Iron Winter

52

Fabius walked before his troops, this unit of scrubby reserves. Caught unawares, half of them were barefoot and none wore their helmets or armour. But they raised their spears and swords and yelled a welcome for their commander.

Fabius wore an iron breastplate over a scarlet tunic, with a plumed helmet of bronze and a purple cloak thrown back over his shoulders — but it was the purple of the Roman kings, not the Carthaginian shade. He had a full beard and moustache cut in what was apparently the Roman style. His legs and arms were bare, despite the chill of the day. He was not tall, not handsome, but he was stocky, he looked strong as a bull, and his face bore one deep scar that told of his own experience in the field. Behind him walked his staff, his senior commanders in their own armour and cloaks, and a couple of civilian scribes. The other commanders, Carthaginians all, looked with disdain on the reservists before them. But Fabius grinned widely, and when his glance fell briefly on Nelo, even a Northlander conscript swelled with pride.

As the cheers died down, somebody called out cheekily from the Carthaginian ranks, ‘What’s it like to lose a war, then, sir?’

‘Ha!’ Fabius stopped dead, hands on hips, and scanned the ranks. ‘We’ve got a historian, have we? Who’s your sergeant?’

Gisco stepped forward. ‘Sir. The man is called Suniatus. Tough sort from the back streets. More mouth than brains if you know what I mean. I’ll sort him out later-’

‘You won’t, you know. Because he asked a fair question. Who’s Suniatus? You? I’ll tell you what it’s like to lose a war. You know why I’ll tell you? Because I’ll promise you something. Unless I tell you, you’ll never know, not you or you or you, because no Carthaginian is ever going to learn what it’s like to lose a war, not while there’s breath in my body to lead you, that’s what I promise you, that’s what I promise!’

The end of this invective was drowned out by cheers, and Nelo, borne along, joined in.

‘A boy from the streets, eh?’ Fabius eyed Suniatus again. ‘We’ve all had our journeys. I’m from the back streets of Rome myself. When I was a boy I sold pretty pebbles in the forum by day, and fought to stay alive by night. Yet here I am, standing before you now. Some of you have come even further. Where’s the Northlander?’

Nelo was frozen with shock. Those around him had to shove him out of the line. He stood shivering, exposed.

But Fabius’ smile was like the sun. ‘Here we stand, a Northlander, a Roman, and my good friend Suniatus the historian from Carthage. But wherever we’re from, whatever gods we follow, we’re here, together.

‘And I’ll tell you this. It’s a special war we’re here to fight, when the Hatti come, thick as a swarm of locusts. A war like none other in history. Because this is a war that will end history. It’s not about glory or the ambitions of kings or booty or even about our gods. It’s about who lives and who dies — as simple as that.

‘The world is ending, you know that, you’ve seen the winter close its fist on the land. And whoever loses this war will end with it. But whoever wins will build a new world, when the sun returns once more. That’s what I want you to remember when the Hatti come, as you whet your blades and polish your armour. You are the last warriors, fighting the last war in the world. And you will fight to win!’

Again the men cheered at these terrifying, inspiring words.

Still Nelo stood before this formidable man, trying not to tremble.

The general said more softly, ‘A Northlander, eh? You folk dismay the likes of us — oh, dismiss your men, Sergeant. Not you, Northlander. Do you know why you dismay us?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Because of your cursed history. Such a weight of it, as massive as your Wall, or so I’m told as I’ve never seen it, which hangs around the neck of the world like a slave’s shackle. And makes the likes of us, Latin and Carthaginian, look like children at your feet. Well, that’s all to be scrubbed away by the ice, isn’t it? Leaving the world bare, and ready for a new race to build a new world, fit for the gaze of the gods.’ An impulse seemed to strike him. ‘This is the same Northlander who’s the artist, is he, Gisco?’

‘He is, sir.’

‘Oh, don’t look shocked, boy; a good sergeant knows all his men’s secrets, and their hiding places. I think Gisco is proud of you, in his way. I was taken by the scribbles he showed me, I must say.

‘Listen to me, Northlander. I think I have an interesting assignment for you. I want you to join my staff. You can be my official artist. You’ll find me an unusual sort of soldier. Like my good friend Suniatus over there I fancy myself as something of a historian. I want future generations to witness what’s to be done, here on the plain before Carthage. And it’s through your eyes, perhaps, that they will do that witnessing. Hmm. I don’t suppose you have any epic poets hiding in your ranks, do you, Sergeant? Never mind, never mind.’ He walked on, turning to his aides. ‘What’s next?’

When they had gone Nelo just stood there, staring after the Roman.

It was Gisco who broke the spell. ‘Well, get a move on, lad, what are you waiting for? You heard the general. Pack up your kit and go after him. And don’t forget your crayons.’