The Seven Hills (24 page)

"Excellent! And why not send some of the mercenaries you have lying around here eating up your substance while doing no fighting? The naval fleet is untouched. Some of your warships can transport the mercenaries and then support the Spanish army on its campaign, and be back in plenty of time to take part in the real invasion."

Hamilcar smiled. "I like this. If they take fearful losses,
what of that? I can.always hire more mercenaries and levy
more troops from the subject cities. But I won't try to emu
late my ancestor's feat and send them across the Alps. It's al
ready been done, so there is no glory in it, and it isn't
necessary, anyway. Roman power is weak in the North; they have no allies there to give my army any trouble. They can simply march along the coast, gathering strength as they go
and supported by the fleet, which will leave them and return home as soon as they reach Italy." He sighed. "This is so attractive that I'm tempted to take personal command."

"No!" she said. "You must command only the main thrust, not a sideshow like this. But do entrust it to a capable general."

"I'll send Mastanabal with the reinforcements."

"Wonderful!" She poured wine for both of them and they
drank to the new project. "Now that you are committed to
real action," she went on, "it is time you took some action at
home. Your sister is a traitor. If you don't want to kill her, let me."

But this time Hamilcar refused to be pushed. "If only it were so easy."

"You must kill her, my princess," Echaz said.

"The foreign queen? That overdecorated Illyrian?"

"The same. She has become our shofet's closest advisor. More than close—intimate. She has his ear in bed."

"As well as other parts. What of it? He may have every woman in Carthage save me, for all I care. It is his right."

"Highness," he went on patiently, "he is listening to her,
though she is a woman and a foreigner."

"So you think she misleads him with bad advice?"

"Worse. She may be giving him good advice."

The princess lay on a huge cushion stuffed with rare, aro
matic herbs. She was exhausted after a lengthy, demanding ritual in the Temple of Tanit, and now she rolled over onto her stomach, propping her weary head on her fists. "This could be bad. I knew my brother wanted the woman for a plaything. She certainly is colorful. It did not occur to me that she might be intelligent."

"A mistake many of us make," Echaz said, sighing.
"Those Romans seemed comically uncouth, yet they proved
to be shrewd."

"She won't be easy to kill," Zarabel said. "She has her own men, who are very savage, and then there are my brother's own guards. It would be easier for me to kill him, but I dare not do that."

Zarabel hated and feared her brother, but she had little to
gain by his death. A woman could not inherit the throne and she had no son to elevate and then manipulate. If Hamilcar died, the head of one of the great families would assume the crown and, most probably, put her away and
give the high priestesshood to a female relative. She wanted
Hamilcar weak, not dead.

"We will find a way," Echaz assured her.

Mastanabal was a tall, lean man with the clas-
sic Carthaginian looks: swarthy complexion, dark brows beetling above a beaklike nose, curly black hair and beard. His deep-lined, weathered face showed every day of his
twenty years of hard campaigning. Even when Carthage was not at war, there had always been bandits and pirates to sup
press and insurrections to put down.

Ten days before he had arrived by ship and taken over
command of the army gathered for the incursion into north
ern Italy. "The Divine Shofet Hamilcar, descendant of Hannibal the Great, has ordered that the invasion of Italy is to commence forthwith," he had announced. "I want every man I am to command assembled for my inspection immediately. We shall perform the sacrifices and take the omens and we shall march upon the first day pleasing to the gods of Carthage."

He did not tell them that this would not be a part of the main attack on Rome, which would not come for a few months, at least. There was no need for them to know such things. Their task was to obey the shofet's commands. Nor was he dismayed by the task before him. He had seen the Romans in action in Egypt, and he had been impressed. But for all their skill and professionalism, they were but men, and men could be beaten and killed.

He knew further that the four legions of the Egyptian campaign were lost somewhere in the East, and the Romans were massively committed to the conquest of Sicily and must even now be massing that army for an attack on Africa, on Carthage itself. He had an excellent chance of meeting an inferior force of green troops in northern Italy, and smashing them. The Romans were raising legions so fast that surely they could not all be trained and equipped to the highest standards.

Now he rode along the massed ranks of his army, and as he passed each unit, the men raised their arms and cheered. The hand of Carthage lay lightly upon Spain, for it was an invaluable resource far beyond its value as a source of horses, cattle and metal ore. For centuries, Spain had provided Carthage with mercenaries. Its many tribes produced a profusion of warriors, their skills honed by constant intertribal warfare. Many of them had no trade save that of war. Most were a mixture of Celt and native Iberian, now merged.

They were a dark people for the most part, their black hair dressed in long plaits hanging from the temples, the hair at back flowing free or gathered into a net.

Most wore white tunics with colorful borders, but the
Callaici, Astures, Cantabri and Vascones wore black. From
the northeast and the central plateau came the Arevaci, the
Pelendones, the Berones, the Caretani and others. From the
west came Lusitani and Turdetani. From the foot of the
Pyrenees came the Ilergetes and Auretani. Some were horse
men, wonderfully skilled with lance and javelin.

Most were light infantry. Many carried a small, round
buckler called a
caetra,
though some retained the long, oval
shield of their Celtic ancestors. Their favored weapon was
the
falcata:
a peculiar sword with a downcurving blade, sharpened along its inner edge, its spine thick to add weight
to the blow. It was a slashing weapon and could sever a man's leg with ease. Many also carried the short, straight
sword the Romans called the
gladius hispaniensis,
which they
had adopted for their own legions. Each Spanish swordsman carried a number of javelins, and these slender weapons were
often forged entirely of steel. Some wore helmets but few bothered with armor.

From the Greek colonies of the coast came hoplites: men
with large, old-fashioned round shields; helmets, cuirasses
and greaves of polished, bronze; armed with long spears and short swords. They would be his heavy infantry and hold the center of the battle line. Greece had long fallen from its mil
itary preeminence, but Greek soldiers fought all over the
lands of the Middle Sea. Unlike the brave but disorganized tribal peoples, the Greeks understood discipline and the im
portance of maintaining formation.

The rest were a rabble of Libyans, Gauls, islanders and others; slingers from the Belearics, Cretan archers, even a few hundred black spearmen, barbarously painted, their hair plastered with mud and bearing shields of zebra hide. Sadly, Hamilcar had allowed him no elephants.

At the head of the formation Hasdrubal's command staff awaited him: Carthaginian nobles, Greek professionals and some Spanish chieftains. They watched him expectantly, their eyes bright, eager for the war to come.

"Let's go to Italy," said Mastanabal.

Off they set, an army massive by the standards of most
kings, but a trifling force by Carthaginian standards. And as
it progressed, it grew larger. Their trek along the coast, shadowed by the Carthaginian fleet, took them through territory occupied by Carthaginian tributaries, and from each they levied troops. From Spain they passed into southern Gaul, and here many Gallic warriors, eager for action and loot, joined them. At Massilia, the principal port, they collected more Greek troops and the Carthaginian garrison. A few days march past Massilia they entered Cisalpine Gaul, the Gallic territory of northern Italy. They were now in the
area called Liguria, once owned by Rome. They had as yet seen no trace of Roman occupation. This was as Mastanabal had anticipated. The Romans were not worried about attack
from the north, despite their disastrous experience with Hannibal. He would teach them their error.

Near Genua the coast turned southward and they entered
the peninsula of Italy proper. At each town Mastanabal's officers questioned locals. Yes, the Romans had come through,
surveying and taking a census, but they had seen no Romans for months. There was said to be a garrison at Pisae, on the Arnus River.

The coastal road was wretched, little more than a goat track, so progress was not swift. His light cavalry rode
ahead of the army, intercepting and killing any mounted
man they saw, to prevent word of the advancing army from preceding it. Thus they arrived unannounced upon the plain east of the delta of the Arnus, near the minor town of Pisae, where a Roman army lay encamped.

Decimus Aemilius, propraetor for northwestern Italy, awoke to a pleasant morning in one of the most pleasant parts of the peninsula. The land was wonderfully fertile and occupied by diligent peasants. He had decided that, when the present war concluded, he would petition the Senate for lands here. He belonged to a minor branch of the great Aemilian gens, and the ancestral Aemilian lands to the south had already been reclaimed by the more prestigious members of the family. No matter, he thought. From what he had seen, he liked this district better than the central and southern peninsula.

He was not flawlessly happy. It grated that he had not been given a more important army and a part in the Sicilian campaign.
Not much chance of that,
he thought.
Not with the
great consular families fighting tooth and nail for every commis
sion.
Still, he knew he had little cause to complain. There would be campaigning for the rest of his lifetime, and glittering opportunities would fall his way. Even as he had the thought, something fell his way.

He became aware of a growing clamor outside his praetorium and was about to investigate when his legate, Servius Aelius Buteo, burst in. "There's a Carthaginian army on the field to the north!"

"What! How did they get here?"

"At a guess I'd say they walked," Buteo told him. "And they didn't come alone. A scout just rode in and reported a fleet off Pisae."

Aemilius shouted for his orderly, and scrambled into his field armor. With his helmet beneath his arm, he strode from the tent, Buteo walking beside him. His orderly, his trumpeter and his secretary followed behind.

"Hamilcar couldn't counterattack so fast. And why here?" Aemilius said.

"Maybe the report of the fire at Carthage was exagger
ated," Buteo said. "Maybe he's invading anyway, on two
fronts."

"Not that it matters," Aemilius said. "If they're out there, we have to stop them. If they get through us, they'll go all the way to Rome, and except for what we have here,
all our legions are down in the South. Rome is unprotected."

They came to the camp wall and ascended the tower
flanking the gate called the
porta praetoria.
From its top plat
form they surveyed the spectacle to the north, aghast. A huge host stood there, arranged in three great blocks, with flanking cavalry. They were ominously silent. Roman sol
diers along the wall were jabbering at one another, some of
them forgetting their Latin and speaking their native Celtic and German dialects.

"Professionals or at least well-drilled militia in the cen
ter," Aemilius said, his voiced schooled to calm despite the sick feeling in his stomach. "Those great mobs on the flanks
are barbarians. How many do you make them?"

Buteo spat over the front rail. "Thirty thousand if there's a buggering one of them. And they've ten times our strength in cavalry."

And what do I have?
Aemilius thought.
Two legions plus
auxiliaries, and not full strength at that, not even fifteen thousand
total strength.
The odds would not have dismayed him had the legions been veteran, but they were newly raised troops
just down from Noricum, only their senior centurions men of long experience. They had been drilled long and hard, but even the best training was not combat. Roman commanders considered soldiers fully reliable only after they had ten campaigns behind them.

"Well," Aemilius said. "Here's where we find out if we're really as good as we say we are." He turned to his trumpeter.
"Sound battle formation." As the call rang out, he turned to his secretary, who stood by with a wooden tablet open in one hand, a pointed bronze stylus in the other, ready to in
scribe his general's message on the wax that lined the inner
surface of the tablet.