Ben Kane - Clouds of War

Chooo! Corax’s attempt to kill the sound of the sneeze failed. The hastatus threw a terrified look at Corax, but the centurion was staring at the road, his jaw clenched.

Quintus’ heart hammered out a new, frantic rhythm. His eyes shot to the enemy troops. So did everyone else’s.

A short rider with a tidy-looking roan was next in line to work his way past the tree. Instead of moving forward, however, he was peering in their direction.

Shit, thought Quintus, he heard it. His gaze moved to Corax, who was as still as a statue.

The short rider glanced again, scowled. He turned to the man behind him. ‘Look over to our left,’ he said in Greek. ‘The branches about twenty paces in, do they seem stacked to you?’

Fuck it! Quintus’ mouth opened to warn Corax-

‘Ready javelins! Aim high! LOOSE!’ roared the centurion.

Quintus stood, flexed his right arm and lobbed his pilum in one smooth motion. He didn’t try for a particular target. With the enemy soldiers filling the road, there was no need. Forty javelins flashed up into the air with his, a beautiful and deadly sight. Orders rang out from the far side of the fallen tree, and from the bushes over the road. Another shower of pila shot up, landing a couple of heartbeats after the first one. The screams from men and horses were just reaching their ears when Corax ordered a second volley. Quintus hurled his javelin skywards, praying that it too found a target. His next moves were reflex: drawing his sword, hefting his shield, muttering yet another prayer. Everyone was doing the same.

‘Open the gaps,’ Corax bawled. ‘Men to the left, move first, then those to the right. Spread out. Hit the bastards, hard. GO!’

Quintus and Urceus were among the first hastati to advance. They had to move single file to the ‘gateway’, which felt slow, too slow. The instant that they were out the other side, however, they fanned out and formed a ragged line. Everyone broke into a loping run. Branches ripped at their faces, and the uneven ground made the footing treacherous, but there was no stopping the charge. The thrill and fear of combat had seized control.

‘ROMA!’ shouted Quintus. Urceus repeated the cry. So did his companions.

‘ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!’ the hastati opposite yelled in reply.

They covered the twenty paces at speed. Quintus’ heart lifted at the scene that greeted them. Everything on the road was chaos. The javelin volleys had had maximum impact on the horses. Riderless mounts barged about, some wounded, some not, but nearly all out of control. A few horses were down, neighing in pain and lashing out with their hooves. A number of riders were still mounted, but there was no space for them to manoeuvre. To their front loomed the holm oak, and to their rear, the mass of infantry.

The cavalrymen were finished as a fighting force. Best to panic the rest of the Syracusans, thought Quintus. If they realised that they outnumbered the hastati, things could go bad, fast. ‘That way!’ He pointed at the enemy foot soldiers.

He led the way; Urceus and half a dozen of their comrades followed.

A pair of cavalrymen jumped into their path, brandishing kopis swords. Only one had a shield. Raising his scutum , Quintus made to slam it into the shieldless man’s chest. He hadn’t counted on his opponent’s curved kopis blade coming in over the metal rim of his shield. Quintus jerked his left arm up, partly taking the blow on the metal rim of his scutum, but the tip of the kopis still struck the top of his helmet. The force of it buckled his knees. A heartbeat later, the pain arrived, a great wave of it that rushed from the side of his skull, filling his brain with stabbing needles. Reflex, training, the bitter knowledge that if he didn’t keep moving, he’d be dead, kept Quintus from collapsing.

Straightening his legs, he drove forward, hoping that the cavalryman wouldn’t react in time. A metallic clang as his scutum hit the man’s cuirass told him that he hadn’t. The weight of the kopis vanished from his shield, and he was staring down at the cavalryman, who had fallen on to the flat of his back. Naked fear filled the man’s eyes. It’s you or me, thought Quintus harshly, ramming his sword into his enemy’s mouth. In. Twist. Feel the flesh open, the muscles part, the bone grate. Out. Gouts of blood chased his retreating blade. Quintus felt, but didn’t see, the red tide that showered his lower legs and feet. He looked left, right. The other cavalryman was down, savage hacks in his neck and arms evidence of Urceus’ efficiency. A horse with a javelin in one haunch came backing towards them, snorting with fear, but one of the other hastati smacked it with the flat of his sword and it bolted forward again. Then, a moment of calm in the madness.

Quintus touched his helmet where the kopis had hit. He felt a massive dent, but no break.

‘You were fucking lucky there,’ said Urceus. ‘Head sore?’

‘Worse than after a night on the piss,’ replied Quintus ruefully.

‘Can you fight?’

Fury replaced Quintus’ embarrassment. He had to make amends for such a basic mistake, even if he wasn’t quite ready. Had to stick with his comrades. ‘Aye.’

Urceus knew him well enough not to argue. He nodded at the Syracusan infantry. ‘They’re scared, see? Not formed up tight yet. None of our lads have hit them at the front either. Let’s take them. Four wide, two deep. Now!’

Their companions growled in agreement. They formed up, Quintus grateful that his friend had taken charge. He and Urceus stood side by side, each flanked by another man. The remaining four shoved in behind them, where they would provide momentum to their advance and be ready to step into the front rank if needs be.

‘Move,’ ordered Urceus. ‘At the double!’

Skirting the bodies of the cavalrymen and that of a dead horse, they advanced towards the Syracusans. Had every enemy officer been injured or killed? Quintus wondered. Or were they that ill disciplined? None of the infantry were facing them. Instead they had wheeled to meet the attacks of the hastati from both sides of the road. Seeing the opportunity this granted, a swelling roar left his throat. If it went well, this had the potential to rout them in one fell swoop.

It was too good to be true.

A figure in a magnificent Attic helmet turned and saw them. He spat an obscenity, bawled orders. Men began to react, to face Quintus and the other hastati. Within a few heartbeats, a wall of shields had formed. Only ten or so of them, but they were the massive Greek ones, which protected the men behind from eyes to toes, and which locked in with their partners on either side.

‘Nothing for it. We’ve got to charge,’ said Urceus, baring his teeth. ‘If we don’t break the mangy sheep-humpers now, we’ll never do it.’

Quintus’ temples felt as if they were about to burst; he could taste bile at the back of his mouth, but there was no going back. He could not desert his comrades, could not run. Could not betray his father, who had died for Rome. ‘Let’s go.’

‘With us, lads?’ shouted Urceus.

‘Aye!’ came the response.

For all Quintus’ fear, he loved the comradeship in such moments. Loved the feeling of men standing shoulder to shoulder with him, and at his back. They would stay by him because he would do the same for them. If he was to die, this was a better place than any.

Fifteen paces separated them from the Syracusans. It was close enough to see the designs on their shields, the deadly tips on their thrusting spears. As the eight hastati charged, the enemy line wavered, but it did not break. The officer behind continued to roar encouragement. Quintus hated him in that moment. A leader like that made the difference between men standing and running. This one was far beyond their reach, though. He’d be the death of them. Spears had a greater reach than gladii .