‘Make way for the consul!’ shouted an officer at the front.
Quintus sighed with relief. Sempronius Longus had survived. Rome had not lost all its pride.
The triarii scarcely broke step as they passed by. One of the two most important men in the Republic did not wait while a pair of filthy soldiers gaped at him. Especially on a night like this.
Quintus couldn’t stop himself. ‘What happened?’ he cried.
His unanswered question was carried away by the wind.
They gave each other a grim look and resumed their journey. Soon after, they happened upon a group of principes. Desperate to know how the battle had ended, Quintus caught the eye of a squat man carrying a shield emblazoned with two snarling wolves. ‘Did you win?’ he asked.
The princeps scowled. ‘Depends what you mean by that,’ he muttered. ‘Hannibal won’t forget the legionaries who fought at the Trebia in a hurry.’
Quintus and Fabricius exchanged a shocked, pleased glance. ‘Did you turn and fall on the Carthaginian rear?’ asked Fabricius excitedly. ‘Did the allied infantry throw back the elephants and the skirmishers?’
The soldier looked down. ‘Not exactly, sir, no.’
They stared at him, not understanding. ‘What then?’ demanded Fabricius.
The princeps cleared his throat. ‘After breaking through the enemy line, Longus ordered us to quit the field.’ A shadow passed across his face. ‘Our wings had already broken, sir. I suppose he wasn’t certain that we could turn the situation around.’
‘The allied troops?’ Quintus whispered.
The silence that followed spoke a thousand words.
‘Sweet Jupiter above,’ swore Fabricius. ‘They’re dead?’
‘Some may have escaped back to our camp, sir,’ the princeps admitted. ‘Only time will tell.’
Quintus’ head spun. Their casualties could number in the tens of thousands.
His father was more focused. ‘In that case, I think it’s we who will be remembering Hannibal rather than the other way around,’ he observed acidly. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the princeps muttered. He threw a longing glance at his comrades, who were disappearing around the nearest corner.
Fabricius jerked his head. ‘Go.’
In a daze, Quintus watched the soldier scuttle off. ‘Maybe Praxus was right,’ he muttered.
‘Hannibal could be at the gates by dawn.’
‘Enough talk like that,’ his father snapped. His lips peeled back into a feral snarl. ‘Rome does not give up after one defeat. Not with foreign invaders on her soil!’
Quintus’ courage rallied a fraction. ‘What of Hannibal?’
‘He’ll leave us to it now,’ Fabricius declared. ‘He will be content to gather support from the Gaulish tribes over the winter.’
Quintus was relieved by his father’s certainty. ‘And us?’
‘We will use the time to regroup, and to form new legions and cavalry units. One thing Rome and her allies are not short of is manpower. By the spring, the soldiers lost today will all have been replaced.’ And I’ll have won a promotion which will keep the moneylenders at bay. Fabricius grinned fiercely. ‘You’ll see!’
At last Quintus took heart. He nodded eagerly. They would fight the Carthaginians again soon. On equal or better terms. There would be a chance to regain the honour that, in his mind, they had left behind on the battlefield.
Rome would rise again, and wrench victory from Hannibal.