David Durham - Pride of Carthage

The din grew as the minutes passed. Carthalo's horsemen galloped past on their way to meet the eastern wing of the Roman horse, a confusion of hooves and battle cries that soon faded into the haze. Still Imco's company waited. It was nearing the noon hour and the heat of the late-summer sun pressed down upon the heavy air. Clouds of dust blew over them, propelled by blistering gusts, foul-scented like breaths from some giant, tooth-rotted mouth. Sweat poured first from Imco's armpits, soon after from his forehead, his groin, his feet and hands. The moisture found its way into his eyes and they, in turn, dripped salty tears. From somewhere behind, a shout came for them to tighten up. They did so, each man measuring the small space around him, fitting himself in close to the man beside him, testing the position of their shields. Few spoke now; none stretched or joked; but still they waited.

When the shout came, Imco could not quite make out the order. He felt a press at his back and saw the man before him shift forward. He stepped into the space thus vacated. For a moment, that was all there was to it. He stared at the dented iron of the man's helmet and saw in it his own reflection. It was too dim to provide details, just a shadow in human form. Then a series of horn blasts finished their orders, driving them into a forward march. Still he did not fully understand. There was nothing in front of them, just a flat stretch off to the side of the main battle, but the horns were insistent. Like the others, he took short, shuffling steps, barely lifting his feet. Forward into nothing. For five minutes and then nearing ten. Forward farther.

Then the horns spoke once more, some turning maneuver. Again, Imco did not know how to interpret it. Fortunately, others did. The whole block of men, thousands strong, careened around a slow pivot, one side stationary, the other in full motion, as if swinging on the hinges of a great door. The man behind Imco savaged his heels, stepping on them every few moments. Imco was about to turn and curse him when a horn blasted a halt.

They all stopped in a single breath. Armor clattered to silence. Only then, peering around the man in front of him, did Imco see their goal. They had completed the turn. Before them, less than a hundred strides away, ran the long, exposed flank of the enemy army. By their dress it appeared they were not actually Romans but an allied legion. They were tightly packed, part of one tremendous body. Not one of them was turned outward. All had eyes forward. They had no idea they had suddenly become targets of Hannibal's finest infantrymen. The next order was easy enough to understand. They charged.

Few of the Roman allies seemed to notice the approaching Africans until the last moments. The ones most exposed tried to re-form, but the soldiers next to them were pieces of a much larger formation and they held to their positions. Imco did not know what people these were but he would always remember the sunlike emblem embossed in red upon their white shields. The Carthaginians hit them not at a dead run, but at a slow jog, with a weight of impact that sent shock waves echoing through the close-packed men.

With the moment of first contact all ordered movements ceased. From then on it was pure blood work, different even from what they had trained for. Instead of the phalanx formation—shields locked, thrusting overhand in a deadly bristle of spears—they instantly spread out. Everyone already seemed to understand that this was no ordinary battle. The Latins almost refused to turn and face them, leaving open vulnerable spots at the side of the neck, down the arm, on the outer thigh, portions of the face. There were so many spots to strike and so many targets to choose from that the attackers fanned out in ravenous chaos, each man searching for the best place to enter the fray. Thus Imco was presented with his first enemy more quickly than he might have been otherwise.

There were men all around him, but he and a Latin spotted each other and both knew destiny asked them to contest their lives. Imco—not yet in full possession of his courage—let his spear fly. The man batted it down with his shield and stepped over it. It would not be that easy. Imco's early swordplay was tentative. He found it hard to find a place to strike. The Latin's shield was heavy and tall, the sunburst on it most distracting. It covered almost all his body. The high crown of his helmet looked impenetrable. Imco struck small blows, aiming at the face, at the man's sword arm, at the sword itself, trying to knock it free of his hand. For each attack he made he had to parry one in return, staying close behind his shield, taking a blow that nearly knocked his helmet off, receiving a thrust that just nicked his shoulder blade. He could not help but notice that the man's cheeks trembled spasmodically and that he closed his eyes each time he struck and that he seemed to suck in more air than he ever expelled. He realized that he might well be dueling with the single soldier more frightened by all of this than he.

At that moment something so strange and questionable happened that Imco would never afterward tell it to anyone, not even when they praised his murderous prowess. Hot air seemed to gather in a swirl beneath his legs, sweep up under his tunic, and enter him through his ass. His chest billowed, his head hummed, his arms and legs trembled with the power of it. He would later believe that it was a breath of fury sent to him by the beautiful woman, a blessing for poor Imco, a command to prove himself worthy and to live, to live.

Almost by accident—as his own body convulsed away from a thrust—the point of his sword sliced up from the tip of the man's chin, through both his lips, and on to split his nose into two equal portions. The man howled in anguish, spraying blood over Imco's head. He ducked beneath it and drove his sword up under the Roman soldier's chin. He felt it catch in the vertebra at the base of the head and he felt the snap as this gave way and let the blade drive up into the lower portion of the man's brain. Imco yanked the sword free and watched the man collapse, stunned that he had prevailed, amazed at the way a body lost all dignity in a single instant. The man hit the dirt, eyes opened but staring at the worst of possible views. But Imco was not to contemplate him for long.

Another Latin came at him, shield-smacked him, and sliced at his head. Imco punched him with his own shield, slammed a heel down on his foot, and struck until his blade bit the man at the neck. He then struck several more times just out of rage, until the soldier's helmet slipped up over his head and Imco's blade split the man's skull. Two deaths down and he had warmed to the work. The next one died even faster.

An hour later his arms felt like ropes of molten lead and his legs only supported him by finding footing among the dead below, wedged into the crook of an arm or jammed under someone's crotch. He had no idea how many he had killed. Nor could he gauge which side was winning the battle. For him the contest was smaller than that, decided moment by moment between him and one other. He kept reminding himself that he was still alive. He knew he could respectably retreat. Part of him almost wished to go on, but he could barely lift his sword. He stepped backward and shouted over his shoulder and another man stepped into his place. A few moments later he knelt in the filth with others from the front, panting, gasping for breath, spitting blood, calling for water. In this way, he found a few moments of rest, although no water appeared.

Imco might have stayed there indefinitely except that the giant named Bomilcar fell upon the resting men with orders that they rejoin the mêlée. “Rome dies this day!” he yelled. “Right now, this moment! This moment!” He roared through them, kicking men to their feet and slamming others with the flat of his hand and even knocking a few across the helmet with his sword. He was a strange sight, simultaneously furious and joyful. “Keep your blades wet! Let none of your weapons go thirsty!”