by Ben Kane
The tradition that each consul led the army on alternate days was as old as Rome itself, but when the two men were very different characters, problems could arise. Quintus asked that that would not happen during this campaign. ‘He does seem more fiery than Paullus,’ he admitted.
‘The clash with the gugga cavalry and infantry when we were marching south proved that,’ Urceus added. ‘The only reason Varro ordered the withdrawal was because the sun was about to set. I can’t see Paullus acting like that.’
Quintus grinned at the memory. The enemy ambush had seen some fierce fighting. Although it had been inconclusive, it had given the men of Corax’s and Pullo’s maniple a real hunger for victory. The same attitude appeared prevalent throughout the whole army. ‘He’s just a little more cautious than Varro, that’s all. After what happened at the Trebia and Trasimene, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve heard it said that Hannibal’s supplies will run out in a couple of days. If we do nothing, he’ll have to break camp, which could grant us an opportunity to attack. Paullus is probably just waiting for that.’
‘But there’s no need to wait! We’ve got an army nearly twice the size of Hannibal’s now! More than fifty thousand legionaries can’t go wrong, my friend. Our men broke through the enemy lines at both the Trebia and Trasimene, remember? As long as neither consul does anything stupid, we’ll simply flatten the guggas when it comes to a fight.’
Quintus relaxed a little. It was impossible not to agree with Urceus. Everyone was of the same opinion. As Calatinus had told him, they might have slightly fewer horse than the Carthaginians, but the task facing their cavalry was simple. The enemy horse had to be contained, that was all, while the infantry smashed a great hole in Hannibal’s main line. Once that was done, the cavalry battle would largely become superfluous. ‘We can sit back and just watch you lot sweating in the sun,’ Calatinus had joked. It was easy enough to picture the legionaries wheeling to complete the massacre of the Carthaginian foot soldiers. Even if by that stage Hannibal’s riders had gained the upper hand in their clash with the Roman horse, thought Quintus, they would be able to do little more than harass the legionaries. ‘Victory will be ours!’ he said, feeling the certainty in his belly grow.
‘Victory will be ours,’ repeated Urceus. ‘And it could well be tomorrow.’
Hanno’s muscles were weary as he followed the messenger to Hannibal’s tent. Although there had been no battle, it had taken most of the day to leave their position and form up opposite the Roman encampment; to wait there, their challenge unanswered; and then to return whence they had come. He questioned the messenger, one of Hannibal’s scutarii, but the man claimed not to know why their general had summoned him. His tiredness fell away as they neared Hannibal’s great pavilion at the centre of the camp. A crowd stood before it, perhaps thirty-five men from all sections of the army. There were Numidian officers, Gaulish, Balearic and Iberian chieftains. With a thrill of excitement, Hanno recognised Hannibal’s brother Mago, and his cavalry commanders Maharbal and Hasdrubal. His father was present too, with Bostar, Sapho and the other phalanx commanders.
Gods, I’m not the last one here, am I? Hanno’s face reddened as they joined the group. His discomfiture soared when Hannibal, clad in a simple purple tunic, saw him amidst the throng.
‘Welcome, son of Malchus,’ said Hannibal. ‘One of the men who has kept this army fed of late.’
Appreciative murmurs met his words.
Embarrassed now, and delighted by this public recognition, Hanno grinned like a fool. When Sapho winked at him, he was able to return the gesture without effort.
‘To business,’ declared Hannibal, indicating the table before him, upon which sat little piles of black, and white, stones. ‘The Romans did not accept my offer of battle today.’
‘Worse luck, sir!’ called Sapho.
‘Damn right,’ added a Gaulish chieftain. ‘My men are still complaining!’
A burst of laughter.
Hannibal smiled. ‘There will be a fight soon, never fear. It may well be tomorrow.’
In a heartbeat, the atmosphere had changed. Tension creased every man’s face.
‘Most of us were standing near the Roman camp today, but not all. Zamar’ – he indicated the Numidian – ‘and a few of his best men were lying on top of the hill at Cannae. Would you like to hear what they saw?’
A chorus of loud growls, of ‘Yes, sir!’
‘It wasn’t that much, at first glance. A party of enemy officers, on the other side of the river. Zamar watched long enough, however, to recognise that the Romans were scouting out the ground.’ He let them suck on the bones of that.
Malchus’ gravelly voice broke the silence. ‘You think that the consul who’s in charge tomorrow is going to march the legions over there, sir?’
‘I do. Come and see the plan that we shall follow should I be right.’ Hannibal’s teeth flashed from the depths of his dark beard, and he tapped the table top.
There was a rush to join him. Hanno did not dare to stand at the front, but thanks to his height, he still had a good view over his father’s shoulder.
‘These are the hills upon which Cannae sits.’ Hannibal’s fingers trailed over a line of large pebbles, before moving on to a thin strip of leather that ran roughly parallel to the stones. ‘And this is the River Aufidius.’ He glanced up. ‘Everyone clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
With swift motions of his hands, Hannibal arranged a score or more black stones in three lines, forming a great rectangle. He placed the shape’s long sides so that they ran parallel to the hills and the far side of the river. ‘The legions’ three lines.’ On either side of the ‘legions’, he laid a thin row of more black stones. ‘The enemy cavalry.’ A disordered pattern of tiny pebbles in front of the rectangle. ‘The enemy skirmishers.’ Again Hannibal let silence fill the air, let his officers make sense of what he’d done. After a few moments, he continued, ‘If the Romans intend to fight on this ground, they will have to do so like this. With a narrow frontage and a much deeper formation than normal. It seems sensible to do that. Half their men are new recruits. Marching them into battle like this will keep them in position and prevent them from panicking. Thanks to the hills and the river, it also restricts the area available for cavalry combat, which they know we are likely to win.’
His hands moved again, assembling the white stones opposite the black.
Hanno stared, but could not make sense of what he was seeing. He looked around, saw the same incomprehension on other faces.
‘Ha!’ Hannibal chuckled. ‘Can any of you tell me what my idea is?’
‘These are our cavalry,’ said Hasdrubal with a little smile, pointing at the lines of stones on either side of the central pattern.
‘Smart arse!’ Hannibal gave him a good-natured clout. ‘You’re right, of course. I want you on the left, near the river, with the Iberian and Gaulish horse. Maharbal, you’re to take the right flank with the Numidians. When the fighting starts, I want you both to advance. Hasdrubal, you’re to drive off the citizen cavalry. Maharbal, engage the socii horsemen, but do not close with them. Hasdrubal, keep your men on a tight rein. The instant your objective has been achieved, you’re to turn and come to Maharbal’s aid.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the cavalry commander.
‘This looks a little like a house lying on its side, does it not?’ Hannibal’s fingers traced the outline of the stones that lay between the cavalry wings. ‘Two walls, and a slightly domed roof. And rain falling on top of it.’
‘Put us out of our misery, sir,’ demanded Malchus. Hanno’s emphatic murmur of agreement was repeated by many others. What would their general’s latest stroke of genius be?
‘Very well. The “rain drops” are our skirmishers, the house is our centre, clearly. It’s to be made up of Gauls and Iberians, and I will command it with you, Mago.’ His brother looked pleased.
The Gaulish chieftain who had complained about his men leaned forward and jabbed a
t the stones with a thick forefinger. ‘Is great honour to stand in centre, with you as leader,’ he said in poor Carthaginian. ‘But why bow the line forward like this? Is stupid!’
Some officers looked shocked at the Gaul’s abruptness, but Hannibal just smiled. ‘Think,’ he said gently and tapped the black rectangle. ‘Eighty thousand legionaries cannot be stopped, even if half of them are inexperienced. No one could do it, not even you and all your fine warriors.’ His respectful gaze found the Gaulish and Iberian chieftains one by one. They gave him grudging nods in return.
‘So, Romans push us back, and back?’ asked the chief.
‘Yes.’ Hannibal moved the ‘roof’ until it had flattened into a straight line. ‘To here. Naturally, the Romans won’t stop at that stage.’ He nudged the white stones until they bowed inwards. Then he parted a few of them. ‘Our lines might even break.’
The Gauls and Iberians looked unhappy, but none of them protested.
What the hell is he playing at? Hanno wondered, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
His father turned. ‘Trust in Hannibal,’ he whispered. ‘He knows what to do.’
I damn well hope so, thought Hanno. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Hannibal always had a plan.
‘The moment that that happens is when you’ – here Hannibal caught Hanno’s eye – ‘and the other phalanx commanders come in . . .’
Like most of the infantry, Quintus had taken to lying on his blankets outside. The temperatures over the preceding weeks meant that sleep was impossible inside their eight-man tents. Even under the stars, however, there was little comfort to be had for hours after the sun had set. Men remained awake for some time before managing to fall asleep.
Thanks to the manoeuvrings of the previous day, which had been one of the hottest since the summer began, Quintus had heard not just the second watch being sounded, but the third. Being woken by the trumpets while it was still dark did not therefore improve his mood. ‘Varro has his mind made up then,’ he grumbled to Urceus.
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.
