Quintus came back to the present. ‘Huh? No.’
‘Damn glad to hear it.’ A water bag was thrust in his face.
Quintus took a long swig, and then another. The liquid tasted of waxed leather and was blood-warm, but he was so parched that he didn’t care.
‘On, lads, on! Keep the line formed. The principes and triarii will be on our heels.’ Corax was talking to other soldiers, but the effect was the same. Quintus tossed the carrier back to Urceus, who stoppered it and hung it over his shoulder again. Then, exchanging a determined look, they moved off.
The three maniples led by Servilius and Corax continued to press forward as one bloc. It was inevitable that their close-order formation broke up as the legionaries’ hunting instincts – and bloodlust – took over. There were few commanders in the world who could keep their men tightly together in such situations. This was the easiest time to cut down the enemy, the time when defeated armies suffered most of their casualties. Men who were running did not defend themselves. They were often unarmed, having discarded weapons and shields so that they could get away faster. The Romans’ speed picked up even further. The air filled with bloodcurdling shouts.
Quintus’ fear had been replaced by a mad exhilaration, and a desire to kill. He wanted revenge for all his comrades who had died at the Trebia and at Lake Trasimene. For the innocent civilians of Campania and other areas who had died at Carthaginian hands. He slashed and cut, hacked and thrust. Hamstrung men, split open their ribs, opened their bellies. Decapitated one warrior; chopped an arm off two others. Blood spattered over his shield, his face, his sword arm. Quintus didn’t care. There was so much gore, piss and shit on the ground that his feet squelched as he walked. He barely saw it. There was no sport, no skill in stabbing men in the back, but that didn’t matter either. He slew until his gladius was blunt and his muscles ached from the repetitive action of using it.
Eventually, their advance began to peter out. Exhaustion had taken hold. They had been beneath the summer sun since it had climbed over the horizon. Marching. Fording rivers. Advancing. Throwing javelins. Engaging in close combat. Even killing defenceless men used up energy. Finally, though, the Gauls and Iberians began to outstrip the hastati. Their fear gave them a fraction more speed. Deprived of victims, lacking the strength to increase their pace yet again, Corax’s legionaries slowed to a walk. As ever, the centurion seized command. ‘You’re doing fine, boys. Time for a breather. Have a drink. Fill your lungs.’
To Quintus, Corax’s words were muffled, as if they were standing in dense fog. He felt as though he were outside his body, watching himself mumble a few words to Urceus, gulp down some water, wipe the worst of the blood off his blade, stare unseeing at the mutilated corpse at his feet. His gaze wandered to their left, registered something that didn’t make sense. He blinked, looked again, came back to earth. ‘Those Gauls aren’t retreating.’
‘Eh? The mangy sheep-fuckers I can see are running as fast as their legs will carry them,’ said Urceus with a laugh.
‘Not those ones. Those – over there.’ Quintus pointed.
Urceus looked, scowled. ‘Ha! What of them? It won’t be long before they also panic and flee. We’re unstoppable now.’ He jerked a thumb to their rear, to the great mass of soldiers advancing towards them. There was little order visible, but no one could deny its huge momentum. The ground trembled with the tread of so many thousands of feet.
Quintus shrugged. Urceus was right. Who could stand before so many soldiers? There were twenty thousand hastati in the army’s first line, the same number of principes in the second and about ten thousand triarii in the third. Mix the thousands of velites in amongst that and it made an unbeatable force. Hannibal’s host was nowhere near as large. ‘Victory will be ours,’ he muttered, feeling the surety of it in his bones.
‘Of course it will,’ replied Urceus. ‘Let’s keep moving.’
They had gone no more than a dozen steps when rousing cheers began to rise from their left. A heartbeat later, the same shouts could be dimly heard far to their right. Engaged with a Gaul who was still prepared to fight, Quintus ignored it. Urceus came to his aid and they swiftly put the warrior down into the crimson mud. Panting, Quintus gave his friend a nod of thanks. The noise was louder now, originating from all along their left side. Mixed with the shouts, Quintus thought he could hear cries of dismay. Of fear. Of panic. The first tickle of unease licked at his spine. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I’ve got no fucking idea.’ Urceus also looked a little nervous.
CRASH. A shocked silence, then the booming sound was repeated from their right. Quintus wanted to puke. The force of the impacts was such that it could mean only one thing. ‘Hannibal must have wheeled part of his line. To take us in the sides.’
Urceus’ face twisted in disbelief. ‘How?’
‘Jupiter, I don’t know!’
‘No, that can’t be it. Besides, his centre is smashed to smithereens! What’s to stop us from driving on through the lot of them?’
‘You’re right,’ said Quintus, flushing.
Corax was frowning, but that didn’t stop him ordering them forward again. They advanced at the walk this time, secure in the knowledge that with so many soldiers behind them, they could not be stopped. As at the Trebia and Trasimene, the might of the infantry would prevail. Except that on this occasion, their cavalry would, gods willing, have held the enemy horse. When they had entirely broken through, they could turn to either side and fall on the Carthaginian rear. That was how Corax had explained it to them anyway, thought Quintus, struggling against waves of tiredness. He was beyond questioning what they would do.
‘Shitting hell! Look.’
The urgency in Urceus’ voice broke through Quintus’ fatigue. His eyes followed those of Urceus, towards their front. ‘No.’ It’s a living nightmare.
What he saw defied belief. Once an army broke, it was unheard of for it to halt and begin fighting again. Yet some hundred paces away, some of the fleeing Gauls and Iberians had come to a standstill. A few had already turned, and were roaring at their comrades to stop running.
The realisation struck Quintus like a punch to the solar plexus. ‘That’s why the centre of his line was bowed forward to meet us. It was a trap. It was all a trap,’ he said, feeling the fear uncoil afresh in his guts. ‘Sir! Do you see this?’
‘Aye,’ snarled Corax. ‘Hannibal is even smarter than we gave him credit for. Form a line, boys! The fighting isn’t over yet. We’ll have to teach those gugga dogs another lesson before they put their tails between their legs and run away for good. But do it we will. Roma victrix!’
The hastati raised a cracked cheer by way of answer, but their throats were too dry to continue it for long. A moment later, as if prompted to give the lie to the centurion’s bold words, a number of carnyxes started up their terrifying clamour again. Some men’s shoulders visibly slumped at their hideous sounds. Quintus gritted his teeth. He had come to loathe the instruments – and fear them. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The carnyxes’ tune was not going to go unaccompanied either. Incredibly, a handful of Gauls who had stripped naked emerged from amidst their comrades and repeated the threatening performances they’d put on before the battle began: beating their chests, waving their swords and cupping their genitalia at the legionaries. Their shouted insults were unintelligible but very clear. Moments before, they had been retreating. Now they were keen to renew hostilities. The display had a marked effect on the men who were still running. Quintus saw a number stop, twist their heads to look, and then make an about-face. At first it was a handful, but with each thud of his pounding heart, more warriors joined them. His eyes closed briefly as he tried to take it in.
The Gaulish retreat hadn’t just stopped. It had turned around. It was an attack again.
Quintus felt more weary than he had ever been in his life. Pure fantasy though it was, he wished that the Gauls would vanish. He longed just to lie down, to take the wei
ght off his aching feet, to get out of the damn sun, even to sleep. But there was no chance of that. Deep in his belly, he knew the fighting that had gone before would be as nothing compared to what was to come. The troops that had attacked their flanks – quite possibly the Libyans, and among them Hanno? – would be rested. Fresh. Eager to fight. Quintus’ mind was full of new, unsettling doubts. He gave the sun a baleful glare, wishing it were nearer the horizon. How many thousand Romans would die before it set? Would he and his comrades be among them? Would his father? Gaius? Calatinus? And, more crucially, was victory as certain as it had seemed that morning?
Quintus was no longer sure. About any of it.
Hanno had never imagined that Hannibal’s plan could work quite so well. Yet it had, causing his admiration for his general to grow even further. The Romans had taken Hannibal’s bait and swallowed it in one great gulp. The consequence was that their advance had come to a complete halt. The legionaries within sight looked terrified, exhausted, demoralised to a man. Hanno could only imagine that the same was true of the men facing his father’s Libyans, on the other flank. It seemed that the Gauls and Iberians had re-formed too, because he could hear the sounds of fighting coming from off to his right, where the warriors had retreated. The Romans must be hemmed in to their rear as well, he thought elatedly, or they’d be running that way by now. That meant that Hasdrubal and Maharbal had been victorious in the cavalry battle, which in turn signified that their horsemen were at this moment harassing the back of the Roman host. Hanno’s heart lifted even further at that thought. Nothing terrified infantry more than a disciplined cavalry charge. From the corner of his eye, he caught men starting to shift from foot to foot, which pleased him. He’d only pulled them back a short time before, to rest and to drink some water. It made sense: the Romans were going nowhere. Yet his soldiers already wanted to renew the fight. It boded well.
The legionaries opposite had no javelins, and their discipline was fading fast. Each time Hanno led his phalanx forward, most of them panicked and tried to flee. It wasn’t combat any longer. Cutting down men who had their backs turned was butchery, nothing more. But it had to be done, thought Hanno grimly. Rome did not understand diplomacy. Brute force was the only thing that would drive the lesson home. Besides, not every legionary had given up. The sounds of fierce fighting could yet be heard from other parts of the battlefield. If their fellows here took heart from that, or were rallied by an officer, they might still pose a threat. They therefore needed to be crushed. Utterly.
‘Ready to send some more Romans to hell, boys?’ Hanno cried.
His soldiers roared their bloodlust back at him, and together they advanced. Scuta high, only their helmets and their eyes showing, reddened gladii protruding from the shield wall like the poisonous barbs on a stonefish. The Romans wailed at their approach, and Hanno’s troops picked up speed. ‘Slowly,’ he shouted. ‘Reserve your strength for killing. We’re going to be at it for the rest of the day.’
The men who heard him laughed like madmen then, and fresh terror bloomed on the faces of the nearest legionaries. Those at the front pushed and shoved at their comrades behind, trying to put bodies between them and the enemy. The entire mass of legionaries swayed and moved back several steps.
The red mist began to descend on Hanno. Weirdly, the scar on his neck began to itch too. ‘Where are you, Pera?’ he roared. ‘Pera! Come out so I can gut you like the coward you are!’
No one answered, but one legionary suddenly charged straight at them. Shieldless, wounded, spittle flying from his lips, he had clearly lost all reason. He looked nothing like Pera, but Hanno longed for the man to attack him. Instead he slammed into the shield of a Libyan ten paces away. A pair of gladii ran him through before he could use his own blade, spitting him through his unarmoured abdomen. ‘Stupid bastard,’ said one of the Libyans as he shoved the dying Roman backwards with his scutum.
They were only half a dozen steps from the legionaries now. A handful of men prepared to fight, but the majority were crying like children. Many had dropped their shields and swords and, with their backs to the Libyans, were ripping at those in their way with their bare hands. Four steps. Two.
‘Pera? I’m coming for you, you arse-humping piece of shit!’ Hanno picked his target, a legionary with a similar build to Pera. Rammed his sword into the right side of the man’s back, just below his small iron back plate. Resistance, easy push, shove – and he felt it come out of the legionary’s belly. An ear-splitting shriek of pain. Hanno twisted the blade for good measure, ripped it free and watched in fascination as a tide of blood followed it out. The man’s knees were already folding. Hanno shoved him on to the ground with his shield boss and barged into the mass of enemy soldiers. Even with their level of panic, it was a dangerous move. He had no one to protect his sides, but he had gone beyond sense. He was back in the cell in Victumulae, dangling by his wrists. Pera stood before him in his mind’s eye, a hot iron raised towards his face.
Next in his path was a terrified young legionary who raised his hands towards Hanno, palms out. ‘I surrender! I surrender!’
‘Fuck you.’ Hanno stabbed him through the stomach, the easiest way to finish a man for good, and, pulling the blade out, cut down the man next to him with a backhanded slash to the side. He felt a body shoving in behind him and, cursing, tried to turn and kill whoever it was. The mist parted long enough for him to recognise Mutt and to stay his arm. They fought side by side for a time, savagely, efficiently, killing and wounding a dozen or more Romans. There was no resistance. It was like slaughtering spring lambs. The pair only stopped when the legionaries before them managed to break away and flee. Hanno made to pursue them, but Mutt blocked his path.
‘Out of my way!’ Hanno snarled.
Mutt didn’t move. ‘You’ll get killed, sir.’
The certainty in Mutt’s voice sank home. Hanno blinked.
‘You want to defeat the Romans entirely, don’t you, sir?’
‘You know I do!’
‘Then don’t throw your life away. Stay calm, sir. Keep the lads in check. Attack, withdraw, attack again. Just as we’ve been doing. It’s simple, and it works.’ Mutt stood aside.
‘You’re right.’ Hanno took a deep breath, regained a little control, felt his muscles trembling with weariness. ‘Tell the men to halt. They’ll need a drink and another break.’
Mutt gave him an approving look. ‘Yes, sir.’
And so it went on, for hours. It became a bizarre routine. Apart from the phalanx to either side of his own, Hanno couldn’t see what the other units were doing. He assumed it was much the same. Pull back, regroup, tend the wounded. Share out the water and wine that remained. Rest. Some men produced food that they’d stashed inside their tunics; it was passed around and devoured. It also became necessary to sharpen their sword blades regularly; they were blunt from being shoved into human flesh.
On one occasion, a senior officer of some type, perhaps a tribune, tried to lead an attack while Hanno and his men were resting, but it was a half-hearted affair that swiftly ended when Mutt slew the officer. The rest of the time, the Romans in his section of the line seemed content to do nothing but emulate the Libyans’ behaviour. It wasn’t surprising, thought Hanno as he watched them during one rest period, for these were the only times when they weren’t being killed. Some of the legionaries still fought back when he and his men attacked. Once or twice, he and his Libyans were even driven back a little way. For the most part, however, the Romans had given up resisting. Dull-eyed, catatonic, sunburned, they were just waiting for death to take them – like cattle or sheep in pens outside a butcher’s shop. It had not occurred to Hanno before, but he wondered if his men – if the army – would be able to dispatch every single legionary on the field before darkness, or before their exhaustion got the better of them.
After the uncertainty with which the day had begun, it scarcely seemed possible that he could be contemplating the annihilation of such an enormous Roman host. Hanno ga
ve thanks to his favourite gods, but he was careful to dampen down his feelings of triumph. Plenty of the enemy were continuing to fight. The battle was not over, and would not be until the sun had set. He would reserve judgement until then. Before that, he and his men still had a job to do.
To kill yet more Romans.
It was as if the Gauls and Iberians facing them were different men to those who’d broken and run earlier, thought Quintus. In spite of the heat, the dust, the sun, the tribesmen had a new enthusiasm for the fight. It had re-emerged since the Carthaginian attacks had fallen on their flanks. Thanks to this enemy effort, the Roman advance had wholly stalled. The warriors’ attacks on the legionaries’ front did not last for long, but they were deadly nonetheless. Despite Servilius’ and Corax’s efforts, every single one ended with dead hastati. Sometimes just a few, but more often than not it was ten or more. Roman morale slipped with every successive assault. The cries of their wounded, who lay before them – they had given up dragging men who were going to die back to their lines – as well as to their rear, didn’t help. One hastatus had been whimpering about his mother for so long that Quintus would have ended his suffering himself if the unfortunate hadn’t been lying so close to the enemy.
It was as well that the Gauls tended to pull back quickly, or the legionaries might have broken already. The enemy were bone tired now too, which meant that they could not press home their advantage as no doubt their leaders would have wished. That was of little solace to Quintus or his comrades, of whom perhaps ninety remained. Typically, Macerio was one of them. It didn’t matter that the Carthaginian troops had to break for regular rests. The Romans were surrounded, like a vast shoal of fish in a net. And slowly but surely, the net was being tightened, pulled on to the fisherman’s boat. Quintus had lost all concept of time, but it had to be the middle of the afternoon. The malevolent yellow orb that was the sun still hung high in the sky, which meant that the fighting had been going on for six, maybe more, hours. The cavalry battle had been won by Hannibal’s horsemen – it had to have been, or the Carthaginian rear would have been under attack by now. There would be no relief from their ordeal. It was a case of breaking through the enemy lines, or dying. Gazing around him, Quintus knew that many of his comrades would be doing the latter. So would he and Urceus, if something didn’t change. He wondered vaguely where on the battlefield Hanno might be, and if he too would still be alive by the end of the day. It seemed a lot more likely than his own survival.