Hannibal: Clouds of War (46 page)

Spotting the enemy camps in the distance, he put his concerns aside. It was pointless to cross bridges before they were reached. Until the Romans outside the city were beaten, everything else was irrelevant. In the meantime, he and Aurelia were still together.

Besides doing his duty, and sending messages to Hannibal, that was what mattered.

Aurelia was tired of secreting herself away, tired of the lack of company. She had been quick to seek out Elira when she and Hanno had returned, but had been upset to find that the Illyrian no longer wished to see her often. Elira’s reason – which hadn’t altogether surprised Aurelia – was that she had met a soldier in the months that Aurelia had been away. It was understandable that she wanted to spend her time with him, but it meant that the rare, joyful occasions such as Kleitos’ visit the night before were all the more poignant. From the moment that Hanno left each morning, every passing hour felt like ten. I live in a prison, Aurelia thought bitterly, gazing around the main living area. She had to admit that it was large, and well furnished – Hanno had seen to that – and there were two windows, so light was not an issue. She had Hannibal the cat for company – Aurelia had insisted on retrieving him from Elira, with whom he’d been left. Yet these things helped only a little. The three chambers: living room, bedroom, and a kitchen area with a small latrine off it, were in effect, a jail.

In the past, Aurelia would hardly have noticed the everyday noises that carried in from the street below. Now, they felt like torture, because they represented a normal world, one that she could never be part of. Children shrieked with pleasure as they played; shopkeepers vied for the attention of passers-by, promising that their bread, their ironmongery, their wine was the best in Syracuse; men greeted soldiers whom they knew, and grilled them about the state of the defences and the disposition of the enemy. Women bemoaned the prices of food, their children’s behaviour, their husbands’ failure to listen to what was being said. Aurelia had taken to standing by the side of the windows, out of sight, and listening longingly to the carryings on. Hearing soldiers joking with each other made her think of Quintus, who might be only a few miles away, for all the good it did her. What Aurelia found hardest, however, was hearing a baby cry, or a very small child calling for its mother. Her barely healed grief for Publius would be scraped raw yet again, reducing her to a sobbing wreck. Why had she decided to travel to Rhegium? Why had she not stayed in Rome? The fact that Publius might have as easily been carried off by disease there as in Syracuse was of little solace. In a part of her mind, she lived in Rome with a happy, healthy son, and received occasional letters from her brother.

She wished again that the war was over, that she and Hanno could settle down and live a normal life. They didn’t talk much about the struggle – what was the point? – but it was clear that he felt the coming campaign would deliver a decisive victory for Carthage and Syracuse. The size of Himilco’s army, and his elephants, lent credence to this theory. It felt a touch traitorous to wish for such a result, for Aurelia still felt very much a Roman, but it seemed the only way that they would ever be able to leave the city, the only way that any kind of ordinary existence could be resumed. Yet even that would be transient, she thought wearily. Hanno’s oaths would mean a return to Italy, and to Hannibal’s army. For her, that signified life in a followers’ camp. Hanno asserted that she would be safe there, but after the few days she’d spent in one, Aurelia knew that her existence would be far from easy.

There was another way, one that she didn’t even like to admit to. After all that Hanno had done for her – rescuing her from Hippocrates and helping her to bury Publius were just two of the things – to consider leaving him felt like the ultimate form of betrayal. When her loneliness and grief overwhelmed her, however, she couldn’t help revisiting the idea: she fantasised about escaping to the Roman camps outside the city, there to find Quintus. After that, she could travel to Rhegium, to find out if her husband Lucius had lived or died. A different guilt scourged her now. What if he had recovered from his injuries? Would he have given her up for dead as easily as she had him? She doubted it. Did that mean that she should have remained loyal to Lucius, instead of betraying him with Hanno? No, Aurelia decided. Her union with him had been serviceable but sterile, and typical of an arranged marriage. There had been none of the fire she felt with Hanno. Publius had been the cement that had held them together. With him gone, there would have been nothing left but grief-laden memories.

Neither could she return to the family farm, because fighting still raged in Campania thanks to Capua’s continued support for Hannibal. Quintus would not return to it until the war was over. Her only other option was Rome, and the house that she had shared with Lucius. Picturing that brought home a stark realisation. To go back would merely move what she had here to another place, with the obvious absence of Hanno.

Aurelia sighed. Life had to be accepted as it was, but that didn’t mean that she had to remain incarcerated forever. There could be little real harm in venturing beyond her door, surely? The guards from the palace were unlikely to frequent this part of the city. In broad daylight, other men would not accost her. If she didn’t speak to anyone, her Roman accent would go unnoticed. Moreover, the baths that Hanno had taken her to once weren’t far.

Her mood lifted at once.

Life could go on. Life
would
go on.

With Hanno.

Chapter XX

WITHIN A DAY
of returning safely, the news reached the Roman camps that it
had
been Attalus who had betrayed the plot to open a gate in the city walls. All eighty conspirators had been tortured to death and, in a stark warning from Epicydes, the heads of many had been shot into the no man’s land between Syracuse and the Roman fortifications. As far as Quintus had been able to ascertain, Marius’ head had not been one of them, but he still dreaded what the Syracusans had done with his friend’s body. He longed to end the siege now, and to avenge yet another comrade’s death.

He also wanted to reveal Pera’s role in Attalus’ treachery, but knew it for a fruitless exercise. As if to prove that his concerns were well grounded, Pera had taken to snooping around the maniple’s tents, ostensibly checking to see if Quintus was well. His real purpose was revealed one day when he casually dropped Attalus into the conversation. Quintus put on the blankest of faces, and said that there had been so many Syracusan dogs that he’d long since forgotten their names. Pera had seemed satisfied, but from that moment on, Quintus took care not to wander anywhere on his own, especially at night.

The siege dragged on with no signs of any change. The weather grew warm and pleasant, and the grey, cloudy days of winter became a distant memory. As the days passed, the temperatures climbed steadily, and Quintus and his comrades resigned themselves to another baking-hot summer, covered in dust, manning their fortifications outside the city. Inevitably, the maniple’s morale dipped. The thought of going on patrol, once something that they would have wanted to avoid, became every man’s dream. When Corax overheard Quintus and Urceus talking of this one day, he laughed and told them not to live in hope.

‘Just be grateful that we’re not stationed to the south of the city, near those damn marshes,’ he warned. ‘Men are dropping there like flies, from malaria, fevers, dysentery and the like. At least we don’t have to worry about such things.’

Corax’s words were of scant consolation as Quintus and Urceus paced up and down the ramparts day after day, with nothing to do other than stare at the distant, impregnable walls of Syracuse. It seemed that the monotony would never end.

Two evenings later, things changed. Corax came strolling over to where Quintus and his comrades were sitting outside their tent. There followed the usual salutes, the offers of wine, and some awkward chitchat. Like his comrades, Quintus was wondering what Corax’s purpose was. There was typically an ulterior motive to his visits, but it wasn’t for hastati to ask.

‘Have you heard about the Spartan that some of the naval boys captured today?’ asked Corax out of the blue.

Quintus’ ears pricked up. ‘No, sir.’

‘Damippus, his name is. It turns out he was being sent by Epicydes to talk with King Philip of Macedon.’ Now Corax had everyone’s interest. Hannibal and Philip had been allies for some time; the Macedonian king had attacked Roman colonies in Illyria two years previously. He had been defeated, but his hostility towards the Republic remained undimmed. It wasn’t surprising that Epicydes, who like most Syracusans was of Greek descent, would attempt to win Philip’s aid.

‘I take it that Damippus won’t be getting to Macedon any time soon, sir,’ said Urceus with a snicker that was echoed by the rest of the contubernium.

‘You’d think so, but Epicydes is desperate to ransom him,’ Corax replied. ‘An envoy was sent out from the walls within hours of Damippus’ capture.’

‘The consul’s not going to give him up, surely, sir?’ Urceus asked.

‘This is where it gets complicated, hastatus. Sparta is in alliance with the Aetolian Confederacy. Our Senate is angling to weave a similar union, because it always pays to have friends on the Greek coastline, especially if military action has to be taken against Macedon. By ransoming Damippus, we’d have more chance of the Aetolians looking favourably on our overtures of friendship.’

Corax had the hastati in the palm of his hand now, Quintus decided, gazing around the circle of rapt faces. As ordinary soldiers, they never heard information of this type. By including them, Corax deepened their loyalty to him – without them even realising it. Although he could see through his tactics, Quintus felt the same way. Corax was a great commander, and fighter. He led from the front, and always exposed himself to the same dangers as his men. He looked out for them as if they were his wayward children, and in return, thought Quintus fiercely, we love him.

‘Why are you telling this, sir?’ Urceus voiced the question in everyone’s mind.

‘You were bitching the other day about being bored.’

Urceus coloured, and Quintus took a sudden interest in the strap of a sandal.

Corax chuckled. ‘Relax. This isn’t a punishment duty. Marcellus has agreed to talks with the Syracusans about Damippus. The meeting is to take place at the Galeagra tower.’

‘The Galeagra, sir? That’s opposite our section.’ Quintus cringed at Placidus’ ability to state the obvious.

But Corax didn’t lambast him. ‘That’s right. Which is perhaps why Marcellus thought it fair that this maniple provides a century to accompany his officers to the negotiation.’ The hastati voiced their enthusiastic agreement and Corax smiled. ‘It should be straightforward enough, brothers. Unless something disastrous happens, there won’t be any fighting. You’ll get a chance to see the walls up close without the risk of stones from the enemy catapults smashing in your skulls, and to gauge the mettle of the soldiers who’ll be with Epicydes’ envoys.’

‘We’re honoured, sir,’ said Quintus. ‘When is the meeting to take place?’

‘Tomorrow. Just after dawn, before it gets too hot.’

‘What other troops will there be, sir?’ asked Quintus.

‘A century of extraordinarii. You all know what those stuck-up pricks think of themselves, so your gear will have to be parade-ground standard. Anyone’s that isn’t will have me to answer to.’

Quintus’ comrades grumbled under their breaths at the extra work that Corax had handed to them, but they were happy enough. The prospect of seeing the enemy defences close up was exciting, and best of all, thought Quintus, Pera wouldn’t be present.

Corax inspected his century when the rising sun was still tingeing the eastern horizon. They had formed up in the square space created by their tents and mule pens, eight men abreast and six deep. The fifteen velites stood off to one side in a small block. Hypothetically, there would have been eighty soldiers in total, but that hadn’t been the case as long as Quintus could remember. Four men were in the camp hospital with fevers, or inflamed eyes. Two were recovering from injury and the rest were dead. Replacements would come in time, but there was no knowing when or where. The legions on Sicily weren’t exactly a priority to the Senate.

Despite their diminished numbers, they looked good, Quintus conceded. The triple feathers atop their shining helmets moved gently in the dawn breeze. Mail shirts that were normally obscured by rust glistened silver. Vigorous polishing had turned the bronze fittings on belts and straps an alluring gold colour. The hastati seemed to stand more proudly as a result.

Quintus felt a trace of nerves as Corax began his inspection. Being on constant campaign didn’t have many consolations, but one was that kit inspection and parade duties were almost non-existent. It had been so long since Quintus had had to prepare his gear for Corax’s eagle-eyed scrutiny that he worried he’d forgotten all the details. It appeared that others found themselves in the same predicament. Every few paces, Corax growled his disapproval over a belt that hadn’t been sufficiently polished, or a fingerprint that was visible on a shield boss. To Quintus’ surprise, though, he didn’t come in for any criticism. He muttered his thanks to Urceus. His friend, who also survived Corax’s examination, had helped him to get ready.