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.’
