Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

Even those now presented a problem. The light was leaching fast from the sky. The birds of prey that had hung over the battlefield all day had gone. Even the wind had calmed, allowing the swirling dust to settle somewhat. Before long, it would be too dark to do anything other than withdraw from the field. The sounds of combat had diminished. The predominant sound was the screams of the injured and dying. Hanno had never felt more tired: he too was only capable of fighting for a short time before having to rest. Yet despite all this, the battle madness still controlled him. They could manage one or two more assaults on the nearest legionaries, he told himself. They could kill more of them. Pera might be among their number.

Hanno prowled along his soldiers’ lines, exhorting them to another mighty effort. They groaned, they grumbled; he heard a few muttered curses. But they got to their feet again, formed a ragged line. There were perhaps seventy of them; the rest were sprawled, uncaring, on the blood-sodden ground to their rear. Hanno noted, as if for the first time, that every single man’s right arm was red to the elbow with a mixture of fresh and clotted blood. Their shields looked as if they had been dipped in a vat of scarlet dye. Their faces and helmets were spattered with flecks of red; so too were their feet and sandals. They were literally covered in blood from head to toe. Scarlet demons. Creatures of the underworld. I must look the same, Hanno thought, feeling a trace of revulsion. It was no wonder that the Romans wailed when they approached.

‘Will this be the last attack, sir?’ Mutt’s voice was low.

Hanno gave him an irritated look. ‘I hadn’t planned on it, no.’

‘I don’t think many of the lads can take much more, sir. Look at them.’

Unwillingly, Hanno studied his soldiers again. He was shocked to see that some of them were using their scuta to prop themselves up. More than one had laid his head on a forearm resting on the iron shield rim. Could that man be snoring? he wondered. His gaze wandered to the nearest Romans, a huddled mass of perhaps a hundred legionaries under the command of a wounded centurion. ‘I’m not just letting that lot escape,’ he said stubbornly. ‘No way.’

‘One last attack, sir. Any more than that and you’ll start killing our own.’

Hanno didn’t want to admit it, but Mutt was right. Even he, his second-in-command, who could march all day without breaking a sweat, looked spent. If that was the case, even Hannibal would not think worse of him for calling a halt at this stage. ‘Very well. But I want that centurion dead before we pull back. They’ll break once he’s down.’

‘Yes, sir. I think we can manage that much.’ Mutt’s teeth flashed white amid the red that coated his face. ‘After that, I think it’ll be safe to venture that we’ve won, eh?’

‘I’d say so, Mutt. Even the fucking Romans will have to admit defeat after this. Their army has almost been wiped out.’

‘Hearing that out loud feels damn good, sir.’

‘It does.’ For the first time, Hanno allowed himself to savour the feeling of triumph. All that was required to make the day an unmitigated success was that his father and brothers — even Sapho — had survived. It was unlikely that he’d find them this night, but he could search for them in the morning. Gods willing, they could all celebrate Hannibal’s victory together then.

‘Ready, sir?’ asked Mutt.

‘Yes.’ Hanno watched as Mutt rallied the Libyans, getting them to form up in close order. ‘One last bout before we’re done, boys,’ he croaked. ‘A gold piece to the man who hands me that centurion’s helmet.’

His soldiers’ throats were parched, but they growled their appreciation at him. One even found the energy to start beating his sword off his shield again. The rhythm was infectious. Several men joined in, and Hanno laughed as the Roman line, such as it was, visibly backed up a step. He could see the centurion, who was at the front, roaring abuse at soldiers who must have been pulling away from the rear of their formation. ‘They’re wavering! One good strike and they’ll break! You hear me?’

Incredibly, there was a cracked cheer. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ yelled Mutt.

‘HANN-I-BAL!’ shouted a number of men.

The Romans retreated again.

‘Again,’ Hanno hissed.

Mutt repeated his cry. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

This time, not even the centurion could hold the legionaries. They turned and fled.

Howling like wolves, Hanno and his soldiers chased them into the night.

Corax had taken one look at the soldiers in the main camp and made his men turn on their heels. There had been a few protests. It was nearly dark. After a short but brutal assault, they had escaped the ring of Carthaginians who even now were butchering their comrades. After that, they had forded the Aufidius and straggled back to their encampment through the darkening air. ‘We’ve done enough, sir,’ said one man. ‘We’re dead on our feet, sir,’ added another. ‘The guggas won’t come after us tonight, sir,’ Urceus chipped in. Quintus, who was swaying to and fro with exhaustion, was about to agree. He was stunned into silence by Corax’s response.

‘Stay here if you wish, you maggots, but don’t be surprised when the gugga cavalry arrives in the morning. Don’t think they won’t! Hannibal will want to secure the entire area. If we keep going now, we can be miles away by dawn, beyond the enemy’s reach. You can rest then. Sleep in the knowledge that you won’t wake with an enemy spear through your guts.’

The centurion had gathered some food and then set off without even looking to see who followed. Quintus and Urceus had exchanged a resigned glance and then set off after him. Corax’s words had the ring of truth to them. What was a couple of hours’ marching compared to death? All but six men had joined them, giving them a total of just over thirty hastati. To Quintus’ frustration, Macerio was not one of those who stayed behind. The blond-haired man had come through the battle unscathed, and it seemed nothing could rid them of his company.

Despite Macerio’s presence, the moonlit walk might have been pleasant: the visibility was good, and the temperature was now balmy. Yet, terrified that they would be pursued, the majority of the party started at every night sound, every rustle of wind through the trees, saw Carthaginian soldiers behind each bush. Everyone was bone-weary. Sunburned. Famished — the brief moments granted them by Corax had allowed them only to find a few mouthfuls of food. Most of all, the legionaries were in complete shock at what had befallen them and their army. The impossible had happened. Hannibal and his soldiers had defeated — more likely massacred — eight legions, their cavalry and their attendant socii. Almost the entire military force of the Republic had been wiped from the face of the earth in one day, and by a host that was significantly smaller in size.

There was no conversation. Men were grieving for their fallen comrades. Quintus was sorry that Severus and so many others in his unit had been slain, but his prayers for them were brief. Instead he pleaded with the gods that his father, Calatinus, and Gaius — if he’d been present — had all survived. It was too much to ask for, he knew, yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask that one live in preference to the others. The day had been cruel enough without having to make another black-and-white choice.

Hours passed before Corax was satisfied that they’d travelled far enough from the battlefield. Using the stars as a guide, he had led them northwest, towards the low hills upon which lay the town of Canusium. They didn’t reach the settlement itself, but as the centurion said, it couldn’t be much further. The group would gain the nominal safety of its walls the next morning. ‘Get some sleep now, boys. You deserve it,’ Corax said solemnly. ‘I’m proud of the way you fought today.’ Quintus lifted an eyebrow at Urceus, who grinned. The centurion’s words lifted the other men’s spirits a little too. His praise came so rarely that it was to be savoured.