‘My brother, the oenophile! Best not drink too much tonight, though,’ Sapho advised.
Hanno paused, the amphora at his lips. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘You might need a clear head tomorrow.’
I knew it. ‘Why tomorrow?’ he repeated stupidly.
‘It could be the next day.’ Sapho squinted at him. ‘Aren’t you going to ask what Hannibal wants us to do?’
‘Tell me,’ said Hanno in a monotone.
‘Be more enthusiastic, can’t you?’ Sapho waited, but Hanno did not reply. ‘Hannibal is the best leader we have by a long shot. He’s smart, and he’s a great tactician. And the soldiers love him.’
‘I know that. I love him too, you know.’ Even if he orders us to do terrible things. Hanno steeled himself. Once they’d slain a few families, it wouldn’t be that bad, surely? ‘Where’s the village, or the estate he wants me to pillage?’
‘Eh?’
Hanno felt as confused as Sapho looked. ‘Is that not what he wants me to do?’
Sapho’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ah. I see why you were being funny. You thought I’d come to order you out with the patrols which attack the local farms?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Hanno awkwardly.
‘You might find things like that distasteful, little brother, but the day will come when you have to do them,’ warned Sapho. ‘And when it arrives-’
‘I’ll do it,’ retorted Hanno savagely. ‘I follow Hannibal, to whatever end, like you.’
Sapho studied him for a moment. ‘Good.’
‘So what is it then?’ asked Hanno, keen to change the subject.
‘It’s something far better than burning down some hay barns and killing a few civilians.’ Sapho’s manner grew conspiratorial. Although there was no one nearby, he leaned in close. ‘Remember Zamar?’
‘Of course.’ The Numidian officer had led the patrol that had come upon Hanno as he made his way towards Hannibal’s army more than six months before. They had fought together since as well.
‘Today he and his men were scouting to the front of the column when they found a good ambush site. When Hannibal heard about it, he rode out to see it for himself. Upon his return, he called his senior officers together, and then a few others. Bostar and I were among those.’
A stranger would have missed the change in Sapho’s inflection as he mentioned Bostar, but not Hanno. The pair of them are still fighting, he thought wearily.
A night bird called as it skimmed over the waves, some distance out into the lake. The sound was eerie. The hairs on Hanno’s neck prickled. ‘What did Hannibal say?’
‘You’re interested now, eh?’ Sapho’s teeth flashed in the darkness.
‘Damn right. Are we going to fight?’
‘About two miles from here, a high ridge comes down to within a mile of the shore. It forms a narrow kind of “entrance” to the land beyond. If you continue eastwards, it opens out again, in a hemi-lunate shape. The area isn’t large, though, and it’s fringed to the north by the hills. The road follows the shoreline until it comes to another pinch point in a defile some miles further on. There’s ample space to deploy our army on the reverse slopes of the elevated ground. We will all be hidden from view except the Gauls, in the centre. Hannibal wants them to be visible to the Romans if they march through the entrance. A decoy, to draw them further in.’
‘My gods,’ breathed Hanno. ‘If this succeeds, they’ll be caught like fish in a trap.’
‘I like the analogy. And there will be nowhere for the fish to go, except into the lake, where they belong!’ Sapho laughed.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Hanno eagerly.
‘The entire army will march through the entrance in the morning. Each section will take up their allotted position as fast as possible, in case the Romans decide to try and catch up.’
‘That’s unlikely, surely? They’re at least a day behind.’
‘I know. The Romans might well not march in until the day after tomorrow, but Hannibal wants nothing left to chance.’
It made sense. Hanno nodded. ‘If the Gauls are in the centre, where will we be standing?’
‘On the left flank, with the slingers. Every last man in the cavalry will be on the right, ready to sweep down and cut off the Romans’ route of retreat.’
‘It’s bloody brilliant. Hannibal is a genius!’
‘Let’s drink to him, and to a great victory,’ said Sapho with true feeling.
Taking turns with the amphora, they toasted each other solemnly. Hanno forgot all about swimming. He hadn’t been this excited since before the Trebia. If Hannibal’s plan worked, Rome would receive its second severe beating in a period of six months. That augured well for the future. He also felt a new kinship with his oldest brother. In normal circumstances, he would have expected Bostar to seek him out with the news, but instead it had been Sapho. Their relationship had always been awkward, but Hanno determined to try harder. There was no reason that he couldn’t be friends with Sapho as well as Bostar. Perhaps he could even bring them together.
But first, there was a battle to win.
An image of Quintus came, bringing with it a sense of melancholy. Hanno shoved it away, more easily than he had before. He wouldn’t meet his former friend during the fighting. If he did, he would do what was necessary.
Quintus stood up a little, but he was careful to keep his body hidden. He peered down the slope, which was covered in a mixture of holm oak, strawberry trees and juniper bushes. The strong, resinous scent of turpentine trees laced the air. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the temperature was stifling. In the still air, the churring of the cicadas was deafening. Quintus liked hearing it. The sound reminded him of home, but it also meant that the section of road below was empty of life. Only madmen and Carthaginians travelled at this hour. And velites, he thought with a trace of sarcasm.
His gaze moved to the estate that lay on the flat ground to the west. He would have expected to see slaves working the fields, but the thin columns of smoke that rose from the huddle of buildings just visible in the distance told their own story. Like all the other dwellings in the surrounding area, they had been attacked and burned by the enemy in the previous couple of days. More than once, Quintus had seen what the Carthaginians had done. Men, women, children: no one was being spared. Even the dogs and poultry were slaughtered. He wondered if Hanno had taken part in any of the atrocities. Of course not. Whether he had or hadn’t was immaterial. Plenty of his fellows had. Angered, Quintus ducked back down.
Rutilus and the short man with jug ears, who was universally known as ‘Urceus’, meaning ‘jar’, were squatting on their haunches to his left. On his other side were two more of his comrades. All four had strips of wolf skin tied around their simple bowl helmets. It was a proud tradition among the velites and purportedly helped the officers to make out who was fighting well. Quintus hadn’t earned the right to sport one yet — that would come after his first battle.
‘See anything?’ asked Urceus.
‘No,’ Quintus replied, annoyed that his hopes for the day — a clash with some Carthaginian scouts — had been soured. ‘Same as usual. They’re long gone.’ He spoke with certainty. They were never ordered to range more than a few miles in front of Flaminius’ army. It did make some sort of sense — to follow the enemy, all they had to do was to move towards the trails of smoke that marked burning properties — but it frustrated the hell out of Quintus.
‘We’ll find the damn guggas eventually. They’ll run out of places to hide,’ said Rutilus in a mock-placatory tone. ‘Be grateful for the times that we don’t encounter them, however. Each one of those days is an extra one to have lived. Being dead goes on for eternity, you know.’
Quintus had grown to appreciate Rutilus’ droll sense of humour. ‘Speak for yourself. I intend to survive this war.’