Gaius reacted again, this time feeling a sharp sting against the side of his brow. Something grazed him, what it was, he did not know. In response, he instinctively thrust his sword forward blindly. Once more, he felt the touch of human flesh against the cold iron of his sword, and again, he pushed, sending the tip deeper into whoever had wondered before the gladius.
He lost track of time. Had minutes gone by, or hours? There was no way of telling. However, his arms and legs began to strain. He was as fit as any man could be, and he was still young, in his prime, yet he felt old and tired with the weight of his sword and shield feeling like raw iron. It was then in the back of his mind he thought he heard the sound of a loud whistle, which blew in a preordain pattern.
Without even thinking, before his mind processed what the call meant, the moment a hand touched his right shoulder Gaius withdrew from his guarded stance, and turned his body as the man behind him rushed forward. This action was repeated by every Roman soldier who held the frontline, which were replaced by the man behind them.
Gaius collapsed onto his knees as he was pulled to the back of the formation, as did many other legionnaires, who ignored the cold rushing water, which provided the only solid ground for them to rest on without fear of attack.
Gaius’ body looked as if he had been working in a butcher's shop after fresh game had been brought in. His head and lower half, from his knees to his feet were plastered in bright red, which dripped from the brim of his helmet. It was only then that he seemed to notice the fowl coppery taste of Gallic blood that has washed into his mouth. He couldn’t help but swallow it during the battle, which now he threw up, which included everything he had eaten this morning. He was not alone in this action as dozens of other soldiers did the same.
It was then that a boy ran up to him — another dozen dispatched to other soldiers. Each of them carried water-skins, which they handed to the legionnaires who had been retired from the frontline.
Gaius took several long swigs, spiting the first mouthful out as he tried to rinse the taste of blood from his throat, to no avail.
He stared down for just a moment at the boy, no older than fourteen. He was a servant of the legion; destine to wear the armor in a few short years, if he lived long enough. The lad’s face, ripe with youthfulness, bared eyes of terror and panic. However, the boy did his duty where he was asked without question. Gaius couldn’t help but pity him for having to see this day, so young, but he figured it was best to get it over with now than later. At least, he would know what to expect when he took up the shield and sword.
By now, some sense had returned as Gaius turned and looked upon his cohort, which continued to fight. The clattering of swords and the cries of wounded and dying men filled the pristine morning. He collected himself, quickly falling back in line behind the ranks. He would yell encouragements to the men before him, barking orders of support, and issuing men to plug holes where dead Romans eventually fell. And then, how much time, he did not know he was back in the front as the ranks continued to shift, to allow rested men to again reform the shield wall — fighting the ceaseless wave of barbarian Gauls.
By this time, Gaius’ actions were mechanical. The fear he felt when the battle started was drowned out by his will to survive. Eventually, the ground became littered with fallen Gauls, which further waves of attackers were finding it increasingly difficult to advance through.
Another whistle blew, but this wasn’t a signal for Gaius to be replaced, but orders from the commander to advance. At the moment, the barbarians seemed lessened; their formation now tattered as their numbers dwindled. Those who still fought weren’t as brazened as their seasoned warriors who fell against the Romans when the fighting began. At the moment, stricken by fear, they began to panic as the Roman line advanced with deadly rhythm. Those that did not flee, attempting to run back up the slippery slope, which was now caked in churned mud, were cut down without mercy by the machine that moved effortlessly towards them, while those wounded upon the ground were either trampled to death by the steady Roman march, or impaled where they lie.
When Gaius could advance no further, as the rise of the landscape prevented him for advancing, the only vestiges of enemy warriors who remained, fled through the trees, protected by the layers of mist and snow, which still drifted lazily down over the battlefield.
A cheer ran throughout the Roman formation, but any sentiments of victory were quickly dashed as fighting could still be heard further upstream. Gaius knew, without having to see that the men under the command of Sempronius were being slaughtered. The river of blood that flowed behind him was evidence of the massacre.
A horn blew; not Gallic, but Roman as the call for retreat was signaled from Gaius’ cohort. Soon, officers began ordering everyone back into ranks, and the wounded Romans collected while there was a lull in the fighting.
It was then that Gaius saw Valerius, still alive, thank the gods. He, like every legionnaire was covered in blood. He too had sustained a number of cuts, as fresh blood drizzled from a gash to the old veteran’s upper left arm, and a small nick to his neck. In the bank of the river, nearly submerged in bloody water, Gaius saw Valerius’ horse, dead, with numerous spears and arrows sticking out from its body. He was amazed that the legate had survived at all, as he was the obvious target of the Gauls, as was any officer of note.
“Valerius, what of Sempronius?!" Gaius called out as he moved to join the legate, who rallied his men to make a quick and effective retreat.
“There is nothing I can do for the fool. He’s damned this army. I’ve got to save what I can,” Valerius replied. Gaius wasn’t even sure if the old man recognized him with all the blood and filth that covered him, believing he was just speaking to any number of centurions who were under his command.
“Let me take a detachment and force our way to him. The consul might still be alive,” Gaius suggested, determined to salvage the day anyway he could. He was perhaps too young to recognize defeat, despite the number of barbarian dead that coated the earth around him. While the Sixth had found some measure of victory, it was a pinprick against the mammoth that had trapped his countrymen this day.
“The battle is lost, and so will we if we don’t take advantage of this moment and pull back, now!” Valerius reiterated.
Valerius grabbed hold of Gaius’ shoulder, pulling him closer to him and spoke, “There will be other days that we can avenge our fallen. However, this is not one of them. Now, form you men and cover our withdraw!”
Gaius did not argue further. He did as he was ordered; grabbing those he could find that still had enough fight left in them to stand if challenged. Nevertheless, thankfully, those Gauls who had lived soon realized that the Romans upstream offered less resistance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Gaius stared without blinking as several bodies floated by him as he knelt down on the edge of the partly frozen Trebia River. The bodies hadn’t stopped drifting downstream even though the battle had ended five hours ago. Only now did the clear water seem to be restored, as for a long while it ran bright red. Still, trickles of the crimson gore drizzled downstream from time-to-time. Now, however, the quiet stillness of the country returned.
This army, what was left of it, was broken. At present, behind enemy lines, within their own country, what remained of Sempronius’ legions had to move quickly, gathering what survivors they could find, and mustering what was left of the supplies before marching south, back towards Rome. The future was uncertain, more so now than it had been before. Hannibal had won a great victory, not against one legion, fought on equal terms on the field, but against a superior force, outsmarted, ambushed and slaughtered like no force Rome had ever assembled before. Now, what was Rome to do? How would the people react? How far would Hannibal go, now?