Hannibal: Clouds of War (17 page)

‘Which is worse?’ asked Quintus, belching. ‘Having your skull smashed by a stone from a catapult, or drowning when your ship sinks?’

Urceus drank deep and smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘That’s not bad stuff,’ he said, proffering the wine skin. ‘Like some?’

His friend was dodging the question, but Quintus wasn’t surprised. He and the rest of Corax’s maniple were part of the force that would assault the defences of Achradina, which lowered over the smaller of Syracuse’s two harbours. They would be attacking by sea, and Quintus had no doubt that there would be catapults and bolt-throwers aplenty where they’d land.

‘Give it here.’ He lifted the skin up by its end. Misjudging how much there was in it, he was unprepared for the tide of wine that rushed down his throat. He managed to swallow a couple of gulps while hurriedly lowering the leather bag, but couldn’t stop himself from coughing a good amount of it on to the ground.

There were chortles from the rest.

‘Don’t waste it,’ Urceus cried, grabbing the skin from Quintus.

‘Sorry,’ muttered Quintus, hating the burning feeling of the wine that had gone up into his nostrils. He’d drunk more than he had thought. It was all in an effort not to think about the hell that awaited them the day after tomorrow.

‘I’d rather drown,’ pronounced Felix, a skinny man with buck teeth. Forever dogged by misfortune – mainly at gambling – he was always being ribbed about his name. ‘Unlucky,’ everyone called him. ‘I can’t swim. I wouldn’t know a thing about it after a few mouthfuls of water.’

‘You’d know more than you would if your brains were splattered ten paces in every direction by a stone from a
ballista
!’ challenged Quintus.

‘What if I saw it coming, though?’ retorted Felix with a shudder. ‘No. Drowning would be better.’

A couple of the other men voiced their agreement, but Wolf gave a vehement shake of his head. He was a taciturn man who’d been a sheep farmer before enlisting, and who still wore the strip of wolf skin on his helmet that had marked him out as a veles. ‘I hate every bastard wolf that lives and breathes,’ he’d say to anyone who listened. ‘This bit of skin reminds me of the day I get my discharge. The first thing I’ll do is to go hunting.’

‘What is it, Wolf?’ asked Quintus.

Wolf ran a dirty fingernail down the links of his mail shirt. ‘Imagine trying to get this damn thing off as you sink. I can’t think of a worse way to die.’

Unlucky snickered. ‘That’ll teach you to go all fancy with your armour. For once, I don’t mind only having a breast- and back plate.’

‘You’d like a mail shirt too, Unlucky, admit it! If you weren’t so shit at dice, you’d have had one long ago. Two of them, even,’ Wolf flung back at him to a chorus of laughter.

Unlucky flushed and muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t dare challenge Wolf, whose unpredictable temper had won him few friends.

Even though Wolf was right, Quintus felt a little sorry for Unlucky. Nearly all the hastati in the maniple had mail shirts now: bought with their saved pay, won on a bet or through gaming, or pilfered from the dead after battles. Unlucky had taken one once from the body of a bandit that he’d killed, but lost it the next day in a wager. If Corax hadn’t been such a disciplinarian – missing pieces of equipment was
not
tolerated – Quintus reckoned that Unlucky would have long since gambled away his square chest and back plates too. His desire to wager was like a disease. He’d bet on anything: two slugs crawling on the ground, who’d fart the most times in one sentry watch, what the weather would be like the next day. As a consequence, he never had two obols to rub together. Wine was a luxury beyond him. ‘Give Felix a sup,’ Quintus said to Urceus.

Urceus popped the stopper in and flung the skin through the air.

Unlucky shot a grateful look at Quintus as he caught it. ‘Which do you fear more?’ he asked Quintus.

‘Drowning, for sure.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not good at swimming and, like Wolf says, our mail shirts are damn heavy.’

‘Don’t wear it, then,’ advised Urceus with a leer.

‘If I did that, I’d get a sodding arrow in the chest,’ said Quintus.

‘It won’t make any difference what you do,’ said Wolf. ‘If Hades has picked your name, he’s picked it. You can’t do fuck all about it.’

Everyone laughed and Quintus finally let himself smile. There was no point in brooding over the coming offensive. It was going to happen, and he would be part of it. He had survived the fields of blood, had he not, and the years of war since? Plenty of men would die when Marcellus sent them to take Syracuse, but he didn’t have to be one of them.

‘Enjoying the wine?’ asked a familiar voice.

They all swung around, mumbling, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘At ease, at ease,’ said Corax, clambering up on to the rampart. He jerked a thumb at the skin, which Unlucky was still holding. ‘Anything left in that?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Unlucky passed it over.

Everyone watched as Corax drank several mouthfuls. ‘It’s not complete horse piss,’ he pronounced at length. ‘Who stole it?’ He eyed Wolf first, who was known for his ability to purloin everything from spare pieces of kit to rounds of cheese.

‘Not me, sir,’ protested Wolf, grinning.

‘You, Crespo?’

‘No, sir!’ replied Quintus.

‘I actually bought it, sir,’ said Urceus. ‘Thought I’d spend a bit of money on some half-decent stuff before the attack. In case, you know—’

‘That’s as good a reason as any.’ Corax lifted the skin. ‘Can I have another drop?’

‘Drink away, sir. Finish it if you like,’ urged Urceus.

‘I’m not about to do that. You might not say, but it’d piss you off,’ replied Corax after he’d slugged a final mouthful. ‘I need you on my side, to watch my back when we’re fighting those Syracusan bastards.’ He threw the skin back to Urceus.

‘I’d do that anyway, sir, you know that! We all would.’ A rumble of accord rose from the others. ‘See, sir? We look after you, because
you
look out for us.’

‘Damn right,’ said Wolf.

‘Aye!’ added Unlucky and Quintus. There were other loud echoes of agreement.

Corax seemed pleased. ‘Ah, you’re good lads,’ he growled. ‘May Mars keep his shield over every last one of us the day after tomorrow.’

Quintus wasn’t alone in repeating a quiet prayer in response.

‘Are the ships seaworthy, sir?’ asked Unlucky. ‘You know, the ones with those
sambucae
, the bloody great ladders, on them?’

Everyone’s eyes swivelled to the centurion. On Marcellus’ orders, six pairs of quinqueremes had been lashed together. Long, hide-encased scaling ladders had been laid on the decks of three, attached at their base to the ships’ bows. Pulleys and ropes secured the ladders to the vessels’ masts. When they were raised into the air, the structures resembled lyres, the musical instruments that had given rise to their nickname: sambucae. The three remaining pairs of quinqueremes, similarly attached to one another, had had siege towers several storeys tall placed on their decks. Every soldier in the army had been down to the water to see the outlandish-looking vessels. They were the object of morbid fascination, if not downright dread, and innumerable wagers had been made about how many men would die on them.

‘The sailors and carpenters have been readying those ships for weeks,’ answered Corax. ‘They’ve tested them out a few times. None have sunk yet.’

‘They haven’t had hundreds of soldiers on board, though, sir,’ said Quintus, emboldened by the wine.

To his relief, Corax didn’t bite his head off. ‘I’m not overly keen on the idea of setting to sea on ships with contraptions like the sambucae on board either, Crespo, but orders are orders. At least we don’t just have to sit below the battlements like the archers and slingers will, on their sixty ships. They’ll be easy targets for the enemy artillery. And it’s a huge honour for our unit to be selected as part of the initial attack. Imagine being the one to win a
corona muralis
! The Senate might not allow us the real things, but Marcellus has promised one of his own design, and a purse to match.’

Quintus didn’t dare to utter what he was thinking: that scores of men, if not more, would die before anyone reached the enemy rampart, let alone became the first one to scale it.

Mention of the crown had struck a chord with his comrades, however. ‘I wouldn’t mind one of them, sir,’ said Unlucky, grinning.

Corax winked. ‘Even you wouldn’t gamble an award like that away. The money, yes, but not the decoration.’

‘Never, sir!’ protested Unlucky to guffaws from the rest.

‘Well, may the gods grant that you or one of the others gets the opportunity to win a corona,’ declared the centurion. ‘And whatever happens, I know you’ll do me, and Rome, proud.’

Urceus raised the wine skin high. ‘For Rome, and for Corax!’

‘CORAX! CORAX! CORAX!’ Quintus and the six others roared back.

‘Enough,’ said Corax, but his voice held none of his usual iron. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of the acclaim, letting it wash over him for a moment or two. When it died down, he nodded in a pleased way at Quintus, Urceus and the rest. ‘I’d best move on, talk to some of the others. Enjoy your night.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ they all replied.

‘What a fucking officer,’ pronounced Urceus when Corax was out of earshot. ‘I’d follow him down a bottomless well.’

‘Aye,’ said Quintus. ‘Me too.’ He dreaded the day when he was promoted out of the unit to the
principes
. A centurion like Corax made what was to come more bearable. Often soldiers died in battle because their officers made stupid decisions, or because they couldn’t see how to react to the enemy. It wasn’t like that with Corax. I’ll be all right, Quintus thought. We all will.

Two days later, they were packed like sardines on a quinquereme, and bound for Syracuse’s smaller harbour, which lay a short distance to the south. The city’s imposing ramparts ran along to starboard, perching ‘on top’ of the sea as if by magic. Most men were studiously ignoring them. It was easier to concentrate on the glittering water on the port side, and the flotilla of vessels around them, or to talk among themselves of women or lovers left behind in Italy.

Because a set of oars had been removed from both ships, half of each quinquereme’s rowers had been left behind. On Quintus’ vessel, it was the port banks, and on the craft that it was lashed to, the starboard banks. The missing oarsmen’s cramped positions on each ship were now filled by 140 soldiers. The remainder of Corax’s maniple, twenty-odd hastati, who could not fit below, stood on the deck alongside the quinquereme’s complement of forty marines, and another half-century of men from another maniple. Quintus and Urceus were among these fortunate ones. Packed together they might be, thought Quintus, but at least he could see the sky, could see where they were going. Having the menacing enemy fortifications in sight was better than being crammed together for the entire voyage like beasts in a market pen.

Urceus grimaced. The normal ruddy colour of his cheeks had changed to grey. ‘I hope it doesn’t take much longer,’ he muttered.

‘Still feeling sick?’ For the hundredth time, Quintus cast an eye over the side, some three paces below. The sea was barely moving, yet Urceus wasn’t alone in looking queasy. Wolf seemed unhappy; so did Unlucky and many of the faces around him. Men aplenty were vomiting below.

‘Of course I fucking am! I’m not used to being on a ship.’

Quintus nodded in an understanding way, though on another day, he might have enjoyed the passage. It was a beautiful day, with scarcely a cloud in the sky. The temperature was pleasantly warm, but their destination ensured that there was no enjoyment to be had from it. As that Syracusan officer he’d interrogated with Corax – what was his name? Kleitos? – had admitted, the walls they would soon have to attack would be lined with catapults and bolt-throwers. As if to prove the Syracusan’s words true, a catapult twanged on the ramparts, some five hundred paces to their right. A few heartbeats later, the stone it had loosed came down in the water, a decent bowshot away. Quintus’ own stomach, which had been fine until that point, did a neat roll. We’re out of range, he told himself. ‘At least we’re on deck. Not below, with the others.’

‘Aye, I suppose,’ replied Urceus, but his eyes were on the spot where the rock had landed.

No more missiles were launched, and Quintus tilted back his head, grateful for the sea breeze.

The deck crew, men with nut-brown, weather-beaten skin and calloused feet, slipped between the soldiers as they went about their duties, resigned looks on their faces. They didn’t like the presence of the hastati on their ship any more than the hastati did, nor the purpose of their journey. The captain and helmsman stood together at the stern, talking to Corax. From time to time, the captain held a shouted conversation with his counterpart on the quinquereme to which they were attached. Beside him, a pair of flautists played the tune that had been agreed beforehand, a slow, easy-to-follow refrain that would not confuse the oarsmen on the two different vessels.

Quintus was determined to take Urceus’ mind away from his seasickness. ‘At least we’re not on one of those,’ he said, pointing. Three score quinqueremes were leading their ship and the others towards their destination. Their decks were packed with archers, slingers and javelin men. Every one of them had at least two light catapults as well. Their job was to rain down a covering barrage that would keep the city’s ramparts clear of enemy troops as the vessels with sambucae on board made their way to the base of the defences.

‘True,’ said Urceus. ‘Those poor bastards are going to have to sail right in under the walls and fucking stay there. At least we can move once we get into position.’

‘Like Wolf said to me the other night then, shut up,’ ordered Quintus with a crooked grin.

Urceus went to nudge him in the ribs, but wary of Quintus’ mail, held back. ‘Smartarse.’

‘It’s good advice. Whingeing just makes an unhappy man unhappier.’

‘A shame there isn’t room to play dice,’ chipped in Unlucky from the rank behind them. ‘That’d pass the time.’