Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XX: Setbacks

Some days later, Quintus was huddled around a campfire with a group of his new comrades. It was a dank, cold afternoon. A gusty wind set lowering clouds scudding over the camp, threatening snow and increasing the general misery.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ moaned Licinius, a garrulous Tarentine who was one of Quintus’ tent mates. ‘To have lost our first battle against the guggas. It’s shameful.’

‘It was only a skirmish,’ said Quintus morosely.

‘Maybe so,’ agreed Calatinus, another of the men who shared their tent. Sturdily built, he was a year older than Quintus, but of similar outlook. ‘It was a damn big one, though. I bet you’re all glad to be sitting here now, eh?’ He nodded as his companions shook their heads in agreement. ‘Look at our casualties! Most of our cavalry and hundreds of velites killed. Six hundred legionaries taken prisoner, and Publius gravely injured. Hardly a good start, was it?’

‘Too true,’ said Cincius, their last tent mate, a huge, ruddy-faced man with a shock of red hair. ‘We’ve also retreated since. What must Hannibal think of us?’

‘Why in Hades did we even pull back?’ Licinius demanded. ‘After the bridge had been destroyed, the Carthaginians had no way of crossing the Ticinus to get at us.’

Calatinus made sure no one else was in earshot. ‘I reckon the consul panicked. It’s not surprising, really, with him being out of action and all.’

‘How would you know what Publius thinks?’ Quintus challenged irritably. ‘He’s far from a fool.’

‘As if you’d know what the consul’s like, new boy,’ Cincius snapped.

Quintus scowled, but had the wisdom not to reply. Cincius looked ready for a fight, and he was twice Quintus’ size.

‘Why didn’t Publius take his chance when Hannibal offered battle before our camp?’ Cincius went on. ‘What an opportunity to miss, eh?’

There was a gloomy mutter of agreement.

‘I say it’s downright cowardly,’ said Cincius, warming to his theme.

Quintus’ anger flared. ‘It’s best to fight on the ground of one’s choosing, at a time of one’s choosing,’ he declared, remembering what his father had said. ‘You all know that! At the moment, we can do neither, and with Publius injured, that position is unlikely to change in the near future. It made far more sense to remain in a position of security, here in the camp. Consider what might happen otherwise.’

Cincius glared at Quintus, but, seeing the others subside into a grumpy silence, chose to say no more for the moment.

Quintus felt no happier. While Publius’ courage was in little doubt, that of Flaccus was a different matter. It had taken a sea change in his view of his prospective brother-in-law as a hero even to countenance such a thought, but the reality of what had happened at the Ticinus could not be denied. Flaccus had ridden out with the cavalry on the ill-fated reconnaissance mission at his own request. Still ecstatic about being allowed to accompany the patrol, Quintus had been there too. He and his father had seen Flaccus as the clash began, but not after that. He hadn’t reappeared until afterwards, when the battered remnants of the patrol retreated over the River Ticinus and reached the Roman camp. Apparently, he’d been swept out of harm’s way by the tide of battle. Seeing that the Carthaginians had the upper hand, Flaccus had ridden for help. Naturally, the senior tribunes had declined to lead their legions, an infantry force, across a temporary bridge to face an enemy entirely made up of cavalry. What else could he have done? Flaccus had earnestly asked.

Of course there was no way of questioning Flaccus’ account. Events were moving apace. They would just have to accept it. While Fabricius had not said as much to Quintus, he was clearly troubled by the possibility that Flaccus was a coward. Quintus felt the same way. Although he’d been terrified during the fight, at least he had stood his ground and fought the enemy. Aurelia must not marry a man, however well connected, who did not stick by his comrades in battle. Quintus poked a stick into the fire and tried not to think about it. He was annoyed to realise that the others had resumed their doleful conversation.

‘My groom was drinking with some of the legionaries who guard Publius’ tent,’ said Licinius. ‘They said that a huge Carthaginian fleet has attacked Lilybaeum in Sicily.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Cincius.

Licinius nodded mournfully. ‘There’s no question of Sempronius Longus coming to our relief now.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ demanded Quintus.

‘The soldiers swore on their mothers’ graves it was true.’

Quintus gave him a dubious look. ‘Why haven’t we heard it from anyone else, then?’

‘It’s supposed to be top secret,’ muttered Licinius.

‘Well, I heard that the entire Boii tribe is marching north to join Hannibal,’ interjected Cincius. ‘If that’s right, we’ll be caught in a pincer attack between them and the guggas.’

Quintus remembered what his father had told him. A monstrous calf, which was somehow turned inside out to expose all of its internal organs, had been cut out of a cow that could not give birth on a farm nearby. The damn thing had been alive too. An officer whom Fabricius knew had seen it while on patrol. Stop it, thought Quintus, setting his jaw. ‘Let’s not get overexcited,’ he advised. ‘These stories are all too far-fetched.’

‘Are they? What if the gods are angry with us?’ retorted Licinius. ‘I went to the temple of Placentia to make an offering yesterday, and the priests said that the sacred chickens would not eat. What better evidence do you need?’

Quintus’ anger overflowed. ‘Should we just surrender to Hannibal?’

Licinius flushed. ‘Of course not!’

Quintus rounded on Cincius, who shook his head. ‘Shut your damn mouths, then! Talk like that is terrible for morale. We’re equestrians, remember? The ordinary soldiers look to us to set an example, not to put the fear of Hades in their hearts.’

Shame-faced, the others took a sudden interest in their sandals.

‘I’ve had enough of your whingeing,’ Quintus growled. He got up. ‘See you later.’ Without waiting for a response, he stalked off. His father would be able to shed a more positive light on what was going on. Quintus hoped so, because he was struggling with a real sense of despondency. He hid it well, but the savage clash with Hannibal’s deadly Numidian horsemen had shaken him to the core. They were all lucky to have survived. No wonder his comrades were susceptible to the rumours sweeping the camp. Quintus had to work hard not to let his own fear become overwhelming.

His father was not in his tent. One of the sentries said that he’d gone to the consul’s headquarters. The walk would do him good, Quintus decided. Blow out the cobwebs. His route took him past the tents of the Cenomani, local Gaulish tribesmen who fought for Rome. There were more than two thousand of the tribesmen, mostly infantry but with a scattering of cavalry. They were a clannish lot, and the language barrier compounded this difference. There was, however, a palpable air of comradeship between them and the Romans, which Quintus had come to enjoy. He hailed the first warrior he saw, a strapping brute who was sitting on a stool outside his tent. To his surprise, the man looked away, busying himself with the sword he was oiling. Quintus thought nothing of it, but a moment later, the same thing happened again. A bunch of warriors not ten steps from where he was walking gave him cold, stony stares, before turning their backs.

It’s nothing, Quintus told himself. Scores of their men were killed the other day too. Half of them have probably lost a father or a brother.

‘Aurelia! Aurelia!’

Atia’s voice dragged Aurelia reluctantly from a pleasing dream, which had involved both Quintus and Hanno. Importantly, they’d still been friends. Despite the impossibility of this situation, and the urgency in her mother’s tone, she was in a good mood. ‘What is it, Mother?’

‘Get out here!’

Aurelia shot out of bed. Pulling open her door, she was surprised to see Gaius standing in the atrium with her mother. Both looked decidedly serious. Suddenly self-conscious, Aurelia darted back and threw a light tunic over her woollen nightdress. Then she hurried out of her bedroom. ‘Gaius,’ she cried. ‘How nice to see you.’

He bobbed his head awkwardly. ‘And you, Aurelia.’

His grave manner made Aurelia’s stomach lurch. She glanced at her mother and was horrified to see that her eyes were bright with tears. ‘W-what is it?’ Aurelia stammered.

‘Word has come from Cisalpine Gaul,’ said Gaius. ‘It’s not good.’

‘Has our army been defeated?’ Aurelia asked in surprise.

‘Not exactly,’ replied Gaius. ‘But there was a big skirmish near the River Ticinus several days ago. Hannibal’s Numidians caused heavy casualties among our cavalry and velites.’

Aurelia felt faint. ‘Is Father all right?’

‘We don’t know.’ Her mother’s eyes were dark pools of sorrow.

‘The situation is still very confused,’ muttered Gaius. ‘He’s probably fine.’

‘Heavy casualties,’ repeated Aurelia slowly. ‘How heavy, exactly?’

There was no answer.

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Gaius?’

‘They say that out of three thousand riders, perhaps five hundred made it back to camp,’ he answered, avoiding her gaze.

‘How in the name of Hades can you say that Father is alive, then?’ Aurelia shouted. ‘It’s far more likely that he’s dead.’

‘Aurelia!’ barked Atia. ‘Gaius is just trying to give us some hope.’

Gaius flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

Atia reached out to take his hand. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for. You have ridden out here at first light to bring us what information there is. We’re very grateful.’

‘I’m not! How could I be grateful for such news?’ Aurelia yelled. Sobbing wildly, she ran towards the front door. Ignoring the startled doorman, she pulled it open and plunged outside. She ignored the cries that followed her.

Aurelia’s feet led her to the stables. They had long been her refuge when feeling upset. She went straight to the solitary horse of her father’s that had been left behind. A sturdy grey, it had been lame at the time of his departure. Seeing her, it whinnied in greeting. At once Aurelia’s sorrow burst its banks and she dissolved in floods of tears. For a long time, she stood sobbing, her mind filled with images of her father, whom she would never see again. It was only when she felt the horse nibbling at her hair that Aurelia managed to regain some control. ‘You want an apple, don’t you?’ she whispered, stroking its nose. ‘And I’ve stupidly come empty-handed. Wait a moment. I’ll get you one.’

Grateful for the interruption, Aurelia went to the food store at the end of the stables. Picking the largest apple she could find, she walked back. The horse’s eagerly pricked ears and nickers of excitement made her sorrow surge back with a vengeance, however. Aurelia calmed herself with the only thing she could think of. ‘At least Quintus is safe in Iberia,’ she whispered. ‘May the gods watch over him.’

Fabricius was closeted with Publius, so Quintus didn’t manage to meet with his father until later in the afternoon. When told about Quintus’ comrades’ scaremongering, Fabricius’ reaction was typically robust. ‘Despite the rumours, Publius is doing fine. He’ll be up and about in a couple of months. The rumour about a Carthaginian fleet attacking Sempronius Longus I also know to be untrue. Publius would have mentioned it to me. It’d be the same if he’d had any intelligence about the Boii rising up. As for these bad omens — has a single one of your companions actually witnessed one?’ Fabricius laughed as Quintus shook his head. ‘Of course not. Apart from that calf, which was just a freak of nature, no one ever has. The chickens in Jupiter’s temple might not be eating, but that’s to be expected. Poultry are frail bloody creatures. They’re forever falling sick, especially in weather like this.’ He pointed to his head, and then his heart, and last of all at his sword. ‘Trust in these before you worry about what other men say.’

Quintus was heartened by Fabricius’ attitude. He was also grateful that his father no longer mentioned sending him home. Nothing had been said since the defeat at the Ticinus. Whether it was because of the number of riders who had fallen, or because Fabricius had become reconciled to the idea of him serving in the cavalry, Quintus did not know — or care. His good humour was added to by the bellyful of wine and hearty stew that his father had provided, and he left in much better spirits than he’d arrived.

His good mood did not last long, however. The currents of air that whipped around Quintus as he struggled back towards his tent were even more vicious than earlier in the day. They cut clean through his cloak, chilling his flesh to the bone. It was so easy to imagine the gods sending the storm down as punishment. There was an awful inevitability about the snow that began falling a moment later. His worries, only recently allayed, returned with a vengeance.

What few soldiers were about rapidly vanished from sight. Quintus couldn’t wait to climb beneath his blankets himself, where he could try to forget it all. He was amazed, therefore, to see the Cenomani tribesmen outside. They stood around blazing fires, their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing low, sorrowful chants. The warriors were probably mourning their dead, thought Quintus, shivering. He left them to it.

Licinius was first to catch Quintus’ eye when he entered the tent. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he muttered from the depths of his blankets. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’

‘Don’t worry about it. We were all feeling down,’ Quintus replied, shedding his damp cloak. He moved to his bedroll. It lay alongside that of Calatinus, who also gave him a sheepish look. ‘You might be interested to know that Publius knows nothing of a Carthaginian fleet attacking Sicily.’

An embarrassed grin creased Calatinus’ face. ‘Well, if he hasn’t heard of it, we have nothing to worry about.’

‘What about the Boii?’ challenged Cincius aggressively.

Quintus grinned. ‘No. Good news, eh?’

Cincius’ glower slowly faded away.

‘Excellent,’ said Calatinus, sitting up. ‘So we just have to wait until Longus gets here.’

‘I think we should raise a toast to that day,’ Cincius announced. He nodded at Quintus as if to say that their disagreement had been forgotten. ‘Who’s interested?’

There was a chorus of agreement, and Quintus groaned. ‘I can feel the hangover already.’

‘Who cares? There’s no chance of any action!’ Cincius leaped up and headed for the table where they kept their food and wine.

‘True enough,’ Quintus muttered. ‘Why not, then?’

The four comrades were late getting to sleep. Despite his drunken state, Quintus was troubled by bad dreams. The most vivid involved squadrons of Numidian horsemen pursuing him across an open plain. Eventually, drenched in sweat, he sat up. It was pitch black in the tent, and freezing cold. Yet Quintus welcomed the chill air that moved across his face and arms, distracting him from the drumbeat pounding in his head. He squinted at the brazier, barely making out the last glowing embers. Yawning, he threw back the covers. If the fire was fed now, it might last until morning. As he stood, Quintus heard a faint noise outside. Surprised, he pricked his ears. It was the unmistakable crunching of snow beneath a man’s feet, but rather than the measured tread of a sentry, this was being made by someone moving with great care. Someone who did not want to be heard.

Instinctively, Quintus picked up his sword. On either side and to the rear, the next tents were half a dozen paces away. In front, a narrow path increased that distance to perhaps ten. This was where the sound was coming from. Quintus padded forward in his bare feet. All his senses were on high alert. Next, he heard whispering. Adrenaline surged through him. This was not right. Groping his way back through the darkness, Quintus reached Calatinus and grabbed his shoulder. ‘Wake up,’ he hissed.

The only answer he got was an irritated groan.

At once the noise outside stopped.

Quintus’ heart thumped with fear. He might have just attracted the attention of those on the other side of the tent leather. Letting go of Calatinus’ tunic, he frantically pulled on his sandals. His fingers slipped on the awkward lacing, and he mouthed a savage curse. Finally, though, he was done.

As Quintus straightened, he heard a soft, choking sound. And another. There was more muttering, and a stifled cry, which was cut short. He rushed to Licinius’ bedroll this time. Perhaps he wasn’t so pissed. Placing a hand across the Tarentine’s mouth, Quintus shook him violently. ‘Wake up!’ he hissed. ‘We are under attack!’ He made out the white of the other’s shocked eyes as they opened. Licinius nodded in understanding, and Quintus took away his hand. ‘Listen,’ he whispered.

For a moment, they heard nothing. Then there was a strangled moan, which swiftly died away. It was followed by the familiar, meaty sound of a blade plunging in and out of flesh. Quintus and Licinius exchanged a horrified glance and they both leaped up. ‘To arms! To arms!’ they screamed in unison.

At last Calatinus woke up. ‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled.

‘Damn it, get up! Grab your sword,’ Quintus shouted. ‘You too, Cincius. Quickly!’ He cursed himself for not raising the alarm sooner.

In response to their cries, someone pushed a blade through the front of the tent and sliced downwards. Ripping the leather apart, he stepped inside. Quintus didn’t hesitate. Running forward, he stabbed the figure in the belly. As the man folded over, bellowing in pain, a second intruder entered. Quintus hacked him down with a savage blow to the neck. Blood spattered everywhere as the intruder collapsed, screaming. Unfortunately, a third man was close behind. So was a fourth. Loud, guttural voices from outside revealed that they had plenty of back-up.

‘They’re fucking Gauls!’ yelled Licinius.

Confusion filled Quintus. What was happening? Had the Carthaginians scaled the ramparts? Ducking underneath a swinging sword, he thrust forward with his gladius, and was satisfied by the loud cry this elicited. Licinius joined him. Side by side, they put up a desperate resistance against the tide of warriors trying to gain entry. It was soon obvious that they would fail. Their new enemies were carrying shields, while they were in only their underclothes.

More ripping sounds came from Quintus’ left and he struggled not to panic. ‘The whoresons are cutting their way in. Calatinus! Cincius! Slash a hole in one of the back panels,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We’ve got to get out.’ There was no response, and Quintus’ stomach clenched. Were their comrades already dead?

‘Come on!’ Calatinus screeched a moment later.

Relief flooded through Quintus. ‘Ready?’ he bellowed at Licinius.

‘Yes!’

‘Let’s go, then!’ Quintus delivered a desperate flurry of blows in the direction of his nearest opponent before turning and sprinting for the rear of the tent. He sensed Licinius one step behind. Quintus reached the gaping hole in the leather in a few strides. He hurled himself bodily through it, landing with a crash at the feet of the others. As they hauled him up, he peered inside, and was horrified to see Licinius — almost within arm’s reach — trip and fall to his knees. Quintus had no time to react. The baying Gauls were on his comrade like hounds that have cornered a boar. Swords, daggers and even an axe chopped downwards. The poor light was not enough to prevent Quintus seeing the spurts of blood from each dreadful, mortal wound. Licinius collapsed on to the tent’s floor without a word.

‘You bastards,’ Quintus screamed. Desperate to avenge his friend, he lunged forward.

Strong arms pulled him back. ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s dead. We have to save ourselves,’ Cincius snarled. Quickly, he and Calatinus dragged him off into the darkness.

There was no pursuit.

‘Let me go!’ Quintus shouted.

‘You won’t go back?’ insisted Calatinus.

‘I swear it,’ Quintus muttered angrily.

They released him.

Quintus gazed around with horrified eyes. As far as he could see, pandemonium reigned. Some tents had been set on fire, vividly illuminating the scene. Groups of Gaulish warriors ran hither and thither, cutting down the confused Roman cavalrymen and legionaries who were emerging, half-clothed, into the cold night air. ‘It doesn’t look like an all-out attack,’ he said after a moment. ‘There aren’t enough of them.’

‘Some of the whoresons are already running away,’ swore Calatinus, pointing.

Quintus squinted into the glow cast by the burning tents. ‘What are they carrying?’ His gorge rose as he realised. A great retch doubled Quintus over, and he puked up a bellyful of sour wine.

‘The fucking dogs!’ cried Cincius. ‘They’re heads! They’ve beheaded the men they’ve killed!’

With watering eyes, Quintus looked up. All he could see were the trails of blood the Gauls had left in the dazzling white snow.

Cincius and Calatinus began to moan with fear.

With great effort, Quintus pulled himself together. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

To his surprise, the pair obeyed. White-faced, they waited for him to speak.

Quintus ignored his instincts, which were screaming at him to search for his father. He had two men’s lives in his hands. For the moment, they had to be the priority. ‘Let’s head for the intervallum,’ he said. ‘That’s where everyone will be headed. We can fight the whoresons on a much better footing there.’

‘But we’re both barefoot,’ said Cincius plaintively.

Quintus bridled, but if he didn’t let the others equip themselves with caligae from nearby corpses, frostbite beckoned. ‘Go on, then. Pick up a scutum each as well,’ he ordered. A shield was vital.

‘What about a mail shirt?’ Calatinus tugged at a dead legionary. ‘He’s about my size.’

‘No, you fool! We can’t afford the time. Swords and shields will have to do.’ Twitching with impatience, he waited until they were ready. ‘Follow me.’ Keeping an eye out for Gaulish warriors, Quintus set off at a loping run.

He led them straight to the intervallum, the strip of open ground that ran around the inside of the camp walls. Normally, it served for the legion to assemble before marching out on patrol or to do battle. Now, it allowed the bloodied survivors of the covert attack to regroup. Many had had the same idea as Quintus. The area was packed with hundreds of milling, disorganised legionaries and cavalrymen. Not many were fully dressed, but most had had the wits to pick up a weapon as they fled their tents.

Fortunately, this was where the discipline of officers such as centurions came into play. Recognisable even without their characteristic helmets, there were calm, measured figures everywhere, shouting orders and forming the soldiers into regular lines. Quintus and his companions joined the nearest group. At that point, it didn’t matter that they were not infantry. Before long, the centurions had marshalled a large force together. Every sixth soldier was issued with one of the few torches available. It wasn’t much, but would do until the attack had been contained.

At once, they began sweeping the avenues and tent lines for Gauls. To everyone’s frustration, they had little success. Their desire for revenge could not be sated. It appeared that as soon as the alarm had been raised, the majority of the tribesmen had made their getaway. Nonetheless, the search continued until the entire area had been covered.

The worst discoveries were the numerous headless bodies. It was common knowledge that the Gauls liked to gather such battle trophies, but Quintus had never witnessed it before. He had never seen so much blood in his life. Enormous splashes of red circled every corpse, and wide trails of it ran alongside the Gauls’ footprints.

‘Jupiter above, this will look like a slaughterhouse in daylight,’ said Calatinus in a hushed voice.

‘Poor bastards,’ replied Cincius. ‘Most of them never had a chance.’

An image of his father sleeping in his tent made Quintus retch again. There was nothing left to come up except bile.

Calatinus looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Quintus barked. Forcing down his nausea, he carefully scanned each body they came across. He begged the gods that he would not find his father. To his immense relief, he saw none who resembled Fabricius. Yet this did not mean a thing. They had covered but a small part of the camp. Only when daybreak came could he be sure.

The centurions kept every soldier on high alert for what remained of the night. The sole compromise they would make was to allow each makeshift century in turn to go to their tents and retrieve their clothing and armour. Fully prepared for battle, the legionaries and cavalrymen then had to wait until dawn, when it became clear that there would be no further attack. The men were finally allowed to stand down, and were ordered to return to their respective units. The cleaning-up operation would take all day. Disregarding this, Quintus went in search of his father. Miraculously, he found him in his tent. Tears came to his eyes as he entered. ‘You’re alive!’

‘There you are,’ Fabricius declared, waving at the table before him, which was laid out for breakfast. ‘Care for some bread?’

Quintus grinned. Despite his father’s nonchalance, he had seen the flash of relief in his eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m famished. It’s been a long night,’ he replied.

‘Indeed it has,’ Fabricius replied. ‘And more than a hundred good men are gone thanks to those bastard Cenomani.’

‘You’re certain that’s who it was?’

‘Who else could it have been? There was no sign of the gate being forced, and the sentries on the walls saw no one.’

Realisation struck Quintus. ‘That’s why they were so surly yesterday!’ Seeing his father’s confusion, he explained.

‘That clarifies a great deal. And now they’ve fled to the Carthaginian camp. No doubt their “trophies” will serve as an offering to Hannibal,’ said Fabricius sourly. ‘Proof that they hate us.’

Quintus tried not to think of Licinius’ headless corpse, which he’d found in the wreckage of their tent. ‘What will Publius do?’

Fabricius scowled. ‘Guess.’

‘We’re to withdraw again?’

His father nodded.

‘Why?’ cried Quintus.

‘He thinks it’s too dangerous on this side of the Trebia. After last night, that’s hard to argue with.’ Fabricius saw Quintus’ anguish. ‘It’s not just that. The high ground on the far bank is extremely uneven, which will stop any chance of attacks by the Carthaginian cavalry. We’ll also be blocking the roads that lead south through Liguria to the lands of the Boii.’

Quintus’ protests subsided. Those reasons at least made sense. ‘When?’

‘This afternoon, as it’s getting dark.’

Quintus sighed. The very manner of their retreat seemed cowardly, but it was prudent. ‘And then we sit tight?’ he guessed. ‘Contain the Carthaginians?’

‘Exactly. Sempronius Longus is travelling here with all speed. His forces will arrive inside a month.’ Fabricius’ expression grew fierce. ‘Hannibal’s forces will never stand up to two consular armies.’

For the second time since the Cenomani attack, Quintus had a reason to smile.

‘There you are. Your mother’s been worried. She thought you’d be here.’

At the sound of Elira’s voice, Aurelia turned. The Illyrian was framed in the doorway to the stable. All at once, she felt very childish. ‘Is Gaius still here?’

‘No, he’s gone. Apparently, his unit is to be mobilised soon. He said that you would be in his thoughts and prayers.’

Aurelia felt even worse.

Elira came closer. ‘I heard the news,’ she said softly. ‘Everyone did. We all feel for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Aurelia threw her a grateful look.

‘Who’s to know? Your father may well be alive.’

‘Don’t,’ Aurelia snapped.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Elira quickly.

Aurelia forced a smile. ‘At least Quintus is still alive.’

‘And Hanno.’

Aurelia shoved away the pang of jealousy that followed Elira’s words. Mention of Hanno inevitably made her think of Suniaton. She hadn’t taken him any food for four days. He’d be running out of provisions. Aurelia made her mind up on the spot. Seeing Suni now would cheer her up. She squinted at Elira. ‘You liked Hanno, didn’t you?’

Twin dimples formed in the Illyrian’s cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Would you help him again?’

‘Of course,’ Elira answered, looking puzzled. ‘But he’s gone, with Quintus.’

Aurelia smiled. ‘Go to the kitchen and fill a bag with provisions. Bread, cheese, meat. If Julius asks, tell him that they’re rations for our foraging trip. Fetch a basket too.’

‘What if the mistress wants to know where you are?’

‘Say that we’re going to look for nuts and mushrooms.’

Elira’s face grew even more confused. ‘How will that help Hanno?’

‘You’ll see.’ Aurelia clapped her hands. ‘Well, get on with it then. I’ll meet you on the path that leads up to the hills.’

With a curious glance, Elira hurried off.

Aurelia hadn’t been waiting long before Elira came hurrying through the trees towards her. A small leather pack dangled from one hand, a cloak that matched her own from the other.

‘Did anyone ask what you were doing?’ Aurelia asked nervously.

‘Julius did, but he just smiled when I told him what we were doing. He said to be careful.’

‘He’s such an old woman!’ declared Aurelia. She looked down and realised that she’d come out without her dagger or sling. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. We won’t be gone for long. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Elira.

‘Up there,’ replied Aurelia, waving vaguely at the slopes that loomed over the farm. Abruptly, she decided that there was no further need for subterfuge. ‘Did you know that Hanno had a friend who was captured with him?’

Elira nodded.

‘Suniaton was sold to become a gladiator in Capua.’

‘Oh.’ Elira didn’t dare to say more, but her muted tone spoke volumes.

‘Quintus and Gaius helped him to escape.’

The Illyrian was visibly shocked. ‘Why?’

‘Because Hanno was Quintus’ friend.’

‘I see.’ Elira frowned. ‘Has Suniaton got something to do with where we’re going now?’

‘Yes. He was injured when they rescued him, so the poor thing couldn’t travel. He’s much better now, thank the gods.’

Elira looked intrigued. ‘Where is he?’

‘At the shepherd’s hut where Quintus and Hanno fought the bandits.’

‘You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’ said Elira with a giggle.

Aurelia’s misery lifted a fraction and she grinned.

Talking animatedly, they walked to the border of Fabricius’ land. The fields on either side were empty and bare, lying fallow until the spring. Jackdaws were their only company; flocks regularly flew overhead, their characteristic squawks piercing the chill air. Soon they had entered the woods that covered the surrounding hills. The bird cries immediately died away, and the trees pressed in from all sides with a claustrophobic air that Aurelia did not like.

When Agesandros stepped out on to the path, she screamed in fright. So did Elira.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said apologetically.

Aurelia tried to calm her pounding heart. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

He raised the bow in his hands. An arrow was already notched to its string. ‘Hunting deer. And you?’

Aurelia’s mouth felt very dry. ‘Looking for nuts. And mushrooms.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t stray too far from the farm on your search.’

‘Why not?’ asked Aurelia, trying desperately to sound confident.

‘You never know who might be about. Bandits. A bear. An escaped slave.’

‘There’s little chance of that,’ Aurelia declared boldly.

‘Maybe so. You’re unarmed, though. I could come with you,’ the Sicilian offered.

‘No!’ Instantly, Aurelia regretted her vehemence. ‘Thank you, but we’ll be fine.’

‘If you’re certain,’ he said, stepping back.

‘I am.’ Jerking her head at Elira, Aurelia walked past him.

‘It’s a bit late for mushrooms, isn’t it?’

Aurelia’s step faltered. ‘There are still a few, if you know where to look,’ she managed.

Agesandros nodded knowledgeably. ‘I’m sure.’

Aurelia’s skin was crawling as she walked away.

‘Does he know?’ whispered Elira.

‘How could he?’ Aurelia hissed back.

But it felt as if he did.

Many days passed by, and it became evident that there would be no battle. As Fabricius had said, no commander would choose to fight unless he could select the time and place. Publius’ refusal to move from the high ground and Hannibal’s unwillingness to attack his enemy’s position produced a stalemate. While the Carthaginians roamed at will across the plain west of the Trebia, the Romans stayed close to their camp. Hannibal’s cavalry now severely outnumbered their horsemen. Patrols were so risky that they were rarely sent out. Despite this, Quintus found it hard to remain equable about their enforced inactivity. He was still suffering nightmares about what had happened to Licinius. He hoped that in battle he could purge himself of the disturbing images. ‘I’m going crazy,’ he told his father one night. ‘How much longer do we have to wait?’

‘We’ll do nothing until Longus arrives,’ Fabricius repeated patiently. ‘If we marched down to the flat ground today and offered battle, the dogs would cut us to pieces. Even without the difference in cavalry, Hannibal’s army outnumbers us man for man. You know that.’

‘I suppose so,’ Quintus admitted reluctantly.

Fabricius leaned back in his chair, satisfied that his point had been made.

Quintus stared gloomily into the depths of the brazier. What was Hanno doing at this very moment? he wondered. It didn’t seem real that they were now enemies. Quintus also thought of Aurelia. When would his recently composed letter reach her? If Fortuna smiled on them both, he might get a reply within the next few months. It was a long time to wait. At least in the meantime he was serving alongside his father. His sister, on the other hand, was not so lucky. Quintus’ heart ached for her.

‘Here you both are!’ A familiar booming voice broke the silence.

Fabricius made a show of looking pleased. ‘Flaccus. Where else would we be?’

Quintus jumped up and saluted. What does he want? he wondered. Since the debacle at the Ticinus, they had hardly seen Aurelia’s husband-to-be. The reason, all three knew, was Flaccus’ conduct during that disaster. It was hard to dispel suspicion once it had taken root, thought Quintus. Yet he could not shake off his feeling. Nor, it appeared, could his father.

‘Quite so, quite so. Who would be out tonight apart from the sentries and the deranged?’ Chuckling at his own joke, Flaccus proffered a small amphora.

‘How kind,’ Fabricius murmured, accepting the gift. ‘Will you try some?’

‘Only if you will,’ Flaccus demurred.

Fabricius opened the amphora with a practised movement of his wrist. ‘Quintus?’

‘Yes, please, Father.’ Quickly, he fetched three glazed ceramic beakers.

With their cups filled, they eyed each other, wondering who would make the toast. At length, Fabricius spoke. ‘To the swift arrival of Sempronius Longus and his army.’

‘And to a rapid victory over the Carthaginians thereafter,’ Flaccus added.

Quintus thought of Licinius. ‘And vengeance for our dead comrades.’

Nodding, Fabricius lifted his cup even higher.

Flaccus beamed. ‘That’s fighting talk! Just what I wanted to hear.’ He gave them a conspiratorial wink. ‘I’ve had a word with Publius.’

Fabricius looked dubious. ‘About what?’

‘Sending out a patrol.’

‘Eh?’ asked Fabricius suspiciously.

‘No one has been across the river in more than a week.’

‘That’s because it’s too damn dangerous,’ Fabricius replied. ‘The enemy controls the far bank in its entirety.’

‘Hear me out,’ said Flaccus in a placatory tone. ‘When Sempronius Longus arrives, he’ll want fresh intelligence, and information on the terrain west of the Trebia. After all, that’s where the battle will be.’

‘What’s wrong with waiting until he gets here?’ demanded Fabricius. ‘Some of his cavalry can do his donkey work.’

‘It needs to be now,’ urged Flaccus. ‘Presenting the consul with all the information he needs would allow him to act fast. Just think of the boost it would provide to the men’s morale when we come back safely!’

‘We?’ said Fabricius slowly. ‘You would come too?’

‘Of course.’

Not for the first time, Fabricius wondered if it had been a good idea to betroth Aurelia to Flaccus. Yet how could he be a coward and offer to take part in such a madcap venture? ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘It would be incredibly risky.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Flaccus protested. ‘I’ve been watching the Carthaginians from our side of the river. By hora decima every afternoon, their last patrol has vanished from sight. It’s at least hora quarta the following morning before they return. If we crossed at night, and rode out before dawn, we’d have perhaps two hours to reconnoitre the area. We would be back across before the Numidians had finished scratching their lice.’

Quintus laughed.

Fabricius scowled. ‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea.’

‘Publius has already given his approval. I could think of no one better to lead the patrol, and he agreed,’ said Flaccus. ‘Come on, what do you say?’

Damn you, thought Fabricius. He felt completely outmanoeuvred. Refusing Flaccus’ offer could be seen as a snub to Publius himself, and that was not a wise course of action. Furious, Fabricius changed his mind. ‘It could only be a small patrol. One turma at most,’ he said. ‘It would have to be under my sole command. You can come along — as an observer.’

Flaccus did not protest. He turned to Quintus. ‘Your father is a shining example of a Roman officer. Brave, resourceful and eager to do his duty.’

‘I’m coming too,’ said Quintus.

‘No, you’re not,’ snapped his father. ‘It will be far too dangerous.’

‘It’s not fair! You did things like this when you were my age — you’ve told me!’ retorted Quintus furiously.

Flaccus stepped in before Fabricius could reply. ‘How can we deny Quintus such a chance to gain valuable experience? And think of the glory that will be heaped upon the men who brought Longus the information that helped him to defeat Hannibal!’

Fabricius looked at his son’s eager face and sighed. ‘Very well.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Quintus with a broad smile.

Fabricius kept showing a brave face, but inside he was filled with fear. It will be like walking past a pride of hungry lions, hoping that none of them sees us, he thought. Yet there was no going back now.

He had given his word to lead the mission.