Fields of Blood

Chapter XIV

Hannibal’s camp, outside the town of Gerunium, Samnium, spring

Hearing Sapho’s voice close by, Hanno scowled. It was too late to leave his tent without being seen. What did Sapho want? he wondered.

His relationship with his eldest brother had always been prickly, but during the period of his enslavement, he had largely forgotten the details. When he had been reunited with him, Hanno had fancied things had changed between him and Sapho. They had got on famously for a short while, but then the pair had fallen into their old pattern of clashing regularly.

Most recently, there had been the look on Sapho’s face when he had nearly drowned. As he had before, Hanno had convinced himself that that had been his imagination running riot. Had Sapho not revealed Hannibal’s plan to him before the battle at Lake Trasimene? They had also spent many subsequent nights drinking wine together. Which was why his brother’s reaction when Hanno had returned from patrol with Mutt and his men the previous year had not been what he expected. Sapho had looked smug, to say the least. Knowing, as well. That hadn’t surprised Hanno overmuch. What had was the edge to Sapho’s voice. ‘Emptied your balls, have you?’ his brother had repeatedly asked. Startled and angered, Hanno had denied everything, but Sapho had persisted until he’d demanded to know who in his phalanx had been telling tales. Sapho had winked and said he had his source, who’d told him that their commander had vanished in the direction of Capua. ‘Gone for three days, I hear. It must have been a good whorehouse to risk your skin like that!’

Despite the double edge to this comment — Sapho could have meant the threat of either the Romans capturing him or Hannibal finding out what he had done — Hanno had breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t thought it was Mutt who had informed on him, but this was proof. Sapho didn’t know why he’d left his soldiers; he had been making a shrewd guess as to the reason. Yet Hanno had felt most uneasy that someone had spoken out of turn. If Sapho knew, others might also find out. Hanno had no doubt, either, that his brother had been showing his power over him: if he said a word to any of the senior officers, Hanno’s life was over. When he’d challenged Sapho about it, his brother had laughed it off, saying he’d never do anything of the kind.

Why does he always have to make such jokes? thought Hanno angrily. Bostar doesn’t. For all of his veiled threats and sarcasm, however, that time Sapho had been right. It had been rash to leave his command and seek out Aurelia. Naturally, Hanno wouldn’t ever admit that to Sapho. A quick grin sloped across his face. He didn’t want to end his life nailed to a cross, that was for sure, but part of him was still glad about what he’d done. If only he had managed to see Aurelia in Capua! Stop it, he told himself. Months have passed. She’s married now, and you’ll never see her again. Best to forget her. Doing that, though, was easier said than done. He had tried to do so before and failed.

‘Ho! Hanno, where are you?’

‘I’m in here.’ He lifted the tent flap and grimaced. ‘What is it?’

‘That’s a strange welcome for a man’s brother,’ said Sapho, scowling. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘Of course,’ replied Hanno. Now he felt bad. He stood aside so that his brother could enter. ‘Take a seat.’

Sapho sat on one of the two stools and extended his feet towards the glowing brazier with a happy sigh. Spring had arrived, but the temperatures still dropped considerably at night. ‘Got any wine?’

‘A little.’ Taking a pair of plain clay beakers from the bronze tray that sat on his clothes chest, Hanno gave them a quick wipe with a rag. He filled them both from the jug that sat alongside. ‘Here.’

Sapho saluted him with his cup. ‘To our general Hannibal, and victory over the Romans!’

Hanno echoed the words, and they both drank. He wanted to ask what brought Sapho to his tent, but that would be too direct. It wasn’t easy to think of something else to say. For all that Hanno was his own man, Sapho still had a way of making him feel like his little brother. Relax, he thought. Enjoy his company. He’s merely come for a friendly chat. ‘How are your men finding the new formations?’ he asked. His had done little but complain since the order had come down that they were to arm themselves with Roman weapons and learn to fight like legionaries.

‘It took a while, a few lashes of the whip, but they’re proficient now,’ growled Sapho. ‘And yours?’

‘Getting them to react as one when I shout an order has taken a bloody age,’ admitted Hanno. ‘They’re getting there, I suppose.’

‘If you need any help or advice-’ Sapho began, but Hanno interrupted.

‘I’ll manage, thanks.’

‘I know you will,’ said Sapho with a warm smile.

Again Hanno felt bad for being so prickly. He trusts me. He knows I’m a man now.

‘You say that there’s no prospect of a battle, yet that doesn’t mean we can’t bloody some Romans’ noses from time to time.’

Hanno’s ears pricked. ‘On patrol, you mean?’ Hannibal’s army went through a vast amount of food every day, and through the winter it had become harder and harder to find supplies. The soldiers who were sent out on these missions often had to range quite far afield and were therefore the most likely to see combat.

‘Yes. Hannibal has ordered me to accompany a foraging party tomorrow. He’s had reports of a large estate, as yet unplundered, and with a large amount of grain. It’s about fifteen miles to the northwest of here, on the other side of the river. A lot of men and mules will be needed to carry the wheat, so a strong force is required. I’m to ask another phalanx commander to come along. I thought of you. But if your men aren’t ready-’

Fiercely eager, Hanno cut him off. This was another chance to fight the enemy, to win Hannibal’s favour. ‘They would jump at the chance of getting out of camp! So would I. If we happen to clash with a few Romans, we’ll teach them a damn good lesson.’

‘You’re sure? If something happens, I don’t want to see your men taking to their heels and leaving us in the shit.’

‘I give you my word,’ swore Hanno. ‘My phalanx is made up of veterans, remember? They crossed the Alps with you and the rest. Learning how to fight with new weapons is just a reason to grumble. You know what soldiers are like. When it comes to a fight, they’ll stand as firm as any man in the army, I guarantee it.’

‘Fair enough.’ Sapho raised his cup once more. ‘We shall march out together, and return with sufficient grain to feed the entire army for weeks. And may the gods have pity on any Romans who are foolish enough to cross swords with us!’

Hanno laughed with anticipation. ‘Hannibal will be pleased.’

‘He’ll also see what a fine soldier you are,’ added Sapho.

Hanno beamed at this rare compliment. The wine tasted even better as it ran down his gullet. He poured refills for them both.

‘I’d like nothing more than to get hammered,’ said Sapho as they drank another toast, ‘but we’ll need clear heads tomorrow.’

‘Just what I was going to say,’ replied Hanno, although he’d been fully prepared to keep drinking. He was grateful that Sapho, who must have seen that in his face, made no comment. A warm feeling towards his eldest brother flowed through him. Hanno was sure now that he’d been wrong about Sapho. ‘We can get pissed when we get back.’

‘I’ll see if I can persuade Hannibal to come as well.’

‘He wouldn’t bother with the likes of us, surely?’ asked Hanno in surprise.

‘I don’t know. I’ve had the honour of sharing wine with him a few times; if he decides to put his cares aside, he’s quite a sociable type. Leave it with me,’ said Sapho with a wink.

Impressed and pleased, Hanno beamed at his brother. He was ever more determined to prove himself on the patrol.

Indicating to Mutt that his men should keep marching, Hanno stepped out of line. As ever, his purpose was to scan the horizon behind them. To his relief, he saw nothing. It was almost too good to be true. Thus far, the raid had gone without any major hitches. They had left the army’s main camp well before dawn. The Numidian cavalry sent to escort them had set out at the same time, reporting back regularly that they had found no signs of enemy troops in the surrounding area. They had reached their objective by mid-morning and met almost no resistance; as soon as the elderly owner realised how large was the force sent against him, he had surrendered. Hanno had been impressed by Sapho’s restraint towards the man, who had been executed without torture after he’d revealed the contents of his farm buildings. The slaves had not been harmed.

In the space of an hour, the place had been ransacked. The sheds had been emptied entirely and Hanno, Sapho or their officers had ensured that the most valuable items were taken from the residential quarters. The mules had been loaded up with sacks of grain, sides of cured meat and hundreds of amphorae full of wine and oil. Only a handful of soldiers had had to be disciplined for drinking some of the wine. Hanno suspected that a number of female slaves had been raped, but he had seen no direct evidence so there had been no point in trying to do anything about it. The purpose of the mission was to gather supplies and return safely with them, not to concern himself with the plight of a few unfortunate women.

Satisfied that there was no pursuit, Hanno hurried back to his position at the front of his phalanx. The road was narrow, but his troops could march six abreast, which satisfied him: wide enough for them to fight if needs be, as well as to manoeuvre. Clouds of exhaled breath billowed above the files of marching soldiers. Frost crunched beneath their sandals. Mail shirts jingled, spear shafts knocked off other men’s shields. Although no one had given the order to do so, conversation was muted. Still unused to their new appearance, which was similar to that of Roman legionaries, Hanno studied them as he passed by. Most were wearing their original conical bronze helmets, a small but pleasing detail. As usual he followed his father’s advice and offered greetings here, gave out praise there, laughed at the ribald jokes that were being told. Unsurprisingly, spirits were high. Hanno was grateful for that (although he was careful not to allow it to take control) for it was infectious and helped lift his own mood. He had been keen the day before, but now that he was in the situation, his nerves were jangling. It was commonplace for their foraging parties to be attacked, and not unheard of for them to suffer heavy casualties. He would not relax until they reached the Carthaginian camp at Gerunium. And watching the file of laden-down mules ambling along before them, Hanno knew that would not come to pass until near sundown.

‘See anything, sir?’ asked Mutt.

‘No.’

‘Happy?’

Hanno glanced at Mutt, wondering if his dour second-in-command felt any of the misgivings he did. ‘Not entirely,’ he said in an undertone.

‘Thinking about the river, sir?’

‘Among other things, yes. That would be the best place to attack us.’

‘It would, sir. All being well, nothing like that will happen.’ Here, a characteristic sigh. ‘It doesn’t hurt to wish that the cavalry are as alert as they were on the outward journey, though. If they are, they’ll soon root out any nasty surprises.’

Hanno grunted, wishing that the cavalry captain, a swarthy man whom he hadn’t met until that morning, were Zamar. Stop thinking like that, he told himself. The fellow must be more than capable, or Sapho would not have chosen him.

‘Never thought I’d say this, but the cold weather has done us a favour,’ commented Mutt, jerking a thumb at the frozen ground. ‘Imagine the dust that we’d be breathing in if this were summertime. For all that this is the position of honour, we would be cursing Sapho for taking the vanguard.’

Surprised by this outburst, for Mutt often went miles without saying a word, Hanno smiled. ‘True enough, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Marching in the cold isn’t so bad, eh?’ He tapped his scutum and his bronze cuirass with the shaft of his spear. ‘All this doesn’t feel as heavy as it does in Africa.’

‘Careful, sir,’ warned Mutt. ‘You’ll be turning into a bloody Roman next.’

‘There isn’t much chance of that happening,’ said Hanno with a sour chuckle. He rubbed at the base of his neck. ‘It was a Roman who gave me this, remember? I will never forget that, nor will I stop seeking revenge for it until the day I die. If I’m blessed, it will be Pera, but any other Roman will do.’

‘Sorry, sir. I had forgotten,’ said Mutt, with a look of respect.

Hanno nodded. Deep inside, his conviction was not quite as absolute when it came to Quintus and, more particularly, Aurelia, but he was not going to admit that to a soul. The chances of him ever being tested on it were slim to none, which meant that he could wholly concentrate on two things: exacting retribution from every other Roman who came within reach of his sword — something he positively looked forward to — and doing his duty, which was to fight for Hannibal and Carthage. He would do that until the very last drop of blood drained from his veins. Pera’s torture had not done that to Hanno. There were other, much older reasons for his loathing of Rome. Throughout his childhood, his father had inculcated into him the details of every defeat suffered against the Republic in the first great struggle between it and Carthage. The loss of that twenty-three-year war, as well as control of the Mediterranean and Sicily, had been immensely humiliating. Yet Rome had not been content to leave it at that, forcing Carthage to pay immense reparations as further punishment. More evidence of the Romans’ perfidy had come a few years after the first war’s end, when Hanno’s people had been coerced into ceding Sardinia and Corsica to Rome as well. Yet with a little luck, there would be no fighting today. Hanno scanned the horizon to either side once more, but saw nothing. Despite his wish to kill the enemy, escorting the mules and their precious cargo back to the camp was more important than adding a few more casualties to the list of the Roman dead. Bringing back the grain and proving to Hannibal that he was capable was what counted.

Time passed, and the patrol edged its way south towards the river that separated them from the rest of the army. An air of anticipation became palpable. The pace picked up a little, even among the mules. It was as if they sensed that once across the watercourse, they would be safe, thought Hanno. Roman soldiers had not been seen on the far bank — the Carthaginian side — for some time, and with good reason. Squadrons of Numidian cavalry patrolled the area daily, ensuring that any enemy forces were discovered and wiped out. Hanno could feel his soldiers’ excitement growing; his spirits also rose. Once the mission had been accomplished, there was no way that Hannibal could fail to acknowledge what Sapho and he had done. Perhaps this expedition would fully restore him to his general’s favour? He had felt that Hannibal’s poor opinion of him was easing, but at a slower rate than Hanno liked.

The column came to a sudden halt. It was perhaps a mile from the river. Hanno chafed with impatience as they waited for information. Soon a rider brought the expected news that Sapho’s phalanx had reached the bank. A small number of his men had begun to cross; the remainder were guarding the approach to the water, where the mules were being gathered by their handlers. It would not be long, said the messenger, before the mules also began to enter the ford. Hanno and his men were to act as a rearguard until the last of the vital supplies had been transported to the other side.

‘What are you to do?’ Hanno asked, hoping that some of the cavalry at least would remain on this bank to act as his eyes and ears.

‘The bulk of us have been ordered across the river, sir,’ replied the rider apologetically. ‘I am to remain with you as a messenger; so too are five of my comrades. They’ll be here any moment.’

This development was unsurprising — Hannibal’s horsemen were among his most valuable troops and therefore exposed to as little risk as possible — but that didn’t stop Hanno’s stomach from clenching. Without scouts on their flanks and to their rear, they had to remain in their current position, blind. He mightn’t have minded as much if there hadn’t been trees pressing in on both sides. Bare of leaves, they afforded little shelter for potential ambushers, but their effect was still to funnel the Carthaginians together more closely than he liked. ‘Very good,’ he said with an attempt at nonchalance. ‘Tell Sapho that we’ll withdraw gradually as the mules go across. Order your companions to ride back along the road for a distance and make sure that there has been no pursuit.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The Numidian was already wheeling his horse back the way he had come.

‘Have the men turn to our rear,’ directed Hanno. ‘Let’s be cautious. I want the first two ranks on each side facing the trees. They’re to walk sideways. We’ll move in that fashion to the river.’

Mutt didn’t bat an eyelid at this odd command. ‘Yes, sir!’ He stalked off, barking orders, leaving Hanno to watch. He was pleased by his soldiers’ response to their orders. The change in formation was assumed with few mistakes and minimal fuss. A new sense of urgency and excitement settled over the phalanx. Men began to mutter prayers to their favourite gods, to rub the amulets that hung from their necks or to make over-loud jokes.

Hanno clashed the tip of his javelin off his shield to gain their attention. ‘This is just a precaution, lads. There is no need to worry. The nearest Romans are miles away,’ he shouted. ‘The mules are going to start crossing any moment. Our job is to act as a screen until they are safely over. Then we’ll do the same. When we get back to camp, I will see to it that you have enough wine tonight to drink yourselves unconscious.’

That got him a loud roar of approval. ‘All the same, I want you to go over your equipment as usual.’ There were a few grumbles at this, but he saw many more nods of approval. Satisfied, Hanno went through the little ritual that had become his routine before a battle. Wipe his hands clean of sweat. Check that his helmet straps were tight. Loosen his sword in its scabbard. Test the edge on his spear head with a thumb. Ensure that he had a firm grip of his scutum. Lastly, a quick glance at his sandals to make sure that the lacing wasn’t about to come undone. His father once told him the story of a soldier who had tripped on his own laces and been killed by an enemy; it was a stupid mistake that Hanno had resolved never to make for himself.

The pounding of hooves drew his attention like a wasp to a piece of overripe fruit. It was the Numidian who had just spoken to him, and his companions. At least they would have some eyes now, he thought. He raised a hand to beckon the riders.

A soft whirring sound filled the air. Long, dark shadows hissed in from the edge of Hanno’s vision. Instinctively realising what they were, his throat closed with horror. In slow motion, his eyes swivelled, taking in the swarm of arrows arcing towards his men and the group of figures in the trees to his left, who stood with bows still raised. ‘Ambush!’ he roared. ‘All ranks, raise shields!’ He lifted his own scutum and ducked down behind it. Where the hell had the archers come from? One thing was certain in his mind: they would not be alone. He would have to seize control, warn Sapho if the situation were not to turn disastrous. A wary glance around the side of his shield made him curse bitterly. It was already too late. Of the six Numidians, only one remained astride his mount. The others were dead, wounded or had been thrown by their injured mounts. Frantic neighs. Bucking, rearing. Roars of pain from the wounded men. Even as Hanno’s mouth opened to order the last horseman to tell Sapho what was going on, a flurry of arrows struck him with soft, sinuous thumps. He went down screaming.

Through the trees, Hanno could see the shapes of men closing in. Legionaries. Scores and scores of the bastards. It was the same on the other side. Already they were outnumbered, and this would be a fraction of the force facing them, of that he had no doubt. Whoever had sprung this ambush had known what he was doing. Like their own trap at Lake Trasimene, it had been timed to perfection. ‘If we fight, we die. Retreating to the river is our only chance,’ he muttered.

‘And if we don’t retreat, the whoresons will stop the mules from crossing, sir,’ added Mutt, appearing by his side.

‘Let’s move. This lot will have orders to cut us off,’ said Hanno. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘About turn! The men on the flanks are to keep their shields high. Those inside, lift yours over your heads. If you want to live, do it fast!’ He shoved his way into the press of soldiers, becoming part of the formation, looking south towards the river. Mutt joined him. Hanno could taste the fear in the air, could see it in some men’s eyes. How quickly the mood could change, he thought, moving his tongue round a suddenly dry mouth. Yet Mutt’s steady presence by his side was calming, and the situation was far from lost. ‘Close order! Forward!’ he shouted. ‘Back to the river, at the double. Back!’

They began to run.

The instant that the Romans saw their purpose, they also charged, towards Hanno’s men. Amid the bouncing of shields and weapons, Hanno observed that these were no new recruits. Everywhere he looked, he could see mail shirts, crested helmets and plenty of long thrusting spears. These were not just principes but triarii, the cream of the Roman fighting force. ‘They’re fucking veterans,’ he growled.

‘The consuls must want to give us a real bloody nose, sir.’ Mutt’s grin was feral. ‘It’s a compliment of a kind.’

‘A compliment I’d rather not receive,’ retorted Hanno, although the knowledge gave him a surreptitious thrill.

The first Romans were spilling on to the road perhaps fifty paces ahead of them. They paid no heed to the last of the mules, who were being whipped onwards by their terrified handlers. Instead they began to form a shield wall, blocking the passage to the river. Hanno could hear their officers roaring encouragement to the men still in the trees. Their chance to break through was slipping away before his very eyes.

‘Form a point, behind me!’ he bellowed, moving to take the most forward position. Hanno could taste the sharp tang of fear in his mouth, but he pushed onward anyway. His men needed to be led from the front. If their resolve wavered, all would be lost. There was a moment when he could feel no one to his rear, and his heart hammered out a new, nervous rhythm. Then Mutt was there, and with him four, five, six others. Relief filled Hanno as the few men became a tide, and their formation assumed an arrowhead shape. He was at the very tip, the most dangerous place to be. That was because they had to succeed. If they didn’t reach Sapho’s phalanx to help defend the mules and their drivers, their plunder would all be lost. The army would go hungry. Worse than that, in Hanno’s mind, Hannibal would know that they had failed. That was not something he was prepared to let happen. Even if it cost him his life. ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘They’re only one or two ranks deep.’

Hanno aimed for the centre of the Roman line. As they drew closer, he had his troops slow down and throw a volley of javelins. They were moving again even as the legionaries responded in kind. ‘Shields up! Draw swords!’ Hanno bellowed and moved on. He was desperate to close with the enemy, but he did not run. If the impact when the two sides met was too powerful, it would knock many men over. Even so, they hit the legionaries with an almighty crash. Hanno hoped that wherever Sapho was, he heard it. Not that his brother would do much about it. The grain was more important than a small number of soldiers. That was the last coherent thought Hanno had. His world narrowed to the few paces in front of him. To the crazed grin on the face of the triarius opposite him, and the spear head that came shoving in, threatening to take out one of his eyes. He raised his shield, felt the thump as the sharp iron struck it.

The triarius tugged on his spear; Hanno held fast to his shield. He realised a heartbeat before his opponent that the blade was stuck. Up he came, like an uncoiling snake. With all his force, he sent his right arm out and around the side of the legionary’s scutum. Metal grated off metal; the tiniest delay, and then his sword was driving deep into the triarius’ belly. Hanno twisted his wrist for good measure, slicing the man’s guts to ribbons. The pressure on his shield suddenly slackened as the screaming triarius let go of his spear. Hanno ripped his weapon free and shoved forward a step with his useless shield. There was no resistance from his dying enemy, yet that did not stop the man in the rank behind from trying to skewer Hanno with his spear. It took every bit of Hanno’s strength to keep up his scutum. A powerful thump; his arm trembled; another impact, which he also resisted. He cursed; the legionary laughed and stabbed at him again; the blade whistled overhead. His enemy had all the advantage; his thrusting spear had a far greater reach than Hanno’s sword. In addition, Hanno would not be able to hold up his shield for much longer; it was front-heavy, thanks to the triarius’ weapon buried in it.

Bending his knees, he drove forward, pushing the mortally wounded triarius backwards and into his current opponent. The startled legionary took a step backwards to avoid being knocked over and Hanno used the opportunity to shove at him again. At this point, the wounded triarius’ strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Hanno was ready; dropping his shield, he trampled over it and the triarius, straight at his comrade behind. Grabbing the rim of the shocked soldier’s scutum, Hanno stabbed him through his open mouth. An odd, choking noise. Spittle and pieces of broken tooth flew; a crimson tide flowed from the man’s lips. His eyes opened wide in momentary disbelief before the light left them forever. Hanno’s blade grated off bone as he tugged it free. Blood sprayed all over his arm: he barely noticed. A quick glance over his shoulder as the legionary collapsed. Mutt was right there; so too were the rest. His heart lifted. They had punched a hole in the Roman line, and their charge yet had momentum.

Eyes to the enemy again. Burning hope filled Hanno. There were only three Romans remaining before him, and they didn’t look too happy. He bared his teeth and roared his fiercest war cry. They flinched, so he added, ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ The cry was taken up at once by his men, and Hanno felt the whole Roman line waver a fraction. The men facing him did not move to the attack, giving him the chance to flip over an undamaged enemy scutum and pick it up. Thus armed, he renewed the fight. His next opponent, a princeps, looked visibly scared but that didn’t mean he was going to run. A brave man, thought Hanno. They went at one another like men possessed, Hanno eager to break through, and the legionary desperate to prevent him from doing so. Clatter, bash. Bash, clatter. Their shield bosses smacked together over and over, each of them trying to destabilise their opponent. One man would thrust; the other would dodge or block the blow. Then the reverse happened. Back and forth they swayed, neither giving ground, neither managing to wound or disable the other.

Hanno’s moment came when the man to the legionary’s right was killed. Hearing his companion’s death rattle, the Roman was unable to stop his eyes from swivelling to see what was happening. Hanno reached down with his sword and stabbed him in the foot. When the legionary staggered backwards, bawling with pain, he followed through with another savage thrust to the belly. There was no mail shirt to stop it this time — the princeps wore only a square pectoral plate — and his blade slid in below it, almost to the hilt.

That was enough for the last legionary, who had been standing just behind his companions. He retreated several steps. Hanno pulled his sword free, stepped over the princeps and into open space. His heart beat even faster. There were still Romans pouring in from either side, yet the road to the river lay wide open now. ‘Mutt!’

From right behind him, ‘Yes, sir?’

‘How are the men doing?’

‘Still moving, sir. A moment or two, and they’ll be through.’

‘FORWARD, LADS!’ Hanno yelled. ‘To the mules!’

An inarticulate roar. He sensed movement behind, took a glance and saw any Romans left in the way being swept aside. Keep moving; they had to keep moving, he thought. Praying that not too many of his men had been lost, Hanno took off at a steady trot. Pila scudded in, but they caused few casualties. A half-hearted charge was made on their left flank by the men emerging from the trees, but it was beaten back by the invigorated Libyans. Hanno grinned, a mad delight coursing through him. He had made it, unharmed. They had taken on veteran legionaries and beaten them!

His pleasure did not endure for long. Their main battle had yet to be won, and from the sounds that carried from the riverbank, the fighting between yet more Romans — the main enemy force, probably — and Sapho’s troops had already begun. He had to stay calm, but it was damn hard. To the rear, he could hear the frenzied shouts of the Roman officers, urging their men to pursue them. Hanno fought his fear. He thought of the grain, and of its importance to the army. He imagined Hannibal hearing of how they had failed. New determination filled him.

He needed every last bit of it as they left the trees. On the far side, he could see a few Libyans, the Numidians and perhaps ten wagons. Nearer, chaos reigned. Slowing, Hanno shouted a curse. The river was clogged with carts trying to get across. Some of the panicked drivers had urged their mules into the water outside the fordable area, forcing them to swim as they pulled their carts. At least one team was in serious difficulty. Men shouted, cracking their whips to no avail. Sprays of water rose up as the mules kicked and struggled against their traces. Frustration coursed through Hanno but he could do nothing about that situation. He wrenched his eyes away, evaluating the rest of the scene. The majority of the wagons were still on his side of the river, clustered in the shallows or on the bank nearby. Sapho’s soldiers were spread out in a thin, protective arc around the vehicles and their precious cargo. Between Hanno and his brother’s phalanx were several hundred Roman legionaries, more triarii and principes from the look of them. Yet more were spilling from the trees to either side. Hanno took solace from the fact that they were still some distance away. He turned, looking for Mutt, and was pleased to find him not two steps away. ‘Move fast and we can hit the lot who are engaging Sapho before the others reach them.’

Mutt produced a rare smile. ‘Sounds like a good idea, sir.’

That was all the encouragement Hanno needed. He eyed the nearest men, gave them an approving look, before raising a hand to his lips. ‘I’m pleased with you so far, lads,’ he cried.

They cheered him for that.

‘The fight’s not nearly over, though. The wagons are still in danger. We’ve got to smash through to our comrades. Think you can do that?’

Their answering shout was twice as loud as the previous one.

‘Quickly, then! Form up, twenty men wide, ten deep, fast as you can! Soldiers without shields and those with wounds are to move back several ranks.’ To Mutt: ‘I want you at the front, five men in from the right edge. I’ll be the same number in from the left side.’

Mutt nodded, the understanding clear in his eyes. They were to use themselves as focuses for the soldiers at the very front, none of whom would be any further than five men away from either. If the strategy worked, it would ensure that their line held.

If it didn’t, they were damned, thought Hanno. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he bawled, seeing the enemy reinforcements picking up speed. They had been spotted. ‘Move!’

They covered the distance to the river at full pelt. Shields high, swords ready, screaming blue murder at the Romans. Cheered by their success in smashing through the triarii, they forgot how much their armour and weapons weighed, allowed the temporary madness of the charge to take over. Hanno had to give the legionaries credit; they reacted fast, the rearmost soldiers wheeling about to face them with minimal fuss. There seemed to be no triarii present, for which he was grateful. As he’d just discovered, the thrusting spears used by those veterans were deadly at close quarters against men armed with swords.

As Hanno had hoped, Sapho led his troops forward as he and his soldiers struck the Romans from behind. Despite the fact that their comrades were advancing from the trees, the phalanxes’ combined strength was enough to panic the legionaries, who broke away after just a short period of fighting. Scores of casualties were left behind. Ordering that the enemy wounded be killed, Hanno sought out Sapho. They would have a brief chance to confer before the Romans regrouped and attacked again.

‘We could have done without this,’ growled Hanno.

‘Baal Hammon damn their eyes. Their scouts must have seen us, or a quick-thinking farmer. They weren’t far away either, to be able to get into position so fast. Still, we’ll hold them until the grain gets across, eh?’ His brother’s eyes had a dangerous glint to them.

‘We’ll have to,’ replied Hanno grimly. He’d seen that the carts with amphorae were being held back so that those laden down with wheat could go first.

‘Good.’ Sapho thumped him on the arm.

‘What about the wine and oil?’

A harsh laugh. ‘Let’s see how the land lies then!’

‘Fine.’ Hanno asked the gods that no more enemy troops arrived other than the ones already present. With a little luck, they would manage to see every wagon to the far bank and escape themselves. The Numidians’ presence would severely reduce the likelihood of any pursuit. If any Romans were foolish enough to ford the river, they would be met by a cavalry charge. That would be followed by a frontal assault by both phalanxes. Get to the other side, and we’ll be fine, thought Hanno. That’s all we have to do. Yet the enemy soldiers massing not a hundred paces away were evidence that doing so would not be quite that simple.

‘I want your phalanx on the right. I’ll take the left. Don’t give any ground if you can help it. The wagons need plenty of space to move around each other.’

‘We’ve got our orders, men,’ shouted Hanno, pointing. ‘Form up in lines. About face so that you’re looking at the Romans. Then I want you over this way. Move it!’

His soldiers needed no further prompting. In good order, they did as he’d ordered. With Mutt’s assistance, Hanno directed them to their new position, which extended in an arc from the riverbank outside the last wagon to the midpoint of the road, where they came up against Sapho’s troops. There were sufficient numbers to stand three deep, no more. It wasn’t enough, thought Hanno, doing a rough head count, but he now had only 180 or so men. Ten Libyans were held back as a reserve. It was a pitiful number but even those few weakened his lines more than he liked.

They had barely finished when a couple of trumpets blared and the Romans began to move forward. There were hundreds of them, perhaps twice as many as the two phalanxes combined. Hanno sensed rather than saw his soldiers’ apprehension. ‘Hold the line, boys!’ he roared. ‘If that grain gets recaptured, we’ll definitely go hungry tonight.’

‘What about the wine, sir?’ yelled Mutt. ‘Surely that’s more important?’

That raised a laugh, and Hanno threw his second-in-command a grateful look.

‘To some of you drunkards, perhaps! If you want that as well, we’ll have to hold the crossing for a while yet.’

‘We can do it, sir,’ cried Mutt, beginning to clash his sword off the metal rim of his scutum. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’

The delighted Libyans began to copy Mutt. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ they shouted.

Hanno couldn’t help but smile. If that was what would make them stand, so be it. To uncomprehending ears such as the Romans, the refrain sounded as fearsome as many a battle cry. He let them shout for a few moments before he held up a hand for quiet. ‘Anyone with pila, pass them to the men in front. Wait for my command to throw.’ When that had been done, he glanced to either side with a smile and roared, ‘WINE!’

They continued to hurl their challenge at the Romans until there were no more than fifty paces between the two sides. Then it died away. At once, fear tinged the air. Hanno clenched his jaw. He didn’t like the unnerving silence with which the legionaries advanced either. ‘Ready javelins,’ he yelled, dragging his men’s attention back to him. ‘Throw when I say, not a moment before. To help your aim, I’ll give a measure of wine to every man who hits one of the enemy.’

The Libyans still with pila began to whoop with excitement, mocking their companions who were without.

Hanno studied the legionaries closely as they advanced. Thirty paces was about the furthest a man could expect to hurl a javelin with any accuracy. Even closer was better, but that required more nerve, and the distinct possibility that an enemy volley would land first, with the potential to cause mayhem. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.

On the Romans came. Hanno’s mouth was dry again, damn it, and his heart was hammering out a beat like a maniac smith on an anvil. Twenty. Finally, the enemy came within range. He hadn’t uttered a word when a single pilum soared up into the air. It came down just short of the Roman front rank. Derisive laughter from the legionaries followed in its wake. Hanno leaned forward, glaring at the men to his left, whence it had come. ‘I said, wait for my order! Every bloody missile counts!’

Another ten steps and the Roman officers had their men launch a volley of pila. Hanno roared the command to raise shields; he heard Sapho doing the same. The javelins came humming down in a blur of wood and metal. Thump. Thump. Thump. A few soldiers in Hanno’s phalanx were wounded; only one seriously. With their missiles thrown, the Romans began to move faster, but Hanno was ready. ‘Quickly now, boys. LOOSE!’

The Libyans’ pila rose up in answer; they arced down, banging into shields — and a few unlucky legionaries. The volley had little impact on the Roman formation, Hanno saw, but at least it had kept his men focused on the task at hand. ‘Close order!’ he shouted. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’

His soldiers took up his chant with gusto.

The moments that followed were a blur. Hanno traded blows with a number of Romans. He thrust with his sword and battered with his scutum, bared his teeth and shrieked at the top of his voice. He even spat in the face of one legionary in an attempt to anger him enough to make a mistake. The ruse worked. When the furious man raised his arm to hack at Hanno, Hanno was able to slide his blade into the man’s armpit, ending his life at a stroke. Blood from the resulting wound spattered him in the face, but Hanno had no chance to wipe it away. The space occupied by the legionary had already been taken by another man. That fight went his way when the Roman lost his balance on something underfoot — his comrade’s body? — and Hanno chopped a savage wound in the side of his neck. He was vaguely aware that the couple of soldiers to either side were holding their own but he had no idea what was happening beyond that. A large part of him didn’t care. He’d begun imposing Pera’s features on each of the men he faced. Hanno wanted to kill every last one of them. Managing to dampen his rage after downing his third opponent, he ordered the Libyan behind him to take his place. Hanno shoved his way back to a spot where he could see what was going on.

Their line was bowed in a couple of places but, to his amazement, it was holding. So was Sapho’s. His head swivelled to the river. The carts that had been in difficulty had been pulled out. Another ten or so wagons had crossed. Perhaps twenty remained, half of which contained sacks of grain. The rest were loaded with wine or oil. Go on! Hanno willed them all to make to the other side.

A sudden commotion to his right; he looked, cursed and ordered the reserve to the attack. Led by an officer in a horsehair-crested helmet, a handful of triarii had smashed through his lines close to the river. Hanno led the way, aware that if the group weren’t contained immediately, they would enlarge the hole that they’d made and the battle would be lost. Hanno was proud of his soldiers in the short, savage bout that ensued. No mercy was asked for or given. The Libyans fought like demons, cutting down every Roman with the loss of only one of their own number. Covered in even more blood than before, sweat running down their faces, chests heaving, they looked at each other in disbelief when it was over. Hanno was the first to start laughing. He was aware that there was a note of mania to his voice, but he didn’t care. In a heartbeat, his men were also roaring with laughter, as if they’d seen a hilarious practical joke played on someone.

There was another breakthrough almost at once. Hanno stayed with the reserve from then on. That attack and another one were repulsed before his strength began to falter. His shield felt as if it were a wooden practice one, his sword as if it were made of lead. Eyeing the others sidelong, he saw the exhaustion creeping into their faces too. The Roman attack showed no signs of abating. Trumpet calls even signified that reinforcements might be arriving. Fingers of desperation tickled the back of Hanno’s neck; bile rose in his throat. His gaze moved to where Sapho’s phalanx stood. They looked no less hard-pressed. If anything, they had given way a little: their lines were closer to the remaining wagons — seven in total — than his soldiers were.

As he wondered what to do, the decision was taken from his hands.

‘Cavalry, sir!’ Mutt roared. ‘Cavalry coming!’

Hanno elbowed his way through to where Mutt stood. His heart sank as he took in the horsemen trotting from the point where the road exited the trees. In good order, on fresh mounts, armed with thrusting spears, they would be unstoppable. ‘Shit.’

‘A big fat, smelly shit, sir,’ said Mutt in his usual sombre tone. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Start to fall back,’ replied Hanno at once. He would have preferred to confer with Sapho, but by the time he did that, the enemy horsemen would be upon them. ‘I want deeper ranks — five would be good. Any pila on the ground are to be picked up. Have the men at the front use them to keep off the cavalry. The phalanx is to move back at an angle so that the last few wagons have a chance to reach the ford. Sapho will see what we’re doing, if he’s not already doing the same.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Mutt moved out of rank and off to their right, bellowing orders. Hanno did the same to his left. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the enemy. Hope gripped him. The legionaries were holding back, clearly waiting for the cavalry to charge before they attacked again. If they seized their chance, they might pull it off yet. ‘Assume five-rank depth, quickly. Grab any javelins you see,’ he growled. ‘Hand them to the men at the front. When you’ve done that, I want you to start walking backwards, towards those wagons. Keep your eyes on the enemy. Be ready for the Roman horse.’

His soldiers moved fast, but that didn’t stop Hanno’s stomach from twisting in knots. Perhaps one man in three had a pilum now, and that wasn’t enough to stop a cavalry charge. To stand against such an attack, infantry formations needed so many spears protruding that they resembled a hedgehog. Without that protection, foot soldiers would break before a sustained cavalry assault. Hanno hated the inevitability of it. Unless they could make it to the river, many of them were about to die. Baal Hammon, watch over us, he prayed.

They shuffled towards the ford, Hanno directing operations from the left of the front rank, Mutt aiding him from a similar position on the far right. Hanno thanked the gods when he saw that Sapho’s phalanx was also retreating. He twisted his head to eye the soldier behind him. ‘What are the wagons doing? Pass it on.’

The word moved swiftly to the back rank, and returned as fast. ‘Five wagons left on this bank, sir, the first of which is about to enter the water.’

The grain was across, thought Hanno with satisfaction. Yet part of him didn’t want to give up until all of their booty had been transferred to the far bank. Was there time? His gaze returned to the front; he cursed. There were mutters of dismay from among his men, and their lines wavered a little. The enemy cavalry had seen through their plan and were advancing at a walk. After a few paces, this became a trot. ‘Back,’ roared Hanno. ‘Move back. Closer to the wagons!’ Against them, they would have some chance of holding back the Roman horses. A fierce hunger to succeed against the odds swelled in his heart.

That was when he glanced to his left and was stunned to see the other phalanx breaking apart. Sapho’s soldiers were turning and running. They were perhaps thirty paces from the water’s edge, so there was every chance of making it before the Roman cavalry arrived. For an instant, Hanno watched in utter disbelief. Why hadn’t he been told? It felt as if they had been abandoned — and that was without the thought that they could have held the Romans back. Furious now, he tried to catch a glimpse of his brother amid the chaos, but failed. He dragged his attention back to his own unit, which was further from the water. Despite his wish to save the last wagons, Hanno would have to copy what Sapho had done, or he risked not just enflankment by the enemy on his unprotected side, but being completely overrun.

His mouth had opened to issue the command when horror filled him. The Roman horse had been urged into a full charge. The ground rumbled with the thunder of hooves. Interspersed in the din, he could hear the cavalrymen shouting encouragement at each other. If he ordered his troops to retreat now, they would be cut down in their droves. What other choice did they have, though? Fuck you, Sapho, he thought furiously. Why didn’t you wait? If we had regrouped around the wagons, it would have given most of the men the opportunity to ford the river. Now, he had no choice.

‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Retreat! Into the river! Retain your weapons!’

The Libyans did not need telling twice. They spun, cursed as they banged into one another, elbowed slower men out of the way. Then, in a disorganised mass, they ran. Many disregarded Hanno’s order and dropped their shields and swords. He cursed them roundly, but it was easy to understand their panic. There were few troops in the world who could stand fast against a wave of charging horsemen. The fact that most horses would not crash into a mass of soldiers was irrelevant. The threat of being trampled to death was enough, Hanno thought bitterly as men streamed away to either side. He would not run, however. ‘Give me that!’ He made to grab a pilum from a bearded Libyan, one of his oldest veterans. Shamefaced, the man paused. ‘What are you going to do, sir?’

‘Stay here. Defend my men.’

‘That’s a death sentence, sir.’

‘Maybe so.’ Hanno tugged on the javelin shaft, but to his surprise, the Libyan didn’t let go.

‘I’ll stay as well, sir.’

Hanno could see the fear bright in the soldier’s eyes, but his chin was firm. He released his grip. ‘Very well. Grab a couple of others if you can. Only those with javelins. When the Romans get close, run right at them, screaming like a lunatic. Take down the riders, but if you can’t, stab their horses. Do it quick, and move on to the next one. Kill or wound as many as you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hanno gave him a tight nod, and the man vanished. A glance at the Romans. A savage oath. They were less than fifty paces away, pounding in at a full gallop. Hanno tried to ignore his fear and thought of how many of his men might get away if they could just break the enemy line. It was an insane thought, but something wouldn’t let him run. Hannibal would have to acknowledge his bravery if he did this. Sheathing his bloody sword, he scooped up a discarded pilum. He caught the attention of another Libyan who had not fled. This man was wounded in the leg, which explained why he’d stayed. Hanno gave him a fierce grin. ‘Ready to give the whoresons a bloody nose?’

An eager nod. ‘Aye, sir!’

Just before the Romans hit, Hanno saw Mutt nearby. A handful of men armed with pila were clustered around him. He felt no surprise, just an overwhelming sense of comradeship with his dour second-in-command. One last look over his shoulder: a sense of relief. Perhaps half his men were already in the river. Sapho’s troops, who had been closer to the water, would be faring even better. Their total casualties would not be catastrophic. By anyone’s standards, the patrol had been a success — even if he didn’t survive it. Hanno readied his javelin as if it were a spear, preparing to sell his life dearly.

The Romans were very close now. He could see their faces clearly, hear their triumphant war cries. They were definitely citizens, not socii. Their mounts were of good quality, sturdy little horses that looked well trained. Most of the riders wore Boeotian helmets and mail shirts; a good number were armed with gladii as well as thrusting spears. All carried small round shields. They rode close together, their mounts’ shoulders only a few paces apart. It was like facing a fast-moving wall of metal and muscle. Hanno’s bladder threatened to empty itself, but he shoved the urge away and raised his shield. ‘They won’t like foot soldiers launching a counter-attack,’ he shouted to the injured Libyan. ‘Forward!’

It felt insane not to turn and run, but he advanced anyway. From the corner of his eye, Hanno saw the Libyan limping after him. Beyond that, Mutt and his companions were also moving forward. A cracked, manic cry left Hanno’s throat. It was born of fear, desperation, the shreds of his courage, and a tinge of sheer bravado. Aiming his javelin at the rider who looked most likely to strike him, a long-legged man close to his own age, he trotted on. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ he yelled.

The Roman looked startled to see him running in, but he quickly regained control. He levelled his spear at Hanno’s head. His horse whinnied and slowed down, however, disconcerted by the approach of a screaming man bearing a large shield. Hanno drew nearer, still shouting and praying the other enemy horses didn’t knock him down, or their riders stab him in the back. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ He could scarcely hear his own voice above the sound of pounding hooves.

The Roman’s spear came thrusting down at his face. Hanno met it with his shield, at the same time peeping around its side. A quick jab with his javelin and the head sank into the cavalryman’s thigh. A piercing cry of pain rent the air; the spear fell from the man’s nerveless hand as he toppled off his mount. Hanno didn’t go after him; instead he wheeled and plunged his pilum into the chest of a passing horse. It was a foolish move. Although the beast staggered and threw its rider, it wrenched the javelin from his hand. He caught a brief glance of its shaft bending in two as the horse rolled over and then it was gone.

His eyes shot over the ground, between the legs of passing riders and steeds, searching frantically for another weapon. A whistle in the air. Hanno ducked instinctively, and the spear that would have skewered him between the shoulder blades screeched off the top of his helmet instead. Even as he tried to turn, a massive weight barged him sideways, unbalancing him. He saw sky, a horse, a snarling face, and then the ground hit him very hard. A hoof clashed off his helmet.

Hanno’s world went black.

When he came to, the Roman riders were still riding past, so he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. Some hundred paces away, a line of legionaries was advancing in his general direction. Shouts and the clash of weapons carried from the riverbank. Stars spun across his vision, and his head felt as if it were about to burst. There was a massive dent in the top of his helmet, but it was still in place, which was probably the reason he was alive. With difficulty, Hanno undid the chinstrap and eased it off. Cool air ruffled his sweat-soaked hair. The movement sent knives of pain lancing into his brain, and he bit back a curse. Yet it had to come off. Any legionary who saw its shape would know him for a Carthaginian. Without it, in his cuirass, he could perhaps pass for a Roman officer. He had to play dead first, though. The enemy riders had passed by; he just had to escape the infantry’s attention. With a few tugs, he managed to pull the corpse of a cavalryman on top of himself. It was a relief to close his eyes. Hanno wanted to go to sleep, to have his headache disappear, but there was no chance of that. The harsh taste of fear was too strong in his mouth. If a single Roman stopped to look at him, he was a dead man. Stay calm. Breathe slowly and deeply.

The best thing to do might have been to lie there until it was dark, but Hanno felt that to be the act of a coward. He wanted to cross the river, be there with his men when they marched back into their camp, when they received Hannibal’s accolade. He listened with all his might, not moving a muscle as the legionaries tramped past, some distance to his right. When the sounds had diminished, he waited a little longer before shoving the body to one side. Lifting his head a fraction, he peered around. To his relief, he was entirely behind the Roman troops. There was no sign of any more emerging from the road or the trees either.

Hanno struggled to his feet, drew his sword, picked up a scutum. A few paces away, he spotted the body of the bearded Libyan; beside him lay the man who’d been wounded in the leg. Both were covered in wounds. He felt sad but proud of the pair. Welcome them into the afterlife, Hanno asked the gods, for they have earned it. Throwing back his shoulders, he tramped after the enemy soldiers as confidently as he could. Anger flared in his belly. In front of the legionaries, the shapes of the cavalry swirled back and forth, the riders hacking down with their swords from time to time. Some of his Libyans clearly hadn’t made it into the water. The infantry would be closing in, intent on finishing them off. Hanno wanted to run, to join in the fight, but he knew that for a pointless way to die. His purpose was to survive. He ensured that his pace was measured, regular.

As he reached the mass of Roman troops, his heart rose to his mouth but to stop might draw attention, so he kept moving, right into the midst of the enemy. The fighting seemed to have eased or even ended, and their formation had broken up. Small groups of men trotted to and fro, killing wounded Libyans or looting the dead. Others were being directed by their officers to turn the carts that had been abandoned around. A few had even downed their shields and were slaking their thirst from wine skins. Everyone was intent on his own purpose. Muttering a prayer for himself this time, Hanno ducked his head and threaded his way through the confusion. It didn’t take him that long to near the riverbank. A generous coating of bodies, both dead and injured, covered the ground. Unsurprisingly, most of them were Libyan. Hanno’s eyes studied each as he passed; his heart bled as he recognised numerous soldiers from his phalanx. To his immense relief, he saw none with non-mortal wounds. He didn’t know if he could have left such a man behind.

On the other side, the wagons were moving off, guarded by some of the Libyans who had made it across. A rearguard remained, safely out of javelin range, perhaps a hundred soldiers and all of the Numidians. Hanno recognised a familiar figure at the Libyans’ head: Mutt. At least his second-in-command had made it, he thought with some satisfaction. He glanced at the ford. None of the Romans were attempting to cross, but there were far too many of them standing around for him to be able to enter the water at that point. There was nothing for it: he would have to swim. That meant taking off his cuirass. In his current state, Hanno didn’t feel strong enough to brave the crossing with its extra weight. By removing his armour, however, he would expose himself as an enemy. The Romans would turn on him like a pack of feral dogs. He swallowed. Just act as if everything is entirely normal, he decided.

Heart pounding, Hanno walked to a point on the bank where there were fewer legionaries, shedding his baldric as he did. At the water’s edge, he didn’t look back. Fiddling with the buckles at the side of his cuirass, he undid them. He reached for the upper ones. The effort — and the pain that caused — was too much for him. He paused, waiting until his strength returned a little.

‘You! What in Pluto’s name do you think you’re doing?’

Panic constricted Hanno’s throat. With a final effort, he managed to undo the last buckle. The breastplate dropped from his arms, landing at his feet with a metallic thump. Angry shouts came from his rear; he heard the noise of men running towards him. He didn’t dare to check how close they were. Taking a deep breath, he jumped in, feet first. The river was much colder than he’d remembered. Coming up to the surface in a fountain of water, he took in a lungful of air and began swimming for the opposite bank. By now, he could hear a chorus of angry voices behind him. Don’t let any of them come after me, he begged. He hadn’t the reserves left to fight another man, out of his depth. A familiar sound, a rush of air, and a pilum hit the surface not five paces to his left. His head twisted. A line of legionaries had formed, several of whom had javelins. Wagers and jokes were being traded over who would hit him first. Nausea washed over Hanno. They were no more than fifteen paces away — easy killing range.

Damn them all, he thought, turning away and kicking his arms and legs. On he swam, expecting with each heartbeat to feel the agony of a pilum striking him in the back. Five strokes. Ten. In the distance, Hanno heard more shouts. They might have been from the Carthaginian side of the river, but he wasn’t sure. Another javelin hit the water behind him. At last he drew close enough to the bank to try putting his feet down. The feeling of mud beneath his feet was incredible, euphoric. Only the luckiest of throws would hit him at this stage.

‘Let’s get you out of there.’

Shocked, Hanno looked up to see a hand reaching down to him. Incredibly, it belonged to Mutt.

The hand beckoned. ‘It’s not a bath you’re having! Come on, sir.’

‘Thank you!’ Grinning like a fool, Hanno reached up and accepted the grip. As Mutt heaved him on to dry land, he saw a dozen or more Numidians riding up and down, hurling abuse and spears in equal measure at the Romans. The legionaries had prudently withdrawn out of range. ‘I reckon that makes us even, eh?’

A rare smile. ‘Maybe, sir.’

‘You saw me, then?’

Mutt led him away from the bank. ‘One of the lads did, sir. I thought he was making it up, but the spray of water you sent up gave the lie to that. Only one of our lot would have jumped in the water, so I told the Numidians to give whoever it was covering volleys of spears. For all Sapho’s orders, I couldn’t just ignore the poor bastard — you, sir.’ Mutt chuckled. ‘Begging your pardon.’

‘Sapho’s orders?’ repeated Hanno stupidly.

‘Yes, sir. Once we’d reached this side, I sent word to him that you weren’t with us and asking for permission to lead a group back over to look for you.’

Hanno’s heart filled. ‘Wanting to die today, were you?’

‘I didn’t get the chance, sir. Sapho said that the grain was all that mattered now and that we had to move it fast, in case the Romans crossed the river.’

‘Harsh, but true,’ muttered Hanno. He caught the way Mutt’s mouth turned down. ‘What?’ There was no immediate answer, so he asked again.

‘He didn’t seem overly concerned that it was you I was talking about, sir,’ admitted Mutt reluctantly. ‘It was as if you were just another soldier, not his brother.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Hanno, brushing it off. ‘It’s not as if he had time to sit and think about it. There was every possibility that the Romans would counter-attack, that he might still lose the grain. His priority was to see it delivered to our camp, nothing else.’

‘If you say so, sir.’ Mutt’s face told a different story, however.

Hanno refused to give credence to the idea that Sapho might have wished him ill when he’d ordered his phalanx to retreat without warning. It was too shocking, too harsh. He shoved the matter from his mind as they walked slowly towards the rearguard. The grain and wine had not been lost; the army would be fed. He was alive. Not too many of their men had been lost. Hannibal would be pleased.

That was what was important. That was enough.