David Durham - Pride of Carthage

Sempronius ruled the day, and his first waking thought was that he was going to use it somehow. When he heard of the Numidians' antics he decided that the insult was too much to bear. He ordered full battle readiness. He knew the soldiers had not eaten yet, that they had not truly shaken off the night, or prepared their weapons or clothed themselves as they might have liked. These facts were unfortunate, but the enemy was near and so was victory. They could complete this work in a morning and dine as owners of the enemy's camp. At least, so the consul yelled to his officers when they expressed reservations. When Cornelius summoned him he sent back a messenger explaining that he was busy. There was no time for chat. But, he said, his fellow consul could rest assured that by the close of the day Rome would be safe again.

When they marched out through the camp gate, the Numidians jumped onto their mounts, spun a few circles, called out a few more oaths, and showed the approaching Romans their rumps. Watching this, Sempronius believed even more assuredly that victory was near. Less than an hour later, he reached the banks of the Trebia. On the far side, the consul saw the growing mass of the enemy, waiting for them under the first drops of icy rain that soon became a steady sleet. The Numidians were nearest, milling about like the savages they were, trilling to each other and slapping their horses into short gallops and acting as if they had achieved some victory. Behind them Sempronius distinguished the components he had expected, units sectioned off by ethnicity and fighting style: Libyans and Gauls and Celtiberians. The elephant-beasts churned the ground fretfully near the front. They had about them a fearsome aspect, but he had already instructed his men to aim their missiles at the riders, whose loss would make the creatures of little use, randomly floating islands of damage to all, but an aid to neither side. The army was a confused polyglot monster, unnatural and ill-suited to this part of the world. Sempronius had expected as much. He even caught sight of Hannibal's standard. He picked out the tight contingent of guards around a central figure and knew that finally the villain was within his grasp. He ordered his men forward.

The legions strode steadily into the river. They pushed through grim-faced, teeth clenched against the cold, clumsy because of the current pressing against them and the uneven stones beneath them, fighting for balance even as they held their weapons up out of the water. By the middle of the crossing the men were in icy water up to their chests. More than one soldier lost his footing and knocked his neighbors loose as well. Some dropped their weapons as they fought for purchase and a few went under and came up sputtering, white-skinned and dazed. Most made it across and emerged sodden, feet numb and clumsy beneath them and weapons held awkwardly in their stiff fingers.

The first of the Romans fell as stones whirled through the air with an audible hiss, nearly invisible projectiles that smashed sudden dents in helmets and broke ribs, snapped forearms, and pierced skulls through the eyes and nose. This was the work of the Balearic slingers. They were short men, not armored at all but dressed only against the cold because they did their damage from a distance. They taunted the Romans and called out oaths and swirled their stones into blinding speed. Sempronius, who had crossed the river on horseback, shouted for calm in his men. He told them to scorn these womanish weapons and form up into ranks. The words were scarcely out of his mouth, however, when a stone smashed into his mount's skull, splattering his face with blood.

He was on his feet screaming for another mount when the second wave of attackers hit. Several thousand Carthaginian pikemen moved into striking range, their absurdly long spears at the ready. Sempronius called for his men to throw their javelins, but the response he got was feeble. He and his men realized all at once, in a silent moment, that most had used their missiles already, either trying to hit the Numidians, or, moments before, when they tried to answer the slingers, who even now sent stones whizzing over the heads of their allies and home to their targets.

The pikemen picked their prey individually, skewering them from outside sword range. Some came with their weapon held in two hands and drove it toward abdomen or groin. Others hefted the spear up and thrust it single-handed into face or chest. Lightly armored, they danced away as the soldiers charged them, waiting for openings into which to drive their spearheads home. They retreated only when the sheer numbers of soldiers on the shore pressed them back.

Sempronius called his men to order yet again. He gave the instructions to form up for battle and proceed. He was still focused and confident. He loathed the unmanly tactics of his enemy and shouted as much so that all would know his disdain. And yet some part of him felt that something was amiss. He tried not to acknowledge it. Tried to recover from each successive surprise and shape his men into the disciplined ranks he knew to be unbeatable. But when he heard the trumpeting of the pachyderms, saw the raging bulk, witnessed the power with which a single creature swatted four soldiers and left them broken pieces of men—then, for the first time, he felt a knot low in his abdomen, a ball of fear that pulsed with the possibility that events were not about to unfold as he wished.

Though he was pressed to the ground—still and chilled as he had been since the dark hours of the night—Mago's heart pounded in his chest as if he were already in the battle. He saw it all happening and wanted to believe that all was as it should be, but he kept reminding himself not to let his expectations get ahead of events. He waited as the first Romans fell on the riverside. Watching through plumes of his own breath, he saw the legions mass and engage his brother's main forces. He recognized their attempt at order, the way the velites came to the fore to throw their missiles. They staggered forward, some already weaponless, many dropping before the slingers' pellets. Those who could hurled their weapons with remarkable accuracy, but they never launched their single, massive volley. Mago could find no fault with their efforts. It was simply that, from the first moments, the battle proceeded on Hannibal's terms, not on theirs.

Soon the elephants churned through the ranks, trumpeting and bellowing as their drivers smacked their skulls and urged them on. In the confusion men were trampled and swatted into the air or impaled on tusks. The Romans feared these animals, as any sane men would, but they did not give way. They aimed their sword thrusts at their eyes, hacked at their trunks, and jabbed their blades into their flanks. More than one mahout was jerked from his post at the point of a spear.

Despite these stampeding boulders, despite the sleet and the spray kicked up from the ground, the Romans still managed to form and re-form their ranks. They still inflicted damage. Their style of battle was tight and organized. They leaned forward, closely guarded by their shields, and cut down the wildly swinging Gauls particularly well, jabbing their short swords into their unprotected abdomens and pulling back and then jabbing the next. They ate steadily through the Gallic center of the Carthaginian forces, fighting with surprising efficiency considering the circumstances. But still the pieces came together against them. The Numidian cavalry rode circles around their Roman counterparts and soon had them on the run, pushed clear of the legions' edges and leaving their flanks open.

This, Mago recognized, was where he came in. He nodded to the soldier beside him, who snapped himself to his feet and bellowed out the call to the rest. They peeled themselves from the ground, stiff from the long wait, many of them chilled beyond shivering. They hefted their swords and shields and began shouting out, grunting and chanting, each invoking his favored gods, whispering prayers to them. Mago strode forward. He did not look back but trusted that the rest were behind him. For the first few steps, he barely felt his legs working beneath him. He smacked his feet down as heavily as he could to ensure his footing, and soon warmed to the work. He heard the clink of their armor and the thump of their feet against the semi-frozen ground. Initially there was something ghostly in the noise, but as they drew closer to the battle the men found further voice. Their jaws loosened, bodies fired with sudden heat. The discordant tongues blended as they ran, and became a wild bellowing that was beyond words, rooted in something earlier and deeper in the brain than language. The distance they had to cover was considerable and in the running their fury grew. Individuals picked out their targets and envisioned the damage they were about to inflict.