by Ben Kane
‘What if I have?’ Aurelia cried, genuinely angry now. ‘I know what you think of Carthaginians.’
Agesandros’ eyes narrowed. ‘It was odd when this scumbag arrived, half-dead. With a recently healed sword injury. I bet he’s the runaway gladiator.’ Like a hawk, he pounced on Suniaton’s reactive flinch. ‘I knew it!’
Think! Aurelia told herself. Quickly, she drew herself up to her full height. ‘Surely not?’ she snapped haughtily. ‘That creature would have fled long ago.’
‘He might have fooled you, but there’s no drawing the wool over my eyes.’ Agesandros leaned on his blade. ‘You’re no simpleton, are you?’
‘No,’ Suniaton mumbled wearily.
‘Where’s your friend?’ the Sicilian demanded.
Don’t say anything, thought Aurelia pleadingly. He’s still not sure.
To her horror, Suniaton’s courage flared one last time. ‘Hanno? He’s long gone. With any luck, he’ll be in Hannibal’s army by now.’
‘Shame,’ murmured Agesandros. ‘You’re of no further use, then.’ Smoothly, he brought down his dagger and slipped it between Suniaton’s ribs, guiding it into his heart.
Suniaton’s eyes bulged in shock, and he let out a shuddering gasp of pain. His limbs went rigid before relaxing slowly. With an odd tenderness, Agesandros let him down. A rapid flow of blood soaked the front of Suni’s tunic and spread on to the tile floor. He did not move again.
‘No! You monster!’ Aurelia shrieked.
Agesandros straightened. He studied his bloodied blade carefully.
Panicking, Aurelia took a step backwards, into the kitchen. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Julius! Help me!’
At last, the portly slave came hurrying to her side. ‘What have you done, Agesandros?’ he muttered in horror.
The Sicilian didn’t move. ‘I have done the master and mistress a service.’
Aurelia couldn’t believe her ears. ‘W-what?’
‘How do you think he’d feel to discover that a dangerous fugitive – a gladiator – had contrived to join the household, placing his wife and his only daughter in danger of their lives?’ asked Agesandros righteously. He kicked Suniaton. ‘Death is too good for scum like this.’
Aurelia felt herself grow faint. Suniaton was dead, and it was all her fault. She could do nothing about it either. She felt like a murderess. In her mother’s eyes, the Sicilian’s actions would be completely justifiable. A sob escaped her lips.
‘Why don’t you attend to the mistress?’ There was iron below Agesandros’ apparent solicitousness.
Aurelia rallied herself. ‘He’s to have a decent burial,’ she ordered.
The Sicilian’s lips quirked. ‘Very well.’
Aurelia stalked from the kitchen. She needed privacy. To wail. To weep. She might as well be dead, like Suniaton – and her father. All she had to look forward to from now on was her marriage to Flaccus.
Suddenly, an outrageous image popped into Aurelia’s mind. It was of her, standing on the deck of a ship as it sailed out from the Italian coast. Towards Carthage.
I could run away, she thought. Find Hanno. He—
Leave everything you’ve ever known behind to find one of the enemy? Aurelia’s heart shouted. That’s madness.
It was only the bones of an idea, but her spirits were lifted by its mere existence.
It would give her the strength to carry on.
Quintus didn’t notice Fabricius appearing by his side. The first thing he knew was when his reins were grabbed from his hands and his horse’s head was yanked around to face to the rear. Using his knees to control his own mount, Fabricius headed east. Quintus’ steed was happy enough to follow. Although it had been trained for cavalry service, the middle of a battle was still a most unnatural place to be. Quintus’ initial joy at seeing his father alive exceeded his desire to fight for a moment, but then the balance reversed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Saving your life,’ his father shot back. ‘Are you not glad?’
Quintus glanced over his shoulder. There wasn’t a living Roman cavalryman in sight, just a swarming mass of enemy horsemen and riderless mounts. Thankfully, the Gauls who’d been heading for him had already given up the chase. Like their compatriots, they had dismounted to hunt for trophies. A huge sense of relief filled Quintus. Despite his decision to stand his ground, he was glad to be alive. Unlike poor Calatinus, Cincius and his other comrades, who were probably dead. Shame followed swiftly on the heels of this emotion. He grabbed back his reins and concentrated on the ride. On either side, scores of other cavalrymen were also fleeing for their lives.
Their common destination seemed to be the Trebia.
Off to one side, both sets of opposing infantry were now locked together in a bitter struggle, the outcome of which was totally unclear. On the fringes of the conflict, Quintus could see the shapes of the enemy’s elephants battering the allied foot soldiers. The massive beasts were supported by horsemen, and he guessed it had to be the Numidians. It could only be a matter of time before the Roman flanks folded. Then Hannibal’s soldiers would be free to swing around and attack their rear. That was even before the rest of the Carthaginian cavalry returned to the conflict. Quintus blinked away tears of frustration and rage. How could this have happened? Just two hours before, they had been pursuing an enemy in disarray over the Trebia.
Hoarse shouting dragged Quintus’ attention back to his own surroundings. To his horror, the Gauls to their rear had resumed the chase. With their gory trophies taken, the tribesmen were eager for more blood. His stomach churned. In their present state, the nearest cavalrymen were in no state to turn, stand and fight. Nor was he, he realised with shame. Quintus wondered if it was the same on the other flank, where the allied horse had been positioned. Had they too broken and fled?
Fabricius had also seen their new pursuers. ‘Let’s head that way.’ Surprisingly, he pointed north. He saw Quintus’ questioning look. ‘There’ll be too many trying to ford the river where we crossed before. It will be a slaughter.’
Quintus remembered the narrow approach to the main crossing point and shuddered. ‘Where should we aim for?’
‘Placentia,’ his father replied ominously. ‘No point returning to the camp. Hannibal could take that with little difficulty. We need the protection of stone walls.’
Quintus nodded in miserable acceptance.
Doing their best to bring along as many others as they could, they turned their horses’ heads. Towards Placentia, where they might find refuge.
It was ironic, thought Hanno, that his life had been saved by Roman efficiency. It wasn’t because he and his men had been victorious. Far from it. The Libyans’ position adjoining the Gauls meant that many of them had shared the tribesmen’s fate. When the Gauls had finally crumbled before the mass of heavily armed legionaries, some of the phalanxes had been dragged in. The spearmen in question were slaughtered to a man. Sheer luck had determined that Malchus and Hanno’s units had not been affected. Battered and bloodied, they had fought on, even as they were pushed to one side by the massive block of Roman soldiers.
Somehow, Hanno utilised the natural breaks in the fighting to regain better control of his phalanx. He ordered the spearmen to the rear to pass their shields forward. The same was done with spears, allowing his unit to resume, at the front at least, a more normal appearance. Malchus emulated Hanno. With their defensive shield walls restored, the two phalanxes were a much harder proposition to overcome. Without their pila, the Romans had to rely on their gladii, which were shorter than the Libyans’ spears. It did not take the legionaries facing Hanno’s unit long to realise this. Seeing the hastati and principes to their right advancing without difficulty through the remnants of the Gauls, they broke away to follow their comrades.
Hanno’s exhausted men watched with a sense of stunned relief.
Then, quite suddenly, the Romans were gone. Oddly, they didn’t wheel around to attack the rear of the Carthaginian line. Hanno couldn’t believe it. Ther
e were still isolated pockets of fighting, small groups of legionaries who had been cut off from their comrades, but the vast majority of the enemy infantry had broken through Hannibal’s centre. They showed no interest, however, in doing anything except beating a path to the north. As far as Hanno was concerned, they could go. His men weren’t capable of mounting a meaningful pursuit. Nor were his father’s. No command issued from the musicians stationed by Hannibal’s side, proving that their general was of the same mind. Having arrayed his foot soldiers in a single line, he had no reserve to send after the retreating legionaries.
Chest heaving, Hanno studied the scene. There was no sign of the allied infantry. The combination of elephants, Numidians and skirmishers must have routed them from the field. Off to his right, which had been the phalanx’s front until the Romans had pushed them sideways, the battleground was now almost devoid of life. Suddenly, Hanno was overcome with a heady combination of exhilaration and fear. They had won, but at what price? He looked up at the leaden sky and offered up a heartfelt prayer: Thank you, great Melqart, all-seeing Tanit and mighty Baal Saphon, for your help in achieving this victory. You have been merciful in letting both me and my father survive. I humbly beseech that you have also seen fit to spare my brothers.
He took a deep breath. If not, let all their wounds be at the front.
Soon there was an emotional reunion with his father. Blood-spattered and steely-eyed, Malchus said nothing when they drew close. Instead he pulled Hanno into a tight hug that spoke volumes. When he finally let go, Hanno was touched to see the moisture in his own eyes mirrored in his father’s. Malchus had shown more emotion in the last few weeks than at any time since his mother’s death.
‘That was a hard fight. You held your phalanx together well,’ Malchus muttered. ‘Hannibal will hear of it.’
Hanno thought he would burst with pride. His father’s approval meant ten times that of their general.
Malchus’ businesslike manner returned fast. ‘There’s still plenty of work to be done. Spread your men out. Advance. Tell them to kill any Romans that they find alive.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Do the same for those of our men who are badly injured,’ Malchus added.
Hanno blinked.
Malchus’ face softened for a moment. ‘They’ll die in far worse ways otherwise. Of cold, a wolf bite, or exposure. A swift end from a comrade is better than that, surely?’
Sighing, Hanno nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘Those who are lightly wounded might survive if we can carry them from the field. It will be dark within the hour, though. I must act fast.’ He gave Hanno a shove. ‘Go on. Look for Sapho and Bostar as well.’
Did his father mean alive or dead? Hanno wondered nervously as he walked away.
His men responded with enthusiasm to the idea of killing more Romans. Unsurprisingly, they reacted less well to doing the same to their comrades. Few objected, however, when Hanno explained the alternatives to them. Who wanted to die the lingering death that awaited when night fell?
In a long line, they began advancing across the battlefield. Beneath the struggle of so many men, the ground had been churned into a sludge of reddened mud that stuck to Hanno’s sandals. Only the tiniest areas of snow remained untouched, startling patches of brilliant white amid the scarlet and brown coating everything else. Hanno was stunned by the scale of the horror. This was but a tiny part of the battlefield, yet it contained thousands of dead, injured and dying soldiers.
Pitifully small figures now, they lay alone, heaped over one another and in irregular piles, Gauls entwined with hastati, Libyans beneath principes, their enmity forgotten in the cold embrace of death. While some still clutched their weapons, others had discarded them to clutch at their wounds before they died. Spears dotted the bodies of many Romans, while countless pila were buried in the Carthaginian corpses. So many severed limbs were lying around that Hanno was soon sick. Wiping his mouth, he forced himself to continue searching. Again and again he saw Sapho and Bostar’s faces among the slack-jawed dead, only to find that he was wrong. Inevitably, Hanno felt his hopes of finding his brothers alive wither and die.
It was especially hard to look at the soldiers who had lost their extremities. The lucky ones were already dead, but the rest were screaming for their mothers while what blood was left in them spurted and dribbled out on to the semi-frozen earth. It was a mercy to kill them. Yet for every gruesome sight that Hanno beheld, there was another one to exceed it. It was the suffering of those of his own side that tore at his heart the most. He had to force himself to examine these unfortunates. It was his job to judge the severity of their injuries and make a snap decision if they should live or die.
It was usually the latter.
Gritting his teeth, Hanno killed men who were shuddering their way into oblivion, holding their intestines, the rank smell of their own shit filling their nostrils. Those who lay moaning and coughing up the pink froth that signified a lung wound also had to be slain. More fortunate were the men who wailed and thrashed about, clutching at the arm that had been sliced open to the bone, or the leg that had been hamstrung. Their reaction to Hanno and his soldiers, the lone uninjured figures among them, was uniform. It did not matter whether they were Libyan, Gaulish or Roman. They reached out with bloodied hands, beseeching him for help. Muttering reassurances to the Carthaginian troops, Hanno offered the enemy wounded nothing but silence and a flashing blade. It was far worse than the savagery of close-quarters combat, and soon Hanno was utterly sick of it. All he wanted to do was find his brothers’ bodies and return to the camp.
When first the familiar voice of Sapho, and then Bostar, called out his name, Hanno didn’t react. As their shouts grew more urgent, he was thunderstruck. There they were, not fifty paces away, in the midst of Mago’s men. It was a miracle, Hanno thought dazedly. It had to be, for all four of them to survive this industrial-scale butchery.
‘Hanno? Is that you?’ Sapho demanded, unable to keep the disbelief – and joy – from his voice.
Hanno blinked away his tears. ‘It is.’
‘Father?’ Bostar’s tone was strangled.
‘He’s unhurt,’ Hanno yelled back, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the event, he did both. So did Bostar. An instant later, even Sapho had tears in his eyes as the three came together in a fierce embrace. Each stank of sweat, blood, mud and other smells too foul to imagine, but none of them cared.
Their arguments had been forgotten for the moment.
The only thing that mattered was that they were still alive.
At last, grinning like fools, the brothers pulled apart. Not quite believing their own eyes, they held on to one another’s arms or shoulders for a long time afterwards. Inevitably, though, their gaze was drawn to the devastation all around. Instead of the din of battle, their ears rang with the sound of screams. The voices of the countless injured and maimed, men who were desperate to be found before darkness fell and a certain fate claimed them for ever.
‘We won,’ said Hanno in a wondering tone. ‘The legionaries might have escaped, but the rest of them broke and ran.’
‘Or died where they stood,’ Sapho snarled, his customary hardness already creeping back. ‘After what they’ve done to us, the whoresons had it coming!’
Bostar winced as Sapho gestured at the piles of dead, but he nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t think that the war has been won,’ he warned. ‘This is just the start.’
Hanno thought of Quintus and his dogged determination. ‘I know,’ he replied heavily.
‘Rome must pay even more for all the wrongs it has done to Carthage,’ intoned Bostar, raising his reddened right fist.
‘In blood,’ Sapho added. He reached up to clasp Bostar’s hand with his own.
Both looked expectantly at Hanno.
An image of Aurelia, smiling, popped into Hanno’s head, filling him with confusion. It took but an instant, however, before he savagely buried the picture in the recesses of his mind.
What was he thinking? Aurelia was one of the enemy. Like her brother and father. Hanno could not truly bring himself to wish any of the three ill, but nor could they be friends. How could that ever be possible after what had gone on here today? On the spot, Hanno decided never to think of them again. It was the only way he could deal with it.
‘In blood,’ he growled, lifting his hand to enclose those of his brothers.
They exchanged a fierce, wolfish smile.
That is what we are, thought Hanno proudly. Carthaginian wolves come to harry and tear at the fat Roman sheep in their fields. Let the farmers of Italy tremble in their beds, for we shall leave no corner of their land untouched.
Quintus’ abiding memory of their ride to Placentia was the extreme cold. The wind continued to blow from the north, powerful gusts that threatened to dislodge an unwary rider from his seat. While it didn’t succeed in doing that, the chill air penetrated every layer of Quintus’ clothing. Initially, he had been kept warm by the effort and thrill of the chase, and latterly by the fear that kept his heart hammering off his ribs. Now, his sweat-soaked clothes felt as if they were about to freeze solid. Everyone was in the same position, of course, so he gritted his chattering teeth and rode on. After what they’d all been through, silence was best.
Lost in their own private worlds of misery, the twenty cavalrymen brought together by Fabricius simply followed where they were led. Hunched over their horses’ backs, helmetless and with their sodden cloaks pulled tightly around them, they were a pathetic sight. It was as if each one knew that Hannibal’s army had prevailed. Yet in reality, they didn’t, thought Quintus. The battle had still been raging when they’d fled. It was hard to see how, though, with their flanks exposed, Longus’ legions could have seized victory.
Quintus felt like a coward, but his fear had abated enough for him to consider fighting again. He’d ridden to the front of their little column a number of times, intent on remonstrating with his father.
Fabricius had been in no mood for conversation. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled when Quintus had suggested turning back. ‘What do you know of tactics?’ A short while later, Quintus tried again. On this occasion, Fabricius let him have it. ‘Once cavalry break, it’s unheard of for them to rally and return to the fight. You were there! You saw the way they ran, the way I struggled to get this many men to follow me away from the battle. Do you think that in this weather, with night coming, they would turn and face the Gauls and Iberians again?’ He glared at Quintus, who shook his head. ‘In that case, what would you have us both do? Commit suicide by charging at the enemy alone? Where’s the damn point in that? And don’t give me the “death with honour” line. There’s no honour in dying like a fool!’