Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage

by David Gibbins

  Fabius looked at Scipio. It was time to finish it. Scipio dropped his sword and fell on the chieftain’s back, flattening him and holding him there, pushing his head into the liquid mud. The man coughed and spluttered and then suddenly heaved upwards in a last show of strength, tossing Scipio off his back and staggering to his feet, his arms held out and his head high, bellowing something towards the sky. He saw his sword in the mud and staggered towards it, trailing his insides behind him. Scipio leapt back and pushed him down again, this time not trying to drown him but holding his head tightly in an armlock. The man knew what he was trying to do and resisted, his neck and head held rigid against the pressure. Then he gave way, his energy spent. In that instant Scipio twisted the head sharply sideways, and the body suddenly went limp. Scipio pulled up the chieftain’s head by his hair, knelt back and then severed it with a single swipe of his sword, holding it high for a moment so that all could see and then dropping it into the mud.

  Fabius felt light-headed, as if he had forgotten to breathe. He relaxed, and then inhaled deeply. It was over.

  Scipio got up on his knees, then to his feet, staggering backwards and almost falling again. He was covered from head to foot in blood. He reached down to a muddy pool beside the chieftain’s body and splashed his face, and then caught a cloth tossed to him by one of the fabri. He wiped his eyes and then turned to face the Celtiberian warriors, who still stood in a semi-circle, silent and watching. For a few moments nothing happened, and Fabius let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword again. Then the warriors began to drop their weapons and turn back up the hill, where the entrance to the palisade was open and the women and children stood outside, also witness to the fight. Scipio remained where he was standing until the last of them had gone, and then he turned and made his way out of the mud, his feet squelching and slipping until he reached firm ground. The legionary who had given him the cloth gave him a wineskin, and he tipped it up and drank gratefully, and then shut his eyes as he poured the wine over his face and his neck, letting it drip to the ground. He wiped his face again, passed the skin back and looked at Fabius. His eyes were hard, burning with fervour. He scanned the legionaries, and raised his right arm. ‘Men, gather round.’ The legionaries came closer, forming a circle around him, several hundred exhausted and mud-spattered men. Within the space the second centurion was hunched over the body of the primipilus, laying his sword across his chest. Fabius stared at him, his mind blank. It had been less than fifteen minutes since the primipilus had taken the javelin thrust to his leg, yet it seemed almost too far back in time to remember.

  Scipio raised his hand in salute. ‘You have fought hard and with honour today, against a worthy enemy whom we will honour in defeat by allowing the surviving warriors to return unharmed to their families.’ He turned towards the body on the ground, and the second centurion. ‘To the primipilus, ave atque vale. To the new primipilus, you are a worthy successor. To all who fell here today, we will meet again in Elysium.’ He turned to Fabius, and put a bloody hand on his shoulder, his eyes gleaming. ‘And to the legionary Fabius Petronius Secundus, you have earned the insignia of a centurion. The promotion is for Ennius to give as commander of our force, but he was watching from the walls and will have seen you in action this day. By spotting the danger and stopping our advance when you did, you won the battle for us and saved many Roman lives.’

  There was a ragged cheer of approval from the legionaries. Fabius turned to Scipio. ‘You have earned the esteem of your men, Scipio Aemilianus. No legionary forgets a commander who fights an enemy chieftain in single combat.’

  Scipio wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked around the assembled legionaries. ‘One day, one day soon, I may lead an army. Will you men be my personal guard? I can’t promise you booty. But I can promise you glory. And for those of you who are fabri, I can promise you plenty of digging and building and siege works.’

  The new primipilus stood at attention. ‘We know your destiny, Scipio Aemilianus. We know where you will lead your army. And we will follow you anywhere, in this world or the next.’

  Scipio nodded, and slapped him on the shoulder too. ‘Good. And now I think there is a cartload of Falernian wine sitting down below, sent ahead of the legion to be ready for Lucullus’ headquarters staff. I think they might just discover that the cart was in an accident and the amphorae smashed, don’t you think? But make sure you dilute it with plenty of water from the river. We need to remain clear-headed for funerary rites for our fallen comrades, and to build a pyre high enough to send them to their rightful place alongside the war god himself. Only then, when the fire is lit, can we let the wine flow freely and let ourselves go.’

  13

  Twenty minutes later, Scipio stood before Ennius, who had come down from his position on the walls and was addressing him. ‘I am the only officer of tribunician rank who saw what you did today. I will recommend you for the spolia opima, for defeating an enemy leader in single combat. You must strip the armour of your opponent and affix it to an oak tree, and then take it to Rome and dedicate it at the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius. You will be only the fourth in Rome’s history to receive this honour, as Romulus did for defeating Acro after the rape of the Sabine women. You will be the greatest living hero in Rome. Your military reputation will be assured.’

  Scipio draped an arm around Ennius’ shoulder, leaning against him and breathing heavily. He wiped the mud and spittle from his mouth with his other hand, and then pushed back, turning and looking at the body of the chieftain. ‘Do you remember what Achilles did at Troy? He stripped the fallen Hector and dragged the body round the walls, taunting his enemy and distressing Hector’s wife and children. And then, just days later, Achilles himself lay dying, felled by an arrow to his heel, the one place where he was mortal. It’s an allegory, or so Polybius tells me. Achilles had let pride and exaltation overtake him and had forgotten to protect his vulnerable spot, just as Icarus flew too close to the sun and the wax in his wings melted.’ He wiped his face again, and then straightened up, looking at the ring of Roman soldiers who had been watching the combat, and at the Celtiberian dead on the other side. ‘I will receive the corona muralis for being the first on the walls of Intercatia in the assault on the oppidum last week. To receive the spolia opima on the same day as Lucullus’ triumph in Rome would be to overshadow his glory, and earn me suspicion and envy that might play into the hands of Metellus and his supporters – those who would see me never command a legion. On this day there are many among the legionaries now who have fought their own battles worthy of the spolia opima. I care little for the esteem of Rome, but I care everything for the esteem of these legionaries. You and your cohort of fabri will form the core of the army that I will one day lead. When your men advance into battle they will always remember this day before the walls of Intercatia. That will be my reward.’

  He walked back to the body of the chieftain, picked up the sword and laid it alongside. He went down on one knee in the mud and briefly bowed his head, and then stood up. A wild-haired woman had appeared with two small children at the edge of the mud, and was making her way towards the body. Scipio slogged back and stood beside Ennius again. ‘Have the optio sound the withdrawal. We will give them time to honour and burn their dead. Order the commissariat to bring up two cartloads of grain, and leave it at the entrance of their palisade. These people know they are defeated. But if they are to trust my word, they must know that I am magnanimous in victory. I will keep my word to the chieftain.’

  ‘Some of the surviving warriors will kill themselves. We have seen that before among the Celtiberians.’

  ‘So be it. They have fought well and hard, and deserve to part this life with honour. It is better than being put to the sword, as Lucullus will doubtless wish to do to those who refuse to submit, even in captivity. But those are not the ones whom we would take to Rome. We want their sons, those who could be trained and nurtured to be our allies.’ He looked across again at the woman and her boy
s. ‘It is their children who must be allowed to live. They will soon hear of the massacre at Cauca, and they must not be allowed to think that Lucullus’ legionaries will be let loose in their oppidum and that they will suffer the same fate.’

  ‘Speaking of Lucullus, I have had a message that the legion is less than a mile away. By nightfall, they will be in the camp. What would you have me do?’

  ‘Take your fabri and repair that breach in the wall. Station men there, and at the entrance to the oppidum. They are to keep the men from the legion out, and the Celtiberians in. Once you have seen the fire from the funeral pyres and know that the Celtiberians have completed their rites, march the remainder of your cohort inside to occupy the town. Nobody is to leave their post until the legion has left.’

  ‘What do you know of Lucullus’ plans?’

  Scipio watched the legionaries make their way off the walls and back through the entrance to the camp, and saw the other Celtiberian women begin to search through the mud for the bodies of their menfolk. There was no sound, no cry of lamentation, only a whisper of wind over the battlements and the distant crackle of fire from the houses that were still burning in the oppidum. Over the battlefield the wisps of steam rising from the entrails and abdomen wounds of corpses had mingled with the dampness in the air to form a thin mist, floating a few feet above the ground, as if the souls of the dead were being drawn away in a ghostly miasma. Fabius watched Scipio stare at it, and then turn back to Ennius. ‘Lucullus has rekindled a war that will simmer on far into the future, like those burning embers in the oppidum, and will only finish when Numantia itself falls. If your fabri had not achieved what they have done today, this campaign could have ground on like the other ones, for months, probably years. But now that we have given him Intercatia to add to Cauca, Lucullus will have what he came for. He has enough victories for a triumph.’

  ‘And you?’

  Scipio cracked a grin. ‘A river to wash off the mud and the blood, and then some wine and food. But not at this place. Lucullus sent me on a mission, and I don’t want him to change his mind when he sees that we’ve finished the job here for him.’

  ‘A mission? You have not yet told me.’

  ‘To find more elephants for this campaign. He knows of my friendship with Gulussa and his father Masinissa. He thinks the name Scipio is magic in Africa, and that elephants will appear out of the sand dunes of Numidia as soon as I arrive. He wants fifty of them, elephants that will be useless here if he returns home now.’

  ‘You can have them sent directly to Rome, for his triumph. He can pretend that our three elephants were fifty, and that he was at their head.’

  ‘He can take them across the Alps like Hannibal for all I care. With Intercatia fallen and this campaign all but over, I will seek reappointment as a special envoy to Numidia. There are big things afoot in Africa. Polybius hinted at it six years ago in Macedonia, when it was only a rumour. But yesterday I had a message from Gulussa. The Carthaginians are rearming. Their new circular harbour is complete, and galleys have been constructed in the shipsheds. They have recruited mercenaries from Gaul, and sent them out to the very borders of Carthaginian territory. It is only a matter of time before they clash with Masinissa’s forces. If Rome provides support and we play our cards right, it could be the beginning of the final showdown with Carthage that Cato has been clamouring for in Rome for two generations now.’

  Ennius grasped Scipio’s hand, the sinews of his forearms hard and strong. ‘Ave atque vale, Scipio Aemilianus Africanus. May Fortuna smile on you.’

  ‘Perhaps I can earn that agnomen now. But it will need Mars Ultor the war god, not just Fortuna.’

  ‘Remember what Polybius taught us. Gods do not win wars, just men.’

  Scipio jerked his head towards the camp. ‘Not just men. Roman legionaries.’

  ‘When you summon us, we will join you.’

  ‘Perhaps not this year, or even the next. But it will be soon. I can smell it, the smell of the desert sands of Africa blowing north, just as they did in my grandfather’s day. There will be war again before you and I are much older, and it is that war that is our destiny.’

  ‘Go now. I can hear the pounding of the approaching legion.’

  Scipio released Ennius’ hand, slapped him on the shoulder and turned to Fabius. ‘A fast galley is waiting for us at Tarraco. If we ride now, we could be there by dawn and with Gulussa in four days. We have no time to lose.’

  PART FIVE

  AFRICA

  148 BC

  14

  Fabius and Scipio stood on the deck of a small merchant galley off the coast of North Africa, its single square sail billowing above them. They had rowed hard all morning to get as far as they could offshore, taking their turn at the sweeps with the crew, the sail furled and the wind on the starboard beam; but then the captain had decided that they were far enough out into the bay to avoid being blown inshore before their objective had been reached, and had ordered the sail unfurled and the tiller heaved to starboard, causing the twin rudder oars to bring the bow to the south-west and the ship to plough across the waves towards land with the wind on her starboard quarter. Fabius had just finished helping the helmsman to push the tiller hard to the right and lash it to the gunwales, to counteract the tendency of the vessel to run before the wind. They had adjusted the ropes holding the sail to keep it at the best angle to fill with wind without buckling and flapping, and to avoid filling so much that it risked capsizing the ship.

  Fabius was sweating in the sun, and took a swig from a water skin. He had enjoyed the rowing, pulling hard as the ship sliced through the waves on an even keel, but now that she was heaving up and down with every peak and trough he felt considerably less comfortable. He could scarcely believe that they were now within sight of Carthage, its whitewashed buildings spread out along the seafront less than a mile away, rising to the Byrsa hill with its temple in the centre. He knew he should have been apprehensive, weighing up their chances of getting in and making it out alive, but with the motion of the ship getting worse rather than better he found himself praying for landfall, anywhere, whatever the dangers. The sooner they arrived, the better.

  He looked at Scipio, who was standing with his feet firmly planted on the deck, swaying with the ship and staring ahead. He had let his hair and beard grow for several months in anticipation of this mission, to look more like a merchant and less like a Roman soldier in disguise. In the three years since they had left Spain his features had become more chiselled and his skin dark and lined from the African sun. He was thirty-seven now, old for a tribune, but he still relished the opportunity that the rank gave him to lead men from the front, and he knew that the odds would be stacked in his favour for command of a legion should the Senate finally be persuaded to commit to all-out war. It had been three years of hard grind, of small-unit action supporting Gulussa and his Numidians on the fringes of the desert, violent clashes with the Carthaginian patrols that were constantly probing forward into the scrubland, pushing against the boundaries that had been agreed by treaty with Rome over fifty years before. Six months ago, Scipio and Gulussa had begun to sense that something bigger was afoot, an increasing stream of mercenaries reaching the front from the Carthaginian training camps under the walls of the city, a massing of men large enough to force a breakthrough. They knew that if that happened there would be little they could do to stop it, and Numidia would be overrun. The mission that Scipio had proposed was a last-ditch attempt to provide Polybius with evidence of Carthaginian intentions to take to Rome and present to the Senate. There would be those who would be suspicious of it, knowing Scipio’s position and suspecting exaggeration, but his reputation for fides might be enough to persuade even the doubters. Their mission was a huge risk, but it was better than dying in the desert. Everything depended on what they found out today.

  Fabius swallowed hard, focusing on the horizon as he had been told to do by the captain when he had seen his discomfort, surveying the shoreline to the
south. Behind them lay Bou Kornine, the mountain whose twin peaks shaped like a bull’s horns had been a navigational waymarker from the time when the Phoenicians had first come this way centuries before. On the shoreline below the slopes lay the Roman encampment, their point of embarkation the previous evening. The beach landing site of a few years before was now a semi-permanent depot, with hundreds of fresh troops passing through it every week on their way to bolster Numidian forces to the south. What had begun as a covert mission of advisers and trainers, of men experienced from Macedonia and Spain, had become an expeditionary force that was having its first major clashes with the vanguard of the enemy field army, with cohorts of mercenaries who had been sent forward to exploit weaknesses along the Numidian lines. Neither side was yet ready for full-blown war; the Carthaginians were merely occupying reclaimed territory that was rightfully theirs, and the Romans were coming to the aid of their Numidian allies with whom they were bound by treaty. But Fabius remembered what Polybius had said in the academy, that ill-defined borders were the most likely flashpoint for war, and the former Carthaginian territory ceded to Masinissa after the defeat of Hannibal was a case in point. Something was bound to crack soon, when Hasdrubal was ready for full-scale battle, and when Rome was willing to commit herself to an endgame that had been predestined all those years before when Scipio Africanus had been obliged by the Senate to spare Hannibal after his defeat at Zama and allow Carthage to escape final destruction.