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.’
Praxus resumed his pacing and Fabricius left him to it. ‘Worrying about it won’t do any good. This fool won’t be able to stop the rumours either. He probably started half of them,’ he muttered to Quintus before closing his eyes. ‘Wake me up if there’s any news.’
Quintus did his best to stay alert, but it wasn’t long before he too grew deliciously drowsy. If Praxus wanted his fireside chairs back, he could bloody well wake them up, Quintus thought as sleep claimed him.
Some time later, they were woken by a sentry clattering in, shouting that the consul had arrived at the gates. It seemed a miracle, but as many as ten thousand legionaries were with him. Quintus found himself grinning at his father, who winked back. ‘Told you,’ said Fabricius. Praxus’ miserable demeanour also vanished, and he capered about like a child. His sense of self-importance returned with a vengeance. ‘Longus will have need of my quarters,’ he declared loftily. ‘You’d best leave at once. One of my officers can find you rooms.’ He didn’t give a name.
Fabricius’ top lip lifted at the sudden return of the other’s courage, and his bad manners, but he got up from his chair without protest. Quintus did likewise. Praxus barely bothered to say goodbye. Fortunately, the officer who’d initially brought them from the gate was still outside, and upon hearing their story, agreed to let them share his quarters.
The three hadn’t gone far before the heavy tramp of men marching in unison came echoing down the narrow street towards them. Torchlight flickered off the darkened buildings on either side. A surge of adrenaline shot through Quintus’ tired veins. He glanced at his father, who looked similarly interested. Quintus’ lips framed the word ‘Longus’? His father nodded. ‘Stop,’ he requested. The officer complied, as eager as they to see who it was. Within a few moments, they could make out a large party of legionaries — triarii — approaching. The soldier at the outside edge of each rank carried a flaming torch, illuminating the rest quite well.
‘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.
