Hannibal: Fields of Blood (54 page)

‘The only way to victory is through those damn Gauls and out the other side. I’m not going to stop until I get there,’ replied Quintus, hoping he sounded bolder than he felt.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Corax, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘You might make a princeps yet.’

Quintus grinned, but his new confidence wavered when the Gauls opposite their position began a new chorus of war cries. Corax’s reaction was instant. ‘Close order! They’re coming at us again.’

They moved to stand side by side, perhaps fifteen men wide and three deep. Quintus found himself in the front rank, with Urceus to one side and Corax on the other. He had only just had a drink, but his mouth was parched. Forget your damn thirst, he thought, forget your fear. Concentrate. Watch your footing. Keep your shield high and your face protected.

‘Forward, lads,’ shouted Corax. ‘Slowly. No point rushing – we’ve got all day to beat these motherless gugga bastards!’

A ripple of laughter through the ranks, and Quintus’ spirits rose. Morale must still be high if men could find humour in their situation.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
. The Gauls playing their carnyxes gave fierce encouragement to their fellows. On they came, a bunched mass of warriors perhaps fifty strong. They were led by a stocky, middle-aged man in a mail shirt and ornate helmet. Two gold torcs around his neck further proclaimed his status. This is a tribal war band, thought Quintus. Slay the chieftain and the others will flee. That would prove no easy task, however. A pair of burly men, similarly armoured, flanked the leader. Their size and polished weapons were proof of their abilities.

Corax had come to the same realisation; the chieftain had to be killed. ‘Here, you stinking, flea-bitten whoreson!’ he roared, pointing his sword. ‘HERE!’

The Gaul saw Corax’s crested helmet and the phalerae on his chest and recognised that he was the best foe to attack. With a loud growl, he broke into a trot. His men followed at his heels. Quintus fought the panic that came bubbling up his throat.

‘Ready, lads?’ shouted Corax. ‘Here they come!’

With the chieftain aiming for Corax, Quintus was going to face one of his bodyguards, a hulk carrying a lethal-looking sword and a long, oval shield adorned with a swirling snake. This was a fearsome adversary, but he couldn’t let his centurion down. Quintus shuffled his left leg forward, made sure that it was on a stable footing and bent his knee to brace his shield. Leaning into the curve of the scutum, he stooped so that the only visible part of him was his eyes and the top of his helmet. The warriors were upon them. Quintus’ vision was full of charging, screaming Gauls. His opponent was already swinging a massive overhead blow at him.

He dropped his head, letting the metal rim of his shield take the impact.
THWACK!
His scutum was nearly ripped from his hand. Quintus thrust forward with his gladius, felt it strike the warrior’s shield.
Damn it!
He tugged it free, risked a glance over his scutum, had to duck down to avoid being brained by another mighty swing. Again his left arm was wrenched downward. Panic tore at him. A few more blows like that and he wouldn’t be able to defend himself any longer. Quintus peeked around the side of his shield, stabbing intuitively at the warrior’s left foot. His blade connected, sliced into flesh.

With a roar of pain, the warrior staggered backwards. Quintus took another look. Blood was pouring from the man’s foot. It wasn’t a mortal wound by any means, but it had granted him a breather. To his left, Urceus was trading blows with a red-haired Gaul. Corax was fighting the chieftain. Neither bout had been decided as yet. Quintus’ heart leaped into his mouth. Maybe he could help Corax? There would only be the briefest of opportunities before his own opponent renewed his attack. That made up his mind. As the chieftain thrust at Corax, Quintus rammed his gladius at the man’s armpit.
Mars, guide my blade!
The links in the chieftain’s mail shirt gave way beneath the force of Quintus’ thrust and the iron slid deep into his chest. The chieftain’s eyes bulged in shock; a choking cry left his mouth – and Corax stabbed him through the right eye. Aqueous fluid spattered everywhere. Gouts of blood followed the watery liquid as Quintus pulled
his
weapon free. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of wheat.

‘Well done,’ muttered Corax. ‘Shout as loud as you can now, and advance with me.’

Quintus let out the most ferocious scream and took a step forward. Beside him, Corax stepped over the dead chieftain. ‘Your leader is dead, you scum!’ he yelled. ‘The same’s going to happen to you!’

The warrior whom Quintus had been fighting looked dismayed. Encouraged, Quintus clattered his sword off his shield and bellowed insults at him. The Gaul glanced uncertainly at his comrades. Moved back a pace. Then another.

‘CHARGE!’ Corax sprang forward like a hound let off the leash.

Quintus followed him out of instinct. From the corner of his eye, he sensed Urceus scrambling to join them.
Thank all the gods.

The nearest Gauls broke and ran. From that moment, it was like watching the tide beginning to turn. Dismayed by their comrades’ about-face, the entire group of warriors turned and fled for the main body of Carthaginian troops. Eager to press home their advantage, the hastati pursued them, hacking down a good number before they reached safety. Quintus stabbed one warrior in the back, his blade grating off the man’s spine and dropping him like a puppet with cut strings. His victim’s shrieks were piteous, and he slowed to give him the death stroke.

‘Back! Back!’ roared Corax.

Quintus raised his arm. He had time.

‘Pull back, I said.’ Corax grabbed his right arm, pinning him with his gaze.

‘I was going to finish this one off, sir.’

‘Leave him.’

‘Sir, I—’

‘He wouldn’t do the same for you. Besides, his screams will put off his comrades. Come on.’

There was no gainsaying his centurion. Asking Pluto to take the man quickly, Quintus trotted back to their original position. Corax moved about, bellowing at men to withdraw, slapping them on the back with the flat of his sword if they didn’t hear or immediately obey. ‘Re-form the line,’ he shouted over and over.

It wasn’t long before they had regrouped. The hastati had lost three men, but more than a dozen Gauls lay on the ground, dead or with grievous wounds that would see them to the underworld. Exhilarated by their success, the legionaries grinned at one another, boasted about what they’d done, gave thanks to their favourite gods. Quintus felt proud of the way he’d fought. He looked for the warrior he’d injured in the charge and was relieved that he seemed to have stopped moving. The big man whose foot he’d cut was also visible, in the lines opposite. Seeing him, Quintus made an obscene gesture, which was returned, but with less gusto than his. His confidence swelled. ‘I’ll kill him next time.’

‘Who?’ Urceus’ voice.

‘The big fucker who was with the chieftain. I only wounded him just now.’

‘Suddenly keen, aren’t you?’ Urceus thumped the side of his scutum off that of Quintus.

‘It feels good to have driven some of them back.’

‘And we’ll do it again,’ interrupted Corax. He gave Quintus an approving nod. ‘My thanks for skewering that chieftain. That’s what broke them.’

Quintus grinned self-consciously. ‘I did my bit, sir.’

‘Keep doing that.’ Corax was about to say more, when he saw something over Quintus’ shoulder. He stiffened to attention. ‘Sir!’

‘At ease, centurion,’ said a voice. ‘No one is to salute. I don’t want the enemy to see me just yet.’

Quintus turned, catching a hate-filled stare from Macerio. He ignored it, mainly because he was stunned by the sight of an officer clad in a general’s red cloak approaching through the ranks. It was the proconsul Servilius Geminus, the commander of their entire centre. A score of hard-faced triarii, his guards, stood a little distance back. ‘Sir!’ Quintus said in a low voice. Urceus and their companions were quick to echo him.

Servilius smiled as he passed by. ‘You are Centurion . . .?’

‘Corax, sir, centurion of hastati in what was Longus’ First Legion.’

‘What’s the situation here?’

Corax explained. Servilius looked pleased. ‘I’ve been looking for a place to lead a full-frontal attack. The two maniples to your left have also done well. If we join together, the rest of the front line will follow. One big push, and I think the Gauls will break. Are your men ready to help achieve that, do you think?’

‘Of course, sir!’ growled Corax.

‘Good. Make your preparations. I’m returning to what will be our centre. That’s where the maniple to your immediate left is positioned. When I’m in place, I’ll give you the signal.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Corax’s smile was lean and hungry. The instant that Servilius had slipped away, he rounded on the hastati. ‘You heard the general. You’ve fought bravely thus far, lads, but this is our chance! No one will forget the soldiers who turned the guggas at Cannae. Who began the rout that saw Hannibal defeated once and for all.’

‘We’re with you, sir,’ said Quintus eagerly.

‘All of us,’ added Urceus.

A rumble of acknowledgement from the rest, and Corax nodded with satisfaction. ‘In that case, be ready for Servilius’ signal. At his command, unleash hell!’

They
would
smash the Gauls, thought Quintus. After what they’d just done, he felt sure of it. He prayed that his father and Calatinus were faring as well on the right flank, and that if Gaius were here, that he was playing his part on the left flank. The enemy cavalry
had
to be contained.

As long as that happened, he and the rest of the infantry could do the rest.

Chapter XVIII

THE FIGHTING HAD
been going on for a long time before it became evident that the centre of the Carthaginian line was going to crumble and break. Immense credit was due to the Gauls and Iberians, thought Hanno. They must have been dying in their hundreds since battle was joined, yet they had held and held when, normally, they might have cracked. Hannibal and Mago’s presence must have helped, but their accomplishment had also involved considerable bravery. Eventually, however, the pressure of so many legionaries pressing forward began to take its toll. Hanno was scrutinising the proceedings like a hawk and spotted the warriors in the rear ranks some distance away beginning to waver. The men nearer to hand remained where they were, chanting and hammering their weapons off their shields, but not those in the centre, upon whom the burden of the enemy attack would fall when their fellows in front entirely gave way. Even as he watched, a handful of Gauls backed ten steps or so from the main body of soldiers. They stood, faces uncertain and a little ashamed, but almost at once they were joined by half a dozen more men. A heartbeat later, another larger group left the rear ranks, which doubled their numbers in one go.

‘Look,’ Hanno said to Mutt.

‘I see them, sir.’

It was like watching sheep trying to get away from the shepherd, thought Hanno. No one individual will make a move until it sees that another will do the same. A group forms; they look about to see which way is best. They dither for a bit, and then some of them make a run for it. The instant that happens, the whole flock joins in and the process becomes a stampede. In the time it had taken him and Mutt to exchange two sentences, a score more warriors had retreated. Hanno’s fear that the Romans would break through vied with a frisson of exhilaration that, crazy as it was, Hannibal’s plan appeared to be working. ‘At least they’re not running,’ he observed. ‘We’d best be ready all the same. Cuttinus will be giving us the signal to move any moment. Have the men turn to our right and face inward.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Mutt turned around so that the soldiers nearby could hear and cupped a hand to his lips. ‘On my command, turn to the right!’ He scurried off down the side of the phalanx, spreading the word. By the time he had returned, which wasn’t long, hundreds of Gauls and Iberians were walking – fast and backwards – away from the centre of the line. Mutt cast a glance at Hanno, who nodded. ‘TURN!’ roared Mutt. ‘TURN!’

It was as if they had read Cuttinus’ mind. A sharp set of notes from his musicians signalled that the phalanxes should wheel as Hannibal had told them to do. Some of Hanno’s soldiers took an eager step forward as they faced towards the men who were retreating. An angry roar from Hanno saw them shuffle back into line. He was rigid with tension now. Even the Iberians and Gauls near them – the men at the leftmost edge of the line – were pulling back. They were doing so slowly and in good order, facing to the front with their swords and shields raised high. If the order came, they could stop and immediately begin to fight. He corrected himself. When the order came. Because the only reason that so many warriors were withdrawing was because those at the very front were no longer able to hold back the Romans. Any moment now, a tide of legionaries would come pouring through what had been the centre of their battle line.

Another set of notes from Cuttinus.

‘CLOSE ORDER!’ shouted Hanno. He broke formation to watch his men move shoulder to shoulder, shield resting against shield, as they’d been trained these past months. Pride filled him at how fast they did it. There were perhaps forty men fewer than had been in the unit when he’d taken command of it, just before the Trebia. He might not have been with them since Iberia, but Hanno felt bonded to them now. A mad notion took him. There was probably just enough time, if he moved fast. He dragged out his sword and walked to the soldier at the left-hand edge of the phalanx. It pleased him to see that it was the older man who’d been with him the night that he’d been captured at Victumulae. A steady pair of hands where it counted, he thought, giving the veteran an approving nod. The gesture was returned, which prompted a warm feeling in Hanno’s belly.

‘You’ve all been through a lot since you sailed from Carthage to join Hannibal in Iberia,’ he called. ‘You’ve fought and marched all the way to Italy!’ The Libyans cheered him then, and he began to walk slowly along the front rank, clattering his sword tip off the metal rims of their scuta. ‘From Carthage to Iberia to Gaul to Italy! And never beaten! Be proud of yourselves!’
Clatter. Clatter. Clatter.
Their roars of approval, fierce grins and eyes bright with determination told him to continue. ‘Today, Hannibal needs you more than ever. As he has never needed you before!’ Hanno was about halfway along the front rank. Everyone in the phalanx could hear him here. He turned and pointed dramatically with his sword. His guts twisted. The Gauls and Iberians were running now. They had broken. ‘The bastard Romans are going to appear there any instant. What are we going to do to them?’