Kane Ben: Hannibal: The Patrol

This might have been to do with the merciless ribbing that he had given Ithobaal, one of the soldiers who was to be allowed into the village. Acutely aware that those who had to remain would be unhappy — to say the least — he made sure to go on and on about Ithobaal’s good fortune. He would, Mutt declared, have to drink himself stupid, but at the same time he must remember to carry back plenty of wine for his long-suffering comrades, who had to put up with his never-ending complaints. There were whoops of delight and gales of laughter at this. Ithobaal, red-faced and fuming, was able to do nothing except to promise that he would not forget his friends.

‘Are you going, sir?’ asked Bogu, who had also picked a winning straw from Mutt’s fist.

‘Possibly, later on. I’ll be sober, though, and that’s the way I will stay. So be on your best behaviour. I don’t want anyone picking a fight with a Gaul, or worse still, molesting one of their women — at least without their permission. If I hear of, or catch any fool doing something he shouldn’t be, he will answer to me! And he’ll rue the damn day he was born. Am I clear?’ He glared at them until they nodded their acceptance. ‘You can go into the village once the sun goes down.’ Having picked the sentries for the night, Mutt dismissed the men. He would never admit it, but he was pleased for them. Since the descent from the Alps, life had improved, but not by as much as everyone had hoped. A celebration such as the one that beckoned would raise morale, and give the soldiers a much needed break from the cold, the monotony of marching and fighting and — his belly rumbled on cue — feeling constantly hungry.

Several hours later…

Seeing Hanno’s familiar shape outlined by the glow of light that rose above the village rampart, Mutt grinned. He had checked on the sentries and the wounded, and ensured that the men who remained in camp weren’t getting into any mischief. Now, despite his determination to remain sober, he was looking forward to another drink. In the centre of the village, the noise of singing, music and general ribaldry had been growing ever louder, and the wine and food that had been carried out to the camp by half a dozen Gaulish boys had not lasted long. Stay calm, Mutt thought. Hanno might have changed his mind. I’m not getting away until he says I am.

Mutt walked over to greet him, curious to see if he was pissed. ‘Evening, sir.’

‘Mutt. Any sign of the enemy?’

‘I took a patrol on a circuit about half a mile out from the camp an hour ago, sir. The only creature we saw was an owl. Nothing else is moving out there.’

Hanno visibly relaxed.

‘How are things in the village, sir?’

Hanno laughed. ‘It’s fucking mayhem! I’ve never seen men get stuck into wine quite the way those tribesmen do. It’s like pouring water into barrels of sawdust! Naturally, our men are doing their best to keep up, but there’s enough wine to drown an army. The amount of food is incredible too. There are drinking and arm-wrestling competitions going on. Dancing. Music. I tell you, Mutt, we fell on our feet meeting Devorix. If he orders his men to cut our throats in the middle of the night, then I’m no judge of character.’

‘That’s good to hear, sir.’ Hanno still seemed sober, Mutt noted with pleasure. Despite the entertainment on offer, he hadn’t forgotten his position as commander.

‘It’s your turn now,’ announced Hanno.

Mutt’s spirits rose, but he just said, ‘Is that all right, sir?’

‘Piss off, Mutt, and enjoy yourself. Keep an eye out for any of the men fighting or suchlike. We don’t want trouble.’

‘I’ll watch them like a hawk, sir.’

‘In the morning, we’ll march an hour later than normal. No harm letting the lads have a little more sleep.’

‘Very good, sir,’ replied Mutt gladly. ‘Good night.’

Waving a hand in dismissal, Hanno walked off into the darkness.

Reaching under his cloak, Mutt touched the hilt of his small dagger for reassurance — no matter where he was, he didn’t like being unarmed. Then he headed for the main gate. A burning torch had been shoved into a metal bracket on either side, illuminating the entrance. At first, he could see no sign of a sentry, but then Mutt made out the shape of a warrior sprawled in the dirt just inside the ramparts. A jug lay on its side beside the man, who was snoring fit to wake the dead. Just as well that there are no sodding Romans nearby, he thought wryly.

Within the walls, the noise was much louder. Mutt could hear the deep voices of men chanting, and the pounding of a drum. Booooooooo . Someone was blowing a horn. Flutes and hand bells could also be discerned, mixed with laughter and shouted conversation. He followed the muddy track between the small huts, aiming towards the centre of the village. On the way, he was passed by a number of small boys, chasing each other and shrieking at the tops of their voices. A man and woman walked by, talking in low tones and with their arms entwined. The sound of people coupling carried from a nearby hut. A beady-eyed crone in ragged clothing glared at Mutt from the open doorway of a tumbledown shack, and he mouthed a prayer against bad luck. Just because Devorix had made them welcome didn’t meant that everyone here felt the same. The old woman was the nearest thing he’d seen to a witch for a while.

Emerging into a packed, central open area, Mutt felt his concerns ease again. A massive bonfire lit up the place as brightly as day. It looked as if every inhabitant of the village was here. Groups of men and women danced around the blaze, following the swirling tune played by a group of musicians. Three fire pits, with iron frames over, were being used to cook haunches of beef. Despite risk of being burned, hungry warriors were reaching in to slice off chunks of meat with their knives. The biggest crowd was around a pyramid of amphorae, however, in front of which tables and benches had been set up. Here scores of men were sitting, drinking, talking, laughing at jokes. It was also where the bulk of Mutt’s soldiers were. No surprise there, he thought.

He drew close to the revellers without being noticed, which gave him a useful chance to observe things. As was to be expected, his men were clustered together around half a dozen large tables. Scores of tribesmen manned the rest. The majority of those present seemed quite drunk, but Mutt could see no arguments, which pleased him. An occasional spearman had joined his men; at least two were arm-wrestling with soldiers. It looked as if another was trying to teach one of the spearmen a song. Yet more of his men were standing by the makeshift bar, which was nothing more than planks laid atop four planed down tree stumps. These individuals were deep in conversation with a bunch of Gaulish women. Judging by the giggles and fluttering of eyelashes that was going on, they were getting along fine despite the language barrier.

It was fine to have a drink, Mutt decided. He elbowed his way onto a bench full of his soldiers and shouted until someone handed him a brimming cup. He downed it in one, his eyes watering as the acidity of the wine hit his taste buds. ‘Melqart’s hairy arse, but that tastes like vinegar!’

‘That’s because it is vinegar, sir!’ yelled Bogu, to roars of laughter.

‘But it gets you pissed double quick, sir,’ said another man, grinning. ‘That’s what counts!’

They hammered their fists and cups on the table top in agreement.

Mutt saluted Bogu with another drink. ‘I’ll drink to that. Your health! The same to all of you. May you come through the war unscathed, with your cock and balls intact. And missing no more than one limb each.’

They loved that. Mutt let them laugh for a moment before adding, ‘One more thing — may Hannibal lead us to victory!’