Fields of Blood

Chapter VI

Near Arretium, north-central Italy

Unsurprisingly, Calatinus wasn’t too happy about Quintus’ plan. They’d had their first real argument over it, but Quintus would not back down. As a placatory gesture, he’d asked Calatinus to come with him, but his friend had laughed. ‘If you think I’m going to give up being a cavalryman to become a veles, you’re insane.’ Calatinus had thought for a moment. ‘Clearly, you are insane, or you wouldn’t be doing this. Desertion is a serious crime. The oath you swore when you enlisted in the cavalry hasn’t been set aside yet, remember?’

‘I’ll still be serving,’ Quintus had shot back.

‘Your father won’t know that. No one will, except me, and I won’t be able to say. You’ll be called a traitor, and worse. All that risk, when you might well be back serving within the year?’

‘What if Hannibal is defeated in the next few months? I would forever be known in Capua as the man-child sent home by his father, who missed all the fighting. Could you live with that?’

Calatinus had seen the resolve in his eyes and thrown his hands in the air. ‘You’re going on your own. I’m having nothing to do with it.’

‘Fine,’ Quintus had said, more determined than ever. The draw of fighting with men who hadn’t run away from the Carthaginians was too great, especially when compared to helping run the family farm, which is what his mother would have him do. His fear that he would be known as someone who had not quite done his duty was very real. More than once, he had heard of the guilt suffered by soldiers who had missed a critical battle through injury.

They had got drunk together afterwards, and the following morning, when they’d had to leave, there had been no hard feelings. Calatinus had sworn not to say a word to anyone. Two days out from Flaminius’ camp — Quintus had ridden with his friend ostensibly to spend a last period of time together — he stopped to answer a call of nature and casually told the others not to wait for him. Calatinus had whispered a blessing and then ridden off with a cheery wave, saying he didn’t want to be around to smell the results of Quintus’ efforts.

Quintus waited for a short while before he headed back the way they had come. He rode hard but with care, moving off the road if he saw any Roman troops. Until he got close to the camp, it was imperative that he avoid being seen by anyone in Flaminius’ forces. After the comradeship of the previous months, it was odd sleeping out in the open and alone, but solitude, a little fire and the sound of wolves howling from the nearby mountains soon won him over. The following day, he rode to within five miles of Flaminius’ camp before reluctantly setting free his mount. There was little else he could do with it. He had to appear as poor as possible. With a little luck, the animal would be caught by a patrol. His few personal possessions were with Calatinus, and in the shelter of a thicket, he dumped his helmet, spear and shield, retaining only a simple dagger. Quintus stripped naked and donned his oldest clothes: a worn licium, or undergarment, and a roughly spun, off-white wool tunic. He even threw away his beloved calf-high leather boots in favour of a pair of caligae that he’d bought a few days earlier.

The magnitude of what he was about to do began to sink in as he set out on the road once more. The first patrol that passed by, a troop of Numidians, almost rode him down when Quintus didn’t move out of the way in time. A group of hastati were next, tramping by without so much as a second glance. Quintus doubted that many of them even saw him. His determination faltered a little. The things that he had thought about — dreaded — were about to become reality. He was starting life at the bottom of the social ladder. Apart from the few slaves in camp, everyone would regard him as inferior. It would take months, if not years, to achieve any kind of recognition. That was if he wasn’t killed in the first battle he took part in. Casualty rates among velites were often high. Quintus rallied his courage. I should have died at the Trebia, he told himself, but I didn’t. There’s no reason to suppose I’ll do so any quicker as a skirmisher. By doing this, I get to stay and fight Hannibal instead of being stuck at home. The certainty that he was doing the right thing solidified.

Quintus couldn’t help but think of his father, incandescent with fury, hearing the news that he hadn’t arrived home. It was very satisfying and brought a smile to his face. Seeing the gates of the camp, his pace increased. When he reached the velites on the gate, his pretence would begin. Quintus’ nerves jangled, but he had his story ready. They would ask what his business was, and he’d tell them that he was one of Fabricius’ servants. That would be enough to get him inside, to gain an audience with an officer. Then he’d find a section of velites. He wanted to approach the skirmishers who were attached to a maniple of triarii or principes, but there was no way that would work. As a ‘raw’ recruit with no officer to sponsor him, he would have to join the velites who served with a unit of hastati. On the upside, that meant he could seek out Corax, who had seemed a decent sort.

He found the centurion easily enough this time. As was standard, the tents of the maniple’s two centuries faced each other across a rectangular space perhaps a hundred paces in width. The side nearest the camp avenue lay open. Opposite it were the maniple’s wagons and mule pens. Corax was sitting by a table outside his large tent, spooning stew into his mouth. The other manipular centurion sat alongside, hacking a small loaf into pieces with a dagger. A servant was pouring wine. No one noticed Quintus, which made him even more nervous. He kept moving, until eventually the second centurion, a blocky man with receding black hair, looked up with a frown. ‘What do you want?’

‘I came to have a word with Centurion Corax, sir, if I may.’

Corax threw him a casual glance. ‘Do I know you?’

‘I met you once before, sir, during the winter,’ said Quintus, keeping his accent coarse. ‘I brought a message. You mentioned that there were places for men like me in the velites.’

Corax put down his spoon and eyed him up and down. ‘Ah, yes. You’re the servant of that cavalry commander.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Please don’t ask me about him, thought Quintus, his heart racing. With any luck, Corax would have forgotten his father’s name.

‘So you’ve changed your mind, eh?’

Quintus had his story ready. ‘It’s time for me to do my bit, sir. Hannibal has to be stopped, or the whole of the Republic could go up in flames.’

A nod of approval. ‘Has your master given his consent?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus threw up another prayer that there were no more questions.

‘You have no farm, no land?’

‘My father works a tiny patch, sir, but it’s not worth much. He has to work on the local estate to make ends meet,’ lied Quintus, humbly. He couldn’t make any pretence of being richer, in case Corax asked him to prove his status.

‘As I thought. What’s your name? Where are you from?’

‘Quintus Crespo, sir,’ said Quintus. He couldn’t use his real family name just in case his father ever heard it. ‘I’m from near Capua.’

‘What age are you?’

‘Eighteen, sir.’ There was a short pause, and Quintus began to feel sick.

‘Clearly, there’s no chance of taking your oath in Rome, so you can enlist right now.’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Quintus couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

‘Sixteen years you’ll be signing up for.’ Corax’s deep-set eyes regarded him unwaveringly.

‘Maybe twenty — if we don’t defeat Hannibal soon,’ added the other centurion with a laugh.

‘It won’t take that long to beat the gugga, sir,’ Quintus declared.

‘Not with you in our army, eh?’ The centurion chuckled, and Quintus flushed.

‘He’s eager, Pullo. Nothing wrong with that.’ Corax stood up and approached Quintus. ‘Ready?’

Quintus swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Repeat after me: I, a citizen of the Republic. .’

‘I, a citizen of the Republic. .’ said Quintus.

‘. . swear to bear allegiance to the Republic, and to defend it against its enemies.’ Corax paused to let Quintus echo his words. ‘I will obey my officers, and execute their orders as far as is in my power. This I swear before the sacred triad of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva.’

Worrying about how his new promise might affect the vow he’d made when first enlisting, Quintus repeated the last words. With luck, he thought, the gods would see his desire to fight for Rome as more important than the fact that he had disobeyed his father’s orders, thereby effectively deserting from the cavalry. Acid roiled in his belly. He had to hope that they didn’t disapprove, or he’d be a dead man in the first action he saw.

‘Excellent.’ Corax clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the velites, Crespo, and to my maniple!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Quintus, feeling his nerves settle a little.

‘First things first. You need to be assigned to a tent unit. Then a trip to the quartermaster to get your equipment and weapons. Your training starts tomorrow.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Corax pointed. ‘Do you see the mule pens on this side?’

Quintus peered. ‘I do, sir.’

‘The velites’ tents are down there, beside them.’

Where the smell of piss and manure will be strongest, thought Quintus. ‘I see them, sir.’

‘The second last tent is one man down. Go and make yourself known. One of the others will tell you where to find the stores. I will see you at dawn tomorrow. Dismissed.’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Quintus saluted, turned about face and walked off. ‘The lad is still wet behind the ears,’ he heard Pullo say. His anger flared, but he kept walking.

‘Maybe so, but he’s eager. I think he’ll do all right,’ replied Corax.

Quintus’ fury subsided. Corax saw something in him. It was up to him to prove it to the centurion, and to the gods, so that they let him get away with breaking his cavalry oath.

A few hastati nodded as he passed, or muttered a greeting, but most gave him nothing more than a hard stare. Quintus stopped smiling, and set a scowl to his face. Life here wasn’t going to be easy.

Outside the second last tent, half a dozen young men in dirty tunics sat in a circle, finishing off the last of their meal. No stew, as Corax and Pullo had had. It looked to be bread and cheese. A couple of them looked up.

‘Centurion Corax sent me,’ said Quintus.

‘Oh yes?’ sneered a tall soldier with vivid blond hair. ‘To kiss my arse?’

‘I’ve just joined. Crespo is the name.’

‘What do I care?’

‘I’m to sleep in this tent.’

There were universal groans. ‘Bloody typical. Just as we’re getting used to a little more space, Corax has to ruin it,’ complained a short man with ears like jug handles.

Quintus was confused.

The short man explained. ‘There are eight hastati to a contubernium, but not when it comes to the velites. Your arrival brings us back to full strength, so ten of us have to sleep in that.’ He jabbed a thumb at the tent behind him. ‘Someone like Rutilus here’ — and he indicated an effeminate-looking man — ‘doesn’t mind, but the rest of us find it a tight fit.’

There were loud chortles, and Rutilus shrugged. ‘What can I say? I love it.’

‘Arse-lover,’ snarled the tall soldier.

‘Don’t worry, Macerio, I don’t find you attractive,’ retorted Rutilus. ‘You won’t ever find me crawling into your blankets. Unless you ask, of course.’

‘Watch your mouth!’ Macerio lunged forward, but Rutilus danced out of range.

More laughter, and Quintus smiled.

‘You think it’s funny, do you?’ Macerio’s attention was on him like that of a hawk.

A first test. Although Macerio was bigger than him, it was vital that he wasn’t seen as a pushover. ‘It was amusing, yes,’ Quintus replied calmly.

Macerio came at Quintus with swinging fists. ‘Time you learned a lesson in manners then, new boy!’

‘This is stupid.’ Quintus backed away from the first punches, but Macerio followed, scorn twisting his face.

‘Look, lads! We’ve got ourselves a coward as a tent mate.’

Quintus thought of the ambush he’d survived, and of the Trebia, where he’d stood his ground until his father had led him away. His blood boiled. For all he knew, Macerio hadn’t even been in the velites then. ‘I’m no coward!’

‘No?’ Macerio jabbed at his face, one-two. The second half connected with Quintus’ cheek, sending stars shooting across his vision. He dodged backwards. ‘No!’ he growled. Worry clawed at him. If he lost, his life in the velites would be even more of a struggle. He had to win. Anger makes a man lose his cool, he thought. ‘You know what? Rutilus was being kind. You’re the ugliest son of a whore I’ve seen in many a day. Who’d want to fuck you?’

‘Cocksucker!’ Spittle flew from Macerio’s lips.

‘Get him, Macerio!’ a man called out.

Quintus heard at least two others voicing their support. Other than the fact that it wouldn’t have been Rutilus, he had no time to dwell on who the tall man’s allies might be. His reach was less than Macerio’s, so he was going to have to close to make contact. Protecting his face with his fists and hunching his shoulders, Quintus went on the attack. He moved so fast that Macerio was caught off guard. A punch whistled over his head, and then he was through. Thump, thump. He landed two solid blows on Macerio’s belly. There was a squawk of pain. Quintus delivered another punch for good measure before bobbing away on dancing feet. Hopefully, that would teach Macerio to leave him alone.

‘You bastard!’ wheezed Macerio, his eyes bulging with anger.

‘You started it,’ Quintus replied, rubbing his bruised cheek.

‘Aye, and I’m going to finish it.’ Enraged, Macerio came on again.

Quintus cursed silently. He should have put Macerio on the floor. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. They traded blows for a time, neither able to gain an advantage over the other. Macerio’s right fist was lethally fast. He caught Quintus a couple of times with it in the side of the head, leaving a ringing in his ears. A few more of those, Quintus thought, and the fight would be over. Concerned that his new life would be made infinitely harder if Macerio won, he resolved to win by whatever means necessary. It wasn’t as if the blond-haired man wouldn’t act in the same way. Quintus had narrowly avoided a kick in the balls a moment before, and he’d seen Macerio throwing meaningful looks at his watching comrades. If I’m not careful, thought Quintus, a shove in the back from one of them will give the prick all the advantage he needs.

Quintus never usually fought dirty, but being outnumbered so greatly really made him want to hurt Macerio. He scooped up a short, bent nail from the ground, the likes of which were used to scratch an owner’s initials on his equipment.

Macerio’s expression turned evil. ‘Going to try and blind me with a handful of dirt, are you?’ His gaze shifted. ‘Knock the fucker over if you get a chance, lads!’

Several men cheered, and Quintus’ stomach twisted. Macerio hadn’t seen the nail, but he had still just made things worse for himself. There was nothing for it. Using the nail was imperative now. He launched a ferocious attack on Macerio, throwing punch after punch with his left fist, but saving his right, which held the nail. Surprised, the blond-haired man fell back before his assault, and Quintus managed to thump him hard in the belly several times. Macerio’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, and Quintus took his chance. With the nail protruding between his second and third fingers, he raked a blow across Macerio’s cheek. A shriek of pain tore the air as the iron ripped a deep furrow in his opponent’s flesh. Quintus didn’t let up. With all of his strength, he threw a left uppercut at Macerio’s chin. There was a loud crack; Quintus felt an intense pain in his left fist, and Macerio went down on to the flat of his back.

Quintus stood back, chest heaving, nursing his left hand. Macerio lay unmoving before him. The fight was over. The gods be thanked, Quintus thought. I’ve won. Rutilus and the jug-eared man were cheering, while Macerio’s comrades had rushed to his side. Casually, Quintus let the nail drop. In the chaos, no one would see. He scanned the watching faces and was relieved to see respect in a few. More scowled at him, however, and Quintus knew that he might well have to fight them later. An already-enlisted man being beaten by a new recruit would not be popular.

‘You piece of filth! No one pulls a trick like that on me!’ Macerio’s voice came out of the blue.

Quintus turned in shock. The blond-haired man had been helped up by his friends. Runnels of blood were flowing down his left cheek, and there was murder in his eyes. ‘Let’s finish this. Properly,’ he snarled, hooking his fingers into claws. ‘Be interesting to see how you fare as a veles when missing an eyeball.’

Astonished that Macerio was on his feet again and genuinely worried how the fight might now end, Quintus stepped forward. Intent on second-guessing the other’s next move, he didn’t see the foot that had been stuck in his path. Quintus tripped over it and went sprawling forward on to his face. Even as he tried to roll away and get up, Macerio was on him as fast as a hunting dog on a hare. A kick to his belly drove the air from Quintus’ lungs in a whoosh of agony. As he struggled to catch his breath, Macerio dropped to his knees alongside him. He began raining punches on to Quintus’ torso and head. ‘Think you can just strut in here like you own the place, do you?’

‘That’s enough, Macerio,’ said a voice.

‘Piss off, Rutilus, or I’ll do the same to you!’ Macerio shot back.

Quintus tried weakly to protect himself, but Macerio just swatted his arms aside and landed another flurry of blows to his face. The pain was intense. Quintus was unable to retaliate, even less to stop his opponent. His vision was already blurred and he could taste blood in his mouth. A faraway voice was telling him to get up, to fight back, but his strength was gone. He’s going to beat me into unconsciousness, he thought dimly. Then blind me.

In the same instant, he felt fingers gouging into his eye sockets. It was agonising. Crying out, Quintus raised his arms, but he was too weak to stop Macerio.

Someone spoke. Quintus couldn’t make out who it was, or what had been said, but the effect was immediate. The fingers dropped away from his face. He sensed Macerio stand up. Relieved his ordeal seemed to have ended, Quintus half rolled over; he coughed and spat out a tooth. Tears of pain spilled from his eyes. He wiped them away, and was intensely grateful that he could still see.

‘What’s going on here?’

This time, Quintus recognised Corax’s voice.

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Macerio. ‘Crespo and I were just getting to know each other. A little welcome to our contubernium. You know how it is.’

‘Is that what happened?’

A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ filled the air.

‘Hmmm.’ Corax walked to stand over Quintus. His lips twitched with distaste; whether it was at what Macerio had done or how he had failed to defend himself, Quintus wasn’t sure. Corax tapped the vine cane in his right fist off the palm of his other hand. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

Sitting up, Quintus’ gaze flashed to Macerio, whose eyes were bright with malice and the expectation that he would tell Corax what had really happened. He would have liked nothing more than to have seen Macerio punished, but something told him to keep the centurion out of it. ‘It’s as Macerio says, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘Just a bit of horseplay.’

Corax scrutinised him with barely concealed disbelief. ‘Horseplay?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Quintus.

‘In that case, Hannibal had best look out.’

The men guffawed, half amused, half nervous.

‘Macerio!’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘In future, keep your aggression for the guggas. Clear?’ Corax’s voice was iron hard.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Both of you, clean yourselves up. The instant you’ve done that, Crespo, go to the quartermaster’s.’ With that, Corax walked off, tapping his vine cane off his leg.

Quintus got to his feet, wincing as his bruised abdominal muscles protested. He glanced around. The eyes of every man in the contubernium were on him. A few steps away, the other velites were watching too. Many hastati had clearly seen the fight too, but now that Corax had sorted it out, they turned away. Quintus scanned his tent mates’ faces again. Their reactions were far more important. Rutilus looked sympathetic; the jug-eared man did too. A couple of men threw him a filthy scowl; Macerio spat and muttered an obscenity. The others’ expressions were, if not friendly, on the verge of accepting. As the pain from his face began to take hold, Quintus took some satisfaction from the situation. He had not ratted out on his contubernium, and the majority of his new comrades recognised that. His good feeling did not last for more than a few heartbeats. A quick glance at Macerio told him that he had made a real enemy.

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?’

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.’

The undergrowth was too dense to see the rest of the velites, but Quintus glanced anyway. Macerio was out there somewhere, and he wouldn’t put it past the whoreson to lie in wait for him with a javelin. Such things happened in war from time to time, and if there were no witnesses, no one would ever be the wiser. The thought of that made him lick his lips and grip the light spear in his right hand a little tighter. Like the ones in his other hand, it had an ash shaft and a narrow, pointed head. Under Corax’s hard gaze, Quintus and his companions had spent hours throwing them at bundles of straw. He’d worked hard not to let his experience with a spear show; it appeared to have succeeded.

They wormed their way through the bush in a well-worked pattern, making little noise. Urceus took the centre; Quintus walked about twenty steps to his right, with Rutilus another score beyond that. The two others were in similar positions to Urceus’ left. For the most part, it was boring work. The chances of encountering any of the enemy were slim. The Carthaginians were some distance to the south, and all they were interested in was farms and estates, not empty countryside. Inevitably, perhaps, Quintus’ attention began to wander. Dead leaves rustled underfoot. A snake slithered away as his tread disturbed it from a sunny patch of earth. Lizards watched him with beady eyes before skittering to safety over the rocks. At last he looked up. He could see vultures, lots of them. His stomach turned, dragging him back to the present.

The Carthaginians’ savage tactics meant that vultures had become a common sight overhead, drawn by the rich pickings. There were so many corpses that Flaminius had ordered that, upon discovery, they were to be left unburied. It was a directive that greatly angered his soldiers. Urceus reckoned that that had been the consul’s intent, and Quintus was inclined to agree. He was increasingly eager to confront the enemy army in battle. Yes, it would be good to wait until they met up with Servilius and his legions, but if the right opportunity came about, it would be foolish not to take it. How many innocents had to die before Hannibal was stopped?

A series of short whistles, the signal that one of Big Tenner’s men was approaching. Without a word from Urceus, the five came to a halt. Despite the fact that the call had been from one of their own, each veles lifted his shield and readied a javelin. As Corax had drummed into them, they always had to be ready to sting like a bee and flit away like a fly, and to do the reverse with equal aptitude. Quintus glanced at Rutilus, who shrugged. ‘Who knows what it could be?’

The sight of Macerio sloping towards them made Quintus scowl. Macerio made straight for Urceus.

‘What is it?’ Urceus demanded.

‘Believe it or not, a party of Numidian cavalry.’

Urceus was as surprised as everyone else. ‘On the road?’

‘Yes. I saw them first.’ Macerio shot a spiteful look at Quintus, as if to say, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed them.’ Quintus pretended not to notice.

‘How many?’ Urceus asked.

‘Only six.’

A disapproving hiss. ‘They’re probably just outriders for a bigger party. We’d best not go near them.’

‘They’re on their own. They’re all pissed.’ The insolence in Macerio’s tone was just perceptible. ‘Maybe they got left behind when their unit was tearing apart a farm. Drank themselves stupid, only woke up this morning.’

‘Hmmm.’ Urceus looked tempted, and Quintus cursed silently. Why did it have to be Macerio who’d seen them?

‘Big Tenner agrees with me.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Urceus with a feral grin.

‘Has he sent for Little Tenner or any of the others?’ asked Rutilus.

‘For six men? There’s no need,’ Macerio retorted scornfully.

‘True,’ added Urceus. ‘It’ll piss off the others as well, when they discover that we got to blood our spears when they didn’t. What did you see, Macerio?’

‘One of their horses has gone lame, so they’ve stopped while its rider tends to it. If we move fast, we can spring an attack from in front and behind,’ Macerio announced with another triumphant glance at Quintus.

Fuck you, Macerio, thought Quintus. It’s not as if this turns you into an amazing general.

‘I like the sound of it! C’mon then, or we’ll miss the party.’ Urceus indicated that Macerio should turn around.

They began to run. A new urgency lent speed to their feet. A devilment took Quintus, and he placed himself right behind Macerio. It gave him immense satisfaction that the result was to make his enemy cast frequent looks over his shoulder. Down the slope they went, side by side at times, or making their own path through the dense vegetation. Skidding their heels on the dry earth. Avoiding branches that whipped past their faces. Cursing as a bird flew up, making its alarm call.

Big Tenner was waiting for them in a tiny clearing, his broad face twisted into a ferocious grimace. Of his three remaining men, two were visible, watching the road. ‘You sound like a herd of fucking cattle. A deaf man could hear you a mile away!’

Macerio flushed.

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ growled Urceus.

‘Just as well the shitbags are pissed, or they’d have been long gone.’ Big Tenner waved them closer. ‘Take a look.’

Urceus padded to a gap in the bushes and disappeared. An instant later, his head popped out. ‘Best come and see,’ he said to Quintus and the others. ‘Then we’ll all know what way the land lies.’

It didn’t take long to appraise the scene. Some thirty paces below them was a short straight section of the road that led south to Lake Trasimene. Under the shade of some tall strawberry trees opposite was a party of Numidian cavalry, all dismounted. As Macerio had said, there were six. Two were wrestling with a horse, one holding it by the bridle while the other repeatedly tried to lift its left back hoof. Their four companions were sitting in the road, their slouched positions and loud comments giving away much about their state. That, and the amphora that was passing from hand to hand, convinced Quintus that Macerio’s hunch was correct. It was a perfect opportunity to strike. They had numbers, sobriety and surprise on their side.

‘You take your lads about twenty paces to the rear. We’ll stay here,’ said Big Tenner. ‘Creep down until you’re within javelin range. I’ll give you enough time. When you hear my whistle, give them a volley, and then another one. After that, charge. None must escape, or we risk being hunted down like dogs by the rest of their comrades.’ His stare moved around the group. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered. ‘Go!’

Urceus led them into position, his feet moving silently over the earth. Quintus and his companions followed. When they had come within some thirty paces of the oblivious Numidians, Urceus gestured that they should spread out. The four didn’t need to be told twice. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Quintus dried the palm of his spear hand on his tunic, and chose his victim.

‘Be sure to pick different targets,’ Urceus ordered.

‘Mine’s the one with the amphora,’ Quintus hissed.

‘I’ll take the man to his left,’ said Rutilus.

‘The ugly one on the right for me then,’ rumbled one of their companions.

Urceus looked to the last man. ‘We’ll both aim for the horse first. It will panic the filth even more.’

A trace of pity entered Quintus as he eyed the Numidians, who were laughing over a shared joke. His gaze focused on the amphora and a burning rage took him. Where had it come from? Whom had they murdered to take possession of it?

Peeeeeeep! Big Tenner’s whistle shredded the air.

Quintus cocked his arm back, and let fly. To either side, he heard the grunts as his comrades launched their weapons. He transferred another javelin to his right hand without looking, aimed and threw before the first had even landed.

‘Go!’ roared Urceus as the first screams hit their ears.

Quintus tore forward, the third of his spears ready to throw. Branches whipped his cheek, half blinding him, but then he was free of the vegetation. He leaped down on to the road, a drop nearly his own height. Rutilus and the others were half a heartbeat behind him. The scene was utter chaos. Javelins were raining in from all directions. Two, three, four of the Numidians were down or dying. The lame horse had been struck twice and was rearing up, shrilling its agony to the world. The other mounts were whirling in panic or galloping off to the south, sending up dust trails. Big Tenner and his men were driving forward from their position. Quintus’ eyes flashed from side to side. Where in Hades were the last pair of Numidians?

Then he knew. His feet took him towards two horses that had not yet fled. They were wheeling and turning some twenty paces to his left, but they hadn’t run — because someone was talking to them, soothing them. Even as Quintus drew near, a man scrambled up on to the back of the furthest, a small roan. An urgent glance over his shoulder, and then the Numidian pulled on the reins and drummed his heels into the horse’s sides. Quintus skidded to a halt and threw, but in his haste, he launched the javelin at too high an arc. It arched up and came down beyond the Numidian. Shit. He only had one javelin left. ‘Over here!’ he bawled. ‘Two of them are escaping!’

Whom to aim at? The man he’d missed was already thirty paces away, lying low over his galloping horse’s back as they headed north. Quintus cursed again. In the madness of battle, Urceus and the rest hadn’t seen him. It was not the direction in which Hannibal’s forces lay, but if the Numidian made it, he would have no difficulty in doubling back through the fields. Quintus blinked sweat from his eyes and let out another oath. He wasn’t a good enough shot to make such a throw. That meant the last cavalryman was the one to go for. He’d have to be quick. Spotting a hand gripping the bottom of the last horse’s neck, a black, his eyes shot to its back. Yes! There was the outline of a bare foot, halfway between its withers and its hip. The Numidian was hanging on to its far side, using its body as cover as he urged it to follow its companion. ‘Here! Over here!’ Quintus sprinted to get around the horse, which was fast moving from a walk to a trot.

A moment later, he caught sight of the Numidian, a lithe figure in a sleeveless tunic clamped to his mount’s chest and belly. Quintus’ breath caught in his throat. If he threw at this angle and missed, his javelin would strike the black. But it couldn’t be helped. It was that or a second man would get away. He closed one eye, took aim and hurled his spear with all his force. It shot through the air and drove into the Numidian’s back with a meaty thump. A scream of agony, and the man’s grip failed. He dropped to the dirt. Freed of its load, the black galloped off. Quintus was relieved to see no signs of blood in its coat. If Big Tenner had thrown, he thought, the javelin would have skewered the Numidian and horse both.

Dragging out his gladius, he ran towards the Numidian. He had gone only a couple of strides when he felt a stinging sensation slice across the top of his left shoulder. A whoosh of air and the javelin had gone, driving into the ground by the Numidian’s feet. ‘Clumsy bastard! Watch where you’re throwing!’ Quintus shouted. He spun to see who had made such a stupid mistake.

From a short distance away, Macerio’s baleful gaze met his. Death was in his eyes.

Quintus could have sworn that the blond man was about to throw another spear, but then Urceus and Rutilus were shoving past, roaring curses at the Numidian, finishing him with savage thrusts of their swords. Without a word, Macerio trotted back to where the other enemy riders were being dispatched. At once Quintus’ attention was taken by Rutilus and Urceus, who came over to congratulate him on hitting the last Numidian. He let out a gusty sigh of relief. It was over. They had won. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he suddenly felt drained. Yet the combat had lasted mere moments. In that short time, five Numidians had been slain. Two horses needed their throats cut to end their suffering, but the others were long gone. Nonetheless, the ambush had been a resounding success. Around him, men were giving each other pleased, relieved looks.

Big Tenner remained focused. ‘No hanging about on the road,’ he barked. ‘Gods know who might come riding along. The Numidian who escaped might have friends nearby. Search the dead if you wish, quickly, and then let’s get out of here.’

Urceus made a beeline for the amphora, which was lying on its side, its contents leaking on to the earth. He peered inside. ‘There’s still plenty left,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘That’s all I need.’

There were whoops as coins and rings were emptied out of purses found on the Numidians’ bodies. Quintus’ amusement was soured by the sight of the dead being rifled. But any valuables present were Roman by right, he thought.

Rutilus saw him looking. ‘Whoever owned that stuff is dead.’

‘It still seems like stealing.’

‘Come on! If our lads don’t take it, someone else will.’

Rutilus was correct, but that didn’t mean Quintus liked it one bit.

‘Time to move!’ Big Tenner clapped his hands. ‘In case you ladies had forgotten, we’ve still got a patrol to finish.’

With good-natured grumbles, they withdrew to the shelter of the trees. As each five-man section split up again, insults were thrown, ridiculing various individuals’ poor javelin throws and the fact that one of the enemy had escaped. The amphora that Urceus had swiped was passed about. Quintus’ comrades were grinning from ear to ear, but unhappiness settled over him like a wet blanket as he watched Macerio vanish into the trees. He had only seen the look in the blond man’s eyes by chance, but he had not missed its meaning. Macerio had tried to murder him. Frustration mixed with Quintus’ anger. He had no way of proving what had happened. An accusation would result in Macerio denying everything. Killing him before he tried again would work, but Quintus didn’t have the stomach for slaying a man in cold blood — even someone like Macerio. Better to keep quiet, and stay alert. Urceus’ amphora was thrust at him, but he refused it with a word of mumbled thanks. From now on, brooded Quintus, he would need to make sure that he had company all the time. It was bad enough having the Carthaginians to worry about without having an enemy in his own camp.

Yet that was his new reality.