‘I should have refused this mission, regardless of how it looked to Publius. Let you lead it on your own. If anyone would follow you, that is.’
Flaccus subsided into a sulky silence.
His father’s outburst revealed the depths of his anger; Quintus was amazed.
Fabricius relented a fraction. ‘So what’s your bright idea? You might as well tell me.’
‘We will report that the enemy cavalry was present in such numbers that we were unable to proceed far from the Trebia,’ said Flaccus with bad grace. ‘It’s not cowardice to avoid annihilation. Who will gainsay us? Your men certainly won’t talk about it, and no one else will be foolish enough to cross the river.’
‘Your capacity for guile never ceases to amaze me,’ snarled Fabricius.
‘I…’ Flaccus spluttered.
‘But you’re right. It’s better to save the lives of thirty men in the way you suggest rather than throw them away through foolish pride. We will return at once.’ Fabricius reined in his mount, and turned to issue the order to halt.
Quintus sagged down on to his horse’s back. His relief lasted no more than a heartbeat. From some distance away came the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves.
The eyes of every man in the turma turned to the west.
A quarter of a mile distant, a tide of riders was emerging from behind a copse of trees.
‘Numidians!’ Fabricius screamed. ‘About turn! Ride for your lives!’
His soldiers needed no urging.
Trying not to panic, Quintus did the same thing. The ambush might have been sprung early, but it remained to be seen if they could make it back to the Trebia before the enemy horsemen reached them.
It soon became clear that they would never reach the river in time. The Numidians were physically smaller than the Romans, and their mounts were faster. They were operating to a plan too. While some continued riding in direct pursuit from the south, others angled their path outwards and to the west, effectively hemming the patrol against the Trebia. The Romans had to flee northwards. Naturally, they made for the ford. There was no other option. It was the only one for miles in either direction.
‘Get to the front,’ Fabricius shouted at Quintus and Flaccus. ‘Stay there. Stop for nothing.’
Flaccus obeyed without question, but Quintus held back. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m staying at the rear to prevent this becoming a complete rout,’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Now go!’ His steely gaze brooked no argument.
Fighting back tears, Quintus urged his horse into a full gallop. It soon drew ahead of the other cavalrymen. Never had he been more glad of his father’s insistence on taking the best mount available, or more ashamed that he could feel such relief. Quintus did not want to die like a rabbit chased down by a pack of dogs. With this dark thought fighting for supremacy, he leaned forward over his horse’s neck and concentrated on one thing. Surviving. With luck, some of them would make it.
They had covered nearly a mile before the first Numidians had closed to within missile range. Riding bareback, half-clothed, the lithe, dark-skinned warriors did not look that threatening. Their javelins’ accuracy proved otherwise. Every time Quintus looked around, another cavalryman had been struck, or fallen from his mount. Others had their horses injured, and were no longer able to keep up with their comrades. No one saw their swift, and inevitable fate, yet their strangled cries followed in the survivors’ wake, sending terror into their hearts. The Roman riders could not even respond. Their thrusting spears were not made to be thrown.
By the time Fabricius’ men had covered another mile, the Numidians were attacking from three sides. Javelins were scudding in constantly, and Quintus could count only ten riders apart from himself, his father and Flaccus. At the bend in the track that led around and down to the ford, that number had been reduced to six. Desperately, Quintus urged his mount to even greater efforts. He didn’t know why, but they seemed to have drawn slightly ahead of their pursuers. Perhaps they still had a chance? he wondered. With their horses’ hooves throwing up showers of stones, they pounded around the corner and on to the straight stretch that led to the Trebia, a mere two hundred paces away.
All Quintus’ hopes evaporated on the spot.
The tribesmen had held back in order to close the trap. Blocking the way ahead was a massed formation of spearmen. Their large, interlocking shields formed three sides of a square, leaving the open side towards him. Quintus’ eyes flickered around in panic. A dense network of trees lined the right-hand side of the road. There was no escape there. On the left was a large area of boggy ground. Only a fool would try to ride across that, he thought.
Yet one of the cavalrymen took this second option. He swiftly learned his lesson. Within twenty paces, his horse was belly deep in glutinous sludge. When the rider tried to dismount, the same happened to him. Screaming with terror, he had soon sunk to his armpits. At last he stopped struggling, but it was too late. The best the man could hope for was an accurately thrown enemy javelin, thought Quintus bitterly. It was that, or drown in the mud.
Fabricius’ voice snapped him back to the present. ‘Slow down! Form a line,’ he ordered in a stony voice. ‘Let us meet our death like men.’
One of the five remaining cavalrymen began to make a low, keening noise in his throat.
Suddenly, Quintus’ fear became overwhelming.
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’ Fabricius shouted. ‘We are not cowards.’
To Quintus’ amazement, the rider stopped wailing.
‘Form a line,’ Fabricius ordered again.
Moving together until their knees almost touched, the eight men rode forward. Wondering why he hadn’t had a javelin in the back by now, Quintus turned. The Numidians had slowed to a walk. We’re being herded to the slaughter like so many sheep, he thought in disgust.
‘Keep your eyes to the front,’ Fabricius muttered. ‘Show the whoresons that we are not afraid. We will look our fate in the eyes.’
About 150 paces separated the Romans from the phalanxes. To Quintus, the distance felt like an eternity. Part of him wished that the travesty would just end, but he was also desperate not to die. Inexorably, the gap narrowed. A hundred paces, then eighty. Terrified now, Quintus glanced at his father. All he received in the way of reassurance was a tight nod. Quintus took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm.
I am a boy no longer. How I face my death is my decision alone. I will make it as brave an end as possible.
‘Ready spears,’ Fabricius ordered.
Quintus shot a look at Flaccus and was faintly pleased by his jutting chin. For all his arrogance, he was not a coward.
Sixty steps. They were nearing the distance of a long volley from the spearmen. As they crossed this invisible line, every one of the eight flinched. It was impossible not to. Yet nothing happened. Fabricius felt a new determination. They could ignore this torture if they wished. ‘Let’s take some of the bastards with us! At the trot. Choose your targets!’ he yelled, pointing his spear at a bearded Libyan.
Relieved that the movements of his horse concealed his shaking arm, Quintus took aim at a man with a notched helmet. Let it be over soon, he prayed. May the gods look after Mother and Aurelia. He heard the shout of orders as the Carthaginian officers prepared their soldiers for a final volley, saw hundreds of men’s torsos twist as their right arms went back. Quintus closed his eyes. The darkness this granted was somehow comforting. He was aware of his pounding heart, and his mount between his knees. Bounded on each side by its companions, it would not stray from its course. All he had to do was hold on.
‘Quintus?’ bellowed a voice.
With a jerk, Quintus opened his eyelids. That shout had come from within the Carthaginian ranks. He glanced at his father. ‘Stop! You must stop!’
Something in Quintus’ tone penetrated Fabricius’ battle madness, and his fierce expression cleared. He raised his spear in the air. ‘Halt!’
Pulling hard on their reins, the Romans screeched to a halt ten paces from the forest of bristling spear tips. Unsettled, their horses tried to shy away. More than one Libyan shoved his weapon forward in an attempt to reach them. Quintus heard a familiar voice cry out in Carthaginian. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Ignoring his companions’ confusion, he scanned the enemy ranks. He couldn’t believe it when Hanno, clad in a Carthaginian
