‘What’s the whoreson planning?’ mused Corax. ‘He must be aware, like us, that Servilius is marching this way from Ariminum. If he stays where he is, with the lake hemming him against the hills, his army could be crushed.’
‘Knowing that, they’ll probably move off tomorrow, sir,’ Tenner ventured.
Corax barked a laugh. ‘Aye, I dare say you’re right.’ He gave the velites an approving nod. ‘You’ve done well today, all of you. You have earned a drink, and some food in your bellies.’ They rumbled in agreement, and he clicked his fingers. A servant hastened over. ‘Fetch an amphora of my second-best wine and a round of cheese to these lads’ tent lines.’
‘We’re grateful, sir.’ Tenner was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Thank you, centurion,’ the rest chorused.
‘Enjoy it, but don’t stay up too late,’ warned Corax. ‘You’ll need fresh heads in the morning. Flaminius is set on an early start. Dismissed.’
The velites trudged away, their spirits restored by Corax’s generosity. ‘He’s a good officer,’ muttered Quintus. ‘I wouldn’t mind standing in line with him.’
‘He’s just given us some food, not a promotion!’ said Rutilus. ‘It’ll be a year at the earliest, probably two, before you’re even considered for the hastati.’
‘I know, I know.’ Quintus buttoned his lip. Part of the reason he wanted to leave the velites was because of Macerio, whose latest tactic was to spread malicious rumours about him among the men. ‘Crespo pissed in the river. It fouled the water. That’s why men are falling sick.’ ‘Crespo would have fallen asleep on sentry duty if I hadn’t woken the dog up.’ ‘Crespo is a coward. He’ll run the first time we really have to fight the guggas.’ And so on. Quintus was sick of it. Fortunately, most of the men in his section didn’t believe the lies. They had been there during the ambush on the Numidians. But they seemed to have taken root with some of the other velites. If he moved to the hastati, he could start anew. Don’t be stupid. Macerio also stood to be promoted into the legionaries’ ranks. What was to say that they wouldn’t end up in the same unit, where the bullying would start all over again? Quintus clenched his jaw in frustration. It was a moot point anyway, because he was still a veles, and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
‘Forget about everything except that wine and cheese,’ advised Rutilus. ‘That and a dip in the lake before bed.’
Quintus smiled. The idea of filling his belly and, after it, washing off the day’s dust was so appealing that it was easy to obey.
Tomorrow was another day.
Following Hannibal’s orders, Hanno and his men had moved into position when there was scarcely any light in the sky. They and the rest of the Libyan spearmen were the bait in the trap for the Romans. They had been deployed on the slopes of the hill below their camp and across the road where it ran into the defile on the eastern side of the half-moon-shaped plain. The phalanxes were in full sight of anyone approaching from the west, and an open invitation for Flaminius to seek battle. More than an hour had passed since they had blocked the passage east, and the skyline was paling fast. Hanno studied the eastern horizon for the hundredth time. Red, pink and orange mixed in a glorious riot of colour. Normally, he would have taken the time to appreciate such a beautiful dawn. Today, though, his gaze quickly returned to the west.
Sudden delight filled him. No one could have predicted this! Everything was vanishing beneath a blanket of grey. It was as if the Carthaginian gods had decided to act in unison, favouring Hannibal, he thought, watching the thick, oily banks of fog that were creeping in off the lake. Already some of the flat ground had been covered; it would not be long before the low hills were also encased. It was fortunate that the area had been reconnoitred the previous day; that Hannibal had ordered everyone into position so early. By now, the entire army should have been deployed.
Hanno had seen glints from sunlight flashing off metal a few times as the Gauls moved on to the slopes opposite, and the Numidians on to the hills to the north, but that had been it. His guts clenched with excitement and fear. He hardly dared admit it, but he even felt a touch of elation. Before, their ambush might have been revealed if the Romans had sent in scouts in advance of the legions. With the arrival of the fog, however, the enemy had no chance of noticing the waiting Carthaginian soldiers, scouts or not. Don’t be over-confident, he told himself. Everything could still go wrong. If the Gauls did something stupid before the majority of Flaminius’ army had marched through the pinch point, they would only catch a fraction of the enemy’s number in their trap. He prayed that Hannibal’s trust in the Gauls, his most undisciplined men, would be repaid in full. Bostar had told him of the tribal chiefs’ joy at being given such an important task, as they had at the Trebia. To them, the possibility of suffering heavy casualties was as nothing compared to the honour of leading the attack. Yet that didn’t mean some fool among the Gauls wouldn’t give the game away by yelling a war cry too soon.
The gaming pieces were in place. The contest was about to begin. It was pointless worrying about it, but Hanno did anyway. Restless, he walked along the front rank of his spearmen, nodding, smiling, murmuring names, telling them that victory would be theirs. They gave him fierce grins in return. Even Mutt’s doleful face cracked into a smile as he approached. It had been the same since Victumulae. Hanno’s fingers felt under the strip of cloth that protected his neck from the edge of his cuirass. He could trace the outline of the ‘F’ still; he would be able to until his dying day. Perhaps the torture and pain had been worth it. His survival against all the odds at Victumulae had turned him into a sort of good-luck charm for his men, and those of the other phalanxes. Apparently, some of them maintained that he couldn’t be killed. Tanit grant that that be true for today at least, he thought wryly.
‘Ready, sir?’ asked Mutt.
‘As I’ll ever be. This is the worst bit, eh? Waiting.’
‘Aye,’ grumbled his second-in-command. ‘Let’s get it over with and have done.’
Hanno clapped Mutt on the shoulder and moved on. At the edge of his phalanx, he glimpsed Bostar, who was talking to Sapho and their father. Seeing him, they beckoned.
‘Father.’ He nodded at Sapho and Bostar. ‘Brothers.’
Malchus’ gaze moved across the trio. ‘This is a proud day, my sons.’
They all smiled, but Bostar and Sapho did not look at each other.
‘Who’d have thought that we would ever be standing in northern Italy as part of a Carthaginian army?’ asked Malchus. ‘That another Roman army would be about to walk into our trap?’
It did seem a touch unreal, thought Hanno. Not too many months before, he had been a slave. Memories filled his head. Don’t think about Quintus.
‘Don’t tempt the gods, Father,’ said Bostar, glancing at the heavens. ‘We haven’t won yet.’
Sapho eyed his brother derisively. ‘Are you scared we’ll lose?’
Rather than reply, Bostar clamped his jaw. Malchus intervened. ‘Over-confidence is not a quality admired by the gods, it is true. Pride comes before a fall. Far better to ask for victory with humble hearts.’
‘All I ask is that those bloodthirsty Gauls keep silent for long enough, until the Roman vanguard reaches us. We’ll do the rest,’ said Sapho. ‘Eh, brother?’ He aimed a nudge at Hanno.
Don’t try and use me in your fight with Bostar, thought Hanno angrily. ‘I’m sure that all four of us will play our part. Fulfil our duty to Hannibal.’
In the distance, trumpets blared. The hairs on Hanno’s neck prickled. There would be a battle today.
‘They’re coming!’ breathed Bostar.
‘Blindly, into the fog. Baal Hammon be thanked for their arrogance.’ Malchus bared his teeth. ‘Back to your phalanxes. I will see you when it’s over, gods willing.’