‘But there’s no need to wait! We’ve got an army nearly twice the size of Hannibal’s now! More than fifty thousand legionaries can’t go wrong, my friend. Our men broke through the enemy lines at both the Trebia and Trasimene, remember? As long as neither consul does anything stupid, we’ll simply flatten the guggas when it comes to a fight.’
Quintus relaxed a little. It was impossible not to agree with Urceus. Everyone was of the same opinion. As Calatinus had told him, they might have slightly fewer horse than the Carthaginians, but the task facing their cavalry was simple. The enemy horse had to be contained, that was all, while the infantry smashed a great hole in Hannibal’s main line. Once that was done, the cavalry battle would largely become superfluous. ‘We can sit back and just watch you lot sweating in the sun,’ Calatinus had joked. It was easy enough to picture the legionaries wheeling to complete the massacre of the Carthaginian foot soldiers. Even if by that stage Hannibal’s riders had gained the upper hand in their clash with the Roman horse, thought Quintus, they would be able to do little more than harass the legionaries. ‘Victory will be ours!’ he said, feeling the certainty in his belly grow.
‘Victory will be ours,’ repeated Urceus. ‘And it could well be tomorrow.’
Hanno’s muscles were weary as he followed the messenger to Hannibal’s tent. Although there had been no battle, it had taken most of the day to leave their position and form up opposite the Roman encampment; to wait there, their challenge unanswered; and then to return whence they had come. He questioned the messenger, one of Hannibal’s scutarii, but the man claimed not to know why their general had summoned him. His tiredness fell away as they neared Hannibal’s great pavilion at the centre of the camp. A crowd stood before it, perhaps thirty-five men from all sections of the army. There were Numidian officers, Gaulish, Balearic and Iberian chieftains. With a thrill of excitement, Hanno recognised Hannibal’s brother Mago, and his cavalry commanders Maharbal and Hasdrubal. His father was present too, with Bostar, Sapho and the other phalanx commanders.
Gods, I’m not the last one here, am I? Hanno’s face reddened as they joined the group. His discomfiture soared when Hannibal, clad in a simple purple tunic, saw him amidst the throng.
‘Welcome, son of Malchus,’ said Hannibal. ‘One of the men who has kept this army fed of late.’
Appreciative murmurs met his words.
Embarrassed now, and delighted by this public recognition, Hanno grinned like a fool. When Sapho winked at him, he was able to return the gesture without effort.
‘To business,’ declared Hannibal, indicating the table before him, upon which sat little piles of black, and white, stones. ‘The Romans did not accept my offer of battle today.’
‘Worse luck, sir!’ called Sapho.
‘Damn right,’ added a Gaulish chieftain. ‘My men are still complaining!’
A burst of laughter.
Hannibal smiled. ‘There will be a fight soon, never fear. It may well be tomorrow.’
In a heartbeat, the atmosphere had changed. Tension creased every man’s face.
‘Most of us were standing near the Roman camp today, but not all. Zamar’ — he indicated the Numidian — ‘and a few of his best men were lying on top of the hill at Cannae. Would you like to hear what they saw?’
A chorus of loud growls, of ‘Yes, sir!’
‘It wasn’t that much, at first glance. A party of enemy officers, on the other side of the river. Zamar watched long enough, however, to recognise that the Romans were scouting out the ground.’ He let them suck on the bones of that.
Malchus’ gravelly voice broke the silence. ‘You think that the consul who’s in charge tomorrow is going to march the legions over there, sir?’
‘I do. Come and see the plan that we shall follow should I be right.’ Hannibal’s teeth flashed from the depths of his dark beard, and he tapped the table top.
There was a rush to join him. Hanno did not dare to stand at the front, but thanks to his height, he still had a good view over his father’s shoulder.
‘These are the hills upon which Cannae sits.’ Hannibal’s fingers trailed over a line of large pebbles, before moving on to a thin strip of leather that ran roughly parallel to the stones. ‘And this is the River Aufidius.’ He glanced up. ‘Everyone clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
With swift motions of his hands, Hannibal arranged a score or more black stones in three lines, forming a great rectangle. He placed the shape’s long sides so that they ran parallel to the hills and the far side of the river. ‘The legions’ three lines.’ On either side of the ‘legions’, he laid a thin row of more black stones. ‘The enemy cavalry.’ A disordered pattern of tiny pebbles in front of the rectangle. ‘The enemy skirmishers.’ Again Hannibal let silence fill the air, let his officers make sense of what he’d done. After a few moments, he continued, ‘If the Romans intend to fight on this ground, they will have to do so like this. With a narrow frontage and a much deeper formation than normal. It seems sensible to do that. Half their men are new recruits. Marching them into battle like this will keep them in position and prevent them from panicking. Thanks to the hills and the river, it also restricts the area available for cavalry combat, which they know we are likely to win.’
His hands moved again, assembling the white stones opposite the black.
Hanno stared, but could not make sense of what he was seeing. He looked around, saw the same incomprehension on other faces.
‘Ha!’ Hannibal chuckled. ‘Can any of you tell me what my idea is?’
‘These are our cavalry,’ said Hasdrubal with a little smile, pointing at the lines of stones on either side of the central pattern.
‘Smart arse!’ Hannibal gave him a good-natured clout. ‘You’re right, of course. I want you on the left, near the river, with the Iberian and Gaulish horse. Maharbal, you’re to take the right flank with the Numidians. When the fighting starts, I want you both to advance. Hasdrubal, you’re to drive off the citizen cavalry. Maharbal, engage the socii horsemen, but do not close with them. Hasdrubal, keep your men on a tight rein. The instant your objective has been achieved, you’re to turn and come to Maharbal’s aid.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the cavalry commander.
‘This looks a little like a house lying on its side, does it not?’ Hannibal’s fingers traced the outline of the stones that lay between the cavalry wings. ‘Two walls, and a slightly domed roof. And rain falling on top of it.’
‘Put us out of our misery, sir,’ demanded Malchus. Hanno’s emphatic murmur of agreement was repeated by many others. What would their general’s latest stroke of genius be?
‘Very well. The “rain drops” are our skirmishers, the house is our centre, clearly. It’s to be made up of Gauls and Iberians, and I will command it with you, Mago.’ His brother looked pleased.
The Gaulish chieftain who had complained about his men leaned forward and jabbed at the stones with a thick forefinger. ‘Is great honour to stand in centre, with you as leader,’ he said in poor Carthaginian. ‘But why bow the line forward like this? Is stupid!’
Some officers looked shocked at the Gaul’s abruptness, but Hannibal just smiled. ‘Think,’ he said gently and tapped the black rectangle. ‘Eighty thousand legionaries cannot be stopped, even if half of them are inexperienced. No one could do it, not even you and all your fine warriors.’ His respectful gaze found the Gaulish and Iberian chieftains one by one. They gave him grudging nods in return.
‘So, Romans push us back, and back?’ asked the chief.
‘Yes.’ Hannibal moved the ‘roof’ until it had flattened into a straight line. ‘To here. Naturally, the Romans won’t stop at that stage.’ He nudged the white stones until they bowed inwards. Then he parted a few of them. ‘Our lines might even break.’