Ben Kane - Clouds of War

‘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.

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.’