saddlecloth.
They met Clearchus and his riders just outside the city walls. The Massiliote cavalry were irregulars, and no two were dressed alike. With their helmets, spears and small shields, however, they were similar in appearance to the Roman cavalrymen. Fabricius was reassured by Clearchus’ calm manner, and the way his men responded to his orders. If it came to a fight, they’d probably do all right.
With the Massiliotes in the lead, they rode north, stopping only when it grew too dark to continue. Clearchus knew the countryside well, but, as he confided to Fabricius, it was possible that Carthaginian patrols could be operating in the area too. There was no point exposing themselves to unnecessary danger, and riding at night fell into that category. Fabricius did not argue. Clearchus’ judiciousness made perfect sense. Ordering no fires to be lit, he had the men set up camp. Double the normal number of sentries were stationed around the perimeter. Long after the soldiers had retired, Fabricius walked from picket to picket, his ears pricked. This was a mission of the utmost importance. If that meant hardly any sleep, then so be it. Nothing could go wrong. Thankfully, he heard nothing other than the occasional screech of an owl.
He and Clearchus had their men up long before dawn. Tension among both sets of riders was immediately palpable. Contact with the enemy was likely before the day was out. After a brief chat with Clearchus, Fabricius sent ten Massiliote riders to scout the trail a mile in advance of the main party. One turma, under the command of his best decurion, accompanied them. Their orders were to return at the slightest hint of anything untoward.
Fabricius’ hunch turned out to be the best decision he had ever made.
They had ridden for an hour or so when an outrider returned at the gallop. He dragged his horse to a stop beside Fabricius and Clearchus, who were riding together, and saluted.
Fabricius took a deep breath. ‘What news?’
‘We’ve spotted a group of Numidians, sir. Perhaps two miles away.’
Fabricius went very still. His memories of fighting against the lightly armed African horsemen were exclusively bad. ‘Did they see you?’
The cavalryman grinned. ‘No, sir. We were able to get behind a stand of trees.’
Fabricius hissed in relief. Their mission had escaped discovery — for the moment. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Perhaps three hundred in total, sir.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. The decurion said to tell you that there’s a copse about a mile from here that would make a perfect place for an ambush. If you move fast, you could get in place before the Numidians reach it.’
Fabricius’ mouth went dry. Publius had ordered him to avoid confrontation at all costs. How was that possible in this situation, however? To let the enemy cavalry pass while continuing with their own mission would leave his patrol at risk of attack from behind. Aware that everyone’s eyes were on him, Fabricius closed his eyes. ‘Three hundred men, you say?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, sir.’
Fabricius made up his mind. They were 450 strong. Easily enough. Opening his eyes, he laid a hand to his sword and was pleased by Clearchus’ fierce nod of agreement. ‘Swiftly, then,’ he said. ‘Take us to the copse.’
A short time later, Fabricius found himself in an excellent position overlooking the narrow track they had been following. Thanks to Clearchus’ quick-witted suggestion, the entire patrol had ridden up and out of view well before the far entrance to the stand of trees. The trap would be sprung long before the Numidians saw their incriminating tracks — he hoped. Fabricius also wished that they could have concealed themselves better, and effected some method of preventing the Numidians from retreating. With time running out, that had not been possible. Instead, they had to place their trust in the gods. He glanced to either side, seeing the same tense expression on his riders’ faces that he felt twisting his own.
The reasons were simple.
Soon, they would set eyes upon the first Carthaginian troops to act in aggression against Rome for more than twenty years. The enemy were not on Sicily either, their historical hunting grounds. The unthinkable had happened, and Fabricius still couldn’t quite take it in. Hannibal was in Gaul, and heading for Italy! Calm down, he thought. Of more relevance right now was the fact that if he and his men weren’t very lucky, the approaching Numidians would spot them and flee before the ambush began.
The following quarter of an hour felt like eternity to Fabricius. Focusing his gaze on the point where the track entered the copse, he ignored the faint jingle of harness around him, and bird song from the branches above. He couldn’t block out all sound, however. A horse stamped a hoof as it grew restless. Someone coughed, drawing a muttered rebuke from the nearest officer. Fabricius glared at the rider responsible before returning his attention to the path. Spotting movement, he blinked. Then his arm shot out, pointing. ‘Pssst!’ he hissed to the man on either side. A judder of anticipation rippled through the line of waiting cavalrymen.
Amazingly, the pair of enemy scouts who emerged into view were only a short distance in front of the main body of their countrymen. The Numidians appeared no different to the men Fabricius had fought in Sicily. Dark- skinned, lithe, athletic, they rode small horses without saddles, bridles or bits. Their loose tunics had large armholes and were pinned at the shoulder and belted at the waist. The Numidians carried javelins and light, round shields without bosses. Instead of looking around for danger, they were busy talking to each other. Given the empty countryside, thought Fabricius delightedly, it wasn’t that surprising. He’d made similar mistakes himself before, and been lucky enough to get away with it.
In they rode, without so much as a glance up the gentle slopes where the Romans and Massiliotes lay hidden. Fabricius held his breath, counting the distance. Eighty, then fifty paces. The front ranks of Numidians entered the copse, and Fabricius’ mind flashed back to the war in Sicily. They did not look like much, but these were some of the finest cavalry in the world. Sublime horsemen, they were best at skirmishing, and frustrating the enemy with their stinging attacks. He knew from personal experience that the Numidians’ pursuit of a vanquished foe was even more deadly.
It was too soon to sound the charge. As many riders as possible had to come into the copse where the trees would ensnare them. With every passing moment, though, the risk of being discovered grew. Fabricius’ stomach clenched painfully, but he did not stir. By the time two-thirds of the horsemen had ridden in, he saw that his men were on the verge of breaking ranks. He could no longer take the pressure either. ‘Charge!’ he shouted, urging his horse down the slope. ‘For Rome!’ Bellowing with excitement, 250 cavalry followed. An instant later, Clearchus and his Massiliotes emerged from the other side of the track, screaming at the top of their lungs.
Fabricius revelled in the look of stunned disbelief on the Numidians’ faces. It was their job to ambush and fall on an unsuspecting enemy, not the other way around. Surprised, outnumbered and with the advantage of height against them, they instantly wheeled their mounts’ heads and tried to flee. Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, total confusion reigned. Although some of those at the rear were already riding away, the vast majority were trapped by the trees. Horses reared in panic; men shouted contradictory orders at each other. Only an occasional rider prepared to fight. All the rest wanted to do was escape. Fabricius bared his teeth exultantly. They had ridden within thirty paces of the enemy without suffering a single casualty, and things were about to get even better. For all their horsemanship and skirmishing skill, the tribesmen were poor at close combat. ‘Ready spears,’ Fabricius yelled. ‘Kill as many as you can!’
With an inarticulate roar, his men obeyed.
Casting fearful looks over their shoulders, the surviving Numidians fled for their lives. Eyeing the bodies littering the ground, Fabricius estimated that more than a hundred of their number had been slain or injured in the initial ambush. The Roman and Massiliote casualties were perhaps half that number. Given the circumstances, this was more than satisfactory. Catching sight of Clearchus, Fabricius beckoned him urgently. ‘We’ve got to follow them,’ he said. ‘Stick tight to their tails, or there’ll be no chance to assess Hannibal’s forces.’
Clearchus nodded. ‘The wounded, sir?’
‘They can fend for themselves. We’ll pick them up on the way back.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The Massiliote turned to relay the order.
‘Clearchus?’
‘Sir?’
‘I want no further engagement with the enemy. A running battle could easily lead to disaster, especially if we encounter more Carthaginian forces. Our mission is more important now than killing a few more Numidians.
