They had thrown each one back, causing heavy casualties among the Romans. After the most recent, the centurions had opted to give their battered men a breather, encouraged no doubt by the sight of fresh maniples arriving, with triarii among them. Hanno was grateful for the respite. Those of his men who had broken their spears or damaged their shields had had time to replace them from the fallen or their comrades to the rear. The injured had been helped out of harm’s way and given what care was available. For some, it was a slug of wine and a friendly word. Others, too far gone, were comforted as they slipped into oblivion. A few, the screamers, were helped on their way by him or Mutt. He had done it before, at the Trebia. A prayer to the gods, a few reassuring words in the ear and a swift blade across the throat. Hanno stared at his right hand, which was crusted with blood. It trembled slightly. Stop it. Killing the wounded was a thankless task, but it had to be done. Few things were worse for morale than bleeding, filthy men roaring in pain and calling for their mothers.
When it was done, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank. A soldier handed him a skin of wine and he accepted it with a grateful nod. Despite his thirst, he limited himself to a couple of mouthfuls. His eyes roved the lakeshore and the open ground, which had cleared of fog, exposing the raging battle. Thanks to his position on the hill, he had a view of some of what was going on. Excitement gripped him. The Romans appeared to have failed to form their battle line anywhere. The most distant point, where the Gauls had sprung from ambush, was obscured by a dust cloud, but from within it, the carnyxes’ weird booming continued unabated. Hanno had little doubt that the tribesmen were giving better than they got. Their memories of defeat by Rome and thirst for revenge were fresher than for anyone in the Carthaginian army. At the battle of Telamon, just eight years before, seventy thousand of their fellows had been massacred by a much smaller Roman force. When he talked with any of the Gauls, that was all they seemed to care about. Today they would be out to turn the waters of the lake red with blood.
Closer to hand, Hanno could see groups of Numidians wheeling and turning in graceful arcs as they attacked the disorganised mass of Romans by the shore. Fascinated, he watched a squadron of perhaps fifty riders come galloping in from an oblique angle towards a block of legionaries. Now and again, he could make out their high-pitched, yipping cries through the din of battle. Even at a distance, their skill was staggering. Hanno could not even imagine charging an enemy bareback on a horse that had no bit or bridle. Similar to a little cloud of midges, the Numidians closed at speed. They infuriated the Romans not with bites, but a volley of well-aimed spears. Hanno grinned as a handful of tiny figures — enraged legionaries — broke ranks to try and close with the enemy. In a flash, they were enclosed by the horsemen. Dust swirled, obscuring what was going on. A few heartbeats later, the riders cantered away, leaving nothing but bodies sprawled in the dirt. Everywhere he looked, similar things were happening. The battle was going well for his side. It wasn’t tempting fate too much to think that the outcome had already been decided.
If he and the rest of the Libyans could hold the enemy vanguard in place until the rest of their army hit the Romans from the rear, the result would not just be victory, but a total massacre. Another defeat for Rome, his people’s bitterest enemy. An image of Quintus came unbidden, and Hanno found it impossible not to wish that whatever the outcome, his former friend survived. He fingered his scar. As for the rest of them, well, they could go to Hades, the Roman bastards. If Pera still lived, Hanno hoped that he would be among the dead by the day’s end.
Despite what was happening elsewhere, their task would not be easy. The legionaries below had been rallied and re-formed into three large blocks. Good numbers of triarii had been positioned in the front ranks. Alongside them, Hanno could see the characteristic crests of centurions’ helmets. Orders were bellowed and each of the three units formed a triangle, aiming its point up the hill at the Carthaginians. They’ve formed the ‘saw’, he thought, his belly clenching. It’s an attempt to smash through. The attack would fall upon his phalanx and those of his father and brothers. For them, this was when the real battle would begin.
‘They’re really going to try and break us this time, lads,’ he roared. ‘We can’t have that, can we?’
‘NOOOOOO!’ his spearmen screamed back at him.
‘Hannibal wouldn’t be too pleased if we failed him, would he?’
‘NOOOOOO!’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Close order, all ranks!’
The men at the front shuffled together, making sure that their shields overlapped. The soldiers to their rear shoved in behind, forming a tight mass of equipment, weapons and sweaty flesh. There was very little room to move now, but that was the strength of the phalanx. When their spears were raised, the formations presented an armoured wall to the foe, a wall that was impregnable to most attacks. Whether it would prove effective against the saw, he would shortly find out. Thus far, the gods had seen fit to lend them their aid. As the Romans began to climb the slope, Hanno prayed that they continued to do so.
The centurions led their men steadily uphill. Hanno could hear them shouting orders similar to his own. ‘Steady, boys!’ ‘Keep your position!’ ‘Pila ready!’ Ahead of the infantry, the velites trotted, their few remaining javelins ready to throw. Hanno’s men hurled abuse as they drew near; the phalanx had suffered almost no casualties from the spears of the enemy light infantry. He even heard wagers being made about which of the velites would first get struck by a slingshot. They were brave men to attack yet again, he thought, as the whistling sound of hundreds of stones passed overhead. Even when the first volley landed, they didn’t turn and run. There were fewer than a score of the velites left, but they advanced into the hail of sling bullets, coming nearer than they had ever done before. What in Baal Hammon’s name are they doing? wondered Hanno in alarm. It was as if the velites wanted to die. More and more of them were falling, but that did not stop their assault. Closer and closer they came, shouting war cries and throwing their spears.
Their action was nothing but a diversion. By the time Hanno had realised this, the nearest saw point had changed direction. Now it was aimed directly at the junction between the right edge of his phalanx and the left edge of Bostar’s. He was about to order his men to move to the right, thereby sealing the gap, when he glanced at one of the other saw points. It was moving straight for the junction between the leftmost part of his phalanx and the right of his father’s. ‘Damn them for devious bastards,’ he swore. If his men moved either way, they risked making the situation worse. ‘Mutt!’
From his left, ‘Sir?’
‘Do you see what they’re at?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pass the word back, quickly. The slingers are to concentrate their shooting on the saw points. I want the men at the front taken down at all costs. Clear?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘You heard what I said. Send the word back. Now!’ Hanno growled at the soldiers directly to his rear. ‘Mutt!’ he called again.
‘Sir?’
‘The men on our left edge must see what’s about to happen, but pass a message to them anyway. They have to hold!’ Hanno glanced at the spearman to his other side. ‘Spread the word to the lads on the right. The Romans must not break through!’
Scowling, the spearman did as he was told.
Hanno eyed the Romans, who were now less than fifty paces away. He had warned his men. Done all he could do. He chafed to be in the middle of the action, but he couldn’t break ranks without damaging the integrity of the shield wall, something the Romans might capitalise on. Agonising though it was, he had to stay put.