With fierce grins, they parted.
Tiny pearls of moisture covered the iron of Quintus’ javelins and his shield rim. His skin was clammy, his tunic damp and, thanks to the wet grass, his feet were soaking. Pangs of hunger rose from his empty stomach, and he wished he’d taken a chunk of bread to eat while marching, as some of the others had. Yet his physical discomforts were the least of his worries. The visibility was growing worse, he was sure of it. The grey fog lay heavy on the land. Rutilus and Urceus were a few steps to his left and right, but he could barely make out the men beyond them. At least Macerio was as far away from him as possible, at the end of the line. Nonetheless, it was unnerving to walk into the gloom, knowing that the enemy was only about a mile and a half away. ‘Is this a good idea?’ he muttered. ‘We can’t see a damn thing.’
Urceus heard him. ‘Flaminius thinks the fog will lift by mid-morning. So did Corax and so do I. That good enough for you?’
‘Corax wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the order to march,’ replied Quintus. Nor can he be happy that we are only fifty paces ahead of the vanguard. Normally, we’d be half a mile out at least, and the cavalry would be beyond that.
‘An officer of his experience isn’t going to be. He knows that some of his men may well be killed and injured today, but it’s his duty to obey orders. Like it is mine. And yours, Crespo.’
Quintus caught the warning tone in Urceus’ voice. He decided not to mention his concern about the cavalry. Saying it would just aggravate Urceus further. So he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my bit.’
An irritable grunt. Urceus glanced to either side. ‘Pass the word. Go slow. Stay abreast of each other, no more than five paces apart. I don’t want any of you getting lost, you hear?’
Quintus repeated Urceus’ words to Rutilus, who did the same to the man on his right.
From behind them came the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of legionaries following their trail. Trumpets blared in the distance as the units far to the rear manoeuvred into the long marching column. The sounds were magnified by the ridge that pressed Quintus and the velites against the side of the lake, deafening their ears to anything else. It was unsettling, but the loud rhythm was also reassuring. And intimidating. That will send the fear of the gods into the Carthaginians, Quintus thought. If they had not left, that was. Part of him recklessly hoped that the enemy had stayed put. Hearing their enemies approaching, but not being able to see them, would be terrifying. They won’t advance to meet us — in the fog, that would be madness. They’ll wait on the slopes of the hills until we’ve come a lot closer. By then, the haze will doubtless have started to burn off. Things will be clearer.
They walked on, swishing dark, damp trails through the calf-high grass that lined each side of the narrow road. No one talked. Every man’s attention was locked on the ground before his feet, on the impenetrable fog before his eyes, straining for any indication of the enemy. But they heard nothing. Saw nothing. Came across nothing. They were alone in the clammy gloom. It felt eerie, and Quintus was glad of his comrades to either side. He had never walked so far in such conditions. Without the others, his unease might have mastered him.
Absent the sun, all sense of time vanished. Gradually, though, it grew a little brighter. Morning had arrived, but he couldn’t be more accurate than that. At the start, Quintus had tried to keep count of his footsteps, but thoughts of the Carthaginians and Hanno kept breaking his concentration. He had long since given up. It would sound nervous to keep talking about how far they had come, so he didn’t say a word. Eventually, however, he could bear it no longer, and asked Rutilus.
‘No idea. A mile, perhaps?’ came the reply.
‘What do you think, Urceus?’
Their section leader hawked and spat, quietly. ‘I’d say a mile was about right. We’ll be getting close now.’
They peered suspiciously into the murk. ‘Nothing,’ whispered Quintus.
‘They might be gone,’ ventured Rutilus.
‘Aye, and they might not,’ growled Urceus. ‘Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you.’
It was as if Urceus had sensed Big Tenner’s thoughts, and those of the centurions behind. Not fifty heartbeats later, an order came down the line to Urceus, who repeated the command at once. ‘A runner’s come from the legions. We’re to slow even further. Have a javelin ready to throw. Spread the word.’
Quintus’ stomach twisted sharply, but he threw a grin at Rutilus. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Rutilus glanced at the man to his right and raised his spear. ‘Go slow. Ready to loose? Pass it on.’
The order raised the tension and fear several notches. Rutilus was scowling. The tip of Urceus’ tongue was visible between his lips. Quintus moved his throwing arm back and forth, back and forth, making sure that the javelin was well balanced. He pricked his ears. The only thing audible was the cadence of the legionaries’ feet, but it was much slower now. Tramp. His heart hammered out a few beats. Tramp. His eyes lifted to where the sky should be. Still fog, everywhere. Tramp. No, wait. The grey overhead was lighter than it had been, but only a fraction. Damn fog! Jupiter, Greatest and Best, please make it lift, he prayed.
It was easy not to lose count of his steps now. Ten paces. Twenty. He couldn’t see a thing in front of him. Thirty paces. Fifty. A hundred. Quintus’ scalp prickled from the sweat that had built up under his felt helmet liner. Runnels of it trickled down the back of his neck. His scar itched, but there was no chance of scratching it, just as there’d be no opportunity to empty his suddenly full bladder. A quick glance at his companions. Their tense faces and white knuckles mirrored his own jangling nerves. At 150 paces, the fog thinned a little, shrinking from an all-enveloping soup to white tendrils that writhed in slow motion over the grass. Then, a glint of sun from above. Quintus’ spirits lifted. At last.
‘Thank the gods,’ muttered Rutilus with a sigh.
‘Shhhh!’ hissed Urceus, glaring.
Rutilus flinched. Silly bugger, thought Quintus. With any luck, though, no one had heard. No one being the enemy.
Ahead, looming out of the fog, he saw treetops. The ridge. They were near the second ridge. His eyes flickered to Urceus, who had seen it too. Eyes front again, thought Quintus, take another step. Was it his imagination, or was the fog opening out? Two more paces. Then, a hint of brown perhaps fifty paces to his front. Bushes, or was it a dead tree?
Without warning, the fog came to an end. One moment, Quintus was surrounded by clinging grey fingers, and the next, he was in the open air. The transition was startling enough, but what made his heart leap into his mouth was the massed ranks of enemy troops not fifty paces in front of him. Conical helmets, large round shields, long spears. Libyan spearmen, the soldiers that Hanno had commanded. Could he be here? Quintus wondered. Above the Libyans were groups of men in simple tunics, carrying slings. His gaze shot from left to right. There were thousands of the bastards, standing there. Just waiting.
For them.
‘Look out!’ he roared. ‘They’re here! They’re here!’ Without waiting to see if his comrades had heard, Quintus darted forward. This is what velites were trained to do. The closer he was, the more likely his javelins would find a target. He was safe from the Libyans’ spears, which were used for thrusting. In just a few heartbeats, however, the slingers’ stones would start landing. His stomach twisted into knots as he neared the enemy lines. ‘Roma! Roma!’ he shouted. At thirty paces, he took aim at an officer in the first rank and launched his first javelin. Despite himself, he hoped that it wasn’t Hanno. Without looking to see where it landed, Quintus transferred his second shaft to his right hand. A bearded soldier caught his eye. Draw back, aim, loose — just as he had been trained. His third javelin was already in his fist when he heard the characteristic whistle of an incoming slingshot. And then another, and another.