Hannibal Enemy of Rome (65 page)

‘This is no parade. At ease,’ said Fabricius, waving a hand. ‘We ride out at once. Longus is deploying our entire cavalry force, as well as six thousand velites. He wants this attack thrown back across the Trebia without delay. We’re taking no more nonsense from Hannibal.’

‘And the rest of the army, sir?’ cried a voice. ‘What about them?’

Fabricius smiled tightly. ‘They will be ready to follow us very soon.’

These words produced a rousing cheer. Quintus joined in. He wanted this victory as much as anyone else. The fact that his father hadn’t mentioned Publius must mean that the injured consul agreed with his colleague’s decision, or had been overruled by him. Either way, they weren’t going to sit by and do nothing.

Fabricius waited until the noise had died down. ‘Remember to do everything I’ve taught you. Check your horse’s harness is tightly fastened. Take a leak before you mount up. There’s nothing worse than pissing yourself in the middle of a fight.’ Hoots of nervous laughter met this comment, and Fabricius smiled. ‘Ensure that your spear tip is sharp. Tie the chinstrap on your helmet. Watch each other’s backs.’ He scanned the faces around him with grave eyes. ‘May the gods be with you all.’

‘And with you, sir!’ shouted Calatinus.

Fabricius inclined his head in recognition. Then, giving Quintus a re-assuring look, he made towards his horse.

For the third time since dawn, Bostar scrambled up the muddy slope towards the sentry’s position. More than anything, he wanted to warm up. Unfortunately, the climb wasn’t long enough to shift the chill from his muscles. He glanced down at the steep-sided riverbank below him. It was filled with Mago’s men: 1,000 Numidians and their horses, and 1,000 infantry, a mixture of Libyan skirmishers and spearmen. Despite the fact that the warmly dressed soldiers were packed as tightly as apples in a barrel, it seemed an eternity since they had arrived. In fact, it was barely five hours. Men are not supposed to spend a winter’s night outdoors in this godforsaken land, thought Bostar bitterly. His bones ached at the idea of the warm sunshine that bathed Carthage daily.

Reaching the top of the bank, Bostar crouched down, using the scrubby bushes that regularly dotted the ground as cover. He peered into the distance, but saw nothing. There had been no movement since the Numidian cavalry had quietly passed by, heading for the Roman side of the river. Bostar sighed. It would be hours before anything of importance happened. Nonetheless, he had to keep his guard up. Hannibal had given them the most important task of any soldiers in his army. For what felt like the thousandth time, Bostar slowly turned in a circle, scanning the landscape with eagle eyes.

The watercourse that formed their hiding place was a small tributary of the Trebia, and ran north-south across the plain that lay before the Carthaginian camp. Following Hannibal’s instructions, they had secreted themselves half a mile to the south of the area upon which he wished to fight. The general’s reasons were simple. Behind them, the ground began to climb towards the low hills that filled the horizon. If the Romans took the bait, they were unlikely to march in this direction. It was a good place to hide, thought Bostar. He just hoped that Hannibal’s plan worked, and that they weren’t too far away from the fighting if, or when, the time came to move.

He found Mago lying alongside the sentry in a shallow dip, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Bostar liked the youngest Barca brother. Like Hannibal, Mago was charismatic and brave. He was also indomitably
cheerful, which provided a counterweight to Hannibal’s sometimes serious disposition. Smaller than Hannibal, Mago reminded Bostar of a hunting dog: lean, muscular and always eager to be slipped from the leash. ‘Seen anything, sir?’ he whispered.

Mago turned his head. ‘Restless, aren’t you?’

Bostar shrugged. ‘The same as everyone else, sir. It’s difficult waiting down there without a clue what’s going on.’

Mago smiled. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘The Romans will come.’

‘How can you be sure, sir?’

‘Because Hannibal believes that they will, and I trust in him.’

Bostar nodded. It was a good answer, he thought. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’

‘I know you will. That’s why Hannibal picked you and your brother,’ Mago replied.

‘We’re very grateful for the opportunity, sir,’ said Bostar, thinking sour thoughts about Sapho. He and his older brother hadn’t spoken since Hannibal’s reprimand. Bostar felt regret that he’d only had the briefest of words with Hanno before they’d left the camp. He’d been angry that his younger brother seemed to be friendly with Sapho. Really, it was none of his business.

Mago got to his feet. ‘Have the men eaten yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, if I’m famished, they must be too,’ Mago declared. ‘Let’s break out the rations. It won’t be a hot breakfast, like the lucky dogs back at camp will get, but anything’s better than nothing. A man with a full belly sees the world with different eyes, eh?’ He glanced at the sentry. ‘You won’t miss out. I’ll send someone up to relieve you soon.’

The man grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Lead on,’ Mago said.

Bostar obeyed. Mention of the encampment brought his father and Hanno to mind. If it came to a battle, they would be in the front line. Not quite in the centre - that honour had been given to Hannibal’s new recruits, the Gaulish tribesmen - but still in a dangerous position. The fighting everywhere would be intense. He sighed. The gods protect us all, he prayed. If it comes to it, let us die well.

Combining his riders with Publius’ depleted horsemen gave Sempronius Longus just over four thousand cavalry. The moment that the assembled
turmae had heard their orders, they were sent out from behind the protection of the fortifications. Fabricius and his men were among the first to exit the camp.

Quintus blinked with surprise. Beyond the sentry posts lay open ground that rolled down to the river. It was normally empty of all but the figures of training soldiers or returning patrols. Now, it was occupied by thousands of Numidian tribesmen. Waves of yelling warriors were galloping into the Roman positions and loosing their javelins, before wheeling their horses in a tight circle and retreating. The unfortunate sentries, who only numbered four or five per outpost, received no respite. Scarcely had one set of Numidians disappeared before another arrived, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs.

‘Form a battle line!’ Fabricius shouted. His call was already being echoed by other officers who were emerging from the camp.

With a pounding heart, Quintus obeyed. So did Calatinus, Cincius and his comrades, each turma fanning out six ranks wide and five riders deep. The instant they were ready, Fabricius shouted, ‘Charge!’

His men went from the trot into a canter. This was followed immediately by a gallop. For maximum impact, they had to hit the Numidians at full speed. That was if the enemy riders stayed to fight, thought Quintus suspiciously. His experience with the fierce tribesmen had taught him otherwise. Yet Longus was doing the right thing. He could not just let his sentries be massacred within sight of his camp. Hannibal’s men had to be driven off. With six thousand velites following hot on their heels, that would not be difficult.

The thunder of hundreds of hooves drowned out all sound except the occasional encouraging shout from Fabricius: ‘Forward!’ As they closed in, each man let go of his reins and transferred the spear from his left hand, which also held his shield, to his right. From here on in, they would guide their horses with their knees. Now the months of careful instruction they had received would pay off. For all his comrades’ skill, Quintus was still wary of the Numidians, who learned to ride almost before they could walk. He was heartened by the thought of the velites. Their help would make all the difference.

‘Look! They’ve seen us!’ shouted Calatinus, pointing at the beleaguered sentries, whose terrified expressions were being replaced by elation. ‘Hold on!’

‘The poor bastards must have got the shock of their lives when the Numidians suddenly appeared,’ replied Quintus.

‘We’re coming none too soon,’ Calatinus added. ‘Many of the outposts have no defenders left.’

They had closed to within fifty paces of the enemy.

‘Time to even up the score,’ cried Quintus, picking out a slight Numidian with braided hair as his target.

Cincius’ lip curled. ‘They’ll turn and run any moment now, the way they always do.’

Instead, to their amazement, the enemy riders turned and began driving their horses straight at the Roman cavalry.

‘They’re going to fight, not run.’ Quintus felt faintly nauseous, but he kept his eye on the Numidian, who was riding straight at him. Oddly, it seemed the warrior had also chosen him.

‘Pick your targets,’ Fabricius shouted, praying that the outcome of this clash proved different to the one at the Ticinus. ‘Make every spear count.’

Seeing the Numidian loose a javelin in his direction, Quintus panicked. Fortunately, it missed, sailing between him and Calatinus. Quintus cursed savagely. The Numidian still had two javelins. Even as the thought went through his mind, the next one scudded his way. He bent low over his horse’s neck, hearing it whistle overhead. Claws of desperation tore at him. How long would his luck hold out? He was fewer than twenty paces from his enemy. At that range and closing, the warrior could hardly miss.

The Numidian held on to his last javelin until he was practically on top of Quintus. His error meant that Quintus was able to catch the missile in his shield. He had to discard the useless thing, but he was also able to stab his spear deep into the Numidian’s belly as he rode past. Side by side, Quintus and Calatinus struck the enemy formation. At once the world shrank to a small area in their immediate vicinity. Quintus’ ears rang with the clash of arms and men’s screams, a deafening cacophony that added hugely to the confusion. The press of opposing riders pushing against each other meant that he seldom fought the same opponent for more than a couple of strokes. Quintus’ first opponent was a young Numidian who nearly took his eye out with a well-aimed javelin. He jabbed his spear unsuccessfully at the warrior before being swept twenty paces away, never to see him again.

In quick succession, Quintus fought two more Numidians, stabbing one in the arm and plunging his weapon into the other’s chest. Next he went to the aid of a Roman cavalryman who was being attacked by three enemy riders. They fought desperately for what seemed an age, barely able to defend themselves against the Numidians’ lightning-quick javelin thrusts. And then, like wraiths, the warriors were gone, galloping off into the distance. All across the battlefield, Quintus could see their companions doing the same. It was done with the ease of a shoal of fish changing direction. Unexpectedly, though, the Numidians reined in several hundred paces away. They began shouting insults at the Romans, who responded loudly and in kind.

‘Mangy bastards!’ shouted Cincius.

‘Come back, you goat-fuckers!’ roared Calatinus.

Quintus grinned. ‘We’ve driven them a good distance from the camp already.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Calatinus, whose face was drenched in sweat. ‘Time for a rest. I’m bloody exhausted.’

‘And me,’ added Cincius.

Fabricius and his fellow officers let the Roman cavalry catch their breath for a few moments. Clouds of condensation hung above the mass of horsemen, but were soon dispersed by the heavy sleet that began to fall.

‘Time to move before you all freeze to death,’ bellowed Fabricius.

Quintus glanced at Calatinus and Cincius. ‘Ready for another bout?’

‘Definitely,’ they snarled in unison.

Right on cue, Fabricius’ voice bellowed the command. ‘Hold the line! Advance!’ The call was repeated by all along the front rank. The Roman horsemen needed little encouragement, and urged their mounts forward. Once again, the ground shook as thousands of horses pounded across the soft ground. This time, the Numidians fought for only a short time before retreating. Yet the tribesmen did not go far. Instead, they turned to fight again. Without pause, the Roman cavalrymen charged at their enemies. Keeping up the momentum of an attack was vital.

Their confidence was boosted by the sight, to their rear, of six thousand velites pouring to their aid. The fact that they were on foot did not take away from the skirmishers’ value. They would first consolidate and hold the area that had been taken back from the Numidians. If the enemy
horsemen decided to stand their ground, the velites could support their comrades and tilt the balance in their favour. If, on the other hand, the Roman cavalrymen were driven back, then the velites would provide a protective screen for them to fall back through. It was a win-win situation, thought Quintus jubilantly.

At daybreak, the horns that normally signalled the Carthaginian troops to get up remained silent. Used to army routine, most men were already awake. Hanno smiled as he listened to the rumours filling the tents around him. The rank-and-file troops had no idea yet why they had not been ordered from their beds. The majority were happy not to enquire, but some of the more eager ones poked their heads outside. Their officers told them that nothing was wrong. Not wanting to pass up such a rare opportunity, the soldiers duly returned to the comfort of their blankets. For half an hour, an unusual calm fell over the encampment. To the Carthaginians, it was a small dose of heaven. Despite the inclement weather, they were dry, warm and safe.