Fields of Blood

Chapter XVII

Cannae, Apulia

Urceus cleared his throat and spat. The glob of moisture vanished in the dust before their feet. He wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Gods, but it’s so hot. So dry. There isn’t a fucking blade of grass left in the entire camp.’

‘Hardly surprising. It hasn’t rained for weeks,’ said Quintus with a wink, ‘and sixty thousand soldiers tramping the whole area every day don’t help either.’

Urceus threw him a baleful glare. ‘Smart arse. I’d ask for wind, but the damn breezes here only cause dust storms. I never thought I’d say it, but the sooner autumn comes, the better.’

‘It won’t be for a while yet.’

‘All the better that matters will come to a head soon.’

‘They didn’t today, though,’ mused Quintus. Their encampment was no more than a mile from that of Hannibal. They and upwards of ten thousand other soldiers had only just returned from several hours spent in the hot sun, arrayed in battle lines before their own ramparts, the consul’s response to Hannibal’s entire army being ready for a full battle. The initial tension had been unbearable. Prayers had been audible throughout the ranks, men had joked in over-loud voices or found none too plausible reasons to piss where they stood. Once it had become apparent that the enemy was not going to attack them and that Paullus wasn’t going to mobilise all the legions, an air close to euphoria had descended. Suddenly, their thirst and the strength-sapping heat were the only things that had mattered. The order to return to camp had been greeted with universal delight.

‘How come Paullus didn’t accept Hannibal’s offer of battle?’ muttered Urceus, before sucking at his water carrier like a babe that hasn’t been fed for a day.

‘No one likes to have the ground chosen for him,’ replied Quintus. ‘A lot of posturing goes on before battles. Moving camps, marching one’s army close to the enemy, setting ambushes. They’re all designed to provoke a response.’

‘Quite the veteran, eh?’ Urceus’ voice was half sarcastic and Quintus wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Talking knowledgeably about tactics — a topic he’d studied with his father — was a sure way to rouse suspicion about his true identity. He breathed a sigh of relief as Urceus went on, ‘Been listening to Corax, have you?’

He pulled a sheepish grin. ‘Yes.’

‘Corax is probably right. It’s not as if we can just march away after spending this much time within striking distance of the guggas. That would be catastrophic for the army’s morale. We’d be the laughing stock of Italy, the consuls know that. Fabius’ stalemates were fine for a time, until enough legions had been raised and our defeats forgotten a little. But now the Republic needs a victory, and an emphatic one at that.’ He eyed Quintus speculatively. ‘Hannibal’s as keen for a fight as we are, though. He’s not afraid.’

Quintus thought of Hanno, whose passion to fight against Rome had been palpable from the moment he’d felt it safe to reveal it to Quintus. The desire of Hannibal, a general who had led his troops on an epic journey to Italy, had to be even more overwhelming. If Rome had been roundly defeated in that war, been forced to pay vast reparations and had also lost a huge chunk of its territory to Carthage, I would probably feel the same way, he decided. ‘This is what Hannibal has been wanting since Lake Trasimene,’ he said, ignoring the tickle of fear that caressed his spine. ‘His army has been waiting for us these past two months. That’s why he moved his camp from Cannae to this side of the River Aufidius, and offered battle today. Refusing to play his game shows him that he can’t have it all his way.’

‘I suppose,’ said Urceus. ‘Things might be different tomorrow with Varro in charge, though.’

The tradition that each consul led the army on alternate days was as old as Rome itself, but when the two men were very different characters, problems could arise. Quintus asked that that would not happen during this campaign. ‘He does seem more fiery than Paullus,’ he admitted.

‘The clash with the gugga cavalry and infantry when we were marching south proved that,’ Urceus added. ‘The only reason Varro ordered the withdrawal was because the sun was about to set. I can’t see Paullus acting like that.’

Quintus grinned at the memory. The enemy ambush had seen some fierce fighting. Although it had been inconclusive, it had given the men of Corax’s and Pullo’s maniple a real hunger for victory. The same attitude appeared prevalent throughout the whole army. ‘He’s just a little more cautious than Varro, that’s all. After what happened at the Trebia and Trasimene, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve heard it said that Hannibal’s supplies will run out in a couple of days. If we do nothing, he’ll have to break camp, which could grant us an opportunity to attack. Paullus is probably just waiting for that.’

‘But there’s no need to wait! We’ve got an army nearly twice the size of Hannibal’s now! More than fifty thousand legionaries can’t go wrong, my friend. Our men broke through the enemy lines at both the Trebia and Trasimene, remember? As long as neither consul does anything stupid, we’ll simply flatten the guggas when it comes to a fight.’

Quintus relaxed a little. It was impossible not to agree with Urceus. Everyone was of the same opinion. As Calatinus had told him, they might have slightly fewer horse than the Carthaginians, but the task facing their cavalry was simple. The enemy horse had to be contained, that was all, while the infantry smashed a great hole in Hannibal’s main line. Once that was done, the cavalry battle would largely become superfluous. ‘We can sit back and just watch you lot sweating in the sun,’ Calatinus had joked. It was easy enough to picture the legionaries wheeling to complete the massacre of the Carthaginian foot soldiers. Even if by that stage Hannibal’s riders had gained the upper hand in their clash with the Roman horse, thought Quintus, they would be able to do little more than harass the legionaries. ‘Victory will be ours!’ he said, feeling the certainty in his belly grow.

‘Victory will be ours,’ repeated Urceus. ‘And it could well be tomorrow.’

Hanno’s muscles were weary as he followed the messenger to Hannibal’s tent. Although there had been no battle, it had taken most of the day to leave their position and form up opposite the Roman encampment; to wait there, their challenge unanswered; and then to return whence they had come. He questioned the messenger, one of Hannibal’s scutarii, but the man claimed not to know why their general had summoned him. His tiredness fell away as they neared Hannibal’s great pavilion at the centre of the camp. A crowd stood before it, perhaps thirty-five men from all sections of the army. There were Numidian officers, Gaulish, Balearic and Iberian chieftains. With a thrill of excitement, Hanno recognised Hannibal’s brother Mago, and his cavalry commanders Maharbal and Hasdrubal. His father was present too, with Bostar, Sapho and the other phalanx commanders.

Gods, I’m not the last one here, am I? Hanno’s face reddened as they joined the group. His discomfiture soared when Hannibal, clad in a simple purple tunic, saw him amidst the throng.

‘Welcome, son of Malchus,’ said Hannibal. ‘One of the men who has kept this army fed of late.’

Appreciative murmurs met his words.

Embarrassed now, and delighted by this public recognition, Hanno grinned like a fool. When Sapho winked at him, he was able to return the gesture without effort.

‘To business,’ declared Hannibal, indicating the table before him, upon which sat little piles of black, and white, stones. ‘The Romans did not accept my offer of battle today.’

‘Worse luck, sir!’ called Sapho.

‘Damn right,’ added a Gaulish chieftain. ‘My men are still complaining!’

A burst of laughter.

Hannibal smiled. ‘There will be a fight soon, never fear. It may well be tomorrow.’

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere had changed. Tension creased every man’s face.

‘Most of us were standing near the Roman camp today, but not all. Zamar’ — he indicated the Numidian — ‘and a few of his best men were lying on top of the hill at Cannae. Would you like to hear what they saw?’

A chorus of loud growls, of ‘Yes, sir!’

‘It wasn’t that much, at first glance. A party of enemy officers, on the other side of the river. Zamar watched long enough, however, to recognise that the Romans were scouting out the ground.’ He let them suck on the bones of that.

Malchus’ gravelly voice broke the silence. ‘You think that the consul who’s in charge tomorrow is going to march the legions over there, sir?’

‘I do. Come and see the plan that we shall follow should I be right.’ Hannibal’s teeth flashed from the depths of his dark beard, and he tapped the table top.

There was a rush to join him. Hanno did not dare to stand at the front, but thanks to his height, he still had a good view over his father’s shoulder.

‘These are the hills upon which Cannae sits.’ Hannibal’s fingers trailed over a line of large pebbles, before moving on to a thin strip of leather that ran roughly parallel to the stones. ‘And this is the River Aufidius.’ He glanced up. ‘Everyone clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

With swift motions of his hands, Hannibal arranged a score or more black stones in three lines, forming a great rectangle. He placed the shape’s long sides so that they ran parallel to the hills and the far side of the river. ‘The legions’ three lines.’ On either side of the ‘legions’, he laid a thin row of more black stones. ‘The enemy cavalry.’ A disordered pattern of tiny pebbles in front of the rectangle. ‘The enemy skirmishers.’ Again Hannibal let silence fill the air, let his officers make sense of what he’d done. After a few moments, he continued, ‘If the Romans intend to fight on this ground, they will have to do so like this. With a narrow frontage and a much deeper formation than normal. It seems sensible to do that. Half their men are new recruits. Marching them into battle like this will keep them in position and prevent them from panicking. Thanks to the hills and the river, it also restricts the area available for cavalry combat, which they know we are likely to win.’

His hands moved again, assembling the white stones opposite the black.

Hanno stared, but could not make sense of what he was seeing. He looked around, saw the same incomprehension on other faces.

‘Ha!’ Hannibal chuckled. ‘Can any of you tell me what my idea is?’

‘These are our cavalry,’ said Hasdrubal with a little smile, pointing at the lines of stones on either side of the central pattern.

‘Smart arse!’ Hannibal gave him a good-natured clout. ‘You’re right, of course. I want you on the left, near the river, with the Iberian and Gaulish horse. Maharbal, you’re to take the right flank with the Numidians. When the fighting starts, I want you both to advance. Hasdrubal, you’re to drive off the citizen cavalry. Maharbal, engage the socii horsemen, but do not close with them. Hasdrubal, keep your men on a tight rein. The instant your objective has been achieved, you’re to turn and come to Maharbal’s aid.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the cavalry commander.

‘This looks a little like a house lying on its side, does it not?’ Hannibal’s fingers traced the outline of the stones that lay between the cavalry wings. ‘Two walls, and a slightly domed roof. And rain falling on top of it.’

‘Put us out of our misery, sir,’ demanded Malchus. Hanno’s emphatic murmur of agreement was repeated by many others. What would their general’s latest stroke of genius be?

‘Very well. The “rain drops” are our skirmishers, the house is our centre, clearly. It’s to be made up of Gauls and Iberians, and I will command it with you, Mago.’ His brother looked pleased.

The Gaulish chieftain who had complained about his men leaned forward and jabbed at the stones with a thick forefinger. ‘Is great honour to stand in centre, with you as leader,’ he said in poor Carthaginian. ‘But why bow the line forward like this? Is stupid!’

Some officers looked shocked at the Gaul’s abruptness, but Hannibal just smiled. ‘Think,’ he said gently and tapped the black rectangle. ‘Eighty thousand legionaries cannot be stopped, even if half of them are inexperienced. No one could do it, not even you and all your fine warriors.’ His respectful gaze found the Gaulish and Iberian chieftains one by one. They gave him grudging nods in return.

‘So, Romans push us back, and back?’ asked the chief.

‘Yes.’ Hannibal moved the ‘roof’ until it had flattened into a straight line. ‘To here. Naturally, the Romans won’t stop at that stage.’ He nudged the white stones until they bowed inwards. Then he parted a few of them. ‘Our lines might even break.’

The Gauls and Iberians looked unhappy, but none of them protested.

What the hell is he playing at? Hanno wondered, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

His father turned. ‘Trust in Hannibal,’ he whispered. ‘He knows what to do.’

I damn well hope so, thought Hanno. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Hannibal always had a plan.

‘The moment that that happens is when you’ — here Hannibal caught Hanno’s eye — ‘and the other phalanx commanders come in. .’

Like most of the infantry, Quintus had taken to lying on his blankets outside. The temperatures over the preceding weeks meant that sleep was impossible inside their eight-man tents. Even under the stars, however, there was little comfort to be had for hours after the sun had set. Men remained awake for some time before managing to fall asleep.

Thanks to the manoeuvrings of the previous day, which had been one of the hottest since the summer began, Quintus had heard not just the second watch being sounded, but the third. Being woken by the trumpets while it was still dark did not therefore improve his mood. ‘Varro has his mind made up then,’ he grumbled to Urceus.

The jug-eared man sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Seems like it. The gods be with us.’

Quintus was not alone in muttering in agreement. More than one man reached for the lucky amulet that hung around their necks.

‘I won’t have a tongue as thick as a plank today.’ Urceus kicked at the two bulging water bags by his feet.

‘Me neither.’ Quintus had been quick to copy his friend; Corax had told the entire maniple to do the same. Unless they were fools, every soldier in the army would carry plenty of water into battle. Dropping from thirst was a more stupid way to die than many.

‘Up! Up, you maggots!’ Corax came striding down the tent lines, already in his full uniform. His vine cane thwacked down on any man who had not got to his feet. Quintus stood at once; Urceus did likewise.

‘Today’s the day, my boys, today’s the big day! Have a piss, have a shit if you need it. Have one even if you don’t need it, because my bet is that you won’t get another chance later.’ Striding on, Corax smiled at the slightly nervous laughs that followed his comment. ‘I want no loose studs on the soles of anyone’s sandals, so check that before you put them on. Don your armour! Sit it comfortably, with your belt taking the weight of your mail, if you wear it. Walk around a bit, to ensure that you’ve got it right. Get a mate to check your straps — all of them: caligae, breastplate, helmet, shield. Check that your sword’s loose in its scabbard, that there are no splinters on the shafts of your javelins. Make an offering to the gods, if you’re of a mind. Do not forget to check that your water bags are full. Then, and only then, pack up a loaf of bread, and a piece of cheese, if you’re lucky enough to have that too. This could be a long day, and a bite of food when a man’s belly’s stuck to his backbone with hunger can give him the energy he needs to go on.’

Corax walked on, repeating himself at regular intervals, doling out gruff encouragements and blows from his vine cane in equal measure.

Quintus watched him admiringly before he began to follow his orders. For a time, there was no chance of brooding about what might happen that day. They were all far too busy preparing themselves and then forming up. Through the gaps in the tents, he saw the legionaries of other maniples doing the same. He wished he could take wing and observe the vast camp from above. What a sight it would make: tens of thousands of soldiers leaving their tent lines, assembling on the camp’s main avenues and on the open ground inside the fortifications. Preceded by their standards and trumpeters, they would tramp out of the four gates, there to join up and assume a marching formation.

Dawn had broken by the time they had reached their allotted place in the column. Dust rose in great clouds, coating everyone in a fine layer of brown, making men cough and curse. The heat was mounting steadily; the sun’s rays beat down on the army, baking the soldiers in their armour. Quintus was sweating heavily just from standing where he was. When the order came from the nearest tribune to move off, he breathed a sigh of relief. Any movement of air at all across his face was welcome.

‘Thank the gods that we’re relatively near the front, eh?’ Urceus jerked a thumb to their rear. ‘I pity the poor bastards who have to eat our dust all the way to wherever we’re going.’

‘The cavalry have the best of it,’ said Quintus, scanning a party of horsemen who were riding alongside their maniple for a sign of Calatinus. ‘They don’t send up half the amount of dust that infantry do.’

‘Their job’s easier too,’ grumbled a man in the rank behind. ‘Fucking pretty boys.’

Urceus snorted with amusement. ‘They’ll be sitting around fanning themselves much of the time while we’re grinding ourselves against the guggas like a file off a knife.’

Quintus had to rein in his instinctive reaction, which would have been to defend, heatedly, the men with whom he had previously fought. Much as he hated to admit it, though, his comrades did have a point. Their cavalry had not performed well thus far against Hannibal. ‘I don’t think it’ll be quite that easy for them.’ He thought of his father and Calatinus, and begged Mars, the god of war, to protect them both. ‘No doubt that we’ll have it harder, though.’ His stomach twisted, and he added a prayer for himself and all the men around him — except for Macerio. Curse him! The blond-haired man was two ranks back and a few steps off to his left, and Quintus asked that whatever happened, he didn’t end up with Macerio right behind him. In the chaos of a fight, no one would notice the direction from which a man was slain.

Dying like that was an even less attractive prospect than dying from thirst, or a Carthaginian blade.

Quintus knew that the uncontrollable waves that swept men about during battle might also mean that Macerio’s back could be presented to him instead of the other way round. He would have preferred to end his feud with the blond-haired man face-to-face, but Rutilus had lain unavenged for too long. If the opportunity presented itself, he would take it.

‘Hades, why are we forming up with such a narrow frontage?’ complained Quintus, who was standing in the seventh rank with Urceus, Severus and three more of his tent mates. ‘Six men wide per maniple? It doesn’t make sense. At this rate, none of us will get to do any fighting.’

Urceus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘We’ve a better chance of being alive come sundown, though,’ he whispered.

It was as if Corax, who was in the front rank, had supernatural hearing. His head twisted. ‘Who’s that whining?’

Quintus buttoned his lip and stared straight ahead at the back of the helmet of the man in front.

‘We form up as ordered, you miserable lowlifes! Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they all answered.

Corax’s scowl eased. ‘I know it’s fucking uncomfortable standing here, waiting to move forward. I know how hot it is, how the dust is getting into your eyes, your mouth, your arse crack. You want to get it all over with. But Varro knows what he’s at. So do Paullus and Servilius. The tribunes are following their orders, see? This is where we’ll fight because here we have our flanks protected.’

Quintus’ eyes shot to the left. Through the swirling dust, he could see a line of low hills and the fortified walls of Cannae, where Hannibal’s camp had been until a couple of days before. Somewhere at the foot of the slope, Varro was positioned with the allied cavalry. Out of sight to his right lay the River Aufidius, which they had forded to reach this spot. There his father and Calatinus would be, under Paullus’ command. He prayed that they would fight bravely, and live to see victory. Corax was still talking, and Quintus quickly focused in again.

‘We move when Servilius says so, not a fucking moment before!’ yelled the centurion. ‘Not every soldier here today is as well trained as you lot. The four legions that just joined us are mostly made up of wet-behind-the-ears lads who haven’t yet shaved, let alone faced the guggas. Forming them up narrow and deep takes time, and we’re doing it because then it’s far easier for their officers to maintain formation as we advance. And in case you hadn’t got it through your thick skulls yet, keeping our formation is all-important today! We’ve got to hit those Carthaginian whoresons so hard that they never recover from the shock of it. Twenty-four ranks of us should make sure of that, eh?’

Everyone within earshot cheered.

Corax looked satisfied; he turned away. Although the centurion hadn’t identified him as the one who’d spoken, Quintus breathed a sigh of relief. ‘At least we’ll be able to throw our javelins. The men three ranks behind us won’t even be able to do that,’ he muttered to Urceus. ‘We might not even get to draw our swords if the Carthaginians break quickly.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ came the solemn reply. ‘The cogs of war are relentless once they begin to turn. They could well grind enough men up to ensure that our swords get blooded this day.’

The allusion was grim enough to dampen Quintus’ enthusiasm a little. This was where he wanted to be, however. Becoming an infantryman was what he’d wanted, and what he had finally achieved. It was a world away from what he had known as a cavalryman, and his skills were very different, too, to those he had learned as a veles. No longer would he be able to charge his horse, to wheel and ride away from the enemy if needs be. Nor would there be any running charge at the Carthaginian lines, no exchange of spears with the opposing skirmishers and the possibility of retreating to the relative safety of his own forces. Instead he would march, pressed up against thousands of his fellows, straight at Hannibal’s men. And it would happen this morning. Hundreds of paces to their front, the enemy army was forming up. Quintus could hear the Gaulish carnyxes being blown. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. He didn’t like hearing them again. As at Trasimene, they promised bloodshed, violent, vicious bloodshed. Unlike the previous day, there would be no getaway, no option of withdrawing to the safety of their camp. In the confined area between the hills and the river, a battle on the grandest scale was about to start. Whichever set of infantry prevailed would win the day, of that he had no doubt. The contest would be bitter, right to the end. Countless men would fall, on both sides. The doors to the underworld probably lay open already in anticipation.

Quintus swallowed hard, tried to ignore the urge to piss. How could his bladder be full again? he wondered. He’d emptied out every last drop before they marched out of the camp. A moment later, he was pleased when Urceus balanced his scutum on one hip and freed himself from his undergarment with his other hand. Quickly, he copied his friend. Their actions set off a rash of men doing the same. ‘Don’t piss on the back of my legs!’ protested a number of soldiers. A wave of nervous but relieved laughter rippled through the maniple.

I’m not the only one who’s scared, thought Quintus, oddly reassured. Macerio didn’t look too happy either, which pleased him.

Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Even at a distance, the carnyxes’ unearthly sound could compete with the Roman trumpets and the officers’ shouts.

‘Fucking savages! That’s the mating call of the Gaul! Anyone seen some dog-ugly women about, lads?’ Corax had seen what was happening. He broke ranks and moved to stand where he could see them better, cupping a hand to his mouth. ‘Most Gaulish “women” have worse beards than Hercules himself. I should know, I’ve seen them! They’re broad in the beam too, with hips like a suckler cow. If you see any of the bitches, keep them at javelin length, or you’ll catch a bout of pox that will knock you on your arse for a month.’

The mood lifted. Men winked at each other and chuckled.

‘There’s nothing like the prospect of battle to make men want to urinate. It happens to me too,’ Corax said in a loud voice. ‘Some of you might also need a shit. Don’t stand on ceremony. I advise you do it while you can. Better your comrades’ laughter than to have it run down your leg when a gugga is busy trying to gut you. If you’re feeling sick, there’s no shame in puking either. Empty your guts now, and you won’t have to when to do so will mean your death.’

Silence. A few soldiers cast embarrassed looks at one another. There was a little stifled laughter.

‘I’m fucking serious, lads!’ bellowed Corax. ‘If your body needs rid of something, let it out now! If you don’t, you’ll regret it later.’

Quintus was mightily relieved that he’d used the latrine trench earlier. He glanced at Urceus, who smirked. ‘I had a good shit before we left the camp, don’t worry.’ One of their tent mates wasn’t so lucky, however. A chorus of lewd jokes and complaints about the smell rained down on him as, red-faced, he squatted where he was and emptied his bowels. Hoots of amusement and insults rose from elsewhere in the maniple as other soldiers did the same, or were sick.

Corax waited, hands on hips, until the ranks had settled again. ‘All done?’

A few muted voices answered, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fine. You’ll feel better having shed that weight.’

Titters of laughter.

‘Have a drink. Just a mouthful or two. Save the rest for later.’

Throughout the maniple, men slurped from their water carriers. Quintus longed to fill his belly, but he did as the centurion had ordered. His nerves were still at him. The last thing he wanted to do was vomit it all up again.

‘How bad is the smell, lads?’ asked Corax.

‘Fucking terrible, sir!’ shouted a voice.

He leered. ‘That’s what I like to hear. It’ll keep you from falling asleep while we wait. Why don’t you smear a bit on the tips of your pila? There’s nothing like a coating of shit or puke to cause a wound to fester. Think of that when your javelin sinks into the flesh of a stinking Gaul!’

The legionaries liked that. Their lines rippled a little as men shifted to follow Corax’s suggestion.

‘The order to advance won’t be long coming,’ cried the centurion. He pointed to left and right. ‘The velites are ready. The cavalry’s in position. Most of our front rank is in place. The principes and triarii are right behind us. The velites will commence hostilities, but it won’t be long until our moment of glory is here! Our chance to balance the scales after what happened at the Trebia and Trasimene. I want the ground to run with Gaulish blood! Gugga blood! The blood of every filthy son of a whore who follows Hannibal!’

There was a loud rumble of agreement as they digested that. There was still a tinge of nervousness in the air, but the general mood was calm, determined. The carnyxes had been forgotten for the moment. Corax’s jokes about shit and piss had lifted men’s spirits, thought Quintus admiringly. The centurion had allowed his soldiers to feel scared, without panicking them. It had been skilfully done.

‘Are you ready to give Hannibal’s rabble the hiding of their lives, boys?’ called Corax.

Quintus licked his lips, gripped his pilum shaft, gave Urceus a tight nod. ‘YES, SIR!’ they both roared.

So too did every man in the maniple.

Hanno scratched at the base of his neck again, frustrated, hot and irritable. He couldn’t see the skirmishers: Balearic slingers, Libyan javelin men and Iberian caetrati, but the air was full of their yips, cries and shouts. The sounds competed with the whirr of thousands of sling stones flying at the enemy, and the incessant braying of the Gauls’ carnyxes nearer to hand. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Hanno hated the instruments’ din, which had given him a headache. A sour grin creased his face. If it was this bad for his side, he could only imagine the effect it would be having on the Romans, plenty of whom would remember the carnyxes from the Trebia and Lake Trasimene. Let the miserable dogs tremble! he thought. We are coming for them. He longed for the fighting to start. Standing here in the summer sun, temples pounding, was torture. Not torture, he thought, touching his scar. Fucking hot and a pain in my head, that’s all. He fought his impatience. The infantry and cavalry wouldn’t clash for a while yet, and he and the other phalanxes would not have any role to play until after that.

The Libyans had been divided up between the army’s flanks. Hanno’s unit was standing in a narrow but deep formation, behind the left edge of the Gauls and Iberians, and facing forward. It was part of a line of phalanxes, perhaps five thousand men in total, one that had been replicated on the opposite flank. Both groupings were out of sight of the Romans, which meant that Hanno and his men could see nothing at all of the ground between the armies, and that made the tension unbearable. We stay where we are. Hannibal gave us our orders, he told himself. We will follow them exactly. Everything depends on us. His flesh itched again, and he tugged at his cuirass: a pointless exercise. It settled back against his chest the instant he released it.

‘Something wrong, sir?’ asked Mutt.

‘Eh? Nothing much. There’s a rough spot on the inside of the top rim of my breastplate. I should have sanded it down last night.’

‘You’ll be sore by the end of the day, sir,’ observed Mutt dryly.

‘Yes, I know,’ Hanno snapped.

‘Take it off, sir.’ Mutt rummaged in a pouch that hung from a thong around his neck and, with a satisfied smile, produced a small file. ‘I’ll sort it out for you in a moment.’

‘I can’t.’ Hanno gestured at the files of men to their left and right, at the squadrons of cavalry that waited opposite, ready for the order to advance. ‘Something might happen.’

‘We won’t have to do anything for a good while yet, sir,’ said Mutt patiently. ‘Do it now, while you can.’

Mutt was right, thought Hanno. Their skirmishers had deployed only a short time before. The real fighting wouldn’t start for hours, but by sunset, he would have a raw, oozing wound on his chest. If I survive. . ‘Very well.’ He stepped out of line and laid his shield on the hot earth. His helmet and sword were next. Mutt moved to his side, undoing the straps that held the front and back of his cuirass together. Hanno eased off the heavy metal, letting out a sigh of pleasure as warm air moved over his sweat-sodden tunic. ‘Gods, but that feels good.’ He handed the cuirass to Mutt, who found the protruding edge with a finger and got to work at once. Hanno took the opportunity to walk along his men’s lines, chatting and making jokes.

‘Can we take off our mail shirts too, sir?’ asked one grinning soldier.

A rumble of laughter passed up and down the phalanx.

‘I wish you could,’ replied Hanno. ‘Hannibal might have something to say if he saw you, though. Standing here without your helmets on is as much as I can allow, I’m afraid.’

The man pulled a rueful face.

‘Have some water, or a bite of food if you’ve got it,’ Hanno advised and moved on.

‘Taking it easy, brother?’ As ever, Sapho’s tone was mocking.

With gritted teeth, Hanno turned. Bostar and his father — who was in command — were on the opposite flank. Cuttinus, who was leading their side, had his phalanx positioned some units to Hanno’s left. His was the closest to the enemy, whereas Sapho’s phalanx was the next one along to Hanno’s. It wasn’t surprising that he had turned up. ‘I could say the same thing about you, leaving your position.’

Sapho ignored his comment. ‘You look as if you’re taking a stroll along the Choma. Where’s your breastplate? Your sword?’

Hanno barked, ‘None of your business.’

‘Tetchy! Is the heat getting to you?’

Hanno bit back a curse. ‘Sapho, a word.’ He stalked away from his men, towards the lines of cavalry. His brother followed, eyebrows raised. ‘I won’t take shit like this,’ Hanno growled. ‘Like it or not, friendship with Mago or not, you and I are the same rank. It’s not as if we haven’t had this conversation before either. I’m no longer a boy, so don’t patronise me. And I do not take kindly to you making sarcastic remarks in front of my men.’

A short silence.

‘Fair enough,’ said Sapho. ‘I’m sorry.’

Surprised and not a little suspicious at this reaction, Hanno scanned his brother’s face for signs of duplicity. He could see none. ‘Fine.’ He offered his hand. Sapho took it, and they shook. Hanno suddenly felt the need to explain. ‘There was a rough edge on the inside of my cuirass. It was rubbing. Mutt’s filing it down for me.’

‘Good idea. A thing like that can distract a man in the midst of a fight. It’d be a stupid way to die, wouldn’t it? Stuck by a legionary because you were scratching an itch?’

They both laughed, and the tension eased further. ‘Are your men ready?’ asked Hanno.

‘Yes. They’re lean and hungry. Impatient, like me. But the wait will be worth it.’

Hanno latched on to the conviction in Sapho’s voice. He leaned close and muttered, ‘You think we’ll win?’

‘Of course!’

‘It’s not that certain, brother. Many of the Romans might be inexperienced, but they outnumber us nearly two to one. I know that we have more cavalry, but there’s little room for them to manoeuvre. If the legionaries punch through the centre of our line, what we do mightn’t make any difference.’

‘Now you listen to me.’ Sapho’s tone was firm and unusually kind. ‘I’ve been following Hannibal for a lot longer than you. Saguntum seemed impossible to take, but he did it. Only a madman could have thought that tens of thousands of soldiers could march from Iberia to Gaul and over the Alps into Italy, but Hannibal did it. Our army was in pieces after the crossing of the mountains, but he still defeated the Romans at the Ticinus — and the Trebia. You saw what he’s capable of there, and at Trasimene. Our general is intelligent, determined and a great tactician. In my opinion, he’s also a genius.’

‘True,’ said Hanno. ‘He always knows what to do.’

‘By the end of today, Hannibal will have won a victory that will go down in history alongside the exploits of Alexander. And you, Father, Bostar and I will be there to celebrate it.’

The image — and a memory — made a slow smile spread across Hanno’s face. ‘As we did after the Trebia?’

‘Exactly. Rome must pay for all the wrongs it has done to Carthage.’ Sapho raised his fist. ‘In blood.’

‘In blood!’ repeated Hanno.

The sun hadn’t quite reached its zenith, and the heat was incredible. Hanno had had to stop himself supping from his water bag, which was already half empty. He wasn’t as used to not drinking as his men, few of whom he had seen touch their carriers. How long had it been since Hasdrubal had led the Iberian and Gaulish cavalry charge? Hanno had no idea, but his heart felt as if it had been in his mouth since that moment. He’d spent his time craning his head and trying to peer around the back edge of their front line. Even if he had been able to view what lay beyond the massed ranks of soldiers, which he hadn’t, the great dust clouds sent up by the horses’ hooves would have prevented him from seeing a thing. The knowledge hadn’t stopped him, however. It was something to do, something to while away the time, which was moving at the pace of a tortoise.

He eyed Mutt, who was standing beside him. ‘What in hell is happening, do you think?’

A doleful shrug. ‘Who can say, sir?’

Frustration made Hanno want to shake his second-in-command, but there was no point. ‘Don’t you care?’

A solemn look. ‘Course I do, sir, but I can’t help Hasdrubal or the skirmishers, can I? Except by praying, which I’ve done. The best thing to do is to wait, and not think about it. When it’s our turn, then I’ll show you how much I care.’

‘I know you will,’ said Hanno, feeling a little embarrassed. He took a step out of line and peered after the cavalry. ‘Hasdrubal’s men must be containing the Roman horse at the very least, because there’s been no sign of them.’

‘Very true, sir.’

‘Baal Hammon grant that they drive the Romans from the field as Hannibal wanted.’ Whoops and cheers to their right made Hanno twist his head. He made out slingers and javelin men spilling into view from the ranks of the Gauls and Iberians. Muttering to one another, his soldiers shifted with excitement. ‘The skirmishers are coming back!’ cried Hanno.

‘So they are, sir,’ said Mutt, with more signs of life. ‘It’ll be the infantry’s turn next.’

Mutt was right. It took a while for all of the lightly armed soldiers to return, shouting and exhilarated that they had taken on a far superior number of Roman velites and lived to tell the tale. A little time went by, and nothing happened. The tension rose as the temperatures had, almost to boiling point. A great sigh went up when the enemy trumpets sounded a repetitive set of notes, over and over. It was the signal to advance. The wait was over.

Hanno actually felt relief; he saw the same emotion in more than one man’s face.

TRAMP. TRAMP. TRAMP. The noise of more than eighty thousand legionaries walking in unison was incredible. The ground beneath Hanno’s feet was reverberating from the impact. His stomach twisted with fear. In all of his life, he had never thought to hear or feel such a sound. At the Trebia, the sound had been impressive, but it had been diminished by the biting wind. At Trasimene, the Romans had never had the opportunity to move forward as one mass. He wished that he could stand in the front line, just for a moment, to witness the sight. I might shit myself, he thought with a touch of black humour, but it would be incredible to behold. So too would the spectacle of the Gaulish and Iberian warriors outdoing themselves to impress their fellows, and Hannibal. And the clash when the two sides met. Gods, what would that be like? Hanno took a deep breath; he let it out slowly. Stay calm. Our turn will come. Our turn to shine will come. Hannibal will be proud of us. Carthage will be proud of us. And I shall have my revenge for what was done to me at Victumulae — if not on Pera, then on every Roman who comes within range of my blade.

After perhaps an hour of skirmishing with their Carthaginian counterparts, the twenty thousand velites had been recalled. They had come spilling back into the narrow gaps between the maniples, shouting encouragement at the hastati and boasting of how many casualties they had caused. Fortunately, they had lost few of their own number. An air of even greater excitement, mixed with nervous anticipation, descended on the legionaries. Prayers were uttered, bargains made with the gods, throats cleared of phlegm. More men took a piss; a few puked up the water that they’d drunk. There were few jokes, fewer smiles. Matters had become serious.

The order to advance came the moment that the last of the velites had pulled back. A spontaneous, almighty cheer had gone up. No one had needed to be told to start clashing his pilum off his shield. The din had been incredible, and had gone on for some time. Corax and the other officers had had to resort to hand signals to get their soldiers to close up the gaps and to start moving. It was a good distance towards the enemy, however, and it wasn’t long before the noise abated. Men needed to save their strength for the walk under the burning midday sun. Standing in such close proximity to each other for more than two hours had been soul-sapping, like being in a crowded, overheated caldarium. Temperatures had risen to the point that the soles of Quintus’ sandals were hot to the touch. Any visible portions of his tunic were dark with perspiration. His felt helmet liner was saturated. Runnels of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyebrows. Hands full of shield and javelins, he blinked the salty sting of it from his eyes.

‘How far have we come, sir?’ Urceus called out.

Corax didn’t even turn his head. ‘By my count, six hundred paces. Perhaps two hundred to go until we reach the guggas. Are you with me, lads?’

‘YES, SIR!’ they roared from their parched throats.

‘Onwards!’ Corax levelled his pilum at the enemy.

TRAMP. TRAMP. TRAMP. The noise of eighty thousand soldiers advancing shook the ground.

Quintus peered around the heads of the men in front. Gusts of air were throwing up clouds of dust between the armies, but the Carthaginian lines were clearly visible now. ‘That’s odd.’

‘What?’ demanded Urceus, craning to see.

‘The centre of the enemy line is further forward than the sides. It’s curved forward, like a drawn bow.’

‘It’s just their lack of discipline. The damn fool Gauls in the centre want to start fighting first!’ said Urceus dismissively.

Severus sniggered. ‘They’ll soon change their minds.’

Severus was probably right, thought Quintus. Gauls were notoriously ill disciplined.

They walked on another twenty paces. Still the legionaries remained silent, conserving their energy. Thirty paces. Forty. Then it was sixty. Eighty. The carnyxes continued their hideous cacophony — as they had since the enemy host had formed up. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The Gauls blowing them must have enormous bloody lungs, thought Quintus wearily, wishing they would just shut up. Darting movement to the front attracted his attention. As if to accompany the carnyxes’ weird sound, dozens of individual warriors had just broken ranks and were prancing up and down before their comrades, bare-chested, waving their weapons and roaring abuse at the Romans. There were even a few who looked as if they had stripped naked. Quintus couldn’t help but feel a tremor of fear. They’re fucking crazy. He shook his head. Without armour, such men would be easily killed. The volleys of javelins would probably see to most of them. And as for the rest, he thought, well, all the hastati at the front had to do was hold steady, keep their shields together and thrust with their swords, not hack. ‘Hold steady,’ he whispered. ‘Hold steady.’

Urceus’ jaw was white with tension, but at Quintus’ words, he let out a chuckle. ‘We’ll do it, by Jupiter’s cock. There are far too many of us for the sewer rats to stand against.’

Quintus pulled his lips up into a smile of agreement, prayed that they lived to see the inevitable victory. Twisting his head, he searched for Macerio’s among those to his rear. The blond-haired man seemed as scared as ever. Good. I hope the fucker shits himself when it starts.

‘A hundred paces, lads,’ shouted Corax. ‘Take a pull of water if you need it. Take a look at your comrades to left and right. Remember that those men are who you’re fighting for.’

Quintus glanced at first Severus and then Urceus; he gave them both a stare that said, ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be watching out for you.’ His heart swelled, because they did the same to him. He couldn’t ask for better men to stand with.

‘At sixty, I want you to start making a right racket,’ cried Corax. ‘Clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the hastati replied.

‘LOUDER!’ bawled Corax. ‘Those fuckers opposite aren’t here to play games with.’

‘YES, SIR!’ There was more enthusiasm this time.

‘Good. Seventy-five paces.’

Quintus’ lips moved, counting each step he took. Without looking, he knew that every man in the maniple was doing the same. Mars, watch over me, he prayed. Grant us victory. Protect my comrades.

Clash! Clash! Clash! Other legionaries began to renew their clamour.

‘Sixty paces, boys!’

Quintus struck his iron pilum shaft off the metal rim of his scutum. Clash!

In no time, the 150-odd men of the maniple were making the same noise. So too were twenty thousand other hastati. CLASH! CLASH! CLASH! Quintus’ ears rang with the reassuring sound.

Corax kept them walking at the same slow pace. Now they could discern the faces of individual enemy warriors. Gauls with flowing moustaches and braided hair, wearing pointed iron helmets similar to their own. Big men for the most part, bare-chested, wearing colourful tunics and the occasional metal pectoral plate. They were armed with big, painted shields with iron bosses, long spears and straight swords. It was easy to spot the chieftains with golden torcs around their necks, mail shirts and ornate designs on their shields. There were also groups of Iberians, smaller men in crested and feathered helmets, and crimson-bordered cream tunics. Their shields were small and round, or flat and rectangular; they were armed with long, all-iron javelins, and swords, both curved and straight.

Every single one appeared to be screaming his contempt at the Romans.

Quintus felt his own anger rise. ‘We’re coming, you bastards!’ he bellowed.

‘Prepare to die!’ added Urceus. Around them, his comrades were roaring their own insults.

Many of the enemy soldiers began throwing their javelins, which rose into the blue sky in threes and fours. The hastati responded with jeers; one of Quintus’ tent mates hurled one of his pila. Nearby, other men struck by nerves loosed early as well.

‘HOLD, YOU MAGGOTS!’ shouted Corax. ‘HOLD!’ roared other officers. Corax tramped on. ‘Fifty paces!’

Few of the enemy missiles had the range to reach the legionaries, but that didn’t stop the Carthaginian soldiers. More and more of them cocked back their right arms and threw. They’re scared too, thought Quintus. Launching their javelins helps to combat their terror, shows their comrades that they’re prepared to fight. He wanted to do the same. Anything was better than just walking in the maw of death.

‘Forty paces! Halt. Front eight ranks, take aim. RELEASE!’ Corax’s right arm jerked forward, and his sword tip pointed directly at the enemy.

All along the Roman formation, the same order was being repeated. ‘RELEASE!’

Quintus had never seen so many pila in the air at once. They flew up in graceful shoals, tens of thousands of them. It was an unforgettable sight. As his eyes rose, he saw an eagle far above, aloof, regal. Under normal circumstances, seeing such a bird would have signified good luck. Yet scores of vultures also hung on the warm currents, waiting patiently for the feast that would follow. Their presence was far more ominous. He blinked. Off to his right, a huge dust cloud was trailing upwards from the battlefield. The cavalry on Hannibal’s left flank was charging the horsemen on the Roman right. His head turned. A similar bank of dust was rising from his left. Now Quintus felt nauseated. That was when he saw the hundreds and hundreds of enemy javelins that were scudding back in response to their volley. This is it, he thought, heart hammering in his chest. This is when it begins.

‘SECOND PILUM! TAKE AIM. RELEASE!’

In reflex, Quintus bent his right arm and flung his javelin with all his strength. With so many ranks in front of him, there was no way he could aim. He lobbed it as high as possible, to give it the best chance of landing among the enemy.

‘SHIELDS UP!’

The enemy missiles were already landing. With a soft choking noise, a hastatus two ranks in front of Quintus went down, a spear through his neck. Cries of pain rang out from Quintus’ left, his right, before him and behind. He ducked down with his scutum over his head. Waited, panting, sweating, full of dread, for an impact. All around him, he heard other shields being struck. The loud thumps were in stark contrast to the softer noises of javelins running into men’s flesh and the screams that followed. His gaze crossed with that of Urceus, whose teeth were gritted. Neither spoke. What was there to say?

‘LOWER SHIELDS! DRAW SWORDS!’ Corax was about twenty paces away, but the din was already so loud that his words were barely distinguishable. ‘FORWARD!’

Quintus glanced to either side. The officers in other maniples were also encouraging their men to advance, but the missile barrage had caused gaps to develop between the units. Some were now a few steps in front of his maniple, others ten or more behind. Gone was the uniform line that had existed as they began their walk towards the enemy.

CLASH! CLASH! CLASH! The hastati began to beat their swords off their scuta. Quintus did the same. He covered the remaining distance in a dream. Men close by were praying, cursing, muttering to themselves. The smell of piss grew strong, and with it, Quintus’ fear. But there was no going back. He was surrounded on all sides, pushed onwards by the inexorable weight of tens of thousands of his fellows. He drew deep on his reserves, gripped his gladius hilt until his knuckles went white. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, protect me, he asked. Mars, god of war, hold your shield over me. That helped. A little.

‘TWENTY PACES, LADS!’ Corax bawled. ‘FIFTEEN. STEADY!’

They’re not even making us charge the last bit, thought Quintus. It must be because there are so many new recruits. If they ran, too many individuals would lose their balance and fall when the two sides struck. His guts roiled at the idea. Fourteen paces. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. The clashing noise stopped as men prepared to fight. Both sets of soldiers continued to shout abuse at each other.

Incredibly, this was the moment that three Gaulish warriors chose to attack the Roman lines — on their own. Quintus stared in shock as, yelling like madmen, they swarmed forward. Curses rang out; he heard the impact of metal on metal; shouts; a strangled cry, followed by another.

‘What the hell’s happening?’ asked Urceus. Shorter than Quintus, he could not see much more than the rank in front.

Two figures broke away and ran back towards the Carthaginian front rank. Both were waving bloody swords. An immense roar of triumph greeted their arrival.

‘First blood has been spilt,’ replied Quintus grimly. ‘Two of our men; one Gaul.’

Urceus spat his contempt on to the dusty ground. ‘Bring the rest of the whoresons on.’

Quintus wanted to agree. Yet the audacity of the Gauls’ assault and the fact that two of them had each managed to kill a legionary was further harsh evidence that this would be no easy struggle. May the gods be with us.

‘ONWARDS!’ roared Corax.

Because of its position near the enemy ‘bulge’, Corax’s maniple was among the first to hit the Carthaginians. Despite the fact that one side was static and the other only walking, the impact when the two met was considerable. It couldn’t fail to be, thought Quintus, steadying the soldier in front with his scutum, feeling the man to his rear do the same to him. The legions’ frontage extended for more than fifty score paces, which meant that it took a little time for all the legionaries to engage the enemy but in the following few moments, the remainder collided with the Carthaginian troops. Crash. Thump. Crash. Thump. Countless shields battered into one another and, as they’d been trained, thousands of legionaries strained with all their power to unbalance their opponents.

Shouts of encouragement from the officers; war cries from the Gauls. Trumpets blaring from their rear; the incessant noise of the carnyxes. Cries of anger, of pain, of anguish. Then the screaming began. It started with a hastatus in the first rank somewhere off to Quintus’ right, but was quickly joined by another voice and another — and another. Soon it was coming from everywhere to his front. He could hear nothing but the sound of men roaring their agony to an uncaring world, the jarring clamour of opposing sets of musical instruments and the repetitive clash of weapons. His mouth was as dry as the dust beneath his feet. The temperature, which had been rising steadily during the morning, was now intolerable. Quintus felt as if he was going to fry, like a piece of meat in a pan. What insanity had driven him to join the infantry?

‘This is fucking torment,’ shouted Urceus in his ear. ‘What shall we do?’

‘We wait,’ said Quintus dully. ‘When enough men have been slain, our turn will come.’

Urceus’ eyes held his for a moment and then flickered away.

Give me strength, O Great Mars, Quintus prayed. For today I shall need it.

Repeated clashes with the enemy front line had caused a further fracturing of the Roman formation. In some places it had been pushed back; in others, it had advanced a little. With the sun almost overhead, Quintus would have lost all sense of direction but for the range of hills to one side of the battlefield that were occasionally visible through the dust clouds. Nothing had gone as he had imagined it. All was confusion. All was chaos. Gone was the uniform line that had begun the advance. The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. Soldiers clashed, over and over. Some were wounded, some died and then, hurling abuse, the rest broke away from each other. Units lost contact with one another, failed to keep in line as they were supposed to. It was impossible for anyone to know what was going on further than perhaps twenty paces away from where they stood. It was natural, therefore, that groups of soldiers tended to bunch up close to their officers, or around the braver individuals among their comrades. The Carthaginian troops had done the same, turning the battle into a seething mass of large but separate contests.

Unsurprisingly, the hastati in Quintus’ unit clustered around their remaining centurion. Pullo had fallen early on, leaving Corax as the only senior officer. Amidst the mayhem, he was like a bulwark against the storm. Quintus had never been more glad to have such a charismatic, brave leader. Casualties had not been heavy initially, but as time passed, men grew tired. That was when they began to make mistakes — and men who did that died or were severely wounded. Since the maniple to their right had lost both of its centurions, scores of its hastati had been cut down. Without Corax, the same could well have happened to him and his comrades. But it hadn’t. Yet. Quintus had the additional worry of having to watch out for Macerio, in case the whoreson tried to stab him in the back. Fortunately, Urceus was also on the lookout. Thus far, nothing had happened.

A few moments earlier, the two sides had pulled back from one another. This was happening regularly, when each set of soldiers grew too tired to fight on without respite. Quintus’ rank had immediately been summoned by Corax from the mass of hastati who had not yet taken part in the combat. He, Urceus, Severus and the others had shuffled forward to their centurion, who was bleeding from a cut to his cheek. He was unhurt otherwise, however, and there was a terrible gleam in his eyes. ‘Ready to do your bit, lads?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ they answered, regarding the Carthaginians and the ground between them with a mixture of horror and fascination. Quintus had seen battlefields before, but, as a cavalryman, he had never been thrown into the midst of the carnage like this. It was appalling. Great patches of the dusty earth had been turned scarlet. The area was coated — literally — with the bloody bodies of the dead and injured. Severed limbs were scattered here and there. Discarded helmets, shields and swords added to the detritus. Moving forward had now become an exercise in trying not to trip up before reaching the enemy. It was accompanied by a never-ending din of shrieks. Many of the wounded had been dragged back by their comrades, but plenty more remained in no man’s land, where they wailed their agony while enough strength remained in their lungs.

‘It’s not pretty, and it will get worse,’ said Corax in a harsh voice. ‘Those fucking Gauls are tough, I’ll give them that.’

‘What’s next, sir?’ asked Urceus.

‘We drink some water. Have another piss. Rest for a little bit. Then we’ll go at them again.’ Corax eyed them each in turn. ‘And we’ll keep doing that until the scum break. You with me?’

The hastati who had been fighting already let out a ragged cheer. Quintus and the others hurriedly joined in, keen not to be seen as unwilling. Corax nodded at them, pleased. ‘Rest now, boys,’ he commanded. ‘You’ll need all your energy in the hours to come.’

Quintus did a quick check of his sandal straps and the strips of leather that ran under his chin to hold his helmet in place. Satisfied that they were tight, he wiped his hands clean of sweat, ensured that he had a firm grip on his sword hilt. He glanced at Urceus, who was guzzling water from his carrier. ‘Ready for this?’

Urceus lowered the bag and scowled. ‘As I’ll ever be. You?’

‘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.