Hannibal: Clouds of War (31 page)

At the ditch, he bawled orders. His men spread out, one rank deep. Hanno glanced to either side, felt the impotent rage pulse behind his eyeballs. Other officers had rallied their men to the ditch as well, but they were few, too few. There were gaping holes everywhere in their line. ‘Move to the right,’ he roared. ‘Move! Join up with the next unit!’

Fortunately, his soldiers realised his intent and scrambled to obey. By the time that the Romans had closed to two hundred paces, perhaps ten score Syracusans had banded together. Hanno couldn’t see Kleitos, but the camp was large enough for his friend to be standing elsewhere with his men. He’d had the briefest of chats with the other officers present: they had agreed to hold on for as long as possible, before retreating in the best order they could. Whether this would happen, no one knew, but it was better to have a plan than not. Hanno took his place in the centre of his soldiers. It was the best vantage point, and kept him closer to all of them than any other position. He scanned the Roman line, which was closing steadily. It was far wider than the Syracusan front, which meant that they risked instant envelopment.
What the fuck are we doing?
‘Ready your shields, lads,’ Hanno shouted. ‘It’ll be javelins first – two volleys – and then they’ll charge. Stay close to each other. Punch with your shields and thrust with your swords, the same as they do.’

‘We’re dead,’ said a voice. ‘Every one of us.’ Fear rippled through the soldiers; Hanno could taste it in his own mouth.

‘HOLD!’ he roared. ‘Remember your comrades. HOLD!’

To their credit, Hanno’s men held as the legionaries slowed to a walk and from fifty paces, launched their first javelins. They held as the missiles hummed down upon them, damaging shields and injuring some. They held as a second shower of barbed metal rained in, wrecking more shields and inflicting new casualties. They even held as, at thirty paces, the Roman officers ordered their men to draw their swords and charge. They began to waver when the legionaries’ war cries rent the air. They could take no more when the wall of enemy scuta, topped by hundreds of feather-crested helmets, closed in, when the ground shook from the weight of thousands of hobnailed sandals. Wailing in terror, they broke. From what Hanno could see, so too did the other Syracusans.

It was hard to blame them. Hanno had been close to death on many occasions, but rarely had he seen its jagged teeth, or smelt its fetid breath, so close. It was time for all of them to run. There would be no holding the Romans, no period of grace for those who’d already fled. No chance of holding his men together. The only ones who would survive were those who possessed enough strength and determination, and on whom the gods smiled. Desperation clawed at Hanno as he wondered if he was one of those few. ‘RETREAT!’ he shouted. Then: ‘Deon, Amphios, the rest of you. Stay close if you can.’

Turning, he drove back the way they’d come. Fortunately, one of the paths that led back into the camp was right behind him, for the press was savage. It was as if Hanno had jumped into a river in full winter flood, when torn-down trees, bushes and other detritus are bowled along, head over heel, top over bottom, from left to right. He had no control, could do nothing other than be swept along by the current. Within a short distance, his shield was ripped from his grasp. It was as much as he could do to retain his sword. Hanno’s feet scrabbled to remain in contact with the ground beneath and he fought the bubbling panic in his chest: if he lost his balance, it was all over. When Deon appeared by his side, it was as if the gods had sent him. The pair locked arms, allowing them to stay together as the mob swept towards the far edge of the camp. Of the rest of his men, there was no sign.

Hanno wasn’t sure what distance they had travelled when the first screams rang out behind them. It was impossible to see how near the Romans were, but it was close, far too close. From this point, he thought grimly, the Syracusans would be like hens in a coop when the fox gets in. An animal sound of fear rose from the fleeing troops, almost as if they realised this too. Everyone began to shove even harder. To his right, Hanno saw a soldier stumble and fall to his knees. He had no opportunity to offer help – the tide of fleeing Syracusans behind was inexorable. No one behind the fallen man even slowed. There was a despairing cry as they trampled over the top of him, and he was gone. A moment later, Hanno barked his shins badly on a discarded shield. But for Deon’s support, he might have tumbled to the ground.

‘We’re never going to make it, sir,’ Deon shouted in his ear.

Hanno’s instinct was screaming the same thing. A glance to either side. The tents to the left were far closer. ‘We get off the path, and into the tents. Go through them.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘On my count. One. Two. Three.’ Hanno slipped his arm from Deon’s, turned and drove to the left as if his life depended on it. Which it did. The first soldier in his path snarled a curse as Hanno tried to get past.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

Asking the gods to forgive him, Hanno smashed the hilt of his sword into the man’s cheek. Eyes glazed, he dropped from sight. Hanno shoved into the space he’d left, felt Deon right on his heels. The next soldier saw his raised blade and thought better of challenging him. Hanno slipped past and elbowed another man in the face, and then he was free of the madness. Deon joined him a heartbeat later. ‘Have you seen Amphios?’ asked Hanno.

‘Not for a bit, sir.’

‘Any of the others?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Shit.’ Hanno surveyed the chaos before them. After a moment, he recognised a number of his men in the throng, but they all looked mad with fear. There was no way of knowing if Amphios would pass by. If he was even alive. ‘We can’t look for him.’

‘I know, sir.’

That was the only confirmation Hanno needed. Lifting his sword, he slashed a great hole in back of the nearest tent and stepped inside it, into the reek of men’s sweat and old farts. Deon hurried right behind him, over the confusion of bedding that lay within. Hanno took care at the doorway not to barge out without looking. The coast was clear, however, and he raced across the gap, over a stack of plates and a pot of still warm stew, and through the open flaps of the tent opposite. At its end, he sliced a tear large enough to climb through, and so it went on. At times they met another soldier, who invariably ignored them. Once, Deon had to threaten a burly man with crazed eyes, but the rest of the time, it was a simple case of moving from tent to tent. Hanno’s fear subsided a little, giving him time to marvel at the sheep-like behaviour of the troops who were milling and shoving and screaming on the paths to either side. All they had to do was think – what he and Deon were doing was so obvious – yet almost none had come to the same realisation.

Hanno stifled his pity. He wished the Syracusans no ill, but their bad fortune was his good, and he would need every last drop of that if he was to see the day’s end alive. Memories of the bloody routs he’d participated in before filled his mind. If their enemies were disciplined – and the Romans were – few men survived when they broke and ran. It was sheer stubbornness that kept Hanno going. That, and the rolls of the dice that had seen Deon stay by his side and permit their mad, exhilarating run through the abandoned tents. On he went.

It came as a shock to emerge from a tent, panting, and find another half-constructed ditch before him. They had reached the far edge of the Syracusan camp. Beyond the earthwork, the ground ran gently down to the river in which he had swum, a lifetime ago. Hanno’s eyes shot to the ford, where the mass of fleeing soldiers was concentrating. The Romans hadn’t yet reached it, but that wasn’t preventing tragedy from unfolding. It was a natural pinch point. Men were already dying there. All sense of discipline had vanished. Hundreds of Syracusans pushed and shoved to get into the shallows, where they could cross, and escape the enemy. The injured or weak were being thrust aside or knocked over into the deeper water, where they drowned. Some soldiers were so frantic to get away that they had come to blows with one another. Blades rose and fell; fresh blood spilled on to the dusty ground. Bodies lay face down in the current, colouring the river scarlet. Those who had been injured roared their distress. Hanno’s heart clenched. In a mêlée such as this, such men stood little chance of surviving.

Movement on the far bank caught his eye. Scores of riders were streaming away to the east. Beyond them, Hanno saw hundreds more – it was the cavalry, which had managed to escape. ‘Look,’ he said in disgust. ‘Hippocrates didn’t even try to fight. The coward ran and left the rest of us.’

Deon scowled. ‘The filthy bastard.’

‘That’s what he is, and no mistake.’ It was another reason to hate him.
Gods, bring him within reach of my blade, just once.
‘We’ll head for a place downstream of the ford. Our best chance is to swim across. Can you do that?’

Deon’s lips twisted. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘Never mind. I’ll help you across.’

Deon nodded his thanks.

Staying close to one another, they threaded their way down the slope. Discarded weapons and shields littered the ground. Injured men who could go no further lifted their hands in supplication, beseeching those who passed for help, or for an end to their suffering. With clenched jaw, Hanno ignored them all. They were still some distance from the bank when loud wails of dismay dragged his eyes back up towards the camp. ‘Fuck,’ he heard Deon say as his own throat closed with fear. This entire bank was about to become a slaughterhouse.

Scores of legionaries had burst into sight from various points in the camp. They’d done the same as Hanno and Deon had, cutting their way through the tents. The officer who had ordered that was a smart bastard, thought Hanno. It was the type of thing that Quintus might do. Could he be here? Hanno wondered fleetingly. Just then, it didn’t matter. The Roman move had been made to get ahead of as many of the fleeing Syracusans as possible, and it had worked. Utter panic broke out among the soldiers who were closest to the legionaries and, in a seething, disorganised mass, they fled towards the ford. Behind Hanno, the struggle to cross became even more vicious.

‘Get your armour off,’ he ordered Deon. ‘You’ll float better.’

‘Look, sir.’

Hanno’s gaze followed Deon’s outstretched arm. ‘What is it?’

‘There, sir, close to the soldier wearing the Boeotian helmet. Poor bitch.’

Hanno stared, and finally saw the man Deon had described, perhaps three hundred paces away, and halfway between their position and that of the Romans. His heart nearly stopped. A woman was stooped over another, tugging, trying to pull her upright. She had black hair. Her shape was familiar. Claws of terror raked his guts. Aurelia was in Syracuse. It couldn’t be her. Could it? The woman glanced at the Romans, who were being marshalled into a line by their officers, and she threw a despairing look at the river. Hanno cursed savagely. It
was
Aurelia. ‘Go,’ he ordered. ‘Save yourself.’

‘You’re not going up there, sir?’ Deon’s voice was incredulous. ‘It’s suicide.’

‘That’s my woman. I have to.’
I cannot just leave her to die.
‘Go! May the gods protect you.’

Deon’s eyes were full of respect as he saluted Hanno. He turned and was gone.

Sword in hand, Hanno began running towards where he’d seen Aurelia. Oddly, there was a benefit to advancing into the maw of death. The tide of Syracusans thinned as he headed uphill, allowing him to move faster than before. Many of the retreating soldiers didn’t even notice what he was doing. There were disbelieving stares from some; a couple of men told him he was insane. Hanno didn’t bother to reply, keeping his focus on the woman’s shape.

From above came the Latin command, ‘Close order!’ Other voices repeated the cry. His belly roiled with fresh fear as shields clattered off each other: the Romans were about to advance. Hanno began to sprint. A mad cackle escaped his lips as he spotted the woman, who had somehow managed to lift her companion off the ground. If it wasn’t Aurelia, he would die for nothing. Of all the cruel jokes that the gods had played on him in his life, that would be the worst.

As he closed in, however, he felt a heartbeat’s relief. It
was
Aurelia, and she was helping another woman, whose face was ashen in colour. This woman saw him first; she muttered something, and Aurelia’s head turned. Her mouth fell open in shock. ‘Hanno! How did you find us?’

‘Pure luck, and a soldier called Deon.’ What in all damnation are you doing here? he wanted to ask. Instead he demanded roughly, ‘Is Elira here as well?’

‘No. She wouldn’t come.’

‘She has more sense than you then.’ He glanced at Aurelia’s companion. ‘How badly are you hurt?’

‘FORWARD!’ bawled a voice in Latin. Hanno winced, but he did not look at the Romans.

The woman had collapsed again. Her face was resigned. ‘I think my left leg is broken. I tripped, fell, at the top of the slope.’

Hanno stared. Subcutaneous bleeding surrounded a nasty bulge on the inside of her left calf.
Shit.
‘It’s definitely fractured.’

‘I’ve been telling Aurelia to leave me,’ said the woman in an odd, calm voice.

Twin points of red marked Aurelia’s cheeks. ‘I can’t. It’s not right. She’s been helping me since we left Syracuse.’

Hanno peered up the slope. The legionaries had begun to descend. The only thing in his and the women’s favour was that they were doing it at the walk. There were clear-headed officers in charge, he thought absently. No need to run down, risking life and limb. The Syracusans were going nowhere. Nor, at this moment, were they. He searched for moisture in his mouth, found none. ‘We
have
to go now, or we’re all dead,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll carry you.’

‘You can’t,’ said the woman.

Hanno could see the fear – and hope – in her face. He reached out. ‘I can. I’ll sling you over my shoulder.’

Her face hardened as she found new resolve. ‘If you take me, we have no chance. Without me, you might make it.’

Aurelia looked horrified. ‘We can’t abandon you!’