by Rob Edmunds
The landscape seemed to have quite a soporific influence on the collective mood. When they rode close to the Baetis River, it showed it’s gentler, more meandering aspect. It was much narrower here than in the wide channel close to the sea and a little inland at Tartessus. The land rose in gentle hills around it, and the colour of the water held a more greenish tinge. It seemed bursting with life and ripples on the surface, and the quite common sighting of strutting and satisfied herons suggested abundant fish and amphibian populations. A few ramshackle huts and moorings dotted the river, and it felt as if the war were very distant; this was an illusion that was no doubt soon to be abruptly shattered.
Masinissa envied the elderly suddenly. For them, the news of their friend’s diseases and final departures would likely be more remote, and their emptier world will probably fall on them silently and even peacefully. In their own infirmity, they would hear the news, and by then may have even forgotten the bond, the admiration, the fellowship and even kinship that they had held with the newly deceased. If they remembered, they would likely be more accustomed to loss or more numbed by the incessant blows time had dealt them.
Masinissa knew his losses and his wounds would be fresher, rawer and harder to suture. How can you laugh at someone’s joke one day and put bits of what remains of his flesh under a pile of earth or stones the next? You go on – he had gone on – but it was a choking grief rather than a sighing one. Maybe he was being unfair. The older you are, the more you have to remember and grieve for. Maybe it was just that the sorrows of the old were harder to spot or to credit behind a mask of forbearance. Their helplessness and their tears may be private; maybe we gather dignity into our souls as we age, and conceal our desolations for the sake of others. How little we know of someone’s emotions until we share them. Our interior worlds can be so mysterious. So much goes on in our minds and hearts that leave no traces outside them.
He looked forwards and around him at his men, sure that none of them suspected that he was having a philosophical and existential moment. Big questions were – like the bands of gold, and the prayers and invocations – an intrinsic part of the eve of battle. No doubt those serene gazes were contemplating similar questions in the upper slopes of their beings. Their last fire, their last spark, their last noise before the silence could be close.
As they rode along the scrubby riverbanks and over the gentle hills that turned into almost undulating plains with very long horizons, the riders, envoys and scouts were intercepting them constantly with updates and appraisals of the enemy’s strength and deployment. It was confirmed that there were a lot of mercenaries within the Scipios’ armies, which was a testimony to the successes they were having in garnering local tribal alliances, as well as their prodigal spending on what it was hoped were unreliable troops. Around 20,000 Iberian mercenaries were swelling the ranks of the 30,000 Roman foot and 3,000 horse. They had split, and Publius was now the closer force, marching with a combined total of 20,000 men. It was a rough estimate, but a hundred here or there wouldn’t make much of a difference, particularly if they were not on horseback. He was heading for Mago and the town of Castulo, whilst Gnaeus was heading in the opposite direction towards Hasdrubal Barca’s forces, which had mustered near Amtorgis. Most of the mercenaries and one double legion of 10,000 were with Hasdrubal Barca.
Hasdrubal Barca appeared to be the first to act decisively. He, at least in Masinissa’s judgement, had concluded that the impending battles were to be fought consecutively and not concurrently, and therefore had bravely despatched the armies of Indibilis and Mandonius to reinforce Mago, and perhaps allow him to encircle the army of Publius if the movement of forces could be properly coordinated. His apparent battlefield perspicacity had also extended to the provision of additional horses. Whilst Masinissa’s cavalry composed of 3,000 men, there were nearer 5,000 horses, forming an equine contingent intended to replace those destroyed or exhausted from the first battle. Hasdrubal’s tactics also were extending to fortifications, and his sappers and slaves were creating defensive works with the intention of holding his ground whilst the first act was played out. The news cheered Masinissa. They had a plan. No doubt the Scipios had one too, but – assuming the battlefield situation was not too greatly altered (that is, ceteris paribus, to borrow a Roman phrase) – the Punic forces seemed to have an edge. To a great extent, he recognised that his forces ability and mobility was that edge.
The harassment of Publius’s forces began close to dusk. It was a fortuitous moment. The Roman legionnaires must have been badly fatigued by that point in the evening, and, instead of being able to find some measure of comfort in the damp earth and warm embers of their camp fires, they were fending off javelins hurled by a speedy enemy, who was increasingly indistinct in the gloaming. The pace of the charges and the equally hasty retreats bamboozled the Roman cavalry too. Some made haphazard counter-offences, but they were naive rushes, and those impetuous fools became isolated quickly and were cut down. The Numidians added dozens more spare ponies to their own that night. The defending cavalry mostly resorted to making circuits around their troops, trying to intercept the darting mounted hurlers and prevent them from getting too close to their vulnerable middle. As the night drew on, the moon illuminated a little of the horror, but the sky was thick with clouds and the moon made only an occasional peek from behind them, with its occasional silver glow doing little to brighten the gory scene.
Despite the attrition in the ranks, the Roman forces were considerable, and, come morning, would mount a sterner resistance and press a counterattack with the full weight of their forces on a more visible and, by then, in their turn, exhausted enemy.
When it came, the dawn did appear to vivify the Roman effort. They were no longer chasing phantoms. The Numidians, wisely, saw no gain or honour in being slaughtered by the superior numbers that were far more able to flank them, and beat a temporary retreat.
Masinissa – who had sat out most of the later surges of the harassment, choosing to direct the probes, with his riders making returning loops to his station for their next instructions – was less exhausted than most of his men. A fact he was conscious of when he ordered the dismount beyond the reach of any possible Roman pursuit, if not their reconnaissance.
He convened his closest retinue to a late breakfast in the lee of a hill that they felt comfortable enough to rest in, beyond the site of the Romans, who were no doubt occupied with tallying the extent of their losses and burying them in whatever pathetic form they could manage quickly. Pun, Tigerman, Capuca, Juba Tunic, Massiva and Ari – Masinissa’s favourite sextet –had all survived the night with barely a graze between them and sat with him under the shade of a small grove. They all demurred on the wine that was offered, but tucked into the cheese, bread, eggs, meat and olives that were brought by retainers. As they lolled, the tension in their bodies and minds untangled a little with their nourishment and deliverance. Their relief and friendships showed through in the smiles and taps they gave one another. Masinissa sensed that another night of tenebrous warfare lay ahead, which would be inevitably bloodier, more chaotic and certainly liable to have a more definitive outcome. The company, and the opportunity to close his eyes and pause his movements and instincts helped him and the collective daze hung smokily over all of them. One of the thoughts they were probably casting off was the recognition that it was easier to kill or maim a man you weren’t able to see properly.
*
A few hours passed, with all of them realising that they should resist any of their usual instincts and conserve their vigour for the next round of darkness. As the sun moved lower, messengers from Mago confirmed that the movements of some of the other rival troop formations were facilitating the prospect of another night attack and another foray into the Roman flank, but this time the bite would have the jaws of the other Punic forces to drive the teeth in deeper and take off a bigger chunk. It appeared that the absence of obvious enemy silhouettes on the ho
rizon reconnoitring their position may have been because Publius’s scouts were casting their surveys in the other direction, and had discovered and become increasingly alarmed by the movements behind him. Indibilis’s forces had been marching fast, and had reached the outskirts of Castulo. In truth, he had gone beyond the town and was prowling directly behind his line of retreat by then, a fact that was evidently known to Publius. The Roman general then had a dug-in, capable army on one side, and a very well-regarded field commander, with a substantial battalion of his own (a little under 8,000 in total), on the other. It seemed that, in having to pick a lesser foe from this particular pairing of Scylla and Charybdis, Publius had chosen Indibilis.
That is the only call, Masinissa thought.
Overwhelming Mago’s position may not have been impossible, but it would certainly be time consuming, and the Carthaginian would be capable enough of resorting to dilatory tactics that were protracted enough to allow both Indibilis and Masinissa to tear into his rear and annihilate him. His choice was to turn towards the Iberian chieftain, and then break through and out. The die was cast. There was no turning back for Publius’s army, and so everything else would follow according to the battlefield logic. That logic dictated more of the same for the Numidian cavalrymen.
Capuca was the first to throw off his listlessness and to realise that there was a need for a greater urgency. They had ridden away from Publius and, given the reputed movements of the bulk of the enemy’s army subsequently, they had moved further from that enemy army too. They would have quite a long ride to intercept their enemy, and finding them in the remaining daylight would be a challenge. The hills were shallow and undulating, but still rose high enough to offer a little concealment, and they could steer off course and lose time, which would cost Indibilis dearly.
Looking mildly perplexed, Capuca rose and made the case for haste. “Mas, we’d better get moving, as the Iberian troops won’t resist for long, and Mago must be a day’s ride from where the battle will be. He won’t last without us, and then the Romans will have the claws, and we will be the one’s pinched and running.”
The words spurred on Masinissa immediately, as if he had been prodded by a knife. Pun had performed that literal action on him often, so he was well aware how sharply it can pull you from your reverie or daydream. He was not punctured or panicked, but he felt riven by guilt at his own complacency and lethargy. What he was thinking? It was OK to rest when danger had passed, but this was a battle that had commenced and in was progress. It may have been only a night-time skirmish up to this point, but time and distance was closing between the different factions, and his troops were a key piece on that board full of movement.
He rose, grabbed his falcata and scabbard, and ran towards the horses, practically vaulting onto his own mount. He would have done so if not for the loose weapon he carried. The others followed, mimicking Masinissa’s swiftness as closely as they could manage. They set off and rode in a long line for a little while as the stragglers, delayed by various meals and ablutions, caught up. Masinissa scattered the fastest riders ahead to pick up trails or signs. He knew the rough whereabouts of Indibilis, but Indibilis’s trail was coming from the other direction, and so he was reliant on his own hunches rather than the precision of visible signs of the recent passage of a large military contingent.
The weather conditions had altered little from the previous night, and, as dusk fell, it was heralded by the greying blur of a sunless evening. He ordered torches lit, including one in a metal frame adorned with the sign of Tanit, which he hoped would, when it was spotted, reveal him to be an ally. Were the detection made by the Romans, he would order the torches to be extinguished and the splitting of the cavalry into an encircling formation, to confuse the Romans and to allow two waves of raiders to storm across the Roman positions. He also ordered a number of the men to dip their javelins in tar, or soak tows in oil and wrap them around their weapons with the intention of lighting them when they came within range of the enemy. He ordered a few of the weaker throwers to relight their torches, and to ride in the middle of the charge when the time came and ignite the projectiles of the others, which would then be launched into the Roman ranks. The adoption of some modest thermal warfare tactics would not do measurably more damage than ordinary javelins, but tracers of incoming fire into your line against a blackened sky could only be damaging to the morale of the men facing the barrage.
The remaining hours of darkness, however, proved long and frustrating for Masinissa and his men, and the chances of heaving burning spears into Publius’s army receded as a prospect, with the value of the action being lost with the arrival of the morning. Both the enemy and Indibilis were elusive, and it was only when the night started to hint at the day and to lift light from the edges of the horizon that Indibilis’s forces and situation were spotted belatedly.
It would seem that, on this occasion, it was the defenders who had best reaped the benefits of the night’s shroud. Publius’s cavalry were well matched by Indibilis’s mounted troops, and they had sheltered the infantry well from the attrition the Romans had intended for them. That is not to say that a lot of blood had not been spilt. The carcasses of horses and men formed clumps on the edges of both groups of soldiers, often on top of one another and not necessarily with the rider on top of the horse in those cases. Many had been crushed more ignobly. Most likely, being pinned by an equine had not been the end of them either. The torso and head of many of the dead protruded outside of the flank of their dead beast. In many cases, however, with what those parts of the body resembled by then, they might as well have been stampeded by elephants.
The beleaguered Iberians gave out a resounding collective cheer when they saw their allies approach. To be heard at all above the cacophony of the battle – with its screams, charges, incessant screeches of metal on metal, and duller thuds of metal on flesh – was impressive in itself. The morale of the tribal militia was clearly revived by the arrival of the Numidian forces, and they began to hold their ground, aided immeasurably by Masinissa’s cavalry launching into and along the Roman flank. The deteriorating prospects for Publius only worsened with the arrival of Mago and Hasdrubal Gisco’s fresh and fully intact armies.
Their appearance was pivotal to the outcome of the battle and the momentum of the slaughter. Hemmed in front and back, with a marauding cavalry on their flanks, Publius was doomed. The whoops of the Numidian riders were juxtaposed by the slump in the Roman ranks. Many tried suddenly to break ranks and escape, but the runners only became easy targets for the Numidians, who tore behind the runners, and used their spears and swords to swipe deep into the runners’ necks. As their fate became more and more apparent, the Roman horse, almost in unison, ceased their resistance. They broke, often with a fortunate infantryman clambering onto the haunches of a fleeing horse, hanging on to the rider like a drowning man clings to driftwood. It was the last chance any of them had of survival, and many turned on each other in an ignominious scramble for survival. The rump of a horse was the only ticket out just then, and they fought for the berth as ferociously as they had fought the enemy.
Stripped of their mobility and considerably outnumbered at that point, the remaining Romans were fed into the grinder. Having been depleted of men, weaponry, hope and vigour, they were picked off. Firstly, at a greater distance, as the Carthaginians, Numidians and Iberians started to be more mindful of their own survival, and threw their javelins into them. And, secondly, from a closer range, they were like packs of wolves on wounded beasts, as the incentive of loot became more of a spur to fight at closer range. As the last of them were put to their end, the mood changed in two distinctive ways.
For Masinissa, his usual more elegiac mood at the end of combat returned as he surveyed the losses on both sides. His enemies were dead by then and unthreatening, and were restored in his pity. The flurry of battle was over, and he started to feel a more tender sorrow as the adrenaline and instincts of the fight ebb
ed to nothing. The glory of victory is a very specious concept, he thought. Victory only really meant survival, loot and another cohort of demons to contend with.
He cast his eyes around the battlefield for sight of Nosejob, and his distinctive appearance was not hard to spot. He had, as expected, his hands deep in the gruesome epilogue of the battle, but his retributions appeared swift and no more deplorable than those of the others, who were picking pockets and cutting throats. Maybe Masinissa’s rebuke had mollified the thug’s viciousness. He almost felt a little resentment towards the man for making him monitor his behaviour. He wasn’t a school teacher or drill sergeant who had to pay attention to errant boys.
His attention didn’t linger long on his most savage soldier, as he was quickly summoned by riders from Mago’s army. The attitude of the leading figure was unexpectedly officious, which Masinissa took instant umbrage to. Some jumped-up Carthaginian tesserarius wasn’t going to patronise him, and, as he rode past the man in the direction of Mago, Masinissa gave him a palm punch straight into middle of his face, which toppled him ignominiously from his horse. His own men, who had rallied close to him by then, in particular Ari and Capuca, found their commander’s pique and subsequent jab highly amusing. Naturally, the Carthaginian dragging himself up from the dirt did not, and he just glowered, but at least thought better than to throw any curses or challenges towards the back of the Numidian prince.
As the regular troopers performed their part on the remains of the enemy, so the generals and officers knew their role, and the leading commanders of the three armies found one another quickly. It was quite easy to navigate. Mago had an ostentatious streak, and his banners – depicting the usual Carthaginian menagerie of symbols, most conspicuously depictions of palm trees, stallions, dolphins, and the more orthodox and sacred symbols of Baal Hammon and Tanit – were easy to pick out.
