Pride of Carthage

by David Anthony Durham

  They marched around Acra Leuce without a sideways glance, forded the river Segura, and strode out onto the cape of Palus. There were seven days like this, but still they were each of them stunned when they caught their first glimpse of the city. None of them believed it a reasonable destination, so they sought some other explanation for why their route took them close to it. More than one of them sat down to behold the madness that had brought them to the teeth of the enemy's maw. They had marched to New Carthage.

  Their arrival caught the inhabitants by complete surprise. Shepherds rose up from drowsing no more than a stone's throw from the advance guard. It took them only a glance to know that these troops were not their own. They ran, but not one of them escaped the cavalry's darts. Slaves looked up from the near fields and dropped their work where they stood. Soon the watchtower sounded a great horn that drew everyone into the city like rabbits scurrying to their burrows. Just before the gates slammed shut, a band of six horsemen galloped out. Messengers. Each curved off in a different direction, gone to cry warning to the Barcas. Publius quietly ordered patrols to fly out after them, with simple orders:

  “Hunt and kill them,” he said. “Let none of them get through.”

  That evening they camped at the base of the isthmus and Publius spoke to his assembled troops. “The city behind us stands as the greatest monument to the rule of the Carthaginians in Iberia,” he said. “Out of it flows all the wealth of the continent; into it, the desires of its far-reaching masters. Inside are whole chambers piled high with silver, with amber and gold, storerooms of weapons and siege engines, warehouses of raw iron and the great furnaces that fire it into tools of war. Inside stretch palaces worked by servants, fountains that flow with wine on festival days, temples where they sacrifice to their dark gods, and an ancient wood filled with exotic animals imported from Africa. There are many thousands locked within those walls, but there are merchants and sailors and aristocrats, priests and magistrates, Iberian prisoners, slaves, the old, the young—not fighting men. And there are women, a great many of them. Isn't Hasdrubal himself rumored to keep a court of a thousand beauties?”

  Publius had made up this last detail on the spot but enjoyed the effect it caused and spoke into the building enthusiasm. “All this inside that city,” he said. “But who protects it? I'll tell you—a scant thousand soldiers. Yes, one thousand alone. This may seem impossible to you, but consider their thinking. They'd never have imagined that we'd aim for this target, just as many of you never did. They've been safe here and taken their destruction elsewhere for so long that they do not see their vulnerability. They're like Achilles, who had only a single weakness but went to war with it exposed to his enemy's arrows. Where is the wisdom in that? Why not fashion greaves to cover the spot, and therefore become invincible? There is, of course, one reason. We're not alone in our struggles here but act on the small stage overseen by the gods, and the gods have never yet allowed any single people perfection. I believe that Apollo offers us this city as a gift. Tell me this is not so. Tell me you do not care to dine!”

  Laelius later commented that Publius had a growing gift for oratory. To which the commander smiled and said that Laelius had a growing knack for noting the obvious.

  They were two days at planning and shifting troops and reconnoitering the land and outer bay, the reefs in the shallow water, and the breathing of the tides into and out of the inner harbor. Publius spent the whole of the second day alone with a fisherman who had once called New Carthage home but had fallen foul of a few important people and been cast out. He had reason to despise the city, and an intimate knowledge of details Publius was very interested in.

  The attack began on the fourth morning, much as any might have guessed. The bulk of the Roman troops rose early and clamored out onto the isthmus, laden with tall ladders. They walked forward flanked by archers who set up a steady barrage of arrows, many of these set aflame and aimed far beyond the walls themselves. A detachment from the city poured out the front gate to meet them, but pulled back just as quickly, no match for what they saw coming toward them. Publius strode with the front ranks of soldiers, protected by three shield bearers and to all appearances completely unafraid. He urged his men on from right in among them. He shouted reminders of their duty, but also fed their desire for revenge. It was in this city that Hannibal had grown into a man. Here he planned the murder of Roman men, the rape of Roman women, the conquest of their homeland . . . it was inside these very walls that he had dreamed of making them all into slaves!

  The citizens of the city, however, had no intentions of making this easy. What they lacked in soldiers they made up for by enlisting all able bodies. Over the walls they tilted giant logs that wiped whole ladders clean. They dropped rocks the size of ostrich eggs, heavy enough to dent helmets, knock men unconscious, crush fingers, snap limbs, and dislocate shoulders so that men clung to the ladder one-armed, howling with pain and able neither to ascend nor to retreat. The walls themselves were smooth and in many places taller than the ladders placed against them, a fact that some of the anxious soldiers only discovered at their upper reaches. Other ladders snapped under the attackers' weight and crashed down in a jumble of fractured wood and broken bodies.

  The defense of New Carthage was furious. If not for Publius' presence, his men might well have broken. Few of them believed they could win the city this way—but that was not their young commander's intention. What none of them knew was that as soon as the frontal attack began, Laelius with several ships had entered the harbor. The transports maneuvered as close as they could to the shallow shelf of rock and coral that distinguished the bay from the open current of the sea. The boats perched on the vast blue water, but next to it the men could see the stones they were meant to walk upon, clearly visible and solid, but submerged almost to a man's height in water. Laelius shouted his orders, but for some moments the soldiers did not understand the apparent madness of what was being asked of them. They knew they were meant to be the first inside the city, but they knew no more than that.

  As the boats pitched on the swells, the captains added their voices to Laelius' and got the men off quickly, for the rocks threatened to gouge in the hull and end this for all of them at any moment. Few of them could swim, so it was an act of faith or courage or—for some—resignation to step from the boat, falling through the stilled oars, splashing down into the water, heavy in their armor. They fought to keep their heads above the surface. Some fell into depressions and dropped their weapons and clawed at the feet of their companions until they were lifted up. Two of their number were unfortunate, jumping at the wrong moment in the boat's pitch and missing the rocks. They slipped into the depths, clawing for purchase on the water, fading into the blue until they were swallowed by the color and lost. More than one imagined the jaws of some beast rising up from the depths beneath the boat and clamping down on them, and many would say afterward that the hardest part of the day had been that first hour of waiting.

  The last objects off the boats were a few ladders, tossed atop the men's heads by the anxious crew. What they were supposed to scale with these, they could not say. They were not near the city at all. It sat some distance away, protected by a long stretch of water, most of it too deep to walk. Somebody whispered that perhaps Publius had placed them here as an offering to Poseidon. He said it as a joke, but none of those who heard him laughed.

  When the change came it was with a shift of the wind, so that it seemed a divine force was involved. Gusts of air whipped across the water, blowing spray into the soldiers' faces, causing them to turn away and shade their eyes. They looked up only in short glances but these put together created an accelerated version of events. They felt the water draining from around them, the tug hard enough that they had to lean forward to maintain their balance. The tide was shifting. Rocks soon projected into the air, round heads of coral draped in translucent sea grass. Soon whole stretches lay bare to the sun, a path bridging the distance to the city, dotted with shallow po
ols alive with crabs and tiny fish that the men kicked out of the way as they scrambled forward, slipping and unsure but growing confident with each step.

  Laelius mounted the wall at the top of the first ladder and stood gazing at the city before him. No one opposed them. No one even imagined them. Men clambered by him on either side. They finally understood it all and moved with grunting hunger, with a thirst for vengeance they had not felt just moments before.

  The city was theirs within a bloody hour.

  Hannibal's spies in Rome kept him remarkably well apprised of events in the city's distant chambers. There was a delay of a few weeks as the news traveled to him, but he learned quickly enough that the consular elections had brought Tiberius Gracchus and Claudius Marcellus to power. Because he was a veteran warrior known for his steadfast martial outlook, many believed Marcellus to be the coming man of this war. But Fabius Maximus, a greater power than ever now that his whole philosophy of avoidance had been justified, disagreed. He found a technical error in the elections and had Marcellus dismissed. Fabius was then kind enough to step into the post himself and proceed to restore reason and purpose to the populace.

  Under him the course was set for the coming year. Of generals in command of their own armies there would be several: Tiberius Gracchus, of course, alongside Claudius Marcellus, Quintus Crispinus, Livius Salinator, and Claudius Nero. The Senate doubled the war tax. Call-ups went into effect with the goal of creating twenty-five legions in the coming years. Rome's leaders strove to make every available man into a warrior. They told boy-children to early put away knucklebones; they should pick up sword and shield instead. The age of enlistment was lowered to seventeen years, but many even younger than that found their way into the newly formed legions. The city bought eight thousand slaves from their owners at public expense. They were armed and set to training. Temples and private homes were stripped of ornamental weapons, of souvenirs from past wars; these trinkets returned to their original function. Nothing would be the same in Rome again, the spies reported. Cannae had changed everything in an afternoon.

  Hannibal heard this news with a mixture of pride and reservation. He imagined the delight his father would have felt to know that his son's victory had set the people of Rome trembling. Such had been his aim, and now it was achieved. On the other hand, he could not help but wonder what lay behind the Romans' strategy. He had thought they might revert to avoiding combat as under Fabius, but instead they were investing in an even more colossal army. He still welcomed this, but it was disconcerting to hear that they could produce such numbers so quickly. They had set a goal that meant they believed they could create one hundred and twenty-five thousand fighting men from nothing, just like that. If this was true, then slaughter was not as effective against them as one would think.

  And how were they managing to pay for this? Hannibal knew that the death of so many citizens must have cut Rome's wealth significantly. The destruction of field after field, farms and supplies and surpluses, would have brought lesser nations to their knees. Husbandless families surely struggled to keep their farms and businesses going; their daily lives must be a misery in a variety of ways. He listened for signs that a heavier tax burden was being levied on the allies, but if it was, they accepted it and did not think of revolt. Though Hannibal struggled with doubts upon waking each morning, he held fast to his belief that he had been correct in his actions after Cannae. The Romans' continued stubbornness proved that they would not have surrendered the city if he had marched on it.

  As the new year began it took some effort to drag the men away from the gluttonous bounty of Capua. He prodded them on with promises of even greater things to come. He sent Bomilcar with ten thousand men to patrol the southern cities, to recruit troops and generally solidify the Carthaginian presence there. Then he turned the rest of the army west and moved into Campania, hoping to press his advantage further by bringing more cities to his side early. He chose as his first target Neapolis, important enough that her defection would do much to influence others along the coast. And she had a beautiful harbor, well situated to serve as a funnel through which to bring in reinforcements from Carthage. He approached her with a thronging army of veterans at his back, but he had every intention of offering the city peace on fair terms. Why should they fight, he would ask, when they were not enemies? Indeed, the truth was that they had a common foe: Rome. Hannibal planned to point out to the Neapolitans that nothing in his actions so far belied this. Had he ever attacked a city that welcomed him? Had he not spared allied prisoners and released them time and again to fly home to their cities? Had Rome ever treated them with the mildness that Carthage displayed?

  The Neapolitans, in their pride, did not even bend an ear to hear him pose these questions. They sent the full power of their cavalry out on the offensive. A foolish move. Maharbal ambushed, routed, and massacred them in a single day. But still, when Hannibal set his gaze upon the city, its gates were locked. The towers and walls bristled with defenders. They would not hear the envoys he sent bearing terms for peace. Instead they threw down all manner of missiles, tossed stones, and even slung bags of rotten fish.

  Monomachus argued that an all-out siege was in order, a punishing, rapacious slaughter to answer this haughty belligerence. Hannibal dismissed the suggestion with a gesture. Taking the city by force was no way to endear the people to them, he said. It would unify others against them. Better to let time do the work. The Neapolitans simply needed to let the meaning of Cannae sink in. They were in shock and had yet to sort out the new order of things. Also, the Carthaginians had no siege equipment.

  Monomachus said that such things could be constructed. Adherbal was still on hand, with no projects to test his skill. Within a few weeks they could be pounding Neapolis' walls to rubble. But these arguments did not convince the commander. They controlled Italy through mobility, he said. To tie themselves to a siege made them a sitting target. Instead he ordered a withdrawal and marched on Puteoli. He had some success with securing a large part of the city, but he failed to take the port—his whole objective—and gave up the attempt for the time being. He sent Monomachus before the main body of the army to ravage the territory around Neapolis. Then he darted quickly toward Nola, whence he heard rumors that he might be warmly received.

  On his arrival, however, he learned that the proconsul Claudius Marcellus had beaten him to the city. Hannibal knew Claudius' name well enough, although this was their first encounter. As a young officer, Marcellus had fought against Hamilcar in Iberia. Later he commanded campaigns in Gaul. His record was as varied as that of any man at the mercy of fate, but as a soldier he seemed steadfast and resourceful enough. Like Fabius, he was no fool; unlike Fabius, he was a man of the blade, as Hannibal soon learned.

  Even with the Roman legion garrisoning the town, an embassy from citizens friendly to Hannibal still managed to slip out of the city, bearing messages of continued support. Grimulus, the leader of the group, even came up with a plan: They would bar the gates of the city behind the Roman army if ever the bulk of it could be enticed out to battle. Then, trapped against the walls, they could be butchered at Hannibal's leisure, with no retreat or source of support. It was a simple plan, base and devious, the kind of plot the Romans had never mastered. Grimulus—standing beside Hannibal, narrow-shouldered, with eyes shadowed beneath a gnarled outcrop of brow—positively salivated at the proposal and the turn of fortune he believed it would offer him. Hannibal did not care for the man, who took too much pleasure in betraying his city. But the plan had its merits.

  For several days after coming to agreement with Grimulus, Hannibal arrayed his army and offered Marcellus battle. He simply drew his forces up into ranks and announced via his horns that he would happily wait while the Romans came out and formed up. It was a traditional enough gesture, an enticement that often proved too great for an ambitious general to pass up. But the gates stood dumb, immobile, like a child who purses his lips to keep from revealing a secret. The soldiers clung
to their posts on the towers, looking down but not tempted to action.

  Two days passed in this standoff. On the morning of the third day, Hannibal decided to press the issue, stir the reluctant soldiers into motion, goad them to act in some way, any way. He ordered Monomachus to advance behind a screen of light troops. The Balearic slingers in particular seemed to view this assignment as sport. They unwrapped their mid-range slings from their foreheads and set them with stones. This load was heavy and unwieldy, but given room the men managed to whirl their weapons into motion. They picked out individual targets as they approached and set the stones hurling through the air as hard and fast as from a light catapult. The whole army could tell when they successfully dislodged a defender from the walls. The entire body of them would shout, joke, or applaud or brag.

  Behind the cover of the slingers, Monomachus marched with his sword drawn—a purely symbolic gesture, for the enemy was not yet around. The men around him carried makeshift ladders, hastily constructed but sufficient for the city's modest walls. They wore full helmets jammed down tight on their heads, and each bore a heavy shield to deflect the missiles that would likely fall on them.