Ben Kane - Clouds of War

Their hiding places would pass a casual glance, but Corax’s tactic was risky. If the Syracusans were being vigilant, they would be exposed before the trap was sprung. Corax had said that if things went against them, they were to retreat towards their camp. At least the enemy cavalry wouldn’t be able to follow them there. But Quintus didn’t fancy being pursued by a superior number of infantry either. They won’t see us, he told himself. Mars has his shield over us.

Through carefully cut gaps in the vegetation, they had glimpses of the road for about two hundred paces towards Syracuse. There was still no sign of the enemy troops — a final sighting from the sentry point had confirmed them as that — but it couldn’t be long until they appeared. Quintus’ mouth was bone-dry. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic, one by one, uncaring who saw. There was no shame in feeling scared. Any man who didn’t was a fool, his father had said once, and he’d been right. Courage was about standing and fighting despite one’s fear. Great Mars, he prayed, guide my sword into enemy flesh, and keep my shield arm strong. Bring me through this. Help my comrades in the same way, and I will honour you afterwards, as I always do.

An elbow in the ribs, and his attention shot back to the present.

‘They’re here,’ hissed Urceus, who was squatting alongside.

Quintus peered again at the road. A file of riders, perhaps five abreast, had come into view. Sunlight glinted off their bronze cuirasses and Boeotian helmets. Their horses were also equipped in the old-fashioned Greek style, with chest plates and face guards — so they were definitely Syracusan. They looked unconcerned, which was promising. One man was whistling. Two others were arguing good-naturedly about something, shoving at each other and oblivious to their surroundings. Don’t worry about them, Quintus thought. Unless there’s a balls-up, we won’t have to face the cavalry. That’ll be up to Ammianus and his lot.

‘See them, lads?’ Corax whispered, stooping over the friends. ‘Remember, not a fucking sound. We attack on my signal — when the horsemen have gone by. Javelins first, then a charge. Kill plenty, but not them all. I want prisoners. Marcellus needs to know what’s going on inside Syracuse.’

‘Yes, sir,’ they muttered back.

But he was already gone, repeating his words to the rest of the hastati.

On the Syracusans came. The tension among the Romans was palpable. Men shifted from foot to foot; they gripped their javelin shafts until their knuckles went white. Lips moved in silent prayer; eyes were cast skyward. A man close to Quintus grabbed his nose in an effort not to sneeze. It didn’t work, and he buried his face in the crook of one arm to deaden the sound. Veins bulged in Corax’s neck, but he could do nothing to stop it. Close up, the choked sneeze seemed incredibly loud, and Quintus readied himself to charge forward. The ambush would be ruined, but they could still give the Syracusans something to remember them by.

His spirits rose as the enemy troops continued to advance. The noise of fifty horses and riders had concealed the sound of the sneeze.

No more than a hundred paces now separated the Syracusans from the holm oak.

A chorus of complaints rose as the obstacle became fully apparent. The patrol ground to a halt. Shouts carried to and fro as the situation was relayed to the commander. Eventually, two riders urged their horses right up to the fallen tree. Men were always aware of being looked at, so Quintus stared at the ground, his heart thumping in his chest. There was nothing stopping his ears, however. Greek. Of course they were speaking Greek, he thought. Syracuse had been founded by Greeks. Like any equestrian, Quintus had had to learn the language as a boy. For the first time since his childhood, he was glad of the fact.

‘This damn tree wasn’t here the last time we rode by,’ said a deep voice. ‘It’s probably a trap.’

There was a derisive laugh. ‘A trap? Who’s going to cut down a thing this size, Eumenes? It’d take Herakles himself to push the damn thing over. Look at its roots — pointing to the sky. It fell over in a storm, most likely that one that lifted all the roof tiles in the city two months back.’

‘Maybe it was blown over, but this is a perfect place for an ambush,’ Eumenes grumbled. ‘Thick bush on both sides. Most of the road blocked. We’ll have to lead the horses through, break up the infantry’s formation.’

‘There hasn’t been hair nor hide of a Roman patrol since we left Syracuse. They’re all further north, I tell you. Here, take my reins. I’m going to take a look past the tree.’

Quintus glanced at Urceus, saw the tension in his face, realised that he had no idea what was being said. ‘It’s all right,’ he mouthed. He risked a slow, careful look at the road, and his heart nearly stopped. Eumenes, a big, bearded man, appeared to be staring right at him — from twenty paces away. Two horses were visible right behind him. Shit! thought Quintus, dropping his gaze. For long moments, he remained frozen to the spot, uncomfortably aware of the rapid breathing of the men to either side, the little clicks from knee joints that had been bent for too long. To his intense relief, there was no cry of alarm from the road.

‘Ho, Eumenes! Stop scratching your balls.’

‘Piss off, Merops. Well, did you see anything?’

‘Not so much as a Roman sandal print. I walked round the corner, had a good look to either side. The coast is clear.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’d stake my life on it.’

That’s what you’ve just done, you fool, thought Quintus, beginning to hope that Corax’s plan might work.

‘C’mon. The boss will want to know what’s going on.’

Next, the sound of men mounting up, horses walking away.

Quintus breathed again.

‘What the fuck were they saying?’ Urceus’ lips were against his ear.

Quintus explained. Seeing the fear on the face of the hastatus to Urceus’ right, he muttered, ‘Tell your neighbour. I’ll do the same on my side.’

Corax evidently spoke some Greek too, because he came along the line, telling men to be calm, that the enemy had no idea they were there. Reassured, the hastati settled down to wait. A message was sent to Ammianus to inform him of what was going on.

It wasn’t long before the Syracusan horsemen dismounted. Quintus could hear them grumbling as they walked in single file towards the tree. Someone’s horse was lame. Another rider’s arse was sore. Who cared about that, complained a different man: he was starving! More than one said that their commander was a pain in the neck, or asked how much further they would have to ride that day? Quintus’ lips tugged upwards. Soldiers everywhere were the same, whatever their allegiances. Be that as it may, they were the enemy, he reminded himself. They were no different to the Carthaginians who had slain his father. They were here to be killed, taken prisoner or driven from the field.

Stealthy looks told him how many of the cavalrymen had gone by. Progress was slow, and the tension unbearable, but the Syracusans remained focused on negotiating their way around the fallen holm oak. Five riders led their horses by, then ten, and twenty. Few men even glanced at the bushes skirting the roadside. It was as well, thought Quintus nervously, more conscious than ever of the stacked branches that served to hide him and his comrades.

Perhaps thirty of the horsemen had reached the other side when the hastatus who’d sneezed earlier convulsed in a new effort not to do so again. Corax was on his feet in a flash; darting over, he shoved a fold of the bottom of his tunic into the man’s face.

Despite the danger, Quintus felt a smile creep on to his face. He saw the same amusement in Urceus’ eyes. The idea of blowing snot on to Corax’s clothing defied belief. Quintus had no doubt that the unfortunate soldier would pay for his mistake later. If he survived the fight, that was. Gods willing, we both will.