In the event, Fabricius spotted one of the consul’s messengers well before Quintus and his comrades had warmed up. He rode to confer with him, and returned at the double.
‘Longus wants all citizen cavalry positioned on the right flank, and the allied horse on the left. We’ve got to ride north, to the far end of the battle line.’
‘When?’ asked Quintus irritably. His earlier excitement had been sapped by the mind-numbing cold.
‘Now!’ Fabricius called out to his decurions: ‘Have the men form up. We ride out at once.’
As the cavalrymen emerged from the trees, Quintus could have sworn that the wind hit them with a new vigour, stripping away any of the warmth that they had briefly felt. That settled it, he thought grimly. The sooner the fighting began, the better. Anything rather than this torture.
Fabricius led them through the gaps in the three lines of soldiers to the front of the army. By the time they had reached open ground, Quintus had gained a good appreciation of the entire host. Longus had ordered the legions to deploy in traditional pattern, with a hundred paces between each line and the next. The veteran triarii were at the rear, in the middle were the principes, men in their late twenties and early thirties, and next came the ranks of the hastati, the youngest of the infantry. At the very front stood the exhausted velites, who, despite their recent travails, would be forced to engage the enemy first.
All three lines were composed of maniples. Those of hastati and principes comprised two centuries of between sixty and seventy soldiers. There were fewer triarii, however, and their maniples were made up of just two centuries of thirty men each. The units in each line did not yet form a continuous front. Instead, they were positioned one century in front of the other, leaving gaps equal to the maniple’s frontage between each unit. The units of the second and third lines stood behind the spaces in front, forming a quincunx configuration like the ‘5’ face on a gaming die. This positioning allowed a rapid transition to combat formation when the rear century in each maniple would simply run around to stand alongside the front one. It also permitted soldiers to retreat safely from the fighting, allowing their fresher comrades access to the enemy.
It was a long way to the edge of the right flank, so Quintus also had time to study the Carthaginian forces. These were arrayed about a quarter of a mile distant, sufficiently near to appreciate the enemy’s superior numbers of cavalry, and the threatening outlines of at least two dozen elephants. The blare of horns and carnyxes carried through the air, an alien noise compared to the familiar Roman trumpets. It was clear that Hannibal retained fewer troops than Longus, but his host still made for a fearsome, if unusual, sight.
At length Quintus began to feel quite exposed. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait much longer. They passed the four regular legions, spotting Longus and his tribunes at the junction between these and the allied troops of the right wing. Finally, Fabricius’ unit reached the Roman cavalry, which, with their arrival, numbered just under a thousand. There was more ribaldry as the assembled riders demanded to know where they had been.
‘Screwing your mother!’ shouted a wit among Fabricius’ men. ‘And your sisters!’
Angry roars rose from the joke’s victims, and the air filled with insults. A smile twitched across Fabricius’ lips. He glanced at Quintus and registered his surprise. ‘Many of them are going to die soon,’ he explained. ‘This takes their minds off it.’
The mention of heavy casualties made Quintus feel nauseous. Would he survive to see the next dawn? Would his father, Calatinus or Cincius? Quintus looked around at the familiar faces, the men he had come to know over the previous weeks. He didn’t like all of them, but they were still his comrades. Who would end the day lying bloodied and motionless in the cold mud? Who would be maimed, or blinded? Quintus felt the first fingers of panic clutch at his belly.
His father took his arm. ‘Take a deep breath,’ he said quietly.
Quintus shot him a worried glance. ‘Why?’
‘Do as I say.’
He obeyed, relieved that Calatinus and Cincius were deep in conversation with each other.
‘Hold it,’ Fabricius ordered. ‘Listen to your heart.’
It wasn’t hard to do that, thought Quintus. It was hammering off his ribs like that of a wild bird.
His father waited for a few moments. ‘Now let the air out through your lips. Nice and slowly. When you’ve finished, do the same again.’
Quintus’ eyes flickered around nervously, but nobody appeared to be watching. He did as he was told. By the third or fourth breath, the effect on his pulse was noticeable. It had slowed down, and he wasn’t feeling as scared.
‘Everyone is frightened before battle,’ said his father. ‘Even me. It’s a terrifying thing to charge at another group of men whose job it is to kill you. The trick is to think of your comrades on your left and right. They are the only ones who matter from now on.’
‘I understand,’ Quintus muttered.
‘You will be fine. I know it.’ Fabricius clapped him on the shoulder.
Steadier now, Quintus nodded. ‘Thank you, Father.’
With his army in place, Longus had the trumpeters sound the advance. Stamping their numb feet on the semi-frozen ground, the infantry obeyed. Loud prayers to the gods rose from the ranks, and the standard-bearers lifted their arms so that everyone could see the talismanic gilded animal that sat atop the wooden poles they bore. Each legion had five standards, depicting respectively an eagle, Minotaur, horse, wolf and boar. They were objects of great reverence, and Quintus wished that his unit possessed them too. Even the allied infantry bore similar standards. For reasons unclear to him, the cavalry didn’t.
Victory will be ours regardless, he thought. Urging his horse on with his knees, he rode towards the enemy.
It was imperative that their enemies marched beyond Mago’s hidden position. Consequently, the entire Carthaginian army had to stay put as the Romans approached. It was a nerve-racking time, with little to do other than pray or make last, quick checks of equipment. Imitating his father, Hanno had given his men a short address. They were here, he’d told them, to show Rome that it could not trifle with Carthage. To right the wrongs it had done to all of their peoples. The spearmen had liked Hanno’s words, but they cheered loudest when he reminded them that they were here to follow Hannibal’s lead and, most importantly, to avenge their heroic comrades who had fallen since their departure from Saguntum more than six months before.
Their racket was as nothing compared to that of the Gauls, however. The combination of drumming weapons, war chants and wind instruments made an incredible din. Hanno had never heard anything like it. Musicians stood before the assembled warriors, playing curved ceramic horns and carnyxes at full volume. The tribesmen’s frenzied response was to clatter their swords and spears rhythmically off their shields, all the while chanting in unison. Some individuals were so affected that they broke ranks, stripped naked and stood whirling their swords over their heads, screaming like men possessed.
‘They say that at Telamon, the ground shook with their noise,’ his father shouted.
But they still lost, thought Hanno grimly.
The tension mounted steadily as the Roman battle line drew closer. It was immensely long, stretching off on both sides until it was lost to sight. The Carthaginian formation was considerably narrower, which threatened immediate flanking. Hanno’s worries about this were forgotten as Hannibal ordered his skirmishers forward.
The Balearic slingers and Numidian javelin men bounded off, eager to start the battle proper. A vicious and prolonged missile encounter followed, from which the Carthaginians emerged clear victors. Unlike the wet, tired velites, who had been fighting for hours and had already thrown the majority of their javelins, Hannibal’s men were fresh and keen. Stones and spears whistled and hummed through the air in their hundreds, scything down the velites like rows of wheat. Unable to respond in similar fashion, the Roman light troops were soon put to flight, retrea
ting through the gaps in their front line. Hannibal immediately recalled his skirmishers, whose lack of armour made them vulnerable to the approaching hastati. As they trotted back through the spaces between the various Carthaginian units, they received a rousing cheer.
‘A good start,’ Hanno yelled to his men. ‘First blood to us!’
A moment later, the Romans charged.
‘Shields up!’ Hanno yelled. From the corner of his eye, he was dimly aware of their Iberian and Gaulish cavalry, as well as the elephants, charging at the enemy’s horsemen. He had literally an instant to pray that they succeeded.
Then the Roman pila, or javelins, began to arrive. Each hastatus carried two of the weapons, which gave their front line fearsome firepower. The missiles were thrown in such dense showers that the air between the two armies darkened as they flew. ‘Protect yourselves!’ Hanno screamed, but it was only those in the front rank who could do as he said. The phalanx’s formation packed men together so tightly that it prevented the rest from raising their large shields. As the javelins came hammering down, they gritted their teeth and hoped not to be hit.
Topped by a pyramidal point, the pila were fully capable of punching through a shield and piercing its bearer’s flesh. And they did exactly that: killing, wounding, cutting tissue apart with ease. Hanno’s ears rang with the choking cries of soldiers who could no longer talk thanks to the iron transfixing their throats. Screams rang out from those who had been struck elsewhere. Wails of fear rose from the unhurt as they saw their comrades slain before their eyes. Hanno risked a look to the front and cursed. While their first volley flew, the hastati had continued to advance. They were now less than forty paces away, and preparing to release again. He couldn’t help admiring the legionaries’ discipline. They actually slowed down or even stopped to throw their pila. As he already knew, it was well worth the effort to make an accurate shot. Lesser foes would have already broken and run beneath the rain of iron-tipped terror. Hanno was grateful that he was commanding veterans. While his men had suffered terribly, their lines remained steady. His father’s phalanx looked rock solid too.
To his left, the Gauls were also suffering heavy casualties. Hanno could see some of them wavering, a worrying sign so early. But their chieftains were made of sterner stuff, shouting and exhorting their followers to stand fast. To Hanno’s relief, the tactic worked. As the second shower of javelins was launched, the Gauls swiftly lifted their shields. While their response reduced the number of wounded and killed, it stripped many of the warriors of their main protection. Few things were more useless than a shield with a bent pilum protruding from it. Weirdly, this looked more to the Gauls’ liking. Shouting fiercely, they prepared to meet the hastati head on.
Many of the men at the front of Hanno’s phalanx were also now without shields. He cursed savagely. The gaps would provide the legionaries with opportunities too good to pass up, but there was nothing Hanno could do to remedy the problem. ‘Close order!’ he shouted. As the command was repeated all along the line, he felt the shields of the men on either side slide against his to form a solid barrier. ‘Front two ranks, raise spears!’ Scores of wooden shafts clattered off each other as those in the second row shoved their weapons over the shoulders of the soldiers in front. Hanno gritted his teeth. ‘This is it!’ he roared. ‘Hold fast!’
He could pick out individuals now: there a stocky figure with a pockmarked face; beside him a young man wearing a pectoral breastplate who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. His own age. He looked a bit like Gaius, Martialis’ son. Unsettled, Hanno blinked. Naturally, he was mistaken: Gaius was a noble, and would serve in the cavalry. Who cares? he thought harshly. They are all the enemy. Kill them. ‘Steady,’ he roared. ‘Wait for my command!’
The hastati screamed as they closed in. Each man clutched a gladius in his right fist, and in the other he carried a heavy, elongated oval scutum with a metal boss. Like Hanno’s men’s shields, many Roman ones had designs painted on their hide covers. Bizarrely, Hanno found himself admiring the charging boars, leaping wolves and arrangements of circles and spirals. They contrasted strongly with the more ornate patterns favoured by the Libyans.
Nervous, the man beside him shoved his spear forward too soon, and Hanno’s attention snapped back to the present. ‘Hold!’ he ordered. ‘Your first thrust has to kill a man!’
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
‘Now!’ Hanno roared at the top of his voice. In the same moment, he thrust forward with his weapon, aiming it at the face of the nearest hastatus. On either side, hundreds of Libyans did the same. Hanno’s speed caught the legionary off guard, and his spear tip skidded over the top of the other’s scutum to take him through the left eye. Aqueous fluid spattered everywhere and an agonising scream ripped free of the hastatus’ throat. Hanno’s instinct was to shove his spear even deeper, making the blow mortal, but he stopped himself. The man would probably die of his injury. More importantly, he would not take any further part in the battle. With a powerful twist, Hanno pulled the blade free. Iron grated off bone as he did so and the bellowing hastatus collapsed.
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 sto
nes. 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.