by Ben Kane
‘Not your courage,’ Fabricius growled. ‘Your good judgement. Haven’t you realised yet that Hannibal’s cavalry are lethal? If we so much as see any, we’re dead men.’
‘Surely it’s not that bad?’ protested Flaccus.
‘I should have refused this mission, regardless of how it looked to Publius. Let you lead it on your own. If anyone would follow you, that is.’
Flaccus subsided into a sulky silence.
His father’s outburst revealed the depths of his anger; Quintus was amazed.
Fabricius relented a fraction. ‘So what’s your bright idea? You might as well tell me.’
‘We will report that the enemy cavalry was present in such numbers that we were unable to proceed far from the Trebia,’ said Flaccus with bad grace. ‘It’s not cowardice to avoid annihilation. Who will gainsay us? Your men certainly won’t talk about it, and no one else will be foolish enough to cross the river.’
‘Your capacity for guile never ceases to amaze me,’ snarled Fabricius.
‘I …’ Flaccus spluttered.
‘But you’re right. It’s better to save the lives of thirty men in the way you suggest rather than throw them away through foolish pride. We will return at once.’ Fabricius reined in his mount, and turned to issue the order to halt.
Quintus sagged down on to his horse’s back. His relief lasted no more than a heartbeat. From some distance away came the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves.
The eyes of every man in the turma turned to the west.
A quarter of a mile distant, a tide of riders was emerging from behind a copse of trees.
‘Numidians!’ Fabricius screamed. ‘About turn! Ride for your lives!’
His soldiers needed no urging.
Trying not to panic, Quintus did the same thing. The ambush might have been sprung early, but it remained to be seen if they could make it back to the Trebia before the enemy horsemen reached them.
It soon became clear that they would never reach the river in time. The Numidians were physically smaller than the Romans, and their mounts were faster. They were operating to a plan too. While some continued riding in direct pursuit from the south, others angled their path outwards and to the west, effectively hemming the patrol against the Trebia. The Romans had to flee northwards. Naturally, they made for the ford. There was no other option. It was the only one for miles in either direction.
‘Get to the front,’ Fabricius shouted at Quintus and Flaccus. ‘Stay there. Stop for nothing.’
Flaccus obeyed without question, but Quintus held back. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m staying at the rear to prevent this becoming a complete rout,’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Now go!’ His steely gaze brooked no argument.
Fighting back tears, Quintus urged his horse into a full gallop. It soon drew ahead of the other cavalrymen. Never had he been more glad of his father’s insistence on taking the best mount available, or more ashamed that he could feel such relief. Quintus did not want to die like a rabbit chased down by a pack of dogs. With this dark thought fighting for supremacy, he leaned forward over his horse’s neck and concentrated on one thing. Surviving. With luck, some of them would make it.
They had covered nearly a mile before the first Numidians had closed to within missile range. Riding bareback, half-clothed, the lithe, dark-skinned warriors did not look that threatening. Their javelins’ accuracy proved otherwise. Every time Quintus looked around, another cavalryman had been struck, or fallen from his mount. Others had their horses injured, and were no longer able to keep up with their comrades. No one saw their swift, and inevitable fate, yet their strangled cries followed in the survivors’ wake, sending terror into their hearts. The Roman riders could not even respond. Their thrusting spears were not made to be thrown.
By the time Fabricius’ men had covered another mile, the Numidians were attacking from three sides. Javelins were scudding in constantly, and Quintus could count only ten riders apart from himself, his father and Flaccus. At the bend in the track that led around and down to the ford, that number had been reduced to six. Desperately, Quintus urged his mount to even greater efforts. He didn’t know why, but they seemed to have drawn slightly ahead of their pursuers. Perhaps they still had a chance? he wondered. With their horses’ hooves throwing up showers of stones, they pounded around the corner and on to the straight stretch that led to the Trebia, a mere two hundred paces away.
All Quintus’ hopes evaporated on the spot.
The tribesmen had held back in order to close the trap. Blocking the way ahead was a massed formation of spearmen. Their large, interlocking shields formed three sides of a square, leaving the open side towards him. Quintus’ eyes flickered around in panic. A dense network of trees lined the right-hand side of the road. There was no escape there. On the left was a large area of boggy ground. Only a fool would try to ride across that, he thought.
Yet one of the cavalrymen took this second option. He swiftly learned his lesson. Within twenty paces, his horse was belly deep in glutinous sludge. When the rider tried to dismount, the same happened to him. Screaming with terror, he had soon sunk to his armpits. At last he stopped struggling, but it was too late. The best the man could hope for was an accurately thrown enemy javelin, thought Quintus bitterly. It was that, or drown in the mud.
Fabricius’ voice snapped him back to the present. ‘Slow down! Form a line,’ he ordered in a stony voice. ‘Let us meet our death like men.’
One of the five remaining cavalrymen began to make a low, keening noise in his throat.
Suddenly, Quintus’ fear became overwhelming.
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’ Fabricius shouted. ‘We are not cowards.’
To Quintus’ amazement, the rider stopped wailing.
‘Form a line,’ Fabricius ordered again.
Moving together until their knees almost touched, the eight men rode forward. Wondering why he hadn’t had a javelin in the back by now, Quintus turned. The Numidians had slowed to a walk. We’re being herded to the slaughter like so many sheep, he thought in disgust.
‘Keep your eyes to the front,’ Fabricius muttered. ‘Show the whoresons that we are not afraid. We will look our fate in the eyes.’
About 150 paces separated the Romans from the phalanxes. To Quintus, the distance felt like an eternity. Part of him wished that the travesty would just end, but he was also desperate not to die. Inexorably, the gap narrowed. A hundred paces, then eighty. Terrified now, Quintus glanced at his father. All he received in the way of reassurance was a tight nod. Quintus took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm.
I am a boy no longer. How I face my death is my decision alone. I will make it as brave an end as possible.
‘Ready spears,’ Fabricius ordered.
Quintus shot a look at Flaccus and was faintly pleased by his jutting chin. For all his arrogance, he was not a coward.
Sixty steps. They were nearing the distance of a long volley from the spearmen. As they crossed this invisible line, every one of the eight flinched. It was impossible not to. Yet nothing happened. Fabricius felt a new determination. They could ignore this torture if they wished. ‘Let’s take some of the bastards with us! At the trot. Choose your targets!’ he yelled, pointing his spear at a bearded Libyan.
Relieved that the movements of his horse concealed his shaking arm, Quintus took aim at a man with a notched helmet. Let it be over soon, he prayed. May the gods look after Mother and Aurelia. He heard the shout of orders as the Carthaginian officers prepared their soldiers for a final volley, saw hundreds of men’s torsos twist as their right arms went back. Quintus closed his eyes. The darkness this granted was somehow comforting. He was aware of his pounding heart, and his mount between his knees. Bounded on each side by its companions, it would not stray from its course. All he had to do was hold on.
‘Quintus?’ bellowed a voice.
With a jerk, Quintus opened his eyelids. That shout had come from within the Carthaginian ranks. He glanced at his father. ‘Sto
p! You must stop!’
Something in Quintus’ tone penetrated Fabricius’ battle madness, and his fierce expression cleared. He raised his spear in the air. ‘Halt!’
Pulling hard on their reins, the Romans screeched to a halt ten paces from the forest of bristling spear tips. Unsettled, their horses tried to shy away. More than one Libyan shoved his weapon forward in an attempt to reach them. Quintus heard a familiar voice cry out in Carthaginian. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Ignoring his companions’ confusion, he scanned the enemy ranks. He couldn’t believe it when Hanno, clad in a Carthaginian officer’s uniform, elbowed his way out of the phalanx a moment later. Quintus lowered his spear. ‘Hanno!’
‘Quintus.’ Hanno’s tone was flat. He spoke in Latin. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We were on a patrol,’ he replied. ‘A reconnaissance mission.’
Hanno made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. ‘We control the whole plain. You must know that. What kind of fool would order an undertaking like that?’
‘Our consul,’ Quintus muttered. He wasn’t going to reveal Flaccus’ involvement.
Hanno gave a derisory snort. ‘Enough said.’
Quintus had the sense not to reply. He glanced at his father and saw that he too had recognised Hanno. Sensibly, Fabricius also said nothing. Flaccus and the cavalrymen looked baffled, and fearful. Quintus turned back to Hanno. He tried to ignore the fierce stares of the enemy soldiers.
‘Hanno!’ cried an angry voice. A torrent of Carthaginian followed as two more officers emerged, one from the phalanx on either side. The first was short and burly, with thick eyebrows, while the other was tall and athletic, with long black hair. Their features were too similar to Hanno’s to be coincidence. They had to be his brothers, thought Quintus. ‘You found your family, then?’
‘I did. And they want to know why you’re still alive.’ Turning to his siblings, Hanno launched into a long explanation. With his stomach knotted in tension, Quintus watched. Their very lives depended on what was said. There was plenty of shouting and gesticulating, but eventually Hanno seemed satisfied. The shorter of his brothers looked most unhappy, however. He continued muttering loudly as the taller brother approached the Romans. His face was hard, but not without kindness, thought Quintus warily. He had to be Bostar.
‘Hanno says that he owes his life to you twice over,’ Bostar said in accented Latin.
Quintus nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘For that reason, we have agreed not to slay you, or your father.’ At this, Sapho launched into another tirade, but Bostar ignored him. ‘Two lives for two debts.’
‘And the others?’ asked Quintus, feeling sick.
‘They must die.’
‘No,’ Quintus muttered. ‘Take them as prisoners. Please.’
Bostar shook his head and turned away.
Cries of fear rose from the cavalrymen. Flaccus, however, sat up straight on his horse, gazing with contempt at the Libyans.
Quintus’ gaze shot to Hanno, and found no pity there. ‘Show them some mercy.’
‘We have our orders,’ said Hanno in a harsh voice. ‘But you and your father are free to go.’ He snapped out a command, and the phalanx behind him split open, opening a passage to the ford.
An idea struck Quintus. ‘There is one other family member here.’
Hanno turned. ‘Who?’ he demanded suspiciously.
Quintus indicated Flaccus. ‘He is betrothed to Aurelia. Spare him also.’
Hanno’s nostrils flared in belated recognition. ‘If they are not married, he is not yet part of your family.’
‘You would not deprive Aurelia of her prospective husband, surely?’ Quintus pleaded.
Hanno was shocked to feel resentful. ‘You ask for more than you know,’ he said from between gritted teeth.
‘I ask it nonetheless,’ replied Quintus, meeting his gaze.
Hanno stalked closer to Flaccus. If the truth be known, he did not want to withdraw the hand of friendship so fast, but this was one of the enemy.
Incredibly, Flaccus spat a gob of phlegm at his feet.
Rage filled Hanno, and his hand fell to his sword. Before he could draw it, however, Sapho had stepped past. There was a spear gripped in his fists. Without saying a word, he shoved the blade deep into Flaccus’ groin, below his armour, before ripping it out again. As his victim fell screaming to the ground, Sapho spun around. He aimed his bloody spear tip at Hanno. ‘We’re not here to be friendly with these fucking whoresons,’ he snapped. ‘You and Bostar might have overridden me over releasing two of them, but you’re not setting another one free!’
Hanno pointed grimly at the ford. ‘Go.’
Quintus stared helplessly at Flaccus, who was clutching his wound while blood spurted from between his fingers. There was already a large pool beneath him. We can’t just leave the poor bastard to die, Quintus thought. But what other choice have we?
Fabricius took the initiative. ‘May you meet each other in Elysium,’ he muttered to the cavalrymen. ‘Your family will be told that you died well,’ he said to Flaccus. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he rode towards the river. ‘Come on,’ he hissed at Quintus.
Trying to think of what to say, Quintus took a last lok at Hanno. Rather than meet his gaze, the Carthaginian stared right through him. There was to be no farewell. Gritting his teeth, Quintus followed his father. At once his ears were filled with the cries of the five unfortunate cavalrymen, who were promptly surrounded and dispatched by the clamouring Libyans.
Father and son made their way unhindered to the ford, and into the water.
On the other side, it finally sank in that they had escaped.
A long, shuddering breath escaped Quintus’ lips. Never let me meet Hanno again, he prayed. His former friend would try to kill him: there was no doubt about that. And Quintus realised that he would do the same. As cold misery gripped his heart, he stared back across the river. The Libyans were already marching away. They had left the crumpled forms of the Roman dead on the riverbank. The sight caused Quintus’ shame to soar. Everyone deserved to be buried, or burned on a pyre. ‘Maybe we can retrieve the bodies tomorrow,’ he muttered.
‘We’ll have to try, or I’ll never be able to look Aurelia in the eyes again,’ replied his father. And the moment that the damn moneylenders hear that Flaccus is dead, they’ll be all over me like a rash. He glanced at Quintus. ‘It’s all my damn fault. Flaccus and thirty good men are dead, because I agreed to lead the damn patrol. I should have refused.’
‘It’s not up to you to make tactical decisions, Father,’ Quintus protested. ‘If you’d said no, Publius could have demoted you to the ranks, or worse.’
Fabricius shot Quintus a grateful look. ‘I’m only alive because of you. Helping the Carthaginian to escape and then manumitting him were good decisions. I’m grateful.’
Quintus nodded sadly. His friendship with Hanno might have saved their lives, but this was not the way he’d have wanted it to end. There was nothing he could do to change things, however. Quintus hardened his heart. Hanno was one of the enemy now.
Fabricius rode straight back to the camp, and from there to the consul’s command tent. Leaping from his horse, he threw his reins at one of the sentries and started towards the entrance. Quintus watched miserably from the back of his mount. Publius would not want to speak to a low-ranking cavalryman such as he.
His father stopped by the tent flap. ‘Well?’
‘You want me to come in?’
Fabricius laughed. ‘Of course. You are the sole reason we’re still breathing. Publius will want to hear why.’
Re-energised, Quintus jumped down and joined his father. The sentries at the entrance, four sturdy triarii – veterans – wearing highly polished crested helmets and mail shirts, stood to attention as they passed. Quintus’ chest swelled with pride. He was about to meet the consul! Until now, his only interactions with Publius had been to salute and return a polite greeting.
They were u
shered through various sections of the tent by a junior officer until they reached a comfortable area lined with carpets. The space was lit by large bronze lamps and contained a desk covered in parchments, ink pots and quills, various iron-bound chests and several luxurious couches. Bolstered by cushions, Publius was reclining on the biggest. His face was still an unhealthy grey colour, and bulky dressings were visible on his injured leg. His son stood attentively behind him, reading from a half-unrolled manuscript. Publius’ eyes opened as they approached, and he acknowledged their salutes. ‘Well met, Fabricius,’ he murmured. ‘Is that your son?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s his name again?’
‘Quintus, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. So, you have returned from your patrol. Did you meet with any success?’
‘No, sir,’ Fabricius replied tersely. ‘In fact, the complete opposite. Before getting anywhere near the Carthaginian camp, we were ambushed by a hugely superior enemy force. They pursued us right to the riverbank, where a strong force of spearmen was waiting.’ He indicated Quintus. ‘We are the only survivors.’
‘I see.’ Publius’ fingers drummed on the arm of his couch. ‘How is it that you were not also killed?’
Fabricius met the consul’s scrutiny with a solid gaze. ‘Because of Quintus here.’
Publius’ brows lowered. ‘Explain.’
Prompted by his father’s nudge, Quintus told the story of how he had been recognised by a former slave of the family, whom he had befriended. He faltered when it came to explaining how Hanno had been freed, but encouraged by Publius’ nod, Quintus revealed everything.
‘That is an incredible tale,’ Publius acknowledged. ‘The gods were most merciful.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Quintus agreed fervently.
The consul looked up at his son. ‘You’re not the only one able to rescue his father,’ he joked.
The younger Publius blushed bright red.
Publius’ face turned serious. ‘So, a whole turma has been wiped out, and we know no more about Hannibal’s disposition than yesterday.’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ Fabricius admitted.
