Hannibal Enemy of Rome (62 page)

‘Keep your eyes to the front,’ Fabricius muttered. ‘Show the whoresons that we are not afraid. We will look our fate in the eyes.’

About 150 paces separated the Romans from the phalanxes. To Quintus, the distance felt like an eternity. Part of him wished that the travesty would just end, but he was also desperate not to die. Inexorably, the gap narrowed. A hundred paces, then eighty. Terrified now, Quintus glanced at his father. All he received in the way of reassurance was a tight nod. Quintus took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm.

I am a boy no longer. How I face my death is my decision alone. I will make it as brave an end as possible
.

‘Ready spears,’ Fabricius ordered.

Quintus shot a look at Flaccus and was faintly pleased by his jutting chin. For all his arrogance, he was
not
a coward.

Sixty steps. They were nearing the distance of a long volley from the spearmen. As they crossed this invisible line, every one of the eight flinched. It was impossible not to. Yet nothing happened. Fabricius felt a new determination. They could ignore this torture if they wished. ‘Let’s take some of the bastards with us! At the trot. Choose your targets!’ he yelled, pointing his spear at a bearded Libyan.

Relieved that the movements of his horse concealed his shaking arm, Quintus took aim at a man with a notched helmet. Let it be over soon, he prayed. May the gods look after Mother and Aurelia. He heard the shout of orders as the Carthaginian officers prepared their soldiers for a final volley, saw hundreds of men’s torsos twist as their right arms went back. Quintus closed his eyes. The darkness this granted was somehow comforting. He was aware of his pounding heart, and his mount between his knees. Bounded on each side by its companions, it would not stray from its course. All he had to do was hold on.

‘Quintus?’ bellowed a voice.

With a jerk, Quintus opened his eyelids. That shout had come from
within the Carthaginian ranks. He glanced at his father. ‘Stop! You must stop!’

Something in Quintus’ tone penetrated Fabricius’ battle madness, and his fierce expression cleared. He raised his spear in the air. ‘Halt!’

Pulling hard on their reins, the Romans screeched to a halt ten paces from the forest of bristling spear tips. Unsettled, their horses tried to shy away. More than one Libyan shoved his weapon forward in an attempt to reach them. Quintus heard a familiar voice cry out in Carthaginian. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Ignoring his companions’ confusion, he scanned the enemy ranks. He couldn’t believe it when Hanno, clad in a Carthaginian officer’s uniform, elbowed his way out of the phalanx a moment later. Quintus lowered his spear. ‘Hanno!’

‘Quintus.’ Hanno’s tone was flat. He spoke in Latin. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘We were on a patrol,’ he replied. ‘A reconnaissance mission.’

Hanno made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. ‘We control the whole plain. You must know that. What kind of fool would order an undertaking like that?’

‘Our consul,’ Quintus muttered. He wasn’t going to reveal Flaccus’ involvement.

Hanno gave a derisory snort. ‘Enough said.’

Quintus had the sense not to reply. He glanced at his father and saw that he too had recognised Hanno. Sensibly, Fabricius also said nothing. Flaccus and the cavalrymen looked baffled, and fearful. Quintus turned back to Hanno. He tried to ignore the fierce stares of the enemy soldiers.

‘Hanno!’ cried an angry voice. A torrent of Carthaginian followed as two more officers emerged, one from the phalanx on either side. The first was short and burly, with thick eyebrows, while the other was tall and athletic, with long black hair. Their features were too similar to Hanno’s to be coincidence. They had to be his brothers, thought Quintus. ‘You found your family, then?’

‘I did. And they want to know why you’re still alive.’ Turning to his siblings, Hanno launched into a long explanation. With his stomach knotted in tension, Quintus watched. Their very lives depended on what was said. There was plenty of shouting and gesticulating, but eventually Hanno seemed satisfied. The shorter of his brothers looked most unhappy,
however. He continued muttering loudly as the taller brother approached the Romans. His face was hard, but not without kindness, thought Quintus warily. He had to be Bostar.

‘Hanno says that he owes his life to you twice over,’ Bostar said in accented Latin.

Quintus nodded. ‘That’s true.’

‘For that reason, we have agreed not to slay you, or your father.’ At this, Sapho launched into another tirade, but Bostar ignored him. ‘Two lives for two debts.’

‘And the others?’ asked Quintus, feeling sick.

‘They must die.’

‘No,’ Quintus muttered. ‘Take them as prisoners. Please.’

Bostar shook his head and turned away.

Cries of fear rose from the cavalrymen. Flaccus, however, sat up straight on his horse, gazing with contempt at the Libyans.

Quintus’ gaze shot to Hanno, and found no pity there. ‘Show them some mercy.’

‘We have our orders,’ said Hanno in a harsh voice. ‘But you and your father are free to go.’ He snapped out a command, and the phalanx behind him split open, opening a passage to the ford.

An idea struck Quintus. ‘There is one other family member here.’

Hanno turned. ‘Who?’ he demanded suspiciously.

Quintus indicated Flaccus. ‘He is betrothed to Aurelia. Spare him also.’

Hanno’s nostrils flared in belated recognition. ‘If they are not married, he is not yet part of your family.’

‘You would not deprive Aurelia of her prospective husband, surely?’ Quintus pleaded.

Hanno was shocked to feel resentful. ‘You ask for more than you know,’ he said from between gritted teeth.

‘I ask it nonetheless,’ replied Quintus, meeting his gaze.

Hanno stalked closer to Flaccus. If the truth be known, he did not want to withdraw the hand of friendship so fast, but this
was
one of the enemy.

Incredibly, Flaccus spat a gob of phlegm at his feet.

Rage filled Hanno, and his hand fell to his sword. Before he could draw it, however, Sapho had stepped past. There was a spear gripped in his fists. Without saying a word, he shoved the blade deep into Flaccus’ groin, below
his armour, before ripping it out again. As his victim fell screaming to the ground, Sapho spun around. He aimed his bloody spear tip at Hanno. ‘We’re not here to be friendly with these fucking whoresons,’ he snapped. ‘You and Bostar might have overridden me over releasing two of them, but you’re not setting another one free!’

Hanno pointed grimly at the ford. ‘Go.’

Quintus stared helplessly at Flaccus, who was clutching his wound while blood spurted from between his fingers. There was already a large pool beneath him. We can’t just leave the poor bastard to die, Quintus thought. But what other choice have we?

Fabricius took the initiative. ‘May you meet each other in Elysium,’ he muttered to the cavalrymen. ‘Your family will be told that you died well,’ he said to Flaccus. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he rode towards the river. ‘Come on,’ he hissed at Quintus.

Trying to think of what to say, Quintus took a last lok at Hanno. Rather than meet his gaze, the Carthaginian stared right through him. There was to be no farewell. Gritting his teeth, Quintus followed his father. At once his ears were filled with the cries of the five unfortunate cavalrymen, who were promptly surrounded and dispatched by the clamouring Libyans.

Father and son made their way unhindered to the ford, and into the water.

On the other side, it finally sank in that they had escaped.

A long, shuddering breath escaped Quintus’ lips. Never let me meet Hanno again, he prayed. His former friend
would
try to kill him: there was no doubt about that. And Quintus realised that he would do the same. As cold misery gripped his heart, he stared back across the river. The Libyans were already marching away. They had left the crumpled forms of the Roman dead on the riverbank. The sight caused Quintus’ shame to soar. Everyone deserved to be buried, or burned on a pyre. ‘Maybe we can retrieve the bodies tomorrow,’ he muttered.

‘We’ll have to try, or I’ll never be able to look Aurelia in the eyes again,’ replied his father.
And the moment that the damn moneylenders hear that Flaccus is dead, they’ll be all over me like a rash
. He glanced at Quintus. ‘It’s all my damn fault. Flaccus and thirty good men are dead, because I agreed to lead the damn patrol. I should have refused.’

‘It’s not up to you to make tactical decisions, Father,’ Quintus protested. ‘If you’d said no, Publius could have demoted you to the ranks, or worse.’

Fabricius shot Quintus a grateful look. ‘I’m only alive because of you. Helping the Carthaginian to escape and then manumitting him were good decisions. I’m grateful.’

Quintus nodded sadly. His friendship with Hanno might have saved their lives, but this was not the way he’d have wanted it to end. There was nothing he could do to change things, however. Quintus hardened his heart. Hanno was one of the enemy now.

Fabricius rode straight back to the camp, and from there to the consul’s command tent. Leaping from his horse, he threw his reins at one of the sentries and started towards the entrance. Quintus watched miserably from the back of his mount. Publius would not want to speak to a low-ranking cavalryman such as he.

His father stopped by the tent flap. ‘Well?’

‘You want me to come in?’

Fabricius laughed. ‘Of course. You are the sole reason we’re still breathing. Publius will want to hear why.’

Re-energised, Quintus jumped down and joined his father. The sentries at the entrance, four sturdy
triarii
- veterans - wearing highly polished crested helmets and mail shirts, stood to attention as they passed. Quintus’ chest swelled with pride. He was about to meet the consul! Until now, his only interactions with Publius had been to salute and return a polite greeting.

They were ushered through various sections of the tent by a junior officer until they reached a comfortable area lined with carpets. The space was lit by large bronze lamps and contained a desk covered in parchments, ink pots and quills, various iron-bound chests and several luxurious couches. Bolstered by cushions, Publius was reclining on the biggest. His face was still an unhealthy grey colour, and bulky dressings were visible on his injured leg. His son stood attentively behind him, reading from a half-unrolled manuscript. Publius’ eyes opened as they approached, and he acknowledged their salutes. ‘Well met, Fabricius,’ he murmured. ‘Is that your son?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s his name again?’

‘Quintus, sir.’

‘Ah, yes. So, you have returned from your patrol. Did you meet with any success?’

‘No, sir,’ Fabricius replied tersely. ‘In fact, the complete opposite. Before getting anywhere near the Carthaginian camp, we were ambushed by a hugely superior enemy force. They pursued us right to the riverbank, where a strong force of spearmen was waiting.’ He indicated Quintus. ‘We are the only survivors.’

‘I see.’ Publius’ fingers drummed on the arm of his couch. ‘How is it that you were not also killed?’

Fabricius met the consul’s scrutiny with a solid gaze. ‘Because of Quintus here.’

Publius’ brows lowered. ‘Explain.’

Prompted by his father’s nudge, Quintus told the story of how he had been recognised by a former slave of the family, whom he had befriended. He faltered when it came to explaining how Hanno had been freed, but encouraged by Publius’ nod, Quintus revealed everything.

‘That is an incredible tale,’ Publius acknowledged. ‘The gods were most merciful.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Quintus agreed fervently.

The consul looked up at his son. ‘You’re not the only one able to rescue his father,’ he joked.

The younger Publius blushed bright red.

Publius’ face turned serious. ‘So, a whole turma has been wiped out, and we know no more about Hannibal’s disposition than yesterday.’

‘That’s correct, sir,’ Fabricius admitted.

‘I see little point in sending further patrols across the Trebia. They would meet the same fate, and we have few enough cavalry as it is,’ said Publius. He pressed a finger against his lips, thinking. Then he shook his head. ‘Our main priority is to block the passage south, which we are already doing. The Carthaginians will not attack us here, because of the uneven terrain. Nothing has changed. We wait for Longus.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Fabricius concurred.

‘Very good. You may go.’ Publius waved a hand in dismissal.

Father and son made a discreet exit.

Quintus managed to contain his frustration until they were out of earshot. ‘Why doesn’t Publius
do
something?’ he hissed.

‘You want revenge for what happened at the ford, eh?’ asked Fabricius with a wry smile. ‘I do too.’ He bent close to Quintus’ ear. ‘I’m sure that Publius would have moved against Hannibal again if he weren’t … incapacitated. Of course he’s not going to admit that to the likes of us. For the moment, we just have to live with it.’

‘Will Longus want to fight Hannibal?’

‘I’d say so,’ replied his father with a grin. ‘A victory before the turn of the year would show the tribes that Hannibal is vulnerable. It would also reduce the number of warriors who plan on joining him. Defeating him soon would be far better than leaving it until the spring.’