Quintus flinched. It took every bit of his self-control not to look up. First shots are never accurate. They’re nervous too, he told himself. Thump. Thump. Thump. The stones were landing all around him. He chose his target and threw, seized his last javelin and hurled it as well. Now, the air was filled with humming noises, as if a swarm of bees was approaching. Quintus fought his panic as he turned to flee. The way back would be fraught with danger. Slingers could make accurate shots for hundreds of paces. He had seen the evidence of that with his own eyes at the Trebia. Stop it. He wheeled, taking in Rutilus, Big Tenner and the rest of the section all close by, weaving, ducking, throwing their javelins. His heart lifted. He was not alone, not the only target for the enemy.
But it was time to run. During his training, Quintus had often wondered how it would feel to retreat from the enemy on foot rather than on horseback, as he had done before. Now he knew, with his heart hammering off his ribs and the acid taste of fear in his throat. It was far worse. Gut-churning. Bloody terrifying. Without thinking, he lifted his shield over his helmet so that it protected the back of his head and his shoulders. He would look ridiculous to the oncoming legionaries, but he didn’t care. Thump. Thump. Thump. His ears rang with the deadly sound. He could see stones landing everywhere: in front, to the left and right and at the edges of his vision.
He had gone perhaps fifty paces when a sharp cry made him look back. A short distance behind him, Rutilus had dropped to one knee, clutching at his right hip. Charging back into the storm of stones would be suicidal, but he couldn’t just leave him. Gritting his teeth, Quintus sprinted back, holding his shield before him. His arm jarred as it was struck. White-hot pain lanced through him as a slingshot hit his left shin. He spat a curse, and kept running. A moment later, he skidded to a halt beside Rutilus. ‘Stand up!’
Rutilus groaned. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’
‘Shut your mouth and get up.’
‘We’ll never make it.’
‘Jupiter’s cock, Rutilus, do you want to live or not?’
Rutilus struggled to his feet, grunting with pain. ‘Throw your arm over me,’ Quintus ordered, slipping his own around Rutilus’ shoulders. ‘Come on, damn you! I don’t want to risk my life for nothing.’ His friend did as he was told. Quintus lifted his shield over his helmet again, and together they began to move.
‘They’ll target us even more now,’ said Rutilus.
‘I know.’ Rather than let his fear master him, Quintus stared at the ground and concentrated on each step. They were doomed, but this gave him something to do. Better than dwelling on the harsh realisation that he was going to die in his first action as a veles. Left, right. Left, right. Four steps. Left, right. Left, right. Eight steps. The flesh on Quintus’ back crawled. This was worse than retreating from the enemy on horseback — far worse.
But they were still moving at fifty paces. Then, somehow, it was a hundred. Quintus’ leg muscles were burning with the effort of supporting Rutilus, whose limp was growing worse. He didn’t know how much further he could go on. The sling bullets were still raining down around them, clattering off his shield. It was only a matter of time before one stuck him a deadly blow.
‘Look,’ grunted Rutilus.
Quintus’ head lifted. He blinked. Emerging from the fog was the front of the column. There, in the front rank, he could see Corax. The centurion was shouting orders, and his men were spreading out into battle formation. Quintus’ heart leaped with joy, and not a little relief. Already he could sense that they were no longer the slingers’ main target. He began angling to the right of the soldiers. If they went left, there was every chance of being pushed into the lake. ‘Move it, or we’ll get in the way.’
Rutilus responded with a burst of energy. ‘They’d best get into position quickly. Otherwise those phalanxes will smash them apart.’
‘There’ll be time. Those spearmen are going nowhere. Why would they give up the high ground?’ countered Quintus.
Before Rutilus could answer, the air rippled with a new, unearthly sound. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. Beneath it, thousands of voices began to chant. Metallic clashes signalled the clattering of weapons off shields. The back of Quintus’ throat filled anew with bile. The noise was coming from a long distance to their rear, from far over on the right, where the first ridge ran down to the water’s edge.
‘Hades below, what is that?’ The fear rippled in Rutilus’ voice.
‘Carnyxes. Gaulish trumpets,’ said Quintus, who had heard them before, at the Trebia.
‘They’re behind our men,’ whispered Rutilus.
From another location on the right, where the hills ran down on to the hemi-lunate area of ground, a chorus of high, yipping cries added to the Gauls’ cacophony. The ground trembled with the hammering of hooves. ‘That’s the Numidians!’ Quintus let go of Rutilus’ arm and ran straight for Corax, his arms pointing to the rear. ‘AMBUSH, SIR! AMBUSH!’
Despite the overwhelming din, the centurion heard him. Quintus saw the realisation burst in Corax’s eyes. In his gut, though, he knew it was too late. Far too late. Hannibal’s trap had been well and truly sprung.
Only the gods would determine who survived what was to come.
A dark joy had suffused Hanno as the small group of enemy scouts emerged from the fog to be confronted by the sight of the Libyan spearmen, and to their rear, the Balearic slingers. They had been close enough for him to see their utter consternation. To be fair, the forty-odd Romans had not flinched from their duty. One had immediately sprinted forward to the attack; he had been followed by his comrades. Their javelin volleys had caused few casualties; the Libyans’ large shields afforded great protection. Veterans all, the spearmen had not wavered much as the missiles fell. They had known, as Hanno had, that the slingers’ replies would soon be raining down on the Romans. The Balearic men were famed throughout the Mediterranean, but hearing stories of their skill was very different to witnessing it with his own eyes. Their concentrated shooting was similar to watching a storm of hailstones hit a small patch of ground. Few of the enemy scouts had been killed, but more than a dozen had been injured, some seriously, before they had withdrawn behind the protection of the legionaries.
The real fighting had begun a short time later. Encouraged by the noise of the Gauls and Numidians launching their attacks on the Romans further back, the Libyans had been difficult to hold in position. Hanno and Mutt had had to break ranks and stalk up and down before the unit, bawling threats. He had seen other officers doing the same. The idea of charging down the slope to hit the disorganised enemy had been immensely appealing, but phalanxes were far less manoeuvrable than Roman maniples. If the legionaries had managed to break open one of their formations at the very start, things might have taken a different turn.
As it was, the fighting had been intense and brutal. Some of the centurions at the front of the column possessed real initiative. The ambush meant that not enough men would reach them to form the classic triplex acies formation. Knowing this, the Roman officers had led an immediate assault on the three phalanxes nearest them. Hanno and his spearmen had watched, fascinated, throats tight with tension, as the scouts and legionaries had advanced in good order. As before, there had been a shower of light spears from the scouts, who had then withdrawn through gaps in the infantry formations. Two volleys of javelins from close range, and the legionaries had charged uphill into the solid Libyan shield wall. It hadn’t taken long for the Libyans to repulse the attack, but another bigger one had come soon after, when the enemy’s numbers had been swelled by the arrival of more maniples. Hanno’s phalanx had fought then, and in the three subsequent attempts to smash their line.