Kane Ben - Hannibal - The Patrol

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Aios. ‘They’ll be disciplined for this.’

To his surprise, Aios laughed. ‘I like their spirit,’ he cried.

By now, several tribesmen had advanced into the ring now, clearly intent on helping Acco. Aios moved swiftly, darting between them and the heaving mass that was Acco and his three assailants. He shouted an order, and all but two of the warriors backed off. Aios withdrew to Mutt’s side. ‘It’s a bit more even now, eh?’

‘I suppose so,’ replied Mutt, unable to stop himself from chuckling at the situation.

The three-way struggle went on for some time, long enough for Mutt to sink two more cups of wine. Inevitably, Acco beat ‘The Bull’ again, but Ithobaal and the Greek-trained soldier both overcame their opponents. Mutt’s men went crazy when the last tribesman conceded defeat.

Mutt worried that things might turn nasty at this point, but the warriors around him seemed to take the whole thing in good spirit, laughing and clapping the nearest of his men on the back. He turned to Aios. ‘Two contests apiece now. That makes us even!’

‘Your soldiers are to be commended for not giving up.’ Aios saluted him with his cup. ‘Perhaps you and I should have a bout now, to finish it?’

The blond Gaul had five years on him at least, thought Mutt. He was probably less pissed too, given the way the wine was now fizzing through his veins. ‘Another day, maybe,’ he said. ‘When I’m not so drunk.’

Aios chuckled. ‘You’re a prudent man, Mutt. I can see why you’ve got to your position. Don’t enter a fight unless you’re sure of a victory.’

‘Something like that,’ Mutt agreed.

‘Come, let’s share another cup of wine before you go.’

So he did.

The next morning, Mutt overslept for the first time in many months. He’d been up half the night, pissing and drinking water, so it was no surprise really, he chided himself. Bogu, who had woken him, had a little smile on his face that he chose to ignore.

‘I’m up, I’m up,’ he growled. Bogu nodded and pulled his head out of Mutt’s tent. ‘Tell the men to break camp,’ Mutt called after him.

‘They’re already doing it, sir,’ came the reply.

Mutt sank back onto the ground with a little groan. Just a moment or two more rest, he thought. Gods, but he wished that he hadn’t had that last drink. It was always the one that seemed to guarantee the headache, the cold sweats and the pounding heart. It was his own fault, he conceded. He should have stopped after a few. That was the rub, though. It was so hard to refuse another drink once that familiar glow had taken hold of his body.

Heaving himself up, he stripped off his tunic and shoved his way out of the tent, stark naked. Icy air caressed his body. He grabbed for the hide bucket that he’d left there for just this purpose. Lifting it high, Mutt emptied the contents — river water — over his head. Ice that had formed on top of the water shattered on his head, and a torrent of freezing liquid followed. The shock and pain was exquisite.

‘Baal Hammon’s balls!’ he shouted.

‘Have a few too many?’

He spun to find Hanno watching him wryly. ‘I might have, sir, yes,’ he mumbled.

‘Any trouble?’

He could tell Hanno about the wrestling match when the opportunity arose, Mutt decided. ‘No, sir.’

‘Good. The sentries reported nothing eventful either.’ Hanno was already turning away. ‘Best get your kit on. We’re moving out soon.’

Suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were on him and what passed for his manhood, Mutt made a show of stretching his arms wide as if he had just climbed out of a comfortable bed. When things are not normal, he remembered his father saying, act as if they are. After a casual yawn, he re-entered his tent. There was laughter, but not much, and it was stifled. He could live with that.

Once Mutt had got moving, he began to feel more normal. Drinking a skin full of spring water helped as well. He was grateful to feel better, because that meant the impending march would not be a total hell.

Aios and Devorix came out of the village to bid them farewell. Both were clad in fur cloaks. Their reddened eyes and tousled hair was the only evidence of the previous night’s activities.

‘My father asks that you speak with Hannibal of our friendship,’ said Aios. ‘We plan to meet you with our warriors at the walls of Victumulae.’

‘I will tell him,’ Hanno promised. ‘And you have my thanks for your hospitality.’

‘And mine,’ added Mutt in Latin. He saw the astonishment in Hanno’s face. Aios too looked surprised. ‘Your second-in-command is a man of many abilities,’ observed Aios.

‘So I am learning,’ replied Hanno with a long look at Mutt.

‘May we all meet again,’ said Aios.

Clasping hands with each other, they took their leave. Hanno ordered the men to move out.

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.