“Here they come again!” one of the Roman troopers cried.
“Hold!” Calpurnius yelled. He held his hand aloft, palm outward. When the Numidians had galloped to within javelin range and began hurling their missiles, Calpurnius dipped his head and heeled his horse forward. “Charge!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, holding his spear overhand, thrusting forward.
The entire wing of Roman cavalry surged forward as a body and to Calpurnius the world was lost in a maelstrom of thundering hooves. But no sooner had their charge commenced than the Roman horsemen found themselves punching air again as the Numidians to their front immediately dispersed. This time the fleeing Numidians uncovered the front of the heavy cavalry line behind. It was a tempting target, as Calpurnius knew it was intended to be, to draw the Romans irrevocably deep into the enemy position. He called for the wing to rein up. Trumpeters blared out the order. The line shuddered to a stop and at once, the Romans found their flanks under attack. The Numidians had circled around and struck at the Roman line from both sides. Only their having stopped short saved the Romans from annihilation. Nevertheless, the flanks of the cavalry line utterly collapsed as enemy javelins pierced the unprotected guts of the troopers and horses flailed wildly with javelins quivering in their flanks, their riders plunging to the ground.
With a maddening frustration, Calpurnius reined his terrified horse around and galloped frantically for the rear in their customary every-man-for-himself rout, the Numidians in hot pursuit. Then he saw Gelon’s infantry line looming before him. The entire Roman cavalry saw it too. While their experience told them they were in an unrecoverable rout, their recent training seemed to dawn on them all at once. At the last moment, the equites veered confidently to either side of the infantry island, the cavalry line parting like a rushing current upon a stone. The Numidians drew up in confusion and before they could comprehend this new tactic, the velites rose and flung their missiles. The curtain of javelins at point blank range cut the enemy horsemen down like the sweep of a scythe. The survivors’ mounts reared in terror at the sight of the intimidating bristle of pikes projecting beyond the shield wall of the triarii, and the Numidians turned and fled in panic.
Behind the infantry, Calpurnius reined up, lifting his hand while the trumpeters called the troopers to reform. He found himself smiling at his men’s reversal of fortune. To his left he could make out yet another faltering enemy cavalry attack, this one confounded by the velites on the flank of the army. The mounted javelineers were no match for the foot soldiers’ range and accuracy. He gritted his teeth and he was filled with feelings of joy and utter determination. This was indeed a new day.
He saw the Numidians forming up for another attack. He walked his horse out in front of the line and faced his men.
“We shall let the enemy come on,” he shouted, straining to make himself heard. “When our infantry loose their javelins, we charge!”
He quickly trotted all along the line, repeating his order so that all could hear. They would charge out from behind the infantry in two groups, one around each flank of the line. His orders given, he returned to his position in the center of the two-deep cavalry line and they waited.
Calpurnius did not sense the same confidence and single-mindedness of purpose he had become accustomed to seeing in the Numidians as they galloped toward the infantry line. They approached to within twenty-five yards and loosed a salvo that clattered against the triarii shields. Then the velites rose and loosed their own javelins with an accuracy and power the mounted Numidians could not match.
“Charge!” Calpurnius shouted.
In an instant, the Roman horse streamed out from behind each infantry flank and cleaved into the Numidian mass, still reeling from the javelin shower. The Roman spears devastated the unarmored troopers. When the spears became broken or lost, the equites drew swords and mercilessly hacked through the startled mass of the enemy. Death and panic spread through the ranks in an instant and the Numidians, now a terrified mob, turned and dashed away at top speed.
The Romans followed in hot pursuit. Nothing would stand before them. The Numidians raced up the hill called ‘Toros’, the Romans right behind them. After a moment, they came upon the line of heavy cavalry they had spied earlier. At once, the Romans altered course and galloped directly at it with cries of “Charge!” rising from the men, spears held overhand, swords raised…
…and the enemy horse turned and bolted, following the Numidians as they routed past them. The Roman equites cut the stragglers down without mercy and chased the survivors all the way to the top of the hill.
The right wing Roman cavalry were the first to enter the Carthaginian camp. From there they watched the enemy horse flee the battlefield and disperse into the countryside beyond.
The messenger’s horse came to a skidding halt, its hooves throwing up rocks and dirt. The young man saluted vaguely. There was fear in his eyes.
“Our cavalry is in retreat!” he cried.
Hanno started in shock. “It cannot be!” he said. Never had his cavalry been bested.
“It is true,” the messenger asserted. “They are chased from the field by the Roman horse.”
Hanno gazed up the hillside and saw his cavalry galloping to the rear in full flight. For the first time in battle, he felt fear rising in his gut. He felt as if he were careening down a slope in a runaway wagon. It was like something out of a nightmare. He looked this way and that in panic. The second line!
He turned to his second line officers.
“Commit your infantry,” he told his gathered lieutenants. “To the flanks!” he added, as the men galloped off. “The flanks!”
Then he saw men from the phalanx spilling out of the line. Soon a flood of men was fleeing for the rear, and no one tried to stop them. Hanno looked on in confusion and disbelief.
“Our center is broken!”
Hanno turned and saw Yaroah who had just ridden up beside him. He had a wild look in his eye.
“We must retreat!” Yaroah cried.
His face red with rage, Hanno raised his sword as if to strike his general. “We shall not retreat!” he cried. “I shall not be defeated!”
“Our flanks are gone and the center has broken,” Yaroah insisted at the top of his lungs, not even flinching at Hanno’s threatening blade. His horse turned one way and then the other. Yaroah twisted in his saddle to keep his face to Hanno. “All is lost!” he shouted.
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and galloped for the rear followed by masses of panic-stricken men. Roman infantry streamed into the lines behind them, hacking indiscriminately at men who no longer even defended themselves. They threw down their weapons and ran.
The elephants began to trumpet and thrash their heads wildly. Their riders tried to coax them forward to trample the advancing Romans, perhaps their last chance to restore the battle. But the hundreds and then thousands of fleeing men all around them caused the great beasts to caper in wild-eyed panic. Many threw their riders, turned and stampeded into the mass of fleeing men. They trampled men from behind, crushing bones under their crashing feet. Charging, they lowered their heads and thrashed, their tusks whisking men aside where they fell to be trampled by both man and beast alike. The scene became a wild, swirling chaos of screaming, scampering men interspersed with thrashing elephants and the terrified horses of officers trying to make their escape.
Mounted, Hanno found himself hemmed in by the mob. His horse reared in confusion. He could see down the hill the Roman infantry rushing to collect prisoners and cutting down any men who still chose to fight. The Roman tide was nearing and Hanno made an instant decision. He drew his sword and, roaring in fury, cut a path through his own men. Soldiers fell under his blade — Libyans, Iberians, Celts, their skulls split open. Others saw what was happening and darted away from the mounted berserker. Finally reaching open ground at the top of the hill, Hanno heeled his mount forward and galloped frantically for the road below, already full of fleeing horses and men—the r
oad to Heraclea Minoa where it was every man for himself.
Chapter 15
Hannibal stood by the open doors of the southern gate of Acragas waving his soldiers forward as they streamed past him. The sun was still blood red on the western horizon and the numerous campfires and roasting pits burning atop ‘Toros’ reflected an orange glow upon the thick clouds of smoke that hung in the sky above them. The sounds of the Roman revelry from the Carthaginian camp on the hilltop resounded throughout the entire valley. Latin voices rose in laughter and song as the long-suffering victorious legionaries greedily slaughtered livestock and feasted on wagonloads of dried meat and biscuits and cracked open casks of Punic wine.
Even from a mile away in the gathering gloom, Hannibal could see that, for the first time since June, the Roman siege works were unmanned.
“Go, go, go!” Hannibal urged his men out of the city in a harsh whisper. He waved them through the great open doors towards freedom. They ran past him without hesitation. “To the mouth of the river, men. Stop for nothing. Quickly now!”
Hannibal looked back into the city and saw by the light of a fire a group of townsmen savagely beating one of his soldiers. Arms flailing, the men’s fists landed blow after blow. The fire cast ghastly, quivering, black shadows on the mud-brick wall of the alley. The man screamed and begged for mercy, but the citizens continued to strike and kick the soldier, finally killing him with his own sword.
Who knew what transgression had been repaid? What dishonored wife or sister had been redeemed by cruel justice? Similar scenes repeated all over the city. Hannibal could hear their murderous cries, but he paid them no heed. There was but one chance at escape, and no time to rescue doomed men.
The last of the men carrying the baskets of straw rushed past and Hannibal filed in behind them. At the first of the ditches, Hannibal directed the deployment of the baskets. The men threw them into the ditch. The baskets totally filled them. Soon, several crossing points had been made and men waded across walking on the hard-packed straw.
Some twisted ankles and tumbled into the deep trench, and others stopped to help them out. Others bounded across with a springy step. Before long, hundreds of soldiers clambered to the top of the embankment. With picks, shovels, swords and spears they began tearing away the wooden stakes, breaching the palisade easily at each of the crossing points. Men poured through the openings, traversed the empty interior and crossed the second Roman ditch, this time from the inside heading out.
Now completely free of the Roman lines, Hannibal waited until the last of his soldiers had made it across. Boodes appeared at his side a moment later, breathing heavily. The sun had completely set now and in the darkness Boodes’ gray hair shown white as snow. His face was dripping with sweat.
“It’s still a mile to the coast,” he said.
“Get these men to the ships,” Hannibal said. “Where’s Hamilcar?”
“He’s with the Celts.”
“Very good. I’ll find him. Now, go!”
Boodes ran off toward the coast, urging the men to follow him.
Just then, Hannibal spied a group of shirtless Celts emerging from the ditches. They were fully armed.
“Where is Iliatos?” Hannibal asked, rushing up to them. “Iliatos!” he called.
The chieftain answered and showed himself, stepping forward from among a throng of his men. He was wearing a mail shirt over his tunic and trousers, his long sword sheathed at his belt. His coarse hair spilled out from under a close-fitting bronze helmet. He was a true warrior, Hannibal reflected, almost sadly. As were all his men. Under one arm, he carried a small wooden chest.
“I need you to set up a perimeter. Here,” Hannibal gestured towards the terrain behind him, describing an arc with his finger. “Secure your flanks on the hill and river.”
“Very well,” Iliatos said. He shouted orders to his men in his own language. He looked awkward and uncomfortable trying to deploy his men while carrying the wooden chest.
“What is that?” Hannibal asked.
“These are my valuable things,” Iliatos said. “Including—” He moved close to Hannibal as he spoke, meeting his eye. “Including our written agreement, General. My men will hold off the Romans for you, if necessary. But when we board those ships, it is another five hundred gold pieces. As it is written,” he added, lifting the chest.
“When we arrive in Lilybaeum,” Hannibal corrected him.
“In Lilybaeum then,” Iliatos said.
“Of course. Five hundred gold. As it is written. Before then, however, my men need to board those ships. This will take some time. If we are spotted by Romans, do you think your men can hold them off?”
“In this close terrain, we could hold off their entire army,” Iliatos said proudly.
“Well, it just so happens that their entire army is up in General Hanno’s former camp gorging themselves at the moment. So that will not be the issue. But there still could be roving patrols. If they find that we have left the city, I imagine a general alarm will be raised. I’m counting on your men to buy us time. You will have to board the final ships under pressure, if necessary.”
“Do not worry,” Iliatos said. “You will have all the time you need — and we will walk aboard the ships, holding hands.”
Hannibal smiled, despite himself. He held out his hand and both men grasped the other’s forearm in farewell. Then Iliatos ran off to gather up his men.
Hannibal turned and called for Hamilcar.
“I am here, sir!” Hamilcar replied, coming into view out of the darkness.
“Let’s get our men on those ships,” Hannibal said. “Our backs are in good hands.”
They turned and started running toward the coast. They had not gone but a few steps when they heard the distant shouts of a Roman patrol raising the alarm.
Belenus saw the Romans rush out of the darkness carrying torches. When the Romans saw the Celts, they began shouting. Belenus heard a trumpet sound in the distance and soon the Celts’ front was full of Roman infantry wielding swords. The Celts held a crescent-shaped patch of land between the river and a copse of trees and brush on a rocky rise. Rushing past the torchbearers, the Roman soldiers struck the loose Celtic line at once, knowing that it screened the escaping enemy behind.
The Celts easily repulsed the first attacks, as to a man they were superior individual swordsmen. Belenus hunched low behind his shield, easily blocking a Roman thrust, his own long sword slashing the Roman’s unprotected shoulder. With a cry of pain, the Roman fell and frantically dragged himself away as Belenus hunched behind his shield again, awaiting the next attacker.
The field before them grew ever more crowded with Romans as they gathered around the torchbearers. Their individual piecemeal attacks had ceased. One of the Romans had taken charge and he was forming his men into a line as more and more soldiers rushed in from the darkness. Trumpets continued to sound in the distance. A solid wall of Roman shields was taking shape before the Celtic line.
“They’re forming up!” Belenus shouted. In one-on-one combat, the Celts had no fear of Romans. But Belenus knew they could not stand up to a formal attack.
“Fall back!” Iliatos cried. “Follow me!”
Suddenly, while the Romans were still organizing their attack, the Celts broke and ran. The clatter of arms and armor, Latin voices and trumpets, told them that the Romans joined in hot pursuit. The terrifying darkness amplified their pursuers’ proximity and speed, until it seemed to Belenus that the Romans gained a step with each passing moment. He expected to be struck down as he ran. Frantically, he strained against the cramping in his legs. He felt as if they were running forever, searching for defensible ground. Certainly, they had reached the sea by now.
“Deploy here, men!” Iliatos shouted. They had come to another narrow strip of land bounded by the river and a rocky slope.
The Celts stopped and spread out across the pass. The Romans were on them at once. Breathing hard, Belenus ducked behind his shield, blocking a sla
shing blow. Jabbing instinctively, his own thrusting long sword found the guts of his assailant. The man fell. Belenus withdrew his blade, his chest heaving from the exertion of his dash.
He looked around to get his bearings. In the bloodlust of the chase, the Romans once again attacked piecemeal, fighting individually. But this time they were winning some of those battles. Where Celts did not get turned around quickly enough they were skewered in the back. Where they were too slow they were run down by clubbing shields and dispatched on the ground where they fell. More and more Romans arrived, flooding through the gaps in the Celtic line, engaging in fights that were now two-men-on-one, three-on-one…
Belenus, on the extreme end of the line, was knocked to the ground. He saw Roman soldiers rush past him without pausing. In the darkness, he rolled in the grass and took refuge behind a boulder at the base of the rocky hill. A smattering of trees and brush grew all around him and cast deep shadows. He clambered up the slope until he was safely hidden.
The scene took on an air of unreality as he watched. The Roman torchbearers had arrived and he could see the bulk of the Romans forming up for a final push while Celts and Romans continued to clash amid the dead and dying. There was nowhere left to run, for, with a start, Belenus saw that they had indeed reached the sea. Below was the long white strip of beach and on the purple horizon above the black water he discerned the empty masts of ships. Incredibly, he saw that the oars were moving. He could hear the rhythmic splashing of the oars as they rose and dipped in the water.
Others among the Celts seemed to become aware of what was happening at the same time that he did.
The War God's Men Page 20