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The sun hammered his head mercilessly, making his ears throb in rhythm with the dry, terse and ominous sound of his comrade’s feet pounding this accursed Sicilian road. The sun hammered his head mercilessly, making his lips crack and feel the sharp sting of the salt left there by evaporating sweat. The sun hammered his head mercilessly, baking into hard pieces of brick the dust in his mouth and nose, stifling his breath, adding pound over pound to the weight of his shield, turning his coat of chain mail into an oven and his helmet into a brazier.
“Here we are, walking on the banks of the Phlegeton. Do you think they are waiting for us on the other side?”
“Shut your mouth, Gnaeus, or I’ll shove this pugio in your ribs. All you do is talk about fiery rivers in Hell and them waiting. They are dead, you are alive. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open and you might stay that way.”
Lucius spat his harsh words through broken teeth like a ballista spits its deadly load. Anger began to surge in Gnaeus’ bowels.
“They were your comrades as well, Lucius”, he said with clenched jaws and fists.
He was pondering what devastating abuse to pour over his colleague, when his ear caught the faint thud of hooves approaching.
“Numidians!” he shouted uncontrollably.
The whole centuria froze for a moment, then turned alertly to face the approaching riders, huddling together to meet the attack.
“They’re here to finish me. They’re here to finish what they started back then”, Gnaeus thought with a mixture of terror and relief that he would finally join them, his comrades left dead in the fields near Cannae, on the banks of the Aufidus.
They appeared before his eyes, each of them crumbling to the ground around him, skewered by javelins, with anger and fear contorting their faces in hideous grimaces frozen by death. He could see the short Numidian with limbs covered in tattoos taking aim at him, grinning like a hound that finally cornered his stag and smells its blood with greedy nostrils. But the javelin disdained Gnaeus and chose in stead to bite deep into the flesh of the man behind him, Manius Placidus, a giant of a man who could break a log with his bare hands … his hands that were now clenching the slender cornel wood of the javelin, unable to pull it out of the wound. Manius crashed to the ground like an old oak and caught him beneath his heavy body. Sheltered by the corpse of his comrade, nose pressed into the soil murky with blood, Gnaeus cried until he died. Only his death was not like those of his comrades. His body continued to live and his body, under the cover of darkness, pulled him from the sea of corpses and carried him away from the battlefield, away from the wild screams of the plundering Africans, to the relative security offered by Canusium, where he met those fortunate enough to have been left to guard the camps before the battle.
A sharp pain in the side of the neck made him startle. He gradually came back to his senses. A second blow from the knotted stick of the centurion made him grunt. Amid the ocean of curses, he could barely make out the command to get back in line and resume the march.
He looked around like a lunatic. What was happening? Where were the Numidians? A few feet away he saw Scipio, on horseback, followed by his bodyguards. The general was looking at him. Suddenly, Gnaeus realised his position – the only man of his centuria, left standing like a sorry fool on the side of the road, gladius in hand and a numbing pain in the neck, face to face with his general. His colleagues had moved on, so he could be accused of desertion. Yet Scipio was not looking at him with anger, nor with scorn. He was just staring at him sternly, lips pressed, as if reading his every thought.
“Get back in line, soldier.”
“Yes, consul”, Gnaeus said hurriedly.
Later that day, after having caught up with the rest and set up camp, he was sitting by the fire with the men in his decuria, eating without much enthusiasm a piece of bread, that had by now gotten cold. Around him the conversation was thin. One complained about the annoying sharp rocks that somehow managed to prick your soles even through the sandals and all approved in silence. Another mentioned they had gone past a shepherd but could get none of his goats because of the order to refrain from all plundering and some grinned, while others just lifted shoulders to show there was nothing to be done about it. All the while, Gnaeus felt their eyes lingering on him more than usual. He knew his false alarm had caused some turbulence and that some from the other century of the manipulus had even asked that he be flogged. But he was sure he had heard Numidian riders approaching. You never know where Hannibal may turn up next – perhaps he was in Sicilia while everybody believed him to be in Campania.
“What if there had been Numidians and I hadn’t warned you?!” he burst angrily. “What then? We’d all be dead now, that’s what!”
There followed embarrassed silence. In their hearts they knew he was right. After all, you could never be sure where Hannibal was.
“At least Scipio hasn’t made away with you”, said Kaeso Otacillianus, the decurion, with an awkward grin. “He’s like that, sometimes.”
“Oh, yeah”, intervened Lucius. “I’ve heard that back in Hispania he used to cut your head off for any breach of discipline. Harsh man, Scipio.”
“You’ve heard a load of crap, Patulcius!” snapped Marcus Statius Libo, admonishing Lucius.
Marcus was a rather tall and thin man, with neck too short, lips too plump, nose too big and eyes altogether too full of fervent passion, bordering on religious devotion, for their young general.
“He’s a good man. Certainly has the gods on his side. Talks to Iuppiter in his sleep, you know… And a true Roman. After the battle, all the other aristocrats were planning to run off to Greece but not he, no. He stayed on and even threatened all the others he’d run them through with his sword if they even talk about deserting the country!” continued Marcus like a child retelling his parents the stories of Hercules he had heard from the pedagogue on his way to school.
“How do you know all that, Libo? Or does Iuppiter now visit you as well at night? Has he had enough of Ganymedes, eh?”
Otacillianus’ sarcasm was biting and Marcus remained, begrudgingly, silent.
“What do you mean when you say «the battle», anyway? Afraid to call its name, are you? Scipio was nowhere near Cannae, last I heard”, continued the decurion after a brief pause. “He’s just a bloody patrician, no better than the Fabii, the Claudii or any other.”
“But he’s beaten the Carthaginians in Hispania”, burst Marcus, fists clenched. “He’s given them bloody good Roman steel. He’s shown that lot we’re no cowards. If he led us back then, Hannibal would be a sorry corpse now and we’d be home, enjoying the spoils.”
In Gnaeus’ mind emotions were clashing wildly. Memories of the battle were haunting him again, bringing back the utter terror and despair he had felt amid the corpses of his brothers in arms and an overpowering feeling of guilt that he was still around while they were not. And then there was the anger, the anger that they had been led like cattle for slaughter by Varro, that murderously incompetent fool.
“Oh, shut your mouth already!” he intervened brutally, unable to bear the words of his comrade any longer.
“Listen, Libo”, said Otacillianus without raising his voice, but with a shadow of menace in his tone, “Scipio is our consul and general. If he tells us to fight, we fight. If he tells us to rest, we rest. But he is not one of us. No matter what you’ve heard, he hasn’t bled with us at Cannae. He hasn’t felt what we’ve felt. And that’s the end of it. Now all of you get ready to go back to the tent and sleep. We’ve got many more miles to cover before we get back to Syracusae.” |
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After two more days of forced march, they finally caught sight of the Euryalus, the formidable fortifications at the Western end of Syracusae. Thank the gods they were now approaching the city in peace. The triple wall packed with catapults was anything but a comfort to attackers. They received orders to continue the march, veering towards the South, go past the small temple of the nymph Cyane and to set up camp next to the Olympieum. It was becoming ever more clear to Gnaeus that their general was educating them in the ways of war. A Varro would have led them head on along the narrow Labdalum ridge against the Euryalus, hoping to break through the stone of the fortifications by sheer willpower and stubbornness. Scipio, in stead, was feeling his way like a snake, scratching the ground with his belly and tasting the air to find a good place to strike. Taking up position by the Olympieum, about a mile and a half from the Southern wall of the city, they were dominating the roads that led South to Helorus and West to Acrae and then to Gela, they had plentiful supply of water and were practically in possession of the Southern line of the bay. Not a bad position from where to start a siege, thought Gnaeus.
For two weeks, they remained in the camp by the Olympieum, polishing arms and armour and practicing with the heavy wooden swords. The steady repetition of these tedious activities gave Gnaeus an odd sense of satisfaction. The armour became again an item dear to him rather than a burden, a friend that stood between himself and the deadly blows of the enemy, while the nervous weight of the sword gave him a sense of latent power.
They were then given permission to come to the city, by rotation, two maniples each day, all soldiers having received from Scipio one drachm each, with strict orders to pay for anything they get and to avoid at all cost fighting with the locals.
In the morning of the day when it was their turn to come up to the city, Gnaeus was woken up earlier than usual by an itching sense of anticipation. Almost that same instant, he heard their centurion, Sextus Sornatius Priscus.
“Oi! Get your fat asses out of the blankets and line up at the praetorium this instant!”
The unpleasant voice of the centurion, raucous as that of an old drunk donkey, pulled everybody mercilessly from the embrace of Hypnus, the god of sleep. Moments later, Gnaeus and his comrades were gathered in the open space in front of general’s tent, receiving a small silver drachm depicting on one side a square-jawed Minerva wearing a Corinthian helmet and a winged thunderbolt on the other, remnants from the huge booty taken by Marcellus from Syracuse some seven years previously.
“Our new denarii are prettier”, commented Lucius, full of national pride.
“You’re definitely right on that one”, agreed Gnaeus, “but I’ve heard some people still don’t accept them, particularly these idiotic Greeks around here. I guess Scipio gave us drachms in order to save us the trouble of shoving our good denarii down the throats of the Greeks to make them see our Roman coins are as good as theirs, if not better.”
“You’re free to go now”, announced Sornatius. “Be sure to return by sunset, or else I’ll declare you deserters, hunt you down, pick you up from the floor of some filthy Greek tavern and crucify you with these two hands of mine”, he concluded menacingly, raising his hands as if to demonstrate he would not hesitate to carry out his threats.
“And enjoy the whole business, bloodthirsty Cyclops that you are!” muttered Kaeso Otacillianus under his breath as he and his men were breaking ranks and headed up the cardo towards the city. |
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As they walked along the road that crossed the salty marshes lining the Great Harbour, Lucius seemed as anxious as a teenager just about to abandon his childish tunic and don the toga praetexta, becoming thus a man.
“Come with me, I know this place where we can get wasted – it’s a tavern I know, «The seven wise men».”
“How come you know about it, Patulcius? Have you by any chance slipped out of camp at night?” asked Otacillianus, suddenly remembering his position of decurion sensing a possible breach of military discipline.
“Nah, I just know this guy from the equites praetoriani who keeps close to Scipio’s heels. He noticed this tavern one day as he was accompanying the general and checked the place out as soon as he could. As fine a tavern as you can find in this part of the world, he told me.”
“Don’t tell me he went there with Scipio?”
“You make me laugh, Gnaeus! No, Scipio was having a banquet in the house of some rich Greek in Achradina, by the Prytaneum, and this guy took the opportunity. The tavern is very close, in the New City, between the theatre and Archimedes’ Hill.”
“Banqueting with some rich Greek guy? Sounds just like Scipio”, commented Otacillianus disapprovingly. “Ever since we’ve come close to Syracusae he looks like a little Greek himself. Did you notice he shaves every day and anoints himself like a woman? Not to mention he spends more time in the city than in camp. Not healthy, this love of his for Greek stuff.”
“Where is Libo? If you keep on maligning Scipio he’s going to eat your liver, you know”, joked Lucius.
“Libo is a naïve prick. He fell for Varro’s shameless boasts then, now he’s in love with Scipio. But, truth be told, he’s not shy in battle. I’ve seen him stab two Spaniards and behead a Gaul in the blink of an eye, so I know what he can do. That’s the problem with us, Romans. We fight well, but we are led badly. All these incompetent aristocrats who lead our armies will drown the Republic in the blood of her sons and still manage to swim to safety. What did Varro do when we were bearing the brunt of battle? He ran like a rabbit.”
“Yeah, but Paullus fought well. I’ve heard he actually refused to take the horse and flee.”
“Death is no expiation for incompetence, Patulcius”, said the decurion bitterly. “Who knows what Scipio is made of? Perhaps he’ll lead us to some other Cannae. He may have beaten the Carthaginians, but he hasn’t beaten that cunning demon, Hannibal. Let’s go to that tavern of yours and drink! Who knows what the future holds?”
With these pessimistic comments, the group of soldiers reached the gate by the Temple of Ceres and from there proceeded towards the Theatre. The city was a mixture of new opulence and old wounds. New houses, painted in bright colours, had been erected next to the ashes of older dwellings, destroyed in the siege of Marcellus. They finally came near the Theatre and saw along one narrow road a tavern above whose door a drunken painter had done his best to represent six bearded and bald men. They had big round eyes, as if surprised to see one of their legendary group of seven had been assassinated by the ignorance of the untalented artist, who had searched in vain for inspiration in the abyss of a wine jar. The name of the tavern was written with equal clumsiness: «ΕΠΤΑ ΣΩΦΟΙ».
“Is this the place, Patulcius?” asked the decurion. “I can’t read Greek.”
“Who bothers to read Greek, anyway?” laughed Lucius. “It’s here. Do you see Plato there – the one with a potbelly?” he asked, pointing towards one of the painted men, thinking no doubt that Plato had been one of the Seven Wise. “He whispers to me we’re in the right place.”
As they entered, they were welcomed by a fetid smell of wine, sweat and stale urine, fiercely repulsive to the untrained. The men, however, found it pleasant, since their experience of soldiers had taught them this smell carried with it the promise of bacchic liberation from worries and fatigue. It was quite early in the morning, so the tavern was almost deserted. They sat around two tables at the back, ordering wine again and again. As their bellies became imbibed with the divine liquor, the shackles of their tongues became loose. Fears and hopes, painful memories and desires were floating around the two tables of soldiers like thick clouds. They were doing battle again on the banks of the Aufidus and were setting up new battlefields in the heart of Africa. They were cursing that enemy of humanity, Hannibal, and swore to stand by their brothers in arms no matter the odds. In an uncertain world, a band of men were huddling together, seeking protection in comradeship and courage in boasts. |
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After a while, Lucius threw an elbow in Gnaeus’ ribs, pointing towards two strangers at a nearby table, Greeks by their clothes, who were playing dice muttering prayers, praises and curses, depending on the outcome of their throws.
“Come on, let’s take those idiots to the cleaners. Fortuna is on our side, I feel it in my fingertips.”
Lucius lumbered towards the strangers, and Gnaeus felt compelled to follow. His friend approached them with a grin, asking to join the game. The two exchanged a quick glance and thought it better not to allow him to do so. One of them took the bone dice and put them quickly in a small leather bag, which disappeared in an instant among the folds of his chiton. Gnaeus felt indignant, but Lucius took the insult even worse. He pounded the table with both fists and started pouring abuse over the wicked Greeks, who were not even fit for slaves, who should have been wiped out for their treacherous character and who owed their lives to the magnanimous Romans, whom they now dared to consider unfit to join their game. The stranger stood up and answered in no kinder tone with what could only be Greek insults. For a moment, Lucius and the stranger stared at each other with blooded eyes and clenched jaws. Then the Greek said something surprising:
“Ἀννίβας τοὺς Ρωµαίους irrumat.”
It was an odd mixture of Greek and Latin, but the insult came across with the clarity of fresh water from a mountain spring. The image of Hannibal surged in everyone’s mind, bringing with it all its wealth of feelings – fear, anger, despair, hatred. The insult was unbearable. Lucius’ hand arched with the speed of lightning, burying the pugio deep into the entrails of the Greek, who crumbled to the floor, his round eyes frozen like two cold glass beads. Before Gnaeus could stop him, the second Greek bolted out into the street, screaming like a madman. In no time at all, the street was filled with menacing looking locals, some carrying weapons. Otacillianus was quick to react.
“Patulcius, remain at the back and stay still! Vesonianus and Ampudius – guard the door! Corbulo and Calvus, help them form a palisade with the tables, then keep the second line! Fulvus, keep an eye on the innkeeper and the slave! Damn Libo, where is he when you need him?!”
The orders were fired quickly and executed with even greater speed. Gnaeus took his appointed position by the door, looking with alert eyes at the people outside, who grumbled and came steadily closer. His lungs filled with air like a giant bellows; he could feel his heart pounding in his ears, like a hammer pounds the anvil. His entire body was like a smith’s workshop working at full capacity. As a result, his eyesight became as sharp as a gladius, his hearing as penetrating as a pugio. He was in a fight and he enjoyed the feeling. He was perfectly capable of taking on these carpenters and sausage-makers, be they a hundred or a thousand. After all, they were but angry curs, quick to bark but unable to bite properly. It took a Hannibal to turn such a mob into a fighting force. And they were not led by Hannibal, were they? He then noticed at the back of the crowd a tall man with tanned complexion, prominent cheekbones and thin lips, with the look of a weathered officer, urging the people on. He looked again and the man was gone. He could have sworn he looked like a Carthaginian officer. Was Hannibal really in Italia? Or was he right here, in the streets of Syracusae, trying to ambush them? Fear crept in Gnaeus’ soul, like a cunning thief. He now felt trapped and outnumbered. Without even knowing it, he took a step backwards. He now saw Carthaginians everywhere, all intent on spilling his blood. Then something odd happened. The crowd was parted by a group of about twenty or thirty men, wearing plain civilian clothes, but whose entire posture betrayed military experience and whose generosity in distributing fists and elbows soon created a large space around them.
“Thank Iuppiter you arrived”, boomed Otacillianus’ voice from behind. “You have prevented the bloodshed!”
Gnaeus was confused. The men who had arrived could only be Romans, then. What of the Carthaginians? They were nowhere to be seen, now.
“We came as soon as we’ve heard about the brawl”, one of the newly arrived said, making no attempt to hide his utter displeasure at being there. “You will follow us to Scipio. All of you. He’ll decide who’s guilty and who’s not.”
These words were ominous and tortured Gnaeus all the way to the Gymnasium, where they were to meet Scipio, all the more so as the vapours of wine had by now dissipated from his mind and he was painfully sober.
The consul received them with his usual stern look, dismissing the men in civilian clothes, who had revealed themselves in the mean time to be members of his personal guard. There followed a brief moment of silence, which allowed Gnaeus to observe the consul, whose posture was unexpected for a man of his status: wearing colourful short chiton and Greek slippers, clean shaved and oiled up after a thorough morning exercise.
“Did you at least pay for the wine?” the general asked them abruptly, demonstrating he had been thoroughly informed about their situation.
“Yes, consul”, answered Otacillianus on behalf of everybody.
“Then you have broken only half of the orders received”, Scipio continued with steely voice.
“How many locals died?”
“Just one. The other got away and the crowd dared not approach.”
“Who struck the blow? I would prefer to hear it was one person alone.”
An icy silence descended in the room. The men were dumbstruck, remembering the rumours about Scipio’s harshness and expecting the worse, but hoping against hope that if they refused to answer the whole incident would be forgotten and they would be free to return to camp. Scipio’s expression, however, turned from stern to fierce, instilling a sense of impending doom in everyone present. With closed eyes, Lucius slowly raised his right hand, still stained with blood.
“Decurion, seize this man for breach of military discipline and wilful break of orders.”
These words were the death sentence for Lucius Patulcius Phileros. When the decurion turned to face him and placed his hand on his shoulder, Lucius’ shoulders sagged, his back bent and his knees almost gave way. He nearly crumbled to the floor, a broken man.
“But, consul…” managed to articulate Gnaeus pleadingly.
“Waste no words on behalf of the dead, soldier. He broke an order, he will pay for it.”
“But…”
“Be silent, you fool!” interrupted Otacillianus. “The consul owes you sorry lot no explanation.”
“Indeed, decurion, I do not. I answer to Iuppiter alone. And every now and then, Iuppiter answers to me.”
Scipio started walking up and down, as if he had forgotten about them. He stopped abruptly, faced them and asked:
“Do you know who I am?”
“You are Publius Cornelius, son of Publius, Scipio, elected consul of Rome along with Licinius Crassus”, answered Otacillianus hurriedly.
“I am that, yes. But I am something else you do not know, something you refuse to know because you are blinded by fear. I am the man who will defeat Hannibal.”
The men looked at him with a mixture of surprise and terror. These words sounded too much like those of Varro for them to feel comfortable.
“You distrust me. I like that. It shows you have drunk the bitter cup of disappointment and learned something from it. I am no Varro. I will not attack Hannibal like a bull. I will strike the viper’s lair, crush its eggs, then wait for the viper to come to me. And when I do come face to face with it, I will crush it as well. I will take you to Africa, soldiers, and I will lead you to victory. But I cannot do that with an angry mob in Syracusae, behind me, able to cut my communications off. If I need to execute a guilty soldier in order to appease the mob and be able to meet Hannibal in the heart of Africa, I will.” |
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Lucius was beheaded a day later, in the marketplace. The crowd applauded and praised Scipio’s sense of justice and so did some of the soldiers, Marcus Statius Libo being naturally one of those. Gnaeus cursed the cold-blooded calculations of his general and prayed the gods they would grant him good health and keep him alive long enough for him to crush the Carthaginians once and for all. As for Lucius, it could only be hoped he would reach the Underworld and drink with all haste from the River of Forgetfulness, leaving behind the misery of this world.
For about a month afterwards, the men continued the drills in camp. They talked little amongst themselves, thinking intently about the past and anxiously about the future. Scipio had left for the mainland and word was around that he was fighting around Locri. Then, one day, Scipio returned and ordered them to assemble in the praetorium, as he had good news to share with them.
As soon as they formed ranks, the consul came out of his tent and came up the tribunal. From that elevated position, he examined them, giving the soldiers the time to examine him in turn. He was moderately tall and thin, almost fragile. He had strong jaws, thin lips and a prominent straight nose. It was, however, the eyes that captivated everybody’s attention. They were large and lively, looking with intensity at everything.
“Soldiers, my duty as a consul demanded that I cross the sea back to Italia and resolve the thorny issue of Locri. For ten years this town has been in the hands of the Carthaginians, but now, with the aid of the gods, it is no more.”
Another piece of Italia had been wrested from the hold of the barbarians and this was indeed excellent news. Everybody cheered, thanking the gods they had a powerful commander, who by his energy and determination managed to bring the conclusion of the war ever closer. Scipio raised his hand, wishing to continue.
“Yet this is not the good news I wish to share with you today. This has not been a peaceful enterprise. I have had to fight the Carthaginians. I have had to fight the best of the Carthaginians.”
Gnaeus stared at Scipio in amazement and so did every other soldier. Could it be? Did Scipio face … ? Did he actually … ?
“Yes, soldiers. I have faced Hannibal. And I have emerged victorious!”
Everybody started cheering, delirious with joy. Hannibal had to turn tail and flee like a beaten dog. It could be done and it had been done by no other than their general. It was plain as daylight that he was the favourite of Iuppiter, his instrument for exacting vengeance from the wicked Carthaginians. Victory was indeed closer, nay – very close now. They could smell its fresh scent of spring flowers, taste its sweetness, more delightful than the finest Sicilian honey.
“Soldiers! I have often heard you say I am not one of you, that I have not bled with you, that I have not suffered with you, that I have not lost dear ones like you. Have I not, soldiers? I was born as a man in the midst of the war with Hannibal. I had barely donned the toga virilis when my father took me with him to fight that insolent general who dared invade our sacred land. Little did we know then who he was and what he was capable of doing. I was barely seventeen when I charged into the thick of battle to save my father’s life, at that fateful battle of Ticinus. That is when I have learned to fear Hannibal, like the rest of you. That is when I have learned the bitterness of defeat, like the rest of you. Since then, I too have felt the enemy iron biting into my flesh and I too have lost dear ones to the Carthaginians. Have not my father and uncle given their lives for the Republic on the fields of Hispania?”
The consul’s words fell not on deaf ears. Gnaeus started to see his general in a different light. By exposing his human side, his weaknesses and fears, by showing they had drunk from the same cup for years, Scipio came closer to him, became his comrade, his brother in arms. From now on he, Gnaeus Ostrius Vesonianus, was ready to give his life for this comrade and to obey his every command.
“Yet I stand here before you today not a broken man, nay, by Iuppiter Optimus Maximus! I stand before you a victorious general. Why? I have acknowledged my fear. I have looked it in the eyes and made it my ally. It is your turn to do that. Turn to your fear and tell it: «You are here and you will make me strong, not weak! You are here and you will make me cautious, not cowardly!» Do that and no enemy will be able to stand before your courage, ever again. Do that and the whole world will be yours to take. Have confidence in yourselves and above all, have confidence in me, your general!”
Scipio’s words were almost drowned in the ocean of ovations that followed. Swords clashed against shields and voices boomed, praising Iuppiter, Mars and Scipio side by side.
“Take us to Africa!” shouted Gnaeus.
His shout was gradually taken over by everybody.
“Take us to Carthago! Lead us to victory!”
Scipio looked them with fiery eyes that could melt iron. A faint smile passed over his lips and he nodded briefly in agreement. |
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