Ben Kane: Fields of Blood

The central area that housed the consuls’ headquarters faced on to the via principalis and was marked by a vexillum , a red flag on a pole. The ground before the group of sprawling tents was a hive of activity. In addition to the normal guards, there were messengers on horseback arriving and leaving, small groups of centurions deep in conversation and a party of trumpeters awaiting orders. A couple of enterprising traders had even managed to set up stalls selling fresh bread and fried sausages, the price of their entry no doubt a decent contribution of their stock to the officer in charge of the gate.

‘No sign of your father.’ Calatinus gave him a broad wink. ‘He’ll be deep in conversation with Longus and the other senior officers, eh? Plotting our best course of action.’

‘Probably.’ Quintus’ humour soured even more. ‘Which I’ll hear nothing about until the time comes to implement it.’

‘Same as the rest of us!’ Calatinus gave him a reassuring thump on the arm. ‘Things could be worse. Hannibal’s left us alone for weeks now. Our position here is strong, and the ships will start arriving up the Padus soon. Before you know it, we’ll have reinforcements as well.’

Quintus made an effort to smile.

‘What is it?’ Calatinus cocked his head. ‘Still worried about your father forcing you to return home?’

A nearby soldier gave them an inquisitive glance.

‘Not so loud!’ muttered Quintus, increasing his pace. ‘Yes, I am.’ When he’d been reunited with Calatinus after the Trebia, their friendship had reached a new level. They had talked a great deal, and he had revealed everything about Hanno, and Fabricius’ anger at Quintus’ unexpected arrival not long before the first clash at the Ticinus.

‘He’s not going to make you leave. He can’t. We need every man we can get!’ Calatinus saw Quintus flush. ‘You know what I mean by that. You’re a trained cavalryman, and they’re like hen’s teeth right now. Whatever crime you might have committed in your father’s eyes is irrelevant at this moment in time.’ Calatinus blew out his chest. ‘You and I are valuable material!’

‘I suppose.’ Quintus wished he felt so sure. Yet, lifted by Calatinus’ good humour, he managed to put the matter from his mind.

Reaching the camp’s southern edge, they clambered up a ladder to the top of the earthen ramparts, which were ten paces high and half a dozen deep. The wall’s outer face had been lined with sharpened branches; a deep defensive ditch lay beyond that. The fortifications were robust, but Quintus had no desire to see them put to the test. The memory of their defeat at Hannibal’s hands was yet raw. Morale was fragile, not least his own. Brooding again, he studied the horizon with great intensity. No enemy forces had been sighted for days, but that didn’t mean today would be the same. To his relief, Quintus could see no life on the broken ground that ran from the town down to the thick silver band that was the River Padus. On the road that snaked off to Genua and beyond, a few boys were herding sheep and goats to pasture, and an old man with a mule and a cart full of firewood limped towards the main gate. The flatter area to his left was full of legionaries being drilled. Their officers roared, blew whistles and waved their vine canes. Part of Quintus would have liked to study the foot soldiers. But mostly he wanted to forget about fighting and war, for a few hours at least. He glanced at Calatinus. ‘See anything?’

Calatinus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’m glad to say “no”.’

All was as it should be. Satisfied, Quintus studied the mounds of ominous-looking clouds that were scudding overhead. A biting wind from the Alps was speeding them southwards, and more were following in their wake. He shivered. ‘There’ll be snow before nightfall.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Calatinus said irritably. ‘And if it’s as bad as it was the other day, we’ll be stuck in the damn camp for a couple of days afterwards.’

A sudden devilment took Quintus. ‘Let’s go hunting then, while we have the chance.’

‘Have you lost your wits?’

Quintus poked him. ‘I don’t just mean you and me! We’ll gather up ten men or so. Enough of us to make it safe.’

‘Safe?’ Calatinus’ voice was disbelieving, but he punched Quintus back. ‘I’m not sure that there is any such thing as “safe” any more, but a man can’t live in fear forever. What are you thinking — a deer, maybe?’

‘If Diana aids us, yes. Who knows? We might even spot a boar.’

‘Now you’re talking.’ Calatinus was already halfway down the ladder that they’d used to climb up to the rampart. ‘With enough meat, we can barter for wine.’

Quintus followed, his spirits rising at that thought.

Some time later, Quintus was wondering if his idea had been rash. He and his companions, ten men in all, had ridden several miles through the woods to the east of Placentia. Finding a fresh game trail had proved far harder than he had anticipated. Despite the cover granted by the mixed beech and oak trees, the harsh weather had frozen the ground to one great block of ice. There were old tracks aplenty, but in many places it was impossible to see any newer marks made by passing wild animals. They’d had one sighting: a couple of deer, but the startled creatures had fled long before any of the men with bows could let off an accurate shot.

‘We’re going to have to turn around soon,’ Quintus muttered.

‘Aye,’ said Calatinus. ‘Your father will have our heads on a plate if we’re not back in time for our patrol.’

Quintus grimaced. He tugged on his mount’s reins. ‘We might as well go now. Diana isn’t in a good mood. I don’t think that’s about to change.’

There were grunts of agreement from those who were within earshot; shouts rang out, calling in those who had been riding further away. No one disagreed with Quintus’ suggestion that they return to Placentia. Everyone was chilled to the bone, and eager not to miss the hot meal that would be served before their afternoon patrol.

The narrow paths meant that they had to ride in single file. Quintus took the lead; Calatinus came next. The idle banter that had filled the early part of the hunt had died away to an occasional lament about how cold and hungry a particular man was, or about how much he wanted to spend a night in an inn by a fire, drinking until dawn. If there was an attractive whore to take him upstairs as well, all the better. Quintus had heard such talk a hundred times, so it went in one ear and out the other. His horse seemed to know the route to take, allowing his mind to wander. He thought of the letter that Fabricius had written, to which he had added a footnote, and hoped that it had reached his mother. His sister Aurelia might grieve the death of Caius Minucius Flaccus, her betrothed, but at least she’d know that he and their father were alive. That they would return one day.

Feeling happier, he lapsed into a pleasant daydream about home, near Capua. He and his father were there with Atia, his mother; so too was Aurelia. The family were reclining on couches around a table piled high with dishes of succulent fare. A side of roast pork. Mullet fried with herbs, and bream that had been baked in the oven. Sausages. Olives. Freshly baked bread. Greens. He could almost reach out and touch the food. Quintus felt saliva pooling in his mouth. An image of Hanno walking into the room with a platter of fowl in a rich nut sauce popped into his mind, and he blinked. Was his mind playing tricks? With the gods’ help, he would dine with his family again, but Hanno would not be present. The Carthaginian had honoured his debt, but he was now one of the enemy. Quintus had little doubt that Hanno would kill him if he got the chance. He, Quintus, would have to do the same if it came to it. He sent up a prayer that that day never arrived. It wasn’t too much to ask that he never met Hanno again.