by Ben Kane
Their line was bowed in a couple of places but, to his amazement, it was holding. So was Sapho’s. His head swivelled to the river. The carts that had been in difficulty had been pulled out. Another ten or so wagons had crossed. Perhaps twenty remained, half of which contained sacks of grain. The rest were loaded with wine or oil. Go on! Hanno willed them all to make to the other side.
A sudden commotion to his right; he looked, cursed and ordered the reserve to the attack. Led by an officer in a horsehair-crested helmet, a handful of triarii had smashed through his lines close to the river. Hanno led the way, aware that if the group weren’t contained immediately, they would enlarge the hole that they’d made and the battle would be lost. Hanno was proud of his soldiers in the short, savage bout that ensued. No mercy was asked for or given. The Libyans fought like demons, cutting down every Roman with the loss of only one of their own number. Covered in even more blood than before, sweat running down their faces, chests heaving, they looked at each other in disbelief when it was over. Hanno was the first to start laughing. He was aware that there was a note of mania to his voice, but he didn’t care. In a heartbeat, his men were also roaring with laughter, as if they’d seen a hilarious practical joke played on someone.
There was another breakthrough almost at once. Hanno stayed with the reserve from then on. That attack and another one were repulsed before his strength began to falter. His shield felt as if it were a wooden practice one, his sword as if it were made of lead. Eyeing the others sidelong, he saw the exhaustion creeping into their faces too. The Roman attack showed no signs of abating. Trumpet calls even signified that reinforcements might be arriving. Fingers of desperation tickled the back of Hanno’s neck; bile rose in his throat. His gaze moved to where Sapho’s phalanx stood. They looked no less hard-pressed. If anything, they had given way a little: their lines were closer to the remaining wagons — seven in total — than his soldiers were.
As he wondered what to do, the decision was taken from his hands.
‘Cavalry, sir!’ Mutt roared. ‘Cavalry coming!’
Hanno elbowed his way through to where Mutt stood. His heart sank as he took in the horsemen trotting from the point where the road exited the trees. In good order, on fresh mounts, armed with thrusting spears, they would be unstoppable. ‘Shit.’
‘A big fat, smelly shit, sir,’ said Mutt in his usual sombre tone. ‘What shall we do?’
‘Start to fall back,’ replied Hanno at once. He would have preferred to confer with Sapho, but by the time he did that, the enemy horsemen would be upon them. ‘I want deeper ranks — five would be good. Any pila on the ground are to be picked up. Have the men at the front use them to keep off the cavalry. The phalanx is to move back at an angle so that the last few wagons have a chance to reach the ford. Sapho will see what we’re doing, if he’s not already doing the same.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Mutt moved out of rank and off to their right, bellowing orders. Hanno did the same to his left. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the enemy. Hope gripped him. The legionaries were holding back, clearly waiting for the cavalry to charge before they attacked again. If they seized their chance, they might pull it off yet. ‘Assume five-rank depth, quickly. Grab any javelins you see,’ he growled. ‘Hand them to the men at the front. When you’ve done that, I want you to start walking backwards, towards those wagons. Keep your eyes on the enemy. Be ready for the Roman horse.’
His soldiers moved fast, but that didn’t stop Hanno’s stomach from twisting in knots. Perhaps one man in three had a pilum now, and that wasn’t enough to stop a cavalry charge. To stand against such an attack, infantry formations needed so many spears protruding that they resembled a hedgehog. Without that protection, foot soldiers would break before a sustained cavalry assault. Hanno hated the inevitability of it. Unless they could make it to the river, many of them were about to die. Baal Hammon, watch over us, he prayed.
They shuffled towards the ford, Hanno directing operations from the left of the front rank, Mutt aiding him from a similar position on the far right. Hanno thanked the gods when he saw that Sapho’s phalanx was also retreating. He twisted his head to eye the soldier behind him. ‘What are the wagons doing? Pass it on.’
The word moved swiftly to the back rank, and returned as fast. ‘Five wagons left on this bank, sir, the first of which is about to enter the water.’
The grain was across, thought Hanno with satisfaction. Yet part of him didn’t want to give up until all of their booty had been transferred to the far bank. Was there time? His gaze returned to the front; he cursed. There were mutters of dismay from among his men, and their lines wavered a little. The enemy cavalry had seen through their plan and were advancing at a walk. After a few paces, this became a trot. ‘Back,’ roared Hanno. ‘Move back. Closer to the wagons!’ Against them, they would have some chance of holding back the Roman horses. A fierce hunger to succeed against the odds swelled in his heart.
That was when he glanced to his left and was stunned to see the other phalanx breaking apart. Sapho’s soldiers were turning and running. They were perhaps thirty paces from the water’s edge, so there was every chance of making it before the Roman cavalry arrived. For an instant, Hanno watched in utter disbelief. Why hadn’t he been told? It felt as if they had been abandoned — and that was without the thought that they could have held the Romans back. Furious now, he tried to catch a glimpse of his brother amid the chaos, but failed. He dragged his attention back to his own unit, which was further from the water. Despite his wish to save the last wagons, Hanno would have to copy what Sapho had done, or he risked not just enflankment by the enemy on his unprotected side, but being completely overrun.
His mouth had opened to issue the command when horror filled him. The Roman horse had been urged into a full charge. The ground rumbled with the thunder of hooves. Interspersed in the din, he could hear the cavalrymen shouting encouragement at each other. If he ordered his troops to retreat now, they would be cut down in their droves. What other choice did they have, though? Fuck you, Sapho, he thought furiously. Why didn’t you wait? If we had regrouped around the wagons, it would have given most of the men the opportunity to ford the river. Now, he had no choice.
‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Retreat! Into the river! Retain your weapons!’
The Libyans did not need telling twice. They spun, cursed as they banged into one another, elbowed slower men out of the way. Then, in a disorganised mass, they ran. Many disregarded Hanno’s order and dropped their shields and swords. He cursed them roundly, but it was easy to understand their panic. There were few troops in the world who could stand fast against a wave of charging horsemen. The fact that most horses would not crash into a mass of soldiers was irrelevant. The threat of being trampled to death was enough, Hanno thought bitterly as men streamed away to either side. He would not run, however. ‘Give me that!’ He made to grab a pilum from a bearded Libyan, one of his oldest veterans. Shamefaced, the man paused. ‘What are you going to do, sir?’
‘Stay here. Defend my men.’
‘That’s a death sentence, sir.’
‘Maybe so.’ Hanno tugged on the javelin shaft, but to his surprise, the Libyan didn’t let go.
‘I’ll stay as well, sir.’
Hanno could see the fear bright in the soldier’s eyes, but his chin was firm. He released his grip. ‘Very well. Grab a couple of others if you can. Only those with javelins. When the Romans get close, run right at them, screaming like a lunatic. Take down the riders, but if you can’t, stab their horses. Do it quick, and move on to the next one. Kill or wound as many as you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hanno gave him a tight nod, and the man vanished. A glance at the Romans. A savage oath. They were less than fifty paces away, pounding in at a full gallop. Hanno tried to ignore his fear and thought of how many of his men might get away if they could just break the enemy line. It was an insane thought, but something wouldn’t let him run. Hannibal would have to acknowledge his
bravery if he did this. Sheathing his bloody sword, he scooped up a discarded pilum. He caught the attention of another Libyan who had not fled. This man was wounded in the leg, which explained why he’d stayed. Hanno gave him a fierce grin. ‘Ready to give the whoresons a bloody nose?’
An eager nod. ‘Aye, sir!’
Just before the Romans hit, Hanno saw Mutt nearby. A handful of men armed with pila were clustered around him. He felt no surprise, just an overwhelming sense of comradeship with his dour second-in-command. One last look over his shoulder: a sense of relief. Perhaps half his men were already in the river. Sapho’s troops, who had been closer to the water, would be faring even better. Their total casualties would not be catastrophic. By anyone’s standards, the patrol had been a success — even if he didn’t survive it. Hanno readied his javelin as if it were a spear, preparing to sell his life dearly.
The Romans were very close now. He could see their faces clearly, hear their triumphant war cries. They were definitely citizens, not socii. Their mounts were of good quality, sturdy little horses that looked well trained. Most of the riders wore Boeotian helmets and mail shirts; a good number were armed with gladii as well as thrusting spears. All carried small round shields. They rode close together, their mounts’ shoulders only a few paces apart. It was like facing a fast-moving wall of metal and muscle. Hanno’s bladder threatened to empty itself, but he shoved the urge away and raised his shield. ‘They won’t like foot soldiers launching a counter-attack,’ he shouted to the injured Libyan. ‘Forward!’
It felt insane not to turn and run, but he advanced anyway. From the corner of his eye, Hanno saw the Libyan limping after him. Beyond that, Mutt and his companions were also moving forward. A cracked, manic cry left Hanno’s throat. It was born of fear, desperation, the shreds of his courage, and a tinge of sheer bravado. Aiming his javelin at the rider who looked most likely to strike him, a long-legged man close to his own age, he trotted on. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ he yelled.
The Roman looked startled to see him running in, but he quickly regained control. He levelled his spear at Hanno’s head. His horse whinnied and slowed down, however, disconcerted by the approach of a screaming man bearing a large shield. Hanno drew nearer, still shouting and praying the other enemy horses didn’t knock him down, or their riders stab him in the back. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ He could scarcely hear his own voice above the sound of pounding hooves.
The Roman’s spear came thrusting down at his face. Hanno met it with his shield, at the same time peeping around its side. A quick jab with his javelin and the head sank into the cavalryman’s thigh. A piercing cry of pain rent the air; the spear fell from the man’s nerveless hand as he toppled off his mount. Hanno didn’t go after him; instead he wheeled and plunged his pilum into the chest of a passing horse. It was a foolish move. Although the beast staggered and threw its rider, it wrenched the javelin from his hand. He caught a brief glance of its shaft bending in two as the horse rolled over and then it was gone.
His eyes shot over the ground, between the legs of passing riders and steeds, searching frantically for another weapon. A whistle in the air. Hanno ducked instinctively, and the spear that would have skewered him between the shoulder blades screeched off the top of his helmet instead. Even as he tried to turn, a massive weight barged him sideways, unbalancing him. He saw sky, a horse, a snarling face, and then the ground hit him very hard. A hoof clashed off his helmet.
Hanno’s world went black.
When he came to, the Roman riders were still riding past, so he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. Some hundred paces away, a line of legionaries was advancing in his general direction. Shouts and the clash of weapons carried from the riverbank. Stars spun across his vision, and his head felt as if it were about to burst. There was a massive dent in the top of his helmet, but it was still in place, which was probably the reason he was alive. With difficulty, Hanno undid the chinstrap and eased it off. Cool air ruffled his sweat-soaked hair. The movement sent knives of pain lancing into his brain, and he bit back a curse. Yet it had to come off. Any legionary who saw its shape would know him for a Carthaginian. Without it, in his cuirass, he could perhaps pass for a Roman officer. He had to play dead first, though. The enemy riders had passed by; he just had to escape the infantry’s attention. With a few tugs, he managed to pull the corpse of a cavalryman on top of himself. It was a relief to close his eyes. Hanno wanted to go to sleep, to have his headache disappear, but there was no chance of that. The harsh taste of fear was too strong in his mouth. If a single Roman stopped to look at him, he was a dead man. Stay calm. Breathe slowly and deeply.
The best thing to do might have been to lie there until it was dark, but Hanno felt that to be the act of a coward. He wanted to cross the river, be there with his men when they marched back into their camp, when they received Hannibal’s accolade. He listened with all his might, not moving a muscle as the legionaries tramped past, some distance to his right. When the sounds had diminished, he waited a little longer before shoving the body to one side. Lifting his head a fraction, he peered around. To his relief, he was entirely behind the Roman troops. There was no sign of any more emerging from the road or the trees either.
Hanno struggled to his feet, drew his sword, picked up a scutum. A few paces away, he spotted the body of the bearded Libyan; beside him lay the man who’d been wounded in the leg. Both were covered in wounds. He felt sad but proud of the pair. Welcome them into the afterlife, Hanno asked the gods, for they have earned it. Throwing back his shoulders, he tramped after the enemy soldiers as confidently as he could. Anger flared in his belly. In front of the legionaries, the shapes of the cavalry swirled back and forth, the riders hacking down with their swords from time to time. Some of his Libyans clearly hadn’t made it into the water. The infantry would be closing in, intent on finishing them off. Hanno wanted to run, to join in the fight, but he knew that for a pointless way to die. His purpose was to survive. He ensured that his pace was measured, regular.
As he reached the mass of Roman troops, his heart rose to his mouth but to stop might draw attention, so he kept moving, right into the midst of the enemy. The fighting seemed to have eased or even ended, and their formation had broken up. Small groups of men trotted to and fro, killing wounded Libyans or looting the dead. Others were being directed by their officers to turn the carts that had been abandoned around. A few had even downed their shields and were slaking their thirst from wine skins. Everyone was intent on his own purpose. Muttering a prayer for himself this time, Hanno ducked his head and threaded his way through the confusion. It didn’t take him that long to near the riverbank. A generous coating of bodies, both dead and injured, covered the ground. Unsurprisingly, most of them were Libyan. Hanno’s eyes studied each as he passed; his heart bled as he recognised numerous soldiers from his phalanx. To his immense relief, he saw none with non-mortal wounds. He didn’t know if he could have left such a man behind.
On the other side, the wagons were moving off, guarded by some of the Libyans who had made it across. A rearguard remained, safely out of javelin range, perhaps a hundred soldiers and all of the Numidians. Hanno recognised a familiar figure at the Libyans’ head: Mutt. At least his second-in-command had made it, he thought with some satisfaction. He glanced at the ford. None of the Romans were attempting to cross, but there were far too many of them standing around for him to be able to enter the water at that point. There was nothing for it: he would have to swim. That meant taking off his cuirass. In his current state, Hanno didn’t feel strong enough to brave the crossing with its extra weight. By removing his armour, however, he would expose himself as an enemy. The Romans would turn on him like a pack of feral dogs. He swallowed. Just act as if everything is entirely normal, he decided.
Heart pounding, Hanno walked to a point on the bank where there were fewer legionaries, shedding his baldric as he did. At the water’s edge, he didn’t look back. Fiddling with the buckles at the side of his cuirass, he undid them. He
reached for the upper ones. The effort — and the pain that caused — was too much for him. He paused, waiting until his strength returned a little.
‘You! What in Pluto’s name do you think you’re doing?’
Panic constricted Hanno’s throat. With a final effort, he managed to undo the last buckle. The breastplate dropped from his arms, landing at his feet with a metallic thump. Angry shouts came from his rear; he heard the noise of men running towards him. He didn’t dare to check how close they were. Taking a deep breath, he jumped in, feet first. The river was much colder than he’d remembered. Coming up to the surface in a fountain of water, he took in a lungful of air and began swimming for the opposite bank. By now, he could hear a chorus of angry voices behind him. Don’t let any of them come after me, he begged. He hadn’t the reserves left to fight another man, out of his depth. A familiar sound, a rush of air, and a pilum hit the surface not five paces to his left. His head twisted. A line of legionaries had formed, several of whom had javelins. Wagers and jokes were being traded over who would hit him first. Nausea washed over Hanno. They were no more than fifteen paces away — easy killing range.
Damn them all, he thought, turning away and kicking his arms and legs. On he swam, expecting with each heartbeat to feel the agony of a pilum striking him in the back. Five strokes. Ten. In the distance, Hanno heard more shouts. They might have been from the Carthaginian side of the river, but he wasn’t sure. Another javelin hit the water behind him. At last he drew close enough to the bank to try putting his feet down. The feeling of mud beneath his feet was incredible, euphoric. Only the luckiest of throws would hit him at this stage.
‘Let’s get you out of there.’
