Ben Kane: Fields of Blood

Hanno couldn’t answer. He was still aware of Bogu’s screams, but it was taking all of his strength to hold himself still. He could already feel the muscles in his legs protesting, could feel cramp developing in his toes. A few heartbeats, and his eyeball would rupture on the red-hot iron. Great Baal Saphon, he prayed. Help me!

The door opened, and the wall-eyed soldier entered. He was followed by a brown-skinned man in a threadbare tunic. With his tight, curly black hair and dark complexion, he could have been any one of thousands of Hanno’s fellow Carthaginians. The officer turned, lowering his iron. ‘Finally.’ He gave the slave a hard look. ‘You speak Latin?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The slave glanced at Hanno and Bogu. A flicker of emotion flared in his brown eyes, but it was instantly masked.

‘Good. I want you to interpret every word that this wretch says.’ The iron stabbed towards Bogu before the officer replaced it in the brazier and selected another. ‘How big is Hannibal’s host?’

The slave translated.

Bogu mumbled something.

‘What did he say?’ demanded the officer.

‘It’s greater than any army that Rome can raise,’ said the slave warily.

‘Gods above, this one is also too stupid to give me the truth!’ The officer leaned down and laid the iron on to the shallow cut on Bogu’s left thigh. More hissing. More roars of pain. Bogu moved his leg away, but he was too weak to stop the Roman from following it with the hot metal. ‘It’s fifty thousand strong,’ he shouted.

The slave repeated his words in Latin.

The officer’s eyes swivelled to Hanno, who would have shrugged if he could. ‘That’s what I told you.’ He thought that the Roman had swallowed the bait, but the scowl that followed soon told him otherwise.

The officer went searching through the instruments on the table. There was an exclamation of delight as he lifted a length of iron the end of which had been fashioned into the shape of a letter ‘F’. He brandished it at Hanno in triumph. ‘See this? F stands for fugitivus . You won’t survive our little session here, but with this mark on you, there’ll be no way of forgetting what you are during whatever time is left to you.’

Hanno watched with rising dismay as the length of metal was pushed into the brazier’s heart. He had seen a runaway slave who’d been branded in a similar way once before. The puckered F on the man’s forehead had filled him with revulsion. Now he was to endure the same fate. He writhed in his bonds, trying to free his wrists. All he did was to send waves of fresh torment through his arms and shoulders.

The officer seized another hot iron and approached Bogu again.

‘Who are these men, sir?’ ventured the slave.

The officer paused. ‘They’re soldiers who answer to Hannibal. We captured them outside the walls.’

‘Hannibal?’ repeated the slave slowly.

‘That’s right, you idiot!’ The officer raised his iron in threat and the man cowered away.

I’d wager that your heart is singing at the idea, thought Hanno. As mine is. Let the gods bring our army to the gates soon. Give this monster and his henchmen a lingering death. But he knew that his family and his comrades would come too late for Bogu — and for him.

It was time to prepare for death as best he could.

Outside Placentia

In the initial panic after the defeat at the Trebia, Quintus and his father had been but two of the hordes who had fled to the safety granted by the town’s walls. Sempronius Longus, the consul who had led the Roman army into battle and who had brought ten thousand legionaries clear of the slaughter, had arrived not long after. So too had Publius Cornelius Scipio, the second consul, whose ability to command in the field had ended after he sustained an injury in an earlier clash at the River Ticinus. Placentia had rapidly been filled to bursting point. After only two days and amid much consternation, Longus had ordered the gates to be opened. The consul had held his nerve. Nearly all of the men within had been marched outside. Under Longus’ personal direction, half his men had stood guard while the remainder constructed a large marching camp. As one of the few cavalrymen who had made it back, Quintus had promptly been sent on patrol. His job had been to warn his comrades about any Carthaginian troops in the vicinity.

The first day had been the worst by far. He, his father Fabricius and about two score riders — stragglers from many units — had scouted five miles and more to the west of Placentia, territory that was now under enemy control. His mind still full of the carnage caused by Hannibal’s army, Quintus had been jittery; some in the patrol had been terrified. Fabricius had been the exception: calm, alert, measured. His example had been an inspiration to Quintus and, after a while, it had rubbed off on the others too. The fact that they’d seen no enemy cavalry had helped. Word of Fabricius’ leadership spread, and in the days that followed, every Roman rider to reach Placentia placed themselves under his command. He had been tough with them, insisting on twice-daily patrols as well as hours of training. Quintus had received no special favours. If anything, Fabricius had been harder on him than the others. Extra duty details had become Quintus’ norm. He assumed that it stemmed from his father’s disapproval of his release of Hanno and his own unapproved journey north to join the army, so he gritted his teeth, did what he was told and said nothing. This morning, Fabricius had unexpectedly been called to meet with the consuls, which meant a welcome break from Quintus’ and his comrades’ daily drudgery. They would have to go on patrol, but not until the afternoon. Quintus decided to make the most of it.

Together with Calatinus, a sturdily built man and the only one of his friends to have survived the Trebia, he ambled into Placentia. They soon lost their good humour, however, and their appetite for adventure wasn’t long following. The majority of the troops might now be living outwith the walls, but the narrow streets were as packed as ever. From the ordinary citizens to the officers and soldiers who shoved their way through the throng, everyone they saw looked miserable, starved or angry. The shopkeepers’ cries had a sour, demanding note that jarred on the ear, as did the incessant bawling of hungry babies. The beggars’ numbers appeared to have doubled since the last time Quintus had been within the walls. Even the half-clad whores who leered at them from the rickety steps up to their wretched apartments were charging double their normal rates. Despite the cold, the smell of piss and shit was all pervading. Some foodstuffs had run out; what remained was being sold at extortionate prices. Wine had become the preserve of the rich. Rumour had it that supplies would soon start arriving up the River Padus from the coast, but that hadn’t happened yet. Chilled, ravenous and irritable, the pair abandoned the town. Avoiding their tent lines in case Fabricius had returned, they made for the southern edge of the encampment that now housed Longus’ battered army. If nothing else, they would stretch their legs crossing the huge area.

They took the shortest route, the via principalis , or central track that bisected the camp. Every so often, they had to move out of the way as a century of legionaries marched out from their tent lines and headed south. Calatinus grumbled, yet Quintus cast sly but admiring looks at the foot soldiers. He had always looked down on infantry before. Not now. They weren’t just the earth-digging, foot-slogging fools that cavalrymen referred to. The legionaries were the only section of the army that had given a good account of themselves against Hannibal, while the cavalry had much to do in order to regain the honour that had been lost at the Trebia.