Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

by Ben Kane

  They had closed to within fifty paces of the enemy.

  ‘Time to even up the score,’ cried Quintus, picking out a slight Numidian with braided hair as his target.

  Cincius’ lip curled. ‘They’ll turn and run any moment now, the way they always do.’

  Instead, to their amazement, the enemy riders turned and began driving their horses straight at the Roman cavalry.

  ‘They’re going to fight, not run.’ Quintus felt faintly nauseous, but he kept his eye on the Numidian, who was riding straight at him. Oddly, it seemed the warrior had also chosen him.

  ‘Pick your targets,’ Fabricius shouted, praying that the outcome of this clash proved different to the one at the Ticinus. ‘Make every spear count.’

  Seeing the Numidian loose a javelin in his direction, Quintus panicked. Fortunately, it missed, sailing between him and Calatinus. Quintus cursed savagely. The Numidian still had two javelins. Even as the thought went through his mind, the next one scudded his way. He bent low over his horse’s neck, hearing it whistle overhead. Claws of desperation tore at him. How long would his luck hold out? He was fewer than twenty paces from his enemy. At that range and closing, the warrior could hardly miss.

  The Numidian held on to his last javelin until he was practically on top of Quintus. His error meant that Quintus was able to catch the missile in his shield. He had to discard the useless thing, but he was also able to stab his spear deep into the Numidian’s belly as he rode past. Side by side, Quintus and Calatinus struck the enemy formation. At once the world shrank to a small area in their immediate vicinity. Quintus’ ears rang with the clash of arms and men’s screams, a deafening cacophony that added hugely to the confusion. The press of opposing riders pushing against each other meant that he seldom fought the same opponent for more than a couple of strokes. Quintus’ first opponent was a young Numidian who nearly took his eye out with a well-aimed javelin. He jabbed his spear unsuccessfully at the warrior before being swept twenty paces away, never to see him again.

  In quick succession, Quintus fought two more Numidians, stabbing one in the arm and plunging his weapon into the other’s chest. Next he went to the aid of a Roman cavalryman who was being attacked by three enemy riders. They fought desperately for what seemed an age, barely able to defend themselves against the Numidians’ lightning-quick javelin thrusts. And then, like wraiths, the warriors were gone, galloping off into the distance. All across the battlefield, Quintus could see their companions doing the same. It was done with the ease of a shoal of fish changing direction. Unexpectedly, though, the Numidians reined in several hundred paces away. They began shouting insults at the Romans, who responded loudly and in kind.

  ‘Mangy bastards!’ shouted Cincius.

  ‘Come back, you goat-fuckers!’ roared Calatinus.

  Quintus grinned. ‘We’ve driven them a good distance from the camp already.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Calatinus, whose face was drenched in sweat. ‘Time for a rest. I’m bloody exhausted.’

  ‘And me,’ added Cincius.

  Fabricius and his fellow officers let the Roman cavalry catch their breath for a few moments. Clouds of condensation hung above the mass of horsemen, but were soon dispersed by the heavy sleet that began to fall.

  ‘Time to move before you all freeze to death,’ bellowed Fabricius.

  Quintus glanced at Calatinus and Cincius. ‘Ready for another bout?’

  ‘Definitely,’ they snarled in unison.

  Right on cue, Fabricius’ voice bellowed the command. ‘Hold the line! Advance!’ The call was repeated by all along the front rank. The Roman horsemen needed little encouragement, and urged their mounts forward. Once again, the ground shook as thousands of horses pounded across the soft ground. This time, the Numidians fought for only a short time before retreating. Yet the tribesmen did not go far. Instead, they turned to fight again. Without pause, the Roman cavalrymen charged at their enemies. Keeping up the momentum of an attack was vital.

  Their confidence was boosted by the sight, to their rear, of six thousand velites pouring to their aid. The fact that they were on foot did not take away from the skirmishers’ value. They would first consolidate and hold the area that had been taken back from the Numidians. If the enemy horsemen decided to stand their ground, the velites could support their comrades and tilt the balance in their favour. If, on the other hand, the Roman cavalrymen were driven back, then the velites would provide a protective screen for them to fall back through. It was a win-win situation, thought Quintus jubilantly.

  At daybreak, the horns that normally signalled the Carthaginian troops to get up remained silent. Used to army routine, most men were already awake. Hanno smiled as he listened to the rumours filling the tents around him. The rank-and-file troops had no idea yet why they had not been ordered from their beds. The majority were happy not to enquire, but some of the more eager ones poked their heads outside. Their officers told them that nothing was wrong. Not wanting to pass up such a rare opportunity, the soldiers duly returned to the comfort of their blankets. For half an hour, an unusual calm fell over the encampment. To the Carthaginians, it was a small dose of heaven. Despite the inclement weather, they were dry, warm and safe.

  Finally, the horns did sound. There was no alarm, just the normal notes that indicated it was time to rise. Hanno began moving from tent to tent, encouraging his men.

  ‘What’s going on, sir?’ asked a short spearman with a bushy black beard.

  Hanno grinned. ‘You want to know?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the eager reply.

  Hanno was fully aware that every soldier within earshot was listening. ‘The Numidians are attacking the Roman camp even as we speak.’

  A rousing cheer went up, and Hanno raised his hands. ‘Even if the whoresons take the bait and follow our cavalry, it will take them an age to cross the Trebia. You have plenty of time to get ready.’

  Pleased mutters met this comment.

  ‘I want you to prepare yourselves well. Stretch and oil your muscles. Check all your equipment. When you’re ready, lay your arms aside and prepare a hot breakfast. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ his men shouted.

  Hanno retired to his own tent in search of food. When that was done, he lay down on his bed and instantly fell asleep. For the first time since leaving Carthage, Hanno dreamed of his mother, Arishat. She did not seem concerned that Malchus and her three sons were in Hannibal’s army. Hanno found this immensely reassuring. His mother’s spirit was watching over them all.

  Soon after, he was roused by the horns sounding the call that meant ‘Enemy in sight’.

  Hanno sat bolt upright in bed, his heart racing. The Romans had followed the Numidians! He and every man in the army were about to be given their first chance to punish Rome for what it had done to his people.

  They would grasp it with both hands.

  Little more than an hour later, eight thousand of Hannibal’s skirmishers and spearmen, with Hanno among them, had been deployed about a mile and a half east of their camp. Behind this protective screen, the rest of the army was slowly assuming battle formation. Hearing that the entire enemy host was crossing the Trebia, the Carthaginian general had finally responded. Hanno was delighted by Hannibal’s ingenuity. Unlike the Romans, who had not eaten and were even now fording chest deep, freezing water, Hannibal’s soldiers had full bellies and came fresh from their fires. Even at this distance, the chill air was filled with their ribald marching songs. He could hear the elephants bugling too, protesting as they were taken from their hay and sent out to the flanks.

  Hanno was positioned at the easternmost point of the defensive semicircle, nearest the River Trebia. It was where contact with the Romans would first be made. To facilitate the Numidians’ withdrawal, gaps had been left between each unit. These could easily be closed if necessary. Five score paces in front of the Libyans’ bristling spears, hundreds of Balearic slingers waited patiently, the leather straps of their weapons dangling from their
fists. The tribesmen didn’t look that impressive, thought Hanno, but he knew that the egg-sized stones hurled by their slings could travel long distances to crack a man’s skull. The ragged-looking skirmishers’ volleys could strike terror into an advancing enemy.

  The wind had died down, allowing the grey-yellow clouds to release heavy showers of snow on the waiting troops. They would have to bear with it, Hanno decided grimly. Nothing would happen for a while. The Numidians were still retreating across the Trebia. When the Roman cavalry arrived, they probably wouldn’t attack the protective screen. He was correct. Over the following half an hour, squadron after squadron of Numidians escaped between the phalanxes. Soon after, Hanno was pleased to recognise Zamar approaching. He raised a hand in greeting. ‘What news?’

  Zamar slowed his horse to a walk. ‘Things go well. I wasn’t sure if the Romans were up for a fight to start off with, but they poured out of their camp like a tide of ants.’

  ‘Just their cavalry?’

  ‘No, thousands of skirmishers too.’ Zamar grinned. ‘Then the infantry followed.’

  Thank you, great Melqart, thought Hanno delightedly.

  ‘We fought and withdrew repeatedly, and gradually led them down to the river. That was where we took most of our casualties. Had to make it look as if we were panicking, see?’ said Zamar with a scowl. His face lifted quickly. ‘Anyway, it worked. The enemy foot soldiers followed their cavalry into the water and started wading across. To cap it all, that was when the snow really started falling. You could see the fuckers’ faces turning blue!’

  ‘Did they turn back?’

  ‘No,’ replied Zamar with a grim pleasure. ‘They didn’t. It might take the whoresons all day to get here, but they’re coming. Their whole damn army.’

  ‘This really is it then,’ Hanno muttered. His stomach churned.

  Zamar nodded solemnly. ‘May Baal Saphon protect you and your men.’

  ‘And the same to you,’ Hanno replied. He watched sadly as the Numidian led his riders to the rear. Would they ever see each other again? Probably not. Hanno didn’t wallow in the emotion. It was far too late for regret. They were all in this together. He and his father. Sapho and Bostar. Zamar and every other soldier in the army. Yes, bloodshed was inevitable. So too were the deaths of thousands of men.

  Even as he saw the first files of Roman legionaries filing into view, Hanno believed that Hannibal would not let them down.

  Chapter XXIV: At Close Quarters

  WITH THE NUMIDIANS gone, Fabricius regrouped his riders on the near riverbank. The mass of horsemen crossed together and went pounding up the track, past the spot where their patrol had been annihilated by Hanno and his men. Trying not to think about what had happened, Quintus squinted up at the low-lying cloud. For the moment, the snow had stopped. He tried to feel grateful. ‘What time is it?’ he wondered. ‘It has to be hora quinta at least.’

  ‘Who cares?’ growled Calatinus. ‘All I know is that I’m parched with thirst, and bloody famished.’

  ‘Here.’ Quintus handed over his water bag.

  Grinning his thanks, Calatinus took a few deep swallows. ‘Gods, that’s cold,’ he complained.

  ‘Be grateful you’re not a legionary,’ advised Quintus. He pointed back towards the Trebia, where thousands of soldiers were already preparing to follow the cavalry across.

  Calatinus scowled. ‘Aye. Fording that was unpleasant enough on a horse. I pity the poor bastard infantry. The damn river must be chest deep.’

  ‘It’s the winter rain,’ said Quintus. ‘Even the parallel tributaries are waist high, so the poor bastards will have to immerse themselves repeatedly. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘A fight will soon warm them up,’ declared Cincius stoutly.

  Quintus and his two comrades were among the first to emerge from the trees’ protection. They reined in at once, cursing. Their chase was over.

  A quarter of a mile away, stretching from left to right as far as the eye could see, stood the figures of thousands of waiting men. Carthaginian troops. ‘Halt!’ bellowed Fabricius. ‘It’s a protective screen. No point committing suicide.’ Cheated of the chance for further revenge on the Numidians, his men shouted insults after the retreating enemy riders.

  Fabricius found Quintus a moment later. He smiled to see his son unharmed. ‘Quite a morning so far, eh?’

  Quintus grinned. ‘Yes, Father. We’ve got them on the run, eh?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Fabricius was studying the brown-yellow clouds above. He frowned. ‘There’s more snow coming, and we’re going to have a long wait before the real fight begins. The legions and the socii will take hours to get in position. By that time, the men will be half dead with cold.’

  Quintus glanced around. ‘Some of them don’t even have cloaks on.’

  ‘They were too keen to engage with the enemy,’ replied Fabricius grimly. ‘What’s the betting that they didn’t feed and water their horses?’

  Quintus flushed. He hadn’t remembered that most basic of duties either. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Do you see those trees?’

  Quintus eyed the dense stand of beech a short distance to their left. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s take shelter there. Longus might not like it, but he’s not here. We’ll still be able to respond fast if there’s any threat to the legionaries. Not that that’s likely. Hannibal threw out this protective screen deliberately. He wants a proper battle today,’ Fabricius declared. ‘Until the fighting starts, or orders come to the contrary, we should try to keep warm.’

  Quintus nodded gratefully. There was more to war than simply defeating an enemy in combat, he realised. Initiative was also important.

  And so, while the rest of the cavalry and the velites milled about uncertainly, watching the legionaries wading across the Trebia, Fabricius led his riders under cover.

  By the time two hours had passed, Hanno was shivering constantly. His soldiers were in the same condition. It was absolute torture standing on an open plain in such bitter weather. Although the snow showers had died away, they had been succeeded by sleet, and the wind had recovered its viciousness. It whistled and whipped at Carthaginian and Roman alike with an unrelenting fury. The only opportunity Hanno’s men had been given to warm up was when the instruction had come to withdraw towards their camp.

  ‘Look at the whoresons!’ cried Malchus, who had come over from his phalanx. ‘Will they never stop coming?’

  Hanno eyed the ground opposite their position, which was being filled with a plodding inevitability. ‘It must be the entire Roman army.’

  ‘I’d say so,’ answered his father bleakly. Abruptly, he laughed. ‘However cold you think your men are, those fuckers are in a far worse state. In all likelihood, they’ve had no food, and now they’re all drenched to the skin too.’

  Hanno shuddered. He could only imagine how cold the wind would feel on wet clothing and heavy mail, both of which carried heat away from the body anyway. Demoralising. Energy-sapping.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ his father went on, ‘we’re ready and waiting for them.’

  Hanno glanced to either side. As soon as the Numidians had retreated safely, he and his men had pulled back to Hannibal’s battle formation, which consisted of a single line of infantry in close order. The slingers and Numidian skirmishers were arrayed some three hundred paces in front of the main battle line. Their general had not placed his strongest infantry – the Libyans and Iberians – in the centre. Instead, that space was filled by about eight thousand Gauls. ‘Surely we should be standing there?’ he asked crossly. ‘Instead, it’s our newest recruits.’

  Malchus gave him a calculating look. ‘Think about it. Listen to them.’

  Hanno cocked his head. The war cries and the carnyx blasts emanating from the Gauls’ ranks were deafening. ‘They’re delighted with the honour that Hannibal has granted them. It will increase their loyalty.’

  ‘That’s right. To them, pride is everything,’ answered Malchus. ‘What could
be better than being given the centre of the line? But there’s another reason. The heaviest fighting, and the worst casualties will be there too. Hannibal is saving us and the Iberians from that fate.’

  Hanno gave his father a shocked glance. ‘Would he do such a thing?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Malchus casually. ‘The Gauls can easily be replaced. Our men, and the scutarii and caetrati, cannot. That’s why we’re on the wings.’

  Hanno’s respect for Hannibal grew further. He eyed the seventeen elephants standing just in front of their position. The rest were arrayed on the other wing, before the Iberian foot soldiers. Further protection for the heavy infantry, he realised. Outside, on each flank, sat five thousand Numidians and Hannibal’s Iberian and Gaulish horse. The Carthaginian superiority in this area would hopefully afford Hannibal a good chance of winning the cavalry battle. Meanwhile, the Gauls would have to resist the hammer blow delivered by the Roman legions to the centre of the Carthaginian line. ‘Will the Gauls hold?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘There’s a decided chance that they will not,’ Malchus replied, clenching his jaw. ‘They might be brave, but they’re poorly disciplined.’

  Hanno stared over at the tribesmen. Few of them wore armour. Even in this weather, most preferred to fight stripped to the waist. There was no denying that the legionaries’ mail shirts and heavy scuta would provide them with a severe test. ‘If they don’t break, however, and our cavalry are successful …’

  Malchus’ grin was wolf-like. ‘Our troops on each side will have a god-given opportunity to attack the sides of the Roman formation.’

  ‘That’s when Mago’s force will appear.’

  ‘We must hope so,’ said his father. ‘For all of our fates will lie with them.’

  Hanno could hardly bear it. ‘So many small things have to succeed for us to win the day.’

  ‘That’s right. And the Gauls will have the hardest task of any.’

  Hanno closed his eyes and prayed that everything went according to plan. Great Melqart, you have helped Hannibal thus far. Please do the same again today.