‘A-all right, I suppose.’ Without thinking, Hanno’s hand rose to his neck. He had enough time to feel the thick bandage before Bostar’s hand closed over his.
‘Don’t touch. The surgeon says it’s just starting to heal.’
Hanno felt a dull throbbing from the area. ‘It doesn’t hurt like it did.’
‘That will be thanks to the poppy juice. The surgeon has been dosing you with it three to four times a day.’
A series of fractured images flashed past Hanno’s vision. He did have a vague recollection of bitter-tasting liquid being forced down his throat.
‘Bomilcar has told us a lot of what went on,’ said Sapho in an enquiring tone.
Hanno managed to sit up, wincing at a jag of pain from his wound. ‘After I was taken prisoner?’
‘Yes,’ said Bostar gently. ‘And Mutt told us the first part of the story.’
Hanno saw his favourite brother’s eyes travel to his neck. ‘It’s bad, eh?’
Bostar didn’t answer.
‘What has the surgeon said?’ demanded Hanno.
‘At first, that you wouldn’t survive. But you made it through the first night and day, and then the next. It was a surprise to all of us.’ Bostar cast his eyes at Sapho, who nodded to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘If prayer can help, then the gods had a hand in your recovery. We spent most of the time on our knees. Even Father joined in!’
Hanno began to appreciate the relief in his brothers’ faces, especially that of Bostar. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Six days so far,’ replied Bostar. ‘You seemed to turn a corner yesterday, though, when the fever broke. The surgeon said that the wound was weeping less and starting to close over.’
‘It’s not a wound. It’s a Latin letter “F”,’ said Hanno bitterly. ‘“F” for fugitivus.’
‘You’re no slave!’ cried Sapho angrily. Bostar echoed his words.
‘I had told the officer who was interrogating me about my enslavement,’ Hanno explained. ‘He wanted to mark me out as a runaway for the last few hours of my life. It was supposed to be in the centre of my forehead, but I managed to move at the last moment. Better to have the brand on my neck, eh?’ He pulled a grim smile.
Neither brother laughed. ‘Where did the filthy son of a whore go?’ spat Sapho.
‘To defend the walls, I think. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. Bomilcar must have told you how he then came in and killed my guard. If it hadn’t been for him. .’ Hanno’s voice trailed away.
‘Yes. He’s a good man. His actions won’t be forgotten,’ said Bostar. ‘A shame we didn’t know what had happened as we entered Victumulae. Although seeking you would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Did many get away?’ asked Hanno resignedly. He didn’t doubt that a cur like Pera would find a way to escape even the sacking of a town.
‘Only the non-citizens, and there were precious few of them,’ Sapho replied with a savage leer. ‘Our men won’t have known who your officer was, but he’s still deader than a fly-blown corpse that’s been on a crucifix for a week.’
‘I’d have liked to slay him myself, though,’ said Hanno. It felt fortunate — and odd — that Pera had refused to grant him an easy death. If the Roman had granted his request, he wouldn’t be lying where he was. That didn’t stop Hanno from wishing that Pera had died screaming.
‘There will be plenty more opportunities to kill men like him,’ said Sapho. ‘New Roman armies will come to meet us.’
‘Good!’ Hanno couldn’t wait to be part of it. He wanted some tangible revenge for what had been done to him. He would have preferred Pera, but any Roman would do.
‘Soon we march south. Hannibal wants all of us ready for the journey, including you,’ added Bostar.
‘He has asked for me?’ asked Hanno, surprised.
‘Asked for you? He has visited twice,’ declared Sapho.
‘He said that you have more lives than a cat!’ Bostar winked. ‘Even he has heard how all of our spearmen think of you as something of a talisman. “Let him bring us good luck as we march,” he said.’
Hanno’s heart leaped. It seemed that he was returning to Hannibal’s good books, which was most unexpected. Something good had come of his rash behaviour after all.
Chapter V
Outside Placentia
Quintus scowled as he caught sight of his father approaching. A lot had happened in the month since his hunting trip, but one thing had been constant: Fabricius’ towering anger at what he had done. It hadn’t been as evident during the week he’d spent in the camp hospital, having his wound cleaned and monitored, and poultices applied to it twice a day. Once the surgeon had discharged Quintus, however, things had changed. Fabricius had subjected him to a long lecture about his stupidity. Leaving the camp without permission. Taking so few men with him. Attacking the Gauls instead of trying to avoid them. He had gone on and on until Quintus thought his head would explode. He’d tried to justify his actions, tried to explain how their casualties had been light compared to those suffered by the warriors. It had been like banging his head on a wall. As his father, Fabricius could say and do what he wished. It was even permissible for the head of a Roman family to strike his children dead if they displeased him. That wasn’t likely, but Fabricius swore that Quintus was to return home the moment he’d sufficiently recovered. His father had also declared that, if needs be, he had enough friends in high places to ensure that Quintus didn’t serve in the military again. That didn’t bear thinking about.
The worst thing about his convalescence was that he couldn’t train with Calatinus and his comrades, or go on patrol, during these, the last opportunities he would have for a long time, possibly ever. His ribs had healed and the strength was returning to his left arm, but Quintus still couldn’t hold a shield for long. He spent a couple of hours every day riding his horse, but his interest in that had palled long since. Fabricius kept him busy running errands around the camp, but that felt demeaning. Quintus had taken to avoiding his father. He would lurk in his tent after his comrades had left for the morning, playing endless games of Three in a Line on Calatinus’ small clay board. In between, he’d lift his shield to strengthen his left arm. Of course Fabricius knew where to find him, which was no doubt why he was here now. Quintus thought about retreating further into the tent, but there was no point. He threw his shoulders back and stepped outside instead. ‘Father.’
‘I find you here, again.’
Quintus gave a careless shrug. ‘I was lifting weights with my arm.’
Fabricius’ lips thinned. ‘You were supposed to come to my quarters first thing.’
‘I forgot.’
Slap! Fabricius’ palm struck his cheek, and Quintus yelped.
‘You’re not too big yet for me to take a whip to your back. Is that what you want?’
‘Do what you wish,’ said Quintus with a curl of his lip. ‘I can’t stop you.’
Fury flared in Fabricius’ eyes. ‘Lucky for you, I need an important message taken somewhere. Otherwise, I would tan your hide right now!’
Quintus felt a sour delight at his father’s frustration. He waited.
Fabricius produced a tightly rolled parchment. ‘You’re to find a centurion by the name of Marcus Junius Corax. He serves in Longus’ first legion, and commands a maniple of hastati.’
‘What does it say?’ Fabricius rarely told him anything, but Quintus was curious. Cavalry and infantry didn’t often have much to do with each other.
‘None of your business!’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Just deliver the damn message.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Biting his lip, Quintus took the parchment.
‘Wait for a reply, and then find me on the open ground beyond the camp.’ Fabricius was already half a dozen paces away.
Quintus threw a poisonous stare after him. Upon his return, he’d have to traipse around after Fabricius, acting as his unofficial messenger for the rest of the day. He rubbed at the purple scar on the front of his bicep, willing it to recover. It was time for another offering to Aesculapius, the god of healing. He could do that this evening. Donning his cloak, Quintus set out for the legionaries’ tent lines. Taking his horse didn’t appeal; holding the reins quickly tired out his weak arm.