sight. The countryside might appear empty most of thetime, but they couldn’t let down their guard for a single moment. This was Gaulish land, mostly free of the Rome’s influence and not all of the tribesmen were well disposed towards Hannibal and his troops. They — the Carthaginians — might have kicked the shit out of the Romans at the Trebia a few weeks previously, but enemy patrols might still be about. It paid to be cautious.
So far, their new commander Hanno seemed to be wise to that. It probably helped, thought Mutt, that he had spent a good period of time in captivity if not around here, then in this land of the Romans. Mutt didn’t know the fine details of Hanno’s story, but by this stage, everyone in the damn army had heard of his dramatic escape from slavery and reunion with his father and brothers. Perhaps he’ll tell me about it one day, mused Mutt. If we ever get to know each other. It would be good to have someone he could tell about his nightmare.
‘I never thought I’d miss Iberia so much. There was some cold weather, but not like this. It’s fucking freezing here, all the time,’ said the first man, resuming his diatribe.
‘What d’you expect? It’s the middle of winter,’ replied the second soldier. ‘Spring will come eventually, you know. It always does, or had you forgotten that?’
There were hoots of amusement at this. Mutt’s lips twitched a little.
The first speaker wasn’t to be put off. ‘Smart arse! Maybe it will get warmer, but the natives will still be bloodthirsty savages. The Romans won’t go away either. Give them a month or two and they’ll want another fight. And meanwhile, we’ve got bugger all in the way of food.’
Mutt had been with the phalanx for more than ten years, and second-in-command for nearly three. He knew the identity of the main complainant without having to look. Ithobaal was a dependable spearman who’d served in the unit for nigh on a decade. He wasn’t short of courage either, Mutt thought, but by Baal Hammon’s beard, he liked to whinge.
Ithobaal’s last statement had hit a nerve too. The disgruntled comments began to fly thick and fast. ‘How long are we going to be on half rations? That’s what I want to know.’ ‘My belly’s permanently clapped to my backbone.’ ‘I can’t sleep at night because Bogu’s bloody stomach rumbles so loudly!’ ‘It’s that or his farts!’
Mutt broke formation from his position in the twenty-fifth rank. Used to him moving about, the spearmen kept marching. The track they were following through the woods was narrow, forcing a column width of four soldiers instead of the normal six. At full strength, the phalanx would have numbered four hundred men, but the brutal journey from Iberia and the recent fighting had seriously depleted their numbers. Less than two hundred spearmen now remained — nearly fifty ranks — and Mutt knew them all. They were his family, his charges, and he would do anything for them, including meting out discipline when it was needed. ‘Ithobaal!’ he shouted.
Tramp, tramp, tramp
. Several more rows went by, and then Mutt saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a straggling beard, Ithobaal was walking on the farleft of his rank. He gave Mutt a wary look, no doubt wondering what he’d done to merit the attention. ‘Sir?’
Mutt matched his pace to that of the men once more. ‘We’re all in this together, aren’t we?’
There was no immediate reply. Mutt wondered if Ithobaal was foolish enough to challenge his authority. There would be one warning, and then he’d charge in like a raging bull. A beating would soon restore Ithobaal’s respect. ‘DID YOU FUCKING HEAR ME, YOU MAGGOT?’
A slightly fearful glance. ‘I did, sir. We’re all in this together.’
‘Which means I’m as damn hungry as you are. As all of your comrades are. I don’t like to be reminded of it, and I don’t think the rest of the lads do either, so stop flapping your lips.
So far, their new commander Hanno seemed to be wise to that. It probably helped, thought Mutt, that he had spent a good period of time in captivity if not around here, then in this land of the Romans. Mutt didn’t know the fine details of Hanno’s story, but by this stage, everyone in the damn army had heard of his dramatic escape from slavery and reunion with his father and brothers. Perhaps he’ll tell me about it one day, mused Mutt. If we ever get to know each other. It would be good to have someone he could tell about his nightmare.
‘I never thought I’d miss Iberia so much. There was some cold weather, but not like this. It’s fucking freezing here, all the time,’ said the first man, resuming his diatribe.
‘What d’you expect? It’s the middle of winter,’ replied the second soldier. ‘Spring will come eventually, you know. It always does, or had you forgotten that?’
There were hoots of amusement at this. Mutt’s lips twitched a little.
The first speaker wasn’t to be put off. ‘Smart arse! Maybe it will get warmer, but the natives will still be bloodthirsty savages. The Romans won’t go away either. Give them a month or two and they’ll want another fight. And meanwhile, we’ve got bugger all in the way of food.’
Mutt had been with the phalanx for more than ten years, and second-in-command for nearly three. He knew the identity of the main complainant without having to look. Ithobaal was a dependable spearman who’d served in the unit for nigh on a decade. He wasn’t short of courage either, Mutt thought, but by Baal Hammon’s beard, he liked to whinge.
Ithobaal’s last statement had hit a nerve too. The disgruntled comments began to fly thick and fast. ‘How long are we going to be on half rations? That’s what I want to know.’ ‘My belly’s permanently clapped to my backbone.’ ‘I can’t sleep at night because Bogu’s bloody stomach rumbles so loudly!’ ‘It’s that or his farts!’
Mutt broke formation from his position in the twenty-fifth rank. Used to him moving about, the spearmen kept marching. The track they were following through the woods was narrow, forcing a column width of four soldiers instead of the normal six. At full strength, the phalanx would have numbered four hundred men, but the brutal journey from Iberia and the recent fighting had seriously depleted their numbers. Less than two hundred spearmen now remained — nearly fifty ranks — and Mutt knew them all. They were his family, his charges, and he would do anything for them, including meting out discipline when it was needed. ‘Ithobaal!’ he shouted.
Tramp, tramp, tramp
. Several more rows went by, and then Mutt saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a straggling beard, Ithobaal was walking on the farleft of his rank. He gave Mutt a wary look, no doubt wondering what he’d done to merit the attention. ‘Sir?’
Mutt matched his pace to that of the men once more. ‘We’re all in this together, aren’t we?’
There was no immediate reply. Mutt wondered if Ithobaal was foolish enough to challenge his authority. There would be one warning, and then he’d charge in like a raging bull. A beating would soon restore Ithobaal’s respect. ‘DID YOU FUCKING HEAR ME, YOU MAGGOT?’
A slightly fearful glance. ‘I did, sir. We’re all in this together.’
‘Which means I’m as damn hungry as you are. As all of your comrades are. I don’t like to be reminded of it, and I don’t think the rest of the lads do either, so stop flapping your lips.
Similar Books
