Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

Trying to ignore his racing heart, Hanno listened with all his might. The murmur of voices, both friendly. A low laugh. The sound of studded sandals moving fast. A question, followed by a cry, cut short. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Silence.

Who had died? Unsure, Hanno raised the gladius and prepared to meet his end fighting. When Bomilcar appeared, he let out a relieved sigh. ‘You did it.’

‘The dog didn’t know what hit him.’ Bomilcar’s tone was wondering. ‘I wish I’d done this a long time ago.’

Hanno managed an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunities to hone your skills in Hannibal’s army. A man like you will be most welcome.’

Bomilcar gave him a pleased look. ‘Best keep moving.’

At the top of the staircase was a small, square guard chamber. A pair of empty bunk beds lined one wall; chunky logs smouldered in a fireplace. Oil lamps guttered from a few spots around the room. Bronze pots and cooking implements lay to one side of the fire, along with loaves of flat bread and a joint of meat. The man who’d been left to watch over the cells was sprawled on his back before the fire, his three-legged stool lying between his legs. A deep wound in the side of his neck still oozed blood.

They skirted the body, making for the only door. Hanno’s stomach twisted as Bomilcar opened it. Who knew what lay beyond it? The Carthaginian saw his uncertainty. ‘We go up another set of stairs, and then out into the courtyard of the garrison buildings. It’s virtually deserted. Every man who can fight is on the walls.’

‘There’ll be guards on the gate, surely?’

‘Only one.’

‘We’ll have to kill him.’

‘That’s too risky. Lots of people are going by on the street beyond. There’s a storeroom to one side of the prison, though. If we each take an amphora of acetum from there, I can say that we’ve been ordered to take them to the soldiers on the frontline.’

‘I’ll have to take down my hood. What if he sees my neck?’

Bomilcar frowned in concentration. ‘I think he’s standing to the right of the entrance. He won’t see it.’

Knowing that they had no other option, Hanno nodded in acceptance. May the gods be with us, he prayed. They would need all the help they could get.

After his incarceration, stepping outside felt odd. The chill air stung his wound, but it provided a little relief from the pain. Hanno scanned the cobbled courtyard, which was bordered by barrack buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Overhead, the sky was a dramatic mix of dark reds and pinks. It was early morning and the sun had returned at last, with the promise of blood. Bomilcar led the way to the store, where they both picked up a small amphora. Hanno staggered as he raised his to his left shoulder, sending jagged waves of pain through his body. ‘He won’t see it now.’

Bomilcar gave him an encouraging look. ‘Good idea. Can you make it to the first corner? You can rest there.’

‘I have to.’ Hanno locked his knees to stop his legs from buckling. I have to make it that far.

There was no more discussion. They crossed the courtyard in a diagonal, straight to the main gate. Bomilcar didn’t pause as he reached it. Hanno stayed on his heels, keeping his gaze on the ground before him. The gladius, which he’d tucked into his right armpit, threatened to slip from his grip with every step. All he could do was to clench his arm even tighter against his body and pray.

‘Where are you going?’ barked a voice.

‘Taking some acetum to the men on the ramparts, sir,’ replied Bomilcar.

‘On whose say so?’

‘One of the centurions, sir. I don’t know his name.’

Silence for a moment. Then, ‘Be off with you! My comrades’ tongues will be hanging out with thirst.’

Muttering his thanks, Bomilcar headed off to the left. Hanno followed, taking in only the sentry’s lower legs and caligae . Bomilcar’s speed was such that he could barely keep up. Despite his anguish, Hanno dared not slow down. He could feel the soldier’s eyes boring into his back. Flutters of panic rose from his stomach, but he shoved them away.

‘Hey!’

Hanno almost dropped his amphora.

‘Keep moving. Pretend you didn’t hear!’ hissed Bomilcar without turning his head. ‘He can’t desert his post.’

‘You! Slave!’

They kept walking. Ten paces, then twenty. The sentry spat an oath, but he did not follow them. When Bomilcar turned to his right, on to a wider way, Hanno cried out with relief. His wound and the muscles of his neck were screaming in protest. He could feel fluid oozing down on to his tunic. The moment he was around the corner, he let the amphora slip from his shoulder.

Bomilcar grabbed the bottom before it hit the ground. ‘Careful! If it breaks, you’ll draw attention. The same if anyone sees that damn sword.’ He shoved the gladius, which had slipped down, back up under Hanno’s cloak.

‘Sorry.’ Hanno sagged against the wall, uncaring. It took all of his strength not to fall in a heap.

Bomilcar glanced around the corner. ‘We’re in luck. The sentry hasn’t moved.’

‘Just as well. I couldn’t run anywhere.’ Despite the cold, sweat was pouring down Hanno’s face.

‘You’ll never reach the inn like this. I’ll get rid of the amphorae. Pull your hood up and wait here.’

Hanno obeyed. He didn’t even see Bomilcar go. Eyes closed, he tried to manage the alternating waves of nausea and stabbing torment that consumed his very being. Around him, he was dimly aware of panicked voices moving past. He heard the name ‘Hannibal’ being repeated again and again. That’s right, you bastards, Hanno thought. Be scared. He’s coming.

‘Ready?’

Bomilcar’s voice made him jump. ‘What did you do with the amphorae?’

‘I left them down an alleyway.’ Bomilcar’s face was concerned. ‘Can you keep going?’

Hanno rallied what was left of his strength and shoved himself upright. ‘I’m not staying here.’

‘Good.’ Bomilcar’s teeth flashed. ‘It’s about two hundred and fifty paces to the inn. We’ll take it slowly. Pretend you’re a slave. Don’t look at anyone.’

Gritting his teeth, Hanno followed his rescuer. The walk seemed to last an eternity. Most of the traffic was heading away from the gate as men led their wives and families from the fighting. Slaves tottered behind, carrying valuables or leading mules weighed down with food and blankets. Where were they going? Hanno wondered vaguely. There was no escape. The town had to be surrounded. A few soldiers were hurrying the same way that they were, but, locked in discussion about what was happening, they paid the pair no attention. Hanno was glad. He was incapable of fighting. The amphora’s weight had distracted him from his neck, but now his wound was sending stabs of pain into every part of his body. They even reached his toes. Lights flashed in front of his eyes and he struggled not to retch constantly. Lightheaded, Hanno had trouble keeping Bomilcar in focus. With a supreme effort, he kept his gaze locked on the Carthaginian’s back. By counting his steps in groups of ten, he gave himself tiny goals to reach. Each time he succeeded felt as if he’d run a mile, and by the time Bomilcar halted, Hanno was ready to collapse.

‘Nearly there. Another fifty paces and we’ve made it.’

Hanno’s eyes moved down the street. A painted sign depicting a man with a bow and arrows jutted out from a building on the left. ‘The Hunter’s Rest?’

‘That’s the one.’

The din of fighting was clearly audible now. Hanno’s heart lifted to hear it. The dull booming sound had to be the battering ram smashing into the main gate. The noise of lighter impacts would be stones from Hannibal’s catapults. Men were shouting, screaming, crying out. Best of all, he could hear the clash of weapons off each other. Hannibal is here! ‘D’you hear that?’