Understood?’
Clearchus’ teeth flashed in the sunshine. ‘Of course, sir. Publius is waiting for us.’
Soon all the able-bodied men had formed up and were ready to ride. Without a backward glance, Fabricius and Clearchus led them after the Numidians. This time, there was no advance party. They rode at top speed, four abreast, knowing that the chance of an attack from the panicked enemy riders was slim to none. It wasn’t long before they glimpsed the last of the tribesmen, who screamed in dismay. At once Fabricius ordered his men to slow down. He was relieved when his command was obeyed without question. Poor discipline was too often the reason for battles being lost.
They followed the Numidians along the winding track for perhaps five miles. The flat terrain and the well- beaten track made the pursuit easy. Fabricius had no idea how far the Rhodanus was, but Clearchus reached him as they neared a low, stone-topped hill that stood alone, dominating the surrounding wooded area.
‘The river is on the other side of that, sir.’
Immediately, Fabricius held up his hand. ‘Halt!’ As his order was obeyed, he fixed the Massiliote with his stare. ‘Let’s go up. Just you and me.’
Clearchus looked startled. ‘Are you sure, sir? There could be enemy pickets at its crest.’
‘They’ll be running after the Numidians!’ Fabricius replied confidently. ‘And when we come leathering back down here, I want everyone ready to ride, not bunched up on a narrow path.’
Clearchus blinked; then a mischievous smile twitched across his lips. ‘I suppose two men against an entire host are as good as a few hundred.’
With a fierce grin, Fabricius slapped his thigh. ‘That’s the attitude.’ He turned to the nearest of his decurions. ‘Rest the men. We’re going to take a look at what’s on the other side of the hill. I want you ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Fabricius led the way up the path. He was surprised to find himself feeling more nervous than he had in years. He would never have expected to be the first Roman to set eyes on Hannibal’s army. Yet here he was.
Nearing the crest, they found evidence of a sentry post: a stone fireplace full of smoking ash, and bedding rolls, which still bore the imprint of those who’d been sitting on them. They dismounted and tethered their horses before clambering to the peak. Instinctively, Fabricius went down on his belly. The first thing that caught his attention as he peered over the edge was the mob of yelling Numidians driving their horses down the slope. Behind them were a dozen or more running figures: the sentries from the abandoned picket. Fabricius’ lips peeled up in a snarl of satisfaction, but as he took in the scene beyond, his mouth fell open in wonder.
In the middle distance glittered the wide band that was the River Rhodanus. Perhaps a hundred paces from the water’s edge, the enemy tent lines began. They stretched as far as the eye could see. Fabricius was used to legionary camps that could hold 5,000 men, or even 10,000. What lay before him was much less organised, but far larger. It was more than twice as large as a consular army, which was made up of approximately 20,000 men. ‘You weren’t exaggerating. This host is immense!’ he muttered to Clearchus. ‘Publius should have moved on your intelligence. We’d have caught the bastards napping.’
The Massiliote looked pleased.
Fabricius scanned the encampment, mentally noting everything he saw. Hannibal had superior numbers of horsemen compared to an equivalent Roman force, which worried him. Few things were more important than the quantity of horse at one’s disposal. There were the usual Carthaginian stalwarts: Libyan spearmen and skirmishers, Balearic slingers and Numidian and Iberian cavalry. Most plentiful of all were the infantry, the majority of which were scutarii and caetrati. And last but not least, there were the elephants: the battering rams that had so terrified Roman armies in the past. Perhaps twenty of the massive beasts were already on the near bank. ‘Gods,’ Fabricius whispered in amazement. ‘How in the name of Jupiter did they get them over the river?’
Clearchus touched his arm and pointed. ‘On those.’
Fabricius peered at the two massive wooden rafts being pulled back to the far side by rowing boats. There, he could see a dozen or more elephants waiting to be ferried across. Before them, an enormous jetty formed by a double line of square platforms projected some sixty paces out into the fast-flowing water. Dozens of ropes and cables secured the makeshift affair to trees upriver from the pier. He shook his head at the scale of the engineering that had gone into the pier’s construction. ‘I’ve heard that elephants are intelligent creatures. Surely they wouldn’t just walk on to a floating square of wood?’
Clearchus squinted into the bright light. ‘I can see a layer of earth all along the walkway. Maybe it’s meant to look like dry land?’
‘Clever bastards. So they lead their charges to the end of the jetty, and on to the rafts. Then they cut them free and row across the river.’ Rapt, Fabricius watched as, encouraged by its mahout, an elephant was slowly led down the walkway. Even from a distance, it was clear that the creature was not happy. Bugles of distress blared out again and again. It had only walked a third of the jetty’s length before it stopped dead in its tracks. In an effort to make the elephant continue, a group of men behind it began shouting and playing drums and cymbals. However, instead of continuing to the raft, which was now tethered to the end of the pier, the creature jumped into the water. There was a wail from its unfortunate mahout as he disappeared from sight, and Fabricius closed his eyes. What a way to die, he thought. When he looked up, the elephant was swimming strongly across the river. Fabricius was engrossed. He had never seen such an incredible sight before.
Suddenly, Clearchus tugged at his arm. ‘The Numidians have raised the alarm, sir.’
At the edge of the camp, Fabricius could see the tribesmen milling around. Many were pointing at the hill and beyond. Faint shouts of anger carried through the air, and he smiled mirthlessly. ‘Time to go. Publius will want to hear the news. Good, and bad.’
Fabricius was delighted by Publius’ instantaneous response to his dramatic news. The consul was not afraid of confrontation. Ordering the heavy baggage to be loaded on to the quinqueremes for safety, Publius led the army north as soon as was humanly possible. Nonetheless, it was three full days before the legions and their allies arrived at the point where the Carthaginians had crossed the river. It was a huge disappointment to find the vast encampment abandoned. As the Roman officers picked their way across the remnants of thousands of campfires, the only life to be seen were the skulking forms of jackals looking for scraps, and the countless birds of prey that hovered overhead for similar reasons.
Hannibal had gone. North, to avoid a battle.
Publius had difficulty concealing his amazement. ‘Who would have thought it?’ he muttered. ‘He is heading for the Alps, and thence to Cisalpine Gaul.’
Fabricius was still astonished too. He knew no one who had even contemplated that Hannibal would pursue such a plan. Stunning in its simplicity, it had taken them all completely unawares. It was lucky chance that had them standing here today. Now Publius faced a hard choice. What was the best thing to do?
The consul immediately convened a meeting of his senior officers on the riverbank. As well as Gnaeus, his legatus, there were twelve tribunes present, six for each regular legion. Following tradition, alternate legions had three senior tribunes, men who had served for more than ten years, while the others had two. The junior tribunes needed only to have seen five years’ service. It was a mark of the times, and of the influence of the Minucii, that Flaccus, who had no military experience, should be accorded even the lower rank of junior tribune. As the patrol leader, Fabricius was also present. He felt distinctly nervous in the presence of so many senior officers.
‘We are faced with four choices, all of them difficult,’ Publius began. ‘To pursue Hannibal and force him to fight, or to withdraw to the coast and return with the whole army to Cisalpine Gaul. The third option would be merely to send word to the Senate of Hannibal’s intentions, before continuing as charged to Iberia. Or… I could bring the news to Rome myself while Gnaeus takes the legions west.’ He scanned his officers’ faces, waiting for a response.
Fabricius thought that either the second or fourth options were the best, but he certainly wasn’t going to say anything before any of his superiors did. As the silence lengthened, it appeared that none of them were prepared to speak up either. Fabricius fumed. This was one of the most pivotal moments in Roman history, and no one wanted to say the wrong thing. That is, he realised, apart from one. Flaccus was shifting from foot to foot like a man possessed. Fabricius struggled to master his exasperation. Probably all that kept Flaccus’ mouth shut was the desire not to breach military protocol by speaking out of turn, before the five senior tribunes.
Eventually, Publius grew impatient. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘Let us be frank. You may speak without fear of retribution. I want your honest opinions.’
