Hannibal: Clouds of War (6 page)

‘Besides, I’ve risen in the world since.’

‘A fine
hastatus
you may be, but I’d wager your mother still doesn’t approve.’

‘She will have come to accept it by now,’ Quintus said. Once she had recovered from the shock and relief of seeing him alive after Cannae, Atia had been quick to express her displeasure that he was a foot soldier. Until that point in his life, Quintus had always obeyed his mother. Not that day. He’d listened to her outburst and then told her that he would be remaining in the infantry. To his surprise, she had backed down. ‘Just stay alive,’ she had whispered.

‘Mothers are good at accepting what their sons do. It’s part of their job. Least that’s what mine used to say.’ Urceus jabbed a thumb at the trees. ‘I’m going for a piss.’

Quintus grunted. He was thinking about his former friend Hanno. Was he dead? Four and a half years had passed since their last meeting. In that time, there had been scores of battles between the legions and Hannibal’s army. Hanno could easily have been slain. If he had survived, he would be on the mainland, for none of Hannibal’s troop had yet landed on Sicily. That knowledge made Quintus grateful. Hanno was one of the enemy, and it would be preferable if they never met again. He couldn’t prevent a sneaky thought that wished Hanno still alive. There were worse men in the Roman ranks than he. Quintus couldn’t quite bring himself to pray for Hanno, but he did not wish him dead. Enough good men had lost their lives, including his father, at Cannae.

‘Gods, but I needed that,’ said Urceus, returning. ‘There was enough in my bladder to put out a burning house.’

‘It’s the wine you drank last night. If Corax caught you tipsy on sentry duty, he’d fucking kill you.’

‘But he won’t, because we’re two of his best men, so he leaves us be,’ Urceus said, grinning. ‘Besides, I wasn’t tipsy. Just happy.’

Quintus snorted, but Urceus was probably right. He could hold wine the way a barrel of sawdust soaked up water. Quintus’ tolerance was far lower, which annoyed and pleased him in equal measure. He could do without the ribbing he got from his comrades for holding back, but it was good to feel normal the morning after a piss-up when the rest of them were grey-faced, sweating and vomiting. His eyes roved the landscape again. Far off to the south, a flash of light on the road drew his attention like a vulture to a corpse. ‘Look!’

Urceus shot to his side, the banter forgotten. ‘What?’

Quintus pointed. ‘I saw sun glinting off metal. There it is again. And again. That’s more than a couple of travellers.’

‘It isn’t going to be a merchant caravan. They’re rare nowadays.’

‘A Syracusan patrol then.’ They watched as the group drew nearer. Corax would want details, and the newcomers were far enough away to risk waiting. That didn’t stop them both gripping the hilts of their swords. Eventually, they could see the force was made up of horsemen and foot soldiers.

‘How many?’ asked Urceus.

‘I’d say upwards of fifty riders, and four or five times that number of infantry. You?’

‘About that. What in Hades’ name are they up to?’

‘Scouting around Leontini, perhaps? They won’t be happy that we took it a while back.’

‘You could be right. Maybe Hippocrates and Epicydes want to prove that they’ve got balls. This lot could be scouts for a larger force that will attack Leontini.’ Urceus gave him a huge nudge. ‘Either way, Corax will want to know. You keep an eye on them. I’ll go.’

‘Fine.’ Quintus was already preparing himself for the fight. Since Hippocrates and Epicydes had taken control of the city, all Syracusans had become enemies. Corax wouldn’t let this force by. His duty was to defend the road that led north. It wouldn’t matter that the Syracusans outnumbered his men. He would want to give the enemy troops a bloody nose at the very least.

It was a pity that the approaching soldiers weren’t Carthaginians. They were the ones who had started this damn war, who had killed his father. The Syracusans had reneged on a time-honoured treaty with Rome, though. They were the foe here. If we kill enough of the whoresons, Quintus decided, if we slay so many of them that we can build a bridge to the mainland with their skulls, the Senate will
have
to reinstate us. Frustration stung him, because even if they displayed such extreme savagery there was no certainty that it would convince the Senate of their loyalty. It seemed more likely that he would end his days on Sicily. That he would never see his mother or Aurelia again.

‘What have we got to look forward to?’

The familiar voice dragged Quintus back to reality. He spun, saluted. ‘A strong enemy patrol, sir.’

Corax, a middle-aged man with a narrow face and deep-set eyes, returned his salute casually. His eyes scanned the road to the south. ‘I see the miserable dogs – moving along as bold as brass, eh? Like they own the damn place.’

‘They must think we have no forces in the area, sir,’ said Quintus.

‘A stupid mistake to make,’ replied Corax with a nasty leer. ‘We’ll have to teach them the error of their ways, eh?’

Quintus and Urceus exchanged a look. Corax had always been a tough taskmaster, but since he’d saved all of their lives at Cannae, his status had risen close to that of a god. Despite the familiar nervous feeling that presaged combat, they both grinned. ‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison.

‘Best get a move on. We want to be in position long before they reach us.’

Corax had picked a spot for their camp close to a massive old holm oak that had been torn down in a winter storm some months prior; its fall had entirely blocked the road. In peacetime, local landowners would have removed the obstruction. These days, travellers had simply hacked away enough of the smaller branches to be able to pass single file along one side of the carriageway.

‘Marcellus will want the trunk shifted when he leads the legions to Syracuse,’ Corax had declared when they’d arrived, ‘but until then we’ll leave it be.’

‘Good idea not to move the tree, wasn’t it?’ Quintus whispered now. ‘It’s a perfect place for an ambush.’

‘Damn right,’ Urceus replied, chuckling.

Quintus didn’t voice the concern that kept twisting in his guts. What if the Syracusans saw them?

Corax, who was pacing up and down behind them, whacked Urceus across the calves with his vine cane, and they fell silent.

Quintus, Urceus and the rest of the eighty men in Corax’s century were hidden in the thick scrub nearest the ‘passage’ through the branches of the fallen tree. Sections of juniper bushes had been cut and laid in great heaps to conceal them. Every fifteen paces or so, there was a ‘gateway’ in the roughly made ‘wall’, covered over by a wedge of branches; a hastatus had been assigned to each, his job to pull the vegetation out of the way when Corax gave the word. Half of Corax’s
hastati
had been placed some way beyond the blockage, and half before it. Quintus and Urceus were with Corax in the latter group; Ammianus, the century’s second-in-command, led the former. Vitruvius, the maniple’s junior centurion, lay on the other side of the road with his eighty soldiers, his force similarly divided.

Their hiding places would pass a casual glance, but Corax’s tactic was risky. If the Syracusans were being vigilant, they would be exposed before the trap was sprung. Corax had said that if things went against them, they were to retreat towards their camp. At least the enemy cavalry wouldn’t be able to follow them there. But Quintus didn’t fancy being pursued by a superior number of infantry either. They won’t see us, he told himself. Mars has his shield over us.

Through carefully cut gaps in the vegetation, they had glimpses of the road for about two hundred paces towards Syracuse. There was still no sign of the enemy troops – a final sighting from the sentry point had confirmed them as that – but it couldn’t be long until they appeared. Quintus’ mouth was bone-dry. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic, one by one, uncaring who saw. There was no shame in feeling scared. Any man who didn’t was a fool, his father had said once, and he’d been right. Courage was about standing and fighting despite one’s fear. Great Mars, he prayed, guide my sword into enemy flesh, and keep my shield arm strong. Bring me through this. Help my comrades in the same way, and I will honour you afterwards, as I always do.

An elbow in the ribs, and his attention shot back to the present.

‘They’re here,’ hissed Urceus, who was squatting alongside.

Quintus peered again at the road. A file of riders, perhaps five abreast, had come into view. Sunlight glinted off their bronze cuirasses and Boeotian helmets. Their horses were also equipped in the old-fashioned Greek style, with chest plates and face guards – so they were definitely Syracusan. They looked unconcerned, which was promising. One man was whistling. Two others were arguing good-naturedly about something, shoving at each other and oblivious to their surroundings. Don’t worry about them, Quintus thought. Unless there’s a balls-up, we won’t have to face the cavalry. That’ll be up to Ammianus and his lot.

‘See them, lads?’ Corax whispered, stooping over the friends. ‘Remember, not a fucking sound. We attack on my signal – when the horsemen have gone by. Javelins first, then a charge. Kill plenty, but not them all. I want prisoners. Marcellus needs to know what’s going on inside Syracuse.’

‘Yes, sir,’ they muttered back.

But he was already gone, repeating his words to the rest of the hastati.

On the Syracusans came. The tension among the Romans was palpable. Men shifted from foot to foot; they gripped their javelin shafts until their knuckles went white. Lips moved in silent prayer; eyes were cast skyward. A man close to Quintus grabbed his nose in an effort not to sneeze. It didn’t work, and he buried his face in the crook of one arm to deaden the sound. Veins bulged in Corax’s neck, but he could do nothing to stop it. Close up, the choked sneeze seemed incredibly loud, and Quintus readied himself to charge forward. The ambush would be ruined, but they could still give the Syracusans something to remember them by.

His spirits rose as the enemy troops continued to advance. The noise of fifty horses and riders had concealed the sound of the sneeze.

No more than a hundred paces now separated the Syracusans from the holm oak.

A chorus of complaints rose as the obstacle became fully apparent. The patrol ground to a halt. Shouts carried to and fro as the situation was relayed to the commander. Eventually, two riders urged their horses right up to the fallen tree. Men were always aware of being looked at, so Quintus stared at the ground, his heart thumping in his chest. There was nothing stopping his ears, however. Greek. Of course they were speaking Greek, he thought. Syracuse had been founded by Greeks. Like any equestrian, Quintus had had to learn the language as a boy. For the first time since his childhood, he was glad of the fact.

‘This damn tree wasn’t here the last time we rode by,’ said a deep voice. ‘It’s probably a trap.’

There was a derisive laugh. ‘A trap? Who’s going to cut down a thing this size, Eumenes? It’d take Herakles himself to push the damn thing over. Look at its roots – pointing to the sky. It fell over in a storm, most likely that one that lifted all the roof tiles in the city two months back.’

‘Maybe it was blown over, but this is a perfect place for an ambush,’ Eumenes grumbled. ‘Thick bush on both sides. Most of the road blocked. We’ll have to lead the horses through, break up the infantry’s formation.’

‘There hasn’t been hair nor hide of a Roman patrol since we left Syracuse. They’re all further north, I tell you. Here, take my reins. I’m going to take a look past the tree.’

Quintus glanced at Urceus, saw the tension in his face, realised that he had no idea what was being said. ‘It’s all right,’ he mouthed. He risked a slow, careful look at the road, and his heart nearly stopped. Eumenes, a big, bearded man, appeared to be staring right at him – from twenty paces away. Two horses were visible right behind him. Shit! thought Quintus, dropping his gaze. For long moments, he remained frozen to the spot, uncomfortably aware of the rapid breathing of the men to either side, the little clicks from knee joints that had been bent for too long. To his intense relief, there was no cry of alarm from the road.

‘Ho, Eumenes! Stop scratching your balls.’

‘Piss off, Merops. Well, did you see anything?’

‘Not so much as a Roman sandal print. I walked round the corner, had a good look to either side. The coast is clear.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’d stake my life on it.’

That’s what you’ve just done, you fool, thought Quintus, beginning to hope that Corax’s plan might work.

‘C’mon. The boss will want to know what’s going on.’

Next, the sound of men mounting up, horses walking away.

Quintus breathed again.

‘What the fuck were they saying?’ Urceus’ lips were against his ear.

Quintus explained. Seeing the fear on the face of the hastatus to Urceus’ right, he muttered, ‘Tell your neighbour. I’ll do the same on my side.’

Corax evidently spoke some Greek too, because he came along the line, telling men to be calm, that the enemy had no idea they were there. Reassured, the hastati settled down to wait. A message was sent to Ammianus to inform him of what was going on.

It wasn’t long before the Syracusan horsemen dismounted. Quintus could hear them grumbling as they walked in single file towards the tree. Someone’s horse was lame. Another rider’s arse was sore. Who cared about that, complained a different man: he was starving! More than one said that their commander was a pain in the neck, or asked how much further they would have to ride that day? Quintus’ lips tugged upwards. Soldiers everywhere were the same, whatever their allegiances. Be that as it may, they were the enemy, he reminded himself. They were no different to the Carthaginians who had slain his father. They were here to be killed, taken prisoner or driven from the field.

Stealthy looks told him how many of the cavalrymen had gone by. Progress was slow, and the tension unbearable, but the Syracusans remained focused on negotiating their way around the fallen holm oak. Five riders led their horses by, then ten, and twenty. Few men even glanced at the bushes skirting the roadside. It was as well, thought Quintus nervously, more conscious than ever of the stacked branches that served to hide him and his comrades.