From then on, every moment dragged. Even when the legionaries began to run the last short distance, it was as if Hanno saw it one dramatic image at a time. The last of the velites pulling back, limping, bleeding, but still defiant. The hail of slingshot that darkened the sky overhead. The unbelievable sight of the bullets landing in and around the tip of the saw point. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk went the stones as they rattled off shields and helmets, fractured skulls and caved in cheekbones. Holes began to appear in the Roman line here, there, everywhere, yet men shoved their way forward into the spaces, willingly stepping over their comrades’ bodies and into the withering rain of stones. The high-pitched screaming of the injured did not stop the legionaries from coming. ‘On! On! On!’ shouted the centurions. ‘Roma! Roma!’
Hold them! Hold them! Hanno wanted to scream, but his words would be lost in the maelstrom of sound. ‘HANN-I-BAL!’ he shouted, clashing his spear tip off his shield rim.
His men responded with alacrity. ‘HANN-I-BAL! HANN-I-BAL!’ All along the Carthaginian line, the chant was taken up. The noise of it was absolutely deafening.
The Roman advance checked for a moment and hope flared in Hanno’s breast.
It didn’t last. With great shouts of encouragement and not a few curses, the centurions got their men moving, even increased their speed. With an almighty crash, the saw point to his right collided with Hanno’s soldiers. The immense force of it rippled through the men. A heartbeat later, a second blow reverberated through the phalanx as its left edge was struck. ‘Steady, steady!’ Hanno shouted. He craned his neck forward, desperate to see what was happening. Let them hold, please let them hold!
‘HANN-I-BAL!’ cried the men who weren’t fighting for their lives.
Hanno longed to have a target for his spear; to be able to sink the sharp iron deep into Roman flesh and somehow halt their advance. Instead he had to remain where he was, mad with rage and frustration as the ‘V’ of the saw point punched deep into the gap between the phalanxes. He pictured the confusion of his men, whose unprotected sides were now exposed to the Romans. The spearmen of the other phalanx would be able to fight back — but only if they had wheeled around to face left, rather than forward. Hold them! he prayed. Screams, shouts and bawled orders in Latin and Carthaginian mixed with the clash of metal on metal. The Romans whom Hanno could see did not move for some moments, but then they shoved forward a few steps. Then a few more. His heart sank. Once the phalanxes had been split apart, there would be no way for them to regroup.
Confusion reigned as the impact of the blows from either side spread through the ranks. Around Hanno, soldiers shouted, pushed and fought to stay on their feet. Many were driven to their knees or had their arms dislocated as their shields were ripped away from them. The front rank buckled, and then broke up. Men moved forward, breaking formation. Hanno was among them. There was no enemy directly in front, and the phalanx had shattered anyway. His mind raced, fighting panic. What to do? Ordering his men to attack the side of the saw might slow down the Roman attack, but there was every chance that the legionaries could break ranks and wheel around to their rear. That would be even more disastrous.
A glance downhill, and his heart sank further.
More groups of legionaries were pounding up the slope, clearly intent on pushing through the holes in the Carthaginian line. They would arrive long before the broken phalanxes had had time to regroup. There was no chance that the Balearic slingers could do what the Libyans had failed to. These Romans were going to get away.
Hanno lifted his eyes to the bright blue sky. Why? Why are you doing this to us? he screamed silently.
There was no answer.
Quintus had never been more glad to have Corax as his commanding officer than during the latter part of the brutal fighting on the hill. Big Tenner had been slain and Urceus injured in the third or fourth attack — when exactly, Quintus couldn’t remember. From that point on, his section of velites had struggled to maintain their morale in the face of the overwhelming barrage of stones from the Balearic slingers. Every man among them knew that they were dying for nothing; their javelins weren’t capable of penetrating the Libyans’ shields. He’d actually wondered if some of them were about to run — Macerio in particular had looked very unhappy. Run to where? Quintus had wondered cynically. The gods only knew what was going on to their rear, but it didn’t sound good. The carnyxes’ sound had a new, manic tempo, which implied that the Gauls at least were winning. It was as if Corax had known how close to the edge the eighteen uninjured velites were. He’d gathered them together, out of range of the deadly sling bullets. He had praised them to the skies for their efforts thus far, which had brought smiles to a few of the weary faces. Then he had revealed his and Pullo’s plan to escape. ‘We can’t do it without you lads,’ he’d growled. ‘You will be the stinging horseflies that send the gugga whoresons mad. They’ll be so busy watching you that by the time they see what we’re up to, it will be too late.’
‘By then, we’ll all be dead,’ Macerio had muttered.
Corax’s eyes had been like two chips of ice as they bored into the blond-haired veles. ‘You will call me “sir”, soldier.’
Macerio’s gaze had fallen away. ‘Yes, sir.’
Despite his dressing down, Macerio’s words had remained hanging in the air.
The centurion knew it too. He had glanced at each of them in turn. ‘Macerio is a cheeky prick, but he’s right. You might be killed if you go up there again. I can tell you one thing for nothing, though. It’s down to the triarii now. If they can’t help us to break past those bastards, we’ll all die anyway. Twenty years of war have taught me one thing, and that’s to recognise when a master tactician is on the field. There’s one here today, and sadly, it’s not Flaminius. The ambush was pure fucking genius. It won the battle at a stroke. We’re just trying to get our arses out of here before it’s too late.’
They had stared at him numbly, none prepared to answer. Which was worse: certain death by charging at the enemy again, or certain death in an hour or two by being overwhelmed by Numidians or Gauls? Remembering the heads he’d seen dangling from the harness on Gaulish horses at the Trebia, Quintus had known which he’d prefer. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
‘Me too,’ Rutilus had added.
When the injured Urceus had insisted on going as well, the others had been shamed into volunteering. Corax hadn’t berated them for their lack of enthusiasm; he’d nodded and smiled. ‘Good. Make this your best effort, boys, and I swear to you that we’ll get out of here.’
Fire had flared in their eyes then — weaker than before, but present all the same.
Gods, but they’d needed every last part of that fire, thought Quintus wearily. The Balearic slingers had long since found their range. Their bullets hit their targets more often than not, or so it had seemed. The front man had gone down before they’d gone twenty steps, his forehead smashed in. Only fourteen velites had come within javelin range of the Libyans. There had been eleven of them by the time they’d launched one volley, and just eight when they’d heard the crash of the first saw point hitting the enemy line. At that stage, Quintus had seen no shame in taking to his heels. He had sprinted to the back of the nearest formation of legionaries and squirmed into the rearmost rank. Rutilus, Urceus and two others had joined him soon after, but that had been it. How many of the twenty velites attached to Pullo’s century remained alive, he had no idea.
It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to grab the scutum of a fallen hastatus. Rutilus did the same. For close-quarters fighting, its size and weight made it far superior to their own light shields, which they discarded. There had been little initial need to use them, however, for which they were both relieved. The repeated attacks on the enemy had sapped Quintus’ strength, and he had been grateful to pound along behind the mass of legionaries as they pushed through the broken phalanxes. On the other side, the officers had rallied the men for a moment, and then charged the slingers. The Balearic warriors had taken one look at the bloodied and battered Romans before running for their lives. Few soldiers could stand up to armoured infantry, least of all skirmishers.