Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

The realisation struck Quintus like a punch to the solar plexus. ‘That’s why the centre of his line was bowed forward to meet us. It was a trap. It was all a trap,’ he said, feeling the fear uncoil afresh in his guts. ‘Sir! Do you see this?’

‘Aye,’ snarled Corax. ‘Hannibal is even smarter than we gave him credit for. Form a line, boys! The fighting isn’t over yet. We’ll have to teach those gugga dogs another lesson before they put their tails between their legs and run away for good. But do it we will. Roma victrix! ’

The hastati raised a cracked cheer by way of answer, but their throats were too dry to continue it for long. A moment later, as if prompted to give the lie to the centurion’s bold words, a number of carnyxes started up their terrifying clamour again. Some men’s shoulders visibly slumped at their hideous sounds. Quintus gritted his teeth. He had come to loathe the instruments — and fear them. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo . The carnyxes’ tune was not going to go unaccompanied either. Incredibly, a handful of Gauls who had stripped naked emerged from amidst their comrades and repeated the threatening performances they’d put on before the battle began: beating their chests, waving their swords and cupping their genitalia at the legionaries. Their shouted insults were unintelligible but very clear. Moments before, they had been retreating. Now they were keen to renew hostilities. The display had a marked effect on the men who were still running. Quintus saw a number stop, twist their heads to look, and then make an about-face. At first it was a handful, but with each thud of his pounding heart, more warriors joined them. His eyes closed briefly as he tried to take it in.

The Gaulish retreat hadn’t just stopped. It had turned around. It was an attack again.

Quintus felt more weary than he had ever been in his life. Pure fantasy though it was, he wished that the Gauls would vanish. He longed just to lie down, to take the weight off his aching feet, to get out of the damn sun, even to sleep. But there was no chance of that. Deep in his belly, he knew the fighting that had gone before would be as nothing compared to what was to come. The troops that had attacked their flanks — quite possibly the Libyans, and among them Hanno? — would be rested. Fresh. Eager to fight. Quintus’ mind was full of new, unsettling doubts. He gave the sun a baleful glare, wishing it were nearer the horizon. How many thousand Romans would die before it set? Would he and his comrades be among them? Would his father? Gaius? Calatinus? And, more crucially, was victory as certain as it had seemed that morning?

Quintus was no longer sure. About any of it.

Hanno had never imagined that Hannibal’s plan could work quite so well. Yet it had, causing his admiration for his general to grow even further. The Romans had taken Hannibal’s bait and swallowed it in one great gulp. The consequence was that their advance had come to a complete halt. The legionaries within sight looked terrified, exhausted, demoralised to a man. Hanno could only imagine that the same was true of the men facing his father’s Libyans, on the other flank. It seemed that the Gauls and Iberians had re-formed too, because he could hear the sounds of fighting coming from off to his right, where the warriors had retreated. The Romans must be hemmed in to their rear as well, he thought elatedly, or they’d be running that way by now. That meant that Hasdrubal and Maharbal had been victorious in the cavalry battle, which in turn signified that their horsemen were at this moment harassing the back of the Roman host. Hanno’s heart lifted even further at that thought. Nothing terrified infantry more than a disciplined cavalry charge. From the corner of his eye, he caught men starting to shift from foot to foot, which pleased him. He’d only pulled them back a short time before, to rest and to drink some water. It made sense: the Romans were going nowhere. Yet his soldiers already wanted to renew the fight. It boded well.

The legionaries opposite had no javelins, and their discipline was fading fast. Each time Hanno led his phalanx forward, most of them panicked and tried to flee. It wasn’t combat any longer. Cutting down men who had their backs turned was butchery, nothing more. But it had to be done, thought Hanno grimly. Rome did not understand diplomacy. Brute force was the only thing that would drive the lesson home. Besides, not every legionary had given up. The sounds of fierce fighting could yet be heard from other parts of the battlefield. If their fellows here took heart from that, or were rallied by an officer, they might still pose a threat. They therefore needed to be crushed. Utterly.

‘Ready to send some more Romans to hell, boys?’ Hanno cried.

His soldiers roared their bloodlust back at him, and together they advanced. Scuta high, only their helmets and their eyes showing, reddened gladii protruding from the shield wall like the poisonous barbs on a stonefish. The Romans wailed at their approach, and Hanno’s troops picked up speed. ‘Slowly,’ he shouted. ‘Reserve your strength for killing. We’re going to be at it for the rest of the day.’

The men who heard him laughed like madmen then, and fresh terror bloomed on the faces of the nearest legionaries. Those at the front pushed and shoved at their comrades behind, trying to put bodies between them and the enemy. The entire mass of legionaries swayed and moved back several steps.

The red mist began to descend on Hanno. Weirdly, the scar on his neck began to itch too. ‘Where are you, Pera?’ he roared. ‘Pera! Come out so I can gut you like the coward you are!’

No one answered, but one legionary suddenly charged straight at them. Shieldless, wounded, spittle flying from his lips, he had clearly lost all reason. He looked nothing like Pera, but Hanno longed for the man to attack him. Instead he slammed into the shield of a Libyan ten paces away. A pair of gladii ran him through before he could use his own blade, spitting him through his unarmoured abdomen. ‘Stupid bastard,’ said one of the Libyans as he shoved the dying Roman backwards with his scutum.

They were only half a dozen steps from the legionaries now. A handful of men prepared to fight, but the majority were crying like children. Many had dropped their shields and swords and, with their backs to the Libyans, were ripping at those in their way with their bare hands. Four steps. Two.

‘Pera? I’m coming for you, you arse-humping piece of shit!’ Hanno picked his target, a legionary with a similar build to Pera. Rammed his sword into the right side of the man’s back, just below his small iron back plate. Resistance, easy push, shove — and he felt it come out of the legionary’s belly. An ear-splitting shriek of pain. Hanno twisted the blade for good measure, ripped it free and watched in fascination as a tide of blood followed it out. The man’s knees were already folding. Hanno shoved him on to the ground with his shield boss and barged into the mass of enemy soldiers. Even with their level of panic, it was a dangerous move. He had no one to protect his sides, but he had gone beyond sense. He was back in the cell in Victumulae, dangling by his wrists. Pera stood before him in his mind’s eye, a hot iron raised towards his face.

Next in his path was a terrified young legionary who raised his hands towards Hanno, palms out. ‘I surrender! I surrender!’

‘Fuck you.’ Hanno stabbed him through the stomach, the easiest way to finish a man for good, and, pulling the blade out, cut down the man next to him with a backhanded slash to the side. He felt a body shoving in behind him and, cursing, tried to turn and kill whoever it was. The mist parted long enough for him to recognise Mutt and to stay his arm. They fought side by side for a time, savagely, efficiently, killing and wounding a dozen or more Romans. There was no resistance. It was like slaughtering spring lambs. The pair only stopped when the legionaries before them managed to break away and flee. Hanno made to pursue them, but Mutt blocked his path.