Putting himself up for the first watch, Corax settled on a nearby rock, his sword and shield to hand. The drained hastati literally dropped where they stood, uncaring of the rough ground and the fact that they had no blankets. Quintus and Urceus lay down beside one another, under the branches of a large holly-oak tree. They were asleep the instant that their heads hit the warm earth.
Quintus dreamed of blood. A plain soaked, covered in it, with a line of hills on one side, similar to the site where they had fought that day. Myriads of small islands dotted the terrible crimson sea. To his disgust and horror, he saw they were not soil or rock, but corpses. Some were clearly Gauls, Iberians or Numidians, but the vast majority were legionaries. Men who had died a violent death. Mutilated, often with glistening loops of gut hanging from their bellies. Gaping cuts showed in their flesh from the top of their heads to their toes: injuries that would have given a man a lingering, painful death. The bodies’ lips lay slackly parted, purple tongues bloated and protruding. Every cavity was full of maggots: eye sockets, mouths, wounds; yet the faces’ expressions were clear. They were scornful, accusatory, full of hate. How did you survive when we did not? they seemed to ask. I don’t know, Quintus screamed back. I should have died, a dozen times over.
Sweating, heart thudding, he came to with a start.
The movement saved his life. A hand clamped over his mouth, but the dagger that would have buried itself in his throat hissed by his ear instead and rammed into the earth. His eyes flicked upwards, to his attacker. Macerio: crouched alongside, his lips twisted in a snarl of hatred. Who else? Quintus thought bitterly. The blond-haired man tugged on his blade, dragging it free of the soil. Up it rose again. Suddenly wide awake, Quintus grabbed Macerio’s forearm. They grappled for control of the dagger, one trying to hold it where it was, the other attempting to bring it down into his enemy’s flesh. For a few heartbeats, there was stalemate. Quintus did his best to bite Macerio’s other hand, but his teeth could gain no purchase on his enemy’s palm. He swung his legs around, trying to wriggle beyond Macerio’s reach, but the blond-haired man simply leaned more of his upper body weight on to his arms, effectively pinning Quintus where he was. ‘I should have finished you long ago. I thought you’d be killed today,’ he whispered. ‘Better late than never, though.’ Despite Quintus’ best efforts, Macerio’s arm began to descend slowly towards his face.
How can it come to this? Quintus wanted to scream. I lived through the battle, only to die like a dog? His legs kicked out again, and connected with something. Someone. Urceus! He kicked out, over and over. There was an angry grunt by way of reply, and then a muttered question. Quintus lashed out one last time before concentrating all of his energy on preventing Macerio’s blade coming even closer to his flesh. It was already less than two hands’ width from the base of his throat, and pressing closer with each frantic breath he took in through his nostrils. Quintus could feel his arm weakening. It had never fully regained all of its previous strength after the arrow wound he’d sustained. Fuck you, Macerio! he thought. I’ll see you in Hades.
There was a meaty thump. Macerio’s eyes went wide; his body stiffened; his knife point wavered, and then Quintus suddenly had control of his enemy’s arm. Macerio’s other hand slipped off Quintus’ mouth. A sucking sound, such as a blade makes when it leaves a man’s flesh, and then another heavy impact. Making a low, groaning sound, Macerio toppled to lie beside him, face down. Quintus gaped. Urceus was standing over them, his fist tight on the hilt of a gladius – which was protruding from Macerio’s back. He tugged it free and stuck the blond-haired man again for good measure. ‘Go to Hades, you piece of filth.’ He spat on Macerio’s body.
Quintus sat up, trembling with relief. ‘You saved my life. Thank you.’
‘I just wanted you to stop kicking me,’ said Urceus with a grin. His face grew serious in the starlight. ‘No, you’re my friend. What else could I do?’
Quintus thumped him on the shoulder. Other men, woken by the noise, were calling out now. Corax was tramping over, demanding to know what was going on, threatening to castrate anyone he caught fighting. In that moment, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, not even the battle. He was alive. So was Urceus. Macerio would never trouble him again. Quintus would have preferred to have killed his enemy himself, but he’d settle for this. Urceus had also been a friend to Rutilus. Rest in peace, he thought. Your murder has been avenged.
It was a small piece of solace at the end of the most horrendous day of his life.
Hanno stirred when the sun’s heat on his body became too much. He groaned, and tried to go back to sleep. He couldn’t. Mixed with the buzz of a million flies above him was a low, moaning sound. Gods, he thought, that’s the wounded. With that, he was awake. There was a tacky feeling in his mouth that he recognised as dehydration, and his eyelids were gummed shut with sleep. Every part of his body ached, but he was alive, and that was more than could be said for the thousands who had fallen in the battle, and those who would have died overnight. Hanno opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the outline of wings. Scores of sets of wings, far above.
Shit.
The sky was filled with vultures, more than he had ever seen before. He dragged himself to his feet. Around him, his soldiers still lay sleeping. They were yet in the midst of the battlefield, because by the time they had finished with the last of the Romans the previous night, there had been little point trying to pick their way through the confusion of bodies and weapons to their camp. Dawn was only six hours away. Hanno had had his men clear enough space to lie down, set a few sentries, and let the rest collapse in a heap. Now he stared beyond their recumbent forms to where the carnage began. Even though he knew what to expect, now the mania of combat had left him, the sight was indescribably shocking. The proof of their remarkable victory – of Hannibal’s extraordinary triumph – could not have been more graphic.
Bodies, thousands and thousands of bodies, as far as he could see in every direction. They lay singly, together, in piles, every race and colour under the sun, locked together in the dispassionate embrace of death. Libyans. Gauls. Iberians. Balearic and Ligurian tribesmen. Romans and socii, united as they had been in life. All, all of them were covered in blood. It coated everything: men, weapons, helmets, standards. Even the earth was bloody, as if the gods themselves had come down in the night and painted it scarlet. Hanno’s eyes roamed over the nearest bodies in morbid fascination. They were stabbed through, hacked open, disembowelled. Armless. Legless. In a few cases, decapitated. Lying with their faces in the red-stained earth, on their sides, or on their backs, gaping mouths open to the swarms of flies that hung everywhere. The stench of shit and piss filled his nostrils. Mixed with that was the coppery tang of blood; already there was a whiff of gas from the bodies that had begun to rot. What it would smell like by the day’s end, he could only imagine.
In the distance, Hanno could make out the corpses of horses, where some of the cavalry battle must have taken place. If he strained his ears, he could hear whinnies from some beasts yet living. Distaste filled him. They would need to be slain, and the day would be spent scouring the area for soldiers of their own who lived, and dispatching those of the enemy who hadn’t yet gone to Hades.
He heard a shriek, suddenly cut off. His attention was drawn to figures moving among the bodies off to his left. They were Gaulish women, killing Roman wounded as they searched for their men. Father! he thought. Bostar. Sapho.
Waking Mutt, Hanno issued orders to fetch water from the river and whatever food could be found. ‘Once you’ve done that, start looking for men of ours who are alive. Carry them here and do what you can for them. We’ll get them back to the camp later.’
‘And the Romans we find still breathing?’ asked Mutt.
‘You know what to do with them.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Mutt’s expression became shrewd. ‘You going to search for your family?’
‘Yes.’
‘The gods grant that they all made it, sir.’
Hanno threw Mutt a grateful look and left him to it. Sapho had been closest to them during the battle, so he made for his position first. He found his brother sitting propped up against a pile of Roman corpses, setting his men similar tasks to Hanno’s. A bloody bandage around his right calf explained why he was seated.
‘Hanno!’ A broad smile creased Sapho’s face as he approached. ‘You’re alive!’
‘It’s good to see you, brother!’ Despite all that had passed between them, Hanno felt his heart swell with happiness. He knelt by Sapho and they embraced. ‘You’re hurt. Is it serious?’
‘It’s not too bad.’ Sapho scowled. ‘The last fucking Roman I killed got me as he went down. It shouldn’t have happened, but I was tired.’
‘We all were by the end of it,’ said Hanno. ‘What a day, eh?’
‘Hannibal’s name will go down in history for this,’ said Sapho.
‘Without doubt,’ agreed Hanno. Hannibal could now do no wrong in his eyes.
They savoured that thought for a moment.
‘Have you seen Father and Bostar?’ asked Hanno.
‘Not yet, but I’ve sent a soldier to search for them.’
Hanno rose. ‘I’m going too.’
‘Eshmoun guide you to their sides. Bring me word as soon as you can.’
‘I will.’
Using the line of hills as a reference point, Hanno slowly made his way across the battlefield. The area he crossed was where the main body of legionaries had fought – and died. For every Carthaginian soldier’s body, he counted at least half a dozen Roman. Plenty of men from both sides were alive. Many, even the Romans, raised their hands in supplication to him, pleading for water, or an end to their suffering. Hardening his heart, Hanno stalked by without a second glance. The Roman corpses made him think of Quintus and Fabricius. He hoped for Aurelia’s sake, and the friendship that had once existed between him and Quintus, that both men had survived. There were groups of Iberians and Gauls everywhere, men who must also have spent the night in the field. Now they were scouring the dead for valuables. From the cries of pain that rose regularly, they were also indulging in a little torment of any living enemies whom they encountered. Hanno didn’t really approve, but such behaviour was the norm, so he shut his ears and averted his gaze and walked on.
He found where the Libyans had stood on the opposite flank a short time later. Clusters of weary-faced soldiers stood around, sharing water skins and talking in low voices amongst themselves. Hanno practically ran up to the first group. ‘I’m looking for Malchus,’ he said, butting in. ‘Or Bostar, who commanded a phalanx.’
‘You must be another of Malchus’ sons, sir,’ said one of the Libyans, a bearded man with a hooked nose.
‘Yes, yes, I am Hanno. Well?’
‘I haven’t seen Malchus since yesterday, sir, but Bostar’s been here, talking to our commanding officer.’
Hanno’s heart leaped with joy. ‘Where is he?’
‘Last I saw of him, sir, he was walking that way.’ The soldier pointed off to his left. ‘That was where Malchus’ phalanx was positioned. About a hundred paces away.’
Hanno grinned. He would be reunited with his father and brother at the same time. ‘My thanks.’ He hurried off as fast as his tired limbs would take him. Gods, but he was looking forward to getting drunk with Bostar that night. Sapho too. He grinned. After such a momentous day, their father might even shed his normal reserve and join them.
The happy thought vanished as he recognised Bostar’s outline. His brother was kneeling with his back to Hanno. A body lay on the ground before him. Bostar’s slumped shoulders told Hanno everything he needed to know. ‘No. Please. Father!’ He covered the distance between them in a heartbeat. His stomach lurched as he took in the bloodied shape of his father. He was clearly dead. Hanno froze, and a great wave of anguish washed over him.
Bostar’s head turned. Tears had run tracks through the blood that coated his grief-stricken face. But the corners of his lips turned up at the sight of Hanno, and he stood. ‘Brother!’
Hanno tore his eyes from his father’s corpse, stared at Bostar, felt tears run down his own cheeks. They wrapped their arms around one another and held on for dear life. Both men wept unashamedly. ‘Sapho is alive,’ murmured Hanno after a little while. Bostar stiffened, before answering, ‘That is good.’ There was no need to say any more.
It was a long time before either released his grip. When they did, the pair turned instinctively to look down on their father. Despite a number of fearsome injuries, all of which were to his front, Malchus’ face was serene. He looked years younger than his age.
‘He wouldn’t have wanted to go any other way,’ said Hanno, proud but sad.
‘I agree. His men told me that the Romans in this section had already broken when he took his mortal wound. So he knew that we had won.’
‘Maybe that’s why he looks so peaceful,’ said Hanno in wonderment.
‘I think that’s exactly why. Once he knew that Hannibal’s plan had worked, death would have been a release for him. Father would never have admitted it, but all he really wanted after Mother died was to be with her once more. Remember how he changed when she was gone?’
‘I do,’ murmured Hanno. Arishat, their mother, had been the light of their father’s life. ‘I always felt that something in him died with her.’
‘Now they can be together again.’
‘It’s good to think of them like that.’ Hanno felt his grief ease a little.
Farewell, Father. Greetings, Mother. Look after one another.
‘They can watch over us as we march on to victory over Rome,’ added Bostar, throwing an arm over Hanno’s shoulders.
Hanno liked that image. It seemed fitting, somehow. ‘You think that will be Hannibal’s next move?’
‘I’m not sure. To be honest, brother, I don’t care that much at this very moment. After what we did yesterday, every Roman will be shitting themselves about what we do next. For now, let’s remember Father and the rest of our dead, and celebrate our achievement.’