Hannibal Enemy of Rome (42 page)

Fabricius took a deep breath. ‘What news?’

‘We’ve spotted a group of Numidians, sir. Perhaps two miles away.’

Fabricius went very still. His memories of fighting against the lightly armed African horsemen were exclusively bad. ‘Did they see you?’

The cavalryman grinned. ‘No, sir. We were able to get behind a stand of trees.’

Fabricius hissed in relief. Their mission had escaped discovery - for the moment. ‘How many of them were there?’

‘Perhaps three hundred in total, sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, sir. The decurion said to tell you that there’s a copse about a mile from here that would make a perfect place for an ambush. If you move fast, you could get in place before the Numidians reach it.’

Fabricius’ mouth went dry. Publius had ordered him to avoid confrontation at all costs. How was that possible in this situation, however? To let the enemy cavalry pass while continuing with their own mission would leave his patrol at risk of attack from behind. Aware that everyone’s eyes were on him, Fabricius closed his eyes. ‘Three hundred men, you say?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, sir.’

Fabricius made up his mind. They were 450 strong. Easily enough.
Opening his eyes, he laid a hand to his sword and was pleased by Clearchus’ fierce nod of agreement. ‘Swiftly, then,’ he said. ‘Take us to the copse.’

A short time later, Fabricius found himself in an excellent position overlooking the narrow track they had been following. Thanks to Clearchus’ quick-witted suggestion, the entire patrol had ridden up and out of view well before the far entrance to the stand of trees. The trap would be sprung long before the Numidians saw their incriminating tracks - he hoped. Fabricius also wished that they could have concealed themselves better, and effected some method of preventing the Numidians from retreating. With time running out, that had not been possible. Instead, they had to place their trust in the gods. He glanced to either side, seeing the same tense expression on his riders’ faces that he felt twisting his own.

The reasons were simple.

Soon, they would set eyes upon the first Carthaginian troops to act in aggression against Rome for more than twenty years. The enemy were not on Sicily either, their historical hunting grounds. The unthinkable had happened, and Fabricius still couldn’t quite take it in. Hannibal was in Gaul, and heading for Italy! Calm down, he thought. Of more relevance right now was the fact that if he and his men weren’t very lucky, the approaching Numidians would spot them and flee before the ambush began.

The following quarter of an hour felt like eternity to Fabricius. Focusing his gaze on the point where the track entered the copse, he ignored the faint jingle of harness around him, and bird song from the branches above. He couldn’t block out all sound, however. A horse stamped a hoof as it grew restless. Someone coughed, drawing a muttered rebuke from the nearest officer. Fabricius glared at the rider responsible before returning his attention to the path. Spotting movement, he blinked. Then his arm shot out, pointing. ‘Pssst!’ he hissed to the man on either side. A judder of anticipation rippled through the line of waiting cavalrymen.

Amazingly, the pair of enemy scouts who emerged into view were only a short distance in front of the main body of their countrymen. The Numidians appeared no different to the men Fabricius had fought in Sicily. Dark-skinned, lithe, athletic, they rode small horses without saddles, bridles or bits. Their loose tunics had large armholes and were pinned at the shoulder and belted at the waist. The Numidians carried javelins and light,
round shields without bosses. Instead of looking around for danger, they were busy talking to each other. Given the empty countryside, thought Fabricius delightedly, it wasn’t that surprising. He’d made similar mistakes himself before, and been lucky enough to get away with it.

In they rode, without so much as a glance up the gentle slopes where the Romans and Massiliotes lay hidden. Fabricius held his breath, counting the distance. Eighty, then fifty paces. The front ranks of Numidians entered the copse, and Fabricius’ mind flashed back to the war in Sicily. They did not look like much, but these were some of the finest cavalry in the world. Sublime horsemen, they were best at skirmishing, and frustrating the enemy with their stinging attacks. He knew from personal experience that the Numidians’ pursuit of a vanquished foe was even more deadly.

It was too soon to sound the charge. As many riders as possible had to come into the copse where the trees would ensnare them. With every passing moment, though, the risk of being discovered grew. Fabricius’ stomach clenched painfully, but he did not stir. By the time two-thirds of the horsemen had ridden in, he saw that his men were on the verge of breaking ranks. He could no longer take the pressure either. ‘Charge!’ he shouted, urging his horse down the slope. ‘For Rome!’ Bellowing with excitement, 250 cavalry followed. An instant later, Clearchus and his Massiliotes emerged from the other side of the track, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Fabricius revelled in the look of stunned disbelief on the Numidians’ faces. It was their job to ambush and fall on an unsuspecting enemy, not the other way around. Surprised, outnumbered and with the advantage of height against them, they instantly wheeled their mounts’ heads and tried to flee. Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, total confusion reigned. Although some of those at the rear were already riding away, the vast majority were trapped by the trees. Horses reared in panic; men shouted contradictory orders at each other. Only an occasional rider prepared to fight. All the rest wanted to do was escape. Fabricius bared his teeth exultantly. They had ridden within thirty paces of the enemy without suffering a single casualty, and things were about to get even better. For all their horsemanship and skirmishing skill, the tribesmen were poor at close combat. ‘Ready spears,’ Fabricius yelled. ‘Kill as many as you can!’

With an inarticulate roar, his men obeyed.

Casting fearful looks over their shoulders, the surviving Numidians fled for their lives. Eyeing the bodies littering the ground, Fabricius estimated that more than a hundred of their number had been slain or injured in the initial ambush. The Roman and Massiliote casualties were perhaps half that number. Given the circumstances, this was more than satisfactory. Catching sight of Clearchus, Fabricius beckoned him urgently. ‘We’ve got to follow them,’ he said. ‘Stick tight to their tails, or there’ll be no chance to assess Hannibal’s forces.’

Clearchus nodded. ‘The wounded, sir?’

‘They can fend for themselves. We’ll pick them up on the way back.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The Massiliote turned to relay the order.

‘Clearchus?’

‘Sir?’

‘I want no further engagement with the enemy. A running battle could easily lead to disaster, especially if we encounter more Carthaginian forces. Our mission is more important now than killing a few more Numidians. Understood?’

Clearchus’ teeth flashed in the sunshine. ‘Of course, sir. Publius is waiting for us.’

Soon all the able-bodied men had formed up and were ready to ride. Without a backward glance, Fabricius and Clearchus led them after the Numidians. This time, there was no advance party. They rode at top speed, four abreast, knowing that the chance of an attack from the panicked enemy riders was slim to none. It wasn’t long before they glimpsed the last of the tribesmen, who screamed in dismay. At once Fabricius ordered his men to slow down. He was relieved when his command was obeyed without question. Poor discipline was too often the reason for battles being lost.

They followed the Numidians along the winding track for perhaps five miles. The flat terrain and the well-beaten track made the pursuit easy. Fabricius had no idea how far the Rhodanus was, but Clearchus reached him as they neared a low, stone-topped hill that stood alone, dominating the surrounding wooded area.

‘The river is on the other side of that, sir.’

Immediately, Fabricius held up his hand. ‘Halt!’ As his order was obeyed, he fixed the Massiliote with his stare. ‘Let’s go up. Just you and me.’

Clearchus looked startled. ‘Are you sure, sir? There could be enemy pickets at its crest.’

‘They’ll be running after the Numidians!’ Fabricius replied confidently. ‘And when we come leathering back down here, I want everyone ready to ride, not bunched up on a narrow path.’

Clearchus blinked; then a mischievous smile twitched across his lips. ‘I suppose two men against an entire host are as good as a few hundred.’

With a fierce grin, Fabricius slapped his thigh. ‘That’s the attitude.’ He turned to the nearest of his decurions. ‘Rest the men. We’re going to take a look at what’s on the other side of the hill. I want you ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Fabricius led the way up the path. He was surprised to find himself feeling more nervous than he had in years. He would never have expected to be the first Roman to set eyes on Hannibal’s army. Yet here he was.

Nearing the crest, they found evidence of a sentry post: a stone fireplace full of smoking ash, and bedding rolls, which still bore the imprint of those who’d been sitting on them. They dismounted and tethered their horses before clambering to the peak. Instinctively, Fabricius went down on his belly. The first thing that caught his attention as he peered over the edge was the mob of yelling Numidians driving their horses down the slope. Behind them were a dozen or more running figures: the sentries from the abandoned picket. Fabricius’ lips peeled up in a snarl of satisfaction, but as he took in the scene beyond, his mouth fell open in wonder.

In the middle distance glittered the wide band that was the River Rhodanus. Perhaps a hundred paces from the water’s edge, the enemy tent lines began. They stretched as far as the eye could see. Fabricius was used to legionary camps that could hold 5,000 men, or even 10,000. What lay before him was much less organised, but far larger. It was more than twice as large as a consular army, which was made up of approximately 20,000 men. ‘You weren’t exaggerating. This host is immense!’ he muttered to Clearchus. ‘Publius should have moved on your intelligence. We’d have caught the bastards napping.’

The Massiliote looked pleased.

Fabricius scanned the encampment, mentally noting everything he saw. Hannibal had superior numbers of horsemen compared to an equivalent
Roman force, which worried him. Few things were more important than the quantity of horse at one’s disposal. There were the usual Carthaginian stalwarts: Libyan spearmen and skirmishers, Balearic slingers and Numidian and Iberian cavalry. Most plentiful of all were the infantry, the majority of which were scutarii and caetrati. And last but not least, there were the elephants: the battering rams that had so terrified Roman armies in the past. Perhaps twenty of the massive beasts were already on the near bank. ‘Gods,’ Fabricius whispered in amazement. ‘How in the name of Jupiter did they get them over the river?’

Clearchus touched his arm and pointed. ‘On those.’

Fabricius peered at the two massive wooden rafts being pulled back to the far side by rowing boats. There, he could see a dozen or more elephants waiting to be ferried across. Before them, an enormous jetty formed by a double line of square platforms projected some sixty paces out into the fast-flowing water. Dozens of ropes and cables secured the makeshift affair to trees upriver from the pier. He shook his head at the scale of the engineering that had gone into the pier’s construction. ‘I’ve heard that elephants are intelligent creatures. Surely they wouldn’t just walk on to a floating square of wood?’

Clearchus squinted into the bright light. ‘I can see a layer of earth all along the walkway. Maybe it’s meant to look like dry land?’

‘Clever bastards. So they lead their charges to the end of the jetty, and on to the rafts. Then they cut them free and row across the river.’ Rapt, Fabricius watched as, encouraged by its mahout, an elephant was slowly led down the walkway. Even from a distance, it was clear that the creature was not happy. Bugles of distress blared out again and again. It had only walked a third of the jetty’s length before it stopped dead in its tracks. In an effort to make the elephant continue, a group of men behind it began shouting and playing drums and cymbals. However, instead of continuing to the raft, which was now tethered to the end of the pier, the creature jumped into the water. There was a wail from its unfortunate mahout as he disappeared from sight, and Fabricius closed his eyes. What a way to die, he thought. When he looked up, the elephant was swimming strongly across the river. Fabricius was engrossed. He had never seen such an incredible sight before.

Suddenly, Clearchus tugged at his arm. ‘The Numidians have raised the alarm, sir.’

At the edge of the camp, Fabricius could see the tribesmen milling around. Many were pointing at the hill and beyond. Faint shouts of anger carried through the air, and he smiled mirthlessly. ‘Time to go. Publius will want to hear the news. Good, and bad.’

Fabricius was delighted by Publius’ instantaneous response to his dramatic news. The consul was not afraid of confrontation. Ordering the heavy baggage to be loaded on to the quinqueremes for safety, Publius led the army north as soon as was humanly possible. Nonetheless, it was three full days before the legions and their allies arrived at the point where the Carthaginians had crossed the river. It was a huge disappointment to find the vast encampment abandoned. As the Roman officers picked their way across the remnants of thousands of campfires, the only life to be seen were the skulking forms of jackals looking for scraps, and the countless birds of prey that hovered overhead for similar reasons.