The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  “Work progresses nicely, I see,” Hannibal said. Boodes looked up. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his jowly face. White beard stubble sprouted on his cheeks. Although he wore his military regalia, he looked haggard.

  “Yes, sir,” Boodes said. “The men are happy for the labor — even if they don’t know what it is they do, exactly.”

  “It’s not important for them to know,” Hannibal said. He took a completed basket and lifted it, considering its heft. “Perfect. This is exactly what I was looking for.”

  Each basket needed to be light enough for one man to carry but bulky enough to fill the Roman trenches.

  “And our little fleet?” Hannibal asked, letting the basket drop. It made a single springy bounce before coming to rest.

  “Probably in Heraclea by now. At least I hope so,” Boodes said. “We just have to trust to the plan now.”

  Boodes had been in charge of putting together their escape fleet. Thirty-three of the ships were from his own merchant fleet. He had been able to cajole another fifteen from the Carthaginian war fleet. By removing half of the rowers from each vessel, he reckoned there would be enough room to carry the entire garrison, although, in all events this proved to be unnecessary.

  “I wish I had not made that provision now,” he said. “But how could we have known the toll this siege would take on our troops.”

  “We shall escape in luxury, then,” Hannibal quipped. “A little slower than we would like, perhaps. But with plenty of room to stretch out.”

  On the day of battle, Hannibal was planning to break out of Acragas, one way or the other. If Hanno drove the Romans from the field, they would simply walk out, of course. If Hanno failed, which Hannibal suspected he would, his soldiers would use the chaos of the battle’s aftermath to make a run for it. They would cross the Roman trenches using their straw basket fascines and then make for the mouth of the River Hypsas where the fleet would by then be waiting.

  “All we need now is for Hanno to attack,” Boodes said.

  “Which is no simple task. I have been constantly signaling him, but I get no reply,” Hannibal said.

  “Perhaps he is waiting for his blockade of the Romans to have an effect.”

  “Perhaps he is waiting for the Romans to start dying off of old age! Actually, his dawdling is intended to cause me pain, Boodes.”

  “Could even Hanno be so small, General?”

  “Oh, yes. But what Hanno does not understand is that I will not allow my fate to be put in his hands. He no doubt believes that our fates are now inextricably bound to his success on the field of battle. I hate to say this, Boodes, but we are better off if Hanno fails, for when the Romans break in here after Hanno’s undoubtedly shameful defeat, we will be long gone on your ships, our own masters. If we are still here after a Hanno victory, then we truly are at his mercy. I refuse to be rescued by that man. It would be the end of me in Carthage!”

  “Surely, though, it is better than to be led through the streets of Rome in chains!”

  “We are escaping this place, Boodes. Or we will die trying.”

  “Then here’s to Hanno’s defeat!” Boodes lifted an imaginary goblet.

  “Let’s save our triumph for when we are safely aboard your ships. Then we will drink real wine. You have informed the Celts of their honored position as rearguard for our escape?” Hannibal asked.

  “Iliatos understands that his Celts are the fiercest warriors in our army, that their use as our rearguard is only to guarantee the army’s escape. He has proudly accepted his role.”

  “You are a flatterer, Boodes. But save some of that, too. For Carthage. I think we’ll need it.”

  Consul Quintis Mamilius Vitulus craned his neck looking for a servant. “Wine for our honored guest!” he called, snapping his fingers.

  The servant brought a cup and Gelon drank deeply.

  “Please accept my apologies, Gelon,” said the consul, gazing earnestly at his guest. The two men sat comfortably across from each other inside Vitulus’ command tent. “Our young tribune had no idea that one as esteemed as you would be accompanying the supply train.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Gelon said, running the back of his hand over his lips. “I consider us even. I received insults and your man received an education. As far as I’m concerned that is the end of it.”

  “Well, let me tell you this, Gelon,” Vitulus said, leaning forward with a smile. “There is not a man who witnessed your scuffle today who would not have loved to be in your place. Our tribune has a rage in him buried notoriously shallow. It emerges often — perhaps too often.”

  “Perhaps he will not unearth it so readily in the future.”

  “A lesson long overdue, most would say.” Vitulus chuckled. “As long as it takes for his bones to mend, the name of Gelon will be revered in this legion. If your reputation needed enhancement — and it most certainly does not! — then today you became famous.” Vitulus laughed, remembering how the tribune’s mangled face lacked its usual haughty expression.

  “Fame is rather more easily won among Romans than Syracusans,” Gelon observed.

  He stared at the consul intently. Gelon wore a strip of white cloth tied around his forehead that glistened with sweat and his curly brown hair sprung out over the top of it. His piercing gaze gave him an air of energetic intelligence. His dusty, bearded face was weathered, his features strong and hard. He looked exactly like what he was — a warrior and a leader of men, veteran of many hard campaigns. Vitulus, a middle-aged aristocrat of Rome, could match only his energy and drive. Vitulus could well imagine them a team. He longed to have such a man campaign at his side. There was no one like him in Vitulus’ entire army.

  Gelon suddenly lifted his cup, a grin spreading over his face. “To fame!” he said.

  “And glory!” Vitulus added.

  Both men drank.

  “It is thirsty work enduring the endless attacks of the enemy along the Roman’s own roads,” Gelon said, his expression darkening. He set his empty cup aside.

  Vitulus’ smile faded instantly. “Ah, so we come to the nub of the problem. You see it easily. Our cavalry have known nothing but defeat since we came here,” he said. “Out-fought, out-led, out-maneuvered, out-thought, out-ridden, out-trained… Our troopers have no confidence and fear even leaving their stockades. You think I am proud of our predicament? It is an embarrassment to the honor of Rome.”

  “Defeat produces a lack of confidence which produces defeat. It is a military unit’s death spiral.”

  Vitulus looked into Gelon’s eyes gravely. “We need the help of a man such as you, Gelon,” he said. “Why don’t you stay and fight with us? Train our cavalry to fight.”

  “I am needed in Syracuse. The king is putting together a legion to fight with the Romans after this siege. I am to lead this legion, as well as my Sacred Band cavalry. I cannot abandon this duty.”

  “No, of course not,” Vitulus said, leaning back in disappointment. “But tell me what we can do to defeat the enemy horse. They run rings around us.”

  “You are up against Numidian light cavalry, Consul, perhaps the finest cavalry in the world. You lack a light-armed cavalry corps to oppose it.”

  “Exactly, commander!” Vitulus said. “When we try to attack them using our normal methods, they scatter like the wind and then swarm all over us from every direction.”

  “I have seen their tactics.” Gelon raised his cup and a servant came over and re-filled it. Gelon took a drink. “Their tactics are based on deception and your troopers lack the discipline to resist them.”

  “Yes,” Vitulus said. He leaned forward, listening intently. “Go on.”

  “You cannot instill that kind of discipline overnight, Consul. It requires rigorous training and — and spirit, such as exists in my Sacred Band. Both require time you do not have.”

  “But there must be something we can do in the short run to counter them. As you know, the condition of our troops deteriorates every day, and our cavalry even in pe
ak condition is overmatched. We will have to offer battle soon, and I fear the outcome.”

  “Are you also outnumbered?” Gelon asked.

  “With sickness and losses in battle, we are down to perhaps three-thousand cavalry. I would estimate a two-to-one deficiency in numbers.”

  Gelon stood. “Come outside,” he said. “I must draw in the dirt.”

  “Here’s a tablet you can use,” Vitulus said, grabbing a tablet from a nearby table.

  “Outside,” Gelon said, already halfway to the door. “I prefer the dirt. Come.”

  Vitulus ducked through the doorway and walked outside where Gelon was already kneeling in the dirt. Vitulus knelt beside him. With his finger, Gelon drew long lines depicting the opposing forces of infantry. On the flanks, he drew fat rectangles representing the cavalry.

  “For out-numbered cavalry suffering from defeatism, there is only one course and that is to intersperse your cavalry with light infantry. This is what I would do.” He made little hash marks inside the rectangle representing the Roman cavalry.

  “Light infantry?”

  “Well, not light infantry in the strict sense,” Gelon said. “You need foot soldiers with heavy shields and many javelins. These must be stouthearted men — all of them. You put them in front of your horse…or behind them…or intersperse them…” Gelon thought for a moment. “Behind them, I think.” He rubbed out his hash marks, and made a solid line backing the cavalry rectangle. He looked up at Vitulus. “You see?”

  “Yes,” Vitulus said. He wondered how he was going to preserve these marks in the dirt. He did not want to lose them. “What is the purpose of the infantry?”

  “To give your troopers confidence. The infantry forms a wall for your cavalry to — well, not to hide behind exactly, but it gives them a place to regroup, a place to rally and reform.”

  “I see…”

  “It will prevent your cavalry from being ridden off the field. Instead of fleeing in panic, your troopers can reform behind the shield wall. The Numidians will have to cut short their pursuit when they encounter the infantry javelins. And your infantry javelins are superior to the Numidian’s mounted fire because of a firmer firing base, longer range, and size of target.”

  “Size of target?”

  “Well, yes. Your men have only to hit the Numidians’ mounts to incapacitate them. The mounted javelineer is no match for the infantry, save for his mobility. If they pause to exchange fire with your foot, your cavalry can then charge them, perhaps catching them in a massed formation, which is just what you want to happen.”

  Gelon looked up again. His lines in the dirt had become illegible as he traced the various movements of the opposing sides. Vitulus could see the fire in his eyes as he spoke. He was in his element, and his enthusiasm was catching.

  “But why heavy shields and stouthearted men? Why not light infantry, like any other?”

  “Because the Carthaginian may send his heavy cavalry against them. In this case, you need men who will plant both shield and javelin in the earth and stand firm without wavering. No horse would ever impale itself willingly on a pike, so the only danger your men face here is if they turn and flee. Then they will be massacred. Thus, you need stout-hearted men — the best you have — for even brave men can lose heart with thousands of pounds of horseflesh bearing down on them.”

  Vitulus nodded.

  “Now, this is strictly a defensive posture you are adopting here, Consul. Don’t forget that. The purpose of your cavalry — and let them know this unequivocally — is to keep the enemy cavalry away from your main line of infantry’s flanks. And that is it. No glory-seeking can be tolerated. On pain of death! That’s how I would put it. All pursuits must be cut short. I would even consider putting a corps of javelineers and slingers on the infantry’s flanks as well, in case your cavalry proves totally ineffective.”

  Vitulus smiled and continued to nod. “I understand this. It is a good plan.”

  “Now, when you do attack the enemy cavalry, I would attack from the outside in. You see?” Gelon traced an arcing line in the dirt, which to Vitulus’ eye merely added yet another cross-thatch to an already senseless array of random lines. “This is to restrict their field and to bunch them up against their own infantry — and especially their elephants. Now, we don’t know what the Carthaginian has planned for his elephants, but horses and elephants don’t mix, I can tell you—”Gelon spoke rapidly, in high excitement, but caught himself and stopped short. “But I think this is enough for now,” he said, rising. “Elephants are too unpredictable.”

  Vitulus thanked him. “Your insights are invaluable to me.”

  “Outnumbered and dispirited cavalry should be bolstered by infantry,” Gelon said. “That is the thing to remember, even if the rest of this becomes a jumble to you.” He strode over to the tent door and reaching inside snatched up his helmet and weapons, which were lying on a table inside the flap. “Now, as soon as my men are fed and rested,” he began, strapping on his sword belt, “I must get back to Syracuse. By Zeus, I need to begin the creation of my own corps of light cavalry!”

  Chapter 14

  It was just after mid-morning when Hanno’s Numidian light cavalry swarmed out of the camp, raced down the hillside and scattered onto the center of the plain below. The scampering horses raised such a screen of dust that when the first line of Carthaginian infantry marched out they did so under almost complete concealment. Yaroah led the thick column of soldiers down the slope while other mounted officers waited at key positions on the plain. The first marked the point where the column would make its turn to parallel the Roman siege-works. A second marked the center of the proposed line and a third waited at the point where the line was meant to terminate.

  When Yaroah reached the first officer, he negotiated a stately ninety-degree turn and rode on toward the second. The soldiers followed him with regal precision, smoother than anything they had accomplished back on the training fields of Carthage. From Hanno’s position above, it was a beautiful and stirring sight, if proceeding with agonizing slowness.

  Hanno felt himself becoming anxious. The deployment was moving too slowly. Far too slowly. He had to fight back his impulse to race downslope and instill some fire in his men — with the flat of his sword if he had to. But he reminded himself that speed was not the issue. After all, the Romans had not yet stirred. A part of him hoped they would not. This was the largest army he had ever commanded in battle and he was putting it up against what he thought would be the most formidable opponent of his career. He felt that his deployment needed to be perfect. No detail of preparation could be overlooked. Precision, not speed, was the critical element. He took a deep breath, calming his nerves. His army was the picture of precision, after all. Deadly precision.

  The light infantry occupied the right-hand side of the column, and when the line was in place, the seven thousand javelin-men and slingers detached from the main line and occupied the entire infantry frontage in open order. The cavalry then split into two groups and took its place on each flank of the infantry.

  Hanno now watched as his elephants began lumbering onto the plain, their trunks swaying to and fro. Led by their handlers, the beasts marched two-by-two but spread out singly behind the infantry, spaced at intervals to cover the entire line. Once in place, each animal was mounted by a single rider who carried a switch and a mallet and long spike that could be used to sever the animal’s spinal cord if the elephant bolted during battle.

  Hanno had mulled over many different arrangements for his elephant corps, debating the issue long and hard the previous night with his lieutenants. None of the officers, Hanno included, had any experience with elephants and had little idea what to expect of them. Hanno had finally decided to use them to back his first line of infantry, for from this position they could serve a dual purpose. In case the Carthaginian line was breached, they would trample back the break-through. In case of infantry success, he would unleash them in a devastating charge upon disorganized
and tired Roman troops.

  He felt better when the deployment was complete and he could see arrayed before him the perfection of his plan. Two lines of infantry, the first backed by elephants, flanked on either side by cavalry and screened by light troops, extended for almost a mile across the plain. It was a massive force, numbering close to sixty-thousand men in all. Facing them would be forty-thousand Romans, veterans, he supposed, of numerous campaigns. While he knew the Romans raised and disbanded entirely new legions each year as required for their campaigns, they recruited the same men repeatedly during their years of military commitment to the Republic. His own men, while also mostly veterans, were mercenaries over whom he had far less control than did his Roman counterparts. Iberians, Balearic Islanders, Sicilians, Celts, Numidians, Libyans — all with their own language and cultural differences, differences in equipment and modes of fighting. All these things presented a myriad of command problems to work out, problems of coordination and training. A lesser man could easily be overwhelmed by the difficulties. But Hanno had as carefully honed this force as the most magnificent of crafted weapons. Now it was time to unsheathe it, to rout the Roman armies and pursue them all the way back to Messana.

  The deployment complete, dust began to settle and an eerie quiet descended over the plain. Amid the silence, Hanno could hear his officers shouting single sharp orders in the distance, and thousands of restless horses shuffled and snorted.

  While he was still contemplating the deployment, he noticed that the Romans had begun marching out of their camp. Cavalry and light infantry began to fill the plain less than a mile from the Carthaginian lines.

  “So, they accept my offer,” Hanno said. Despite his own better judgment, the culmination of his career’s work was at hand. He saw a ripple of nervousness sweep like a wave over his infantry.

  Hanno signaled and his personal guard and staff followed him as he rode slowly down the hill to join his army on the plain below. Head held high and his back straight, the bright red plume of his helmet and scarlet cloak fluttered behind him as his white stallion high-stepped over the rocky soil towards the lines of soldiers. Men on the flanks saw him first and let out a spontaneous cheer. The famous, beloved general rode straight and tall, allowing the men to see him. Heads turned as he passed and the cheering grew, starting at the flank and extending deep into the middle of the formation and beyond. Soon the entire army was cheering. Even the elephants trumpeted as some of them began to caper nervously. As Hanno rounded the corner and arrived at the head of the army where he was met by Yaroah and his other officers, the cheering had become a full-throated war chant as Hanno’s polyglot army roared as one, banging swords and spears against their shields in a rhythm that caused the very ground to tremble.