distance. Return when the ambush has been sprung.’
With a quick salute, the cavalrymen sprang on to their horses’ backs. They headed off at the trot.
Bostar approached his brothers. ‘Our time here was not in vain,’ he said with a smile.
‘Finally,’ drawled Sapho. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’
Why is he needling him like that? thought Hanno.
Bostar’s jaw bunched, but he said nothing. Fortunately, his soldiers had heard their comrades getting up, and were doing the same. When he was done, the trio convened in front of their men.
‘How are we going to work this?’ asked Hanno.
‘It’s obvious,’ said Sapho self-importantly. ‘The phalanxes should form three sides of a square. The fourth side will be completed by the Numidians, who will drive the Romans into the trap. They’ll have nowhere to go. All we have to decide is which phalanx holds each position.’
There was a momentary pause. Each of them had reconnoitred the ground around the crossing point several times. The left flank was taken up by a dense patch of oak trees, while the right was a large swampy area. Neither constituted ground that horses would choose to ride over if given the choice. The best place to stand was on the track that led to the ford. That was where any action would take place.
As the youngest and most inexperienced, Hanno was content to take whichever of the flanks he was given.
‘I’ll take the central side,’ said Bostar abruptly.
‘Typical,’ muttered Sapho. ‘I want it as well. And you don’t outrank me any more, remember?’
The two glowered at each other.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Hanno angrily. ‘It doesn’t matter which one of you does it.’
Neither of his brothers answered.
‘Why don’t you toss a coin?’
Still neither Bostar nor Sapho spoke.
‘Melqart above!’ exclaimed Hanno. ‘I’ll do it, then.’
‘That’s out of the question,’ snapped Sapho. ‘You’ve got no combat experience.’
‘Exactly,’ added Bostar.
‘I’ve got to start somewhere. Why not here?’ Hanno retorted. ‘Better this, surely, than in a massive battle?’
Bostar looked at Sapho. ‘We can’t stand around arguing all morning,’ he said in a conciliatory tone.
Sapho gave a careless shrug. ‘It would be hard for Hanno to get it wrong, I suppose.’
Feeling humiliated, Hanno looked down.
‘That’s unnecessary,’ barked Bostar. ‘Father has trained Hanno well. Hannibal himself picked him to lead a phalanx. His men are veterans. The chances of him fucking up are no greater than if I were in the centre.’ He paused. ‘Or you were.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sapho’s eyes were mere slits.
‘Stop it!’ Hanno cried. ‘You should both be ashamed of yourselves. Hannibal gave us a job to do, remember? Let’s just do it, please.’
Like sulky children, his brothers broke eye contact. In silence, they stalked off to stand before their phalanxes. Hanno waited for a moment before realising that it was up to him to lead the way. ‘Form up, six men wide,’ he ordered. ‘Follow me.’ He was pleased by his soldiers’ rapid response. Many of them looked pleased by what had happened, which encouraged him further.
The three phalanxes deployed at the ford, in open order. Once they closed up, the spearmen would present a continuous front of overlapping shields. No horse would approach such an obstacle. The forest of spears protruding from it promised death by impalement to anyone foolish enough to try.
Hanno marched up and down, muttering encouraging words to his men. He was grateful that his father had advised him to recognise as many of his soldiers as possible. It was a simple ruse, yet not a man failed to grin when Hanno spoke to him by name. His efforts didn’t take long, though, and soon time began to drag. Muscles that had been stirred into activity by their movement into position grew cold again. A damp breeze blew off the river, chilling the waiting soldiers to the bone. Allowing them to warm up was not an option, nor was singing, a common method of raising morale.
All they could do was wait.
Dawn came, but banks of lowering cloud concealed the sun. The sole sign of life was the occasional small bird fluttering among the trees’ bare branches; the only sound the murmur of the river at their backs. Finally, Hanno’s grumbling belly made him wonder if they should order an issue of rations. Before he could query this with his brothers, the sound of galloping hooves attracted everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to the track leading west.
When two Numidians came thundering around the corner, there was a massed intake of breath.
‘They’re coming!’ one shouted as he drew nearer.
‘With five hundred of our comrades hot on their tails!’ whooped the other.
Hanno scarcely heard. ‘Close order!’ he screamed. ‘Ready spears!’
Chapter XXII: Face to Face
Quintus had hoped that his unease would dissipate as they left the Trebia behind them. Far from it. Each step that his horse took further into the empty landscape felt as final as if he had crossed the Styx to penetrate the depths of Hades itself. The eagerness he’d felt in his father’s tent, with a belly full of wine, had totally vanished. Quintus said nothing, but a glance to either side confirmed that he was not alone in his feelings. The other riders’ faces spoke volumes. Many were throwing filthy glances at Flaccus. Everyone knew that he was responsible for their misfortune.
At the front, Fabricius had no idea, or was choosing to ignore, what was going on. It was probably the latter, Quintus decided. These were some of the most experienced men in his command. Yet they were unhappy. Why had his father accepted the mission? Quintus cursed. The answer was startlingly simple. How would it look to Publius if Fabricius had refused a duty like this? Terrible. Quintus eyed Flaccus sourly. If the fool hadn’t put the idea in the consul’s head, they’d all still be safe on the Roman side of the river. Guilt soon replaced Quintus’ anger. By being so eager, he had probably helped push his father into accepting the suicide mission.
For, despite the fact that there was no sign of the enemy, that is what it felt like.
Quintus waited for only a short time before urging his horse forward to his father’s position. Flaccus was riding alongside. He gave Quintus a broad wink. It wasn’t entirely convincing.
He’s frightened too, thought Quintus. That made up his mind.
Fabricius was intent on scanning the landscape. His rigid back told its own story. Quintus swallowed. ‘Maybe this patrol was a bad idea, Father.’ He ignored Flaccus’ shocked reaction. ‘We’re visible for miles.’
Fabricius dragged his gaze around to Quintus. ‘I know. Why do you think I’m keeping such a keen eye out?’
‘But there’s no sign of anyone,’ protested Flaccus. ‘Not even a bird!’
‘For Jupiter’s sake, that doesn’t matter!’ Fabricius snapped. ‘All the Carthaginians need is one alert sentry. If there are any Numidians within five miles of here, they’ll be after us within a dozen heartbeats of any alarm.’
Flaccus flinched. ‘But we can’t go back empty-handed.’
‘Not without looking like fools, or cowards,’ Fabricius agreed sourly.
They rode in silence for a few moments.
‘There might be a way out,’ Flaccus muttered.
Quintus was ashamed to feel a flutter of hope.
Fabricius laughed harshly. ‘Not so keen now, are you?’
‘Are you doubting my courage?’ demanded Flaccus with an outraged look.
‘Not your courage,’ Fabricius growled. ‘Your good judgement. Haven’t you realised yet that Hannibal’s cavalry are lethal? If we so much as see any, we’re dead men.’
‘Surely it’s not that bad?’ protested Flaccus.
