Hannibal: Clouds of War by Ben Kane Page B

flat of his back. Naked fear filled the man’s eyes. It’s you or me, thought Quintus harshly, ramming his sword into his enemy’s mouth. In. Twist. Feel the flesh open, the muscles part, the bone grate. Out. Gouts of blood chased his retreating blade. Quintus felt, but didn’t see, the red tide that showered his lower legs and feet. He looked left, right. The other cavalryman was down, savage hacks in his neck and arms evidence of Urceus’ efficiency. A horse with a javelin in one haunch came backing towards them, snorting with fear, but one of the other hastati smacked it with the flat of his sword and it bolted forward again. Then, a moment of calm in the madness.
    Quintus touched his helmet where the kopis had hit. He felt a massive dent, but no break.
    ‘You were fucking lucky there,’ said Urceus. ‘Head sore?’
    ‘Worse than after a night on the piss,’ replied Quintus ruefully.
    ‘Can you fight?’
    Fury replaced Quintus’ embarrassment. He had to make amends for such a basic mistake, even if he wasn’t quite ready. Had to stick with his comrades. ‘Aye.’
    Urceus knew him well enough not to argue. He nodded at the Syracusan infantry. ‘They’re scared, see? Not formed up tight yet. None of our lads have hit them at the front either. Let’s take them. Four wide, two deep. Now!’
    Their companions growled in agreement. They formed up, Quintus grateful that his friend had taken charge. He and Urceus stood side by side, each flanked by another man. The remaining four shoved in behind them, where they would provide momentum to their advance and be ready to step into the front rank if needs be.
    ‘Move,’ ordered Urceus. ‘At the double!’
    Skirting the bodies of the cavalrymen and that of a dead horse, they advanced towards the Syracusans. Had every enemy officer been injured or killed? Quintus wondered. Or were they that ill disciplined? None of the infantry were facing them. Instead they had wheeled to meet the attacks of the hastati from both sides of the road. Seeing the opportunity this granted, a swelling roar left his throat. If it went well, this had the potential to rout them in one fell swoop.
    It was too good to be true.
    A figure in a magnificent Attic helmet turned and saw them. He spat an obscenity, bawled orders. Men began to react, to face Quintus and the other hastati. Within a few heartbeats, a wall of shields had formed. Only ten or so of them, but they were the massive Greek ones, which protected the men behind from eyes to toes, and which locked in with their partners on either side.
    ‘Nothing for it. We’ve got to charge,’ said Urceus, baring his teeth. ‘If we don’t break the mangy sheep-humpers now, we’ll never do it.’
    Quintus’ temples felt as if they were about to burst; he could taste bile at the back of his mouth, but there was no going back. He could not desert his comrades, could not run. Could not betray his father, who had died for Rome. ‘Let’s go.’
    ‘With us, lads?’ shouted Urceus.
    ‘Aye!’ came the response.
    For all Quintus’ fear, he loved the comradeship in such moments. Loved the feeling of men standing shoulder to shoulder with him, and at his back. They would stay by him because he would do the same for them. If he was to die, this was a better place than any.
    Fifteen paces separated them from the Syracusans. It was close enough to see the designs on their shields, the deadly tips on their thrusting spears. As the eight hastati charged, the enemy line wavered, but it did not break. The officer behind continued to roar encouragement. Quintus hated him in that moment. A leader like that made the difference between men standing and running. This one was far beyond their reach, though. He’d be the death of them. Spears had a greater reach than gladii .
    Thirteen paces. Ten.
    Astonishment overcame Quintus as a javelin arced down from nowhere. It took the Syracusan officer in the face. His hands reached up to grab at the shaft, but his