Fields of Blood h-2

by Ben Kane

  How can it come to this? Quintus wanted to scream. I lived through the battle, only to die like a dog? His legs kicked out again, and connected with something. Someone. Urceus! He kicked out, over and over. There was an angry grunt by way of reply, and then a muttered question. Quintus lashed out one last time before concentrating all of his energy on preventing Macerio’s blade coming even closer to his flesh. It was already less than two hands’ width from the base of his throat, and pressing closer with each frantic breath he took in through his nostrils. Quintus could feel his arm weakening. It had never fully regained all of its previous strength after the arrow wound he’d sustained. Fuck you, Macerio! he thought. I’ll see you in Hades.

  There was a meaty thump. Macerio’s eyes went wide; his body stiffened; his knife point wavered, and then Quintus suddenly had control of his enemy’s arm. Macerio’s other hand slipped off Quintus’ mouth. A sucking sound, such as a blade makes when it leaves a man’s flesh, and then another heavy impact. Making a low, groaning sound, Macerio toppled to lie beside him, face down. Quintus gaped. Urceus was standing over them, his fist tight on the hilt of a gladius — which was protruding from Macerio’s back. He tugged it free and stuck the blond-haired man again for good measure. ‘Go to Hades, you piece of filth.’ He spat on Macerio’s body.

  Quintus sat up, trembling with relief. ‘You saved my life. Thank you.’

  ‘I just wanted you to stop kicking me,’ said Urceus with a grin. His face grew serious in the starlight. ‘No, you’re my friend. What else could I do?’

  Quintus thumped him on the shoulder. Other men, woken by the noise, were calling out now. Corax was tramping over, demanding to know what was going on, threatening to castrate anyone he caught fighting. In that moment, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, not even the battle. He was alive. So was Urceus. Macerio would never trouble him again. Quintus would have preferred to have killed his enemy himself, but he’d settle for this. Urceus had also been a friend to Rutilus. Rest in peace, he thought. Your murder has been avenged.

  It was a small piece of solace at the end of the most horrendous day of his life.

  Hanno stirred when the sun’s heat on his body became too much. He groaned, and tried to go back to sleep. He couldn’t. Mixed with the buzz of a million flies above him was a low, moaning sound. Gods, he thought, that’s the wounded. With that, he was awake. There was a tacky feeling in his mouth that he recognised as dehydration, and his eyelids were gummed shut with sleep. Every part of his body ached, but he was alive, and that was more than could be said for the thousands who had fallen in the battle, and those who would have died overnight. Hanno opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the outline of wings. Scores of sets of wings, far above. Shit. The sky was filled with vultures, more than he had ever seen before. He dragged himself to his feet. Around him, his soldiers still lay sleeping. They were yet in the midst of the battlefield, because by the time they had finished with the last of the Romans the previous night, there had been little point trying to pick their way through the confusion of bodies and weapons to their camp. Dawn was only six hours away. Hanno had had his men clear enough space to lie down, set a few sentries, and let the rest collapse in a heap. Now he stared beyond their recumbent forms to where the carnage began. Even though he knew what to expect, now the mania of combat had left him, the sight was indescribably shocking. The proof of their remarkable victory — of Hannibal’s extraordinary triumph — could not have been more graphic.

  Bodies, thousands and thousands of bodies, as far as he could see in every direction. They lay singly, together, in piles, every race and colour under the sun, locked together in the dispassionate embrace of death. Libyans. Gauls. Iberians. Balearic and Ligurian tribesmen. Romans and socii, united as they had been in life. All, all of them were covered in blood. It coated everything: men, weapons, helmets, standards. Even the earth was bloody, as if the gods themselves had come down in the night and painted it scarlet. Hanno’s eyes roamed over the nearest bodies in morbid fascination. They were stabbed through, hacked open, disembowelled. Armless. Legless. In a few cases, decapitated. Lying with their faces in the red-stained earth, on their sides, or on their backs, gaping mouths open to the swarms of flies that hung everywhere. The stench of shit and piss filled his nostrils. Mixed with that was the coppery tang of blood; already there was a whiff of gas from the bodies that had begun to rot. What it would smell like by the day’s end, he could only imagine.

  In the distance, Hanno could make out the corpses of horses, where some of the cavalry battle must have taken place. If he strained his ears, he could hear whinnies from some beasts yet living. Distaste filled him. They would need to be slain, and the day would be spent scouring the area for soldiers of their own who lived, and dispatching those of the enemy who hadn’t yet gone to Hades.

  He heard a shriek, suddenly cut off. His attention was drawn to figures moving among the bodies off to his left. They were Gaulish women, killing Roman wounded as they searched for their men. Father! he thought. Bostar. Sapho.

  Waking Mutt, Hanno issued orders to fetch water from the river and whatever food could be found. ‘Once you’ve done that, start looking for men of ours who are alive. Carry them here and do what you can for them. We’ll get them back to the camp later.’

  ‘And the Romans we find still breathing?’ asked Mutt.

  ‘You know what to do with them.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Mutt’s expression became shrewd. ‘You going to search for your family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The gods grant that they all made it, sir.’

  Hanno threw Mutt a grateful look and left him to it. Sapho had been closest to them during the battle, so he made for his position first. He found his brother sitting propped up against a pile of Roman corpses, setting his men similar tasks to Hanno’s. A bloody bandage around his right calf explained why he was seated.

  ‘Hanno!’ A broad smile creased Sapho’s face as he approached. ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘It’s good to see you, brother!’ Despite all that had passed between them, Hanno felt his heart swell with happiness. He knelt by Sapho and they embraced. ‘You’re hurt. Is it serious?’

  ‘It’s not too bad.’ Sapho scowled. ‘The last fucking Roman I killed got me as he went down. It shouldn’t have happened, but I was tired.’

  ‘We all were by the end of it,’ said Hanno. ‘What a day, eh?’

  ‘Hannibal’s name will go down in history for this,’ said Sapho.

  ‘Without doubt,’ agreed Hanno. Hannibal could now do no wrong in his eyes.

  They savoured that thought for a moment.

  ‘Have you seen Father and Bostar?’ asked Hanno.

  ‘Not yet, but I’ve sent a soldier to search for them.’

  Hanno rose. ‘I’m going too.’

  ‘Eshmoun guide you to their sides. Bring me word as soon as you can.’

  ‘I will.’

  Using the line of hills as a reference point, Hanno slowly made his way across the battlefield. The area he crossed was where the main body of legionaries had fought — and died. For every Carthaginian soldier’s body, he counted at least half a dozen Roman. Plenty of men from both sides were alive. Many, even the Romans, raised their hands in supplication to him, pleading for water, or an end to their suffering. Hardening his heart, Hanno stalked by without a second glance. The Roman corpses made him think of Quintus and Fabricius. He hoped for Aurelia’s sake, and the friendship that had once existed between him and Quintus, that both men had survived. There were groups of Iberians and Gauls everywhere, men who must also have spent the night in the field. Now they were scouring the dead for valuables. From the cries of pain that rose regularly, they were also indulging in a little torment of any living enemies whom they encountered. Hanno didn’t really approve, but such behaviour was the norm, so he shut his ears and averted his gaze and walked on.

  He found where the Libyans had stood on the opposite flank a short time later. Clusters of
weary-faced soldiers stood around, sharing water skins and talking in low voices amongst themselves. Hanno practically ran up to the first group. ‘I’m looking for Malchus,’ he said, butting in. ‘Or Bostar, who commanded a phalanx.’

  ‘You must be another of Malchus’ sons, sir,’ said one of the Libyans, a bearded man with a hooked nose.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am Hanno. Well?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Malchus since yesterday, sir, but Bostar’s been here, talking to our commanding officer.’

  Hanno’s heart leaped with joy. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Last I saw of him, sir, he was walking that way.’ The soldier pointed off to his left. ‘That was where Malchus’ phalanx was positioned. About a hundred paces away.’

  Hanno grinned. He would be reunited with his father and brother at the same time. ‘My thanks.’ He hurried off as fast as his tired limbs would take him. Gods, but he was looking forward to getting drunk with Bostar that night. Sapho too. He grinned. After such a momentous day, their father might even shed his normal reserve and join them.

  The happy thought vanished as he recognised Bostar’s outline. His brother was kneeling with his back to Hanno. A body lay on the ground before him. Bostar’s slumped shoulders told Hanno everything he needed to know. ‘No. Please. Father!’ He covered the distance between them in a heartbeat. His stomach lurched as he took in the bloodied shape of his father. He was clearly dead. Hanno froze, and a great wave of anguish washed over him.

  Bostar’s head turned. Tears had run tracks through the blood that coated his grief-stricken face. But the corners of his lips turned up at the sight of Hanno, and he stood. ‘Brother!’

  Hanno tore his eyes from his father’s corpse, stared at Bostar, felt tears run down his own cheeks. They wrapped their arms around one another and held on for dear life. Both men wept unashamedly. ‘Sapho is alive,’ murmured Hanno after a little while. Bostar stiffened, before answering, ‘That is good.’ There was no need to say any more.

  It was a long time before either released his grip. When they did, the pair turned instinctively to look down on their father. Despite a number of fearsome injuries, all of which were to his front, Malchus’ face was serene. He looked years younger than his age.

  ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to go any other way,’ said Hanno, proud but sad.

  ‘I agree. His men told me that the Romans in this section had already broken when he took his mortal wound. So he knew that we had won.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he looks so peaceful,’ said Hanno in wonderment.

  ‘I think that’s exactly why. Once he knew that Hannibal’s plan had worked, death would have been a release for him. Father would never have admitted it, but all he really wanted after Mother died was to be with her once more. Remember how he changed when she was gone?’

  ‘I do,’ murmured Hanno. Arishat, their mother, had been the light of their father’s life. ‘I always felt that something in him died with her.’

  ‘Now they can be together again.’

  ‘It’s good to think of them like that.’ Hanno felt his grief ease a little. Farewell, Father. Greetings, Mother. Look after one another.

  ‘They can watch over us as we march on to victory over Rome,’ added Bostar, throwing an arm over Hanno’s shoulders.

  Hanno liked that image. It seemed fitting, somehow. ‘You think that will be Hannibal’s next move?’

  ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, brother, I don’t care that much at this very moment. After what we did yesterday, every Roman will be shitting themselves about what we do next. For now, let’s remember Father and the rest of our dead, and celebrate our achievement.’

  ‘Aye. I think Father would have wanted us to rejoice over this victory,’ said Hanno. ‘Before I found you, I had hoped he might join us in a drink tonight.’

  Bostar chuckled. ‘You know, I think he would have, just this once. We’ll keep a brimming cup for him this evening, eh?’

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hanno nodded. Their father would never be forgotten — and nor would their victory here, on the fields of blood.

  Chapter XIX

  Capua, two days later. .

  The wailing started just after dawn. It began as a few isolated cries of dismay, like those of a family discovering the death of a loved one. It wasn’t long, however, before other voices joined in: scores, and then hundreds of them. Aurelia was already awake, nursing Publius. Unsettled, she carried him — still on the breast — out into the courtyard. Here the volume was far louder, even more disconcerting, and Publius became distressed. As she tried to soothe him, Lucius emerged half-dressed from his bedroom, looking angry and alarmed. Almost every slave in the household was lurking by the doors to the kitchen, whispering, pointing, muttering prayers. Yet more voices joined the clamour and a cold knot of apprehension formed in Aurelia’s gut. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Lucius replied curtly.

  He was being evasive. Aurelia had an idea what it might be, but like her husband she was not prepared to say what she feared.

  An enormous boom sounded overhead; their heads lifted. Banks of black cloud were sweeping in from the west, brought in by a wind that had suddenly picked up. Light flickered within the clouds, presaging lightning. Another crackle of thunder. They shared a worried look. This was a bad omen. Added to the racket, it felt even more menacing. A few of the slaves began to weep.

  ‘Be silent!’ roared Lucius. ‘Out of my sight. Get back to work.’ The slaves scurried from view, urged on by Statilius. ‘I’m going to find out what’s causing the alarm,’ said Lucius, his face grim.

  Aurelia felt a lurch of panic. ‘Send Statilius instead.’

  He didn’t respond. ‘Bar the doors when I am gone. Let no one in until I return.’

  She didn’t argue. Rarely had she seen him so set upon a purpose. ‘Be safe, husband,’ she whispered.

  A short smile and he vanished into the tablinum, shouting for his sword. She watched him go, feeling sick at the thought of what he might discover.

  Waiting for Lucius to return was hellish. The noise outside continued to increase in volume. It was audible even with the rumbling of thunder that accompanied it. In it, Aurelia heard women’s screams, men shouting angrily, the crying of babies and the braying of mules. Even when the rain began to fall, the unearthly sound did not stop. It was what Aurelia imagined Hades might sound like. Gooseflesh erupted all over her body; she could not settle Publius, no matter how hard she tried. He didn’t want to feed; his usual lullabies made no difference. All he would do was cry. In the end, she walked him around the colonnaded walkway that enclosed the courtyard. That helped a little.

  A barrage of hammering on the front door nearly made her jump out of her skin. Lucius’ voice demanding entry reassured her that it wasn’t a demon come to claim them, but her stomach still roiled as Statilius ran to let his master in. Lucius appeared a moment later. He was soaked to the skin and his cheeks were haggard, as if he’d been out in the weather all day.

  Aurelia walked to meet him, cradling Publius, who mercifully fell silent. Nausea clawed the back of her throat, but she fought it away. Neither husband nor wife said a word as they neared one another. Close up, Aurelia saw that Lucius had been crying. His face was stricken. ‘They lost, didn’t they?’ she said, uttering the unthinkable, which had been in her mind since the commotion began. ‘Hannibal won.’

  His nod was mechanical, as if he’d been drugged.

  If Aurelia hadn’t been holding Publius, she would have fallen. Calm. You must stay calm, she thought. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Two messengers presented themselves at the gates just after sunrise, demanding an audience with the magistrates. An announcement was made in the forum after that meeting. All kinds of rumours are flying about, but I managed to speak with an official whom I know. He’s level-headed, so his account is as reliable as can be expected. Two days ago, it was Varro’s turn to lead the army. He was determined to start a battle, even though Pau
llus wanted to wait until a better location could be found.’ Lucius spoke in a monotone. ‘Varro crossed the River Aufidius and drew up the legions in one great bloc. Hannibal’s army followed and formed up opposite. Our soldiers advanced on the middle of the enemy line, with the cavalry in support on the wings. Varro’s intention was to smash the guggas apart with one decisive blow, before annihilating their broken remnants. Our horse had to hold the flanks. Except everything went wrong. Hannibal’s horsemen attacked on both sides. They put the citizen cavalry to flight almost at once, while the socii riders were bogged down by his infernal Numidians. We had such superiority of numbers of infantry that that shouldn’t have mattered — in theory. The trouble was, Hannibal had a master plan that Varro didn’t see. His weakest troops were standing in his centre and in a formation slightly bowed towards our soldiers. When the fighting began, the enemy was driven back slowly. But as the legionaries drew level with the rest of his men, Hannibal had his wings — which were made up of his Libyan veterans — swing around to attack the legions’ sides. Much of his cavalry fell upon our rear at the same time.’

  Aurelia felt cold all over. ‘Where were our horsemen by this time? The citizens, especially?’

  ‘Driven off, or killed.’ His eyes caught hers. ‘I’m sorry, Aurelia.’

  Father! Gaius! She had to lean against a pillar to hold herself upright. Lucius’ gaze was steady and it helped her to gain control. ‘Go on. I want to know everything. How many dead?’

  ‘No one knows for sure. One of the tribunes sent a group of riders to inform the Senate as the sun fell. Apparently, Varro escaped to Venusia with a few thousand men. More still fled to Canusium. There were stragglers all over the countryside. It will take days to calculate the losses.’

  ‘How many?’ she demanded again.

  ‘Thirty thousand, perhaps more,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what the messengers think.’

  Aurelia reeled. It felt as if someone had punched her in the solar plexus. ‘Quintus is dead too, then.’ She could control her emotions no longer. Clutching Publius to her as if he’d be stolen too, she let the sobs come. Alarmed, he also began to wail. Lucius moved towards her, but she waved him away. ‘How can the gods do this to me?’ she screamed. ‘Take three of the most important men in my life in one sweep? Curse them for being faithless! Curse them for never listening to our pleas!’