Kane Ben: Hannibal: The Patrol

Mutt thrust back at him, driving his spear through the Gaul’s layered fabric cuirass and into his belly. He thought it was a death wound, but the Gaul merely rocked on his heels. As Mutt struggled to pull back his weapon, his opponent grabbed the shaft and ripped it free of his own flesh. Without letting go, he aimed his spear at Mutt’s face. A tug of war ensued, with Mutt trying desperately not to lose grip of his weapon while simultaneously having to dodge powerful thrusts of the Gaul’s spear tip. It was a one-sided contest, for the Gaul was far stronger than he. Yet there would be no help from anyone. The spearmen on either side of him were engaged in their own struggles for survival.

His own strength was waning too, Mutt gambled everything, waiting until the Gaul pulled hard on his spear, then let go of it. Unbalanced, the Gaul stumbled backwards, and Mutt followed through with an almighty thump of his shield against the man’s belly, sending him sprawling back into his fellows.

It was far too dangerous to pursue him, so Mutt simply moved back into position. ‘Spear! Someone give me a damn spear!’ he roared. His men were well used to handing weapons forward in combat, and a heartbeat later, the shaft of a spear appeared beside his right cheek. Mutt seized it as a drowning man might grab at a log. He had to use it immediately, shoving it into the open mouth of a young warrior who’d leaped over the bearded brute.

Gods, but that had to be a bad way to die, thought Mutt as the iron blade sliced away the man’s tongue and sank deep into the back of his throat. Gouts of crimson fluid followed the spear out as Mutt withdrew it, showering the front of his shield. The warrior’s eyes bulged; more blood gushed; he made a hideous, choking sound and dropped from sight.

No one took his place, and Mutt took the chance to look to left and right. Many of the Gauls were pulling back, and hope leaped in his breast. It was not a retreat, however. Twenty paces away, they halted, took their helmets off, wiped sweat from their brows, and checked their comrades’ wounds. It was time for his men to do the same, thought Mutt. Combat was exhausting; any opportunities to rest had to be seized.

He bellowed a few commands, went through the routines he’d done so many times before. Checked — by shouting questions — that those further down the column were all right. Made sure the soldiers at the front had serviceable shields and spears. Had the injured tended as much as was possible. Ordered men to drink and to piss; told them that they’d done well; and fought his own misgivings about their situation. Despite the fact that they had not suffered heavy casualties in the initial assault, they were now definitely outnumbered. He could see scores and scores of warriors in the trees. What was their best plan? he wondered, fresh worry clawing at him. ‘Sir?’ he shouted.

‘Mutt. How are things with you?’

‘Fine, sir. We’re holding. What are your orders, sir?’

Mutt saw the men’s body language change. They stiffened, waiting for Hanno’s response, which could determine their fate.

‘Stand fast until I say otherwise!’ cried Hanno.

‘Very good, sir.’ There was an underlying implication that they might have to retreat, Mutt was sure of it. Let that not come to pass, he prayed. Their casualties would soar. Yet as the Gauls began to advance again, he knew this might be their only option. I don’t want to die in a shithole like this, he thought bitterly. ‘Ready, lads! This time, I want you to teach them a real lesson. One that will send them home crying for their mothers. Can you do that?’

The guttural roar that answered him still had plenty of energy in it. They weren’t going to give in just yet, Mutt decided.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo . The sound came from some distance to the rear of the nearest Gauls.

‘Not more of the whoresons, please,’ said a soldier off to Mutt’s right.

‘If it is, we’re dead men,’ a second, familiar voice commented.

Just like that, the mood soured. Fear blossomed on faces. Men began to pray.

‘Ithobaal, shut your fucking mouth,’ Mutt roared. ‘The rest of you keep quiet too.’

Chastened, the men did as he ordered.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo . There were several instruments sounding. It was probably reinforcements, thought Mutt wearily. Maybe they were going to die here. If there was a time to pull back, this was it.

He opened his mouth, ready to yell that question at Hanno.

The cry died in his throat, because the Gauls’ advance had halted. Heads began to turn. Warriors conferred with one another. Angry shouts and questions rang out. Warriors turned to stare at whomever was advancing towards them .

They’re not happy, Mutt decided. Why?

An instant later, he blinked. ‘They’re fucking retreating! I don’t believe it!’

It was an orderly withdrawal, but there was no doubt that that’s what it was. With barely a second glance at the phalanx, the Gauls faded away into the trees.

Mutt’s men began to cheer. ‘Run, you maggots!’ shouted Ithobaal. ‘Back to your mothers’ skirts!’

That’s what you would have done if you’d had half a chance, thought Mutt dourly. Bogu, who was small but as hard as nails, was far more reliable. ‘Bogu!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are they going on your side too?’

‘Disappearing like morning mist, sir!’

Thank all the gods, Mutt thought, relief flooding through him.

‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘They’re leaving!’ Hanno could not control the delight in his voice.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Who was it that scared them off?’

‘We’ll soon find out, sir, I imagine.’

‘Get up here.’

‘Sir!’ Mutt eyed the men around him. ‘Treat the wounded. Check your weapons. Stay alert. We may have to fight again. Pass the word on.’ Without a backward glance, he broke into a fast walk, cursing as his large round shield caught off the branches protruding from bushes to the side of the track. Its size did not make it an easy thing to move quickly with. At times like this, he was grateful for his thrusting spear, which worked as a staff, helping him to step over the numerous Gaulish bodies. As he neared the front, Mutt judged that their own casualties had not been too heavy. Good, he thought. Libyan spearmen were like gold dust — and for the moment, impossible to replace.

Seeing new figures emerging from the woods, he hurried to Hanno’s side. ‘More Gauls, sir?’

‘Looks like it,’ muttered Hanno. He cast a look at Mutt. ‘You’re unhurt?’

‘Fine, sir. And you?’

Hanno wiped his brow. ‘I’m all right. How are the men?’

‘Ready to fight again if they have to, sir,’ answered Mutt with more confidence then he felt.

Hanno seemed relieved. ‘Let’s hope that’s not necessary.’

They watched with clenched jaws as a group of four tribesmen reached the track. Similar to their attackers, they were hairy, moustached men in cloaks, wool tunics and patterned trousers. They were also armed to the teeth with spears, swords and daggers. Tellingly, there was no blood visible on their weapons. The men who had ambushed the phalanx had gone without a fight. Mutt thought that these warriors’ expressions weren’t unfriendly — he prayed that this was the case. For their attackers to vanish so fast, there had to be a lot of them.

The leader, a middle-aged figure with a luxuriant moustache, began holding forth in his own tongue. His words were clearly directed at Hanno, who had moved forward a little from his men. Two paces to his rear, Mutt listened hard. He couldn’t understand a word. When the Gaulish warrior finished, Mutt glanced at Hanno. ‘D’you know what he said, sir?’