Hannibal: The Patrol

by Ben Kane

  ‘Hanno gave Mutt a wary look. ‘Attacking at such a time is risky, though. It’s easy to mix friend with foe, to get isolated from one’s comrades.’

  ‘The men are well able for it, sir. You’ve seen how disciplined they are. Issue them with their orders, and they will follow them.’

  They gazed at one another for a long moment, before Hanno nodded. ‘Very well. We’ll do as you suggested.’

  The short winter days ensured that darkness was nearly upon them a short time later. All packs and equipment other than weapons and shields had been stacked in heaps just off the track. To reduce the chance of being spotted as they approached, each soldier had blackened his face, right hand and conical helmet with mud. They waited at the edge of the trees in two groups, the first and largest under Hanno, and the second under Mutt. An assault from three or even four sides would have been more effective, but Hanno had decided that would lead to unnecessary deaths. Mutt agreed. Men were less likely to kill one another if they were all moving into the enemy camp in one direction. Hanno was to lead the attack, while Mutt and his party were to lie in wait at the opposite end of the camp, outside the earthen rampart. Their purpose was to fall upon the Romans fleeing the slaughter.

  ‘Ready?’ Hanno hissed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mutt.

  ‘Head to your position then. I’ll give you a head start of three hundred heartbeats before moving off. The gods be with you.’

  ‘And you, sir.’ Mutt turned to his men. ‘Follow me. Ten ranks of four. Walk several paces away from your comrades. Quiet as you can. Otherwise, your comrades and the chief could pay for your fuck up with their lives. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they muttered back at him.

  The Roman camp was only a dark line in the distance by this stage, but that didn’t stop sweat from slicking down Mutt’s back as they left the cover of the trees. The muddy earth sucked at their sandals, making it difficult to walk. Mutt cursed the wet noises that this made, and reluctantly cut a wider diagonal line than he’d planned, towards the far left corner of the enemy position. Hanno would have the same problem, he reasoned. They would get to their position in time.

  Seven hundred long heartbeats later, Mutt found himself some fifty paces from the entrance opposite the one that Hanno would strike. In the gloom, it was nothing more than a vertical slit on the dim shape that was the rampart. Slow movement — the tops of helmets — along the top of the fortification signalled a pair of sentries. They had not seen his spearmen, Mutt was sure of that. It was too damn dark, for a start. Plus they hadn’t made a sound, other than to speak to each other as they passed. He had already instructed his men what to do. At his signal, they fanned out in a large semicircle, covering almost the entire area before the entrance. He himself took the centre most point, directly facing the opening in the rampart. All they had to do now was wait.

  Worry began to gnaw at him. He prayed that Hanno and his men reached the camp’s far side without being seen; that when they attacked they would cause complete panic; that the Romans who emerged before them would be too terrified to fight back.

  Suddenly, Mutt’s attention was focused on a shout that was cut short. It was followed by a scream that died away into a choking cough. ‘Ready!’ he whispered to the man on each side. ‘Pass it on.’ The words had barely left his mouth when the quiet was shredded by the war cries of Hanno and his soldiers. Mutt strained his eyes at the rampart, trying to envisage what was going on. Light flared against the sky, flickered and then increased in brilliance. A tent had gone up in flames, he thought, dark satisfaction filling him. Shouts of confusion rang out from the sentries on the rampart near Mutt and a moment later, they deserted their posts.

  The screaming began soon after, and rapidly became the dominant sound, which told Mutt all he needed to know. He went through the little ritual that had stood him in good stead so many times before: made sure that his sandals had a firm grip in the earth; readied his spear and held his shield grip even tighter, and muttered a prayer to Melqart and Baal Hammon, his favoured gods.

  The noise of pounding feet drew everyone’s attention like a moth to a flame. A moment later, a lone figure tore out of the entrance opposite and ran straight for them at full tilt, his life ending on the spear of a soldier near Mutt.

  One down, Mutt thought. Another hundred or more to go.

  The next Roman didn’t see them either, nor did the two after him, or the four single legionaries after that. They all died without even landing a blow on one of his men. The noise of fighting within the camp had risen to a deafening level by then, and Mutt passed the order to prepare for a bigger onslaught. Hanno’s attack was going well. More ‘business’ would not be long coming their way.

  A party of about twenty legionaries burst out through the entrance, shouting and yelling to each other. They ran towards Mutt without any hint of either formation or awareness that more enemies were lying in wait. A pssst from Mutt had a handful of spearmen nearby hurry to his side. They formed a mini shieldwall an instant before the Romans saw them. Curses and shouts of fear rent the air, but it was too late. They struck Mutt and the others as a ship hits a hidden rock. Thump went their shield bosses into enemy flesh. Stab. Thrust. Blood sprayed onto Mutt’s face. Blinking it away he shoved his blade into the man who came stumbling over the falling body of his comrade. It was like spearing fish in a pool.

  As Mutt had expected, however, the pressure from the fleeing legionaries soon increased. There was no point losing any of his men, so he barked an order. His soldiers split apart, allowing the Romans to run off into the darkness. When another large group appeared, he let them by without hindrance. As wolves attack the stragglers, so he and his soldiers would take down the Romans, he had decided. A degree of caution would mean, with luck, no casualties at all.

  More stragglers appeared, and were slain. The noise level inside the camp diminished, and then rose again. Except this time, the din was being made by Hanno’s men. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ Mutt heard them shouting, not far from where he stood. It was nearly over, he thought, feeling elated. They had won.

  ‘Look, sir!’

  A tall shape was running towards them.

  Gradually, he made out a feathered crest. It was an officer — the enemy commander.

  ‘HERE I AM, YOU WHORESON!’ he roared. Slaying the Roman leader would be the ultimate glory, the total proof that they had humiliated this enemy patrol, Mutt told himself, as the memory of his nightmare hit him like a hammer blow.. It was too late to do anything other than fight, however.

  Whatever the outcome.

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  Copyright © Ben Kane 2013

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  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Preface Publishing

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  Hannibal:r />
  Fields of Blood

  Ben Kane

  For Arthur, Carol, Joey, Killian and Tom: veterinary classmates half a lifetime ago, and good friends still

  Chapter I

  Cisalpine Gaul, winter

  For the most part, the ground was flat, agricultural land that supplied grain for the nearby town. Green shoots of wheat a handsbreadth high were the only flash of colour in the frozen fields. Everything else had been turned silver-white by a heavy frost. The lowering clouds provided little contrast. Nor did the walls of Victumulae, which reared up, grey and imposing, in the distance. By the side of the road that ran to the gates lay a small, unremarkable copse.

  Standing in the trees was a tall, rangy figure in a wool cloak. He had a thin face with a crooked nose and startlingly green eyes. Black curls escaped from the felt liner covering his head. His gaze darted restlessly over the terrain, but he saw nothing. It had been the same since he’d sent the sentry off to get some food. Hanno hadn’t been watching for long, but already his feet were numb. He mouthed a curse. The cold wasn’t going to go away. The ice was showing no signs of melting; nor had it for several days. A pang of homesickness. It was a different world from his childhood home on the north African coast, which he hadn’t seen for almost two years. He could still picture the massive sandstone walls of Carthage, painted with whitewash so that the sunlight bounced off them. The magnificent Agora and, beyond it, the elaborate twin harbours. He sighed. Even in winter, his city was quite warm. And the sun shone most days, whereas here the only sign he had seen of it for a week was an occasional glimpse of a pale yellow disc through gaps in the murk overhead.

  Peee-ay. Peee-ay. The characteristic cry made Hanno’s head lift. Against the dull grey-white of the cloud, a couple of jackdaws jinked and turned, pursuing a hungry, and angry, buzzard. The familiar sight — the small birds harassing the larger one — felt ironic. Our task is far harder than theirs, he thought grimly. To learn that Carthage is its master, Rome has to bleed as it never has before. Once, Hanno would have doubted that could ever happen. His people had been decisively beaten by the Republic before in a bitter, drawn-out war that had ended a generation previously. The conflict had left a hatred of Rome in every Carthaginian’s heart, but there had seemed no way of winning redress from the enemy. In the last month, however, the world had been turned on its head.

  Only a madman would have believed that an army could be led hundreds of miles from Iberia to Cisalpine Gaul, crossing the Alps as winter began. Yet, driven by his desire to defeat Rome, Hannibal Barca had done just that. Strengthened by an alliance with local tribes, Hanno’s general had smashed the large Roman force that had been sent to meet him. As a result, the whole of northern Italy lay open to attack, and against all probability Hanno, who had been enslaved near Capua, had escaped to join Hannibal. In doing so, he had been reunited with his father and brothers, who had thought him long since dead.

  Now anything seemed possible.

  Hanno’s belly rumbled, reminding him of his mission to find food and gather intelligence. He wasn’t here to watch the local fauna or to ponder the future. His phalanx of Libyan spearmen, hidden to his rear where the undergrowth afforded better concealment, needed supplies as much as he did. He had another purpose too. His eyes traced the line of the empty, muddy track that ran past his hiding place, arrowing through the fragile young wheat, straight to the town’s front gate. There were fresh holes in the nearest icy puddles, evidence that some time that morning, a horse had been ridden hard towards the town. The sentry had told him about it. Hanno felt sure that it would have been a messenger carrying word to Victumulae of the Carthaginian army’s approach.

  A thin smile traced his lips at the thought of the alarm that would have caused.

  Since Hannibal’s stunning victory at the River Trebia, every Roman for a hundred miles had been living in fear of his life. Farms, villages and even smaller towns had been abandoned; terrified citizens had fled to anywhere that had thick walls and a garrison to defend them. The widespread panic had worked to the Carthaginians’ advantage. Exhausted first by their harrowing crossing of the Alps and then by the savage battle with a double consular army, they had badly needed to rest and recuperate. Even so, hundreds of men — injured and whole — had died in the harsh weather that had followed the fighting. All but seven of the thirty-odd elephants had succumbed too. Ever the canny general, Hannibal had ordered his weakened forces to stay put. All non-essential military duties had ceased for a week. The deserted homesteads and farms had been a blessing, needing nothing more than men with accompanying mules to empty them of food and supplies.

  These provisions soon ran out, however. So too did the foodstuffs offered by their new Gaulish allies. Thirty thousand men consumed a vast amount of grain daily, which was why the Carthaginians had broken camp the week before. At that very moment, they were marching on Victumulae. Word had it that the wheat stored behind its walls would feed them for weeks. Hanno’s patrol was one of a number that had been sent out to reconnoitre the terrain in advance. He only had to return if he found evidence of an enemy ambush; otherwise, he could wait in the vicinity until the main force reached the town, which would be in the next day or two.

  To his satisfaction, the countryside had been bare of nearly all human life. Apart from one clash with the enemy, from which they had emerged victorious, and a night spent in a friendly Gaulish village, it had been like travelling through a land inhabited by ghosts. Hannibal’s cavalry, which was ranging far ahead of the infantry units, had brought more interesting news. Most of the survivors of the recent battle were holed up in Placentia, which lay some fifty miles to the southeast. Others had fled south, beyond the Carthaginians’ reach, while an unknown number had sought refuge in places such as Victumulae. Despite the inevitability that the town would fall to Hannibal’s superior forces, Hanno had taken the risk of moving closer to it than any of the cavalry units. He wanted to discover how many defenders they would face when the attack came, perhaps even strike a blow at an enemy patrol. Thus armed, he might be able to win his general’s favour again.

  It was unfortunate how things currently stood, he brooded. Ever since Hannibal had assembled a vast army and used it to take Saguntum, reopening hostilities with Rome, Hanno had longed for nothing more than to join the general in his struggle. What hot-blooded Carthaginian wouldn’t have wanted to take revenge upon Rome for what it had done to their people? After being reunited with his family, things had started well. Hannibal had honoured Hanno with the command of a phalanx. Yet it had all gone wrong soon after that. Hanno’s pulse quickened as he remembered recounting to Hannibal what he had done during an ambush on a Roman patrol a few days before the battle at the Trebia. Hannibal’s fury at the news had been terrifying. Hanno had come within a whisker of being crucified. So too had Bostar and Sapho, his brothers, for not intervening. Since then, his general’s disapproval would have been patent to a blind man.

  In that ambush he had let two Roman cavalrymen — Quintus, his former friend, and Fabricius, Quintus’ father — go free. Perhaps it had been foolish, Hanno mused. If he had just killed them and had done, life would have been far simpler. Instead, in an effort to wash away the stain on his good name, he had volunteered for every subsequent patrol, every dangerous duty going. So far, none of it had made the slightest difference. Hannibal had given no sign that he’d even noticed. Full of resentment, Hanno wriggled his toes inside his leather boots, trying to restore some sensation to them. His effort failed, irritating him further. Here he was, freezing not just his extremities but his balls off, on a mission that was doomed to failure. What chance had he of determining the enemy’s strength in Victumulae? Of ambushing an enemy unit? With Hannibal’s army closing in, the chances that any legionaries would be sent beyond the town’s walls were slim to none.

  Hanno checked his disgruntlement. He’d had good reason for acting as he had. Despite the fact that he was the son of Hanno’s owner, Quintus had become a friend. It
would have been wrong to have slain him, not least because he had owed Quintus his life twice over. A debt is a debt, Hanno thought. When the time is right, it has to be repaid, whatever the risk of punishment. He had survived Hannibal’s subsequent wrath, and then the battle, had he not? That in itself was proof that he had done the right thing — that for the moment he held the gods’ goodwill. Afterwards, Hanno had been careful to make generous sacrifices to Tanit, Melqart, Baal Saphon and Baal Hammon, the most important Carthaginian deities, thanking them for their protection. His chin lifted. With luck, he held their favour still. Something might yet come of his plan to gather intelligence.

  He studied Victumulae with renewed interest. Thin trails of smoke drifted aloft from the inhabitants’ chimneys, the only sign at this distance that the town had not been abandoned. The defences were impressive: behind a deep ditch, high stone walls with regular towers had been built. Hanno had little doubt that there would be catapults on the battlements as well. He and his men had no chance of success there. Along the eastern side of Victumulae wound the sinuous bends of the Padus, the great river that made the region so fertile. To the west lay more agricultural land; Hanno could see the shape of a large villa with its attendant cluster of outbuildings. Hope flared in his breast. Could someone be left within? It wasn’t unreasonable to think that there might. So close to the walls, a stubborn landowner might still feel protected, might have emptied his house of valuables but chosen to remain until the enemy came into sight. Hanno made a snap decision. It was worth a try. They would advance under the cover of darkness, and if it came to nothing, they might at least find some food. If that strategy failed, he would have exhausted all possible avenues.