by Ben Kane
‘You think that’s bad? It’s nothing compared to the suffering to come. You’ll be nothing but a shell when my men have finished with you.’
Hanno’s eyes followed the officer’s to the tools on the table. He felt his gorge rise. How long before he was begging for mercy? Pissing himself? Would he be granted a quick end if he mentioned sparing the Roman’s life? Shame filled him. Have some pride!
‘Roman scum,’ croaked Bogu in poor Latin. ‘Wait. For. . pain. . Hannibal’s army inflict. . you. Hannibal. . better general than any. . you have.’
Hanno shot a warning look at Bogu, but it was too late.
‘Heat me an iron!’ cried the officer. He stalked over and drove a balled fist right into the middle of the bloodstain on Bogu’s belly.
Bogu roared in agony, and the officer laughed.
‘Leave him alone. He’s injured!’ shouted Hanno.
‘Which means he’ll talk more easily. When the dog dies, I’ll still have you.’
Hanno felt instant relief, but guilt tore at him because Bogu would suffer first. Perhaps that had been the spearman’s motive, though.
‘Fetch that gugga slave! I need to understand what this injured piece of shit says, and I can’t trust the other to translate.’
The wall-eyed soldier beat a hasty exit.
The officer stood over the brazier, tapping his foot with impatience until the second legionary declared that the iron was hot enough. Using a thick piece of blanket, the Roman seized the cool end of the instrument and held it aloft. Hanno’s skin crawled. The tip was a bright orange-red colour. He struggled to free his wrists, but all he did was hurt himself even more.
‘This might stop the bleeding,’ mused the officer.
Bogu’s eyes bulged with horror as the Roman casually approached but, to Hanno’s admiration, he did not utter a word.
Hissss. The officer scowled with concentration, twisting the iron around in the spearman’s belly wound.
Bogu let out a long, ear-splitting shriek.
‘You cruel bastard!’ roared Hanno, forgetting his own pain.
The officer whirled around, thrusting the still-glowing end at Hanno’s face. Terrified, he shoved backward with the tips of his toes until he could go no further. Grinning, the Roman brought it within a finger’s width of his right eye. ‘Do you want a piece of this as well?’
Hanno couldn’t answer. He was still aware of Bogu’s screams, but it was taking all of his strength to hold himself still. He could already feel the muscles in his legs protesting, could feel cramp developing in his toes. A few heartbeats, and his eyeball would rupture on the red-hot iron. Great Baal Saphon, he prayed. Help me!
The door opened, and the wall-eyed soldier entered. He was followed by a brown-skinned man in a threadbare tunic. With his tight, curly black hair and dark complexion, he could have been any one of thousands of Hanno’s fellow Carthaginians. The officer turned, lowering his iron. ‘Finally.’ He gave the slave a hard look. ‘You speak Latin?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The slave glanced at Hanno and Bogu. A flicker of emotion flared in his brown eyes, but it was instantly masked.
‘Good. I want you to interpret every word that this wretch says.’ The iron stabbed towards Bogu before the officer replaced it in the brazier and selected another. ‘How big is Hannibal’s host?’
The slave translated.
Bogu mumbled something.
‘What did he say?’ demanded the officer.
‘It’s greater than any army that Rome can raise,’ said the slave warily.
‘Gods above, this one is also too stupid to give me the truth!’ The officer leaned down and laid the iron on to the shallow cut on Bogu’s left thigh. More hissing. More roars of pain. Bogu moved his leg away, but he was too weak to stop the Roman from following it with the hot metal. ‘It’s fifty thousand strong,’ he shouted.
The slave repeated his words in Latin.
The officer’s eyes swivelled to Hanno, who would have shrugged if he could. ‘That’s what I told you.’ He thought that the Roman had swallowed the bait, but the scowl that followed soon told him otherwise.
The officer went searching through the instruments on the table. There was an exclamation of delight as he lifted a length of iron the end of which had been fashioned into the shape of a letter ‘F’. He brandished it at Hanno in triumph. ‘See this? F stands for fugitivus. You won’t survive our little session here, but with this mark on you, there’ll be no way of forgetting what you are during whatever time is left to you.’
Hanno watched with rising dismay as the length of metal was pushed into the brazier’s heart. He had seen a runaway slave who’d been branded in a similar way once before. The puckered F on the man’s forehead had filled him with revulsion. Now he was to endure the same fate. He writhed in his bonds, trying to free his wrists. All he did was to send waves of fresh torment through his arms and shoulders.
The officer seized another hot iron and approached Bogu again.
‘Who are these men, sir?’ ventured the slave.
The officer paused. ‘They’re soldiers who answer to Hannibal. We captured them outside the walls.’
‘Hannibal?’ repeated the slave slowly.
‘That’s right, you idiot!’ The officer raised his iron in threat and the man cowered away.
I’d wager that your heart is singing at the idea, thought Hanno. As mine is. Let the gods bring our army to the gates soon. Give this monster and his henchmen a lingering death. But he knew that his family and his comrades would come too late for Bogu — and for him.
It was time to prepare for death as best he could.
Chapter II
Outside Placentia
In the initial panic after the defeat at the Trebia, Quintus and his father had been but two of the hordes who had fled to the safety granted by the town’s walls. Sempronius Longus, the consul who had led the Roman army into battle and who had brought ten thousand legionaries clear of the slaughter, had arrived not long after. So too had Publius Cornelius Scipio, the second consul, whose ability to command in the field had ended after he sustained an injury in an earlier clash at the River Ticinus. Placentia had rapidly been filled to bursting point. After only two days and amid much consternation, Longus had ordered the gates to be opened. The consul had held his nerve. Nearly all of the men within had been marched outside. Under Longus’ personal direction, half his men had stood guard while the remainder constructed a large marching camp. As one of the few cavalrymen who had made it back, Quintus had promptly been sent on patrol. His job had been to warn his comrades about any Carthaginian troops in the vicinity.
The first day had been the worst by far. He, his father Fabricius and about two score riders — stragglers from many units — had scouted five miles and more to the west of Placentia, territory that was now under enemy control. His mind still full of the carnage caused by Hannibal’s army, Quintus had been jittery; some in the patrol had been terrified. Fabricius had been the exception: calm, alert, measured. His example had been an inspiration to Quintus and, after a while, it had rubbed off on the others too. The fact that they’d seen no enemy cavalry had helped. Word of Fabricius’ leadership spread, and in the days that followed, every Roman rider to reach Placentia placed themselves under his command. He had been tough with them, insisting on twice-daily patrols as well as hours of training. Quintus had received no special favours. If anything, Fabricius had been harder on him than the others. Extra duty details had become Quintus’ norm. He assumed that it stemmed from his father’s disapproval of his release of Hanno and his own unapproved journey north to join the army, so he gritted his teeth, did what he was told and said nothing. This morning, Fabricius had unexpectedly been called to meet with the consuls, which meant a welcome break from Quintus’ and his comrades’ daily drudgery. They would have to go on patrol, but not until the afternoon. Quintus decided to make the most of it.
Together with Calatinus, a sturdily built man and the only one of his friends
to have survived the Trebia, he ambled into Placentia. They soon lost their good humour, however, and their appetite for adventure wasn’t long following. The majority of the troops might now be living outwith the walls, but the narrow streets were as packed as ever. From the ordinary citizens to the officers and soldiers who shoved their way through the throng, everyone they saw looked miserable, starved or angry. The shopkeepers’ cries had a sour, demanding note that jarred on the ear, as did the incessant bawling of hungry babies. The beggars’ numbers appeared to have doubled since the last time Quintus had been within the walls. Even the half-clad whores who leered at them from the rickety steps up to their wretched apartments were charging double their normal rates. Despite the cold, the smell of piss and shit was all pervading. Some foodstuffs had run out; what remained was being sold at extortionate prices. Wine had become the preserve of the rich. Rumour had it that supplies would soon start arriving up the River Padus from the coast, but that hadn’t happened yet. Chilled, ravenous and irritable, the pair abandoned the town. Avoiding their tent lines in case Fabricius had returned, they made for the southern edge of the encampment that now housed Longus’ battered army. If nothing else, they would stretch their legs crossing the huge area.
They took the shortest route, the via principalis, or central track that bisected the camp. Every so often, they had to move out of the way as a century of legionaries marched out from their tent lines and headed south. Calatinus grumbled, yet Quintus cast sly but admiring looks at the foot soldiers. He had always looked down on infantry before. Not now. They weren’t just the earth-digging, foot-slogging fools that cavalrymen referred to. The legionaries were the only section of the army that had given a good account of themselves against Hannibal, while the cavalry had much to do in order to regain the honour that had been lost at the Trebia.
The central area that housed the consuls’ headquarters faced on to the via principalis and was marked by a vexillum, a red flag on a pole. The ground before the group of sprawling tents was a hive of activity. In addition to the normal guards, there were messengers on horseback arriving and leaving, small groups of centurions deep in conversation and a party of trumpeters awaiting orders. A couple of enterprising traders had even managed to set up stalls selling fresh bread and fried sausages, the price of their entry no doubt a decent contribution of their stock to the officer in charge of the gate.
‘No sign of your father.’ Calatinus gave him a broad wink. ‘He’ll be deep in conversation with Longus and the other senior officers, eh? Plotting our best course of action.’
‘Probably.’ Quintus’ humour soured even more. ‘Which I’ll hear nothing about until the time comes to implement it.’
‘Same as the rest of us!’ Calatinus gave him a reassuring thump on the arm. ‘Things could be worse. Hannibal’s left us alone for weeks now. Our position here is strong, and the ships will start arriving up the Padus soon. Before you know it, we’ll have reinforcements as well.’
Quintus made an effort to smile.
‘What is it?’ Calatinus cocked his head. ‘Still worried about your father forcing you to return home?’
A nearby soldier gave them an inquisitive glance.
‘Not so loud!’ muttered Quintus, increasing his pace. ‘Yes, I am.’ When he’d been reunited with Calatinus after the Trebia, their friendship had reached a new level. They had talked a great deal, and he had revealed everything about Hanno, and Fabricius’ anger at Quintus’ unexpected arrival not long before the first clash at the Ticinus.
‘He’s not going to make you leave. He can’t. We need every man we can get!’ Calatinus saw Quintus flush. ‘You know what I mean by that. You’re a trained cavalryman, and they’re like hen’s teeth right now. Whatever crime you might have committed in your father’s eyes is irrelevant at this moment in time.’ Calatinus blew out his chest. ‘You and I are valuable material!’
‘I suppose.’ Quintus wished he felt so sure. Yet, lifted by Calatinus’ good humour, he managed to put the matter from his mind.
Reaching the camp’s southern edge, they clambered up a ladder to the top of the earthen ramparts, which were ten paces high and half a dozen deep. The wall’s outer face had been lined with sharpened branches; a deep defensive ditch lay beyond that. The fortifications were robust, but Quintus had no desire to see them put to the test. The memory of their defeat at Hannibal’s hands was yet raw. Morale was fragile, not least his own. Brooding again, he studied the horizon with great intensity. No enemy forces had been sighted for days, but that didn’t mean today would be the same. To his relief, Quintus could see no life on the broken ground that ran from the town down to the thick silver band that was the River Padus. On the road that snaked off to Genua and beyond, a few boys were herding sheep and goats to pasture, and an old man with a mule and a cart full of firewood limped towards the main gate. The flatter area to his left was full of legionaries being drilled. Their officers roared, blew whistles and waved their vine canes. Part of Quintus would have liked to study the foot soldiers. But mostly he wanted to forget about fighting and war, for a few hours at least. He glanced at Calatinus. ‘See anything?’
Calatinus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’m glad to say “no”.’
All was as it should be. Satisfied, Quintus studied the mounds of ominous-looking clouds that were scudding overhead. A biting wind from the Alps was speeding them southwards, and more were following in their wake. He shivered. ‘There’ll be snow before nightfall.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Calatinus said irritably. ‘And if it’s as bad as it was the other day, we’ll be stuck in the damn camp for a couple of days afterwards.’
A sudden devilment took Quintus. ‘Let’s go hunting then, while we have the chance.’
‘Have you lost your wits?’
Quintus poked him. ‘I don’t just mean you and me! We’ll gather up ten men or so. Enough of us to make it safe.’
‘Safe?’ Calatinus’ voice was disbelieving, but he punched Quintus back. ‘I’m not sure that there is any such thing as “safe” any more, but a man can’t live in fear forever. What are you thinking — a deer, maybe?’
‘If Diana aids us, yes. Who knows? We might even spot a boar.’
‘Now you’re talking.’ Calatinus was already halfway down the ladder that they’d used to climb up to the rampart. ‘With enough meat, we can barter for wine.’
Quintus followed, his spirits rising at that thought.
Some time later, Quintus was wondering if his idea had been rash. He and his companions, ten men in all, had ridden several miles through the woods to the east of Placentia. Finding a fresh game trail had proved far harder than he had anticipated. Despite the cover granted by the mixed beech and oak trees, the harsh weather had frozen the ground to one great block of ice. There were old tracks aplenty, but in many places it was impossible to see any newer marks made by passing wild animals. They’d had one sighting: a couple of deer, but the startled creatures had fled long before any of the men with bows could let off an accurate shot.
‘We’re going to have to turn around soon,’ Quintus muttered.
‘Aye,’ said Calatinus. ‘Your father will have our heads on a plate if we’re not back in time for our patrol.’
Quintus grimaced. He tugged on his mount’s reins. ‘We might as well go now. Diana isn’t in a good mood. I don’t think that’s about to change.’
There were grunts of agreement from those who were within earshot; shouts rang out, calling in those who had been riding further away. No one disagreed with Quintus’ suggestion that they return to Placentia. Everyone was chilled to the bone, and eager not to miss the hot meal that would be served before their afternoon patrol.
The narrow paths meant that they had to ride in single file. Quintus took the lead; Calatinus came next. The idle banter that had filled the early part of the hunt had died away to an occasional lament about how cold and hungry a particular man was, or about how much he wanted to spend a night in an i
nn by a fire, drinking until dawn. If there was an attractive whore to take him upstairs as well, all the better. Quintus had heard such talk a hundred times, so it went in one ear and out the other. His horse seemed to know the route to take, allowing his mind to wander. He thought of the letter that Fabricius had written, to which he had added a footnote, and hoped that it had reached his mother. His sister Aurelia might grieve the death of Caius Minucius Flaccus, her betrothed, but at least she’d know that he and their father were alive. That they would return one day.
Feeling happier, he lapsed into a pleasant daydream about home, near Capua. He and his father were there with Atia, his mother; so too was Aurelia. The family were reclining on couches around a table piled high with dishes of succulent fare. A side of roast pork. Mullet fried with herbs, and bream that had been baked in the oven. Sausages. Olives. Freshly baked bread. Greens. He could almost reach out and touch the food. Quintus felt saliva pooling in his mouth. An image of Hanno walking into the room with a platter of fowl in a rich nut sauce popped into his mind, and he blinked. Was his mind playing tricks? With the gods’ help, he would dine with his family again, but Hanno would not be present. The Carthaginian had honoured his debt, but he was now one of the enemy. Quintus had little doubt that Hanno would kill him if he got the chance. He, Quintus, would have to do the same if it came to it. He sent up a prayer that that day never arrived. It wasn’t too much to ask that he never met Hanno again.
These dark thoughts made his brief good mood vanish. A sour squint to either side, and Quintus judged that they were about halfway back to the camp. The time will go by fast, he told himself, but his ploy wasn’t convincing. There was a good distance to go yet. His feet were frozen in his sandals. The brazier in his tent at which he might thaw them out before the patrol seemed half a world away.