Hannibal Enemy of Rome (61 page)

As the youngest and most inexperienced, Hanno was content to take whichever of the flanks he was given.

‘I’ll take the central side,’ said Bostar abruptly.

‘Typical,’ muttered Sapho. ‘I want it as well. And you don’t outrank me any more, remember?’

The two glowered at each other.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Hanno angrily. ‘It doesn’t matter which one of you does it.’

Neither of his brothers answered.

‘Why don’t you toss a coin?’

Still neither Bostar nor Sapho spoke.

‘Melqart above!’ exclaimed Hanno. ‘I’ll do it, then.’

‘That’s out of the question,’ snapped Sapho. ‘You’ve got no combat experience.’

‘Exactly,’ added Bostar.

‘I’ve got to start somewhere. Why not here?’ Hanno retorted. ‘Better this, surely, than in a massive battle?’

Bostar looked at Sapho. ‘We can’t stand around arguing all morning,’ he said in a conciliatory tone.

Sapho gave a careless shrug. ‘It would be hard for Hanno to get it wrong, I suppose.’

Feeling humiliated, Hanno looked down.

‘That’s unnecessary,’ barked Bostar. ‘Father has trained Hanno well. Hannibal himself picked him to lead a phalanx. His men are veterans. The chances of him fucking up are no greater than if I were in the centre.’ He paused. ‘Or you were.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sapho’s eyes were mere slits.

‘Stop it!’ Hanno cried. ‘You should both be ashamed of yourselves. Hannibal gave us a job to do, remember? Let’s just do it, please.’

Like sulky children, his brothers broke eye contact. In silence, they stalked off to stand before their phalanxes. Hanno waited for a moment before realising that it was up to him to lead the way. ‘Form up, six men wide,’ he ordered. ‘Follow me.’ He was pleased by his soldiers’ rapid response. Many of them looked pleased by what had happened, which encouraged him further.

The three phalanxes deployed at the ford, in open order. Once they
closed up, the spearmen would present a continuous front of overlapping shields. No horse would approach such an obstacle. The forest of spears protruding from it promised death by impalement to anyone foolish enough to try.

Hanno marched up and down, muttering encouraging words to his men. He was grateful that his father had advised him to recognise as many of his soldiers as possible. It was a simple ruse, yet not a man failed to grin when Hanno spoke to him by name. His efforts didn’t take long, though, and soon time began to drag. Muscles that had been stirred into activity by their movement into position grew cold again. A damp breeze blew off the river, chilling the waiting soldiers to the bone. Allowing them to warm up was not an option, nor was singing, a common method of raising morale.

All they could do was wait.

Dawn came, but banks of lowering cloud concealed the sun. The sole sign of life was the occasional small bird fluttering among the trees’ bare branches; the only sound the murmur of the river at their backs. Finally, Hanno’s grumbling belly made him wonder if they should order an issue of rations. Before he could query this with his brothers, the sound of galloping hooves attracted everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to the track leading west.

When two Numidians came thundering around the corner, there was a massed intake of breath.

‘They’re coming!’ one shouted as he drew nearer.

‘With five hundred of our comrades hot on their tails!’ whooped the other.

Hanno scarcely heard. ‘Close order!’ he screamed. ‘Ready spears!’

QUINTUS HAD HOPED
that his unease would dissipate as they left the Trebia behind them. Far from it. Each step that his horse took further into the empty landscape felt as final as if he had crossed the Styx to penetrate the depths of Hades itself. The eagerness he’d felt in his father’s tent, with a belly full of wine, had totally vanished. Quintus said nothing, but a glance to either side confirmed that he was not alone in his feelings. The other riders’ faces spoke volumes. Many were throwing filthy glances at Flaccus. Everyone knew that he was responsible for their misfortune.

At the front, Fabricius had no idea, or was choosing to ignore, what was going on. It was probably the latter, Quintus decided. These were some of the most experienced men in his command. Yet they were unhappy. Why had his father accepted the mission? Quintus cursed. The answer was startlingly simple. How would it look to Publius if Fabricius had refused a duty like this? Terrible. Quintus eyed Flaccus sourly. If the fool hadn’t put the idea in the consul’s head, they’d all still be safe on the Roman side of the river. Guilt soon replaced Quintus’ anger. By being so eager, he had probably helped push his father into accepting the suicide mission.

For, despite the fact that there was no sign of the enemy, that is what it felt like.

Quintus waited for only a short time before urging his horse forward to his father’s position. Flaccus was riding alongside. He gave Quintus a broad wink. It wasn’t entirely convincing.

He’s frightened too, thought Quintus. That made up his mind.

Fabricius was intent on scanning the landscape. His rigid back told its own story. Quintus swallowed. ‘Maybe this patrol was a bad idea, Father.’ He ignored Flaccus’ shocked reaction. ‘We’re visible for miles.’

Fabricius dragged his gaze around to Quintus. ‘I know. Why do you think I’m keeping such a keen eye out?’

‘But there’s no sign of anyone,’ protested Flaccus. ‘Not even a bird!’

‘For Jupiter’s sake, that doesn’t matter!’ Fabricius snapped. ‘All the Carthaginians need is one alert sentry. If there are any Numidians within five miles of here, they’ll be after us within a dozen heartbeats of any alarm.’

Flaccus flinched. ‘But we can’t go back empty-handed.’

‘Not without looking like fools, or cowards,’ Fabricius agreed sourly.

They rode in silence for a few moments.

‘There might be a way out,’ Flaccus muttered.

Quintus was ashamed to feel a flutter of hope.

Fabricius laughed harshly. ‘Not so keen now, are you?’

‘Are you doubting my courage?’ demanded Flaccus with an outraged look.

‘Not your courage,’ Fabricius growled. ‘Your good judgement. Haven’t you realised yet that Hannibal’s cavalry are lethal? If we so much as see any, we’re dead men.’

‘Surely it’s not that bad?’ protested Flaccus.

‘I should have refused this mission, regardless of how it looked to Publius. Let you lead it on your own. If anyone would follow you, that is.’

Flaccus subsided into a sulky silence.

His father’s outburst revealed the depths of his anger; Quintus was amazed.

Fabricius relented a fraction. ‘So what’s your bright idea? You might as well tell me.’

‘We will report that the enemy cavalry was present in such numbers that we were unable to proceed far from the Trebia,’ said Flaccus with bad grace. ‘It’s not cowardice to avoid annihilation. Who will gainsay us? Your men certainly won’t talk about it, and no one else will be foolish enough to cross the river.’

‘Your capacity for guile never ceases to amaze me,’ snarled Fabricius.

‘I …’ Flaccus spluttered.

‘But you’re right. It’s better to save the lives of thirty men in the way you suggest rather than throw them away through foolish pride. We will return at once.’ Fabricius reined in his mount, and turned to issue the order to halt.

Quintus sagged down on to his horse’s back. His relief lasted no more than a heartbeat. From some distance away came the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves.

The eyes of every man in the turma turned to the west.

A quarter of a mile distant, a tide of riders was emerging from behind a copse of trees.

‘Numidians!’ Fabricius screamed. ‘About turn! Ride for your lives!’

His soldiers needed no urging.

Trying not to panic, Quintus did the same thing. The ambush might have been sprung early, but it remained to be seen if they could make it back to the Trebia before the enemy horsemen reached them.

It soon became clear that they would never reach the river in time. The Numidians were physically smaller than the Romans, and their mounts were faster. They were operating to a plan too. While some continued riding in direct pursuit from the south, others angled their path outwards and to the west, effectively hemming the patrol against the Trebia. The Romans had to flee northwards. Naturally, they made for the ford. There was no other option. It was the only one for miles in either direction.

‘Get to the front,’ Fabricius shouted at Quintus and Flaccus. ‘Stay there. Stop for nothing.’

Flaccus obeyed without question, but Quintus held back. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m staying at the rear to prevent this becoming a complete rout,’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Now go!’ His steely gaze brooked no argument.

Fighting back tears, Quintus urged his horse into a full gallop. It soon drew ahead of the other cavalrymen. Never had he been more glad of his father’s insistence on taking the best mount available, or more ashamed that he could feel such relief. Quintus did not want to die like a rabbit chased down by a pack of dogs. With this dark thought fighting for supremacy, he leaned forward over his horse’s neck and concentrated on one thing. Surviving. With luck, some of them would make it.

They had covered nearly a mile before the first Numidians had closed to within missile range. Riding bareback, half-clothed, the lithe, dark-skinned warriors did not look that threatening. Their javelins’ accuracy proved otherwise. Every time Quintus looked around, another cavalryman
had been struck, or fallen from his mount. Others had their horses injured, and were no longer able to keep up with their comrades. No one saw their swift, and inevitable fate, yet their strangled cries followed in the survivors’ wake, sending terror into their hearts. The Roman riders could not even respond. Their thrusting spears were not made to be thrown.

By the time Fabricius’ men had covered another mile, the Numidians were attacking from three sides. Javelins were scudding in constantly, and Quintus could count only ten riders apart from himself, his father and Flaccus. At the bend in the track that led around and down to the ford, that number had been reduced to six. Desperately, Quintus urged his mount to even greater efforts. He didn’t know why, but they seemed to have drawn slightly ahead of their pursuers. Perhaps they still had a chance? he wondered. With their horses’ hooves throwing up showers of stones, they pounded around the corner and on to the straight stretch that led to the Trebia, a mere two hundred paces away.

All Quintus’ hopes evaporated on the spot.

The tribesmen had held back in order to close the trap. Blocking the way ahead was a massed formation of spearmen. Their large, interlocking shields formed three sides of a square, leaving the open side towards him. Quintus’ eyes flickered around in panic. A dense network of trees lined the right-hand side of the road. There was no escape there. On the left was a large area of boggy ground. Only a fool would try to ride across that, he thought.

Yet one of the cavalrymen took this second option. He swiftly learned his lesson. Within twenty paces, his horse was belly deep in glutinous sludge. When the rider tried to dismount, the same happened to him. Screaming with terror, he had soon sunk to his armpits. At last he stopped struggling, but it was too late. The best the man could hope for was an accurately thrown enemy javelin, thought Quintus bitterly. It was that, or drown in the mud.

Fabricius’ voice snapped him back to the present. ‘Slow down! Form a line,’ he ordered in a stony voice. ‘Let us meet our death like men.’

One of the five remaining cavalrymen began to make a low, keening noise in his throat.

Suddenly, Quintus’ fear became overwhelming.

‘Shut your fucking mouth!’ Fabricius shouted. ‘We are not cowards.’

To Quintus’ amazement, the rider stopped wailing.

‘Form a line,’ Fabricius ordered again.

Moving together until their knees almost touched, the eight men rode forward. Wondering why he hadn’t had a javelin in the back by now, Quintus turned. The Numidians had slowed to a walk. We’re being herded to the slaughter like so many sheep, he thought in disgust.