Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

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‘I’m sure you have, sir.’ Quintus failed to keep all the sarcasm from his voice.

He was relieved when Corax didn’t comment.

‘When does he want a reply?’

‘He just told me to wait, sir.’

‘Fine. I won’t be long.’ Corax barked an order, and his men pulled apart, their chests heaving. He stalked over to them and issued new orders. This time, his soldiers formed into two lines and began trotting up and down, at speed.

Quintus watched, fascinated. This was fitness training as he’d never seen it. The wooden training equipment was twice as heavy as the real thing, and soon the hastati were sweating heavily. That was when Corax had them sprint back and forth ten times. His father never had his men train this hard, thought Quintus critically. Just because they rode horses didn’t mean that it wasn’t a good idea. He wondered again what it would be like to fight on foot, surrounded by dozens of comrades. Would it feel better than being a cavalryman?

‘You’re interested.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ever thought of joining the infantry?’

Quintus struggled for an answer. His assumed accent, simple cloak and plain tunic had made Corax think he was nothing more than Fabricius’ servant. ‘As it happens, I have, sir.’

‘Well, we need velites as much as any type of soldier.’

Quintus tried to look pleased. His fantasy had been that of becoming a heavy infantryman, but Corax’s words had put a madcap plan into his head. For it ever to have any chance of becoming reality, he had to continue the charade. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your master might not be too happy, but we’d be pleased to have you. If you make it through the initial training, of course. Some officers don’t bother making the new recruits do too much, but not me.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’d be honoured.’ Would I? Quintus wondered. He’d heard it said before that the velites were the dregs at the bottom of the amphora. Yet joining their number would be better than the shame of being sent home. Of never serving in the army again.

‘Don’t be honoured. Give some serious thought to it. Rome needs men like you in its legions. After a year or two’s service, you could be promoted. Become a hastatus.’

Excitement gripped Quintus at that idea, but a twinge from his left arm put paid to any sudden decisions. Even if he were to start training with the velites, his injury would soon be discovered. Explaining away a wound that had been caused by an arrow would be nigh-on impossible. Besides, he needed time to consider his options. ‘I’ll think about it, sir.’

Corax studied him for a moment, but then his optio shouted a question and he was gone.

Yet by the time that Corax had scribbled a reply at the bottom of Fabricius’ message, Quintus’ mind was racing. With his father’s threats to send him home about to be realised, what better way was there of remaining in the army? Moving to another cavalry unit wouldn’t work — Fabricius certainly wouldn’t allow that, and every officer knew who he was anyway. But this, this might work. If he fought well, he’d be promoted to serve as a hastatus. It seemed a good plan, and Quintus’ stride was light as he made his way back to the cavalry lines. All he needed to implement it was for his left arm to regain its strength.

A few hours later, he wasn’t so sure. Calatinus’ initial reaction had been one of disbelief. ‘Your father won’t send you home, surely!’ he had cried. But when he’d seen that Quintus was convinced that that would happen, he had done his best to dissuade him from the idea of enlisting in the infantry. Quintus’ identity would be revealed in no time; thanks to his accent, his new comrades would never accept him; that was without considering the high casualty rates suffered by the velites in battle. (‘Remember the number of men we lost at the Trebia?’ Quintus had protested.) Yet it was Calatinus’ final shot which had hit home the hardest. ‘What about me?’ he’d asked. ‘You would leave me with no friends. Don’t do that to me, please.’

‘All right,’ Quintus had muttered, trying not to think of his father. ‘I’ll stay.’

Inside, however, he wasn’t sure how long he could stick it.

Etruria, spring

Feeling a tickle, Hanno brushed at the scar on his neck for the hundredth time. The flesh where the brand had burned him had healed, but for some reason, it attracted flies like a fresh cowpat. He swatted the air in frustration. ‘Piss off!’

‘There aren’t that many flies around, sir,’ said Mutt in a mild tone. ‘Count yourself lucky it’s not later in the year.’

‘They say the air is black with them then,’ added Sapho.

Hanno threw them both an irritable look, but they were right. He’d seen the midsummer clouds of midges over the marshy ground near Quintus’ home, knew what it was like to have every visible piece of flesh covered in bites. It was easy to find something else to be irritated about, however. There was a loud sucking sound as he pulled his left foot out of the calf-deep mud and tried to find a drier spot to step on to next. He failed. ‘This place is a hellhole,’ Hanno grumbled.

‘That it is, sir. And you’re going to find the way out of it, aren’t you?’

Hanno wondered if he was being mocked, but Mutt’s dirty face was as serene as a baby’s. ‘Yes. I am. Me, or Sapho here.’ His brother grinned at him. Not for the first time, Hanno wondered if his offer to Hannibal had been rash. A day earlier, he had gone to his general and asked to lead a reconnaissance party, his purpose to find a more rapid way through the marshes in which the army found itself. To his surprise and pleasure, Sapho had offered to come with him, ‘as moral support’, he’d put it.

Hanno had been grateful when Hannibal had acceded to his request. ‘One more set of scouts won’t do any harm. If anyone can find a way, you can. Being the lucky one that you are, eh?’ he’d growled, wiping at the reddish fluid that ran from under the bandage over his right eye. Despite being pleased at the praise, Hanno had had to force himself not to look away. Men said that Hannibal was going to go blind, that they were going to lose as many soldiers as they had during the crossing of the Alps. Hanno came down hard on anyone he heard spreading the rumours. Hannibal had brought his army over the Alps, in winter. His general would find a way through this, with or without him, Hanno had told himself. Yet here, in this godforsaken wilderness, without Hannibal, he didn’t feel quite so certain.

‘Maybe the army should have taken a different path,’ he muttered.

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ retorted Sapho.

Hanno sighed. ‘I know. There was little else we could do without a fight.’ With the arrival of spring, word had come that Gaius Flaminius, one of the new consuls, had moved his legions to Arretium, in the Apennines. Hannibal’s response was to avoid Flaminius by crossing the floodplain of the River Arnus, which ran westwards to the sea through the heart of Etruria.

‘It’s been difficult, but the ploy has worked,’ said Sapho. ‘There’s been no sign of Roman troops for several days.’

‘Course not! Why would they even think of marching in here?’ Hanno gestured angrily at the water all around them.

‘It will soon be over,’ declared Sapho jovially.

Hanno let out an irritable grunt by way of reply. Things had been getting steadily worse since they had entered the delta. Thanks to heavy spring rains, the Arnus was running a lot higher than normal. With much of the land covered in water, often the only method of finding a way through was to choose a path and start walking. This proved hazardous in the extreme, with scores of men drowning in deep pools, or being swept away by powerful, unseen currents. The pack animals were no less susceptible. Some panicked and swam away from their handlers to a certain death. Others sank to their bellies in the mire and could not be extricated. The more fortunate of these beasts were slaughtered, but many were just stripped of everything that could be carried and abandoned. As things deteriorated, the same had happened to men. A careless step off the path taken by those in front could be fatal. Trapped in glutinous mud up to their chests or chins, the trapped soldiers had begged to be saved. At first, men tried to help their comrades but as lives were lost in repeated unsuccessful attempts, they gave up. Hanno’s phalanx had been lucky to lose only three men. The unit Bomilcar had been assigned to had had many times that number of casualties. Unwilling to leave his soldiers to suffocate in the mud, Hanno had ended their suffering himself with a bow.

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