Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

‘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 open 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.

Quintus shrugged. Urceus was right. Who could stand before so many soldiers? There were twenty thousand hastati in the army’s first line, the same number of principes in the second and about ten thousand triarii in the third. Mix the thousands of velites in amongst that and it made an unbeatable force. Hannibal’s host was nowhere near as large. ‘Victory will be ours,’ he muttered, feeling the surety of it in his bones.

‘Of course it will,’ replied Urceus. ‘Let’s keep moving.’

They had gone no more than a dozen steps when rousing cheers began to rise from their left. A heartbeat later, the same shouts could be dimly heard far to their right. Engaged with a Gaul who was still prepared to fight, Quintus ignored it. Urceus came to his aid and they swiftly put the warrior down into the crimson mud. Panting, Quintus gave his friend a nod of thanks. The noise was louder now, originating from all along their left side. Mixed with the shouts, Quintus thought he could hear cries of dismay. Of fear. Of panic. The first tickle of unease licked at his spine. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’ve got no fucking idea.’ Urceus also looked a little nervous.

CRASH. A shocked silence, then the booming sound was repeated from their right. Quintus wanted to puke. The force of the impacts was such that it could mean only one thing. ‘Hannibal must have wheeled part of his line. To take us in the sides.’

Urceus’ face twisted in disbelief. ‘How?’

‘Jupiter, I don’t know!’

‘No, that can’t be it. Besides, his centre is smashed to smithereens! What’s to stop us from driving on through the lot of them?’

‘You’re right,’ said Quintus, flushing.

Corax was frowning, but that didn’t stop him ordering them forward again. They advanced at the walk this time, secure in the knowledge that with so many soldiers behind them, they could not be stopped. As at the Trebia and Trasimene, the might of the infantry would prevail. Except that on this occasion, their cavalry would, gods willing, have held the enemy horse. When they had entirely broken through, they could turn to either side and fall on the Carthaginian rear. That was how Corax had explained it to them anyway, thought Quintus, struggling against waves of tiredness. He was beyond questioning what they would do.

‘Shitting hell! Look.’

The urgency in Urceus’ voice broke through Quintus’ fatigue. His eyes followed those of Urceus, towards their front. ‘No.’ It’s a living nightmare .

What he saw defied belief. Once an army broke, it was unheard of for it to halt and begin fighting again. Yet some hundred paces away, some of the fleeing Gauls and Iberians had come to a standstill. A few had already turned, and were roaring at their comrades to stop running.