Hannibal: Clouds of War (23 page)

‘True enough.’ Quintus’ grin was rueful. Picking up the roll of linen that lay by his side, he began to cover Urceus’ wound again. ‘Another week or two and you’ll be able to return to duties, I’d wager.’

‘Good. I want to get back into training with you and the rest of our brothers.’ Urceus made a face. ‘What few of them remain.’

They both fell silent, remembering Wolf, Unlucky and the dozens of others who had died in the carnage of their assault on Syracuse. Their maniple had not been alone in suffering heavy casualties. Exact numbers were always hard to come by, but the word was that more than two thousand legionaries and a similar number of sailors had died in the water that day. The attack on the Hexapyla gate had fared no better, the artillery barrages there being every bit as accurate as in the harbour. Marcellus, it was said, had been incandescent with rage when the news reached him. Upwards of a legion had been lost in total; that didn’t take into account the hundreds who had died of their injuries since. The wounded who yet lived still filled the beds of the makeshift hospitals. Men such as Urceus, whose arm no longer required the attention of a surgeon, had been sent to recover among their comrades. His friend’s improvement had definitely speeded up since then, thought Quintus.

The assault’s failure and the loss of life had badly affected the soldiers’ morale. The name of Archimedes, previously unknown, had become a byword for evil. Men spoke his name with trepidation, or not at all. For a couple of weeks after the failed attack, if as much as a length of wood appeared over the edge of the battlements, widespread panic broke out. It had taken the legionaries a while to appreciate that the Syracusans were taunting them with nothing more than planks. Their courage restored by this realisation, men had started advancing towards the walls to hurl insults a day or two before – which was when the enemy artillery had sent over a heavy barrage that had killed a dozen soldiers and sent terror lancing into the hearts of the remainder of Marcellus’ troops. The losses had seen the issuing of an order that no one was to cross the line of the Roman circumvallation unless commanded to do so by a centurion or other senior officer.

Quintus didn’t have a problem with that. Nor did any soldier he knew. Even Corax was happy enough to stay out of harm’s way for the time being. ‘Attacking the walls again would be suicidal,’ he had growled one night as he’d passed through the maniple’s tents on his rounds. ‘Marcellus is right to have us wall the bastards in. If an assault that big couldn’t take the city, there’s no reason to think that another would go any better.’

‘Not to worry,’ said Quintus, tying off the new bandage on Urceus’ arm. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to get to know our new comrades in the months to come.’ He winked at Mattheus, who had indeed turned out to be a decent sort, as well as a better cook than anyone else in the reconstituted
contubernium
. Mattheus’ presence had come about thanks to Marcellus’ practical response to his army’s heavy casualties. The units in which the senior officers had been killed had been amalgamated with those whose commanders had survived. Mattheus and more than two score of his comrades now formed part of Corax’s maniple. In turn, Quintus and Crespo had four new tent mates, among them Mattheus, and a soldier called Marius.

Urceus inclined his head. ‘The food’s better since you arrived, I grant.’

Mattheus performed a mock bow. ‘You say that the defenders will starve, but the twenty-mile long wall that we’re building doesn’t stop the arse-humping Greeks from receiving supplies by sea.’

Quintus scowled in acknowledgement. Urceus spat on the ground. ‘Let’s hope that the promised naval blockade is in place soon.’

‘I won’t be holding my breath,’ said Quintus. ‘Corax told Vitruvius this morning that the headquarters gossip is that the Senate has authorised more ships, but not enough for Marcellus to seal off the approaches to both harbours night and day.’

‘So the siege will drag on.’ Urceus didn’t seem unhappy. No one did, thought Quintus. He wasn’t prepared to admit it out loud, but he too was relieved. For all that he wanted Rome to win the war, the brutality of the naval attack had drained him of the desire to fight. Once Quintus would have been overwhelmed by guilt for feeling this way. Now he felt but a twinge.

‘It’s not so bad here, is it?’ asked Mattheus, smiling as heads nodded. ‘We’re miles from the swamps that the men to the south of the city have to live beside. We’ve got well-drained latrine pits, plentiful food, and the wine that Crespo manages to produce over and over.’

Everyone laughed at this, especially Quintus. Of recent days, he had developed a skill at bartering for supplies of wine. Sometimes he even stole it from the locals who sold such things in the camps outside theirs. On one occasion, he had even pilfered it from the back of the quartermaster’s tents. If Corax suspected, he said nothing. As long as his men followed orders and didn’t thieve from the units to either side of his maniple, he didn’t care. The hastati loved him even more for this indifference.

‘All we have to do is finish the wall and the ditch, and stay alert for enemy patrols,’ Mattheus went on. ‘I’m happy to do that for a few months, regardless of how the Syracusans are doing, and if you don’t think that way too, you’re bigger fools than I imagined.’

More laughter.

‘We’ll each of us be a long time dead,’ agreed Quintus, thinking of poor Unlucky. ‘So it’s best to enjoy life while we can, eh?’

‘That’, declared Urceus with a meaningful stare at Quintus, ‘is something that needs to be toasted properly.’

Everyone’s eyes turned to Quintus. Mattheus rummaged among his utensils and produced a clay cup, which he held out expectantly. ‘Fill her up!’

Quintus thought for a moment. They had already done their drill and weekly ten-mile run. The contubernium was on sentry duty that evening, but that was hours away. The chances of Corax requiring them before then were slim. ‘Damn it, why not?’ He ducked into the tent, emerging with an amphora that fitted under one arm.

‘Is that the one you stole from the quartermaster’s tent?’ hissed Urceus, who knew perfectly well that it was.

A round of applause broke out, and Quintus grinned. Gods, but what had he been thinking? Full, it had weighed enough to slow him right down as he’d sloped off into the darkness. If he’d been caught, well … ‘I couldn’t say,’ he replied with a smirk. ‘Now, who wants some?’

His offer was met with a roar of approval.

Life wasn’t so bad, Quintus decided. He was alive. So too were Urceus, Corax and the rest. They weren’t going to be killed in the immediate future either, which felt very good indeed.

Making contact with Elira proved more tricky than Hanno had hoped. His duties – training his and other officers’ men – meant that he had little free time. It was several days after the celebrations before he had an opportunity to search for the baker’s shop. At first, things went well. The bakery proved easy to locate: a couple of questions to passers-by in the area sent him straight to its door. Real excitement gripped him as he waited outside for an hour, and then two, but as time passed he had to admit to himself that it would be pure luck if Elira came along while he was there. Hanno realised he needed someone to wait there every day. Gods, but he wished that Mutt and his men were with him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to order a couple to remain outside. His soldiers here seemed a decent lot, but there was no way he could trust any of them with such a duty. Abducting two of Hippocrates’ concubines would carry the severest of punishments: his and Aurelia’s relationship would count for nothing in mitigation. Never had he felt more alone. He wondered about bribing the baker, a jolly type with a paunch that revealed he enjoyed his own produce, but decided it was too risky. The city was alive with rumours of enemy agents, and of troops who wanted to defect to the Romans. No one could be relied upon, least of all someone he didn’t know.

Hanno had another reason for caution. A way of communicating with Aurelia might be a means to an end, but he was no nearer knowing how to get her, her son and Elira out of the palace. Even if that seemingly impossible objective had been achieved, what would they do then? His duty to Hannibal meant that he had to stay within the city, and that would be dangerous in the extreme.

A week went by. The loss of so many men had ensured that the Romans were silent. Epicydes seemed pleased with Hanno’s training of the troops, and he was kept busier than ever. His offer to become more involved with the city’s defences – a ruse to discover information for Hannibal – was politely ignored, so Hanno bit his tongue and said nothing. He visited the baker’s at every opportunity, but not once did he see Elira. In desperation, he visited a temple to Zeus, one of many in Syracuse. A few silver coins placed in the hand of one of the priests saw a plump lamb sacrificed, and his entreaty that a female friend ‘find her way to his side’ requested of the god.

The calm bestowed on Hanno by this offering lasted as long as it took him to leave the temple complex. The entrance was clogged by a crowd of the usual type of supplicants. As he threaded his way between them – the man with inflamed eyes, come in search of a cure, and the distraught mother, carrying her sick babe – he was overcome by bitterness. It was the same here as it had been at the shrines in Carthage, and, he suspected, at the temples of all gods in every land under the sun. The needy, the unwell, the dying, the jealous and the grieving came with a wide variety of offerings, from coinage to food, glassware and pottery, and what did they receive in return? Platitudes from a priest, and Hanno was tempted to think ‘nothing else’, but he didn’t quite dare. The gods were the only ones who could help him. It was they who had engineered the meeting between him and Aurelia. They would not – could not – leave things to continue as they were. Hanno told himself this a hundred times a day, but he was still riven by doubt.

Several more days passed. Hanno thought he caught a glimpse of Aurelia on her balcony one evening, but he dared not wave in case anyone saw. Impotent and furious, he determined to speak with Kleitos, his one friend in Syracuse. To do so would place his life squarely in Kleitos’ hands, but by this stage, he was resigned to that risk. If he didn’t act, Aurelia would continue to suffer degradation at Hippocrates’ hands indefinitely.

He pitched up at Kleitos’ door later that day, bearing a small amphora of wine and a hunk of the best ham that money could buy. The gifts ensured that Kleitos’ warm welcome became even more enthusiastic. Giving Hanno the only stool, he deftly cracked the wax seal on the amphora and filled two cups. Toasting each other, they drank deep.

‘Hungry?’ Kleitos jerked a thumb at the ham, which he’d placed on the table.

‘Let’s tackle it later, when we get back from the inn.’

Kleitos chuckled. ‘Ah. We’re going out, are we?’

‘It might be good to, yes. My men talk about a little place on a back street in Achradina. It’s worth the walk, by all accounts.’

‘Poseidon’s Trident, is that the one?’

Hanno felt a little disappointed. ‘You’ve been there.’

‘I’ve darkened the threshold of every tavern in Syracuse at one point or another.’ Kleitos slurped some wine. ‘I’d be happy to visit that one again, though. Especially if you’re buying!’

‘That was my intention,’ replied Hanno with a wink. He hesitated, unsure, but the thought of Aurelia was enough to make him continue. ‘I have a favour to ask.’

Kleitos set his cup down. ‘I’ve been wondering if you had something on your mind of late. As long as it doesn’t harm my city—’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Hanno quickly.

‘Then if I can help, I will,’ said Kleitos with an expansive gesture.

‘You might not say that when I’ve told you what it is.’

‘Ha!’ Kleitos raised a hand, stopping him. ‘I need more wine.’ When he’d filled their cups again and taken a large mouthful, he indicated that Hanno should continue.

‘Do you remember the Roman girl, the woman, I told you about?’

‘A while back? I think so. The one who was married.’

‘That’s right.’ Hanno could feel his emotions rising, but he forced them down. This had to be done with a cool head. ‘She’s here. In Syracuse.’

‘You’re taking the piss!’

‘I’m not. I saw her, about two weeks ago.’

‘
That’s
why you’ve been preoccupied! Been sneaking off to screw her, have you?’ Kleitos roared with laughter, but he saw that Hanno wasn’t joining in, and frowned. ‘Of course. She’s Roman, so she won’t be roaming about freely. Let me guess – she’s someone’s captive or slave, is that it?’

Hanno nodded.

‘That shouldn’t be hard to sort out. Being a mid-ranking officer carries
some
perks. I’ll come with you to see whichever prick it is who’s bought her. Once his head’s been smacked off the wall a few times, he’ll see the wisdom in selling her to you. For a pittance, naturally.’

‘My thanks. You’re a good friend, Kleitos. But it’s not that simple.’

‘Why ever not?’

He had to roll the dice, and hope. ‘Because her owner is Hippocrates.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘You’re joking with me.’

‘I wish I was.’

‘You know that I’ve sworn to serve Hippocrates and Epicydes, both, with all of my strength, until my dying day.’ Kleitos’ voice was hard.

He had committed himself now. ‘You’ve said before that Hippocrates can be …’ Hanno struggled to find a suitable word. ‘… unpleasant. I’m concerned that he’s doing the most disgusting things to Aurelia. I can’t stand by and do nothing. I
have
to free her.’ Kleitos said nothing, and Hanno’s fear grew. ‘This has nothing to do with the war against the Romans, or my loyalty to your rulers. If it comes to it, I’ll die in the defence of your city. I swear that to you, on my mother’s grave.’

His words vanished into the yawning silence between them. ‘Damn it, Kleitos, she’s the woman I love,’ said Hanno. He could almost see Hippocrates’ guards coming to arrest him.

He was stunned when Kleitos began to laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Your passion, my friend. Your burning need to convince me that what you want will not harm the war effort.’