Urceus’ eyes held his for a moment and then flickered away.
Give me strength, O Great Mars, Quintus prayed. For today I shall need it.
Repeated clashes with the enemy front line had caused a further fracturing of the Roman formation. In some places it had been pushed back; in others, it had advanced a little. With the sun almost overhead, Quintus would have lost all sense of direction but for the range of hills to one side of the battlefield that were occasionally visible through the dust clouds. Nothing had gone as he had imagined it. All was confusion. All was chaos. Gone was the uniform line that had begun the advance. The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. Soldiers clashed, over and over. Some were wounded, some died and then, hurling abuse, the rest broke away from each other. Units lost contact with one another, failed to keep in line as they were supposed to. It was impossible for anyone to know what was going on further than perhaps twenty paces away from where they stood. It was natural, therefore, that groups of soldiers tended to bunch up close to their officers, or around the braver individuals among their comrades. The Carthaginian troops had done the same, turning the battle into a seething mass of large but separate contests.
Unsurprisingly, the hastati in Quintus’ unit clustered around their remaining centurion. Pullo had fallen early on, leaving Corax as the only senior officer. Amidst the mayhem, he was like a bulwark against the storm. Quintus had never been more glad to have such a charismatic, brave leader. Casualties had not been heavy initially, but as time passed, men grew tired. That was when they began to make mistakes — and men who did that died or were severely wounded. Since the maniple to their right had lost both of its centurions, scores of its hastati had been cut down. Without Corax, the same could well have happened to him and his comrades. But it hadn’t. Yet. Quintus had the additional worry of having to watch out for Macerio, in case the whoreson tried to stab him in the back. Fortunately, Urceus was also on the lookout. Thus far, nothing had happened.
A few moments earlier, the two sides had pulled back from one another. This was happening regularly, when each set of soldiers grew too tired to fight on without respite. Quintus’ rank had immediately been summoned by Corax from the mass of hastati who had not yet taken part in the combat. He, Urceus, Severus and the others had shuffled forward to their centurion, who was bleeding from a cut to his cheek. He was unhurt otherwise, however, and there was a terrible gleam in his eyes. ‘Ready to do your bit, lads?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ they answered, regarding the Carthaginians and the ground between them with a mixture of horror and fascination. Quintus had seen battlefields before, but, as a cavalryman, he had never been thrown into the midst of the carnage like this. It was appalling. Great patches of the dusty earth had been turned scarlet. The area was coated — literally — with the bloody bodies of the dead and injured. Severed limbs were scattered here and there. Discarded helmets, shields and swords added to the detritus. Moving forward had now become an exercise in trying not to trip up before reaching the enemy. It was accompanied by a never-ending din of shrieks. Many of the wounded had been dragged back by their comrades, but plenty more remained in no man’s land, where they wailed their agony while enough strength remained in their lungs.
‘It’s not pretty, and it will get worse,’ said Corax in a harsh voice. ‘Those fucking Gauls are tough, I’ll give them that.’
‘What’s next, sir?’ asked Urceus.
‘We drink some water. Have another piss. Rest for a little bit. Then we’ll go at them again.’ Corax eyed them each in turn. ‘And we’ll keep doing that until the scum break. You with me?’
The hastati who had been fighting already let out a ragged cheer. Quintus and the others hurriedly joined in, keen not to be seen as unwilling. Corax nodded at them, pleased. ‘Rest now, boys,’ he commanded. ‘You’ll need all your energy in the hours to come.’
Quintus did a quick check of his sandal straps and the strips of leather that ran under his chin to hold his helmet in place. Satisfied that they were tight, he wiped his hands clean of sweat, ensured that he had a firm grip on his sword hilt. He glanced at Urceus, who was guzzling water from his carrier. ‘Ready for this?’
Urceus lowered the bag and scowled. ‘As I’ll ever be. You?’
‘The only way to victory is through those damn Gauls and out the other side. I’m not going to stop until I get there,’ replied Quintus, hoping he sounded bolder than he felt.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Corax, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘You might make a princeps yet.’
Quintus grinned, but his new confidence wavered when the Gauls opposite their position began a new chorus of war cries. Corax’s reaction was instant. ‘Close order! They’re coming at us again.’
They moved to stand side by side, perhaps fifteen men wide and three deep. Quintus found himself in the front rank, with Urceus to one side and Corax on the other. He had only just had a drink, but his mouth was parched. Forget your damn thirst, he thought, forget your fear. Concentrate. Watch your footing. Keep your shield high and your face protected.
‘Forward, lads,’ shouted Corax. ‘Slowly. No point rushing — we’ve got all day to beat these motherless gugga bastards!’
A ripple of laughter through the ranks, and Quintus’ spirits rose. Morale must still be high if men could find humour in their situation.
Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo. The Gauls playing their carnyxes gave fierce encouragement to their fellows. On they came, a bunched mass of warriors perhaps fifty strong. They were led by a stocky, middle-aged man in a mail shirt and ornate helmet. Two gold torcs around his neck further proclaimed his status. This is a tribal war band, thought Quintus. Slay the chieftain and the others will flee. That would prove no easy task, however. A pair of burly men, similarly armoured, flanked the leader. Their size and polished weapons were proof of their abilities.
Corax had come to the same realisation; the chieftain had to be killed. ‘Here, you stinking, flea-bitten whoreson!’ he roared, pointing his sword. ‘HERE!’
The Gaul saw Corax’s crested helmet and the phalerae on his chest and recognised that he was the best foe to attack. With a loud growl, he broke into a trot. His men followed at his heels. Quintus fought the panic that came bubbling up his throat.
‘Ready, lads?’ shouted Corax. ‘Here they come!’
With the chieftain aiming for Corax, Quintus was going to face one of his bodyguards, a hulk carrying a lethal-looking sword and a long, oval shield adorned with a swirling snake. This was a fearsome adversary, but he couldn’t let his centurion down. Quintus shuffled his left leg forward, made sure that it was on a stable footing and bent his knee to brace his shield. Leaning into the curve of the scutum, he stooped so that the only visible part of him was his eyes and the top of his helmet. The warriors were upon them. Quintus’ vision was full of charging, screaming Gauls. His opponent was already swinging a massive overhead blow at him.
He dropped his head, letting the metal rim of his shield take the impact. THWACK! His scutum was nearly ripped from his hand. Quintus thrust forward with his gladius, felt it strike the warrior’s shield. Damn it! He tugged it free, risked a glance over his scutum, had to duck down to avoid being brained by another mighty swing. Again his left arm was wrenched downward. Panic tore at him. A few more blows like that and he wouldn’t be able to defend himself any longer. Quintus peeked around the side of his shield, stabbing intuitively at the warrior’s left foot. His blade connected, sliced into flesh.
With a roar of pain, the warrior staggered backwards. Quintus took another look. Blood was pouring from the man’s foot. It wasn’t a mortal wound by any means, but it had granted him a breather. To his left, Urceus was trading blows with a red-haired Gaul. Corax was fighting the chieftain. Neither bout had been decided as yet. Quintus’ heart leaped into his mouth. Maybe he could help Corax? There would only be the briefest of opportunities before his own opponent renewed his attack. That made up his mind. As the chieftain thrust at Corax, Quintus rammed his gladius at the man’s armpit. Mars, guide my blade! The links in the chieftain’s mail shirt gave way beneath the force of Quintus’ thrust and the iron slid deep into his chest. The chieftain’s eyes bulged in shock; a choking cry left his mouth — and Corax stabbed him through the right eye. Aqueous fluid spattered everywhere. Gouts of blood followed the watery liquid as Quintus pulled his weapon free. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of wheat.