Swords of Rome (52 page)

As Gaius parted several layers of silk veils that separated the living quarters from the war room, he saw a dozen officers standing around a long, rectangular wooden table that had a leather-hide map stretched out across it, detailing the entire region where this army was camped.

“Legate Gaius, it is good to see you’ve joined us. I’m pleased to see you managed to get out of bed on this momentous day,” one of the Roman officers joked as he greeted Gaius with a warm smile, a full cup of wine in his left hand.

“It is good to see you as well, Avitus. And I’m simply amazed to see that you aren’t drunk, yet. How will you be able to command your men with such a clear mind?” Gaius replied with his own grin as he took the man’s hand and shook it.

Avitus was one of the old commanders, a burly man who had survived every battle of the war. He commanded two legions – frontline troops that had fought across Italy since the war began. He had never been popular under the
old-guard – too different, well connected to his men, having risen through the ranks, currently going on some thirty-eight years of service to the Republic. Men such as he had become favorites of the new leaders of Rome – they were very nearly the only seasoned commanders left after the disastrous battle of Cannae, at present five-year  past.

“Oh, give me another hour, my boy, and I shall not disappoint you,” Avitus bellowed with his characteristic laugh.

“Perhaps you should have stayed in bed and allowed real officers to conduct this battle,” another general by the name of Cassius spoke up, not even trying to hide his contempt for Gaius.

Cassius was an officer from the
old-guard: wealthy, proud, and descended from a long line of equestrians who had not agreed with the transitions that had been made to the army in recent years. He believed that only noblemen had the right to hold command, and Cassius was not alone in his stance to maintain the old ways, even if their resistance nearly destroyed their country.

“Yes, well, I had to rise and make sure
you, and your men don’t turn and flee from the battlefield yet again,” Gaius replied, which brought a sneer from Cassius, while several other officers, including the foreign Numidia commanders, chuckled.

Gaius ignored Cassius and those like him. Neither he nor his
Wolves
had to prove anything to anyone. They had stood on the wall of their city after Cannae, when there was no army left to defend the capital, while so-called Roman noblemen, such as Cassius, fled.

“I grow tired of these strategy sessions Scipio continues to insist on,”
Flavius was one of the younger officers, complained as he stood over the table.

“You know how Scipio likes to remind everyone that he is in
command," Claudius Nero spoke. He was a few years older than Gaius, but was fairly new to the campaign. He avoided much of the war at his Greek estate, overseeing his family’s wealthy shipping business until no longer able to refuse the call to arms or, more likely, the chance for immortal glory.  

Gaius didn’t bother to listen to the bickering between the old and new guards’ obvious dislike for one another, which continued without pause. He was standing on the far side of the table, surveying the map that was laid out before him, focusing on the particulars of the army’s formation and the terrain.

There was nothing inventive about the battle plan. It was surprisingly simple, one that did not rely on numbers, terrain or hidden surprises.

This was done less for their army, but to hamper its opponent, which often had defeated superior forces with trickery and deception. Out here, on the flat ground with nowhere to hide, the two armies faced one another, an advantage Gaius was certain would bring them victory.

Carefully positioned across the map were two sets of wooden figures. The blue characters represented those of the Romans, while the reds were the Carthaginians. The enemy lines were made-up of infantry, three formations deep and nearly half a mile long. Two cavalry units were placed on either side, with a unit of reserves in the rear, while Carthage’s elite soldiers, veterans of Italy, were also in the rear. This was the formation that the generals believed the enemy would assemble.

Rome’s numbers equaled that of the enemy – two cavalry units to the side, with infantry in the center. However, Scipio had changed the formation of his infantry, splitting them into
cohorts’ numbered close to five hundred men, creating gaps between the formations, which ran three lines deep and across.

Lack of mobility had cost the
Republic deadly in the past, so it was hoped that this time the army would be able to adapt to any situation that may arise once the fighting began.

The Numidians, who had begun the war on the side of the Carthaginian, stood to the right of Rome’s line. He did not trust
them, so he needed his men to perform beyond expectation if he hoped to break through the Carthaginian cavalry.

He needed to flank the enemy, encircle and attack them from the rear while the main force pushed into the center. It was a tactic that had worked for centuries and one that had been used successfully against his people five years ago.

The officers’ attention turned to Scipio who had finally arrived. Saluting, the men went silent, their eyes following Scipio as he rounded the table and took his place.

“Gentlemen, you must excuse my tardiness. I will not spend more time than is needed. I know that each of you is eager to get
to the battlefield and win this war for the Republic,” Scipio said as he stood before his officers.

“It has been a long and costly endeavor to reach this point, hasn’t it my friends?
Each of us has lost much: men, family, land and wealth. I’ve picked each of you for your past valor,” Some of the old guard couldn’t help but sneer at Scipio’s comment, which he let pass.

“Today, we will make Carthage know what we as a people have endured in this war, a war that was not of our making. We will make them suffer as we have. And our victory today will not just end this war, but it will send ripples across the world to all those who would dare raise arms against the Republic. Today is the first day of our nation’s destiny.”

Scipio began to reposition several of the blue and red figures, anticipating how he believed the opposing army would react.

Gaius studied Scipio as he carefully laid out his strategy to his generals.

Scipio was an unassuming man who hardly exhibited the qualities of a great leader. He was only ten years older than Gaius; twenty-eight.

Like everyone in the room,
Scipio seemed much older than his years, maybe more so as his hair had already begun to recede from his scalp and several deep wrinkles settled under his exhausted eyes. And while he was still able and ready to fight, Scipio’s eyes told a somber story of a man that was weary of war and death, which included his own father, who died in the opening stages of the war now seven years past.

He
led  his legions through Italy, to Spain, into Greece and now finally to Africa, the home of Carthage. His strategies turned the tide of the war. However, even he knew that no Roman living or dead, had beaten the Carthage army led by one man, Hannibal. That fact weighed heavily on his shoulders and on each man in the room as they listened carefully to every word.

Gaius
was deep in his own thoughts, staring down at the wooden figures, picturing in his mind how the battle might play out, and did not notice that Scipio finished his briefing.

Standing silently Scipio stepped back from the table, looking at each officer intently before speaking again.

The officers nodded their agreement. They knew that this battle would be remembered for ages to come. This was their moment, their chance to right all the wrongs that had befallen their country. Seven years of tireless war was coming to an end.

Scipio walked around the table as each of his generals’ eyes was glued to him.

“Like our forefathers who drove the last Etruscan kings from our homeland, and those who kept the northern barbarians at bay for all these centuries, we, today, shall etch our own names into the altar of our beloved Republic’s history. The world will know that no nation, now or ever shall equal our might; that no matter the losses or the cost, the Roman Republic shall forever burn the brightest in the entire world.”

Scipio embraced each of his officers as friends and comrades alike, as if it were the last time he would see them again. He preferred speaking to them as equals, even if some in the room did not respect him for it.

Gaius was one of the last that Scipio approached, purposely so.

“You stood alone on the walls of Rome, my friend, when all others ran away. I know that above all other men in this
room I can count on you and the Sixth the most. Help me win this war, Gaius, and we can all return home to those we love.”

“Victory or death,” Gaius replied.

“
Victory or death
.”

More
than, an hour later, Gaius stood alongside a number of officers, including Scipio astride his white horse, surveying the Carthaginian lines, which stretched for several miles. The strategies laid out during the meeting changed very little. For the most part, what he saw was what he had placed on the map. Gaius hoped the general’s foresight would prove just as fruitful when the fighting started.

“Well, I guess it was too much to ask for him not to show up, or just surrender,”
Commodus, one of the generals besides Scipio commented with a smirk.

“By the
gods’ man, do not say such things. Not when we’ve come all this way,” another officer spoke.

Each man chuckled lightly before Scipio put his heels to his horse’s side, urging the steed forward as he spoke.

“Come and let’s see what our esteemed colleges have come to say.”

He and his men rode the short distance
across the field of battle to meet the Carthage contingent. The two armies were separated by five thousand paces; only the cracked and scorched earth separated them, which soon would run red with blood.

The two groups stood poised for a moment, staring at each other, sizing up the opposition before Scipio broke rank and trotted toward the enemy riders. One of the Carthaginian officers did so as well.

Gaius and the other Romans remained where they were, but they would still be near enough to hear the conversation between the respective generals.

Gaius had to narrow his eyes to get a better look at the Carthaginian commander across from Scipio, as the two men stopped their horses a fe
w feet across from one another. And after a moment of close observation, it dawned on him that the officer could only be Hannibal Barca.

Hannibal
became the most feared individual in Roman history - a man who single-handedly brought the Republic to its knees, killer of tens of thousands. Gaius had never seen him in person, until now, although he had faced the general’s army once before.

During the long cold nights in the Roman camp, soldiers around the fire wondered if Hannibal was a god, for all that he had accomplished in such a short time. He seemed to be conjured from every man’s worst nightmares: cold, calculating, deceptive and cunning to a fault. It was hard not to admire him. He may have given Alexander a challenge worthy of history.

Hannibal was not what Gaius had expected. Rumors were many: He was a giant of a man standing fifteen feet tall. He wore armor fashioned by the gods rendering him indestructible. He had the gift of foresight, so he knew in advance how to defeat any army sent against him, and that his sword possessed the souls of every man whom Rome had slaughtered in its history. Many more legends had surrounded him, but what Gaius saw now, seated on horseback before the most celebrated Roman general of this era, was not the villain he had pictured.

Hannibal was no small man. He had a large build and broad shoulders;
clearly, he trained to be a warrior from birth. Despite his fame among his own people, he was not dressed in the attire of an officer or nobleman but was far less expensive and impressive. He was covered by a simply-made leather chest piece, which was worn and badly scratched from decades of use. He wore no helmet; numerous scars lined his bald head and rough face. His horse was no different than the animal that his senior officers rode. His sword, which was longer than a Roman blade but made from the same Spanish iron, hung low on his left hip. It seemed generations old, and had probably been handed down from father to son.

Most noticeable, and perhaps the only truth among the rumors, was that
he  had one eye. His right eye, having been lost, was covered by a black leather patch: proof, at the least, that he was indeed mortal.

To Gaius’ surprise, he found that Hannibal was not the cold bloodthirsty monster as had been described: horned head, breathing fire, harden scales on his flesh, dragon wings, standing the height of five men. He was a man, to be sure. He could see in his posture and carriage the same confidence and sense of duty and honor that Gaius had admired in many men. What hatred for Rome and its people that
boiled, deep down, in the recesses of his soul, could not be seen – but was surely just below the surface.