Fields of Blood h-2

by Ben Kane

  ‘HANNIBAL!’ shouted Hanno as loudly as he could.

  That brought them to a screeching stop.

  ‘Hannibal is my leader too,’ he said in Carthaginian. ‘You understand?’

  Blank looks from two of the men, but the third scowled. He spat a question in Iberian.

  Hanno didn’t understand a word. He repeated Hannibal’s name over and over, but the Iberians didn’t look impressed. Raising their swords, they padded towards him, reminding him of how deadly they were in battle. It hasn’t worked. I’m dead, he thought wearily.

  That was when one of them pointed at him and asked another question.

  Hanno looked down in confusion. He glanced at their crimson-edged tunics and then at his own red one. Understanding, he tugged at the fabric like a maniac. ‘Yes! I am the commander of a phalanx! Libyan spearmen! Libyans!’

  ‘Pha-lanx?’ demanded one of the Iberians, adding in accented Carthaginian, ‘You from Carthage?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Hanno. ‘I am from Carthage! The other man is Carthaginian too.’

  The tension vanished as the smell of a dead carcase is carried off by the wind. Suddenly, the Iberians were all smiles. ‘Carthaginians!’ they roared. ‘Hannibal!’ Bomilcar was ungagged and cut down with many apologies; both of them were given some wine. When Hanno’s wound was spotted, there were hisses of dismay. One Iberian produced a clean strip of cloth, which he insisted on wrapping around Hanno’s neck. ‘Surgeon,’ he kept repeating. ‘You need. . surgeon.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘But first I need to find my father, or my brothers.’

  The Iberian didn’t understand, but he heard the urgency in Hanno’s voice. ‘Wait,’ he ordered.

  Hanno was happy to obey. Sitting beside Bomilcar, with the first warm flush of the wine coursing through his veins, he felt vaguely human. ‘We made it,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’

  Bomilcar grinned. ‘I can’t believe it. For the first time in five years, I’m free.’

  ‘You’ll be well rewarded for what you’ve done,’ swore Hanno. ‘And I’ll always be in your debt.’

  They gripped hands to seal a new bond of friendship.

  The Iberian soon returned with one of his officers, who spoke better Carthaginian. Hearing Hanno’s story, he arranged for a stretcher to be brought and for a messenger to find Malchus.

  ‘I need to see my father first,’ Hanno insisted.

  ‘You’re as pale as a ghost. He can find you in the field hospital,’ replied the officer.

  ‘No.’ Hanno tried to stand, but his legs gave way beneath him.

  It was the last thing he remembered.

  Hanno woke to the sound of raised voices. His mind filled with an image of the Iberians who had attacked Bomilcar and his eyes jerked open. To his confusion, the first face he saw was Bostar’s. His brother looked angry; he was gesticulating at someone beyond Hanno’s range of vision. Overhead, there was tent fabric. He was in a bed, not the hay barn. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Praise all the gods! He’s come back to us,’ cried Bostar, his expression softening. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘A-all right, I suppose.’ Without thinking, Hanno’s hand rose to his neck. He had enough time to feel the thick bandage before Bostar’s hand closed over his.

  ‘Don’t touch. The surgeon says it’s just starting to heal.’

  Hanno felt a dull throbbing from the area. ‘It doesn’t hurt like it did.’

  ‘That will be thanks to the poppy juice. The surgeon has been dosing you with it three to four times a day.’

  A series of fractured images flashed past Hanno’s vision. He did have a vague recollection of bitter-tasting liquid being forced down his throat.

  ‘Bomilcar has told us a lot of what went on,’ said Sapho in an enquiring tone.

  Hanno managed to sit up, wincing at a jag of pain from his wound. ‘After I was taken prisoner?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bostar gently. ‘And Mutt told us the first part of the story.’

  Hanno saw his favourite brother’s eyes travel to his neck. ‘It’s bad, eh?’

  Bostar didn’t answer.

  ‘What has the surgeon said?’ demanded Hanno.

  ‘At first, that you wouldn’t survive. But you made it through the first night and day, and then the next. It was a surprise to all of us.’ Bostar cast his eyes at Sapho, who nodded to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘If prayer can help, then the gods had a hand in your recovery. We spent most of the time on our knees. Even Father joined in!’

  Hanno began to appreciate the relief in his brothers’ faces, especially that of Bostar. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Six days so far,’ replied Bostar. ‘You seemed to turn a corner yesterday, though, when the fever broke. The surgeon said that the wound was weeping less and starting to close over.’

  ‘It’s not a wound. It’s a Latin letter “F”,’ said Hanno bitterly. ‘“F” for fugitivus.’

  ‘You’re no slave!’ cried Sapho angrily. Bostar echoed his words.

  ‘I had told the officer who was interrogating me about my enslavement,’ Hanno explained. ‘He wanted to mark me out as a runaway for the last few hours of my life. It was supposed to be in the centre of my forehead, but I managed to move at the last moment. Better to have the brand on my neck, eh?’ He pulled a grim smile.

  Neither brother laughed. ‘Where did the filthy son of a whore go?’ spat Sapho.

  ‘To defend the walls, I think. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. Bomilcar must have told you how he then came in and killed my guard. If it hadn’t been for him. .’ Hanno’s voice trailed away.

  ‘Yes. He’s a good man. His actions won’t be forgotten,’ said Bostar. ‘A shame we didn’t know what had happened as we entered Victumulae. Although seeking you would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Did many get away?’ asked Hanno resignedly. He didn’t doubt that a cur like Pera would find a way to escape even the sacking of a town.

  ‘Only the non-citizens, and there were precious few of them,’ Sapho replied with a savage leer. ‘Our men won’t have known who your officer was, but he’s still deader than a fly-blown corpse that’s been on a crucifix for a week.’

  ‘I’d have liked to slay him myself, though,’ said Hanno. It felt fortunate — and odd — that Pera had refused to grant him an easy death. If the Roman had granted his request, he wouldn’t be lying where he was. That didn’t stop Hanno from wishing that Pera had died screaming.

  ‘There will be plenty more opportunities to kill men like him,’ said Sapho. ‘New Roman armies will come to meet us.’

  ‘Good!’ Hanno couldn’t wait to be part of it. He wanted some tangible revenge for what had been done to him. He would have preferred Pera, but any Roman would do.

  ‘Soon we march south. Hannibal wants all of us ready for the journey, including you,’ added Bostar.

  ‘He has asked for me?’ asked Hanno, surprised.

  ‘Asked for you? He has visited twice,’ declared Sapho.

  ‘He said that you have more lives than a cat!’ Bostar winked. ‘Even he has heard how all of our spearmen think of you as something of a talisman. “Let him bring us good luck as we march,” he said.’

  Hanno’s heart leaped. It seemed that he was returning to Hannibal’s good books, which was most unexpected. Something good had come of his rash behaviour after all.

  Chapter V

  Outside Placentia

  Quintus scowled as he caught sight of his father approaching. A lot had happened in the month since his hunting trip, but one thing had been constant: Fabricius’ towering anger at what he had done. It hadn’t been as evident during the week he’d spent in the camp hospital, having his wound cleaned and monitored, and poultices applied to it twice a day. Once the surgeon had discharged Quintus, however, things had changed. Fabricius had subjected him to a long lecture about his stupidity. Leaving the camp without permission. Taking so few men with him. Attacking the Gauls
instead of trying to avoid them. He had gone on and on until Quintus thought his head would explode. He’d tried to justify his actions, tried to explain how their casualties had been light compared to those suffered by the warriors. It had been like banging his head on a wall. As his father, Fabricius could say and do what he wished. It was even permissible for the head of a Roman family to strike his children dead if they displeased him. That wasn’t likely, but Fabricius swore that Quintus was to return home the moment he’d sufficiently recovered. His father had also declared that, if needs be, he had enough friends in high places to ensure that Quintus didn’t serve in the military again. That didn’t bear thinking about.

  The worst thing about his convalescence was that he couldn’t train with Calatinus and his comrades, or go on patrol, during these, the last opportunities he would have for a long time, possibly ever. His ribs had healed and the strength was returning to his left arm, but Quintus still couldn’t hold a shield for long. He spent a couple of hours every day riding his horse, but his interest in that had palled long since. Fabricius kept him busy running errands around the camp, but that felt demeaning. Quintus had taken to avoiding his father. He would lurk in his tent after his comrades had left for the morning, playing endless games of Three in a Line on Calatinus’ small clay board. In between, he’d lift his shield to strengthen his left arm. Of course Fabricius knew where to find him, which was no doubt why he was here now. Quintus thought about retreating further into the tent, but there was no point. He threw his shoulders back and stepped outside instead. ‘Father.’

  ‘I find you here, again.’

  Quintus gave a careless shrug. ‘I was lifting weights with my arm.’

  Fabricius’ lips thinned. ‘You were supposed to come to my quarters first thing.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  Slap! Fabricius’ palm struck his cheek, and Quintus yelped.

  ‘You’re not too big yet for me to take a whip to your back. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Do what you wish,’ said Quintus with a curl of his lip. ‘I can’t stop you.’

  Fury flared in Fabricius’ eyes. ‘Lucky for you, I need an important message taken somewhere. Otherwise, I would tan your hide right now!’

  Quintus felt a sour delight at his father’s frustration. He waited.

  Fabricius produced a tightly rolled parchment. ‘You’re to find a centurion by the name of Marcus Junius Corax. He serves in Longus’ first legion, and commands a maniple of hastati.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Fabricius rarely told him anything, but Quintus was curious. Cavalry and infantry didn’t often have much to do with each other.

  ‘None of your business!’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Just deliver the damn message.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Biting his lip, Quintus took the parchment.

  ‘Wait for a reply, and then find me on the open ground beyond the camp.’ Fabricius was already half a dozen paces away.

  Quintus threw a poisonous stare after him. Upon his return, he’d have to traipse around after Fabricius, acting as his unofficial messenger for the rest of the day. He rubbed at the purple scar on the front of his bicep, willing it to recover. It was time for another offering to Aesculapius, the god of healing. He could do that this evening. Donning his cloak, Quintus set out for the legionaries’ tent lines. Taking his horse didn’t appeal; holding the reins quickly tired out his weak arm.

  Despite the losses at the Trebia, the camp had still been erected as a double consular one, albeit smaller than usual. The fact that Corax was in one of Longus’ legions meant a long walk indeed. The consuls’ quarters were placed back to back and the legionary tent lines extended to the furthest rampart.

  Quintus’ spirits rose a little as he walked. His interest in legionaries and what made them the men they were had persisted, but he never got to spend any time with them. Cavalrymen were a social class above infantry, and the two rarely mixed. Quintus longed to push through that barrier, if only for a while. He wanted to know what it had felt like to drive through the Carthaginian centre. Perhaps Corax wouldn’t give him an immediate reply, which would give him time to talk to some of his men.

  His search took a long time, but Quintus finally came upon Corax’s maniple’s tent lines. They lay not far from Longus’ headquarters, but the centurion wasn’t there. As a cynical-looking hastatus told him, Corax liked to get out and about. He was drilling his men, ‘Somewhere on the training ground.’ Trying not to feel frustrated, Quintus headed for the porta praetoria, the entrance that lay furthest from his own tent.

  Beyond the walls and the deep defensive ditch lay the area designated for the soldiers’ training. As usual, it was filled with thousands of men. The four types of legionary were for the most part easy to differentiate one from another, which made Quintus’ task a little easier. Many of the velites, or skirmishers, had been on sentry duty at each of the gates, but the rest were hurling javelins while junior officers looked on. These were the youngest and poorest members of the army. Some could be distinguished by the strips of wolf skin adorning their helmets. In another section, the triarii, the most experienced legionaries who formed the third rank in battle, stood out thanks to their mail shirts and long thrusting spears. The hastati and principes, who made up the first and second ranks respectively, were harder to differentiate. Both these types of soldier wore simple bronze helmets, although some had triple feather crests; square breastplates protected their chests. Only the wealthiest men wore mail shirts similar to those seen on the veteran triarii. Their weapons and shields were similar too. There were thousands of them marching, halting, presenting arms and assuming battle formation in maniples, or double centuries. Volleys of javelins followed, and then a charge, before the whole procedure was repeated. Centurions and optiones looked on, roaring orders and reprimands in equal measure. The maniples’ standards were present, but the writing on each was so small that Quintus would have to approach each one. With a sigh, he walked to the nearest.

  By the tenth maniple, he was getting angry. From the occasional snickers that followed him, Quintus felt sure that he was deliberately being sent astray. The eleventh unit he approached was some distance from the rest. The two centurions had separated their soldiers into their individual centuries. Each man carried a wooden shield and sword. Over and over, they charged each other, slowing at the last moment before smashing together in a loud crash that wasn’t dissimilar to what Quintus had heard in battle. The thrusts he saw being delivered were as savage as the real thing too. It was so very different to fighting from the back of a horse, which, thanks to its mobile nature, rarely involved more than an exchange of one or two blows. Engrossed by the scene, Quintus drew quite near to the centurions without realising.

  ‘It’s tough work,’ said a voice.

  Quintus looked around, startled. One of the centurions, a man in early middle age with deep-set eyes and a narrow face, was staring straight at him. ‘It looks it, sir.’

  ‘You’re here on business.’ He pointed at the parchment in Quintus’ fist.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to be taken as the spoilt son of a cavalry officer. He adopted a rougher accent than his usual one. ‘Have you any idea where I’d find Marcus Junius Corax, centurion of hastati in Longus’ First Legion?’

  A sardonic smile. ‘Look no further. Why do you want me?’

  ‘This, sir.’ Quintus hurried forward. ‘It’s from Gaius Fabricius, cavalry commander.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’ Taking the parchment, Corax slit the wax seal and unrolled it. His lips moved silently as he read. ‘Interesting,’ he said after a moment.

  Quintus didn’t hear. All his attention was on the nearest hastati, who were striving to knock one another over with great shoves of their scuta.

  ‘It’s filthy, dirty work,’ said Corax. ‘Not like the glory stuff the cavalry boys get to take part in.’

  ‘There isn’t too much glory being in the cavalry these days,’ Quintus replied bitterl
y.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose there is. I’ve heard good things about Fabricius, though.’

  ‘I’m sure you have, sir.’ Quintus failed to keep all the sarcasm from his voice.

  He was relieved when Corax didn’t comment.

  ‘When does he want a reply?’

  ‘He just told me to wait, sir.’

  ‘Fine. I won’t be long.’ Corax barked an order, and his men pulled apart, their chests heaving. He stalked over to them and issued new orders. This time, his soldiers formed into two lines and began trotting up and down, at speed.

  Quintus watched, fascinated. This was fitness training as he’d never seen it. The wooden training equipment was twice as heavy as the real thing, and soon the hastati were sweating heavily. That was when Corax had them sprint back and forth ten times. His father never had his men train this hard, thought Quintus critically. Just because they rode horses didn’t mean that it wasn’t a good idea. He wondered again what it would be like to fight on foot, surrounded by dozens of comrades. Would it feel better than being a cavalryman?

  ‘You’re interested.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ever thought of joining the infantry?’

  Quintus struggled for an answer. His assumed accent, simple cloak and plain tunic had made Corax think he was nothing more than Fabricius’ servant. ‘As it happens, I have, sir.’

  ‘Well, we need velites as much as any type of soldier.’

  Quintus tried to look pleased. His fantasy had been that of becoming a heavy infantryman, but Corax’s words had put a madcap plan into his head. For it ever to have any chance of becoming reality, he had to continue the charade. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your master might not be too happy, but we’d be pleased to have you. If you make it through the initial training, of course. Some officers don’t bother making the new recruits do too much, but not me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d be honoured.’ Would I? Quintus wondered. He’d heard it said before that the velites were the dregs at the bottom of the amphora. Yet joining their number would be better than the shame of being sent home. Of never serving in the army again.