Fields of Blood

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?’

‘Kill the fuckers!’ screamed Mutt with more energy than Hanno had ever seen him display. He was standing at the far right of the front of the phalanx, where it abutted the next unit.

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ shouted the men, hitting their shields with their gladii.

The Libyans in the next phalanx took up the chant at once. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

Soon it was echoing all along the line, drowning out the retreating warriors’ shouts of dismay.

Satisfied, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank.

Cuttinus’ musicians sounded the advance.

Heart pounding, Hanno popped his sword under his left armpit and gave his right hand a last wipe on the bottom of his tunic. He repeated the process with his other hand. ‘FORWARD, AT THE WALK! HOLD THE LINE! PASS THE WORD ON.’ Mutt would keep the phalanx close to the one to their right.

They had gone about twenty paces when Hanno saw his first legionary. Some fifty steps to his front, the Roman was pursuing an Iberian who had flung away his shield. A savage, arcing cut from the legionary’s sword opened the Iberian’s flesh from shoulder to waist. Blood sprayed; he fell to the ground, letting out a high-pitched shriek. The legionary hardly paused. He ran on, trampling the body, not even seeing the phalanxes of Libyans. Nor did his comrades, a dozen or more of whom came tearing on behind him. Excitement thrilled through Hanno. We look like them, he thought. He would wager that Hannibal had even thought of this little detail.

The sudden signal to halt came as a surprise, but Hanno obeyed it nonetheless. ‘HALT! Stay where you are,’ he bellowed.

‘Why, sir?’ asked the man to his left. ‘There they are!’

Unasked, it came to him. ‘We let as many of the dogs go past as possible, because that way, more of them will be trapped.’

The soldier bared his teeth. ‘Ah, I see, sir. A good plan.’

‘Not a word now. No shouting, no cheering. Stay quiet. Pass it on.’

With a grin, the soldier did as he was told. Hanno ordered the man to his right to do the same. Then they waited, knuckles white on the grips of their weapons, as they hid in plain sight of the Romans. The numbers of Carthaginian troops retreating had slowed to a trickle, and with each of Hanno’s rapid heartbeats, scores upon scores of legionaries charged into view. Soon it was hundreds. More men than he could count. Cheering. Shouting insults. Encouraged by officers. So eager to kill the enemy that all semblance of order, of maintaining formation, had been lost. They did not even see the Libyans waiting to their right, not a javelin shot away. There were a few cursory glances thrown in their direction, but no one registered that these were not just other Romans. After all, the enemy had broken!

Gods, thought Hanno. This can’t go on. They will see us. Eventually, they have to.

His heart thumped out another dozen beats. Hundreds more Romans flooded past them. So many were advancing into the gap now that some of the men were coming within spitting distance of the Libyans’ lines. ‘Hold,’ hissed Hanno. ‘Hold!’ Come on, Cuttinus, he screamed silently. Give us the fucking order!

And then it came. Strident. Piercing. Definitive.

‘FORWARD!’ screamed Hanno. ‘KILL!’

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ yelled his men.

They’d gone ten paces before the first Roman faces turned and saw them. Even then, with death approaching, it didn’t register. Only when Hanno was so close that he could see the pockmarks on the nearest Roman’s face did he observe the first signs of fear among them. He saw jaws drop, panic flare in eyes, heard shouts of ‘Stop! Stop! They’re not our men!’ and ‘Turn, lads, turn!’

But it was too late. The Libyans swept in on the undefended Roman flank like avenging demons. Hanno’s fear was swept away by a red mist of battle rage. He saw Pera in every Roman face. He would slay them all.

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

‘At this rate, we’ll run the bastards all the way to the west coast,’ shouted Urceus, slowing up. He wiped his brow with the back of his sword arm. The movement left smears of blood across his face, turning him into a wild-eyed maniac.

I probably look like that too, thought Quintus. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered any longer except moving forward — and trying to stay alive. He stared at the fleeing Gauls and Iberians, still not believing his eyes. Servilius’ charge had worked like a dream. They had smashed into the mass of Gauls with the long spears of the triarii at the point of the wedge. Surprised by their enemies’ ferocity, the tribesmen had fallen back. That had been enough encouragement for a large number of other hastati to come barrelling forward again. The fighting had been intense, more savage than what had gone before, and the Gauls had not given up without a hard struggle. They had retreated, but had continued to face the Romans and to fight. Slowly but surely, though, the legionaries had pushed on, one bloody step at a time. In Quintus’ section of the line, they had pushed the Gauls back a couple of hundred paces at least. A few heartbeats prior, however, things had changed. He didn’t know what had been the final straw, but many of the warriors had begun to flee. It was odd how fast panic spread once it took hold, he thought. It wasn’t dissimilar to watching a spark take hold in a bundle of dry kindling, the way the flames licked and wrapped themselves around the next piece of wood with fearful speed. Before you knew it, you had a proper fire going.

‘Crespo? You hurt?’ Urceus’ voice.

Quintus came back to the present. ‘Huh? No.’

‘Damn glad to hear it.’ A water bag was thrust in his face.

Quintus took a long swig, and then another. The liquid tasted of waxed leather and was blood-warm, but he was so parched that he didn’t care.

‘On, lads, on! Keep the line formed. The principes and triarii will be on our heels.’ Corax was talking to other soldiers, but the effect was the same. Quintus tossed the carrier back to Urceus, who stoppered it and hung it over his shoulder again. Then, exchanging a determined look, they moved off.

The three maniples led by Servilius and Corax continued to press forward as one bloc. It was inevitable that their close-order formation broke up as the legionaries’ hunting instincts — and bloodlust — took over. There were few commanders in the world who could keep their men tightly together in such situations. This was the easiest time to cut down the enemy, the time when defeated armies suffered most of their casualties. Men who were running did not defend themselves. They were often unarmed, having discarded weapons and shields so that they could get away faster. The Romans’ speed picked up even further. The air filled with bloodcurdling shouts.

Quintus’ fear had been replaced by a mad exhilaration, and a desire to kill. He wanted revenge for all his comrades who had died at the Trebia and at Lake Trasimene. For the innocent civilians of Campania and other areas who had died at Carthaginian hands. He slashed and cut, hacked and thrust. Hamstrung men, split open their ribs, opened their bellies. Decapitated one warrior; chopped an arm off two others. Blood spattered over his shield, his face, his sword arm. Quintus didn’t care. There was so much gore, piss and shit on the ground that his feet squelched as he walked. He barely saw it. There was no sport, no skill in stabbing men in the back, but that didn’t matter either. He slew until his gladius was blunt and his muscles ached from the repetitive action of using it.

Eventually, their advance began to peter out. Exhaustion had taken hold. They had been beneath the summer sun since it had climbed over the horizon. Marching. Fording rivers. Advancing. Throwing javelins. Engaging in close combat. Even killing defenceless men used up energy. Finally, though, the Gauls and Iberians began to outstrip the hastati. Their fear gave them a fraction more speed. Deprived of victims, lacking the strength to increase their pace yet again, Corax’s legionaries slowed to a walk. As ever, the centurion seized command. ‘You’re doing fine, boys. Time for a breather. Have a drink. Fill your lungs.’

To Quintus, Corax’s words were muffled, as if they were standing in dense fog. He felt as though he were outside his body, watching himself mumble a few words to Urceus, gulp down some water, wipe the worst of the blood off his blade, stare unseeing at the mutilated corpse at his feet. His gaze wandered to their left, registered something that didn’t make sense. He blinked, looked again, came back to earth. ‘Those Gauls aren’t retreating.’

‘Eh? The mangy sheep-fuckers I can see are running as fast as their legs will carry them,’ said Urceus with a laugh.

‘Not those ones. Those — over there.’ Quintus pointed.

Urceus looked, scowled. ‘Ha! What of them? It won’t be long before they also panic and flee. We’re unstoppable now.’ He jerked a thumb to their rear, to the great mass of soldiers advancing towards them. There was little order visible, but no one could deny its huge momentum. The ground trembled with the tread of so many thousands of feet.

Quintus shrugged. Urceus was right. Who could stand before so many soldiers? There were twenty thousand hastati in the army’s first line, the same number of principes in the second and about ten thousand triarii in the third. Mix the thousands of velites in amongst that and it made an unbeatable force. Hannibal’s host was nowhere near as large. ‘Victory will be ours,’ he muttered, feeling the surety of it in his bones.

‘Of course it will,’ replied Urceus. ‘Let’s keep moving.’

They had gone no more than a dozen steps when rousing cheers began to rise from their left. A heartbeat later, the same shouts could be dimly heard far to their right. Engaged with a Gaul who was still prepared to fight, Quintus ignored it. Urceus came to his aid and they swiftly put the warrior down into the crimson mud. Panting, Quintus gave his friend a nod of thanks. The noise was louder now, originating from all along their left side. Mixed with the shouts, Quintus thought he could hear cries of dismay. Of fear. Of panic. The first tickle of unease licked at his spine. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’ve got no fucking idea.’ Urceus also looked a little nervous.

CRASH. A shocked silence, then the booming sound was repeated from their right. Quintus wanted to puke. The force of the impacts was such that it could mean only one thing. ‘Hannibal must have wheeled part of his line. To take us in the sides.’

Urceus’ face twisted in disbelief. ‘How?’

‘Jupiter, I don’t know!’

‘No, that can’t be it. Besides, his centre is smashed to smithereens! What’s to stop us from driving on through the lot of them?’

‘You’re right,’ said Quintus, flushing.

Corax was frowning, but that didn’t stop him ordering them forward again. They advanced at the walk this time, secure in the knowledge that with so many soldiers behind them, they could not be stopped. As at the Trebia and Trasimene, the might of the infantry would prevail. Except that on this occasion, their cavalry would, gods willing, have held the enemy horse. When they had entirely broken through, they could turn to either side and fall on the Carthaginian rear. That was how Corax had explained it to them anyway, thought Quintus, struggling against waves of tiredness. He was beyond questioning what they would do.

‘Shitting hell! Look.’

The urgency in Urceus’ voice broke through Quintus’ fatigue. His eyes followed those of Urceus, towards their front. ‘No.’ It’s a living nightmare.

What he saw defied belief. Once an army broke, it was unheard of for it to halt and begin fighting again. Yet some hundred paces away, some of the fleeing Gauls and Iberians had come to a standstill. A few had already turned, and were roaring at their comrades to stop running.

The realisation struck Quintus like a punch to the solar plexus. ‘That’s why the centre of his line was bowed forward to meet us. It was a trap. It was all a trap,’ he said, feeling the fear uncoil afresh in his guts. ‘Sir! Do you see this?’

‘Aye,’ snarled Corax. ‘Hannibal is even smarter than we gave him credit for. Form a line, boys! The fighting isn’t over yet. We’ll have to teach those gugga dogs another lesson before they put their tails between their legs and run away for good. But do it we will. Roma victrix!’

The hastati raised a cracked cheer by way of answer, but their throats were too dry to continue it for long. A moment later, as if prompted to give the lie to the centurion’s bold words, a number of carnyxes started up their terrifying clamour again. Some men’s shoulders visibly slumped at their hideous sounds. Quintus gritted his teeth. He had come to loathe the instruments — and fear them. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The carnyxes’ tune was not going to go unaccompanied either. Incredibly, a handful of Gauls who had stripped naked emerged from amidst their comrades and repeated the threatening performances they’d put on before the battle began: beating their chests, waving their swords and cupping their genitalia at the legionaries. Their shouted insults were unintelligible but very clear. Moments before, they had been retreating. Now they were keen to renew hostilities. The display had a marked effect on the men who were still running. Quintus saw a number stop, twist their heads to look, and then make an about-face. At first it was a handful, but with each thud of his pounding heart, more warriors joined them. His eyes closed briefly as he tried to take it in.

The Gaulish retreat hadn’t just stopped. It had turned around. It was an attack again.

Quintus felt more weary than he had ever been in his life. Pure fantasy though it was, he wished that the Gauls would vanish. He longed just to lie down, to take the weight off his aching feet, to get out of the damn sun, even to sleep. But there was no chance of that. Deep in his belly, he knew the fighting that had gone before would be as nothing compared to what was to come. The troops that had attacked their flanks — quite possibly the Libyans, and among them Hanno? — would be rested. Fresh. Eager to fight. Quintus’ mind was full of new, unsettling doubts. He gave the sun a baleful glare, wishing it were nearer the horizon. How many thousand Romans would die before it set? Would he and his comrades be among them? Would his father? Gaius? Calatinus? And, more crucially, was victory as certain as it had seemed that morning?

Quintus was no longer sure. About any of it.

Hanno had never imagined that Hannibal’s plan could work quite so well. Yet it had, causing his admiration for his general to grow even further. The Romans had taken Hannibal’s bait and swallowed it in one great gulp. The consequence was that their advance had come to a complete halt. The legionaries within sight looked terrified, exhausted, demoralised to a man. Hanno could only imagine that the same was true of the men facing his father’s Libyans, on the other flank. It seemed that the Gauls and Iberians had re-formed too, because he could hear the sounds of fighting coming from off to his right, where the warriors had retreated. The Romans must be hemmed in to their rear as well, he thought elatedly, or they’d be running that way by now. That meant that Hasdrubal and Maharbal had been victorious in the cavalry battle, which in turn signified that their horsemen were at this moment harassing the back of the Roman host. Hanno’s heart lifted even further at that thought. Nothing terrified infantry more than a disciplined cavalry charge. From the corner of his eye, he caught men starting to shift from foot to foot, which pleased him. He’d only pulled them back a short time before, to rest and to drink some water. It made sense: the Romans were going nowhere. Yet his soldiers already wanted to renew the fight. It boded well.

The legionaries opposite had no javelins, and their discipline was fading fast. Each time Hanno led his phalanx forward, most of them panicked and tried to flee. It wasn’t combat any longer. Cutting down men who had their backs turned was butchery, nothing more. But it had to be done, thought Hanno grimly. Rome did not understand diplomacy. Brute force was the only thing that would drive the lesson home. Besides, not every legionary had given up. The sounds of fierce fighting could yet be heard from other parts of the battlefield. If their fellows here took heart from that, or were rallied by an officer, they might still pose a threat. They therefore needed to be crushed. Utterly.

‘Ready to send some more Romans to hell, boys?’ Hanno cried.

His soldiers roared their bloodlust back at him, and together they advanced. Scuta high, only their helmets and their eyes showing, reddened gladii protruding from the shield wall like the poisonous barbs on a stonefish. The Romans wailed at their approach, and Hanno’s troops picked up speed. ‘Slowly,’ he shouted. ‘Reserve your strength for killing. We’re going to be at it for the rest of the day.’

The men who heard him laughed like madmen then, and fresh terror bloomed on the faces of the nearest legionaries. Those at the front pushed and shoved at their comrades behind, trying to put bodies between them and the enemy. The entire mass of legionaries swayed and moved back several steps.

The red mist began to descend on Hanno. Weirdly, the scar on his neck began to itch too. ‘Where are you, Pera?’ he roared. ‘Pera! Come out so I can gut you like the coward you are!’

No one answered, but one legionary suddenly charged straight at them. Shieldless, wounded, spittle flying from his lips, he had clearly lost all reason. He looked nothing like Pera, but Hanno longed for the man to attack him. Instead he slammed into the shield of a Libyan ten paces away. A pair of gladii ran him through before he could use his own blade, spitting him through his unarmoured abdomen. ‘Stupid bastard,’ said one of the Libyans as he shoved the dying Roman backwards with his scutum.

They were only half a dozen steps from the legionaries now. A handful of men prepared to fight, but the majority were crying like children. Many had dropped their shields and swords and, with their backs to the Libyans, were ripping at those in their way with their bare hands. Four steps. Two.

‘Pera? I’m coming for you, you arse-humping piece of shit!’ Hanno picked his target, a legionary with a similar build to Pera. Rammed his sword into the right side of the man’s back, just below his small iron back plate. Resistance, easy push, shove — and he felt it come out of the legionary’s belly. An ear-splitting shriek of pain. Hanno twisted the blade for good measure, ripped it free and watched in fascination as a tide of blood followed it out. The man’s knees were already folding. Hanno shoved him on to the ground with his shield boss and barged into the mass of enemy soldiers. Even with their level of panic, it was a dangerous move. He had no one to protect his sides, but he had gone beyond sense. He was back in the cell in Victumulae, dangling by his wrists. Pera stood before him in his mind’s eye, a hot iron raised towards his face.

Next in his path was a terrified young legionary who raised his hands towards Hanno, palms out. ‘I surrender! I surrender!’

‘Fuck you.’ Hanno stabbed him through the stomach, the easiest way to finish a man for good, and, pulling the blade out, cut down the man next to him with a backhanded slash to the side. He felt a body shoving in behind him and, cursing, tried to turn and kill whoever it was. The mist parted long enough for him to recognise Mutt and to stay his arm. They fought side by side for a time, savagely, efficiently, killing and wounding a dozen or more Romans. There was no resistance. It was like slaughtering spring lambs. The pair only stopped when the legionaries before them managed to break away and flee. Hanno made to pursue them, but Mutt blocked his path.

‘Out of my way!’ Hanno snarled.

Mutt didn’t move. ‘You’ll get killed, sir.’

The certainty in Mutt’s voice sank home. Hanno blinked.

‘You want to defeat the Romans entirely, don’t you, sir?’

‘You know I do!’

‘Then don’t throw your life away. Stay calm, sir. Keep the lads in check. Attack, withdraw, attack again. Just as we’ve been doing. It’s simple, and it works.’ Mutt stood aside.

‘You’re right.’ Hanno took a deep breath, regained a little control, felt his muscles trembling with weariness. ‘Tell the men to halt. They’ll need a drink and another break.’

Mutt gave him an approving look. ‘Yes, sir.’

And so it went on, for hours. It became a bizarre routine. Apart from the phalanx to either side of his own, Hanno couldn’t see what the other units were doing. He assumed it was much the same. Pull back, regroup, tend the wounded. Share out the water and wine that remained. Rest. Some men produced food that they’d stashed inside their tunics; it was passed around and devoured. It also became necessary to sharpen their sword blades regularly; they were blunt from being shoved into human flesh.

On one occasion, a senior officer of some type, perhaps a tribune, tried to lead an attack while Hanno and his men were resting, but it was a half-hearted affair that swiftly ended when Mutt slew the officer. The rest of the time, the Romans in his section of the line seemed content to do nothing but emulate the Libyans’ behaviour. It wasn’t surprising, thought Hanno as he watched them during one rest period, for these were the only times when they weren’t being killed. Some of the legionaries still fought back when he and his men attacked. Once or twice, he and his Libyans were even driven back a little way. For the most part, however, the Romans had given up resisting. Dull-eyed, catatonic, sunburned, they were just waiting for death to take them — like cattle or sheep in pens outside a butcher’s shop. It had not occurred to Hanno before, but he wondered if his men — if the army — would be able to dispatch every single legionary on the field before darkness, or before their exhaustion got the better of them.

After the uncertainty with which the day had begun, it scarcely seemed possible that he could be contemplating the annihilation of such an enormous Roman host. Hanno gave thanks to his favourite gods, but he was careful to dampen down his feelings of triumph. Plenty of the enemy were continuing to fight. The battle was not over, and would not be until the sun had set. He would reserve judgement until then. Before that, he and his men still had a job to do.

To kill yet more Romans.

It was as if the Gauls and Iberians facing them were different men to those who’d broken and run earlier, thought Quintus. In spite of the heat, the dust, the sun, the tribesmen had a new enthusiasm for the fight. It had re-emerged since the Carthaginian attacks had fallen on their flanks. Thanks to this enemy effort, the Roman advance had wholly stalled. The warriors’ attacks on the legionaries’ front did not last for long, but they were deadly nonetheless. Despite Servilius’ and Corax’s efforts, every single one ended with dead hastati. Sometimes just a few, but more often than not it was ten or more. Roman morale slipped with every successive assault. The cries of their wounded, who lay before them — they had given up dragging men who were going to die back to their lines — as well as to their rear, didn’t help. One hastatus had been whimpering about his mother for so long that Quintus would have ended his suffering himself if the unfortunate hadn’t been lying so close to the enemy.

It was as well that the Gauls tended to pull back quickly, or the legionaries might have broken already. The enemy were bone tired now too, which meant that they could not press home their advantage as no doubt their leaders would have wished. That was of little solace to Quintus or his comrades, of whom perhaps ninety remained. Typically, Macerio was one of them. It didn’t matter that the Carthaginian troops had to break for regular rests. The Romans were surrounded, like a vast shoal of fish in a net. And slowly but surely, the net was being tightened, pulled on to the fisherman’s boat. Quintus had lost all concept of time, but it had to be the middle of the afternoon. The malevolent yellow orb that was the sun still hung high in the sky, which meant that the fighting had been going on for six, maybe more, hours. The cavalry battle had been won by Hannibal’s horsemen — it had to have been, or the Carthaginian rear would have been under attack by now. There would be no relief from their ordeal. It was a case of breaking through the enemy lines, or dying. Gazing around him, Quintus knew that many of his comrades would be doing the latter. So would he and Urceus, if something didn’t change. He wondered vaguely where on the battlefield Hanno might be, and if he too would still be alive by the end of the day. It seemed a lot more likely than his own survival.

‘Here they come again,’ croaked Urceus.

A chorus of curses from their comrades. More than one started to pray. Incredibly, after all the sweat that they’d each shed, one hastatus began to have a quick piss.

‘Where’s Corax?’ asked a voice. No one answered, and an unhappy air settled over the group.

Quintus scowled, hefted his battered scutum, tried to ignore the trembling in his sword arm. ‘Have you seen him?’ he hissed at Urceus.

‘Not for a while. He’ll be back.’

‘He’d fucking better,’ Severus responded.

Someone’s got to take command, thought Quintus grimly. Fast. ‘Close order!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone with a javelin, prepare to loose on my command.’ He was relieved that no one questioned him. They did as he said, glad no doubt to be given orders.

The Gauls no longer ran at the hastati. They just walked. Some shouted war cries, but most remained quiet. Their throats had to be as dry as the Romans’ were. Even the men with the carnyxes had given up. The clamour of battle rang from all around them, but in their odd oasis, there was little noise. It was worse facing the tribesmen when they were quiet, Quintus decided. They always attacked while screaming at the top of their lungs; in contrast, the silence was even more ominous.

‘How far away are they?’ he muttered to Urceus.

‘Fifty paces or so.’

Quintus agreed. He began to count in his head. At thirty paces, he glanced to either side. Following Corax’s orders, they had continually picked up discarded pila, but as the day had gone on, fewer and fewer were reusable. Fewer than a dozen men had javelins, he saw, but it was still worth a volley. Every Gaul who lost his shield was an enemy who was more easily killed. ‘Steady now! Let the whoresons come! Do not loose yet.’

He was shocked when the Gauls suddenly began to run. That was when he noticed the band of soldiers in the middle of their formation. These were no tribesmen. Every man among them sported a mail shirt and a black cloak; all were carrying scuta and swords. A few others were wearing muscled cuirasses and Hellenistic helmets. Could they be Carthaginian officers? Sweat sluiced down Quintus’ back when he saw that one man had a purple tunic. The patch of similar-coloured fabric over one eye confirmed his suspicions. He couldn’t help himself. ‘It’s fucking Hannibal!’

‘What’s he doing here?’ Urceus snarled, but the fear was palpable in his voice.

A wail of dismay left Severus’ throat.

‘We’re all going to die!’ cried someone who sounded just like Macerio.

‘Shut your mouths!’ cried Quintus, but it was too late. Fear raged through the ranks — he could practically see it, ravening, tearing away the last of the men’s courage. ‘Take aim. LOOSE!’ he roared.

Most of the javelins went up, but the volley was ragged. The rest of the hastati with pila stood transfixed with fear. The Carthaginian charge drew nearer. The Roman lines wavered. Steadied again. ‘Throw the damn things, or drop them,’ bellowed Quintus. ‘Draw swords!’ He didn’t even see if the javelins got thrown. The enemy were too close.

Eager to impress their general, the Gauls fought like men possessed. They swarmed in, hacking savage overhead blows at the heads of the hastati, wrenching at their scuta and stabbing them in the neck. Throwing themselves, uncaring, into any gaps that appeared, the warriors broke apart the maniple’s shrunken ranks within a matter of moments. Quintus and Urceus fought like twins joined at the hip, holding their own, but Severus soon went down beneath the blade of one of the black-cloaked enemy soldiers, clearly one of Hannibal’s bodyguard. The hastatus to Severus’ left lost his sword arm and then his head. Two scarlet fountains from his wounds pumped blood everywhere as he fell on top of Severus’ body. The few men who were left beyond that were surrounded a heartbeat later. With their left flank exposed, Quintus and Urceus fell back, still fighting. The men to their rear saw what was happening and gave way too.

The general was only half a dozen steps from them by this stage, but he could as well have been on the moon. There were three burly bodyguards between them, men who looked fresh, eager and very dangerous. It was bizarre being so close to the individual who was responsible for the tumult of the previous twenty months and more, and being helpless to do a thing about it. Fascinated, Quintus’ gaze kept flicking back to him. Despite the rumours, Hannibal was not a giant or a monster. He was a brown-skinned, one-eyed, bearded man of medium height. Unremarkable. By all the gods, he must be charismatic, Quintus thought.

And then, like an autumn wind that carries leaves off the ground and into the ether, the fighting swirled them apart. Quintus and Urceus were driven back twenty more steps. They sensed rather than saw the hastati behind them turn to run, and cursed them for cowards. There were perhaps forty-five of them bunched up together, still facing the enemy, who had halted to draw breath little more than ten paces away. To his credit, Macerio was still with them. Hannibal was moving among his men, talking and gesturing towards the hastati. ‘So this is how it ends,’ said Quintus, letting out a long breath.

‘I suppose we should be grateful that we’re going to die fighting Hannibal himself,’ replied Urceus sourly.

Quintus managed a chuckle, but there was no humour in it. ‘Who knows? If Fortuna is kind to us, we might even manage to kill him before the end.’

‘A man can dream,’ retorted Urceus. He eyed Quintus sidelong. ‘It’s been good knowing you, Crespo.’

There was a lump in Quintus’ throat. I’m not called Crespo, he wanted to say, but all that came out was, ‘You too, my friend.’

The Gauls and black-cloaked soldiers began to clatter their weapons off their shields. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ they shouted. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

A frisson of fear rippled through the hastati. Quintus knew in his gut that after everything they had been through, this was too much. ‘Steady, boys,’ he cried, fighting his own creeping dread. ‘STEADY!’

‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Miraculously, Corax’s voice was by Quintus’ ear. He could have wept with gladness.

‘It’s Hannibal, sir. He’s here, with some of his bodyguards. The Gauls, they. . Our lads are so tired, sir. They can’t. .’

Corax’s eyes bored into his and saw the utter exhaustion. He scanned the enemy lines opposite, spat a curse at Hannibal, assessed the situation for what it was. ‘Shit. If we stay here, we’re all fucked. Pull back.’

Quintus blinked. ‘Sir?’

‘You heard me, hastatus.’ Corax’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Pull back, boys. Keep your formation. Walk back slowly, a step at a time. Do it!’

The hastati didn’t need any encouragement. With fearful eyes on the enemy, they shuffled back five, ten, fifteen paces. They had to walk over their own wounded to do so, which was heart-rending, and sickening. Bloody hands reached up to them. Pleading voices filled their ears. ‘Don’t leave me here, please! Please. .’ ‘Mother. I want Mother. Mother!’ ‘It hurts. It hurts so bad. Please make it stop.’ Quintus saw more than one man thrust down quickly with his gladius. He did the same himself, but was unable to meet the terror-filled eyes of the hastatus whose life he ended. When they had retreated for perhaps two score paces, Corax had them halt.

‘They’re not going to come after us,’ said Quintus, eyeing the enemy and daring to hope.

‘No. Hannibal has gone, look. He’s got to keep moving among his men, keep them fired up so that they continue to press home their assault.’ It was the first time that Quintus had ever heard weariness in Corax’s voice. Panic flared in his belly, but it was replaced by relief when he glanced around. There was still a determined set to his centurion’s jaw.

‘You did well back there.’

‘Sir?’

‘I was on my way back, but too far away to do anything when I saw that the enemy were about to attack. Our lines were wavering until you took control. Well done.’

Quintus’ face, red from physical exertion and the sun, turned an even deeper colour. ‘Thank you, sir.’

A tight nod. ‘I went to talk to Servilius, to see if we could make a counter-attack, but I found him dying. His lines have collapsed entirely. I was lucky to get away.’ Corax’s voice was flat and hard.

Quintus made himself ask. ‘The battle’s lost, isn’t it, sir?’

A silence, which spoke volumes.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Corax at length. ‘Hannibal is a genius to do what he’s done here today. Damn his eyes! Only the gods know how many men will lie here by nightfall.’

Quintus glanced at Urceus and saw the same hopelessness in his face that he felt in his heart. Escape from the Gauls meant little when they were still surrounded. ‘What shall we do, sir?’

‘Avoid fighting the enemy for the moment. Rally a few more men together. Then we’re to search out a weak spot in the enemy’s formation and smash a fucking great hole in it. We’ll head for the river, and our camp. If that can’t be held, we’ll retreat to the north.’

The task that Corax had just set them sounded harder than scaling the highest peak in the Alps in midwinter, but Quintus found himself agreeing. He heard Urceus doing the same. As Corax told the other hastati of his plan, no one argued, least of all Macerio. Quintus wasn’t surprised. The centurion had won their trust a long time before, not least at Lake Trasimene, when he had led them through the Libyan phalanxes, but also in the subsequent trials and tribulations. It wasn’t as if they had many other options anyway, other than waiting to be killed by the Carthaginians. From the dazed expressions on the faces of the legionaries around their position, that was what would happen to many, but in Quintus’ mind, that was no choice at all. I might be tired, he thought. I might be beaten. But I’m not a fucking sheep who just stands and waits for its throat to be cut.

Hanno’s hunch that his men might grow too weary to kill proved accurate. By the time the sky had turned every possible shade of pink and red, presaging a stunning sunset, most of his Libyans were like drunk men. They staggered as he ordered them to advance, and were barely capable of lifting their shields and swords, let alone killing yet more Romans. During one of their most recent assaults, Hanno had lost a few soldiers when some desperate legionaries had seen their exhaustion and turned on them. It was pointless losing valuable men like that, and he was forced to withdraw more than half of his phalanx from the fighting. That move left a gaping hole in his section of the line, and after that, it was inevitable that legionaries began to escape. They broke away in ones and twos, in small groups and sometimes in large. Weaponless, shieldless, cowed and broken, they skulked off into the darkening air like whipped curs. The Libyans watched them go, unable to prevent them. When the largest number yet began to retreat, Hanno spat on the ground with frustration. He considered chasing them, but knew that it would be too much for his exhausted men. Besides, easier targets — the legionaries who had not run — yet remained close by.

Even those now presented a problem. The light was leaching fast from the sky. The birds of prey that had hung over the battlefield all day had gone. Even the wind had calmed, allowing the swirling dust to settle somewhat. Before long, it would be too dark to do anything other than withdraw from the field. The sounds of combat had diminished. The predominant sound was the screams of the injured and dying. Hanno had never felt more tired: he too was only capable of fighting for a short time before having to rest. Yet despite all this, the battle madness still controlled him. They could manage one or two more assaults on the nearest legionaries, he told himself. They could kill more of them. Pera might be among their number.

Hanno prowled along his soldiers’ lines, exhorting them to another mighty effort. They groaned, they grumbled; he heard a few muttered curses. But they got to their feet again, formed a ragged line. There were perhaps seventy of them; the rest were sprawled, uncaring, on the blood-sodden ground to their rear. Hanno noted, as if for the first time, that every single man’s right arm was red to the elbow with a mixture of fresh and clotted blood. Their shields looked as if they had been dipped in a vat of scarlet dye. Their faces and helmets were spattered with flecks of red; so too were their feet and sandals. They were literally covered in blood from head to toe. Scarlet demons. Creatures of the underworld. I must look the same, Hanno thought, feeling a trace of revulsion. It was no wonder that the Romans wailed when they approached.

‘Will this be the last attack, sir?’ Mutt’s voice was low.

Hanno gave him an irritated look. ‘I hadn’t planned on it, no.’

‘I don’t think many of the lads can take much more, sir. Look at them.’

Unwillingly, Hanno studied his soldiers again. He was shocked to see that some of them were using their scuta to prop themselves up. More than one had laid his head on a forearm resting on the iron shield rim. Could that man be snoring? he wondered. His gaze wandered to the nearest Romans, a huddled mass of perhaps a hundred legionaries under the command of a wounded centurion. ‘I’m not just letting that lot escape,’ he said stubbornly. ‘No way.’

‘One last attack, sir. Any more than that and you’ll start killing our own.’

Hanno didn’t want to admit it, but Mutt was right. Even he, his second-in-command, who could march all day without breaking a sweat, looked spent. If that was the case, even Hannibal would not think worse of him for calling a halt at this stage. ‘Very well. But I want that centurion dead before we pull back. They’ll break once he’s down.’

‘Yes, sir. I think we can manage that much.’ Mutt’s teeth flashed white amid the red that coated his face. ‘After that, I think it’ll be safe to venture that we’ve won, eh?’

‘I’d say so, Mutt. Even the fucking Romans will have to admit defeat after this. Their army has almost been wiped out.’

‘Hearing that out loud feels damn good, sir.’

‘It does.’ For the first time, Hanno allowed himself to savour the feeling of triumph. All that was required to make the day an unmitigated success was that his father and brothers — even Sapho — had survived. It was unlikely that he’d find them this night, but he could search for them in the morning. Gods willing, they could all celebrate Hannibal’s victory together then.

‘Ready, sir?’ asked Mutt.

‘Yes.’ Hanno watched as Mutt rallied the Libyans, getting them to form up in close order. ‘One last bout before we’re done, boys,’ he croaked. ‘A gold piece to the man who hands me that centurion’s helmet.’

His soldiers’ throats were parched, but they growled their appreciation at him. One even found the energy to start beating his sword off his shield again. The rhythm was infectious. Several men joined in, and Hanno laughed as the Roman line, such as it was, visibly backed up a step. He could see the centurion, who was at the front, roaring abuse at soldiers who must have been pulling away from the rear of their formation. ‘They’re wavering! One good strike and they’ll break! You hear me?’

Incredibly, there was a cracked cheer. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ yelled Mutt.

‘HANN-I-BAL!’ shouted a number of men.

The Romans retreated again.

‘Again,’ Hanno hissed.

Mutt repeated his cry. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’

This time, not even the centurion could hold the legionaries. They turned and fled.

Howling like wolves, Hanno and his soldiers chased them into the night.

Corax had taken one look at the soldiers in the main camp and made his men turn on their heels. There had been a few protests. It was nearly dark. After a short but brutal assault, they had escaped the ring of Carthaginians who even now were butchering their comrades. After that, they had forded the Aufidius and straggled back to their encampment through the darkening air. ‘We’ve done enough, sir,’ said one man. ‘We’re dead on our feet, sir,’ added another. ‘The guggas won’t come after us tonight, sir,’ Urceus chipped in. Quintus, who was swaying to and fro with exhaustion, was about to agree. He was stunned into silence by Corax’s response.

‘Stay here if you wish, you maggots, but don’t be surprised when the gugga cavalry arrives in the morning. Don’t think they won’t! Hannibal will want to secure the entire area. If we keep going now, we can be miles away by dawn, beyond the enemy’s reach. You can rest then. Sleep in the knowledge that you won’t wake with an enemy spear through your guts.’

The centurion had gathered some food and then set off without even looking to see who followed. Quintus and Urceus had exchanged a resigned glance and then set off after him. Corax’s words had the ring of truth to them. What was a couple of hours’ marching compared to death? All but six men had joined them, giving them a total of just over thirty hastati. To Quintus’ frustration, Macerio was not one of those who stayed behind. The blond-haired man had come through the battle unscathed, and it seemed nothing could rid them of his company.

Despite Macerio’s presence, the moonlit walk might have been pleasant: the visibility was good, and the temperature was now balmy. Yet, terrified that they would be pursued, the majority of the party started at every night sound, every rustle of wind through the trees, saw Carthaginian soldiers behind each bush. Everyone was bone-weary. Sunburned. Famished — the brief moments granted them by Corax had allowed them only to find a few mouthfuls of food. Most of all, the legionaries were in complete shock at what had befallen them and their army. The impossible had happened. Hannibal and his soldiers had defeated — more likely massacred — eight legions, their cavalry and their attendant socii. Almost the entire military force of the Republic had been wiped from the face of the earth in one day, and by a host that was significantly smaller in size.

There was no conversation. Men were grieving for their fallen comrades. Quintus was sorry that Severus and so many others in his unit had been slain, but his prayers for them were brief. Instead he pleaded with the gods that his father, Calatinus, and Gaius — if he’d been present — had all survived. It was too much to ask for, he knew, yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask that one live in preference to the others. The day had been cruel enough without having to make another black-and-white choice.

Hours passed before Corax was satisfied that they’d travelled far enough from the battlefield. Using the stars as a guide, he had led them northwest, towards the low hills upon which lay the town of Canusium. They didn’t reach the settlement itself, but as the centurion said, it couldn’t be much further. The group would gain the nominal safety of its walls the next morning. ‘Get some sleep now, boys. You deserve it,’ Corax said solemnly. ‘I’m proud of the way you fought today.’ Quintus lifted an eyebrow at Urceus, who grinned. The centurion’s words lifted the other men’s spirits a little too. His praise came so rarely that it was to be savoured.

Putting himself up for the first watch, Corax settled on a nearby rock, his sword and shield to hand. The drained hastati literally dropped where they stood, uncaring of the rough ground and the fact that they had no blankets. Quintus and Urceus lay down beside one another, under the branches of a large holly-oak tree. They were asleep the instant that their heads hit the warm earth.

Quintus dreamed of blood. A plain soaked, covered in it, with a line of hills on one side, similar to the site where they had fought that day. Myriads of small islands dotted the terrible crimson sea. To his disgust and horror, he saw they were not soil or rock, but corpses. Some were clearly Gauls, Iberians or Numidians, but the vast majority were legionaries. Men who had died a violent death. Mutilated, often with glistening loops of gut hanging from their bellies. Gaping cuts showed in their flesh from the top of their heads to their toes: injuries that would have given a man a lingering, painful death. The bodies’ lips lay slackly parted, purple tongues bloated and protruding. Every cavity was full of maggots: eye sockets, mouths, wounds; yet the faces’ expressions were clear. They were scornful, accusatory, full of hate. How did you survive when we did not? they seemed to ask. I don’t know, Quintus screamed back. I should have died, a dozen times over.

Sweating, heart thudding, he came to with a start.

The movement saved his life. A hand clamped over his mouth, but the dagger that would have buried itself in his throat hissed by his ear instead and rammed into the earth. His eyes flicked upwards, to his attacker. Macerio: crouched alongside, his lips twisted in a snarl of hatred. Who else? Quintus thought bitterly. The blond-haired man tugged on his blade, dragging it free of the soil. Up it rose again. Suddenly wide awake, Quintus grabbed Macerio’s forearm. They grappled for control of the dagger, one trying to hold it where it was, the other attempting to bring it down into his enemy’s flesh. For a few heartbeats, there was stalemate. Quintus did his best to bite Macerio’s other hand, but his teeth could gain no purchase on his enemy’s palm. He swung his legs around, trying to wriggle beyond Macerio’s reach, but the blond-haired man simply leaned more of his upper body weight on to his arms, effectively pinning Quintus where he was. ‘I should have finished you long ago. I thought you’d be killed today,’ he whispered. ‘Better late than never, though.’ Despite Quintus’ best efforts, Macerio’s arm began to descend slowly towards his face.

How can it come to this? Quintus wanted to scream. I lived through the battle, only to die like a dog? His legs kicked out again, and connected with something. Someone. Urceus! He kicked out, over and over. There was an angry grunt by way of reply, and then a muttered question. Quintus lashed out one last time before concentrating all of his energy on preventing Macerio’s blade coming even closer to his flesh. It was already less than two hands’ width from the base of his throat, and pressing closer with each frantic breath he took in through his nostrils. Quintus could feel his arm weakening. It had never fully regained all of its previous strength after the arrow wound he’d sustained. Fuck you, Macerio! he thought. I’ll see you in Hades.

There was a meaty thump. Macerio’s eyes went wide; his body stiffened; his knife point wavered, and then Quintus suddenly had control of his enemy’s arm. Macerio’s other hand slipped off Quintus’ mouth. A sucking sound, such as a blade makes when it leaves a man’s flesh, and then another heavy impact. Making a low, groaning sound, Macerio toppled to lie beside him, face down. Quintus gaped. Urceus was standing over them, his fist tight on the hilt of a gladius — which was protruding from Macerio’s back. He tugged it free and stuck the blond-haired man again for good measure. ‘Go to Hades, you piece of filth.’ He spat on Macerio’s body.

Quintus sat up, trembling with relief. ‘You saved my life. Thank you.’

‘I just wanted you to stop kicking me,’ said Urceus with a grin. His face grew serious in the starlight. ‘No, you’re my friend. What else could I do?’

Quintus thumped him on the shoulder. Other men, woken by the noise, were calling out now. Corax was tramping over, demanding to know what was going on, threatening to castrate anyone he caught fighting. In that moment, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, not even the battle. He was alive. So was Urceus. Macerio would never trouble him again. Quintus would have preferred to have killed his enemy himself, but he’d settle for this. Urceus had also been a friend to Rutilus. Rest in peace, he thought. Your murder has been avenged.

It was a small piece of solace at the end of the most horrendous day of his life.

Hanno stirred when the sun’s heat on his body became too much. He groaned, and tried to go back to sleep. He couldn’t. Mixed with the buzz of a million flies above him was a low, moaning sound. Gods, he thought, that’s the wounded. With that, he was awake. There was a tacky feeling in his mouth that he recognised as dehydration, and his eyelids were gummed shut with sleep. Every part of his body ached, but he was alive, and that was more than could be said for the thousands who had fallen in the battle, and those who would have died overnight. Hanno opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the outline of wings. Scores of sets of wings, far above. Shit. The sky was filled with vultures, more than he had ever seen before. He dragged himself to his feet. Around him, his soldiers still lay sleeping. They were yet in the midst of the battlefield, because by the time they had finished with the last of the Romans the previous night, there had been little point trying to pick their way through the confusion of bodies and weapons to their camp. Dawn was only six hours away. Hanno had had his men clear enough space to lie down, set a few sentries, and let the rest collapse in a heap. Now he stared beyond their recumbent forms to where the carnage began. Even though he knew what to expect, now the mania of combat had left him, the sight was indescribably shocking. The proof of their remarkable victory — of Hannibal’s extraordinary triumph — could not have been more graphic.

Bodies, thousands and thousands of bodies, as far as he could see in every direction. They lay singly, together, in piles, every race and colour under the sun, locked together in the dispassionate embrace of death. Libyans. Gauls. Iberians. Balearic and Ligurian tribesmen. Romans and socii, united as they had been in life. All, all of them were covered in blood. It coated everything: men, weapons, helmets, standards. Even the earth was bloody, as if the gods themselves had come down in the night and painted it scarlet. Hanno’s eyes roamed over the nearest bodies in morbid fascination. They were stabbed through, hacked open, disembowelled. Armless. Legless. In a few cases, decapitated. Lying with their faces in the red-stained earth, on their sides, or on their backs, gaping mouths open to the swarms of flies that hung everywhere. The stench of shit and piss filled his nostrils. Mixed with that was the coppery tang of blood; already there was a whiff of gas from the bodies that had begun to rot. What it would smell like by the day’s end, he could only imagine.

In the distance, Hanno could make out the corpses of horses, where some of the cavalry battle must have taken place. If he strained his ears, he could hear whinnies from some beasts yet living. Distaste filled him. They would need to be slain, and the day would be spent scouring the area for soldiers of their own who lived, and dispatching those of the enemy who hadn’t yet gone to Hades.

He heard a shriek, suddenly cut off. His attention was drawn to figures moving among the bodies off to his left. They were Gaulish women, killing Roman wounded as they searched for their men. Father! he thought. Bostar. Sapho.

Waking Mutt, Hanno issued orders to fetch water from the river and whatever food could be found. ‘Once you’ve done that, start looking for men of ours who are alive. Carry them here and do what you can for them. We’ll get them back to the camp later.’

‘And the Romans we find still breathing?’ asked Mutt.

‘You know what to do with them.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Mutt’s expression became shrewd. ‘You going to search for your family?’

‘Yes.’

‘The gods grant that they all made it, sir.’

Hanno threw Mutt a grateful look and left him to it. Sapho had been closest to them during the battle, so he made for his position first. He found his brother sitting propped up against a pile of Roman corpses, setting his men similar tasks to Hanno’s. A bloody bandage around his right calf explained why he was seated.

‘Hanno!’ A broad smile creased Sapho’s face as he approached. ‘You’re alive!’

‘It’s good to see you, brother!’ Despite all that had passed between them, Hanno felt his heart swell with happiness. He knelt by Sapho and they embraced. ‘You’re hurt. Is it serious?’

‘It’s not too bad.’ Sapho scowled. ‘The last fucking Roman I killed got me as he went down. It shouldn’t have happened, but I was tired.’

‘We all were by the end of it,’ said Hanno. ‘What a day, eh?’

‘Hannibal’s name will go down in history for this,’ said Sapho.

‘Without doubt,’ agreed Hanno. Hannibal could now do no wrong in his eyes.

They savoured that thought for a moment.

‘Have you seen Father and Bostar?’ asked Hanno.

‘Not yet, but I’ve sent a soldier to search for them.’

Hanno rose. ‘I’m going too.’

‘Eshmoun guide you to their sides. Bring me word as soon as you can.’

‘I will.’

Using the line of hills as a reference point, Hanno slowly made his way across the battlefield. The area he crossed was where the main body of legionaries had fought — and died. For every Carthaginian soldier’s body, he counted at least half a dozen Roman. Plenty of men from both sides were alive. Many, even the Romans, raised their hands in supplication to him, pleading for water, or an end to their suffering. Hardening his heart, Hanno stalked by without a second glance. The Roman corpses made him think of Quintus and Fabricius. He hoped for Aurelia’s sake, and the friendship that had once existed between him and Quintus, that both men had survived. There were groups of Iberians and Gauls everywhere, men who must also have spent the night in the field. Now they were scouring the dead for valuables. From the cries of pain that rose regularly, they were also indulging in a little torment of any living enemies whom they encountered. Hanno didn’t really approve, but such behaviour was the norm, so he shut his ears and averted his gaze and walked on.

He found where the Libyans had stood on the opposite flank a short time later. Clusters of weary-faced soldiers stood around, sharing water skins and talking in low voices amongst themselves. Hanno practically ran up to the first group. ‘I’m looking for Malchus,’ he said, butting in. ‘Or Bostar, who commanded a phalanx.’

‘You must be another of Malchus’ sons, sir,’ said one of the Libyans, a bearded man with a hooked nose.

‘Yes, yes, I am Hanno. Well?’

‘I haven’t seen Malchus since yesterday, sir, but Bostar’s been here, talking to our commanding officer.’

Hanno’s heart leaped with joy. ‘Where is he?’

‘Last I saw of him, sir, he was walking that way.’ The soldier pointed off to his left. ‘That was where Malchus’ phalanx was positioned. About a hundred paces away.’

Hanno grinned. He would be reunited with his father and brother at the same time. ‘My thanks.’ He hurried off as fast as his tired limbs would take him. Gods, but he was looking forward to getting drunk with Bostar that night. Sapho too. He grinned. After such a momentous day, their father might even shed his normal reserve and join them.

The happy thought vanished as he recognised Bostar’s outline. His brother was kneeling with his back to Hanno. A body lay on the ground before him. Bostar’s slumped shoulders told Hanno everything he needed to know. ‘No. Please. Father!’ He covered the distance between them in a heartbeat. His stomach lurched as he took in the bloodied shape of his father. He was clearly dead. Hanno froze, and a great wave of anguish washed over him.

Bostar’s head turned. Tears had run tracks through the blood that coated his grief-stricken face. But the corners of his lips turned up at the sight of Hanno, and he stood. ‘Brother!’

Hanno tore his eyes from his father’s corpse, stared at Bostar, felt tears run down his own cheeks. They wrapped their arms around one another and held on for dear life. Both men wept unashamedly. ‘Sapho is alive,’ murmured Hanno after a little while. Bostar stiffened, before answering, ‘That is good.’ There was no need to say any more.

It was a long time before either released his grip. When they did, the pair turned instinctively to look down on their father. Despite a number of fearsome injuries, all of which were to his front, Malchus’ face was serene. He looked years younger than his age.

‘He wouldn’t have wanted to go any other way,’ said Hanno, proud but sad.

‘I agree. His men told me that the Romans in this section had already broken when he took his mortal wound. So he knew that we had won.’

‘Maybe that’s why he looks so peaceful,’ said Hanno in wonderment.

‘I think that’s exactly why. Once he knew that Hannibal’s plan had worked, death would have been a release for him. Father would never have admitted it, but all he really wanted after Mother died was to be with her once more. Remember how he changed when she was gone?’

‘I do,’ murmured Hanno. Arishat, their mother, had been the light of their father’s life. ‘I always felt that something in him died with her.’

‘Now they can be together again.’

‘It’s good to think of them like that.’ Hanno felt his grief ease a little. Farewell, Father. Greetings, Mother. Look after one another.

‘They can watch over us as we march on to victory over Rome,’ added Bostar, throwing an arm over Hanno’s shoulders.

Hanno liked that image. It seemed fitting, somehow. ‘You think that will be Hannibal’s next move?’

‘I’m not sure. To be honest, brother, I don’t care that much at this very moment. After what we did yesterday, every Roman will be shitting themselves about what we do next. For now, let’s remember Father and the rest of our dead, and celebrate our achievement.’

‘Aye. I think Father would have wanted us to rejoice over this victory,’ said Hanno. ‘Before I found you, I had hoped he might join us in a drink tonight.’

Bostar chuckled. ‘You know, I think he would have, just this once. We’ll keep a brimming cup for him this evening, eh?’

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hanno nodded. Their father would never be forgotten — and nor would their victory here, on the fields of blood.