Every single one appeared to be screaming his contempt at the Romans.
Quintus felt his own anger rise. ‘We’re coming, you bastards!’ he bellowed.
‘Prepare to die!’ added Urceus. Around them, his comrades were roaring their own insults.
Many of the enemy soldiers began throwing their javelins, which rose into the blue sky in threes and fours. The hastati responded with jeers; one of Quintus’ tent mates hurled one of his pila. Nearby, other men struck by nerves loosed early as well.
‘HOLD, YOU MAGGOTS!’ shouted Corax. ‘HOLD!’ roared other officers. Corax tramped on. ‘Fifty paces!’
Few of the enemy missiles had the range to reach the legionaries, but that didn’t stop the Carthaginian soldiers. More and more of them cocked back their right arms and threw. They’re scared too, thought Quintus. Launching their javelins helps to combat their terror, shows their comrades that they’re prepared to fight. He wanted to do the same. Anything was better than just walking in the maw of death.
‘Forty paces! Halt. Front eight ranks, take aim. RELEASE!’ Corax’s right arm jerked forward, and his sword tip pointed directly at the enemy.
All along the Roman formation, the same order was being repeated. ‘RELEASE!’
Quintus had never seen so many pila in the air at once. They flew up in graceful shoals, tens of thousands of them. It was an unforgettable sight. As his eyes rose, he saw an eagle far above, aloof, regal. Under normal circumstances, seeing such a bird would have signified good luck. Yet scores of vultures also hung on the warm currents, waiting patiently for the feast that would follow. Their presence was far more ominous. He blinked. Off to his right, a huge dust cloud was trailing upwards from the battlefield. The cavalry on Hannibal’s left flank was charging the horsemen on the Roman right. His head turned. A similar bank of dust was rising from his left. Now Quintus felt nauseated. That was when he saw the hundreds and hundreds of enemy javelins that were scudding back in response to their volley. This is it, he thought, heart hammering in his chest. This is when it begins.
‘SECOND PILUM! TAKE AIM. RELEASE!’
In reflex, Quintus bent his right arm and flung his javelin with all his strength. With so many ranks in front of him, there was no way he could aim. He lobbed it as high as possible, to give it the best chance of landing among the enemy.
‘SHIELDS UP!’
The enemy missiles were already landing. With a soft choking noise, a hastatus two ranks in front of Quintus went down, a spear through his neck. Cries of pain rang out from Quintus’ left, his right, before him and behind. He ducked down with his scutum over his head. Waited, panting, sweating, full of dread, for an impact. All around him, he heard other shields being struck. The loud thumps were in stark contrast to the softer noises of javelins running into men’s flesh and the screams that followed. His gaze crossed with that of Urceus, whose teeth were gritted. Neither spoke. What was there to say?
‘LOWER SHIELDS! DRAW SWORDS!’ Corax was about twenty paces away, but the din was already so loud that his words were barely distinguishable. ‘FORWARD!’
Quintus glanced to either side. The officers in other maniples were also encouraging their men to advance, but the missile barrage had caused gaps to develop between the units. Some were now a few steps in front of his maniple, others ten or more behind. Gone was the uniform line that had existed as they began their walk towards the enemy.
CLASH! CLASH! CLASH! The hastati began to beat their swords off their scuta. Quintus did the same. He covered the remaining distance in a dream. Men close by were praying, cursing, muttering to themselves. The smell of piss grew strong, and with it, Quintus’ fear. But there was no going back. He was surrounded on all sides, pushed onwards by the inexorable weight of tens of thousands of his fellows. He drew deep on his reserves, gripped his gladius hilt until his knuckles went white. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, protect me, he asked. Mars, god of war, hold your shield over me. That helped. A little.
‘TWENTY PACES, LADS!’ Corax bawled. ‘FIFTEEN. STEADY!’
They’re not even making us charge the last bit, thought Quintus. It must be because there are so many new recruits. If they ran, too many individuals would lose their balance and fall when the two sides struck. His guts roiled at the idea. Fourteen paces. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. The clashing noise stopped as men prepared to fight. Both sets of soldiers continued to shout abuse at each other.
Incredibly, this was the moment that three Gaulish warriors chose to attack the Roman lines — on their own. Quintus stared in shock as, yelling like madmen, they swarmed forward. Curses rang out; he heard the impact of metal on metal; shouts; a strangled cry, followed by another.
‘What the hell’s happening?’ asked Urceus. Shorter than Quintus, he could not see much more than the rank in front.
Two figures broke away and ran back towards the Carthaginian front rank. Both were waving bloody swords. An immense roar of triumph greeted their arrival.
‘First blood has been spilt,’ replied Quintus grimly. ‘Two of our men; one Gaul.’
Urceus spat his contempt on to the dusty ground. ‘Bring the rest of the whoresons on.’
Quintus wanted to agree. Yet the audacity of the Gauls’ assault and the fact that two of them had each managed to kill a legionary was further harsh evidence that this would be no easy struggle. May the gods be with us.
‘ONWARDS!’ roared Corax.
Because of its position near the enemy ‘bulge’, Corax’s maniple was among the first to hit the Carthaginians. Despite the fact that one side was static and the other only walking, the impact when the two met was considerable. It couldn’t fail to be, thought Quintus, steadying the soldier in front with his scutum, feeling the man to his rear do the same to him. The legions’ frontage extended for more than fifty score paces, which meant that it took a little time for all the legionaries to engage the enemy but in the following few moments, the remainder collided with the Carthaginian troops. Crash. Thump. Crash. Thump. Countless shields battered into one another and, as they’d been trained, thousands of legionaries strained with all their power to unbalance their opponents.
Shouts of encouragement from the officers; war cries from the Gauls. Trumpets blaring from their rear; the incessant noise of the carnyxes. Cries of anger, of pain, of anguish. Then the screaming began. It started with a hastatus in the first rank somewhere off to Quintus’ right, but was quickly joined by another voice and another — and another. Soon it was coming from everywhere to his front. He could hear nothing but the sound of men roaring their agony to an uncaring world, the jarring clamour of opposing sets of musical instruments and the repetitive clash of weapons. His mouth was as dry as the dust beneath his feet. The temperature, which had been rising steadily during the morning, was now intolerable. Quintus felt as if he was going to fry, like a piece of meat in a pan. What insanity had driven him to join the infantry?
‘This is fucking torment,’ shouted Urceus in his ear. ‘What shall we do?’
‘We wait,’ said Quintus dully. ‘When enough men have been slain, our turn will come.’