"Do we fly?" and, as he spoke, Sergius frowned darkly.
"Fool! We fight. Later, perhaps, we shall die, but not here. In the centre—"
As he spoke, a new, swirling rush seemed to carry them away, still together, first with furious violence, then more slowly.
"Ah! it has come," said the consul, quietly. "This way. The dust is blinding, but I think the sun is behind us." Pushing on and striking right and left as he went, Aemilius Paullus fought a pathway through flying and pursuing men. Sergius followed and once, when he saw the consul cut down the boy who had stood near and talked to them that morning, he stopped still and shuddered.
Paullus paused and laughed at him over his shoulder.
"A flying man in the path of a general is much worse than a dead one," he said. "Besides, none of them can save his life in that direction—so it is nothing."
At that moment, indeed, the prophecy that no man of the Roman cavalry would escape, seemed fair for fulfilment. Few fought on, and these were soon ridden down, while Gauls and Spaniards thundered upon the rear of such as sought safety of the rein, and slew them with steady, measured strokes. Only the consul with perhaps a dozen others were, for the time, safe. They were clear of the rout; within the protecting reach of the great, legionary column, that was but just beginning to move, and they turned, gasping for breath, and, with dazed eyes, watched the flight and pursuit sweep by along the river bank.