A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  A Choice of Destinies

  Chapter 12:

  Carthage, late summer (Gorpiaios) to early autumn (Hyperberetaios), 32 imperial (324 B.C., 429 A.U.C.)

  The siege proceeded slowly. Once the siege towers had all been moved to their new locations, the engineers moved in to direct the building of field fortifications—staked trenches and sturdy palisades—to protect them. The penthouses once again moved forward to begin filling in the ditch outside the second wall, covered by fire from the siege towers and from Ombrion’s archers, stationed along the palisade. The Carthaginians returned the attack as well, sallying twice against the penthouses when attack from the walls proved ineffective, but each time the archers held them until a relief force could arrive from the siege lines. The Carthaginians also turned their catapults against the siege towers themselves, but the heavy stone-throwers in the turrets along the inner wall proved useless against Charias’s machines. Fire arrows were no more effective, and the hide-covered faces of the towers were soon streaked with long smudges where the arrows had burned themselves out. Under Charias’s direction, the soldiers extended the ditch that protected the northeastern flank of camp and siege line all the way to the sea, angling it to bring the seawater almost up to the siege line itself. This made it easier to keep the facings of the penthouses and siege towers well soaked, and the water added another protection to the Macedonian fortifications.

  The infantry units spent their time in fear or boredom, alternately working under the direction of the engineers, the noise of catapults, enemy and friend alike, loud around them, or standing guard along the various earthworks that defended camp and siege lines against an unexpected attack. The latter duty was tedious, unrewarding work, and provoked much grumbling, especially when the veterans were able to compare their lot with the cavalry’s. The horsemen were responsible for foraging, and thus had a chance for loot. The Foot Companion brigadiers did their best to ignore the grumbling, knowing that it was not a serious problem, and knowing equally well that no commander who ever lived could have relieved all the soldiers’ complaints. Only Domitius, still smarting from his brief, shaming encounter with Alexander, did his cautious best to fan the flames. His own century, hand-picked for their loyalty to Rome, listened, and began to spread his words among the other Romans.

  A Libyan captain, captured during one of the Carthaginian night-raids and promptly ransomed back to the city—Alexander had stated from the beginning that he had no desire to feed captives—overheard a few of the Romans’ remarks and, when the Hundred questioned him closely about possible faint-heartedness, used those remarks to buy his release. The Hundred still had friends in Rome and knew that not all the city had approved of the treaty with Alexander. Some nights later, when the Romans had the southern perimeter watch, a Greek mercenary in Carthaginian pay slipped in among them, with Poppaeus Piso’s name for his password. The Greek had been careful to choose one of Domitius’s centuries for the attempt, though he had also demanded triple pay in advance, and his care paid off. The first legionary, rather than raising the alarm, brought him to the centurion of Domitius’s own century, and the centurion, after some thought brought them both to Domitius. When the Greek evoked the name of Domitius’s patron and implied that Poppaeus had sanctioned this contact, the tribune hesitated only briefly before agreeing. Slowly and cautiously, Domitius began to negotiate with Carthage.

  As Charias had promised, at point-blank range the stone-throwers were capable of stripping the battlements from the walls. Once the engineers had gotten the range, they pounded the second wall unmercifully both along the section where the aqueduct had been and at a second spot two stadia to the north. When the upper wall had been knocked away, the soldiers were able to bring their penthouses right up to the ditch without fear of attack from above. The engineers turned their attention then to the stretch of wall between the two main points of attack. They were less successful there, the angle being more difficult for their engines, but soon the battlements began to show odd gaps. The Carthaginians did their best to repair them, but they were under constant fire from archers in the towers and along the siege line.

  On the morning before the new moon that marked the beginning of Hyperberetaios, the monotony of the dawn watch was broken by a sudden shriek of trumpets from the Carthaginian walls. Amyntas son of Coenus, whose brigade had the watch, sent a runner back to the camp at once, and braced himself to defend the siege lines. The engineers, two of whom always slept in the towers, kicked their slaves awake and made an effort to man at least one catapult in each tower. Amyntas dispatched a battalion to help them, and waited. The city gates drew open and the Carthaginian troops poured out.

  The rising sun threw a long shadow across the ground in front of the walls, stretching beyond the earthworks of the siege line. The Carthaginian troops moved in that shadow, their numbers momentarily obscured by it. Amyntas frowned, then cursed softly to himself. This was no ordinary sortie; the Carthaginians were out in force. He prodded his signaller, who stared open-mouthed at the approaching column.

  “Sound the general alert,” he ordered. The battalion commanders, all of whom had served with his father for many years, were waiting for orders. Amyntas took a deep breath, fighting down his own fear, and said, “I’ve sent for reinforcements. All we have to do, men, is hold on ‘til they get here.” He barely saw the grin, at once paternal and encouraging, on the nearest captain’s face before he pulled down his helmet and moved to take his own place along the palisade.

  The king had been awakened by the first sound of trumpets from the Carthaginian walls, and was already dressed and half-armed by the time Amyntas’s runner appeared in the door of his tent. The other commanders were as alert, shouting for the file-leaders to rouse their men even before the general alarm had sounded. That signal turned the disciplined movement into organized chaos. Craterus and Perdiccas, whose brigades were closest to the oncoming attack, cursed and bullied their men out into the space behind the siege line, forming up as they ran.

  The Carthaginians had already reached the siege line. Amyntas’s men, spread thin along the defensive palisade, were hard pressed to hold on. A massive Carthaginian dragged heavily at the weakest section of the palisade. The timbers, set in loose ground, groaned and gave way. Cursing, a Foot Companion drove his sarissa through the man’s body, but two more soldiers sprang to take his place. The short section of palisade collapsed, and the Carthaginians began to force their way through the gap. Neoptolemus, at the head of his hypaspists, saw the breach and raised the war cry, pointing. His men rushed forward to contain it.

  Domitius led his centuries out through the northern gate of the camp, leaving a detachment to guard it, and spread out along the earthworks that backed the watery ditch. Menes, whose battalion had had the watch there, ran forward to meet him, saying, “They need you on the south wall, Domitius.”

  “Orders,” the tribune answered soothingly, and as Menes slid to a halt beside him, still protesting, he drove his short sword neatly under the other’s corselet. Menes fell in mid-word, a terrible look of surprise on his face. All along the palisade, Roman turned on Macedonian. Menes had already sent most of his men to shore up Amyntas’s line: the remainder fell almost at once, their shouts drowned in the general noise of battle. Satisfied that he had not been seen, Domitius stepped up to the palisade and raised the legion’s standard, once, then again. At once, the smaller northern gate opened in the Carthaginian wall, and more troops emerged.

  Philotas, another of Amyntas’s battalion captains, saw them first and shouted a warning. Alexander, mounted now to direct the defense, wrenched his animal around to face the new threat. The Roman troops were huddled against the walls waiting… Then the king saw what they were doing and he yelled out in rage. Domitius’s centuries gave a final shove, toppling a long section of the palisade so that its fallen timbers bridged the ditch, then wheeled to advance against the Macedonian flank. The Carthaginians advanced at the double, scrambling across the fallen p
alisade.

  Alexander cursed them at the top of his voice and shouted for the fresh brigades of Foot Companions, Simmias’s and Polyperchon’s men, to follow him. He would not be able, in this confined space, to use numbers to his advantage, but neither would the Carthaginians be able to deploy fully. He slid from his horse and ran to his place in the line.

  Inside the camp there was utter chaos. Cassius’s loyalists struggled with Domitius’s men for control of the gates while panicked engineers fought to subdue the Carthaginians and Roman mutineers who had managed to penetrate the compound. Ptolemy, whose brigade was camped farthest from the palisade, swore furiously, then lifted his voice to contradict his own orders. He got his battalions moving in the right direction at last, and cursed them on their way, praying that they would remember that some of the Romans were on their side. He turned to follow them, and found himself abruptly face to face with a trio of Romans. Ptolemy hesitated, uncertain whose men they were, and the leader jumped at him.

  The brigadier leaped backward, shouting to warn his men, and parried the attack with his shield. The second Roman cut skillfully at his legs. Ptolemy twisted away, but the blade cut deep into his thigh. He fell, and rolled to his left, away from the Romans. A Roman javelin struck the ground to his right. Then a dozen men rushed past him, half-armored Thracians and Agrianians and even someone’s kitchen slave, cleaver in hand. The Romans gave way before them, and the smallest turned to run. One of the Agrianians spun his sling and the fleeing Roman crumpled. The slave was on him in an instant, wielding his cleaver with professional skill.

  Ptolemy struggled to one knee, shield hand pressed to his leg to stop the bleeding. One of the Thracians dropped to the ground beside him, ripping at the hem of his tunic. The brigadier waved him angrily on, but the Thracian said, in barbarous Greek, “The Foot Companions, sir, and the little Roman—they’ve closed the gates again.”

  Ptolemy shook his head, unable to picture the precise chain of events, but reasonably sure it was good news, and submitted to the Thracians rough medicine. The infantryman wadded the strip of cloth against the wound, then tore loose a second rag to hold it in place, knotting it securely as he said, “And they’re holding the towers.”

  Ptolemy grunted—that was definitely good news—and started to lever himself to his feet. The Thracian helped him up, then yanked the javelin out of the ground, knocking off the iron head with a single swordstroke, and offered it to Ptolemy. The brigadier accepted it—it was just long enough to support him—and glanced quickly around to assess the situation. There were bodies on the ground but those were mostly Romans, killed in the light infantry’s attack. Gritting his teeth, he limped forward to take command of his own people.

  Along the siege lines, the Macedonians were holding their own. Neoptolemus and his men contained the first breakthrough and slowly drove the Carthaginians back. Amyntas’s men sealed the gap behind them, and it was butcher’s work in the space between the towers. Along the southern perimeter, Amyntas’s spearhead battalion, strengthened by men from Perdiccas and Craterus’s brigades, succeeded in pushing the Carthaginians from the walls. They retreated toward the city in good order, harassed by the Companion Cavalry.

  The fighting was heavier to the north, where the Romans had pulled down the palisade, but slowly the Macedonians superior postion took its toll. Simmias’s and Polyperchon’s men had been able to catch the mixed force of Carthaginians and Romans before they could deploy properly, pinning them against the water-filled ditch that ran north to the sea. Some of the Carthaginians sought to break through the gates to join up with their men inside the camp itself. Cassius’s men, caught between that attack and Domitius’s men inside the camp, were briefly hard pressed to hold. Then Simmias’s own battalion came to their relief, driving the Carthaginians back into the staked ditch.

  As soon as the northern attack was contained, Alexander fought his way out of the press, shouting for one of the pages to bring his horse. Miraculously, Theodatus appeared in seconds, leading the grey gelding. Alexander swung himself onto its back and headed back into the camp, shouting for the nearest troopers to follow him.

  Ptolemy, limping behind his men as they pushed grimly toward the gate, swung ‘round at the sound of hoofbeats, still supporting himself on the broken javelin. Alexander reined in before him, pushing back his helmet. His face beneath it was a Fury’s mask.

  “You’re hurt,” the king said. His eyes shifted, sweeping over the bodies still lying in the dirt. “And Clitus is dead, and Hector. Domitius?”

  “Pinned against the gate,” Ptolemy answered. “If he’s not dead yet.”

  “Gods send he is,” Alexander said. “For his sake.” He swung ‘round to survey the situation, then looked directly at Ptolemy. “No prisoners.”

  Ptolemy started to protest, then bit off the words. Alexander was right to be ruthless now, with everything at stake, and his ruthlessness would be a bloody lesson to Rome itself. “Yes, Alexander,” he said, then turned awkwardly at the sound of another horseman, riding fast from the direction of the gate. Alexander recognized the distinctive Roman helmet before he recognized the rider, and lifted his lance.

  “Wait, Alexander,” Ptolemy shouted, and at the same moment the horseman cried, “Sire!”

  Alexander let the sarissa fall, its point grounding harmlessly in the dust, and said, “And what do you want with me, Cassius Nasidienis?”

  The tribune reined in, pushing back his helmet. He was on the verge of tears. “Alexander, I beg you. My men have no part in this, they’re loyal—they’re fighting their own countrymen for you. I beg you, spare my people.”

  Alexander’s face changed, the taut, angry lines easing, and he said, almost gently, “I’ve done you an injustice, Cassius.”

  The tribune said nothing, eyes fixed on the king’s face. After a brief instant, Alexander said, “Your people are spared, of course, and have my gratitude for their loyalty. What happened?”

  Cassius took a deep breath. “Sire, somehow Domitius has made a fool’s bargain with Carthage; I don’t know why.”

  Alexander nodded, and said to Ptolemy, “Kill them.” He turned his horse as though to ride away, and Cassius spurred forward to block his path, saying, “Alexander, no!”

  The king reined in angrily, the gelding snorting as it fought the bit. “Why shouldn’t they be killed, they’ve betrayed me—betrayed the treaty, as well.”

  The tribune was weeping now, the tears making a path through the dirt on his face. “Alexander, I beg you,” he said again, fighting for words that the king would understand. “They’re my people, my responsibility. Domitius has misled them—no Roman has any real love for Carthage—”

  Alexander said, “But they love me even less.”

  “No!” Cassius paused. “Not all of them are part of this plot. I’m sure of it, sire.” He stopped, then added, with a strange, cold pride, “And there are the lives of your men to consider. I can persuade a surrender. Please, King Alexander, let me try.”

  Alexander hesitated, moved in spite of himself by the Roman’s appeal. “Very well,” he said at last. “Persuade them to surrender, if you can, and I’ll show mercy. But not to the organizers.” Without waiting for an answer, he swung his horse away.

  Cassius stared after him for a moment longer, then turned his horse back to the gate. The fighting had eased there: the mutineers had given up their attempts to break out through the encircling troops, and waited, sullenly, for the inevitable attack. Neither Ptolemy’s nor Cassius’s men had pressed the attack, and the waiting legionaries raised a cheer at their tribune’s approach. Cassius called to the nearest, “Help me up onto the gate.”

  The legionary did as he was asked, and the tribune caught the top of the gatepost, pulling himself onto the narrow inner walkway. He balanced there, waiting for the first shock of a javelin, and shouted, “Domitius Mela!”

  He was answered by derisive shouts from the mutineers, but, amazingly, no one fired on him. Cassius shouted again,
and Domitius shoved his way through the Roman ranks, to stand staring up at the other tribune.

  “What could you possibly want, Cassius Nasidienis?” he shouted back. “Come to ask us to surrender, to tell us Alexander offers mercy? We’re not children, boy.”

  “No mercy to you,” Cassius retorted promptly. “You’re a traitor to Rome and a disgrace to your office.” He raised his voice to carry to the Macedonian lines. “Yes, Alexander offers mercy, but only to those of you who deserve it, who weren’t part of this—conspiracy.”

  There was a murmur of response from the listening Romans, uncertain, questioning, and Domitius shouted, “You’re a liar, Cassius. Come down and I’ll prove it—if you’re not too much a coward.”

  Domitius was well known to be the better fighter. Cassius laughed, welcoming an open fight against an acknowledged enemy, and dropped to the ground in front of his fellow tribune. He landed heavily, and nearly fell. Domitius slashed blindly at him, putting his whole weight behind the blow. There was a shout of outrage from the Romans guarding the gate. Then Cassius was up, moving with unexpected grace, striking backhanded as the other tribune stumbled past him. Domitius fell forward, and Cassius struck again, nearly severing the other tribune’s head.

  There were shouts from both lines, and Cassius’s men surged forward a few steps. Cassius held up his hands, not looking over his shoulder. “Romans,” he called, “I ask you to surrender to my authority.”

  “Will Alexander show mercy?” someone shouted from the rear lines, and Cassius answered instantly.

  “He has promised mercy for those of you Domitius misled, who didn’t plan the mutiny. What more can you ask?”