Fortuna was smiling on him in that instant, for the warrior was even younger than he, and, as Quintus realised, far less skilled. A more experienced man would have already despatched him. The Gaul was not lacking in bravery, however, and they hammered fiercely at each other for a few moments before Quintus found an opportunity to strike. The other’s wild swings left his right armpit exposed. Taking a gamble that he could react faster than his enemy, Quintus did not defend against the next strike. Instead, bending low over his horse’s neck, he listened to it whistle overhead. While the Gaul was still coming to the end of his swing, Quintus came up like a striking snake. He buried his spear in the other’s side, sliding it neatly into the armhole of his mail shirt. With nothing but a tunic to stop its progress, the blade slid between the man’s ribs, through one lung and into his heart. It was as clean a stroke as Quintus had ever made, killing instantaneously. He would always remember it not for that, however, but for the brief burst of shock and pain in the Gaul’s eyes before they went dark for ever.
When Quintus looked up, he quailed. Most of the nearby Roman riders had been cut down. The others were fleeing. There was no sign of Calatinus, Cincius or his father. Quintus’ vision was filled with Gauls. Behind them came hundreds of Iberians. He would be dead long before those riders arrived, however. Three Gaulish warriors were heading straight for him. Despairing, Quintus picked the man he thought would reach him first. It would make little difference, but he didn’t care. His father was dead, and the cavalry battle half lost. What did it matter if he also fell? Raising his spear, Quintus screamed a final cry of defiance. ‘Come on, then, you bastards!’
The trio of warriors roared an inarticulate response.
A horrifying image of his own head as a trophy filled his mind. He banished the image. Just let the end be quick, Quintus prayed.
Chapter XXV: Unexpected Tactics
Bostar had barely been able to contain himself since the sentry’s report that the enemy were crossing the river. He and Sapho had clambered up the bank to lie beside Mago, who was trembling with excitement. With every nerve stretched taut, they’d watched as the Roman cavalry and velites were gradually followed by the allied infantry and the regular legionaries. Only then did it sink in.
‘The Roman commander has no interest in nibbling at the bait,’ muttered Mago excitedly. ‘He’s swallowed it in one great bite. That’s his whole fucking army!’
They exchanged nervous grins.
‘The fighting will start soon,’ said Sapho eagerly.
‘It’s not time to move yet,’ interjected Bostar at once.
‘That’s right. We have to wait until the perfect moment to fall upon the Romans’ rear,’ warned Mago. ‘Moving too early could cost us the battle.’
Knowing that Mago was correct, the brothers reluctantly stayed put. The wait that followed was the longest of Bostar’s life. Mago’s incessant twitching and the savagery with which Sapho bit his nails told him that they felt the same way. It was no more than three to four hours, but at the time it seemed like an eternity. Naturally, the news that the Romans were on the move had spread through their two thousand soldiers like wildfire. Soon it became difficult to keep them silent. It was understandable, thought Bostar. There was only so long that one could take pleasure in being out of harm’s way rather than facing mortal danger — especially when one’s comrades were about to fight for their lives.
Even when the clash of arms became audible, Mago did not move. Bostar forced himself to remain calm. The rival forces of skirmishers would meet first, and then pull back. Sure enough, the screams and cries soon abated. They were replaced by the unmistakable sound of thousands of feet tramping the ground in unison.
‘The Roman infantry are advancing,’ said Mago in an undertone. ‘Melqart, watch over our men.’
A knot of tension formed in Bostar’s belly. Facing so many of the enemy would be terrifying.
Beside him, Sapho shifted uneasily. ‘The gods protect Father and Hanno,’ he whispered. Their enmity momentarily forgotten, Bostar muttered the same prayer.
The crashing sound that reached their ears a moment later was as deafening as thunder. Yet there were no threatening storm clouds above, no flashes of lightning to sear their eyeballs. It was something altogether more lethal. More terrifying. Bostar trembled to hear it. He had witnessed terrible things since the war started: the immense block of stone that had nearly killed Hannibal; the scenes at the fall of Saguntum; avalanches sweeping away scores of screaming men in the Alps. But he had never heard the sound of tens of thousands of soldiers striking each other for the first time. It promised death in any number of appalling ways, and Hanno and his father were caught up in it. Somehow Bostar kept still, trying his best to block out the screams that were now discernible amid the crescendo of sound. His tactic didn’t work for long. He looked at Mago, who gave him a tiny encouraging nod.
‘Is it time yet, sir?’ Bostar asked.
Mago’s eyes glittered eagerly. ‘Soon. Prepare your men to move out. Tell the same to the officer commanding the Numidians. At my signal, bring them up.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Bostar and Sapho grinned at each other as they hadn’t done in an age, and hurried to obey.
From then on, time moved in a blur, a continuum that Bostar could only remember afterwards in a series of fractured images. The frisson of excitement that shivered through the waiting soldiers when they heard their orders. Mago’s head silhouetted as he peered over the riverbank, and his beckoning arm. Reaching the top, and being awestruck by the colossal struggle going on over to their left. Who was winning? Was Hanno still alive? Mago shaking his arm and telling him to keep focused. Telling the men to unsling their shields from their backs and ready their weapons. Assembling their phalanxes in open order. Watching the thousand Numidians split, placing half their number on each side of the infantry. Mago’s raised sword pointing at the enemy and his cry, ‘For Hannibal and for Carthage!’
And the run. Bostar would never forget the run.
They did not sprint. It was more than half a mile to the battlefield. Exhausting themselves would give away all the advantage they had been granted. Instead they moved at a fast trot, leaving plumes of exhaled breath in their wake. The cold air was filled with the low, repetitive thuds of horses’ hooves and men’s boots and sandals on the hard ground. No one spoke. No one wanted to. Everyone’s eyes were locked on what was unfolding before them. Amid the confusion, one thing was clear. There was no sign of the enemy’s cavalry, which meant that the Iberian and Gaulish horsemen must have driven them off. On the Roman flanks, the allied infantry were struggling against the Carthaginian elephants, skirmishers and Numidian horsemen. In itself, these were major achievements, and Bostar wanted to cheer. But he did not utter a word. The battle’s outcome still hung in the balance. As they drew closer, he saw that the fighting in the centre was incredibly fierce. The legionaries there had actually moved in front of their wings, which meant that they had pushed the Gauls who formed the central part of Hannibal’s line backwards.
They had come not an instant too soon, thought Bostar.
Mago came to the realisation at the same time. ‘Charge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’
With a wordless roar, Bostar, Sapho and his soldiers obeyed, increasing their speed to a dangerous, breakneck pace. Any man who tripped now risked breaking an ankle or a leg. But no one cared. All they wanted to do was to start shedding their opponents’ blood. To bury their weapons in Roman flesh.
The last moments of their run were surreal. Exhilarating. Thanks to the deafening sounds of battle, there was no need to worry about how much noise they made. The triarii in the enemy’s third rank — their targets — were not looking behind them. Unsurprisingly, the veterans were engrossed by the bitter struggle going on to their front, and were preparing to join in. They had no idea that two thousand Carthaginian soldiers were about to strike their rear at a full charge. Bostar would always remember the first faces that turned, casually, for whatever reason, to look around. The sheer disbelief and terror that twisted those faces to find a group of the enemy fewer than thirty paces away. The hoarse screams as the small number of triarii who were aware tried to warn their comrades of their deadly peril. And the satisfaction as they smashed into the Roman ranks, drawing their weapons down on the backs of men who did not even know they were about to die.