‘Yes, sir!’ The Numidian was already wheeling his horse back the way he had come.
‘Have the men turn to our rear,’ directed Hanno. ‘Let’s be cautious. I want the first two ranks on each side facing the trees. They’re to walk sideways. We’ll move in that fashion to the river.’
Mutt didn’t bat an eyelid at this odd command. ‘Yes, sir!’ He stalked off, barking orders, leaving Hanno to watch. He was pleased by his soldiers’ response to their orders. The change in formation was assumed with few mistakes and minimal fuss. A new sense of urgency and excitement settled over the phalanx. Men began to mutter prayers to their favourite gods, to rub the amulets that hung from their necks or to make over-loud jokes.
Hanno clashed the tip of his javelin off his shield to gain their attention. ‘This is just a precaution, lads. There is no need to worry. The nearest Romans are miles away,’ he shouted. ‘The mules are going to start crossing any moment. Our job is to act as a screen until they are safely over. Then we’ll do the same. When we get back to camp, I will see to it that you have enough wine tonight to drink yourselves unconscious.’
That got him a loud roar of approval. ‘All the same, I want you to go over your equipment as usual.’ There were a few grumbles at this, but he saw many more nods of approval. Satisfied, Hanno went through the little ritual that had become his routine before a battle. Wipe his hands clean of sweat. Check that his helmet straps were tight. Loosen his sword in its scabbard. Test the edge on his spear head with a thumb. Ensure that he had a firm grip of his scutum. Lastly, a quick glance at his sandals to make sure that the lacing wasn’t about to come undone. His father once told him the story of a soldier who had tripped on his own laces and been killed by an enemy; it was a stupid mistake that Hanno had resolved never to make for himself.
The pounding of hooves drew his attention like a wasp to a piece of overripe fruit. It was the Numidian who had just spoken to him, and his companions. At least they would have some eyes now, he thought. He raised a hand to beckon the riders.
A soft whirring sound filled the air. Long, dark shadows hissed in from the edge of Hanno’s vision. Instinctively realising what they were, his throat closed with horror. In slow motion, his eyes swivelled, taking in the swarm of arrows arcing towards his men and the group of figures in the trees to his left, who stood with bows still raised. ‘Ambush!’ he roared. ‘All ranks, raise shields!’ He lifted his own scutum and ducked down behind it. Where the hell had the archers come from? One thing was certain in his mind: they would not be alone. He would have to seize control, warn Sapho if the situation were not to turn disastrous. A wary glance around the side of his shield made him curse bitterly. It was already too late. Of the six Numidians, only one remained astride his mount. The others were dead, wounded or had been thrown by their injured mounts. Frantic neighs. Bucking, rearing. Roars of pain from the wounded men. Even as Hanno’s mouth opened to order the last horseman to tell Sapho what was going on, a flurry of arrows struck him with soft, sinuous thumps. He went down screaming.
Through the trees, Hanno could see the shapes of men closing in. Legionaries. Scores and scores of the bastards. It was the same on the other side. Already they were outnumbered, and this would be a fraction of the force facing them, of that he had no doubt. Whoever had sprung this ambush had known what he was doing. Like their own trap at Lake Trasimene, it had been timed to perfection. ‘If we fight, we die. Retreating to the river is our only chance,’ he muttered.
‘And if we don’t retreat, the whoresons will stop the mules from crossing, sir,’ added Mutt, appearing by his side.
‘Let’s move. This lot will have orders to cut us off,’ said Hanno. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘About turn! The men on the flanks are to keep their shields high. Those inside, lift yours over your heads. If you want to live, do it fast!’ He shoved his way into the press of soldiers, becoming part of the formation, looking south towards the river. Mutt joined him. Hanno could taste the fear in the air, could see it in some men’s eyes. How quickly the mood could change, he thought, moving his tongue round a suddenly dry mouth. Yet Mutt’s steady presence by his side was calming, and the situation was far from lost. ‘Close order! Forward!’ he shouted. ‘Back to the river, at the double. Back!’
They began to run.
The instant that the Romans saw their purpose, they also charged, towards Hanno’s men. Amid the bouncing of shields and weapons, Hanno observed that these were no new recruits. Everywhere he looked, he could see mail shirts, crested helmets and plenty of long thrusting spears. These were not just principes but triarii, the cream of the Roman fighting force. ‘They’re fucking veterans,’ he growled.
‘The consuls must want to give us a real bloody nose, sir.’ Mutt’s grin was feral. ‘It’s a compliment of a kind.’
‘A compliment I’d rather not receive,’ retorted Hanno, although the knowledge gave him a surreptitious thrill.
The first Romans were spilling on to the road perhaps fifty paces ahead of them. They paid no heed to the last of the mules, who were being whipped onwards by their terrified handlers. Instead they began to form a shield wall, blocking the passage to the river. Hanno could hear their officers roaring encouragement to the men still in the trees. Their chance to break through was slipping away before his very eyes.
‘Form a point, behind me!’ he bellowed, moving to take the most forward position. Hanno could taste the sharp tang of fear in his mouth, but he pushed onward anyway. His men needed to be led from the front. If their resolve wavered, all would be lost. There was a moment when he could feel no one to his rear, and his heart hammered out a new, nervous rhythm. Then Mutt was there, and with him four, five, six others. Relief filled Hanno as the few men became a tide, and their formation assumed an arrowhead shape. He was at the very tip, the most dangerous place to be. That was because they had to succeed. If they didn’t reach Sapho’s phalanx to help defend the mules and their drivers, their plunder would all be lost. The army would go hungry. Worse than that, in Hanno’s mind, Hannibal would know that they had failed. That was not something he was prepared to let happen. Even if it cost him his life. ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘They’re only one or two ranks deep.’
Hanno aimed for the centre of the Roman line. As they drew closer, he had his troops slow down and throw a volley of javelins. They were moving again even as the legionaries responded in kind. ‘Shields up! Draw swords!’ Hanno bellowed and moved on. He was desperate to close with the enemy, but he did not run. If the impact when the two sides met was too powerful, it would knock many men over. Even so, they hit the legionaries with an almighty crash. Hanno hoped that wherever Sapho was, he heard it. Not that his brother would do much about it. The grain was more important than a small number of soldiers. That was the last coherent thought Hanno had. His world narrowed to the few paces in front of him. To the crazed grin on the face of the triarius opposite him, and the spear head that came shoving in, threatening to take out one of his eyes. He raised his shield, felt the thump as the sharp iron struck it.
The triarius tugged on his spear; Hanno held fast to his shield. He realised a heartbeat before his opponent that the blade was stuck. Up he came, like an uncoiling snake. With all his force, he sent his right arm out and around the side of the legionary’s scutum. Metal grated off metal; the tiniest delay, and then his sword was driving deep into the triarius’ belly. Hanno twisted his wrist for good measure, slicing the man’s guts to ribbons. The pressure on his shield suddenly slackened as the screaming triarius let go of his spear. Hanno ripped his weapon free and shoved forward a step with his useless shield. There was no resistance from his dying enemy, yet that did not stop the man in the rank behind from trying to skewer Hanno with his spear. It took every bit of Hanno’s strength to keep up his scutum. A powerful thump; his arm trembled; another impact, which he also resisted. He cursed; the legionary laughed and stabbed at him again; the blade whistled overhead. His enemy had all the advantage; his thrusting spear had a far greater reach than Hanno’s sword. In addition, Hanno would not be able to hold up his shield for much longer; it was front-heavy, thanks to the triarius’ weapon buried in it.