Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

by Ben Kane

  Whizz. Whizz. Whizz. Fresh fear clawed at him. A heartbeat later, the missiles struck the water nearby. A muffled cry signified another man who would now either drown or die from his injuries. Quintus’ gaze shot upwards. Bastards, he mouthed. It wasn’t just the artillery that was aiming at them: the ramparts were lined with archers and slingers who were determined not to miss out on this fresh sport. It would only be a matter of time before they singled him out. I’m fucked, he thought. The rocky shore at the foot of the walls offered some solid ground: he could see men hauling themselves up on it, but the defenders had seen them. Soon boulders had been heaved up on to the edge of the parapet and dropped on the unfortunates below, maiming some and killing others. There would be no respite there, or anywhere along the shoreline below the city’s walls. Quintus remembered the distance that they had rowed in from the open sea, far beyond which lay their camp, and despair filled him. Even without his armour, he wasn’t that strong a swimmer. What other option did he have, however? It was that, or tread water until an enemy missile sent him down to Neptune with the others.

  Quintus struck out towards the east, offering up more prayers. It was ironic how he made requests of the gods in times of danger, he knew. At other times, he barely believed in their very existence – they never really offered proof of such – but now, here, he wanted every scrap of hope that might be on offer. Let Urceus be alive somewhere, he asked. Corax too. And as many of my maniple as you can spare. Do not take them all, please.

  ‘Help me, brother!’ croaked a soldier to his left. ‘I can’t swim.’

  Quintus forced himself to look the man in the eye. ‘I’m not a good swimmer. If I help you, we’ll both drown. I’m sorry.’

  The soldier reached out an arm. ‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.’ His tone was frantic, and Quintus knew that if the man grabbed hold of him, they would both sink faster than a stone. Without a word, he swam away as fast as he could. Guilt tore at him, but he did not let up until the man’s pleas had vanished into the crescendo of voices and the noise of missiles landing.

  After a time, he stopped for a rest. There were fewer projectiles coming down here, because the enemy artillerymen were concentrating on the Romans directly below their positions. Some way off to his right, the sambuca on the craft that had come in at the same time as theirs had just been grabbed by another iron claw. Quintus’ eyes were riveted to the horrifying sight. Soldiers on board were frantically trying to do what he and his comrades had done – land a rope on it – but they too failed. It didn’t take long for the Syracusans to catch one of the quinqueremes’ rams. Commands rang out at once from the rampart, and a few heartbeats later, the chain holding the claw snapped taut. The prow of the ship was jerked out of the water, pulling the vessel a substantial distance into the air as well. Shrieks filled the air. The tiny figures of men fell away from the decks like ants falling off a disturbed log. That was bad enough, but as the claw was released another arm appeared over the battlements. This one bore a massive stone, the size of three men’s torsos. Fresh wails rose from the men who had survived the fall as they saw a new terror looming over them. Quintus could bear to watch no longer, but he was unable to block his ears to the noise of the block striking the ship and the wave that followed in its wake.

  Clenching his jaw, he began swimming again. The pain from where he’d been struck in the midriff and leg slowed his progress, and he began having to rest more often. During these breaks, he scanned the area, hoping to see a ship that might be able to pick him up. His search was in vain. Every vessel within sight had either been wrecked beyond redemption by the enemy’s missiles, or was in the process of sinking to the bottom of the harbour. Not since Cannae had Quintus seen such wholescale carnage.

  He studied the faces of the closest men, praying that he would recognise no one. He didn’t. There was no point examining the corpses – there were too many. So when Quintus bumped into yet another body, he gently pushed it away. The man, who was lying on his back, bobbed off to his left. Quintus was about to swim on, when something made him look again. The dead soldier’s ears stuck out from his head. He blinked. It was Urceus.

  He swam to his friend’s side, grief tearing at him anew. Urceus’ eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked dead, but Quintus placed two fingers on the side of Urceus’ neck, just under the angle of his jaw. Heart thudding, Quintus waited. For a moment, he felt nothing, but then, to his utter joy, he sensed a weak pulse. ‘You’re as tough as an old fucking sandal, Urceus,’ he muttered, uncaring that tears were running down his face. ‘Thank you, Neptune, for leaving this man to float rather than sink.’

  Quintus’ joy was short-lived. There was no chance that he could support Urceus all the way to the mouth of the harbour and beyond. Despair began to creep over him once more. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered savagely. ‘Urceus wouldn’t give up if it was him helping me. Think of something!’

  He glanced about, trying to ignore the horror, trying to see a way out. His gaze settled at last, unwillingly, on the vessel that he and his comrades had arrived on. It lay in the water like a dead thing, useless to everyone. The realisation hit Quintus from nowhere. The pair of quinqueremes didn’t appear to be sinking. Yes, they could not move anywhere. Yes, they were right under the enemy’s noses, but therein lay the beauty of it. In the Syracusans’ eyes, there was no need to continue raining missiles on the pair of ships because they presented no further threat to the city. ‘We’ll be safe there,’ Quintus murmured to Urceus as he hooked an arm around his friend’s chest from behind. ‘For a time at least.’

  It seemed to take an age to reach the nearest quinquereme. Quintus could have reached the stricken ship sooner if he’d aimed for its middle, but there were still missiles landing there. At the stern, perhaps even in the gap between the two vessels, they would be hidden from the ramparts entirely. The enemy artillerymen’s attention was concentrated on visible targets. As they drew near to the back of the ship, he spotted a cluster of heads in the water. Quintus’ spirits rose a little. The more of them there were, the more hope they had of surviving. He redoubled his efforts. The arrow in Urceus’ arm needed to be looked at. Extra pairs of hands would make that possible. ‘We’ll get you sorted out soon, you’ll see,’ he said to Urceus, longing for his friend to answer.

  There was no response, and Quintus’ worries surged back. He fumbled again for the pulse in Urceus’ neck and was mightily relieved to find it. Then he heard a distinctive voice among the group. Corax! All was not lost, he decided. The gods had not completely abandoned them. It was as well, because he was weakening. Much further, and he would have begun to struggle with Urceus.

  About twenty paces from the stern, he called out: ‘I have an injured comrade here. Can anyone help?’

  Faces turned, and three men struck out towards them.

  The first one to arrive had black hair and blue eyes. Quintus recognised him as a hastatus in the other century of their maniple, but he didn’t know the man’s name. ‘Where’s he hurt?’ the newcomer asked.

  ‘He has an arrow through the left arm. But he’s been unconscious since I found him, so there might be a head injury I haven’t seen.’ Do not let that be the case, Quintus prayed.

  ‘Let me take him,’ said the black-haired soldier. ‘Head for the centurion. He’s the—’

  ‘I know,’ Quintus butted in. ‘Corax is my centurion, thank all the gods.’

  ‘Seems like a good man.’ With great care, the black-haired soldier took ahold of Urceus around his chest. ‘I’ve got him.’

  Happy that Urceus was in good hands, Quintus swam towards Corax. The hastatus and his companions followed.

  When the centurion recognised Quintus, an expression of real pleasure crossed his face. ‘Look who Neptune just spat out! By all the gods, Crespo, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘And you, sir,’ replied Quintus fervently. ‘I didn’t think you’d made it.’

  ‘Nor I you. I haven’t seen a man of my century u
ntil you showed up. This lot are mostly from the unit that split itself between our ship and the other one. A few sailors too, and a handful of Vitruvius’ lot. Who have you got there?’ He gestured behind Quintus.

  ‘Urceus, sir.’

  ‘More good news,’ said Corax, smiling. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. He’s unconscious.’

  Corax’s face blackened with anger and concern. ‘We’ll have to do our damnedest to make sure he survives then, eh? Hades can fuck off if he thinks he’s taking a soldier as good as Jug. I’ve lost too many good men today already.’

  The faces to either side registered shock at Corax’s blasphemy, but Quintus didn’t share in their opinion. Corax was here, alive, and that was what mattered.

  ‘Let’s get him tied to this for a start,’ ordered Corax, lifting a rope out of the water. Quintus saw that it ran in a big loop, giving everyone something to hold on to. It was secured to an iron ring that hung from the timbers of the stern, just above their heads. The black-haired soldier swam in with Urceus a moment later, and using a short length that Corax produced, they looped it around his comrade’s chest.

  ‘Which arm is it?’ enquired Corax.

  ‘His left, sir.’ Quintus reached down and felt for Urceus’ hand. Gently, he lifted it sideways, away from his friend’s body, so that the arrow wouldn’t catch his torso. As it emerged, he blinked. The front half of the arrow had snapped off, leaving only the feathered end sticking out of Urceus’ flesh.

  ‘That’s a stroke of luck and no mistake,’ muttered Corax. With a steady pull, he withdrew the shaft. A thin stream of blood followed it, and Urceus moaned. His eyelids fluttered open.

  ‘Urceus, can you hear me?’ asked Quintus.

  Urceus’ eyes came into focus. ‘Fuck … my head is sore. I must have … hit it on something in the water.’

  Quintus wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

  ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ demanded Corax.

  Urceus registered the centurion’s presence, bobbed his chin respectfully. ‘Er, no, sir. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Excellent. One of you rip a strip off your tunic,’ Corax ordered. ‘I want a bandage tied around Urceus’ arm, to stop the bleeding.’

  The black-haired soldier was first to proffer a piece of fabric, and Quintus warmed to him further. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked as Corax set to tying it in place.

  ‘Mattheus.’ He saw Quintus’ surprise. ‘I’m as Roman as you are, but my maternal grandfather was Hebrew. I’m the last of four boys. My mother nagged my father until he gave in about the name.’

  ‘Crespo, they call me.’ He reached out a hand, and they shook. ‘I’m one of Corax’s men, as you can tell. You?’

  ‘I’m in Festus’ maniple.’ A grimace. ‘Or I was. He’s probably as dead as the rest of my lot.’

  ‘You were at Cannae?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here in fucking Sicily if I hadn’t been, would I?’ Mattheus winked to show he meant no offence.

  ‘There have been some new recruits, but not that many, I suppose,’ replied Quintus, relieved that Mattheus was a veteran, like him. ‘We’re going to need more of them after today, and that’s no lie.’

  ‘Don’t get cocky, Crespo. Don’t think that those bastard Syracusans won’t be on the lookout for survivors later, when we try to get away,’ warned Corax. ‘We’ll have to be as sly as you like to succeed.’

  ‘You painted us a picture like that at Trasimene, sir,’ croaked Urceus. ‘And Cannae.’

  ‘And you got us out both times, sir,’ added Quintus. ‘You’ll do it again.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Urceus.

  For once, Corax seemed at a loss for words. He muttered something like, ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up,’ before swimming to peer around the stern, towards the city walls.

  ‘You trust him then?’ Mattheus’ expression was appraising.

  ‘He’s saved my arse even more times than this reprobate here,’ growled Urceus. He gave Quintus a grateful glance that needed no words.

  ‘Mine too,’ said Quintus. ‘He’s the best damn centurion in the whole army.’

  ‘I’d heard him spoken of highly,’ said Mattheus, nodding. ‘It’s good that he’s in charge, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Quintus was thirsty, sunburnt, up to his neck in the sea, and grief-stricken because of the comrades he’d lost. Thousands of the enemy were only a few hundred paces away. That didn’t stop his heart from singing.

  They would see tomorrow. Somehow, he was certain of that.

  Corax was here.

  Chapter IX

  ‘I COME WITH an invitation.’ Kleitos shoved the door open without knocking.

  ‘Tanit’s tits, you startled me!’ Hanno had been dozing on his bed. ‘My apologies.’ Kleitos didn’t sound remotely sorry. ‘You won’t want to miss this, my friend.’

  Still half asleep, Hanno felt a little irritated. ‘Miss what?’

  ‘Hippocrates and Epicydes are throwing a party this evening in celebration of our famous victory,’ Kleitos announced, beaming.

  ‘We’ve been doing that since it happened!’ Following the sinking of the Roman fleet outside the city walls, the festivities had been riotous. Hanno had drunk more wine in the previous few days than at any time since the debauched sessions he and Suni had used to indulge in in Carthage.

  ‘Maybe so, but this will be an official do, in the rulers’ palace. There will be unlimited food and wine. I’m told that flute girls will be laid on too.’

  Hanno woke more fully. ‘Who’s invited?’

  ‘Every nobleman in the place. Also the commander of every unit, whether infantry, artillery, navy or cavalry.’

  ‘The cavalry shouldn’t be allowed,’ Hanno joked. ‘They’ve done nothing so far!’

  ‘We’ll give them plenty of shit for that during the evening, don’t worry. It’s to begin with Hippocrates and Epicydes each making a speech. There’ll be awards for some of the most courageous soldiers, and then …’ Kleitos paused. ‘… we can all get smashed!’

  ‘Count me in.’ Hanno’s mission was proving to be altogether more enjoyable than he’d imagined, but this time would not last. The Romans had not pulled out of Sicily, merely back to their camps. They would return. Oddly, if Quintus had survived Cannae, and the naval assault, he might be among their number. Kleitos had told him of the harsh punishment imposed on the survivors from the fields of blood. He’s probably dead, Hanno told himself. Poor bastard. He put Quintus from his mind. There were more pleasant things to think about. If Hippocrates and Epicydes wanted to thank their soldiers for their valour, who was he to object? ‘When does it start?’

  Kleitos winked. Beneath Hanno’s curious gaze, he walked out, returning with a large earthenware jug and two cups that he must have concealed in the corridor. ‘Right now!’

  Hanno mock groaned. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

  They set to with a will. The wine didn’t last long, and Hanno suggested that they refrain from drinking any more until the party got under way. ‘It might be all right for you, but I’m here to impress. How would it look if I arrived pissed? Hannibal would have my balls.’

  ‘Hannibal would never know!’

  ‘Unless one of the brothers told him. Even if they didn’t, what would they think?’

  Kleitos grumbled, but he relented.

  The two went instead to the garrison’s baths, where they relaxed in the hot pool before enjoying a massage by slaves. Conversation flowed readily. Neither talked about the war; instead, the topics drifted from the best nights’ drinking they could remember, to their youth and what they had got up to with their friends. Inevitably, they argued about the beauty of Carthaginian girls compared to Syracusan ones. As a matter of pride, neither would acknowledge the other’s point. The topic grew a little heated, and in an effort to avoid an argument, Hanno said, ‘Roman women can be very attractive too.’ He pictured Aurelia.

  ‘Most of the ones I came across
– before the war, naturally – looked like mules, and brayed like them too.’

  ‘They know their own minds, that’s for sure, but they’re as pretty as any Carthaginian or Syracusan I’ve seen.’

  Kleitos gave him a knowing smile. ‘You’re talking about a particular girl. Tell me who she is, you dog!’

  Embarrassed now, Hanno flushed. ‘Nothing much ever happened.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to, for Eros’ arrow to sink deep.’

  ‘It’s foolish even to think of her. I’ll never see her again. This damn war …’ Hanno gestured in exasperation.

  ‘Aye. It has affected me in that way too. About two years ago, I had managed to persuade my parents to agree to my marrying a girl from Enna whom I’d met and fallen for at a festival to Demeter and Persephone. She was from a poorer family than mine, but I didn’t care. We were to be wed not long after Hieronymus came to power.’ His face darkened.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Hieronymus became unpopular. There was a lot of unrest – you must have heard about that. When he was assassinated, things went crazy in the city for a time. Scores of nobles were murdered; no one knew who’d be next. Marriage was out of the question. When the brothers seized power, things calmed down. That’s one of the reasons I support them. They might not be the nicest of men, but they’ve kept the peace.’ He chuckled. ‘Apart from with Rome, that is.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In Enna, with her family. We send letters to each other when we can.’ Kleitos’ expression grew a little sad. ‘We’ll wed when the war’s over.’ The slave who’d been cleaning his skin with a strigil finished, and he sat up.