A few hours later, he wasn’t so sure. Calatinus’ initial reaction had been one of disbelief. ‘Your father won’t send you home, surely!’ he had cried. But when he’d seen that Quintus was convinced that that would happen, he had done his best to dissuade him from the idea of enlisting in the infantry. Quintus’ identity would be revealed in no time; thanks to his accent, his new comrades would never accept him; that was without considering the high casualty rates suffered by the velites in battle. (‘Remember the number of men we lost at the Trebia?’ Quintus had protested.) Yet it was Calatinus’ final shot which had hit home the hardest. ‘What about me?’ he’d asked. ‘You would leave me with no friends. Don’t do that to me, please.’
‘All right,’ Quintus had muttered, trying not to think of his father. ‘I’ll stay.’
Inside, however, he wasn’t sure how long he could stick it.
Etruria, spring
Feeling a tickle, Hanno brushed at the scar on his neck for the hundredth time. The flesh where the brand had burned him had healed, but for some reason, it attracted flies like a fresh cowpat. He swatted the air in frustration. ‘Piss off!’
‘There aren’t that many flies around, sir,’ said Mutt in a mild tone. ‘Count yourself lucky it’s not later in the year.’
‘They say the air is black with them then,’ added Sapho.
Hanno threw them both an irritable look, but they were right. He’d seen the midsummer clouds of midges over the marshy ground near Quintus’ home, knew what it was like to have every visible piece of flesh covered in bites. It was easy to find something else to be irritated about, however. There was a loud sucking sound as he pulled his left foot out of the calf-deep mud and tried to find a drier spot to step on to next. He failed. ‘This place is a hellhole,’ Hanno grumbled.
‘That it is, sir. And you’re going to find the way out of it, aren’t you?’
Hanno wondered if he was being mocked, but Mutt’s dirty face was as serene as a baby’s. ‘Yes. I am. Me, or Sapho here.’ His brother grinned at him. Not for the first time, Hanno wondered if his offer to Hannibal had been rash. A day earlier, he had gone to his general and asked to lead a reconnaissance party, his purpose to find a more rapid way through the marshes in which the army found itself. To his surprise and pleasure, Sapho had offered to come with him, ‘as moral support’, he’d put it.
Hanno had been grateful when Hannibal had acceded to his request. ‘One more set of scouts won’t do any harm. If anyone can find a way, you can. Being the lucky one that you are, eh?’ he’d growled, wiping at the reddish fluid that ran from under the bandage over his right eye. Despite being pleased at the praise, Hanno had had to force himself not to look away. Men said that Hannibal was going to go blind, that they were going to lose as many soldiers as they had during the crossing of the Alps. Hanno came down hard on anyone he heard spreading the rumours. Hannibal had brought his army over the Alps, in winter. His general would find a way through this, with or without him, Hanno had told himself. Yet here, in this godforsaken wilderness, without Hannibal, he didn’t feel quite so certain.
‘Maybe the army should have taken a different path,’ he muttered.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ retorted Sapho.
Hanno sighed. ‘I know. There was little else we could do without a fight.’ With the arrival of spring, word had come that Gaius Flaminius, one of the new consuls, had moved his legions to Arretium, in the Apennines. Hannibal’s response was to avoid Flaminius by crossing the floodplain of the River Arnus, which ran westwards to the sea through the heart of Etruria.
‘It’s been difficult, but the ploy has worked,’ said Sapho. ‘There’s been no sign of Roman troops for several days.’
‘Course not! Why would they even think of marching in here?’ Hanno gestured angrily at the water all around them.
‘It will soon be over,’ declared Sapho jovially.
Hanno let out an irritable grunt by way of reply. Things had been getting steadily worse since they had entered the delta. Thanks to heavy spring rains, the Arnus was running a lot higher than normal. With much of the land covered in water, often the only method of finding a way through was to choose a path and start walking. This proved hazardous in the extreme, with scores of men drowning in deep pools, or being swept away by powerful, unseen currents. The pack animals were no less susceptible. Some panicked and swam away from their handlers to a certain death. Others sank to their bellies in the mire and could not be extricated. The more fortunate of these beasts were slaughtered, but many were just stripped of everything that could be carried and abandoned. As things deteriorated, the same had happened to men. A careless step off the path taken by those in front could be fatal. Trapped in glutinous mud up to their chests or chins, the trapped soldiers had begged to be saved. At first, men tried to help their comrades but as lives were lost in repeated unsuccessful attempts, they gave up. Hanno’s phalanx had been lucky to lose only three men. The unit Bomilcar had been assigned to had had many times that number of casualties. Unwilling to leave his soldiers to suffocate in the mud, Hanno had ended their suffering himself with a bow.
The Gauls had been most badly affected by the savage conditions. After a number had deserted, Hannibal had ordered the undisciplined warriors into the middle of the column. The Iberian and Libyan infantry had taken the van, while the heavy cavalry made up the rear. The Numidian horsemen under Mago, Hannibal’s brother, had prevented any escape on the flanks. The move had prevented mass desertion, thought Hanno bleakly, but it had not stopped men’s spirits from being sucked ever downwards, like the poor bastards who’d suffocated in the mud. He had been grateful for Bostar’s and his father’s ability to remain steadfast in the face of difficulty. Even Sapho had been a help, making macabre jokes about the worst things he’d seen. Yet despite his family’s support, the horror had continued.
The temperatures had risen just enough for any fresh provisions to rot, meaning hunger became a new enemy. Stocks of water and wine had run low, forcing men to drink from the river. Inevitably, many who did so went down with vomiting and diarrhoea. Most were able to continue the march but some became too weak to go on. Like the trapped mules, they were left behind. Night-time, a usual source of respite, had been no better. Conditions had been so damp that fires had proved impossible to light. Cold, ravenous and with nowhere dry to lie down, soldiers had tried to sleep on top of their equipment. Hanno had even seen men dozing on the corpses of dead mules.
Going to Hannibal hadn’t just been about regaining his general’s approval, therefore. Anything had to be better than trudging through a mire without end, in a world that consisted of only sky and water. Hanno hadn’t been surprised when almost every spearman in his phalanx had volunteered to go with him. In the end, he’d taken twenty of the strongest soldiers. He would have preferred to leave Mutt in charge, but the dour officer would not be left behind. ‘I lost you once before, and I’m not having it happen again,’ he’d muttered. ‘And I owe you one.’
Hanno glanced at Mutt again, deciding that his comment a moment before had been genuine, not sardonic. During a clash with a Roman patrol before reaching Victumulae, he had saved his second-in-command’s life. He hadn’t done it to ensure Mutt’s loyalty, but the fact that that had been one of the results felt good. Hanno determined to live up to Mutt’s devotion. He had to prove himself to Sapho too.