Hannibal Enemy of Rome (71 page)

Quintus’ abiding memory of their ride to Placentia was the extreme cold. The wind continued to blow from the north, powerful gusts that threatened to dislodge an unwary rider from his seat. While it didn’t succeed in doing that, the chill air penetrated every layer of Quintus’ clothing. Initially, he had been kept warm by the effort and thrill of the chase, and latterly by the fear that kept his heart hammering off his ribs. Now, his sweat-soaked clothes felt as if they were about to freeze solid. Everyone was in the same position, of course, so he gritted his chattering teeth and rode on. After what they’d all been through, silence was best.

Lost in their own private worlds of misery, the twenty cavalrymen brought together by Fabricius simply followed where they were led. Hunched over their horses’ backs, helmetless and with their sodden cloaks pulled tightly around them, they were a pathetic sight. It was as if each one knew that Hannibal’s army had prevailed. Yet in reality, they didn’t, thought Quintus. The battle had still been raging when they’d fled. It was hard to see how, though, with their flanks exposed, Longus’ legions could have seized victory.

Quintus felt like a coward, but his fear had abated enough for him to consider fighting again. He’d ridden to the front of their little column a number of times, intent on remonstrating with his father.

Fabricius had been in no mood for conversation. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled when Quintus had suggested turning back. ‘What do you know of tactics?’ A short while later, Quintus tried again. On this occasion, Fabricius let him have it. ‘Once cavalry break, it’s unheard of for them to rally and return to the fight. You were there! You saw the way they ran, the way I struggled to get this many men to follow me
away
from the battle. Do you think that in this weather, with night coming, they would turn and face the Gauls and Iberians again?’ He glared at Quintus, who shook his head. ‘In that case, what would you have us both do? Commit suicide by charging
at the enemy alone? Where’s the damn point in that? And don’t give me the “death with honour” line. There’s no honour in dying like a fool!’

Shaken by his father’s anger, Quintus hung his head. Now he felt like a total failure as well as a coward.

They rode without speaking for a long time after that.

Fortuna finally lent the weary cavalrymen a hand, guiding them to a spot where the Trebia was fordable. By the time they’d reached the eastern bank, it was nearly dark. As miserable as he’d ever been in his life, Quintus looked back over the fast-flowing water into the gathering gloom. More snow was falling, millions of little white motes that clouded his vision even further. The scene was so peaceful and quiet. It was as if the battlefield had never existed. ‘Quintus.’ Fabricius’ tone was gentler than before. ‘Come. Placentia is still a long ride away.’

Quintus turned his back on the River Trebia. In a way, he realised, he was doing the same on Hanno and his friendship. Feeling hollow inside, he followed his father.

They reached Placentia about an hour later. Quintus had never been so glad to see the walls of a town, and to hear the challenge of a sentinel. The lines of frightened faces on the ramparts above soon distracted him from thoughts of sitting by a fire, however. Word of the battle had arrived before them. Despite the sentries’ fear, Fabricius’ status saw the gate opened quickly. A few barked questions at the officer of the guard revealed that a handful of cavalrymen had made it to the town ahead of them. Their garbled account appeared to have the entire army wiped out. There had been no sign of Longus or the infantry yet, which had only fuelled the fears of the soldiers who were manning the defences. Fabricius was incensed by the harm that the unsubstantiated reports would have already caused and demanded to see the most senior officer in the town.

Not long after, both men were wrapped in blankets and drinking warm soup in the company of no less than Praxus, the garrison commander. The rest of their party had been taken off to be quartered elsewhere. A stout individual with a florid complexion, Praxus barely fitted into his dirty linen cuirass, which had seen better days. He paced up and down nervously while father and son thawed out by a glowing cast-iron brazier. At length, he
could hold in his concerns no longer. ‘Should we expect Hannibal by morning?’ he demanded.

Fabricius sighed. ‘I doubt it very much. His soldiers will be in need of rest as much as we are. You shouldn’t give up on Longus just yet either,’ he advised. ‘Last I saw, the legionaries were holding their own.’

Praxus winced. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Where are they then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fabricius replied curtly. ‘But Longus is an able man. He will not give up easily.’

Praxus resumed his pacing and Fabricius left him to it. ‘Worrying about it won’t do any good. This fool won’t be able to stop the rumours either. He probably started half of them,’ he muttered to Quintus before closing his eyes. ‘Wake me up if there’s any news.’

Quintus did his best to stay alert, but it wasn’t long before he too grew deliciously drowsy. If Praxus wanted his fireside chairs back, he could bloody well wake them up, Quintus thought as sleep claimed him.

Some time later, they were woken by a sentry clattering in, shouting that the consul had arrived at the gates. It seemed a miracle, but as many as ten thousand legionaries were with him. Quintus found himself grinning at his father, who winked back. ‘Told you,’ said Fabricius. Praxus’ miserable demeanour also vanished, and he capered about like a child. His sense of self-importance returned with a vengeance. ‘Longus will have need of my quarters,’ he declared loftily. ‘You’d best leave at once. One of my officers can find you rooms.’ He didn’t give a name.

Fabricius’ top lip lifted at the sudden return of the other’s courage, and his bad manners, but he got up from his chair without protest. Quintus did likewise. Praxus barely bothered to say goodbye. Fortunately, the officer who’d initially brought them from the gate was still outside, and upon hearing their story, agreed to let them share his quarters.

The three hadn’t gone far before the heavy tramp of men marching in unison came echoing down the narrow street towards them. Torchlight flickered off the darkened buildings on either side. A surge of adrenaline shot through Quintus’ tired veins. He glanced at his father, who looked similarly interested. Quintus’ lips framed the word ‘Longus’? His father nodded. ‘Stop,’ he requested. The officer complied, as eager as they to see who it was. Within a few moments, they could make out a large party of
legionaries -
triarii
- approaching. The soldier at the outside edge of each rank carried a flaming torch, illuminating the rest quite well.

‘Make way for the consul!’ shouted an officer at the front.

Quintus sighed with relief. Sempronius Longus had survived. Rome had not lost all its pride.

The
triarii
scarcely broke step as they passed by. One of the two most important men in the Republic did not wait while a pair of filthy soldiers gaped at him. Especially on a night like this.

Quintus couldn’t stop himself. ‘What happened?’ he cried.

His unanswered question was carried away by the wind.

They gave each other a grim look and resumed their journey. Soon after, they happened upon a group of principes. Desperate to know how the battle had ended, Quintus caught the eye of a squat man carrying a shield emblazoned with two snarling wolves. ‘Did you win?’ he asked.

The princeps scowled. ‘Depends what you mean by that,’ he muttered. ‘Hannibal won’t forget the legionaries who fought at the Trebia in a hurry.’

Quintus and Fabricius exchanged a shocked, pleased glance. ‘Did you turn and fall on the Carthaginian rear?’ asked Fabricius excitedly. ‘Did the allied infantry throw back the elephants and the skirmishers?’

The soldier looked down. ‘Not exactly, sir, no.’

They stared at him, not understanding. ‘What then?’ demanded Fabricius.

The princeps cleared his throat. ‘After breaking through the enemy line, Longus ordered us to quit the field.’ A shadow passed across his face. ‘Our wings had already broken, sir. I suppose he wasn’t certain that we could turn the situation around.’

‘The allied troops?’ Quintus whispered.

The silence that followed spoke a thousand words.

‘Sweet Jupiter above,’ swore Fabricius. ‘They’re dead?’

‘Some may have escaped back to our camp, sir,’ the princeps admitted. ‘Only time will tell.’

Quintus’ head spun. Their casualties could number in the tens of thousands.

His father was more focused. ‘In that case, I think it’s we who will be remembering Hannibal rather than the other way around,’ he observed acidly. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the princeps muttered. He threw a longing glance at his comrades, who were disappearing around the nearest corner.

Fabricius jerked his head. ‘Go.’

In a daze, Quintus watched the soldier scuttle off. ‘Maybe Praxus was right,’ he muttered.

‘Hannibal could be at the gates by dawn.’

‘Enough talk like that,’ his father snapped. His lips peeled back into a feral snarl. ‘Rome does not give up after one defeat. Not with foreign invaders on her soil!’

Quintus’ courage rallied a fraction. ‘What of Hannibal?’

‘He’ll leave us to it now,’ Fabricius declared. ‘He will be content to gather support from the Gaulish tribes over the winter.’

Quintus was relieved by his father’s certainty. ‘And us?’

‘We will use the time to regroup, and to form new legions and cavalry units. One thing Rome and her allies are not short of is manpower. By the spring, the soldiers lost today will all have been replaced.’
And I’ll have won a promotion which will keep the moneylenders at bay
. Fabricius grinned fiercely. ‘You’ll see!’

At last Quintus took heart. He nodded eagerly. They would fight the Carthaginians again soon. On equal or better terms. There would be a chance to regain the honour that, in his mind, they had left behind on the battlefield.

Rome would rise again, and wrench victory from Hannibal.

IT IS AN
immense privilege to be accorded the opportunity to write a set of novels about the Second Punic War (218-201
BC
). I have been fascinated by the time period since I was a boy, and I, like many, regard this as one of history’s most hallowed episodes. The word ‘epic’ is completely overused today, but I feel that it is justified to use it with reference to this seventeen-year struggle, the balance of which was uncertain on so many occasions. If it had tipped but a fraction in the opposite direction during a number of those situations, life in Europe would be a very different affair today. The Carthaginians were quite unlike the Romans, and not in all the bad ways history would have us believe. They were intrepid explorers and inveterate traders, shrewd businessmen and brave soldiers. Where Rome’s interests so often lay in conquest by war, theirs lay more in assuming power through controlling commerce and natural resources. It may be a small point, but my use of the word ‘Carthaginian’ rather than the Latin-derived ‘Punic’ when referring to their language is quite deliberate. The Carthaginians would not have used the term.

Many readers will know the broad brush strokes of Hannibal’s war with Rome; others will know less; a very few will be voracious readers of the ancient authors Livy and Polybius, the main sources for this period. For the record, I have done my best to stick to the historical details that have survived. In places, however, I have either changed events slightly to fit in with the story’s development, or invented things. Such is the novelist’s remit, as well as his/her bane. If I have made any errors, I apologise for them.

The novel starts with a description of Carthage in all its magnificence. In the late third century
BC
, it was an infinitely grander city than Rome. I have taken the liberty of describing the fortifications present at the time
of the Third Punic War (149-146
BC
). I did this because we do not know what defences were in place in Hannibal’s time. Because the incredible and impressive structures that held off the Romans in the final conflict were built sometime in the fifty years after Hannibal’s defeat, I did not feel that using them was a major digression from fact.

Describing Carthaginian soldiers, both native and non-native, is a whole minefield of its own. We have little historical information about the uniforms that Carthaginian citizens and the host of nationalities who fought for them wore, or the type of equipment and weapons that they carried. Without several textbooks and articles, which I’ll name later, I would have been lost. Another difficult area was Carthaginian names. In short, there aren’t very many, or at least not many that have come down to us, more than 2,200 years later. Most of the ones that have survived are unpronounceable, or sound awful. Some are both! Hillesbaal and Ithobaal don’t exactly roll off the tongue. Hence the main Carthaginian protagonist is called Hanno. There were important historical characters with this name, but I desperately needed a good one for my hero, and they were in very short supply.

The siege of Saguntum happened much as I’ve described. Anyone who visits Spain’s eastern coast could do worse than climb the huge rocky outcrop near modern-day Valencia. It’s such an impressive place that it’s not hard to imagine Hannibal’s soldiers besieging it. The formidable size of his army is attested by the ancient sources, as are the ways it was reduced by deaths, desertions and release from service. Whether any troops were left as garrisons in Gaul, we do not know. There has been much argument over which route the Carthaginian army followed after the Pyrenees, and where it crossed the River Rhone. The Volcae were surprised from the rear by a party of Carthaginians who had crossed upriver; their commander was one Hanno, not Bostar, however. The elephants were ferried over the river in the manner I’ve described.