Fields of Blood

Chapter VII

Capua

From the first time that they had met formally, Aurelia had liked Lucius well enough. He was attentive and courteous; he clearly found her attractive. Once this had become clear, her mother had postponed their departure for the farm. A week had become two; that time had since been extended to a month. Aurelia didn’t mind. This was infinitely better than living at home, where, since Quintus and Hanno had left, nothing ever happened. Every day, there had been something new and exciting to look forward to.

Typically for a Roman man, Lucius was poor at compliments, but she had never been given so many gifts. A smile of pleasure, and a little guilt, traced her lips as she touched the jet and carnelian necklace at her throat. It had been hers from the moment she’d made a casual comment while walking with Lucius through the city. Her little jewellery box, formerly bare, was now overflowing with earrings and bracelets. She had a stunning fan made from the tail feathers of an exotic bird called a peacock; he had even tried to buy her a little monkey as a pet. With her mother as chaperone, she and Lucius had walked around the forum, taken a boat trip along the River Volturnus and watched chariot-racing at the local amphitheatre. They had been to the theatre twice, and taken an overnight trip to the coast. The time since the confrontation with Phanes had been a veritable whirlwind of activity. There was even talk of visiting the island of Capri. While she wasn’t sure that she wanted to marry Lucius, Aurelia was having the time of her life. Why was it then that she wasn’t enjoying herself more? Agesandros wasn’t around to upset her. Atia had sent him back to manage their estate.

Aurelia knew well the reasons for her disquiet. Every night she thought about them until her head hurt. First was the fact that she didn’t find Lucius that attractive. He was a decent, likeable man, but he was so. . what was the word she was looking for? Earnest. That was it, she thought. He was too earnest. Well meaning, intelligent, well educated, good-looking in his own way. Sadly, all those qualities didn’t stop him from being a bore. She’d initially had that thought when, during their boat trip, Lucius had begun expounding on the fish life in the River Volturnus. At the time, Aurelia had pretended to be fascinated, shoving away the idea and berating herself afterwards for even allowing it into her head. Whether or not she wanted to know the differences between freshwater fish and those that dwelled in the sea, it was wrong to think ill of him. She had every reason to find him physically attractive — the way she did Gaius, and had Hanno. No matter how hard she tried, though, her feelings would not change. She regarded Lucius as a friend, but nothing more than that. It didn’t help that, staying in Martialis’ house, she saw Gaius every day. If anything, her crush on him had intensified.

Her second problem was that her mother had taken a real shine to Lucius. It turned out that Atia’s father had been friends with his grandfather; the pair had served together in the first war against Carthage. Not only were his family cultured, they were also big landowners, with estates given over mainly to the production of olives. As Atia had whispered approvingly to Aurelia during a dinner with Lucius and his father, ‘The olive crops haven’t suffered like the wheat has of recent years. Olive oil is like liquid gold if you have enough of it, and they do.’ She had tried to tell her mother that she wasn’t interested, but Atia was having none of it. ‘You like him; he wants you. I understand that he’s been under considerable pressure from his father to marry. It’s time that he provided his family with an heir. That’s more than enough grounds for a marriage. Where there is friendship, love can grow,’ she had said firmly. ‘Lucius is a good man, from good stock. Your father would approve.’

‘Father doesn’t know a thing about him,’ Aurelia had protested. ‘He has to give his approval before any match can be made.’ Her hopes had plummeted with her mother’s answer.

‘I’ve already sent a letter to your father, telling him that Lucius is the perfect husband for you. If all goes well, we could hear back within a month or two, and the betrothal can be formalised.’

Defeated, Aurelia had lapsed into a gloomy silence that even Lucius could not lift. Furious, Atia had taken her home, pleading a headache. The lecture she had delivered at Martialis’ house afterwards still rang through Aurelia’s mind. Lucius was no older man, no Flaccus; he was of a similar age to her. He was not arrogant, or pompous, as Flaccus had been. He lived nearby, not in Rome, so she would be able to see her family regularly. He wasn’t interested in serving in the army — and there was nothing wrong with that — instead, he had decided to study law, after which he would enter politics. Lucius’ career choice meant that he would not, unless things grew far worse, have to leave as other young nobles would. There was little risk that he would die in battle, as her father and Quintus might. Why was she continuing to try and sabotage her planned betrothal, a god-granted path to salvation of the family’s fortunes? If she succeeded, Atia ranted, she would be condemning her own family to penury and worse. Was that what she wanted? Did she wish for a man like Phanes to assume the ownership of their estate?

Aurelia had been reduced to tears by the effectiveness of her mother’s words. She’d wanted to run to Gaius — the only friend she had in Capua — and throw herself into his arms, and tell him of her feelings. She had wanted to run away and take ship to Carthage, there to find Hanno. The latter was nothing but a dream — Hanno wouldn’t even have been there — but she could have chosen to go to Gaius’ room. Yet she had not. She had wiped her face, and agreed to her mother’s demands, telling herself that marriage to a man such as Lucius could be a good thing. Plenty of women had to live with worse matches than she. Best to count her blessings, and accept her lot.

The day after, trying to take her mind off the whole affair, Aurelia had asked permission to pay a visit to the temple of Mars, there to pray for her father and Quintus. With a new betrothal looming, she felt their absence more than ever. To her relief, Atia had reluctantly acquiesced, with the stipulation that two of Martialis’ male slaves accompany her for security. ‘Phanes has given me a month’s grace, but I still wouldn’t trust him, or any of the other leeches, not to harass you in the street, or worse,’ she said with a scowl. ‘If you see as much as a hair on his head, turn around and head in the other direction.’

Promising that she would, Aurelia set out. She stopped to buy a plump hen at the market — a suitable offering — before making her way to the temple. All went well within. The priest, a young, intense man with a beard, commented on the bird’s healthy plumage and bright eyes, and its apparent lack of fear. It died without a struggle, and its organs were free of blemishes of any kind. Mars had accepted her gift, and would keep his shield over her father and her brother, the priest assured her. Aurelia wasn’t as religious as she ought to be; she often forgot to say her prayers or kneel at the lararium in their house, but the ritual and his words gave her a good deal of comfort that morning.

Her spirits high, she slipped the last coin that Atia had given her to the priest and prepared to leave the temple. At that moment, Gaius entered in full army uniform: Boeotian helmet, bronze cuirass, linen pteryges and leather boots. He was a magnificent sight, and her stomach fluttered. Suddenly shy, she ducked her head so as not to be seen.

‘Aurelia? Is that you?’

She made a show of adjusting her necklace before looking up. ‘Gaius! What a surprise.’

‘I could say the same thing, seeing you here.’

‘You’re very handsome in your uniform,’ she ventured.

He grinned, looking boyish. ‘Do you think so?’

Aurelia wanted to pay him more compliments, but she could feel a tell-tale flush beginning on her cheeks. ‘I came here to ask Mars to grant Quintus and Father his protection,’ she said quickly.

His face grew serious. ‘I thought as much.’

‘The priest was happy with the sacrifice, and the omens were good.’

‘Mars be thanked! I shall include them in my prayers too, as always.’

She wanted to kiss him, but all she said was, ‘You’re a good man, Gaius.’

‘Quintus is my best friend, and your father has always been kind to me. It’s the least I can do.’

‘What brings you to the temple, and in uniform too?’

‘You’ve heard how Hannibal’s rabble has been laying waste to Etruria?’

She nodded, grateful that Capua was hundreds of miles from the conflict. It didn’t bear thinking about what might happen if the war came further south. ‘It’s dreadful.’

‘I won’t tell you some of the things I’ve heard,’ he said with a frown. ‘But the good news is that the consul Flaminius is shadowing the enemy. He’s trying to push Hannibal into a position where he and Servilius can strike him from both the rear and the front.’

‘That is worth praying for,’ she said, determining to ask the gods more often that Rome was victorious.

‘It’s not just that.’ He gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘There are rumours that the local contingent of socii troops is to be mobilised.’

Shocked, she didn’t take in his meaning at once.

‘Soon I might be sent north, with my unit. Aren’t you pleased for me?’

Aurelia felt lightheaded. How could she be pleased? She wanted to rage and scream, to beg him not to leave her as well. ‘It’s so dangerous. Quintus and Father, they-’

‘They’re still alive, despite the setbacks our forces have suffered. The gods protect brave men such as they. With any luck, they’ll do the same for me.’ His eyes were bright with courage and enthusiasm.

‘I will miss you, Gaius.’ If only you knew how much.

‘I’m not going yet. But when I do, your new friend will keep you company. I’ve heard all about him from your mother.’ Another wink. ‘You won’t even notice I’ve gone.’

Aurelia felt even worse. He didn’t seem jealous of Lucius. ‘I shall pray for you,’ she whispered. What if he never comes back? I have to say something, I have to. ‘Gaius, I-’

Gaius was so excited that he didn’t hear her last words. ‘By your leave, I’ll go inside to make my offering.’

‘Of course.’ She watched him go, her heart thudding off her ribs. Surely, any chance she had of winning him over had just vanished.

‘Quite the dashing young soldier, isn’t he?’

She spun in shock. Phanes was watching her from the shadow of the colonnaded walkway that ran around the temple’s courtyard. How long he had been there, Aurelia didn’t know. She hadn’t noticed him on her way in. Despite the slaves who stood behind her, fear coursed through her, and she studied the gloom to either side.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve left Smiler and Achilles at home.’

‘How long have you been watching?’ He hadn’t been there when she went in, she was sure of it. What had he heard?

‘Long enough. I thought you spent all your time with Lucius Vibius Melito nowadays,’ he said slyly. ‘That’s Martialis’ son, isn’t it?’ He strolled forward. Sunshine glittered off his oiled hair.

‘What if it is?’ She wanted to leave, but her fear that he had noticed something between her and Gaius froze her every muscle.

‘A handsome lad, as you said.’

‘He looks good in uniform, like my brother. Like most men.’

‘You seem worried that he might be sent to war.’

‘He’s dear to me. I’ve known him since I was a child,’ she said casually. ‘He and my brother Quintus are best friends.’

‘May the gods protect him if he is sent north. Rome has lost too many sons in recent months,’ said Phanes, his tone oozing sincerity.

‘He’s Oscan, not Roman.’ She could not bear his calculating eyes on her any longer. ‘Mars will give our forces victory, and Gaius will be there to celebrate it,’ she declared, moving past him, and grateful for the slaves’ presence at her back.

‘My compliments to your lady mother,’ he called.

Aurelia didn’t deign to reply. She just wanted to get away.

Phanes launched his final barb. ‘Does Melito know your friend?’

Despite her best efforts, Aurelia stiffened. She forcibly relaxed her shoulders and turned with a surprised look. ‘But of course. He will miss Gaius too.’

Phanes nodded as if she’d given him the answer he expected. ‘I’m sure he will.’

She left him to it. All the way back from the temple, Aurelia’s unease grew. Phanes had put two and two together about her feelings for Gaius — why would he have made such a comment if he hadn’t? Had she done enough to allay his suspicions? Gods, don’t let him tell Lucius, she worried. If there was even a seed of doubt in Lucius’ mind about her intentions, he would never consent to a betrothal. If all things were equal she wouldn’t have minded that, but it would bring ruin down on her family. Curse him!

Eventually, Aurelia managed to achieve some sort of calm by telling herself that the Greek could not have read too much into the situation. She couldn’t quite shake her disquiet, however. Phanes probably had spies throughout Capua. As she neared Martialis’ house, she watched the people in the street sidelong: a boy selling fruit juice from a handcart; a stonemason and his apprentice repairing a wall; two old men gossiping in the warm sun; a woman selling trinkets from a small stall. Any one of them could be in his employ, she thought bitterly. As the Greek had already proved, even in Martialis’ house she was not beyond prying eyes.

Aurelia felt like a rat in a trap.

She made up her mind. From now on, she would have to avoid Gaius, and make much more of Lucius. She had to, for her family’s sake. It felt as if the last of her liberty had been taken away. Before, she had at least been able to play at being free to make her own decisions. Not any more.

Near Lake Trasimene

‘Tell me what you saw again,’ ordered Corax. The bright moonlight lit up his features but not his deep-set eyes, making him look even more forbidding. Quintus, who had been ordered to attend him along with Big Tenner and the rest of their section, was glad that the centurion was on his side.

‘As you know, sir, the ground opens out after the pinch point to the east of our camp,’ said Big Tenner.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘The area is half-moon shaped and about a square mile in area, sir. At the eastern end of it, another ridge comes down to the water’s edge. Hannibal has put his camp on the heights there, overlooking the road. We scouted along the shore towards the enemy for about half a mile, but then we started seeing groups of Numidians. If we’d gone any further, they would have ridden us down.’

‘You saw nothing on the hills to the north?’ asked Corax.

‘No, sir. On the way back, I even sent a five-man section to search the lower slopes. They didn’t find a thing.’ As Corax chewed on that, Big Tenner let out a little sigh. Quintus knew why. Tenner had reported when they’d returned to the camp, which lay just to the west of the entrance to the narrows. Then he had had to repeat it all to Flaminius himself. Now Corax was making him do it all over again. Behind Tenner, Quintus shifted on his haunches. Rutilus glanced at him as if to say, ‘How much longer will this take?’ Even in the poor light, Urceus looked downright pissed off. It was unsurprising. They had been scouting since early morning. All of them were tired, sunburned and thirsty. Quintus’ stomach rumbled with hunger, but he said not a word. Until their centurion dismissed them, they had to sit tight. Surely, though, the grilling would not go on for much longer.

‘What’s the whoreson planning?’ mused Corax. ‘He must be aware, like us, that Servilius is marching this way from Ariminum. If he stays where he is, with the lake hemming him against the hills, his army could be crushed.’

‘Knowing that, they’ll probably move off tomorrow, sir,’ Tenner ventured.

Corax barked a laugh. ‘Aye, I dare say you’re right.’ He gave the velites an approving nod. ‘You’ve done well today, all of you. You have earned a drink, and some food in your bellies.’ They rumbled in agreement, and he clicked his fingers. A servant hastened over. ‘Fetch an amphora of my second-best wine and a round of cheese to these lads’ tent lines.’

‘We’re grateful, sir.’ Tenner was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Thank you, centurion,’ the rest chorused.

‘Enjoy it, but don’t stay up too late,’ warned Corax. ‘You’ll need fresh heads in the morning. Flaminius is set on an early start. Dismissed.’

The velites trudged away, their spirits restored by Corax’s generosity. ‘He’s a good officer,’ muttered Quintus. ‘I wouldn’t mind standing in line with him.’

‘He’s just given us some food, not a promotion!’ said Rutilus. ‘It’ll be a year at the earliest, probably two, before you’re even considered for the hastati.’

‘I know, I know.’ Quintus buttoned his lip. Part of the reason he wanted to leave the velites was because of Macerio, whose latest tactic was to spread malicious rumours about him among the men. ‘Crespo pissed in the river. It fouled the water. That’s why men are falling sick.’ ‘Crespo would have fallen asleep on sentry duty if I hadn’t woken the dog up.’ ‘Crespo is a coward. He’ll run the first time we really have to fight the guggas.’ And so on. Quintus was sick of it. Fortunately, most of the men in his section didn’t believe the lies. They had been there during the ambush on the Numidians. But they seemed to have taken root with some of the other velites. If he moved to the hastati, he could start anew. Don’t be stupid. Macerio also stood to be promoted into the legionaries’ ranks. What was to say that they wouldn’t end up in the same unit, where the bullying would start all over again? Quintus clenched his jaw in frustration. It was a moot point anyway, because he was still a veles, and would remain so for the foreseeable future.

‘Forget about everything except that wine and cheese,’ advised Rutilus. ‘That and a dip in the lake before bed.’

Quintus smiled. The idea of filling his belly and, after it, washing off the day’s dust was so appealing that it was easy to obey.

Tomorrow was another day.

Following Hannibal’s orders, Hanno and his men had moved into position when there was scarcely any light in the sky. They and the rest of the Libyan spearmen were the bait in the trap for the Romans. They had been deployed on the slopes of the hill below their camp and across the road where it ran into the defile on the eastern side of the half-moon-shaped plain. The phalanxes were in full sight of anyone approaching from the west, and an open invitation for Flaminius to seek battle. More than an hour had passed since they had blocked the passage east, and the skyline was paling fast. Hanno studied the eastern horizon for the hundredth time. Red, pink and orange mixed in a glorious riot of colour. Normally, he would have taken the time to appreciate such a beautiful dawn. Today, though, his gaze quickly returned to the west.

Sudden delight filled him. No one could have predicted this! Everything was vanishing beneath a blanket of grey. It was as if the Carthaginian gods had decided to act in unison, favouring Hannibal, he thought, watching the thick, oily banks of fog that were creeping in off the lake. Already some of the flat ground had been covered; it would not be long before the low hills were also encased. It was fortunate that the area had been reconnoitred the previous day; that Hannibal had ordered everyone into position so early. By now, the entire army should have been deployed.

Hanno had seen glints from sunlight flashing off metal a few times as the Gauls moved on to the slopes opposite, and the Numidians on to the hills to the north, but that had been it. His guts clenched with excitement and fear. He hardly dared admit it, but he even felt a touch of elation. Before, their ambush might have been revealed if the Romans had sent in scouts in advance of the legions. With the arrival of the fog, however, the enemy had no chance of noticing the waiting Carthaginian soldiers, scouts or not. Don’t be over-confident, he told himself. Everything could still go wrong. If the Gauls did something stupid before the majority of Flaminius’ army had marched through the pinch point, they would only catch a fraction of the enemy’s number in their trap. He prayed that Hannibal’s trust in the Gauls, his most undisciplined men, would be repaid in full. Bostar had told him of the tribal chiefs’ joy at being given such an important task, as they had at the Trebia. To them, the possibility of suffering heavy casualties was as nothing compared to the honour of leading the attack. Yet that didn’t mean some fool among the Gauls wouldn’t give the game away by yelling a war cry too soon.

The gaming pieces were in place. The contest was about to begin. It was pointless worrying about it, but Hanno did anyway. Restless, he walked along the front rank of his spearmen, nodding, smiling, murmuring names, telling them that victory would be theirs. They gave him fierce grins in return. Even Mutt’s doleful face cracked into a smile as he approached. It had been the same since Victumulae. Hanno’s fingers felt under the strip of cloth that protected his neck from the edge of his cuirass. He could trace the outline of the ‘F’ still; he would be able to until his dying day. Perhaps the torture and pain had been worth it. His survival against all the odds at Victumulae had turned him into a sort of good-luck charm for his men, and those of the other phalanxes. Apparently, some of them maintained that he couldn’t be killed. Tanit grant that that be true for today at least, he thought wryly.

‘Ready, sir?’ asked Mutt.

‘As I’ll ever be. This is the worst bit, eh? Waiting.’

‘Aye,’ grumbled his second-in-command. ‘Let’s get it over with and have done.’

Hanno clapped Mutt on the shoulder and moved on. At the edge of his phalanx, he glimpsed Bostar, who was talking to Sapho and their father. Seeing him, they beckoned.

‘Father.’ He nodded at Sapho and Bostar. ‘Brothers.’

Malchus’ gaze moved across the trio. ‘This is a proud day, my sons.’

They all smiled, but Bostar and Sapho did not look at each other.

‘Who’d have thought that we would ever be standing in northern Italy as part of a Carthaginian army?’ asked Malchus. ‘That another Roman army would be about to walk into our trap?’

It did seem a touch unreal, thought Hanno. Not too many months before, he had been a slave. Memories filled his head. Don’t think about Quintus.

‘Don’t tempt the gods, Father,’ said Bostar, glancing at the heavens. ‘We haven’t won yet.’

Sapho eyed his brother derisively. ‘Are you scared we’ll lose?’

Rather than reply, Bostar clamped his jaw. Malchus intervened. ‘Over-confidence is not a quality admired by the gods, it is true. Pride comes before a fall. Far better to ask for victory with humble hearts.’

‘All I ask is that those bloodthirsty Gauls keep silent for long enough, until the Roman vanguard reaches us. We’ll do the rest,’ said Sapho. ‘Eh, brother?’ He aimed a nudge at Hanno.

Don’t try and use me in your fight with Bostar, thought Hanno angrily. ‘I’m sure that all four of us will play our part. Fulfil our duty to Hannibal.’

In the distance, trumpets blared. The hairs on Hanno’s neck prickled. There would be a battle today.

‘They’re coming!’ breathed Bostar.

‘Blindly, into the fog. Baal Hammon be thanked for their arrogance.’ Malchus bared his teeth. ‘Back to your phalanxes. I will see you when it’s over, gods willing.’

With fierce grins, they parted.

Tiny pearls of moisture covered the iron of Quintus’ javelins and his shield rim. His skin was clammy, his tunic damp and, thanks to the wet grass, his feet were soaking. Pangs of hunger rose from his empty stomach, and he wished he’d taken a chunk of bread to eat while marching, as some of the others had. Yet his physical discomforts were the least of his worries. The visibility was growing worse, he was sure of it. The grey fog lay heavy on the land. Rutilus and Urceus were a few steps to his left and right, but he could barely make out the men beyond them. At least Macerio was as far away from him as possible, at the end of the line. Nonetheless, it was unnerving to walk into the gloom, knowing that the enemy was only about a mile and a half away. ‘Is this a good idea?’ he muttered. ‘We can’t see a damn thing.’

Urceus heard him. ‘Flaminius thinks the fog will lift by mid-morning. So did Corax and so do I. That good enough for you?’

‘Corax wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the order to march,’ replied Quintus. Nor can he be happy that we are only fifty paces ahead of the vanguard. Normally, we’d be half a mile out at least, and the cavalry would be beyond that.

‘An officer of his experience isn’t going to be. He knows that some of his men may well be killed and injured today, but it’s his duty to obey orders. Like it is mine. And yours, Crespo.’

Quintus caught the warning tone in Urceus’ voice. He decided not to mention his concern about the cavalry. Saying it would just aggravate Urceus further. So he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my bit.’

An irritable grunt. Urceus glanced to either side. ‘Pass the word. Go slow. Stay abreast of each other, no more than five paces apart. I don’t want any of you getting lost, you hear?’

Quintus repeated Urceus’ words to Rutilus, who did the same to the man on his right.

From behind them came the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of legionaries following their trail. Trumpets blared in the distance as the units far to the rear manoeuvred into the long marching column. The sounds were magnified by the ridge that pressed Quintus and the velites against the side of the lake, deafening their ears to anything else. It was unsettling, but the loud rhythm was also reassuring. And intimidating. That will send the fear of the gods into the Carthaginians, Quintus thought. If they had not left, that was. Part of him recklessly hoped that the enemy had stayed put. Hearing their enemies approaching, but not being able to see them, would be terrifying. They won’t advance to meet us — in the fog, that would be madness. They’ll wait on the slopes of the hills until we’ve come a lot closer. By then, the haze will doubtless have started to burn off. Things will be clearer.

They walked on, swishing dark, damp trails through the calf-high grass that lined each side of the narrow road. No one talked. Every man’s attention was locked on the ground before his feet, on the impenetrable fog before his eyes, straining for any indication of the enemy. But they heard nothing. Saw nothing. Came across nothing. They were alone in the clammy gloom. It felt eerie, and Quintus was glad of his comrades to either side. He had never walked so far in such conditions. Without the others, his unease might have mastered him.

Absent the sun, all sense of time vanished. Gradually, though, it grew a little brighter. Morning had arrived, but he couldn’t be more accurate than that. At the start, Quintus had tried to keep count of his footsteps, but thoughts of the Carthaginians and Hanno kept breaking his concentration. He had long since given up. It would sound nervous to keep talking about how far they had come, so he didn’t say a word. Eventually, however, he could bear it no longer, and asked Rutilus.

‘No idea. A mile, perhaps?’ came the reply.

‘What do you think, Urceus?’

Their section leader hawked and spat, quietly. ‘I’d say a mile was about right. We’ll be getting close now.’

They peered suspiciously into the murk. ‘Nothing,’ whispered Quintus.

‘They might be gone,’ ventured Rutilus.

‘Aye, and they might not,’ growled Urceus. ‘Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you.’

It was as if Urceus had sensed Big Tenner’s thoughts, and those of the centurions behind. Not fifty heartbeats later, an order came down the line to Urceus, who repeated the command at once. ‘A runner’s come from the legions. We’re to slow even further. Have a javelin ready to throw. Spread the word.’

Quintus’ stomach twisted sharply, but he threw a grin at Rutilus. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’ Rutilus glanced at the man to his right and raised his spear. ‘Go slow. Ready to loose? Pass it on.’

The order raised the tension and fear several notches. Rutilus was scowling. The tip of Urceus’ tongue was visible between his lips. Quintus moved his throwing arm back and forth, back and forth, making sure that the javelin was well balanced. He pricked his ears. The only thing audible was the cadence of the legionaries’ feet, but it was much slower now. Tramp. His heart hammered out a few beats. Tramp. His eyes lifted to where the sky should be. Still fog, everywhere. Tramp. No, wait. The grey overhead was lighter than it had been, but only a fraction. Damn fog! Jupiter, Greatest and Best, please make it lift, he prayed.

It was easy not to lose count of his steps now. Ten paces. Twenty. He couldn’t see a thing in front of him. Thirty paces. Fifty. A hundred. Quintus’ scalp prickled from the sweat that had built up under his felt helmet liner. Runnels of it trickled down the back of his neck. His scar itched, but there was no chance of scratching it, just as there’d be no opportunity to empty his suddenly full bladder. A quick glance at his companions. Their tense faces and white knuckles mirrored his own jangling nerves. At 150 paces, the fog thinned a little, shrinking from an all-enveloping soup to white tendrils that writhed in slow motion over the grass. Then, a glint of sun from above. Quintus’ spirits lifted. At last.

‘Thank the gods,’ muttered Rutilus with a sigh.

‘Shhhh!’ hissed Urceus, glaring.

Rutilus flinched. Silly bugger, thought Quintus. With any luck, though, no one had heard. No one being the enemy.

Ahead, looming out of the fog, he saw treetops. The ridge. They were near the second ridge. His eyes flickered to Urceus, who had seen it too. Eyes front again, thought Quintus, take another step. Was it his imagination, or was the fog opening out? Two more paces. Then, a hint of brown perhaps fifty paces to his front. Bushes, or was it a dead tree?

Without warning, the fog came to an end. One moment, Quintus was surrounded by clinging grey fingers, and the next, he was in the open air. The transition was startling enough, but what made his heart leap into his mouth was the massed ranks of enemy troops not fifty paces in front of him. Conical helmets, large round shields, long spears. Libyan spearmen, the soldiers that Hanno had commanded. Could he be here? Quintus wondered. Above the Libyans were groups of men in simple tunics, carrying slings. His gaze shot from left to right. There were thousands of the bastards, standing there. Just waiting.

For them.

‘Look out!’ he roared. ‘They’re here! They’re here!’ Without waiting to see if his comrades had heard, Quintus darted forward. This is what velites were trained to do. The closer he was, the more likely his javelins would find a target. He was safe from the Libyans’ spears, which were used for thrusting. In just a few heartbeats, however, the slingers’ stones would start landing. His stomach twisted into knots as he neared the enemy lines. ‘Roma! Roma!’ he shouted. At thirty paces, he took aim at an officer in the first rank and launched his first javelin. Despite himself, he hoped that it wasn’t Hanno. Without looking to see where it landed, Quintus transferred his second shaft to his right hand. A bearded soldier caught his eye. Draw back, aim, loose — just as he had been trained. His third javelin was already in his fist when he heard the characteristic whistle of an incoming slingshot. And then another, and another.

Quintus flinched. It took every bit of his self-control not to look up. First shots are never accurate. They’re nervous too, he told himself. Thump. Thump. Thump. The stones were landing all around him. He chose his target and threw, seized his last javelin and hurled it as well. Now, the air was filled with humming noises, as if a swarm of bees was approaching. Quintus fought his panic as he turned to flee. The way back would be fraught with danger. Slingers could make accurate shots for hundreds of paces. He had seen the evidence of that with his own eyes at the Trebia. Stop it. He wheeled, taking in Rutilus, Big Tenner and the rest of the section all close by, weaving, ducking, throwing their javelins. His heart lifted. He was not alone, not the only target for the enemy.

But it was time to run. During his training, Quintus had often wondered how it would feel to retreat from the enemy on foot rather than on horseback, as he had done before. Now he knew, with his heart hammering off his ribs and the acid taste of fear in his throat. It was far worse. Gut-churning. Bloody terrifying. Without thinking, he lifted his shield over his helmet so that it protected the back of his head and his shoulders. He would look ridiculous to the oncoming legionaries, but he didn’t care. Thump. Thump. Thump. His ears rang with the deadly sound. He could see stones landing everywhere: in front, to the left and right and at the edges of his vision.

He had gone perhaps fifty paces when a sharp cry made him look back. A short distance behind him, Rutilus had dropped to one knee, clutching at his right hip. Charging back into the storm of stones would be suicidal, but he couldn’t just leave him. Gritting his teeth, Quintus sprinted back, holding his shield before him. His arm jarred as it was struck. White-hot pain lanced through him as a slingshot hit his left shin. He spat a curse, and kept running. A moment later, he skidded to a halt beside Rutilus. ‘Stand up!’

Rutilus groaned. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’

‘Shut your mouth and get up.’

‘We’ll never make it.’

‘Jupiter’s cock, Rutilus, do you want to live or not?’

Rutilus struggled to his feet, grunting with pain. ‘Throw your arm over me,’ Quintus ordered, slipping his own around Rutilus’ shoulders. ‘Come on, damn you! I don’t want to risk my life for nothing.’ His friend did as he was told. Quintus lifted his shield over his helmet again, and together they began to move.

‘They’ll target us even more now,’ said Rutilus.

‘I know.’ Rather than let his fear master him, Quintus stared at the ground and concentrated on each step. They were doomed, but this gave him something to do. Better than dwelling on the harsh realisation that he was going to die in his first action as a veles. Left, right. Left, right. Four steps. Left, right. Left, right. Eight steps. The flesh on Quintus’ back crawled. This was worse than retreating from the enemy on horseback — far worse.

But they were still moving at fifty paces. Then, somehow, it was a hundred. Quintus’ leg muscles were burning with the effort of supporting Rutilus, whose limp was growing worse. He didn’t know how much further he could go on. The sling bullets were still raining down around them, clattering off his shield. It was only a matter of time before one stuck him a deadly blow.

‘Look,’ grunted Rutilus.

Quintus’ head lifted. He blinked. Emerging from the fog was the front of the column. There, in the front rank, he could see Corax. The centurion was shouting orders, and his men were spreading out into battle formation. Quintus’ heart leaped with joy, and not a little relief. Already he could sense that they were no longer the slingers’ main target. He began angling to the right of the soldiers. If they went left, there was every chance of being pushed into the lake. ‘Move it, or we’ll get in the way.’

Rutilus responded with a burst of energy. ‘They’d best get into position quickly. Otherwise those phalanxes will smash them apart.’

‘There’ll be time. Those spearmen are going nowhere. Why would they give up the high ground?’ countered Quintus.

Before Rutilus could answer, the air rippled with a new, unearthly sound. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Beneath it, thousands of voices began to chant. Metallic clashes signalled the clattering of weapons off shields. The back of Quintus’ throat filled anew with bile. The noise was coming from a long distance to their rear, from far over on the right, where the first ridge ran down to the water’s edge.

‘Hades below, what is that?’ The fear rippled in Rutilus’ voice.

‘Carnyxes. Gaulish trumpets,’ said Quintus, who had heard them before, at the Trebia.

‘They’re behind our men,’ whispered Rutilus.

From another location on the right, where the hills ran down on to the hemi-lunate area of ground, a chorus of high, yipping cries added to the Gauls’ cacophony. The ground trembled with the hammering of hooves. ‘That’s the Numidians!’ Quintus let go of Rutilus’ arm and ran straight for Corax, his arms pointing to the rear. ‘AMBUSH, SIR! AMBUSH!’

Despite the overwhelming din, the centurion heard him. Quintus saw the realisation burst in Corax’s eyes. In his gut, though, he knew it was too late. Far too late. Hannibal’s trap had been well and truly sprung.

Only the gods would determine who survived what was to come.

A dark joy had suffused Hanno as the small group of enemy scouts emerged from the fog to be confronted by the sight of the Libyan spearmen, and to their rear, the Balearic slingers. They had been close enough for him to see their utter consternation. To be fair, the forty-odd Romans had not flinched from their duty. One had immediately sprinted forward to the attack; he had been followed by his comrades. Their javelin volleys had caused few casualties; the Libyans’ large shields afforded great protection. Veterans all, the spearmen had not wavered much as the missiles fell. They had known, as Hanno had, that the slingers’ replies would soon be raining down on the Romans. The Balearic men were famed throughout the Mediterranean, but hearing stories of their skill was very different to witnessing it with his own eyes. Their concentrated shooting was similar to watching a storm of hailstones hit a small patch of ground. Few of the enemy scouts had been killed, but more than a dozen had been injured, some seriously, before they had withdrawn behind the protection of the legionaries.

The real fighting had begun a short time later. Encouraged by the noise of the Gauls and Numidians launching their attacks on the Romans further back, the Libyans had been difficult to hold in position. Hanno and Mutt had had to break ranks and stalk up and down before the unit, bawling threats. He had seen other officers doing the same. The idea of charging down the slope to hit the disorganised enemy had been immensely appealing, but phalanxes were far less manoeuvrable than Roman maniples. If the legionaries had managed to break open one of their formations at the very start, things might have taken a different turn.

As it was, the fighting had been intense and brutal. Some of the centurions at the front of the column possessed real initiative. The ambush meant that not enough men would reach them to form the classic triplex acies formation. Knowing this, the Roman officers had led an immediate assault on the three phalanxes nearest them. Hanno and his spearmen had watched, fascinated, throats tight with tension, as the scouts and legionaries had advanced in good order. As before, there had been a shower of light spears from the scouts, who had then withdrawn through gaps in the infantry formations. Two volleys of javelins from close range, and the legionaries had charged uphill into the solid Libyan shield wall. It hadn’t taken long for the Libyans to repulse the attack, but another bigger one had come soon after, when the enemy’s numbers had been swelled by the arrival of more maniples. Hanno’s phalanx had fought then, and in the three subsequent attempts to smash their line.

They had thrown each one back, causing heavy casualties among the Romans. After the most recent, the centurions had opted to give their battered men a breather, encouraged no doubt by the sight of fresh maniples arriving, with triarii among them. Hanno was grateful for the respite. Those of his men who had broken their spears or damaged their shields had had time to replace them from the fallen or their comrades to the rear. The injured had been helped out of harm’s way and given what care was available. For some, it was a slug of wine and a friendly word. Others, too far gone, were comforted as they slipped into oblivion. A few, the screamers, were helped on their way by him or Mutt. He had done it before, at the Trebia. A prayer to the gods, a few reassuring words in the ear and a swift blade across the throat. Hanno stared at his right hand, which was crusted with blood. It trembled slightly. Stop it. Killing the wounded was a thankless task, but it had to be done. Few things were worse for morale than bleeding, filthy men roaring in pain and calling for their mothers.

When it was done, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank. A soldier handed him a skin of wine and he accepted it with a grateful nod. Despite his thirst, he limited himself to a couple of mouthfuls. His eyes roved the lakeshore and the open ground, which had cleared of fog, exposing the raging battle. Thanks to his position on the hill, he had a view of some of what was going on. Excitement gripped him. The Romans appeared to have failed to form their battle line anywhere. The most distant point, where the Gauls had sprung from ambush, was obscured by a dust cloud, but from within it, the carnyxes’ weird booming continued unabated. Hanno had little doubt that the tribesmen were giving better than they got. Their memories of defeat by Rome and thirst for revenge were fresher than for anyone in the Carthaginian army. At the battle of Telamon, just eight years before, seventy thousand of their fellows had been massacred by a much smaller Roman force. When he talked with any of the Gauls, that was all they seemed to care about. Today they would be out to turn the waters of the lake red with blood.

Closer to hand, Hanno could see groups of Numidians wheeling and turning in graceful arcs as they attacked the disorganised mass of Romans by the shore. Fascinated, he watched a squadron of perhaps fifty riders come galloping in from an oblique angle towards a block of legionaries. Now and again, he could make out their high-pitched, yipping cries through the din of battle. Even at a distance, their skill was staggering. Hanno could not even imagine charging an enemy bareback on a horse that had no bit or bridle. Similar to a little cloud of midges, the Numidians closed at speed. They infuriated the Romans not with bites, but a volley of well-aimed spears. Hanno grinned as a handful of tiny figures — enraged legionaries — broke ranks to try and close with the enemy. In a flash, they were enclosed by the horsemen. Dust swirled, obscuring what was going on. A few heartbeats later, the riders cantered away, leaving nothing but bodies sprawled in the dirt. Everywhere he looked, similar things were happening. The battle was going well for his side. It wasn’t tempting fate too much to think that the outcome had already been decided.

If he and the rest of the Libyans could hold the enemy vanguard in place until the rest of their army hit the Romans from the rear, the result would not just be victory, but a total massacre. Another defeat for Rome, his people’s bitterest enemy. An image of Quintus came unbidden, and Hanno found it impossible not to wish that whatever the outcome, his former friend survived. He fingered his scar. As for the rest of them, well, they could go to Hades, the Roman bastards. If Pera still lived, Hanno hoped that he would be among the dead by the day’s end.

Despite what was happening elsewhere, their task would not be easy. The legionaries below had been rallied and re-formed into three large blocks. Good numbers of triarii had been positioned in the front ranks. Alongside them, Hanno could see the characteristic crests of centurions’ helmets. Orders were bellowed and each of the three units formed a triangle, aiming its point up the hill at the Carthaginians. They’ve formed the ‘saw’, he thought, his belly clenching. It’s an attempt to smash through. The attack would fall upon his phalanx and those of his father and brothers. For them, this was when the real battle would begin.

‘They’re really going to try and break us this time, lads,’ he roared. ‘We can’t have that, can we?’

‘NOOOOOO!’ his spearmen screamed back at him.

‘Hannibal wouldn’t be too pleased if we failed him, would he?’

‘NOOOOOO!’

‘That’s what I like to hear. Close order, all ranks!’

The men at the front shuffled together, making sure that their shields overlapped. The soldiers to their rear shoved in behind, forming a tight mass of equipment, weapons and sweaty flesh. There was very little room to move now, but that was the strength of the phalanx. When their spears were raised, the formations presented an armoured wall to the foe, a wall that was impregnable to most attacks. Whether it would prove effective against the saw, he would shortly find out. Thus far, the gods had seen fit to lend them their aid. As the Romans began to climb the slope, Hanno prayed that they continued to do so.

The centurions led their men steadily uphill. Hanno could hear them shouting orders similar to his own. ‘Steady, boys!’ ‘Keep your position!’ ‘Pila ready!’ Ahead of the infantry, the velites trotted, their few remaining javelins ready to throw. Hanno’s men hurled abuse as they drew near; the phalanx had suffered almost no casualties from the spears of the enemy light infantry. He even heard wagers being made about which of the velites would first get struck by a slingshot. They were brave men to attack yet again, he thought, as the whistling sound of hundreds of stones passed overhead. Even when the first volley landed, they didn’t turn and run. There were fewer than a score of the velites left, but they advanced into the hail of sling bullets, coming nearer than they had ever done before. What in Baal Hammon’s name are they doing? wondered Hanno in alarm. It was as if the velites wanted to die. More and more of them were falling, but that did not stop their assault. Closer and closer they came, shouting war cries and throwing their spears.

Their action was nothing but a diversion. By the time Hanno had realised this, the nearest saw point had changed direction. Now it was aimed directly at the junction between the right edge of his phalanx and the left edge of Bostar’s. He was about to order his men to move to the right, thereby sealing the gap, when he glanced at one of the other saw points. It was moving straight for the junction between the leftmost part of his phalanx and the right of his father’s. ‘Damn them for devious bastards,’ he swore. If his men moved either way, they risked making the situation worse. ‘Mutt!’

From his left, ‘Sir?’

‘Do you see what they’re at?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Pass the word back, quickly. The slingers are to concentrate their shooting on the saw points. I want the men at the front taken down at all costs. Clear?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘You heard what I said. Send the word back. Now!’ Hanno growled at the soldiers directly to his rear. ‘Mutt!’ he called again.

‘Sir?’

‘The men on our left edge must see what’s about to happen, but pass a message to them anyway. They have to hold!’ Hanno glanced at the spearman to his other side. ‘Spread the word to the lads on the right. The Romans must not break through!’

Scowling, the spearman did as he was told.

Hanno eyed the Romans, who were now less than fifty paces away. He had warned his men. Done all he could do. He chafed to be in the middle of the action, but he couldn’t break ranks without damaging the integrity of the shield wall, something the Romans might capitalise on. Agonising though it was, he had to stay put.

From then on, every moment dragged. Even when the legionaries began to run the last short distance, it was as if Hanno saw it one dramatic image at a time. The last of the velites pulling back, limping, bleeding, but still defiant. The hail of slingshot that darkened the sky overhead. The unbelievable sight of the bullets landing in and around the tip of the saw point. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk went the stones as they rattled off shields and helmets, fractured skulls and caved in cheekbones. Holes began to appear in the Roman line here, there, everywhere, yet men shoved their way forward into the spaces, willingly stepping over their comrades’ bodies and into the withering rain of stones. The high-pitched screaming of the injured did not stop the legionaries from coming. ‘On! On! On!’ shouted the centurions. ‘Roma! Roma!’

Hold them! Hold them! Hanno wanted to scream, but his words would be lost in the maelstrom of sound. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he shouted, clashing his spear tip off his shield rim.

His men responded with alacrity. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ All along the Carthaginian line, the chant was taken up. The noise of it was absolutely deafening.

The Roman advance checked for a moment and hope flared in Hanno’s breast.

It didn’t last. With great shouts of encouragement and not a few curses, the centurions got their men moving, even increased their speed. With an almighty crash, the saw point to his right collided with Hanno’s soldiers. The immense force of it rippled through the men. A heartbeat later, a second blow reverberated through the phalanx as its left edge was struck. ‘Steady, steady!’ Hanno shouted. He craned his neck forward, desperate to see what was happening. Let them hold, please let them hold!

‘HANN-I-BAL!’ cried the men who weren’t fighting for their lives.

Hanno longed to have a target for his spear; to be able to sink the sharp iron deep into Roman flesh and somehow halt their advance. Instead he had to remain where he was, mad with rage and frustration as the ‘V’ of the saw point punched deep into the gap between the phalanxes. He pictured the confusion of his men, whose unprotected sides were now exposed to the Romans. The spearmen of the other phalanx would be able to fight back — but only if they had wheeled around to face left, rather than forward. Hold them! he prayed. Screams, shouts and bawled orders in Latin and Carthaginian mixed with the clash of metal on metal. The Romans whom Hanno could see did not move for some moments, but then they shoved forward a few steps. Then a few more. His heart sank. Once the phalanxes had been split apart, there would be no way for them to regroup.

Confusion reigned as the impact of the blows from either side spread through the ranks. Around Hanno, soldiers shouted, pushed and fought to stay on their feet. Many were driven to their knees or had their arms dislocated as their shields were ripped away from them. The front rank buckled, and then broke up. Men moved forward, breaking formation. Hanno was among them. There was no enemy directly in front, and the phalanx had shattered anyway. His mind raced, fighting panic. What to do? Ordering his men to attack the side of the saw might slow down the Roman attack, but there was every chance that the legionaries could break ranks and wheel around to their rear. That would be even more disastrous.

A glance downhill, and his heart sank further.

More groups of legionaries were pounding up the slope, clearly intent on pushing through the holes in the Carthaginian line. They would arrive long before the broken phalanxes had had time to regroup. There was no chance that the Balearic slingers could do what the Libyans had failed to. These Romans were going to get away.

Hanno lifted his eyes to the bright blue sky. Why? Why are you doing this to us? he screamed silently.

There was no answer.

Quintus had never been more glad to have Corax as his commanding officer than during the latter part of the brutal fighting on the hill. Big Tenner had been slain and Urceus injured in the third or fourth attack — when exactly, Quintus couldn’t remember. From that point on, his section of velites had struggled to maintain their morale in the face of the overwhelming barrage of stones from the Balearic slingers. Every man among them knew that they were dying for nothing; their javelins weren’t capable of penetrating the Libyans’ shields. He’d actually wondered if some of them were about to run — Macerio in particular had looked very unhappy. Run to where? Quintus had wondered cynically. The gods only knew what was going on to their rear, but it didn’t sound good. The carnyxes’ sound had a new, manic tempo, which implied that the Gauls at least were winning. It was as if Corax had known how close to the edge the eighteen uninjured velites were. He’d gathered them together, out of range of the deadly sling bullets. He had praised them to the skies for their efforts thus far, which had brought smiles to a few of the weary faces. Then he had revealed his and Pullo’s plan to escape. ‘We can’t do it without you lads,’ he’d growled. ‘You will be the stinging horseflies that send the gugga whoresons mad. They’ll be so busy watching you that by the time they see what we’re up to, it will be too late.’

‘By then, we’ll all be dead,’ Macerio had muttered.

Corax’s eyes had been like two chips of ice as they bored into the blond-haired veles. ‘You will call me “sir”, soldier.’

Macerio’s gaze had fallen away. ‘Yes, sir.’

Despite his dressing down, Macerio’s words had remained hanging in the air.

The centurion knew it too. He had glanced at each of them in turn. ‘Macerio is a cheeky prick, but he’s right. You might be killed if you go up there again. I can tell you one thing for nothing, though. It’s down to the triarii now. If they can’t help us to break past those bastards, we’ll all die anyway. Twenty years of war have taught me one thing, and that’s to recognise when a master tactician is on the field. There’s one here today, and sadly, it’s not Flaminius. The ambush was pure fucking genius. It won the battle at a stroke. We’re just trying to get our arses out of here before it’s too late.’

They had stared at him numbly, none prepared to answer. Which was worse: certain death by charging at the enemy again, or certain death in an hour or two by being overwhelmed by Numidians or Gauls? Remembering the heads he’d seen dangling from the harness on Gaulish horses at the Trebia, Quintus had known which he’d prefer. ‘I’ll go, sir.’

‘Me too,’ Rutilus had added.

When the injured Urceus had insisted on going as well, the others had been shamed into volunteering. Corax hadn’t berated them for their lack of enthusiasm; he’d nodded and smiled. ‘Good. Make this your best effort, boys, and I swear to you that we’ll get out of here.’

Fire had flared in their eyes then — weaker than before, but present all the same.

Gods, but they’d needed every last part of that fire, thought Quintus wearily. The Balearic slingers had long since found their range. Their bullets hit their targets more often than not, or so it had seemed. The front man had gone down before they’d gone twenty steps, his forehead smashed in. Only fourteen velites had come within javelin range of the Libyans. There had been eleven of them by the time they’d launched one volley, and just eight when they’d heard the crash of the first saw point hitting the enemy line. At that stage, Quintus had seen no shame in taking to his heels. He had sprinted to the back of the nearest formation of legionaries and squirmed into the rearmost rank. Rutilus, Urceus and two others had joined him soon after, but that had been it. How many of the twenty velites attached to Pullo’s century remained alive, he had no idea.

It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to grab the scutum of a fallen hastatus. Rutilus did the same. For close-quarters fighting, its size and weight made it far superior to their own light shields, which they discarded. There had been little initial need to use them, however, for which they were both relieved. The repeated attacks on the enemy had sapped Quintus’ strength, and he had been grateful to pound along behind the mass of legionaries as they pushed through the broken phalanxes. On the other side, the officers had rallied the men for a moment, and then charged the slingers. The Balearic warriors had taken one look at the bloodied and battered Romans before running for their lives. Few soldiers could stand up to armoured infantry, least of all skirmishers.

After that, the advance had slowed, as the physical toll of their efforts struck home. Quintus had hated Corax then, because they had been allowed the briefest of rests before the centurion had ordered them to continue uphill. Yet it had been the right decision. Their formation had been the only one thus far to succeed in breaking through the enemy line. If they’d stayed, they would have died. So they had slogged through the hills for at least a mile, until there was no sign of the enemy. Corax had ordered a halt then, just as men began to drop with exhaustion. The site, a small exposed hilltop, gave them a bird’s-eye view of what was happening by the lake. It wasn’t pleasant viewing, but once he’d made Urceus as comfortable as possible, Quintus could not tear his eyes away from it. Rutilus stood beside him, also transfixed.

‘Most of them have been driven on to the shore,’ announced a voice by his elbow.

Quintus glanced around, surprised to see Corax. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said with a sigh. ‘They’re being hounded by Gauls and Numidians alike.’

‘Poor bastards,’ said Rutilus.

‘Their lines were broken long ago; the units will all be mixed up with one another. Most of their officers are probably dead or injured. They’re surrounded, confused, panicked.’ Corax scowled. ‘Fuck it all. There’s nowhere for them to go but into the lake.’

Quintus peered down at the battlefield again. Was it his imagination, or was there a strange tinge to the shallows near the fighting? He blinked in horror. No, the water was turning red. His overwhelming thirst vanished for a moment. Even if he’d been able to drink his fill from the lake at that very instant, he wouldn’t have. ‘What will happen to them, sir?’

‘To the ones down there? They’re dead meat. Nothing we can do about it either. Going back down there would get every one of us killed, double quick.’

Quintus and Rutilus exchanged a sober but relieved look. If a man such as Corax said it was all right not to play the hero, then who were they to argue? Quintus prayed that his father was safe — that the cavalry hadn’t had time to pass through the pinch point before the ambush began. And at least Calatinus wasn’t present.

‘What we’ve got to concentrate on is not letting the same thing happen to us. My guess is that the guggas will be after us as soon as they can get organised.’

‘Ready to leave when you are, sir.’ Rutilus stuck out his chin.

An approving look. Corax eyed Quintus’ scutum. ‘How do you like the feel of that?’

‘It’s heavy, sir, but I can manage it.’ Another silent prayer, this time one of thanks that his arm had fully recovered.

‘And you?’ The centurion looked at Rutilus.

‘Same, sir.’

‘Picked them up from lads who’d gone down, eh?’

Quintus nodded.

‘Did you have to use them?’

‘No, sir. We were at the back,’ Quintus replied, expecting Corax to tell them off twice over.

‘It was good thinking to arm yourselves with them. Those little round things you velites carry aren’t worth the steam off my piss when you’ve got to slug it out with other infantry. Hang on to them for the moment.’

Quintus and Rutilus grinned in surprise. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘You and your mates did well earlier too,’ said Corax in a tone of gruff approval. ‘It’s no easy thing to keep running up a slope with those bastard slingers raining death down on you. Keep that type of behaviour up, and you’ll both make hastatus sooner rather than later.’

‘Thank you, sir!’

‘Make the most of this break. We’re leaving soon. We need to get as far from here as possible by sunset.’

‘Will we make it, sir?’ Quintus asked.

‘If the gods wish it, yes.’ With a tight nod, Corax moved off.

Quintus’ pride had been stirred by the centurion’s praise, but his final words had turned it to ash in his dry mouth. He could see the same emotion writ large on Rutilus’ face. He lifted his gaze to the heavens, searching for inspiration. Surely the gods wouldn’t let them survive the hell they’d just been through only to see them slain by other Carthaginian troops? After a moment, he looked down, angered by the absence of a sign.

‘The damn gods never answer. Never,’ whispered Rutilus. ‘Even when you need them most.’

‘I know.’ Quintus felt bone-weary. ‘We’ll just have to soldier on.’