Hannibal: The Patrol

Cisalpine Gaul, winter

The battle was already won when Mutt saw the Roman officer running towards him. Mutt knew that killing him would be the final badge of humiliation for the enemy. Except his plan had not gone as he’d have wished it. The officer was on his own, but he was strong and skilled. He was afraid too, which made him even more dangerous. The fact that Mutt was armed with a thrusting spear had not prevented the officer from fighting back ferociously. With his initial attack, he had come close to shoving his sword clean through Mutt’s large shield and into his belly.

I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, thought Mutt desperately, as the officer swept away another spear thrust with his scutum and followed through with a mighty shove against Mutt’s shield. Face to face for a heartbeat, they spat insults at one another, then the officer danced away without warning. Released from the pressure, Mutt nearly toppled forward. Curse him! he thought. I’m acting like a new recruit. If I’m not careful here, I’ll end up spitted on his sword.

That was when the officer darted forward again. Even as Mutt lunged at him, the officer lifted his right boot and planted it in the middle of Mutt’s shield, surprising him completely. Unbalanced, Mutt staggered back a few steps, caught the heel of his sandal on a rock and fell onto the flat of his back. Splatters of mud rose into the air; he lost his grip on his shield. The officer growled in triumph and kicked it to one side, then stamped down with the other foot on the butt of Mutt’s spear, stopping him from lifting it.

Shit, thought Mutt. I’m dead.

The officer’s sword rose high as he spat another curse.

Mutt closed his eyes and readied himself for the afterlife.

‘Mutt. Mutt, wake up.’

Dream. It was a dream, he realised. Relief filled him. He sat up, rubbed away the sleep from his eyes. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are you all right?’ asked Hanno, his commander.

‘Yes, sir. Why?’

‘You were talking to yourself, thrashing about in your blanket.’

‘A bad dream, sir, nothing more.’ Gods, but I hope it never comes true, Mutt prayed. That’s twice I’ve had it now.

A nod. ‘Wake the men. It’s time to get moving.’

‘Sir.’ Mutt sat up, wincing as the small amount of heat that had been trapped in his blankets vanished into the pre-dawn chill. His hands and feet were almost numb. His nose was too. If his memory served him, he’d spent much of the night waking because of the cold. Why had the gods sent him a stinking nightmare as well? he wondered, fighting a creeping sense of unease.

*

Hours later…

Woodland, several miles north of their camp

‘Where in hell are we heading to now?’

‘The arsehole of nowhere,’ replied a second voice.

‘I thought that’s where we camped last night.’

‘No, that was the crotch,’ said the first man, to a chorus of laughter. He waited until the merriment had died down. ‘This is a godforsaken place part of the world, eh, lads?’

The growls of agreement and spitting noises that followed didn’t make alarm Mutt. Soldiers liked to grumble as they marched. If they didn’t, there was something wrong. Besides, what had been said was true. The area was flat, fertile and well-watered by rivers, but gods was it cold and inhospitable at this time of the year. The powerful wind from the Alps to the north never seemed to ease. It snowed more days than it didn’t, and the temperatures hadn’t risen above freezing for a week.

Mutt examined his reddened fingers, mouthed a curse of his own. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt warm.

Much of the time a thick layer of fog hung over the land, reducing visibility and dampening men’s spirits further. And the spot where they had spent the previous night — a mud-bound clearing in the middle of a wolf-infested forest — had been one of the least appealing of the patrol thus far. Yet there was a good reason for keeping out of sight. The countryside might appear empty most of the time, but they couldn’t let down their guard for a single moment. This was Gaulish land, mostly free of the Rome’s influence and not all of the tribesmen were well disposed towards Hannibal and his troops. They — the Carthaginians — might have kicked the shit out of the Romans at the Trebia a few weeks previously, but enemy patrols might still be about. It paid to be cautious.

So far, their new commander Hanno seemed to be wise to that. It probably helped, thought Mutt, that he had spent a good period of time in captivity if not around here, then in this land of the Romans. Mutt didn’t know the fine details of Hanno’s story, but by this stage, everyone in the damn army had heard of his dramatic escape from slavery and reunion with his father and brothers. Perhaps he’ll tell me about it one day, mused Mutt. If we ever get to know each other. It would be good to have someone he could tell about his nightmare.

‘I never thought I’d miss Iberia so much. There was some cold weather, but not like this. It’s fucking freezing here, all the time,’ said the first man, resuming his diatribe.

‘What d’you expect? It’s the middle of winter,’ replied the second soldier. ‘Spring will come eventually, you know. It always does, or had you forgotten that?’

There were hoots of amusement at this. Mutt’s lips twitched a little.

The first speaker wasn’t to be put off. ‘Smart arse! Maybe it will get warmer, but the natives will still be bloodthirsty savages. The Romans won’t go away either. Give them a month or two and they’ll want another fight. And meanwhile, we’ve got bugger all in the way of food.’

Mutt had been with the phalanx for more than ten years, and second-in-command for nearly three. He knew the identity of the main complainant without having to look. Ithobaal was a dependable spearman who’d served in the unit for nigh on a decade. He wasn’t short of courage either, Mutt thought, but by Baal Hammon’s beard, he liked to whinge.

Ithobaal’s last statement had hit a nerve too. The disgruntled comments began to fly thick and fast. ‘How long are we going to be on half rations? That’s what I want to know.’ ‘My belly’s permanently clapped to my backbone.’ ‘I can’t sleep at night because Bogu’s bloody stomach rumbles so loudly!’ ‘It’s that or his farts!’

Mutt broke formation from his position in the twenty-fifth rank. Used to him moving about, the spearmen kept marching. The track they were following through the woods was narrow, forcing a column width of four soldiers instead of the normal six. At full strength, the phalanx would have numbered four hundred men, but the brutal journey from Iberia and the recent fighting had seriously depleted their numbers. Less than two hundred spearmen now remained — nearly fifty ranks — and Mutt knew them all. They were his family, his charges, and he would do anything for them, including meting out discipline when it was needed. ‘Ithobaal!’ he shouted.

Tramp, tramp, tramp. Several more rows went by, and then Mutt saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a straggling beard, Ithobaal was walking on the far left of his rank. He gave Mutt a wary look, no doubt wondering what he’d done to merit the attention. ‘Sir?’

Mutt matched his pace to that of the men once more. ‘We’re all in this together, aren’t we?’

There was no immediate reply. Mutt wondered if Ithobaal was foolish enough to challenge his authority. There would be one warning, and then he’d charge in like a raging bull. A beating would soon restore Ithobaal’s respect. ‘DID YOU FUCKING HEAR ME, YOU MAGGOT?’

A slightly fearful glance. ‘I did, sir. We’re all in this together.’

‘Which means I’m as damn hungry as you are. As all of your comrades are. I don’t like to be reminded of it, and I don’t think the rest of the lads do either, so stop flapping your lips. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ll fill our bellies when Victumulae falls.’ Mutt was addressing everyone in earshot. ‘The grain stores there are fit to burst, I’m told.’

Ithobaal wasn’t going to give up completely. ‘When will we take the place, sir?’

‘Soon, you fool! It’s not much more than ten miles away, and our army is only a couple of days behind us. The siege won’t take long. If you’re lucky, some of you might even find a supply of wine inside the walls. If your luck isn’t in in that regard, Ithobaal, you’d best hope that your whingeing hasn’t pissed off those of your mates who do strike it rich.’

The smiles broke out at last but Mutt was already walking away. ‘I’d tell you to sing, but you’d make too much noise,’ he announced in a loud voice. ‘Talk among yourselves instead to make the time go by. Imagine the spring sunshine in Iberia. Think of the whores who worked in the Crescent Moon, that tavern in New Carthage, and the good wine they served there.’ More than one man groaned, and Mutt nodded in satisfaction. He’d caught the mood in time. Experience had taught him to act sooner rather later in such situations, or morale could be soured for the rest of the day.

Catching sight of Hanno at the front of the patrol lifted Mutt’s mood a little more, and helped him not to think of his nightmare, which kept creeping into his mind. After the grievous loss of their previous commander in the Alps, Mutt had led the men as best he could, but leading a phalanx didn’t come naturally to him. Being second-in-command, now that was all right, but not the other. Still, he’d had to do it, or the men would have fallen apart. Not long after they had descended from the mountains, exhausted beyond belief, word had come that a new officer would be taking charge of the unit. Mutt had rarely been so relieved.

His emotion had changed to concern, however, when he’d first seen the tall, rangy figure of Hanno. I remember thinking that he barely needs to shave, thought Mutt. That he’d have to be a jumped up little shit to be appointed commander so young. His worries had turned out to be groundless. The boy was no snob, and from the start he had thrown himself into getting to know the men. At the Trebia, Hanno had more than proved his mettle, leading from the front of the phalanx. Yet, despite their victory, the fighting had been savage. The main Roman assault that day — a charge by an enormous bloc of legionaries — had fallen on their Gaulish allies, but more than one phalanx had been sucked into the fighting and completely wiped out. Through a combination of luck and sheer bloody-mindedness, Hanno had managed to keep his men together and away from the maelstrom.

Hiss. Hiss. At first, Mutt didn’t take in what he had heard, but the thumps and subsequent shrieks as the arrows sank into his soldiers’ flesh entirely focused his mind. Hiss. Hiss. More dark shapes scudded in. Mutt’s gaze shot to the right of the track. Among the trees and bushes some twenty paces away, he spotted the dark figures of men, bows upraised. Gods above, why hadn’t the scouts seen them, he wondered? ‘Ambush! Ambush!’ he bellowed. ‘Spears down. Shields off your backs — at the double!’

He dropped his own spear. His fingers, stiff with cold, fumbled with the buckle of the strap that held his shield across his chest. Hiss. Hiss. A cry from very close by him. The fletches on an arrow that had thumped into the mud by his feet quivered. Mutt cursed savagely. Slow, he was being too slow. Don’t look up, he told himself. Ignore the arrows. Concentrate. At last the tongue of the buckle shifted and the weight of the shield dragged it down his back. With the ease of long practice, and the speed granted by buttock-clenching fear, Mutt spun and grabbed for the handle that was set under the iron boss.

The instant he had a firm grip on that, the shield went up, over his body and head. Moving too fast to feel relief, Mutt scrabbled for this spear and cocked it overarm in his right hand so that it was ready to thrust. Only then did he look towards their attackers again. They were still loosing arrows. There was no charge imminent. Stupid fools, he thought. He glanced rapidly from side to side, assessing his men. Most now had their shields off, and presented towards the enemy. Less had their spears ready. The line wasn’t complete by any means, however. He made a snap decision. Hanno would look after the front ranks — he had to assume that. Keeping his shield towards the enemy, he moved out of position and began back walking down the column. A quick look over to the left revealed that they were also under attack.

‘Shields off your backs,’ Mutt said calmly. ‘That’s if you want to live. Every man is to move forward two steps. Step over your wounded comrades. Get them behind the protection of the shields. Form a complete line. MOVE IT!’

Over and over, he repeated the orders, only casting an occasional look at the enemy. They had to be Gauls, he decided. Their volleys were ragged and inconsistent, and they hadn’t capitalised on the surprise of their ambush with a charge after the first arrows had fallen. Any decent tactician would have done that. This didn’t mean that he, Hanno and the rest were out of the shit — far from it. But at least he had a little time to rally his men.

He tried to do a quick head count of the enemy on this side. There were two, three, six men. Four more made ten, and there were at least five or six more a little further on. Those were only the ones he could see in this section. How many of the dogs are there in total? Enough to wipe us out? he wondered. ‘Bogu! Ithobaal?’

‘Sir?’ It was Bogu’s voice.

‘Can you see what’s going on to our left?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many are there?’

‘At least twenty of the bastards, sir, but probably more.’

‘Form a line! Be ready for an enemy charge.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mutt worked his way back up the column, faster this time. He was pleased to note that there didn’t seem to be too many injured. Two soldiers lay motionless, but that was all right. If the Gauls had loosed a concerted volley, he would have lost far more. The men’s shields were all up, which meant there would now be few casualties — unless the enemy pressed home their attack.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo.

Mutt’s skin crawled. He’d heard that ungodly noise before, at the Trebia. Back then it had been sounded by Gaulish allies of theirs, to frighten the Romans. It helped to know that it was a carnyx, a trumpet blown not by a demon, but by a living man. It was still fucking unsettling, he thought. Mutt was grateful that there only seemed to be one, or perhaps two, of the carnyxes. He noted the fear on a number of his men’s faces. ‘It’s only a trumpet, boys. Only a damn trumpet,’ he shouted. ‘They’re imitating the noise of their farts!’

A few soldiers laughed, but not many.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo.

‘Steady now, boys! They’re just trying to scare us. If the whoresons had any wits, they would have come at us already.’ That was probably what they next intended, he thought grimly. The carnyxes were being used to drum up the warriors’ courage against the bloodcurdling fear of charging an enemy.

‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice came from the front. It was calm, which relieved Mutt immensely. The boy wasn’t panicking. ‘Yes, sir?’ he yelled back.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo.

‘How are things back there?’

‘All right, sir. Two dead, or dying. Perhaps half a dozen injured. Shield wall in place.’

‘Good. The scouts tell me that there’s a tree blocking the track some distance around the next bend, so we’re going to have to stand our ground and drive them off. It’s that, or retreat. I say we fight.’

Going back the way they had come was probably a bad idea — Hanno had that right. The forest went on for miles. On the narrow track, they had no chance of forming up in the more protective phalanx formation. The stinking Gauls could just follow them, peppering them with arrows. Yet if the enemy outnumbered them, it might prove more prudent to withdraw. A bead of cold sweat trickled from under Mutt’s helmet liner and down the side of his face. What to do? he wondered. Trust Hanno. He’s the commander. He needs my support. ‘Very good, sir.’

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Weapons clashed off shield edges, off iron bosses. Warriors roared battle cries.

‘Prepare for an attack!’ shouted Hanno. ‘Two ranks on each side, spears at the ready!’

Mutt trotted down half a dozen rows, repeating the command and telling men to pass it on. Quickly, he returned to the formation’s midpoint, shoved into the ranks and turned about to face the trees.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. More shouting. Screaming. Metal hammering off metal.

Then silence fell.

‘For Carthage!’ Mutt heard Hanno cry. ‘For Hannibal!’

‘HANN-I-BAL!’ bellowed Mutt. He dashed his spear off the front of his shield. Clash, clash, clash, he went, in time with the chant.

His men latched onto the refrain with even more gusto than normal. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ they screamed.

Shapes moved in the trees, came out into the open. A wide line of men — Gaulish warriors. Since meeting his first tribesmen in Gaul, Mutt could pick them out a mile off. Bowl helmets similar to those of the Romans. Large rectangular or oval shields. Coloured cloaks, tunics and patterned trousers. An occasional individual with a mail shirt. The three men who led them were stark naked, however, holding only a shield and sword each. After only a few steps, they advanced at a run. Two of them headed straight towards Mutt and the soldiers near him. Behind them, their companions broke into a trot.

The Gauls’ plan was simple, Mutt thought grimly. It was to use the fanatics as battering rams, to break their line. If they were doing that on his side of the column, they’d be doing it on the other too. His stomach clenched painfully. With their reduced depth of two ranks per side, there was a good chance that the Gauls’ tactic could work. They would have to kill the naked warriors at once, or the whole thing could turn into a bloodbath.

He waited a few heartbeats until the Gauls had drawn closer. Then he stepped forward and out of the shield wall. ‘HERE! COME AND GET ME, YOU FUCKERS!’

Two of the trio aimed for him at once. The third was heading for a spot between him and the front of the patrol. Mutt had to pray that the men there held the warrior back, killed him fast, and that he and the soldiers around him could do the same. Slowly, he retreated to the safety of the formation, slipped his shield in between those to left and right. The Gauls were about thirty paces out now. He shot a glance to either side. ‘See those naked bastards, lads? The ones with the flapping cocks and balls?’

A ripple of slightly nervous laughter. ‘Yes, sir!’ came a chorus of voices.

‘We kill them, fast. If they smash even a small hole in our lines, we’re fucked. D’you understand?’

‘YES, SIR!’

He took some solace from the volume of their response. ‘Shields up, spears ready! Guard the man to your left!’

The two Gauls might have been naked, but they weren’t stupid. They came in together, virtually shoulder to shoulder. Big men, with swirling tattoos on their muscular arms and torsos, and mud covering their lower legs. There was mania and death in their eyes.

Mutt prayed that their battle rage rendered them prone to mistakes. ‘HERE I AM!’ he yelled again, taking a single step forward so that they could see who had challenged them. ‘WHORESONS!’ he added, using the only Gaulish word he’d learned in his contact with the tribesmen who had allied themselves to Hannibal. ‘WHORESONS!’

They heard his insult. Baring their teeth, the two warriors came on like a pair of mad boars. Less than half a dozen paces separated them from the shield wall. Behind them, the hideous noise of the carnyxes had been replaced by the warriors’ battle cries.

‘Steady, lads,’ urged Mutt the man to either side. ‘Brace yourselves. Take the first cut on your shield rim, then gut the fuckers.’

The first Gaul’s blade was already swinging down at him in a mighty arc that would smash his helmet and skull together, so Mutt raised his shield and ducked down behind it, praying that the timbers didn’t split.

CRASH.

It took his entire strength not to let the impact drive his left arm down to the ground. But he’d been in this situation before and did not let his fear master him. A fleeting glance told him that the sword had cut through the metal rim of his shield, and caught in the wood below. Bending his knees, he drove up with all the power of his thighs, raising the shield and with it, the Gaul’s weapon. As the Gaul tugged and cursed, trying to free his blade, Mutt leaned forward with a savage cry and shoved his spear into the hollow at the base of the Gaul’s neck. It ran into the flesh with ease, severing all in its path. There was a jarring thunk as it hit the Gaul’s ribcage and then it emerged, scarlet-tipped, from the back of his left shoulder. There was a choking, startled cry, and a spew of red froth from the Gaul’s lips, as he died.

‘Gaulish dog,’ snarled Mutt, ripping his spear free and spinning to his left, where the second Gaulish warrior had been. Dismay filled him. The soldier beside him was already down, blood and gobbets of brain tissue oozed from the massive cut in his head. The second Gaul was crouched over the body, already hacking at the soldier in the next rank, who, terrified by the ferocity of the attack, was doing little to defend himself. Mutt cursed. The main body of Gauls would reach them in the next few heartbeats. It was now or never. With a quick prayer that no one would stab him as he exposed his right side, Mutt wheeled and drove his spear into the second Gaul’s back. A keening cry of agony rent the air, and blood sprayed everywhere as he pulled his weapon free. He caught the eye of the spearman whom he’d just saved. ‘Into the front rank. Quickly!’

The soldier hurriedly obeyed.

Even as Mutt twisted and resumed his place in the front rank, the enemy were upon them. Fresh acid hit the back of his throat. Many of the Gauls were making for the man to his left, because there was now no one to take his place if he fell. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he yelled. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

And then the Gauls hit them.

Mutt instantly lost all sense of time. His world closed in, to the soldier either side of him and the enemies immediately to his front. He stabbed with his spear, wounded a warrior in the face. Took a heavy but glancing blow from a sword to his head, felt his knees buckle. With superhuman effort, he locked them, and thrust at the Gaul who’d tried to brain him. Gritting his teeth against the blinding pain in his skull, he met the next attack with his shield, managing to stab the Gaul in the chest, wounding him badly. The Gaul staggered and fell, and was replaced at once by a bearded brute holding nothing but a long spear. His first throw hummed past Mutt’s head, slicing open the face of the spearman to Mutt’s rear.

Mutt thrust back at him, driving his spear through the Gaul’s layered fabric cuirass and into his belly. He thought it was a death wound, but the Gaul merely rocked on his heels. As Mutt struggled to pull back his weapon, his opponent grabbed the shaft and ripped it free of his own flesh. Without letting go, he aimed his spear at Mutt’s face. A tug of war ensued, with Mutt trying desperately not to lose grip of his weapon while simultaneously having to dodge powerful thrusts of the Gaul’s spear tip. It was a one-sided contest, for the Gaul was far stronger than he. Yet there would be no help from anyone. The spearmen on either side of him were engaged in their own struggles for survival.

His own strength was waning too, Mutt gambled everything, waiting until the Gaul pulled hard on his spear, then let go of it. Unbalanced, the Gaul stumbled backwards, and Mutt followed through with an almighty thump of his shield against the man’s belly, sending him sprawling back into his fellows.

It was far too dangerous to pursue him, so Mutt simply moved back into position. ‘Spear! Someone give me a damn spear!’ he roared. His men were well used to handing weapons forward in combat, and a heartbeat later, the shaft of a spear appeared beside his right cheek. Mutt seized it as a drowning man might grab at a log. He had to use it immediately, shoving it into the open mouth of a young warrior who’d leaped over the bearded brute.

Gods, but that had to be a bad way to die, thought Mutt as the iron blade sliced away the man’s tongue and sank deep into the back of his throat. Gouts of crimson fluid followed the spear out as Mutt withdrew it, showering the front of his shield. The warrior’s eyes bulged; more blood gushed; he made a hideous, choking sound and dropped from sight.

No one took his place, and Mutt took the chance to look to left and right. Many of the Gauls were pulling back, and hope leaped in his breast. It was not a retreat, however. Twenty paces away, they halted, took their helmets off, wiped sweat from their brows, and checked their comrades’ wounds. It was time for his men to do the same, thought Mutt. Combat was exhausting; any opportunities to rest had to be seized.

He bellowed a few commands, went through the routines he’d done so many times before. Checked — by shouting questions — that those further down the column were all right. Made sure the soldiers at the front had serviceable shields and spears. Had the injured tended as much as was possible. Ordered men to drink and to piss; told them that they’d done well; and fought his own misgivings about their situation. Despite the fact that they had not suffered heavy casualties in the initial assault, they were now definitely outnumbered. He could see scores and scores of warriors in the trees. What was their best plan? he wondered, fresh worry clawing at him. ‘Sir?’ he shouted.

‘Mutt. How are things with you?’

‘Fine, sir. We’re holding. What are your orders, sir?’

Mutt saw the men’s body language change. They stiffened, waiting for Hanno’s response, which could determine their fate.

‘Stand fast until I say otherwise!’ cried Hanno.

‘Very good, sir.’ There was an underlying implication that they might have to retreat, Mutt was sure of it. Let that not come to pass, he prayed. Their casualties would soar. Yet as the Gauls began to advance again, he knew this might be their only option. I don’t want to die in a shithole like this, he thought bitterly. ‘Ready, lads! This time, I want you to teach them a real lesson. One that will send them home crying for their mothers. Can you do that?’

The guttural roar that answered him still had plenty of energy in it. They weren’t going to give in just yet, Mutt decided.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The sound came from some distance to the rear of the nearest Gauls.

‘Not more of the whoresons, please,’ said a soldier off to Mutt’s right.

‘If it is, we’re dead men,’ a second, familiar voice commented.

Just like that, the mood soured. Fear blossomed on faces. Men began to pray.

‘Ithobaal, shut your fucking mouth,’ Mutt roared. ‘The rest of you keep quiet too.’

Chastened, the men did as he ordered.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. There were several instruments sounding. It was probably reinforcements, thought Mutt wearily. Maybe they were going to die here. If there was a time to pull back, this was it.

He opened his mouth, ready to yell that question at Hanno.

The cry died in his throat, because the Gauls’ advance had halted. Heads began to turn. Warriors conferred with one another. Angry shouts and questions rang out. Warriors turned to stare at whomever was advancing towards them.

They’re not happy, Mutt decided. Why?

An instant later, he blinked. ‘They’re fucking retreating! I don’t believe it!’

It was an orderly withdrawal, but there was no doubt that that’s what it was. With barely a second glance at the phalanx, the Gauls faded away into the trees.

Mutt’s men began to cheer. ‘Run, you maggots!’ shouted Ithobaal. ‘Back to your mothers’ skirts!’

That’s what you would have done if you’d had half a chance, thought Mutt dourly. Bogu, who was small but as hard as nails, was far more reliable. ‘Bogu!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are they going on your side too?’

‘Disappearing like morning mist, sir!’

Thank all the gods, Mutt thought, relief flooding through him.

‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘They’re leaving!’ Hanno could not control the delight in his voice.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Who was it that scared them off?’

‘We’ll soon find out, sir, I imagine.’

‘Get up here.’

‘Sir!’ Mutt eyed the men around him. ‘Treat the wounded. Check your weapons. Stay alert. We may have to fight again. Pass the word on.’ Without a backward glance, he broke into a fast walk, cursing as his large round shield caught off the branches protruding from bushes to the side of the track. Its size did not make it an easy thing to move quickly with. At times like this, he was grateful for his thrusting spear, which worked as a staff, helping him to step over the numerous Gaulish bodies. As he neared the front, Mutt judged that their own casualties had not been too heavy. Good, he thought. Libyan spearmen were like gold dust — and for the moment, impossible to replace.

Seeing new figures emerging from the woods, he hurried to Hanno’s side. ‘More Gauls, sir?’

‘Looks like it,’ muttered Hanno. He cast a look at Mutt. ‘You’re unhurt?’

‘Fine, sir. And you?’

Hanno wiped his brow. ‘I’m all right. How are the men?’

‘Ready to fight again if they have to, sir,’ answered Mutt with more confidence then he felt.

Hanno seemed relieved. ‘Let’s hope that’s not necessary.’

They watched with clenched jaws as a group of four tribesmen reached the track. Similar to their attackers, they were hairy, moustached men in cloaks, wool tunics and patterned trousers. They were also armed to the teeth with spears, swords and daggers. Tellingly, there was no blood visible on their weapons. The men who had ambushed the phalanx had gone without a fight. Mutt thought that these warriors’ expressions weren’t unfriendly — he prayed that this was the case. For their attackers to vanish so fast, there had to be a lot of them.

The leader, a middle-aged figure with a luxuriant moustache, began holding forth in his own tongue. His words were clearly directed at Hanno, who had moved forward a little from his men. Two paces to his rear, Mutt listened hard. He couldn’t understand a word. When the Gaulish warrior finished, Mutt glanced at Hanno. ‘D’you know what he said, sir?’

‘I’ve no fucking idea,’ replied Hanno in an undertone. ‘Well, I understood the occasional word. “Gauls.” “Romans.” “Hannibal”. “Fight.”’

‘That could mean anything, sir,’ said Mutt warily.

‘I know. There was much mention of “drink” and “wine”, however. And he spat every time he mentioned Romans and Gauls. So did his men. When he spoke of Hannibal, he grinned like a lunatic. As he is now.’ He gestured at the warrior. ‘Latin? Speak Latin?’

The Gaullaughed and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Who knows if we can trust this lot, but they don’t seem friendly with the ones who ambushed us, sir.’

Hanno’s eyes flickered to the trees on either side. ‘If they wished us harm, surely they would have attacked by now?’

Mutt looked around him. Once again, the treeline was full of armed figures. His knuckles whitened on the shaft of his spear. ‘Agreed, sir.’

‘Best continue talking,’ Hanno whispered. ‘Keep the men calm.’

Mutt eyed the nearest soldiers, who looked distinctly unhappy. ‘No one is to make a move. Any man who does will lose his fucking balls! Pass it on, quickly.’

‘No Latin,’ said the Gaulish leader, spitting a copious lump of phlegm into the mud. He jerked a thumb at the man to his left, a younger warrior with blond hair. ‘Him. Latin. Yes.’

Hanno half bowed. ‘I thank you and your companions for driving off that war party,’ he said in Latin.

‘You speak your enemy’s tongue?’ The blond warrior’s tone was surprised.

‘I do,’ replied Hanno, smiling. ‘As do you.’

‘My father sent me to Placentia to learn to read and write,’ said the warrior resentfully. ‘I had to study Latin as well.’

‘I speak it because I was once slave to a Roman family,’ revealed Hanno.

Mutt was grateful for the couple of years that he’d spent crewing a merchant vessel before he’d joined the army. One of his oarmates had been a friendly Latin. During the long days of rowing, they had taught one another how to get by in their respective languages. His Latin was rusty, but if Mutt concentrated, he could understand most of what was being said.

The blond warrior looked surprised. ‘And now you follow your leader, Hannibal, to war.’

‘That’s right. I am on patrol with my men.’

You are heading for Victumulae?’

‘We were, until we were ambushed. Do you know who our attackers were?’

‘Cenomani.’

At once things became clearer for Mutt. Although there were Cenomani serving with the other Gauls in their army, Mutt knew, until very recently, some members of the tribe had also fought for Rome. Clearly, their attackers still wanted to do so.

‘Many Gauls have joined our army,’ Hanno declared. ‘Boii and Insubres for the most part, yet there are some Cenomani also. Not those ones, obviously.’

Mutt didn’t like the scowl the blond warrior gave by way of reply, nor the way his leader reacted to the mention of the first tribes. Gods, let us not make enemies of them because of a tribal blood feud, he prayed. The leader barked a few words at the blond Gaul in their own language.

‘Our people have little love for either the Boii or Insubres,’ said the blond warrior haughtily.

‘We can’t all get along with everyone. I quarrel with my own brothers for instance,’ said Hanno lightly, relieving Mutt. ‘Excuse my ignorance, for I know little of this land. If not Boii, Insubres or Cenomani, what people are you?’

‘We are Cenomani, like those who ambushed you,’ came the proud reply.

‘I see,’ said Hanno calmly. ‘And are you friend or foe to Rome?’ Under his breath, he added to Mutt, ‘Be ready to order the men to fight.’

‘Sir.’ Mutt watched the blond warrior closely, praying that it didn’t come to that. Even if they managed to get away — bearing in mind that the Gauls probably outnumbered them — their losses would be heavy.

‘Rome is our enemy, as is the Cenomani clan who ambushed you. Those tribesmen had been raiding our lands.’

Mutt heard Hanno let out a long, slow breath of relief. He felt the same way.

‘The Romans have always been our foes,’ declared the blond warrior in a loud voice. He spat a few words in his own language, which made his companions shake their fists and shout what could only be curses. ‘We loathed what they stood for before Telamon, but since then we have sworn to fight the legions with every last drop of our blood.’

‘That is good news, for so have we,’ said Hanno, stepping forward and offering the leader his hand.

The leader accepted the grip with a broad smile. A barrage of Gaulish followed. It was interspersed with much licking of the lips and slapping of his belly.

‘He’s offering us hospitality, sir,’ said Mutt happily.

‘Yes.’

‘My father wishes to know if you accept his offer of food and drink,’ said the blond Gaul.

‘Of course!’ cried Hanno, performing a half bow to the leader. ‘If we are not too many?’

A dismissive shake of the head. ‘Enough cattle will be slaughtered to feed us all. No man sits at Devorix’s table and goes hungry.’

‘My men will be very grateful,’ declared Hanno. ‘Devorix is your leader’s name?’

‘De-vor-ix,’ interjected the leader, jabbing his own chest.

‘He is my father; more than three hundred warriors call him chieftain,’ said the blond warrior proudly.

Devorix pointed at Hanno with an enquiring look, and said something. ‘What’s your name?’ asked his son.

‘Hanno. And this is Mutt, my second-in-command.’

‘Ha-nno. Mutt. Mutt!’ A huge grin split Devorix’ face.

‘Mutt,’ Mutt repeated, nodding. He pulled a smile. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that ‘Mutt’ was amusing in Gaulish. He had grown up having the piss taken out of him over his name, the full version of which was Muttumbaal. It might mean ‘Gift of Baal’, he thought dourly, but it didn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Still, he liked Mutt well enough, even if that made men laugh too.

‘I am Aios. You are welcome to our lands,’ said the blond warrior.

‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno, visibly relaxing.

‘We have had word of your army. I assume that it — and you — are marching on Victumulae because you need the grain within its walls.’

‘We need it badly,’ answered Hanno with a smile. ‘Tens of thousands of mouths require a lot of feeding.’

‘Come. Our village is not far, perhaps five miles down the track. There is grain — and wine — aplenty there for your men, for one night at least. Our druid can also treat your wounded.’

‘We are honoured by your hospitality,’ averred Hanno. Mutt echoed his words, but inside he was still not sure if these tribesmen were trustworthy. Once a man had consumed a bellyful of wine, he tended to forget the thought of treachery or a knife between the ribs.

As Devorix and Aios waited, Hanno issued his soldiers with orders to gather the wounded and slain. Everyone knew how to fashion makeshift litters for the wounded using two spears with a cloak tied between. But even their dead — four men — were to be carried, Hanno commanded. They could be buried near the tribesmen’s village.

When finished, he turned to Mutt. ‘Despite their friendly words, we must stay on our guard,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The men must not drink too much later.’

That will be easier said than done, thought Mutt. They’ll be like horses that haven’t drunk all day being presented with a stream. He’d have to lay down the law to them in no uncertain terms. Few things made soldiers behave as well as the threat of a good beating. That, and the promise that any loot they took would be forfeit — to him.

Most of the warriors faded away into the trees. Mutt assumed that they were making their way on different paths. He took heart. This was more evidence that the tribesmen did not mean them harm. A short time later, the Libyans set out with Devorix and Aios, and their two companions.

By the time that they had nearly reached the Gauls’ village, Mutt had decided that if Devorix was planning to murder them, he was doing an admirable job of concealing it. The chieftain had talked all the way, impatiently waiting each time Aios translated his words. If Devorix was to be believed, he was merely waiting until the Carthaginian army reached the area before lending his support to Hannibal.

As yet, they had not mounted an open attack on Roman troops from Victumulae, Aios had reported, because their settlement lay too close to the town. ‘When word came of what had happened at the Trebia, another clan of our tribe massacred a Roman patrol. A few legionaries got away, however, brought back word of what had happened,’ Aios had said. ‘A day later, the commander of the forces inside Victumulae sent out five hundred soldiers. They razed the village to the ground. Killed everyone, even the livestock and the dogs. Bastards!’

At that point, Devorix had launched into a long and bitter tirade, prompting Aios to explain that his sister, married to the chief of the clan, had been among the dead.

Hanno and Mutt had exchanged a look then that needed no words. This was surely proof that these warriors were on their side.

The trees died away eventually and were replaced by empty, roughly tilled fields. Small groups of raucous crows threw themselves into the air from the frozen, furrowed earth as the party approached the village. Two small, snot-nosed boys gawped from their positions at the rear of a flock of sheep; a scrawny dog raised its hackles and barked a shrill welcome. The settlement was a typical, circular stockaded affair, reached by an even muddier offshoot of the trail that they’d been following. Trails of smoke rose over the rampart from the many fires within. Voices — those of men, women and children — competed with each other. Mutt could hear cattle lowing, and the sound of metal being hammered.

A pang of homesickness hit him. He hadn’t seen his home in Libya for many years, but the everyday sounds here were no different to the seaside hamlet where he’d grown up. His father had died when Mutt was a small child, but could his mother still be alive there? He asked the gods that it were so. No doubt his brother, who’d stood to inherit their little farm, was still working the land. His sisters would be married women, with families of their own. Mutt felt a little sad; he liked children. Would the chance to settle down with a wife and set about making some ever come his way? he wondered.

‘You can set up your tents here,’ said Aios, indicating the ground to each side of the gate. He had stayed behind while Devorix and the rest of his companions continued on into the village. ‘The dead can be buried on the other side of the stockade, where our people are laid to rest.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hanno. ‘Mutt?’

Mutt pulled himself together. ‘Yes, sir. We’ll put the tents in this spot, as Aios says. And then dig graves for the dead lads around the far side.’ He nodded his thanks to Aios.

‘I would ask that you place your latrine trenches in the trees yonder.’ Aios pointed at a thicket about two hundred paces away.

‘Of course,’ replied Mutt. Everyone knew that shitting too close to home was an invitation for diseases such as dysentery.

Aios inclined his head. ‘The preparations for the celebrations will take a few hours, but there is a tavern of sorts in the village. Your men are welcome to drink there until it’s time for the feasting to begin.’

Mutt was reassured when Hanno immediately replied, ‘I’m grateful for the offer, but it’s still early. There could be Romans about.’

A derisive snort. ‘There isn’t a scumbag legionary within five miles. Our scouts tell us any time a boar as much as farts around here.’

Mutt had to smile at that, but was pleased that Hanno maintained his position. ‘It’s good to know that you have ears and eyes throughout the area,’ said Hanno. ‘Nonetheless, I’ll keep my soldiers on a tight leash. Until later.’

‘I understand,’ said Aios with a laugh and a wink. ‘I’ll ask the druid to attend your injured. If you need anything else, the tavern is where you’ll find me. I look forward to sharing a drink with you.’ He strode off.

Mutt spent a short while directing the men to set up camp. By the time he’d finished, all the Gauls had gone. ‘What do you reckon, sir? Can we trust them?’

‘I think so. You?’

Mutt pursed his lips, recalling everything that Devorix and Aios had said. ‘I’d say they’re all right, sir. Gauls are renowned for being simple folk. Brave as you like; quick to anger; slow to forgive. Excepting the Vocontii and the Cenomani who had recently changed sides, they’re not known for their treachery. You can generally take them as you find them.’

‘Aye, that’s what I have heard too,’ said Hanno. ‘Devorix seems decent enough, and I like Aios.’ He cast a curious look at Mutt. ‘Who are the Vocontii?’

‘The motherless curs who led us astray in the Alps, sir. Hundreds of our men were killed in their ambush.’ Mutt could still hear the screams of the soldiers who had fallen to their deaths or who’d had limbs crushed by the falling rocks. ‘We paid them back in kind, though, your brother Sapho especially.’ A flash of emotion — anger? — flashed across Hanno’s face, but it was gone before Mutt could make sense of it.

‘Nonetheless, I want the camp prepared as normal. Build a defensive ditch outside it, and a rampart as tall as a man,’ ordered Hanno. ‘When that’s been done, half the phalanx can be allowed into the village. They can have the evening off. The rest are to remain in camp, with triple the normal number of sentries. If there is any treachery, we won’t be caught completely off guard.’

This command wouldn’t be popular, thought Mutt. He’d take Bogu as extra muscle when delivering it. ‘How shall I pick those who stay and those who go, sir?’

‘Choosing them by lot is the fairest way, I suppose. To sweeten the medicine, tell them that I will make sure that plenty of the food comes their way. There’ll be wine too — just not in the same volume that the others will be swilling down.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Mutt’s respect for Hanno grew a little further. It was shrewd not to deny half of his men the pleasure that their luckier comrades would enjoy that evening. It would have been nice to join in the revelries, but Hanno would want him to keep an eye on things while he went and got drunk. It was one of the privileges of being a commander, he thought.

‘You can go in this evening, after I’ve got back.’

Surprise filled him. ‘Sir?’

‘Devorix will expect to see me at the start, naturally. I’ll stay for an hour or two, then make my excuses. You can go once I return.’

Mutt felt an unaccustomed grin breaking out. ‘You’re sure, sir?’

‘I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it, Mutt.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He threw off a crisp salute. ‘I’d best get a move on, then. The camp won’t build itself.’

Mutt could feel Hanno’s eyes on him as he walked off. The boy’s clever, he thought. It seemed that Hanno had learned his lessons from his father, Malchus well. The gods grant that he leads us for the rest of this war, Mutt prayed. Good commanders were even scarcer than Libyan spearmen, and to be treasured.

He waited until the earthen perimeter had been thrown up before telling the men of the night’s arrangements. If he’d done so beforehand, the unlucky ones would have still been digging come nightfall. With the defences in place and the tents up, however, there was a natural window in the day’s duties. It was when his soldiers were normally left to themselves. Assembling them briefly, Mutt told them how it was going to be. To his relief, there was less complaining than he’d expected.

This might have been to do with the merciless ribbing that he had given Ithobaal, one of the soldiers who was to be allowed into the village. Acutely aware that those who had to remain would be unhappy — to say the least — he made sure to go on and on about Ithobaal’s good fortune. He would, Mutt declared, have to drink himself stupid, but at the same time he must remember to carry back plenty of wine for his long-suffering comrades, who had to put up with his never-ending complaints. There were whoops of delight and gales of laughter at this. Ithobaal, red-faced and fuming, was able to do nothing except to promise that he would not forget his friends.

‘Are you going, sir?’ asked Bogu, who had also picked a winning straw from Mutt’s fist.

‘Possibly, later on. I’ll be sober, though, and that’s the way I will stay. So be on your best behaviour. I don’t want anyone picking a fight with a Gaul, or worse still, molesting one of their women — at least without their permission. If I hear of, or catch any fool doing something he shouldn’t be, he will answer to me! And he’ll rue the damn day he was born. Am I clear?’ He glared at them until they nodded their acceptance. ‘You can go into the village once the sun goes down.’ Having picked the sentries for the night, Mutt dismissed the men. He would never admit it, but he was pleased for them. Since the descent from the Alps, life had improved, but not by as much as everyone had hoped. A celebration such as the one that beckoned would raise morale, and give the soldiers a much needed break from the cold, the monotony of marching and fighting and — his belly rumbled on cue — feeling constantly hungry.

Several hours later…

Seeing Hanno’s familiar shape outlined by the glow of light that rose above the village rampart, Mutt grinned. He had checked on the sentries and the wounded, and ensured that the men who remained in camp weren’t getting into any mischief. Now, despite his determination to remain sober, he was looking forward to another drink. In the centre of the village, the noise of singing, music and general ribaldry had been growing ever louder, and the wine and food that had been carried out to the camp by half a dozen Gaulish boys had not lasted long. Stay calm, Mutt thought. Hanno might have changed his mind. I’m not getting away until he says I am.

Mutt walked over to greet him, curious to see if he was pissed. ‘Evening, sir.’

‘Mutt. Any sign of the enemy?’

‘I took a patrol on a circuit about half a mile out from the camp an hour ago, sir. The only creature we saw was an owl. Nothing else is moving out there.’

Hanno visibly relaxed.

‘How are things in the village, sir?’

Hanno laughed. ‘It’s fucking mayhem! I’ve never seen men get stuck into wine quite the way those tribesmen do. It’s like pouring water into barrels of sawdust! Naturally, our men are doing their best to keep up, but there’s enough wine to drown an army. The amount of food is incredible too. There are drinking and arm-wrestling competitions going on. Dancing. Music. I tell you, Mutt, we fell on our feet meeting Devorix. If he orders his men to cut our throats in the middle of the night, then I’m no judge of character.’

‘That’s good to hear, sir.’ Hanno still seemed sober, Mutt noted with pleasure. Despite the entertainment on offer, he hadn’t forgotten his position as commander.

‘It’s your turn now,’ announced Hanno.

Mutt’s spirits rose, but he just said, ‘Is that all right, sir?’

‘Piss off, Mutt, and enjoy yourself. Keep an eye out for any of the men fighting or suchlike. We don’t want trouble.’

‘I’ll watch them like a hawk, sir.’

‘In the morning, we’ll march an hour later than normal. No harm letting the lads have a little more sleep.’

‘Very good, sir,’ replied Mutt gladly. ‘Good night.’

Waving a hand in dismissal, Hanno walked off into the darkness.

Reaching under his cloak, Mutt touched the hilt of his small dagger for reassurance — no matter where he was, he didn’t like being unarmed. Then he headed for the main gate. A burning torch had been shoved into a metal bracket on either side, illuminating the entrance. At first, he could see no sign of a sentry, but then Mutt made out the shape of a warrior sprawled in the dirt just inside the ramparts. A jug lay on its side beside the man, who was snoring fit to wake the dead. Just as well that there are no sodding Romans nearby, he thought wryly.

Within the walls, the noise was much louder. Mutt could hear the deep voices of men chanting, and the pounding of a drum. Booooooooo. Someone was blowing a horn. Flutes and hand bells could also be discerned, mixed with laughter and shouted conversation. He followed the muddy track between the small huts, aiming towards the centre of the village. On the way, he was passed by a number of small boys, chasing each other and shrieking at the tops of their voices. A man and woman walked by, talking in low tones and with their arms entwined. The sound of people coupling carried from a nearby hut. A beady-eyed crone in ragged clothing glared at Mutt from the open doorway of a tumbledown shack, and he mouthed a prayer against bad luck. Just because Devorix had made them welcome didn’t meant that everyone here felt the same. The old woman was the nearest thing he’d seen to a witch for a while.

Emerging into a packed, central open area, Mutt felt his concerns ease again. A massive bonfire lit up the place as brightly as day. It looked as if every inhabitant of the village was here. Groups of men and women danced around the blaze, following the swirling tune played by a group of musicians. Three fire pits, with iron frames over, were being used to cook haunches of beef. Despite risk of being burned, hungry warriors were reaching in to slice off chunks of meat with their knives. The biggest crowd was around a pyramid of amphorae, however, in front of which tables and benches had been set up. Here scores of men were sitting, drinking, talking, laughing at jokes. It was also where the bulk of Mutt’s soldiers were. No surprise there, he thought.

He drew close to the revellers without being noticed, which gave him a useful chance to observe things. As was to be expected, his men were clustered together around half a dozen large tables. Scores of tribesmen manned the rest. The majority of those present seemed quite drunk, but Mutt could see no arguments, which pleased him. An occasional spearman had joined his men; at least two were arm-wrestling with soldiers. It looked as if another was trying to teach one of the spearmen a song. Yet more of his men were standing by the makeshift bar, which was nothing more than planks laid atop four planed down tree stumps. These individuals were deep in conversation with a bunch of Gaulish women. Judging by the giggles and fluttering of eyelashes that was going on, they were getting along fine despite the language barrier.

It was fine to have a drink, Mutt decided. He elbowed his way onto a bench full of his soldiers and shouted until someone handed him a brimming cup. He downed it in one, his eyes watering as the acidity of the wine hit his taste buds. ‘Melqart’s hairy arse, but that tastes like vinegar!’

‘That’s because it is vinegar, sir!’ yelled Bogu, to roars of laughter.

‘But it gets you pissed double quick, sir,’ said another man, grinning. ‘That’s what counts!’

They hammered their fists and cups on the table top in agreement.

Mutt saluted Bogu with another drink. ‘I’ll drink to that. Your health! The same to all of you. May you come through the war unscathed, with your cock and balls intact. And missing no more than one limb each.’

They loved that. Mutt let them laugh for a moment before adding, ‘One more thing — may Hannibal lead us to victory!’

Inevitably, the cry started up. The soldiers all around joined in at once. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’

Mutt smiled. This was going to be a good night, he could feel it in his bones.

A hand on his shoulder. ‘Can I join you?’

Mutt turned, recognised Aios. ‘Of course!’ He nudged the man to his right. ‘Move over.’

Aios squeezed himself into the tiny space, taking care not to spill his own drink. ‘Your soldiers are enjoying themselves, it seems.’

‘It’s impossible for them not to,’ said Mutt. ‘Thanks to your fine hospitality. Fires. Wine. Food. What more could a man want?’ He didn’t mention the women, always a source of potential trouble.

‘Let’s not forget women,’ said Aios, wrong-footing him.

‘Aye. They can be good company,’ Mutt replied awkwardly. ‘Is it all right with your chief if anything, err, happens?’ He indicated the group of women. ‘Will your menfolk not rise up in arms if some of my soldiers lie with them?’

A surprised laugh. ‘Why would that happen?’ He saw the incomprehension in Mutt’s face. ‘Our unmarried girls can couple with whomever they choose. No one cares.’

‘Really?’ Mutt twisted around to look again. Most of the women were passable-looking, and two were pretty by any man’s standards. ‘Maybe I should go over. See if I can get lucky.’ He wasn’t entirely joking. How long had it been since he hadn’t handed over coin to have a woman go to bed with him? Five years? No, it was more than that, he concluded regretfully. Army life meant that the only females he’d met were whores, or captives taken in war, who had no rights of their own.

‘Go on,’ encouraged Aios, using an elbow. ‘When they hear that you’re second-in-command, you’ll be in there!’

Aios wasn’t joking, realised Mutt, feeling even more tempted. He sat his arse back down on the bench, though, and took another swig of his wine. ‘Not tonight.’

‘Why? You mightn’t get the same chance again for months!’

It could be far longer, thought Mutt ruefully. ‘I’d best keep an eye on my men.’

Aios saw the resolve in his eyes and let his arm fall. ‘Duty comes first, eh?’

‘Always,’ replied Mutt with a sigh. ‘A few more cups of wine, and that’s me.’

‘The perils of command in your army!’ said Aios with a grin. ‘Fortunately, I have no need to lead my warriors in the morning.’ He downed his drink in one go.

A shout dragged their attention away from conversation. Men opposite were turning around on their benches. Mutt craned his neck to see. A huge warrior stood over the next table, glowering at the soldiers who were seated there. Mutt’s stomach clenched; he half stood, hoping that this wasn’t what it looked like. With considerable amounts of drink taken on both sides, it wouldn’t take that much for a mass brawl to start. If things degenerated that far, it was all too easy for lives to be lost, and if that happened-

‘Another thing that we Cenomani love as much as wine, is wrestling.’ Aios’ voice was by his ear. ‘That’s Acco, one of the best wrestlers in the village. He’ll be wanting a match with one of your men.’

Mutt felt relief that a fight wasn’t about to break out, but he wasn’t sure if a wrestling contest was a good idea either. What he thought was irrelevant, however. Ithobaal had already stood up to thunderous cheers from his fellows. ‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ the spearmen shouted.

Firelight glittered off the silver coin in Aios’ fingers. ‘This for Acco to win,’ he said, grinning.

Mutt glanced at Acco’s bulging muscles and winced inwardly. Even if he was more pissed than Ithobaal — quite a likely prospect, given how he was swaying — he was still half again as big as his opponent. Yet it could possibly be considered rude not to wager with his host. ‘My purse is in my tent,’ he began.

‘I will take your word for it,’ interjected Aios.

‘Fine.’ They shook hands.

A ring of baying men quickly formed, with the two protagonists in the centre. Aios stepped within and took up a position between the contestants. He explained the rules to Ithobaal. Mutt listened intently. There was to be no punching, biting or gouging. The contest had to stay within the circle. It would end when one man spoke or signalled with his hand that he gave up. Other than that, there were no conditions. Ithobaal nodded his understanding. Acco growled his eagerness.

Aios raised and lowered his hand before retreating at speed. Shouts and roars of encouragement broke out from the supporters on both sides.

Gods, don’t let him injure Ithobaal too badly, Mutt asked. He didn’t care about the silver coin that he would lose.

The pair fell upon each other like wild beasts. Acco tried to throw his arms around Ithobaal, attempting to crush him, but the Ithobaal was too fast. He ducked under Acco’s swinging arms, swept his own right arm around the his back and flipped him around and over his hip. Acco fell heavily, to a chorus of jeers from Ithobaal’s supporters. Ithobaal’s immediate attempt to land on top of Acco and pin him down, however, was a stunning failure. Acco managed to roll onto his back, and grabbed Ithobaal in a mighty bear hug.

Mutt watched in astonishment as Ithobaal struggled to break free. Although Ithobaal was much stronger than he was, his efforts still looked like those of an insect trying to free itself from a spider’s web. Ithobaal strained and roared and kicked his legs. All his efforts came to nothing. In frustration, he tried to headbutt Acco. Anticipating the move, Acco twisted and met the blow with his cheekbone — and laughed, tightening his grip.

‘Acco’s as strong as an ox!’ cried Aios in delight.

‘Clearly,’ growled Mutt, hearing Ithobaal groan.

A moment later, to great roars from the tribesmen, Ithobaal conceded. He did so with poor grace, barely accepting Acco’s friendly handshake.

‘A one-sided contest,’ said Mutt, clapping Aios on the shoulder. ‘Acco is a true champion.’

‘He’s also one of the best warriors in the tribe.’

‘Look. Another of my soldiers wants to take him on.’ This time it was the biggest man in the phalanx, a simple fellow who went by the nickname of ‘The Bull’. He’d have more chance against Acco, thought Mutt, the wine strengthening his conviction.

‘This will be more of a contest,’ said Aios, his eyes glinting. ‘Double or nothing on our last wager?’

‘Of course,’ agreed Mutt. His luck might be better now.

But it wasn’t. Before long, ‘The Bull’ had also been beaten, and after him, one of Mutt’s spearmen who had always claimed that he’d been trained by a Greek wrestler.

By now, Mutt had lost three coins to Aios. Acco stood in the centre of the circle, bare chested now, covered in sweat. He looked undefeatable, like a statue of a god come to life. No more of Mutt’s men were prepared to fight him.

‘Fancy a bout against him yourself?’ asked Aios.

Mutt snorted. ‘Are you out of your mind? He’d crush me like a beetle.’

Aios looked around the circle, but the spearmen were all staying put. ‘It seems that there are no further contenders. The Cenomani win this battle, I think.’

‘They do. Without doubt,’ replied Mutt. Inside, though, he was feeling sore. Would your warriors stand against my phalanx, he wondered. I’m not so sure. With luck, though, that would never happen. Instead, Devorix and his men would join Hannibal and his army on their quest to defeat Rome.

‘Ha!’ cried Aios. ‘The struggle is not over!’

Mutt couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ithobaal, ‘The Bull’, and the Greek-trained soldier had all attacked Acco at the same time. Ithobaal had grabbed one arm and ‘The Bull’ another while their comrade did his best to knock Acco’s legs from under him. Shit, Mutt thought. Every Gaul who’s here will join in now. He roared at his men to stop, but there was no way in hell that they could hear. The noise from the entire audience had become deafening.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Aios. ‘They’ll be disciplined for this.’

To his surprise, Aios laughed. ‘I like their spirit,’ he cried.

By now, several tribesmen had advanced into the ring now, clearly intent on helping Acco. Aios moved swiftly, darting between them and the heaving mass that was Acco and his three assailants. He shouted an order, and all but two of the warriors backed off. Aios withdrew to Mutt’s side. ‘It’s a bit more even now, eh?’

‘I suppose so,’ replied Mutt, unable to stop himself from chuckling at the situation.

The three-way struggle went on for some time, long enough for Mutt to sink two more cups of wine. Inevitably, Acco beat ‘The Bull’ again, but Ithobaal and the Greek-trained soldier both overcame their opponents. Mutt’s men went crazy when the last tribesman conceded defeat.

Mutt worried that things might turn nasty at this point, but the warriors around him seemed to take the whole thing in good spirit, laughing and clapping the nearest of his men on the back. He turned to Aios. ‘Two contests apiece now. That makes us even!’

‘Your soldiers are to be commended for not giving up.’ Aios saluted him with his cup. ‘Perhaps you and I should have a bout now, to finish it?’

The blond Gaul had five years on him at least, thought Mutt. He was probably less pissed too, given the way the wine was now fizzing through his veins. ‘Another day, maybe,’ he said. ‘When I’m not so drunk.’

Aios chuckled. ‘You’re a prudent man, Mutt. I can see why you’ve got to your position. Don’t enter a fight unless you’re sure of a victory.’

‘Something like that,’ Mutt agreed.

‘Come, let’s share another cup of wine before you go.’

So he did.

The next morning, Mutt overslept for the first time in many months. He’d been up half the night, pissing and drinking water, so it was no surprise really, he chided himself. Bogu, who had woken him, had a little smile on his face that he chose to ignore.

‘I’m up, I’m up,’ he growled. Bogu nodded and pulled his head out of Mutt’s tent. ‘Tell the men to break camp,’ Mutt called after him.

‘They’re already doing it, sir,’ came the reply.

Mutt sank back onto the ground with a little groan. Just a moment or two more rest, he thought. Gods, but he wished that he hadn’t had that last drink. It was always the one that seemed to guarantee the headache, the cold sweats and the pounding heart. It was his own fault, he conceded. He should have stopped after a few. That was the rub, though. It was so hard to refuse another drink once that familiar glow had taken hold of his body.

Heaving himself up, he stripped off his tunic and shoved his way out of the tent, stark naked. Icy air caressed his body. He grabbed for the hide bucket that he’d left there for just this purpose. Lifting it high, Mutt emptied the contents — river water — over his head. Ice that had formed on top of the water shattered on his head, and a torrent of freezing liquid followed. The shock and pain was exquisite.

‘Baal Hammon’s balls!’ he shouted.

‘Have a few too many?’

He spun to find Hanno watching him wryly. ‘I might have, sir, yes,’ he mumbled.

‘Any trouble?’

He could tell Hanno about the wrestling match when the opportunity arose, Mutt decided. ‘No, sir.’

‘Good. The sentries reported nothing eventful either.’ Hanno was already turning away. ‘Best get your kit on. We’re moving out soon.’

Suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were on him and what passed for his manhood, Mutt made a show of stretching his arms wide as if he had just climbed out of a comfortable bed. When things are not normal, he remembered his father saying, act as if they are. After a casual yawn, he re-entered his tent. There was laughter, but not much, and it was stifled. He could live with that.

Once Mutt had got moving, he began to feel more normal. Drinking a skin full of spring water helped as well. He was grateful to feel better, because that meant the impending march would not be a total hell.

Aios and Devorix came out of the village to bid them farewell. Both were clad in fur cloaks. Their reddened eyes and tousled hair was the only evidence of the previous night’s activities.

‘My father asks that you speak with Hannibal of our friendship,’ said Aios. ‘We plan to meet you with our warriors at the walls of Victumulae.’

‘I will tell him,’ Hanno promised. ‘And you have my thanks for your hospitality.’

‘And mine,’ added Mutt in Latin. He saw the astonishment in Hanno’s face. Aios too looked surprised. ‘Your second-in-command is a man of many abilities,’ observed Aios.

‘So I am learning,’ replied Hanno with a long look at Mutt.

‘May we all meet again,’ said Aios.

Clasping hands with each other, they took their leave. Hanno ordered the men to move out.

They took off on a track that traced its way northwards across the fields. Aios had told them it led to Victumulae. Scores of tribesmen waved them off, and Mutt’s spearmen raised a cheer of thanks, then whistled and hurled catcalls at the handful of women who stood waving from the ramparts. Mutt wished that he had rolled one of them in the hay after all. Take your chances when they present themselves, he thought ruefully.

Hanno eyed Mutt sidelong. ‘Quite the dark horse, aren’t you?’

‘We all have a past, sir.’

‘Aye, that’s true.’ Hanno’s face turned pensive.

Mutt didn’t pry. If Hanno wanted to tell him, he would. And if he didn’t, that was fine as well. ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll fall back to the middle of the column.’

Deep in thought, Hanno just nodded.

By mid-afternoon, Mutt’s hangover had worn off. His men had resumed their usual banter, and the wounded were bearing up to the march. Even Ithobaal wasn’t complaining. Best of all, the clouds had lifted, and there had even been a glimpse of the sun from time to time. The general mood was good. Soon after, Mutt was grateful for the high morale. The scouts, who had been sent out much further than previously, brought back word of a Roman patrol setting up camp a mile to their north.

Hanno called Mutt to his side upon hearing the news; together, they grilled the pair of scouts again.

‘How many do you think there were?’ demanded Hanno.

‘Hard to say exactly, sir,’ answered the first, a grey-haired veteran whom Mutt trusted. ‘The treeline ended more than two hundred paces from their defensive ditch. But there were definitely less of them than there are of us.’

The second scout muttered in agreement.

‘I wonder what they’re doing here,’ said Hanno. ‘Maybe they’re looking for more Cenomani villages to punish.’

‘They’re not expecting any of our forces, that’s for sure, sir,’ said Mutt. ‘Otherwise there’d be far more of them.’

Hanno’s reply was a feral grin.

‘And they’ve halted for the day?’ Mutt asked the veteran.

‘Looks like it, sir. They’re still digging the ditch around their camp.’

‘At least half of them will have a spade in their hands, sir. A good time to hit them, if you had a mind to it,’ said Mutt.

‘I do.’ Hanno’s eyes were glinting.

Mutt felt the old familiar feeling of fear and excitement that presaged a fight. He let a small smile tug its way onto his face. ‘We’d best get ready then, sir.’

An hour later, Mutt eyed his surroundings and scowled. The forest that they’d been marching through, and in which the Cenomani village had been, had come to an end for a while at least, and the muddy track that they had followed led straight out of the trees, onto reasonably flat ground. Other than a few bushes, there was no cover between them and the line of the Roman rampart, some two hundred and fifty paces away.

‘Their commander has chosen the site for his camp well, sir,’ said Mutt dourly.

Hanno grunted irritably by way of reply. ‘What do you think? Better not to attack?’

Hanno had never been so frank with him before. It had to have something to do with the fact that they were alone, Mutt decided. The men were secreted further back in the trees, awaiting orders. He and Hanno had crept to the edge of the open ground to assess the situation. But it was also a sign that he was winning his commander’s trust. That felt good.

Mutt studied the Roman camp again. Trails of smoke were rising in a few places, signifying the fires that would allow the Romans to cook their evening meal. He could see sentries pacing to and fro just inside the defences. A score of men were returning from the river with what were probably leather water bags. It didn’t look much different to their own camp after a day’s march had finished. How best to take it, however? If they charged from here, the Romans would see them at once. They would arrive at the rampart with burning muscles, while the enemy would be fresh and prepared. Maybe they should just withdraw, he thought.

‘We would lose too many men if we attacked now,’ said Hanno. The disappointment was thick in his voice.

Sudden inspiration struck Mutt. ‘Wait an hour, sir, until it’s nearly dark. Move then. The sentries won’t see us until we’re too close for their alarm call to make any difference. The legionaries will be snug inside their tents, with full bellies. They’ll have taken off their armour. We’ll smash them!’

‘Hanno gave Mutt a wary look. ‘Attacking at such a time is risky, though. It’s easy to mix friend with foe, to get isolated from one’s comrades.’

‘The men are well able for it, sir. You’ve seen how disciplined they are. Issue them with their orders, and they will follow them.’

They gazed at one another for a long moment, before Hanno nodded. ‘Very well. We’ll do as you suggested.’

The short winter days ensured that darkness was nearly upon them a short time later. All packs and equipment other than weapons and shields had been stacked in heaps just off the track. To reduce the chance of being spotted as they approached, each soldier had blackened his face, right hand and conical helmet with mud. They waited at the edge of the trees in two groups, the first and largest under Hanno, and the second under Mutt. An assault from three or even four sides would have been more effective, but Hanno had decided that would lead to unnecessary deaths. Mutt agreed. Men were less likely to kill one another if they were all moving into the enemy camp in one direction. Hanno was to lead the attack, while Mutt and his party were to lie in wait at the opposite end of the camp, outside the earthen rampart. Their purpose was to fall upon the Romans fleeing the slaughter.

‘Ready?’ Hanno hissed.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mutt.

‘Head to your position then. I’ll give you a head start of three hundred heartbeats before moving off. The gods be with you.’

‘And you, sir.’ Mutt turned to his men. ‘Follow me. Ten ranks of four. Walk several paces away from your comrades. Quiet as you can. Otherwise, your comrades and the chief could pay for your fuck up with their lives. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they muttered back at him.

The Roman camp was only a dark line in the distance by this stage, but that didn’t stop sweat from slicking down Mutt’s back as they left the cover of the trees. The muddy earth sucked at their sandals, making it difficult to walk. Mutt cursed the wet noises that this made, and reluctantly cut a wider diagonal line than he’d planned, towards the far left corner of the enemy position. Hanno would have the same problem, he reasoned. They would get to their position in time.

Seven hundred long heartbeats later, Mutt found himself some fifty paces from the entrance opposite the one that Hanno would strike. In the gloom, it was nothing more than a vertical slit on the dim shape that was the rampart. Slow movement — the tops of helmets — along the top of the fortification signalled a pair of sentries. They had not seen his spearmen, Mutt was sure of that. It was too damn dark, for a start. Plus they hadn’t made a sound, other than to speak to each other as they passed. He had already instructed his men what to do. At his signal, they fanned out in a large semicircle, covering almost the entire area before the entrance. He himself took the centre most point, directly facing the opening in the rampart. All they had to do now was wait.

Worry began to gnaw at him. He prayed that Hanno and his men reached the camp’s far side without being seen; that when they attacked they would cause complete panic; that the Romans who emerged before them would be too terrified to fight back.

Suddenly, Mutt’s attention was focused on a shout that was cut short. It was followed by a scream that died away into a choking cough. ‘Ready!’ he whispered to the man on each side. ‘Pass it on.’ The words had barely left his mouth when the quiet was shredded by the war cries of Hanno and his soldiers. Mutt strained his eyes at the rampart, trying to envisage what was going on. Light flared against the sky, flickered and then increased in brilliance. A tent had gone up in flames, he thought, dark satisfaction filling him. Shouts of confusion rang out from the sentries on the rampart near Mutt and a moment later, they deserted their posts.

The screaming began soon after, and rapidly became the dominant sound, which told Mutt all he needed to know. He went through the little ritual that had stood him in good stead so many times before: made sure that his sandals had a firm grip in the earth; readied his spear and held his shield grip even tighter, and muttered a prayer to Melqart and Baal Hammon, his favoured gods.

The noise of pounding feet drew everyone’s attention like a moth to a flame. A moment later, a lone figure tore out of the entrance opposite and ran straight for them at full tilt, his life ending on the spear of a soldier near Mutt.

One down, Mutt thought. Another hundred or more to go.

The next Roman didn’t see them either, nor did the two after him, or the four single legionaries after that. They all died without even landing a blow on one of his men. The noise of fighting within the camp had risen to a deafening level by then, and Mutt passed the order to prepare for a bigger onslaught. Hanno’s attack was going well. More ‘business’ would not be long coming their way.

A party of about twenty legionaries burst out through the entrance, shouting and yelling to each other. They ran towards Mutt without any hint of either formation or awareness that more enemies were lying in wait. A pssst from Mutt had a handful of spearmen nearby hurry to his side. They formed a mini shieldwall an instant before the Romans saw them. Curses and shouts of fear rent the air, but it was too late. They struck Mutt and the others as a ship hits a hidden rock. Thump went their shield bosses into enemy flesh. Stab. Thrust. Blood sprayed onto Mutt’s face. Blinking it away he shoved his blade into the man who came stumbling over the falling body of his comrade. It was like spearing fish in a pool.

As Mutt had expected, however, the pressure from the fleeing legionaries soon increased. There was no point losing any of his men, so he barked an order. His soldiers split apart, allowing the Romans to run off into the darkness. When another large group appeared, he let them by without hindrance. As wolves attack the stragglers, so he and his soldiers would take down the Romans, he had decided. A degree of caution would mean, with luck, no casualties at all.

More stragglers appeared, and were slain. The noise level inside the camp diminished, and then rose again. Except this time, the din was being made by Hanno’s men. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ Mutt heard them shouting, not far from where he stood. It was nearly over, he thought, feeling elated. They had won.

‘Look, sir!’

A tall shape was running towards them.

Gradually, he made out a feathered crest. It was an officer — the enemy commander.

‘HERE I AM, YOU WHORESON!’ he roared. Slaying the Roman leader would be the ultimate glory, the total proof that they had humiliated this enemy patrol, Mutt told himself, as the memory of his nightmare hit him like a hammer blow.. It was too late to do anything other than fight, however.

Whatever the outcome.