Ben Kane
Clouds of War
Prologue
Apulia, southern Italy, summer 216 BC
After their stunning victory over more than eighty thousand Romans, Hannibal had let his soldiers rest for a night and a day and another night. It was as well, thought Hanno, studying the faces of the assembled officers and chieftains, some fifty-odd men. They were Carthaginians, Numidians, Iberians and Gauls. Their faces and arms had been cleansed of blood, and they might have caught up on some sleep, yet to a man they looked shattered. Exhausted. Drained.
Hanno, a lean young soldier with black hair, felt the same way. How could he not? The fighting at Cannae had lasted all day under a burning summer sun. Even when the tide had turned against the Romans, the killing had gone on, because the legionaries had been surrounded. The unrelenting slaughter had finished only when darkness fell, when the Carthaginian soldiers were covered in gore from head to foot, when their horses had been crimson from the bottoms of their necks to their hooves. Gone were the fields of stubble that had been there at dawn; in their place, the fighting had left fields of blood.
The toll on the survivors had been more than physical. More than fifty thousand Romans lay dead twenty stadia hence, but eight thousand of Hannibal’s men would never see another dawn either. Hanno’s father Malchus had died that day. Hanno stifled the grief that rose within him. Most of those nearby had suffered the loss of a loved one too; if they had not, it was certain that they had seen close friends and comrades die. Yet it had been worth it. Rome had been dealt a hammer blow the likes of which it had never felt. Its standing army had been reduced by more than two-thirds; one of its consuls had been slain, so too had many hundreds of its ruling class. The devastating news would already be sending tremors through every town and city in Italy. Against all the odds, Hannibal had beaten the largest army ever assembled by the Roman Republic. What would he do next? Since Hannibal had ordered them here, to the open ground before his tent, the same question had been on everyone’s lips.
Hanno caught his older brother Bostar’s eye. ‘Any idea of what he’ll say?’ he whispered.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Let’s hope that he orders us to march on Rome,’ interjected Sapho, the oldest of the three siblings. ‘I want to burn the damn place to the ground.’
For all that his relationship with Sapho was fractious, Hanno longed to do that too. If the army that had just defeated them so decisively turned up at its gates, surely Rome would surrender?
‘First, we need to move our camp further from the battlefield,’ said Sapho, wrinkling his nose. ‘I’m sick of the stench.’
Hanno grimaced in agreement. The summer’s heat would only intensify the ever-present odour of rotting flesh. Nonetheless, Bostar let out a phhhh of contempt. ‘Hannibal has more on his mind than your offended nostrils!’
‘I was making a joke, something you wouldn’t understand,’ growled Sapho.
Hanno scowled at them both. ‘Enough! He’s here.’ The black-cloaked scutarii who served as their general’s bodyguard had snapped upright.
A moment’s pause, and Hannibal emerged from his tent into the early-morning sunlight. The tired officers raised a rousing cheer. Hanno bellowed for all he was worth; so too did his brothers. Here was a man worth following. A man who had led his army thousands of stadia from Iberia, across Gaul and into Italy, there to heap humiliations upon Rome.
Hannibal was dressed as if for battle. Over his purple tunic, he wore a burnished bronze cuirass; layered linen pteryges protected his groin and shoulders and a simple Hellenistic helmet covered his head. A strip of purple fabric covered the space where his right eye should have been. He carried no shield, but was armed with a simple sheathed falcata. Hannibal also looked tired, but the pleasure on his broad, bearded face as he met his officers’ acclaim seemed genuine. His remaining eye sparkled. Planting his feet a stride apart, he raised his hands.
Silence fell at once.
‘Has it sunk in yet?’ asked Hannibal.
‘What, sir?’ Sapho enquired with a wicked grin.
There were loud chuckles, and Hannibal inclined his head with a smile. ‘I think you know what, son of Malchus.’
‘It’s beginning to, sir,’ answered Sapho.
Murmurs of agreement; satisfied looks shared. Before the battle, thought Hanno, no one had doubted Hannibal’s tactical expertise, but now his abilities seemed to verge on the godlike. Their fifty thousand soldiers had faced twice that number of Romans and come away not just victorious, but all conquering.
‘Any time I forget, sir,’ added Sapho, ‘the smell reminds me of how many of the enemy we killed.’
More laughter.
‘We’ll be moving camp soon enough, never fear,’ said Hannibal. He paused, and the amusement died away.
‘Where to, sir? The plain of Mars, outside Rome?’ shouted Hanno. He was pleased that many officers nodded in approval, including Maharbal, Hannibal’s cavalry commander.
‘I know that is what most of you want,’ Hannibal answered. ‘But that is not my plan. It’s nearly two and a half thousand stadia to Rome. The men are exhausted. Our grain mightn’t last the journey, let alone feed us once we got there. Rome’s walls are high, and we have no siege engines. While we sat outside building them — with empty bellies — the Republic’s other legions would be marching to attack us in the rear. By the time that they arrived, we would have to fall back or be caught between them and the city’s garrison.’
Hannibal’s words fell like lead shot. Hanno’s enthusiasm waned before his general’s certainty. The same unhappiness was clear in many faces around him, in the muttered words between neighbours.
‘It may not come to that, sir,’ challenged Maharbal.
A surprised hush fell.
‘We’ve beaten the Romans three times, sir,’ Maharbal went on. ‘Trounced them at the Trebia, Lake Trasimene and here, at Cannae. They must have lost a hundred thousand men by now. Only the gods know how many equestrians and senators have died, but it’s a large portion of the total. We’re free to wander their land, burning and pillaging. If we march on Rome, they will sue for peace — I know it!’
‘Damn right,’ said Sapho.
There were loud rumbles of agreement.
Maharbal’s words appealed, but Hanno was remembering how his friend Quintus, aged just sixteen, had faced up to three armed bandits — on his own. He had to be one of the most stubborn, courageous people Hanno ever met. These were not unusual characteristics for a Roman. During the battle two days before, many of the legionaries had continued to fight on even when it was clear that they had been defeated.
Hannibal rubbed a contemplative finger along his lips. ‘You’re so sure,’ he said at last, eyeing first Maharbal, and then Sapho.
‘Yes, sir. Who can take such a beating as we delivered two days ago and continue to fight on? No one!’ declared Sapho.
‘He speaks true,’ said an officer. ‘Aye,’ rumbled another.
If Quintus lives, he will not give up while there is a breath still in his body, thought Hanno grimly. He would struggle to the death rather than submit.
Hannibal’s bright eye fixed on Sapho. ‘Maharbal knows the entire story of our first war against the Republic, but do you?’
‘Of course, sir. I grew up on my father’s tales of it.’
‘Did he ever tell you of the occasions when the Roman fleets had been sunk, and their treasuries were empty?’
Sapho flushed a little, remembering. ‘Yes, sir.’
Hanno could recall the story too.
‘Any normal people would have recognised defeat after such major disasters. Instead, the Roman nobles sold their own properties to raise money for the construction of new ships. The war went on, because the stubborn bastards would not admit that they had been beaten. And we all know what happened at the end of that conflict.’