Ben Kane: Fields of Blood

The sound of raised voices in the courtyard told Hanno that time was of the essence. ‘On him, Bogu!’ he shouted. As the spearman advanced, Hanno feinted for the triarius’ left foot but as the Roman tried to move out of range, Hanno brought his right hand up, smashing the hilt of his weapon into his opponent’s face. With an audible crunch , the man’s nose broke. There was a cry of agony and the triarius staggered back, blood pouring from his nostrils. Hanno followed him as a viper does a mouse. Deadly quick. With all his strength, he rammed his blade into the Roman’s flesh just above the top of his mail shirt. Grating off the vertebrae in the man’s spinal column, it sank in nearly to the crossguard. The triarius’ eyes bulged; his mouth worked; bloody froth left his lips; he died.

Grunting with effort, Hanno pulled the sword out. He closed his eyes against the shower of blood that followed. The corpse sagged to the floor, and he stooped, frantically ripping the bunch of keys free. Hanno glanced to his rear and wished he hadn’t. At least a dozen triarii , in various states of undress, were charging across the courtyard. ‘Keep them back!’ he screamed at Bogu. He spun to the door. Fists were pounding on it from the other side. ‘Sir! Are you all right? Sir!’ clamoured his men. Hanno didn’t waste his breath answering. First, he slid open the bolt. Selecting a key, he shoved it into the massive lock and tried to twist it to the left. It wouldn’t move. He moved it in the opposite direction. Nothing happened.

Frantically, he selected another key. Sandals slapped off the mosaic. Angry yells as the body was seen. Bogu screamed a battle cry. Then, the clash of arms not half a dozen steps behind him. Close. They were so close. Hanno fumbled with the key, unable to fit its bulky end into the hole. It took all of his effort not to scream. Forcing himself to slow down, he managed to insert it into the lock. It fitted better than the previous two, and his hopes rose. A turn to the left didn’t work. Undaunted, Hanno had begun wrenching it to the right when he heard someone emit a strangled gasp of pain. ‘I’m hurt, sir!’ hissed Bogu.

Hanno made the fatal mistake of twisting his head to look. As he did, two triarii charged at the same time. Bogu shoved his spear at the one without a scutum , but that allowed the other to close with him. Driving his shield into the spearman, the triarius rammed Bogu against the wall. As Hanno realised, it wasn’t to kill the spearman. It was to allow the Roman’s comrades to barge past — towards him. Too late, he turned. Too late, he tried to engage the key in the lock’s mechanism. An instant later, something smashed into the back of his head. Stars burst across his vision. His world narrowed to a tunnel before him. All he could see was his hand, which was slowly letting go of the key. A key that had not turned enough to open the lock. In the distance, he could hear his soldiers’ shouts mingling with those of the triarii. He wanted to shout, ‘I’m coming,’ but his voice wouldn’t work. His strength had gone too, and there was nothing Hanno could do to stop his knees from buckling.

Then everything went black.

Hanno woke, coughing and spluttering, as a tide of icy water was emptied over his head. Fear and rage surged through him as he tried to get his bearings. He was lying on the flat of his back on a cold stone floor — where, he had no idea. He struggled to rise, but his arms and legs were bound. Trying to ignore the worst headache he could remember, Hanno blinked to clear his eyes of water. Two men — triarii from the look of them — were studying him, sneers twisting their faces. Above them, the low roof of a cell. Panic made his heart flutter. Where in hell’s name was he?

‘Enjoyed your little sleep?’ asked the man on his left, a shifty-looking type with a wall eye.

‘You’ve been out for long enough,’ added his companion in a falsely solicitous tone. ‘But now it’s time for a little chat.’

Hanno sensed that would involve a lot of pain. He strained his ears. There was no sound of fighting. No clash of arms. His heart sank. Mutt and his men were gone — if he was even still in the villa.

A scornful laugh from the first man, who saw what he was doing. ‘You’ll get no help here. We’re safe inside Victumulae.’

A moan. Hanno’s gaze shot to his left. Bogu was lying a few paces away. A large bloodstain on the tunic over his belly and a wound to his lower right leg didn’t bode well.

It’s just me and Bogu. Hanno spat several ripe curses in Carthaginian.

Another snort of amusement. ‘Wondering why your men didn’t break down the door, eh?’

That was what Hanno was thinking, but he kept his face blank. They would have no idea that he could speak Latin.

‘They pissed off as soon as we sounded the alarm,’ said the second soldier to his comrade. ‘We couldn’t believe our luck. They must have thought reinforcements would be sent out from the town. Stupid bastards.’

A tide of weariness washed over Hanno. They were just following my orders, he thought.

The second man leered. ‘If only they’d known that the sound of the trumpets was all the back-up we were going to get!’

Hanno felt sick at the very thought. He closed his eyes, but the kick to his ribs that followed made them shoot open again with pain. He tried to roll away from the next kick, and it caught him in the back instead. He steeled himself for the next.

‘Enough,’ snapped a voice. ‘I’ll decide how and when he and the other maggot are to be punished.’

The sound of men snapping to attention. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Get him up.’

Hanno felt hands grabbing him under his armpits; he was lifted to a standing position. His surroundings were grim: a square, stone-flagged chamber with no windows. Three small lamps shed enough light to see the damp running down the walls and the table to one side upon which sat a frightening array of metal instruments, every one of them barbed or sporting a cruel blade. A glowing brazier promised more varieties of pain. Watched in impassive silence by the officer who had entered, Hanno’s arms were raised and the rope around his wrists was looped over a hook that dangled from the ceiling. As his shoulder sockets took his entire body weight, Hanno’s agony reached new heights. Desperate, he reached down with his feet. The floor was agonisingly close — he could brush it with the tips of his sandals, but couldn’t support himself for more than a few moments. Gasping with frustration and pain, he looked up.

To Hanno’s utter shock, he recognised the stocky officer — square-chinned, clean-shaven, about thirty-five — before him. It was the man who’d been beneath his blade during the fight with a Roman patrol a week or more earlier. The enemy he had let live, so that he could save Mutt’s life. I should have killed him. Hanno felt terrible for even thinking such a thing. Doing that would have ensured this man’s death, but also that of Mutt. He would still be a prisoner, and merely faced with a different torturer. Hanno noted that the man did not appear to have recognised him. There was a tiny chance that that might work to his advantage. He held fiercely on to that hope.

The officer gave him a mirthless smile. ‘Excruciating, isn’t it? Count yourself lucky that I didn’t tell them to tie your hands behind your back first. That would have dislocated your shoulders the moment they hauled you aloft.’ A scowl when Hanno didn’t answer. ‘You can’t understand a word I say, can you?’

Hanno said nothing.

‘Hang the other one up too,’ commanded the officer.

Hanno watched with helpless rage as Bogu was dragged up, moaning, and suspended beside him. Eventually, the spearman’s eyes came into focus; he tried to smile, but grimaced instead. ‘We’ll be fine,’ Hanno whispered.