Hanno’s exhausted men watched with a sense of stunned relief.
Then, quite suddenly, the Romans were gone. Oddly, they didn’t wheel around to attack the rear of the Carthaginian line. Hanno couldn’t believe it. There were still isolated pockets of fighting, small groups of legionaries who had been cut off from their comrades, but the vast majority of the enemy infantry had broken through Hannibal’s centre. They showed no interest, however, in doing anything except beating a path to the north. As far as Hanno was concerned, they could go. His men weren’t capable of mounting a meaningful pursuit. Nor were his father’s. No command issued from the musicians stationed by Hannibal’s side, proving that their general was of the same mind. Having arrayed his foot soldiers in a single line, he had no reserve to send after the retreating legionaries.
Chest heaving, Hanno studied the scene. There was no sign of the allied infantry. The combination of elephants, Numidians and skirmishers must have routed them from the field. Off to his right, which had been the phalanx’s front until the Romans had pushed them sideways, the battleground was now almost devoid of life. Suddenly, Hanno was overcome with a heady combination of exhilaration and fear. They had won, but at what price? He looked up at the leaden sky and offered up a heartfelt prayer: Thank you, great Melqart, all-seeing Tanit and mighty Baal Saphon, for your help in achieving this victory. You have been merciful in letting both me and my father survive. I humbly beseech that you have also seen fit to spare my brothers.
He took a deep breath. If not, let all their wounds be at the front.
Soon there was an emotional reunion with his father. Blood-spattered and steely-eyed, Malchus said nothing when they drew close. Instead he pulled Hanno into a tight hug that spoke volumes. When he finally let go, Hanno was touched to see the moisture in his own eyes mirrored in his father’s. Malchus had shown more emotion in the last few weeks than at any time since his mother’s death.
‘That was a hard fight. You held your phalanx together well,’ Malchus muttered. ‘Hannibal will hear of it.’
Hanno thought he would burst with pride. His father’s approval meant ten times that of their general.
Malchus’ businesslike manner returned fast. ‘There’s still plenty of work to be done. Spread your men out. Advance. Tell them to kill any Romans that they find alive.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Do the same for those of our men who are badly injured,’ Malchus added.
Hanno blinked.
Malchus’ face softened for a moment. ‘They’ll die in far worse ways otherwise. Of cold, a wolf bite, or exposure. A swift end from a comrade is better than that, surely?’
Sighing, Hanno nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘Those who are lightly wounded might survive if we can carry them from the field. It will be dark within the hour, though. I must act fast.’ He gave Hanno a shove. ‘Go on. Look for Sapho and Bostar as well.’
Did his father mean alive or dead? Hanno wondered nervously as he walked away.
His men responded with enthusiasm to the idea of killing more Romans. Unsurprisingly, they reacted less well to doing the same to their comrades. Few objected, however, when Hanno explained the alternatives to them. Who wanted to die the lingering death that awaited when night fell?
In a long line, they began advancing across the battlefield. Beneath the struggle of so many men, the ground had been churned into a sludge of reddened mud that stuck to Hanno’s sandals. Only the tiniest areas of snow remained untouched, startling patches of brilliant white amid the scarlet and brown coating everything else. Hanno was stunned by the scale of the horror. This was but a tiny part of the battlefield, yet it contained thousands of dead, injured and dying soldiers.
Pitifully small figures now, they lay alone, heaped over one another and in irregular piles, Gauls entwined with hastati, Libyans beneath principes, their enmity forgotten in the cold embrace of death. While some still clutched their weapons, others had discarded them to clutch at their wounds before they died. Spears dotted the bodies of many Romans, while countless pila were buried in the Carthaginian corpses. So many severed limbs were lying around that Hanno was soon sick. Wiping his mouth, he forced himself to continue searching. Again and again he saw Sapho and Bostar’s faces among the slack-jawed dead, only to find that he was wrong. Inevitably, Hanno felt his hopes of finding his brothers alive wither and die.
It was especially hard to look at the soldiers who had lost their extremities. The lucky ones were already dead, but the rest were screaming for their mothers while what blood was left in them spurted and dribbled out on to the semi-frozen earth. It was a mercy to kill them. Yet for every gruesome sight that Hanno beheld, there was another one to exceed it. It was the suffering of those of his own side that tore at his heart the most. He had to force himself to examine these unfortunates. It was his job to judge the severity of their injuries and make a snap decision if they should live or die.
It was usually the latter.
Gritting his teeth, Hanno killed men who were shuddering their way into oblivion, holding their intestines, the rank smell of their own shit filling their nostrils. Those who lay moaning and coughing up the pink froth that signified a lung wound also had to be slain. More fortunate were the men who wailed and thrashed about, clutching at the arm that had been sliced open to the bone, or the leg that had been hamstrung. Their reaction to Hanno and his soldiers, the lone uninjured figures among them, was uniform. It did not matter whether they were Libyan, Gaulish or Roman. They reached out with bloodied hands, beseeching him for help. Muttering reassurances to the Carthaginian troops, Hanno offered the enemy wounded nothing but silence and a flashing blade. It was far worse than the savagery of close-quarters combat, and soon Hanno was utterly sick of it. All he wanted to do was find his brothers’ bodies and return to the camp.
When first the familiar voice of Sapho, and then Bostar, called out his name, Hanno didn’t react. As their shouts grew more urgent, he was thunderstruck. There they were, not fifty paces away, in the midst of Mago’s men. It was a miracle, Hanno thought dazedly. It had to be, for all four of them to survive this industrial-scale butchery.
‘Hanno? Is that you?’ Sapho demanded, unable to keep the disbelief — and joy — from his voice.
Hanno blinked away his tears. ‘It is.’
‘Father?’ Bostar’s tone was strangled.
‘He’s unhurt,’ Hanno yelled back, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the event, he did both. So did Bostar. An instant later, even Sapho had tears in his eyes as the three came together in a fierce embrace. Each stank of sweat, blood, mud and other smells too foul to imagine, but none of them cared.
Their arguments had been forgotten for the moment.
The only thing that mattered was that they were still alive.
At last, grinning like fools, the brothers pulled apart. Not quite believing their own eyes, they held on to one another’s arms or shoulders for a long time afterwards. Inevitably, though, their gaze was drawn to the devastation all around. Instead of the din of battle, their ears rang with the sound of screams. The voices of the countless injured and maimed, men who were desperate to be found before darkness fell and a certain fate claimed them for ever.
‘We won,’ said Hanno in a wondering tone. ‘The legionaries might have escaped, but the rest of them broke and ran.’
‘Or died where they stood,’ Sapho snarled, his customary hardness already creeping back. ‘After what they’ve done to us, the whoresons had it coming!’