by Ben Kane
‘Where do all the damn flies come from?’ grumbled Amphios, the ugliest of Hanno’s soldiers, swatting a hand at the cloud of little black dots around his head. ‘They fucking love me!’
‘They can sense that you’re full of shit,’ jibed Deon, Amphios’ best friend and the unit’s joker.
All the soldiers within earshot laughed. ‘They should congregate around you instead, Deon, because you’re an arsehole,’ Amphios shot back. ‘A big, fat, hairy one.’
More hoots of amusement.
‘I love you too, Amphios,’ Deon retorted, grinning.
Hanno didn’t interrupt. His men were marching forty stadia per hour, and coarse banter like this was normal. In some ways, he had grown to love it; the repartee also helped to maintain morale through the long periods of dusty discomfort.
No one spoke for a while, however, and the heat began to irritate Hanno again. His lightest wool tunic still felt as thick and uncomfortable as the one he used in the depths of winter. He was grateful for the distraction when Amphios asked, ‘Remember that farmer’s daughter you screwed the other day, Deon?’
‘How could I forget?’
A barrage of catcalls followed. Deon encouraged it by raising his spear in the air for everyone to see. ‘Think this is stiff?’ he shouted. ‘It’s nothing on me when I’m excited!’
Amid the jeers and whistles Hanno pretended that he couldn’t hear a thing. Deon had earned every soldier’s admiration for managing, while out with a foraging party, to persuade a local girl to lie with him in her father’s hay shed. At least, that was what he swore had happened. The junior officer in charge had been none the wiser, Deon had said, and he had even come away with two fat hens for the pot.
‘What was her name?’ Amphios cried.
‘Aphrodite!’ said a voice. ‘A veritable goddess, she was.’
Their comrades loved that; more insults and foul comments followed.
Deon waited until the clamour had died down a little. ‘Do you want to hear what she was called or not, brothers? And the details of what I did to her?’
‘We do! Tell us!’ came the chorus.
Like everyone, Hanno had heard it before. Most, if not all, of it was probably lies – according to one soldier who’d been near the hay barn, Deon had come out at speed, pursued by a fat, gap-toothed peasant girl armed with an axe. That wasn’t the point, however. It was a great tale, and it helped to distract them from the march. Unfortunately Deon’s story was turning Hanno’s mind towards Aurelia once more, and what he’d like to do with her. Smiling inwardly, he sought out his second-in-command, a solid career soldier called Bacchios, and told him to take charge of the men. Then he set off to find Kleitos. He would know how much further it was until they could set up camp.
Chapter XIV
HANNO WAS WOKEN when the sun’s rays, shining through a small gap between two tent panels, lit upon his face. Deep in an erotic dream about Aurelia, he turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but it proved difficult. All around, the morning noises had begun. Men were farting, coughing, muttering to one another. Someone nearby announced that if he didn’t have a piss that moment, his bladder would burst. His companions told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he urinated in the tent.
As the dream receded, Hanno scowled and decided to get up. His bad mood didn’t last longer than it took him to get dressed. Filling in the missing details of the dream would relieve the drudgery of the march to come. He wouldn’t need to listen – yet again – to Deon’s outlandish claims about what he’d done with the peasant girl.
Two vultures were circling over the western edge of the valley. It was early to see them. They must have found a carcase, he concluded. Ordering Amphios to prepare his breakfast and to take down his tent, in that order, he hurried down to the stream for a quick dip. The pleasure of a swim in fresh water was simply too good to miss out on. When Hanno got back a short while later, he was pleased to see that his soldiers were busy taking down their tents. The mules stood in a line, head ropes on, ready to be loaded. Some of what he’d been banging into their skulls had gone in, he thought, accepting the stale bread and cup of warmed gruel that Deon handed him. The same couldn’t be said of the units around them. Most of the men he could see were still standing around fires, eating. They hadn’t even put on their armour, let alone dismantled their tents. There was little point feeling frustrated, but Hanno couldn’t stop himself.
‘It’s the same every damn morning, eh?’ As he’d approached, Kleitos had seen where Hanno’s gaze had wandered.
‘You read my mind. I’d wager that your lot are ready, though.’
Kleitos performed a mock bow. ‘Some of us Syracusans have standards.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend,’ Hanno said quickly.
‘I have taken none. I share your exasperation with the troops’ discipline, my friend.’
‘It’s what might happen when we meet the Romans in open battle that concerns me. Defending a city is one thing, but going head-to-head with legionaries is another. From what I’ve heard, many of Marcellus’ soldiers are veterans of Cannae. They won’t be shy when it comes to butchery.’
‘I know,’ said Kleitos, frowning. ‘Which is why it’s good that we’re going to meet with Himilco. Do you know much of him?’
‘If it’s the man I’m thinking of, he’s a popular type, but he doesn’t have a great deal of combat experience. Sadly, most of the men who do are with Hannibal, in Italy.’
‘Still, he’s got thirty thousand men, and some elephants. That’s better than nothing.’
‘It is. With any luck, he’ll listen to what I’ve got to say.’ Until that point, Hanno hadn’t considered his own battle experience, but it was considerably more than Himilco’s. ‘Hannibal’s letter and ring should help convince him of my worth.’
Kleitos snorted. ‘Unless he’s an arrogant piece of shit like Hippocrates.’
Hanno chuckled. ‘Careful. Someone might hear.’
‘I’m beginning not to care. I could lead this army better with a blindfold on.’
‘I know you could, but it pays to be cautious.’
‘Sage words,’ admitted Kleitos. ‘I’ll stitch my lip – for now. I’ll tell you something, though. Hearing what Aurelia went through opened my eyes to what a whoreson Hippocrates really is. Epicydes is all right, but it’s as if they were born of different mothers. In my mind, the sooner Hippocrates falls in battle, the better.’
‘As long as it doesn’t mean that we’re defeated, I agree with you.’
‘I’ll drink to that with you later. Right. Best get back to my men. See you on the march, no doubt.’
‘Aye.’ Hanno’s eyes drifted upwards, to the brilliant blue sky. The pair of vultures had been joined by two more. He felt a tickle of unease. ‘How far is it to the western edge of the valley?’
‘I don’t know. Five stadia, maybe a little more. Why?’
‘Look.’
Kleitos’ eyes followed his arm. ‘Four vultures. So what?’
‘There were only two there a little while ago.’
‘They always gather where there’s meat on offer. It’ll be a dead deer or the like.’
‘How far out were the sentries told to go?’
‘To the mouth of the valley, I think. No alarm has been sounded.’ Kleitos scowled. ‘Do you think—?’
‘It won’t cost anything to send some soldiers to look, will it?’
‘No. My men or yours?’
‘Mine are right here. Deon! Amphios! Gather up half a dozen of your fellows.’
A few moments later, his soldiers had hurried off to the west, over the waist-high rampart and into the shallow ditch that lay beyond it. Hanno eyed the unfinished defences, and then the crowds of half-dressed men and the ramshackle tents that stretched through the camp. A queasy sensation roiled in his belly. ‘Be ready,’ he said to Kleitos.
‘You think they’ll find something?’
‘I’m not sure, but I’m worried.’
Kleitos gave him a firm nod. ‘Fine. If it proves to be a false alarm, we’ll still have shown the rest how real soldiers should behave.’ He strode off.
Hanno began bawling orders. ‘I want those tents taken down! Before that, though, I want you all armed and ready, as if for a fight.’
He saw soldiers in other units looking. Good. Their officers might take some notice.
‘Do you know something we don’t, sir?’ called a voice from behind one of the tents.
‘No. I just want you to show the rest of this sorry shower that you’re better soldiers than they’ll ever be.’ That got him a cheer, and his men moved to where their equipment was stacked. Hanno went and fetched his helmet.
From beyond the ditch, a cracked voice – Deon’s? – shouted something in Greek. Hanno didn’t catch the words, but the alarmed tone drew his attention like a bather’s eye to a turd in a public baths. A heartbeat’s delay, and several more voices joined in. Hanno saw the men around him take notice. He began running towards the edge of their position, where he would be able to see what was going on. ‘Arm yourselves! Form up in front of the tents! MOVE!’
His soldiers responded fast, but those in other units merely looked on. The shouting from the far side of the tents had grown louder. Some men were already tearing in Hanno’s direction. They all looked terrified. ‘The enemy is coming!’ one cried. ‘Romans! Thousands of them!’ yelled another. A cold pool of acid formed in Hanno’s stomach. Had they really seen something, or had they just been panicked?
‘FORM UP!’ he roared over his shoulder. Despite pushing without regard for those around him, he emerged from the press far slower than he would have liked. His gaze travelled over the ditch, and up the gentle slope that led westward. Deon, Amphios and the rest were sprinting towards him, their faces twisted with fear. What made Hanno’s mouth go dry, however, was the sight behind them. Some five hundred paces distant, the valley’s entire width was filled with infantry, moving his way at speed. They were too far away to recognise uniforms, but that didn’t matter. These were no friendly forces.
Hanno came to a number of stark realisations at the same time. Hippocrates’ cavalry had not done their scouting as they should. The vultures had been circling over their dead sentries, of which there had clearly been not enough. Their half-built camp could not be defended. His men might be ready to fight, but the majority of the Syracusans were not. With thousands of Romans closing in, that meant the battle was almost definitely lost. Hanno agonised, aware that with every passing moment, things were deteriorating further. Men were starting to push and shove at one another, as they tried to move away from the enemy. Shields and even swords lay on the ground, further evidence. In situations like this, panic spread as fast as a bushfire at the height of summer.
Deon, Amphios and the rest hurled themselves into the ditch and over the rampart. To Hanno’s relief, they didn’t look as scared as he’d expected. ‘What shall we do, sir?’ asked Deon, his chest heaving.
That made his mind up. These men trusted him with their lives. There was time to lead them, to see if a rout could be prevented. Kleitos and others would be doing the same, of that Hanno had no doubt. If they could hold the Romans back for even a little while, the majority of the force would have time to get across the ford. Hanno shoved away his uncertainty that this was the biggest gamble of his life. ‘Back to the rest of the men.’ At the milling soldiers around them, he shouted, ‘Everyone who wants to fight, follow me.’ It was disheartening that only a handful of men obeyed, but that was better than nothing.
In a small but disciplined block, they waded through the mob, and soon reached their tents. Hanno’s heart sank a little. Less than half his unit stood waiting. He didn’t need to ask where the rest had gone. Fucking cowards, he thought. The men who had stayed looked none too happy either; more than one’s gaze was on the retreating crowd. He had to grab them, or they too would run. ‘Listen to me, O brave men of Syracuse!’
Their eyes wandered back to him.
‘A lot of you want to run right now, I know that. But if you do, the likelihood is that you’ll die.’ They didn’t like that, but he pressed on. ‘Have any of you seen what the Roman legionary is capable of doing to a fleeing enemy? I have. Those bastards are disciplined. They don’t do what you and I do when the battle’s been won, which is to stop and look for wine or coin, or women.’ There were a few laughs, and he took heart. ‘Romans stay focused, like a damn hawk on a pigeon, and they don’t stop until they’ve killed every poor fucker who comes within reach.’
‘So you reckon we should stay and die here instead, do you, sir?’ cried Amphios.
A chorus of unhappy murmurs rose up.
‘What I’m saying is that we should stand and fight for a while at least. That way, most of our comrades will get away. Once they get over the river, they can head up into the broken ground, as can we. The Romans will have difficulty finding us up there.’ I hope.
There was silence for a moment, and Hanno thought he’d lost them.
Amphios stood forward. ‘Tell us what to do, sir.’
Deon moved to stand alongside him. ‘I’m in, sir.’
Hanno could have kissed the pair. Shamed by their comrades, the rest nodded or muttered their willingness to fight. ‘We must be quick,’ he said. ‘To the ditch. There we can form a line, and at least we’ll have some kind of obstacle to slow the Romans down. Have you all got shields?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they yelled.
‘With me!’ Ignoring his churning guts, Hanno ran towards the enemy.
Twenty strides from the ditch, the first Roman whistle blew. It was followed by another, and then more of them than he could count. Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Shouted orders in Latin followed, and a swelling roar went up from the legionaries. Hanno’s bowels churned. He was used to standing in the middle of a battle line to face a Roman charge, but to do so when his companions were a ragged group of men whose mettle was uncertain and they were outnumbered by hundreds to one was utterly insane.
At the ditch, he bawled orders. His men spread out, one rank deep. Hanno glanced to either side, felt the impotent rage pulse behind his eyeballs. Other officers had rallied their men to the ditch as well, but they were few, too few. There were gaping holes everywhere in their line. ‘Move to the right,’ he roared. ‘Move! Join up with the next unit!’
Fortunately, his soldiers realised his intent and scrambled to obey. By the time that the Romans had closed to two hundred paces, perhaps ten score Syracusans had banded together. Hanno couldn’t see Kleitos, but the camp was large enough for his friend to be standing elsewhere with his men. He’d had the briefest of chats with the other officers present: they had agreed to hold on for as long as possible, before retreating in the best order they could. Whether this would happen, no one knew, but it was better to have a plan than not. Hanno took his place in the centre of his soldiers. It was the best vantage point, and kept him closer to all of them than any other position. He scanned the Roman line, which was closing steadily. It was far wider than the Syracusan front, which meant that they risked instant envelopment. What the fuck are we doing? ‘Ready your shields, lads,’ Hanno shouted. ‘It’ll be javelins first – two volleys – and then they’ll charge. Stay close to each other. Punch with your shields and thrust with your swords, the same as they do.’
‘We’re dead,’ said a voice. ‘Every one of us.’ Fear rippled through the soldiers; Hanno could taste it in his own mouth.
‘HOLD!’ he roared. ‘Remember your comrades. HOLD!’
To their credit, Hanno’s men held as the legionaries slowed to a walk and from fifty paces, launched their first javelins. They held as the missiles hummed down upon them, damaging shields and injuring some. They held as a second shower of barbed metal rained in, wrecking more shields and inflicting new casualties. They even held as, at thirty paces, the Roman officers ordered their men to draw their swords and charge. They began to waver when the legionaries’ war
cries rent the air. They could take no more when the wall of enemy scuta, topped by hundreds of feather-crested helmets, closed in, when the ground shook from the weight of thousands of hobnailed sandals. Wailing in terror, they broke. From what Hanno could see, so too did the other Syracusans.
It was hard to blame them. Hanno had been close to death on many occasions, but rarely had he seen its jagged teeth, or smelt its fetid breath, so close. It was time for all of them to run. There would be no holding the Romans, no period of grace for those who’d already fled. No chance of holding his men together. The only ones who would survive were those who possessed enough strength and determination, and on whom the gods smiled. Desperation clawed at Hanno as he wondered if he was one of those few. ‘RETREAT!’ he shouted. Then: ‘Deon, Amphios, the rest of you. Stay close if you can.’
Turning, he drove back the way they’d come. Fortunately, one of the paths that led back into the camp was right behind him, for the press was savage. It was as if Hanno had jumped into a river in full winter flood, when torn-down trees, bushes and other detritus are bowled along, head over heel, top over bottom, from left to right. He had no control, could do nothing other than be swept along by the current. Within a short distance, his shield was ripped from his grasp. It was as much as he could do to retain his sword. Hanno’s feet scrabbled to remain in contact with the ground beneath and he fought the bubbling panic in his chest: if he lost his balance, it was all over. When Deon appeared by his side, it was as if the gods had sent him. The pair locked arms, allowing them to stay together as the mob swept towards the far edge of the camp. Of the rest of his men, there was no sign.
