‘Your damn response to everything,’ Bostar retorted angrily.
‘Shhh!’ hissed Malchus. ‘Hannibal does nothing by accident.’
Again Hanno was surprised by the degree of acrimony between his brothers, but he was granted no chance to dwell on this troubling development.
The duels were short, and savage. Before long, three bloodied warriors stood over the bodies of their opponents, waiting for Hannibal’s promise to be fulfilled. And it was. Each man was allowed his choice of the rich goods on the trays, before selecting a horse from those tethered nearby. Then, with the cheers of everyone present ringing in their ears, they were allowed to leave.
‘Even more than this can be yours,’ shouted Hannibal to his men. ‘For you the prize of victory is not to possess horses and cloaks, but to be the most envied of mankind, masters of all the wealth of Rome.’
The immense roar that followed his words rose high into the winter sky.
Impressed by Hannibal’s tactic, Hanno glanced at Bostar.
‘He will take us to the enemy’s very gates,’ said his brother.
‘That’s right,’ declared Malchus.
‘Where we’ll slaughter every last one of the whoresons,’ Sapho snarled.
Hanno’s spirits soared. Rome would be defeated. He felt sure of it.
Chapter XX: Setbacks
Some days later, Quintus was huddled around a campfire with a group of his new comrades. It was a dank, cold afternoon. A gusty wind set lowering clouds scudding over the camp, threatening snow and increasing the general misery.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ moaned Licinius, a garrulous Tarentine who was one of Quintus’ tent mates. ‘To have lost our first battle against the guggas. It’s shameful.’
‘It was only a skirmish,’ said Quintus morosely.
‘Maybe so,’ agreed Calatinus, another of the men who shared their tent. Sturdily built, he was a year older than Quintus, but of similar outlook. ‘It was a damn big one, though. I bet you’re all glad to be sitting here now, eh?’ He nodded as his companions shook their heads in agreement. ‘Look at our casualties! Most of our cavalry and hundreds of velites killed. Six hundred legionaries taken prisoner, and Publius gravely injured. Hardly a good start, was it?’
‘Too true,’ said Cincius, their last tent mate, a huge, ruddy-faced man with a shock of red hair. ‘We’ve also retreated since. What must Hannibal think of us?’
‘Why in Hades did we even pull back?’ Licinius demanded. ‘After the bridge had been destroyed, the Carthaginians had no way of crossing the Ticinus to get at us.’
Calatinus made sure no one else was in earshot. ‘I reckon the consul panicked. It’s not surprising, really, with him being out of action and all.’
‘How would you know what Publius thinks?’ Quintus challenged irritably. ‘He’s far from a fool.’
‘As if you’d know what the consul’s like, new boy,’ Cincius snapped.
Quintus scowled, but had the wisdom not to reply. Cincius looked ready for a fight, and he was twice Quintus’ size.
‘Why didn’t Publius take his chance when Hannibal offered battle before our camp?’ Cincius went on. ‘What an opportunity to miss, eh?’
There was a gloomy mutter of agreement.
‘I say it’s downright cowardly,’ said Cincius, warming to his theme.
Quintus’ anger flared. ‘It’s best to fight on the ground of one’s choosing, at a time of one’s choosing,’ he declared, remembering what his father had said. ‘You all know that! At the moment, we can do neither, and with Publius injured, that position is unlikely to change in the near future. It made far more sense to remain in a position of security, here in the camp. Consider what might happen otherwise.’
Cincius glared at Quintus, but, seeing the others subside into a grumpy silence, chose to say no more for the moment.
Quintus felt no happier. While Publius’ courage was in little doubt, that of Flaccus was a different matter. It had taken a sea change in his view of his prospective brother-in-law as a hero even to countenance such a thought, but the reality of what had happened at the Ticinus could not be denied. Flaccus had ridden out with the cavalry on the ill-fated reconnaissance mission at his own request. Still ecstatic about being allowed to accompany the patrol, Quintus had been there too. He and his father had seen Flaccus as the clash began, but not after that. He hadn’t reappeared until afterwards, when the battered remnants of the patrol retreated over the River Ticinus and reached the Roman camp. Apparently, he’d been swept out of harm’s way by the tide of battle. Seeing that the Carthaginians had the upper hand, Flaccus had ridden for help. Naturally, the senior tribunes had declined to lead their legions, an infantry force, across a temporary bridge to face an enemy entirely made up of cavalry. What else could he have done? Flaccus had earnestly asked.
Of course there was no way of questioning Flaccus’ account. Events were moving apace. They would just have to accept it. While Fabricius had not said as much to Quintus, he was clearly troubled by the possibility that Flaccus was a coward. Quintus felt the same way. Although he’d been terrified during the fight, at least he had stood his ground and fought the enemy. Aurelia must not marry a man, however well connected, who did not stick by his comrades in battle. Quintus poked a stick into the fire and tried not to think about it. He was annoyed to realise that the others had resumed their doleful conversation.
‘My groom was drinking with some of the legionaries who guard Publius’ tent,’ said Licinius. ‘They said that a huge Carthaginian fleet has attacked Lilybaeum in Sicily.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Cincius.
Licinius nodded mournfully. ‘There’s no question of Sempronius Longus coming to our relief now.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ demanded Quintus.
‘The soldiers swore on their mothers’ graves it was true.’
Quintus gave him a dubious look. ‘Why haven’t we heard it from anyone else, then?’
‘It’s supposed to be top secret,’ muttered Licinius.
‘Well, I heard that the entire Boii tribe is marching north to join Hannibal,’ interjected Cincius. ‘If that’s right, we’ll be caught in a pincer attack between them and the guggas.’
Quintus remembered what his father had told him. A monstrous calf, which was somehow turned inside out to expose all of its internal organs, had been cut out of a cow that could not give birth on a farm nearby. The damn thing had been alive too. An officer whom Fabricius knew had seen it while on patrol. Stop it, thought Quintus, setting his jaw. ‘Let’s not get overexcited,’ he advised. ‘These stories are all too far-fetched.’
‘Are they? What if the gods are angry with us?’ retorted Licinius. ‘I went to the temple of Placentia to make an offering yesterday, and the priests said that the sacred chickens would not eat. What better evidence do you need?’
Quintus’ anger overflowed. ‘Should we just surrender to Hannibal?’
Licinius flushed. ‘Of course not!’
Quintus rounded on Cincius, who shook his head. ‘Shut your damn mouths, then! Talk like that is terrible for morale. We’re equestrians, remember? The ordinary soldiers look to us to set an example, not to put the fear of Hades in their hearts.’
Shame-faced, the others took a sudden interest in their sandals.
‘I’ve had enough of your whingeing,’ Quintus growled. He got up. ‘See you later.’ Without waiting for a response, he stalked off. His father would be able to shed a more positive light on what was going on. Quintus hoped so, because he was struggling with a real sense of despondency. He hid it well, but the savage clash with Hannibal’s deadly Numidian horsemen had shaken him to the core. They were all lucky to have survived. No wonder his comrades were susceptible to the rumours sweeping the camp. Quintus had to work hard not to let his own fear become overwhelming.
His father was not in his tent. One of the sentries said that he’d gone to the consul’s headquarters. The walk would do him good, Quintus decided. Blow out the cobwebs. His route took him past the tents of the Cenomani, local Gaulish tribesmen who fought for Rome. There were more than two thousand of the tribesmen, mostly infantry but with a scattering of cavalry. They were a clannish lot, and the language barrier compounded this difference. There was, however, a palpable air of comradeship between them and the Romans, which Quintus had come to enjoy. He hailed the first warrior he saw, a strapping brute who was sitting on a stool outside his tent. To his surprise, the man looked away, busying himself with the sword he was oiling. Quintus thought nothing of it, but a moment later, the same thing happened again. A bunch of warriors not ten steps from where he was walking gave him cold, stony stares, before turning their backs.