Hannibal: Fields of Blood (20 page)

But first, there was a battle to win.

An image of Quintus came, bringing with it a sense of melancholy. Hanno shoved it away, more easily than he had before. He wouldn’t meet his former friend during the fighting. If he did, he would do what was necessary.

Quintus stood up a little, but he was careful to keep his body hidden. He peered down the slope, which was covered in a mixture of holm oak, strawberry trees and juniper bushes. The strong, resinous scent of turpentine trees laced the air. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the temperature was stifling. In the still air, the
churring
of the cicadas was deafening. Quintus liked hearing it. The sound reminded him of home, but it also meant that the section of road below was empty of life. Only madmen and Carthaginians travelled at this hour. And velites, he thought with a trace of sarcasm.

His gaze moved to the estate that lay on the flat ground to the west. He would have expected to see slaves working the fields, but the thin columns of smoke that rose from the huddle of buildings just visible in the distance told their own story. Like all the other dwellings in the surrounding area, they had been attacked and burned by the enemy in the previous couple of days. More than once, Quintus had seen what the Carthaginians had done. Men, women, children: no one was being spared. Even the dogs and poultry were slaughtered. He wondered if Hanno had taken part in any of the atrocities.
Of course not.
Whether he had or hadn’t was immaterial. Plenty of his fellows had. Angered, Quintus ducked back down.

Rutilus and the short man with jug ears, who was universally known as ‘Urceus’, meaning ‘jar’, were squatting on their haunches to his left. On his other side were two more of his comrades. All four had strips of wolf skin tied around their simple bowl helmets. It was a proud tradition among the velites and purportedly helped the officers to make out who was fighting well. Quintus hadn’t earned the right to sport one yet – that would come after his first battle.

‘See anything?’ asked Urceus.

‘No,’ Quintus replied, annoyed that his hopes for the day – a clash with some Carthaginian scouts – had been soured. ‘Same as usual. They’re long gone.’ He spoke with certainty. They were never ordered to range more than a few miles in front of Flaminius’ army. It did make some sort of sense – to follow the enemy, all they had to do was to move towards the trails of smoke that marked burning properties – but it frustrated the hell out of Quintus.

‘We’ll find the damn guggas eventually. They’ll run out of places to hide,’ said Rutilus in a mock-placatory tone. ‘Be grateful for the times that we don’t encounter them, however. Each one of those days is an extra one to have lived. Being dead goes on for eternity, you know.’

Quintus had grown to appreciate Rutilus’ droll sense of humour. ‘Speak for yourself. I intend to survive this war.’

‘Me too,’ growled Urceus. ‘I’ve got fields that need tending back home, and a woman that needs ploughing.’

‘Sure you haven’t got that the wrong way round?’ Rutilus snickered, and had to dodge out of the way as Urceus’ ham-like fist swept through the air at him.

Quintus grinned. Life in the velites was harder than he’d imagined, but there was a camaraderie and a freedom that he hadn’t expected. Corax and his junior officers were in charge of half of the maniple’s forty skirmishers, while Pullo and his subordinates looked after the other half. Yet the officers didn’t direct them in battle, except from a distance. Nor did they accompany the velites out here, on patrol. Instead, the most experienced men took charge. Whether it was because their positions were unranked or because the velites came from the poorest section of society, Quintus did not know, but there was an appealing lack of formality between those who led and those who followed.

Fortunately, Macerio had no superiority over him. He too was an ordinary rank-and-filer. Their relationship had degenerated even further in the weeks since their brawl. They’d come to blows twice, but been separated each time by Big Tenner, their huge ten-man section leader. Since then, they had avoided each other as much as was possible when sharing a tent. Quintus knew, however, that it would only be a matter of time until they clashed again. As much as anything, the scar on Macerio’s cheek would see to that. He was grateful to be in the five-man sub-unit led by Urceus, with whom he’d become friendly, while Macerio was in Big Tenner’s lot. Little Tenner, the diminutive but charismatic leader of the century’s other ten-man section, was with his men some distance off to their right, while the remaining twenty velites were scouring the ground to their left. Sets of short, high-pitched whistles and runners kept the groups in occasional touch.

‘We move out. South, same as before. Keep your eyes peeled,’ said Urceus, rising. ‘Stay at the same height. Big Tenner’s men are working the slope below us.’

The undergrowth was too dense to see the rest of the velites, but Quintus glanced anyway. Macerio was out there somewhere, and he wouldn’t put it past the whoreson to lie in wait for him with a javelin. Such things happened in war from time to time, and if there were no witnesses, no one would ever be the wiser. The thought of that made him lick his lips and grip the light spear in his right hand a little tighter. Like the ones in his other hand, it had an ash shaft and a narrow, pointed head. Under Corax’s hard gaze, Quintus and his companions had spent hours throwing them at bundles of straw. He’d worked hard not to let his experience with a spear show; it appeared to have succeeded.

They wormed their way through the bush in a well-worked pattern, making little noise. Urceus took the centre; Quintus walked about twenty steps to his right, with Rutilus another score beyond that. The two others were in similar positions to Urceus’ left. For the most part, it was boring work. The chances of encountering any of the enemy were slim. The Carthaginians were some distance to the south, and all they were interested in was farms and estates, not empty countryside. Inevitably, perhaps, Quintus’ attention began to wander. Dead leaves rustled underfoot. A snake slithered away as his tread disturbed it from a sunny patch of earth. Lizards watched him with beady eyes before skittering to safety over the rocks. At last he looked up. He could see vultures, lots of them. His stomach turned, dragging him back to the present.

The Carthaginians’ savage tactics meant that vultures had become a common sight overhead, drawn by the rich pickings. There were so many corpses that Flaminius had ordered that, upon discovery, they were to be left unburied. It was a directive that greatly angered his soldiers. Urceus reckoned that that had been the consul’s intent, and Quintus was inclined to agree. He was increasingly eager to confront the enemy army in battle. Yes, it would be good to wait until they met up with Servilius and his legions, but if the right opportunity came about, it would be foolish not to take it. How many innocents had to die before Hannibal was stopped?

A series of short whistles, the signal that one of Big Tenner’s men was approaching. Without a word from Urceus, the five came to a halt. Despite the fact that the call had been from one of their own, each veles lifted his shield and readied a javelin. As Corax had drummed into them, they always had to be ready to sting like a bee and flit away like a fly, and to do the reverse with equal aptitude. Quintus glanced at Rutilus, who shrugged. ‘Who knows what it could be?’

The sight of Macerio sloping towards them made Quintus scowl. Macerio made straight for Urceus.

‘What is it?’ Urceus demanded.

‘Believe it or not, a party of Numidian cavalry.’

Urceus was as surprised as everyone else. ‘On the road?’

‘Yes. I saw them first.’ Macerio shot a spiteful look at Quintus, as if to say, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed them.’ Quintus pretended not to notice.

‘How many?’ Urceus asked.

‘Only six.’

A disapproving hiss. ‘They’re probably just outriders for a bigger party. We’d best not go near them.’

‘They’re on their own. They’re all pissed.’ The insolence in Macerio’s tone was just perceptible. ‘Maybe they got left behind when their unit was tearing apart a farm. Drank themselves stupid, only woke up this morning.’

‘Hmmm.’ Urceus looked tempted, and Quintus cursed silently. Why did it have to be Macerio who’d seen them?

‘Big Tenner agrees with me.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Urceus with a feral grin.

‘Has he sent for Little Tenner or any of the others?’ asked Rutilus.

‘For six men? There’s no need,’ Macerio retorted scornfully.

‘True,’ added Urceus. ‘It’ll piss off the others as well, when they discover that we got to blood our spears when they didn’t. What did you see, Macerio?’

‘One of their horses has gone lame, so they’ve stopped while its rider tends to it. If we move fast, we can spring an attack from in front and behind,’ Macerio announced with another triumphant glance at Quintus.

Fuck you, Macerio, thought Quintus. It’s not as if this turns you into an amazing general.

‘I like the sound of it! C’mon then, or we’ll miss the party.’ Urceus indicated that Macerio should turn around.

They began to run. A new urgency lent speed to their feet. A devilment took Quintus, and he placed himself right behind Macerio. It gave him immense satisfaction that the result was to make his enemy cast frequent looks over his shoulder. Down the slope they went, side by side at times, or making their own path through the dense vegetation. Skidding their heels on the dry earth. Avoiding branches that whipped past their faces. Cursing as a bird flew up, making its alarm call.

Big Tenner was waiting for them in a tiny clearing, his broad face twisted into a ferocious grimace. Of his three remaining men, two were visible, watching the road. ‘You sound like a herd of fucking cattle. A deaf man could hear you a mile away!’

Macerio flushed.

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ growled Urceus.

‘Just as well the shitbags are pissed, or they’d have been long gone.’ Big Tenner waved them closer. ‘Take a look.’

Urceus padded to a gap in the bushes and disappeared. An instant later, his head popped out. ‘Best come and see,’ he said to Quintus and the others. ‘Then we’ll all know what way the land lies.’

It didn’t take long to appraise the scene. Some thirty paces below them was a short straight section of the road that led south to Lake Trasimene. Under the shade of some tall strawberry trees opposite was a party of Numidian cavalry, all dismounted. As Macerio had said, there were six. Two were wrestling with a horse, one holding it by the bridle while the other repeatedly tried to lift its left back hoof. Their four companions were sitting in the road, their slouched positions and loud comments giving away much about their state. That, and the amphora that was passing from hand to hand, convinced Quintus that Macerio’s hunch was correct. It was a perfect opportunity to strike. They had numbers, sobriety and surprise on their side.

‘You take your lads about twenty paces to the rear. We’ll stay here,’ said Big Tenner. ‘Creep down until you’re within javelin range. I’ll give you enough time. When you hear my whistle, give them a volley, and then another one. After that, charge. None must escape, or we risk being hunted down like dogs by the rest of their comrades.’ His stare moved around the group. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered. ‘Go!’

Urceus led them into position, his feet moving silently over the earth. Quintus and his companions followed. When they had come within some thirty paces of the oblivious Numidians, Urceus gestured that they should spread out. The four didn’t need to be told twice. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Quintus dried the palm of his spear hand on his tunic, and chose his victim.

‘Be sure to pick different targets,’ Urceus ordered.

‘Mine’s the one with the amphora,’ Quintus hissed.

‘I’ll take the man to his left,’ said Rutilus.

‘The ugly one on the right for me then,’ rumbled one of their companions.

Urceus looked to the last man. ‘We’ll both aim for the horse first. It will panic the filth even more.’

A trace of pity entered Quintus as he eyed the Numidians, who were laughing over a shared joke. His gaze focused on the amphora and a burning rage took him. Where had it come from? Whom had they murdered to take possession of it?

Peeeeeeep!
Big Tenner’s whistle shredded the air.

Quintus cocked his arm back, and let fly. To either side, he heard the grunts as his comrades launched their weapons. He transferred another javelin to his right hand without looking, aimed and threw before the first had even landed.

‘Go!’ roared Urceus as the first screams hit their ears.

Quintus tore forward, the third of his spears ready to throw. Branches whipped his cheek, half blinding him, but then he was free of the vegetation. He leaped down on to the road, a drop nearly his own height. Rutilus and the others were half a heartbeat behind him. The scene was utter chaos. Javelins were raining in from all directions. Two, three, four of the Numidians were down or dying. The lame horse had been struck twice and was rearing up, shrilling its agony to the world. The other mounts were whirling in panic or galloping off to the south, sending up dust trails. Big Tenner and his men were driving forward from their position. Quintus’ eyes flashed from side to side. Where in Hades were the last pair of Numidians?

Then he knew. His feet took him towards two horses that had not yet fled. They were wheeling and turning some twenty paces to his left, but they hadn’t run – because someone was talking to them, soothing them. Even as Quintus drew near, a man scrambled up on to the back of the furthest, a small roan. An urgent glance over his shoulder, and then the Numidian pulled on the reins and drummed his heels into the horse’s sides. Quintus skidded to a halt and threw, but in his haste, he launched the javelin at too high an arc. It arched up and came down beyond the Numidian.
Shit.
He only had one javelin left. ‘Over here!’ he bawled. ‘Two of them are escaping!’

Whom to aim at? The man he’d missed was already thirty paces away, lying low over his galloping horse’s back as they headed north. Quintus cursed again. In the madness of battle, Urceus and the rest hadn’t seen him. It was not the direction in which Hannibal’s forces lay, but if the Numidian made it, he would have no difficulty in doubling back through the fields. Quintus blinked sweat from his eyes and let out another oath. He wasn’t a good enough shot to make such a throw. That meant the last cavalryman was the one to go for. He’d have to be quick. Spotting a hand gripping the bottom of the last horse’s neck, a black, his eyes shot to its back. Yes! There was the outline of a bare foot, halfway between its withers and its hip. The Numidian was hanging on to its far side, using its body as cover as he urged it to follow its companion. ‘Here! Over here!’ Quintus sprinted to get around the horse, which was fast moving from a walk to a trot.