by Ben Kane
Quintus sighed. He hadn’t anticipated problems like this when he’d decided to join the velites. At least in the cavalry he had not had to worry about one of his own comrades wanting to do him harm.
He did now.
I’ve made my bed, he thought. I will have to lie in it.
The shore of Lake Trasimene, north-central Italy, summer
Hanno had nearly finished his rounds for the evening. In warm weather, and in such a beautiful location, it was a real pleasure to wander among the tents, chatting with his men, sharing a cup of wine and assessing their mood. The temperature was balmy and warm, light still filled the western sky, and overhead, hundreds of swifts darted to and fro, their high-pitched cries reminding him of Carthage. Beyond the last of the tents and the rushes that lined the shore, he could see the surface of the lake. Earlier, it had been a vivid azure colour. Now, it had become a mysterious and inviting dark blue. Not for the first time, Hanno wondered about having a swim. Even though his phalanx hadn’t been involved in the sacking and pillaging of the previous weeks, the day’s march had been long and hot. Their duties done, thousands of the soldiers had already been sporting in the shallows. It had gone quiet by the shore of late; not many men would choose to enter the water as night fell, but Hanno wasn’t that superstitious. He and Suni had spent many an evening fishing from the Choma, the man-made quay at the southeastern edge of Carthage. Taking a dip at night held immense appeal. Gods, it would be wonderful if Suni were here, he thought. He offered up a prayer to safeguard his friend.
A frown creased his brow as he recognised Sapho’s stocky shape. Hanno was still a little pissed off with his oldest brother. His return to the column with Sentius in tow had been a proud moment for him. Hannibal had been pleased with the boy, which had thrilled Hanno. As long as Sentius performed as asked, his reputation would grow. That was when Sapho, for whatever reason, had turned around the situation by mentioning how he’d had to save Hanno from drowning in a puddle. Everyone present had laughed, especially Hannibal. ‘That’s another one of your lives lost,’ he’d said, smiling. Hanno had been mortified, and he wondered after the army had marched out of the floodplain if Hannibal would remember who it was that had secured them the guide. When he remonstrated with his brother, Sapho had laughed it off, saying he had merely been trying to lift men’s spirits.
‘Hanno?’
Of course that’s all Sapho was doing, thought Hanno loyally, dismissing the memory. He would have preferred Bostar to have appeared, but his other brother would do. Perhaps he would find a swimming companion after all. He might even get his own back and shove Sapho’s head under the water when he wasn’t expecting it. ‘I’m here.’
‘At last I find you.’ Sapho strode over. Like Hanno, he had shed his bronze cuirass and pteryges and was clad in just his tunic. A baldric slung from one shoulder held a knife in a leather sheath. They gripped hands in greeting.
‘Fancy a swim?’ asked Hanno.
‘Eh?’
‘The water’s lovely and warm.’
‘Maybe. There’s something I need to talk to you about first, though.’
Hanno felt a tickle of unease. ‘Walk with me.’ He led the way towards the shore; Sapho followed. Hanno moved fast, dreading what his brother might have to say.
Since leaving the Arnus behind, every soldier’s task, on Hannibal’s express orders, had been to cause as much destruction as possible. At first, only the skirmishers and cavalry had been deployed, but then the infantry had been put to use too. Thus far, Hanno and his phalanx had escaped being part of the raiding parties who daily ranged far and wide to either side of the army. By now, much of Etruria had been laid waste. What couldn’t be taken away was burned or despoiled. The population had suffered too. Slaves were not to be harmed, but Roman citizens of all ages were fair game. Each time that Hanno had spoken with Sapho, his oldest brother had taken particular delight in describing what his soldiers had done. By contrast, Bostar and his father, who had been allotted the same duties, had said nothing. Since his torture, Hanno didn’t much care what happened to enemy civilians, but he didn’t wish to hear the gory details. It reminded him too much of what might happen to Aurelia — if their army ever made it that far south.
A week earlier, he had been surprised when the chance to approach Flaminius’ legions at Arretium had been discarded in favour of sacking yet more farms and villages. By veering east along the lake, they were now threatening to do the same to Umbria. As Hanno had realised, Hannibal’s intention all along had been to force Flaminius’ hand, and in that he had succeeded. The consul had been tailing their forces for some days, albeit at a decent distance. A battle was inevitable, but Hanno worried if it would come soon enough. Flaminius had to want to catch Hannibal between his legions and those of Servilius, who no doubt had been advised of the enemy’s march towards him. The further they marched east, the more risk there was of being caught between two Roman armies.
Hannibal had decided to act, brooded Hanno. Sapho had come to tell him that Flaminius was to be goaded into a more hasty response. An entire village needed to butchered out of hand, or worse. Thus far, it had been Hanno’s good fortune not to have to commit such acts of brutality. For his general to order him to do so would be something that he could not refuse, no matter how objectionable he found it. Yet it would ensure his return to the fold, Hanno told himself. What were the lives of a few civilians compared to that? ‘What does he want me to do?’ he asked, without looking at his brother.
‘Who?’
‘Hannibal, of course.’
‘What makes you think I’ve come to tell you something like that?’ Sapho’s tone was curious.
‘Is that not it?’ replied Hanno, trying to cover his confusion.
‘It might be. You’re not supposed to know yet, but I thought you might like to hear it early.’
Despite his desire to win Hannibal’s approval once more, a leaden feeling settled in his belly. ‘What will I have to do?’
‘Is my little brother reluctant to fight?’ Sapho’s fingers brushed at the scar on his neck. ‘Did your time in Roman hands break your spirit?’
‘Don’t touch me!’ Hanno spun on his brother, eyes blazing, wishing he’d left on the scarf that protected his still sensitive flesh from the unforgiving metal of his cuirass. ‘Show me a line of Roman soldiers, and see how long it takes me to butcher every last one!’
‘I’m glad to see that you’re still angry,’ said Sapho. ‘I would love a few hours alone with the whoreson who mistreated you.’
His anger at Sapho for touching his scar lessened. ‘Thank you, but that’s to be my privilege. May the gods grant that I meet Pera again one day, if he yet lives. He will have an end that even he couldn’t imagine.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Sapho raised the little amphora that he’d been carrying, unseen, by his side. ‘Like some?’
Suddenly, Hanno really wanted a drink. ‘Yes.’
They found a parting in the rushes, a small sandy area where the lake came right in to the solid ground, and sat down side by side. Sapho cracked the seal, prised out the cork with his knife and took a long slug. He smacked his lips. ‘That’s very tasty. Try it.’
Hanno hooked a forefinger into one of the amphora’s handles. Balancing it against his forearm, he took a sip. The wine had a deep, earthy taste, and a smooth feel quite unlike most he had drunk before. He swallowed a mouthful, and then another. He was about to drink again, when Sapho gave him a nudge. ‘Don’t finish it!’
Hanno swigged again before handing it back. ‘Sorry. It’s delicious.’
‘As I thought it would be,’ said Sapho triumphantly. ‘I took it from a large villa, one of the grandest I’ve ever seen. The man who owns it must be incredibly wealthy.’
‘Is he dead now?’
‘No, the prick wasn’t there, more’s the pity. We had to make do with killing his family.’
Hanno closed his eyes. Aurelia. ‘Is it just the one amphora you’ve got?’
<
br /> Sapho snorted with laughter. ‘Of course not! There are another twenty where this one came from. Stick with me, little brother, and you can get pissed every night for the foreseeable future.’
That prospect appealed, especially if he was going to have to supervise his men slaughtering women and children. ‘Give it here,’ he growled.
‘My brother, the oenophile! Best not drink too much tonight, though,’ Sapho advised.
Hanno paused, the amphora at his lips. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘You might need a clear head tomorrow.’
I knew it. ‘Why tomorrow?’ he repeated stupidly.
‘It could be the next day.’ Sapho squinted at him. ‘Aren’t you going to ask what Hannibal wants us to do?’
‘Tell me,’ said Hanno in a monotone.
‘Be more enthusiastic, can’t you?’ Sapho waited, but Hanno did not reply. ‘Hannibal is the best leader we have by a long shot. He’s smart, and he’s a great tactician. And the soldiers love him.’
‘I know that. I love him too, you know.’ Even if he orders us to do terrible things. Hanno steeled himself. Once they’d slain a few families, it wouldn’t be that bad, surely? ‘Where’s the village, or the estate he wants me to pillage?’
‘Eh?’
Hanno felt as confused as Sapho looked. ‘Is that not what he wants me to do?’
Sapho’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ah. I see why you were being funny. You thought I’d come to order you out with the patrols which attack the local farms?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Hanno awkwardly.
‘You might find things like that distasteful, little brother, but the day will come when you have to do them,’ warned Sapho. ‘And when it arrives-’
‘I’ll do it,’ retorted Hanno savagely. ‘I follow Hannibal, to whatever end, like you.’
Sapho studied him for a moment. ‘Good.’
‘So what is it then?’ asked Hanno, keen to change the subject.
‘It’s something far better than burning down some hay barns and killing a few civilians.’ Sapho’s manner grew conspiratorial. Although there was no one nearby, he leaned in close. ‘Remember Zamar?’
‘Of course.’ The Numidian officer had led the patrol that had come upon Hanno as he made his way towards Hannibal’s army more than six months before. They had fought together since as well.
‘Today he and his men were scouting to the front of the column when they found a good ambush site. When Hannibal heard about it, he rode out to see it for himself. Upon his return, he called his senior officers together, and then a few others. Bostar and I were among those.’
A stranger would have missed the change in Sapho’s inflection as he mentioned Bostar, but not Hanno. The pair of them are still fighting, he thought wearily.
A night bird called as it skimmed over the waves, some distance out into the lake. The sound was eerie. The hairs on Hanno’s neck prickled. ‘What did Hannibal say?’
‘You’re interested now, eh?’ Sapho’s teeth flashed in the darkness.
‘Damn right. Are we going to fight?’
‘About two miles from here, a high ridge comes down to within a mile of the shore. It forms a narrow kind of “entrance” to the land beyond. If you continue eastwards, it opens out again, in a hemi-lunate shape. The area isn’t large, though, and it’s fringed to the north by the hills. The road follows the shoreline until it comes to another pinch point in a defile some miles further on. There’s ample space to deploy our army on the reverse slopes of the elevated ground. We will all be hidden from view except the Gauls, in the centre. Hannibal wants them to be visible to the Romans if they march through the entrance. A decoy, to draw them further in.’
‘My gods,’ breathed Hanno. ‘If this succeeds, they’ll be caught like fish in a trap.’
‘I like the analogy. And there will be nowhere for the fish to go, except into the lake, where they belong!’ Sapho laughed.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Hanno eagerly.
‘The entire army will march through the entrance in the morning. Each section will take up their allotted position as fast as possible, in case the Romans decide to try and catch up.’
‘That’s unlikely, surely? They’re at least a day behind.’
‘I know. The Romans might well not march in until the day after tomorrow, but Hannibal wants nothing left to chance.’
It made sense. Hanno nodded. ‘If the Gauls are in the centre, where will we be standing?’
‘On the left flank, with the slingers. Every last man in the cavalry will be on the right, ready to sweep down and cut off the Romans’ route of retreat.’
‘It’s bloody brilliant. Hannibal is a genius!’
‘Let’s drink to him, and to a great victory,’ said Sapho with true feeling.
Taking turns with the amphora, they toasted each other solemnly. Hanno forgot all about swimming. He hadn’t been this excited since before the Trebia. If Hannibal’s plan worked, Rome would receive its second severe beating in a period of six months. That augured well for the future. He also felt a new kinship with his oldest brother. In normal circumstances, he would have expected Bostar to seek him out with the news, but instead it had been Sapho. Their relationship had always been awkward, but Hanno determined to try harder. There was no reason that he couldn’t be friends with Sapho as well as Bostar. Perhaps he could even bring them together.
But first, there was a battle to win.
An image of Quintus came, bringing with it a sense of melancholy. Hanno shoved it away, more easily than he had before. He wouldn’t meet his former friend during the fighting. If he did, he would do what was necessary.
Quintus stood up a little, but he was careful to keep his body hidden. He peered down the slope, which was covered in a mixture of holm oak, strawberry trees and juniper bushes. The strong, resinous scent of turpentine trees laced the air. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the temperature was stifling. In the still air, the churring of the cicadas was deafening. Quintus liked hearing it. The sound reminded him of home, but it also meant that the section of road below was empty of life. Only madmen and Carthaginians travelled at this hour. And velites, he thought with a trace of sarcasm.
His gaze moved to the estate that lay on the flat ground to the west. He would have expected to see slaves working the fields, but the thin columns of smoke that rose from the huddle of buildings just visible in the distance told their own story. Like all the other dwellings in the surrounding area, they had been attacked and burned by the enemy in the previous couple of days. More than once, Quintus had seen what the Carthaginians had done. Men, women, children: no one was being spared. Even the dogs and poultry were slaughtered. He wondered if Hanno had taken part in any of the atrocities. Of course not. Whether he had or hadn’t was immaterial. Plenty of his fellows had. Angered, Quintus ducked back down.
Rutilus and the short man with jug ears, who was universally known as ‘Urceus’, meaning ‘jar’, were squatting on their haunches to his left. On his other side were two more of his comrades. All four had strips of wolf skin tied around their simple bowl helmets. It was a proud tradition among the velites and purportedly helped the officers to make out who was fighting well. Quintus hadn’t earned the right to sport one yet — that would come after his first battle.
‘See anything?’ asked Urceus.
‘No,’ Quintus replied, annoyed that his hopes for the day — a clash with some Carthaginian scouts — had been soured. ‘Same as usual. They’re long gone.’ He spoke with certainty. They were never ordered to range more than a few miles in front of Flaminius’ army. It did make some sort of sense — to follow the enemy, all they had to do was to move towards the trails of smoke that marked burning properties — but it frustrated the hell out of Quintus.
‘We’ll find the damn guggas eventually. They’ll run out of places to hide,’ said Rutilus in a mock-placatory tone. ‘Be grateful for the times that we don’t encounter them, however. Each one of those days is an extra one to
have lived. Being dead goes on for eternity, you know.’
Quintus had grown to appreciate Rutilus’ droll sense of humour. ‘Speak for yourself. I intend to survive this war.’
‘Me too,’ growled Urceus. ‘I’ve got fields that need tending back home, and a woman that needs ploughing.’
‘Sure you haven’t got that the wrong way round?’ Rutilus snickered, and had to dodge out of the way as Urceus’ ham-like fist swept through the air at him.
Quintus grinned. Life in the velites was harder than he’d imagined, but there was a camaraderie and a freedom that he hadn’t expected. Corax and his junior officers were in charge of half of the maniple’s forty skirmishers, while Pullo and his subordinates looked after the other half. Yet the officers didn’t direct them in battle, except from a distance. Nor did they accompany the velites out here, on patrol. Instead, the most experienced men took charge. Whether it was because their positions were unranked or because the velites came from the poorest section of society, Quintus did not know, but there was an appealing lack of formality between those who led and those who followed.
Fortunately, Macerio had no superiority over him. He too was an ordinary rank-and-filer. Their relationship had degenerated even further in the weeks since their brawl. They’d come to blows twice, but been separated each time by Big Tenner, their huge ten-man section leader. Since then, they had avoided each other as much as was possible when sharing a tent. Quintus knew, however, that it would only be a matter of time until they clashed again. As much as anything, the scar on Macerio’s cheek would see to that. He was grateful to be in the five-man sub-unit led by Urceus, with whom he’d become friendly, while Macerio was in Big Tenner’s lot. Little Tenner, the diminutive but charismatic leader of the century’s other ten-man section, was with his men some distance off to their right, while the remaining twenty velites were scouring the ground to their left. Sets of short, high-pitched whistles and runners kept the groups in occasional touch.
‘We move out. South, same as before. Keep your eyes peeled,’ said Urceus, rising. ‘Stay at the same height. Big Tenner’s men are working the slope below us.’