‘Very good, sir.’ Mutt turned around so that the soldiers nearby could hear and cupped a hand to his lips. ‘On my command, turn to the right!’ He scurried off down the side of the phalanx, spreading the word. By the time he had returned, which wasn’t long, hundreds of Gauls and Iberians were walking — fast and backwards — away from the centre of the line. Mutt cast a glance at Hanno, who nodded. ‘TURN!’ roared Mutt. ‘TURN!’
It was as if they had read Cuttinus’ mind. A sharp set of notes from his musicians signalled that the phalanxes should wheel as Hannibal had told them to do. Some of Hanno’s soldiers took an eager step forward as they faced towards the men who were retreating. An angry roar from Hanno saw them shuffle back into line. He was rigid with tension now. Even the Iberians and Gauls near them — the men at the leftmost edge of the line — were pulling back. They were doing so slowly and in good order, facing to the front with their swords and shields raised high. If the order came, they could stop and immediately begin to fight. He corrected himself. When the order came. Because the only reason that so many warriors were withdrawing was because those at the very front were no longer able to hold back the Romans. Any moment now, a tide of legionaries would come pouring through what had been the centre of their battle line.
Another set of notes from Cuttinus.
‘CLOSE ORDER!’ shouted Hanno. He broke formation to watch his men move shoulder to shoulder, shield resting against shield, as they’d been trained these past months. Pride filled him at how fast they did it. There were perhaps forty men fewer than had been in the unit when he’d taken command of it, just before the Trebia. He might not have been with them since Iberia, but Hanno felt bonded to them now. A mad notion took him. There was probably just enough time, if he moved fast. He dragged out his sword and walked to the soldier at the left-hand edge of the phalanx. It pleased him to see that it was the older man who’d been with him the night that he’d been captured at Victumulae. A steady pair of hands where it counted, he thought, giving the veteran an approving nod. The gesture was returned, which prompted a warm feeling in Hanno’s belly.
‘You’ve all been through a lot since you sailed from Carthage to join Hannibal in Iberia,’ he called. ‘You’ve fought and marched all the way to Italy!’ The Libyans cheered him then, and he began to walk slowly along the front rank, clattering his sword tip off the metal rims of their scuta. ‘From Carthage to Iberia to Gaul to Italy! And never beaten! Be proud of yourselves!’ Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. Their roars of approval, fierce grins and eyes bright with determination told him to continue. ‘Today, Hannibal needs you more than ever. As he has never needed you before!’ Hanno was about halfway along the front rank. Everyone in the phalanx could hear him here. He turned and pointed dramatically with his sword. His guts twisted. The Gauls and Iberians were running now. They had broken. ‘The bastard Romans are going to appear there any instant. What are we going to do to them?’
‘Kill the fuckers!’ screamed Mutt with more energy than Hanno had ever seen him display. He was standing at the far right of the front of the phalanx, where it abutted the next unit.
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ shouted the men, hitting their shields with their gladii.
The Libyans in the next phalanx took up the chant at once. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
Soon it was echoing all along the line, drowning out the retreating warriors’ shouts of dismay.
Satisfied, Hanno resumed his place in the front rank.
Cuttinus’ musicians sounded the advance.
Heart pounding, Hanno popped his sword under his left armpit and gave his right hand a last wipe on the bottom of his tunic. He repeated the process with his other hand. ‘FORWARD, AT THE WALK! HOLD THE LINE! PASS THE WORD ON.’ Mutt would keep the phalanx close to the one to their right.
They had gone about twenty paces when Hanno saw his first legionary. Some fifty steps to his front, the Roman was pursuing an Iberian who had flung away his shield. A savage, arcing cut from the legionary’s sword opened the Iberian’s flesh from shoulder to waist. Blood sprayed; he fell to the ground, letting out a high-pitched shriek. The legionary hardly paused. He ran on, trampling the body, not even seeing the phalanxes of Libyans. Nor did his comrades, a dozen or more of whom came tearing on behind him. Excitement thrilled through Hanno. We look like them, he thought. He would wager that Hannibal had even thought of this little detail.
The sudden signal to halt came as a surprise, but Hanno obeyed it nonetheless. ‘HALT! Stay where you are,’ he bellowed.
‘Why, sir?’ asked the man to his left. ‘There they are!’
Unasked, it came to him. ‘We let as many of the dogs go past as possible, because that way, more of them will be trapped.’
The soldier bared his teeth. ‘Ah, I see, sir. A good plan.’
‘Not a word now. No shouting, no cheering. Stay quiet. Pass it on.’
With a grin, the soldier did as he was told. Hanno ordered the man to his right to do the same. Then they waited, knuckles white on the grips of their weapons, as they hid in plain sight of the Romans. The numbers of Carthaginian troops retreating had slowed to a trickle, and with each of Hanno’s rapid heartbeats, scores upon scores of legionaries charged into view. Soon it was hundreds. More men than he could count. Cheering. Shouting insults. Encouraged by officers. So eager to kill the enemy that all semblance of order, of maintaining formation, had been lost. They did not even see the Libyans waiting to their right, not a javelin shot away. There were a few cursory glances thrown in their direction, but no one registered that these were not just other Romans. After all, the enemy had broken!
Gods, thought Hanno. This can’t go on. They will see us. Eventually, they have to.
His heart thumped out another dozen beats. Hundreds more Romans flooded past them. So many were advancing into the gap now that some of the men were coming within spitting distance of the Libyans’ lines. ‘Hold,’ hissed Hanno. ‘Hold!’ Come on, Cuttinus, he screamed silently. Give us the fucking order!
And then it came. Strident. Piercing. Definitive.
‘FORWARD!’ screamed Hanno. ‘KILL!’
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ yelled his men.
They’d gone ten paces before the first Roman faces turned and saw them. Even then, with death approaching, it didn’t register. Only when Hanno was so close that he could see the pockmarks on the nearest Roman’s face did he observe the first signs of fear among them. He saw jaws drop, panic flare in eyes, heard shouts of ‘Stop! Stop! They’re not our men!’ and ‘Turn, lads, turn!’
But it was too late. The Libyans swept in on the undefended Roman flank like avenging demons. Hanno’s fear was swept away by a red mist of battle rage. He saw Pera in every Roman face. He would slay them all.
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
‘At this rate, we’ll run the bastards all the way to the west coast,’ shouted Urceus, slowing up. He wiped his brow with the back of his sword arm. The movement left smears of blood across his face, turning him into a wild-eyed maniac.
I probably look like that too, thought Quintus. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered any longer except moving forward — and trying to stay alive. He stared at the fleeing Gauls and Iberians, still not believing his eyes. Servilius’ charge had worked like a dream. They had smashed into the mass of Gauls with the long spears of the triarii at the point of the wedge. Surprised by their enemies’ ferocity, the tribesmen had fallen back. That had been enough encouragement for a large number of other hastati to come barrelling forward again. The fighting had been intense, more savage than what had gone before, and the Gauls had not given up without a hard struggle. They had retreated, but had continued to face the Romans and to fight. Slowly but surely, though, the legionaries had pushed on, one bloody step at a time. In Quintus’ section of the line, they had pushed the Gauls back a couple of hundred paces at least. A few heartbeats prior, however, things had changed. He didn’t know what had been the final straw, but many of the warriors had begun to flee. It was odd how fast panic spread once it took hold, he thought. It wasn’t dissimilar to watching a spark take hold in a bundle of dry kindling, the way the flames licked and wrapped themselves around the next piece of wood with fearful speed. Before you knew it, you had a proper fire going.