Hannibal: Fields of Blood (45 page)

It felt insane not to turn and run, but he advanced anyway. From the corner of his eye, Hanno saw the Libyan limping after him. Beyond that, Mutt and his companions were also moving forward. A cracked, manic cry left Hanno’s throat. It was born of fear, desperation, the shreds of his courage, and a tinge of sheer bravado. Aiming his javelin at the rider who looked most likely to strike him, a long-legged man close to his own age, he trotted on. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ he yelled.

The Roman looked startled to see him running in, but he quickly regained control. He levelled his spear at Hanno’s head. His horse whinnied and slowed down, however, disconcerted by the approach of a screaming man bearing a large shield. Hanno drew nearer, still shouting and praying the other enemy horses didn’t knock him down, or their riders stab him in the back. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ He could scarcely hear his own voice above the sound of pounding hooves.

The Roman’s spear came thrusting down at his face. Hanno met it with his shield, at the same time peeping around its side. A quick jab with his javelin and the head sank into the cavalryman’s thigh. A piercing cry of pain rent the air; the spear fell from the man’s nerveless hand as he toppled off his mount. Hanno didn’t go after him; instead he wheeled and plunged his pilum into the chest of a passing horse. It was a foolish move. Although the beast staggered and threw its rider, it wrenched the javelin from his hand. He caught a brief glance of its shaft bending in two as the horse rolled over and then it was gone.

His eyes shot over the ground, between the legs of passing riders and steeds, searching frantically for another weapon. A whistle in the air. Hanno ducked instinctively, and the spear that would have skewered him between the shoulder blades screeched off the top of his helmet instead. Even as he tried to turn, a massive weight barged him sideways, unbalancing him. He saw sky, a horse, a snarling face, and then the ground hit him very hard. A hoof clashed off his helmet.

Hanno’s world went black.

When he came to, the Roman riders were still riding past, so he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. Some hundred paces away, a line of legionaries was advancing in his general direction. Shouts and the clash of weapons carried from the riverbank. Stars spun across his vision, and his head felt as if it were about to burst. There was a massive dent in the top of his helmet, but it was still in place, which was probably the reason he was alive. With difficulty, Hanno undid the chinstrap and eased it off. Cool air ruffled his sweat-soaked hair. The movement sent knives of pain lancing into his brain, and he bit back a curse. Yet it had to come off. Any legionary who saw its shape would know him for a Carthaginian. Without it, in his cuirass, he could perhaps pass for a Roman officer. He had to play dead first, though. The enemy riders had passed by; he just had to escape the infantry’s attention. With a few tugs, he managed to pull the corpse of a cavalryman on top of himself. It was a relief to close his eyes. Hanno wanted to go to sleep, to have his headache disappear, but there was no chance of that. The harsh taste of fear was too strong in his mouth. If a single Roman stopped to look at him, he was a dead man.
Stay calm. Breathe slowly and deeply.

The best thing to do might have been to lie there until it was dark, but Hanno felt that to be the act of a coward. He wanted to cross the river, be there with his men when they marched back into their camp, when they received Hannibal’s accolade. He listened with all his might, not moving a muscle as the legionaries tramped past, some distance to his right. When the sounds had diminished, he waited a little longer before shoving the body to one side. Lifting his head a fraction, he peered around. To his relief, he was entirely behind the Roman troops. There was no sign of any more emerging from the road or the trees either.

Hanno struggled to his feet, drew his sword, picked up a scutum. A few paces away, he spotted the body of the bearded Libyan; beside him lay the man who’d been wounded in the leg. Both were covered in wounds. He felt sad but proud of the pair. Welcome them into the afterlife, Hanno asked the gods, for they have earned it. Throwing back his shoulders, he tramped after the enemy soldiers as confidently as he could. Anger flared in his belly. In front of the legionaries, the shapes of the cavalry swirled back and forth, the riders hacking down with their swords from time to time. Some of his Libyans clearly hadn’t made it into the water. The infantry would be closing in, intent on finishing them off. Hanno wanted to run, to join in the fight, but he knew that for a pointless way to die. His purpose was to survive. He ensured that his pace was measured, regular.

As he reached the mass of Roman troops, his heart rose to his mouth but to stop might draw attention, so he kept moving, right into the midst of the enemy. The fighting seemed to have eased or even ended, and their formation had broken up. Small groups of men trotted to and fro, killing wounded Libyans or looting the dead. Others were being directed by their officers to turn the carts that had been abandoned around. A few had even downed their shields and were slaking their thirst from wine skins. Everyone was intent on his own purpose. Muttering a prayer for himself this time, Hanno ducked his head and threaded his way through the confusion. It didn’t take him that long to near the riverbank. A generous coating of bodies, both dead and injured, covered the ground. Unsurprisingly, most of them were Libyan. Hanno’s eyes studied each as he passed; his heart bled as he recognised numerous soldiers from his phalanx. To his immense relief, he saw none with non-mortal wounds. He didn’t know if he could have left such a man behind.

On the other side, the wagons were moving off, guarded by some of the Libyans who had made it across. A rearguard remained, safely out of javelin range, perhaps a hundred soldiers and all of the Numidians. Hanno recognised a familiar figure at the Libyans’ head: Mutt. At least his second-in-command had made it, he thought with some satisfaction. He glanced at the ford. None of the Romans were attempting to cross, but there were far too many of them standing around for him to be able to enter the water at that point. There was nothing for it: he would have to swim. That meant taking off his cuirass. In his current state, Hanno didn’t feel strong enough to brave the crossing with its extra weight. By removing his armour, however, he would expose himself as an enemy. The Romans would turn on him like a pack of feral dogs. He swallowed. Just act as if everything is entirely normal, he decided.

Heart pounding, Hanno walked to a point on the bank where there were fewer legionaries, shedding his baldric as he did. At the water’s edge, he didn’t look back. Fiddling with the buckles at the side of his cuirass, he undid them. He reached for the upper ones. The effort – and the pain that caused – was too much for him. He paused, waiting until his strength returned a little.

‘You! What in Pluto’s name do you think you’re doing?’

Panic constricted Hanno’s throat. With a final effort, he managed to undo the last buckle. The breastplate dropped from his arms, landing at his feet with a metallic thump. Angry shouts came from his rear; he heard the noise of men running towards him. He didn’t dare to check how close they were. Taking a deep breath, he jumped in, feet first. The river was much colder than he’d remembered. Coming up to the surface in a fountain of water, he took in a lungful of air and began swimming for the opposite bank. By now, he could hear a chorus of angry voices behind him. Don’t let any of them come after me, he begged. He hadn’t the reserves left to fight another man, out of his depth. A familiar sound, a rush of air, and a pilum hit the surface not five paces to his left. His head twisted. A line of legionaries had formed, several of whom had javelins. Wagers and jokes were being traded over who would hit him first. Nausea washed over Hanno. They were no more than fifteen paces away – easy killing range.

Damn them all, he thought, turning away and kicking his arms and legs. On he swam, expecting with each heartbeat to feel the agony of a pilum striking him in the back. Five strokes. Ten. In the distance, Hanno heard more shouts. They might have been from the Carthaginian side of the river, but he wasn’t sure. Another javelin hit the water behind him. At last he drew close enough to the bank to try putting his feet down. The feeling of mud beneath his feet was incredible, euphoric. Only the luckiest of throws would hit him at this stage.

‘Let’s get you out of there.’

Shocked, Hanno looked up to see a hand reaching down to him. Incredibly, it belonged to Mutt.

The hand beckoned. ‘It’s not a bath you’re having! Come on, sir.’

‘Thank you!’ Grinning like a fool, Hanno reached up and accepted the grip. As Mutt heaved him on to dry land, he saw a dozen or more Numidians riding up and down, hurling abuse and spears in equal measure at the Romans. The legionaries had prudently withdrawn out of range. ‘I reckon that makes us even, eh?’

A rare smile. ‘Maybe, sir.’

‘You saw me, then?’

Mutt led him away from the bank. ‘One of the lads did, sir. I thought he was making it up, but the spray of water you sent up gave the lie to that. Only one of our lot would have jumped in the water, so I told the Numidians to give whoever it was covering volleys of spears. For all Sapho’s orders, I couldn’t just ignore the poor bastard – you, sir.’ Mutt chuckled. ‘Begging your pardon.’

‘Sapho’s orders?’ repeated Hanno stupidly.

‘Yes, sir. Once we’d reached this side, I sent word to him that you weren’t with us and asking for permission to lead a group back over to look for you.’

Hanno’s heart filled. ‘Wanting to die today, were you?’

‘I didn’t get the chance, sir. Sapho said that the grain was all that mattered now and that we had to move it fast, in case the Romans crossed the river.’

‘Harsh, but true,’ muttered Hanno. He caught the way Mutt’s mouth turned down. ‘What?’ There was no immediate answer, so he asked again.

‘He didn’t seem overly concerned that it was you I was talking about, sir,’ admitted Mutt reluctantly. ‘It was as if you were just another soldier, not his brother.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Hanno, brushing it off. ‘It’s not as if he had time to sit and think about it. There was every possibility that the Romans would counter-attack, that he might still lose the grain. His priority was to see it delivered to our camp, nothing else.’

‘If you say so, sir.’ Mutt’s face told a different story, however.

Hanno refused to give credence to the idea that Sapho might have wished him ill when he’d ordered his phalanx to retreat without warning. It was too shocking, too harsh. He shoved the matter from his mind as they walked slowly towards the rearguard. The grain and wine had not been lost; the army would be fed. He was alive. Not too many of their men had been lost. Hannibal would be pleased.

That was what was important. That was enough.

Chapter XV

SAPHO’S FACE WAS
the picture of surprise when he first saw Hanno appear. Hanno wondered if there was a flicker of another emotion in his brother’s eyes, but it was gone so fast that he could not be sure. Sapho enveloped him in a bear hug, gave thanks to every god in the pantheon and insisted that they crack open one of the amphorae that they’d seized. ‘We’ll drink as we march,’ he shouted. ‘After an adventure like that, we deserve it!’ Hanno’s head was still thumping with pain, but, delighted at his semi-miraculous escape, he again buried his concern that Sapho might have intended him to die. Yet he welcomed the dulling of his senses granted by the wine. Mutt and the rest of the officers were also thirsty. Once it was clear that there would be no pursuit, they let the men start drinking too. The march back to the camp passed in a blur of singing, bawdy jokes and increasingly inflated versions of what they had all done. By the time that Hannibal arrived to take a look at the wagons, they were both the worse for wear.

Hanno’s palms grew slick with sweat as their general came to hear their account. What would the punishment be for drunkenness? he wondered. His worries were unfounded. Hannibal listened attentively to Sapho, smiled as Hanno recounted his mad charge at the enemy cavalry and clapped him on the shoulder when he’d finished. ‘Not only have you brought back all the grain, which is much needed, but you did it even when ambushed by a superior force. Casualties?’

‘Between fifty and sixty men, sir,’ replied Sapho. ‘Plenty of walking wounded, but most of them will recover.’

‘I can ill afford to lose my Libyans,’ said Hannibal, ‘but it seems that today I was lucky not to lose more. Both of you have done well today. My thanks.’ His gaze moved to Hanno’s water skin. ‘I presume there’s wine in that?’

‘Er, yes, sir.’ Hanno felt his cheeks redden.

‘Does a man have to die of thirst around here before he gets offered a drink?’

‘Of course not, sir.’ Grinning with relief, Hanno handed it over.

And that had been that. Hannibal had shared a drink with them and, with a last congratulation, departed, calling for his quartermaster. ‘The wagonloads of grain, oil and wine need to be divided up.’

Hanno had needed no further excuse to get uproariously drunk. He was grateful to Sapho for asking him on the patrol, to Mutt for rescuing him and to Hannibal for recognising what they had done. For the moment, all was well with the world and it seemed as if things could only get better. There was the matter of Aurelia, of course, but he drowned out thoughts of her with more wine. He was vaguely aware of Mutt helping him back to his tent long after sundown and that was it.

Hanno woke with a bad hangover and a mouth that tasted as if something had died in it. The pain from the blow to his head was no worse than it had been the day before, which told him that no lasting damage had been done. Regretting the excesses of the patrol’s aftermath a little, he struggled outside his tent and emptied a bucket of water over his head. There were knowing smiles from a few of his men, but he was too weary to care. Even officers were allowed to relax now and again. A few mouthfuls of wine and a piece of stale bread taken sitting in the sun restored him somewhat. His duties were calling, but Hanno decided that they could wait. Mutt would be taking care of things anyway. The new equipment he now needed would still be in the quartermaster’s stores later on. For the moment, he could rest on the laurels of what they’d done the previous day.