Ben Kane - Clouds of War

Other men stirred, shouted irritably. ‘Piss off!’ ‘We’re not on duty.’ ‘It’s a festival day, you idiot!’

To Hanno’s frustration, the trumpeter remained unaware of their discontent. The noise went on and on, until he was awake enough to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a dirty floor, partially under a table. Kleitos sprawled beside him, oblivious. Between them was a half-full jug of wine, miraculously unspilled. They were still in Poseidon’s Trident, he realised. He reached out with a foot and kicked Kleitos.

‘ Urrrrr ,’ Kleitos groaned. ‘Gods, my head hurts.’

‘Mine too,’ said Hanno, trying to find enough moisture in his tacky mouth to spit. Failing, he leaned up on an elbow and took a swallow of wine. Its acid taste made him choke. He forced it down anyway, and took a second mouthful. ‘The hair of the dog that bit us,’ he muttered, offering it to Kleitos. ‘Want some?’

Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara .

Kleitos’ face, which had been slack and exhausted-looking, changed. He stared at Hanno, mouth agape. ‘Has that been going for long?’

‘A little bit. Why?’

‘Greeks don’t use trumpets.’ Kleitos lunged upwards, using the table to help himself stand. ‘UP! UP, YOU FUCKING MAGGOTS! THE ROMANS ARE INSIDE THE CITY! UP! UP!’

There was instant uproar.

The nausea that had been threatening Hanno’s stomach grew a lot worse. He swallowed it down and stood with an effort. ‘How? How can they have got in?’

‘You tell me!’ yelled Kleitos. Wild-eyed, he darted about, coming up a moment later with his sword and baldric. ‘It’ll have been a traitor,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘That’s always how cities get taken, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose.’ Hanno found his own weapon further under the table; his helmet was there too. At least they had come to the inn without going home to change. He and Kleitos were still in their armour. ‘Where was the trumpet sounding from?’

‘Who fucking knows? Let’s get outside and find out.’

Hanno studied the men around them, who were from a mixture of units and clearly of varying quality. Some looked to be veterans, but the majority were young men who could have only been pressed into service when the siege began. Their panicked faces told him plenty.

‘You! You. You, and you!’ Kleitos yelled. The four soldiers he’d pointed at — veterans — responded, which was something, thought Hanno. They shuffled closer. ‘Sir?’ asked one.

‘Grab whatever weapons you came with and meet us outside,’ barked Kleitos. ‘Quickly!’

‘Sir.’ They began rooting around on the floor amid the broken cups, spilled wine and vomit.

Outside, chaos ruled. The trumpet’s blaring had stopped, but there were frantic-looking people running hither and thither. Soldiers wandered by in twos and threes, many of them still drunk. A half-dressed officer barked orders from a first-floor window; the troops ignored him. Conflicting reports filled the air: the Romans had smashed through several gates; they had already butchered half the garrison; Epicydes had been assassinated; a fleet of enemy triremes had sailed into the Great Harbour. A woman carrying a screaming baby stumbled by, calling in panic for an older child who was lost. A madman with long, filthy locks and a piercing stare announced that the world was ending. Shopkeepers who had been opening their premises moments before slammed shut their doors.

Hanno fought to stay calm. Despite his combat experience, he’d never been in a situation like this. Aurelia, he thought, Aurelia. The fact that she was Roman would mean nothing to legionaries crazed with bloodlust. May the gods protect her. ‘What should we do?’

Kleitos’ response was to seize a passing soldier by the arm. The man wheeled on him, his hand going for his sword, but he relaxed, realising Kleitos was an officer. ‘Sir?’

‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ Kleitos demanded.

‘The word is that a party of Romans scaled the wall at the Galeagra tower, sir. They killed the garrison and moved on to the Hexapyla. I don’t know, but I assume that the trumpet’s call was to let the bastards outside know that one or more gates have been opened.’ The soldier flinched, as if expecting to be punished for uttering such calamitous news.

‘My thanks,’ said Kleitos. ‘Trying to find your unit?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. On your way, and may the gods help us all.’

With a quick salute, the soldier ran off. A moment later, the four veterans emerged from the inn, bleary-faced but with weapons in their hands. ‘Ready, sir,’ the lead one said to Kleitos.

‘Good.’ Kleitos glanced at Hanno. ‘My men — and yours — are up near the Hexapyla. It’s going to be fucking carnage there. If that soldier was right, our troops will already be dead.’

‘They might not be,’ retorted Hanno. ‘I think we have two choices: wait to see what Epicydes’ response will be, risking that it’ll all be over by the time we reach the Hexapyla with enough force, or to head up there now, which could be akin to tossing ourselves into the crater at the top of Mount Etna.’

‘Damned if we do, and damned if we don’t,’ Kleitos snarled. ‘Those motherless, cocksucking Roman bastards!’

He’s not sure what to do, thought Hanno, and every moment we lose is worth ten where it’s needed. ‘We make for the Hexapyla,’ he declared. ‘My money says that Epicydes is yet scratching his arse.’

Kleitos shook his head. ‘Aye. That’s the best plan.’

‘Which direction?’ asked Hanno, who still barely knew how to find his way to the inn from where he lived, let alone find the Hexapyla.

Kleitos pointed to their right, where the press was thickest. ‘That way.’

‘I know the back streets around here, sir,’ volunteered one of the veterans. ‘They’ll be far quicker.’

‘You lead,’ ordered Kleitos. ‘Move as fast as you can. Every damn moment is vital.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The veteran led off at a brisk pace; Kleitos followed; after him came Hanno and the rest.

Hanno’s churning stomach told him it wouldn’t be long until it rejected the wine he’d just drunk, but that was the least of his worries. The city could well have been already lost. They’d arrive at the Hexapyla and be slain by the Romans, dying for nothing. Meanwhile, Aurelia was alone and defenceless in their rooms. Hanno’s limbs nearly betrayed him then, so strong was his desire to run towards Euryalus. I am Hannibal’s man, he repeated to himself. I was sent here to help Syracuse fight Rome. That is my duty, and it comes before everything else. Everything. As they ran on, Hanno wished that the bitter taste in his mouth was because of the wine.

It had nothing to do with it.

Aurelia.

According to the soldier who was leading them, it was a little over twenty stadia to the Hexapyla gate. Under normal circumstances, Hanno would have expected to make the journey quite fast. Today was very different. Although they made good time in the tiny alleys and narrow paths between houses, they were hampered by tides of people on each occasion that they emerged on to larger thoroughfares. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were armed, and purposeful, they would have made little progress. It didn’t take Kleitos long to order that they should give one verbal warning for passers-by to step out of their path before using their fists or the flat of their blades to achieve the desired result.

If the suburbs of Achradina and Tyche had been crowded, then the streets beyond their inner walls were packed like salted fish in a barrel. The shocked and hungover guards had opened the gates and were just letting the tide of refugees enter. It was good to know, Hanno supposed, that Achradina and Tyche remained in Syracusan hands, yet if every inhabitant of Epipolae entered, their supplies would not last long. They managed to squeeze through the gates, against the flow. On the other side, the crowd coming towards them made it impossible to move at anything more than a snail’s pace. Scared-looking men shouted and cursed to no avail. A red-cheeked priest demanded that he be let through before anyone else. Babies and small children wailed, and their harassed mothers tried to calm them. A pair of donkeys brayed their unhappiness.