Hannibal: Fields of Blood (55 page)

‘Kill the fuckers!’ screamed Mutt with more energy than Hanno had ever seen him display. He was standing at the far right of the front of the phalanx, where it abutted the next unit.

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ shouted the men, hitting their shields with their gladii.

The Libyans in the next phalanx took up the chant at once. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

Soon it was echoing all along the line, drowning out the retreating warriors’ shouts of dismay.

Satisfied, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank.

Cuttinus’ musicians sounded the advance.

Heart pounding, Hanno popped his sword under his left armpit and gave his right hand a last wipe on the bottom of his tunic. He repeated the process with his other hand. ‘FORWARD, AT THE WALK! HOLD THE LINE! PASS THE WORD ON.’ Mutt would keep the phalanx close to the one to their right.

They had gone about twenty paces when Hanno saw his first legionary. Some fifty steps to his front, the Roman was pursuing an Iberian who had flung away his shield. A savage, arcing cut from the legionary’s sword opened the Iberian’s flesh from shoulder to waist. Blood sprayed; he fell to the ground, letting out a high-pitched shriek. The legionary hardly paused. He ran on, trampling the body, not even seeing the phalanxes of Libyans. Nor did his comrades, a dozen or more of whom came tearing on behind him. Excitement thrilled through Hanno. We look like them, he thought. He would wager that Hannibal had even thought of this little detail.

The sudden signal to halt came as a surprise, but Hanno obeyed it nonetheless. ‘HALT! Stay where you are,’ he bellowed.

‘Why, sir?’ asked the man to his left. ‘There they are!’

Unasked, it came to him. ‘We let as many of the dogs go past as possible, because that way, more of them will be trapped.’

The soldier bared his teeth. ‘Ah, I see, sir. A good plan.’

‘Not a word now. No shouting, no cheering. Stay quiet. Pass it on.’

With a grin, the soldier did as he was told. Hanno ordered the man to his right to do the same. Then they waited, knuckles white on the grips of their weapons, as they hid in plain sight of the Romans. The numbers of Carthaginian troops retreating had slowed to a trickle, and with each of Hanno’s rapid heartbeats, scores upon scores of legionaries charged into view. Soon it was hundreds. More men than he could count. Cheering. Shouting insults. Encouraged by officers. So eager to kill the enemy that all semblance of order, of maintaining formation, had been lost. They did not even see the Libyans waiting to their right, not a javelin shot away. There were a few cursory glances thrown in their direction, but no one registered that these were not just other Romans. After all, the enemy had broken!

Gods, thought Hanno. This can’t go on. They will see us. Eventually, they have to.

His heart thumped out another dozen beats. Hundreds more Romans flooded past them. So many were advancing into the gap now that some of the men were coming within spitting distance of the Libyans’ lines. ‘Hold,’ hissed Hanno. ‘Hold!’ Come on, Cuttinus, he screamed silently. Give us the fucking order!

And then it came. Strident. Piercing. Definitive.

‘FORWARD!’ screamed Hanno. ‘KILL!’

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ yelled his men.

They’d gone ten paces before the first Roman faces turned and saw them. Even then, with death approaching, it didn’t register. Only when Hanno was so close that he could see the pockmarks on the nearest Roman’s face did he observe the first signs of fear among them. He saw jaws drop, panic flare in eyes, heard shouts of ‘Stop! Stop! They’re not our men!’ and ‘Turn, lads, turn!’

But it was too late. The Libyans swept in on the undefended Roman flank like avenging demons. Hanno’s fear was swept away by a red mist of battle rage. He saw Pera in every Roman face. He would slay them all.

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

‘At this rate, we’ll run the bastards all the way to the west coast,’ shouted Urceus, slowing up. He wiped his brow with the back of his sword arm. The movement left smears of blood across his face, turning him into a wild-eyed maniac.

I probably look like that too, thought Quintus. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered any longer except moving forward – and trying to stay alive. He stared at the fleeing Gauls and Iberians, still not believing his eyes. Servilius’ charge had worked like a dream. They had smashed into the mass of Gauls with the long spears of the triarii at the point of the wedge. Surprised by their enemies’ ferocity, the tribesmen had fallen back. That had been enough encouragement for a large number of other hastati to come barrelling forward again. The fighting had been intense, more savage than what had gone before, and the Gauls had not given up without a hard struggle. They had retreated, but had continued to face the Romans and to fight. Slowly but surely, though, the legionaries had pushed on, one bloody step at a time. In Quintus’ section of the line, they had pushed the Gauls back a couple of hundred paces at least. A few heartbeats prior, however, things had changed. He didn’t know what had been the final straw, but many of the warriors had begun to flee. It was odd how fast panic spread once it took hold, he thought. It wasn’t dissimilar to watching a spark take hold in a bundle of dry kindling, the way the flames licked and wrapped themselves around the next piece of wood with fearful speed. Before you knew it, you had a proper fire going.

‘Crespo? You hurt?’ Urceus’ voice.

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 weight 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?