Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

As they rode towards the Carthaginians, Quintus forgot his father’s reassuring words. He felt sick to the stomach. How could a thousand men prevail against what looked like more than five times that number? It simply wasn’t possible.

Calatinus also looked unhappy. ‘Longus should have split our horsemen equally,’ he muttered. ‘There are nearly three thousand allied riders on the other flank.’

‘It’s not fair,’ moaned Cincius.

‘The figures still don’t equate,’ Quintus replied wearily.

‘I suppose. It’s not even as if the bastards coming towards us will be scared. They’ve already tasted victory over us.’ Calatinus cursed the consul heartily.

‘Come on! We should be able to stall the enemy attack,’ encouraged Quintus. ‘Hold the line, and stop the enemy from having free rein over the battlefield.’

Calatinus’ grunt conveyed all types of disbelief. Cincius didn’t seem convinced either.

‘Listen to our infantry,’ cried Quintus. The noise of their tread was deafening. ‘There are more than thirty-five thousand of them. How can Hannibal with his little army, made up of a hodgepodge of different nationalities, prevail against that type of might? He can’t!’

His comrades looked a trifle more confident.

Wishing that he felt as certain as he sounded, Quintus again fixed his gaze to the front.

The first of the enemy riders were now very close. Quintus recognised them as Gauls by their mail shirts, round shields and long spears. He squinted at the small, bouncing objects tied to their horses’ harnesses. To his horror, he realised they were severed human heads. These warriors could be some of their so-called allies, and the heads those of his former comrades. Of Licinius, perhaps.

Calatinus had seen the same thing. ‘The fucking dogs!’ he screamed.

‘Yellow-livered sons of whores!’ Cincius bellowed.

A towering rage also filled Quintus. He wasn’t going to flee from cowards like these. Men who would kill others as they slept. I would rather die, he thought. Quintus raised his spear and chose a target, a warrior on a sturdy grey horse. The magnificent gold torc visible over the top of the Gaul’s mail shirt revealed him to be an important individual. So did the three human heads bouncing off his mount’s chest. He would be a good start, Quintus decided.

However, the tide of battle swept Quintus away from the Gaul he’d aimed for. In hindsight, it was a good thing. The tribesman was immensely skilled. Quintus watched in horror as a Roman rider fewer than twenty paces away was skewered through the chest by the Gaul’s weapon. The force of the impact punched the man off his saddle blanket, dropping him dead to the dirt below. The horse behind stumbled over the corpse, unbalancing its rider, and rendering him easy prey for the Gaul, who was now swinging a long sword. He took off the cavalryman’s head with a great sideways lop. Quintus had never seen blood spray so high in the air. Gouts of it went everywhere as the panicked horse galloped off. It was perhaps a dozen steps before its dead rider toppled off.

At once the Gaul sawed on his mount’s reins and jumped down. Quintus’ amazement turned to disgust. The warrior was after another head. He would have given anything just then to be able to reach the Gaul, but it was not to be. He nearly lost his own head to a swinging sword, managing to dodge it only because its bearer uttered a loud war cry as his killing stroke came down. As it was, Quintus nearly fell off his horse. With a speed born of utter desperation, he managed to regain his seat in time to parry his opponent’s next powerful blow.

Fortuna was smiling on him in that instant, for the warrior was even younger than he, and, as Quintus realised, far less skilled. A more experienced man would have already despatched him. The Gaul was not lacking in bravery, however, and they hammered fiercely at each other for a few moments before Quintus found an opportunity to strike. The other’s wild swings left his right armpit exposed. Taking a gamble that he could react faster than his enemy, Quintus did not defend against the next strike. Instead, bending low over his horse’s neck, he listened to it whistle overhead. While the Gaul was still coming to the end of his swing, Quintus came up like a striking snake. He buried his spear in the other’s side, sliding it neatly into the armhole of his mail shirt. With nothing but a tunic to stop its progress, the blade slid between the man’s ribs, through one lung and into his heart. It was as clean a stroke as Quintus had ever made, killing instantaneously. He would always remember it not for that, however, but for the brief burst of shock and pain in the Gaul’s eyes before they went dark for ever.