Fields of Blood h-2

by Ben Kane

  It did seem a touch unreal, thought Hanno. Not too many months before, he had been a slave. Memories filled his head. Don’t think about Quintus.

  ‘Don’t tempt the gods, Father,’ said Bostar, glancing at the heavens. ‘We haven’t won yet.’

  Sapho eyed his brother derisively. ‘Are you scared we’ll lose?’

  Rather than reply, Bostar clamped his jaw. Malchus intervened. ‘Over-confidence is not a quality admired by the gods, it is true. Pride comes before a fall. Far better to ask for victory with humble hearts.’

  ‘All I ask is that those bloodthirsty Gauls keep silent for long enough, until the Roman vanguard reaches us. We’ll do the rest,’ said Sapho. ‘Eh, brother?’ He aimed a nudge at Hanno.

  Don’t try and use me in your fight with Bostar, thought Hanno angrily. ‘I’m sure that all four of us will play our part. Fulfil our duty to Hannibal.’

  In the distance, trumpets blared. The hairs on Hanno’s neck prickled. There would be a battle today.

  ‘They’re coming!’ breathed Bostar.

  ‘Blindly, into the fog. Baal Hammon be thanked for their arrogance.’ Malchus bared his teeth. ‘Back to your phalanxes. I will see you when it’s over, gods willing.’

  With fierce grins, they parted.

  Tiny pearls of moisture covered the iron of Quintus’ javelins and his shield rim. His skin was clammy, his tunic damp and, thanks to the wet grass, his feet were soaking. Pangs of hunger rose from his empty stomach, and he wished he’d taken a chunk of bread to eat while marching, as some of the others had. Yet his physical discomforts were the least of his worries. The visibility was growing worse, he was sure of it. The grey fog lay heavy on the land. Rutilus and Urceus were a few steps to his left and right, but he could barely make out the men beyond them. At least Macerio was as far away from him as possible, at the end of the line. Nonetheless, it was unnerving to walk into the gloom, knowing that the enemy was only about a mile and a half away. ‘Is this a good idea?’ he muttered. ‘We can’t see a damn thing.’

  Urceus heard him. ‘Flaminius thinks the fog will lift by mid-morning. So did Corax and so do I. That good enough for you?’

  ‘Corax wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the order to march,’ replied Quintus. Nor can he be happy that we are only fifty paces ahead of the vanguard. Normally, we’d be half a mile out at least, and the cavalry would be beyond that.

  ‘An officer of his experience isn’t going to be. He knows that some of his men may well be killed and injured today, but it’s his duty to obey orders. Like it is mine. And yours, Crespo.’

  Quintus caught the warning tone in Urceus’ voice. He decided not to mention his concern about the cavalry. Saying it would just aggravate Urceus further. So he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my bit.’

  An irritable grunt. Urceus glanced to either side. ‘Pass the word. Go slow. Stay abreast of each other, no more than five paces apart. I don’t want any of you getting lost, you hear?’

  Quintus repeated Urceus’ words to Rutilus, who did the same to the man on his right.

  From behind them came the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of legionaries following their trail. Trumpets blared in the distance as the units far to the rear manoeuvred into the long marching column. The sounds were magnified by the ridge that pressed Quintus and the velites against the side of the lake, deafening their ears to anything else. It was unsettling, but the loud rhythm was also reassuring. And intimidating. That will send the fear of the gods into the Carthaginians, Quintus thought. If they had not left, that was. Part of him recklessly hoped that the enemy had stayed put. Hearing their enemies approaching, but not being able to see them, would be terrifying. They won’t advance to meet us — in the fog, that would be madness. They’ll wait on the slopes of the hills until we’ve come a lot closer. By then, the haze will doubtless have started to burn off. Things will be clearer.

  They walked on, swishing dark, damp trails through the calf-high grass that lined each side of the narrow road. No one talked. Every man’s attention was locked on the ground before his feet, on the impenetrable fog before his eyes, straining for any indication of the enemy. But they heard nothing. Saw nothing. Came across nothing. They were alone in the clammy gloom. It felt eerie, and Quintus was glad of his comrades to either side. He had never walked so far in such conditions. Without the others, his unease might have mastered him.

  Absent the sun, all sense of time vanished. Gradually, though, it grew a little brighter. Morning had arrived, but he couldn’t be more accurate than that. At the start, Quintus had tried to keep count of his footsteps, but thoughts of the Carthaginians and Hanno kept breaking his concentration. He had long since given up. It would sound nervous to keep talking about how far they had come, so he didn’t say a word. Eventually, however, he could bear it no longer, and asked Rutilus.

  ‘No idea. A mile, perhaps?’ came the reply.

  ‘What do you think, Urceus?’

  Their section leader hawked and spat, quietly. ‘I’d say a mile was about right. We’ll be getting close now.’

  They peered suspiciously into the murk. ‘Nothing,’ whispered Quintus.

  ‘They might be gone,’ ventured Rutilus.

  ‘Aye, and they might not,’ growled Urceus. ‘Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you.’

  It was as if Urceus had sensed Big Tenner’s thoughts, and those of the centurions behind. Not fifty heartbeats later, an order came down the line to Urceus, who repeated the command at once. ‘A runner’s come from the legions. We’re to slow even further. Have a javelin ready to throw. Spread the word.’

  Quintus’ stomach twisted sharply, but he threw a grin at Rutilus. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rutilus glanced at the man to his right and raised his spear. ‘Go slow. Ready to loose? Pass it on.’

  The order raised the tension and fear several notches. Rutilus was scowling. The tip of Urceus’ tongue was visible between his lips. Quintus moved his throwing arm back and forth, back and forth, making sure that the javelin was well balanced. He pricked his ears. The only thing audible was the cadence of the legionaries’ feet, but it was much slower now. Tramp. His heart hammered out a few beats. Tramp. His eyes lifted to where the sky should be. Still fog, everywhere. Tramp. No, wait. The grey overhead was lighter than it had been, but only a fraction. Damn fog! Jupiter, Greatest and Best, please make it lift, he prayed.

  It was easy not to lose count of his steps now. Ten paces. Twenty. He couldn’t see a thing in front of him. Thirty paces. Fifty. A hundred. Quintus’ scalp prickled from the sweat that had built up under his felt helmet liner. Runnels of it trickled down the back of his neck. His scar itched, but there was no chance of scratching it, just as there’d be no opportunity to empty his suddenly full bladder. A quick glance at his companions. Their tense faces and white knuckles mirrored his own jangling nerves. At 150 paces, the fog thinned a little, shrinking from an all-enveloping soup to white tendrils that writhed in slow motion over the grass. Then, a glint of sun from above. Quintus’ spirits lifted. At last.

  ‘Thank the gods,’ muttered Rutilus with a sigh.

  ‘Shhhh!’ hissed Urceus, glaring.

  Rutilus flinched. Silly bugger, thought Quintus. With any luck, though, no one had heard. No one being the enemy.

  Ahead, looming out of the fog, he saw treetops. The ridge. They were near the second ridge. His eyes flickered to Urceus, who had seen it too. Eyes front again, thought Quintus, take another step. Was it his imagination, or was the fog opening out? Two more paces. Then, a hint of brown perhaps fifty paces to his front. Bushes, or was it a dead tree?

  Without warning, the fog came to an end. One moment, Quintus was surrounded by clinging grey fingers, and the next, he was in the open air. The transition was startling enough, but what made his heart leap into his mouth was the massed ranks of enemy troops not fifty paces in front of him. Conical helmets, large round shields, long spears. Libyan spearmen, the soldiers that Hanno had commanded. Could he
be here? Quintus wondered. Above the Libyans were groups of men in simple tunics, carrying slings. His gaze shot from left to right. There were thousands of the bastards, standing there. Just waiting.

  For them.

  ‘Look out!’ he roared. ‘They’re here! They’re here!’ Without waiting to see if his comrades had heard, Quintus darted forward. This is what velites were trained to do. The closer he was, the more likely his javelins would find a target. He was safe from the Libyans’ spears, which were used for thrusting. In just a few heartbeats, however, the slingers’ stones would start landing. His stomach twisted into knots as he neared the enemy lines. ‘Roma! Roma!’ he shouted. At thirty paces, he took aim at an officer in the first rank and launched his first javelin. Despite himself, he hoped that it wasn’t Hanno. Without looking to see where it landed, Quintus transferred his second shaft to his right hand. A bearded soldier caught his eye. Draw back, aim, loose — just as he had been trained. His third javelin was already in his fist when he heard the characteristic whistle of an incoming slingshot. And then another, and another.

  Quintus flinched. It took every bit of his self-control not to look up. First shots are never accurate. They’re nervous too, he told himself. Thump. Thump. Thump. The stones were landing all around him. He chose his target and threw, seized his last javelin and hurled it as well. Now, the air was filled with humming noises, as if a swarm of bees was approaching. Quintus fought his panic as he turned to flee. The way back would be fraught with danger. Slingers could make accurate shots for hundreds of paces. He had seen the evidence of that with his own eyes at the Trebia. Stop it. He wheeled, taking in Rutilus, Big Tenner and the rest of the section all close by, weaving, ducking, throwing their javelins. His heart lifted. He was not alone, not the only target for the enemy.

  But it was time to run. During his training, Quintus had often wondered how it would feel to retreat from the enemy on foot rather than on horseback, as he had done before. Now he knew, with his heart hammering off his ribs and the acid taste of fear in his throat. It was far worse. Gut-churning. Bloody terrifying. Without thinking, he lifted his shield over his helmet so that it protected the back of his head and his shoulders. He would look ridiculous to the oncoming legionaries, but he didn’t care. Thump. Thump. Thump. His ears rang with the deadly sound. He could see stones landing everywhere: in front, to the left and right and at the edges of his vision.

  He had gone perhaps fifty paces when a sharp cry made him look back. A short distance behind him, Rutilus had dropped to one knee, clutching at his right hip. Charging back into the storm of stones would be suicidal, but he couldn’t just leave him. Gritting his teeth, Quintus sprinted back, holding his shield before him. His arm jarred as it was struck. White-hot pain lanced through him as a slingshot hit his left shin. He spat a curse, and kept running. A moment later, he skidded to a halt beside Rutilus. ‘Stand up!’

  Rutilus groaned. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’

  ‘Shut your mouth and get up.’

  ‘We’ll never make it.’

  ‘Jupiter’s cock, Rutilus, do you want to live or not?’

  Rutilus struggled to his feet, grunting with pain. ‘Throw your arm over me,’ Quintus ordered, slipping his own around Rutilus’ shoulders. ‘Come on, damn you! I don’t want to risk my life for nothing.’ His friend did as he was told. Quintus lifted his shield over his helmet again, and together they began to move.

  ‘They’ll target us even more now,’ said Rutilus.

  ‘I know.’ Rather than let his fear master him, Quintus stared at the ground and concentrated on each step. They were doomed, but this gave him something to do. Better than dwelling on the harsh realisation that he was going to die in his first action as a veles. Left, right. Left, right. Four steps. Left, right. Left, right. Eight steps. The flesh on Quintus’ back crawled. This was worse than retreating from the enemy on horseback — far worse.

  But they were still moving at fifty paces. Then, somehow, it was a hundred. Quintus’ leg muscles were burning with the effort of supporting Rutilus, whose limp was growing worse. He didn’t know how much further he could go on. The sling bullets were still raining down around them, clattering off his shield. It was only a matter of time before one stuck him a deadly blow.

  ‘Look,’ grunted Rutilus.

  Quintus’ head lifted. He blinked. Emerging from the fog was the front of the column. There, in the front rank, he could see Corax. The centurion was shouting orders, and his men were spreading out into battle formation. Quintus’ heart leaped with joy, and not a little relief. Already he could sense that they were no longer the slingers’ main target. He began angling to the right of the soldiers. If they went left, there was every chance of being pushed into the lake. ‘Move it, or we’ll get in the way.’

  Rutilus responded with a burst of energy. ‘They’d best get into position quickly. Otherwise those phalanxes will smash them apart.’

  ‘There’ll be time. Those spearmen are going nowhere. Why would they give up the high ground?’ countered Quintus.

  Before Rutilus could answer, the air rippled with a new, unearthly sound. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Beneath it, thousands of voices began to chant. Metallic clashes signalled the clattering of weapons off shields. The back of Quintus’ throat filled anew with bile. The noise was coming from a long distance to their rear, from far over on the right, where the first ridge ran down to the water’s edge.

  ‘Hades below, what is that?’ The fear rippled in Rutilus’ voice.

  ‘Carnyxes. Gaulish trumpets,’ said Quintus, who had heard them before, at the Trebia.

  ‘They’re behind our men,’ whispered Rutilus.

  From another location on the right, where the hills ran down on to the hemi-lunate area of ground, a chorus of high, yipping cries added to the Gauls’ cacophony. The ground trembled with the hammering of hooves. ‘That’s the Numidians!’ Quintus let go of Rutilus’ arm and ran straight for Corax, his arms pointing to the rear. ‘AMBUSH, SIR! AMBUSH!’

  Despite the overwhelming din, the centurion heard him. Quintus saw the realisation burst in Corax’s eyes. In his gut, though, he knew it was too late. Far too late. Hannibal’s trap had been well and truly sprung.

  Only the gods would determine who survived what was to come.

  A dark joy had suffused Hanno as the small group of enemy scouts emerged from the fog to be confronted by the sight of the Libyan spearmen, and to their rear, the Balearic slingers. They had been close enough for him to see their utter consternation. To be fair, the forty-odd Romans had not flinched from their duty. One had immediately sprinted forward to the attack; he had been followed by his comrades. Their javelin volleys had caused few casualties; the Libyans’ large shields afforded great protection. Veterans all, the spearmen had not wavered much as the missiles fell. They had known, as Hanno had, that the slingers’ replies would soon be raining down on the Romans. The Balearic men were famed throughout the Mediterranean, but hearing stories of their skill was very different to witnessing it with his own eyes. Their concentrated shooting was similar to watching a storm of hailstones hit a small patch of ground. Few of the enemy scouts had been killed, but more than a dozen had been injured, some seriously, before they had withdrawn behind the protection of the legionaries.

  The real fighting had begun a short time later. Encouraged by the noise of the Gauls and Numidians launching their attacks on the Romans further back, the Libyans had been difficult to hold in position. Hanno and Mutt had had to break ranks and stalk up and down before the unit, bawling threats. He had seen other officers doing the same. The idea of charging down the slope to hit the disorganised enemy had been immensely appealing, but phalanxes were far less manoeuvrable than Roman maniples. If the legionaries had managed to break open one of their formations at the very start, things might have taken a different turn.

  As it was, the fighting had been intense and brutal. Some of the centurions at the front of the
column possessed real initiative. The ambush meant that not enough men would reach them to form the classic triplex acies formation. Knowing this, the Roman officers had led an immediate assault on the three phalanxes nearest them. Hanno and his spearmen had watched, fascinated, throats tight with tension, as the scouts and legionaries had advanced in good order. As before, there had been a shower of light spears from the scouts, who had then withdrawn through gaps in the infantry formations. Two volleys of javelins from close range, and the legionaries had charged uphill into the solid Libyan shield wall. It hadn’t taken long for the Libyans to repulse the attack, but another bigger one had come soon after, when the enemy’s numbers had been swelled by the arrival of more maniples. Hanno’s phalanx had fought then, and in the three subsequent attempts to smash their line.

  They had thrown each one back, causing heavy casualties among the Romans. After the most recent, the centurions had opted to give their battered men a breather, encouraged no doubt by the sight of fresh maniples arriving, with triarii among them. Hanno was grateful for the respite. Those of his men who had broken their spears or damaged their shields had had time to replace them from the fallen or their comrades to the rear. The injured had been helped out of harm’s way and given what care was available. For some, it was a slug of wine and a friendly word. Others, too far gone, were comforted as they slipped into oblivion. A few, the screamers, were helped on their way by him or Mutt. He had done it before, at the Trebia. A prayer to the gods, a few reassuring words in the ear and a swift blade across the throat. Hanno stared at his right hand, which was crusted with blood. It trembled slightly. Stop it. Killing the wounded was a thankless task, but it had to be done. Few things were worse for morale than bleeding, filthy men roaring in pain and calling for their mothers.

  When it was done, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank. A soldier handed him a skin of wine and he accepted it with a grateful nod. Despite his thirst, he limited himself to a couple of mouthfuls. His eyes roved the lakeshore and the open ground, which had cleared of fog, exposing the raging battle. Thanks to his position on the hill, he had a view of some of what was going on. Excitement gripped him. The Romans appeared to have failed to form their battle line anywhere. The most distant point, where the Gauls had sprung from ambush, was obscured by a dust cloud, but from within it, the carnyxes’ weird booming continued unabated. Hanno had little doubt that the tribesmen were giving better than they got. Their memories of defeat by Rome and thirst for revenge were fresher than for anyone in the Carthaginian army. At the battle of Telamon, just eight years before, seventy thousand of their fellows had been massacred by a much smaller Roman force. When he talked with any of the Gauls, that was all they seemed to care about. Today they would be out to turn the waters of the lake red with blood.