Ben Kane - Clouds of War

Thirteen paces. Ten.

Astonishment overcame Quintus as a javelin arced down from nowhere. It took the Syracusan officer in the face. His hands reached up to grab at the shaft, but his strength had already gone. He was a dead man, standing. With a horrible choking noise, he fell from sight. A wail of dismay rose from the soldiers around him. The heads of the men in the front rank turned to see what was happening. They moved back an involuntary step.

‘Hit them — NOW!’ It was Corax’s voice.

In the blink of an eye, the balance of power changed. The confidence ebbed from the Syracusans and flowed back into the hastati. It had been Corax who had thrown the javelin, somehow Quintus knew it. The Syracusans would break when they struck them; he knew that too.

As they’d been trained, the hastati slowed down just before meeting the Syracusans. Hit an enemy too fast and you risked losing your footing. All the same, an almighty crack went up as they met. For a heartbeat, Quintus was back at another battle, when the sound had been as loud as thunder, when the very ground had trembled. That had been on the fields of blood. Today won’t be like that, he thought fiercely. Break the shield wall, and they’ll run. A spear scythed forward at him, but he ducked behind his shield and it shot over his head. He repeated the move that he’d used on the cavalryman, using the power of his thighs to drive up and at the Syracusan. His opponent rocked back on his heels, but the shields to either side held his one in place. The Syracusan wasn’t ready for Quintus’ sword, however, which Quintus thrust over the top to take him in the neck. Instead of pulling back his right arm, Quintus shoved it forward again, at the same time pushing with his scutum. As the Syracusan died, he could do nothing to stop Quintus from forcing his shield from its position in the wall.

His headache forgotten, Quintus roared a battle cry and drove into the gap. It was an incredibly dangerous thing to do — he’d seen more than one man die by hurling himself at the enemy like this — but the opportunity could not be ignored. To his relief, there were no Syracusans in front of him. All he could see was the backs of two shield walls, the formations that were trying to contain the Roman attacks from each side of the road. In between stood another officer, shouting orders first at one group and then at the other. He hadn’t seen what Quintus had done.

Quintus spun and stabbed an enemy soldier in the back, ramming his blade through the man’s linen cuirass and doubling the size of the hole in the enemy line. Urceus came storming into it as Quintus half turned and cut down the Syracusan who’d been standing on the other side of the man he’d first killed. He had a chance to scan the scene. ‘They’re holding their own against the rest of our lads, but only just.’

‘Whichever lot we hit from behind will break,’ replied Urceus, panting.

‘If that happens, the other group will shatter as well.’

‘Aye.’

A moment later, five of their six comrades arrived, having killed or put to flight the remaining Syracusans. Two were bleeding from minor wounds, but all had fierce grins plastered across their faces.

Quintus laughed. It wasn’t amusement; escaping Death’s grasp did odd things to a man. ‘Ready? One more effort and we’ll nail the bastards’ hides to the wall.’

The hastati roared their bloodlust back at him. Quickly, they formed up again, four wide with the three remaining men behind.

Quintus roared, ‘ROMA!’ and they charged.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

Even with the battle fury running through him, Quintus heard Corax’s whistle. He spat in the direction of the fleeing Syracusans whom he was pursuing, a mob of perhaps thirty men. They were in full flight to the south. Shieldless, weaponless, many not even wearing their helmets, the enemy soldiers did not look back as they ran. Their injured comrades who had fallen were forgotten. Everything was forgotten in their overwhelming desire to get away.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

Quintus’ training kicked in, and he came to a gradual halt. Sanity returned with each heaving breath. Soon he was glad to have been called back. Cutting down the Syracusans had been easy when they’d broken, and for the first few hundred paces of their headlong retreat. Yet a stage had come, as it always did, when chasing men who were no longer encumbered by weapons and armour became a real test of one’s endurance. Quintus was grateful for the extra protection of his mail shirt, but it weighed ten times more than the bronze chest- and backplates that he’d worn as a newly promoted hastatus.

He shouted after his companions who appeared not to have heard the summons. Nearby, Urceus was doing the same. Only a handful of men who needed recalling. They had all been through enough war to know when to call it a day. Everyone knew of soldiers who had pursued so eagerly that they had become isolated and turned on by their prey. And that, Corax had drummed into them, was yet another stupid way to die.

They wandered back up the road, twenty-odd hastati, stripping the dead of water skins and dispatching the badly wounded Syracusans as they went. It was hard to be sure how many enemy infantry lay scattered around, but it was easily a hundred. The cavalrymen had fared even worse. Quintus had seen two or three riders galloping away from the slaughter, but that was it. Despite the sneezing hastatus, the ambush had been a resounding success. Those of the enemy who could walk were herded towards the main ambush site, some distance to the north.

Corax was interrogating a prisoner. He broke off from his questioning with their arrival. The side of his mouth lifted a fraction: it was his excuse for a smile. ‘You heard my whistle?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Quintus.

‘Any fools still chasing the Syracusans?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. Any officers among those you’ve got there?’

‘Not a one, sir.’

‘Kill them then. I’ve got the second-in-command here. One way or another, he’ll sing like a canary.’

‘Sir.’ Quintus wasn’t surprised. Corax wanted information, and if they couldn’t provide that, captives were of no use. They had scant rations for themselves as it was; they could spare neither food nor men to guard even a few prisoners. He took no joy in killing men in cold blood, but the order had to be obeyed. He eyed his companions, readied his sword arm. ‘You heard the centurion, brothers.’

‘Not you, Crespo.’

Quintus stared at Corax in surprise. ‘Sir?’

‘Speak any Greek?’

The mere fact that the centurion had asked spoke volumes. Quintus had long wondered if Corax suspected that his origins were not what he’d said when enlisting. Quintus didn’t know why; it was just the way that Corax looked at him sometimes. He hesitated for a heartbeat, aware that the longer he left it before replying, the more it appeared as if he were lying. ‘A little, sir, yes.’ Feeling awkward, he began to lie, ‘I learned it when-’

‘Save the explanation. Mine is as rusty as hell. Come here and translate.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Doubly relieved — that he’d escaped further questioning, and that he wouldn’t have to help execute the prisoners — Quintus turned his back on the sobbing Syracusans, who were bunching together as Urceus and the rest closed in on them.

The well-built officer, who was bearded and a few years older than Quintus, had a shallow cut on his right arm but was otherwise unharmed. He regarded Quintus proudly. ‘Are all of my men to be slain?’

Corax understood. ‘Yes. Each one dead is a sword arm less on the walls of Syracuse,’ he said.

Quintus looked at the officer. ‘Did you understand that?’