Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Feet pounded. A party of phalangists, minus their cumbersome spears, ran by, and Demetrios’ long-buried hopes of joining their number surfaced, fresh as they had ever been. Reality sank in. He had no chance of joining their number. His best chance was finding some coin; with that, he could buy sheep. A man could start a flock with a dozen; one day, he might even have the money to buy a farm of his own.

  ‘You’re that mad bastard who saved an officer’s life the other day.’ The voice belonged to a grizzled phalangist with a short beard. Limping, he was trailing in his comrades’ wake. A bloodied kopis dangled from his right hand; in his left he bore a brazen-painted aspis decorated with the Macedonian sixteen-pointed star.

  Stunned at being recognised, in awe of the fearsome-looking soldier, Demetrios flailed for an answer.

  The phalangist stumped right up to him. ‘It is you.’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Demetrios, embarrassed now.

  ‘Great Zeus had his hand over you that day, that’s certain. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said Demetrios truthfully.

  A hearty laugh. ‘You couldn’t have been. That officer’s a good four-file leader, but few of us would have risked ourselves like that, even if we’d been near enough.’ An appraising glance at him, then the bodies of his comrades. ‘Oarsman?’

  ‘Aye.’ Demetrios hated the flush staining his cheeks.

  ‘Ever used a spear before today?’ The phalangist was staring at the crimson-tipped blade of Demetrios’ weapon.

  ‘In my village.’ The memories came flooding back. Training with the old soldier whose task it was to make men out of boys. Boxing until his arms felt like lead weights. Wrestling with bigger opponents, and being pinned down with an arm twisted back so far it felt as if one shoulder would dislocate. Watching the men of the village dance to the god Ares every summer. Glorious visions to a boy, Demetrios had vivid memories of their shining bronze helmets and cuirasses, and how their spear points had glittered in the firelight. ‘Father wanted me to be a phalangist. I learned pankration. Wrestling and boxing too.’ Although he was telling the truth, he couldn’t lift his gaze from the dirt.

  ‘Your father was a soldier?’

  ‘A slinger. After the army, he kept sheep,’ said Demetrios. ‘It was a small flock, but he said that didn’t matter. A citizen is a citizen. If a youth is strong and skilful, he can be chosen for the phalanx.’ That would never happen now, he thought bitterly.

  ‘Your father spoke true,’ said the phalangist. ‘In the past, only wealthy men served, but things are different these days.’ He glanced at his right leg and grimaced. ‘I turned my fucking ankle climbing over the rampart.’ With a nod, he walked away.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Demetrios.

  The soldier turned. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Y-you’re saying I could become a phalangist?’

  A loud chuckle. ‘I didn’t say that, boy.’

  ‘Oh.’ Demetrios’ hopes sank.

  The phalangist looked him up and down again, as if for the first time. After a moment, he said, ‘Find me in the camp. We can see if you really know any pankration.’

  Demetrios’ hopes shot skywards again. ‘And if I do?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ The phalangist walked away.

  He had almost reached the nearest corner when a sudden realisation struck Demetrios.

  ‘What do they call you?’ he cried.

  ‘Simonides.’

  ‘Simonides,’ Demetrios repeated, as pleased as Jason when he had claimed the Golden Fleece.

  CHAPTER IV

  Zama, south-west of Carthage, autumn, 202 BC

  High in the autumn sky, vultures soared over a great grassy plain bounded by low, tree-covered hills. They rode the currents in tight circles, layer upon layer of them. Patient. Keen-eyed. Silent. The first had had the air to itself for a time; others had joined in ones and twos. Now there were fifty at least, and numbers were growing. From a distance, men might have suspected the presence of large amounts of carrion, but nothing had died below the circling birds yet.

  Anticipation was everything.

  More than one hundred miles from the great city of Carthage, the flat ground below was a perfect location for two armies to meet, and from it came the sounds of men and animals and trumpets. Dust rose in great clouds. Light flashed off helmets, weapons. Three hours had passed since the arrival of the first troops, but many thousands of soldiers, horses and elephants were on the move. Full readiness took time. Infantry units had to reach their appointed positions. The cavalry on both sides needed to assemble on the flanks. Elephants had to be chivvied into place by their handlers. Midday arrived; a layer of high cloud moved in, keeping the sun at bay and the temperature down.

  The plain was where the Roman general Scipio was about to confront Hannibal Barca, most famous son of Carthage. This was a clash long awaited by both sides, and its outcome would determine the victor in the bitter sixteen-year conflict. Rather than a siege against the mighty, miles-long walls of Carthage, or a naval attack against its twin ports, this was to be a face-to-face battle between armies.

  In the Roman army’s second rank – made up of principes – stood Felix, a tall, sturdy legionary with a friendly face, and his older brother Antonius. Both were in their mid-twenties, black-haired and olive-skinned; Antonius was short where Felix was not, and stern where he was easy-going. Farmers from south of Rome, they had enlisted together seven years before; both were seasoned veterans of the fight against Carthage.

  Felix felt relief to be here at last. Scipio’s army had been in Africa for months, and in that time, the Carthaginians had been beaten twice. Stubborn to the last, their leaders had refused to accept terms, and in a final act of desperation, had summoned Hannibal back from Italia. Rumour had it that many of his troops were poor quality new recruits, but until they were defeated, the war could not be declared won.

  Felix glanced upwards, and wished he hadn’t. Even if Scipio emerged victorious, there would be dead Romans aplenty for the vultures by sunset. Keep your hand over me, Great Jupiter, Felix asked, as you have for the last seven years. Prayer finished, he buried his worries as best he could.

  More time passed. Feet pounded the earth, and horses whinnied. Officers shouted. Elephants bugled to one another. Among the principes, nothing happened. They were in position. Ready for battle, but powerless to act until orders came. Men prayed, or talked in muted voices. Some cracked overloud jokes; others made surreptitious checks of their equipment. Fierce-eyed centurions paced to and fro, cajoling and threatening by turns.

  Felix began to grow bored. Devilment took him at last, and he nudged his brother. ‘Will we win?’

  Antonius glowered. ‘What kind of question is that, now?’

  Once Felix would have been cowed by such scorn. Four years younger, poor at his studies, he had grown up in his smarter brother’s shadow, but the war with Carthage had changed their relationship – Antonius might have excelled during their training, but it was Felix who had first been promoted from hastatus to princeps. ‘There’s no harm in a joke,’ he retorted with a curl of his lip.

  Antonius seemed about to reply, but took a sudden interest in the dusty ground between his feet. Their comrades did the same.

  ‘You doubt we will be victorious?’ barked a familiar voice.

  Felix’s heart sank. Despite his undertone, their centurion Matho had still heard his comment. It was uncanny how he managed it time and again.

  Slam. Stars burst across Felix’s vision as Matho’s vitis clattered his helmet.

  ‘Speak up, maggot!’ Matho shoved the end of his vine stick into Felix’s face. ‘You don’t think Scipio will triumph?’

  ‘That’s not what I said, sir.’ Felix admired Matho, who was tough, capable and a good leader, but it didn’t do to get on his wrong side. Mercurial, unpredictable, he’d been known to beat a man half to death for the smallest infraction.

  ‘What did you say?’ Matho’s teeth were cracked and brown; his breath
reeked of wine and onions.

  ‘Just that there’s no harm in a joke before a battle, sir.’

  ‘We mustn’t mock the gods.’ Matho cast an eye skywards, then glared at Felix. ‘And every man must play his part.’

  ‘I’m proud to fight for Rome, sir,’ said Felix, hiding his resentment. ‘Always have been.’

  ‘No more jokes.’ Short, bandy-legged, yet fear-inspiring, Matho stalked off, beady gaze roving over their fellows.

  ‘Pompous cocksucker,’ muttered Gnaeus. A wiry, flame-haired man with wits as sharp as his features, he was the prankster of their tent group.

  ‘Matho’s in a mood,’ said Antonius. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Aye.’ Felix was glad to have his brother’s concern. They had their differences, but blood was blood. They looked out for each other, always. He felt the same about Gnaeus and his other comrades, the majority of whom he’d known since his first days in the legion.

  Time dragged by. The cloud cleared, allowing the temperature to rise steadily, and with it, the tension. Prayers that had earlier been muttered under men’s breaths became audible. The whiff of urine laced the air as nervous bladders were emptied. Felix would have liked a game of dice, but the threat of Matho’s vitis put him off. Prayers to Fortuna completed, equipment checked, he craned his neck, trying in vain to see what was going on in front of their position.

  Scipio had placed his hastati, the youngest legionaries, in the army’s first rank. Principes such as Felix and Antonius composed the second line. Behind them stood the cream of the legions, the triarii: Rome’s most experienced soldiers. Half as numerous as the soldiers of the first two ranks, they were used only in extremis. Felix didn’t like to think about that. If it came to the triarii, he and Antonius would be dead.

  Unease gnawed his belly as he watched the mob of velites, skirmishers, who filled the large ‘corridor’ between Matho’s century’s position and the next grouping of principes. There were similar gaps at regular intervals all along the army’s front, running right through the three ranks, but hidden from the enemy by the velites’ presence. When the elephants charged, the skirmishers would retreat down the corridors, and according to Scipio, would be followed by the lethal behemoths. Felix was no general, but the tactic seemed laden with risk. If it failed, the men nearest the elephants would die. He tried not to imagine being impaled on a tusk, or trampled to a red pulp. With pricked ears, he listened, but heard no trumpets. Again his guts twisted. He wanted the cursed battle not to begin, but to be already over, leaving him and his comrades alive.

  Matho was deep in conversation with the centurion of the next unit to their right; Felix took a chance. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Pssst!’

  None of the velites heard. Ignoring Antonius’ frown, Felix repeated his call, louder. This time, a veles turned. Short, scrawny and bare-cheeked, he couldn’t have been a day over sixteen; his shield was old and battered, his spears poor-looking. Even the strip of wolfskin tied around his brow had seen better days, yet he was as cocky as a tribune. ‘What?’ he called back.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ asked Felix.

  ‘Aye. Elephants in front of their army, cavalry on the wings – what you’d expect,’ came the untroubled reply. He turned his back.

  Felix ground his teeth, but in truth there wasn’t much other response that he could have expected. ‘Let’s get it over with, eh?’ he said to no one in particular.

  ‘Aye. Waiting’s hard.’ Antonius’ brow was beaded with sweat.

  Later, Felix would think that up above, Fortuna had been listening.

  ‘Here they come!’ cried a voice some distance to their front. ‘Elephants!’

  A chorus of alarmed cries rose; it took a little while for the centurions and other officers to restore calm. Felix listened, but could hear only faint shouts from the enemy lines. Then he felt it – a vibration beneath his feet. Another followed, and another. He exchanged an unhappy look with Antonius. ‘D’you feel that?’

  A nervous nod.

  Matho’s appearance was timed to perfection. ‘The big grey bastards are coming, brothers, but we know how to face ’em, don’t we?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘When they get near enough, the velites will retreat, opening the corridors. We’ll face inwards, and the elephants will charge through. Any that don’t, well, our javelins will deal with them. Clear?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ rumbled Felix and his comrades.

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘AYE, SIR!’

  Matho leered. ‘Never tasted elephant before. I plan to change that today.’

  The ground began to tremble in earnest. Trumpets sounded from the cavalry positions, and were taken up along the Roman line. This was part of Scipio’s plan, to panic the elephants if possible. Sudden bile washed Felix’s throat, and he retched. He spat, and was quick to throw his shoulders back, but Matho was on him in a trice, his bloodshot eyes a finger’s width from Felix’s.

  ‘Ready, maggot?’

  Fuck you, thought Felix. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘I’m watching you.’ Matho paced down the side of the century.

  Felix threw up another prayer to Jupiter, which made not a bit of difference, so he fixed his gaze on the velites in the corridor, and tried to make sense of the blaring trumpets, shouted orders and the heavy tread approaching their position. It was impossible – everything was confusion – but he was distracted enough not to vomit a second time.

  When the velites began loping towards the army’s rear, jeering and shouting over their shoulders, a portion of the battlefield was revealed – the space between Matho’s century and the next. A quarter of a mile away, the enemy host loomed. Felix could see no elephants, and relief filled him. Perhaps none would come this way. Fighting enemy soldiers was something he was used to, and expected; maybe that was all he’d have to do today.

  ‘ELEPHANT!’ screamed a score of voices.

  A grey mountain came into sight, some hundred paces away. With flared ears, and trunk bugling a challenge, it was clearly angry and scared. High on its back clung its rider, his frantic efforts to direct his beast away from the corridor and at the legionaries coming to naught.

  Felix could almost hear Fortuna’s mocking laughter.

  ‘Turn to the right!’ roared Matho, his voice calm. ‘Front four ranks, javelins ready.’

  Facing into the corridor, Antonius to one side and Gnaeus the other, Felix gripped his javelin until it hurt. The elephant had covered half the distance to the corridor’s ‘entrance’. It veered wildly out of sight for a few heartbeats, only to return, tail flicking, ears billowing. Continuing to ignore its rider’s commands, the beast lumbered closer to the gap.

  ‘There’s a second one coming, and another!’ bellowed an hastatus, his voice cracking. ‘Three of them!’

  Felix, he thought. What a name. I should have been called Infelix. Unlucky.

  ‘Stupidest thing I ever did was to join the fucking army,’ Gnaeus muttered.

  ‘Steady, brothers!’ cried Matho. ‘Release on my command, and not before.’

  Felix watched the first elephant with horrified fascination. Rather than make a clean entry into the gap, it barged into some hastati, sending them flying like children’s dolls. A vicious flick of its trunk, and two more were swept sideways, into their fellows. It trumpeted its rage and passed into the corridor. A handspan taller than the largest of men, with gleaming tusks and its head encased in leather armour, it was a terrifying vision.

  Several heartbeats pattered by before the centurions among the hastati regained their wits. Commands rang out. Volley after volley of javelins rained in from left and right. Most missed, others flew too far and landed among the soldiers on the opposite side, but perhaps a score found their target.

  Pierced through legs, chest and belly, its rider slain, the elephant resembled a massive, bloody porcupine. Despite its grievous wounds, it did not die, let alone fall. Stumbling and weaving, it headed straight for Felix and his comrades.

  ‘Read
y javelins!’ For the first time, Matho’s voice held a note of fear.

  Fresh volleys showered in, striking the elephant over and again. Still it came on. Piggy eyes almost closed, it collided with a century of hastati twenty paces from Felix’s position. Picking up a screaming legionary with its trunk, it flung him high in the air. It gored another to death and maimed several as the hastati swarmed to the attack, stabbing and thrusting with javelins and swords. At last, with an almighty groan, the elephant crumpled onto its forelegs, then its back legs – but it did not fall. Not until javelins had sunk into both eyes, and half its trunk had been hacked away, did it collapse onto its side. A ragged cheer went up from the hastati.

  There was no time for Felix and his companions to enjoy this success. Two elephants, one following the other, now came rampaging into the corridor. Men panicked and broke formation; some were trampled by the great beasts, others by their own kind. Crimson sprayed high in the air as a legionary had his head ripped off. Shields were riven by ivory tusks and the men behind impaled. The ragged volleys that followed did not injure either elephant badly enough to halt its progress.

  On they came, one making a beeline down the centre, the other lurching towards the far side of the corridor. They’re going to miss us, thought Felix with overwhelming relief. Thank the gods.

  The elephant came alongside their position.

  He never saw the fool who panicked and threw his javelin. So close, he couldn’t miss. The elephant squealed with rage and spun, lightning fast, to face its attacker. Its rider was injured; nonetheless, he urged his mount towards the principes with loud cries. This is it, thought Felix, terror battering him. Jupiter’s gaze had turned away; in his place, Pluto beckoned.

  Matho ordered a swift volley, and for his men to assume close order; they almost managed it before the elephant reached them. Trunk swinging like an enormous club, feet high-stepping to strike anything in its path, the great beast smashed into their midst. The two men to the left of Gnaeus were there one instant, and then they were gone. Gnaeus himself was thrown sideways into Felix, who did well not to fall.