The Seven Hills (25 page)

"Date and hour," Aemilius said. "To the noble Senate. Greeting from Decimus Aemilius, propraetor for north
western Italy. This hour a Carthaginian army of some thirty
thousand men appeared two miles north of the Arnus River
near the town of Pisae, accompanied by a fleet of unknown
strength. I go now to engage the land force. Long live Rome."

Amid a rustling of armor and a shuffling of hobnailed
caligae, the legionaries exited the fortified camp and formed
up their cohorts between the camp and the approaching enemy. They formed into their cohorts, with the two legions
of heavy infantry in the center, the auxilia on the flanks and the tiny cavalry force, too small to be divided, concentrated
on the left flank. The forming up was done with commend
able swiftness and efficiency. Drill was a Roman specialty.

"It's not good," Buteo said, "fighting this near the camp, with our backs to a river."

Aemilius knew what he meant. Outnumbered as they were, should the Romans be hard-pressed, with nowhere
else to flee except the river, the fortified camp would be a
temptation. Men whose nerve failed under the strain of battle would break formation and run for the camp. It could quickly turn into a rout. Had there been time, Aemilius would have demolished the camp before offering battle. That was standard procedure. Romans were realists about
warfare, and recognized that to ensure steadfastness in bat
tle, it was best to remove all possibility of safety in flight.

"Speaking of which," Aemilius said, "we'd best get out there ourselves. Can't have the men thinking we're lurking back here in safety."

Buteo snorted. "Safety!"

They went below and mounted their horses. Just behind the legions, in the center, carpenters were assembling the command tower. It was not high, just a platform about twelve feet above the ground, from which the commander
could survey his army and the battlefield. Aemilius ordered all his mounted messengers to assemble by the tower, for he
intended to send continuous reports to the Senate as the battle progressed.

With his staff officers, he rode through the gaps between the cohorts and emerged before the center of the battle line.
A hundred paces before the center of the first rank, they drew up and awaited the Carthaginian negotiators. Every battle began with a parley: demands, refusals, conditions, agreements and so forth. It was expected. In due time, a party of horsemen rode out from the Carthaginian lines. Their harness was ornate, their arms shining or colorfully painted. Their standard, the triangle-and-crescent of Tanit, was draped with white ribbons in token of truce. In the forefront was a hard-faced Greek. Aemilius read him for a
Spartan mercenary. That state had long since fallen from any
claim to power, but it still produced professional soldiers who were in demand wherever there was fighting.

"Romans!" the Greek said without preamble. "My general, Mastanabal, servant of the Shofet Hamilcar, bids you surrender your arms and your persons to him. Lay down
your arms, pass beneath his yoke and you will live. The al
ternative is extermination."

The Roman party laughed, though without much amusement. The Carthaginian party stared. There was something extremely unsettling about that Roman laugh.

"Well, that's blunt enough," Aemilius said when he had breath. "Why did your general not come to deliver his ultimatum? Why is he lurking behind his army?"

"A nobleman of Carthage does not treat with foreign peasants!" the Greek said scornfully.

"Is that so?" Aemilius said. "Tell your general that before this day is over, this peasant will flay his princely hide from
his body and make saddlebags from it. I need a new set."

The Greek seemed not to understand. "That is all you have to say? No counterterms? No offers?"

"If your general wishes to surrender to us, he may,"
Aemilius said. "Same terms: Lay down your arms and pass beneath our yoke. Or if he wishes to go back to Spain, where
I presume this expedition originated, he may. We shall not molest him. But tell him that he has come as close to Rome as he is going to get."

"You are mad!" the Greek said. "None of you will live to
see the sun go down."

"Are we keeping you here, hireling?" Aemilius asked.
"Don't you have pressing business elsewhere?"

"Your blood is on your own heads!" the Greek said. He
wheeled his horse and pelted back to the Carthaginian lines,
followed by the rest of his party.

"Fine, arrogant words," Buteo commented. "Think we can live up to them?"

Aemilius shrugged. "In a situation like this, you might as well speak arrogantly. It-doesn't cost anything and may give them something to think about. While I speak to the men, the rest of you join your units or go to the command
tower. Send your horses to the rear. From here on, only the
cavalry and the messengers are to be mounted."

As customary as the parley was the harangue. Every army
expected to be given a rousing, inspirational speech by its general. But how to inspire on an occasion like this, when the odds were worse than two to one and most of the sol
diers had never seen battle before? Aemilius prayed to Mars
and the Muses to gild his tongue and inspire him to say the right thing. He reined up before his men and used the Fo
rum speaker's voice that could be heard from one end of the
line to the other.

"Soldiers of Rome! Until today, we have been stationed
here, complaining that the other legions were winning all the glory and wealth in Sicily, and in the East. But now, today, it falls to you to win glory far beyond the lot of any other legions. Today you must save Rome of the Seven
Hills! Except for us, Rome lies defenseless, all her temples
and tombs naked to the desecration of the barbarians! Over there," he swept an arm around, pointing to the host oppo
site, "are those who would destroy Rome. But they are bar
barians, and barbarians cannot outfight Roman soldiers.
Crush them, and the names of your legions will live forever, and you will have undying glory for yourselves and for your descendants. As long as Romans speak of the glories of their
ancestors, they will speak of the men who stopped the barbarians here, on the River Arnus!"

The men raised a deafening shout, beating the insides of
their shields with spear butts. Aemilius rode back to his command tower, dismounted and slapped his horse on the rump before climbing to his post.

"No time for the sacrifices," he commented.

"Pretty soon," Buteo said, "there'll be all the blood spilled that any god could want."

"Still," Aemilius said, "it's always best to make the sacri
fices and take the omens. Oh, well, I suppose Jupiter will understand."

"Is there any reason to wait?" Buteo asked.

"None at all. Sound the advance."

The
cornus
brayed and the standard-bearers, draped with
wolfskins, stepped out toward the enemy. There would be no maneuver, no subtle play of tactical advantage and deception. There was no time for planning and preparation.
This would be a simple clash of two armies in an open field,
a test of strength and courage. Aemilius knew all too well that in such a fight, numbers could be decisive. It was too late to worry about it.

As the trumpets conveyed their general's orders, the cohorts transformed from a series of blocks in checkered formation to a solid battle line, with four cohorts of each
legion in reserve, keeping open order so that they were free
to maneuver to defend a flank or strengthen a weak spot in the line should there be danger of a breakthrough.

"I think we should extend the line," Buteo said.

"I'll send the reserves to the flanks if it looks like they're
going to outflank us," Aemilius said.

The Carthaginian army advanced at a slow, deliberate
pace. Officers advanced along the whole front, but walking
backward, facing their own men. They barked orders to
speed up or slow down, close right or left, as they saw disor
der in their lines. The watching Romans could only ap
prove. This was the sort of professionalism they understood.

"This is going to be different from fighting a pack of howling Germans, isn't it?" Aemilius commented. Buteo didn't bother to answer. On the field across from them, a large number of lightly armed men ran out past the flanks and arranged themselves in double lines.

"Here come the arrows," Aemilius said. The trumpets
sounded, and all along the Roman lines shields were lifted.
Except for the front line, each man raised his shield and held
it over the head of the man in front of him. In seconds, the
whole army looked as if it had grown a tile roof. The
Carthaginian flankers drew their bows and soon arrows
came down like rain on the Roman force. Very few got
through, but here and there a shaft slipped beneath an un
steadily held shield and the Romans took the first casualties
of the battle.

"First blood to the enemy," Buteo said.

Aemilius's look was bleak, but he was a Roman. "It's last
blood that counts."

When the Carthaginian front line was within fifty paces
of the legions, the arrow storm let up. Aemilius spoke to his
trumpeter, and the signal to advance and close with the enemy brayed out, to be echoed by the trumpeters who accompanied the individual standards. As one man, the first two lines stepped out toward the Carthaginian center.

Soon the Carthaginian light troops began to pelt the Romans with light javelins. Since the light infantry was concentrated on the flanks, the center of the Roman lines took
no casualties. When the opposing lines were fifty feet apart,
a trumpet barked and the Roman advance stopped abruptly.
As if controlled by a single nervous system, the right arms
of the Romans rocked back, poised a moment, then shot forward. The heavy, murderous javelin called the pilum was a
mainstay of the Roman arsenal. The front line hurled theirs
directly at the men a few paces before them. The second line
launched theirs over the heads of the men in front. These fell into the ranks of the enemy behind the battle line.

Instantly, hundreds of men went down, their shields and bodies pierced by the deadliest close-quarters missile ever invented. Hundreds more found their shields rendered use
less by the massive spears impaling them. The small, barbed
heads could not be easily withdrawn, nor the long, iron necks and thick, wooden shafts easily cut through.

With a move as precise as the spear hurling, the Romans
drew their short, razor-edged swords. They advanced at the
double, striking the Carthaginian center along its length. Behind the protection of their large, body-covering shields, they brushed the enemy's long spears aside or lifted them overhead. Where a pilum protruded from an enemy shield, it was kicked aside or trodden down, exposing the man behind the shield for execution. These front-rankers wore excellent armor, so the short swords lanced into throats, into the lower abdomen below the rim of the breastplate, directly into the face between the cheekplates of the helmet. While it was intended primarily for thrusting, the broad, heavy blade of the
gladius
also cut extremely well, and
wielded in short, vicious chops it exposed the user no more
than did a swift thrust. An exposed arm could be severed completely, and an incautiously advanced thigh could be
laid open to the bone on its inner side, severing the great artery and dumping out all of a man's blood in a few seconds.

In this stage of the battle the Romans took very few casualties, though the footing grew treacherous with bodies, blood and fallen weapons. This was the sort of fighting at which Romans excelled above all others. The legion thus employed was a vast killing machine. After a few minutes, before the men could tire too much, Aemilius gave another order and the trumpets roared out. The fighting men disen
gaged arid stepped back as the next two ranks of the legions marched forward. The men who had been fighting fell back
through gaps between the advancing soldiers. The enemy, surprised at this maneuver, were still reeling when the sec
ond volley of heavy javelins fell among them and the killing
recommenced.

The Romans who had been fighting went to the rear to get new pila and have their wounds dressed. Long ago, the Romans had realized that only a small part of the army could be fighting at any one time, so they devised this system to keep fresh men at the front at all times. In the army
opposite, the rear ranks were in a close-packed mass, shout
ing, waving their arms in excitement and getting tired without contributing at all to the fighting strength.

In the center, this battle belonged to the Romans. The flanks were another matter. The great masses of Mastanabal's light-armed troops were pressing against the Roman flanks and their cavalry rushed in, hurling light javelins with great accuracy, riding back before the Romans could come to grips with them. The Iberians, insanely brave and
aggressive, charged against the iron-clad Romans with great
ferocity. In this sort of fighting, the
falcata
was as effective as the
gladius.
The downcurved, wide-bladed sword was not versatile; it was a pure slasher, but swung down by the arm of a strong man, it could shear through helmet and ar
mor, and only quick shield work could save the target. If the
unarmored Spaniard missed his blow, he was dead, dispatched by the lightning thrust of the
gladius.