Hannibal 02: Fields of Blood

  Quintus swallowed hard, tried to ignore the urge to piss. How could his bladder be full again? he wondered. He’d emptied out every last drop before they marched out of the camp. A moment later, he was pleased when Urceus balanced his scutum on one hip and freed himself from his undergarment with his other hand. Quickly, he copied his friend. Their actions set off a rash of men doing the same. ‘Don’t piss on the back of my legs!’ protested a number of soldiers. A wave of nervous but relieved laughter rippled through the maniple.

  I’m not the only one who’s scared, thought Quintus, oddly reassured. Macerio didn’t look too happy either, which pleased him.

  Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Even at a distance, the carnyxes’ unearthly sound could compete with the Roman trumpets and the officers’ shouts.

  ‘Fucking savages! That’s the mating call of the Gaul! Anyone seen some dog-ugly women about, lads?’ Corax had seen what was happening. He broke ranks and moved to stand where he could see them better, cupping a hand to his mouth. ‘Most Gaulish “women” have worse beards than Hercules himself. I should know, I’ve seen them! They’re broad in the beam too, with hips like a suckler cow. If you see any of the bitches, keep them at javelin length, or you’ll catch a bout of pox that will knock you on your arse for a month.’

  The mood lifted. Men winked at each other and chuckled.

  ‘There’s nothing like the prospect of battle to make men want to urinate. It happens to me too,’ Corax said in a loud voice. ‘Some of you might also need a shit. Don’t stand on ceremony. I advise you do it while you can. Better your comrades’ laughter than to have it run down your leg when a gugga is busy trying to gut you. If you’re feeling sick, there’s no shame in puking either. Empty your guts now, and you won’t have to when to do so will mean your death.’

  Silence. A few soldiers cast embarrassed looks at one another. There was a little stifled laughter.

  ‘I’m fucking serious, lads!’ bellowed Corax. ‘If your body needs rid of something, let it out now! If you don’t, you’ll regret it later.’

  Quintus was mightily relieved that he’d used the latrine trench earlier. He glanced at Urceus, who smirked. ‘I had a good shit before we left the camp, don’t worry.’ One of their tent mates wasn’t so lucky, however. A chorus of lewd jokes and complaints about the smell rained down on him as, red-faced, he squatted where he was and emptied his bowels. Hoots of amusement and insults rose from elsewhere in the maniple as other soldiers did the same, or were sick.

  Corax waited, hands on hips, until the ranks had settled again. ‘All done?’

  A few muted voices answered, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fine. You’ll feel better having shed that weight.’

  Titters of laughter.

  ‘Have a drink. Just a mouthful or two. Save the rest for later.’

  Throughout the maniple, men slurped from their water carriers. Quintus longed to fill his belly, but he did as the centurion had ordered. His nerves were still at him. The last thing he wanted to do was vomit it all up again.

  ‘How bad is the smell, lads?’ asked Corax.

  ‘Fucking terrible, sir!’ shouted a voice.

  He leered. ‘That’s what I like to hear. It’ll keep you from falling asleep while we wait. Why don’t you smear a bit on the tips of your pila? There’s nothing like a coating of shit or puke to cause a wound to fester. Think of that when your javelin sinks into the flesh of a stinking Gaul!’

  The legionaries liked that. Their lines rippled a little as men shifted to follow Corax’s suggestion.

  ‘The order to advance won’t be long coming,’ cried the centurion. He pointed to left and right. ‘The velites are ready. The cavalry’s in position. Most of our front rank is in place. The principes and triarii are right behind us. The velites will commence hostilities, but it won’t be long until our moment of glory is here! Our chance to balance the scales after what happened at the Trebia and Trasimene. I want the ground to run with Gaulish blood! Gugga blood! The blood of every filthy son of a whore who follows Hannibal!’

  There was a loud rumble of agreement as they digested that. There was still a tinge of nervousness in the air, but the general mood was calm, determined. The carnyxes had been forgotten for the moment. Corax’s jokes about shit and piss had lifted men’s spirits, thought Quintus admiringly. The centurion had allowed his soldiers to feel scared, without panicking them. It had been skilfully done.

  ‘Are you ready to give Hannibal’s rabble the hiding of their lives, boys?’ called Corax.

  Quintus licked his lips, gripped his pilum shaft, gave Urceus a tight nod. ‘YES, SIR!’ they both roared.

  So too did every man in the maniple.

  Hanno scratched at the base of his neck again, frustrated, hot and irritable. He couldn’t see the skirmishers: Balearic slingers, Libyan javelin men and Iberian caetrati, but the air was full of their yips, cries and shouts. The sounds competed with the whirr of thousands of sling stones flying at the enemy, and the incessant braying of the Gauls’ carnyxes nearer to hand. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Hanno hated the instruments’ din, which had given him a headache. A sour grin creased his face. If it was this bad for his side, he could only imagine the effect it would be having on the Romans, plenty of whom would remember the carnyxes from the Trebia and Lake Trasimene. Let the miserable dogs tremble! he thought. We are coming for them. He longed for the fighting to start. Standing here in the summer sun, temples pounding, was torture. Not torture, he thought, touching his scar. Fucking hot and a pain in my head, that’s all. He fought his impatience. The infantry and cavalry wouldn’t clash for a while yet, and he and the other phalanxes would not have any role to play until after that.

  The Libyans had been divided up between the army’s flanks. Hanno’s unit was standing in a narrow but deep formation, behind the left edge of the Gauls and Iberians, and facing forward. It was part of a line of phalanxes, perhaps five thousand men in total, one that had been replicated on the opposite flank. Both groupings were out of sight of the Romans, which meant that Hanno and his men could see nothing at all of the ground between the armies, and that made the tension unbearable. We stay where we are. Hannibal gave us our orders, he told himself. We will follow them exactly. Everything depends on us. His flesh itched again, and he tugged at his cuirass: a pointless exercise. It settled back against his chest the instant he released it.

  ‘Something wrong, sir?’ asked Mutt.

  ‘Eh? Nothing much. There’s a rough spot on the inside of the top rim of my breastplate. I should have sanded it down last night.’

  ‘You’ll be sore by the end of the day, sir,’ observed Mutt dryly.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Hanno snapped.

  ‘Take it off, sir.’ Mutt rummaged in a pouch that hung from a thong around his neck and, with a satisfied smile, produced a small file. ‘I’ll sort it out for you in a moment.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Hanno gestured at the files of men to their left and right, at the squadrons of cavalry that waited opposite, ready for the order to advance. ‘Something might happen.’

  ‘We won’t have to do anything for a good while yet, sir,’ said Mutt patiently. ‘Do it now, while you can.’

  Mutt was right, thought Hanno. Their skirmishers had deployed only a short time before. The real fighting wouldn’t start for hours, but by sunset, he would have a raw, oozing wound on his chest. If I survive . . . ‘Very well.’ He stepped out of line and laid his shield on the hot earth. His helmet and sword were next. Mutt moved to his side, undoing the straps that held the front and back of his cuirass together. Hanno eased off the heavy metal, letting out a sigh of pleasure as warm air moved over his sweat-sodden tunic. ‘Gods, but that feels good.’ He handed the cuirass to Mutt, who found the protruding edge with a finger and got to work at once. Hanno took the opportunity to walk along his men’s lines, chatting and making jokes.

  ‘Can we take off our mail shirts too, sir?’ asked
one grinning soldier.

  A rumble of laughter passed up and down the phalanx.

  ‘I wish you could,’ replied Hanno. ‘Hannibal might have something to say if he saw you, though. Standing here without your helmets on is as much as I can allow, I’m afraid.’

  The man pulled a rueful face.

  ‘Have some water, or a bite of food if you’ve got it,’ Hanno advised and moved on.

  ‘Taking it easy, brother?’ As ever, Sapho’s tone was mocking.

  With gritted teeth, Hanno turned. Bostar and his father – who was in command – were on the opposite flank. Cuttinus, who was leading their side, had his phalanx positioned some units to Hanno’s left. His was the closest to the enemy, whereas Sapho’s phalanx was the next one along to Hanno’s. It wasn’t surprising that he had turned up. ‘I could say the same thing about you, leaving your position.’

  Sapho ignored his comment. ‘You look as if you’re taking a stroll along the Choma. Where’s your breastplate? Your sword?’

  Hanno barked, ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Tetchy! Is the heat getting to you?’

  Hanno bit back a curse. ‘Sapho, a word.’ He stalked away from his men, towards the lines of cavalry. His brother followed, eyebrows raised. ‘I won’t take shit like this,’ Hanno growled. ‘Like it or not, friendship with Mago or not, you and I are the same rank. It’s not as if we haven’t had this conversation before either. I’m no longer a boy, so don’t patronise me. And I do not take kindly to you making sarcastic remarks in front of my men.’

  A short silence.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Sapho. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Surprised and not a little suspicious at this reaction, Hanno scanned his brother’s face for signs of duplicity. He could see none. ‘Fine.’ He offered his hand. Sapho took it, and they shook. Hanno suddenly felt the need to explain. ‘There was a rough edge on the inside of my cuirass. It was rubbing. Mutt’s filing it down for me.’

  ‘Good idea. A thing like that can distract a man in the midst of a fight. It’d be a stupid way to die, wouldn’t it? Stuck by a legionary because you were scratching an itch?’

  They both laughed, and the tension eased further. ‘Are your men ready?’ asked Hanno.

  ‘Yes. They’re lean and hungry. Impatient, like me. But the wait will be worth it.’

  Hanno latched on to the conviction in Sapho’s voice. He leaned close and muttered, ‘You think we’ll win?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘It’s not that certain, brother. Many of the Romans might be inexperienced, but they outnumber us nearly two to one. I know that we have more cavalry, but there’s little room for them to manoeuvre. If the legionaries punch through the centre of our line, what we do mightn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Now you listen to me.’ Sapho’s tone was firm and unusually kind. ‘I’ve been following Hannibal for a lot longer than you. Saguntum seemed impossible to take, but he did it. Only a madman could have thought that tens of thousands of soldiers could march from Iberia to Gaul and over the Alps into Italy, but Hannibal did it. Our army was in pieces after the crossing of the mountains, but he still defeated the Romans at the Ticinus – and the Trebia. You saw what he’s capable of there, and at Trasimene. Our general is intelligent, determined and a great tactician. In my opinion, he’s also a genius.’

  ‘True,’ said Hanno. ‘He always knows what to do.’

  ‘By the end of today, Hannibal will have won a victory that will go down in history alongside the exploits of Alexander. And you, Father, Bostar and I will be there to celebrate it.’

  The image – and a memory – made a slow smile spread across Hanno’s face. ‘As we did after the Trebia?’

  ‘Exactly. Rome must pay for all the wrongs it has done to Carthage.’ Sapho raised his fist. ‘In blood.’

  ‘In blood!’ repeated Hanno.

  The sun hadn’t quite reached its zenith, and the heat was incredible. Hanno had had to stop himself supping from his water bag, which was already half empty. He wasn’t as used to not drinking as his men, few of whom he had seen touch their carriers. How long had it been since Hasdrubal had led the Iberian and Gaulish cavalry charge? Hanno had no idea, but his heart felt as if it had been in his mouth since that moment. He’d spent his time craning his head and trying to peer around the back edge of their front line. Even if he had been able to view what lay beyond the massed ranks of soldiers, which he hadn’t, the great dust clouds sent up by the horses’ hooves would have prevented him from seeing a thing. The knowledge hadn’t stopped him, however. It was something to do, something to while away the time, which was moving at the pace of a tortoise.

  He eyed Mutt, who was standing beside him. ‘What in hell is happening, do you think?’

  A doleful shrug. ‘Who can say, sir?’

  Frustration made Hanno want to shake his second-in-command, but there was no point. ‘Don’t you care?’

  A solemn look. ‘Course I do, sir, but I can’t help Hasdrubal or the skirmishers, can I? Except by praying, which I’ve done. The best thing to do is to wait, and not think about it. When it’s our turn, then I’ll show you how much I care.’

  ‘I know you will,’ said Hanno, feeling a little embarrassed. He took a step out of line and peered after the cavalry. ‘Hasdrubal’s men must be containing the Roman horse at the very least, because there’s been no sign of them.’

  ‘Very true, sir.’

  ‘Baal Hammon grant that they drive the Romans from the field as Hannibal wanted.’ Whoops and cheers to their right made Hanno twist his head. He made out slingers and javelin men spilling into view from the ranks of the Gauls and Iberians. Muttering to one another, his soldiers shifted with excitement. ‘The skirmishers are coming back!’ cried Hanno.

  ‘So they are, sir,’ said Mutt, with more signs of life. ‘It’ll be the infantry’s turn next.’

  Mutt was right. It took a while for all of the lightly armed soldiers to return, shouting and exhilarated that they had taken on a far superior number of Roman velites and lived to tell the tale. A little time went by, and nothing happened. The tension rose as the temperatures had, almost to boiling point. A great sigh went up when the enemy trumpets sounded a repetitive set of notes, over and over. It was the signal to advance. The wait was over.

  Hanno actually felt relief; he saw the same emotion in more than one man’s face.

  TRAMP. TRAMP. TRAMP. The noise of more than eighty thousand legionaries walking in unison was incredible. The ground beneath Hanno’s feet was reverberating from the impact. His stomach twisted with fear. In all of his life, he had never thought to hear or feel such a sound. At the Trebia, the sound had been impressive, but it had been diminished by the biting wind. At Trasimene, the Romans had never had the opportunity to move forward as one mass. He wished that he could stand in the front line, just for a moment, to witness the sight. I might shit myself, he thought with a touch of black humour, but it would be incredible to behold. So too would the spectacle of the Gaulish and Iberian warriors outdoing themselves to impress their fellows, and Hannibal. And the clash when the two sides met. Gods, what would that be like? Hanno took a deep breath; he let it out slowly. Stay calm. Our turn will come. Our turn to shine will come. Hannibal will be proud of us. Carthage will be proud of us. And I shall have my revenge for what was done to me at Victumulae – if not on Pera, then on every Roman who comes within range of my blade.

  After perhaps an hour of skirmishing with their Carthaginian counterparts, the twenty thousand velites had been recalled. They had come spilling back into the narrow gaps between the maniples, shouting encouragement at the hastati and boasting of how many casualties they had caused. Fortunately, they had lost few of their own number. An air of even greater excitement, mixed with nervous anticipation, descended on the legionaries. Prayers were uttered, bargains made with the gods, throats cleared of phlegm. More men took a piss; a few puked up the water that they’d drunk. There were few jokes, fewer smiles. Matters had be
come serious.

  The order to advance came the moment that the last of the velites had pulled back. A spontaneous, almighty cheer had gone up. No one had needed to be told to start clashing his pilum off his shield. The din had been incredible, and had gone on for some time. Corax and the other officers had had to resort to hand signals to get their soldiers to close up the gaps and to start moving. It was a good distance towards the enemy, however, and it wasn’t long before the noise abated. Men needed to save their strength for the walk under the burning midday sun. Standing in such close proximity to each other for more than two hours had been soul-sapping, like being in a crowded, overheated caldarium. Temperatures had risen to the point that the soles of Quintus’ sandals were hot to the touch. Any visible portions of his tunic were dark with perspiration. His felt helmet liner was saturated. Runnels of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyebrows. Hands full of shield and javelins, he blinked the salty sting of it from his eyes.