Hannibal 02: Fields of Blood

by Ben Kane

  ‘See anything?’ asked Urceus.

  ‘No,’ Quintus replied, annoyed that his hopes for the day – a clash with some Carthaginian scouts – had been soured. ‘Same as usual. They’re long gone.’ He spoke with certainty. They were never ordered to range more than a few miles in front of Flaminius’ army. It did make some sort of sense – to follow the enemy, all they had to do was to move towards the trails of smoke that marked burning properties – but it frustrated the hell out of Quintus.

  ‘We’ll find the damn guggas eventually. They’ll run out of places to hide,’ said Rutilus in a mock-placatory tone. ‘Be grateful for the times that we don’t encounter them, however. Each one of those days is an extra one to have lived. Being dead goes on for eternity, you know.’

  Quintus had grown to appreciate Rutilus’ droll sense of humour. ‘Speak for yourself. I intend to survive this war.’

  ‘Me too,’ growled Urceus. ‘I’ve got fields that need tending back home, and a woman that needs ploughing.’

  ‘Sure you haven’t got that the wrong way round?’ Rutilus snickered, and had to dodge out of the way as Urceus’ ham-like fist swept through the air at him.

  Quintus grinned. Life in the velites was harder than he’d imagined, but there was a camaraderie and a freedom that he hadn’t expected. Corax and his junior officers were in charge of half of the maniple’s forty skirmishers, while Pullo and his subordinates looked after the other half. Yet the officers didn’t direct them in battle, except from a distance. Nor did they accompany the velites out here, on patrol. Instead, the most experienced men took charge. Whether it was because their positions were unranked or because the velites came from the poorest section of society, Quintus did not know, but there was an appealing lack of formality between those who led and those who followed.

  Fortunately, Macerio had no superiority over him. He too was an ordinary rank-and-filer. Their relationship had degenerated even further in the weeks since their brawl. They’d come to blows twice, but been separated each time by Big Tenner, their huge ten-man section leader. Since then, they had avoided each other as much as was possible when sharing a tent. Quintus knew, however, that it would only be a matter of time until they clashed again. As much as anything, the scar on Macerio’s cheek would see to that. He was grateful to be in the five-man sub-unit led by Urceus, with whom he’d become friendly, while Macerio was in Big Tenner’s lot. Little Tenner, the diminutive but charismatic leader of the century’s other ten-man section, was with his men some distance off to their right, while the remaining twenty velites were scouring the ground to their left. Sets of short, high-pitched whistles and runners kept the groups in occasional touch.

  ‘We move out. South, same as before. Keep your eyes peeled,’ said Urceus, rising. ‘Stay at the same height. Big Tenner’s men are working the slope below us.’

  The undergrowth was too dense to see the rest of the velites, but Quintus glanced anyway. Macerio was out there somewhere, and he wouldn’t put it past the whoreson to lie in wait for him with a javelin. Such things happened in war from time to time, and if there were no witnesses, no one would ever be the wiser. The thought of that made him lick his lips and grip the light spear in his right hand a little tighter. Like the ones in his other hand, it had an ash shaft and a narrow, pointed head. Under Corax’s hard gaze, Quintus and his companions had spent hours throwing them at bundles of straw. He’d worked hard not to let his experience with a spear show; it appeared to have succeeded.

  They wormed their way through the bush in a well-worked pattern, making little noise. Urceus took the centre; Quintus walked about twenty steps to his right, with Rutilus another score beyond that. The two others were in similar positions to Urceus’ left. For the most part, it was boring work. The chances of encountering any of the enemy were slim. The Carthaginians were some distance to the south, and all they were interested in was farms and estates, not empty countryside. Inevitably, perhaps, Quintus’ attention began to wander. Dead leaves rustled underfoot. A snake slithered away as his tread disturbed it from a sunny patch of earth. Lizards watched him with beady eyes before skittering to safety over the rocks. At last he looked up. He could see vultures, lots of them. His stomach turned, dragging him back to the present.

  The Carthaginians’ savage tactics meant that vultures had become a common sight overhead, drawn by the rich pickings. There were so many corpses that Flaminius had ordered that, upon discovery, they were to be left unburied. It was a directive that greatly angered his soldiers. Urceus reckoned that that had been the consul’s intent, and Quintus was inclined to agree. He was increasingly eager to confront the enemy army in battle. Yes, it would be good to wait until they met up with Servilius and his legions, but if the right opportunity came about, it would be foolish not to take it. How many innocents had to die before Hannibal was stopped?

  A series of short whistles, the signal that one of Big Tenner’s men was approaching. Without a word from Urceus, the five came to a halt. Despite the fact that the call had been from one of their own, each veles lifted his shield and readied a javelin. As Corax had drummed into them, they always had to be ready to sting like a bee and flit away like a fly, and to do the reverse with equal aptitude. Quintus glanced at Rutilus, who shrugged. ‘Who knows what it could be?’

  The sight of Macerio sloping towards them made Quintus scowl. Macerio made straight for Urceus.

  ‘What is it?’ Urceus demanded.

  ‘Believe it or not, a party of Numidian cavalry.’

  Urceus was as surprised as everyone else. ‘On the road?’

  ‘Yes. I saw them first.’ Macerio shot a spiteful look at Quintus, as if to say, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed them.’ Quintus pretended not to notice.

  ‘How many?’ Urceus asked.

  ‘Only six.’

  A disapproving hiss. ‘They’re probably just outriders for a bigger party. We’d best not go near them.’

  ‘They’re on their own. They’re all pissed.’ The insolence in Macerio’s tone was just perceptible. ‘Maybe they got left behind when their unit was tearing apart a farm. Drank themselves stupid, only woke up this morning.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Urceus looked tempted, and Quintus cursed silently. Why did it have to be Macerio who’d seen them?

  ‘Big Tenner agrees with me.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Urceus with a feral grin.

  ‘Has he sent for Little Tenner or any of the others?’ asked Rutilus.

  ‘For six men? There’s no need,’ Macerio retorted scornfully.

  ‘True,’ added Urceus. ‘It’ll piss off the others as well, when they discover that we got to blood our spears when they didn’t. What did you see, Macerio?’

  ‘One of their horses has gone lame, so they’ve stopped while its rider tends to it. If we move fast, we can spring an attack from in front and behind,’ Macerio announced with another triumphant glance at Quintus.

  Fuck you, Macerio, thought Quintus. It’s not as if this turns you into an amazing general.

  ‘I like the sound of it! C’mon then, or we’ll miss the party.’ Urceus indicated that Macerio should turn around.

  They began to run. A new urgency lent speed to their feet. A devilment took Quintus, and he placed himself right behind Macerio. It gave him immense satisfaction that the result was to make his enemy cast frequent looks over his shoulder. Down the slope they went, side by side at times, or making their own path through the dense vegetation. Skidding their heels on the dry earth. Avoiding branches that whipped past their faces. Cursing as a bird flew up, making its alarm call.

  Big Tenner was waiting for them in a tiny clearing, his broad face twisted into a ferocious grimace. Of his three remaining men, two were visible, watching the road. ‘You sound like a herd of fucking cattle. A deaf man could hear you a mile away!’

  Macerio flushed.

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ growled Urceus.

  ‘Just as well the shitbags are pissed, or they’d have been long gone.’ Big
Tenner waved them closer. ‘Take a look.’

  Urceus padded to a gap in the bushes and disappeared. An instant later, his head popped out. ‘Best come and see,’ he said to Quintus and the others. ‘Then we’ll all know what way the land lies.’

  It didn’t take long to appraise the scene. Some thirty paces below them was a short straight section of the road that led south to Lake Trasimene. Under the shade of some tall strawberry trees opposite was a party of Numidian cavalry, all dismounted. As Macerio had said, there were six. Two were wrestling with a horse, one holding it by the bridle while the other repeatedly tried to lift its left back hoof. Their four companions were sitting in the road, their slouched positions and loud comments giving away much about their state. That, and the amphora that was passing from hand to hand, convinced Quintus that Macerio’s hunch was correct. It was a perfect opportunity to strike. They had numbers, sobriety and surprise on their side.

  ‘You take your lads about twenty paces to the rear. We’ll stay here,’ said Big Tenner. ‘Creep down until you’re within javelin range. I’ll give you enough time. When you hear my whistle, give them a volley, and then another one. After that, charge. None must escape, or we risk being hunted down like dogs by the rest of their comrades.’ His stare moved around the group. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered. ‘Go!’

  Urceus led them into position, his feet moving silently over the earth. Quintus and his companions followed. When they had come within some thirty paces of the oblivious Numidians, Urceus gestured that they should spread out. The four didn’t need to be told twice. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Quintus dried the palm of his spear hand on his tunic, and chose his victim.

  ‘Be sure to pick different targets,’ Urceus ordered.

  ‘Mine’s the one with the amphora,’ Quintus hissed.

  ‘I’ll take the man to his left,’ said Rutilus.

  ‘The ugly one on the right for me then,’ rumbled one of their companions.

  Urceus looked to the last man. ‘We’ll both aim for the horse first. It will panic the filth even more.’

  A trace of pity entered Quintus as he eyed the Numidians, who were laughing over a shared joke. His gaze focused on the amphora and a burning rage took him. Where had it come from? Whom had they murdered to take possession of it?

  Peeeeeeep! Big Tenner’s whistle shredded the air.

  Quintus cocked his arm back, and let fly. To either side, he heard the grunts as his comrades launched their weapons. He transferred another javelin to his right hand without looking, aimed and threw before the first had even landed.

  ‘Go!’ roared Urceus as the first screams hit their ears.

  Quintus tore forward, the third of his spears ready to throw. Branches whipped his cheek, half blinding him, but then he was free of the vegetation. He leaped down on to the road, a drop nearly his own height. Rutilus and the others were half a heartbeat behind him. The scene was utter chaos. Javelins were raining in from all directions. Two, three, four of the Numidians were down or dying. The lame horse had been struck twice and was rearing up, shrilling its agony to the world. The other mounts were whirling in panic or galloping off to the south, sending up dust trails. Big Tenner and his men were driving forward from their position. Quintus’ eyes flashed from side to side. Where in Hades were the last pair of Numidians?

  Then he knew. His feet took him towards two horses that had not yet fled. They were wheeling and turning some twenty paces to his left, but they hadn’t run – because someone was talking to them, soothing them. Even as Quintus drew near, a man scrambled up on to the back of the furthest, a small roan. An urgent glance over his shoulder, and then the Numidian pulled on the reins and drummed his heels into the horse’s sides. Quintus skidded to a halt and threw, but in his haste, he launched the javelin at too high an arc. It arched up and came down beyond the Numidian. Shit. He only had one javelin left. ‘Over here!’ he bawled. ‘Two of them are escaping!’

  Whom to aim at? The man he’d missed was already thirty paces away, lying low over his galloping horse’s back as they headed north. Quintus cursed again. In the madness of battle, Urceus and the rest hadn’t seen him. It was not the direction in which Hannibal’s forces lay, but if the Numidian made it, he would have no difficulty in doubling back through the fields. Quintus blinked sweat from his eyes and let out another oath. He wasn’t a good enough shot to make such a throw. That meant the last cavalryman was the one to go for. He’d have to be quick. Spotting a hand gripping the bottom of the last horse’s neck, a black, his eyes shot to its back. Yes! There was the outline of a bare foot, halfway between its withers and its hip. The Numidian was hanging on to its far side, using its body as cover as he urged it to follow its companion. ‘Here! Over here!’ Quintus sprinted to get around the horse, which was fast moving from a walk to a trot.

  A moment later, he caught sight of the Numidian, a lithe figure in a sleeveless tunic clamped to his mount’s chest and belly. Quintus’ breath caught in his throat. If he threw at this angle and missed, his javelin would strike the black. But it couldn’t be helped. It was that or a second man would get away. He closed one eye, took aim and hurled his spear with all his force. It shot through the air and drove into the Numidian’s back with a meaty thump. A scream of agony, and the man’s grip failed. He dropped to the dirt. Freed of its load, the black galloped off. Quintus was relieved to see no signs of blood in its coat. If Big Tenner had thrown, he thought, the javelin would have skewered the Numidian and horse both.

  Dragging out his gladius, he ran towards the Numidian. He had gone only a couple of strides when he felt a stinging sensation slice across the top of his left shoulder. A whoosh of air and the javelin had gone, driving into the ground by the Numidian’s feet. ‘Clumsy bastard! Watch where you’re throwing!’ Quintus shouted. He spun to see who had made such a stupid mistake.

  From a short distance away, Macerio’s baleful gaze met his. Death was in his eyes.

  Quintus could have sworn that the blond man was about to throw another spear, but then Urceus and Rutilus were shoving past, roaring curses at the Numidian, finishing him with savage thrusts of their swords. Without a word, Macerio trotted back to where the other enemy riders were being dispatched. At once Quintus’ attention was taken by Rutilus and Urceus, who came over to congratulate him on hitting the last Numidian. He let out a gusty sigh of relief. It was over. They had won. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he suddenly felt drained. Yet the combat had lasted mere moments. In that short time, five Numidians had been slain. Two horses needed their throats cut to end their suffering, but the others were long gone. Nonetheless, the ambush had been a resounding success. Around him, men were giving each other pleased, relieved looks.

  Big Tenner remained focused. ‘No hanging about on the road,’ he barked. ‘Gods know who might come riding along. The Numidian who escaped might have friends nearby. Search the dead if you wish, quickly, and then let’s get out of here.’

  Urceus made a beeline for the amphora, which was lying on its side, its contents leaking on to the earth. He peered inside. ‘There’s still plenty left,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘That’s all I need.’

  There were whoops as coins and rings were emptied out of purses found on the Numidians’ bodies. Quintus’ amusement was soured by the sight of the dead being rifled. But any valuables present were Roman by right, he thought.

  Rutilus saw him looking. ‘Whoever owned that stuff is dead.’

  ‘It still seems like stealing.’

  ‘Come on! If our lads don’t take it, someone else will.’

  Rutilus was correct, but that didn’t mean Quintus liked it one bit.

  ‘Time to move!’ Big Tenner clapped his hands. ‘In case you ladies had forgotten, we’ve still got a patrol to finish.’

  With good-natured grumbles, they withdrew to the shelter of the trees. As each five-man section split up again, insults were thrown, ridiculing various individuals’ poor javelin throws
and the fact that one of the enemy had escaped. The amphora that Urceus had swiped was passed about. Quintus’ comrades were grinning from ear to ear, but unhappiness settled over him like a wet blanket as he watched Macerio vanish into the trees. He had only seen the look in the blond man’s eyes by chance, but he had not missed its meaning. Macerio had tried to murder him. Frustration mixed with Quintus’ anger. He had no way of proving what had happened. An accusation would result in Macerio denying everything. Killing him before he tried again would work, but Quintus didn’t have the stomach for slaying a man in cold blood – even someone like Macerio. Better to keep quiet, and stay alert. Urceus’ amphora was thrust at him, but he refused it with a word of mumbled thanks. From now on, brooded Quintus, he would need to make sure that he had company all the time. It was bad enough having the Carthaginians to worry about without having an enemy in his own camp.

  Yet that was his new reality.

  Chapter VII

  Capua

  FROM THE FIRST time that they had met formally, Aurelia had liked Lucius well enough. He was attentive and courteous; he clearly found her attractive. Once this had become clear, her mother had postponed their departure for the farm. A week had become two; that time had since been extended to a month. Aurelia didn’t mind. This was infinitely better than living at home, where, since Quintus and Hanno had left, nothing ever happened. Every day, there had been something new and exciting to look forward to.

  Typically for a Roman man, Lucius was poor at compliments, but she had never been given so many gifts. A smile of pleasure, and a little guilt, traced her lips as she touched the jet and carnelian necklace at her throat. It had been hers from the moment she’d made a casual comment while walking with Lucius through the city. Her little jewellery box, formerly bare, was now overflowing with earrings and bracelets. She had a stunning fan made from the tail feathers of an exotic bird called a peacock; he had even tried to buy her a little monkey as a pet. With her mother as chaperone, she and Lucius had walked around the forum, taken a boat trip along the River Volturnus and watched chariot-racing at the local amphitheatre. They had been to the theatre twice, and taken an overnight trip to the coast. The time since the confrontation with Phanes had been a veritable whirlwind of activity. There was even talk of visiting the island of Capri. While she wasn’t sure that she wanted to marry Lucius, Aurelia was having the time of her life. Why was it then that she wasn’t enjoying herself more? Agesandros wasn’t around to upset her. Atia had sent him back to manage their estate.