‘You’re right,’ said Quintus at last. ‘Our troops are better fed, and better armed than Hannibal’s. We outnumber the Carthaginians too.’
‘We just need the right opportunity,’ declared Cincius.
‘That will come,’ said Calatinus. ‘All the recent omens have been good.’
Quintus grinned. It was impossible not to feel enthused by his friends’ words, and the recent change in their fortunes. As always when Quintus thought of the enemy, an image of Hanno popped into his mind. He shoved it away.
There was a war on.
Friendship with a Carthaginian had no place in his heart any longer.
Several days passed, and the weather grew dramatically worse. The biting wind came incessantly from the north, bringing with it heavy showers of sleet and snow. Combined with the shortened daylight, it made for a miserable existence. Hanno saw little of either his father or brothers. The Carthaginian soldiers huddled in their tents, shivering and trying to stay warm. Even venturing outside to answer a call of nature meant getting soaked to the skin or chilled to the bone.
Hanno was stunned, therefore, by the news that Sapho brought one afternoon. ‘We’ve had word from Hannibal!’ he hissed. ‘We move out tonight.’
‘In weather like this?’ asked Hanno incredulously. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Maybe.’ Sapho grinned. ‘If I am, though, so too is Hannibal. He has ordered Mago himself to lead us.’
‘You and Bostar?’
Sapho nodded grimly. ‘Plus five hundred skirmishers, and a thousand Numidian cavalry.’
Hanno smiled to cover his disappointment at not also being picked. ‘Where are you going?’
‘While we’ve been hiding in our tents, Hannibal has been scouting the whole area. He discovered a narrow river that runs across the plain,’ Sapho revealed. ‘It’s bounded on both sides by steep, heavily overgrown banks. We have to lie in wait there until the opportunity comes — if it comes — to fall upon the Roman rear.’
‘What makes Hannibal think that they’ll cross the river?’
Sapho’s expression grew fierce. ‘He plans to irritate them into doing so.’
‘That means using the Numidians,’ guessed Hanno.
‘You’ve got it. They’re going to attack the enemy camp at dawn. Sting and withdraw, sting and withdraw. You know the way they do it.’
‘Will it drag the whole Roman army out of camp, though?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I wish I’d been chosen too,’ said Hanno fervently.
Sapho chuckled. ‘Save your regrets. The whole damn enterprise might be a waste of time. While Bostar and I are freezing our balls off in a ditch, you and the rest of the army will be warmly wrapped up in your blankets. And if a battle does look likely, it’s not as if you’ll miss out, is it? We’ll all have to fight!’
A grin slowly spread across Hanno’s face. ‘True enough.’
‘We’ll meet in the middle of the Roman line!’ declared Sapho. ‘Just think of that moment.’
Hanno nodded. It was an appealing image. ‘The gods watch over you both,’ he said. I must go and speak to Bostar, he thought. Say goodbye.
‘And you, little brother.’ Sapho reached out and ruffled Hanno’s hair, something he hadn’t done for years.
Quintus was in the middle of a fantasy about Elira when he became aware of someone shaking him. He did his best to stay asleep, but the insistent tugging on his arm proved too much. Opening his eyes irritably, Quintus found not Elira, but Calatinus crouched over him. Before he could utter a word of rebuke, he heard the trumpets sounding the alarm over and over. He sat bolt upright. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Our outposts beyond the camp perimeter are under attack. Get up!’
The last of Quintus’ drowsiness vanished. ‘Eh? What time is it?’
‘Not long after dawn. The sentries started shouting when I was in the latrines.’ Calatinus scowled. ‘Didn’t help my diarrhoea, I can tell you.’
Smiling at the image, Quintus threw off the covers and began scrambling into his clothes. ‘Have we had any orders yet?’
‘Longus wants every man ready to leave a quarter of an hour ago,’ replied Calatinus, who was already fully dressed. ‘I’ve been shouting at you to no avail. The others are readying their mounts.’
‘Well, I’m here now,’ muttered Quintus, kneeling to strap on his sandals.
Before long, they had joined their comrades outside, by their tethered horses.
It was bitterly cold, and the north wind was whipping vicious little flurries of snow across the tent tops. The camp was in uproar as thousands of men scrambled to get ready. It wasn’t just the cavalry who had been ordered to prepare themselves for battle. Large groups of velites were being addressed by their officers. Unhappy-looking hastati and principes — the men who stood in the legion’s first two ranks — left their breakfasts to burn on their campfires as they ran to get their equipment. Messengers hurried to and fro, relaying information between different units. On the battlements, the trumpeters kept up their clarion call to arms. Quintus swallowed nervously. Was this the moment he had been waiting for? It certainly felt like it. Soon after, he was relieved to see his father’s figure striding towards them from the direction of the camp’s headquarters. Excited murmurs rippled through the surrounding cavalrymen. As one, they stiffened to attention.
‘This is no parade. At ease,’ said Fabricius, waving a hand. ‘We ride out at once. Longus is deploying our entire cavalry force, as well as six thousand velites. He wants this attack thrown back across the Trebia without delay. We’re taking no more nonsense from Hannibal.’
‘And the rest of the army, sir?’ cried a voice. ‘What about them?’
Fabricius smiled tightly. ‘They will be ready to follow us very soon.’
These words produced a rousing cheer. Quintus joined in. He wanted this victory as much as anyone else. The fact that his father hadn’t mentioned Publius must mean that the injured consul agreed with his colleague’s decision, or had been overruled by him. Either way, they weren’t going to sit by and do nothing.
Fabricius waited until the noise had died down. ‘Remember to do everything I’ve taught you. Check your horse’s harness is tightly fastened. Take a leak before you mount up. There’s nothing worse than pissing yourself in the middle of a fight.’ Hoots of nervous laughter met this comment, and Fabricius smiled. ‘Ensure that your spear tip is sharp. Tie the chinstrap on your helmet. Watch each other’s backs.’ He scanned the faces around him with grave eyes. ‘May the gods be with you all.’
‘And with you, sir!’ shouted Calatinus.
Fabricius inclined his head in recognition. Then, giving Quintus a re-assuring look, he made towards his horse.
For the third time since dawn, Bostar scrambled up the muddy slope towards the sentry’s position. More than anything, he wanted to warm up. Unfortunately, the climb wasn’t long enough to shift the chill from his muscles. He glanced down at the steep-sided riverbank below him. It was filled with Mago’s men: 1,000 Numidians and their horses, and 1,000 infantry, a mixture of Libyan skirmishers and spearmen. Despite the fact that the warmly dressed soldiers were packed as tightly as apples in a barrel, it seemed an eternity since they had arrived. In fact, it was barely five hours. Men are not supposed to spend a winter’s night outdoors in this godforsaken land, thought Bostar bitterly. His bones ached at the idea of the warm sunshine that bathed Carthage daily.
Reaching the top of the bank, Bostar crouched down, using the scrubby bushes that regularly dotted the ground as cover. He peered into the distance, but saw nothing. There had been no movement since the Numidian cavalry had quietly passed by, heading for the Roman side of the river. Bostar sighed. It would be hours before anything of importance happened. Nonetheless, he had to keep his guard up. Hannibal had given them the most important task of any soldiers in his army. For what felt like the thousandth time, Bostar slowly turned in a circle, scanning the landscape with eagle eyes.
The watercourse that formed their hiding place was a small tributary of the Trebia, and ran north-south across the plain that lay before the Carthaginian camp. Following Hannibal’s instructions, they had secreted themselves half a mile to the south of the area upon which he wished to fight. The general’s reasons were simple. Behind them, the ground began to climb towards the low hills that filled the horizon. If the Romans took the bait, they were unlikely to march in this direction. It was a good place to hide, thought Bostar. He just hoped that Hannibal’s plan worked, and that they weren’t too far away from the fighting if, or when, the time came to
