Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

‘Out of my way!’ Hanno snarled.

Mutt didn’t move. ‘You’ll get killed, sir.’

The certainty in Mutt’s voice sank home. Hanno blinked.

‘You want to defeat the Romans entirely, don’t you, sir?’

‘You know I do!’

‘Then don’t throw your life away. Stay calm, sir. Keep the lads in check. Attack, withdraw, attack again. Just as we’ve been doing. It’s simple, and it works.’ Mutt stood aside.

‘You’re right.’ Hanno took a deep breath, regained a little control, felt his muscles trembling with weariness. ‘Tell the men to halt. They’ll need a drink and another break.’

Mutt gave him an approving look. ‘Yes, sir.’

And so it went on, for hours. It became a bizarre routine. Apart from the phalanx to either side of his own, Hanno couldn’t see what the other units were doing. He assumed it was much the same. Pull back, regroup, tend the wounded. Share out the water and wine that remained. Rest. Some men produced food that they’d stashed inside their tunics; it was passed around and devoured. It also became necessary to sharpen their sword blades regularly; they were blunt from being shoved into human flesh.

On one occasion, a senior officer of some type, perhaps a tribune, tried to lead an attack while Hanno and his men were resting, but it was a half-hearted affair that swiftly ended when Mutt slew the officer. The rest of the time, the Romans in his section of the line seemed content to do nothing but emulate the Libyans’ behaviour. It wasn’t surprising, thought Hanno as he watched them during one rest period, for these were the only times when they weren’t being killed. Some of the legionaries still fought back when he and his men attacked. Once or twice, he and his Libyans were even driven back a little way. For the most part, however, the Romans had given up resisting. Dull-eyed, catatonic, sunburned, they were just waiting for death to take them — like cattle or sheep in pens outside a butcher’s shop. It had not occurred to Hanno before, but he wondered if his men — if the army — would be able to dispatch every single legionary on the field before darkness, or before their exhaustion got the better of them.

After the uncertainty with which the day had begun, it scarcely seemed possible that he could be contemplating the annihilation of such an enormous Roman host. Hanno gave thanks to his favourite gods, but he was careful to dampen down his feelings of triumph. Plenty of the enemy were continuing to fight. The battle was not over, and would not be until the sun had set. He would reserve judgement until then. Before that, he and his men still had a job to do.

To kill yet more Romans.

It was as if the Gauls and Iberians facing them were different men to those who’d broken and run earlier, thought Quintus. In spite of the heat, the dust, the sun, the tribesmen had a new enthusiasm for the fight. It had re-emerged since the Carthaginian attacks had fallen on their flanks. Thanks to this enemy effort, the Roman advance had wholly stalled. The warriors’ attacks on the legionaries’ front did not last for long, but they were deadly nonetheless. Despite Servilius’ and Corax’s efforts, every single one ended with dead hastati. Sometimes just a few, but more often than not it was ten or more. Roman morale slipped with every successive assault. The cries of their wounded, who lay before them — they had given up dragging men who were going to die back to their lines — as well as to their rear, didn’t help. One hastatus had been whimpering about his mother for so long that Quintus would have ended his suffering himself if the unfortunate hadn’t been lying so close to the enemy.

It was as well that the Gauls tended to pull back quickly, or the legionaries might have broken already. The enemy were bone tired now too, which meant that they could not press home their advantage as no doubt their leaders would have wished. That was of little solace to Quintus or his comrades, of whom perhaps ninety remained. Typically, Macerio was one of them. It didn’t matter that the Carthaginian troops had to break for regular rests. The Romans were surrounded, like a vast shoal of fish in a net. And slowly but surely, the net was being tightened, pulled on to the fisherman’s boat. Quintus had lost all concept of time, but it had to be the middle of the afternoon. The malevolent yellow orb that was the sun still hung high in the sky, which meant that the fighting had been going on for six, maybe more, hours. The cavalry battle had been won by Hannibal’s horsemen — it had to have been, or the Carthaginian rear would have been under attack by now. There would be no relief from their ordeal. It was a case of breaking through the enemy lines, or dying. Gazing around him, Quintus knew that many of his comrades would be doing the latter. So would he and Urceus, if something didn’t change. He wondered vaguely where on the battlefield Hanno might be, and if he too would still be alive by the end of the day. It seemed a lot more likely than his own survival.

‘Here they come again,’ croaked Urceus.

A chorus of curses from their comrades. More than one started to pray. Incredibly, after all the sweat that they’d each shed, one hastatus began to have a quick piss.

‘Where’s Corax?’ asked a voice. No one answered, and an unhappy air settled over the group.

Quintus scowled, hefted his battered scutum, tried to ignore the trembling in his sword arm. ‘Have you seen him?’ he hissed at Urceus.

‘Not for a while. He’ll be back.’

‘He’d fucking better,’ Severus responded.

Someone’s got to take command, thought Quintus grimly. Fast. ‘Close order!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone with a javelin, prepare to loose on my command.’ He was relieved that no one questioned him. They did as he said, glad no doubt to be given orders.

The Gauls no longer ran at the hastati. They just walked. Some shouted war cries, but most remained quiet. Their throats had to be as dry as the Romans’ were. Even the men with the carnyxes had given up. The clamour of battle rang from all around them, but in their odd oasis, there was little noise. It was worse facing the tribesmen when they were quiet, Quintus decided. They always attacked while screaming at the top of their lungs; in contrast, the silence was even more ominous.

‘How far away are they?’ he muttered to Urceus.

‘Fifty paces or so.’

Quintus agreed. He began to count in his head. At thirty paces, he glanced to either side. Following Corax’s orders, they had continually picked up discarded pila, but as the day had gone on, fewer and fewer were reusable. Fewer than a dozen men had javelins, he saw, but it was still worth a volley. Every Gaul who lost his shield was an enemy who was more easily killed. ‘Steady now! Let the whoresons come! Do not loose yet.’

He was shocked when the Gauls suddenly began to run. That was when he noticed the band of soldiers in the middle of their formation. These were no tribesmen. Every man among them sported a mail shirt and a black cloak; all were carrying scuta and swords. A few others were wearing muscled cuirasses and Hellenistic helmets. Could they be Carthaginian officers? Sweat sluiced down Quintus’ back when he saw that one man had a purple tunic. The patch of similar-coloured fabric over one eye confirmed his suspicions. He couldn’t help himself. ‘It’s fucking Hannibal!’

‘What’s he doing here?’ Urceus snarled, but the fear was palpable in his voice.

A wail of dismay left Severus’ throat.

‘We’re all going to die!’ cried someone who sounded just like Macerio.

‘Shut your mouths!’ cried Quintus, but it was too late. Fear raged through the ranks — he could practically see it, ravening, tearing away the last of the men’s courage. ‘Take aim. LOOSE!’ he roared.