Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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.