The Gauls and Iberians looked unhappy, but none of them protested.
What the hell is he playing at? Hanno wondered, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
His father turned. ‘Trust in Hannibal,’ he whispered. ‘He knows what to do.’
I damn well hope so, thought Hanno. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Hannibal always had a plan.
‘The moment that that happens is when you’ — here Hannibal caught Hanno’s eye — ‘and the other phalanx commanders come in. .’
Like most of the infantry, Quintus had taken to lying on his blankets outside. The temperatures over the preceding weeks meant that sleep was impossible inside their eight-man tents. Even under the stars, however, there was little comfort to be had for hours after the sun had set. Men remained awake for some time before managing to fall asleep.
Thanks to the manoeuvrings of the previous day, which had been one of the hottest since the summer began, Quintus had heard not just the second watch being sounded, but the third. Being woken by the trumpets while it was still dark did not therefore improve his mood. ‘Varro has his mind made up then,’ he grumbled to Urceus.
The jug-eared man sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Seems like it. The gods be with us.’
Quintus was not alone in muttering in agreement. More than one man reached for the lucky amulet that hung around their necks.
‘I won’t have a tongue as thick as a plank today.’ Urceus kicked at the two bulging water bags by his feet.
‘Me neither.’ Quintus had been quick to copy his friend; Corax had told the entire maniple to do the same. Unless they were fools, every soldier in the army would carry plenty of water into battle. Dropping from thirst was a more stupid way to die than many.
‘Up! Up, you maggots!’ Corax came striding down the tent lines, already in his full uniform. His vine cane thwacked down on any man who had not got to his feet. Quintus stood at once; Urceus did likewise.
‘Today’s the day, my boys, today’s the big day! Have a piss, have a shit if you need it. Have one even if you don’t need it, because my bet is that you won’t get another chance later.’ Striding on, Corax smiled at the slightly nervous laughs that followed his comment. ‘I want no loose studs on the soles of anyone’s sandals, so check that before you put them on. Don your armour! Sit it comfortably, with your belt taking the weight of your mail, if you wear it. Walk around a bit, to ensure that you’ve got it right. Get a mate to check your straps — all of them: caligae, breastplate, helmet, shield. Check that your sword’s loose in its scabbard, that there are no splinters on the shafts of your javelins. Make an offering to the gods, if you’re of a mind. Do not forget to check that your water bags are full. Then, and only then, pack up a loaf of bread, and a piece of cheese, if you’re lucky enough to have that too. This could be a long day, and a bite of food when a man’s belly’s stuck to his backbone with hunger can give him the energy he needs to go on.’
Corax walked on, repeating himself at regular intervals, doling out gruff encouragements and blows from his vine cane in equal measure.
Quintus watched him admiringly before he began to follow his orders. For a time, there was no chance of brooding about what might happen that day. They were all far too busy preparing themselves and then forming up. Through the gaps in the tents, he saw the legionaries of other maniples doing the same. He wished he could take wing and observe the vast camp from above. What a sight it would make: tens of thousands of soldiers leaving their tent lines, assembling on the camp’s main avenues and on the open ground inside the fortifications. Preceded by their standards and trumpeters, they would tramp out of the four gates, there to join up and assume a marching formation.
Dawn had broken by the time they had reached their allotted place in the column. Dust rose in great clouds, coating everyone in a fine layer of brown, making men cough and curse. The heat was mounting steadily; the sun’s rays beat down on the army, baking the soldiers in their armour. Quintus was sweating heavily just from standing where he was. When the order came from the nearest tribune to move off, he breathed a sigh of relief. Any movement of air at all across his face was welcome.
‘Thank the gods that we’re relatively near the front, eh?’ Urceus jerked a thumb to their rear. ‘I pity the poor bastards who have to eat our dust all the way to wherever we’re going.’
‘The cavalry have the best of it,’ said Quintus, scanning a party of horsemen who were riding alongside their maniple for a sign of Calatinus. ‘They don’t send up half the amount of dust that infantry do.’
‘Their job’s easier too,’ grumbled a man in the rank behind. ‘Fucking pretty boys.’
Urceus snorted with amusement. ‘They’ll be sitting around fanning themselves much of the time while we’re grinding ourselves against the guggas like a file off a knife.’
Quintus had to rein in his instinctive reaction, which would have been to defend, heatedly, the men with whom he had previously fought. Much as he hated to admit it, though, his comrades did have a point. Their cavalry had not performed well thus far against Hannibal. ‘I don’t think it’ll be quite that easy for them.’ He thought of his father and Calatinus, and begged Mars, the god of war, to protect them both. ‘No doubt that we’ll have it harder, though.’ His stomach twisted, and he added a prayer for himself and all the men around him — except for Macerio. Curse him! The blond-haired man was two ranks back and a few steps off to his left, and Quintus asked that whatever happened, he didn’t end up with Macerio right behind him. In the chaos of a fight, no one would notice the direction from which a man was slain.
Dying like that was an even less attractive prospect than dying from thirst, or a Carthaginian blade.
Quintus knew that the uncontrollable waves that swept men about during battle might also mean that Macerio’s back could be presented to him instead of the other way round. He would have preferred to end his feud with the blond-haired man face-to-face, but Rutilus had lain unavenged for too long. If the opportunity presented itself, he would take it.
‘Hades, why are we forming up with such a narrow frontage?’ complained Quintus, who was standing in the seventh rank with Urceus, Severus and three more of his tent mates. ‘Six men wide per maniple? It doesn’t make sense. At this rate, none of us will get to do any fighting.’
Urceus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘We’ve a better chance of being alive come sundown, though,’ he whispered.
It was as if Corax, who was in the front rank, had supernatural hearing. His head twisted. ‘Who’s that whining?’
Quintus buttoned his lip and stared straight ahead at the back of the helmet of the man in front.
‘We form up as ordered, you miserable lowlifes! Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they all answered.
Corax’s scowl eased. ‘I know it’s fucking uncomfortable standing here, waiting to move forward. I know how hot it is, how the dust is getting into your eyes, your mouth, your arse crack. You want to get it all over with. But Varro knows what he’s at. So do Paullus and Servilius. The tribunes are following their orders, see? This is where we’ll fight because here we have our flanks protected.’
Quintus’ eyes shot to the left. Through the swirling dust, he could see a line of low hills and the fortified walls of Cannae, where Hannibal’s camp had been until a couple of days before. Somewhere at the foot of the slope, Varro was positioned with the allied cavalry. Out of sight to his right lay the River Aufidius, which they had forded to reach this spot. There his father and Calatinus would be, under Paullus’ command. He prayed that they would fight bravely, and live to see victory. Corax was still talking, and Quintus quickly focused in again.
‘We move when Servilius says so, not a fucking moment before!’ yelled the centurion. ‘Not every soldier here today is as well trained as you lot. The four legions that just joined us are mostly made up of wet-behind-the-ears lads who haven’t yet shaved, let alone faced the guggas. Forming them up narrow and deep takes time, and we’re doing it because then it’s far easier for their officers to maintain formation as we advance. And in case you hadn’t got it through your thick skulls yet, keeping our formation is all-important today! We’ve got to hit those Carthaginian whoresons so hard that they never recover from the shock of it. Twenty-four ranks of us should make sure of that, eh?’