Hannibal: Clouds of War (20 page)

‘Crespo, Urceus, Unlucky. Put down your shields. With me.’ Corax went striding past, towards the prow. Towards where the hook looked as if it would hit.

Sweat sluiced down Quintus’ back the way it might if he were in a caldarium. ‘Here.’ He handed his scutum to the sailor whom he’d been protecting and hurried after Corax. ‘What’s your plan, sir?’

Corax’s expression was bleak. ‘I don’t have a fucking plan, Crespo. But if we don’t stop that thing, we’re all going to drown.’

They weaved their way to the front of the ship, through their fearful comrades. Quintus studied the hook as it loomed overhead. There appeared to be no cables or bindings that they could use their swords on. Panic bubbled up inside him. What could they do with their bare hands? A quick glance at Urceus and Unlucky told him that they were no less unhappy. They were here, as he was, because of their devotion to Corax. Quintus’ lead foot caught on something and he stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding falling overboard. Cursing, he kicked at the coiled length of rope that had been responsible, and then an idea flashed into his mind. ‘Sir!’

Corax turned with a scowl. ‘What?’

Quintus lifted the rope. ‘If we could throw this around one of the prongs, we might be able to pull it out of the way. Stop it grabbing hold of the ship.’

‘That’s bloody clever! Bring it here!’

The men nearest the prow didn’t need to be told to make way. A space cleared around Corax, Quintus and the rest as they unrolled the rope and tied one end into a great loop with a sliding knot. ‘Are any of you used to roping cattle?’ asked Corax.

Feeling stupid, Quintus shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ muttered Urceus, ‘but I’ll give it a go.’ Unlucky didn’t say a word.

Corax’s lips turned downwards. ‘Fuck it. It’s my job.’

‘I can do it, sir,’ said Unlucky out of the blue.

Their eyes turned in unison. ‘Speak up. Quickly!’ ordered Corax.

‘It’s been a few years, sir, but I used to help round up the cattle on our farm every summer. Time was that I could catch a cow from thirty paces away.’

‘Now’s your chance,’ said Corax, handing over the rope.

Quintus shot an encouraging glance at Unlucky, who looked as if he wished he’d said nothing. Urceus slapped him on the back. Unlucky moved to stand in front of them, hefting the loop of rope in his right hand. The hook was now little more than twenty paces over their heads. Quintus was alarmed to see that it no longer appeared to be aiming for the deck. Instead, the men controlling it were going to try and snag the bronze ram that protruded from the front of the ship. Unlucky’s task had just been made immeasurably harder. His first attempt failed. So too did his second, and Quintus’ hope began to vanish. Then, against all odds, the loop landed on the hook and caught on one of its prongs. Unlucky yelled with delight and tugged on the line, sliding the knot closed. ‘I’ve done it, sir!’

‘Grab the rope, all of you!’ roared Corax. ‘Pull on it like you’ve never pulled your cocks!’

Quintus, Urceus and Corax made to seize the rope. Their fingers were just closing on it when an arrow took Unlucky in the chest, to the left of his pectoral plate. Whoever had aimed the shot – no coincidence, surely – was a master bowman. Unlucky’s grip on the rope slackened; it pulled through his palm, leaving the others scrabbling to catch it. Unlucky’s eyes bulged with pain; he looked down at the rope, knowing he had to keep hold of it. Instead of regaining control, however, he dribbled pink-red froth from his lips and let go entirely. Before their horrified gaze, the rope ran over the side, where it dangled from the hook into the sea. Unlucky dropped to the deck in a tangle of limbs. Corax bellowed his frustration. Quintus stooped and picked up another length of rope. ‘Here!’ he said to Urceus. ‘You have a go. We might still manage to grab it.’

Cursing, Urceus tied a running knot as before. Holding the rope with both hands, he approached the point where the low rails that ran along the ship’s sides came together at the prow. Quintus watched with jangling nerves. Already the hook was being lowered into position over the ram. Urceus threw and missed; he pulled in the rope and tried again. That attempt failed too.

‘Help us, Fortuna,’ Quintus cried. He wanted to add, but didn’t dare, ‘You old bitch, like you should have helped poor Unlucky.’

Urceus was readying himself for one last effort when an enemy bowman – the same one who’d slain Unlucky? – loosed an arrow that scythed down to take him through the left arm. With a scream of pain, he dropped the rope. Even as Corax and Quintus grabbed for it, the hook struck the ram with a resounding clang. It was raised at once, but it hadn’t found a purchase and rose into the air again. The men operating it manoeuvred the hook a fraction and lowered it once more. Corax threw the rope, but it fell short, into the sea. With a despairing curse, he hurled it a second time. Quintus didn’t see it miss, because his eyes were locked in horror on the hook, which dropped neatly into the water alongside the ram. The chain suspending it began to rise a heartbeat later and Quintus almost vomited when it jarred to a stop. It had snagged the ram.

‘It’s caught. Pull as you’ve never pulled!’ The shout in Greek, from above, could not be missed.

Insults and roars of triumph carried down from the battlements.

‘The arm’s going to shoot up in the air, sir!’ Quintus roared at Corax.

‘Save yourselves,’ yelled Corax at the gaggle of soldiers and crew who were watching them. ‘Jump! Jump overboard!’ He began shoving men towards the rail. ‘There’s no time. Jump, if you want to live!’

Quintus looked down at his mail shirt, which would pull him under, and then at Urceus, whose injured arm would be the death of him in the water. He wouldn’t be able to help his friend with his armour on, but with it off, he had the slimmest of chances. Moving as fast as he could, he unbuckled his belt and baldric, grabbed the hem of the mail and heaved it up to the middle of his chest. He stooped. Normally, this was the point when a comrade grabbed it with both hands and pulled it over his shoulders. On one’s own, it was damn tricky. Quintus shook his torso, but nothing happened. His bladder twinged painfully, and he tried not to panic. Drowning would be bad enough, but to die with a mail shirt over his head was a horror that plumbed the depths. He could have wept with relief as he felt a hand – Urceus’ good one – take hold of the armour and wrench it up towards his head. Quintus used all the strength in his arms to force it up and off his body. It landed on the deck with an almighty crash.

‘Mind my feet,’ said Urceus with a crooked grin.

‘You mad fuck!’ retorted Quintus. Already the deck had started to tilt upwards. Men were shouting in alarm, leaping into the sea. Corax was shoving anyone who came within his reach after them. ‘Hold on to me,’ directed Quintus. He reached out to Urceus’ right side and grabbed him around the midriff. ‘To the edge of the deck.’

They had just reached the railing when the world turned upside down.

The decking beneath their feet came up to meet them; the sky tilted at a crazy angle; both of them lost their balance. In quick succession, Quintus saw the prow rise up until it was almost vertical, the ramparts lined with cheering defenders, a jumble of men and weapons and armour – the other soldiers on the ship – the sun, the sea and Urceus’ mouth, which was screaming a curse that he could not hear.

And then he was falling, falling into the sea.

Quintus hit the water still somehow gripping Urceus. At the last moment, he held his breath, hoped his friend did the same. The force of the impact ripped them apart; Quintus had no time to react, to hold on to Urceus. He was lost at once in his own war for survival. Buffeted, spun this way and that, he lost all sense of direction. Swirling streams of air bubbles surrounded him; the bodies of men, alive and dead, flashed past too. What filled Quintus with more terror, however, was the knowledge that when the claw was released from the arm – for that was surely its purpose – anyone beneath it would be drowned. The instant that he’d stopped sinking, he began kicking his legs like a maniac. Up, he had to get up to the surface and away to the side. But which way? Underwater, he had no idea where the ship lay. He twisted his head frantically, and through the debris of weapons and corpses, was rewarded with the sight of a great black mass – the stern of their quinquereme, which was pointing down into the depths.

It moved a little, shifting towards a more upright position, and Quintus wasn’t sure if he wet himself with fear. He began to swim away from the ship, arms and legs powering him with all of his strength. Neptune, I beg you, he prayed. Do not drag me down to your kingdom.

One, two heartbeats later Quintus felt rather than saw the quinquereme being dropped. A wall of water hit him from behind. He was picked up and bowled along like a twig dropped on to the surface of a fast-flowing river. His feet swept past his head as he was turned end over end. Everything went light, dark, light, dark as the depths and the sky above flashed by Quintus’ straining, disorientated eyes.
Thunk
. Something solid – a man, an oar? – struck him in the midriff. Pain lanced through him and it took a mighty effort not to suck in a lungful of seawater.

Then another object hit him on one shin –
smack
– and Quintus’ lips almost opened in reflex agony. He couldn’t take much more. His lungs were bursting with the need to take in fresh air. He had to get to the surface, quickly. Another impact was a certainty, and when it happened, he would die. I’m not going to make it, he thought. Let go and all of the pain will go away …

Somewhere deep inside, he found a last glowing ember of hope.
One last effort. You can make one last effort.
Quintus twisted his head, saw the light, prayed that his mind was not playing him false and struck out for it. Kicked with his legs. Swept forward with his arms. Did it again, and again. Blackness tugged at the edge of his vision. He took another stroke, and another, but the strength was fast leaching from his muscles.

Just as he had lost all faith, his head burst out of the sea. Quintus gasped in air as he’d never done in his life, great juddering mouthfuls of it. He inhaled some water, but he was able to cough it up. His nose ran, his eyes stung from the salt, but he didn’t care. He was alive.

His eyes swivelled, trying to make out what was going on. Around him, scores of heads bobbed on the water. Men roared at each other, cursed and pleaded with the gods, cried for their mothers. Quintus saw few faces that he recognised. Of Urceus and Corax there was no sign. Beyond the survivors, some fifty paces away, floated the battered shape of his quinquereme. Half its oars had been shorn away and the mast had been smashed. The ladder hung out over the side, like a tree blown down in a storm. The decks were empty. Everyone had been hurled overboard, thought Quintus numbly.

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.