After what seemed a long time, the centurion nodded. ‘As long as his information is useful, he can go free. Tell the sewer rat that I’ll be watching him, though. If I suspect the slightest treachery, the smallest lie, I will cut his damn throat myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus turned to Kleitos. ‘Tell us what you know. If it’s of use to us, my centurion guarantees that you will be set free.’

  ‘How c
an I trust you?’

  ‘You have his word, and mine,’ said Quintus. There was silence for a moment. He could see Kleitos was warring with himself. ‘There’s no glory in dying just because your men have to,’ he urged.

  ‘What would you know?’

  ‘I was at Cannae,’ replied Quintus soberly. ‘You must have heard of the slaughter that day. By the time the sun was going down, there was barely a Roman alive. Those of us still living had given up hope, but not my centurion. He led us out, and we fought our way to safety. Our reward for that was to be sent in disgrace to Sicily. For all that, I’d rather be here, breathing, than for my bleached bones to be lying in the mud in Italy.’

  Kleitos threw him a look of grudging respect. ‘Very well. We were sent out to scout the area; to see if there were any Roman forces moving south yet. Hippocrates and Epicydes know that Marcellus will advance on the city; they want to know when.’

  Quintus explained to Corax, who said in poor Greek, ‘That sounds reasonable. Go on.’

  ‘Are there more of your troops nearby?’ demanded Quintus.

  ‘Nowhere close.’

  This pleased Corax. ‘What is the current strength of the garrison in Syracuse?’

  Quintus translated.

  Kleitos scowled; then, oddly, he smiled. ‘What does it matter if you know? You will never take the city. Upwards of thirty thousand men are under arms within the walls.’

  ‘Thirty thousand?’ repeated Corax, who had understood the number. ‘How many of those are professional soldiers?’

  Quintus asked the same in Greek.

  ‘More than two-thirds. There will be time to train the rest when the siege begins,’ replied Kleitos proudly. ‘In addition, the slaves freed by Hippocrates and Epicydes number perhaps five thousand. Those are being armed and trained as well.’

  Corax took a moment to digest that, but he didn’t comment further.

  That many defenders would mean fierce resistance to any attack. Quintus had never thought it was going to be easy, but this was bad news.

  ‘What about catapults and the like? How many of those are there?’ asked Corax.

  ‘Catapults?’ Kleitos had recognised the word. ‘I don’t know exactly, but it’s a lot. Scores and scores of them, from small ones up to the beasts that can throw a stone the size of a temple altar.’ He winked. ‘We have no shortage of ammunition.’

  Corax frowned when Quintus told him that. ‘It’s to be expected, I suppose,’ he growled. ‘A city like Syracuse isn’t going to have stood there for hundreds of years without strong defences. It will have its own wells, and enough food to last many months. That’s without supplies coming in from the sea, which will be difficult for us to prevent. It might be a long siege.’ He eyed Kleitos. ‘But Rome will prevail in the end.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ answered Kleitos when Quintus had interpreted. ‘Carthage will soon come to our aid.’

  The word ‘Carthage’ and the tone of Kleitos’ reply needed no explanation, although Quintus did so. Corax grinned when he was done, which made him look even more fearsome. ‘One day, we’ll see who was right, and I wager my left bollock that it won’t be him. Tell the dog that. Then he can go.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to take just one of your centurion’s balls,’ said Kleitos. He smiled but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes, which promised something else altogether.

  Quintus didn’t bother translating. ‘You’re free.’

  Kleitos inclined his head at Corax, who returned the gesture. ‘Can I have my blade?’ he asked, indicating a fine kopis on the ground nearby.

  Quintus had to admire his bravery. ‘He wants his sword, sir.’

  ‘He must swear not to attack any of my men for a day and a night,’ said Corax.

  Quintus went and picked it up. Its blade was covered in blood. Roman blood, he thought angrily. Warily, he approached Kleitos. He had never returned a weapon to an enemy. ‘You must take an oath not to harm any of us for a day and a night.’

  ‘I swear before Zeus Soter not to do so,’ said Kleitos, reaching out for the kopis.

  Quintus hesitated for a heartbeat. They stared at each other over the sword.

  ‘May he strike me down if I break my oath,’ said Kleitos in a firm tone.

  Quintus handed it over.

  Kleitos’ eyes smouldered. ‘If we meet again, I will kill you. And your centurion.’

  ‘You can do your best. We’ll be ready for you,’ retorted Quintus angrily. ‘Now, go.’

  Without another word, Kleitos strode past, over the bodies of his men, towards Syracuse.

  ‘A courageous man,’ observed Corax. ‘If all the defenders of Syracuse are like him, the siege might take longer than Marcellus thinks.’

  Chapter IV

  ‘WE SEE G-ANNY?’

  Aurelia smiled. As ever, Publius’ reedy voice mangled the word ‘Granny’. Her mother hated it. No matter how many times Aurelia told her that he would eventually learn to say it, Atia had to correct him. She gazed down at him fondly, squeezing his hand. ‘Yes, dear. We’ll see Granny soon. It’s not far now.’

  It was mid-morning, one of the safest times of day to be out in Rome, and this part of the Palatine was a respectable area. That didn’t stop Aurelia’s grey eyes from roving the crowded street, searching for trouble. The brutal attack she’d suffered in Capua before Publius’ birth, two and a half years prior, had left a lasting scar. Elira, her Illyrian slave, padded at her back – company and a buffer to criminals at the same time. Agesandros was walking a step or two ahead of her. Aurelia had been mistrustful, even fearful, of her father’s Sicilian overseer since the death of Hanno’s friend Suni, but on the capital’s filthy streets, she was glad of his presence.

  It wasn’t that odd that he was also here. When they had first had to abandon their farm, and then to leave Capua itself, Agesandros had been left with no real role. He’d been with the family for many years, however. Almost by default, he had become a servant cum bodyguard for Aurelia’s mother, Atia. During the chaotic, terrible weeks after Cannae, when it became clear that Fabricius would not be coming home, he had become indispensable to Atia. Nowadays, with mother and daughter living in Rome, he barely left Atia’s side. Aurelia, who resided at her husband Lucius’ house nearby, could not protest to her still-grieving mother about that. It wasn’t as if she had to see him every day, and at times like this, he provided security.

  Aurelia studied Agesandros as he walked. He was as bandy-legged and wiry as he had been all her life. The only discernible sign of ageing was the patch of silver hair above each ear. The cudgel in his right hand dangled nonchalantly, but Aurelia knew how fast Agesandros could spin it through the air. There would be a dagger secreted about his person too, of that she had no doubt. Nearing fifty, he was still an intimidating, ruthless presence. Men tended to get out of his way, which made their journey much easier. It struck her again that he was moving faster than he would usually, yet her son was growing heavy in her arms. ‘Agesandros, stop. I need to rest for a moment.’

  His head turned. Aurelia thought she caught a twitch of impatience in his lips, but it had gone so fast she couldn’t be sure. ‘Of course. Over here.’ He gestured to their left. A few steps away, customers were sitting on stools at the counter of an open-fronted restaurant.

  The smell of frying sausages and garlic hit Aurelia’s nostrils as she set down Publius with a relieved sigh. She wasn’t the only one to notice. ‘Sau-sage?’ her son piped. ‘Sau-sage?’

  ‘Not now, dear,’ said Aurelia. Spotting Agesandros’ foot tapping, irritation took her. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Eh?’ His face was a blank.

  ‘You seem impatient. Are we in any danger?’

  His eyes flickered over the passers-by, came back to her. ‘No.’

  Since he had slain Suni before her very eyes, Aurelia had feared Agesandros. She was still capable of interrogating him. ‘Something’s going on. What is it?’

  His mask dropped for an instant;
Aurelia saw the fear in his eyes.

  She didn’t like it one little bit. Since Cannae, their life had achieved some kind of stability. True, she didn’t see her husband much, and Quintus and his best friend Gaius not at all, but Publius kept her busy. Life trundled by without daily trauma. No one dear to her had been hurt, or died. ‘Agesandros. Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s your mother,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She’s not well.’

  ‘I saw her a week ago,’ protested Aurelia. There had been mention of a few nights’ poor sleep, and that she had lost a little weight, but what woman complained about that? The first was the norm, and the second was always to be desired. ‘She was fine then.’

  ‘Sau-sage, Mama,’ said Publius, scuttling away from her towards the counter. ‘Sau-sage!’

  Darting in pursuit of her son, Aurelia missed Agesandros’ reply. She retrieved a grinning Publius, who had been handed half a sausage by the jovial woman serving at the counter, and returned. ‘Well?’

  He wouldn’t look at her. ‘She’s been vomiting a lot. Complaining of a pain in her belly.’

  ‘Something she ate, surely?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ve eaten everything she has, and I am fine.’ He glanced up the street. ‘Can we go?’

  Aurelia scooped up Publius and followed Agesandros. She’d seen the look in Elira’s eyes when he’d mentioned eating Atia’s food, so it wasn’t just her who had imagined the worst. ‘Is Mother worried about being poisoned?’ People’s heads turned at the mention of the word ‘poison’, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Not at all. It’s a coincidence that we had shared the same dishes.’

  Not the food then. Her mother only ever drank water from a spring, so it wasn’t that either, Aurelia decided. ‘Has a surgeon attended her?’

  ‘This morning. His visit is the reason that I came to fetch you.’

  Real worry began to gnaw at her. ‘Why? What did he discover?’ Agesandros didn’t answer, and Aurelia increased her stride to catch up with him. Publius bounced up and down, gurgling with delight at what he thought was a race. ‘Agesandros. What did he say?’