Fields of Blood h-2

by Ben Kane

  ‘Back! Back!’ roared Corax.

  Quintus raised his arm. He had time.

  ‘Pull back, I said.’ Corax grabbed his right arm, pinning him with his gaze.

  ‘I was going to finish this one off, sir.’

  ‘Leave him.’

  ‘Sir, I-’

  ‘He wouldn’t do the same for you. Besides, his screams will put off his comrades. Come on.’

  There was no gainsaying his centurion. Asking Pluto to take the man quickly, Quintus trotted back to their original position. Corax moved about, bellowing at men to withdraw, slapping them on the back with the flat of his sword if they didn’t hear or immediately obey. ‘Re-form the line,’ he shouted over and over.

  It wasn’t long before they had regrouped. The hastati had lost three men, but more than a dozen Gauls lay on the ground, dead or with grievous wounds that would see them to the underworld. Exhilarated by their success, the legionaries grinned at one another, boasted about what they’d done, gave thanks to their favourite gods. Quintus felt proud of the way he’d fought. He looked for the warrior he’d injured in the charge and was relieved that he seemed to have stopped moving. The big man whose foot he’d cut was also visible, in the lines opposite. Seeing him, Quintus made an obscene gesture, which was returned, but with less gusto than his. His confidence swelled. ‘I’ll kill him next time.’

  ‘Who?’ Urceus’ voice.

  ‘The big fucker who was with the chieftain. I only wounded him just now.’

  ‘Suddenly keen, aren’t you?’ Urceus thumped the side of his scutum off that of Quintus.

  ‘It feels good to have driven some of them back.’

  ‘And we’ll do it again,’ interrupted Corax. He gave Quintus an approving nod. ‘My thanks for skewering that chieftain. That’s what broke them.’

  Quintus grinned self-consciously. ‘I did my bit, sir.’

  ‘Keep doing that.’ Corax was about to say more, when he saw something over Quintus’ shoulder. He stiffened to attention. ‘Sir!’

  ‘At ease, centurion,’ said a voice. ‘No one is to salute. I don’t want the enemy to see me just yet.’

  Quintus turned, catching a hate-filled stare from Macerio. He ignored it, mainly because he was stunned by the sight of an officer clad in a general’s red cloak approaching through the ranks. It was the proconsul Servilius Geminus, the commander of their entire centre. A score of hard-faced triarii, his guards, stood a little distance back. ‘Sir!’ Quintus said in a low voice. Urceus and their companions were quick to echo him.

  Servilius smiled as he passed by. ‘You are Centurion. .?’

  ‘Corax, sir, centurion of hastati in what was Longus’ First Legion.’

  ‘What’s the situation here?’

  Corax explained. Servilius looked pleased. ‘I’ve been looking for a place to lead a full-frontal attack. The two maniples to your left have also done well. If we join together, the rest of the front line will follow. One big push, and I think the Gauls will break. Are your men ready to help achieve that, do you think?’

  ‘Of course, sir!’ growled Corax.

  ‘Good. Make your preparations. I’m returning to what will be our centre. That’s where the maniple to your immediate left is positioned. When I’m in place, I’ll give you the signal.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Corax’s smile was lean and hungry. The instant that Servilius had slipped away, he rounded on the hastati. ‘You heard the general. You’ve fought bravely thus far, lads, but this is our chance! No one will forget the soldiers who turned the guggas at Cannae. Who began the rout that saw Hannibal defeated once and for all.’

  ‘We’re with you, sir,’ said Quintus eagerly.

  ‘All of us,’ added Urceus.

  A rumble of acknowledgement from the rest, and Corax nodded with satisfaction. ‘In that case, be ready for Servilius’ signal. At his command, unleash hell!’

  They would smash the Gauls, thought Quintus. After what they’d just done, he felt sure of it. He prayed that his father and Calatinus were faring as well on the right flank, and that if Gaius were here, that he was playing his part on the left flank. The enemy cavalry had to be contained.

  As long as that happened, he and the rest of the infantry could do the rest.

  Chapter XVIII

  The fighting had been going on for a long time before it became evident that the centre of the Carthaginian line was going to crumble and break. Immense credit was due to the Gauls and Iberians, thought Hanno. They must have been dying in their hundreds since battle was joined, yet they had held and held when, normally, they might have cracked. Hannibal and Mago’s presence must have helped, but their accomplishment had also involved considerable bravery. Eventually, however, the pressure of so many legionaries pressing forward began to take its toll. Hanno was scrutinising the proceedings like a hawk and spotted the warriors in the rear ranks some distance away beginning to waver. The men nearer to hand remained where they were, chanting and hammering their weapons off their shields, but not those in the centre, upon whom the burden of the enemy attack would fall when their fellows in front entirely gave way. Even as he watched, a handful of Gauls backed ten steps or so from the main body of soldiers. They stood, faces uncertain and a little ashamed, but almost at once they were joined by half a dozen more men. A heartbeat later, another larger group left the rear ranks, which doubled their numbers in one go.

  ‘Look,’ Hanno said to Mutt.

  ‘I see them, sir.’

  It was like watching sheep trying to get away from the shepherd, thought Hanno. No one individual will make a move until it sees that another will do the same. A group forms; they look about to see which way is best. They dither for a bit, and then some of them make a run for it. The instant that happens, the whole flock joins in and the process becomes a stampede. In the time it had taken him and Mutt to exchange two sentences, a score more warriors had retreated. Hanno’s fear that the Romans would break through vied with a frisson of exhilaration that, crazy as it was, Hannibal’s plan appeared to be working. ‘At least they’re not running,’ he observed. ‘We’d best be ready all the same. Cuttinus will be giving us the signal to move any moment. Have the men turn to our right and face inward.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Mutt turned around so that the soldiers nearby could hear and cupped a hand to his lips. ‘On my command, turn to the right!’ He scurried off down the side of the phalanx, spreading the word. By the time he had returned, which wasn’t long, hundreds of Gauls and Iberians were walking — fast and backwards — away from the centre of the line. Mutt cast a glance at Hanno, who nodded. ‘TURN!’ roared Mutt. ‘TURN!’

  It was as if they had read Cuttinus’ mind. A sharp set of notes from his musicians signalled that the phalanxes should wheel as Hannibal had told them to do. Some of Hanno’s soldiers took an eager step forward as they faced towards the men who were retreating. An angry roar from Hanno saw them shuffle back into line. He was rigid with tension now. Even the Iberians and Gauls near them — the men at the leftmost edge of the line — were pulling back. They were doing so slowly and in good order, facing to the front with their swords and shields raised high. If the order came, they could stop and immediately begin to fight. He corrected himself. When the order came. Because the only reason that so many warriors were withdrawing was because those at the very front were no longer able to hold back the Romans. Any moment now, a tide of legionaries would come pouring through what had been the centre of their battle line.

  Another set of notes from Cuttinus.

  ‘CLOSE ORDER!’ shouted Hanno. He broke formation to watch his men move shoulder to shoulder, shield resting against shield, as they’d been trained these past months. Pride filled him at how fast they did it. There were perhaps forty men fewer than had been in the unit when he’d taken command of it, just before the Trebia. He might not have been with them since Iberia, but Hanno felt bonded to them now. A mad notion took him. There was probably just enough time, if he moved fast. He dragged
out his sword and walked to the soldier at the left-hand edge of the phalanx. It pleased him to see that it was the older man who’d been with him the night that he’d been captured at Victumulae. A steady pair of hands where it counted, he thought, giving the veteran an approving nod. The gesture was returned, which prompted a warm feeling in Hanno’s belly.

  ‘You’ve all been through a lot since you sailed from Carthage to join Hannibal in Iberia,’ he called. ‘You’ve fought and marched all the way to Italy!’ The Libyans cheered him then, and he began to walk slowly along the front rank, clattering his sword tip off the metal rims of their scuta. ‘From Carthage to Iberia to Gaul to Italy! And never beaten! Be proud of yourselves!’ Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. Their roars of approval, fierce grins and eyes bright with determination told him to continue. ‘Today, Hannibal needs you more than ever. As he has never needed you before!’ Hanno was about halfway along the front rank. Everyone in the phalanx could hear him here. He turned and pointed dramatically with his sword. His guts twisted. The Gauls and Iberians were running now. They had broken. ‘The bastard Romans are going to appear there any instant. What are we going to do to them?’

  ‘Kill the fuckers!’ screamed Mutt with more energy than Hanno had ever seen him display. He was standing at the far right of the front of the phalanx, where it abutted the next unit.

  ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ shouted the men, hitting their shields with their gladii.

  The Libyans in the next phalanx took up the chant at once. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

  Soon it was echoing all along the line, drowning out the retreating warriors’ shouts of dismay.

  Satisfied, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank.

  Cuttinus’ musicians sounded the advance.

  Heart pounding, Hanno popped his sword under his left armpit and gave his right hand a last wipe on the bottom of his tunic. He repeated the process with his other hand. ‘FORWARD, AT THE WALK! HOLD THE LINE! PASS THE WORD ON.’ Mutt would keep the phalanx close to the one to their right.

  They had gone about twenty paces when Hanno saw his first legionary. Some fifty steps to his front, the Roman was pursuing an Iberian who had flung away his shield. A savage, arcing cut from the legionary’s sword opened the Iberian’s flesh from shoulder to waist. Blood sprayed; he fell to the ground, letting out a high-pitched shriek. The legionary hardly paused. He ran on, trampling the body, not even seeing the phalanxes of Libyans. Nor did his comrades, a dozen or more of whom came tearing on behind him. Excitement thrilled through Hanno. We look like them, he thought. He would wager that Hannibal had even thought of this little detail.

  The sudden signal to halt came as a surprise, but Hanno obeyed it nonetheless. ‘HALT! Stay where you are,’ he bellowed.

  ‘Why, sir?’ asked the man to his left. ‘There they are!’

  Unasked, it came to him. ‘We let as many of the dogs go past as possible, because that way, more of them will be trapped.’

  The soldier bared his teeth. ‘Ah, I see, sir. A good plan.’

  ‘Not a word now. No shouting, no cheering. Stay quiet. Pass it on.’

  With a grin, the soldier did as he was told. Hanno ordered the man to his right to do the same. Then they waited, knuckles white on the grips of their weapons, as they hid in plain sight of the Romans. The numbers of Carthaginian troops retreating had slowed to a trickle, and with each of Hanno’s rapid heartbeats, scores upon scores of legionaries charged into view. Soon it was hundreds. More men than he could count. Cheering. Shouting insults. Encouraged by officers. So eager to kill the enemy that all semblance of order, of maintaining formation, had been lost. They did not even see the Libyans waiting to their right, not a javelin shot away. There were a few cursory glances thrown in their direction, but no one registered that these were not just other Romans. After all, the enemy had broken!

  Gods, thought Hanno. This can’t go on. They will see us. Eventually, they have to.

  His heart thumped out another dozen beats. Hundreds more Romans flooded past them. So many were advancing into the gap now that some of the men were coming within spitting distance of the Libyans’ lines. ‘Hold,’ hissed Hanno. ‘Hold!’ Come on, Cuttinus, he screamed silently. Give us the fucking order!

  And then it came. Strident. Piercing. Definitive.

  ‘FORWARD!’ screamed Hanno. ‘KILL!’

  ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ yelled his men.

  They’d gone ten paces before the first Roman faces turned and saw them. Even then, with death approaching, it didn’t register. Only when Hanno was so close that he could see the pockmarks on the nearest Roman’s face did he observe the first signs of fear among them. He saw jaws drop, panic flare in eyes, heard shouts of ‘Stop! Stop! They’re not our men!’ and ‘Turn, lads, turn!’

  But it was too late. The Libyans swept in on the undefended Roman flank like avenging demons. Hanno’s fear was swept away by a red mist of battle rage. He saw Pera in every Roman face. He would slay them all.

  ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

  ‘At this rate, we’ll run the bastards all the way to the west coast,’ shouted Urceus, slowing up. He wiped his brow with the back of his sword arm. The movement left smears of blood across his face, turning him into a wild-eyed maniac.

  I probably look like that too, thought Quintus. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered any longer except moving forward — and trying to stay alive. He stared at the fleeing Gauls and Iberians, still not believing his eyes. Servilius’ charge had worked like a dream. They had smashed into the mass of Gauls with the long spears of the triarii at the point of the wedge. Surprised by their enemies’ ferocity, the tribesmen had fallen back. That had been enough encouragement for a large number of other hastati to come barrelling forward again. The fighting had been intense, more savage than what had gone before, and the Gauls had not given up without a hard struggle. They had retreated, but had continued to face the Romans and to fight. Slowly but surely, though, the legionaries had pushed on, one bloody step at a time. In Quintus’ section of the line, they had pushed the Gauls back a couple of hundred paces at least. A few heartbeats prior, however, things had changed. He didn’t know what had been the final straw, but many of the warriors had begun to flee. It was odd how fast panic spread once it took hold, he thought. It wasn’t dissimilar to watching a spark take hold in a bundle of dry kindling, the way the flames licked and wrapped themselves around the next piece of wood with fearful speed. Before you knew it, you had a proper fire going.

  ‘Crespo? You hurt?’ Urceus’ voice.

  Quintus came back to the present. ‘Huh? No.’

  ‘Damn glad to hear it.’ A water bag was thrust in his face.

  Quintus took a long swig, and then another. The liquid tasted of waxed leather and was blood-warm, but he was so parched that he didn’t care.

  ‘On, lads, on! Keep the line formed. The principes and triarii will be on our heels.’ Corax was talking to other soldiers, but the effect was the same. Quintus tossed the carrier back to Urceus, who stoppered it and hung it over his shoulder again. Then, exchanging a determined look, they moved off.

  The three maniples led by Servilius and Corax continued to press forward as one bloc. It was inevitable that their close-order formation broke up as the legionaries’ hunting instincts — and bloodlust — took over. There were few commanders in the world who could keep their men tightly together in such situations. This was the easiest time to cut down the enemy, the time when defeated armies suffered most of their casualties. Men who were running did not defend themselves. They were often unarmed, having discarded weapons and shields so that they could get away faster. The Romans’ speed picked up even further. The air filled with bloodcurdling shouts.

  Quintus’ fear had been replaced by a mad exhilaration, and a desire to kill. He wanted revenge for all his comrades who had died at the Trebia and at Lake Trasimene. For the innocent civilians of Campania and other areas who had died at Carthaginian hands. He slashed and cut, hacked and thrust. Hamstrung men, split o
pen their ribs, opened their bellies. Decapitated one warrior; chopped an arm off two others. Blood spattered over his shield, his face, his sword arm. Quintus didn’t care. There was so much gore, piss and shit on the ground that his feet squelched as he walked. He barely saw it. There was no sport, no skill in stabbing men in the back, but that didn’t matter either. He slew until his gladius was blunt and his muscles ached from the repetitive action of using it.

  Eventually, their advance began to peter out. Exhaustion had taken hold. They had been beneath the summer sun since it had climbed over the horizon. Marching. Fording rivers. Advancing. Throwing javelins. Engaging in close combat. Even killing defenceless men used up energy. Finally, though, the Gauls and Iberians began to outstrip the hastati. Their fear gave them a fraction more speed. Deprived of victims, lacking the strength to increase their pace yet again, Corax’s legionaries slowed to a walk. As ever, the centurion seized command. ‘You’re doing fine, boys. Time for a breather. Have a drink. Fill your lungs.’

  To Quintus, Corax’s words were muffled, as if they were standing in dense fog. He felt as though he were outside his body, watching himself mumble a few words to Urceus, gulp down some water, wipe the worst of the blood off his blade, stare unseeing at the mutilated corpse at his feet. His gaze wandered to their left, registered something that didn’t make sense. He blinked, looked again, came back to earth. ‘Those Gauls aren’t retreating.’

  ‘Eh? The mangy sheep-fuckers I can see are running as fast as their legs will carry them,’ said Urceus with a laugh.

  ‘Not those ones. Those — over there.’ Quintus pointed.

  Urceus looked, scowled. ‘Ha! What of them? It won’t be long before they also panic and flee. We’re unstoppable now.’ He jerked a thumb to their rear, to the great mass of soldiers advancing towards them. There was little order visible, but no one could deny its huge momentum. The ground trembled with the tread of so many thousands of feet.