‘Is that where it’s all gone? Meanwhile, our tongues are hanging out with thirst.’
‘If you like, you can have the wine to drink after the horses have been washed in it,’ declared Hannibal.
The anonymous soldier went silent, while his companions fell about the place, hooting with laughter.
‘Lost your thirst?’ shouted Hannibal.
No answer.
‘Stand forth, soldier.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Do I have to say it twice?’ Hannibal’s voice was cold.
A short man with a slight limp pushed his way to the front of the group. He looked most unhappy.
‘Don’t you fancy the horses’ wine?’ asked Hannibal lightly.
‘Yes, sir. No, sir. I don’t know, sir.’
More laughter, but it was a little uneasy this time. For all of his charisma, their general was known for his toughness.
‘I’m joking with you,’ said Hannibal warmly. ‘The horses have to be treated, you know that. They’re vital to us.’
The men nodded.
‘Now I need to talk to my officers. In private.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ muttered the short soldier.
‘You’re good men.’ Hannibal glanced at his scribe, who stood alongside, parchment and stylus in hand. ‘See that these soldiers are issued with a small amphora of wine from my personal supply. Small, mind,’ he added with a smile as the men began cheering.
‘Me and the lads will follow you anywhere, sir. Even if it’s to hell and back,’ cried the short soldier.
His comrades shouted even more loudly. Hanno never failed to be impressed by his general’s leadership. With a few words and a little wine, Hannibal had just turned his men’s resentment into adoration once more. ‘He makes it look so effortless,’ he whispered to Sapho. Instantly, he realised that it was a mistake. Sapho’s face twisted with bitterness.
‘It’s a skill, little brother. Some people have it, some people don’t.’
‘I wish I had it,’ said Hanno, fully aware that Sapho led his men through fear, not devotion, whereas he tried to emulate his father and Bostar, who led by example.
‘So do I,’ said Sapho, giving him a suspicious glare.
‘Gather round,’ ordered Hannibal.
Hanno felt a momentary relief that Sapho would not be able to jibe at him, but it didn’t last. There were no Gaulish chieftains or Numidian officers present, only Carthaginians. He felt sure that Hannibal was going to talk about the battle, and his and his family’s failures. The brunt of the blame would fall on him, because his phalanx had been the first to crumble. How would he be punished? Demotion seemed most likely. He steeled himself for the inevitable.
‘Our victory at Lake Trasimene was well earned,’ said Hannibal, eyeing them all.
‘Your plan made it easy, sir,’ said Maharbal. ‘It was a stroke of genius to set the trap as you did.’
Hannibal smiled. ‘A general is only as good as his officers and men. Which is why we’re here.’
Bostar glanced uneasily at Malchus, whose jaw was clenching and unclenching. Sapho flushed. Hanno studied the ground between his feet. Every officer within sight, apart from Maharbal, was doing something similar.
‘Everything went according to plan at the lake, except for one thing. As you know, the Libyan phalanxes broke before a sustained assault by thousands of legionaries.’
Hanno looked up to find Hannibal staring at him. Him, when he could have looked at a score of others. His mouth went as dry as a bone. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We should have held them,’ he began.
‘Peace. I do not know if even I could have stopped the Romans breaking through,’ said Hannibal, surprising him entirely. ‘The phalanx has been used for hundreds of years, by generals who led their armies to victories at places such as Marathon and Gaugamela. But those battles were fought against soldiers who also fought in phalanxes. The Roman legionary fights in an altogether different style. He’s more mobile, and can instantly respond to a change in his orders. The men of a phalanx cannot do that. They’ve never been able to and they never will.’
Hanno could not believe his ears. Were they being absolved of blame? He didn’t dare to look at Malchus or his brothers for confirmation. All his attention was locked on Hannibal. What use were the Libyan spearmen if they could not defeat the enemy?
‘Your Libyans’ — here Hannibal eyed them, one by one — ‘are among the finest soldiers I have. Their failure at Lake Trasimene is not a thing to be ashamed of. You could have done no more than you did.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Malchus, an uncharacteristic gruffness to his voice. Hanno felt as if an immense weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. His failure had not been down to poor leadership. He threw a look at his brothers, who seemed no less relieved than he felt.
‘Yet the same cannot happen again,’ warned Hannibal. ‘On a different day, what happened at Trasimene could have signalled disaster. The ship I sent to Carthage yesterday might have been carrying an altogether different message than the one it does.’
‘How can we serve you better in future, then?’ asked Malchus.
‘A man must always use the tools to hand,’ replied Hannibal with a sly grin.
He had them all now, thought Hanno, scanning the ring of intent faces. His own stomach twisted with excitement — and with admiration for his leader, who always seemed to have another trick up his sleeve.
‘Many of your men took mail shirts from the dead after the battle, which was an intelligent move. As you know, I ordered that the shields and swords of the enemy fallen also be collected.’ Hannibal smiled at the gasps of surprise. ‘Yes, I would have you train your troops to use pilum, gladius and scutum. If we cannot beat Rome with the phalanx, then we shall beat it by turning our Libyans into legionaries. After we have done that, we shall march south. Like the Gauls, the inhabitants of the southern part of the peninsula have no love for Rome. Moreover, their lands are fertile and will keep us in supplies. When the legions come to meet us again, we shall be well fed, better prepared and have allies at our backs.’
Around Hanno, the other officers were chuckling and muttering excitedly to each other. He grinned and pretended to listen to what his father was saying to him and his brothers. South. How far south would they go? he wondered. To Capua? He thought of Aurelia. ‘Come back safely,’ she’d said to Quintus. Then she had looked at him and whispered, ‘You too.’ With a thumping heart, he had answered, ‘I will. One day.’ Hanno had thought his promise would not be feasible for many years, if ever. He had buried his confused feelings for Aurelia deep. Now, he felt them take flame again. Gods, but it would be good to see her! Despite the intrinsic dangers, the possibility had just been made real. And that felt very good indeed. So too did finding out what had happened to his friend Suni.
The Apennines, on the Via Latina, southeast of Rome
A burst of laughter made Quintus’ head turn. Through the darkness, it was still possible to make out the maniple’s tent lines, some distance away. Orange glows marked the fires built by each contubernium. In the dim light beyond, he could see the glitter of the mules’ eyes from the animal pens. By counting carefully, Quintus was able to make out the canvas shape that was his tent. Like most troops in the camp, his comrades — his men, he corrected himself — were sitting around outside, talking and drinking whatever wine they had managed to buy or steal that day. He had no desire to share their company. Urceus would have been a logical choice to lead the ten-man section, but his injuries had meant he’d been left behind at Ocriculum, where the battered survivors of Trasimene had marched to meet their new commander, Quintus Fabius Maximus, recently appointed as dictator by a panicked Senate. Rutilus had been chosen by Corax to become the section leader, but it had been even more of a surprise when Quintus had been elevated to lead a ‘five’. When he had protested, Corax had told him to shut up, that he had earned it. Eyeing the new recruits, who had looked scared and as green as young saplings, Quintus had done as he was told. The strip of wolf skin on his helmet had barely been in place for a week.