Hannibal: The Patrol (2 page)

His emotion had changed to concern, however, when he’d first seen the tall, rangy figure of Hanno. I remember thinking that he barely needs to shave, thought Mutt. That he’d have to be a jumped up little shit to be appointed commander so young. His worries had turned out to be groundless. The boy was no snob, and from the start he had thrown himself into getting to know the men. At the Trebia, Hanno had more than proved his mettle, leading from the front of the phalanx.
Yet, despite their victory, the fighting had been savage. The main Roman assault that day — a charge by an enormous bloc of legionaries — had fallen on their Gaulish allies, but more than one phalanx had been sucked into the fighting and completely wiped out. Through a combination of luck and sheer bloody-mindedness, Hanno had managed to keep his men together and away from the maelstrom.

Hiss. Hiss
. At first, Mutt didn’t take in what he had heard, but the thumps and subsequent shrieks as the arrows sank into his soldiers’ flesh entirely focused his mind.
Hiss. Hiss
. More dark shapes scudded in. Mutt’s gaze shot to the right of the track. Among the trees and bushes some twenty paces away, he spotted the dark figures of men, bows upraised. Gods above, why hadn’t the scouts seen them, he wondered? ‘Ambush! Ambush!’ he bellowed. ‘Spears down. Shields off your backs — at the double!’

He dropped his own spear. His fingers, stiff with cold, fumbled with the buckle of the strap that held his shield across his chest.
Hiss. Hiss
. A cry from very close by him. The fletches on an arrow that had thumped into the mud by his feet quivered. Mutt cursed savagely. Slow, he was being too slow. Don’t look up, he told himself. Ignore the arrows. Concentrate. At last the tongue of the buckle shifted and the weight of the shield dragged it down his back. With the ease of long practice, and the speed granted by buttock-clenching fear, Mutt spun and grabbed for the handle that was set under the iron boss.

The instant he had a firm grip on that, the shield went up, over his body and head. Moving too fast to feel relief, Mutt scrabbled for this spear and cocked it overarm in his right hand so that it was ready to thrust. Only then did he look towards their attackers again. They were still loosing arrows. There was no charge imminent. Stupid fools, he thought. He glanced rapidly from side to side, assessing his men. Most now had their shields off, and presented towards the enemy. Less had their spears ready. The line wasn’t complete by any means, however. He made a snap decision. Hanno would look after the front ranks — he had to assume that. Keeping his shield towards the enemy, he moved out of position and began back walking down the column. A quick look over to the left revealed that they were also under attack.

‘Shields off your backs,’ Mutt said calmly. ‘That’s if you want to live. Every man is to move forward two steps. Step over your wounded comrades. Get them behind the protection of the shields. Form a complete line. MOVE IT!’

Over and over, he repeated the orders, only casting an occasional look at the enemy. They had to be Gauls, he decided. Their volleys were ragged and inconsistent, and they hadn’t capitalised on the surprise of their ambush with a charge after the first arrows had fallen. Any decent tactician would have done that. This didn’t mean that he, Hanno and the rest were out of the shit — far from it. But at least he had a little time to rally his men.

He tried to do a quick head count of the enemy on this side. There were two, three, six men. Four more made ten, and there were at least five or six more a
little further on. Those were only the ones he could see in this section. How many of the dogs are there in total? Enough to wipe us out? he wondered. ‘Bogu! Ithobaal?’

‘Sir?’ It was Bogu’s voice.

‘Can you see what’s going on to our left?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many are there?’

‘At least twenty of the bastards, sir, but probably more.’

‘Form a line! Be ready for an enemy charge.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mutt worked his way back up the column, faster this time. He was pleased to note that there didn’t seem to be too many injured. Two soldiers lay motionless, but that was all right. If the Gauls had loosed a concerted volley, he would have lost far more. The men’s shields were all up, which meant there would now be few casualties – unless the enemy pressed home their attack.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
.

Mutt’s skin crawled. He’d heard that ungodly noise before, at the Trebia. Back then it had been sounded by Gaulish allies of theirs, to frighten the Romans. It helped to know that it was a carnyx, a trumpet blown not by a demon, but by a living man. It was still fucking unsettling, he thought. Mutt was grateful that there only seemed to be one, or perhaps two, of the carnyxes. He noted the fear on a
number of his men’s faces. ‘It’s only a trumpet, boys. Only a damn trumpet,’ he shouted. ‘They’re imitating the noise of their farts!’

A few soldiers laughed, but not many.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
.

‘Steady now, boys! They’re just trying to scare us. If the whoresons had any wits, they would have come at us already.’ That was probably what they next intended, he thought grimly. The carnyxes were being used to drum up the warriors’ courage against the bloodcurdling fear of charging an enemy.

‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice came from the front. It was calm, which relieved Mutt immensely. The boy wasn’t panicking. ‘Yes, sir?’ he yelled back.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
.

‘How are things back there?’

‘All right, sir. Two dead, or dying. Perhaps half a dozen injured. Shield wall in place.’

‘Good. The scouts tell me that there’s a tree blocking the track some distance around the next bend, so we’re going to have to stand our ground and drive them off. It’s that, or retreat. I say we fight.’

Going back the way they had come was probably a bad idea — Hanno had that right. The forest went on for miles. On the narrow track, they had no chance of forming up in the more protective phalanx formation. The stinking Gauls could just follow them, peppering them with arrows. Yet if the enemy outnumbered them, it might prove more prudent to withdraw. A bead of cold sweat trickled
from under Mutt’s helmet liner and down the side of his face. What to do? he wondered. Trust Hanno. He’s the commander. He needs my support. ‘Very good, sir.’

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
. Weapons clashed off shield edges, off iron bosses. Warriors roared battle cries.

‘Prepare for an attack!’ shouted Hanno. ‘Two ranks on each side, spears at the ready!’

Mutt trotted down half a dozen rows, repeating the command and telling men to pass it on. Quickly, he returned to the formation’s midpoint, shoved into the ranks and turned about to face the trees.

Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo. Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Parr-parr-parr
.
Zzzeyrrp
.
Booooooooo
. More shouting. Screaming. Metal hammering off metal.

Then silence fell.

‘For Carthage!’ Mutt heard Hanno cry. ‘For Hannibal!’

‘HANN-I-BAL!’ bellowed Mutt. He dashed his spear off the front of his shield.
Clash
,
clash
,
clash
, he went, in time with the chant.

His men latched onto the refrain with even more gusto than normal. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ they screamed.

Shapes moved in the trees, came out into the open. A wide line of men — Gaulish warriors. Since meeting his first tribesmen in Gaul, Mutt could pick them out a mile off. Bowl helmets similar to those of the Romans. Large rectangular or
oval shields. Coloured cloaks, tunics and patterned trousers. An occasional individual with a mail shirt. The three men who led them were stark naked, however, holding only a shield and sword each. After only a few steps, they advanced at a run. Two of them headed straight towards Mutt and the soldiers near him. Behind them, their companions broke into a trot.

The Gauls’ plan was simple, Mutt thought grimly. It was to use the fanatics as battering rams, to break their line. If they were doing that on his side of the column, they’d be doing it on the other too. His stomach clenched painfully. With their reduced depth of two ranks per side, there was a good chance that the Gauls’ tactic could work. They would have to kill the naked warriors at once, or the whole thing could turn into a bloodbath.

He waited a few heartbeats until the Gauls had drawn closer. Then he stepped forward and out of the shield wall. ‘HERE! COME AND GET ME, YOU FUCKERS!’

Two of the trio aimed for him at once. The third was heading for a spot between him and the front of the patrol. Mutt had to pray that the men there held the warrior back, killed him fast, and that he and the soldiers around him could do the same. Slowly, he retreated to the safety of the formation, slipped his shield in between those to left and right. The Gauls were about thirty paces out now. He shot a glance to either side. ‘See those naked bastards, lads? The ones with the flapping cocks and balls?’

A ripple of slightly nervous laughter. ‘Yes, sir!’ came a chorus of voices.

‘We kill them, fast. If they smash even a small hole in our lines, we’re fucked. D’you understand?’

‘YES, SIR!’

He took some solace from the volume of their response. ‘Shields up, spears ready! Guard the man to your left!’

The two Gauls might have been naked, but they weren’t stupid. They came in together, virtually shoulder to shoulder. Big men, with swirling tattoos on their muscular arms and torsos, and mud covering their lower legs. There was mania and death in their eyes.

Mutt prayed that their battle rage rendered them prone to mistakes. ‘HERE I AM!’ he yelled again, taking a single step forward so that they could see who had challenged them. ‘WHORESONS!’ he added, using the only Gaulish word he’d learned in his contact with the tribesmen who had allied themselves to Hannibal. ‘WHORESONS!’

They heard his insult. Baring their teeth, the two warriors came on like a pair of mad boars. Less than half a dozen paces separated them from the shield wall. Behind them, the hideous noise of the carnyxes had been replaced by the warriors’ battle cries.

‘Steady, lads,’ urged Mutt the man to either side. ‘Brace yourselves. Take the first cut on your shield rim, then gut the fuckers.’

The first Gaul’s blade was already swinging down at him in a mighty arc that would smash his helmet and skull together, so Mutt raised his shield and ducked down behind it, praying that the timbers didn’t split.

CRASH.

It took his entire strength not to let the impact drive his left arm down to the ground. But he’d been in this situation before and did not let his fear master him. A fleeting glance told him that the sword had cut through the metal rim of his shield, and caught in the wood below. Bending his knees, he drove up with all the power of his thighs, raising the shield and with it, the Gaul’s weapon. As the Gaul tugged and cursed, trying to free his blade, Mutt leaned forward with a savage cry and shoved his spear into the hollow at the base of the Gaul’s neck. It ran into the flesh with ease, severing all in its path. There was a jarring
thunk
as it hit the Gaul’s ribcage and then it emerged, scarlet-tipped, from the back of his left shoulder. There was a choking, startled cry, and a spew of red froth from the Gaul’s lips, as he died.

‘Gaulish dog,’ snarled Mutt, ripping his spear free and spinning to his left, where the second Gaulish warrior had been. Dismay filled him. The soldier beside him was already down, blood and gobbets of brain tissue oozed from the massive cut in his head. The second Gaul was crouched over the body, already hacking at the soldier in the next rank, who, terrified by the ferocity of the attack, was doing little to defend himself. Mutt cursed. The main body of Gauls would reach them in the next few heartbeats. It was now or never. With a quick prayer that no one
would stab him as he exposed his right side, Mutt wheeled and drove his spear into the second Gaul’s back. A keening cry of agony rent the air, and blood sprayed everywhere as he pulled his weapon free. He caught the eye of the spearman whom he’d just saved. ‘Into the front rank. Quickly!’

The soldier hurriedly obeyed.

Even as Mutt twisted and resumed his place in the front rank, the enemy were upon them. Fresh acid hit the back of his throat. Many of the Gauls were making for the man to his left, because there was now no one to take his place if he fell. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he yelled. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

And then the Gauls hit them.

Mutt instantly lost all sense of time. His world closed in, to the soldier either side of him and the enemies immediately to his front. He stabbed with his spear, wounded a warrior in the face. Took a heavy but glancing blow from a sword to his head, felt his knees buckle. With superhuman effort, he locked them, and thrust at the Gaul who’d tried to brain him. Gritting his teeth against the blinding pain in his skull, he met the next attack with his shield, managing to stab the Gaul in the chest, wounding him badly. The Gaul staggered and fell, and was replaced at once by a bearded brute holding nothing but a long spear. His first throw hummed past Mutt’s head, slicing open the face of the spearman to Mutt’s rear.

Mutt thrust back at him, driving his spear through the Gaul’s layered fabric cuirass and into his belly. He thought it was a death wound, but the Gaul merely rocked on his heels. As Mutt struggled to pull back his weapon, his opponent
grabbed the shaft and ripped it free of his own flesh. Without letting go, he aimed
his
spear at Mutt’s face. A tug of war ensued, with Mutt trying desperately not to lose grip of his weapon while simultaneously having to dodge powerful thrusts of the Gaul’s spear tip. It was a one-sided contest, for the Gaul was far stronger than he. Yet there would be no help from anyone. The spearmen on either side of him were engaged in their own struggles for survival.