Hannibal: Clouds of War (18 page)

Quintus twisted around. ‘Got your dice with you?’

Grinning, Unlucky pulled up a little leather bag on a thong from inside his tunic. ‘Always!’

‘Madman,’ said Quintus.

‘They bring me luck in battle. Fortuna might cheat me out of all my money, but she’s always true when it comes to saving my skin.’ Unlucky kissed the bag reverently.

Quintus nodded. Even Wolf didn’t pour scorn on Unlucky, for this, his little habit before combat. Wolf’s was to rub the strip of skin on his helmet. Quintus’ was to ask Mars for help. Urceus repeated the same short prayer over and over. Corax – even he – had a ritual: snapping his sword half in and out of its scabbard.

‘There it is,’ said Urceus. His tone made Quintus turn at once.

The walls to their right had begun to curve inwards, away from them. Quintus peered, eager to see what had previously been a sketch drawn by Corax in the dirt. Together with the island of Ortygia, which was connected to the rest of Syracuse by fortified bridges, the fortifications before them formed a three-sided harbour. Ortygia’s defences made up the southern side, while the western and northern ones were composed of part of the city’s main wall. The anchorage was exposed to the east, meaning it could not be used when inclement weather was coming from that direction. The lower or great harbour was much more protected from the weather, but the battlements there were a great deal higher, which was why Marcellus was directing his attack here, at the smaller harbour.

‘See that, boys?’ shouted Corax. ‘Achradina! By tonight, gods willing, we’ll be on the other side of those walls. For now, enjoy the view, and the sun on your face.’

His men laughed and cheered, but their reaction was a little subdued. Quintus felt the same way. The defences were the height of five men standing on each other’s shoulders, and they were manned by thousands of the enemy, whose armaments included an unknown quantity of artillery. Quintus knew some of his comrades – at the very minimum – would die today.

Corax made no recognition of their muted response. He waited until they had quietened. ‘You know the drill, but I’ll tell you again anyway. Check the straps on all of your kit. Helmet, breastplates if you have one, baldrics and belts. The straps on your shields. Don’t forget to look over your sandals: laces and soles. It’d be damn stupid if you slipped off the ladder because of a loose hob.’

There were a few nervous chuckles at this.

‘Run your hand down the shafts of your pila to make sure that there are no splinters. Your swords need to be loose in their scabbards. Have a piss over the side. A shit, if you need one. I for one don’t want someone’s mess all down my face when I’m climbing.’

‘No one would dare take a dump on you, sir. Not after the roasting you gave that lad who sneezed on you,’ called a voice from behind Quintus – Unlucky?

More laughs, happier this time.

Corax’s lips twitched; he let them enjoy the joke. ‘You’re probably right, soldier, but my advice remains the same. Odd things happen to a man’s guts when he goes into battle. It’s best to get bodily functions out of the way beforehand. There’s no shame in it. We’ve all seen each other’s cocks at this stage, and how small they are. Except for mine, of course, which rivals that of Priapus.’

The hastati below decks joined in the eruption of laughter that followed. Even the crew did.

Corax allowed himself a little smile. ‘Get on with it,’ he roared. ‘Down the back, where you won’t be pissing straight on top of the oarsmen.’

Soon a line of men had formed up on the port side of the deck, just behind the point at which the last sets of oars protruded from the hull. Jokes and insults flew, especially at those who needed to empty their bowels, but it was good-humoured. Morale had been preserved yet again, thought Quintus admiringly. ‘How does he do it?’

‘May the gods grant that he’s always there to look after us,’ said Urceus. ‘Fuck knows what would happen to us if he was—’

‘Don’t say it,’ interrupted Quintus.

Urceus cursed and reached for the phallus amulet that hung around his neck. He rubbed it furiously, as if that would retract his words.

Offering up a prayer of his own that their centurion would come through the assault safely, Quintus went to join the line. Urceus chased after him. Quintus had emptied his bladder before they had embarked, but he needed to go again. It was always the way. Still, he thought, watching a hapless soldier squatting at the deck’s edge as hoots of derision rained down on him, there was always time to lighten the mood by making fun of someone. ‘Get a move on,’ he roared. ‘Some of us want to fight rather than shit!’

His comment was met with widespread laughter. The crouching soldier finished as fast as he could and made his way past them, glowering with embarrassment.

A number of paces from where the friends were standing, the captain called across to his counterpart; they agreed a new course. The hastati muttered to each other as the helmsman spoke with the flautists, who changed their tune. The rowers on the starboard side smoothly lifted their oars from the water while those on the port continued to row. The quinquereme began to turn. Half a dozen heartbeats later, the flutes reverted to their previous refrain. The starboard oars slid back into the sea with soft splashes, and with barely a break in the rhythm, took up the same stroke as the port ones. Quintus peered towards the prow. They were heading straight for the centre of the little harbour. At least thirty of the quinqueremes with missile troops occupied the water ahead. Two of the ships with sambucae were a short distance in front, while the three vessels with siege towers were strung out behind with the remainder of the protective quinqueremes. They would follow as soon as there was space to do so.

A hush settled over the hastati as the walls, on either side now, drew closer. Even the sailors’ conversations became subdued, leaving the flutes’ music and the noise of the oars to fill the air. It would have been a beautiful accompaniment to any voyage, thought Quintus grimly, if it weren’t for the reason that silence had fallen. Every man aboard knew that at any moment, they would come within range of the enemy artillery.

‘Four hundred paces,’ said Urceus in a low tone. ‘That’s how far a good artilleryman can aim a large catapult. We’ve got to be close to that already.’

‘Aye.’ Quintus wished that Urceus hadn’t mentioned it.

Twang!
All eyes shot towards the walls to their left. The stone came through the air in a blur, moving so fast that it was almost impossible to track. Quintus was relieved to see that it would come nowhere near their ship.

His relief lasted no more than a heartbeat.

Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang!
The sound was coming from both sides, faster and faster. Suddenly, the sky was full of stones and arrows. Beneath the noise, Quintus could hear men shouting: the officers and men who judged the range of each shot.
Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang!
Quintus fought his fear, doing his best to ignore the deadly chorus. It was impossible of course. Beside him, Urceus was mouthing savage curses. Others were praying. Back where they’d been standing, Unlucky had the bag containing his dice clenched in his fist. Wolf was staring fixedly at the deck. Corax, on the other hand, was stalking from man to man, slapping their backs and telling them what fine soldiers they were. Quintus took heart, but he was relieved a moment later when it was his turn to piss over the side. There was far more urine than he’d imagined there would be. Job done, he hurried back to his position. Urceus wasn’t far behind him.

Fortunately, their captain had taken the decision to direct the ship down the middle of the entrance to the harbour. This kept them at the outer edge of the enemy catapults’ range. A good number of the quinqueremes in front and to the sides were not so lucky, however. The enemy artillerymen had ranged their weapons well. Quintus could not be sure of the size of the stones being hurled, but the damage they were causing was significant. He could see a number of vessels that had been holed, some near the waterline. One was sinking slowly, its crew and passengers jumping off in scores. Another ship had had its mast cracked; the tall piece of wood now leaned at a crazy angle. Shouts of dismay rose from the vessel’s crew. To continue, they would have to chop the mast down, thought Quintus, and the flotilla was so close together that that ran the considerable risk of hitting another quinquereme.

Crash!
A stone struck the deck of a quinquereme perhaps a hundred paces off their port side. As if by magic, a gap appeared in the densely packed soldiers on board. The stone shot into the sea between the ships with a loud splash. The roars of pain reached Quintus a heartbeat later.

‘Shit, that’s not a pleasant way to go,’ said Urceus.

‘How many men did it kill?’ asked Quintus, fascinated and horrified. ‘Five? Ten?’

‘At least,’ replied Urceus with a grimace.

Crash! Crash!
The enemy artillerymen were focusing on the quinquereme that had just been hit. Two more rocks landed, clearing swathes more space on its decks.

Quintus’ gorge rose, and he knelt and busied himself with the laces on one of his sandals. After that, he tried not to look at what was going on. His comrades were doing the same. It was an act of self-preservation. Nothing could block from their ears the screams of the injured and the piteous cries for help from the soldiers who were in the sea, however. Quintus gritted his teeth and wondered if it had been wise to wear his mail shirt. Even the strongest of men would struggle to swim wearing one. Mars, let us reach the bottom of the walls soon, he prayed. Do not let me die in the water.

Their ship ploughed on, with death and destruction showering down on either side. A stray stone ripped a great hole in the mainsail, but they took no other direct hits. There was a near miss with a quinquereme that had suffered heavy casualties among its oarsmen, and which could not move out of their way. Luckily, the soldiers at the front relayed the message, allowing the captains to order their rowers to back water. They came to a halt less than a javelin throw from the stricken ship. Many of the hastati shouted abuse at its crew, telling them to get the fuck out of the way or they would sink their damn vessel themselves.

Long moments passed, during which their craft had to sit motionless. It soon became a target for the enemy catapults. A number of stones smacked into the water just to the front of it, and two hit the decks of the quinquereme that their one was attached to, killing a dozen soldiers. Quintus and his comrades were helpless, able to do nothing but study the walls on both sides in utter dread, wondering when the next barrage would be launched. It was pure good fortune that their ship and, more importantly, the great ladder with which they would launch their attack, were not hit. After what seemed an eternity, the damaged quinquereme in front limped from their path, allowing them to continue.

‘That was a close one, lads,’ said Corax as he prowled past. ‘Be a shit way to die, colliding with some of our own, eh? Or to be mown down while we sat there?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the pair muttered.

There was to be no respite. More and more stones and arrows rained in. The enemy artillerymen had ranged their weapons by stages, Quintus concluded. There was no other explanation for their concentrated volleys to have been so efficient. Finally, inevitably, their ship’s luck ran out. Two men in the ranks ahead went down, both their skulls smashed by the same stone. Another was thrown to the deck, skewered through the chest by a bolt as thick as two of Quintus’ fingers. Blood pooled rapidly beneath his twitching body as he choked and gasped his way to oblivion. It left a crimson stain on the deck timbers. On the neighbouring quinquereme, a trio of soldiers were hurled overboard, falling into the gap between the two vessels. The screams as they were crushed to death or pushed under the water by the ships’ momentum were horrendous. Quintus prayed; around him, his comrades did the same. Corax seemed oblivious. He paced to and fro between the men, making no acknowledgement of the enemy artillery at all.

Corax was made of iron, Quintus decided. He himself managed not to soil his undergarment, and to appear calm, yet it was quite another to do as Corax did, and to defy death. Despite the centurion’s example, Quintus was grateful that they were nearing their destination. Hades beckoned in numerous new ways, but at least he’d have his feet on dry land.

Twang! Twang!
Quintus held his breath; he did not look up. It was better not to. Wolf had been right. If the gods had marked him out to be wiped from existence, there was nothing he could do about it. Blood pulsed behind his eardrums nonetheless; fear gnawed at his guts.
Crash!
The roars of agony that followed were some distance to his rear; Quintus felt guilty relief that the stone had not hit him or Urceus, and then immediate terror about where the second stone would land.
Crash!
The deck trembled beneath his feet; there was the unmistakeable sound of a body hitting the ground, right behind him.

‘Wolf!’ wailed Unlucky.

Blood sprayed over Quintus’ lower legs as he turned; he winced at the sight. The stone had taken Wolf’s head clean off; there was no sign of it, or his helmet with its signature strip of fur. His truncated corpse sprawled before them, unrecognisable as their comrade. The severed arteries in the stump of Wolf’s neck pulsed with each slowing beat of his heart, showering the area with droplets of blood. A great gouge had been taken out of the deck planking beyond Wolf, but fortunately for the other hastati, the stone appeared to have bounced on into the sea.

‘Wolf,’ whispered Unlucky, his face as grey as week-old snow. ‘
Wolf.
’

‘He’s gone,’ grated Quintus, seizing Unlucky’s chin and forcing his gaze away from the mangled body. Quintus stared into Unlucky’s eyes. ‘He’s gone. The gods will take care of him now. Get a grip of yourself.’

For a moment, it seemed that Unlucky would crack, but then he knuckled away his tears and nodded. ‘I’m all right,’ he muttered. ‘I’m all right.’

‘Good.’ Quintus released him, noting that Unlucky’s grip on his dice was so tight that his knuckles were glistening white through the skin of his fist. ‘Thank the gods that the wretch will be behind us on the ladder,’ he said to Urceus in an undertone. ‘Otherwise we’d have him falling on top of us.’