Hannibal Enemy of Rome (68 page)

Hanno barely had time to breathe before another legionary came trampling over his first opponent and deliberately barged straight into him. If it hadn’t been for the fact that his shield was locked with that of the man on either side, Hanno would have fallen over. As it was, he was knocked off balance and struggled to regain his footing. This was precisely what the hastatus had intended. Bending his right elbow, he stabbed his gladius over the top of Hanno’s shield. Frantically, Hanno twisted his head to one side, and the blade gouged a deep line across the cheekpiece of his bronze helmet before skimming through the hair on the side of his head. The hastatus snarled with anger and pulled back his weapon to deliver another blow. Hanno struggled to use his spear, but his opponent was too close to reach him easily. Panic bubbled in the back of his throat. The battle had hardly started, and already he was a dead man.

Then, out of the blue, a spear took the hastatus through the throat, making his eyes bulge in shock. He made a choking gasp as the blade slid out of his flesh, and dropped like a stone, sending gouts of blood all over Hanno’s shield and lower legs. ‘My thanks!’ Hanno shouted at the soldier behind him. He couldn’t turn around to express his gratitude, because
another hastatus was already trying to kill him. This time, Hanno managed to fend off his attacker with his spear. Cursing loudly, they traded blows back and forth, but neither could gain an advantage over the other. Things were taken out of both their hands a moment later when a man a few steps to Hanno’s right, who had discarded his pilum-riddled shield, was killed. Two hastati forced their way into the space at once, shouting at their comrades to follow them. Hanno’s opponent knew that this was too good a chance to pass up. In the blink of an eye, he had shoved his way after his fellows. To Hanno’s relief, he was granted a brief respite.

Panting heavily, he glanced to either side. Claws of worry raked at his insides. The phalanxes were holding their own, but only just. To his left, the Gauls were struggling to contain the same intense assault. Worryingly, the hastati there had already been joined by the principes. The Gauls had even less prospect of holding back these legionaries, thought Hanno sourly. Most of the principes wore mail shirts, making them much harder to kill. Thus far, however, the tribesmen were not retreating. Despite their lack of armour, they persisted in fighting to the death. Already the ground beneath their feet was a churned-up morass of corpses, discarded weapons, mud and blood.

Desperately, Hanno cast his eyes to the Roman left flank. His heart lifted. Thanks to the Iberians and Gauls, it had been shorn of its cavalry protection. There was no sign of Hannibal’s heavy cavalry, however, which meant it was still pursuing the Roman horse. Hanno’s worry increased tenfold. If that battle hadn’t been won, they might as well all give up now. Then his attention was drawn by hundreds of figures who were swarming towards the enemy’s left flank. To his delight, he saw that they were hurling javelins and firing sling stones. It was the Carthaginian skirmishers!

A yelling hastatus jumped into the attack, preventing Hanno from any further thought. He fought back with renewed determination, using the greater length of his spear to stab at the Roman’s face. The fight wasn’t over by any means. There was hope yet.

As they rode towards the Carthaginians, Quintus forgot his father’s reassuring words. He felt sick to the stomach. How could a thousand men prevail against what looked like more than five times that number? It simply wasn’t possible.

Calatinus also looked unhappy. ‘Longus should have split our horsemen equally,’ he muttered. ‘There are nearly three thousand allied riders on the other flank.’

‘It’s not fair,’ moaned Cincius.

‘The figures still don’t equate,’ Quintus replied wearily.

‘I suppose. It’s not even as if the bastards coming towards us will be scared. They’ve already tasted victory over us.’ Calatinus cursed the consul heartily.

‘Come on! We should be able to stall the enemy attack,’ encouraged Quintus. ‘Hold the line, and stop the enemy from having free rein over the battlefield.’

Calatinus’ grunt conveyed all types of disbelief. Cincius didn’t seem convinced either.

‘Listen to our infantry,’ cried Quintus. The noise of their tread was deafening. ‘There are more than thirty-five thousand of them. How can Hannibal with his little army, made up of a hodgepodge of different nationalities, prevail against that type of might? He can’t!’

His comrades looked a trifle more confident.

Wishing that he felt as certain as he sounded, Quintus again fixed his gaze to the front.

The first of the enemy riders were now very close. Quintus recognised them as Gauls by their mail shirts, round shields and long spears. He squinted at the small, bouncing objects tied to their horses’ harnesses. To his horror, he realised they were severed human heads. These warriors could be some of their so-called allies, and the heads those of his former comrades. Of Licinius, perhaps.

Calatinus had seen the same thing. ‘The fucking dogs!’ he screamed.

‘Yellow-livered sons of whores!’ Cincius bellowed.

A towering rage also filled Quintus. He wasn’t going to flee from cowards like these. Men who would kill others as they slept. I would rather die, he thought. Quintus raised his spear and chose a target, a warrior on a sturdy grey horse. The magnificent gold torc visible over the top of the Gaul’s mail shirt revealed him to be an important individual. So did the three human heads bouncing off his mount’s chest. He would be a good start, Quintus decided.

However, the tide of battle swept Quintus away from the Gaul he’d
aimed for. In hindsight, it was a good thing. The tribesman was immensely skilled. Quintus watched in horror as a Roman rider fewer than twenty paces away was skewered through the chest by the Gaul’s weapon. The force of the impact punched the man off his saddle blanket, dropping him dead to the dirt below. The horse behind stumbled over the corpse, unbalancing its rider, and rendering him easy prey for the Gaul, who was now swinging a long sword. He took off the cavalryman’s head with a great sideways lop. Quintus had never seen blood spray so high in the air. Gouts of it went everywhere as the panicked horse galloped off. It was perhaps a dozen steps before its dead rider toppled off.

At once the Gaul sawed on his mount’s reins and jumped down. Quintus’ amazement turned to disgust. The warrior was after another head. He would have given anything just then to be able to reach the Gaul, but it was not to be. He nearly lost his own head to a swinging sword, managing to dodge it only because its bearer uttered a loud war cry as his killing stroke came down. As it was, Quintus nearly fell off his horse. With a speed born of utter desperation, he managed to regain his seat in time to parry his opponent’s next powerful blow.

Fortuna was smiling on him in that instant, for the warrior was even younger than he, and, as Quintus realised, far less skilled. A more experienced man would have already despatched him. The Gaul was not lacking in bravery, however, and they hammered fiercely at each other for a few moments before Quintus found an opportunity to strike. The other’s wild swings left his right armpit exposed. Taking a gamble that he could react faster than his enemy, Quintus did not defend against the next strike. Instead, bending low over his horse’s neck, he listened to it whistle overhead. While the Gaul was still coming to the end of his swing, Quintus came up like a striking snake. He buried his spear in the other’s side, sliding it neatly into the armhole of his mail shirt. With nothing but a tunic to stop its progress, the blade slid between the man’s ribs, through one lung and into his heart. It was as clean a stroke as Quintus had ever made, killing instantaneously. He would always remember it not for that, however, but for the brief burst of shock and pain in the Gaul’s eyes before they went dark for ever.

When Quintus looked up, he quailed. Most of the nearby Roman riders had been cut down. The others were fleeing. There was no sign of Calatinus,
Cincius or his father. Quintus’ vision was filled with Gauls. Behind them came hundreds of Iberians. He would be dead long before those riders arrived, however. Three Gaulish warriors were heading straight for him. Despairing, Quintus picked the man he thought would reach him first. It would make little difference, but he didn’t care. His father was dead, and the cavalry battle half lost. What did it matter if he also fell? Raising his spear, Quintus screamed a final cry of defiance. ‘Come on, then, you bastards!’

The trio of warriors roared an inarticulate response.

A horrifying image of his own head as a trophy filled his mind. He banished the image. Just let the end be quick, Quintus prayed.

BOSTAR HAD BARELY
been able to contain himself since the sentry’s report that the enemy were crossing the river. He and Sapho had clambered up the bank to lie beside Mago, who was trembling with excitement. With every nerve stretched taut, they’d watched as the Roman cavalry and velites were gradually followed by the allied infantry and the regular legionaries. Only then did it sink in.

‘The Roman commander has no interest in nibbling at the bait,’ muttered Mago excitedly. ‘He’s swallowed it in one great bite. That’s his whole fucking army!’

They exchanged nervous grins.

‘The fighting will start soon,’ said Sapho eagerly.

‘It’s not time to move yet,’ interjected Bostar at once.

‘That’s right. We have to wait until the perfect moment to fall upon the Romans’ rear,’ warned Mago. ‘Moving too early could cost us the battle.’

Knowing that Mago was correct, the brothers reluctantly stayed put. The wait that followed was the longest of Bostar’s life. Mago’s incessant twitching and the savagery with which Sapho bit his nails told him that they felt the same way. It was no more than three to four hours, but at the time it seemed like an eternity. Naturally, the news that the Romans were on the move had spread through their two thousand soldiers like wildfire. Soon it became difficult to keep them silent. It was understandable, thought Bostar. There was only so long that one could take pleasure in being out of harm’s way rather than facing mortal danger - especially when one’s comrades were about to fight for their lives.

Even when the clash of arms became audible, Mago did not move. Bostar forced himself to remain calm. The rival forces of skirmishers would meet first, and then pull back. Sure enough, the screams and cries soon abated.
They were replaced by the unmistakable sound of thousands of feet tramping the ground in unison.

‘The Roman infantry are advancing,’ said Mago in an undertone. ‘Melqart, watch over our men.’

A knot of tension formed in Bostar’s belly. Facing so many of the enemy would be terrifying.

Beside him, Sapho shifted uneasily. ‘The gods protect Father and Hanno,’ he whispered. Their enmity momentarily forgotten, Bostar muttered the same prayer.

The crashing sound that reached their ears a moment later was as deafening as thunder. Yet there were no threatening storm clouds above, no flashes of lightning to sear their eyeballs. It was something altogether more lethal. More terrifying. Bostar trembled to hear it. He had witnessed terrible things since the war started: the immense block of stone that had nearly killed Hannibal; the scenes at the fall of Saguntum; avalanches sweeping away scores of screaming men in the Alps. But he had never heard the sound of tens of thousands of soldiers striking each other for the first time. It promised death in any number of appalling ways, and Hanno and his father were caught up in it. Somehow Bostar kept still, trying his best to block out the screams that were now discernible amid the crescendo of sound. His tactic didn’t work for long. He looked at Mago, who gave him a tiny encouraging nod.

‘Is it time yet, sir?’ Bostar asked.

Mago’s eyes glittered eagerly. ‘Soon. Prepare your men to move out. Tell the same to the officer commanding the Numidians. At my signal, bring them up.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Bostar and Sapho grinned at each other as they hadn’t done in an age, and hurried to obey.

From then on, time moved in a blur, a continuum that Bostar could only remember afterwards in a series of fractured images. The frisson of excitement that shivered through the waiting soldiers when they heard their orders. Mago’s head silhouetted as he peered over the riverbank, and his beckoning arm. Reaching the top, and being awestruck by the colossal struggle going on over to their left. Who was winning? Was Hanno still alive? Mago shaking his arm and telling him to keep focused. Telling the men to unsling their shields from their backs and ready their weapons.
Assembling their phalanxes in open order. Watching the thousand Numidians split, placing half their number on each side of the infantry. Mago’s raised sword pointing at the enemy and his cry, ‘For Hannibal and for Carthage!’