Hannibal 02: Fields of Blood

by Ben Kane

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Quintus’ heart thumped against his ribs. His weariness fell away; even the cold was no longer an issue. He and Rutilus set about gathering the velites who were on duty and passing on his orders to the legionaries present. When Corax returned with Pullo and the other centurions, the soldiers were formed up in maniples. Corax gave him a tiny nod of approval before eyeing his men. ‘You’ve all seen what’s going on, boys. Hannibal thinks he’s being smart. He thinks we’re asleep! Well, his men are going to get the surprise of their miserable lives. When they reach the ridge, we will be waiting there for them. Won’t we?’

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  ‘Fabius is relying on us. Rome is relying on us to throw the guggas back. If they can’t get out of Campania, the shitbags will starve. And then we’ll have them!’

  As the men around him began shouting, ‘Roma! Roma!’ Quintus remembered the talk of kicking an army in its stomach. That was all very well, he thought with a touch of bitterness, but the lands that would be laid to waste if Hannibal’s troops were denied the passage were those of Campania, his home. Thus far, the area east of the Apennines had escaped the brunt of the enemy’s depredations. There was nothing wrong with them taking their turn. Yet Quintus felt guilty for even entertaining the idea. It was time to fight, he thought, not to give in just so his home region could be spared.

  ‘Crespo. Rutilus.’ Corax and the other centurions called the velites’ section leaders into a quick huddle. ‘You lot can move faster than the hastati or principes. You’re to go in front. Run like the wind. I want you up there before the guggas at all costs. Give them a welcome that they won’t forget. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Quintus replied, his pulse racing. The air filled with growls of acknowledgement from the others.

  ‘This is your opportunity to prove that you’re not the fool I think you are,’ said Corax, glaring at Rutilus.

  ‘You won’t be disappointed in me, sir,’ replied Rutilus fiercely.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ cried Corax. ‘Get moving!’

  They hurried to their comrades. Quickly, Quintus explained what they had to do. ‘Ask Hermes for his help on the way up. It’s a broken ankle that you need to be most worried about, for now at least.’ That garnered him a few chuckles, but Quintus didn’t smile. He ignored Macerio’s sneering, scarred face too. ‘I’m serious. Watch your footing. If you fall, you will have to fend for yourself. I want every able-bodied man ready to fight the instant we reach that saddle.’ There were grim nods then, reassuring him. He glanced at Rutilus. ‘Ready?’

  ‘I’d have been halfway up the hill already if you hadn’t talked so much.’

  ‘You’re full of shit!’

  ‘And you love it. See you at the top.’ Clearly keen to win Corax’s favour once more, Rutilus jumped straight into the river, spears and shield in hand. His men followed.

  ‘We can’t let them steal a march on us!’ shouted Quintus. ‘With me!’ He sprinted after Rutilus, all thoughts but reaching the top and throwing back the Carthaginians gone from his mind. Fortunately, the Volturnus was no more than knee deep. Even so, the chill in the water struck him like a blow in the face. He scrambled across, his sandals slipping a little on the smooth stones of the bottom. And then he was up on to the opposite bank, the damp grass brushing off his legs.

  They ran at full speed across the flattest portion of the valley floor. It wasn’t long before they caught up with Rutilus and his men. Insults were thrown about who could sprint the fastest, and despite his nerves, Quintus grinned. The badinage was a good sign that morale was high. As the incline began to rise, the grass was replaced by small trees, bushes and rocks. The ascent became a matter of scrambling over boulders and shoving through thick scrub. An orange-yellow harvest moon hung low in the sky, while overhead countless stars glittered.

  Moving slowly would still have posed some risk, but their urgency meant that it was impossible to avoid harm. Curses rang out as toes were stubbed and flesh ripped open by thorns. Now and again, Quintus heard the impact of a body hitting the ground. It was difficult to see who had fallen but there was no time to stop and help. He had to trust that the unlucky men would only be lightly injured. Every spear would count at the ridge.

  By the time he reached the peak, Quintus was vaguely aware of a bruised shin and a long, bleeding graze on one arm. To his left and right, the panting shapes of men emerged one after another. All his attention, however, was on the mass of enemy soldiers ascending from the plain. ‘Jupiter’s cock, they have moved fast,’ he swore.

  Rutilus materialised by his side. ‘It will be a push to get to the saddle before them.’

  ‘We can do it, damn it!’ A glance back down the slope and Quintus’ unease lessened. The dark shapes of the legionaries were only a couple of hundred paces below them. The fight would just have started by the time they arrived. ‘Come on, lads,’ he cried, moving before his fear took a greater hold. Rutilus was more than equal to the challenge and took the lead once more. Quintus was determined not to be left behind. Neck and neck, they barged down the slope, trusting that their comrades were following. Afterwards, he would wish that he had checked. They were perhaps halfway down when someone gave him a tremendous shove in the back. He stumbled forward and his vision spun as he lost control. He saw stars, Rutilus’ back, burning torches and then the ground. His head slammed against a rock and Quintus knew no more.

  He came to with someone slapping his face. Blinding pain was radiating from a spot above his left eye, and Quintus groaned.

  ‘He’s alive.’

  ‘Can you get up?’ The voice was low and urgent.

  ‘I think so.’ Strong arms raised him to his feet. Quintus was grateful that they didn’t let go of him at once. His knees shook from the effort of standing upright. It was odd, but he thought he could hear the bellowing of cattle.

  ‘You’re lucky that one of the lads saw you,’ said a burly hastatus. ‘What the hell happened? Did you trip?’

  Macerio. It must’ve been he who pushed him, thought Quintus fuzzily. His wits were scrambled, but he knew better than to accuse a fellow soldier of something he had no way of proving. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Can you fight?’

  He raised a trembling hand to his head, gingerly feeling where it hurt. His fingers came away sticky with blood. Quintus wiped them on his tunic. ‘Of course I can,’ he said. He looked down; confusion filled him. Then the bellowing he’d heard made sense. Hundreds and hundreds of cattle were stampeding across the saddle. A weird light flared from their heads.

  ‘Clever, eh?’ snarled the hastatus. ‘They’ve got torches tied to their horns. From a distance, each beast looks like two men.’

  Quintus goggled. Around the sides of the herd darted the enemy: men armed with spears and little else. Other figures, which had to be Roman, were being massed at the bottom of the slope while others, the velites probably, hurled javelins at the Carthaginians. ‘It’s a trick, to get us out of the pass,’ he said stupidly. ‘Why didn’t we see it?’

  ‘Your lot did,’ replied the hastatus grimly. ‘They started shouting, but we couldn’t hear. The centurions kept us moving. At the top, we were packed like salted fish in a barrel. Even when we got the order that most men were to return to the river, it took an age to turn everyone around. That was when the second enemy unit hit us with a volley of javelins and slingshots. There was complete chaos.’ A bitter laugh. ‘They knew we’d charge for the saddle like a bunch of excited children.’

  ‘What’s happening now?’ asked Quintus as dread filled him.

  ‘There’s fighting on two fronts: here and on the other side of the peak. Meanwhile, Hannibal’s entire fucking host is marching through the pass under arms. Even if we do succeed in crossing the river again, it will be too late.’

  ‘That was his plan all along,’ muttered Quintus.

  ‘I’ll give that gugga bastard one thing,’ admitted the hastatus. ‘He’s damn clever.’

  ‘His luck wil
l run out one day.’ Quintus tried to ignore his relief that Campania would be spared further pillaging. ‘Fabius will finish him.’

  ‘Aye, or Minucius, more likely,’ retorted the hastatus.

  Rutilus wasn’t alone in thinking that Fabius was too cautious, thought Quintus. He, on the other hand, favoured Fabius, not least because Flaccus had been an arrogant fool. Hanno worried that Minucius was cut from the same cloth. ‘One of them will get lucky in the end,’ he said diplomatically.

  ‘Gods willing. Best go and lend a hand, eh?’ The hastatus punched him on the arm. ‘Take your time down the slope. You’re probably still seeing stars. One javelin more or less isn’t going to change the outcome.’ With a cynical laugh, he and his companion moved off.

  Grateful for the respite, Quintus sat on a large boulder. His head was still killing him. The fighting below looked to be growing more vicious. The cattle continued to stream by. Was there no end to Hannibal’s tricks? he wondered. It appeared not. Yet this was no Trebia, no Trasimene. There would be some casualties, but not many thousands. This had not been a defeat, merely a case of being outmanoeuvred. It was a sting to Rome’s pride, not a blow to its vitals.

  Far below, a man with blond hair lobbed a spear at the enemy. It was Macerio. I need to watch my back better from now on, thought Quintus soberly. Fortuna must have been smiling on him earlier. Macerio probably thought that the fall had killed him, or perhaps someone else had come upon the scene, preventing his enemy from finishing the job. Either way, it had been a lucky escape. Soon after, this truth was brought home to him even harder. On his way down to the saddle, he came across Rutilus’ body. That was upsetting enough, but the fact that his friend’s mortal wound was in his back made Quintus’ blood boil with rage. It would not be a coward’s injury; Rutilus was no lily-liver. The chances of an enemy striking such a blow were slim to none. Wounds in honourable combat tended to be on a soldier’s front, or side. No, it was far more likely that Macerio had turned on Rutilus after pushing him down the slope. It was a cowardly act that would be impossible to prove. Where is the devious bastard? Unsure that he was strong enough to fight but desperate for revenge, Quintus scanned the area. In the confusion of battle, there was no sign of the blond-haired man.

  He forced himself to calm down. His best tactic would be to pretend nothing had happened, to lull Macerio into thinking that he had got away with it. Next time, though, he would be ready. And it would be Macerio who ended up dead, not him.

  North of Capua

  Dawn had come. Aurelia could tell. She had been lying awake for hours – if she had slept at all – and through her closed eyelids the light had been increasing for some time. Still she refused to open her eyes. By doing so, she would be forced to acknowledge that this was her wedding day. Lying rigid on the bed, taking only shallow breaths and thinking of everything but the celebrations to come, she could continue the pretence that she and Lucius were not to be husband and wife by the day’s end. That she would never see Hanno again. The thought of him brought tears to her eyes once more. Before his unexpected arrival on the night at the farm, she had been gradually reconciling herself to the idea of wedding Lucius. Since seeing Hanno it had been impossible. Her every waking moment, and many of those when she was asleep, had been consumed by passionate thoughts of him. The preparations for the wedding: being fitted for her bridal dress, ordering the orange veil that she would wear, deciding whom should be invited, had passed her by in a blur. Any time that she was forced to concentrate and things had seemed more real, Aurelia had told herself she was preparing to marry not Lucius, but Hanno. Yesterday, however, her efforts at denying what was happening had begun to unravel at last. Accompanied by her mother, Martialis and a party of slaves, she had travelled north of Capua to the house of one of Lucius’ relations. Because of the risk of marauding Carthaginian soldiers, it had been deemed too dangerous to hold the wedding at her family home as tradition dictated. Instead, it would take place in this villa, a house that she had never set foot in until the previous day. All night long, Aurelia had tried to deny the truth of what would happen in the coming hours. But the pretence was coming to an end. She tried to curse Hanno for appearing in her life, for opening her heart to feelings of love, but she couldn’t. May the gods protect you, wherever you are, she prayed.

  ‘Mistress?’ Elira was outside the door. ‘Are you awake?’

  And so it begins, thought Aurelia wearily. ‘Yes. Come in.’

  The door opened and Elira slipped inside, smiling. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Aurelia wondered whether to lie, but before she could speak, the Illyrian had seen her mood.

  ‘Melito is a good man. A kind man. He will give you many children.’

  There was no point trying to explain. ‘I know,’ replied Aurelia, forcing a smile of her own.

  They both started as the unmistakable sound of a pig squealing carried from outside the house. It was customary to slaughter a pig early on a wedding day so that the entrails might be read by a soothsayer.

  ‘Let us hope that the omens are favourable,’ said Elira.

  Aurelia found herself murmuring in agreement. For all her misgivings, she did not want to add bad luck to the impending proceedings. She eyed her old dress, lying over a stool, and a few of her childhood toys, brought with her from Capua just so she could ritually set them aside the day before. From this moment, she would never wear a girl’s dress again. She would don a bridal tunic; later she would become a woman – in the truest sense. Her cheeks flushed at the thought.

  ‘Your mother will be here soon to help with getting you dressed. She says to start by dressing your hair.’ Almost shyly, Elira raised the iron spear head in her right hand.

  ‘Very well.’ Aurelia threw back the covers and swung her legs on to the floor. ‘There is more light in the courtyard,’ she said, picking up another stool.

  The moment that they were seen, the two began to attract attention. By the time that Elira began using the spear head to separate Aurelia’s hair into the traditional six plaits, a handful of slaves had gathered to watch. Their approving smiles and murmurs of appreciation did nothing to improve Aurelia’s mood, but she did not frown or throw disapproving looks. This would be a long day, but she was determined to maintain her family’s honour throughout. After the way she had contributed to her parents’ problems, it was the least she could do. Marrying Lucius was the only way that the threat of Phanes could be kept at bay.

  Aurelia was standing just outside the open doors of the tablinum. She was alone apart from Elira. This was it, she thought, her guts churning. There was no going back now. Apart from Lucius, who would be last to arrive, everyone else was waiting for her in the atrium.

  ‘It’s time,’ whispered Elira.

  Aurelia’s head turned. Through her flammeum, or veil, Elira was orange. Her whole world was orange. It was most disconcerting, even more than her simple, white wedding dress, saffron-coloured cloak and sandals. Her fingers rose to touch the knot of Hercules that tied the girdle just beneath her breasts – it could only be undone by her husband – and she fought the urge to weep. It felt like a waking nightmare.

  ‘Mistress.’ Elira’s voice was urgent.

  Freeing her traitorous limbs by sheer strength of will, she began to move forward. The scent of marjoram from the wreath at her brow was strong in Aurelia’s nostrils. It was one of her favourite smells, and she inhaled deeply, trying to take strength from it. Into the tablinum, across the black and white chequered mosaic, past the pool that collected rainwater from the hole in the roof. By the wooden partition that separated the room in which she stood from the atrium, she paused. Her heart was beating like that of a bird in her breast, faster than she could count. Nothing she did made any difference. Get on with it, she thought. Prolonging the agony will make it worse.

  Inside the atrium, her mother and Martialis waited with the priest and eight other witnesses. As she entered, Aurelia heard their murmurs of approval. Her appearance at least was
satisfactory. Trying to move gracefully, she walked to stand before the priest, the most senior from the temple of Jupiter in Capua. A stern-looking man with a narrow face and little hair, he gave her a tight nod. Atia and Martialis stood to his right; the others, to his left. Aurelia’s eyes moved to her mother’s face, which bore a pleased expression. She looked away, holding in the anger that bubbled up in response. Martialis gave her a kindly smile. Apart from Lucius’ father, she didn’t know the eight further witnesses. She supposed that they were friends and relations. Gods, but she wished that her father and Quintus could have been among them, if not to stop the proceedings, then at least to give her moral support.

  They didn’t have to wait long for Lucius to appear from the other entrance to the atrium. He was dressed in a new white toga and garlanded with flowers. He looked very handsome, Aurelia had to admit. Even so, she couldn’t help imagining Hanno in his place. Accompanying Lucius were more relations and a band of his friends. She trembled as he reached her side. It was a relief when the priest began to speak at once. He thanked the gods for the favourable auspices seen in the entrails of the sacrificial pig, welcomed everyone present to the marriage ceremony, offered gratitude to Lucius’ father and the shades of the family’s dead ancestors. A few words about marriage, children and a few more about Lucius. None about her, other than to mention she was of good stock. Aurelia fought her bitterness. By becoming Lucius’ wife and the woman who would bear his heirs, thus continuing his bloodline, she was also helping her family.

  ‘Repeat after me the sacred words,’ intoned the priest.

  So soon? Aurelia wanted to scream.

  ‘As long as you are Aurelia, I am Lucius,’ said the priest.

  Lucius echoed the words in a strong, clear voice.

  The priest’s gaze moved to her. ‘As long as you are Lucius, I am Aurelia.’

  Her eyes flickered to the side. Lucius was watching her. So was everyone in the room. Her breath caught in her throat; the muscles in her legs trembled. Somehow, she regained control. ‘As long as you are Lucius, I am Aurelia.’