Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

Hanno looked down in confusion. He glanced at their crimson-edged tunics and then at his own red one. Understanding, he tugged at the fabric like a maniac. ‘Yes! I am the commander of a phalanx! Libyan spearmen! Libyans!’

‘Pha-lanx?’ demanded one of the Iberians, adding in accented Carthaginian, ‘You from Carthage?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Hanno. ‘I am from Carthage! The other man is Carthaginian too.’

The tension vanished as the smell of a dead carcase is carried off by the wind. Suddenly, the Iberians were all smiles. ‘Carthaginians!’ they roared. ‘Hannibal!’ Bomilcar was ungagged and cut down with many apologies; both of them were given some wine. When Hanno’s wound was spotted, there were hisses of dismay. One Iberian produced a clean strip of cloth, which he insisted on wrapping around Hanno’s neck. ‘Surgeon,’ he kept repeating. ‘You need. . surgeon.’

‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘But first I need to find my father, or my brothers.’

The Iberian didn’t understand, but he heard the urgency in Hanno’s voice. ‘Wait,’ he ordered.

Hanno was happy to obey. Sitting beside Bomilcar, with the first warm flush of the wine coursing through his veins, he felt vaguely human. ‘We made it,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’

Bomilcar grinned. ‘I can’t believe it. For the first time in five years, I’m free.’

‘You’ll be well rewarded for what you’ve done,’ swore Hanno. ‘And I’ll always be in your debt.’

They gripped hands to seal a new bond of friendship.

The Iberian soon returned with one of his officers, who spoke better Carthaginian. Hearing Hanno’s story, he arranged for a stretcher to be brought and for a messenger to find Malchus.

‘I need to see my father first,’ Hanno insisted.

‘You’re as pale as a ghost. He can find you in the field hospital,’ replied the officer.

‘No.’ Hanno tried to stand, but his legs gave way beneath him.

It was the last thing he remembered.

Hanno woke to the sound of raised voices. His mind filled with an image of the Iberians who had attacked Bomilcar and his eyes jerked open. To his confusion, the first face he saw was Bostar’s. His brother looked angry; he was gesticulating at someone beyond Hanno’s range of vision. Overhead, there was tent fabric. He was in a bed, not the hay barn. ‘Where am I?’

‘Praise all the gods! He’s come back to us,’ cried Bostar, his expression softening. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘A-all right, I suppose.’ Without thinking, Hanno’s hand rose to his neck. He had enough time to feel the thick bandage before Bostar’s hand closed over his.

‘Don’t touch. The surgeon says it’s just starting to heal.’

Hanno felt a dull throbbing from the area. ‘It doesn’t hurt like it did.’

‘That will be thanks to the poppy juice. The surgeon has been dosing you with it three to four times a day.’

A series of fractured images flashed past Hanno’s vision. He did have a vague recollection of bitter-tasting liquid being forced down his throat.

‘Bomilcar has told us a lot of what went on,’ said Sapho in an enquiring tone.

Hanno managed to sit up, wincing at a jag of pain from his wound. ‘After I was taken prisoner?’

‘Yes,’ said Bostar gently. ‘And Mutt told us the first part of the story.’

Hanno saw his favourite brother’s eyes travel to his neck. ‘It’s bad, eh?’

Bostar didn’t answer.

‘What has the surgeon said?’ demanded Hanno.

‘At first, that you wouldn’t survive. But you made it through the first night and day, and then the next. It was a surprise to all of us.’ Bostar cast his eyes at Sapho, who nodded to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘If prayer can help, then the gods had a hand in your recovery. We spent most of the time on our knees. Even Father joined in!’

Hanno began to appreciate the relief in his brothers’ faces, especially that of Bostar. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Six days so far,’ replied Bostar. ‘You seemed to turn a corner yesterday, though, when the fever broke. The surgeon said that the wound was weeping less and starting to close over.’

‘It’s not a wound. It’s a Latin letter “F”,’ said Hanno bitterly. ‘“F” for fugitivus.’

‘You’re no slave!’ cried Sapho angrily. Bostar echoed his words.

‘I had told the officer who was interrogating me about my enslavement,’ Hanno explained. ‘He wanted to mark me out as a runaway for the last few hours of my life. It was supposed to be in the centre of my forehead, but I managed to move at the last moment. Better to have the brand on my neck, eh?’ He pulled a grim smile.

Neither brother laughed. ‘Where did the filthy son of a whore go?’ spat Sapho.

‘To defend the walls, I think. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. Bomilcar must have told you how he then came in and killed my guard. If it hadn’t been for him. .’ Hanno’s voice trailed away.

‘Yes. He’s a good man. His actions won’t be forgotten,’ said Bostar. ‘A shame we didn’t know what had happened as we entered Victumulae. Although seeking you would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Did many get away?’ asked Hanno resignedly. He didn’t doubt that a cur like Pera would find a way to escape even the sacking of a town.

‘Only the non-citizens, and there were precious few of them,’ Sapho replied with a savage leer. ‘Our men won’t have known who your officer was, but he’s still deader than a fly-blown corpse that’s been on a crucifix for a week.’

‘I’d have liked to slay him myself, though,’ said Hanno. It felt fortunate — and odd — that Pera had refused to grant him an easy death. If the Roman had granted his request, he wouldn’t be lying where he was. That didn’t stop Hanno from wishing that Pera had died screaming.

‘There will be plenty more opportunities to kill men like him,’ said Sapho. ‘New Roman armies will come to meet us.’

‘Good!’ Hanno couldn’t wait to be part of it. He wanted some tangible revenge for what had been done to him. He would have preferred Pera, but any Roman would do.

‘Soon we march south. Hannibal wants all of us ready for the journey, including you,’ added Bostar.

‘He has asked for me?’ asked Hanno, surprised.

‘Asked for you? He has visited twice,’ declared Sapho.

‘He said that you have more lives than a cat!’ Bostar winked. ‘Even he has heard how all of our spearmen think of you as something of a talisman. “Let him bring us good luck as we march,” he said.’

Hanno’s heart leaped. It seemed that he was returning to Hannibal’s good books, which was most unexpected. Something good had come of his rash behaviour after all.

Outside Placentia

Quintus scowled as he caught sight of his father approaching. A lot had happened in the month since his hunting trip, but one thing had been constant: Fabricius’ towering anger at what he had done. It hadn’t been as evident during the week he’d spent in the camp hospital, having his wound cleaned and monitored, and poultices applied to it twice a day. Once the surgeon had discharged Quintus, however, things had changed. Fabricius had subjected him to a long lecture about his stupidity. Leaving the camp without permission. Taking so few men with him. Attacking the Gauls instead of trying to avoid them. He had gone on and on until Quintus thought his head would explode. He’d tried to justify his actions, tried to explain how their casualties had been light compared to those suffered by the warriors. It had been like banging his head on a wall. As his father, Fabricius could say and do what he wished. It was even permissible for the head of a Roman family to strike his children dead if they displeased him. That wasn’t likely, but Fabricius swore that Quintus was to return home the moment he’d sufficiently recovered. His father had also declared that, if needs be, he had enough friends in high places to ensure that Quintus didn’t serve in the military again. That didn’t bear thinking about.