Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

by Ben Kane

  ‘Grab whatever weapons you came with and meet us outside,’ barked Kleitos. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘Sir.’ They began rooting around on the floor amid the broken cups, spilled wine and vomit.

  Outside, chaos ruled. The trumpet’s blaring had stopped, but there were frantic-looking people running hither and thither. Soldiers wandered by in twos and threes, many of them still drunk. A half-dressed officer barked orders from a first-floor window; the troops ignored him. Conflicting reports filled the air: the Romans had smashed through several gates; they had already butchered half the garrison; Epicydes had been assassinated; a fleet of enemy triremes had sailed into the Great Harbour. A woman carrying a screaming baby stumbled by, calling in panic for an older child who was lost. A madman with long, filthy locks and a piercing stare announced that the world was ending. Shopkeepers who had been opening their premises moments before slammed shut their doors.

  Hanno fought to stay calm. Despite his combat experience, he’d never been in a situation like this. Aurelia, he thought, Aurelia. The fact that she was Roman would mean nothing to legionaries crazed with bloodlust. May the gods protect her. ‘What should we do?’

  Kleitos’ response was to seize a passing soldier by the arm. The man wheeled on him, his hand going for his sword, but he relaxed, realising Kleitos was an officer. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ Kleitos demanded.

  ‘The word is that a party of Romans scaled the wall at the Galeagra tower, sir. They killed the garrison and moved on to the Hexapyla. I don’t know, but I assume that the trumpet’s call was to let the bastards outside know that one or more gates have been opened.’ The soldier flinched, as if expecting to be punished for uttering such calamitous news.

  ‘My thanks,’ said Kleitos. ‘Trying to find your unit?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. On your way, and may the gods help us all.’

  With a quick salute, the soldier ran off. A moment later, the four veterans emerged from the inn, bleary-faced but with weapons in their hands. ‘Ready, sir,’ the lead one said to Kleitos.

  ‘Good.’ Kleitos glanced at Hanno. ‘My men – and yours – are up near the Hexapyla. It’s going to be fucking carnage there. If that soldier was right, our troops will already be dead.’

  ‘They might not be,’ retorted Hanno. ‘I think we have two choices: wait to see what Epicydes’ response will be, risking that it’ll all be over by the time we reach the Hexapyla with enough force, or to head up there now, which could be akin to tossing ourselves into the crater at the top of Mount Etna.’

  ‘Damned if we do, and damned if we don’t,’ Kleitos snarled. ‘Those motherless, cocksucking Roman bastards!’

  He’s not sure what to do, thought Hanno, and every moment we lose is worth ten where it’s needed. ‘We make for the Hexapyla,’ he declared. ‘My money says that Epicydes is yet scratching his arse.’

  Kleitos shook his head. ‘Aye. That’s the best plan.’

  ‘Which direction?’ asked Hanno, who still barely knew how to find his way to the inn from where he lived, let alone find the Hexapyla.

  Kleitos pointed to their right, where the press was thickest. ‘That way.’

  ‘I know the back streets around here, sir,’ volunteered one of the veterans. ‘They’ll be far quicker.’

  ‘You lead,’ ordered Kleitos. ‘Move as fast as you can. Every damn moment is vital.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The veteran led off at a brisk pace; Kleitos followed; after him came Hanno and the rest.

  Hanno’s churning stomach told him it wouldn’t be long until it rejected the wine he’d just drunk, but that was the least of his worries. The city could well have been already lost. They’d arrive at the Hexapyla and be slain by the Romans, dying for nothing. Meanwhile, Aurelia was alone and defenceless in their rooms. Hanno’s limbs nearly betrayed him then, so strong was his desire to run towards Euryalus. I am Hannibal’s man, he repeated to himself. I was sent here to help Syracuse fight Rome. That is my duty, and it comes before everything else. Everything. As they ran on, Hanno wished that the bitter taste in his mouth was because of the wine.

  It had nothing to do with it.

  Aurelia.

  According to the soldier who was leading them, it was a little over twenty stadia to the Hexapyla gate. Under normal circumstances, Hanno would have expected to make the journey quite fast. Today was very different. Although they made good time in the tiny alleys and narrow paths between houses, they were hampered by tides of people on each occasion that they emerged on to larger thoroughfares. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were armed, and purposeful, they would have made little progress. It didn’t take Kleitos long to order that they should give one verbal warning for passers-by to step out of their path before using their fists or the flat of their blades to achieve the desired result.

  If the suburbs of Achradina and Tyche had been crowded, then the streets beyond their inner walls were packed like salted fish in a barrel. The shocked and hungover guards had opened the gates and were just letting the tide of refugees enter. It was good to know, Hanno supposed, that Achradina and Tyche remained in Syracusan hands, yet if every inhabitant of Epipolae entered, their supplies would not last long. They managed to squeeze through the gates, against the flow. On the other side, the crowd coming towards them made it impossible to move at anything more than a snail’s pace. Scared-looking men shouted and cursed to no avail. A red-cheeked priest demanded that he be let through before anyone else. Babies and small children wailed, and their harassed mothers tried to calm them. A pair of donkeys brayed their unhappiness.

  ‘It will be too late by the time we get there, damn it,’ said Kleitos, scowling.

  Behind his blinding headache, Hanno was thinking the same thing. Wherever the Romans were, on the other hand, people would be running. The enemy would be moving fast, like rainwater from a storm that forms new trails through dusty ground. Swathes of the city would have fallen before Epicydes managed to marshal enough troops together. His men wouldn’t have much spine for a fight either, thanks to the vast amounts of wine that had been consumed for the two nights prior. Bitterness took Hanno. What difference to the outcome could they, six soldiers, make? What difference could he make? The resounding answer to both questions was ‘none’. Whereas if he reached Aurelia, he might be able to get her out, before the Romans reached the quarter near Euryalus. To where, he had no idea, but anything was better than her just waiting, terrified, for him. ‘Kleitos,’ he said.

  His friend glanced at him. ‘Go.’

  Hanno stared in shock.

  ‘You don’t have to prove your loyalty to me,’ said Kleitos in a low voice. ‘Your sword isn’t going to change what happens to the city today, but it might save Aurelia’s life.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘If I’d had the chance, I would have done the same in Enna, for my woman. Go, Hanno, and may your gods watch over you.’ Kleitos reached out a hand. ‘I’ll see you in Achradina, later.’

  They shook. ‘Will Achradina hold, do you think?’ asked Hanno.

  ‘I damn well hope so. If it doesn’t, all of Syracuse will fall today. I don’t even want to think about that.’

  ‘No.’ Hanno had been thinking of using the tunnels near the Euryalus fort, but doing that would still leave them within the Roman fortifications. In reality, it also meant deserting. Despite his desperation to save Aurelia, Hanno couldn’t do that. He came to a decision. In Achradina, he could fight on. They would have access to Ortygia, and ships. If it came to it, escaping by sea would be easier, perhaps. ‘Very well. We’ll make for there. Thank you, Kleitos. Zeus Soter protect you.’

  ‘We’ll need his help. Do you know which way to go?’

  ‘Aye. I recognise this square.’ Hanno didn’t know what else to say. It was likely that he and Kleitos would never meet again. Their eyes met, reflected the same intense feeling. ‘Farewell.’ Breaking the gaze, he ducked off into an alleyway to his left.r />
  He lost all sense of time during the journey that followed. Sometimes he walked, sometimes ran. He shoved and pushed, squeezed through narrow gaps that left scrapes on his bronze armour. It wasn’t long before he had to stop and throw up. Sadly, it did not relieve his nausea, and made his headache far worse. On another occasion, he would have felt sorry for himself. Now he ignored it, and soldiered on. He crawled on his hands and knees to get past a wagon that was blocking a narrow street. A short while after, frustrated by a neighbourhood that was entirely at a standstill, he pounded up the stairs of an apartment block and clambered on to its roof. The view he was afforded sent cold sweat slicking down his back. Thick plumes of black smoke were rising from every part of Epipolae. There was no mistaking the sound of screams either, or the ring of arms. The Romans had not been contained, nor could they be any longer. Cursing, he turned away.

  The red clay tiles of the roof made treacherous footing. More than once, he came close to falling. The short distance between buildings proved an advantage, however, allowing him to jump from one to the next. In this fashion, he made it around the area of blocked streets. When the time came to climb down from his lofty position, Hanno gave an elderly woman the shock of her life by dropping on to the landing outside her open door. He smiled and raised his open hands to show that he meant her no harm, and clattered down the stairs. There was no point saying anything to the crone. It was safer for her to remain where she was than to risk the insanity on the streets. He found it far harder to ignore the pleas of the attractive young mother with two children, who begged him to help her reach safety. ‘I can’t, I’m sorry,’ said Hanno without looking at her. ‘Take us with you, then,’ she pleaded. ‘I can see you’re a good man. We’ll be no trouble, I swear it.’ With guilt tearing at him, and the hammers of hell beating at his temples, he muttered an excuse and left her sobbing in his wake.

  Thankfully, the crowds and the panic eased a little as Hanno drew further away from the centre of the city. People were still flocking towards Achradina and Tyche, but there was room to move on the streets. This development accentuated his worries rather than easing them. What if Aurelia had already left their rooms? There would be no hope of finding her. He broke into a sprint, covering the last five stadia in less time than it had taken him to travel the first one. At the house, he had to take a moment to dry retch and wipe away the sweat that coated his entire face. Gods, but he wished that he hadn’t drunk so much the night before.

  It was with a wave of relief that he heard her moving within as he pounded on the door with a balled fist. ‘Aurelia! It’s Hanno.’

  There was a heartbeat’s pause. ‘Hanno?’

  ‘Yes. I’m here.’

  The bolt slid back. She opened the door and regarded him, red-eyed, before throwing herself into his arms. ‘Oh, Hanno! I’ve been so scared. The screaming on the street has been terrifying. People are saying that the legionaries will kill us all.’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ he lied.

  ‘I knew you would come.’

  Thank the gods she didn’t know how nearly he had not, he thought guiltily, holding her tight. At least they were together. What he wouldn’t have given, though, for Mutt and his Libyans to be at his side as well.

  Chapter XXIV

  A COUPLE OF hours after their search for Pera had begun, Quintus had been forced to accede that the gods had had no intention of helping them. Their quest had been hampered by the utter chaos that reigned in the city. It had been fine at first, all the way back to the Galeagra, where they had hoped he might still be. There had been no sign of Pera, however, nor of anyone in his unit. The hastati who were holding the position by that stage didn’t even know his name. ‘Forget about your commanding officer,’ one had advised, assuming that that was whom Pera was. ‘He’ll find you later. Until then, do what you want!’ The soldier’s comrades had laughed cruelly, and Quintus’ mind had filled with dark images of Enna.

  By now, the garrison had been roused from its slumbers, yet there was no organised resistance. Small groups of enemy soldiers appeared here and there, but it was clear that most were too drunk or incapacitated to fight, or had stumbled outside without fully arming themselves. Their officers were missing, or they were intimidated by the number of legionaries swarming through the city. Again and again, Quintus saw a single charge put the enemy to flight. Every time that happened, the panic spread even faster. It didn’t help the defenders’ cause that hundreds, even thousands of terrified civilians were trying to flee the carnage. Quintus grew used to seeing Syracusan troops cutting down unarmed residents in an effort to escape.

  They had to halt their search for a time when an optio in charge of half a century of principes ordered them to help clear a wide thoroughfare of enemy forces. When that was done, it was easy enough to slip away again into the mayhem. Odd images stuck in Quintus’ mind as they sought Pera. In a market square, they found legionaries gorging themselves on the wine that they’d taken from a warehouse. Some were already drunk, and were bathing in the central fountain, naked apart from their baldrics and sheathed swords. They saw hens running hither and thither in an alleyway, trying to escape the clutches of a pair of laughing velites. With their arms full of fresh loaves and pastries, legionaries trampled uncaring over the gutted body of a baker. Five horses, mounts for the enemy cavalry, galloped wildly down a street, sending Romans and Syracusans alike diving for cover.

  Most of what Quintus saw was far worse, however, and the horror was impossible to ignore. In the middle of one lane was the corpse of a child – a boy, a girl, Quintus couldn’t tell – without a head. In another, an old man sprawled over the body of a woman of the same age, attempting even in death to protect her. Both had been stabbed so many times that their garments were saturated with blood. A pregnant woman tried to give birth where she lay, her grievous wounds ensuring that she would die before her labour ever ended. A tiny baby in swaddling clothes mewled its distress from the arms of its dead mother. The air reverberated with shouted orders, war cries and the clash of arms. Mixed with these were screams of fear and shrill voices calling on gods and goddesses, asking for their help, their intervention – anything to stop the slaughter – or seeking family members lost in the confusion. Another sound was also constant: the terrible screeches of women who were being raped. Quintus blocked it out as best he could.

  At some stage in the morning, the noise of fighting grew deafening. It didn’t take long for the friends to find out why. Epicydes had sallied forth from Ortygia with his forces. All Roman soldiers were to advance to the edge of Epipolae, there to put themselves at the disposal of the officers present.

  It was Urceus who called a halt to their search. ‘Face it, Crespo. We’re never going to find him. There hasn’t been hide nor hair of the cocksucker. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s time to find Corax and our brothers. If we don’t, some whoreson of an officer is going to accuse us of shirking our duty. We’ve pushed our luck too often on that score.’

  Quintus scowled. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, his friend was right. ‘Very well.’

  It wasn’t difficult to know which way to go. Every Roman soldier in sight was heading south, or southeast. Officers chivvied them along with encouraging shouts, but the streets were so full that the pace was slow. The two friends had little option but to trudge along with the multitude, and after a while, Quintus grew sick of it. Spotting an alley that ran at right angles to the thoroughfare that they were on, he nudged Urceus. ‘Let’s try that. What have we to lose? We can always retrace our steps, or cut down on to another street that might be less crowded.’

  Grumbling under his breath, Urceus followed Quintus. Ten steps in, he stopped dead. ‘This is human shit underfoot. Filthy Syracusan arse-lovers.’

  ‘Keep going. There isn’t any where I’m standing,’ lied Quintus. By the time that they emerged at the far end of the alleyway, he couldn’t stop chuckling.

  ‘You bastard. I’ll get you back for this,�
� warned Urceus, doing his best to wipe the excrement off his sandals.

  ‘You can try,’ retorted Quintus, enjoying the moment’s light relief.

  Jinking down alleys whenever they could, they made reasonable progress. The noise of metal hitting metal, and men’s screams, drew nearer. Quintus felt his stomach clench, the way it always did before he went into battle. He eyed Urceus, who was licking his lips. ‘It won’t take long, eh? With so many of us inside the city walls, the Syracusans won’t have much stomach for a fight.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ It seemed that Urceus wasn’t looking forward to it either, because his gaze slid sideways. ‘Look! A wine shop. The door’s open too. Why don’t we have a swift drink? Just one. It’ll knock the edges off us.’

  ‘Aye. Why not? The battle can wait a while longer,’ Quintus replied. The wine might blank out some of the appalling things he’d just seen.

  But what they saw inside drove all thoughts of wine from their minds.

  A man lay slumped against the counter, his head on his chest. One hand was cupped protectively over his belly. Blood oozed between his fingers, coated his mail, stained his pteryges scarlet. A glistening red trail on the floor reached to his feet, marking his path from the spot where he had been stabbed.

  Corax.

  Quintus’ gaze shot around the room, but he saw no one. Spitting curses, he raced to Corax’s side. Urceus was one step behind him. They knelt, glancing at each other in fear. ‘Is he dead?’ whispered Urceus.

  Quintus reached out and touched Corax’s cheek. It was cold, but not deathly so. With great care, he tipped the centurion’s head back. There was a low clang as Corax’s helmet touched the wall. He moaned, and his eyelids flickered. Quintus and Urceus exchanged another look, hopeful this time.

  ‘Sir?’ murmured Quintus. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Corax let out another moan. ‘Should have … should have known …’

  ‘It’s me, Crespo, sir. Jug’s here too.’