Hannibal: The Patrol (6 page)

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.

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Copyright © Ben Kane 2013

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First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Preface Publishing
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For Arthur, Carol, Joey, Killian and Tom: veterinary classmates half a lifetime ago, and good friends still