Hannibal: Fields of Blood (51 page)

The jug-eared man sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Seems like it. The gods be with us.’

Quintus was not alone in muttering in agreement. More than one man reached for the lucky amulet that hung around their necks.

‘I won’t have a tongue as thick as a plank today.’ Urceus kicked at the two bulging water bags by his feet.

‘Me neither.’ Quintus had been quick to copy his friend; Corax had told the entire maniple to do the same. Unless they were fools, every soldier in the army would carry plenty of water into battle. Dropping from thirst was a more stupid way to die than many.

‘Up! Up, you maggots!’ Corax came striding down the tent lines, already in his full uniform. His vine cane thwacked down on any man who had not got to his feet. Quintus stood at once; Urceus did likewise.

‘Today’s the day, my boys, today’s the big day! Have a piss, have a shit if you need it. Have one even if you don’t need it, because my bet is that you won’t get another chance later.’ Striding on, Corax smiled at the slightly nervous laughs that followed his comment. ‘I want no loose studs on the soles of anyone’s sandals, so check that before you put them on. Don your armour! Sit it comfortably, with your belt taking the weight of your mail, if you wear it. Walk around a bit, to ensure that you’ve got it right. Get a mate to check your straps – all of them: caligae, breastplate, helmet, shield. Check that your sword’s loose in its scabbard, that there are no splinters on the shafts of your javelins. Make an offering to the gods, if you’re of a mind. Do not forget to check that your water bags are full. Then, and only then, pack up a loaf of bread, and a piece of cheese, if you’re lucky enough to have that too. This could be a long day, and a bite of food when a man’s belly’s stuck to his backbone with hunger can give him the energy he needs to go on.’

Corax walked on, repeating himself at regular intervals, doling out gruff encouragements and blows from his vine cane in equal measure.

Quintus watched him admiringly before he began to follow his orders. For a time, there was no chance of brooding about what might happen that day. They were all far too busy preparing themselves and then forming up. Through the gaps in the tents, he saw the legionaries of other maniples doing the same. He wished he could take wing and observe the vast camp from above. What a sight it would make: tens of thousands of soldiers leaving their tent lines, assembling on the camp’s main avenues and on the open ground inside the fortifications. Preceded by their standards and trumpeters, they would tramp out of the four gates, there to join up and assume a marching formation.

Dawn had broken by the time they had reached their allotted place in the column. Dust rose in great clouds, coating everyone in a fine layer of brown, making men cough and curse. The heat was mounting steadily; the sun’s rays beat down on the army, baking the soldiers in their armour. Quintus was sweating heavily just from standing where he was. When the order came from the nearest tribune to move off, he breathed a sigh of relief. Any movement of air at all across his face was welcome.

‘Thank the gods that we’re relatively near the front, eh?’ Urceus jerked a thumb to their rear. ‘I pity the poor bastards who have to eat our dust all the way to wherever we’re going.’

‘The cavalry have the best of it,’ said Quintus, scanning a party of horsemen who were riding alongside their maniple for a sign of Calatinus. ‘They don’t send up half the amount of dust that infantry do.’

‘Their job’s easier too,’ grumbled a man in the rank behind. ‘Fucking pretty boys.’

Urceus snorted with amusement. ‘They’ll be sitting around fanning themselves much of the time while we’re grinding ourselves against the guggas like a file off a knife.’

Quintus had to rein in his instinctive reaction, which would have been to defend, heatedly, the men with whom he had previously fought. Much as he hated to admit it, though, his comrades did have a point. Their cavalry had not performed well thus far against Hannibal. ‘I don’t think it’ll be quite that easy for them.’ He thought of his father and Calatinus, and begged Mars, the god of war, to protect them both. ‘No doubt that we’ll have it harder, though.’ His stomach twisted, and he added a prayer for himself and all the men around him – except for Macerio.
Curse him!
The blond-haired man was two ranks back and a few steps off to his left, and Quintus asked that whatever happened, he didn’t end up with Macerio right behind him. In the chaos of a fight, no one would notice the direction from which a man was slain.

Dying like that was an even less attractive prospect than dying from thirst, or a Carthaginian blade.

Quintus knew that the uncontrollable waves that swept men about during battle might also mean that Macerio’s back could be presented to him instead of the other way round. He would have preferred to end his feud with the blond-haired man face-to-face, but Rutilus had lain unavenged for too long. If the opportunity presented itself, he would take it.

‘Hades, why are we forming up with such a narrow frontage?’ complained Quintus, who was standing in the seventh rank with Urceus, Severus and three more of his tent mates. ‘Six men wide per maniple? It doesn’t make sense. At this rate, none of us will get to do any fighting.’

Urceus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘We’ve a better chance of being alive come sundown, though,’ he whispered.

It was as if Corax, who was in the front rank, had supernatural hearing. His head twisted. ‘Who’s that whining?’

Quintus buttoned his lip and stared straight ahead at the back of the helmet of the man in front.

‘We form up as ordered, you miserable lowlifes! Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they all answered.

Corax’s scowl eased. ‘I know it’s fucking uncomfortable standing here, waiting to move forward. I know how hot it is, how the dust is getting into your eyes, your mouth, your arse crack. You want to get it all over with. But Varro knows what he’s at. So do Paullus and Servilius. The tribunes are following their orders, see? This is where we’ll fight because here we have our flanks protected.’

Quintus’ eyes shot to the left. Through the swirling dust, he could see a line of low hills and the fortified walls of Cannae, where Hannibal’s camp had been until a couple of days before. Somewhere at the foot of the slope, Varro was positioned with the allied cavalry. Out of sight to his right lay the River Aufidius, which they had forded to reach this spot. There his father and Calatinus would be, under Paullus’ command. He prayed that they would fight bravely, and live to see victory. Corax was still talking, and Quintus quickly focused in again.

‘We move when Servilius says so, not a fucking moment before!’ yelled the centurion. ‘Not every soldier here today is as well trained as you lot. The four legions that just joined us are mostly made up of wet-behind-the-ears lads who haven’t yet shaved, let alone faced the guggas. Forming them up narrow and deep takes time, and we’re doing it because then it’s far easier for their officers to maintain formation as we advance. And in case you hadn’t got it through your thick skulls yet, keeping our formation is all-important today! We’ve got to hit those Carthaginian whoresons so hard that they never recover from the shock of it. Twenty-four ranks of us should make sure of that, eh?’

Everyone within earshot cheered.

Corax looked satisfied; he turned away. Although the centurion hadn’t identified him as the one who’d spoken, Quintus breathed a sigh of relief. ‘At least we’ll be able to throw our javelins. The men three ranks behind us won’t even be able to do that,’ he muttered to Urceus. ‘We might not even get to draw our swords if the Carthaginians break quickly.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ came the solemn reply. ‘The cogs of war are relentless once they begin to turn. They could well grind enough men up to ensure that our swords get blooded this day.’

The allusion was grim enough to dampen Quintus’ enthusiasm a little. This was where he wanted to be, however. Becoming an infantryman was what he’d wanted, and what he had finally achieved. It was a world away from what he had known as a cavalryman, and his skills were very different, too, to those he had learned as a veles. No longer would he be able to charge his horse, to wheel and ride away from the enemy if needs be. Nor would there be any running charge at the Carthaginian lines, no exchange of spears with the opposing skirmishers and the possibility of retreating to the relative safety of his own forces. Instead he would march, pressed up against thousands of his fellows, straight at Hannibal’s men. And it would happen this morning. Hundreds of paces to their front, the enemy army was forming up. Quintus could hear the Gaulish carnyxes being blown.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
. He didn’t like hearing them again. As at Trasimene, they promised bloodshed, violent, vicious bloodshed. Unlike the previous day, there would be no getaway, no option of withdrawing to the safety of their camp. In the confined area between the hills and the river, a battle on the grandest scale was about to start. Whichever set of infantry prevailed would win the day, of that he had no doubt. The contest would be bitter, right to the end. Countless men would fall, on both sides. The doors to the underworld probably lay open already in anticipation.

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.