Suddenly he felt the press of bodies around him start to slacken. The Tribune had disappeared into a cloud of dust. Titus wrestled himself free, treading on a corpse. For a moment he nearly lost his balance and wildly his fingers clawed at the heads of the men around him. Up ahead the crowds of men were starting to thin out. A group of Romans ran past with drawn swords. Titus plunged on and caught sight of Scipio, the Tribune. The officer was running flat out now. The thunder of hooves was coming from his right and a moment later a troop of riders, foreigners with dark beards and alien clothing flashed past cutting down everyone in their path before they vanished into another dust cloud. Titus ran on, grateful to find more and more open space ahead of him.
The Tribune was making for the river. Titus caught up with him and saw that he was bleeding from a wound to his head. Blood had soaked one half of Scipio’s face but it hadn’t slowed him down. The two of them dashed through groups of running Roman soldiers. It seemed that everyone had the same idea. They had to get to the river where the terrible Carthaginian cavalry would not be able to pursue them. It seemed that the enemy encirclement was not yet watertight for it was mainly cavalry who were trying to close the last Roman escape route and they couldn’t stand still for very long without becoming vulnerable. Titus and the Tribune burst into a clearing littered with corpses. A hundred paces away was the river lined by green bushes and small trees that looked out of place in the parched countryside.
A Numidian was wheeling his horse around to make another charge. The beast was small and scrawny unlike the big Italian animals Titus had helped rear at home. Unable to change direction, Titus bowled straight into the rider catching him in the flank. The collision sent both of them crashing to the ground. The Numidian cried out and tried to rise to his feet. He was armed with a spear but Titus was quicker. His hob nailed boot caught the man in his groin with such force that it knocked him senseless. Titus shrieked in pain at the contact and hopped on one leg, grasping his foot with both hands. It felt as if he had broken a bone. The Tribune had already swung himself into the saddle by the time Titus let go of his foot. Then the officer was galloping away. Titus’s chest was heaving with exertion and he was nearly exhausted but the adrenaline was pumping and with a cry of pain and a grimace he forced himself onwards, half running, half limping towards the river.
Horsemen seemed to be all around them, charging down the fleeing Romans and the cries of desperate and terrified men could he heard everywhere. Yet somehow Titus managed to make it to the river. The water level was low for it was August and he plunged into the river using his hands to propel himself forwards. All along the bank other Romans were doing the same, splashing through the water, desperate to get to the other side. Titus began to feel the weight of his armour beginning to drag him down and desperately tore his helmet from his head and flung it away. Yet he could not undo his torso armour. His breath came in gasps and he spluttered as he gulped in a mouthful of water by mistake. His feet scrabbled wildly on the smooth pebbles of the river bed and he was sure now that he had broken a bone. The stabbing pain was shooting through his whole body. As he splashed, gasped and struggled in the water, Numidian riders appeared on the bank and some in pursuit, urged their horses into the water killing their desperate and helpless quarry with single thrusts of their spears.
Titus staggered onto the far bank. The Tribune had disappeared. Despite the dry hot weather Titus was shaking from the cold mountain water. He stumbled and whirled round at a sudden noise close behind him. A rider less horse came cantering past and without thinking Titus grabbed the reins and in one fluent and practised movement swung himself onto the beast. It was an Italian horse, larger than those ridden by the enemy. It was not a moment too soon. Titus groaned as he saw the three Numidian horsemen charging towards him. The Carthaginians had crossed the river. He dug his knees into the animal and felt the beast surge forwards. A spear flew past his head clattering harmlessly onto some rocks. Titus swerved and hugged the horse tightly as they began to pick up speed. He had been brought up with horses and had ridden them since the earliest possible age. He sensed the animals fear but the beast was an army horse and trained for war and it responded to his commands. They thundered on across the desolate, rocky plain. Titus did not have time to look behind him. All his concentration was needed to keep control of the horse and evade the many rocks and obstacles that littered the ground. Another spear slammed into the earth just behind him.
Fear gave him added strength and made everything seem very simple but he refused to panic. He clung to just one thought. He had to live. His family were relying on him to survive.
“Run, you lazy beast.” he screamed at the horse.
Up ahead the ground was beginning to rise to a line of hills. A solitary red tiled farm stood some way off surrounded by neat rows of vineyards. Roman stragglers were everywhere. Some were running but others had given up and were sitting on the ground, too exhausted to continue. There was only so much a man could endure. It was a sorry end to what had once been the greatest army that Rome had ever fielded. Titus felt the horses pace start to slow as the ground began to rise. He risked a glance over his shoulder. His pursuers had given up and turned their attention to easier prey. He raised his arm in the air and screamed in triumph. He had gotten away. He had out ridden Hannibal’s cavalry.
***
The Roman stragglers were still coming into the town as night fell. Canusium was crowded with thousands of shocked and exhausted survivors. They came in as individuals or small groups, many wounded and without weapons. Then when the night was well advanced the magistrates of the town ordered the gates to be closed and armed men to be posted to the walls. Hannibal’s army was only a few miles away and there was a danger that the Carthaginian would be tempted to try and take the town by force.
Titus sat cross legged on the ground in the forum, the market square, and watched as the town folk lit torches along the walls of their small settlement. He’d said a prayer to Minerva for his safe deliverance, and if he’d had his baggage with him he would have offered her a coin too, but his baggage had been left behind in the army camp, which by now would have been looted by the Carthaginians. He had lost everything he’d possessed. But he was alive. That was more than he could say for his friends. They were all dead. He’d searched for the men in his unit amongst the survivors but he’d found no one. The second Cohort of Samnite heavy infantry had simply ceased to exist. He seemed to be the sole survivor.
The glow of the fires cast an eerie flickering light across the paved forum and the brick houses that surrounded it. A cool easterly breeze had brought some welcome relief from the heat of the day but the shutters on all the windows of the houses remained firmly shut.
An aristocratic woman, clad in a blood red toga and followed by her slaves was picking her way through the long lines of weary soldiers who were sitting in the forum. As she approached Titus saw that she was distributing food and wine to the men. There was a grace about her that seemed to calm the traumatised soldiers and Titus found himself thinking about his women back in Rome and their home, a crumbling, unhealthy and dangerous one room apartment, on the fourth floor of a block in the Subura neighbourhood. The new Insulae, apartment blocks that had started to spring up all over Rome had been sold to the rural community as a dream home in the city. A dream home my fat arse he thought. Yet the rent was all he could afford on his wages as an apprentice blacksmith. His mother had made a little extra repairing clothes but it was a pittance, barely enough for a loaf of bread a day. He wondered if they would think that he had been killed.
The pain in his foot was a dull ache now. The town’s only doctor had been far too busy looking after the more seriously wounded and Titus had not thought about bothering him. Maybe the bone was not broken after all he thought hopefully.
His attention was suddenly drawn to a small group of officers who had emerged from one of the houses. They spoke in urgent, hushed voices as they made their way through the lines of soldiers. A
s they passed close to Titus one of the officers stopped. It was Scipio, the Tribune whom he had saved on the battlefield. The man had a bandage around his head but the dried blood still caked his cheek. The officer had recognised Titus. He grinned conspiratorically.
“I am glad you made it,” Scipio said and although he was practically the same age as Titus he sounded like a father speaking to a son.
“Sir,” Titus replied bowing respectfully.
Scipio glanced over Titus’ head in the direction of the battlefield.
“The battle was lost when they attacked our flanks,” he declared, his face growing solemn. “That was our mistake. I won’t allow that to happen when I am in command. You did well today soldier. It was important that I survived. Rome will need me more than ever now.”
“Yes Sir.”
“The boy came in on a horse, the beast was one of ours,” one of the staff officers beside the Tribune interjected.
“Did he now,” Scipio bent down to give Titus a closer examination. There was a sudden interest in the young Tribune’s eyes.
“Horses are valuable military assets. I shall see that you are properly rewarded for your loyalty to me and your bravery. What is your name and unit soldier?”
Titus gave the Tribune his name and Scipio frowned as he realised Titus was not a citizen but belonged to the Italian auxiliaries.
“A Samnite boy from the mountains,” he muttered. “Well it doesn’t matter. Where is your father, Titus? I would like to meet the man who has raised such a fine and loyal warrior.”
“He is dead Sir.”
“A pity,” Scipio straightened up with a disappointed look, “But he will be proud of what you did today", he continued. "War teaches a man more about himself than he could hope to learn in a hundred years of peace. That is why we, men, shall never grow bored of war. In war a man will learn whether he is brave and noble or a wimpering coward. Two years ago I saved my father’s life in battle, and since then I have not worried about my fate, for whatever happens to me, I shall be remembered as the son who risked his life in order to save his father.”
“Sir,” Titus said.
Scipio turned sharply to one of his officers. “Give the boy ten silver coins,” he said.
“Please Sir. Teach me to write and read instead,” Titus replied looking up boldly.
Surprised the officers and men around him fell silent. Scipio frowned again. “You refuse coins as a reward?” he muttered.
“I do Sir. I would do better if I knew how to read and write,” Titus said feeling his cheeks beginning to blush furiously. It was a gamble to ask the officer for so much but he may never have a chance like this again.
There was a stir amongst the soldiers who could hear the conversation.
Scipio’ face was disapproving. He glanced at the mass of soldiers sitting in the forum.
“No, you would have done better to have taken the money,” he snapped. “It was offered fairly. The army has no time to be a school teacher.” Scipio paused to study Titus and as he did so an amused look crept onto his face. He continued in a lighter voice. “Tell me Titus, do you like horses?”
Titus looked up at the young officer. He’d asked for too much and now he’d lost his chance. He’d blown it.
“I do Sir and I out rode the foreigners. I have heard that they pride themselves on their riding skills but today they could not catch me.”
There was a sudden pride in Titus’ voice as he spoke.
Scipio laughed and the sound was so alien amongst the wretched survivors that heads turned to look at them from all over the forum.
“Good,” he said, “From now on you are to be a dispatch rider. I need a brave and competent man who knows how to handle a horse to ride to Venusia with a message for the Consul Varro. You will leave at first light.”
“Sir,” Titus nodded rising to his feet and rapping out a quick salute.
Scipio turned to leave but then hesitated.
“You are the head of your family,” he said with his back turned, “and the father of a Roman household has duties. Above all things, boy, you must learn to lead. Do that and you will become a true Roman.”
Titus watched Scipio walk away. Fool; silently he cursed himself. To be rewarded by an officer was a rare occurrence in the army. It was considered a once in a life time opportunity and now he had blown it. In his bungling haste he had thrown away the only chance he would probably get at advancement.
Annoyed he slapped the ground with his hand.
An arrogant ass his army friends would have called the officer. His fellow soldiers had always been moaning about their officers and the harshness of army discipline. Their desires overwhelmingly had been confined to wine, money and women. Titus had grown up around such men all his life. The boys from his village were for the most part destined to follow in their father’s footsteps, dull, back breaking work for a local land owner who paid them a pittance and sent them to an early grave. Titus had no interest in that. From an early age he had known he wanted to be different.
He remembered the day when, aged nine, the road had come to his home in the mountains. His father had taken him down to see it. The road builders had been led by a solitary engineer, a young man in a red cloak. The town’s folk had been hostile to the road builders, seeing its construction as a sign of foreign occupation but the cool, dogged professionalism of the young engineer had impressed Titus. He had refused to join in the taunting of the road builders. For him the real heroes had become the men who held civilisation together for civilisation gave a man a chance to better himself. Civilisation was worth fighting for.
Chapter Five - His name is Adonibaal
The Carthaginian mercenaries were in a boisterous mood. They sat around the crackling fire passing around flasks of captured Roman wine. Some had started singing songs from their distant homelands, ballads about lost love and triumphant hunts. Night had fallen and across the plain Adonibaal could see hundreds of Carthaginian camp fires. He sat a little way back from the fire so that his face was hidden in the shadows. He didn’t like to attract attention. Adonibaal was a loner. Slowly he sharpened his sword on a stone. The metal scraped and grated on the rock. Now and then he paused to scratch the old white scars across his arm. The scars had been inflicted by a whip. There were more whip scars across his back but he did not care to show those to anyone. He was a big handsome man, deeply tanned and muscular like a bronze statue of Hercules; and for a fortyfour year old, he’d kept himself in excellent physical condition. His hair was tied back in a pony tail and fixed with a small string. The Iberians had worn it like this in order to keep their eyes and faces clear during battle. Sharp swords and good physical health mattered for that was how he made his living. Adonibaal was a professional swordsman, not a gladiator, but a mercenary, a knife for hire. It was a profitable business too and it had made him a wealthy man.
He lifted the sword and ran his finger down the edge, testing the sharpness.
He knew that he was good at his job. Amongst the Gallic mercenaries, whom he’d got to know, it was common to give ones weapon a name and Adonibaal had named his Centurion after the first Roman he had slain in battle. It had been a strange experience finding himself on the opposite side to his countrymen. From the start when he had signed up to Hannibal’s army he’d known that if the Romans caught him he would be executed as a traitor. A man like him could never surrender. A man like him could only kill or be killed. That was the law by which he had to live. During the next eighteen months he had killed every Roman he’d come across. He’d shown no pity or mercy and had robbed the dead of everything they possessed. A hard and bitter man, the Gallic mercenaries had muttered behind his back, a man with a heart of iron, and they had learned to avoid him.
Around the camp fire the mercenaries had started to recount their exploits during the battle, each speaker trying to outdo the other but Adonibaal was not listening. Idly he grasped a handful of dirt and let the soil slip away through his fingers. It had been tw
enty four years since he had been forced to flee Italy. The city of Carthage had granted him asylum and for that he was eternally grateful. In Carthage he’d found a new home in a multicultural society. The Carthaginians had not judged him on his looks or background or asked awkward questions and he had been free to do what he pleased as long as he’d obeyed their laws and customs. Carthage had been a splendid place to make ones fortune and that suited him just fine. Money, he had learned, was a fugitive’s best friend. Money earned him respect, money never let him down. Money and Centurion were his only friends.
The first time he had seen the great city of Carthage he’d approached from the sea. He had been barely twenty. His galley had nosed its way into the grand circular harbour. Ships of all sizes and nations had filled the port and amongst the workers he’d heard a half a dozen foreign languages. The sea had been a brilliant, sparkling blue and the massive, solid walls of the city had towered over him, their strength a proud reminder to all visitors that this was a city which controlled its own destiny.
Carthage was one of the true great cities of the world. There was no doubt about that. He had taken the main street from the harbour that led up to the Byrsa, the ancient citadel, feeling a strange mixture of emotion. Had it really been just more than a year ago that he had been fighting these very same Carthaginians and preying for their ruin?
The Shield of Rome Page 3
