‘No Latin,’ said the Gaulish leader, spitting a copious lump of phlegm into the mud. He jerked a thumb at the man to his left, a younger warrior with blond hair. ‘Him. Latin. Yes.’
Hanno half bowed. ‘I thank you and your companions for driving off that war party,’ he said in Latin.
‘You speak your enemy’s tongue?’ The blond warrior’s tone was surprised.
‘I do,’ replied Hanno, smiling. ‘As do you.’
‘My father sent me to Placentia to learn to read and write,’ said the warrior resentfully. ‘I had to study Latin as well.’
‘I speak it because I was once slave to a Roman family,’ revealed Hanno.
Mutt was grateful for the couple of years that he’d spent crewing a merchant vessel before he’d joined the army. One of his oarmates had been a friendly Latin. During the long days of rowing, they had taught one another how to get by in their respective languages. His Latin was rusty, but if Mutt concentrated, he could understand most of what was being said.
The blond warrior looked surprised. ‘And now you follow your leader, Hannibal, to war.’
‘That’s right. I am on patrol with my men.’
You are heading for Victumulae?’
‘We were, until we were ambushed. Do you know who our attackers were?’
‘Cenomani.’
At once things became clearer for Mutt. Although there were Cenomani serving with the other Gauls in their army, Mutt knew, until very recently, some members of the tribe had also fought for Rome. Clearly, their attackers still wanted to do so.
‘Many Gauls have joined our army,’ Hanno declared. ‘Boii and Insubres for the most part, yet there are some Cenomani also. Not those ones, obviously.’
Mutt didn’t like the scowl the blond warrior gave by way of reply, nor the way his leader reacted to the mention of the first tribes. Gods, let us not make enemies of them because of a tribal blood feud, he prayed. The leader barked a few words at the blond Gaul in their own language.
‘Our people have little love for either the Boii or Insubres,’ said the blond warrior haughtily.
‘We can’t all get along with everyone. I quarrel with my own brothers for instance,’ said Hanno lightly, relieving Mutt. ‘Excuse my ignorance, for I know little of this land. If not Boii, Insubres or Cenomani, what people are you?’
‘We are Cenomani, like those who ambushed you,’ came the proud reply.
‘I see,’ said Hanno calmly. ‘And are you friend or foe to Rome?’ Under his breath, he added to Mutt, ‘Be ready to order the men to fight.’
‘Sir.’ Mutt watched the blond warrior closely, praying that it didn’t come to that. Even if they managed to get away — bearing in mind that the Gauls probably outnumbered them — their losses would be heavy.
‘Rome is our enemy, as is the Cenomani clan who ambushed you. Those tribesmen had been raiding our lands.’
Mutt heard Hanno let out a long, slow breath of relief. He felt the same way.
‘The Romans have always been our foes,’ declared the blond warrior in a loud voice. He spat a few words in his own language, which made his companions shake their fists and shout what could only be curses. ‘We loathed what they stood for before Telamon, but since then we have sworn to fight the legions with every last drop of our blood.’
‘That is good news, for so have we,’ said Hanno, stepping forward and offering the leader his hand.
The leader accepted the grip with a broad smile. A barrage of Gaulish followed. It was interspersed with much licking of the lips and slapping of his belly.
‘He’s offering us hospitality, sir,’ said Mutt happily.
‘Yes.’
‘My father wishes to know if you accept his offer of food and drink,’ said the blond Gaul.
‘Of course!’ cried Hanno, performing a half bow to the leader. ‘If we are not too many?’
A dismissive shake of the head. ‘Enough cattle will be slaughtered to feed us all. No man sits at Devorix’s table and goes hungry.’
‘My men will be very grateful,’ declared Hanno. ‘Devorix is your leader’s name?’
‘De-vor-ix,’ interjected the leader, jabbing his own chest.
‘He is my father; more than three hundred warriors call him chieftain,’ said the blond warrior proudly.
Devorix pointed at Hanno with an enquiring look, and said something. ‘What’s your name?’ asked his son.
‘Hanno. And this is Mutt, my second-in-command.’
‘Ha-nno. Mutt. Mutt!’ A huge grin split Devorix’ face.
‘Mutt,’ Mutt repeated, nodding. He pulled a smile. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that ‘Mutt’ was amusing in Gaulish. He had grown up having the piss taken out of him over his name, the full version of which was Muttumbaal. It might mean ‘Gift of Baal’, he thought dourly, but it didn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Still, he liked Mutt well enough, even if that made men laugh too.
‘I am Aios. You are welcome to our lands,’ said the blond warrior.
‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno, visibly relaxing.
‘We have had word of your army. I assume that it — and you — are marching on Victumulae because you need the grain within its walls.’
‘We need it badly,’ answered Hanno with a smile. ‘Tens of thousands of mouths require a lot of feeding.’
‘Come. Our village is not far, perhaps five miles down the track. There is grain — and wine — aplenty there for your men, for one night at least. Our druid can also treat your wounded.’
‘We are honoured by your hospitality,’ averred Hanno. Mutt echoed his words, but inside he was still not sure if these tribesmen were trustworthy. Once a man had consumed a bellyful of wine, he tended to forget the thought of treachery or a knife between the ribs.
As Devorix and Aios waited, Hanno issued his soldiers with orders to gather the wounded and slain. Everyone knew how to fashion makeshift litters for the wounded using two spears with a cloak tied between. But even their dead — four men — were to be carried, Hanno commanded. They could be buried near the tribesmen’s village.
When finished, he turned to Mutt. ‘Despite their friendly words, we must stay on our guard,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The men must not drink too much later.’
That will be easier said than done, thought Mutt. They’ll be like horses that haven’t drunk all day being presented with a stream. He’d have to lay down the law to them in no uncertain terms. Few things made soldiers behave as well as the threat of a good beating. That, and the promise that any loot they took would be forfeit — to him.
Most of the warriors faded away into the trees. Mutt assumed that they were making their way on different paths. He took heart. This was more evidence that the tribesmen did not mean them harm. A short time later, the Libyans set out with Devorix and Aios, and their two companions.
By the time that they had nearly reached the Gauls’ village, Mutt had decided that if Devorix was planning to murder them, he was doing an admirable job of concealing it. The chieftain had talked all the way, impatiently waiting each time Aios translated his words. If Devorix was to be believed, he was merely waiting until the Carthaginian army reached the area before lending his support to Hannibal.
As yet, they had not mounted an open attack on Roman troops from Victumulae, Aios had reported, because their settlement lay too close to the town. ‘When word came of what had happened at the Trebia, another clan of our tribe massacred a Roman patrol. A few legionaries got away, however, brought back word of what had happened,’ Aios had said. ‘A day later, the commander of the forces inside Victumulae sent out five hundred soldiers. They razed the village to the ground. Killed everyone, even the livestock and the dogs. Bastards!’
At that point, Devorix had launched into a long and bitter tirade, prompting Aios to explain that his sister, married to the chief of the clan, had been among the dead.
Hanno and Mutt had exchanged a look then that needed no words. This was surely proof that these warriors were on their side.