by Ben Kane
Closer to hand, Hanno could see groups of Numidians wheeling and turning in graceful arcs as they attacked the disorganised mass of Romans by the shore. Fascinated, he watched a squadron of perhaps fifty riders come galloping in from an oblique angle towards a block of legionaries. Now and again, he could make out their high-pitched, yipping cries through the din of battle. Even at a distance, their skill was staggering. Hanno could not even imagine charging an enemy bareback on a horse that had no bit or bridle. Similar to a little cloud of midges, the Numidians closed at speed. They infuriated the Romans not with bites, but a volley of well-aimed spears. Hanno grinned as a handful of tiny figures — enraged legionaries — broke ranks to try and close with the enemy. In a flash, they were enclosed by the horsemen. Dust swirled, obscuring what was going on. A few heartbeats later, the riders cantered away, leaving nothing but bodies sprawled in the dirt. Everywhere he looked, similar things were happening. The battle was going well for his side. It wasn’t tempting fate too much to think that the outcome had already been decided.
If he and the rest of the Libyans could hold the enemy vanguard in place until the rest of their army hit the Romans from the rear, the result would not just be victory, but a total massacre. Another defeat for Rome, his people’s bitterest enemy. An image of Quintus came unbidden, and Hanno found it impossible not to wish that whatever the outcome, his former friend survived. He fingered his scar. As for the rest of them, well, they could go to Hades, the Roman bastards. If Pera still lived, Hanno hoped that he would be among the dead by the day’s end.
Despite what was happening elsewhere, their task would not be easy. The legionaries below had been rallied and re-formed into three large blocks. Good numbers of triarii had been positioned in the front ranks. Alongside them, Hanno could see the characteristic crests of centurions’ helmets. Orders were bellowed and each of the three units formed a triangle, aiming its point up the hill at the Carthaginians. They’ve formed the ‘saw’, he thought, his belly clenching. It’s an attempt to smash through. The attack would fall upon his phalanx and those of his father and brothers. For them, this was when the real battle would begin.
‘They’re really going to try and break us this time, lads,’ he roared. ‘We can’t have that, can we?’
‘NOOOOOO!’ his spearmen screamed back at him.
‘Hannibal wouldn’t be too pleased if we failed him, would he?’
‘NOOOOOO!’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Close order, all ranks!’
The men at the front shuffled together, making sure that their shields overlapped. The soldiers to their rear shoved in behind, forming a tight mass of equipment, weapons and sweaty flesh. There was very little room to move now, but that was the strength of the phalanx. When their spears were raised, the formations presented an armoured wall to the foe, a wall that was impregnable to most attacks. Whether it would prove effective against the saw, he would shortly find out. Thus far, the gods had seen fit to lend them their aid. As the Romans began to climb the slope, Hanno prayed that they continued to do so.
The centurions led their men steadily uphill. Hanno could hear them shouting orders similar to his own. ‘Steady, boys!’ ‘Keep your position!’ ‘Pila ready!’ Ahead of the infantry, the velites trotted, their few remaining javelins ready to throw. Hanno’s men hurled abuse as they drew near; the phalanx had suffered almost no casualties from the spears of the enemy light infantry. He even heard wagers being made about which of the velites would first get struck by a slingshot. They were brave men to attack yet again, he thought, as the whistling sound of hundreds of stones passed overhead. Even when the first volley landed, they didn’t turn and run. There were fewer than a score of the velites left, but they advanced into the hail of sling bullets, coming nearer than they had ever done before. What in Baal Hammon’s name are they doing? wondered Hanno in alarm. It was as if the velites wanted to die. More and more of them were falling, but that did not stop their assault. Closer and closer they came, shouting war cries and throwing their spears.
Their action was nothing but a diversion. By the time Hanno had realised this, the nearest saw point had changed direction. Now it was aimed directly at the junction between the right edge of his phalanx and the left edge of Bostar’s. He was about to order his men to move to the right, thereby sealing the gap, when he glanced at one of the other saw points. It was moving straight for the junction between the leftmost part of his phalanx and the right of his father’s. ‘Damn them for devious bastards,’ he swore. If his men moved either way, they risked making the situation worse. ‘Mutt!’
From his left, ‘Sir?’
‘Do you see what they’re at?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pass the word back, quickly. The slingers are to concentrate their shooting on the saw points. I want the men at the front taken down at all costs. Clear?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘You heard what I said. Send the word back. Now!’ Hanno growled at the soldiers directly to his rear. ‘Mutt!’ he called again.
‘Sir?’
‘The men on our left edge must see what’s about to happen, but pass a message to them anyway. They have to hold!’ Hanno glanced at the spearman to his other side. ‘Spread the word to the lads on the right. The Romans must not break through!’
Scowling, the spearman did as he was told.
Hanno eyed the Romans, who were now less than fifty paces away. He had warned his men. Done all he could do. He chafed to be in the middle of the action, but he couldn’t break ranks without damaging the integrity of the shield wall, something the Romans might capitalise on. Agonising though it was, he had to stay put.
From then on, every moment dragged. Even when the legionaries began to run the last short distance, it was as if Hanno saw it one dramatic image at a time. The last of the velites pulling back, limping, bleeding, but still defiant. The hail of slingshot that darkened the sky overhead. The unbelievable sight of the bullets landing in and around the tip of the saw point. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk went the stones as they rattled off shields and helmets, fractured skulls and caved in cheekbones. Holes began to appear in the Roman line here, there, everywhere, yet men shoved their way forward into the spaces, willingly stepping over their comrades’ bodies and into the withering rain of stones. The high-pitched screaming of the injured did not stop the legionaries from coming. ‘On! On! On!’ shouted the centurions. ‘Roma! Roma!’
Hold them! Hold them! Hanno wanted to scream, but his words would be lost in the maelstrom of sound. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he shouted, clashing his spear tip off his shield rim.
His men responded with alacrity. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ All along the Carthaginian line, the chant was taken up. The noise of it was absolutely deafening.
The Roman advance checked for a moment and hope flared in Hanno’s breast.
It didn’t last. With great shouts of encouragement and not a few curses, the centurions got their men moving, even increased their speed. With an almighty crash, the saw point to his right collided with Hanno’s soldiers. The immense force of it rippled through the men. A heartbeat later, a second blow reverberated through the phalanx as its left edge was struck. ‘Steady, steady!’ Hanno shouted. He craned his neck forward, desperate to see what was happening. Let them hold, please let them hold!
‘HANN-I-BAL!’ cried the men who weren’t fighting for their lives.
Hanno longed to have a target for his spear; to be able to sink the sharp iron deep into Roman flesh and somehow halt their advance. Instead he had to remain where he was, mad with rage and frustration as the ‘V’ of the saw point punched deep into the gap between the phalanxes. He pictured the confusion of his men, whose unprotected sides were now exposed to the Romans. The spearmen of the other phalanx would be able to fight back — but only if they had wheeled around to face left, rather than forward. Hold them! he prayed. Screams, shouts and bawled orders in Latin and Carthaginian mixed with the clash of metal on metal. The Romans who
m Hanno could see did not move for some moments, but then they shoved forward a few steps. Then a few more. His heart sank. Once the phalanxes had been split apart, there would be no way for them to regroup.
Confusion reigned as the impact of the blows from either side spread through the ranks. Around Hanno, soldiers shouted, pushed and fought to stay on their feet. Many were driven to their knees or had their arms dislocated as their shields were ripped away from them. The front rank buckled, and then broke up. Men moved forward, breaking formation. Hanno was among them. There was no enemy directly in front, and the phalanx had shattered anyway. His mind raced, fighting panic. What to do? Ordering his men to attack the side of the saw might slow down the Roman attack, but there was every chance that the legionaries could break ranks and wheel around to their rear. That would be even more disastrous.
A glance downhill, and his heart sank further.
More groups of legionaries were pounding up the slope, clearly intent on pushing through the holes in the Carthaginian line. They would arrive long before the broken phalanxes had had time to regroup. There was no chance that the Balearic slingers could do what the Libyans had failed to. These Romans were going to get away.
Hanno lifted his eyes to the bright blue sky. Why? Why are you doing this to us? he screamed silently.
There was no answer.
Quintus had never been more glad to have Corax as his commanding officer than during the latter part of the brutal fighting on the hill. Big Tenner had been slain and Urceus injured in the third or fourth attack — when exactly, Quintus couldn’t remember. From that point on, his section of velites had struggled to maintain their morale in the face of the overwhelming barrage of stones from the Balearic slingers. Every man among them knew that they were dying for nothing; their javelins weren’t capable of penetrating the Libyans’ shields. He’d actually wondered if some of them were about to run — Macerio in particular had looked very unhappy. Run to where? Quintus had wondered cynically. The gods only knew what was going on to their rear, but it didn’t sound good. The carnyxes’ sound had a new, manic tempo, which implied that the Gauls at least were winning. It was as if Corax had known how close to the edge the eighteen uninjured velites were. He’d gathered them together, out of range of the deadly sling bullets. He had praised them to the skies for their efforts thus far, which had brought smiles to a few of the weary faces. Then he had revealed his and Pullo’s plan to escape. ‘We can’t do it without you lads,’ he’d growled. ‘You will be the stinging horseflies that send the gugga whoresons mad. They’ll be so busy watching you that by the time they see what we’re up to, it will be too late.’
‘By then, we’ll all be dead,’ Macerio had muttered.
Corax’s eyes had been like two chips of ice as they bored into the blond-haired veles. ‘You will call me “sir”, soldier.’
Macerio’s gaze had fallen away. ‘Yes, sir.’
Despite his dressing down, Macerio’s words had remained hanging in the air.
The centurion knew it too. He had glanced at each of them in turn. ‘Macerio is a cheeky prick, but he’s right. You might be killed if you go up there again. I can tell you one thing for nothing, though. It’s down to the triarii now. If they can’t help us to break past those bastards, we’ll all die anyway. Twenty years of war have taught me one thing, and that’s to recognise when a master tactician is on the field. There’s one here today, and sadly, it’s not Flaminius. The ambush was pure fucking genius. It won the battle at a stroke. We’re just trying to get our arses out of here before it’s too late.’
They had stared at him numbly, none prepared to answer. Which was worse: certain death by charging at the enemy again, or certain death in an hour or two by being overwhelmed by Numidians or Gauls? Remembering the heads he’d seen dangling from the harness on Gaulish horses at the Trebia, Quintus had known which he’d prefer. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
‘Me too,’ Rutilus had added.
When the injured Urceus had insisted on going as well, the others had been shamed into volunteering. Corax hadn’t berated them for their lack of enthusiasm; he’d nodded and smiled. ‘Good. Make this your best effort, boys, and I swear to you that we’ll get out of here.’
Fire had flared in their eyes then — weaker than before, but present all the same.
Gods, but they’d needed every last part of that fire, thought Quintus wearily. The Balearic slingers had long since found their range. Their bullets hit their targets more often than not, or so it had seemed. The front man had gone down before they’d gone twenty steps, his forehead smashed in. Only fourteen velites had come within javelin range of the Libyans. There had been eleven of them by the time they’d launched one volley, and just eight when they’d heard the crash of the first saw point hitting the enemy line. At that stage, Quintus had seen no shame in taking to his heels. He had sprinted to the back of the nearest formation of legionaries and squirmed into the rearmost rank. Rutilus, Urceus and two others had joined him soon after, but that had been it. How many of the twenty velites attached to Pullo’s century remained alive, he had no idea.
It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to grab the scutum of a fallen hastatus. Rutilus did the same. For close-quarters fighting, its size and weight made it far superior to their own light shields, which they discarded. There had been little initial need to use them, however, for which they were both relieved. The repeated attacks on the enemy had sapped Quintus’ strength, and he had been grateful to pound along behind the mass of legionaries as they pushed through the broken phalanxes. On the other side, the officers had rallied the men for a moment, and then charged the slingers. The Balearic warriors had taken one look at the bloodied and battered Romans before running for their lives. Few soldiers could stand up to armoured infantry, least of all skirmishers.
After that, the advance had slowed, as the physical toll of their efforts struck home. Quintus had hated Corax then, because they had been allowed the briefest of rests before the centurion had ordered them to continue uphill. Yet it had been the right decision. Their formation had been the only one thus far to succeed in breaking through the enemy line. If they’d stayed, they would have died. So they had slogged through the hills for at least a mile, until there was no sign of the enemy. Corax had ordered a halt then, just as men began to drop with exhaustion. The site, a small exposed hilltop, gave them a bird’s-eye view of what was happening by the lake. It wasn’t pleasant viewing, but once he’d made Urceus as comfortable as possible, Quintus could not tear his eyes away from it. Rutilus stood beside him, also transfixed.
‘Most of them have been driven on to the shore,’ announced a voice by his elbow.
Quintus glanced around, surprised to see Corax. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said with a sigh. ‘They’re being hounded by Gauls and Numidians alike.’
‘Poor bastards,’ said Rutilus.
‘Their lines were broken long ago; the units will all be mixed up with one another. Most of their officers are probably dead or injured. They’re surrounded, confused, panicked.’ Corax scowled. ‘Fuck it all. There’s nowhere for them to go but into the lake.’
Quintus peered down at the battlefield again. Was it his imagination, or was there a strange tinge to the shallows near the fighting? He blinked in horror. No, the water was turning red. His overwhelming thirst vanished for a moment. Even if he’d been able to drink his fill from the lake at that very instant, he wouldn’t have. ‘What will happen to them, sir?’
‘To the ones down there? They’re dead meat. Nothing we can do about it either. Going back down there would get every one of us killed, double quick.’
Quintus and Rutilus exchanged a sober but relieved look. If a man such as Corax said it was all right not to play the hero, then who were they to argue? Quintus prayed that his father was safe — that the cavalry hadn’t had time to pass through the pinch point before the ambush began. And at least Calatinus wasn’t present.
‘What we’ve got to concentrate on is not
letting the same thing happen to us. My guess is that the guggas will be after us as soon as they can get organised.’
‘Ready to leave when you are, sir.’ Rutilus stuck out his chin.
An approving look. Corax eyed Quintus’ scutum. ‘How do you like the feel of that?’
‘It’s heavy, sir, but I can manage it.’ Another silent prayer, this time one of thanks that his arm had fully recovered.
‘And you?’ The centurion looked at Rutilus.
‘Same, sir.’
‘Picked them up from lads who’d gone down, eh?’
Quintus nodded.
‘Did you have to use them?’
‘No, sir. We were at the back,’ Quintus replied, expecting Corax to tell them off twice over.
‘It was good thinking to arm yourselves with them. Those little round things you velites carry aren’t worth the steam off my piss when you’ve got to slug it out with other infantry. Hang on to them for the moment.’
Quintus and Rutilus grinned in surprise. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘You and your mates did well earlier too,’ said Corax in a tone of gruff approval. ‘It’s no easy thing to keep running up a slope with those bastard slingers raining death down on you. Keep that type of behaviour up, and you’ll both make hastatus sooner rather than later.’
