move.
He found Mago lying alongside the sentry in a shallow dip, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Bostar liked the youngest Barca brother. Like Hannibal, Mago was charismatic and brave. He was also indomitably cheerful, which provided a counterweight to Hannibal’s sometimes serious disposition. Smaller than Hannibal, Mago reminded Bostar of a hunting dog: lean, muscular and always eager to be slipped from the leash. ‘Seen anything, sir?’ he whispered.
Mago turned his head. ‘Restless, aren’t you?’
Bostar shrugged. ‘The same as everyone else, sir. It’s difficult waiting down there without a clue what’s going on.’
Mago smiled. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘The Romans will come.’
‘How can you be sure, sir?’
‘Because Hannibal believes that they will, and I trust in him.’
Bostar nodded. It was a good answer, he thought. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’
‘I know you will. That’s why Hannibal picked you and your brother,’ Mago replied.
‘We’re very grateful for the opportunity, sir,’ said Bostar, thinking sour thoughts about Sapho. He and his older brother hadn’t spoken since Hannibal’s reprimand. Bostar felt regret that he’d only had the briefest of words with Hanno before they’d left the camp. He’d been angry that his younger brother seemed to be friendly with Sapho. Really, it was none of his business.
Mago got to his feet. ‘Have the men eaten yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, if I’m famished, they must be too,’ Mago declared. ‘Let’s break out the rations. It won’t be a hot breakfast, like the lucky dogs back at camp will get, but anything’s better than nothing. A man with a full belly sees the world with different eyes, eh?’ He glanced at the sentry. ‘You won’t miss out. I’ll send someone up to relieve you soon.’
The man grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Lead on,’ Mago said.
Bostar obeyed. Mention of the encampment brought his father and Hanno to mind. If it came to a battle, they would be in the front line. Not quite in the centre — that honour had been given to Hannibal’s new recruits, the Gaulish tribesmen — but still in a dangerous position. The fighting everywhere would be intense. He sighed. The gods protect us all, he prayed. If it comes to it, let us die well.
Combining his riders with Publius’ depleted horsemen gave Sempronius Longus just over four thousand cavalry. The moment that the assembled turmae had heard their orders, they were sent out from behind the protection of the fortifications. Fabricius and his men were among the first to exit the camp.
Quintus blinked with surprise. Beyond the sentry posts lay open ground that rolled down to the river. It was normally empty of all but the figures of training soldiers or returning patrols. Now, it was occupied by thousands of Numidian tribesmen. Waves of yelling warriors were galloping into the Roman positions and loosing their javelins, before wheeling their horses in a tight circle and retreating. The unfortunate sentries, who only numbered four or five per outpost, received no respite. Scarcely had one set of Numidians disappeared before another arrived, whooping and screaming at the top of their lungs.
‘Form a battle line!’ Fabricius shouted. His call was already being echoed by other officers who were emerging from the camp.
With a pounding heart, Quintus obeyed. So did Calatinus, Cincius and his comrades, each turma fanning out six ranks wide and five riders deep. The instant they were ready, Fabricius shouted, ‘Charge!’
His men went from the trot into a canter. This was followed immediately by a gallop. For maximum impact, they had to hit the Numidians at full speed. That was if the enemy riders stayed to fight, thought Quintus suspiciously. His experience with the fierce tribesmen had taught him otherwise. Yet Longus was doing the right thing. He could not just let his sentries be massacred within sight of his camp. Hannibal’s men had to be driven off. With six thousand velites following hot on their heels, that would not be difficult.
The thunder of hundreds of hooves drowned out all sound except the occasional encouraging shout from Fabricius: ‘Forward!’ As they closed in, each man let go of his reins and transferred the spear from his left hand, which also held his shield, to his right. From here on in, they would guide their horses with their knees. Now the months of careful instruction they had received would pay off. For all his comrades’ skill, Quintus was still wary of the Numidians, who learned to ride almost before they could walk. He was heartened by the thought of the velites. Their help would make all the difference.
‘Look! They’ve seen us!’ shouted Calatinus, pointing at the beleaguered sentries, whose terrified expressions were being replaced by elation. ‘Hold on!’
‘The poor bastards must have got the shock of their lives when the Numidians suddenly appeared,’ replied Quintus.
‘We’re coming none too soon,’ Calatinus added. ‘Many of the outposts have no defenders left.’
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.
