As the morning wore on with no sign of the Carthaginians, the soldiers began to grow impatient. One began to beat his shield, then another. Suddenly forty thousand men were slamming their swords upon their shields and shouting insults at the Carthaginian camp. I thought they were going to storm the gate.
Hannibal never answered the call. Why would he? We outnumbered him two to one. He had been completely willing to take on Crispinus’ army alone, but both armies, no.
To my surprise, Hannibal was still there the next morning. Everyone assumed this meant he would answer our challenge. Twice more I watched Marcellus and Sextius perform the pre-dawn sacrifice with visible animosity, and twice more Marcellus ordered his men into battle formation, knowing that should Hannibal accept, this could be the final battle of the war. On neither day did that happen.
Our fourth night in camp, Marcellus called Crispinus and all the commanding officers to his headquarters. Crispinus brought up the possibility of a siege. Marcellus didn’t think the ground was right. Hannibal’s position would be too hard to surround.
Nero objected, but Purpurio supported Marcellus. “It would cost us half our men to root Hannibal out of his camp. If we didn’t succeed, it would amount to a victory for him.”
“While we have him here, right in front of us, why not go back to what we’d hoped to do earlier this summer?” ventured Crispinus. “Besiege Locri. All that stopped me before was the arrival of Hannibal’s army. We have enough troops in Tarentum right now to send a legion to Locri. We can get naval support from Sicily.”
Marcellus thought for a moment. “That’s a good idea. We could spend the entire summer chasing Hannibal with nothing to show for it. Taking Locri is no small prize. I’ll dispatch a four-man contingent to Tarentum tomorrow morning.”
“We can’t wait here all summer,” snapped an agitated Nero. “The men won’t stand for it, and it will drive all of us to our wits’ end. There must be a way to force Hannibal’s hand, sir. There must.”
This sentiment had arisen over and over in the past two years. Of late, Nero had increased his insistence. Marcellus felt the same frustration, but would not waver.
“General, I hear what you’re saying. I know this works against the soldiers’ morale, but you know what we’re doing and why. A single misstep could cost us an army—or two. We must remain patient. All I can say to ease your frustration is that I am committed to drawing Hannibal into combat as soon as it makes tactical sense. I don’t want to go all summer without making use of what we have—two full armies working in conjunction.” Marcellus surveyed his audience. “We will engage Hannibal, but only on our terms, not his. Make sure your soldiers know this and why.”
Marcellus asked me to stay after the others had left. “There’s more to what Nero says than I want to admit,” he said, confiding in me in a way he didn’t with anyone else. “Patience is critical, but I want to make this happen. After watching Hannibal for three campaigns, I believe I can.”
He bellied up to one side of the map table. I stood across from him. “Our biggest problem is that we can’t predict where Hannibal will be one day to the next. As far as I can tell, he’s not heading north for access to his brother nor is he going back to Bruttium. He’s executing maneuvers deliberately designed to both frustrate and tempt us. But even if his movements are meant to be unpredictable, no man can help repeating himself in these circumstances.”
I agreed with Marcellus to some extent, but I had studied the maps as much as he had and had yet to see anything predictable in Hannibal’s movements.
All the maps were stacked one on top of the other. The map on top tracked Hannibal’s movements through the last two months. Marcellus lifted this map and withdrew the map that I had used to combine all of Hannibal’s movements going back two summers. He laid this map on top.
“I think I’m beginning to see some of Hannibal’s habits,” he said. “Look here.” He pointed to a location on the map near our current campsite. “In our first summer here and in the second, he tried to lead us through this secondary valley. It’s the perfect place for an ambush. Our scouts pointed that out to us and we didn’t fall for it.”
I nodded, remembering the circumstances.
“Notice, however, that in both cases, when he sees that we have guessed his intentions, he looped around this ridge to the north.” He used his finger to follow the lines I had drawn. “He proceeds for two days to the east, then loops back around to the south, completing a circle around us. The first time he did this he lost us completely. The second time we lost track of him for one day, but then found him behind us.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Now look here.” He pointed to a location twenty miles south of his first example. “The situation was similar here. He tried to lead us through this heavily wooded area—again perfect for an ambush—and we deferred.”
I nodded.
“See how he loops to the north again, marches two days east, then loops back to the south. The same as before. Nearly a circle and clearly intended as a method of losing us.”
“I see what you’re pointing out, sir. But look here.” I pulled out the map that tracked the current campaign. “We see a similar loop here.” I touched the map with my finger. “But he goes south first, then north.”
Marcellus smiled. “That’s right, but he ends up in the same place when he completes the circle. It doesn’t matter if he goes north first or south. Do you see what I mean?”
“Perhaps.”
“No, it’s something he’s doing intentionally and on a regular basis. I believe this is a pattern we need to look for and anticipate. It’s the only way we’ll ever trap this man.”
I stared down at the map not fully convinced.
“There are other instances. They’re not as obvious because the terrain is different, but if he continues to lead us all over Apulia, I expect him to repeat this maneuver. That’s what I want to look for.”
Marcellus’ eyes sparkled with the excitement of insight. “Apulia is only so big,” he said. “Hannibal will be covering some of the same ground in the next few weeks that he did last year and the year before that. I want you to follow this with me. We’ll reach a point where we can predict the location of his next campsite—and be there waiting for him when he arrives.”
I left the tent that night unsure what to think. I felt that having made the maps, I would recognize patterns in Hannibal’s movements as well as, if not better, than anyone—even Marcellus. And I didn’t see it as he did. Yes, Hannibal had a tendency to circle around our army as a way of confusing us, but predicting where that circle would complete itself could be no more than a guess. Sending one of our armies to a specific location would certainly surprise Hannibal if Marcellus were correct, but if he weren’t, we might separate our two armies in a way that would jeopardize our security. Somehow I needed to find the courage to make Marcellus aware of this.
CHAPTER 87
Hannibal remained in his camp three more days. Each day we offered battle. Each day he declined, resulting in six long days of waiting. During the fifth day of our stay, I noticed that an entourage of dealers and pickers had gathered in a knoll about a mile from Hannibal’s camp.
After the evening meal that night, I went out to the corral, then slipped off into the forest. I was convinced that the only way I could learn something more about my mother was by talking to the people in these camps of itinerant pickers. A nearly full moon provided enough light for me to dodge along the tree line and through the woods to the little camp. I saw a cluster of makeshift tents and campfires, gathered my courage, and headed directly to the center of the camp. Before I entered the circle of tents, I was struck from behind and knocked to the ground. Two men were on me immediately, pinning me down. One held a knife to my throat and pushed his face up close to mine.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m from the Roman camp. I’ve come looking for a woman by the name of Arathia. She has a lo
vely singing voice.”
Both men had overgrown and untrimmed beards. The one with the knife was missing half his teeth and stank. He looked to his friend, then turned back to me. “What do you want her for?”
“She’s my mother.”
The man lifted the knife from my throat and got off of me. The other gave me a hand up. “Your mother has been with us all summer. She’s traveling with another woman and manages a few coins from the soldiers by playing her lyre.”
“Is she here now?”
“She’s in the Carthaginian camp,” said the man with the knife. “Hannibal heard her singing this morning and had her and the woman who travels with her brought to his camp. We haven’t seen either of them since.”
My stomach sank. “If she comes back, please tell her I was here looking for her. I’m in the Roman camp and must see her.”
“Fair enough, but I don’t expect to see her again. That’s a bad bunch.” He motioned with his thumb in the direction of the enemy camp.
Despite the man’s ominous words, I didn’t go back to our camp. After all I had been through, I needed further confirmation. I continued through the woods to Hannibal’s camp determined to see her for myself. Sentries were posted around the perimeter. I got as close as I could then found a tall tree to climb.
From high in the tree, I could see over the Carthaginian palisades and into the camp. It had none of the order of a Roman camp. Each faction of Hannibal’s army seemed to have staked out their own ground, creating a patchwork of tents and thatched huts mirroring the cultures of the various peoples. Some areas were quiet and dark. Others had campfires with men sitting around them working on their equipment as they would in our camp. The area given to the barbarians had huge bonfires. The men drank and danced and shouted at the moon.
I scanned the camp hoping to see my mother. I was too far away to see much, but as I stilled myself and listened, I heard a woman’s voice in song and the clear ring of a lyre, cutting through the dissonance of the barbarians’ abandon. I had no doubt it was my mother singing. I carefully removed the two lenses from the leather pouch. I held the disk at arm’s length and the glass bead close to my eye. I drew my concentration to a fine point and focused on a single campfire. I saw the details of a man’s face, a bearded Libyan, with a scar on his left cheek. But there were no women to his right or left. Targeting one campfire then another, my hands shaking with the thought of actually seeing my mother, I scanned the camp seeking the source of the singing.
I don’t know how long I was in the tree before I finally put the sounds and sights together. All of a sudden I was looking into Hannibal’s face, his eyepatch unmistakable. His expression was placid and content as though listening to the music. I adjusted my aim little by little, inching around the campfire one face at a time. I saw Lucretia first. My heart began to race. Then my mother!—framed in the lens with such clarity, I felt that I could reach out and touch her. She sat on a stool, playing her lyre, with an enraptured Hannibal and his Sacred Band as her audience. As she sang, a song I had heard a hundred times, I could follow the words from the movement of her mouth, but the sound seemed to get to me just a moment too late.
Tears ran from my eyes as I stared at her. Her hair lay over her shoulders and was now streaked with gray. The six years since I’d seen her had clearly been hard on her, but I absorbed every detail, every line in her face, as though I were studying a piece of art. Suddenly she stopped singing and stood up. I lost my focus and lowered the lenses. It was difficult to follow the action, but it appeared that the group was breaking up. I tried the lenses again, catching one last glimpse of my mother as she and Lucretia were ushered into a tent and a guard sat down outside its opening.
I became aware of men in the forest below me. A squadron of soldiers was combing the woods for intruders. I waited until they were out of sight, then quietly slipped down the tree. I traced the tree line back to our camp, gave the password at the gate adjacent to the corral, and went to my tent.
I couldn’t sleep. I had found my mother but had no way to reach her. I wanted to talk to her so badly I considered going to Hannibal’s camp the next day and offering myself up as a slave just to be with her. But where would that get me?—separated from her again. My only real hope was with Marcellus and his defeating Hannibal.
CHAPTER 88
The next morning the Carthaginian camp was empty. I took off for the pickers camp as soon as I heard. Though not a very welcoming group, they said that my mother and Lucretia had not returned and were likely traveling with the Carthaginians. I trudged back to camp cursing Hannibal. Defeating him was now more than a necessity of the war, it was all that mattered to me.
We chased Hannibal the next four days. The fifth day he attempted to lead us through the valley in Apulia that Marcellus had pointed out. For a third time Hannibal set up an ambush and for a third time our scouts verified it. On this occasion, however, Marcellus decided to test his supposition. He didn’t tell me in advance, but I understood what he was doing when he briefed the officers and mentioned Hannibal’s marching habits.
He told Crispinus to take his army to a specific location and set up camp in anticipation of Hannibal’s arrival. Although Marcellus would avoid the valley of note, he would stay on Hannibal’s tail. We would lose ground on the Carthaginian by taking a longer route, but hopefully this would allow us to come up from behind him just as he encountered Crispinus.
The plan was accepted on face value. Marcellus had tracked Hannibal more than any other Roman general. When he described the strategy, no one questioned him. The officers even showed some excitement, probably because they were itching for a fight.
But Hannibal let us down. He didn’t loop around in a circle to where Crispinus was waiting. Three days later, when we marched up prepared to deploy for battle, no one was more disheartened than Marcellus.
The calculated gamble cost us all contact with Hannibal’s army. As far as we knew he was headed north. Marcellus sent out scouts in all directions. He didn’t want to go anywhere until he had an idea where Hannibal was.
We sat in camp for a week waiting for information to act on. I doubt anyone was more anxious than I was. Before hearing anything from our scouts, a messenger, riding fast, arrived from Tarentum accompanied by three other riders. It was late afternoon. Marcellus called Crispinus over from his camp. They received the messenger in our headquarters. I was there, as were Lentulus, Purpurio, and Nero.
“Titus Mamulus, consuls,” said the soldier, “three days hard ride out of Tarentum.” He wore the red tunic and armor of a legionnaire. He withdrew a sealed letter from beneath his breastplate. Marcellus opened it, looked at it briefly, then handed it to Crispinus. “It’s from Flaminius.”
Crispinus scanned the message, then lifted his eyes to the other men. “Hannibal discovered that we were sending a legion to Locri. He sent three thousand of his cavalry south to join the Carthaginian garrison in Petelia. Together they set a trap for the legion coming from Tarentum. Flaminius’ men had no idea there was another army in the region and were traveling without scouts. They were caught completely off guard. Two thousand were killed and fifteen hundred taken prisoner. The others ran off into the hills and eventually returned to Tarentum.”
“This must have happened while Hannibal sat in camp declining combat,” spat Nero, clearly disturbed by the news and what it said about our own actions. “We didn’t even notice that half his cavalry had left camp. Nor do we know now if they’ve returned.”
Marcellus swelled with anger. Not because of the ambush, but because it had taken place at a time when he presumed to know what Hannibal was thinking. Although the attempt on Locri had been Crispinus’ idea, Marcellus felt responsible. What did it matter if we had avoided an ambush in Apulia if Hannibal had succeeded with another in Bruttium.
Later that night I was alone with Marcellus in the headquarters’ tent. I worked on our best map of Apulia, continuing to detail the topography with little bits of information I
had picked up when I had gotten the chance to go out with our scouts.
While I worked, Marcellus paced. The news he had received earlier represented a terrible setback. His frustration filled the tent. I could barely concentrate for the fury that was contained in this one man, stalking back and forth, condemning himself for being outwitted by Hannibal.
At intervals Marcellus would stand beside me and look down at the map as though it contained all the secrets of the world. During one of these periods, he told me to stop working and to get out the map that combined all of Hannibal’s movements.
I did as he asked and moved to one side of the table so that Marcellus could get a look. He used his finger to trace Hannibal’s path for each summer we had followed him. He did this several times.
Though I had always believed in Marcellus, maybe to a fault, his recent attempt to predict Hannibal’s movements had shaken my faith in him.
Marcellus looked up from the map. “I see my mistake, Timon. Hannibal knows I’m tracking his movements. He knows that he has habits and that I have noticed them. He was totally aware that he’d set up ambushes in that valley before. He also knew that I would remember that—so he deliberately altered his previous path to confound me.”
Dearly wanting to believe in this man, I agreed. “I think that’s a fair assumption, sir. Hannibal has proven to be one step ahead of us every time.”
“So what if we go with that?” Marcellus grinned in a way he usually didn’t, then pointed to another location in Apulia. “Much like that valley we just avoided, his path through this set of ridges was identical in the first and second summers we chased him.” His eyes lit with what he felt was an important insight. “Should he lead us through this area again, he will anticipate my knowing this, and rather than repeat his previous path,” he pointed to a natural fork in the landscape, “he will take the route he hasn’t used before. In other words, he’s not just playing this game campaign by campaign, but as a set of moves over several campaigns, all aimed at fooling me.”
The Death of Marcellus Page 42