Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘Let’s go, then!’ Quintus delivered a desperate flurry of blows in the direction of his nearest opponent before turning and sprinting for the rear of the tent. He sensed Licinius one step behind. Quintus reached the gaping hole in the leather in a few strides. He hurled himself bodily through it, landing with a crash at the feet of the others. As they hauled him up, he peered inside, and was horrified to see Licinius – almost within arm’s reach – trip and fall to his knees. Quintus had no time to react. The baying Gauls were on his comrade like hounds that have cornered a boar. Swords, daggers and even an axe chopped downwards. The poor light was not enough to prevent Quintus seeing the spurts of blood from each dreadful, mortal wound. Licinius collapsed on to the tent’s floor without a word.

‘You bastards,’ Quintus screamed. Desperate to avenge his friend, he lunged forward.

Strong arms pulled him back. ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s dead. We have to save ourselves,’ Cincius snarled. Quickly, he and Calatinus dragged him off into the darkness.

There was no pursuit.

‘Let me go!’ Quintus shouted.

‘You won’t go back?’ insisted Calatinus.

‘I swear it,’ Quintus muttered angrily.

They released him.

Quintus gazed around with horrified eyes. As far as he could see, pandemonium reigned. Some tents had been set on fire, vividly illuminating the scene. Groups of Gaulish warriors ran hither and thither, cutting down the confused Roman cavalrymen and legionaries who were emerging, half-clothed, into the cold night air. ‘It doesn’t look like an all-out attack,’ he said after a moment. ‘There aren’t enough of them.’

‘Some of the whoresons are already running away,’ swore Calatinus, pointing.

Quintus squinted into the glow cast by the burning tents. ‘What are they carrying?’ His gorge rose as he realised. A great retch doubled Quintus over, and he puked up a bellyful of sour wine.

‘The fucking dogs!’ cried Cincius. ‘They’re heads! They’ve beheaded the men they’ve killed!’

With watering eyes, Quintus looked up. All he could see were the trails of blood the Gauls had left in the dazzling white snow.

Cincius and Calatinus began to moan with fear.

With great effort, Quintus pulled himself together. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

To his surprise, the pair obeyed. White-faced, they waited for him to speak.

Quintus ignored his instincts, which were screaming at him to search for his father. He had two men’s lives in his hands. For the moment, they had to be the priority. ‘Let’s head for the intervallum ,’ he said. ‘That’s where everyone will be headed. We can fight the whoresons on a much better footing there.’

‘But we’re both barefoot,’ said Cincius plaintively.

Quintus bridled, but if he didn’t let the others equip themselves with caligae from nearby corpses, frostbite beckoned. ‘Go on, then. Pick up a scutum each as well,’ he ordered. A shield was vital.

‘What about a mail shirt?’ Calatinus tugged at a dead legionary. ‘He’s about my size.’

‘No, you fool! We can’t afford the time. Swords and shields will have to do.’ Twitching with impatience, he waited until they were ready. ‘Follow me.’ Keeping an eye out for Gaulish warriors, Quintus set off at a loping run.

He led them straight to the intervallum, the strip of open ground that ran around the inside of the camp walls. Normally, it served for the legion to assemble before marching out on patrol or to do battle. Now, it allowed the bloodied survivors of the covert attack to regroup. Many had had the same idea as Quintus. The area was packed with hundreds of milling, disorganised legionaries and cavalrymen. Not many were fully dressed, but most had had the wits to pick up a weapon as they fled their tents.

Fortunately, this was where the discipline of officers such as centurions came into play. Recognisable even without their characteristic helmets, there were calm, measured figures everywhere, shouting orders and forming the soldiers into regular lines. Quintus and his companions joined the nearest group. At that point, it didn’t matter that they were not infantry. Before long, the centurions had marshalled a large force together. Every sixth soldier was issued with one of the few torches available. It wasn’t much, but would do until the attack had been contained.

At once, they began sweeping the avenues and tent lines for Gauls. To everyone’s frustration, they had little success. Their desire for revenge could not be sated. It appeared that as soon as the alarm had been raised, the majority of the tribesmen had made their getaway. Nonetheless, the search continued until the entire area had been covered.

The worst discoveries were the numerous headless bodies. It was common knowledge that the Gauls liked to gather such battle trophies, but Quintus had never witnessed it before. He had never seen so much blood in his life. Enormous splashes of red circled every corpse, and wide trails of it ran alongside the Gauls’ footprints.