The Trumpets of Mars (Imperium #2) - Chapter 28

Carthaginian Army

Bomilcar coughed through the thick wool cloth pulled over his face, once again mentally cursing the governor and his short-sighted demands. The army was moving slowly and shedding soldiers with every hectare. Broken legs from slips on the icy stone road, frostbite because of conscripts not being issued proper footwear, and a fever that was sweeping through the ranks.

Fighting in the heat of the summer was bad enough when dealing with conscripts and slave soldiers, without the added problems of the weather. Worse, because they were forced to use the only major road north, the Romans would easily predict their route, meaning they could choose the field of battle. Bomilcar wasn’t concerned about their ultimate fate, given the sizes of their respective forces, but the victory would be messy.

One day, one of these petty tyrants who seemed so adept at making their way up in the empire would demand too much or take on an enemy too strong, and the great Carthaginian Empire would fall. Bomilcar had no doubt of that. The Romans might be a tiny force, even with their new alliance, but there was word of other forces to the far east with powerful armies. His masters had disregarded those rumors as propaganda and fear, but he’d heard it from enough sources to believe it.

Bomilcar’s family had always served the empire, and now he feared that he might be the one to see it fall.

“Sir,” a rider said, coming up at a gallop and interrupting his train of thought. “We’ve sighted the Romans.”

“Show me,” Bomilcar said, spurring his horse and following the scout commander.

Surprisingly, they didn’t head towards the front of the line, but towards the left flank of the army. It took a moment to see a line of horsemen galloping towards them. Because of the speed at which they were approaching, Bomilcar thought for a moment they might crash into his mounted forces on that flank, when suddenly they turned. Had he not been there to see it, Bomilcar would have thought any report of it a lie. The line of horses made a sharp U shape as the column of Roman horsemen turned and rode away, barely breaking speed.

As they did, arrows began to fly into the ranks. Their accuracy left something to be desired, if they were shooting at his cavalry, since only about one in five hit a horseman or even a horse, but considering how many men were marching in columns behind the cavalry, it didn’t matter. This didn’t surprise him. He’d received reports of these more advanced arcuballista with their greater range and force of impact.

In military terms, it wouldn’t mean much. There just were not enough enemy horsemen to put a dent in his forces. It did, however, signal where the enemy would strike from.

“Turn the …” he began to give the command, when two more scouts appeared.

“Sir, enemy horsemen attacking on the right flank,” the first one reported.

“We’ve identified Roman legion battle standards ahead,” the second one said.

Bomilcar stopped, processing the new information. One of his gifts had been the ability to take the available information and see the field of battle as a whole in his head, allowing him to adjust to changes quickly.

He could see the Roman plan. The two cavalry charges were faints, probably to draw off his cavalry and keep him from seeing around their line. Considering the terrain, with its rolling hills that limited how far he could see, they were probably holding a surprise out there. If he had to guess, they were holding forces back for a counter-attack or to get around his sides, perhaps trying to recreate Hannibal’s victory at Cannae. It wouldn’t matter. The difference in men was too great. As long as he kept his front line even with theirs, they couldn’t get around his flanks no matter how many men they had in reserve.

“Order the Cavalry to push back the Roman horsemen. Once the Romans are disposed of, I want them to probe the flanks of the Roman legions.”

In the back of his head, he was already accounting for the latter not happening. He’d seen the astonishing speed at which the Roman horseman had maneuvered. His men could not turn that quickly and the Romans’ new weapons allowed them to slowly pick off his men, even with their poor accuracy. He was, however, willing to sacrifice the bulk of his cavalry to keep them away from the flanks of his phalanxes. As long as they maintained their formation, they would punch through whatever forces the Romans could put in front of them. He could then bring up his archers, which would outrange the Roman horsemen and scatter them.

“Let’s go look at the Roman legions,” he said to the third scout, nudging his horse in the direction of his front lines.

Roman Front Lines

Drest felt the wave of excitement that always ran through him just before a fight. Like the rest of his countrymen, he relished the thrill of combat, where he was able to test his physical prowess against an enemy, especially one such as this, where he didn’t have to hold anything back.

He knew he wasn’t actually allowed to do that, of course. He understood the plan and why it was necessary to fight in the Roman way, sneaking and sniping at the enemy instead of confronting them in a stand-up fight. He didn’t like it, but he understood. It was hard not to understand when looking at what seemed like an infinite number of long spears marching towards him, with the death worshipers’ army stretching as far as the eye could see.

He wasn’t afraid of them, but he did have a moment of doubt about the plan. For it to work, the entire death worshiper army had to be completely between the mountains to the west and the long lake to the east. Looking at the death worshipers, he thought it possible that they would stretch out longer than the lake, making it impossible to pen them in.

Of course, maps and planning on that scale weren’t his strength. Drest, like his fathers before him, had always been a war chieftain. True, theirs was a minor tribe, but one that had often been given a place of honor in Talogren’s battle line. It was a proud place to be, but it meant he only needed to worry about the army in front of him, so he’d leave the planning to the Romans.

The plan was simple, if not one to his liking. Attack enough to make it look real, and retreat. The hard part wasn’t the attack. His men were ready for that. The hard part was the retreat. He’d spoken to as many of his men as possible to convince them this was the right thing to do and they’d have chances to win glory before this was all over, but they still didn’t like it. It had actually been easier to convince half of the men to wear Roman-style armor than it had been to convince them that retreat would be necessary.

Ahead of him, the death worshipers long spears lowered, their points glistening in the early morning sun as they began to fan out, spreading across the plain ahead of him.

“ATTACK!!” Drest yelled, lifting his sword in the air and charging forward with his men.

Carthaginian Line

Bomilcar had to hand it to the Romans, they were brave. His front ranks had even begun to buckle slightly at their attack. Watching them struggle, he was a little confused, however. He’d personally never fought the Romans, but he’d familiarized himself with their style, and this wasn’t it. The force in front of him was made up of men in Roman armor and dressed in the northern barbarian style, and yet they all attacked in the same, all-out reckless charge. This was precisely the kind of fighting his phalanxes were used to, since most had come from the final pacifications of Germania. They may have wavered a bit under the sheer brutality of the assault, but they didn’t break.

“They’ll be breaking soon,” an aide next to him said.

Bomilcar just nodded, his mind working overtime. None of this was right. Not only were the Romans attacking like barbarians, there weren’t enough of them. The last reports their scouts and the turn-coat Roman’s spies had given said there should be around thirty-thousand legionaries and barbarians facing them. This was, at most, five thousand. He was always skeptical of spies and even scouting reports, especially against an enemy that was as focused on disrupting his scouts as much as the Romans had been, but it seemed impossible their sources would be that wrong.

No, the Romans were planning something and this was just a feint or a diversion. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Roman Front Lines

Drest pushed aside another spear and lunged forward, his sword catching the wielder just below the exposed collarbone. He’d been aiming for the man’s face, but had his sword deflected by the man’s small round shield at the last moment. Unluckily for the death worshiper facing him, their small shields didn’t block enough of their body and he wasn’t very good at using it to properly deflect the blow.

The man went down, writhing in pain. It wasn’t a mortal blow, but there was every chance he would be crushed under his compatriot’s boots as another man moved in to take the fallen soldier’s place.

Drest took a step back, looking to the left and right of him quickly. His men were fighting hard, and the death worshipers were making a poor showing for themselves, but there were too many of them. A lot of his men were already down, pierced by swords and spears. He was sure they’d killed more than they lost, but the fact that he couldn’t see their bodies because the death worshipers front line was continuing to push them back meant he was losing badly.

Glancing at the position of the sun briefly, he decided they had done enough.

“FALL BACK,” he yelled, sweeping aside a spear tip meant for him and taking a step back.

Carthaginian Lines

“They’re running, my lord,” Bomilcar’s aide said. “We should pursue.”

“Tell the men to follow in order. Do not let the line break.”

“But sir, they’ll escape.”

“No, they won’t. This is a trap. They have lost maybe a fifth of their number at most and they’re fighting for their homes. If this was their last stand, they’d fight until completely broken. No, This is part of their plan. The rest of the Roman army is out there.”

The man’s brows furrowed as he considered that, before putting fist to chest and riding away to carry out his orders. As he watched, the trickle turned into a tide of men running along the road. In spite of the limited training and how slipshod the formation of units was, Bomilcar was proud of how well his phalanxes held their cohesion as they continued their march north, with the units that had suffered the most casualties falling back to let fresh units take their place.

The ground was still favorable to them, as they marched up the valley along the north-south road towards the Roman capital, passing a crystal blue lake reflecting the ridge on the eastern side of the valley. With his mounted forces still off dealing with the Roman cavalry, he was happy to see the narrowing landscape between the western ridges of the valley and the lake, which would limit surprise attacks that might hit him on his flanks.

The Roman’s biggest advantage was how much more quickly a Roman legion could turn and deploy for battle than his phalanxes could, and he was surprised that the Romans had chosen a spot that kept them in his front, all but eliminating their one area of tactical superiority. The lake was large enough that men couldn’t just come across it and long enough to keep any coordinated attack from maneuvering around it without his men having time to react. True, they could have ambushers in the hills, but the ascent on this side was steep and the rocks were icy, making it equally impossible to launch a coordinated attack from this side.

Cresting the next ridge, his suspicions about the Romans were confirmed. A much larger line of Roman legionaries was arrayed against them as the retreating men melted into their lines. The Romans lines were barely five ranks deep, stretched across the length of the valley between the ridge and the lake, probably trying to keep his phalanxes from wrapping around their flanks and encircling them. It was good in theory, but spread this thin, it was near suicide. He almost felt sorry for the men his forces were about to obliterate.

Roman Lines

“Hold Steady,” Velius said, his voice carrying down the line.

His men were solid, but it would be hard for any man to not quake at the sight of thousands of spears marching over the rise ahead of them.

Ky had ordered him and the other legates to stay behind the lines observing from a distance and passing orders through messages. He knew the Consul would have words with him when this was all over, but Velius couldn’t leave his men to fight out here by themselves. Until the other two-thirds of the legions on this side of the valley and their Caledonian auxiliaries showed up, this and what was left of Drest’s men was all that was left to face a horde twenty times their size.

Velius sensed more than saw Drest come up next to him, but ignored it as his entire attention was focused on the line of men coming towards them.

“Ready,” Velius called out as the Carthaginians passed an invisible spot in the field Velius had been watching.

The Roman line rippled as the men pulled up their large shields and readied themselves for the initial push. This was the critical moment in any engagement with a phalanx. Surviving that first charge and pushing past the spears is what would make or break the legion’s fates. Once they were in close range, the heavy roman armor and large shields would be a hard shell for the Carthaginians to get past, but it was that first push that they had to steady themselves for.

Of course, they’d still suffer casualties and, without new centuries to rotate in for the depleted ones, this thin line wouldn’t last long, but that was a problem for Ky who was with the remaining forces, probably already giving them the order to move up and join the battle.

“Brace,” Velius called out as the spear points reached the Roman shields.

He held his breath as the Carthaginians smashed into his men and then broke like a wave across it. Romans fell here and there as spears got through small gaps in the shield wall, piecing this man’s thigh and that man’s side, but his men held.

Now to take the fight to them.

“Forward one,” he commanded.

Like the fine-tuned machine that it was, the legion stepped forward, pushing the spear tips across the tops of their shields and over their heads, bringing the invaders into the range of Roman swords.

Carthaginian Line

“The first men were barbarians dressed up like Romans,” Bomilcar said, looking down on the clash of battle lines.

He had to hand it to the Roman commander, it was a clever ruse. He knew many generals on his side that would have fallen for it, allowing their men to break ranks and give chase to the diversionary force, only to be cut to pieces by the organized legions hiding on the other side of the next ridge. The line facing him was small, but seeing the ground, he could see the reason for it, and wasn’t surprised in the least as the first row of Roman reinforcements crested over the next hill and began marching down to join the men already engaged.

For a moment he’d hoped his men would roll over the thin line of legionnaires before their reinforcements could arrive, but the Romans were as good as history said they were. There was a moment when the left side of their line looked like it might break, but the barbarians dressed like Romans had stopped their retreat and were now acting like some kind of reactive force, charging in to reinforce the line as needed. Again, he was impressed. It wouldn’t have worked for a phalanx, which wasn’t trained to disengage and rotate out the way the Romans apparently were, but it was a smart way to use auxiliaries who’d crumble if put in line by themselves.

“Bring our archers up and have them form on this rise and have them target the reinforcements. Let’s see if we can take some of the fight out of them before they reach their friends.”

Bomilcar didn’t have as many archers as he would have liked, and he doubted they’d be able to disrupt the Romans, but he had to make the attempt. Even with the bows, it was clear he would need to really push his men in to break the Roman line. Once they broke, though, his men would roll right over them, but it was becoming clear the Romans were not going to be easy to break. As he watched he could see his front phalanxes struggle against the heavy armor and shields of the Romans.

That heavy armor came with a price, though. Even rotating through units, they were going to tire while he’d have more fresh units to push in. Eventually, the Romans would break.

“Get the rest of the men in battle formation. I want units ready to replace those that lose combat effectiveness,” he said to another messenger.

Roman Auxiliaries

Ky had been watching the battle through his drone with the auxiliary forces. Once he’d confirmed that Velius was engaged and ordered the rest of the legions and Caledonians forward, Ky switched his focus to the rear of the Carthaginian line.

They were already in the area, but he needed them to bunch up more before he gave the word. Phalanxes were slow to maneuver, more so when in battle lines and pressed up against other phalanxes, all waiting for their turn in the front line.

“The Carthaginians have deployed their archers,” Sophus, who was able to focus on all of the drone feeds simultaneously, said.

“We expected that. There aren’t enough of them and we’re spread thin enough that, unless their general is a maniac who doesn’t care about his front ranks, isn’t going to be able hit us once they’ve moved all the way up.”

“They will be able to target the civilian auxiliary and some of the Caledonians.”

“Yes, but both will be more spread out than the legions. We can withstand the losses.”

“I was more thinking of the auxiliary breaking under the shooting.”

“They’re fighting for their homes, I think they’ll hold. Still, you might be right,” Ky said.

Turning to one of the men next to him and speaking aloud, he said, “Tell Sepurcius to concentrate his volleys on the rise just off the center of the Carthaginian formation. Let’s see if we can’t disrupt those archers.”

The messenger half looked in the direction of the fighting, probably wondering how Ky knew there were archers at all, considering they couldn’t see the battle from the defilade they were currently in, but nodded and left to deliver the message.

Forest South of the Carthaginian Army

“It’s time,” Ky said through the small device in Lucilla’s ear.

She’d been waiting for Ky’s signal for almost two hours, ever since the Carthaginian army had passed the forest into the cleared valley. They hadn’t been able to see them, because of how deep into the forest she and the men she commanded were, but she’d heard them as they marched by. It was impossible for an army that size to be anything but conspicuous.

They’d gone over this section of the plan dozens of times and ‘gamed out the variables’ as Ky had said. She’d been confused the first time she’d heard Ky use the phrase, but after going through fake versions of the battles and looking at all of the maps and diagrams of possibilities he’d provided during planning, it kind of made sense. Although she still thought calling anything involving war a ‘game’ was a bit callous.

Thankfully, their preparation had prepared her for running into the Carthaginian baggage train as soon as they cleared the edge of the forest. That was why they’d held a portion of the cavalry back with her. She could hear her men running down Carthaginian guards and camp followers before she even made it out of the woods. Part of her felt bad, since most of these were destitute people looking to make some kind of living off the Carthaginian army, or were the families of the soldiers, but it was necessary. She made it clear that she didn’t want anyone running south, away from the battle, to be chased. They only needed to keep Carthaginians from running north and possibly alerting their army that she and her men were here.

Between what horsemen she had and the Caledonians following closely on their heels, the road was already littered with bodies, with the snow that had already covered the Carthaginian army’s tracks now tinged in red. She forced herself to look, both because she should have to see the results of what she ordered and to confirm for herself that none of her people had gone to excess.

Her Romans, with their heavier armor and bulkier shields, took longer to get through the woods. Thankfully, between the lightly falling snow and wind that had picked up, it was going to be harder for the Carthaginians, whose attention was focused on the battle ahead of them, to notice the force in their rear before it was too late.

She watched from horseback as the cavalry continued to chase down the Carthaginian civilians, willing her centurions to get their men assembled faster. Other than the initial clash, the other weak point in this plan was the period between first contact and the second half of the Roman forces closing the trap. Until then, none of the surprises Ky had set up could be launched, and his men would be in a fight for their lives.

Northern Roman Line

Ky watched Lucilla’s men begin their progress up the road through the drones’ cameras and fought back the urge to prod her to move faster. He could see she was doing everything she could to get her men moving and into position, but it wasn’t easy.

Four times already the Caledonians had to charge in to help seal a breach as the Roman lines began to collapse. They pulled back each time with fewer men than they had gone in with, and there were only so many more times they could counter-attack before there weren’t enough of them to make a difference.

The Carthaginians had now begun to move up their men, tightening their formations so every time a phalanx broke against the Roman wall another one would be there to replace them.

“On the right,” Carus said, standing next to Ky.

As he turned, he could see part of the Roman wall crumble, bending in on itself. The Caledonians charged in as planned, but there were barely a hundred warriors, and they weren’t going to be enough to stop the breach.

Ky began to move in that direction, his hand going to the gladius on his side, when Carus’s hand gripped his arm hard.

“No, Consul. You have to be here to signal the counter-attack. Trust Velius to stop the breakthrough.”

Carus had no way of knowing how Ky would know when it was time to signal the next stage of the plan, but he wasn’t wrong. Ky wouldn’t be able to watch the feed from the drone and fight in the line simultaneously, especially since he didn’t have his shield any longer to cover him while his attention was split.

“Do we have anything we can send in to help?” Ky said, his hand coming off his blade.

Carus was right, Velius did have the situation in hand, mostly. The Caledonians were helping push the Carthaginians back, but it was a struggle and almost looked like it would fail until a century Velius had sent in from the center of the line arrived and began to help. They managed to push back the phalanxes, which weren’t built to exploit narrow breakthroughs.

If the Carthaginians had even a small amount of heavy infantry instead of relying almost entirely on phalanxes, they would have been able to exploit the breakthrough and completely roll one side of the Roman lines.

Of course, it was easier to train subjected people to be spearmen in a phalanx than heavy infantry, and cheaper since they didn’t need the heavier armor to protect them, relying instead on the wall of spears to keep opponents at bay.

Ky was amazed that Velius had managed to pull even one century from the line, since the center was the hardest pressed of the entire battle. Velius was playing a dangerous game, juggling his forces to keep it together until relieved. It was only a matter of time before he dropped one of the hypothetical balls.

“Part of one of the Cavalry wings has returned and we have maybe a dozen praetorians running security for the civilian auxiliaries, just in case some of the Carthaginians broke through.”

“Dismount the horsemen and send them in with the praetorians. Velius can either put them in the line or have them work with the Caledonians. Send in all of my guards and any staff or messengers along too. I can send you to relay any messages. Except for the civilian auxiliary, I want anyone capable of lifting a sword given one and sent down to Velius.”

“It won’t make much of a difference,” Carus said.

“Anything will help. Do it.”

Carus was right, of course. All of that was less than a hundred men and wouldn’t change the outcome. Ky just felt like he should be doing more than just watching the battle from above and waiting.

Even as he watched, the left wing began to bend. It hadn’t broken yet, but a bulge was beginning to form in the Roman line. A section between two centuries was being pushed back in the slick ground near the shoreline.

Ky looked again to the drone footage, watching Lucilla’s force move slowly towards the Carthaginians, silently urging her to hurry.

Carthaginian Army

“Not long now,” Bomilcar said, a smile finally breaking across his face.

He didn’t relish killing these people, especially since their commander had done amazingly well with what he had. The difference in forces was so far against him that he didn’t really stand a chance, but he’d managed to hold out a lot longer than Bomilcar would have thought he’d be able to.

Several of his tactics had been downright inspired and, in the hands of a fool like Zaracas, might have worked. He enjoyed the feeling of victory, especially through the challenges forced on him by the idiot the emperor had put in charge of this reign, but he didn’t relish killing such a worthy opponent. He’d do his duty, of course, but he would say a prayer to the gods for the man’s swift passage into the afterlife, as fitting a worthy adversary.

The Roman left had stiffened again and managed to straighten out its line, but only by bending along the shoreline, creating an angle closer to the center. Unless the rest of the Roman line moved back, that would create a weak point that would eventually break open. So far they’d managed to put their line back together each time it broke, but an angle like that, especially close to the center where his men were supported on their sides, would turn into a breakthrough.

“Send a message to Tolman. I want him to concentrate on the bend just created in the Roman line. He’s to put as much pressure on that section of line as possible. We …”

Bomilcar was interrupted by a messenger riding up hard on horseback, almost skidding to a halt in front of him.

“General, another Roman force has just attacked us from the rear.”

“What?” Bomilcar said.

“A bunch of barbarians and horsemen came out of nowhere, attacking our rearmost phalanxes. Several units were destroyed before the commander could get units turned around for a counter-attack.”

Bomilcar paused, looking at the map in his head, seeing the Romans play. They had waited until his men were trapped between the lake and the hills before they attacked, probably hoping to keep his men confined, unable to push around the side of the Romans. They must have someone up in the hills observing the field, to make the timing work. It was another smart move, but like the ambush attempt, it wouldn’t work. He had enough men to fight in both directions, enveloping the enemy on either side of him.

It did suggest that his cavalry hadn’t fared well, since they should have been able to alert him to the approaching threat. He’d seen the way the enemy maneuvered and could see how it was possible for his men to be out-ridden and defeated, even though they had outnumbered the Romans. When this was all over, he’d have to interview prisoners and find out how the Romans had managed that.

“Have him push the barbarians back. When they break, he’s to extend the rear third of the army back to beyond the mouth of the valley.”

The man looked sideways, clearly having more bad news to tell. His hesitation to share bad news was one of the downsides of the empire that allowed men like Maharbaal into positions of power. Killing the messenger was counterproductive and kept commanders from getting the information they really needed, and yet it happened all too frequently.

“Just tell me,” Bomilcar said. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“The commander attempted the counter-attack and encountered Roman forces behind the barbarians and cavalry, and was repulsed with heavy losses. A new front line has been established, but when I was dispatched, the Roman forces were still pushing our men back.”

Bomilcar silently cursed the Roman general. He knew the enemy’s strength in front of him was less than their sources had suggested, but he didn’t believe they would have enough men to create a second front line. He also couldn’t figure out how the Romans had coordinated the attack so well.

“Tell him …” Bomilcar started to say and stopped as movement on the far crest drew his attention.

A wave of people who, at least from his vantage point, didn’t seem to be dressed as legionaries and were well-spread across the rise and partway down the slope towards their front line, suddenly appeared. If that was concerning, what happened next was the stuff of nightmares.

Bomilcar had read reports of the Roman Consul’s powers. Reports written about the man’s ability to, at a great distance, bring forth green fire from the underworld that ripped apart ground, building, and bone, he saw as an exaggeration. Nothing in Bomilcar’s long service had ever convinced him that power like that existed and, since the tales always came from men running from the Romans, it was easy to disbelieve.

He now knew it wasn’t a lie or an exaggeration. If anything, they had underplayed how absolutely terrifying the man’s powers could be. A hundred yards from him the hilltop he was standing on exploded in a ball of green fire that ripped through the archers still firing volleys of arrows. As he watched, the green fire swept over men and horses, rendering them from living beings into piles of smoking bones in seconds. Those on the edges of the bust might have actually had it worse, as their actual skin caught fire and began to burn.

Shrieks filled the air. And then things got worse.

Northern Roman Line.

Ky sheathed his sidearm. He now only had 14 rounds left and, while this battle was make or break for the Romans, for the Carthaginians this was just a small force operating on the fringes of their territory. He didn’t know what kind of challenges he’d face next, but blasting away now would leave him with fewer choices than he’d otherwise have.

He’d already decided that if he had ways to defeat the enemy using replenishable assets, he’d have to rely on that, even if in the end it cost more Roman lives. He’d been forced to use one round now, because it was the only way he knew of to signal all of the separated forces to begin the next stage of the plan, as instant communications were still not an option and he needed the attack to be coordinated.

He’d originally thought to fire on the Carthaginian commander, who by all accounts was competent, possibly enough to find a way to make Ky’s plan fail. That was before the man amassed his archers in one place. As far as Ky could tell, the archers on the opposing hill were the bulk of the ranged forces the Carthaginians had, and they could constitute a problem for his civilian auxiliaries, which would be unstable in the face of enemy counter-volleys.

He hadn’t gotten all of the enemy archers, of course. His sidearm was meant to be able to penetrate lighter forms of modern, or at least what he used to think of as modern, battle armor, and wasn’t meant to cause wide area damage. He could see the archers scattering, however, and it would take time for their commanders to rally them.

On cue, the auxiliary shot volleys. It wasn’t all at once, but it was pretty close, which Ky counted as a victory considering the limited time each of these people had to train. The one thing he worried about was the possibility of them shooting into the backs of his own line, so much so that he’d almost contemplated leaving a single line of legionnaires facing the other direction, to protect their comrades. Of course, that wasn’t possible, since they hardly had enough men to fight back the Carthaginians as it was.

Thankfully, the crossbows were fairly easy to use, and being on a rise, it was more likely that the civilians would shoot too far rather than short. As we watched, the bolts began landing among the Carthaginians. The phalanxes were packed so tightly that it was almost impossible not to hit someone. They didn’t have the range to reach the other hill, but their bolts tore through the third and fourth ranks of the Carthaginian battle line, punching through their thin leather armor with its occasional metal reinforcement almost as if it weren’t there.

And then the rest of the forces’ volleys began to land.

Roman Artillery Station

Sepurcius had been waiting, listening to the distant sounds of the battle, all morning. His men were cold and bored, but he’d forbidden any fires or anything else that might give away their presence. Had the Carthaginians been looking hard enough, they probably still would have seen him, since these large weapons the Consul had designed weren’t exactly inconspicuous and were impossible to hide in the tree line without damaging them.

They hadn’t shown any sign of realizing Sepurcius and his men were there, however. Except for one messenger with instructions to target their barrage on a hilltop closest to the northern side of the battle, he’d heard no word from the Consul or legates. They had told him he would know the signal when he saw it, but as the day wore on, he kept thinking he might have missed it, worrying a messenger would appear at any moment to ask why he hadn’t commenced.

Until the green flame, that is.

As soon as he saw it he realized the legates had been right. It was impossible to miss the signal. He’d had his men standing by their equipment since the Consul’s messenger had arrived, all waiting for his signal to load and fire. Normally he and his Optios would have nearly had to whip the men to keep focus, especially for this long, but he could feel their tension ever since the battle started. They knew, as well as he did, that this battle would determine the fate of their entire civilization.

“Load,” he called as the lake reflected the green flame billowing up from the center of the Carthaginian line.

His men had spent the last month operating these giant new machines, one stone after another, until they knew them inside and out. As his men hefted the large stones in the leather and woven pouches connected to the machines’ throwing arm, Sepurcius looked up at the wooden frame towering above him, marveling at the new invention.

From a technical standpoint, they weren’t all that different than the throwing devices he’d previously used. He understood the basic mechanics of tension and counterweights that allowed the device, which the Consul had called trebuchets, to hurl large weights further than any previous Roman artillery. He would have never dreamed of firing at this distance before the Consul explained the new innovations, but building and testing them over the last several months had taught him just how effective they could be.

The only thing he really wished was that they had more of them. Even with the Consul’s designs, there had been a period of trial and error getting it to work practically, and they hadn’t even had the full winter to do it in. He’d only managed to get four of the monstrosities built and ready to fire when the word of the Carthaginian army marching north reached them.

Seeing his men standing ready, the weights pulling down on the throwing arm, Sepurcius bellowed, “Release!”

Carthaginian Army

Bomilcar was still staring agape at the burning men running from the hilltop, trying to fight back nausea that came with the smell of cooking flesh, when more shrieks assailed him, this time from the aide next to him. He only had time to turn his head when the large stone plowed into the ground in front of him, at the base of the hill he was standing on, skipping across the ground as it hit, leaving a line of dead and broken men in its wake.

His brain was moving fast, trying to comprehend what had happened to the victory he’d tasted just moments before. The green flame, while horrendous, hadn’t been their counter-attack. Had they been able to do that at will, they could have wiped out his entire army the moment they marched into this valley, instead of waiting while hundreds of Romans were cut down trying to keep his army in place.

That had been a signal for the people with the arcuballista they’d heard about on the hill across from him to open fire, and for whatever throwing machines the Romans had on the other side of the lake.

The trajectory made it clear that’s where they came from, although no Carthaginian catapult would have been able to operate at those ranges. Squinting, he could almost make out almost pyramid-shaped structures with figures he assumed to be Roman scampering about them. The stones they threw were also larger than anything the Carthaginians could have managed, although not so much as to be beyond understanding.

They caused large-scale damage and were causing his men to panic, but they weren’t the biggest danger his men faced. The Roman arrows were shrugging off shield and breastplate alike, killing or maiming any man they encountered. As he watched, entire phalanxes began to come apart under their onslaught.

It seemed impossible they had enough soldiers to have hundreds on the opposing hilltop firing down into his men, especially since more traditional Roman archers had already taken the field when his archers had made their appearance.

“Sir,” another messenger said, riding up hard and then stopping short of the general, his attention pulled to the charred remains nearby.

“Soldier!” Bomilcar said, anger in his voice.

“Sorry, general,” the man said, almost grudgingly looking away from the charred carnage. “Hanno sends word that he has begun to receive fire from the cliffs to the east. He tried sending men to get to the attackers, but the slop is slick with ice and they get picked off before they can make headway. His men are beginning to press in towards the center of the line to get out of range, and he is concerned he is about to lose that flank.

“Sir,” one of his men said, pointing in the direction of another messenger riding hard towards him from the rear of the army.

The man was almost to them when another stone crashed down obliterating him and a handful of archers he was passing. Although the man hadn’t been able to deliver his message, Bomilcar was fairly certain he knew what it was. Considering the way this trap had sprung closed, the Romans had to have more of these people armed with their new weapons on their rear.

He couldn’t see their impact directly, but the speed at which men were falling suggested these weapons were penetrating most of their armor and shields. Worse, unlike archer’s arrows that, if it didn’t hit a target, embedded itself in the ground, these projectiles were traveling in a straight line, and just hitting the man behind their target. With his phalanxes packed in to try and push the Romans far enough back that he could extend his line and outflank them, there would always be another soldier behind, so hardly any of their arrows missed hitting someone.

By themselves, they would have caused damage, but would not have been enough to change the outcome of this battle. Trapped in this square with the largest projectiles he’d ever seen from a siege weapon falling on them, however, made this another Cannae, with Bomilcar and his men playing the part of the doomed Romans.

He couldn’t believe this had happened. He’d been expecting a trap like this, and still their commander had suckered him. Bomilcar felt a wave of sadness wash over him. All of these men were going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. They could still extract a price for their deaths, but the end result was inevitable.

“Sir, we need to move. They are targeting this entire hilltop,” one of his lieutenants said.

Another stone crashed nearby, sending men and material flying.

“Of course, order …”

The sentence never made it the rest of the way out of Bomilcar’s mouth as a stone imbedded itself in the middle of his aides and lieutenants, the impact knocking over Bomilcar, his horse, and anyone or anything else near them smashing into the earth.

As his horse landed on him and the two were covered in dirt and debris, Bomilcar wondered again how he had been so badly outmaneuvered.