Hannibal: The Patrol

  Mutt trotted down half a dozen rows, repeating the command and telling men to pass it on. Quickly, he returned to the formation’s midpoint, shoved into the ranks and turned about to face the trees.

  Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. More shouting. Screaming. Metal hammering off metal.

  Then silence fell.

  ‘For Carthage!’ Mutt heard Hanno cry. ‘For Hannibal!’

  ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ bellowed Mutt. He dashed his spear off the front of his shield. Clash, clash, clash, he went, in time with the chant.

  His men latched onto the refrain with even more gusto than normal. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ they screamed.

  Shapes moved in the trees, came out into the open. A wide line of men — Gaulish warriors. Since meeting his first tribesmen in Gaul, Mutt could pick them out a mile off. Bowl helmets similar to those of the Romans. Large rectangular or oval shields. Coloured cloaks, tunics and patterned trousers. An occasional individual with a mail shirt. The three men who led them were stark naked, however, holding only a shield and sword each. After only a few steps, they advanced at a run. Two of them headed straight towards Mutt and the soldiers near him. Behind them, their companions broke into a trot.

  The Gauls’ plan was simple, Mutt thought grimly. It was to use the fanatics as battering rams, to break their line. If they were doing that on his side of the column, they’d be doing it on the other too. His stomach clenched painfully. With their reduced depth of two ranks per side, there was a good chance that the Gauls’ tactic could work. They would have to kill the naked warriors at once, or the whole thing could turn into a bloodbath.

  He waited a few heartbeats until the Gauls had drawn closer. Then he stepped forward and out of the shield wall. ‘HERE! COME AND GET ME, YOU FUCKERS!’

  Two of the trio aimed for him at once. The third was heading for a spot between him and the front of the patrol. Mutt had to pray that the men there held the warrior back, killed him fast, and that he and the soldiers around him could do the same. Slowly, he retreated to the safety of the formation, slipped his shield in between those to left and right. The Gauls were about thirty paces out now. He shot a glance to either side. ‘See those naked bastards, lads? The ones with the flapping cocks and balls?’

  A ripple of slightly nervous laughter. ‘Yes, sir!’ came a chorus of voices.

  ‘We kill them, fast. If they smash even a small hole in our lines, we’re fucked. D’you understand?’

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  He took some solace from the volume of their response. ‘Shields up, spears ready! Guard the man to your left!’

  The two Gauls might have been naked, but they weren’t stupid. They came in together, virtually shoulder to shoulder. Big men, with swirling tattoos on their muscular arms and torsos, and mud covering their lower legs. There was mania and death in their eyes.

  Mutt prayed that their battle rage rendered them prone to mistakes. ‘HERE I AM!’ he yelled again, taking a single step forward so that they could see who had challenged them. ‘WHORESONS!’ he added, using the only Gaulish word he’d learned in his contact with the tribesmen who had allied themselves to Hannibal. ‘WHORESONS!’

  They heard his insult. Baring their teeth, the two warriors came on like a pair of mad boars. Less than half a dozen paces separated them from the shield wall. Behind them, the hideous noise of the carnyxes had been replaced by the warriors’ battle cries.

  ‘Steady, lads,’ urged Mutt the man to either side. ‘Brace yourselves. Take the first cut on your shield rim, then gut the fuckers.’

  The first Gaul’s blade was already swinging down at him in a mighty arc that would smash his helmet and skull together, so Mutt raised his shield and ducked down behind it, praying that the timbers didn’t split.

  CRASH.

  It took his entire strength not to let the impact drive his left arm down to the ground. But he’d been in this situation before and did not let his fear master him. A fleeting glance told him that the sword had cut through the metal rim of his shield, and caught in the wood below. Bending his knees, he drove up with all the power of his thighs, raising the shield and with it, the Gaul’s weapon. As the Gaul tugged and cursed, trying to free his blade, Mutt leaned forward with a savage cry and shoved his spear into the hollow at the base of the Gaul’s neck. It ran into the flesh with ease, severing all in its path. There was a jarring thunk as it hit the Gaul’s ribcage and then it emerged, scarlet-tipped, from the back of his left shoulder. There was a choking, startled cry, and a spew of red froth from the Gaul’s lips, as he died.

  ‘Gaulish dog,’ snarled Mutt, ripping his spear free and spinning to his left, where the second Gaulish warrior had been. Dismay filled him. The soldier beside him was already down, blood and gobbets of brain tissue oozed from the massive cut in his head. The second Gaul was crouched over the body, already hacking at the soldier in the next rank, who, terrified by the ferocity of the attack, was doing little to defend himself. Mutt cursed. The main body of Gauls would reach them in the next few heartbeats. It was now or never. With a quick prayer that no one would stab him as he exposed his right side, Mutt wheeled and drove his spear into the second Gaul’s back. A keening cry of agony rent the air, and blood sprayed everywhere as he pulled his weapon free. He caught the eye of the spearman whom he’d just saved. ‘Into the front rank. Quickly!’

  The soldier hurriedly obeyed.

  Even as Mutt twisted and resumed his place in the front rank, the enemy were upon them. Fresh acid hit the back of his throat. Many of the Gauls were making for the man to his left, because there was now no one to take his place if he fell. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he yelled. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

  And then the Gauls hit them.

  Mutt instantly lost all sense of time. His world closed in, to the soldier either side of him and the enemies immediately to his front. He stabbed with his spear, wounded a warrior in the face. Took a heavy but glancing blow from a sword to his head, felt his knees buckle. With superhuman effort, he locked them, and thrust at the Gaul who’d tried to brain him. Gritting his teeth against the blinding pain in his skull, he met the next attack with his shield, managing to stab the Gaul in the chest, wounding him badly. The Gaul staggered and fell, and was replaced at once by a bearded brute holding nothing but a long spear. His first throw hummed past Mutt’s head, slicing open the face of the spearman to Mutt’s rear.

  Mutt thrust back at him, driving his spear through the Gaul’s layered fabric cuirass and into his belly. He thought it was a death wound, but the Gaul merely rocked on his heels. As Mutt struggled to pull back his weapon, his opponent grabbed the shaft and ripped it free of his own flesh. Without letting go, he aimed his spear at Mutt’s face. A tug of war ensued, with Mutt trying desperately not to lose grip of his weapon while simultaneously having to dodge powerful thrusts of the Gaul’s spear tip. It was a one-sided contest, for the Gaul was far stronger than he. Yet there would be no help from anyone. The spearmen on either side of him were engaged in their own struggles for survival.

  His own strength was waning too, Mutt gambled everything, waiting until the Gaul pulled hard on his spear, then let go of it. Unbalanced, the Gaul stumbled backwards, and Mutt followed through with an almighty thump of his shield against the man’s belly, sending him sprawling back into his fellows.

  It was far too dangerous to pursue him, so Mutt simply moved back into position. ‘Spear! Someone give me a damn spear!’ he roared. His men were well used to handing weapons forward in combat, and a heartbeat later, the shaft of a spear appeared beside his right cheek. Mutt seized it as a drowning man might grab at a log. He had to use it immediately, shoving it into the open mouth of a young warrior who’d leaped over the bearded brute.

  Gods, but that had to be a bad way to die, thought Mutt as the iron blade sliced away the man’s tongue and sank deep into the back of his throat. Gouts of crimson fluid followed the spear out as Mutt
withdrew it, showering the front of his shield. The warrior’s eyes bulged; more blood gushed; he made a hideous, choking sound and dropped from sight.

  No one took his place, and Mutt took the chance to look to left and right. Many of the Gauls were pulling back, and hope leaped in his breast. It was not a retreat, however. Twenty paces away, they halted, took their helmets off, wiped sweat from their brows, and checked their comrades’ wounds. It was time for his men to do the same, thought Mutt. Combat was exhausting; any opportunities to rest had to be seized.

  He bellowed a few commands, went through the routines he’d done so many times before. Checked — by shouting questions — that those further down the column were all right. Made sure the soldiers at the front had serviceable shields and spears. Had the injured tended as much as was possible. Ordered men to drink and to piss; told them that they’d done well; and fought his own misgivings about their situation. Despite the fact that they had not suffered heavy casualties in the initial assault, they were now definitely outnumbered. He could see scores and scores of warriors in the trees. What was their best plan? he wondered, fresh worry clawing at him. ‘Sir?’ he shouted.

  ‘Mutt. How are things with you?’

  ‘Fine, sir. We’re holding. What are your orders, sir?’

  Mutt saw the men’s body language change. They stiffened, waiting for Hanno’s response, which could determine their fate.

  ‘Stand fast until I say otherwise!’ cried Hanno.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ There was an underlying implication that they might have to retreat, Mutt was sure of it. Let that not come to pass, he prayed. Their casualties would soar. Yet as the Gauls began to advance again, he knew this might be their only option. I don’t want to die in a shithole like this, he thought bitterly. ‘Ready, lads! This time, I want you to teach them a real lesson. One that will send them home crying for their mothers. Can you do that?’

  The guttural roar that answered him still had plenty of energy in it. They weren’t going to give in just yet, Mutt decided.

  Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The sound came from some distance to the rear of the nearest Gauls.

  ‘Not more of the whoresons, please,’ said a soldier off to Mutt’s right.

  ‘If it is, we’re dead men,’ a second, familiar voice commented.

  Just like that, the mood soured. Fear blossomed on faces. Men began to pray.

  ‘Ithobaal, shut your fucking mouth,’ Mutt roared. ‘The rest of you keep quiet too.’

  Chastened, the men did as he ordered.

  Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. There were several instruments sounding. It was probably reinforcements, thought Mutt wearily. Maybe they were going to die here. If there was a time to pull back, this was it.

  He opened his mouth, ready to yell that question at Hanno.

  The cry died in his throat, because the Gauls’ advance had halted. Heads began to turn. Warriors conferred with one another. Angry shouts and questions rang out. Warriors turned to stare at whomever was advancing towards them.

  They’re not happy, Mutt decided. Why?

  An instant later, he blinked. ‘They’re fucking retreating! I don’t believe it!’

  It was an orderly withdrawal, but there was no doubt that that’s what it was. With barely a second glance at the phalanx, the Gauls faded away into the trees.

  Mutt’s men began to cheer. ‘Run, you maggots!’ shouted Ithobaal. ‘Back to your mothers’ skirts!’

  That’s what you would have done if you’d had half a chance, thought Mutt dourly. Bogu, who was small but as hard as nails, was far more reliable. ‘Bogu!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Are they going on your side too?’

  ‘Disappearing like morning mist, sir!’

  Thank all the gods, Mutt thought, relief flooding through him.

  ‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘They’re leaving!’ Hanno could not control the delight in his voice.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Who was it that scared them off?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out, sir, I imagine.’

  ‘Get up here.’

  ‘Sir!’ Mutt eyed the men around him. ‘Treat the wounded. Check your weapons. Stay alert. We may have to fight again. Pass the word on.’ Without a backward glance, he broke into a fast walk, cursing as his large round shield caught off the branches protruding from bushes to the side of the track. Its size did not make it an easy thing to move quickly with. At times like this, he was grateful for his thrusting spear, which worked as a staff, helping him to step over the numerous Gaulish bodies. As he neared the front, Mutt judged that their own casualties had not been too heavy. Good, he thought. Libyan spearmen were like gold dust — and for the moment, impossible to replace.

  Seeing new figures emerging from the woods, he hurried to Hanno’s side. ‘More Gauls, sir?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ muttered Hanno. He cast a look at Mutt. ‘You’re unhurt?’

  ‘Fine, sir. And you?’

  Hanno wiped his brow. ‘I’m all right. How are the men?’

  ‘Ready to fight again if they have to, sir,’ answered Mutt with more confidence then he felt.

  Hanno seemed relieved. ‘Let’s hope that’s not necessary.’

  They watched with clenched jaws as a group of four tribesmen reached the track. Similar to their attackers, they were hairy, moustached men in cloaks, wool tunics and patterned trousers. They were also armed to the teeth with spears, swords and daggers. Tellingly, there was no blood visible on their weapons. The men who had ambushed the phalanx had gone without a fight. Mutt thought that these warriors’ expressions weren’t unfriendly — he prayed that this was the case. For their attackers to vanish so fast, there had to be a lot of them.

  The leader, a middle-aged figure with a luxuriant moustache, began holding forth in his own tongue. His words were clearly directed at Hanno, who had moved forward a little from his men. Two paces to his rear, Mutt listened hard. He couldn’t understand a word. When the Gaulish warrior finished, Mutt glanced at Hanno. ‘D’you know what he said, sir?’

  ‘I’ve no fucking idea,’ replied Hanno in an undertone. ‘Well, I understood the occasional word. “Gauls.” “Romans.” “Hannibal”. “Fight.”’

  ‘That could mean anything, sir,’ said Mutt warily.

  ‘I know. There was much mention of “drink” and “wine”, however. And he spat every time he mentioned Romans and Gauls. So did his men. When he spoke of Hannibal, he grinned like a lunatic. As he is now.’ He gestured at the warrior. ‘Latin? Speak Latin?’

  The Gaullaughed and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Who knows if we can trust this lot, but they don’t seem friendly with the ones who ambushed us, sir.’

  Hanno’s eyes flickered to the trees on either side. ‘If they wished us harm, surely they would have attacked by now?’

  Mutt looked around him. Once again, the treeline was full of armed figures. His knuckles whitened on the shaft of his spear. ‘Agreed, sir.’

  ‘Best continue talking,’ Hanno whispered. ‘Keep the men calm.’

  Mutt eyed the nearest soldiers, who looked distinctly unhappy. ‘No one is to make a move. Any man who does will lose his fucking balls! Pass it on, quickly.’

  ‘No Latin,’ said the Gaulish leader, spitting a copious lump of phlegm into the mud. He jerked a thumb at the man to his left, a younger warrior with blond hair. ‘Him. Latin. Yes.’

  Hanno half bowed. ‘I thank you and your companions for driving off that war party,’ he said in Latin.

  ‘You speak your enemy’s tongue?’ The blond warrior’s tone was surprised.

  ‘I do,’ replied Hanno, smiling. ‘As do you.’

  ‘My father sent me to Placentia to learn to read and write,’ said the warrior resentfully. ‘I had to study Latin as well.’

  ‘I speak it because I was once slave to a Roman family,’ revealed
Hanno.

  Mutt was grateful for the couple of years that he’d spent crewing a merchant vessel before he’d joined the army. One of his oarmates had been a friendly Latin. During the long days of rowing, they had taught one another how to get by in their respective languages. His Latin was rusty, but if Mutt concentrated, he could understand most of what was being said.

  The blond warrior looked surprised. ‘And now you follow your leader, Hannibal, to war.’

  ‘That’s right. I am on patrol with my men.’

  You are heading for Victumulae?’

  ‘We were, until we were ambushed. Do you know who our attackers were?’

  ‘Cenomani.’

  At once things became clearer for Mutt. Although there were Cenomani serving with the other Gauls in their army, Mutt knew, until very recently, some members of the tribe had also fought for Rome. Clearly, their attackers still wanted to do so.

  ‘Many Gauls have joined our army,’ Hanno declared. ‘Boii and Insubres for the most part, yet there are some Cenomani also. Not those ones, obviously.’

  Mutt didn’t like the scowl the blond warrior gave by way of reply, nor the way his leader reacted to the mention of the first tribes. Gods, let us not make enemies of them because of a tribal blood feud, he prayed. The leader barked a few words at the blond Gaul in their own language.

  ‘Our people have little love for either the Boii or Insubres,’ said the blond warrior haughtily.

  ‘We can’t all get along with everyone. I quarrel with my own brothers for instance,’ said Hanno lightly, relieving Mutt. ‘Excuse my ignorance, for I know little of this land. If not Boii, Insubres or Cenomani, what people are you?’

  ‘We are Cenomani, like those who ambushed you,’ came the proud reply.

  ‘I see,’ said Hanno calmly. ‘And are you friend or foe to Rome?’ Under his breath, he added to Mutt, ‘Be ready to order the men to fight.’

  ‘Sir.’ Mutt watched the blond warrior closely, praying that it didn’t come to that. Even if they managed to get away — bearing in mind that the Gauls probably outnumbered them — their losses would be heavy.

  ‘Rome is our enemy, as is the Cenomani clan who ambushed you. Those tribesmen had been raiding our lands.’