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.