The Romans were very close now. He could see their faces clearly, hear their triumphant war cries. They were definitely citizens, not socii. Their mounts were of good quality, sturdy little horses that looked well trained. Most of the riders wore Boeotian helmets and mail shirts; a good number were armed with gladii as well as thrusting spears. All carried small round shields. They rode close together, their mounts’ shoulders only a few paces apart. It was like facing a fast-moving wall of metal and muscle. Hanno’s bladder threatened to empty itself, but he shoved the urge away and raised his shield. ‘They won’t like foot soldiers launching a counter-attack,’ he shouted to the injured Libyan. ‘Forward!’
It felt insane not to turn and run, but he advanced anyway. From the corner of his eye, Hanno saw the Libyan limping after him. Beyond that, Mutt and his companions were also moving forward. A cracked, manic cry left Hanno’s throat. It was born of fear, desperation, the shreds of his courage, and a tinge of sheer bravado. Aiming his javelin at the rider who looked most likely to strike him, a long-legged man close to his own age, he trotted on. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ he yelled.
The Roman looked startled to see him running in, but he quickly regained control. He levelled his spear at Hanno’s head. His horse whinnied and slowed down, however, disconcerted by the approach of a screaming man bearing a large shield. Hanno drew nearer, still shouting and praying the other enemy horses didn’t knock him down, or their riders stab him in the back. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ He could scarcely hear his own voice above the sound of pounding hooves.
The Roman’s spear came thrusting down at his face. Hanno met it with his shield, at the same time peeping around its side. A quick jab with his javelin and the head sank into the cavalryman’s thigh. A piercing cry of pain rent the air; the spear fell from the man’s nerveless hand as he toppled off his mount. Hanno didn’t go after him; instead he wheeled and plunged his pilum into the chest of a passing horse. It was a foolish move. Although the beast staggered and threw its rider, it wrenched the javelin from his hand. He caught a brief glance of its shaft bending in two as the horse rolled over and then it was gone.
His eyes shot over the ground, between the legs of passing riders and steeds, searching frantically for another weapon. A whistle in the air. Hanno ducked instinctively, and the spear that would have skewered him between the shoulder blades screeched off the top of his helmet instead. Even as he tried to turn, a massive weight barged him sideways, unbalancing him. He saw sky, a horse, a snarling face, and then the ground hit him very hard. A hoof clashed off his helmet.
Hanno’s world went black.
When he came to, the Roman riders were still riding past, so he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. Some hundred paces away, a line of legionaries was advancing in his general direction. Shouts and the clash of weapons carried from the riverbank. Stars spun across his vision, and his head felt as if it were about to burst. There was a massive dent in the top of his helmet, but it was still in place, which was probably the reason he was alive. With difficulty, Hanno undid the chinstrap and eased it off. Cool air ruffled his sweat-soaked hair. The movement sent knives of pain lancing into his brain, and he bit back a curse. Yet it had to come off. Any legionary who saw its shape would know him for a Carthaginian. Without it, in his cuirass, he could perhaps pass for a Roman officer. He had to play dead first, though. The enemy riders had passed by; he just had to escape the infantry’s attention. With a few tugs, he managed to pull the corpse of a cavalryman on top of himself. It was a relief to close his eyes. Hanno wanted to go to sleep, to have his headache disappear, but there was no chance of that. The harsh taste of fear was too strong in his mouth. If a single Roman stopped to look at him, he was a dead man. Stay calm. Breathe slowly and deeply.
The best thing to do might have been to lie there until it was dark, but Hanno felt that to be the act of a coward. He wanted to cross the river, be there with his men when they marched back into their camp, when they received Hannibal’s accolade. He listened with all his might, not moving a muscle as the legionaries tramped past, some distance to his right. When the sounds had diminished, he waited a little longer before shoving the body to one side. Lifting his head a fraction, he peered around. To his relief, he was entirely behind the Roman troops. There was no sign of any more emerging from the road or the trees either.
Hanno struggled to his feet, drew his sword, picked up a scutum. A few paces away, he spotted the body of the bearded Libyan; beside him lay the man who’d been wounded in the leg. Both were covered in wounds. He felt sad but proud of the pair. Welcome them into the afterlife, Hanno asked the gods, for they have earned it. Throwing back his shoulders, he tramped after the enemy soldiers as confidently as he could. Anger flared in his belly. In front of the legionaries, the shapes of the cavalry swirled back and forth, the riders hacking down with their swords from time to time. Some of his Libyans clearly hadn’t made it into the water. The infantry would be closing in, intent on finishing them off. Hanno wanted to run, to join in the fight, but he knew that for a pointless way to die. His purpose was to survive. He ensured that his pace was measured, regular.
As he reached the mass of Roman troops, his heart rose to his mouth but to stop might draw attention, so he kept moving, right into the midst of the enemy. The fighting seemed to have eased or even ended, and their formation had broken up. Small groups of men trotted to and fro, killing wounded Libyans or looting the dead. Others were being directed by their officers to turn the carts that had been abandoned around. A few had even downed their shields and were slaking their thirst from wine skins. Everyone was intent on his own purpose. Muttering a prayer for himself this time, Hanno ducked his head and threaded his way through the confusion. It didn’t take him that long to near the riverbank. A generous coating of bodies, both dead and injured, covered the ground. Unsurprisingly, most of them were Libyan. Hanno’s eyes studied each as he passed; his heart bled as he recognised numerous soldiers from his phalanx. To his immense relief, he saw none with non-mortal wounds. He didn’t know if he could have left such a man behind.
On the other side, the wagons were moving off, guarded by some of the Libyans who had made it across. A rearguard remained, safely out of javelin range, perhaps a hundred soldiers and all of the Numidians. Hanno recognised a familiar figure at the Libyans’ head: Mutt. At least his second-in-command had made it, he thought with some satisfaction. He glanced at the ford. None of the Romans were attempting to cross, but there were far too many of them standing around for him to be able to enter the water at that point. There was nothing for it: he would have to swim. That meant taking off his cuirass. In his current state, Hanno didn’t feel strong enough to brave the crossing with its extra weight. By removing his armour, however, he would expose himself as an enemy. The Romans would turn on him like a pack of feral dogs. He swallowed. Just act as if everything is entirely normal, he decided.
Heart pounding, Hanno walked to a point on the bank where there were fewer legionaries, shedding his baldric as he did. At the water’s edge, he didn’t look back. Fiddling with the buckles at the side of his cuirass, he undid them. He reached for the upper ones. The effort — and the pain that caused — was too much for him. He paused, waiting until his strength returned a little.