Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XXV: Unexpected Tactics

Bostar had barely been able to contain himself since the sentry’s report that the enemy were crossing the river. He and Sapho had clambered up the bank to lie beside Mago, who was trembling with excitement. With every nerve stretched taut, they’d watched as the Roman cavalry and velites were gradually followed by the allied infantry and the regular legionaries. Only then did it sink in.

‘The Roman commander has no interest in nibbling at the bait,’ muttered Mago excitedly. ‘He’s swallowed it in one great bite. That’s his whole fucking army!’

They exchanged nervous grins.

‘The fighting will start soon,’ said Sapho eagerly.

‘It’s not time to move yet,’ interjected Bostar at once.

‘That’s right. We have to wait until the perfect moment to fall upon the Romans’ rear,’ warned Mago. ‘Moving too early could cost us the battle.’

Knowing that Mago was correct, the brothers reluctantly stayed put. The wait that followed was the longest of Bostar’s life. Mago’s incessant twitching and the savagery with which Sapho bit his nails told him that they felt the same way. It was no more than three to four hours, but at the time it seemed like an eternity. Naturally, the news that the Romans were on the move had spread through their two thousand soldiers like wildfire. Soon it became difficult to keep them silent. It was understandable, thought Bostar. There was only so long that one could take pleasure in being out of harm’s way rather than facing mortal danger — especially when one’s comrades were about to fight for their lives.

Even when the clash of arms became audible, Mago did not move. Bostar forced himself to remain calm. The rival forces of skirmishers would meet first, and then pull back. Sure enough, the screams and cries soon abated. They were replaced by the unmistakable sound of thousands of feet tramping the ground in unison.

‘The Roman infantry are advancing,’ said Mago in an undertone. ‘Melqart, watch over our men.’

A knot of tension formed in Bostar’s belly. Facing so many of the enemy would be terrifying.

Beside him, Sapho shifted uneasily. ‘The gods protect Father and Hanno,’ he whispered. Their enmity momentarily forgotten, Bostar muttered the same prayer.

The crashing sound that reached their ears a moment later was as deafening as thunder. Yet there were no threatening storm clouds above, no flashes of lightning to sear their eyeballs. It was something altogether more lethal. More terrifying. Bostar trembled to hear it. He had witnessed terrible things since the war started: the immense block of stone that had nearly killed Hannibal; the scenes at the fall of Saguntum; avalanches sweeping away scores of screaming men in the Alps. But he had never heard the sound of tens of thousands of soldiers striking each other for the first time. It promised death in any number of appalling ways, and Hanno and his father were caught up in it. Somehow Bostar kept still, trying his best to block out the screams that were now discernible amid the crescendo of sound. His tactic didn’t work for long. He looked at Mago, who gave him a tiny encouraging nod.

‘Is it time yet, sir?’ Bostar asked.

Mago’s eyes glittered eagerly. ‘Soon. Prepare your men to move out. Tell the same to the officer commanding the Numidians. At my signal, bring them up.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Bostar and Sapho grinned at each other as they hadn’t done in an age, and hurried to obey.

From then on, time moved in a blur, a continuum that Bostar could only remember afterwards in a series of fractured images. The frisson of excitement that shivered through the waiting soldiers when they heard their orders. Mago’s head silhouetted as he peered over the riverbank, and his beckoning arm. Reaching the top, and being awestruck by the colossal struggle going on over to their left. Who was winning? Was Hanno still alive? Mago shaking his arm and telling him to keep focused. Telling the men to unsling their shields from their backs and ready their weapons. Assembling their phalanxes in open order. Watching the thousand Numidians split, placing half their number on each side of the infantry. Mago’s raised sword pointing at the enemy and his cry, ‘For Hannibal and for Carthage!’

And the run. Bostar would never forget the run.

They did not sprint. It was more than half a mile to the battlefield. Exhausting themselves would give away all the advantage they had been granted. Instead they moved at a fast trot, leaving plumes of exhaled breath in their wake. The cold air was filled with the low, repetitive thuds of horses’ hooves and men’s boots and sandals on the hard ground. No one spoke. No one wanted to. Everyone’s eyes were locked on what was unfolding before them. Amid the confusion, one thing was clear. There was no sign of the enemy’s cavalry, which meant that the Iberian and Gaulish horsemen must have driven them off. On the Roman flanks, the allied infantry were struggling against the Carthaginian elephants, skirmishers and Numidian horsemen. In itself, these were major achievements, and Bostar wanted to cheer. But he did not utter a word. The battle’s outcome still hung in the balance. As they drew closer, he saw that the fighting in the centre was incredibly fierce. The legionaries there had actually moved in front of their wings, which meant that they had pushed the Gauls who formed the central part of Hannibal’s line backwards.

They had come not an instant too soon, thought Bostar.

Mago came to the realisation at the same time. ‘Charge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’

With a wordless roar, Bostar, Sapho and his soldiers obeyed, increasing their speed to a dangerous, breakneck pace. Any man who tripped now risked breaking an ankle or a leg. But no one cared. All they wanted to do was to start shedding their opponents’ blood. To bury their weapons in Roman flesh.

The last moments of their run were surreal. Exhilarating. Thanks to the deafening sounds of battle, there was no need to worry about how much noise they made. The triarii in the enemy’s third rank — their targets — were not looking behind them. Unsurprisingly, the veterans were engrossed by the bitter struggle going on to their front, and were preparing to join in. They had no idea that two thousand Carthaginian soldiers were about to strike their rear at a full charge. Bostar would always remember the first faces that turned, casually, for whatever reason, to look around. The sheer disbelief and terror that twisted those faces to find a group of the enemy fewer than thirty paces away. The hoarse screams as the small number of triarii who were aware tried to warn their comrades of their deadly peril. And the satisfaction as they smashed into the Roman ranks, drawing their weapons down on the backs of men who did not even know they were about to die.

For the first time in his life, Bostar was overcome by battle rage. In the red mist surrounding him, it was easy to lose count of the number of men he killed. It was like stabbing fish in a rock pool off the coast of Carthage. Thrust forward. Run the blade in as deep as possible. Withdraw. Select another target. When eventually his blunted spear stuck in a triarius’ backbone, Bostar simply discarded it and pulled out his sword. He was vaguely aware that his arm was bloody to the elbow, but he didn’t care. I’m coming, little brother. Stay alive, Father.

Eventually, the veteran legionaries managed to turn and face their attackers. The fight became harder, but the advantage was still with Mago’s men, who could now see that the enemy’s flanks had broken. Bostar exulted. The combined wave of Carthaginian troops and cavalry on the allied infantry’s undefended side had proved too much. Prevented from wheeling to face the threat, they had been mercilessly hacked to pieces.

Now, dropping their weapons, the survivors turned and ran for the Trebia. Bostar threw back his head and let free an animal howl of triumph. To the rear, he glimpsed thousands of their cavalrymen waiting for just such an eventuality. The allied troops would not go far. Suddenly, a veteran with a notched sword blade drove at him and Bostar was reminded that their own task was not over. Although the triarii were suffering heavy casualties, the rest of the legionaries were still moving forward into, and through, the lines of Gauls. Like a battering ram, they could only be resisted for so long. Bostar’s elation died away as he realised that some of the Libyan phalanxes had also given way. They quickly crumbled before the legionaries’ relentless assault. Catching Sapho’s attention, Bostar pointed. His brother’s face twisted in rage. With renewed energy, they both threw themselves at the triarii.

‘Hanno! Father!’ Bostar shouted. ‘We’re coming!’

Too late, his heart screamed back.

When Aurelia entered the bedroom, her mother barely stirred. Elira, who was sitting by the bed, turned.

‘How is she?’ Aurelia whispered.

‘Better,’ the Illyrian replied. ‘Her fever has broken.’

Some of the tension went from Aurelia’s shoulders. ‘Thank the gods. Thank you.’

‘Hush,’ murmured Elira reassuringly. ‘She was never that ill. It’s a bad winter chill, that’s all. She’ll be up and about by Saturnalia.’

Aurelia nodded gratefully. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. It’s not just caring for Mother these past few days. You made all the difference in Suni’s-’ She looked over her shoulder guiltily. To her relief, there was no one in the atrium. ‘I mean Lysander’s recovery.’

Elira waved a hand in dismissal. ‘He’s young, and strong. All he needed was some food and warmth.’

‘Well, I’m thankful to you nonetheless,’ said Aurelia. ‘So is he.’

Elira bobbed her head, embarrassed.

Things had moved on since she had returned to the farm with a half-conscious Suniaton two weeks previously, thought Aurelia, looking down at her sleeping mother. Fortunately, Atia had not questioned her story of finding him in the woods. In a real stroke of luck, a heavy snowstorm later that night had concealed the evidence of her tracks up to the hut. Unsurprisingly, everyone had taken Suniaton for a runaway slave. As agreed, he had pretended to be mute. He also put on a good show of appearing simple. Agesandros had been suspicious, of course, but there had been no trace of recognition in his eyes at any stage.

Aurelia had given the Sicilian no chance to have anything to do with Suniaton. Any master who wanted his property back could come looking for the boy, she had said to her mother. Until then, she was going to keep him. ‘Lysander, I’ll call him, because he looks Greek.’

Atia had smiled in acceptance. ‘Very well. If he even survives,’ she’d joked.

Well, he had, thought Aurelia triumphantly. Suni’s leg had recovered enough for him to limp about the kitchen under Julius’ instruction. For the moment, he was safe.

What frustrated Aurelia most was the fact that she could rarely talk to him. The best they could manage was an occasional snatched conversation in the evenings, when the other kitchen slaves had gone to bed. Aurelia used these moments to ask Suni about Hanno. She now knew much about his childhood and family, his interests, and where he had lived. Aurelia’s reason for wanting to know about Hanno was quite simple. It was a way of not thinking about her betrothal. Even if Flaccus had been killed with her father, her mother would soon find her another husband. If Flaccus had survived, they would be wed within the year. One way or another, she would have an arranged marriage.

‘Aurelia.’

Her mother’s voice jerked Aurelia back to the present. ‘You’re awake! How do you feel?’

‘Weak as a newborn,’ Atia murmured. ‘But better than I did yesterday.’

‘Praise all the gods.’ Tears leaped unbidden to Aurelia’s eyes.

Finally, things were looking up.

Her mother’s improvement lifted Aurelia’s mood considerably. For the first time in days, she went for a walk. The chill weather meant that the snow that had fallen over the previous few days had not melted. Aurelia didn’t want to go far from her mother or Suni. Just venturing a short distance along the track towards Capua felt wonderful, however. She relished the crunch of the frozen snow beneath her sandals. Even the way her cheeks rapidly went numb felt refreshing after all the time she’d spent indoors. Feeling more cheerful than she had in a while, Aurelia let herself picture a scenario in which her father had not been killed. She imagined the joy of seeing him walk through the front doors.

With this optimistic thought uppermost in her mind, she returned to the house.

As Aurelia crossed the courtyard, she saw Suniaton. He had his back to her, and was carrying a basket of vegetables into the kitchen. Her spirits lifted even higher. If he was able to do that, his leg must have improved further. She hurried after him. Reaching the door, Aurelia saw Suniaton lifting his load on to the work surface. All the other slaves were busy in other parts of the room. ‘Suni!’ she hissed.

He didn’t react.

‘Pssst! Suni!’ Aurelia stepped inside the kitchen.

Still he did not respond. It was then that Aurelia noticed his stiff-backed stance. Claws of fear raked her belly. ‘Sunny, it’s so sunny outside,’ she said loudly.

‘I could have sworn you said S-u-n-i,’ Agesandros purred, stepping from the shadows beside the kitchen door.

Aurelia blanched. ‘No. I said it was sunny. Can’t you see? The weather’s changed.’ She gestured outside at the blue sky above the courtyard.

She might as well have been speaking to a statue. ‘Suni — Suniaton — is a gugga name,’ said the Sicilian coldly.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Aurelia retorted desperately. Her gaze shot to Julius and the other slaves, but they were carefully pretending not to notice what was going on. Despair filled her. She wasn’t the only one who was scared of the vilicus. And her mother was still sick in bed.

‘Is this miserable wretch Carthaginian?’

‘No. I told you, he’s Greek. His name’s Lysander.’

From nowhere, a dagger appeared in Agesandros’ hand. He pricked it to Suniaton’s throat. ‘Are you a gugga?’ There was no response, and the vilicus moved his blade to Suni’s groin. ‘Do you want your balls cut off?’

Petrified, Suniaton shook his head vehemently.

‘Speak, then!’ Agesandros shouted, returning the dagger to Suni’s neck. ‘Are you from Carthage?’

Suniaton’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yes.’

‘You can talk!’ crowed the Sicilian. He rounded on Aurelia. ‘So you lied to me.’

‘What if I have?’ Aurelia cried, genuinely angry now. ‘I know what you think of Carthaginians.’

Agesandros’ eyes narrowed. ‘It was odd when this scumbag arrived, half-dead. With a recently healed sword injury. I bet he’s the runaway gladiator.’ Like a hawk, he pounced on Suniaton’s reactive flinch. ‘I knew it!’

Think! Aurelia told herself. Quickly, she drew herself up to her full height. ‘Surely not?’ she snapped haughtily. ‘That creature would have fled long ago.’

‘He might have fooled you, but there’s no drawing the wool over my eyes.’ Agesandros leaned on his blade. ‘You’re no simpleton, are you?’

‘No,’ Suniaton mumbled wearily.

‘Where’s your friend?’ the Sicilian demanded.

Don’t say anything, thought Aurelia pleadingly. He’s still not sure.

To her horror, Suniaton’s courage flared one last time. ‘Hanno? He’s long gone. With any luck, he’ll be in Hannibal’s army by now.’

‘Shame,’ murmured Agesandros. ‘You’re of no further use, then.’ Smoothly, he brought down his dagger and slipped it between Suniaton’s ribs, guiding it into his heart.

Suniaton’s eyes bulged in shock, and he let out a shuddering gasp of pain. His limbs went rigid before relaxing slowly. With an odd tenderness, Agesandros let him down. A rapid flow of blood soaked the front of Suni’s tunic and spread on to the tile floor. He did not move again.

‘No! You monster!’ Aurelia shrieked.

Agesandros straightened. He studied his bloodied blade carefully.

Panicking, Aurelia took a step backwards, into the kitchen. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Julius! Help me!’

At last, the portly slave came hurrying to her side. ‘What have you done, Agesandros?’ he muttered in horror.

The Sicilian didn’t move. ‘I have done the master and mistress a service.’

Aurelia couldn’t believe her ears. ‘W-what?’

‘How do you think he’d feel to discover that a dangerous fugitive — a gladiator — had contrived to join the household, placing his wife and his only daughter in danger of their lives?’ asked Agesandros righteously. He kicked Suniaton. ‘Death is too good for scum like this.’

Aurelia felt herself grow faint. Suniaton was dead, and it was all her fault. She could do nothing about it either. She felt like a murderess. In her mother’s eyes, the Sicilian’s actions would be completely justifiable. A sob escaped her lips.

‘Why don’t you attend to the mistress?’ There was iron below Agesandros’ apparent solicitousness.

Aurelia rallied herself. ‘He’s to have a decent burial,’ she ordered.

The Sicilian’s lips quirked. ‘Very well.’

Aurelia stalked from the kitchen. She needed privacy. To wail. To weep. She might as well be dead, like Suniaton — and her father. All she had to look forward to from now on was her marriage to Flaccus.

Suddenly, an outrageous image popped into Aurelia’s mind. It was of her, standing on the deck of a ship as it sailed out from the Italian coast. Towards Carthage.

I could run away, she thought. Find Hanno. He-

Leave everything you’ve ever known behind to find one of the enemy? Aurelia’s heart shouted. That’s madness.

It was only the bones of an idea, but her spirits were lifted by its mere existence.

It would give her the strength to carry on.

Quintus didn’t notice Fabricius appearing by his side. The first thing he knew was when his reins were grabbed from his hands and his horse’s head was yanked around to face to the rear. Using his knees to control his own mount, Fabricius headed east. Quintus’ steed was happy enough to follow. Although it had been trained for cavalry service, the middle of a battle was still a most unnatural place to be. Quintus’ initial joy at seeing his father alive exceeded his desire to fight for a moment, but then the balance reversed. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Saving your life,’ his father shot back. ‘Are you not glad?’

Quintus glanced over his shoulder. There wasn’t a living Roman cavalryman in sight, just a swarming mass of enemy horsemen and riderless mounts. Thankfully, the Gauls who’d been heading for him had already given up the chase. Like their compatriots, they had dismounted to hunt for trophies. A huge sense of relief filled Quintus. Despite his decision to stand his ground, he was glad to be alive. Unlike poor Calatinus, Cincius and his other comrades, who were probably dead. Shame followed swiftly on the heels of this emotion. He grabbed back his reins and concentrated on the ride. On either side, scores of other cavalrymen were also fleeing for their lives.

Their common destination seemed to be the Trebia.

Off to one side, both sets of opposing infantry were now locked together in a bitter struggle, the outcome of which was totally unclear. On the fringes of the conflict, Quintus could see the shapes of the enemy’s elephants battering the allied foot soldiers. The massive beasts were supported by horsemen, and he guessed it had to be the Numidians. It could only be a matter of time before the Roman flanks folded. Then Hannibal’s soldiers would be free to swing around and attack their rear. That was even before the rest of the Carthaginian cavalry returned to the conflict. Quintus blinked away tears of frustration and rage. How could this have happened? Just two hours before, they had been pursuing an enemy in disarray over the Trebia.

Hoarse shouting dragged Quintus’ attention back to his own surroundings. To his horror, the Gauls to their rear had resumed the chase. With their gory trophies taken, the tribesmen were eager for more blood. His stomach churned. In their present state, the nearest cavalrymen were in no state to turn, stand and fight. Nor was he, he realised with shame. Quintus wondered if it was the same on the other flank, where the allied horse had been positioned. Had they too broken and fled?

Fabricius had also seen their new pursuers. ‘Let’s head that way.’ Surprisingly, he pointed north. He saw Quintus’ questioning look. ‘There’ll be too many trying to ford the river where we crossed before. It will be a slaughter.’

Quintus remembered the narrow approach to the main crossing point and shuddered. ‘Where should we aim for?’

‘Placentia,’ his father replied ominously. ‘No point returning to the camp. Hannibal could take that with little difficulty. We need the protection of stone walls.’

Quintus nodded in miserable acceptance.

Doing their best to bring along as many others as they could, they turned their horses’ heads. Towards Placentia, where they might find refuge.

It was ironic, thought Hanno, that his life had been saved by Roman efficiency. It wasn’t because he and his men had been victorious. Far from it. The Libyans’ position adjoining the Gauls meant that many of them had shared the tribesmen’s fate. When the Gauls had finally crumbled before the mass of heavily armed legionaries, some of the phalanxes had been dragged in. The spearmen in question were slaughtered to a man. Sheer luck had determined that Malchus and Hanno’s units had not been affected. Battered and bloodied, they had fought on, even as they were pushed to one side by the massive block of Roman soldiers.

Somehow, Hanno utilised the natural breaks in the fighting to regain better control of his phalanx. He ordered the spearmen to the rear to pass their shields forward. The same was done with spears, allowing his unit to resume, at the front at least, a more normal appearance. Malchus emulated Hanno. With their defensive shield walls restored, the two phalanxes were a much harder proposition to overcome. Without their pila, the Romans had to rely on their gladii, which were shorter than the Libyans’ spears. It did not take the legionaries facing Hanno’s unit long to realise this. Seeing the hastati and principes to their right advancing without difficulty through the remnants of the Gauls, they broke away to follow their comrades.

Hanno’s exhausted men watched with a sense of stunned relief.

Then, quite suddenly, the Romans were gone. Oddly, they didn’t wheel around to attack the rear of the Carthaginian line. Hanno couldn’t believe it. There were still isolated pockets of fighting, small groups of legionaries who had been cut off from their comrades, but the vast majority of the enemy infantry had broken through Hannibal’s centre. They showed no interest, however, in doing anything except beating a path to the north. As far as Hanno was concerned, they could go. His men weren’t capable of mounting a meaningful pursuit. Nor were his father’s. No command issued from the musicians stationed by Hannibal’s side, proving that their general was of the same mind. Having arrayed his foot soldiers in a single line, he had no reserve to send after the retreating legionaries.

Chest heaving, Hanno studied the scene. There was no sign of the allied infantry. The combination of elephants, Numidians and skirmishers must have routed them from the field. Off to his right, which had been the phalanx’s front until the Romans had pushed them sideways, the battleground was now almost devoid of life. Suddenly, Hanno was overcome with a heady combination of exhilaration and fear. They had won, but at what price? He looked up at the leaden sky and offered up a heartfelt prayer: Thank you, great Melqart, all-seeing Tanit and mighty Baal Saphon, for your help in achieving this victory. You have been merciful in letting both me and my father survive. I humbly beseech that you have also seen fit to spare my brothers.

He took a deep breath. If not, let all their wounds be at the front.

Soon there was an emotional reunion with his father. Blood-spattered and steely-eyed, Malchus said nothing when they drew close. Instead he pulled Hanno into a tight hug that spoke volumes. When he finally let go, Hanno was touched to see the moisture in his own eyes mirrored in his father’s. Malchus had shown more emotion in the last few weeks than at any time since his mother’s death.

‘That was a hard fight. You held your phalanx together well,’ Malchus muttered. ‘Hannibal will hear of it.’

Hanno thought he would burst with pride. His father’s approval meant ten times that of their general.

Malchus’ businesslike manner returned fast. ‘There’s still plenty of work to be done. Spread your men out. Advance. Tell them to kill any Romans that they find alive.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Do the same for those of our men who are badly injured,’ Malchus added.

Hanno blinked.

Malchus’ face softened for a moment. ‘They’ll die in far worse ways otherwise. Of cold, a wolf bite, or exposure. A swift end from a comrade is better than that, surely?’

Sighing, Hanno nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘Those who are lightly wounded might survive if we can carry them from the field. It will be dark within the hour, though. I must act fast.’ He gave Hanno a shove. ‘Go on. Look for Sapho and Bostar as well.’

Did his father mean alive or dead? Hanno wondered nervously as he walked away.

His men responded with enthusiasm to the idea of killing more Romans. Unsurprisingly, they reacted less well to doing the same to their comrades. Few objected, however, when Hanno explained the alternatives to them. Who wanted to die the lingering death that awaited when night fell?

In a long line, they began advancing across the battlefield. Beneath the struggle of so many men, the ground had been churned into a sludge of reddened mud that stuck to Hanno’s sandals. Only the tiniest areas of snow remained untouched, startling patches of brilliant white amid the scarlet and brown coating everything else. Hanno was stunned by the scale of the horror. This was but a tiny part of the battlefield, yet it contained thousands of dead, injured and dying soldiers.

Pitifully small figures now, they lay alone, heaped over one another and in irregular piles, Gauls entwined with hastati, Libyans beneath principes, their enmity forgotten in the cold embrace of death. While some still clutched their weapons, others had discarded them to clutch at their wounds before they died. Spears dotted the bodies of many Romans, while countless pila were buried in the Carthaginian corpses. So many severed limbs were lying around that Hanno was soon sick. Wiping his mouth, he forced himself to continue searching. Again and again he saw Sapho and Bostar’s faces among the slack-jawed dead, only to find that he was wrong. Inevitably, Hanno felt his hopes of finding his brothers alive wither and die.

It was especially hard to look at the soldiers who had lost their extremities. The lucky ones were already dead, but the rest were screaming for their mothers while what blood was left in them spurted and dribbled out on to the semi-frozen earth. It was a mercy to kill them. Yet for every gruesome sight that Hanno beheld, there was another one to exceed it. It was the suffering of those of his own side that tore at his heart the most. He had to force himself to examine these unfortunates. It was his job to judge the severity of their injuries and make a snap decision if they should live or die.

It was usually the latter.

Gritting his teeth, Hanno killed men who were shuddering their way into oblivion, holding their intestines, the rank smell of their own shit filling their nostrils. Those who lay moaning and coughing up the pink froth that signified a lung wound also had to be slain. More fortunate were the men who wailed and thrashed about, clutching at the arm that had been sliced open to the bone, or the leg that had been hamstrung. Their reaction to Hanno and his soldiers, the lone uninjured figures among them, was uniform. It did not matter whether they were Libyan, Gaulish or Roman. They reached out with bloodied hands, beseeching him for help. Muttering reassurances to the Carthaginian troops, Hanno offered the enemy wounded nothing but silence and a flashing blade. It was far worse than the savagery of close-quarters combat, and soon Hanno was utterly sick of it. All he wanted to do was find his brothers’ bodies and return to the camp.

When first the familiar voice of Sapho, and then Bostar, called out his name, Hanno didn’t react. As their shouts grew more urgent, he was thunderstruck. There they were, not fifty paces away, in the midst of Mago’s men. It was a miracle, Hanno thought dazedly. It had to be, for all four of them to survive this industrial-scale butchery.

‘Hanno? Is that you?’ Sapho demanded, unable to keep the disbelief — and joy — from his voice.

Hanno blinked away his tears. ‘It is.’

‘Father?’ Bostar’s tone was strangled.

‘He’s unhurt,’ Hanno yelled back, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the event, he did both. So did Bostar. An instant later, even Sapho had tears in his eyes as the three came together in a fierce embrace. Each stank of sweat, blood, mud and other smells too foul to imagine, but none of them cared.

Their arguments had been forgotten for the moment.

The only thing that mattered was that they were still alive.

At last, grinning like fools, the brothers pulled apart. Not quite believing their own eyes, they held on to one another’s arms or shoulders for a long time afterwards. Inevitably, though, their gaze was drawn to the devastation all around. Instead of the din of battle, their ears rang with the sound of screams. The voices of the countless injured and maimed, men who were desperate to be found before darkness fell and a certain fate claimed them for ever.

‘We won,’ said Hanno in a wondering tone. ‘The legionaries might have escaped, but the rest of them broke and ran.’

‘Or died where they stood,’ Sapho snarled, his customary hardness already creeping back. ‘After what they’ve done to us, the whoresons had it coming!’

Bostar winced as Sapho gestured at the piles of dead, but he nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t think that the war has been won,’ he warned. ‘This is just the start.’

Hanno thought of Quintus and his dogged determination. ‘I know,’ he replied heavily.

‘Rome must pay even more for all the wrongs it has done to Carthage,’ intoned Bostar, raising his reddened right fist.

‘In blood,’ Sapho added. He reached up to clasp Bostar’s hand with his own.

Both looked expectantly at Hanno.

An image of Aurelia, smiling, popped into Hanno’s head, filling him with confusion. It took but an instant, however, before he savagely buried the picture in the recesses of his mind. What was he thinking? Aurelia was one of the enemy. Like her brother and father. Hanno could not truly bring himself to wish any of the three ill, but nor could they be friends. How could that ever be possible after what had gone on here today? On the spot, Hanno decided never to think of them again. It was the only way he could deal with it.

‘In blood,’ he growled, lifting his hand to enclose those of his brothers.

They exchanged a fierce, wolfish smile.

That is what we are, thought Hanno proudly. Carthaginian wolves come to harry and tear at the fat Roman sheep in their fields. Let the farmers of Italy tremble in their beds, for we shall leave no corner of their land untouched.

Quintus’ abiding memory of their ride to Placentia was the extreme cold. The wind continued to blow from the north, powerful gusts that threatened to dislodge an unwary rider from his seat. While it didn’t succeed in doing that, the chill air penetrated every layer of Quintus’ clothing. Initially, he had been kept warm by the effort and thrill of the chase, and latterly by the fear that kept his heart hammering off his ribs. Now, his sweat-soaked clothes felt as if they were about to freeze solid. Everyone was in the same position, of course, so he gritted his chattering teeth and rode on. After what they’d all been through, silence was best.

Lost in their own private worlds of misery, the twenty cavalrymen brought together by Fabricius simply followed where they were led. Hunched over their horses’ backs, helmetless and with their sodden cloaks pulled tightly around them, they were a pathetic sight. It was as if each one knew that Hannibal’s army had prevailed. Yet in reality, they didn’t, thought Quintus. The battle had still been raging when they’d fled. It was hard to see how, though, with their flanks exposed, Longus’ legions could have seized victory.

Quintus felt like a coward, but his fear had abated enough for him to consider fighting again. He’d ridden to the front of their little column a number of times, intent on remonstrating with his father.

Fabricius had been in no mood for conversation. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled when Quintus had suggested turning back. ‘What do you know of tactics?’ A short while later, Quintus tried again. On this occasion, Fabricius let him have it. ‘Once cavalry break, it’s unheard of for them to rally and return to the fight. You were there! You saw the way they ran, the way I struggled to get this many men to follow me away from the battle. Do you think that in this weather, with night coming, they would turn and face the Gauls and Iberians again?’ He glared at Quintus, who shook his head. ‘In that case, what would you have us both do? Commit suicide by charging at the enemy alone? Where’s the damn point in that? And don’t give me the “death with honour” line. There’s no honour in dying like a fool!’

Shaken by his father’s anger, Quintus hung his head. Now he felt like a total failure as well as a coward.

They rode without speaking for a long time after that.

Fortuna finally lent the weary cavalrymen a hand, guiding them to a spot where the Trebia was fordable. By the time they’d reached the eastern bank, it was nearly dark. As miserable as he’d ever been in his life, Quintus looked back over the fast-flowing water into the gathering gloom. More snow was falling, millions of little white motes that clouded his vision even further. The scene was so peaceful and quiet. It was as if the battlefield had never existed. ‘Quintus.’ Fabricius’ tone was gentler than before. ‘Come. Placentia is still a long ride away.’

Quintus turned his back on the River Trebia. In a way, he realised, he was doing the same on Hanno and his friendship. Feeling hollow inside, he followed his father.

They reached Placentia about an hour later. Quintus had never been so glad to see the walls of a town, and to hear the challenge of a sentinel. The lines of frightened faces on the ramparts above soon distracted him from thoughts of sitting by a fire, however. Word of the battle had arrived before them. Despite the sentries’ fear, Fabricius’ status saw the gate opened quickly. A few barked questions at the officer of the guard revealed that a handful of cavalrymen had made it to the town ahead of them. Their garbled account appeared to have the entire army wiped out. There had been no sign of Longus or the infantry yet, which had only fuelled the fears of the soldiers who were manning the defences. Fabricius was incensed by the harm that the unsubstantiated reports would have already caused and demanded to see the most senior officer in the town.

Not long after, both men were wrapped in blankets and drinking warm soup in the company of no less than Praxus, the garrison commander. The rest of their party had been taken off to be quartered elsewhere. A stout individual with a florid complexion, Praxus barely fitted into his dirty linen cuirass, which had seen better days. He paced up and down nervously while father and son thawed out by a glowing cast-iron brazier. At length, he could hold in his concerns no longer. ‘Should we expect Hannibal by morning?’ he demanded.

Fabricius sighed. ‘I doubt it very much. His soldiers will be in need of rest as much as we are. You shouldn’t give up on Longus just yet either,’ he advised. ‘Last I saw, the legionaries were holding their own.’

Praxus winced. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Where are they then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fabricius replied curtly. ‘But Longus is an able man. He will not give up easily.’

Praxus resumed his pacing and Fabricius left him to it. ‘Worrying about it won’t do any good. This fool won’t be able to stop the rumours either. He probably started half of them,’ he muttered to Quintus before closing his eyes. ‘Wake me up if there’s any news.’

Quintus did his best to stay alert, but it wasn’t long before he too grew deliciously drowsy. If Praxus wanted his fireside chairs back, he could bloody well wake them up, Quintus thought as sleep claimed him.

Some time later, they were woken by a sentry clattering in, shouting that the consul had arrived at the gates. It seemed a miracle, but as many as ten thousand legionaries were with him. Quintus found himself grinning at his father, who winked back. ‘Told you,’ said Fabricius. Praxus’ miserable demeanour also vanished, and he capered about like a child. His sense of self-importance returned with a vengeance. ‘Longus will have need of my quarters,’ he declared loftily. ‘You’d best leave at once. One of my officers can find you rooms.’ He didn’t give a name.

Fabricius’ top lip lifted at the sudden return of the other’s courage, and his bad manners, but he got up from his chair without protest. Quintus did likewise. Praxus barely bothered to say goodbye. Fortunately, the officer who’d initially brought them from the gate was still outside, and upon hearing their story, agreed to let them share his quarters.

The three hadn’t gone far before the heavy tramp of men marching in unison came echoing down the narrow street towards them. Torchlight flickered off the darkened buildings on either side. A surge of adrenaline shot through Quintus’ tired veins. He glanced at his father, who looked similarly interested. Quintus’ lips framed the word ‘Longus’? His father nodded. ‘Stop,’ he requested. The officer complied, as eager as they to see who it was. Within a few moments, they could make out a large party of legionaries — triarii — approaching. The soldier at the outside edge of each rank carried a flaming torch, illuminating the rest quite well.

‘Make way for the consul!’ shouted an officer at the front.

Quintus sighed with relief. Sempronius Longus had survived. Rome had not lost all its pride.

The triarii scarcely broke step as they passed by. One of the two most important men in the Republic did not wait while a pair of filthy soldiers gaped at him. Especially on a night like this.

Quintus couldn’t stop himself. ‘What happened?’ he cried.

His unanswered question was carried away by the wind.

They gave each other a grim look and resumed their journey. Soon after, they happened upon a group of principes. Desperate to know how the battle had ended, Quintus caught the eye of a squat man carrying a shield emblazoned with two snarling wolves. ‘Did you win?’ he asked.

The princeps scowled. ‘Depends what you mean by that,’ he muttered. ‘Hannibal won’t forget the legionaries who fought at the Trebia in a hurry.’

Quintus and Fabricius exchanged a shocked, pleased glance. ‘Did you turn and fall on the Carthaginian rear?’ asked Fabricius excitedly. ‘Did the allied infantry throw back the elephants and the skirmishers?’

The soldier looked down. ‘Not exactly, sir, no.’

They stared at him, not understanding. ‘What then?’ demanded Fabricius.

The princeps cleared his throat. ‘After breaking through the enemy line, Longus ordered us to quit the field.’ A shadow passed across his face. ‘Our wings had already broken, sir. I suppose he wasn’t certain that we could turn the situation around.’

‘The allied troops?’ Quintus whispered.

The silence that followed spoke a thousand words.

‘Sweet Jupiter above,’ swore Fabricius. ‘They’re dead?’

‘Some may have escaped back to our camp, sir,’ the princeps admitted. ‘Only time will tell.’

Quintus’ head spun. Their casualties could number in the tens of thousands.

His father was more focused. ‘In that case, I think it’s we who will be remembering Hannibal rather than the other way around,’ he observed acidly. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the princeps muttered. He threw a longing glance at his comrades, who were disappearing around the nearest corner.

Fabricius jerked his head. ‘Go.’

In a daze, Quintus watched the soldier scuttle off. ‘Maybe Praxus was right,’ he muttered.

‘Hannibal could be at the gates by dawn.’

‘Enough talk like that,’ his father snapped. His lips peeled back into a feral snarl. ‘Rome does not give up after one defeat. Not with foreign invaders on her soil!’

Quintus’ courage rallied a fraction. ‘What of Hannibal?’

‘He’ll leave us to it now,’ Fabricius declared. ‘He will be content to gather support from the Gaulish tribes over the winter.’

Quintus was relieved by his father’s certainty. ‘And us?’

‘We will use the time to regroup, and to form new legions and cavalry units. One thing Rome and her allies are not short of is manpower. By the spring, the soldiers lost today will all have been replaced.’ And I’ll have won a promotion which will keep the moneylenders at bay. Fabricius grinned fiercely. ‘You’ll see!’

At last Quintus took heart. He nodded eagerly. They would fight the Carthaginians again soon. On equal or better terms. There would be a chance to regain the honour that, in his mind, they had left behind on the battlefield.

Rome would rise again, and wrench victory from Hannibal.