Hannibal: Clouds of War (5 page)

‘For that to happen, we need to defeat the enemy in both Iberia and Sicily,’ said Hanno grimly, already feeling the pressure of his mission. ‘That would free up two armies of ours to travel to Italy. Once they arrived, Rome’s allies would desert them like rats escaping a sinking ship.’

‘Aye, that’s about right,’ replied Mutt, taking a big mouthful from his cup.

When it hadn’t happened after Cannae, Hanno had begun to suspect that the path to total victory would be long and tortuous. Articulated now, the prospect of winning a war on three fronts sounded close to impossible. Stop thinking like that, he ordered himself. ‘We have to succeed, damn it!’

‘We will pray to the gods and do our best. A man can do no more, eh?’ Bomilcar held out his cup to Mutt for a refill.

That did not sit well with Hanno. Failure – or, at best, satisfaction with one’s efforts – was not something that he ever wanted to feel comfortable with. It smacked of mediocrity. An image of Aurelia came into his mind then, as she had been that night outside her home near Capua. His groin throbbed and for a moment, he forgot about Sicily, and duty. Shame at not having tried to contact her after their last meeting scourged him. Yet there had seemed no point. She was to be married, and they were from opposite sides in the war. The most practical thing would have been to try and forget her, yet Hanno hadn’t. Couldn’t. A wave of memories surged back. Gods, but how good it had been to kiss her. Why had he not sent her messages? They would never have got through, but he should have tried. Impulse seized him. He nudged Bomilcar. ‘Will you pass through Capua on your way north?’

‘It’s the last friendly city before Rome, so yes, probably. Why?’

Hanno didn’t answer immediately. He was being foolish, he thought sadly. Capua had come over to Hannibal some time since. Those who remained loyal to the Republic would have fled the city after that. He could not imagine Aurelia’s mother and father, and by extension, her husband, ever changing sides. She would not be in Capua. He let out a heavy sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Bomilcar threw him a quizzical look, but said nothing. Mutt, on the other hand, chuckled knowingly. ‘It’ll be a woman. Mark my words.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Hanno demanded, worried that Mutt was about to mention his illegal forays before Cannae. Despite Bomilcar being a friend, the fewer who knew, the better.

Mutt gave him a glance as if to say, ‘You don’t need to worry.’ He winked at Bomilcar, and then regarded Hanno. ‘It’s the look in your eyes, sir. You’re like a moonstruck calf.’

Is it that obvious? wondered Hanno, grateful the darkness didn’t reveal the colour of his cheeks.

‘Who is she?’ asked Bomilcar.

Damn it, thought Hanno, what did it matter if Bomilcar knew? It wasn’t the act of a traitor to have feelings for a woman who happened to be one of the enemy. ‘She’s the sister of the Roman who bought me. Aurelia is her name.’

‘Is she pretty?’ Mutt’s face was eager.

‘Very.’ He pictured her as she’d been the night they had met at her family’s estate. Grown up – a woman, with woman’s curves. His erection stiffened, and he shifted position to hide it.

The others chuckled. ‘She must be good-looking, for you to remember her after this long,’ said Bomilcar.

Hanno was glad that Mutt didn’t say a word. He brooded on the fact that Aurelia would now have been married for some time. For all he knew, she had a child or two. It was all too possible that she had died in childbirth—Stop it. She’s alive, he told himself.

‘You want me to seek her out in Capua?’ asked Bomilcar in a low voice. ‘Give her a message?’

‘That’s good of you, but she won’t be there.’ Quickly, Hanno explained, before poking a stick into the fire in frustration.

‘Forget about her, sir. You’ll never see her again,’ advised Mutt. He raised his cup and gave it an appreciative caress. ‘Best give your love to this. You’ll never find a place where you can’t find some. Might be vinegary, or off, but it will still do the job.’

Hanno glared at Mutt. That’s what I thought when I escaped with Quintus, but then I
did
meet her once more. To extinguish the dream that he might do so again seemed too brutal. Everything else in his life was about war and death, and duty to Hannibal and Carthage. This one thing was his alone. ‘This is different,’ he muttered.

‘First love!’ said Mutt. ‘Oh, to be young again.’

Hanno threw the dregs from his cup over him.

Mutt shut up.

‘Tell me what you would say to Aurelia,’ urged Bomilcar. ‘I will try to find her in Capua. Even if I fail, I might hear word of where she has gone.’

Hanno sensed that Bomilcar was just humouring him, but he didn’t care. Was it not better that he carry a message of some kind – any kind – than nothing at all? His heart ached at the idea that Bomilcar might actually meet Aurelia. ‘Tell her … that I think of her often. Often. Tell her that with the gods’ help, we will see each other again one day …’ His voice died away.

No one spoke. Hanno glanced at Mutt, saw sympathy in his eyes. Bomilcar’s expression was also understanding. Even in the midst of a war, we don’t have to be unfeeling, Hanno thought. He took a swig of wine and stared out into the blackness.

‘If I find her, rest assured that I will tell her,’ said Bomilcar.

‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno gruffly.

The knowledge would make his journey to Sicily that little bit easier.

Chapter III

North of Syracuse, Sicily

LIFTING A HAND
against the rising sun’s rays, a Roman legionary squinted into the distance.

A tall man with black hair, Quintus Fabricius was in a clearing, halfway up a small, tree-covered hill. Below his position, a road led south, to Leontini and, beyond that, Syracuse. It was empty of traffic. So it had been since he and his comrade Urceus had taken over from the previous sentries in the pre-dawn chill, several hours before. Satisfied, Quintus glanced casually around him. There was no great need to worry about attack from anywhere other than the south, but it paid to be vigilant. To his back, about a mile away, loomed the mass that was Mount Etna, its lower slopes covered in farms and vineyards. Northwards, the road ran up towards Messana, into Roman-held, secure territory. To the east, the sea was a deep, inviting blue. The mainland was only a mile or so across the strait; the mountains that ran down to the point of the ‘boot’ were clearly visible. There were no sails on the water yet – it was too early. Yawning, Quintus stood; he leaned his
pilum
and shield against the rock that had been his seat and walked up and down a few paces, stretching his muscles to get the blood flowing again.

‘Cold?’ asked Urceus. Short, brave, funny, he’d been nicknamed Urceus, which meant ‘jug’, because of his prominent, handle-like ears. No one, even Quintus, knew what his real name was. It was a source of endless interest to the maniple. Corax, their centurion, might have known – he’d been the one to take Urceus’ oath when he joined up – but he never let on.

‘Two tunics and a heavy cloak and I’m still chilled to the bone,’ Quintus grumbled.

‘You shouldn’t sit on your arse so much then.’

‘Piss off!’ retorted Quintus, his grey eyes dancing.

‘At least there’s been sod all to look out for,’ said Urceus. ‘For the moment anyway.’

‘It’s peaceful around here,’ agreed Quintus. ‘It makes me think of home.’ His mind turned to his family, and sadness took him. In Rome, the sun was rising on his mother Atia, his beloved sister Aurelia, and her little son Publius. The gods keep you safe, he prayed. One day, I’ll see you again. Lucius, Aurelia’s husband, might be with them, but according to Aurelia’s most recent letter, it was more likely he’d be in Rhegium, on business. Quintus saluted in the direction of the port, which kept supplies flowing to the Roman troops on the island. He had met Lucius once, just after Cannae; he’d seemed a decent man, and Aurelia made no complaints.

Urceus threw him a quizzical look. ‘What’s that for?’

‘My brother-in-law. The one I told you about, who has business in Rhegium.’

‘Loved ones. It’s hard not to think of them when we’re stuck here, eh?’

‘It is.’ The familiar bitterness rolled in, and Quintus spat. ‘We fought until we could fight no more at Cannae. We retreated when the battle was lost, so that we could fight another day. And our reward?’

‘To be exiled to Sicily – for life,’ snarled Urceus. ‘Fuck the Senate and everyone in it.’

Once, Quintus would have been shocked by such sentiments. Now, he nodded in agreement.

‘May Fortuna be smiling on my brothers,’ muttered Urceus. ‘They’ll be seeing more action than we are.’ His two brothers had joined the army after Cannae, and had been assigned to a different legion. Roman soldiers in Italy saw more frequent action, the troops of many areas having gone over to Hannibal.

‘Still no word?’ asked Quintus. He knew the answer, but it showed solidarity to enquire.

‘Course not. Paying a scribe to write a letter would seem like a waste of money to my brothers, same as me! We can but pray to the gods and hope that all of us make it.’ He threw Quintus a sympathetic look. ‘It’s the same even if you can write, isn’t it? Sicily is far enough from the mainland that it might as well be the damn moon.’

Quintus nodded in agreement. Not for the first time, he remembered the messages he’d sent to Gaius, his oldest friend from Capua. There had been no replies. Was Gaius dead, or had he and his father Martialis gone over to Hannibal? The latter notion wasn’t unlikely, Quintus had reluctantly concluded. Gaius and his father held Roman citizenship, but they were Oscan nobility through and through. Their people had only been conquered by Rome two generations before. When Capua had changed sides after Cannae, severing its ties with Rome, the majority of its leaders and ruling class had done so too. Quintus couldn’t think of a reason that Gaius wouldn’t have done the same. He didn’t have it in himself to hate his friend if that was the case. They’d known each other since they were babies, had shared almost every experience of life from early childhood to the date that they had taken the toga. Wherever you are, Gaius, he thought, I hope you are well. If you fight for Hannibal, I pray that we never meet.

‘To my brothers. To old friends and comrades!’ said Urceus. He poured a small measure of wine from his skin on the ground as a libation before taking a swig. He handed the bag to Quintus, who echoed his salutation. To Gaius, he said silently. Out loud, he added, ‘To Calatinus.’ Then he took a mouthful. The wine was vinegary, but Quintus enjoyed the warming feeling as it went down his neck. He slugged another.

‘Calatinus was your cavalry comrade from the battle of the Trebia.’

‘Good memory,’ said Quintus. ‘I’ve hardly seen him since joining the infantry.’ Until Urceus came along, Calatinus had been the comrade he’d missed the most. Fortunately, they had bumped into one another before Cannae, and afterwards too. The mere fact that they’d both survived the bloodiest defeat in the Republic’s history had been enough excuse to get drunk together. That was the last time they had met. Quintus had no idea where on the Italian mainland Calatinus was serving now, so he saluted from northeast to southeast, encompassing the entire peninsula. ‘May Mars keep his shield over you, my friend. May we meet again, in happier times.’

Urceus was watching. ‘You made it happen. Not seeing him again, I mean. Ordinary foot soldiers don’t mix with equestrians, Crespo.’

Quintus smiled. Crespo was the name he’d taken when he had enlisted in the infantry. It had taken him a long time to reveal his true name, and identity – that of an equestrian – to Urceus. Finally, though, he’d mentioned it one night when they’d had plenty to drink. His friend had made little of it, which had been a relief, but even now, more than a year later, Quintus was wary of talking frankly about the life he’d led before joining the infantry.

‘You were mad to leave the cavalry,’ opined Urceus, not for the first time. ‘You wouldn’t be stuck here, on fucking Sicily, if you’d stayed.’

Quintus had thought about this countless times, yet he still wouldn’t have changed the way he’d done things. Humble citizens they might be, but Urceus and his comrades were as dear to him – dearer – than anyone but his family. ‘If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have anyone to keep you out of trouble,’ he shot back.

Urceus chuckled. ‘Listen to you! It’s the other way round, you know that! If not for me, you’d be dead a dozen times over.’

The truth of it was that they had both saved each other’s lives more than once, but the banter was part of their routine. ‘Enlisting in the
velites
was the only way that I could continue to fight Hannibal. My father, gods rest his soul, was so angry with me that he’d ordered me back to Capua.’

‘I remember. But the lowliest class of infantry?’ Urceus tapped his head with a finger. ‘Choosing that, when you could have been sunning yourself on the family farm?’

‘You know as well as I do that I wasn’t going to sit at home, not with Hannibal roaming the land. Becoming a
veles
was the best choice I had.’

‘Bloody fool,’ said Urceus, but the affection in his voice took all the sting from the insult.