Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Quintus’ abiding memory of their ride to Placentia was the extreme cold. The wind continued to blow from the north, powerful gusts that threatened to dislodge an unwary rider from his seat. While it didn’t succeed in doing that, the chill air penetrated every layer of Quintus’ clothing. Initially, he had been kept warm by the effort and thrill of the chase, and latterly by the fear that kept his heart hammering off his ribs. Now, his sweat-soaked clothes felt as if they were about to freeze solid. Everyone was in the same position, of course, so he gritted his chattering teeth and rode on. After what they’d all been through, silence was best.

Lost in their own private worlds of misery, the twenty cavalrymen brought together by Fabricius simply followed where they were led. Hunched over their horses’ backs, helmetless and with their sodden cloaks pulled tightly around them, they were a pathetic sight. It was as if each one knew that Hannibal’s army had prevailed. Yet in reality, they didn’t, thought Quintus. The battle had still been raging when they’d fled. It was hard to see how, though, with their flanks exposed, Longus’ legions could have seized victory.

Quintus felt like a coward, but his fear had abated enough for him to consider fighting again. He’d ridden to the front of their little column a number of times, intent on remonstrating with his father.

Fabricius had been in no mood for conversation. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled when Quintus had suggested turning back. ‘What do you know of tactics?’ A short while later, Quintus tried again. On this occasion, Fabricius let him have it. ‘Once cavalry break, it’s unheard of for them to rally and return to the fight. You were there! You saw the way they ran, the way I struggled to get this many men to follow me away from the battle. Do you think that in this weather, with night coming, they would turn and face the Gauls and Iberians again?’ He glared at Quintus, who shook his head. ‘In that case, what would you have us both do? Commit suicide by charging at the enemy alone? Where’s the damn point in that? And don’t give me the “death with honour” line. There’s no honour in dying like a fool!’

Shaken by his father’s anger, Quintus hung his head. Now he felt like a total failure as well as a coward.

They rode without speaking for a long time after that.

Fortuna finally lent the weary cavalrymen a hand, guiding them to a spot where the Trebia was fordable. By the time they’d reached the eastern bank, it was nearly dark. As miserable as he’d ever been in his life, Quintus looked back over the fast-flowing water into the gathering gloom. More snow was falling, millions of little white motes that clouded his vision even further. The scene was so peaceful and quiet. It was as if the battlefield had never existed. ‘Quintus.’ Fabricius’ tone was gentler than before. ‘Come. Placentia is still a long ride away.’

Quintus turned his back on the River Trebia. In a way, he realised, he was doing the same on Hanno and his friendship. Feeling hollow inside, he followed his father.

They reached Placentia about an hour later. Quintus had never been so glad to see the walls of a town, and to hear the challenge of a sentinel. The lines of frightened faces on the ramparts above soon distracted him from thoughts of sitting by a fire, however. Word of the battle had arrived before them. Despite the sentries’ fear, Fabricius’ status saw the gate opened quickly. A few barked questions at the officer of the guard revealed that a handful of cavalrymen had made it to the town ahead of them. Their garbled account appeared to have the entire army wiped out. There had been no sign of Longus or the infantry yet, which had only fuelled the fears of the soldiers who were manning the defences. Fabricius was incensed by the harm that the unsubstantiated reports would have already caused and demanded to see the most senior officer in the town.

Not long after, both men were wrapped in blankets and drinking warm soup in the company of no less than Praxus, the garrison commander. The rest of their party had been taken off to be quartered elsewhere. A stout individual with a florid complexion, Praxus barely fitted into his dirty linen cuirass, which had seen better days. He paced up and down nervously while father and son thawed out by a glowing cast-iron brazier. At length, he could hold in his concerns no longer. ‘Should we expect Hannibal by morning?’ he demanded.

Fabricius sighed. ‘I doubt it very much. His soldiers will be in need of rest as much as we are. You shouldn’t give up on Longus just yet either,’ he advised. ‘Last I saw, the legionaries were holding their own.’

Praxus winced. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Where are they then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fabricius replied curtly. ‘But Longus is an able man. He will not give up easily.’