Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XXIII: Battle Commences

Bostar waited until they’d got back to the Carthaginian camp before he launched his attack. The moment that their men had been stood down, he rounded on Hanno. ‘What the hell was that about?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you remember our orders? We were supposed to kill them all!’

‘I know,’ muttered Hanno. The sad image of Quintus and his father riding down to the Trebia was vivid in his mind’s eye. ‘How, though, could I kill the person who had saved my life, not once, but twice?’

‘So your sense of honour is more important than a direct order given by Hannibal?’ Sapho sneered.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ Hanno replied. ‘Leave me alone!’

‘Sapho!’ Bostar snapped.

Sapho raised his hands and stepped back. ‘Let’s see what the general says when we report to him.’ He made a face. ‘I presume that you are going to tell him?’

Hanno felt a towering fury take hold. ‘Of course I am!’ he cried. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. What, were you going to tell Hannibal if I didn’t?’ His mouth opened as Sapho flushed. ‘Sacred Tanit, you fucking were! Where did you get to be so poisonous? No wonder Bostar doesn’t like you any more.’ He saw Sapho’s shock, and despite his anger, felt instant shame. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s a bit late,’ retorted Sapho. ‘Why should I be surprised that you’ve been talking about me behind my back? You little dirtbag!’

Hanno flushed and hung his head.

‘I’ll see you at the general’s tent,’ said Sapho sourly. ‘We’ll see what Hannibal thinks of what you’ve done then.’ Pulling his cloak tighter around himself, he walked away.

‘Sapho! Come back!’ Hanno shouted.

‘Let him go,’ advised Bostar.

‘Why is he being like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bostar, looking away.

Now you’re the one who’s lying, thought Hanno, but he didn’t have the heart to interrogate his older brother. Soon he would have to explain his actions to Hannibal. ‘Come on,’ he said anxiously. ‘We’d best get this over with.’

Hanno was relieved to find that Sapho had not entered Hannibal’s tent, but was waiting outside for them. Zamar, the Numidian officer was there too. Announcing themselves to the guards, they were ushered inside.

Hanno slipped to Sapho’s side. ‘Thank you.’

Sapho gave him a startled look. ‘For what?’

‘Not going in to tell your version of the story first.’

‘I might disagree with what you did, but I’m not a telltale,’ Sapho shot back in an angry whisper.

‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘Let’s just see what Hannibal says, eh? After that, we can forget about it.’

‘No more talking about me behind my back,’ Sapho warned.

‘It’s not as if Bostar said much. He commented that after the pirates’ capture, you had changed.’

‘Changed?’

‘Grown tougher. Harder.’

‘Nothing else?’ Sapho demanded.

‘No.’ What in Tanit’s name happened between you two? Hanno wondered. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Sapho was silent for a moment. ‘Very well. We’ll put it behind us after we’ve reported to Hannibal. But understand this: if he asks me my opinion about the release of the two Romans, I’m not going to lie to him.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Hanno heatedly. ‘I wouldn’t want you to.’

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt as they entered the main part of Hannibal’s tent.

The general greeted them with a broad smile. ‘Word of your success has already reached me,’ he declared. He raised his glass. ‘Come, taste this wine. For a Roman vintage, it’s quite palatable.’

When they all had a glass in hand, Hannibal looked at them each in turn. ‘Well?’ he enquired. ‘Who’s going to tell me what happened?’

Hanno stepped forward. ‘I will, sir,’ he said, swallowing.

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose, but he indicated that Hanno should continue.

Shoving away his nervousness, Hanno described their march to the Trebia, and the long wait in the hidden clearing. When he got to the point where the Roman patrol had crossed, he turned to Zamar. The Numidian related how his men had carried word to him of the enemy incursion, and of how the ambush had been sprung early by an overeager section leader. ‘I’ve already stripped him to the ranks, sir,’ he said. ‘Thanks to him, the whole thing might have been a disaster.’

‘But it wasn’t, thankfully,’ Hannibal replied. ‘Did any make it to the river?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Zamar. ‘Eight.’

Hannibal winked. ‘That didn’t leave much work for nine hundred spearmen!’

They all laughed.

‘Did you find any documents on the Roman commander?’

Hanno didn’t know how to answer. ‘No, sir,’ he muttered. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sapho glaring at him.

Hannibal didn’t notice Hanno’s reticence. ‘A shame. Still, never mind. It’s unlikely that they would carry anything of importance on such a mission anyway.’

Hanno coughed awkwardly. ‘I didn’t manage to search him, sir.’

‘Why not?’ asked Hannibal, frowning.

‘Because I let him go, sir. Along with one other.’

The general’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You had best explain yourself, son of Malchus. Fast.’

Hannibal’s intense stare was unnerving. ‘Yes, sir.’ Hanno hastily began. When he had finished, there was a pregnant silence. Hanno thought he was going to be sick.

Hannibal eyed Sapho and Bostar askance. ‘Presumably, he consulted with you two,’ he snapped.

‘Yes, sir,’ they mumbled.

‘What was your reaction, Bostar?’

‘Although it was against your orders, sir, I respected his reason for wanting to let the two men go.’

Hannibal looked at Sapho.

‘I violently disagreed, sir, but I was overruled.’

Hannibal regarded Zamar. ‘And you?’

‘I had nothing to do with it, sir,’ the Numidian replied neutrally. ‘I was a hundred paces away with my men.’

‘Interesting,’ said Hannibal to Hanno. ‘One brother supported you, one did not.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is this what I am to expect in future when I issue a command?’ demanded Hannibal, his nostrils flaring.

‘No, sir,’ protested Bostar and Hanno. ‘Of course not,’ Hanno added.

Hannibal didn’t comment further. ‘Do I detect that there was quite an amount of disagreement?’

Hanno flushed. ‘You do, sir.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Because we were given orders to let none survive, sir!’ cried Sapho.

‘Finally, we come back to the nub of the issue,’ said Hannibal. In the background, Sapho smiled triumphantly. ‘Under ordinary circumstances, this situation would be black and white. And if you’d disobeyed my orders as you have done, I would have had you crucified.’

His words hung in the air like a bad smell.

Fear twisted Sapho’s face. ‘Sir, I…’ he began.

‘Did I ask you to speak?’ Hannibal snapped.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then keep your mouth shut!’

Humbled, Sapho obeyed.

Hanno wiped his brow, which was covered in sweat. I still did the right thing, he thought. I owed Quintus my life. Sure that, at the very least, a severe punishment was about to follow, he resigned himself to his fate. Beside him, Bostar was clenching and unclenching his jaw.

‘Yet what transpired happens but once in a host of lifetimes,’ said Hannibal.

Stunned, Hanno waited to hear what his general said next.

‘A man can’t go killing those who have helped him, even if they are Roman. I cannot think of a better way to anger the gods.’ Hannibal gave Hanno a grim nod. ‘You did the right thing.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ whispered Hanno. He’d never been so relieved in his life.

‘I will let you off, Bostar, because of the unique nature of what happened.’

Bostar stood rigidly to attention and saluted. ‘Thank you, sir!’

Hanno glanced at Sapho. His fear had been replaced by a poorly concealed expression of resentment. Did he want us to be punished? Hanno wondered uneasily.

‘As well as satisfying your honour, your lenient gesture fulfilled another purpose,’ Hannibal continued. ‘Those two men will speak of little but the excellence of our troops. Some of their comrades will be demoralised by what they hear, which helps our cause. Despite your disobedience, you have achieved the result I wanted.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s not all,’ said Hannibal lightly.

Hanno’s fear returned with a vengeance. ‘Sir?’

‘There can be no repeat of such behaviour.’ Hannibal’s voice had grown hard. ‘You have paid off your obligation to this Quintus. Should you see either him or his father again, you can act in only one way.’

He’s right, screamed Hanno’s common sense. How can I remain friends with a Roman? Despite everything, his heart felt differently. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Trust me, those men would bury a sword in your belly as soon as look at you. They are the enemy,’ growled Hannibal. ‘If you meet either again, you will kill them.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Hanno said, finally giving in. But never let it happen.

‘Understand too that if any of you disobey my orders again, I will not be merciful. Instead, expect to end your miserable lives screaming on a cross. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Hanno, shaking.

‘You’re dismissed,’ said Hannibal curtly. ‘All of you.’

Muttering their thanks, Zamar and the three brothers withdrew.

Sapho sidled up to Hanno outside. ‘Still think you did the right thing?’ he hissed.

‘Eh?’ Hanno gave his brother an incredulous look.

‘We could all be dead now, thanks to you.’

‘But we’re not! And it’s not as if such a thing will ever happen again, is it?’ demanded Hanno.

‘I suppose not,’ Sapho admitted, taken aback by Hanno’s fury.

‘I’m as loyal as you or any man in the damn army,’ Hanno snarled. ‘Line me up some Romans, and I’ll chop off all their fucking heads!’

‘All right, all right,’ muttered Sapho. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘So have you,’ retorted Hanno angrily. ‘Did you want us to be punished in there?’

Sapho made an apologetic gesture. ‘Look, I had no idea he might crucify you.’

‘Would you have said anything to Hannibal if you had?’ challenged Bostar.

A guilty look stole across Sapho’s face. ‘No.’

‘You’re a fucking liar,’ said Bostar. Without another word, he walked off.

Hanno glared at Sapho. ‘Well?’

‘Do you really think I’d want the two of you to die? Please!’ Sapho protested. ‘Have some faith in me!’

Hanno sighed. ‘I do. I’m sorry.’

‘So am I,’ said Sapho, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s forget about it, eh? Concentrate on fighting the Romans.’

‘Yes.’ Hanno glanced after Bostar, and his heart sank. His other brother looked angered by the friendly gesture Sapho had just made. Gods above, he thought in frustration, can I not get on with the two of them?

It appeared not.

Saturnalia was fast approaching. Despite Atia and Aurelia’s melancholy, preparations for the midwinter festival were well under way. It was a way, Aurelia realised, of coping with the void both of them felt inside at her father’s probable death, and the lack of word from Quintus. Life had to go on in some fashion, and losing themselves in mundane tasks had proved to be an effective method of maintaining normality. There was so much to be done that the short winter days flashed by in a blur. Atia’s list of things to do seemed never-ending. Each evening, Aurelia was worn out, and grateful that her exhaustion meant deep slumber without any bad dreams.

One night, however, Aurelia did not fall asleep as usual. Her mind was racing. She and her mother were going to Capua in two days on a final shopping expedition. Dozens of candles were still required as gifts for their family friends and the guests. Not all of the food for their impending feasts had been ordered yet — there had been a mix-up with the baker over what was needed, and the butcher wanted far too much money for his meat. Atia also wanted to purchase pottery figurines; these were exchanged on the last day of the celebrations.

Despite her best efforts, Aurelia found herself thinking about Suniaton. After meeting Agesandros, she and Elira had made their way to the hut without any difficulty. Pleasingly, Suni’s leg had healed enough for him to leave. He’s long gone, thought Aurelia sadly. Suniaton had been her last link with Hanno, and in a strange way, Quintus and her father. It was entirely possible that she would never see any of them again. On the spur of the moment, she decided to visit the isolated dwelling one more time. What for, Aurelia wasn’t sure. Perhaps the gods would offer her some kind of sign there. Something that would make her grief more bearable. Keeping this idea to the forefront of her mind, she managed to fall asleep.

Waking early the next morning, Aurelia dressed in her warmest clothes. She was relieved to find only a finger’s depth of snow covering the statues and mosaic floor in the courtyard. Pausing to tell a sleepy Elira where she was going, and to raise the alarm if she was not back by nightfall, Aurelia went to the stables and readied her father’s grey horse.

She had never ridden so far from the farm in the depths of winter before, and was stunned by the beauty of the silent countryside. It was such a contrast to the spring and summer, when everything was bursting with life. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, scattering them in thick layers upon the ground, layers that were now frozen beneath a light covering of snow. The only movement was the occasional flash of wildlife: a pair of crows tumbling through the air in pursuit of a falcon, the suggestion of a deer in the distance. Once, Aurelia thought she saw a jackal skulking off into the undergrowth. Gratifyingly, she heard no wolves, and saw no sign of their spoor. Although it was rare for the large predators to attack humans, it was not unheard of. The chances of seeing them grew as she climbed, however, and Aurelia was grateful that she had taken a bow as well as her sling.

Her anticipation grew as she neared the hut. Its peaceful atmosphere would assuage her worries about her loved ones. With a growing sense of excitement, Aurelia tied up her horse outside. She scattered a handful of oats on the ground to keep it happy, and stepped towards the door. A faint sound from inside stopped her dead. Terror paralysed Aurelia’s every muscle as she remembered the bandits whom Quintus and Hanno had fought. What had she been thinking to travel alone?

Turning on her heel, Aurelia tiptoed away from the hut. If she made it onto her saddle blanket, there was a good chance of escaping. Few men possessed the skill with a bow to bring down a rider on a galloping horse. She had almost reached her mount when it looked up from its oats, and gave her a pleased whinny. Frantically stroking its head to silence it, Aurelia listened. All she could hear was her heart pounding in her chest like that of a captured beast. Taking a good grip of the horse’s mane, she prepared to scramble on to its back.

‘Hello?’

Aurelia nearly jumped out of her skin with fright.

A moment passed. The door did not open.

Aurelia managed to calm herself. The voice had been weak and quavering, and certainly not that of a strong, healthy man. Gradually, her curiosity began to equal her fear. ‘Who’s there? I’m not alone.’

There was no response.

Aurelia began to wonder if it was a trap after all. She vacillated, torn between riding to safety and checking that whoever was inside did not need help. At length, she decided not to flee. If this was an ambush, it was the worst-laid one she could think of. Gripping her dagger to give her confidence, she padded towards the hut. There was no handle or latch, just a gap in the timbers to pull open the portal. With trembling fingers, Aurelia flipped the door towards her, placing her foot against the bottom edge to hold it ajar. She peered cautiously into the dim interior. Instead of the fire she might have expected, the round stone fireplace was full of ashes. Aurelia gagged as the acrid smell of human urine and faeces wafted outside.

Finally, she made out a figure lying sprawled on the floor. She had taken it first for a bundle of rags. When it moved, she screamed. ‘S-Suni?’

His eyes opened wide. ‘Is that you, Aurelia?’

‘Yes, it is.’ She darted inside and dropped to her knees by his side. ‘Oh, Suniaton!’ She struggled not to weep.

‘Have you any water?’

‘Better than that: I have wine!’ Aurelia ran outside, returning with her supplies. Gently, she helped him to sit up and drink a few mouthfuls.

‘That’s better,’ Suniaton declared. A tinge of colour began to appear in his cheeks, and he cast greedy eyes at Aurelia’s bag.

Delighted by his revival, she laid out some bread and cheese. ‘Eat a little at a time,’ she warned. ‘Your stomach won’t be able to take any more.’ She sat and watched him as he devoured the food. ‘Why didn’t you leave after my last visit?’

He paused between mouthfuls. ‘I did, the next day. About half a mile down the track, I tripped over a jutting tree root and landed awkwardly. The fall tore the muscles that had just healed in my bad leg. I couldn’t walk ten steps without screaming, never mind reach Capua or the coast. It was all I could do to crawl back to the hut. My food ran out more than a week ago, and my water two days after that.’ He pointed at the hole in the roof. ‘If it hadn’t been for the snow that came through that, I would have died of thirst.’ He smiled. ‘They took their time, but the gods answered my prayers.’

Aurelia squeezed his hand. ‘They did. Something told me to come up here. Obviously, you were the reason why.’

‘But I can’t stay here,’ Suniaton said despairingly. ‘One heavy fall of snow and the roof will give way.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Aurelia cried. ‘My horse can carry both of us.’

His expression was bleak. ‘Where to, though? My leg will take months to heal, if it does at all.’

‘To the farm,’ she replied boldly. ‘I will tell Mother and Agesandros that I found you wandering in the woods. I couldn’t just leave you to die.’

‘He might remember me,’ Suniaton protested.

She squeezed his hand. ‘He won’t. You look terrible. Totally different from that day in Capua.’

Suniaton scowled. ‘It’s obvious that I am an escaped slave.’

‘But there won’t be any way of proving who you are,’ Aurelia cried in triumph. ‘You can act mute.’

‘Will that work?’ he asked with a dubious frown.

‘Of course,’ Aurelia declared robustly. ‘And when you’re better, you can leave.’

A spark of hope lit in Suniaton’s weary eyes. ‘If you’re sure,’ he whispered.

‘I am,’ Aurelia replied, patting his hand. Inside, however, she was terrified.

What other choice had they, though? her mind screamed.

More than two weeks later, Quintus was wandering through the camp with Calatinus and Cincius. The general mood had been improved dramatically seven days before by the arrival of Tiberius Sempronius Longus, the second consul. His army, which consisted of two legions and more than 10,000 socii, infantry and cavalry, had swelled the Roman forces to nearly 40,000 men.

Inevitably enough, the trio found their feet taking them in the direction of the camp headquarters. So far, there had been little news of what Longus, who had assumed control of all Republican forces, planned to do about Hannibal.

‘He’ll have been encouraged by what happened yesterday,’ declared Calatinus. ‘Our cavalry and velites gave the guggas a hiding that they won’t forget in a hurry.’

‘Stupid bastards got what was coming to them,’ said Cincius. ‘The Gauls are supposed to be their allies. If they go pillaging local settlements, it’s natural that the tribesmen will come looking for help.’

‘There were heavy enemy casualties,’ Quintus admitted, ‘but I’m not sure it was the total victory Longus is claiming.’

Both of his friends looked at him in astonishment.

‘Think about it,’ urged Quintus. It was what his father had said to him when he’d raved about the engagement. ‘We had the upper hand from the start, but things changed immediately once Hannibal came on the scene. The Carthaginians held their ground then, didn’t they?’

‘So what?’ Cincius responded. ‘They lost three times more men than we did!’

‘Aren’t you pleased that we finally got the better of them?’ demanded Calatinus.

‘Of course I am,’ said Quintus. ‘We shouldn’t underestimate Hannibal, that’s all.’

Cincius snorted derisively. ‘Longus is an experienced general. And in my book, any man who can march his army more than a thousand miles in less than six weeks shows considerable ability.’

‘You’ve seen Longus a few times since his arrival. The man positively exudes energy,’ added Calatinus. ‘He’s keen for a fight too.’

‘You’re right,’ said Quintus at last. ‘Our troops are better fed, and better armed than Hannibal’s. We outnumber the Carthaginians too.’

‘We just need the right opportunity,’ declared Cincius.

‘That will come,’ said Calatinus. ‘All the recent omens have been good.’

Quintus grinned. It was impossible not to feel enthused by his friends’ words, and the recent change in their fortunes. As always when Quintus thought of the enemy, an image of Hanno popped into his mind. He shoved it away.

There was a war on.

Friendship with a Carthaginian had no place in his heart any longer.

Several days passed, and the weather grew dramatically worse. The biting wind came incessantly from the north, bringing with it heavy showers of sleet and snow. Combined with the shortened daylight, it made for a miserable existence. Hanno saw little of either his father or brothers. The Carthaginian soldiers huddled in their tents, shivering and trying to stay warm. Even venturing outside to answer a call of nature meant getting soaked to the skin or chilled to the bone.

Hanno was stunned, therefore, by the news that Sapho brought one afternoon. ‘We’ve had word from Hannibal!’ he hissed. ‘We move out tonight.’

‘In weather like this?’ asked Hanno incredulously. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Maybe.’ Sapho grinned. ‘If I am, though, so too is Hannibal. He has ordered Mago himself to lead us.’

‘You and Bostar?’

Sapho nodded grimly. ‘Plus five hundred skirmishers, and a thousand Numidian cavalry.’

Hanno smiled to cover his disappointment at not also being picked. ‘Where are you going?’

‘While we’ve been hiding in our tents, Hannibal has been scouting the whole area. He discovered a narrow river that runs across the plain,’ Sapho revealed. ‘It’s bounded on both sides by steep, heavily overgrown banks. We have to lie in wait there until the opportunity comes — if it comes — to fall upon the Roman rear.’

‘What makes Hannibal think that they’ll cross the river?’

Sapho’s expression grew fierce. ‘He plans to irritate them into doing so.’

‘That means using the Numidians,’ guessed Hanno.

‘You’ve got it. They’re going to attack the enemy camp at dawn. Sting and withdraw, sting and withdraw. You know the way they do it.’

‘Will it drag the whole Roman army out of camp, though?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘I wish I’d been chosen too,’ said Hanno fervently.

Sapho chuckled. ‘Save your regrets. The whole damn enterprise might be a waste of time. While Bostar and I are freezing our balls off in a ditch, you and the rest of the army will be warmly wrapped up in your blankets. And if a battle does look likely, it’s not as if you’ll miss out, is it? We’ll all have to fight!’

A grin slowly spread across Hanno’s face. ‘True enough.’

‘We’ll meet in the middle of the Roman line!’ declared Sapho. ‘Just think of that moment.’

Hanno nodded. It was an appealing image. ‘The gods watch over you both,’ he said. I must go and speak to Bostar, he thought. Say goodbye.

‘And you, little brother.’ Sapho reached out and ruffled Hanno’s hair, something he hadn’t done for years.

Quintus was in the middle of a fantasy about Elira when he became aware of someone shaking him. He did his best to stay asleep, but the insistent tugging on his arm proved too much. Opening his eyes irritably, Quintus found not Elira, but Calatinus crouched over him. Before he could utter a word of rebuke, he heard the trumpets sounding the alarm over and over. He sat bolt upright. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Our outposts beyond the camp perimeter are under attack. Get up!’

The last of Quintus’ drowsiness vanished. ‘Eh? What time is it?’

‘Not long after dawn. The sentries started shouting when I was in the latrines.’ Calatinus scowled. ‘Didn’t help my diarrhoea, I can tell you.’

Smiling at the image, Quintus threw off the covers and began scrambling into his clothes. ‘Have we had any orders yet?’

‘Longus wants every man ready to leave a quarter of an hour ago,’ replied Calatinus, who was already fully dressed. ‘I’ve been shouting at you to no avail. The others are readying their mounts.’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ muttered Quintus, kneeling to strap on his sandals.

Before long, they had joined their comrades outside, by their tethered horses.

It was bitterly cold, and the north wind was whipping vicious little flurries of snow across the tent tops. The camp was in uproar as thousands of men scrambled to get ready. It wasn’t just the cavalry who had been ordered to prepare themselves for battle. Large groups of velites were being addressed by their officers. Unhappy-looking hastati and principes — the men who stood in the legion’s first two ranks — left their breakfasts to burn on their campfires as they ran to get their equipment. Messengers hurried to and fro, relaying information between different units. On the battlements, the trumpeters kept up their clarion call to arms. Quintus swallowed nervously. Was this the moment he had been waiting for? It certainly felt like it. Soon after, he was relieved to see his father’s figure striding towards them from the direction of the camp’s headquarters. Excited murmurs rippled through the surrounding cavalrymen. As one, they stiffened to attention.

‘This is no parade. At ease,’ said Fabricius, waving a hand. ‘We ride out at once. Longus is deploying our entire cavalry force, as well as six thousand velites. He wants this attack thrown back across the Trebia without delay. We’re taking no more nonsense from Hannibal.’

‘And the rest of the army, sir?’ cried a voice. ‘What about them?’

Fabricius smiled tightly. ‘They will be ready to follow us very soon.’

These words produced a rousing cheer. Quintus joined in. He wanted this victory as much as anyone else. The fact that his father hadn’t mentioned Publius must mean that the injured consul agreed with his colleague’s decision, or had been overruled by him. Either way, they weren’t going to sit by and do nothing.

Fabricius waited until the noise had died down. ‘Remember to do everything I’ve taught you. Check your horse’s harness is tightly fastened. Take a leak before you mount up. There’s nothing worse than pissing yourself in the middle of a fight.’ Hoots of nervous laughter met this comment, and Fabricius smiled. ‘Ensure that your spear tip is sharp. Tie the chinstrap on your helmet. Watch each other’s backs.’ He scanned the faces around him with grave eyes. ‘May the gods be with you all.’

‘And with you, sir!’ shouted Calatinus.

Fabricius inclined his head in recognition. Then, giving Quintus a re-assuring look, he made towards his horse.

For the third time since dawn, Bostar scrambled up the muddy slope towards the sentry’s position. More than anything, he wanted to warm up. Unfortunately, the climb wasn’t long enough to shift the chill from his muscles. He glanced down at the steep-sided riverbank below him. It was filled with Mago’s men: 1,000 Numidians and their horses, and 1,000 infantry, a mixture of Libyan skirmishers and spearmen. Despite the fact that the warmly dressed soldiers were packed as tightly as apples in a barrel, it seemed an eternity since they had arrived. In fact, it was barely five hours. Men are not supposed to spend a winter’s night outdoors in this godforsaken land, thought Bostar bitterly. His bones ached at the idea of the warm sunshine that bathed Carthage daily.

Reaching the top of the bank, Bostar crouched down, using the scrubby bushes that regularly dotted the ground as cover. He peered into the distance, but saw nothing. There had been no movement since the Numidian cavalry had quietly passed by, heading for the Roman side of the river. Bostar sighed. It would be hours before anything of importance happened. Nonetheless, he had to keep his guard up. Hannibal had given them the most important task of any soldiers in his army. For what felt like the thousandth time, Bostar slowly turned in a circle, scanning the landscape with eagle eyes.

The watercourse that formed their hiding place was a small tributary of the Trebia, and ran north-south across the plain that lay before the Carthaginian camp. Following Hannibal’s instructions, they had secreted themselves half a mile to the south of the area upon which he wished to fight. The general’s reasons were simple. Behind them, the ground began to climb towards the low hills that filled the horizon. If the Romans took the bait, they were unlikely to march in this direction. It was a good place to hide, thought Bostar. He just hoped that Hannibal’s plan worked, and that they weren’t too far away from the fighting if, or when, the time came to move.

He found Mago lying alongside the sentry in a shallow dip, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Bostar liked the youngest Barca brother. Like Hannibal, Mago was charismatic and brave. He was also indomitably cheerful, which provided a counterweight to Hannibal’s sometimes serious disposition. Smaller than Hannibal, Mago reminded Bostar of a hunting dog: lean, muscular and always eager to be slipped from the leash. ‘Seen anything, sir?’ he whispered.

Mago turned his head. ‘Restless, aren’t you?’

Bostar shrugged. ‘The same as everyone else, sir. It’s difficult waiting down there without a clue what’s going on.’

Mago smiled. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘The Romans will come.’

‘How can you be sure, sir?’

‘Because Hannibal believes that they will, and I trust in him.’

Bostar nodded. It was a good answer, he thought. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’

‘I know you will. That’s why Hannibal picked you and your brother,’ Mago replied.

‘We’re very grateful for the opportunity, sir,’ said Bostar, thinking sour thoughts about Sapho. He and his older brother hadn’t spoken since Hannibal’s reprimand. Bostar felt regret that he’d only had the briefest of words with Hanno before they’d left the camp. He’d been angry that his younger brother seemed to be friendly with Sapho. Really, it was none of his business.

Mago got to his feet. ‘Have the men eaten yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, if I’m famished, they must be too,’ Mago declared. ‘Let’s break out the rations. It won’t be a hot breakfast, like the lucky dogs back at camp will get, but anything’s better than nothing. A man with a full belly sees the world with different eyes, eh?’ He glanced at the sentry. ‘You won’t miss out. I’ll send someone up to relieve you soon.’

The man grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Lead on,’ Mago said.

Bostar obeyed. Mention of the encampment brought his father and Hanno to mind. If it came to a battle, they would be in the front line. Not quite in the centre — that honour had been given to Hannibal’s new recruits, the Gaulish tribesmen — but still in a dangerous position. The fighting everywhere would be intense. He sighed. The gods protect us all, he prayed. If it comes to it, let us die well.

Combining his riders with Publius’ depleted horsemen gave Sempronius Longus just over four thousand cavalry. The moment that the assembled turmae had heard their orders, they were sent out from behind the protection of the fortifications. Fabricius and his men were among the first to exit the camp.

Quintus blinked with surprise. Beyond the sentry posts lay open ground that rolled down to the river. It was normally empty of all but the figures of training soldiers or returning patrols. Now, it was occupied by thousands of Numidian tribesmen. Waves of yelling warriors were galloping into the Roman positions and loosing their javelins, before wheeling their horses in a tight circle and retreating. The unfortunate sentries, who only numbered four or five per outpost, received no respite. Scarcely had one set of Numidians disappeared before another arrived, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs.

‘Form a battle line!’ Fabricius shouted. His call was already being echoed by other officers who were emerging from the camp.

With a pounding heart, Quintus obeyed. So did Calatinus, Cincius and his comrades, each turma fanning out six ranks wide and five riders deep. The instant they were ready, Fabricius shouted, ‘Charge!’

His men went from the trot into a canter. This was followed immediately by a gallop. For maximum impact, they had to hit the Numidians at full speed. That was if the enemy riders stayed to fight, thought Quintus suspiciously. His experience with the fierce tribesmen had taught him otherwise. Yet Longus was doing the right thing. He could not just let his sentries be massacred within sight of his camp. Hannibal’s men had to be driven off. With six thousand velites following hot on their heels, that would not be difficult.

The thunder of hundreds of hooves drowned out all sound except the occasional encouraging shout from Fabricius: ‘Forward!’ As they closed in, each man let go of his reins and transferred the spear from his left hand, which also held his shield, to his right. From here on in, they would guide their horses with their knees. Now the months of careful instruction they had received would pay off. For all his comrades’ skill, Quintus was still wary of the Numidians, who learned to ride almost before they could walk. He was heartened by the thought of the velites. Their help would make all the difference.

‘Look! They’ve seen us!’ shouted Calatinus, pointing at the beleaguered sentries, whose terrified expressions were being replaced by elation. ‘Hold on!’

‘The poor bastards must have got the shock of their lives when the Numidians suddenly appeared,’ replied Quintus.

‘We’re coming none too soon,’ Calatinus added. ‘Many of the outposts have no defenders left.’

They had closed to within fifty paces of the enemy.

‘Time to even up the score,’ cried Quintus, picking out a slight Numidian with braided hair as his target.

Cincius’ lip curled. ‘They’ll turn and run any moment now, the way they always do.’

Instead, to their amazement, the enemy riders turned and began driving their horses straight at the Roman cavalry.

‘They’re going to fight, not run.’ Quintus felt faintly nauseous, but he kept his eye on the Numidian, who was riding straight at him. Oddly, it seemed the warrior had also chosen him.

‘Pick your targets,’ Fabricius shouted, praying that the outcome of this clash proved different to the one at the Ticinus. ‘Make every spear count.’

Seeing the Numidian loose a javelin in his direction, Quintus panicked. Fortunately, it missed, sailing between him and Calatinus. Quintus cursed savagely. The Numidian still had two javelins. Even as the thought went through his mind, the next one scudded his way. He bent low over his horse’s neck, hearing it whistle overhead. Claws of desperation tore at him. How long would his luck hold out? He was fewer than twenty paces from his enemy. At that range and closing, the warrior could hardly miss.

The Numidian held on to his last javelin until he was practically on top of Quintus. His error meant that Quintus was able to catch the missile in his shield. He had to discard the useless thing, but he was also able to stab his spear deep into the Numidian’s belly as he rode past. Side by side, Quintus and Calatinus struck the enemy formation. At once the world shrank to a small area in their immediate vicinity. Quintus’ ears rang with the clash of arms and men’s screams, a deafening cacophony that added hugely to the confusion. The press of opposing riders pushing against each other meant that he seldom fought the same opponent for more than a couple of strokes. Quintus’ first opponent was a young Numidian who nearly took his eye out with a well-aimed javelin. He jabbed his spear unsuccessfully at the warrior before being swept twenty paces away, never to see him again.

In quick succession, Quintus fought two more Numidians, stabbing one in the arm and plunging his weapon into the other’s chest. Next he went to the aid of a Roman cavalryman who was being attacked by three enemy riders. They fought desperately for what seemed an age, barely able to defend themselves against the Numidians’ lightning-quick javelin thrusts. And then, like wraiths, the warriors were gone, galloping off into the distance. All across the battlefield, Quintus could see their companions doing the same. It was done with the ease of a shoal of fish changing direction. Unexpectedly, though, the Numidians reined in several hundred paces away. They began shouting insults at the Romans, who responded loudly and in kind.

‘Mangy bastards!’ shouted Cincius.

‘Come back, you goat-fuckers!’ roared Calatinus.

Quintus grinned. ‘We’ve driven them a good distance from the camp already.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Calatinus, whose face was drenched in sweat. ‘Time for a rest. I’m bloody exhausted.’

‘And me,’ added Cincius.

Fabricius and his fellow officers let the Roman cavalry catch their breath for a few moments. Clouds of condensation hung above the mass of horsemen, but were soon dispersed by the heavy sleet that began to fall.

‘Time to move before you all freeze to death,’ bellowed Fabricius.

Quintus glanced at Calatinus and Cincius. ‘Ready for another bout?’

‘Definitely,’ they snarled in unison.

Right on cue, Fabricius’ voice bellowed the command. ‘Hold the line! Advance!’ The call was repeated by all along the front rank. The Roman horsemen needed little encouragement, and urged their mounts forward. Once again, the ground shook as thousands of horses pounded across the soft ground. This time, the Numidians fought for only a short time before retreating. Yet the tribesmen did not go far. Instead, they turned to fight again. Without pause, the Roman cavalrymen charged at their enemies. Keeping up the momentum of an attack was vital.

Their confidence was boosted by the sight, to their rear, of six thousand velites pouring to their aid. The fact that they were on foot did not take away from the skirmishers’ value. They would first consolidate and hold the area that had been taken back from the Numidians. If the enemy horsemen decided to stand their ground, the velites could support their comrades and tilt the balance in their favour. If, on the other hand, the Roman cavalrymen were driven back, then the velites would provide a protective screen for them to fall back through. It was a win-win situation, thought Quintus jubilantly.

At daybreak, the horns that normally signalled the Carthaginian troops to get up remained silent. Used to army routine, most men were already awake. Hanno smiled as he listened to the rumours filling the tents around him. The rank-and-file troops had no idea yet why they had not been ordered from their beds. The majority were happy not to enquire, but some of the more eager ones poked their heads outside. Their officers told them that nothing was wrong. Not wanting to pass up such a rare opportunity, the soldiers duly returned to the comfort of their blankets. For half an hour, an unusual calm fell over the encampment. To the Carthaginians, it was a small dose of heaven. Despite the inclement weather, they were dry, warm and safe.

Finally, the horns did sound. There was no alarm, just the normal notes that indicated it was time to rise. Hanno began moving from tent to tent, encouraging his men.

‘What’s going on, sir?’ asked a short spearman with a bushy black beard.

Hanno grinned. ‘You want to know?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the eager reply.

Hanno was fully aware that every soldier within earshot was listening. ‘The Numidians are attacking the Roman camp even as we speak.’

A rousing cheer went up, and Hanno raised his hands. ‘Even if the whoresons take the bait and follow our cavalry, it will take them an age to cross the Trebia. You have plenty of time to get ready.’

Pleased mutters met this comment.

‘I want you to prepare yourselves well. Stretch and oil your muscles. Check all your equipment. When you’re ready, lay your arms aside and prepare a hot breakfast. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ his men shouted.

Hanno retired to his own tent in search of food. When that was done, he lay down on his bed and instantly fell asleep. For the first time since leaving Carthage, Hanno dreamed of his mother, Arishat. She did not seem concerned that Malchus and her three sons were in Hannibal’s army. Hanno found this immensely reassuring. His mother’s spirit was watching over them all.

Soon after, he was roused by the horns sounding the call that meant ‘Enemy in sight’.

Hanno sat bolt upright in bed, his heart racing. The Romans had followed the Numidians! He and every man in the army were about to be given their first chance to punish Rome for what it had done to his people.

They would grasp it with both hands.

Little more than an hour later, eight thousand of Hannibal’s skirmishers and spearmen, with Hanno among them, had been deployed about a mile and a half east of their camp. Behind this protective screen, the rest of the army was slowly assuming battle formation. Hearing that the entire enemy host was crossing the Trebia, the Carthaginian general had finally responded. Hanno was delighted by Hannibal’s ingenuity. Unlike the Romans, who had not eaten and were even now fording chest deep, freezing water, Hannibal’s soldiers had full bellies and came fresh from their fires. Even at this distance, the chill air was filled with their ribald marching songs. He could hear the elephants bugling too, protesting as they were taken from their hay and sent out to the flanks.

Hanno was positioned at the easternmost point of the defensive semicircle, nearest the River Trebia. It was where contact with the Romans would first be made. To facilitate the Numidians’ withdrawal, gaps had been left between each unit. These could easily be closed if necessary. Five score paces in front of the Libyans’ bristling spears, hundreds of Balearic slingers waited patiently, the leather straps of their weapons dangling from their fists. The tribesmen didn’t look that impressive, thought Hanno, but he knew that the egg-sized stones hurled by their slings could travel long distances to crack a man’s skull. The ragged-looking skirmishers’ volleys could strike terror into an advancing enemy.

The wind had died down, allowing the grey-yellow clouds to release heavy showers of snow on the waiting troops. They would have to bear with it, Hanno decided grimly. Nothing would happen for a while. The Numidians were still retreating across the Trebia. When the Roman cavalry arrived, they probably wouldn’t attack the protective screen. He was correct. Over the following half an hour, squadron after squadron of Numidians escaped between the phalanxes. Soon after, Hanno was pleased to recognise Zamar approaching. He raised a hand in greeting. ‘What news?’

Zamar slowed his horse to a walk. ‘Things go well. I wasn’t sure if the Romans were up for a fight to start off with, but they poured out of their camp like a tide of ants.’

‘Just their cavalry?’

‘No, thousands of skirmishers too.’ Zamar grinned. ‘Then the infantry followed.’

Thank you, great Melqart, thought Hanno delightedly.

‘We fought and withdrew repeatedly, and gradually led them down to the river. That was where we took most of our casualties. Had to make it look as if we were panicking, see?’ said Zamar with a scowl. His face lifted quickly. ‘Anyway, it worked. The enemy foot soldiers followed their cavalry into the water and started wading across. To cap it all, that was when the snow really started falling. You could see the fuckers’ faces turning blue!’

‘Did they turn back?’

‘No,’ replied Zamar with a grim pleasure. ‘They didn’t. It might take the whoresons all day to get here, but they’re coming. Their whole damn army.’

‘This really is it then,’ Hanno muttered. His stomach churned.

Zamar nodded solemnly. ‘May Baal Saphon protect you and your men.’

‘And the same to you,’ Hanno replied. He watched sadly as the Numidian led his riders to the rear. Would they ever see each other again? Probably not. Hanno didn’t wallow in the emotion. It was far too late for regret. They were all in this together. He and his father. Sapho and Bostar. Zamar and every other soldier in the army. Yes, bloodshed was inevitable. So too were the deaths of thousands of men.

Even as he saw the first files of Roman legionaries filing into view, Hanno believed that Hannibal would not let them down.