In the space of an hour, the place had been ransacked. The sheds had been emptied entirely and Hanno, Sapho or their officers had ensured that the most valuable items were taken from the residential quarters. The mules had been loaded up with sacks of grain, sides of cured meat and hundreds of amphorae full of wine and oil. Only a handful of soldiers had had to be disciplined for drinking some of the wine. Hanno suspected that a number of female slaves had been raped, but he had seen no direct evidence so there had been no point in trying to do anything about it. The purpose of the mission was to gather supplies and return safely with them, not to concern himself with the plight of a few unfortunate women.
Satisfied that there was no pursuit, Hanno hurried back to his position at the front of his phalanx. The road was narrow, but his troops could march six abreast, which satisfied him: wide enough for them to fight if needs be, as well as to manoeuvre. Clouds of exhaled breath billowed above the files of marching soldiers. Frost crunched beneath their sandals. Mail shirts jingled, spear shafts knocked off other men’s shields. Although no one had given the order to do so, conversation was muted. Still unused to their new appearance, which was similar to that of Roman legionaries, Hanno studied them as he passed by. Most were wearing their original conical bronze helmets, a small but pleasing detail. As usual he followed his father’s advice and offered greetings here, gave out praise there, laughed at the ribald jokes that were being told. Unsurprisingly, spirits were high. Hanno was grateful for that (although he was careful not to allow it to take control) for it was infectious and helped lift his own mood. He had been keen the day before, but now that he was in the situation, his nerves were jangling. It was commonplace for their foraging parties to be attacked, and not unheard of for them to suffer heavy casualties. He would not relax until they reached the Carthaginian camp at Gerunium. And watching the file of laden-down mules ambling along before them, Hanno knew that would not come to pass until near sundown.
‘See anything, sir?’ asked Mutt.
‘No.’
‘Happy?’
Hanno glanced at Mutt, wondering if his dour second-in-command felt any of the misgivings he did. ‘Not entirely,’ he said in an undertone.
‘Thinking about the river, sir?’
‘Among other things, yes. That would be the best place to attack us.’
‘It would, sir. All being well, nothing like that will happen.’ Here, a characteristic sigh. ‘It doesn’t hurt to wish that the cavalry are as alert as they were on the outward journey, though. If they are, they’ll soon root out any nasty surprises.’
Hanno grunted, wishing that the cavalry captain, a swarthy man whom he hadn’t met until that morning, were Zamar. Stop thinking like that, he told himself. The fellow must be more than capable, or Sapho would not have chosen him.
‘Never thought I’d say this, but the cold weather has done us a favour,’ commented Mutt, jerking a thumb at the frozen ground. ‘Imagine the dust that we’d be breathing in if this were summertime. For all that this is the position of honour, we would be cursing Sapho for taking the vanguard.’
Surprised by this outburst, for Mutt often went miles without saying a word, Hanno smiled. ‘True enough, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Marching in the cold isn’t so bad, eh?’ He tapped his scutum and his bronze cuirass with the shaft of his spear. ‘All this doesn’t feel as heavy as it does in Africa.’
‘Careful, sir,’ warned Mutt. ‘You’ll be turning into a bloody Roman next.’
‘There isn’t much chance of that happening,’ said Hanno with a sour chuckle. He rubbed at the base of his neck. ‘It was a Roman who gave me this, remember? I will never forget that, nor will I stop seeking revenge for it until the day I die. If I’m blessed, it will be Pera, but any other Roman will do.’
‘Sorry, sir. I had forgotten,’ said Mutt, with a look of respect.
Hanno nodded. Deep inside, his conviction was not quite as absolute when it came to Quintus and, more particularly, Aurelia, but he was not going to admit that to a soul. The chances of him ever being tested on it were slim to none, which meant that he could wholly concentrate on two things: exacting retribution from every other Roman who came within reach of his sword — something he positively looked forward to — and doing his duty, which was to fight for Hannibal and Carthage. He would do that until the very last drop of blood drained from his veins. Pera’s torture had not done that to Hanno. There were other, much older reasons for his loathing of Rome. Throughout his childhood, his father had inculcated into him the details of every defeat suffered against the Republic in the first great struggle between it and Carthage. The loss of that twenty-three-year war, as well as control of the Mediterranean and Sicily, had been immensely humiliating. Yet Rome had not been content to leave it at that, forcing Carthage to pay immense reparations as further punishment. More evidence of the Romans’ perfidy had come a few years after the first war’s end, when Hanno’s people had been coerced into ceding Sardinia and Corsica to Rome as well. Yet with a little luck, there would be no fighting today. Hanno scanned the horizon to either side once more, but saw nothing. Despite his wish to kill the enemy, escorting the mules and their precious cargo back to the camp was more important than adding a few more casualties to the list of the Roman dead. Bringing back the grain and proving to Hannibal that he was capable was what counted.
Time passed, and the patrol edged its way south towards the river that separated them from the rest of the army. An air of anticipation became palpable. The pace picked up a little, even among the mules. It was as if they sensed that once across the watercourse, they would be safe, thought Hanno. Roman soldiers had not been seen on the far bank — the Carthaginian side — for some time, and with good reason. Squadrons of Numidian cavalry patrolled the area daily, ensuring that any enemy forces were discovered and wiped out. Hanno could feel his soldiers’ excitement growing; his spirits also rose. Once the mission had been accomplished, there was no way that Hannibal could fail to acknowledge what Sapho and he had done. Perhaps this expedition would fully restore him to his general’s favour? He had felt that Hannibal’s poor opinion of him was easing, but at a slower rate than Hanno liked.
The column came to a sudden halt. It was perhaps a mile from the river. Hanno chafed with impatience as they waited for information. Soon a rider brought the expected news that Sapho’s phalanx had reached the bank. A small number of his men had begun to cross; the remainder were guarding the approach to the water, where the mules were being gathered by their handlers. It would not be long, said the messenger, before the mules also began to enter the ford. Hanno and his men were to act as a rearguard until the last of the vital supplies had been transported to the other side.
‘What are you to do?’ Hanno asked, hoping that some of the cavalry at least would remain on this bank to act as his eyes and ears.
‘The bulk of us have been ordered across the river, sir,’ replied the rider apologetically. ‘I am to remain with you as a messenger; so too are five of my comrades. They’ll be here any moment.’
This development was unsurprising — Hannibal’s horsemen were among his most valuable troops and therefore exposed to as little risk as possible — but that didn’t stop Hanno’s stomach from clenching. Without scouts on their flanks and to their rear, they had to remain in their current position, blind. He mightn’t have minded as much if there hadn’t been trees pressing in on both sides. Bare of leaves, they afforded little shelter for potential ambushers, but their effect was still to funnel the Carthaginians together more closely than he liked. ‘Very good,’ he said with an attempt at nonchalance. ‘Tell Sapho that we’ll withdraw gradually as the mules go across. Order your companions to ride back along the road for a distance and make sure that there has been no pursuit.’