And now the fate of Tarentum, the Spartan city, increased both the power and glory of Rome. For that disloyal city was at length conquered by old Fabius, and this was the last exploit of that ever-cautious commander. Here also cunning won a victory without running risks, and the city was taken with no blood spilt. When he learnt that the commander of the Punic garrison was passionately in love with a woman, Fabius, a brave man but a lover of peace, adopted a stratagem. The woman’s brother was present in the Roman camp; and he was compelled to go to his sister and promise a rich reward, irresistible to a woman’s heart, if the Punic commander would open the gates and suffer an entrance to be made. The Carthaginian gave way, and Fabius gained his object: he surrounded the town with his army and entered it in the night when no guard was kept.
But when the news came at the same time that Marcellus had met his death in battle, who could doubt that the sun was then driving his steeds backwards and away from Rome? That giant frame lay low; that heart, where the fierce god of war made his home and which never quailed before any danger, was cold; the terror of Carthage lay dead on the field. How great, alas, that fall, that was to bring fame to Hannibal! Perhaps, if some god had permitted Marcellus to live a little longer, he would have taken from Scipio the glory of ending the war.
The land of Daunus was then the theatre of war, and a hill rose between the camps of the two armies. Crispinus shared the burden of command with Marcellus and held the same high office; and they carried on the war together. To him Marcellus said: “I would fain search the neighbouring woods and station troops upon the hill that divides us; or Hannibal may steal a march on us and seize it before we do. If you approve, I should wish you, Crispinus, to take part in the affair. Two heads are better than one.” When this was settled, all were eager to mount at once their mettled steeds. Marcellus saw his son fitting on his armour and enjoying the excitement, and said: “Your wondrous enthusiasm outstrips your father’s exertions. May your youthful arm meet with success! How I admired you in the Sicilian capital, when, too young to fight, you watched the battle with a countenance like mine! Come hither, pride of my heart, stay by your father’s side, and let me teach the art of war to you, the tiro.” Then he embraced the boy with this brief prayer: “Grant, O greatest of the gods, that I may offer to you choice spoils, taken from the Libyan general, and borne on my son’s shoulders!” Ere he could say more, Jupiter rained down a bloody dew from a clear sky, and dark drops fell on their ill-fated armour. Scarcely had Marcellus ceased speaking, scarcely had they entered the gorge of the fatal hill, when a swift troop of Numidians attacked them with the javelin, rushing on like a stormy cloud; and armed masses swarmed forth to battle from their ambush. When the brave man, thus surrounded, saw that he owed no dues to the gods any more, he was fain to carry with him to the world below the glory of a noble death. At one time he rose in the saddle to hurl his spear to a distance, at another he plied his fierce sword at close quarters. Perhaps he might have survived that dreadful pass of instant danger, had not a weapon struck his son’s body in front. Then the father’s hands shook, and his ill-starred shield, loosened by his grief, fell from his nerveless grasp. A lance came and pierced his undefended breast; he fell and marked the turf with the imprint of his chin.
But when Hannibal amid the rage of battle saw the weapon still sticking in the consul’s manly heart, he gave a mighty shout: “Carthage, you need dread no longer the dominion of Rome! That name of terror, that pillar of the Roman state, lies low. Yet one who was my peer in battle must not go down unhonoured to the shades. In heroic breasts there is no room for jealousy.” At once a sepulchral altar was raised on high. Great trees were brought from the forest; one might suppose that Hannibal himself had fallen. Then incense and meat-offerings, the consul’s rods and his shield, were borne along in funeral procession. Hannibal himself lighted the pyre: “We have gained immortal glory,” he said, “by robbing Rome of Marcellus. It may be that Italy will at last consent to lay down her arms. You, my men, march in the funeral train of that proud spirit, and give to his ashes the last tribute; never will I refuse to Rome this concession.” The other consul fared no whit better in the battle: his horse bore him back to the camp, a dying man.
So things went in Italy. But far different was the issue of warfare on the fields of Spain. The conquest of Carthage, made with such lightning speed, had terrified all the surrounding tribes. The Carthaginian generals were in a desperate plight unless they could unite their forces. They saw that the young commander had begun his career with a prodigious success, as if he wielded in battle the thunderbolts of his sire; that within twenty-four hours he had taken a city defended by its site upon a lofty hill and its steep approach, and had heaped it with the corpses of the slain, whereas it had taken Hannibal, that great commander, fighting in the same country, a full year to overthrow Saguntum, so inferior to Carthage in population and wealth.
Nearest to Scipio lay Hasdrubal, filled with pride in his brother’s great deeds; his camp was pitched close to a tree-clad height. His main strength was in Cantabrians together with revolted Africans and Asturians, swifter than the nimble Moors; and Hasdrubal was as much revered in Spain as Hannibal was dreaded in Italy. It so happened that time had brought round an ancient Punic festival — the day on which the first foundations of the great city were laid and a beginning of the new settlement was made with native huts. And Hasdrubal, recalling the early history of his country, made merry and kept high holiday, wreathing his standards with flowers, and seeking the favour of Heaven. Down from his shoulders fell a splendid mantle, a gift from Hannibal. Sicilian tyrants had worn this garment in state, and the king of Syracuse had given it with other presents to Hannibal as a pledge of their close alliance. Two scenes were embroidered upon it. An eagle with golden plumage and outspread wings was carrying Ganymede through the clouds to heaven. And beside him was the likeness of a great cave where the Cyclopes dwelt, wrought by the needle on purple. Here Polyphemus lay, swallowing down with his death-dealing jaws the bleeding bodies of men; around him lay the broken bones ejected from his maw. He himself held out his hand to demand the wine-cup from Ulysses, and vomited forth blood mixed with wine.
Every eye rested on this garment, a triumph of Sicilian embroidery, while Hasdrubal, standing before altars of turf, prayed for the favour of the gods. But suddenly a mounted messenger brought news to the assembly that a hostile force was approaching. There was general dismay, and the worship of the gods was stopped in the middle. The rites were broken off and the altars abandoned. The Carthaginians sought the shelter of their camp, and, when dewy dawn kindled a faint light in the sky, they hastened to battle. When bold Sabura was struck by Scipio’s whizzing spear, both armies took it for an omen and were moved by it. “Ye sacred ghosts,” cried Scipio, “your first victim has bit the dust. On, ye soldiers! fight and slay! Rush on even as ye used to rush, when your generals were still living!” Even while he spoke, they began the work. Myconus was killed by Laenas, Cirta by Latinus, Thysdrus by Maro, and Nealces, the incestuous lover of his sister, by Catilina. Kartalo, the ruler of African sands, was met and slain by fierce Nasidius. And the land of the Pyrenees was afraid when she saw Laelius raging in the midst of the enemy with a fury beyond belief. Laelius was the pride and glory of Rome, a man to whom bountiful Nature gave every gift and on whom every god smiled. When he spoke in the market-place and opened his eloquent lips, his words were as sweet as the honey that fell from the mouth of Nestor, the ancient king of Pylos. When the Senate was doubting what to do and desired that an orator should address them, Laelius swayed all their hearts as if by magic. Yet Laelius too, when the fierce note of the trumpet had struck upon men’s ears on the battle-field, rushed into the fray with such ardour that he seemed to have been intended by Nature for war only; no scene in life but he was determined to win honour from it. Now he overthrew Gala, a soldier who owed his life to a trick: his mother had saved him from the sacrificial fire of Carthage, and had put another infant in his place; b
ut no rejoicing lasts that is got by cheating the gods. Next he sent down to the shades Alabis, Murrus, and Draces; the last of these cried out in his extremity with womanish shrieking; but the sword severed his neck in the midst of his entreaties, and the lips still babbled when the head was off.
But Hasdrubal was by no means equally eager to fight. He sought concealment in forest-clad hills and pathless rocks, unmoved by the slaughter of his men and his terrible losses. He fled with his eye upon Italy and the Alps — rich rewards for flight. The word of command went round in secret: the soldiers were to stop fighting and disperse among the woods and hills, and all who got off safely were to make for the highest peak of the Pyrenees. Hasdrubal set the example: putting off his splendid armour and carrying a Spanish shield for disguise, he fled to the mountains and deliberately left his army scattered in disorder. The Roman soldiers carried their victorious standards into the empty camp. Never did a captured city offer more plunder; and this, as Hasdrubal had foreseen, delayed the swords in their work of slaughter. So the beaver, when caught in the stream of a river, bites off the part of his body that brought him into danger, and swims away, while his captors are busy with their prize. When the Carthaginians, trusting to the rocks and forests, had hastily concealed themselves in the woods, Scipio turned round, in search of more serious warfare and a foe whom he was more confident of defeating. They nailed up a shield on a peak of the Pyrenees with this inscription: “This trophy taken from Hasdrubal is offered to Mars by his conqueror, Scipio.”
Meanwhile Hasdrubal, free from alarm, had crossed the mountain-range and was arming the tribes in the kingdom of Bebryx. He paid highly for soldiers and spent lavishly on war the wealth he had gained by war. The zeal of that spirited people was quickened by masses of gold and silver which he had got from mines far away and sent on ahead of his march. Thus the new camp was soon filled with a mercenary army — men who rejoice in the waters of the Rhone, and those through whose fields the Arar, most sluggish of rivers, creeps on. By now winter was wearing through and the season became milder. Thence Hasdrubal marched quickly through Gaul, and saw with wonder the conquered Alps and the passage over the heights; he looked for the print of Hercules’ foot, and ranked his brother’s crossing with the exploit of that divine hero.
But, when he reached the summit and rested in Hannibal’s camp, “How can Rome,” he cried, “build walls high enough to withstand my brother, when even these barriers could not keep him out? I pray that his noble achievement may be crowned with success, and that no unfriendly god may resent our approach to the sky.” Thence he hastened on his lofty line of march by a pass where the heights sloped down and showed a regular highway; and he flew down it with forced marches. Not even the first invasion caused as much terror and confusion in Italy. Men said that here was a second Hannibal; that the two armies were joining hands, and the two generals, gorged with Italian blood and with victory, were combining their forces and doubling their strength; the enemy would come in headlong haste to Rome, and there they would see still sticking in the gate the javelins which Carthaginian arms had lately hurled.
In fierce anger at these things the Land of Italy spoke thus to herself: “Ye gods, am I so utterly despised by the madness of Carthage — I, who when Saturn feared the sceptre of his son, suffered him to settle within my borders and to reign there? The tenth year is passing since Hannibal began to tread me under foot; that youth, who has only the gods still to defy, hurried an army against me from the ends of the earth; he made light of the Alps and came down in fury upon my fields. How many corpses of the slain have I covered! How often has my face been marred by the bodies of my own children! No olive-tree of mine is covered with a fair crop of berries; the corn in the fields is cut down unripe by the swift sword; the roofs of houses in the country fall down into my lap, and make my realm hideous with their ruins. Must I endure Hasdrubal too who has invaded my devastated land and seeks to consume with fire the little that war has left? Then the African nomad will plough my fields, and the Libyan will commit seed to the furrows of Italy, unless I bury in one grave all those armies that tread so proudly on my wide plains.” Thus she reflected; and while black Night shut in the slumbers of gods and men, she hastened to the camp where the scion of Sparta lay. Behind his rampart of turf he was watching Hannibal, who was close at hand and kept his army within the limits of the Lucanian country. Here Italy in visible form accosted the general: “Glory of the Clausi and chief hope of Rome now that Marcellus is lost, awake instantly from slumber! If you desire to prolong the life of your country, you must strike a blow so bold that, even after the foe has been driven from our walls, the conquerors will shudder at the thought of what they have done. The glittering arms of Hasdrubal have covered the plains where the Sena has kept for centuries the name given it by the Gallic tribe. Unless you lead your squadrons to battle with utmost speed, Rome will be destroyed and you will come to her aid too late. Up then at once and march! I have condemned the open fields by the Metaurus to be the grave where the bones of the Carthaginians shall lie.” Thus she spoke and departed; and, even as she went, she seemed to draw after her the hesitating general, and to break down the gates of the camp for the horsemen to rush out.
With a heart on fire Claudius sprang up in disorder from his slumber. Then he raised both hands to heaven and prayed devoutly to Earth and Night, to the Stars that strewed the sky, and the Moon whose silent light was to lead them on their way. Next he chose out warriors fit for the mighty enterprise. His march lay through the country where the men of Larinum live hard by the Upper Sea, where the warlike Marrucini dwell, and the Frentani, ever faithful allies in time of war, and where the men of Praetutia till the vine-clad hills and rejoice in their toil. On he flew, faster than wings and thunderbolts, than winter floods and Parthian shafts. Each man urged himself to speed:— “Haste! haste! Upon your speed depends the safety of your country and the preservation or fall of Rome; so the doubting gods have decreed”; thus they cried as they rushed on. Instead of addressing them, their general was eager to lead the van, and in the struggle to keep up with him they went still faster; night and day they sped on and never tired.
But at Rome men trembled with fear, when they heard that the dangers of defeat were growing apace. They complained that Nero was too sanguine, and that a single disaster might rob them of all remaining life. “We have neither weapons nor gold nor men, nor any blood left to shed. Is he, forsooth, who cannot match Hannibal alone to attack Hasdrubal? Hannibal will come again and beset our gates, when he learns that our army has left its camp and gone far away. The new-comer and his haughty brother will contend for that highest prize — the destruction of Rome.” Thus the senators protested in utter distraction; yet they were fain to maintain their dignity, and considered any expedient by which they might escape impending slavery and the wrath of angry gods. While they lamented thus, Nero under cover of night entered the camp occupied by Livius and defended by its ramparts against proud Hasdrubal who lay close beside it. Livius, once a soldier and a skilful commander in the field, had won great glory as a fighter in his youth; but afterwards he was condemned on a false charge by the unjust populace and had buried himself in dudgeon in the solitude of the country. But when a dangerous crisis and the fear of imminent danger demanded his help, he came forward again to serve, when so many generals had fallen, forgoing his resentment for the sake of his country.
But the secret arrival of a fresh army, though hidden from view by the darkness of night, did not escape Hasdrubal. He was struck by the traces of dust upon the shields, and by the emaciation of men and horses which proved the speed of their march; also the repetition of the trumpet-call revealed that two armies were here combined under two generals. But, if his brother were still living, how had he suffered the consuls to unite their forces? The only policy for him was to keep still until the truth was revealed, and to decline immediate battle. He resolved to flee, and his flight was not delayed by any sluggish fear.
Night, the mother o
f sleep, had eased the hearts of men of their troubles, and darkness deepened the dreadful silence of the hour. Hasdrubal crept out of his camp on tiptoe and ordered his army to slip out without speech or noise. The night was moonless, and they increased their speed over the sleeping country; they tried to make no sound, but the Earth, trampled by so many moving feet, could not be deceived. She confused their tracks and made them lose their way in the dark; and, favoured by the darkness, she made them go round and round without advancing and retrace their steps. For, where the river runs its winding course with curving banks and flows back over a stony bottom to meet its own channel higher up, there with fruitless effort the men went round and round in short circles, and made no headway; and the darkness ceased to help them when they had lost their way.
Dawn rose and revealed the fugitives. The gates of the Roman camp were opened, an eager swarm of cavalry galloped out, and a storm of steel hid all the plains far and wide. There was no hand-to-hand fighting as yet; but already the missiles shot in advance drank blood. At one point, Cretan arrows, bidden to arrest the flight of the enemy, flew through the air; at another, the fatal force of the javelins brought death to every man whom they struck. Giving up all thought of flight, the enemy were forced to draw up their line in haste, and rested their hopes on battle.
In their midst was Hasdrubal, who saw the difficulty of their situation. High on the back of his tall charger, he stretched out his hands and raised his voice: “By the glory you have gained at the World’s End, and by my brother’s achievements, I conjure you to show that Hannibal’s brother is here. Fortune is fain to teach Rome a lesson by defeat, and to prove the might of an army which conquered Spain and fought many a time by the Pillars of Hercules, and has now turned its attention to the Romans. It is possible that Hannibal may arrive just in time for the battle. Make haste, I implore you, to prepare a scene fit for him to behold, by covering the field with corpses. All the Roman generals who could inspire fear have been overthrown by my brother; their only hope now is Livius, and he, aged by his condemnation and seclusion, is now at your mercy, a doomed victim. Go forward manfully, I entreat you! Lay low the general against whom Hannibal would be ashamed to fight, and put a merciful end to his dishonoured old age.”
Complete Works of Silius Italicus Page 34