‘Very true, sir.’
‘Baal Hammon grant that they drive the Romans from the field as Hannibal wanted.’ Whoops and cheers to their right made Hanno twist his head. He made out slingers and javelin men spilling into view from the ranks of the Gauls and Iberians. Muttering to one another, his soldiers shifted with excitement. ‘The skirmishers are coming back!’ cried Hanno.
‘So they are, sir,’ said Mutt, with more signs of life. ‘It’ll be the infantry’s turn next.’
Mutt was right. It took a while for all of the lightly armed soldiers to return, shouting and exhilarated that they had taken on a far superior number of Roman velites and lived to tell the tale. A little time went by, and nothing happened. The tension rose as the temperatures had, almost to boiling point. A great sigh went up when the enemy trumpets sounded a repetitive set of notes, over and over. It was the signal to advance. The wait was over.
Hanno actually felt relief; he saw the same emotion in more than one man’s face.
TRAMP. TRAMP. TRAMP. The noise of more than eighty thousand legionaries walking in unison was incredible. The ground beneath Hanno’s feet was reverberating from the impact. His stomach twisted with fear. In all of his life, he had never thought to hear or feel such a sound. At the Trebia, the sound had been impressive, but it had been diminished by the biting wind. At Trasimene, the Romans had never had the opportunity to move forward as one mass. He wished that he could stand in the front line, just for a moment, to witness the sight. I might shit myself, he thought with a touch of black humour, but it would be incredible to behold. So too would the spectacle of the Gaulish and Iberian warriors outdoing themselves to impress their fellows, and Hannibal. And the clash when the two sides met. Gods, what would that be like? Hanno took a deep breath; he let it out slowly. Stay calm. Our turn will come. Our turn to shine will come. Hannibal will be proud of us. Carthage will be proud of us. And I shall have my revenge for what was done to me at Victumulae — if not on Pera, then on every Roman who comes within range of my blade.
After perhaps an hour of skirmishing with their Carthaginian counterparts, the twenty thousand velites had been recalled. They had come spilling back into the narrow gaps between the maniples, shouting encouragement at the hastati and boasting of how many casualties they had caused. Fortunately, they had lost few of their own number. An air of even greater excitement, mixed with nervous anticipation, descended on the legionaries. Prayers were uttered, bargains made with the gods, throats cleared of phlegm. More men took a piss; a few puked up the water that they’d drunk. There were few jokes, fewer smiles. Matters had become serious.
The order to advance came the moment that the last of the velites had pulled back. A spontaneous, almighty cheer had gone up. No one had needed to be told to start clashing his pilum off his shield. The din had been incredible, and had gone on for some time. Corax and the other officers had had to resort to hand signals to get their soldiers to close up the gaps and to start moving. It was a good distance towards the enemy, however, and it wasn’t long before the noise abated. Men needed to save their strength for the walk under the burning midday sun. Standing in such close proximity to each other for more than two hours had been soul-sapping, like being in a crowded, overheated caldarium. Temperatures had risen to the point that the soles of Quintus’ sandals were hot to the touch. Any visible portions of his tunic were dark with perspiration. His felt helmet liner was saturated. Runnels of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyebrows. Hands full of shield and javelins, he blinked the salty sting of it from his eyes.
‘How far have we come, sir?’ Urceus called out.
Corax didn’t even turn his head. ‘By my count, six hundred paces. Perhaps two hundred to go until we reach the guggas. Are you with me, lads?’
‘YES, SIR!’ they roared from their parched throats.
‘Onwards!’ Corax levelled his pilum at the enemy.
TRAMP. TRAMP. TRAMP. The noise of eighty thousand soldiers advancing shook the ground.
Quintus peered around the heads of the men in front. Gusts of air were throwing up clouds of dust between the armies, but the Carthaginian lines were clearly visible now. ‘That’s odd.’
‘What?’ demanded Urceus, craning to see.
‘The centre of the enemy line is further forward than the sides. It’s curved forward, like a drawn bow.’
‘It’s just their lack of discipline. The damn fool Gauls in the centre want to start fighting first!’ said Urceus dismissively.
Severus sniggered. ‘They’ll soon change their minds.’
Severus was probably right, thought Quintus. Gauls were notoriously ill disciplined.
They walked on another twenty paces. Still the legionaries remained silent, conserving their energy. Thirty paces. Forty. Then it was sixty. Eighty. The carnyxes continued their hideous cacophony — as they had since the enemy host had formed up. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The Gauls blowing them must have enormous bloody lungs, thought Quintus wearily, wishing they would just shut up. Darting movement to the front attracted his attention. As if to accompany the carnyxes’ weird sound, dozens of individual warriors had just broken ranks and were prancing up and down before their comrades, bare-chested, waving their weapons and roaring abuse at the Romans. There were even a few who looked as if they had stripped naked. Quintus couldn’t help but feel a tremor of fear. They’re fucking crazy. He shook his head. Without armour, such men would be easily killed. The volleys of javelins would probably see to most of them. And as for the rest, he thought, well, all the hastati at the front had to do was hold steady, keep their shields together and thrust with their swords, not hack. ‘Hold steady,’ he whispered. ‘Hold steady.’
Urceus’ jaw was white with tension, but at Quintus’ words, he let out a chuckle. ‘We’ll do it, by Jupiter’s cock. There are far too many of us for the sewer rats to stand against.’
Quintus pulled his lips up into a smile of agreement, prayed that they lived to see the inevitable victory. Twisting his head, he searched for Macerio’s among those to his rear. The blond-haired man seemed as scared as ever. Good. I hope the fucker shits himself when it starts.
‘A hundred paces, lads,’ shouted Corax. ‘Take a pull of water if you need it. Take a look at your comrades to left and right. Remember that those men are who you’re fighting for.’
Quintus glanced at first Severus and then Urceus; he gave them both a stare that said, ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be watching out for you.’ His heart swelled, because they did the same to him. He couldn’t ask for better men to stand with.
‘At sixty, I want you to start making a right racket,’ cried Corax. ‘Clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the hastati replied.
‘LOUDER!’ bawled Corax. ‘Those fuckers opposite aren’t here to play games with.’
‘YES, SIR!’ There was more enthusiasm this time.
‘Good. Seventy-five paces.’
Quintus’ lips moved, counting each step he took. Without looking, he knew that every man in the maniple was doing the same. Mars, watch over me, he prayed. Grant us victory. Protect my comrades.
Clash! Clash! Clash! Other legionaries began to renew their clamour.
‘Sixty paces, boys!’
Quintus struck his iron pilum shaft off the metal rim of his scutum. Clash!
In no time, the 150-odd men of the maniple were making the same noise. So too were twenty thousand other hastati. CLASH! CLASH! CLASH! Quintus’ ears rang with the reassuring sound.
Corax kept them walking at the same slow pace. Now they could discern the faces of individual enemy warriors. Gauls with flowing moustaches and braided hair, wearing pointed iron helmets similar to their own. Big men for the most part, bare-chested, wearing colourful tunics and the occasional metal pectoral plate. They were armed with big, painted shields with iron bosses, long spears and straight swords. It was easy to spot the chieftains with golden torcs around their necks, mail shirts and ornate designs on their shields. There were also groups of Iberians, smaller men in crested and feathered helmets, and crimson-bordered cream tunics. Their shields were small and round, or flat and rectangular; they were armed with long, all-iron javelins, and swords, both curved and straight.