Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Rage filled Hanno, and his hand fell to his sword. Before he could draw it, however, Sapho had stepped past. There was a spear gripped in his fists. Without saying a word, he shoved the blade deep into Flaccus’ groin, below his armour, before ripping it out again. As his victim fell screaming to the ground, Sapho spun around. He aimed his bloody spear tip at Hanno. ‘We’re not here to be friendly with these fucking whoresons,’ he snapped. ‘You and Bostar might have overridden me over releasing two of them, but you’re not setting another one free!’

Hanno pointed grimly at the ford. ‘Go.’

Quintus stared helplessly at Flaccus, who was clutching his wound while blood spurted from between his fingers. There was already a large pool beneath him. We can’t just leave the poor bastard to die, Quintus thought. But what other choice have we?

Fabricius took the initiative. ‘May you meet each other in Elysium,’ he muttered to the cavalrymen. ‘Your family will be told that you died well,’ he said to Flaccus. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he rode towards the river. ‘Come on,’ he hissed at Quintus.

Trying to think of what to say, Quintus took a last lok at Hanno. Rather than meet his gaze, the Carthaginian stared right through him. There was to be no farewell. Gritting his teeth, Quintus followed his father. At once his ears were filled with the cries of the five unfortunate cavalrymen, who were promptly surrounded and dispatched by the clamouring Libyans.

Father and son made their way unhindered to the ford, and into the water.

On the other side, it finally sank in that they had escaped.

A long, shuddering breath escaped Quintus’ lips. Never let me meet Hanno again, he prayed. His former friend would try to kill him: there was no doubt about that. And Quintus realised that he would do the same. As cold misery gripped his heart, he stared back across the river. The Libyans were already marching away. They had left the crumpled forms of the Roman dead on the riverbank. The sight caused Quintus’ shame to soar. Everyone deserved to be buried, or burned on a pyre. ‘Maybe we can retrieve the bodies tomorrow,’ he muttered.

‘We’ll have to try, or I’ll never be able to look Aurelia in the eyes again,’ replied his father. And the moment that the damn moneylenders hear that Flaccus is dead, they’ll be all over me like a rash. He glanced at Quintus. ‘It’s all my damn fault. Flaccus and thirty good men are dead, because I agreed to lead the damn patrol. I should have refused.’

‘It’s not up to you to make tactical decisions, Father,’ Quintus protested. ‘If you’d said no, Publius could have demoted you to the ranks, or worse.’

Fabricius shot Quintus a grateful look. ‘I’m only alive because of you. Helping the Carthaginian to escape and then manumitting him were good decisions. I’m grateful.’

Quintus nodded sadly. His friendship with Hanno might have saved their lives, but this was not the way he’d have wanted it to end. There was nothing he could do to change things, however. Quintus hardened his heart. Hanno was one of the enemy now.

Fabricius rode straight back to the camp, and from there to the consul’s command tent. Leaping from his horse, he threw his reins at one of the sentries and started towards the entrance. Quintus watched miserably from the back of his mount. Publius would not want to speak to a low-ranking cavalryman such as he.

His father stopped by the tent flap. ‘Well?’

‘You want me to come in?’

Fabricius laughed. ‘Of course. You are the sole reason we’re still breathing. Publius will want to hear why.’

Re-energised, Quintus jumped down and joined his father. The sentries at the entrance, four sturdy triarii – veterans – wearing highly polished crested helmets and mail shirts, stood to attention as they passed. Quintus’ chest swelled with pride. He was about to meet the consul! Until now, his only interactions with Publius had been to salute and return a polite greeting.

They were ushered through various sections of the tent by a junior officer until they reached a comfortable area lined with carpets. The space was lit by large bronze lamps and contained a desk covered in parchments, ink pots and quills, various iron-bound chests and several luxurious couches. Bolstered by cushions, Publius was reclining on the biggest. His face was still an unhealthy grey colour, and bulky dressings were visible on his injured leg. His son stood attentively behind him, reading from a half-unrolled manuscript. Publius’ eyes opened as they approached, and he acknowledged their salutes. ‘Well met, Fabricius,’ he murmured. ‘Is that your son?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s his name again?’

‘Quintus, sir.’

‘Ah, yes. So, you have returned from your patrol. Did you meet with any success?’