Hannibal 02: Fields of Blood

by Ben Kane

  Hanno clashed the tip of his javelin off his shield to gain their attention. ‘This is just a precaution, lads. There is no need to worry. The nearest Romans are miles away,’ he shouted. ‘The mules are going to start crossing any moment. Our job is to act as a screen until they are safely over. Then we’ll do the same. When we get back to camp, I will see to it that you have enough wine tonight to drink yourselves unconscious.’

  That got him a loud roar of approval. ‘All the same, I want you to go over your equipment as usual.’ There were a few grumbles at this, but he saw many more nods of approval. Satisfied, Hanno went through the little ritual that had become his routine before a battle. Wipe his hands clean of sweat. Check that his helmet straps were tight. Loosen his sword in its scabbard. Test the edge on his spear head with a thumb. Ensure that he had a firm grip of his scutum. Lastly, a quick glance at his sandals to make sure that the lacing wasn’t about to come undone. His father once told him the story of a soldier who had tripped on his own laces and been killed by an enemy; it was a stupid mistake that Hanno had resolved never to make for himself.

  The pounding of hooves drew his attention like a wasp to a piece of overripe fruit. It was the Numidian who had just spoken to him, and his companions. At least they would have some eyes now, he thought. He raised a hand to beckon the riders.

  A soft whirring sound filled the air. Long, dark shadows hissed in from the edge of Hanno’s vision. Instinctively realising what they were, his throat closed with horror. In slow motion, his eyes swivelled, taking in the swarm of arrows arcing towards his men and the group of figures in the trees to his left, who stood with bows still raised. ‘Ambush!’ he roared. ‘All ranks, raise shields!’ He lifted his own scutum and ducked down behind it. Where the hell had the archers come from? One thing was certain in his mind: they would not be alone. He would have to seize control, warn Sapho if the situation were not to turn disastrous. A wary glance around the side of his shield made him curse bitterly. It was already too late. Of the six Numidians, only one remained astride his mount. The others were dead, wounded or had been thrown by their injured mounts. Frantic neighs. Bucking, rearing. Roars of pain from the wounded men. Even as Hanno’s mouth opened to order the last horseman to tell Sapho what was going on, a flurry of arrows struck him with soft, sinuous thumps. He went down screaming.

  Through the trees, Hanno could see the shapes of men closing in. Legionaries. Scores and scores of the bastards. It was the same on the other side. Already they were outnumbered, and this would be a fraction of the force facing them, of that he had no doubt. Whoever had sprung this ambush had known what he was doing. Like their own trap at Lake Trasimene, it had been timed to perfection. ‘If we fight, we die. Retreating to the river is our only chance,’ he muttered.

  ‘And if we don’t retreat, the whoresons will stop the mules from crossing, sir,’ added Mutt, appearing by his side.

  ‘Let’s move. This lot will have orders to cut us off,’ said Hanno. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘About turn! The men on the flanks are to keep their shields high. Those inside, lift yours over your heads. If you want to live, do it fast!’ He shoved his way into the press of soldiers, becoming part of the formation, looking south towards the river. Mutt joined him. Hanno could taste the fear in the air, could see it in some men’s eyes. How quickly the mood could change, he thought, moving his tongue round a suddenly dry mouth. Yet Mutt’s steady presence by his side was calming, and the situation was far from lost. ‘Close order! Forward!’ he shouted. ‘Back to the river, at the double. Back!’

  They began to run.

  The instant that the Romans saw their purpose, they also charged, towards Hanno’s men. Amid the bouncing of shields and weapons, Hanno observed that these were no new recruits. Everywhere he looked, he could see mail shirts, crested helmets and plenty of long thrusting spears. These were not just principes but triarii, the cream of the Roman fighting force. ‘They’re fucking veterans,’ he growled.

  ‘The consuls must want to give us a real bloody nose, sir.’ Mutt’s grin was feral. ‘It’s a compliment of a kind.’

  ‘A compliment I’d rather not receive,’ retorted Hanno, although the knowledge gave him a surreptitious thrill.

  The first Romans were spilling on to the road perhaps fifty paces ahead of them. They paid no heed to the last of the mules, who were being whipped onwards by their terrified handlers. Instead they began to form a shield wall, blocking the passage to the river. Hanno could hear their officers roaring encouragement to the men still in the trees. Their chance to break through was slipping away before his very eyes.

  ‘Form a point, behind me!’ he bellowed, moving to take the most forward position. Hanno could taste the sharp tang of fear in his mouth, but he pushed onward anyway. His men needed to be led from the front. If their resolve wavered, all would be lost. There was a moment when he could feel no one to his rear, and his heart hammered out a new, nervous rhythm. Then Mutt was there, and with him four, five, six others. Relief filled Hanno as the few men became a tide, and their formation assumed an arrowhead shape. He was at the very tip, the most dangerous place to be. That was because they had to succeed. If they didn’t reach Sapho’s phalanx to help defend the mules and their drivers, their plunder would all be lost. The army would go hungry. Worse than that, in Hanno’s mind, Hannibal would know that they had failed. That was not something he was prepared to let happen. Even if it cost him his life. ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘They’re only one or two ranks deep.’

  Hanno aimed for the centre of the Roman line. As they drew closer, he had his troops slow down and throw a volley of javelins. They were moving again even as the legionaries responded in kind. ‘Shields up! Draw swords!’ Hanno bellowed and moved on. He was desperate to close with the enemy, but he did not run. If the impact when the two sides met was too powerful, it would knock many men over. Even so, they hit the legionaries with an almighty crash. Hanno hoped that wherever Sapho was, he heard it. Not that his brother would do much about it. The grain was more important than a small number of soldiers. That was the last coherent thought Hanno had. His world narrowed to the few paces in front of him. To the crazed grin on the face of the triarius opposite him, and the spear head that came shoving in, threatening to take out one of his eyes. He raised his shield, felt the thump as the sharp iron struck it.

  The triarius tugged on his spear; Hanno held fast to his shield. He realised a heartbeat before his opponent that the blade was stuck. Up he came, like an uncoiling snake. With all his force, he sent his right arm out and around the side of the legionary’s scutum. Metal grated off metal; the tiniest delay, and then his sword was driving deep into the triarius’ belly. Hanno twisted his wrist for good measure, slicing the man’s guts to ribbons. The pressure on his shield suddenly slackened as the screaming triarius let go of his spear. Hanno ripped his weapon free and shoved forward a step with his useless shield. There was no resistance from his dying enemy, yet that did not stop the man in the rank behind from trying to skewer Hanno with his spear. It took every bit of Hanno’s strength to keep up his scutum. A powerful thump; his arm trembled; another impact, which he also resisted. He cursed; the legionary laughed and stabbed at him again; the blade whistled overhead. His enemy had all the advantage; his thrusting spear had a far greater reach than Hanno’s sword. In addition, Hanno would not be able to hold up his shield for much longer; it was front-heavy, thanks to the triarius’ weapon buried in it.

  Bending his knees, he drove forward, pushing the mortally wounded triarius backwards and into his current opponent. The startled legionary took a step backwards to avoid being knocked over and Hanno used the opportunity to shove at him again. At this point, the wounded triarius’ strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Hanno was ready; dropping his shield, he trampled over it and the triarius, straight at his comrade behind. Grabbing the rim of the shocked soldier’s scutum, Hanno stabbed him through his open mouth. An odd, choking noise. Spittle and pieces of broken too
th flew; a crimson tide flowed from the man’s lips. His eyes opened wide in momentary disbelief before the light left them forever. Hanno’s blade grated off bone as he tugged it free. Blood sprayed all over his arm: he barely noticed. A quick glance over his shoulder as the legionary collapsed. Mutt was right there; so too were the rest. His heart lifted. They had punched a hole in the Roman line, and their charge yet had momentum.

  Eyes to the enemy again. Burning hope filled Hanno. There were only three Romans remaining before him, and they didn’t look too happy. He bared his teeth and roared his fiercest war cry. They flinched, so he added, ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ The cry was taken up at once by his men, and Hanno felt the whole Roman line waver a fraction. The men facing him did not move to the attack, giving him the chance to flip over an undamaged enemy scutum and pick it up. Thus armed, he renewed the fight. His next opponent, a princeps, looked visibly scared but that didn’t mean he was going to run. A brave man, thought Hanno. They went at one another like men possessed, Hanno eager to break through, and the legionary desperate to prevent him from doing so. Clatter, bash. Bash, clatter. Their shield bosses smacked together over and over, each of them trying to destabilise their opponent. One man would thrust; the other would dodge or block the blow. Then the reverse happened. Back and forth they swayed, neither giving ground, neither managing to wound or disable the other.

  Hanno’s moment came when the man to the legionary’s right was killed. Hearing his companion’s death rattle, the Roman was unable to stop his eyes from swivelling to see what was happening. Hanno reached down with his sword and stabbed him in the foot. When the legionary staggered backwards, bawling with pain, he followed through with another savage thrust to the belly. There was no mail shirt to stop it this time – the princeps wore only a square pectoral plate – and his blade slid in below it, almost to the hilt.

  That was enough for the last legionary, who had been standing just behind his companions. He retreated several steps. Hanno pulled his sword free, stepped over the princeps and into open space. His heart beat even faster. There were still Romans pouring in from either side, yet the road to the river lay wide open now. ‘Mutt!’

  From right behind him, ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘How are the men doing?’

  ‘Still moving, sir. A moment or two, and they’ll be through.’

  ‘FORWARD, LADS!’ Hanno yelled. ‘To the mules!’

  An inarticulate roar. He sensed movement behind, took a glance and saw any Romans left in the way being swept aside. Keep moving; they had to keep moving, he thought. Praying that not too many of his men had been lost, Hanno took off at a steady trot. Pila scudded in, but they caused few casualties. A half-hearted charge was made on their left flank by the men emerging from the trees, but it was beaten back by the invigorated Libyans. Hanno grinned, a mad delight coursing through him. He had made it, unharmed. They had taken on veteran legionaries and beaten them!

  His pleasure did not endure for long. Their main battle had yet to be won, and from the sounds that carried from the riverbank, the fighting between yet more Romans – the main enemy force, probably – and Sapho’s troops had already begun. He had to stay calm, but it was damn hard. To the rear, he could hear the frenzied shouts of the Roman officers, urging their men to pursue them. Hanno fought his fear. He thought of the grain, and of its importance to the army. He imagined Hannibal hearing of how they had failed. New determination filled him.

  He needed every last bit of it as they left the trees. On the far side, he could see a few Libyans, the Numidians and perhaps ten wagons. Nearer, chaos reigned. Slowing, Hanno shouted a curse. The river was clogged with carts trying to get across. Some of the panicked drivers had urged their mules into the water outside the fordable area, forcing them to swim as they pulled their carts. At least one team was in serious difficulty. Men shouted, cracking their whips to no avail. Sprays of water rose up as the mules kicked and struggled against their traces. Frustration coursed through Hanno but he could do nothing about that situation. He wrenched his eyes away, evaluating the rest of the scene. The majority of the wagons were still on his side of the river, clustered in the shallows or on the bank nearby. Sapho’s soldiers were spread out in a thin, protective arc around the vehicles and their precious cargo. Between Hanno and his brother’s phalanx were several hundred Roman legionaries, more triarii and principes from the look of them. Yet more were spilling from the trees to either side. Hanno took solace from the fact that they were still some distance away. He turned, looking for Mutt, and was pleased to find him not two steps away. ‘Move fast and we can hit the lot who are engaging Sapho before the others reach them.’

  Mutt produced a rare smile. ‘Sounds like a good idea, sir.’

  That was all the encouragement Hanno needed. He eyed the nearest men, gave them an approving look, before raising a hand to his lips. ‘I’m pleased with you so far, lads,’ he cried.

  They cheered him for that.

  ‘The fight’s not nearly over, though. The wagons are still in danger. We’ve got to smash through to our comrades. Think you can do that?’

  Their answering shout was twice as loud as the previous one.

  ‘Quickly, then! Form up, twenty men wide, ten deep, fast as you can! Soldiers without shields and those with wounds are to move back several ranks.’ To Mutt: ‘I want you at the front, five men in from the right edge. I’ll be the same number in from the left side.’

  Mutt nodded, the understanding clear in his eyes. They were to use themselves as focuses for the soldiers at the very front, none of whom would be any further than five men away from either. If the strategy worked, it would ensure that their line held.

  If it didn’t, they were damned, thought Hanno. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he bawled, seeing the enemy reinforcements picking up speed. They had been spotted. ‘Move!’

  They covered the distance to the river at full pelt. Shields high, swords ready, screaming blue murder at the Romans. Cheered by their success in smashing through the triarii, they forgot how much their armour and weapons weighed, allowed the temporary madness of the charge to take over. Hanno had to give the legionaries credit; they reacted fast, the rearmost soldiers wheeling about to face them with minimal fuss. There seemed to be no triarii present, for which he was grateful. As he’d just discovered, the thrusting spears used by those veterans were deadly at close quarters against men armed with swords.

  As Hanno had hoped, Sapho led his troops forward as he and his soldiers struck the Romans from behind. Despite the fact that their comrades were advancing from the trees, the phalanxes’ combined strength was enough to panic the legionaries, who broke away after just a short period of fighting. Scores of casualties were left behind. Ordering that the enemy wounded be killed, Hanno sought out Sapho. They would have a brief chance to confer before the Romans regrouped and attacked again.

  ‘We could have done without this,’ growled Hanno.

  ‘Baal Hammon damn their eyes. Their scouts must have seen us, or a quick-thinking farmer. They weren’t far away either, to be able to get into position so fast. Still, we’ll hold them until the grain gets across, eh?’ His brother’s eyes had a dangerous glint to them.

  ‘We’ll have to,’ replied Hanno grimly. He’d seen that the carts with amphorae were being held back so that those laden down with wheat could go first.

  ‘Good.’ Sapho thumped him on the arm.

  ‘What about the wine and oil?’

  A harsh laugh. ‘Let’s see how the land lies then!’

  ‘Fine.’ Hanno asked the gods that no more enemy troops arrived other than the ones already present. With a little luck, they would manage to see every wagon to the far bank and escape themselves. The Numidians’ presence would severely reduce the likelihood of any pursuit. If any Romans were foolish enough to ford the river, they would be met by a cavalry charge. That would be followed by a frontal assault by both phalanxes. Get to the other side, and we’ll be fine, thought Hanno. That’s all we hav
e to do. Yet the enemy soldiers massing not a hundred paces away were evidence that doing so would not be quite that simple.

  ‘I want your phalanx on the right. I’ll take the left. Don’t give any ground if you can help it. The wagons need plenty of space to move around each other.’

  ‘We’ve got our orders, men,’ shouted Hanno, pointing. ‘Form up in lines. About face so that you’re looking at the Romans. Then I want you over this way. Move it!’

  His soldiers needed no further prompting. In good order, they did as he’d ordered. With Mutt’s assistance, Hanno directed them to their new position, which extended in an arc from the riverbank outside the last wagon to the midpoint of the road, where they came up against Sapho’s troops. There were sufficient numbers to stand three deep, no more. It wasn’t enough, thought Hanno, doing a rough head count, but he now had only 180 or so men. Ten Libyans were held back as a reserve. It was a pitiful number but even those few weakened his lines more than he liked.

  They had barely finished when a couple of trumpets blared and the Romans began to move forward. There were hundreds of them, perhaps twice as many as the two phalanxes combined. Hanno sensed rather than saw his soldiers’ apprehension. ‘Hold the line, boys!’ he roared. ‘If that grain gets recaptured, we’ll definitely go hungry tonight.’

  ‘What about the wine, sir?’ yelled Mutt. ‘Surely that’s more important?’

  That raised a laugh, and Hanno threw his second-in-command a grateful look.

  ‘To some of you drunkards, perhaps! If you want that as well, we’ll have to hold the crossing for a while yet.’

  ‘We can do it, sir,’ cried Mutt, beginning to clash his sword off the metal rim of his scutum. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’

  The delighted Libyans began to copy Mutt. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ they shouted.