The day was cloudy. The huge bowl of the lake seemed to be steaming. The dense fog crept slowly upward, engulfing the hills, and filling the valleys and depressions. It spread over the hilltops, slightly coloured by the rising sun. Only shrill, nostalgic shouts of birds were heard now and then from the low cane-grown banks. 

Then, other sounds burst the silence — the clanging of weapons, the snorting of mules, the neighing of horses, the creaking of wheels, and the rude jokes of the cen- turions. The Roman army was pouring on to the road that rounded Lake Trasimene.
Consul Flaminius pranced about in front on a white horse, engrossed in thoughts about the imminent batde. Like all dense men, Flaminius held that the adversary would not depart from the laws of strategy and common sense. If Hannibal, who had crossed the swamps, had not engaged him in batde and had turned south, he thought, the Carthaginian must have been frightened on learning that he, Flaminius, headed the Roman troops. He must have changed course in order to engage consul Servilius on plainer ground. 
This thought filled Flaminius with pride. He straightened his back and adjusted the gilded helmet on his head. He whose parents had been plebeians — Rome had entrusted its fate to him in the hour of danger. No patrician was worthy of com- manding even a maniple of his, Flaminius's, troops. All those Scipios and Fabiuses and Metellises were inflated with vanity and would burst any moment like the frog in the Greek parable.
 Flaminius looked around him. The Carts in the centre of the column were out of sight. The fog creeping from the lake was growing denser. Soon nothing was distinguishable aside from the hazy figures of the men in the forward group. 
Suddenly, a chaotic noise was heard from somewhere up above. Stones and rocks, along with spears, were showered upon the Romans. 
"We've been ambushed!" The thought flashed through Flaminius's mind. That same moment, something heavy struck him over the head. 
Slipping off the horse so as not to be crushed by its weight, Flaminius felt his head. The helmet was gone. The hair behind his left ear was sticky, but the bone, it seemed, was intact. 
"Where are you, Flaminius?" he heard Terentius, the most loyal of his lictors, say (Lictors were soldiers who guarded the consul. Bearer of supreme power, the consul had the largest number of lictors, namely, twelve). He led Flaminius to the lakeside. Cold water trickled down his cheeks, the back of his head, and his chest. He got to his feet, and asked for his helmet. But it could not be found in the fog. 
The enemies were thrusting forward. The fog prevented the Romans from esti- mating their number. Crowding each other in panic, they failed to take up combat position. They rushed to and fro, crashed into men from other maniples, and ran into the Carthaginian cavalry. 
Finally, a semblance of resistance was put up. A few dozen legionaries surrounded Flaminius. His moist black hair was sharply contrasted by his pale, bewildered visage. 
"Stand in a circle! A circle!" the consul shouted, swinging his sword. 
Standing in a semi-circle, the legionaries fought off the ferociously attacking Gauls Hannibal had stationed them in the hills overlooking the road, and ordered fan to attack from above. The Roman shields resounded hollowly to their blows. They heard the puffing of the already tired Gauls who, at that moment, were joined by a horseman. 
On seeing Flaminius he dismounted and flung himself into the thick of the battle... 
The sun heated the air. The fog dispersed. The lake and the small islands in its centre became clearly visible. Roman soldiers tried swimming to them for safety. Heads, shoulders, hands holding the now useless weapons, could be seen above the water. The men from the Balearic Islands picked off the defenceless swimmers with their slingshots. 
Some Romans sought safety on unapproachable rocks. They slipped and fell. Shouts of despair filled the air. Warriors pleaded for mercy and died under merciless blows. 
From the top of a hill, Hannibal observed the road that rounded the lake in the north. The cloud of dust was an indication that Makarbal's cavalry, sent in pursuit of the Romans who had broken through the encirclement, was returning. He could discern the horsemen on both sides of a long column of prisoners. 
Hannibal adjusted the black band over the eye he had lost a mere five days be- fore when crossing the swamps. It was strange looking at the world with just one eye, but he remembered the popular belief that a one-eyed general was unbeatable. He had defeated Romans when he had both his eyes. The battles on the Ticinus and Trebia rivers had been victories, hadn't they? But there the consuls managed to es- cape. Here the whole troop together with the consul, were crushed beyond redemp- tion. 
Hannibal turned his head to face the lake. He wondered why Flaminius's body hadn't yet been brought to him. He would like to see that idol of the Roman plebs who had conquered the Gauls of Northern Italy three years before. Down in the depression beside the road his men were digging a grave into which the consul's body would be lowered. Let all Italy know that he, Hannibal, respected brave warriors even if they were enemies. 
He heard the beat of hooves. His bodyguard Ducarion galloped up to him. It was easy to see from the embarrassment on his face that the Gaul had failed. 
"We looked all over the battlefield", Ducarion said. 
"Maybe you killed someone else," Hannibal said looking the Gaul in the eyes. 
"I know him well. He was the one who took me prisoner when I tried spitting at him. He was the one who ordered his lictors to flog me." 
The Gaul turned, and removed a bag from the horse's back. He opened it and handed Hannibal a helmei. 
The general examined it. Yes, it was the consul's. Made of silver. Fine Etruscan workmanship. An open-mouthed monster on the visor to frighten away the spirits of death. The rock had struck slightly below the top of the helmet and left a long scratch. 
Hannibal looked inside the helmet. A barely visible trace of blood. The blow must have stunned the consul. Flaminius had taken off the helmet to stop the bleeding, and had probably dropped it. He had fought on without the helmet. That was when Ducarion had struck him down. Whereupon the consul's lictors carried the body away, and threw it into the water. Or perhaps they buried it? What did it mat- ter. The Roman troop was destroyed, and the consul too. 
"He wasn't the last Roman consul, Ducarion," Hannibal said, rising in the saddle. "I promise you the helmet of the next consul — it will be yours whoever kills him. This helmet we'll bury instead of Flaminius, with martial honours." 
Hannibal began descending the hill. Shrugging his shoulders. Ducarion followed;.

Alexander Nemirovsky, "Tales Of The Ancient World"

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