‘Do you know something we don’t, sir?’ called a voice from behind one of the tents.
‘No. I just want you to show the rest of this sorry shower that you’re better soldiers than they’ll ever be.’ That got him a cheer, and his men moved to where their equipment was stacked. Hanno went and fetched his helmet.
From beyond the ditch, a cracked voice — Deon’s? — shouted something in Greek. Hanno didn’t catch the words, but the alarmed tone drew his attention like a bather’s eye to a turd in a public baths. A heartbeat’s delay, and several more voices joined in. Hanno saw the men around him take notice. He began running towards the edge of their position, where he would be able to see what was going on. ‘Arm yourselves! Form up in front of the tents! MOVE!’
His soldiers responded fast, but those in other units merely looked on. The shouting from the far side of the tents had grown louder. Some men were already tearing in Hanno’s direction. They all looked terrified. ‘The enemy is coming!’ one cried. ‘Romans! Thousands of them!’ yelled another. A cold pool of acid formed in Hanno’s stomach. Had they really seen something, or had they just been panicked?
‘FORM UP!’ he roared over his shoulder. Despite pushing without regard for those around him, he emerged from the press far slower than he would have liked. His gaze travelled over the ditch, and up the gentle slope that led westward. Deon, Amphios and the rest were sprinting towards him, their faces twisted with fear. What made Hanno’s mouth go dry, however, was the sight behind them. Some five hundred paces distant, the valley’s entire width was filled with infantry, moving his way at speed. They were too far away to recognise uniforms, but that didn’t matter. These were no friendly forces.
Hanno came to a number of stark realisations at the same time. Hippocrates’ cavalry had not done their scouting as they should. The vultures had been circling over their dead sentries, of which there had clearly been not enough. Their half-built camp could not be defended. His men might be ready to fight, but the majority of the Syracusans were not. With thousands of Romans closing in, that meant the battle was almost definitely lost. Hanno agonised, aware that with every passing moment, things were deteriorating further. Men were starting to push and shove at one another, as they tried to move away from the enemy. Shields and even swords lay on the ground, further evidence. In situations like this, panic spread as fast as a bushfire at the height of summer.
Deon, Amphios and the rest hurled themselves into the ditch and over the rampart. To Hanno’s relief, they didn’t look as scared as he’d expected. ‘What shall we do, sir?’ asked Deon, his chest heaving.
That made his mind up. These men trusted him with their lives. There was time to lead them, to see if a rout could be prevented. Kleitos and others would be doing the same, of that Hanno had no doubt. If they could hold the Romans back for even a little while, the majority of the force would have time to get across the ford. Hanno shoved away his uncertainty that this was the biggest gamble of his life. ‘Back to the rest of the men.’ At the milling soldiers around them, he shouted, ‘Everyone who wants to fight, follow me.’ It was disheartening that only a handful of men obeyed, but that was better than nothing.
In a small but disciplined block, they waded through the mob, and soon reached their tents. Hanno’s heart sank a little. Less than half his unit stood waiting. He didn’t need to ask where the rest had gone. Fucking cowards, he thought. The men who had stayed looked none too happy either; more than one’s gaze was on the retreating crowd. He had to grab them, or they too would run. ‘Listen to me, O brave men of Syracuse!’
Their eyes wandered back to him.
‘A lot of you want to run right now, I know that. But if you do, the likelihood is that you’ll die.’ They didn’t like that, but he pressed on. ‘Have any of you seen what the Roman legionary is capable of doing to a fleeing enemy? I have. Those bastards are disciplined. They don’t do what you and I do when the battle’s been won, which is to stop and look for wine or coin, or women.’ There were a few laughs, and he took heart. ‘Romans stay focused, like a damn hawk on a pigeon, and they don’t stop until they’ve killed every poor fucker who comes within reach.’
‘So you reckon we should stay and die here instead, do you, sir?’ cried Amphios.
A chorus of unhappy murmurs rose up.
‘What I’m saying is that we should stand and fight for a while at least. That way, most of our comrades will get away. Once they get over the river, they can head up into the broken ground, as can we. The Romans will have difficulty finding us up there.’ I hope.
There was silence for a moment, and Hanno thought he’d lost them.
Amphios stood forward. ‘Tell us what to do, sir.’
Deon moved to stand alongside him. ‘I’m in, sir.’
Hanno could have kissed the pair. Shamed by their comrades, the rest nodded or muttered their willingness to fight. ‘We must be quick,’ he said. ‘To the ditch. There we can form a line, and at least we’ll have some kind of obstacle to slow the Romans down. Have you all got shields?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they yelled.
‘With me!’ Ignoring his churning guts, Hanno ran towards the enemy.
Twenty strides from the ditch, the first Roman whistle blew. It was followed by another, and then more of them than he could count. Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Shouted orders in Latin followed, and a swelling roar went up from the legionaries. Hanno’s bowels churned. He was used to standing in the middle of a battle line to face a Roman charge, but to do so when his companions were a ragged group of men whose mettle was uncertain and they were outnumbered by hundreds to one was utterly insane.
At the ditch, he bawled orders. His men spread out, one rank deep. Hanno glanced to either side, felt the impotent rage pulse behind his eyeballs. Other officers had rallied their men to the ditch as well, but they were few, too few. There were gaping holes everywhere in their line. ‘Move to the right,’ he roared. ‘Move! Join up with the next unit!’
Fortunately, his soldiers realised his intent and scrambled to obey. By the time that the Romans had closed to two hundred paces, perhaps ten score Syracusans had banded together. Hanno couldn’t see Kleitos, but the camp was large enough for his friend to be standing elsewhere with his men. He’d had the briefest of chats with the other officers present: they had agreed to hold on for as long as possible, before retreating in the best order they could. Whether this would happen, no one knew, but it was better to have a plan than not. Hanno took his place in the centre of his soldiers. It was the best vantage point, and kept him closer to all of them than any other position. He scanned the Roman line, which was closing steadily. It was far wider than the Syracusan front, which meant that they risked instant envelopment. What the fuck are we doing? ‘Ready your shields, lads,’ Hanno shouted. ‘It’ll be javelins first — two volleys — and then they’ll charge. Stay close to each other. Punch with your shields and thrust with your swords, the same as they do.’
‘We’re dead,’ said a voice. ‘Every one of us.’ Fear rippled through the soldiers; Hanno could taste it in his own mouth.
‘HOLD!’ he roared. ‘Remember your comrades. HOLD!’
To their credit, Hanno’s men held as the legionaries slowed to a walk and from fifty paces, launched their first javelins. They held as the missiles hummed down upon them, damaging shields and injuring some. They held as a second shower of barbed metal rained in, wrecking more shields and inflicting new casualties. They even held as, at thirty paces, the Roman officers ordered their men to draw their swords and charge. They began to waver when the legionaries’ war cries rent the air. They could take no more when the wall of enemy scuta, topped by hundreds of feather-crested helmets, closed in, when the ground shook from the weight of thousands of hobnailed sandals. Wailing in terror, they broke. From what Hanno could see, so too did the other Syracusans.