by Ben Kane
‘It took a few days to recover, that’s all.’ He kissed her again, and she responded with fierce passion, as if by her actions she could undo the harm. Hanno’s heart filled, and he returned her urgency with his own hunger. His fingers gently tugged down the shoulders of her dress to expose her small breasts. He bent his neck and took one of her nipples in his mouth. ‘Gods,’ he heard her murmur. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Aurelia?’
It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over them both. Hanno straightened, mouthing a curse, frantically reaching for his sword. He melted into the darkness by the nearest cypress as Aurelia struggled to pull up her dress, to regain her composure. ‘Agesandros? Is that you?’
‘Who else?’ came the dry response. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m here.’ An urgent whisper to Hanno: ‘I have to go. I will try to come out again later.’
‘I can’t wait,’ he said, his voice thick with regret. ‘The dogs will find me.’
‘Why are you hiding there, under the trees?’ Agesandros called.
‘Hiding? I was just walking back to the house,’ cried Aurelia brightly. She threw Hanno a look full of longing. ‘I would that this meeting could have lasted forever,’ she whispered. ‘May the gods always watch over you and keep you safe.’
‘And over you too,’ replied Hanno passionately.
‘I will keep him talking as long as I can, but you had better move fast. If the dogs catch your scent-’
‘They won’t. Goodbye, Aurelia. I will always remember you.’ He watched miserably for a moment as she walked away; she didn’t look back. Then he retreated into the darkness. The instant that Agesandros was no longer visible, he began to run. Sorrow gripped him as he sped through the trees. This visit was supposed to have been an exciting one, a joyful one. Instead it had proved to be more heart-rending than he could have imagined. To have been reunited with Aurelia against all the odds had been astonishing — like a very gift from the gods. Yet like so many apparently divine interventions, it was double-edged. Their encounter had been brutally brief, and there was to be no happily-ever-after. Aurelia was soon to be wed to another man. Sadness filled Hanno.
What about Suni? he thought. To Hanno’s shame, his grief over what had happened to his old friend kept being overwhelmed by thoughts of Aurelia. Yet, even if another meeting could be engineered with her, what was the point? Before long, she would be a married woman with a new life ahead of her. Compared to that, he could offer her nothing at all — not even a life on campaign. It would be best — for Aurelia as well as him — to wish her well and forget her, he decided.
But as he scaled the boundary wall, found his horse and rode in the direction of his camp, Hanno found that impossible to do. He found himself reliving every moment, every touch, every word she had spoken. It was, he realised in the days that followed, a type of mental torture: momentary exquisite pleasure from the memories of their intimacy, followed by hours of pain from the knowledge that it would never be repeated. After his return to the main body of the army, it had been the turn of other units to go out on foraging missions. That was bad enough, but as the host turned south in search of fresher areas to pillage, the permanence of his separation from Aurelia was hammered home. After that, the only ways for Hanno to achieve any kind of peace were in combat — scarce enough to find at that time, with the Romans refusing any offers of battle — or at the bottom of an amphora of wine.
At times, he wished that he’d never ridden to the farm, never met her, not discovered Suni’s fate. Somehow, though, the pain was worth it. Deep in Hanno’s heart, an ember of hope still burned that, one day, he might meet Aurelia again in happier circumstances. It was so fragile, so small that he scarcely dared acknowledge its existence. But it helped him to go on. That, and the burning desire to bury his sword in the hearts of men such as Agesandros and Pera.
Chapter X
The Volturnus valley, northeast of Capua, autumn
The entrance to the valley was about half a mile wide. The forested peaks on either side formed a tunnel for the wind that scudded constantly across the Campanian plain from the sea. At the height of summer, it would have provided welcome relief from the heat, but the season had changed early. Once it got dark, temperatures dropped fast and the breeze just added to the chill. Cloaked and wearing two tunics, Quintus was grateful that he had a fire to crouch over. The blaze at which he and his comrades were warming themselves was just one of many strung across the valley’s entrance. A few hundred paces to his right, the line of light — and the valley itself — was split by the dark band of the River Volturnus, which ran down to Capua and the west coast. To be illuminated and in such an exposed position felt most uncomfortable, but that was Fabius’ precise intention. Although Quintus felt a little like a piece of iron upon the anvil just before the smith is about to strike, the dictator’s decision made perfect sense.
With the harvest taken in, and Campania stripped bare, Hannibal needed to march his army to the east once more. There were few routes out of the area, and Fabius had covered them all. Strong forces had been posted, weeks before, astride the Via Appia and the Via Latina, and at the mouths of a number of passes. Quintus was one of four thousand legionaries and velites to be posted here, in the perfect place to block one of the larger paths to the east. This, while Fabius’ main strength continued to shadow Hannibal’s army, up and down the edge of the Campanian plain, sticking to the mountain slopes and avoiding battle at all times. The two weeks Quintus had spent here had dragged beyond belief. Less than fifteen miles from Capua and a similar distance from his home, he had been unable to do a thing about it. Even a day’s leave was out of the question, and, thanks to the quadrupling of the sentries at night, desertion was downright dangerous. If truth be told, that wasn’t why Quintus had stayed. Although he’d longed to slip away for a night or two, to try and see his mother and Aurelia, a loyalty to Rutilus and Corax, and even his new comrades, had held him back. If he had missed a big battle, he would never have forgiven himself. At this stage, his loved ones had to be safe inside Capua. From the gossip Quintus had heard, the countryside was empty, abandoned. This news had given him much solace. Hannibal wasn’t about to lay siege to Capua. As long as the farm hadn’t been raided in the weeks prior, his mother and sister were fine.
Whether he and his comrades would be was another matter. Hannibal’s host was camped not two miles distant, on the plain. He had seen it with his own eyes, an immensely long column that had taken the entire afternoon to arrive. Now, a thousand pinpricks of light in the distance marked the enemy fires. Quintus’ stomach clenched at the sight of it. Would the Carthaginians attempt to break through this pass? And if so, when? Those were the questions on every man’s lips.
‘There are a lot of them, eh? At least we’re not alone. The rest of the army is close by,’ said Rutilus as he stamped in from the vantage point fifty paces to the front.
‘I know,’ muttered Quintus. ‘It doesn’t feel like it, though.’ It was hard to believe that Fabius, his four legions and an equal number of socii troops were nearer than the enemy. Their encampment was on a hill less than a mile away.
‘It certainly doesn’t.’ Rutilus spat in the direction of Hannibal’s forces.
‘They’d get here quick enough if we’re attacked,’ declared Quintus with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. ‘It takes hours to form an army up to march. Hannibal’s men are no different.’
‘So you think Fabius will actually fight?’ asked Rutilus with a snicker.
Quintus knew what his friend meant. After an entire summer of marching and training, training and marching, and chewing on the dust left by the marauding Carthaginians, most soldiers were champing at the bit to fight the invaders of their land. Trebia was a distant memory; even Trasimene didn’t seem such a terrible defeat when one considered that they had been outnumbered nearly two to one. Apart from the time spent in the field, the main reason for this newfound confidence was that Fabius and Minucius, his Master of
the Horse, now led more than forty thousand men. ‘That’s more than enough strength to smash the guggas,’ soldiers said to each other daily. ‘It’s time to teach Hannibal a lesson.’ Quintus had been brooding on it too. ‘This pass is easy to defend. If the enemy begins an assault, I think he will, yes. The time is right.’
‘Ha! I’m not so sure. Old “Warty” wants to avoid confrontation no matter where we are. He’s got no taste for battle. I’d wager my left bollock that-’
‘That what, soldier?’ Corax emerged from the shadows, his eyes glinting dangerously.
‘N-nothing, sir,’ replied Rutilus.
‘Did I hear you calling Fabius “Verrucosus”?’ Corax’s voice was silky. Deadly.
‘I, er. .’ Rutilus’ gaze flickered to Quintus and back to the centurion. ‘Yes, sir. You might have done, sir.’
Corax’s response was to punch Rutilus in the solar plexus, dropping him to the ground like a sack of grain. Rutilus’ mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. He gasped in a choking breath. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you this time,’ Corax growled. ‘But if I ever hear you insult our dictator in future, I’ll have you scourged within a pubic hair of your life. Do you understand?’
Unable to speak, Rutilus just nodded.
Corax wheeled on Quintus, who had to force himself not to flinch. ‘You’re not as much of a fool as your friend here.’
‘Sir?’ asked Quintus in confusion.
‘We’ve had our orders. If the guggas come at us, the entire army will march into battle.’ A wolfish grin. ‘No more moving out of the way.’
‘That’s great news, sir!’
‘I thought so.’ Corax threw Rutilus a baleful glare. ‘When you catch your breath, I want you back on sentry duty — for the rest of the night.’
Quintus began to relax — a fraction too soon.
‘You can go with him, Crespo. Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep.’
Quintus knew better than to protest. He glowered at Rutilus as the centurion walked away. ‘We’re going to freeze our balls off all bloody night thanks to you. Why couldn’t you just keep your big mouth shut?’
‘Sorry,’ Rutilus muttered. He didn’t grumble when Quintus told him to bring along the skin of wine that he’d been saving for a special occasion.
All the same, Quintus thought sourly, it would be a long time until dawn.
Despite the cold, it was possible for one of the pair to try to doze a little from time to time. Corax came to check on them once or twice, but by the third watch, it was clear that he’d left them to it. Quintus wasn’t sure if there was much benefit in closing his eyes and snatching a few brief moments of standing rest. He was so chilled that it was almost impossible to fall asleep. Every time he did, a gust of wind would sweep under his cloak, waking him anew. The wine helped, but it soon ran out. They traded dirty jokes for a while, but then they ran out of new material. Rutilus started droning on about Severus and how much they had in common. Quintus was still pissed off with Rutilus, though, and rudely said he wasn’t interested. He tried thinking about the warm bed in his old bedroom at home, but that made him even more grumpy. Imagining the battle that might take place the following day had a similar result. Infuriatingly, Macerio’s position was close to theirs and the blond-haired soldier spent his time making obscene gestures at Quintus or spitting in his direction. Quintus did his best to ignore the taunting, but it was hard. By the time a few hours had passed, he was in an utterly foul mood. His face and feet were numb, and so too were his lower legs, where his cloak didn’t reach. The rest of his body was a little better, but not by much. Stamping up and down was preferable to standing still. Staring at the fires to the rear didn’t just ruin his night vision, it made him feel far worse. With a fixed scowl on his face, he marched to and fro, his gaze fixed on the enemy’s camp.
The first flares of light did not register for a few heartbeats. When they did, Quintus blinked in surprise. Had a tent caught fire? It wasn’t unheard of for that to happen. The glow spread, and he knew that he had been mistaken. No blaze could spread that fast. What in Hades was going on? ‘Rutilus? Do you see that?’
‘Can’t a man take a piss in peace?’ Rutilus glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened. Swallowing a curse, he shoved himself back into his undergarment and sprinted to Quintus’ side.
‘What do you think it is?’
‘It’s soldiers, getting ready to march,’ replied Quintus as realisation dawned. ‘They’re all lighting torches at once.’ Around him, he could hear the alarmed voices of the other sentries. No one had expected this. Attacks at night were not something that the Romans undertook, so they didn’t expect them of their enemies.
‘The bastards aren’t waiting until the morning to move!’ cried Rutilus, stating the obvious. He was already a few steps away. ‘I’ll fetch Corax.’
Quintus watched with increasing nervousness as the illuminated area before the enemy camp grew in size. Thousands of men were involved, he thought. Would it be the whole of the enemy host or just a section? Was a rapid assault on their position about to be launched? That could break through. The four thousand soldiers blocking the pass were spread thinner than soft cheese on a piece of bread. If the Carthaginians moved fast, there was no possible way that Fabius and the rest of the army could reach them in time. At best, they would be swept aside; at worst, annihilated. A knot of fear twisted in Quintus’ stomach. As at Trasimene, he felt the sickening certainty that he would die. A short time later, when the torches began to move, he was almost relieved. Death, when it came, would be swift.
‘Scheming gugga dogs,’ snapped Corax.
Quintus had never been more glad to see his centurion. ‘Yes, sir. Rutilus went for you the instant we saw the lights.’
‘They’re moving already.’
Nausea roiled in Quintus’ belly, but then he saw that the line of torches wasn’t coming towards them. His head twisted, eyes searching the darkness. ‘The saddle. They are heading for the saddle, sir!’ On the far side of the peak to their right, the slope was less precipitous. Quintus had seen it as they marched into position. ‘The climb from the plain to the ridge between it and the next summit to the north isn’t difficult.’
‘Yes, I know it. From there, they’ll be hoping to pick up the trail that leads through the Apennines. So they’re trying to outflank us, eh?’ Corax laughed. ‘The fool Hannibal has misjudged the distance. If we move now, we can scale the peak near us and after that, the ridge, before his troops. Denying them the passage with a good advantage of height shouldn’t be hard. Spread the word. I want four men out of every five assembled by the riverbank and ready to march as fast as they possibly can. I’ll be back soon.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Quintus’ heart thumped against his ribs. His weariness fell away; even the cold was no longer an issue. He and Rutilus set about gathering the velites who were on duty and passing on his orders to the legionaries present. When Corax returned with Pullo and the other centurions, the soldiers were formed up in maniples. Corax gave him a tiny nod of approval before eyeing his men. ‘You’ve all seen what’s going on, boys. Hannibal thinks he’s being smart. He thinks we’re asleep! Well, his men are going to get the surprise of their miserable lives. When they reach the ridge, we will be waiting there for them. Won’t we?’
‘YES, SIR!’
‘Fabius is relying on us. Rome is relying on us to throw the guggas back. If they can’t get out of Campania, the shitbags will starve. And then we’ll have them!’
As the men around him began shouting, ‘Roma! Roma!’ Quintus remembered the talk of kicking an army in its stomach. That was all very well, he thought with a touch of bitterness, but the lands that would be laid to waste if Hannibal’s troops were denied the passage were those of Campania, his home. Thus far, the area east of the Apennines had escaped the brunt of the enemy’s depredations. There was nothing wrong with them taking their turn. Yet Quintus felt guilty for even entertaining the idea. It was time to fight, he thought,
not to give in just so his home region could be spared.
‘Crespo. Rutilus.’ Corax and the other centurions called the velites’ section leaders into a quick huddle. ‘You lot can move faster than the hastati or principes. You’re to go in front. Run like the wind. I want you up there before the guggas at all costs. Give them a welcome that they won’t forget. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Quintus replied, his pulse racing. The air filled with growls of acknowledgement from the others.
‘This is your opportunity to prove that you’re not the fool I think you are,’ said Corax, glaring at Rutilus.
‘You won’t be disappointed in me, sir,’ replied Rutilus fiercely.
‘What are you waiting for?’ cried Corax. ‘Get moving!’
They hurried to their comrades. Quickly, Quintus explained what they had to do. ‘Ask Hermes for his help on the way up. It’s a broken ankle that you need to be most worried about, for now at least.’ That garnered him a few chuckles, but Quintus didn’t smile. He ignored Macerio’s sneering, scarred face too. ‘I’m serious. Watch your footing. If you fall, you will have to fend for yourself. I want every able-bodied man ready to fight the instant we reach that saddle.’ There were grim nods then, reassuring him. He glanced at Rutilus. ‘Ready?’
‘I’d have been halfway up the hill already if you hadn’t talked so much.’
‘You’re full of shit!’
‘And you love it. See you at the top.’ Clearly keen to win Corax’s favour once more, Rutilus jumped straight into the river, spears and shield in hand. His men followed.
‘We can’t let them steal a march on us!’ shouted Quintus. ‘With me!’ He sprinted after Rutilus, all thoughts but reaching the top and throwing back the Carthaginians gone from his mind. Fortunately, the Volturnus was no more than knee deep. Even so, the chill in the water struck him like a blow in the face. He scrambled across, his sandals slipping a little on the smooth stones of the bottom. And then he was up on to the opposite bank, the damp grass brushing off his legs.