Ithobaal wasn’t going to give up completely. ‘When will we take the place, sir?’
‘Soon, you fool! It’s not much more than ten miles away, and our army is only a couple of days behind us. The siege won’t take long. If you’re lucky, some of you might even find a supply of wine inside the walls. If your luck isn’t in in that regard, Ithobaal, you’d best hope that your whingeing hasn’t pissed off those of your mates who do strike it rich.’
The smiles broke out at last but Mutt was already walking away. ‘I’d tell you to sing, but you’d make too much noise,’ he announced in a loud voice. ‘Talk among yourselves instead to make the time go by. Imagine the spring sunshine in Iberia. Think of the whores who worked in the Crescent Moon, that tavern in New Carthage, and the good wine they served there.’ More than one man groaned, and Mutt nodded in satisfaction. He’d caught the mood in time. Experience had taught him to act sooner rather later in such situations, or morale could be soured for the rest of the day.
Catching sight of Hanno at the front of the patrol lifted Mutt’s mood a little more, and helped him not to think of his nightmare, which kept creeping into his mind. After the grievous loss of their previous commander in the Alps, Mutt had led the men as best he could, but leading a phalanx didn’t come naturally to him. Being second-in-command, now that was all right, but not the other. Still, he’d had to do it, or the men would have fallen apart. Not long after they had descended from the mountains, exhausted beyond belief, word had come that a new officer would be taking charge of the unit. Mutt had rarely been so relieved.
His emotion had changed to concern, however, when he’d first seen the tall, rangy figure of Hanno. I remember thinking that he barely needs to shave, thought Mutt. That he’d have to be a jumped up little shit to be appointed commander so young. His worries had turned out to be groundless. The boy was no snob, and from the start he had thrown himself into getting to know the men. At the Trebia, Hanno had more than proved his mettle, leading from the front of the phalanx. Yet, despite their victory, the fighting had been savage. The main Roman assault that day — a charge by an enormous bloc of legionaries — had fallen on their Gaulish allies, but more than one phalanx had been sucked into the fighting and completely wiped out. Through a combination of luck and sheer bloody-mindedness, Hanno had managed to keep his men together and away from the maelstrom.
Hiss. Hiss. At first, Mutt didn’t take in what he had heard, but the thumps and subsequent shrieks as the arrows sank into his soldiers’ flesh entirely focused his mind. Hiss. Hiss. More dark shapes scudded in. Mutt’s gaze shot to the right of the track. Among the trees and bushes some twenty paces away, he spotted the dark figures of men, bows upraised. Gods above, why hadn’t the scouts seen them, he wondered? ‘Ambush! Ambush!’ he bellowed. ‘Spears down. Shields off your backs — at the double!’
He dropped his own spear. His fingers, stiff with cold, fumbled with the buckle of the strap that held his shield across his chest. Hiss. Hiss. A cry from very close by him. The fletches on an arrow that had thumped into the mud by his feet quivered. Mutt cursed savagely. Slow, he was being too slow. Don’t look up, he told himself. Ignore the arrows. Concentrate. At last the tongue of the buckle shifted and the weight of the shield dragged it down his back. With the ease of long practice, and the speed granted by buttock-clenching fear, Mutt spun and grabbed for the handle that was set under the iron boss.
The instant he had a firm grip on that, the shield went up, over his body and head. Moving too fast to feel relief, Mutt scrabbled for this spear and cocked it overarm in his right hand so that it was ready to thrust. Only then did he look towards their attackers again. They were still loosing arrows. There was no charge imminent. Stupid fools, he thought. He glanced rapidly from side to side, assessing his men. Most now had their shields off, and presented towards the enemy. Less had their spears ready. The line wasn’t complete by any means, however. He made a snap decision. Hanno would look after the front ranks — he had to assume that. Keeping his shield towards the enemy, he moved out of position and began back walking down the column. A quick look over to the left revealed that they were also under attack.
‘Shields off your backs,’ Mutt said calmly. ‘That’s if you want to live. Every man is to move forward two steps. Step over your wounded comrades. Get them behind the protection of the shields. Form a complete line. MOVE IT!’
Over and over, he repeated the orders, only casting an occasional look at the enemy. They had to be Gauls, he decided. Their volleys were ragged and inconsistent, and they hadn’t capitalised on the surprise of their ambush with a charge after the first arrows had fallen. Any decent tactician would have done that. This didn’t mean that he, Hanno and the rest were out of the shit — far from it. But at least he had a little time to rally his men.
He tried to do a quick head count of the enemy on this side. There were two, three, six men. Four more made ten, and there were at least five or six more a little further on. Those were only the ones he could see in this section. How many of the dogs are there in total? Enough to wipe us out? he wondered. ‘Bogu! Ithobaal?’
‘Sir?’ It was Bogu’s voice.
‘Can you see what’s going on to our left?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How many are there?’
‘At least twenty of the bastards, sir, but probably more.’
‘Form a line! Be ready for an enemy charge.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mutt worked his way back up the column, faster this time. He was pleased to note that there didn’t seem to be too many injured. Two soldiers lay motionless, but that was all right. If the Gauls had loosed a concerted volley, he would have lost far more. The men’s shields were all up, which meant there would now be few casualties — unless the enemy pressed home their attack.
Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo.
Mutt’s skin crawled. He’d heard that ungodly noise before, at the Trebia. Back then it had been sounded by Gaulish allies of theirs, to frighten the Romans. It helped to know that it was a carnyx, a trumpet blown not by a demon, but by a living man. It was still fucking unsettling, he thought. Mutt was grateful that there only seemed to be one, or perhaps two, of the carnyxes. He noted the fear on a number of his men’s faces. ‘It’s only a trumpet, boys. Only a damn trumpet,’ he shouted. ‘They’re imitating the noise of their farts!’
A few soldiers laughed, but not many.
Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo.
‘Steady now, boys! They’re just trying to scare us. If the whoresons had any wits, they would have come at us already.’ That was probably what they next intended, he thought grimly. The carnyxes were being used to drum up the warriors’ courage against the bloodcurdling fear of charging an enemy.
‘Mutt!’ Hanno’s voice came from the front. It was calm, which relieved Mutt immensely. The boy wasn’t panicking. ‘Yes, sir?’ he yelled back.
Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Parr-parr-parr. Zzzeyrrp. Booooooooo.
‘How are things back there?’
‘All right, sir. Two dead, or dying. Perhaps half a dozen injured. Shield wall in place.’
‘Good. The scouts tell me that there’s a tree blocking the track some distance around the next bend, so we’re going to have to stand our ground and drive them off. It’s that, or retreat. I say we fight.’
Going back the way they had come was probably a bad idea — Hanno had that right. The forest went on for miles. On the narrow track, they had no chance of forming up in the more protective phalanx formation. The stinking Gauls could just follow them, peppering them with arrows. Yet if the enemy outnumbered them, it might prove more prudent to withdraw. A bead of cold sweat trickled from under Mutt’s helmet liner and down the side of his face. What to do? he wondered. Trust Hanno. He’s the commander. He needs my support. ‘Very good, sir.’