‘Look at the whoresons!’ cried Malchus, who had come over from his phalanx. ‘Will they never stop coming?’
Hanno eyed the ground opposite their position, which was being filled with a plodding inevitability. ‘It must be the entire Roman army.’
‘I’d say so,’ answered his father bleakly. Abruptly, he laughed. ‘However cold you think your men are, those fuckers are in a far worse state. In all likelihood, they’ve had no food, and now they’re all drenched to the skin too.’
Hanno shuddered. He could only imagine how cold the wind would feel on wet clothing and heavy mail, both of which carried heat away from the body anyway. Demoralising. Energy-sapping.
‘Meanwhile,’ his father went on, ‘we’re ready and waiting for them.’
Hanno glanced to either side. As soon as the Numidians had retreated safely, he and his men had pulled back to Hannibal’s battle formation, which consisted of a single line of infantry in close order. The slingers and Numidian skirmishers were arrayed some three hundred paces in front of the main battle line. Their general had not placed his strongest infantry — the Libyans and Iberians — in the centre. Instead, that space was filled by about eight thousand Gauls. ‘Surely we should be standing there?’ he asked crossly. ‘Instead, it’s our newest recruits.’
Malchus gave him a calculating look. ‘Think about it. Listen to them.’
Hanno cocked his head. The war cries and the carnyx blasts emanating from the Gauls’ ranks were deafening. ‘They’re delighted with the honour that Hannibal has granted them. It will increase their loyalty.’
‘That’s right. To them, pride is everything,’ answered Malchus. ‘What could be better than being given the centre of the line? But there’s another reason. The heaviest fighting, and the worst casualties will be there too. Hannibal is saving us and the Iberians from that fate.’
Hanno gave his father a shocked glance. ‘Would he do such a thing?’
‘Of course,’ replied Malchus casually. ‘The Gauls can easily be replaced. Our men, and the scutarii and caetrati, cannot. That’s why we’re on the wings.’
Hanno’s respect for Hannibal grew further. He eyed the seventeen elephants standing just in front of their position. The rest were arrayed on the other wing, before the Iberian foot soldiers. Further protection for the heavy infantry, he realised. Outside, on each flank, sat five thousand Numidians and Hannibal’s Iberian and Gaulish horse. The Carthaginian superiority in this area would hopefully afford Hannibal a good chance of winning the cavalry battle. Meanwhile, the Gauls would have to resist the hammer blow delivered by the Roman legions to the centre of the Carthaginian line. ‘Will the Gauls hold?’ he asked anxiously.
‘There’s a decided chance that they will not,’ Malchus replied, clenching his jaw. ‘They might be brave, but they’re poorly disciplined.’
Hanno stared over at the tribesmen. Few of them wore armour. Even in this weather, most preferred to fight stripped to the waist. There was no denying that the legionaries’ mail shirts and heavy scuta would provide them with a severe test. ‘If they don’t break, however, and our cavalry are successful…’
Malchus’ grin was wolf-like. ‘Our troops on each side will have a god-given opportunity to attack the sides of the Roman formation.’
‘That’s when Mago’s force will appear.’
‘We must hope so,’ said his father. ‘For all of our fates will lie with them.’
Hanno could hardly bear it. ‘So many small things have to succeed for us to win the day.’
‘That’s right. And the Gauls will have the hardest task of any.’
Hanno closed his eyes and prayed that everything went according to plan. Great Melqart, you have helped Hannibal thus far. Please do the same again today.
In the event, Fabricius spotted one of the consul’s messengers well before Quintus and his comrades had warmed up. He rode to confer with him, and returned at the double.
‘Longus wants all citizen cavalry positioned on the right flank, and the allied horse on the left. We’ve got to ride north, to the far end of the battle line.’
‘When?’ asked Quintus irritably. His earlier excitement had been sapped by the mind-numbing cold.
‘Now!’ Fabricius called out to his decurions: ‘Have the men form up. We ride out at once.’
As the cavalrymen emerged from the trees, Quintus could have sworn that the wind hit them with a new vigour, stripping away any of the warmth that they had briefly felt. That settled it, he thought grimly. The sooner the fighting began, the better. Anything rather than this torture.
Fabricius led them through the gaps in the three lines of soldiers to the front of the army. By the time they had reached open ground, Quintus had gained a good appreciation of the entire host. Longus had ordered the legions to deploy in traditional pattern, with a hundred paces between each line and the next. The veteran triarii were at the rear, in the middle were the principes, men in their late twenties and early thirties, and next came the ranks of the hastati, the youngest of the infantry. At the very front stood the exhausted velites, who, despite their recent travails, would be forced to engage the enemy first.
All three lines were composed of maniples. Those of hastati and principes comprised two centuries of between sixty and seventy soldiers. There were fewer triarii, however, and their maniples were made up of just two centuries of thirty men each. The units in each line did not yet form a continuous front. Instead, they were positioned one century in front of the other, leaving gaps equal to the maniple’s frontage between each unit. The units of the second and third lines stood behind the spaces in front, forming a quincunx configuration like the ‘5’ face on a gaming die. This positioning allowed a rapid transition to combat formation when the rear century in each maniple would simply run around to stand alongside the front one. It also permitted soldiers to retreat safely from the fighting, allowing their fresher comrades access to the enemy.
It was a long way to the edge of the right flank, so Quintus also had time to study the Carthaginian forces. These were arrayed about a quarter of a mile distant, sufficiently near to appreciate the enemy’s superior numbers of cavalry, and the threatening outlines of at least two dozen elephants. The blare of horns and carnyxes carried through the air, an alien noise compared to the familiar Roman trumpets. It was clear that Hannibal retained fewer troops than Longus, but his host still made for a fearsome, if unusual, sight.
At length Quintus began to feel quite exposed. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait much longer. They passed the four regular legions, spotting Longus and his tribunes at the junction between these and the allied troops of the right wing. Finally, Fabricius’ unit reached the Roman cavalry, which, with their arrival, numbered just under a thousand. There was more ribaldry as the assembled riders demanded to know where they had been.
‘Screwing your mother!’ shouted a wit among Fabricius’ men. ‘And your sisters!’
Angry roars rose from the joke’s victims, and the air filled with insults. A smile twitched across Fabricius’ lips. He glanced at Quintus and registered his surprise. ‘Many of them are going to die soon,’ he explained. ‘This takes their minds off it.’
The mention of heavy casualties made Quintus feel nauseous. Would he survive to see the next dawn? Would his father, Calatinus or Cincius? Quintus looked around at the familiar faces, the men he had come to know over the previous weeks. He didn’t like all of them, but they were still his comrades. Who would end the day lying bloodied and motionless in the cold mud? Who would be maimed, or blinded? Quintus felt the first fingers of panic clutch at his belly.
His father took his arm. ‘Take a deep breath,’ he said quietly.
Quintus shot him a worried glance. ‘Why?’
‘Do as I say.’
He obeyed, relieved that Calatinus and Cincius were deep in conversation with each other.