Hannibal: Clouds of War (7 page)

Perhaps thirty of the horsemen had reached the other side when the hastatus who’d sneezed earlier convulsed in a new effort not to do so again. Corax was on his feet in a flash; darting over, he shoved a fold of the bottom of his tunic into the man’s face.

Despite the danger, Quintus felt a smile creep on to his face. He saw the same amusement in Urceus’ eyes. The idea of blowing snot on to Corax’s clothing defied belief. Quintus had no doubt that the unfortunate soldier would pay for his mistake later. If he survived the fight, that was.
Gods willing, we both will.

Chooo!
Corax’s attempt to kill the sound of the sneeze failed. The hastatus threw a terrified look at Corax, but the centurion was staring at the road, his jaw clenched.

Quintus’ heart hammered out a new, frantic rhythm. His eyes shot to the enemy troops. So did everyone else’s.

A short rider with a tidy-looking roan was next in line to work his way past the tree. Instead of moving forward, however, he was peering in their direction.

Shit, thought Quintus, he heard it. His gaze moved to Corax, who was as still as a statue.

The short rider glanced again, scowled. He turned to the man behind him. ‘Look over to our left,’ he said in Greek. ‘The branches about twenty paces in, do they seem stacked to you?’

Fuck it!
Quintus’ mouth opened to warn Corax—

‘Ready javelins! Aim high! LOOSE!’ roared the centurion.

Quintus stood, flexed his right arm and lobbed his pilum in one smooth motion. He didn’t try for a particular target. With the enemy soldiers filling the road, there was no need. Forty javelins flashed up into the air with his, a beautiful and deadly sight. Orders rang out from the far side of the fallen tree, and from the bushes over the road. Another shower of
pila
shot up, landing a couple of heartbeats after the first one. The screams from men and horses were just reaching their ears when Corax ordered a second volley. Quintus hurled his javelin skywards, praying that it too found a target. His next moves were reflex: drawing his sword, hefting his shield, muttering yet another prayer. Everyone was doing the same.

‘Open the gaps,’ Corax bawled. ‘Men to the left, move first, then those to the right. Spread out. Hit the bastards, hard. GO!’

Quintus and Urceus were among the first hastati to advance. They had to move single file to the ‘gateway’, which felt slow, too slow. The instant that they were out the other side, however, they fanned out and formed a ragged line. Everyone broke into a loping run. Branches ripped at their faces, and the uneven ground made the footing treacherous, but there was no stopping the charge. The thrill and fear of combat had seized control.

‘ROMA!’ shouted Quintus. Urceus repeated the cry. So did his companions.

‘ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!’ the hastati opposite yelled in reply.

They covered the twenty paces at speed. Quintus’ heart lifted at the scene that greeted them. Everything on the road was chaos. The javelin volleys had had maximum impact on the horses. Riderless mounts barged about, some wounded, some not, but nearly all out of control. A few horses were down, neighing in pain and lashing out with their hooves. A number of riders were still mounted, but there was no space for them to manoeuvre. To their front loomed the holm oak, and to their rear, the mass of infantry.

The cavalrymen were finished as a fighting force. Best to panic the rest of the Syracusans, thought Quintus. If they realised that they outnumbered the hastati, things could go bad, fast. ‘That way!’ He pointed at the enemy foot soldiers.

He led the way; Urceus and half a dozen of their comrades followed.

A pair of cavalrymen jumped into their path, brandishing
kopis
swords. Only one had a shield. Raising his
scutum
, Quintus made to slam it into the shieldless man’s chest. He hadn’t counted on his opponent’s curved kopis blade coming in over the metal rim of his shield. Quintus jerked his left arm up, partly taking the blow on the metal rim of his scutum, but the tip of the kopis still struck the top of his helmet. The force of it buckled his knees. A heartbeat later, the pain arrived, a great wave of it that rushed from the side of his skull, filling his brain with stabbing needles. Reflex, training, the bitter knowledge that if he didn’t keep moving, he’d be dead, kept Quintus from collapsing.

Straightening his legs, he drove forward, hoping that the cavalryman wouldn’t react in time. A metallic clang as his scutum hit the man’s cuirass told him that he hadn’t. The weight of the kopis vanished from his shield, and he was staring down at the cavalryman, who had fallen on to the flat of his back. Naked fear filled the man’s eyes. It’s you or me, thought Quintus harshly, ramming his sword into his enemy’s mouth. In. Twist. Feel the flesh open, the muscles part, the bone grate. Out. Gouts of blood chased his retreating blade. Quintus felt, but didn’t see, the red tide that showered his lower legs and feet. He looked left, right. The other cavalryman was down, savage hacks in his neck and arms evidence of Urceus’ efficiency. A horse with a javelin in one haunch came backing towards them, snorting with fear, but one of the other hastati smacked it with the flat of his sword and it bolted forward again. Then, a moment of calm in the madness.

Quintus touched his helmet where the kopis had hit. He felt a massive dent, but no break.

‘You were fucking lucky there,’ said Urceus. ‘Head sore?’

‘Worse than after a night on the piss,’ replied Quintus ruefully.

‘Can you fight?’

Fury replaced Quintus’ embarrassment. He had to make amends for such a basic mistake, even if he wasn’t quite ready. Had to stick with his comrades. ‘Aye.’

Urceus knew him well enough not to argue. He nodded at the Syracusan infantry. ‘They’re scared, see? Not formed up tight yet. None of our lads have hit them at the front either. Let’s take them. Four wide, two deep. Now!’

Their companions growled in agreement. They formed up, Quintus grateful that his friend had taken charge. He and Urceus stood side by side, each flanked by another man. The remaining four shoved in behind them, where they would provide momentum to their advance and be ready to step into the front rank if needs be.

‘Move,’ ordered Urceus. ‘At the double!’

Skirting the bodies of the cavalrymen and that of a dead horse, they advanced towards the Syracusans. Had every enemy officer been injured or killed? Quintus wondered. Or were they that ill disciplined? None of the infantry were facing them. Instead they had wheeled to meet the attacks of the hastati from both sides of the road. Seeing the opportunity this granted, a swelling roar left his throat. If it went well, this had the potential to rout them in one fell swoop.

It was too good to be true.

A figure in a magnificent Attic helmet turned and saw them. He spat an obscenity, bawled orders. Men began to react, to face Quintus and the other hastati. Within a few heartbeats, a wall of shields had formed. Only ten or so of them, but they were the massive Greek ones, which protected the men behind from eyes to toes, and which locked in with their partners on either side.

‘Nothing for it. We’ve got to charge,’ said Urceus, baring his teeth. ‘If we don’t break the mangy sheep-humpers now, we’ll never do it.’

Quintus’ temples felt as if they were about to burst; he could taste bile at the back of his mouth, but there was no going back. He could not desert his comrades, could not run. Could not betray his father, who had died for Rome. ‘Let’s go.’

‘With us, lads?’ shouted Urceus.

‘Aye!’ came the response.

For all Quintus’ fear, he loved the comradeship in such moments. Loved the feeling of men standing shoulder to shoulder with him, and at his back. They would stay by him because he would do the same for them. If he was to die, this was a better place than any.

Fifteen paces separated them from the Syracusans. It was close enough to see the designs on their shields, the deadly tips on their thrusting spears. As the eight hastati charged, the enemy line wavered, but it did not break. The officer behind continued to roar encouragement. Quintus hated him in that moment. A leader like that made the difference between men standing and running. This one was far beyond their reach, though. He’d be the death of them. Spears had a greater reach than
gladii
.

Thirteen paces. Ten.

Astonishment overcame Quintus as a javelin arced down from nowhere. It took the Syracusan officer in the face. His hands reached up to grab at the shaft, but his strength had already gone. He was a dead man, standing. With a horrible choking noise, he fell from sight. A wail of dismay rose from the soldiers around him. The heads of the men in the front rank turned to see what was happening. They moved back an involuntary step.

‘Hit them – NOW!’ It was Corax’s voice.

In the blink of an eye, the balance of power changed. The confidence ebbed from the Syracusans and flowed back into the hastati. It had been Corax who had thrown the javelin, somehow Quintus knew it. The Syracusans would break when they struck them; he knew that too.

As they’d been trained, the hastati slowed down just before meeting the Syracusans. Hit an enemy too fast and you risked losing your footing. All the same, an almighty
crack
went up as they met. For a heartbeat, Quintus was back at another battle, when the sound had been as loud as thunder, when the very ground had trembled. That had been on the fields of blood. Today won’t be like that, he thought fiercely. Break the shield wall, and they’ll run. A spear scythed forward at him, but he ducked behind his shield and it shot over his head. He repeated the move that he’d used on the cavalryman, using the power of his thighs to drive up and at the Syracusan. His opponent rocked back on his heels, but the shields to either side held his one in place. The Syracusan wasn’t ready for Quintus’ sword, however, which Quintus thrust over the top to take him in the neck. Instead of pulling back his right arm, Quintus shoved it forward again, at the same time pushing with his scutum. As the Syracusan died, he could do nothing to stop Quintus from forcing his shield from its position in the wall.

His headache forgotten, Quintus roared a battle cry and drove into the gap. It was an incredibly dangerous thing to do – he’d seen more than one man die by hurling himself at the enemy like this – but the opportunity could not be ignored. To his relief, there were no Syracusans in front of him. All he could see was the backs of two shield walls, the formations that were trying to contain the Roman attacks from each side of the road. In between stood another officer, shouting orders first at one group and then at the other. He hadn’t seen what Quintus had done.

Quintus spun and stabbed an enemy soldier in the back, ramming his blade through the man’s linen cuirass and doubling the size of the hole in the enemy line. Urceus came storming into it as Quintus half turned and cut down the Syracusan who’d been standing on the other side of the man he’d first killed. He had a chance to scan the scene. ‘They’re holding their own against the rest of our lads, but only just.’

‘Whichever lot we hit from behind will break,’ replied Urceus, panting.

‘If that happens, the other group will shatter as well.’

‘Aye.’

A moment later, five of their six comrades arrived, having killed or put to flight the remaining Syracusans. Two were bleeding from minor wounds, but all had fierce grins plastered across their faces.

Quintus laughed. It wasn’t amusement; escaping Death’s grasp did odd things to a man. ‘Ready? One more effort and we’ll nail the bastards’ hides to the wall.’

The hastati roared their bloodlust back at him. Quickly, they formed up again, four wide with the three remaining men behind.

Quintus roared, ‘ROMA!’ and they charged.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

Even with the battle fury running through him, Quintus heard Corax’s whistle. He spat in the direction of the fleeing Syracusans whom he was pursuing, a mob of perhaps thirty men. They were in full flight to the south. Shieldless, weaponless, many not even wearing their helmets, the enemy soldiers did not look back as they ran. Their injured comrades who had fallen were forgotten. Everything was forgotten in their overwhelming desire to get away.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

Quintus’ training kicked in, and he came to a gradual halt. Sanity returned with each heaving breath. Soon he was glad to have been called back. Cutting down the Syracusans had been easy when they’d broken, and for the first few hundred paces of their headlong retreat. Yet a stage had come, as it always did, when chasing men who were no longer encumbered by weapons and armour became a real test of one’s endurance. Quintus was grateful for the extra protection of his mail shirt, but it weighed ten times more than the bronze chest- and backplates that he’d worn as a newly promoted hastatus.

He shouted after his companions who appeared not to have heard the summons. Nearby, Urceus was doing the same. Only a handful of men who needed recalling. They had all been through enough war to know when to call it a day. Everyone knew of soldiers who had pursued so eagerly that they had become isolated and turned on by their prey. And that, Corax had drummed into them, was yet another stupid way to die.

They wandered back up the road, twenty-odd hastati, stripping the dead of water skins and dispatching the badly wounded Syracusans as they went. It was hard to be sure how many enemy infantry lay scattered around, but it was easily a hundred. The cavalrymen had fared even worse. Quintus had seen two or three riders galloping away from the slaughter, but that was it. Despite the sneezing hastatus, the ambush had been a resounding success. Those of the enemy who could walk were herded towards the main ambush site, some distance to the north.

Corax was interrogating a prisoner. He broke off from his questioning with their arrival. The side of his mouth lifted a fraction: it was his excuse for a smile. ‘You heard my whistle?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Quintus.

‘Any fools still chasing the Syracusans?’

‘No, sir.’