by Ben Kane
Quintus’ lips moved, counting each step he took. Without looking, he knew that every man in the maniple was doing the same. Mars, watch over me, he prayed. Grant us victory. Protect my comrades.
Clash! Clash! Clash! Other legionaries began to renew their clamour.
‘Sixty paces, boys!’
Quintus struck his iron pilum shaft off the metal rim of his scutum. Clash!
In no time, the 150-odd men of the maniple were making the same noise. So too were twenty thousand other hastati. CLASH! CLASH! CLASH! Quintus’ ears rang with the reassuring sound.
Corax kept them walking at the same slow pace. Now they could discern the faces of individual enemy warriors. Gauls with flowing moustaches and braided hair, wearing pointed iron helmets similar to their own. Big men for the most part, bare-chested, wearing colourful tunics and the occasional metal pectoral plate. They were armed with big, painted shields with iron bosses, long spears and straight swords. It was easy to spot the chieftains with golden torcs around their necks, mail shirts and ornate designs on their shields. There were also groups of Iberians, smaller men in crested and feathered helmets, and crimson-bordered cream tunics. Their shields were small and round, or flat and rectangular; they were armed with long, all-iron javelins, and swords, both curved and straight.
Every single one appeared to be screaming his contempt at the Romans.
Quintus felt his own anger rise. ‘We’re coming, you bastards!’ he bellowed.
‘Prepare to die!’ added Urceus. Around them, his comrades were roaring their own insults.
Many of the enemy soldiers began throwing their javelins, which rose into the blue sky in threes and fours. The hastati responded with jeers; one of Quintus’ tent mates hurled one of his pila. Nearby, other men struck by nerves loosed early as well.
‘HOLD, YOU MAGGOTS!’ shouted Corax. ‘HOLD!’ roared other officers. Corax tramped on. ‘Fifty paces!’
Few of the enemy missiles had the range to reach the legionaries, but that didn’t stop the Carthaginian soldiers. More and more of them cocked back their right arms and threw. They’re scared too, thought Quintus. Launching their javelins helps to combat their terror, shows their comrades that they’re prepared to fight. He wanted to do the same. Anything was better than just walking in the maw of death.
‘Forty paces! Halt. Front eight ranks, take aim. RELEASE!’ Corax’s right arm jerked forward, and his sword tip pointed directly at the enemy.
All along the Roman formation, the same order was being repeated. ‘RELEASE!’
Quintus had never seen so many pila in the air at once. They flew up in graceful shoals, tens of thousands of them. It was an unforgettable sight. As his eyes rose, he saw an eagle far above, aloof, regal. Under normal circumstances, seeing such a bird would have signified good luck. Yet scores of vultures also hung on the warm currents, waiting patiently for the feast that would follow. Their presence was far more ominous. He blinked. Off to his right, a huge dust cloud was trailing upwards from the battlefield. The cavalry on Hannibal’s left flank was charging the horsemen on the Roman right. His head turned. A similar bank of dust was rising from his left. Now Quintus felt nauseated. That was when he saw the hundreds and hundreds of enemy javelins that were scudding back in response to their volley. This is it, he thought, heart hammering in his chest. This is when it begins.
‘SECOND PILUM! TAKE AIM. RELEASE!’
In reflex, Quintus bent his right arm and flung his javelin with all his strength. With so many ranks in front of him, there was no way he could aim. He lobbed it as high as possible, to give it the best chance of landing among the enemy.
‘SHIELDS UP!’
The enemy missiles were already landing. With a soft choking noise, a hastatus two ranks in front of Quintus went down, a spear through his neck. Cries of pain rang out from Quintus’ left, his right, before him and behind. He ducked down with his scutum over his head. Waited, panting, sweating, full of dread, for an impact. All around him, he heard other shields being struck. The loud thumps were in stark contrast to the softer noises of javelins running into men’s flesh and the screams that followed. His gaze crossed with that of Urceus, whose teeth were gritted. Neither spoke. What was there to say?
‘LOWER SHIELDS! DRAW SWORDS!’ Corax was about twenty paces away, but the din was already so loud that his words were barely distinguishable. ‘FORWARD!’
Quintus glanced to either side. The officers in other maniples were also encouraging their men to advance, but the missile barrage had caused gaps to develop between the units. Some were now a few steps in front of his maniple, others ten or more behind. Gone was the uniform line that had existed as they began their walk towards the enemy.
CLASH! CLASH! CLASH! The hastati began to beat their swords off their scuta. Quintus did the same. He covered the remaining distance in a dream. Men close by were praying, cursing, muttering to themselves. The smell of piss grew strong, and with it, Quintus’ fear. But there was no going back. He was surrounded on all sides, pushed onwards by the inexorable weight of tens of thousands of his fellows. He drew deep on his reserves, gripped his gladius hilt until his knuckles went white. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, protect me, he asked. Mars, god of war, hold your shield over me. That helped. A little.
‘TWENTY PACES, LADS!’ Corax bawled. ‘FIFTEEN. STEADY!’
They’re not even making us charge the last bit, thought Quintus. It must be because there are so many new recruits. If they ran, too many individuals would lose their balance and fall when the two sides struck. His guts roiled at the idea. Fourteen paces. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. The clashing noise stopped as men prepared to fight. Both sets of soldiers continued to shout abuse at each other.
Incredibly, this was the moment that three Gaulish warriors chose to attack the Roman lines — on their own. Quintus stared in shock as, yelling like madmen, they swarmed forward. Curses rang out; he heard the impact of metal on metal; shouts; a strangled cry, followed by another.
‘What the hell’s happening?’ asked Urceus. Shorter than Quintus, he could not see much more than the rank in front.
Two figures broke away and ran back towards the Carthaginian front rank. Both were waving bloody swords. An immense roar of triumph greeted their arrival.
‘First blood has been spilt,’ replied Quintus grimly. ‘Two of our men; one Gaul.’
Urceus spat his contempt on to the dusty ground. ‘Bring the rest of the whoresons on.’
Quintus wanted to agree. Yet the audacity of the Gauls’ assault and the fact that two of them had each managed to kill a legionary was further harsh evidence that this would be no easy struggle. May the gods be with us.
‘ONWARDS!’ roared Corax.
Because of its position near the enemy ‘bulge’, Corax’s maniple was among the first to hit the Carthaginians. Despite the fact that one side was static and the other only walking, the impact when the two met was considerable. It couldn’t fail to be, thought Quintus, steadying the soldier in front with his scutum, feeling the man to his rear do the same to him. The legions’ frontage extended for more than fifty score paces, which meant that it took a little time for all the legionaries to engage the enemy but in the following few moments, the remainder collided with the Carthaginian troops. Crash. Thump. Crash. Thump. Countless shields battered into one another and, as they’d been trained, thousands of legionaries strained with all their power to unbalance their opponents.
Shouts of encouragement from the officers; war cries from the Gauls. Trumpets blaring from their rear; the incessant noise of the carnyxes. Cries of anger, of pain, of anguish. Then the screaming began. It started with a hastatus in the first rank somewhere off to Quintus’ right, but was quickly joined by another voice and another — and another. Soon it was coming from everywhere to his front. He could hear nothing but the sound of men roaring their agony to an uncaring world, the jarring clamour of opposing sets of musical instruments and the repetitive clash of weapons. His mouth was as dry as the dust beneath his feet. Th
e temperature, which had been rising steadily during the morning, was now intolerable. Quintus felt as if he was going to fry, like a piece of meat in a pan. What insanity had driven him to join the infantry?
‘This is fucking torment,’ shouted Urceus in his ear. ‘What shall we do?’
‘We wait,’ said Quintus dully. ‘When enough men have been slain, our turn will come.’
Urceus’ eyes held his for a moment and then flickered away.
Give me strength, O Great Mars, Quintus prayed. For today I shall need it.
Repeated clashes with the enemy front line had caused a further fracturing of the Roman formation. In some places it had been pushed back; in others, it had advanced a little. With the sun almost overhead, Quintus would have lost all sense of direction but for the range of hills to one side of the battlefield that were occasionally visible through the dust clouds. Nothing had gone as he had imagined it. All was confusion. All was chaos. Gone was the uniform line that had begun the advance. The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. Soldiers clashed, over and over. Some were wounded, some died and then, hurling abuse, the rest broke away from each other. Units lost contact with one another, failed to keep in line as they were supposed to. It was impossible for anyone to know what was going on further than perhaps twenty paces away from where they stood. It was natural, therefore, that groups of soldiers tended to bunch up close to their officers, or around the braver individuals among their comrades. The Carthaginian troops had done the same, turning the battle into a seething mass of large but separate contests.
Unsurprisingly, the hastati in Quintus’ unit clustered around their remaining centurion. Pullo had fallen early on, leaving Corax as the only senior officer. Amidst the mayhem, he was like a bulwark against the storm. Quintus had never been more glad to have such a charismatic, brave leader. Casualties had not been heavy initially, but as time passed, men grew tired. That was when they began to make mistakes — and men who did that died or were severely wounded. Since the maniple to their right had lost both of its centurions, scores of its hastati had been cut down. Without Corax, the same could well have happened to him and his comrades. But it hadn’t. Yet. Quintus had the additional worry of having to watch out for Macerio, in case the whoreson tried to stab him in the back. Fortunately, Urceus was also on the lookout. Thus far, nothing had happened.
A few moments earlier, the two sides had pulled back from one another. This was happening regularly, when each set of soldiers grew too tired to fight on without respite. Quintus’ rank had immediately been summoned by Corax from the mass of hastati who had not yet taken part in the combat. He, Urceus, Severus and the others had shuffled forward to their centurion, who was bleeding from a cut to his cheek. He was unhurt otherwise, however, and there was a terrible gleam in his eyes. ‘Ready to do your bit, lads?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ they answered, regarding the Carthaginians and the ground between them with a mixture of horror and fascination. Quintus had seen battlefields before, but, as a cavalryman, he had never been thrown into the midst of the carnage like this. It was appalling. Great patches of the dusty earth had been turned scarlet. The area was coated — literally — with the bloody bodies of the dead and injured. Severed limbs were scattered here and there. Discarded helmets, shields and swords added to the detritus. Moving forward had now become an exercise in trying not to trip up before reaching the enemy. It was accompanied by a never-ending din of shrieks. Many of the wounded had been dragged back by their comrades, but plenty more remained in no man’s land, where they wailed their agony while enough strength remained in their lungs.
‘It’s not pretty, and it will get worse,’ said Corax in a harsh voice. ‘Those fucking Gauls are tough, I’ll give them that.’
‘What’s next, sir?’ asked Urceus.
‘We drink some water. Have another piss. Rest for a little bit. Then we’ll go at them again.’ Corax eyed them each in turn. ‘And we’ll keep doing that until the scum break. You with me?’
The hastati who had been fighting already let out a ragged cheer. Quintus and the others hurriedly joined in, keen not to be seen as unwilling. Corax nodded at them, pleased. ‘Rest now, boys,’ he commanded. ‘You’ll need all your energy in the hours to come.’
Quintus did a quick check of his sandal straps and the strips of leather that ran under his chin to hold his helmet in place. Satisfied that they were tight, he wiped his hands clean of sweat, ensured that he had a firm grip on his sword hilt. He glanced at Urceus, who was guzzling water from his carrier. ‘Ready for this?’
Urceus lowered the bag and scowled. ‘As I’ll ever be. You?’
‘The only way to victory is through those damn Gauls and out the other side. I’m not going to stop until I get there,’ replied Quintus, hoping he sounded bolder than he felt.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Corax, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘You might make a princeps yet.’
Quintus grinned, but his new confidence wavered when the Gauls opposite their position began a new chorus of war cries. Corax’s reaction was instant. ‘Close order! They’re coming at us again.’
They moved to stand side by side, perhaps fifteen men wide and three deep. Quintus found himself in the front rank, with Urceus to one side and Corax on the other. He had only just had a drink, but his mouth was parched. Forget your damn thirst, he thought, forget your fear. Concentrate. Watch your footing. Keep your shield high and your face protected.
‘Forward, lads,’ shouted Corax. ‘Slowly. No point rushing — we’ve got all day to beat these motherless gugga bastards!’
A ripple of laughter through the ranks, and Quintus’ spirits rose. Morale must still be high if men could find humour in their situation.
Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The Gauls playing their carnyxes gave fierce encouragement to their fellows. On they came, a bunched mass of warriors perhaps fifty strong. They were led by a stocky, middle-aged man in a mail shirt and ornate helmet. Two gold torcs around his neck further proclaimed his status. This is a tribal war band, thought Quintus. Slay the chieftain and the others will flee. That would prove no easy task, however. A pair of burly men, similarly armoured, flanked the leader. Their size and polished weapons were proof of their abilities.
Corax had come to the same realisation; the chieftain had to be killed. ‘Here, you stinking, flea-bitten whoreson!’ he roared, pointing his sword. ‘HERE!’
The Gaul saw Corax’s crested helmet and the phalerae on his chest and recognised that he was the best foe to attack. With a loud growl, he broke into a trot. His men followed at his heels. Quintus fought the panic that came bubbling up his throat.
‘Ready, lads?’ shouted Corax. ‘Here they come!’
With the chieftain aiming for Corax, Quintus was going to face one of his bodyguards, a hulk carrying a lethal-looking sword and a long, oval shield adorned with a swirling snake. This was a fearsome adversary, but he couldn’t let his centurion down. Quintus shuffled his left leg forward, made sure that it was on a stable footing and bent his knee to brace his shield. Leaning into the curve of the scutum, he stooped so that the only visible part of him was his eyes and the top of his helmet. The warriors were upon them. Quintus’ vision was full of charging, screaming Gauls. His opponent was already swinging a massive overhead blow at him.
He dropped his head, letting the metal rim of his shield take the impact. THWACK! His scutum was nearly ripped from his hand. Quintus thrust forward with his gladius, felt it strike the warrior’s shield. Damn it! He tugged it free, risked a glance over his scutum, had to duck down to avoid being brained by another mighty swing. Again his left arm was wrenched downward. Panic tore at him. A few more blows like that and he wouldn’t be able to defend himself any longer. Quintus peeked around the side of his shield, stabbing intuitively at the warrior’s left foot. His blade connected, sliced into flesh.
With a roar of pain, the warrior staggered backwards. Quintus took another look. Blood was pouring
from the man’s foot. It wasn’t a mortal wound by any means, but it had granted him a breather. To his left, Urceus was trading blows with a red-haired Gaul. Corax was fighting the chieftain. Neither bout had been decided as yet. Quintus’ heart leaped into his mouth. Maybe he could help Corax? There would only be the briefest of opportunities before his own opponent renewed his attack. That made up his mind. As the chieftain thrust at Corax, Quintus rammed his gladius at the man’s armpit. Mars, guide my blade! The links in the chieftain’s mail shirt gave way beneath the force of Quintus’ thrust and the iron slid deep into his chest. The chieftain’s eyes bulged in shock; a choking cry left his mouth — and Corax stabbed him through the right eye. Aqueous fluid spattered everywhere. Gouts of blood followed the watery liquid as Quintus pulled his weapon free. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of wheat.
‘Well done,’ muttered Corax. ‘Shout as loud as you can now, and advance with me.’
Quintus let out the most ferocious scream and took a step forward. Beside him, Corax stepped over the dead chieftain. ‘Your leader is dead, you scum!’ he yelled. ‘The same’s going to happen to you!’
The warrior whom Quintus had been fighting looked dismayed. Encouraged, Quintus clattered his sword off his shield and bellowed insults at him. The Gaul glanced uncertainly at his comrades. Moved back a pace. Then another.
‘CHARGE!’ Corax sprang forward like a hound let off the leash.
Quintus followed him out of instinct. From the corner of his eye, he sensed Urceus scrambling to join them. Thank all the gods.
The nearest Gauls broke and ran. From that moment, it was like watching the tide beginning to turn. Dismayed by their comrades’ about-face, the entire group of warriors turned and fled for the main body of Carthaginian troops. Eager to press home their advantage, the hastati pursued them, hacking down a good number before they reached safety. Quintus stabbed one warrior in the back, his blade grating off the man’s spine and dropping him like a puppet with cut strings. His victim’s shrieks were piteous, and he slowed to give him the death stroke.
