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?’