Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  What few soldiers were about rapidly vanished from sight. Quintus couldn’t wait to climb beneath his blankets himself, where he could try to forget it all. He was amazed, therefore, to see the Cenomani tribesmen outside. They stood around blazing fires, their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing low, sorrowful chants. The warriors were probably mourning their dead, thought Quintus, shivering. He left them to it.

  Licinius was first to catch Quintus’ eye when he entered the tent. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he muttered from the depths of his blankets. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. We were all feeling down,’ Quintus replied, shedding his damp cloak. He moved to his bedroll. It lay alongside that of Calatinus, who also gave him a sheepish look. ‘You might be interested to know that Publius knows nothing of a Carthaginian fleet attacking Sicily.’

  An embarrassed grin creased Calatinus’ face. ‘Well, if he hasn’t heard of it, we have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What about the Boii?’ challenged Cincius aggressively.

  Quintus grinned. ‘No. Good news, eh?’

  Cincius’ glower slowly faded away.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Calatinus, sitting up. ‘So we just have to wait until Longus gets here.’

  ‘I think we should raise a toast to that day,’ Cincius announced. He nodded at Quintus as if to say that their disagreement had been forgotten. ‘Who’s interested?’

  There was a chorus of agreement, and Quintus groaned. ‘I can feel the hangover already.’

  ‘Who cares? There’s no chance of any action!’ Cincius leaped up and headed for the table where they kept their food and wine.

  ‘True enough,’ Quintus muttered. ‘Why not, then?’

  The four comrades were late getting to sleep. Despite his drunken state, Quintus was troubled by bad dreams. The most vivid involved squadrons of Numidian horsemen pursuing him across an open plain. Eventually, drenched in sweat, he sat up. It was pitch black in the tent, and freezing cold. Yet Quintus welcomed the chill air that moved across his face and arms, distracting him from the drumbeat pounding in his head. He squinted at the brazier, barely making out the last glowing embers. Yawning, he threw back the covers. If the fire was fed now, it might last until morning. As he stood, Quintus heard a faint noise outside. Surprised, he pricked his ears. It was the unmistakable crunching of snow beneath a man’s feet, but rather than the measured tread of a sentry, this was being made by someone moving with great care. Someone who did not want to be heard.

  Instinctively, Quintus picked up his sword. On either side and to the rear, the next tents were half a dozen paces away. In front, a narrow path increased that distance to perhaps ten. This was where the sound was coming from. Quintus padded forward in his bare feet. All his senses were on high alert. Next, he heard whispering. Adrenaline surged through him. This was not right. Groping his way back through the darkness, Quintus reached Calatinus and grabbed his shoulder. ‘Wake up,’ he hissed.

  The only answer he got was an irritated groan.

  At once the noise outside stopped.

  Quintus’ heart thumped with fear. He might have just attracted the attention of those on the other side of the tent leather. Letting go of Calatinus’ tunic, he frantically pulled on his sandals. His fingers slipped on the awkward lacing, and he mouthed a savage curse. Finally, though, he was done.

  As Quintus straightened, he heard a soft, choking sound. And another. There was more muttering, and a stifled cry, which was cut short. He rushed to Licinius’ bedroll this time. Perhaps he wasn’t so pissed. Placing a hand across the Tarentine’s mouth, Quintus shook him violently. ‘Wake up!’ he hissed. ‘We are under attack!’ He made out the white of the other’s shocked eyes as they opened. Licinius nodded in understanding, and Quintus took away his hand. ‘Listen,’ he whispered.

  For a moment, they heard nothing. Then there was a strangled moan, which swiftly died away. It was followed by the familiar, meaty sound of a blade plunging in and out of flesh. Quintus and Licinius exchanged a horrified glance and they both leaped up. ‘To arms! To arms!’ they screamed in unison.

  At last Calatinus woke up. ‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Damn it, get up! Grab your sword,’ Quintus shouted. ‘You too, Cincius. Quickly!’ He cursed himself for not raising the alarm sooner.

  In response to their cries, someone pushed a blade through the front of the tent and sliced downwards. Ripping the leather apart, he stepped inside. Quintus didn’t hesitate. Running forward, he stabbed the figure in the belly. As the man folded over, bellowing in pain, a second intruder entered. Quintus hacked him down with a savage blow to the neck. Blood spattered everywhere as the intruder collapsed, screaming. Unfortunately, a third man was close behind. So was a fourth. Loud, guttural voices from outside revealed that they had plenty of back-up.

  ‘They’re fucking Gauls!’ yelled Licinius.

  Confusion filled Quintus. What was happening? Had the Carthaginians scaled the ramparts? Ducking underneath a swinging sword, he thrust forward with his gladius, and was satisfied by the loud cry this elicited. Licinius joined him. Side by side, they put up a desperate resistance against the tide of warriors trying to gain entry. It was soon obvious that they would fail. Their new enemies were carrying shields, while they were in only their underclothes.

  More ripping sounds came from Quintus’ left and he struggled not to panic. ‘The whoresons are cutting their way in. Calatinus! Cincius! Slash a hole in one of the back panels,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We’ve got to get out.’ There was no response, and Quintus’ stomach clenched. Were their comrades already dead?

  ‘Come on!’ Calatinus screeched a moment later.

  Relief flooded through Quintus. ‘Ready?’ he bellowed at Licinius.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Let’s go, then!’ Quintus delivered a desperate flurry of blows in the direction of his nearest opponent before turning and sprinting for the rear of the tent. He sensed Licinius one step behind. Quintus reached the gaping hole in the leather in a few strides. He hurled himself bodily through it, landing with a crash at the feet of the others. As they hauled him up, he peered inside, and was horrified to see Licinius – almost within arm’s reach – trip and fall to his knees. Quintus had no time to react. The baying Gauls were on his comrade like hounds that have cornered a boar. Swords, daggers and even an axe chopped downwards. The poor light was not enough to prevent Quintus seeing the spurts of blood from each dreadful, mortal wound. Licinius collapsed on to the tent’s floor without a word.

  ‘You bastards,’ Quintus screamed. Desperate to avenge his friend, he lunged forward.

  Strong arms pulled him back. ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s dead. We have to save ourselves,’ Cincius snarled. Quickly, he and Calatinus dragged him off into the darkness.

  There was no pursuit.

  ‘Let me go!’ Quintus shouted.

  ‘You won’t go back?’ insisted Calatinus.

  ‘I swear it,’ Quintus muttered angrily.

  They released him.

  Quintus gazed around with horrified eyes. As far as he could see, pandemonium reigned. Some tents had been set on fire, vividly illuminating the scene. Groups of Gaulish warriors ran hither and thither, cutting down the confused Roman cavalrymen and legionaries who were emerging, half-clothed, into the cold night air. ‘It doesn’t look like an all-out attack,’ he said after a moment. ‘There aren’t enough of them.’

  ‘Some of the whoresons are already running away,’ swore Calatinus, pointing.

  Quintus squinted into the glow cast by the burning tents. ‘What are they carrying?’ His gorge rose as he realised. A great retch doubled Quintus over, and he puked up a bellyful of sour wine.

  ‘The fucking dogs!’ cried Cincius. ‘They’re heads! They’ve beheaded the men they’ve killed!’

  With watering eyes, Quintus looked up. All he could see were the trails of blood the Gauls had left in the dazzling white snow.

&n
bsp; Cincius and Calatinus began to moan with fear.

  With great effort, Quintus pulled himself together. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

  To his surprise, the pair obeyed. White-faced, they waited for him to speak.

  Quintus ignored his instincts, which were screaming at him to search for his father. He had two men’s lives in his hands. For the moment, they had to be the priority. ‘Let’s head for the intervallum,’ he said. ‘That’s where everyone will be headed. We can fight the whoresons on a much better footing there.’

  ‘But we’re both barefoot,’ said Cincius plaintively.

  Quintus bridled, but if he didn’t let the others equip themselves with caligae from nearby corpses, frostbite beckoned. ‘Go on, then. Pick up a scutum each as well,’ he ordered. A shield was vital.

  ‘What about a mail shirt?’ Calatinus tugged at a dead legionary. ‘He’s about my size.’

  ‘No, you fool! We can’t afford the time. Swords and shields will have to do.’ Twitching with impatience, he waited until they were ready. ‘Follow me.’ Keeping an eye out for Gaulish warriors, Quintus set off at a loping run.

  He led them straight to the intervallum, the strip of open ground that ran around the inside of the camp walls. Normally, it served for the legion to assemble before marching out on patrol or to do battle. Now, it allowed the bloodied survivors of the covert attack to regroup. Many had had the same idea as Quintus. The area was packed with hundreds of milling, disorganised legionaries and cavalrymen. Not many were fully dressed, but most had had the wits to pick up a weapon as they fled their tents.

  Fortunately, this was where the discipline of officers such as centurions came into play. Recognisable even without their characteristic helmets, there were calm, measured figures everywhere, shouting orders and forming the soldiers into regular lines. Quintus and his companions joined the nearest group. At that point, it didn’t matter that they were not infantry. Before long, the centurions had marshalled a large force together. Every sixth soldier was issued with one of the few torches available. It wasn’t much, but would do until the attack had been contained.

  At once, they began sweeping the avenues and tent lines for Gauls. To everyone’s frustration, they had little success. Their desire for revenge could not be sated. It appeared that as soon as the alarm had been raised, the majority of the tribesmen had made their getaway. Nonetheless, the search continued until the entire area had been covered.

  The worst discoveries were the numerous headless bodies. It was common knowledge that the Gauls liked to gather such battle trophies, but Quintus had never witnessed it before. He had never seen so much blood in his life. Enormous splashes of red circled every corpse, and wide trails of it ran alongside the Gauls’ footprints.

  ‘Jupiter above, this will look like a slaughterhouse in daylight,’ said Calatinus in a hushed voice.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ replied Cincius. ‘Most of them never had a chance.’

  An image of his father sleeping in his tent made Quintus retch again. There was nothing left to come up except bile.

  Calatinus looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Quintus barked. Forcing down his nausea, he carefully scanned each body they came across. He begged the gods that he would not find his father. To his immense relief, he saw none who resembled Fabricius. Yet this did not mean a thing. They had covered but a small part of the camp. Only when daybreak came could he be sure.

  The centurions kept every soldier on high alert for what remained of the night. The sole compromise they would make was to allow each makeshift century in turn to go to their tents and retrieve their clothing and armour. Fully prepared for battle, the legionaries and cavalrymen then had to wait until dawn, when it became clear that there would be no further attack. The men were finally allowed to stand down, and were ordered to return to their respective units. The cleaning-up operation would take all day. Disregarding this, Quintus went in search of his father. Miraculously, he found him in his tent. Tears came to his eyes as he entered. ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘There you are,’ Fabricius declared, waving at the table before him, which was laid out for breakfast. ‘Care for some bread?’

  Quintus grinned. Despite his father’s nonchalance, he had seen the flash of relief in his eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m famished. It’s been a long night,’ he replied.

  ‘Indeed it has,’ Fabricius replied. ‘And more than a hundred good men are gone thanks to those bastard Cenomani.’

  ‘You’re certain that’s who it was?’

  ‘Who else could it have been? There was no sign of the gate being forced, and the sentries on the walls saw no one.’

  Realisation struck Quintus. ‘That’s why they were so surly yesterday!’ Seeing his father’s confusion, he explained.

  ‘That clarifies a great deal. And now they’ve fled to the Carthaginian camp. No doubt their “trophies” will serve as an offering to Hannibal,’ said Fabricius sourly. ‘Proof that they hate us.’

  Quintus tried not to think of Licinius’ headless corpse, which he’d found in the wreckage of their tent. ‘What will Publius do?’

  Fabricius scowled. ‘Guess.’

  ‘We’re to withdraw again?’

  His father nodded.

  ‘Why?’ cried Quintus.

  ‘He thinks it’s too dangerous on this side of the Trebia. After last night, that’s hard to argue with.’ Fabricius saw Quintus’ anguish. ‘It’s not just that. The high ground on the far bank is extremely uneven, which will stop any chance of attacks by the Carthaginian cavalry. We’ll also be blocking the roads that lead south through Liguria to the lands of the Boii.’

  Quintus’ protests subsided. Those reasons at least made sense. ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon, as it’s getting dark.’

  Quintus sighed. The very manner of their retreat seemed cowardly, but it was prudent. ‘And then we sit tight?’ he guessed. ‘Contain the Carthaginians?’

  ‘Exactly. Sempronius Longus is travelling here with all speed. His forces will arrive inside a month.’ Fabricius’ expression grew fierce. ‘Hannibal’s forces will never stand up to two consular armies.’

  For the second time since the Cenomani attack, Quintus had a reason to smile.

  ‘There you are. Your mother’s been worried. She thought you’d be here.’

  At the sound of Elira’s voice, Aurelia turned. The Illyrian was framed in the doorway to the stable. All at once, she felt very childish. ‘Is Gaius still here?’

  ‘No, he’s gone. Apparently, his unit is to be mobilised soon. He said that you would be in his thoughts and prayers.’

  Aurelia felt even worse.

  Elira came closer. ‘I heard the news,’ she said softly. ‘Everyone did. We all feel for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Aurelia threw her a grateful look.

  ‘Who’s to know? Your father may well be alive.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Aurelia snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Elira quickly.

  Aurelia forced a smile. ‘At least Quintus is still alive.’

  ‘And Hanno.’

  Aurelia shoved away the pang of jealousy that followed Elira’s words. Mention of Hanno inevitably made her think of Suniaton. She hadn’t taken him any food for four days. He’d be running out of provisions. Aurelia made her mind up on the spot. Seeing Suni now would cheer her up. She squinted at Elira. ‘You liked Hanno, didn’t you?’

  Twin dimples formed in the Illyrian’s cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Would you help him again?’

  ‘Of course,’ Elira answered, looking puzzled. ‘But he’s gone, with Quintus.’

  Aurelia smiled. ‘Go to the kitchen and fill a bag with provisions. Bread, cheese, meat. If Julius asks, tell him that they’re rations for our foraging trip. Fetch a basket too.’

  ‘What if the mistress wants to know where you are?’

  ‘Say that we’re going to look for nuts and mushrooms.’

  Elira�
��s face grew even more confused. ‘How will that help Hanno?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ Aurelia clapped her hands. ‘Well, get on with it then. I’ll meet you on the path that leads up to the hills.’

  With a curious glance, Elira hurried off.

  Aurelia hadn’t been waiting long before Elira came hurrying through the trees towards her. A small leather pack dangled from one hand, a cloak that matched her own from the other.

  ‘Did anyone ask what you were doing?’ Aurelia asked nervously.

  ‘Julius did, but he just smiled when I told him what we were doing. He said to be careful.’

  ‘He’s such an old woman!’ declared Aurelia. She looked down and realised that she’d come out without her dagger or sling. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. We won’t be gone for long. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Elira.

  ‘Up there,’ replied Aurelia, waving vaguely at the slopes that loomed over the farm. Abruptly, she decided that there was no further need for subterfuge. ‘Did you know that Hanno had a friend who was captured with him?’

  Elira nodded.

  ‘Suniaton was sold to become a gladiator in Capua.’

  ‘Oh.’ Elira didn’t dare to say more, but her muted tone spoke volumes.

  ‘Quintus and Gaius helped him to escape.’

  The Illyrian was visibly shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Hanno was Quintus’ friend.’

  ‘I see.’ Elira frowned. ‘Has Suniaton got something to do with where we’re going now?’

  ‘Yes. He was injured when they rescued him, so the poor thing couldn’t travel. He’s much better now, thank the gods.’

  Elira looked intrigued. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the shepherd’s hut where Quintus and Hanno fought the bandits.’

  ‘You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’ said Elira with a giggle.

  Aurelia’s misery lifted a fraction and she grinned.

  Talking animatedly, they walked to the border of Fabricius’ land. The fields on either side were empty and bare, lying fallow until the spring. Jackdaws were their only company; flocks regularly flew overhead, their characteristic squawks piercing the chill air. Soon they had entered the woods that covered the surrounding hills. The bird cries immediately died away, and the trees pressed in from all sides with a claustrophobic air that Aurelia did not like.