Kane Ben: Hannibal: The Patrol

‘How are things back there?’

‘All right, sir. Two dead, or dying. Perhaps half a dozen injured. Shield wall in place.’

‘Good. The scouts tell me that there’s a tree blocking the track some distance around the next bend, so we’re going to have to stand our ground and drive them off. It’s that, or retreat. I say we fight.’

Going back the way they had come was probably a bad idea — Hanno had that right. The forest went on for miles. On the narrow track, they had no chance of forming up in the more protective phalanx formation. The stinking Gauls could just follow them, peppering them with arrows. Yet if the enemy outnumbered them, it might prove more prudent to withdraw. A bead of cold sweat trickled from under Mutt’s helmet liner and down the side of his face. What to do? he wondered. Trust Hanno. He’s the commander. He needs my support. ‘Very good, sir.’

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo . Weapons clashed off shield edges, off iron bosses. Warriors roared battle cries.

‘Prepare for an attack!’ shouted Hanno. ‘Two ranks on each side, spears at the ready!’

Mutt trotted down half a dozen rows, repeating the command and telling men to pass it on. Quickly, he returned to the formation’s midpoint, shoved into the ranks and turned about to face the trees.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo . More shouting. Screaming. Metal hammering off metal.

Then silence fell.

‘For Carthage!’ Mutt heard Hanno cry. ‘For Hannibal!’

‘HANN-I-BAL!’ bellowed Mutt. He dashed his spear off the front of his shield. Clash, clash, clash , he went, in time with the chant.

His men latched onto the refrain with even more gusto than normal. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ they screamed.

Shapes moved in the trees, came out into the open. A wide line of men — Gaulish warriors. Since meeting his first tribesmen in Gaul, Mutt could pick them out a mile off. Bowl helmets similar to those of the Romans. Large rectangular or oval shields. Coloured cloaks, tunics and patterned trousers. An occasional individual with a mail shirt. The three men who led them were stark naked, however, holding only a shield and sword each. After only a few steps, they advanced at a run. Two of them headed straight towards Mutt and the soldiers near him. Behind them, their companions broke into a trot.

The Gauls’ plan was simple, Mutt thought grimly. It was to use the fanatics as battering rams, to break their line. If they were doing that on his side of the column, they’d be doing it on the other too. His stomach clenched painfully. With their reduced depth of two ranks per side, there was a good chance that the Gauls’ tactic could work. They would have to kill the naked warriors at once, or the whole thing could turn into a bloodbath.

He waited a few heartbeats until the Gauls had drawn closer. Then he stepped forward and out of the shield wall. ‘HERE! COME AND GET ME, YOU FUCKERS!’

Two of the trio aimed for him at once. The third was heading for a spot between him and the front of the patrol. Mutt had to pray that the men there held the warrior back, killed him fast, and that he and the soldiers around him could do the same. Slowly, he retreated to the safety of the formation, slipped his shield in between those to left and right. The Gauls were about thirty paces out now. He shot a glance to either side. ‘See those naked bastards, lads? The ones with the flapping cocks and balls?’

A ripple of slightly nervous laughter. ‘Yes, sir!’ came a chorus of voices.

‘We kill them, fast. If they smash even a small hole in our lines, we’re fucked. D’you understand?’

‘YES, SIR!’

He took some solace from the volume of their response. ‘Shields up, spears ready! Guard the man to your left!’

The two Gauls might have been naked, but they weren’t stupid. They came in together, virtually shoulder to shoulder. Big men, with swirling tattoos on their muscular arms and torsos, and mud covering their lower legs. There was mania and death in their eyes.

Mutt prayed that their battle rage rendered them prone to mistakes. ‘HERE I AM!’ he yelled again, taking a single step forward so that they could see who had challenged them. ‘WHORESONS!’ he added, using the only Gaulish word he’d learned in his contact with the tribesmen who had allied themselves to Hannibal. ‘WHORESONS!’

They heard his insult. Baring their teeth, the two warriors came on like a pair of mad boars. Less than half a dozen paces separated them from the shield wall. Behind them, the hideous noise of the carnyxes had been replaced by the warriors’ battle cries.

‘Steady, lads,’ urged Mutt the man to either side. ‘Brace yourselves. Take the first cut on your shield rim, then gut the fuckers.’

The first Gaul’s blade was already swinging down at him in a mighty arc that would smash his helmet and skull together, so Mutt raised his shield and ducked down behind it, praying that the timbers didn’t split.

CRASH.

It took his entire strength not to let the impact drive his left arm down to the ground. But he’d been in this situation before and did not let his fear master him. A fleeting glance told him that the sword had cut through the metal rim of his shield, and caught in the wood below. Bending his knees, he drove up with all the power of his thighs, raising the shield and with it, the Gaul’s weapon. As the Gaul tugged and cursed, trying to free his blade, Mutt leaned forward with a savage cry and shoved his spear into the hollow at the base of the Gaul’s neck. It ran into the flesh with ease, severing all in its path. There was a jarring thunk as it hit the Gaul’s ribcage and then it emerged, scarlet-tipped, from the back of his left shoulder. There was a choking, startled cry, and a spew of red froth from the Gaul’s lips, as he died.

‘Gaulish dog,’ snarled Mutt, ripping his spear free and spinning to his left, where the second Gaulish warrior had been. Dismay filled him. The soldier beside him was already down, blood and gobbets of brain tissue oozed from the massive cut in his head. The second Gaul was crouched over the body, already hacking at the soldier in the next rank, who, terrified by the ferocity of the attack, was doing little to defend himself. Mutt cursed. The main body of Gauls would reach them in the next few heartbeats. It was now or never. With a quick prayer that no one would stab him as he exposed his right side, Mutt wheeled and drove his spear into the second Gaul’s back. A keening cry of agony rent the air, and blood sprayed everywhere as he pulled his weapon free. He caught the eye of the spearman whom he’d just saved. ‘Into the front rank. Quickly!’

The soldier hurriedly obeyed.

Even as Mutt twisted and resumed his place in the front rank, the enemy were upon them. Fresh acid hit the back of his throat. Many of the Gauls were making for the man to his left, because there was now no one to take his place if he fell. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he yelled. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

And then the Gauls hit them.

Mutt instantly lost all sense of time. His world closed in, to the soldier either side of him and the enemies immediately to his front. He stabbed with his spear, wounded a warrior in the face. Took a heavy but glancing blow from a sword to his head, felt his knees buckle. With superhuman effort, he locked them, and thrust at the Gaul who’d tried to brain him. Gritting his teeth against the blinding pain in his skull, he met the next attack with his shield, managing to stab the Gaul in the chest, wounding him badly. The Gaul staggered and fell, and was replaced at once by a bearded brute holding nothing but a long spear. His first throw hummed past Mutt’s head, slicing open the face of the spearman to Mutt’s rear.