The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  With the campaign barely underway, the soldiers had already been given two opportunities for plunder. Even viewed from the side of victory, I could not bear to watch the way the soldiers took these cities apart. Slaves were free game. Young women fared badly. I thought of Eurydice and Moira in Syracuse. The Roman way was brutal. In battle they butchered the enemy with their gladii. In victory they forced sex on anything with a hole in it.

  CHAPTER 30

  Three cities had been taken in little more than a month. Marcellus had every reason to be elated, but instead he seemed distracted. I spent five or six nights a week in the headquarters’ tent working on our map of Italy. Invariably Marcellus was there. Rarely did he say anything to me. Occasionally he would stand beside the table to watch me work.

  Marcellus had placed several markers on the map. The red ones designated the location of Roman troops—one marker for every five thousand soldiers. The black markers designated Carthaginian troops. From day to day, as bits and pieces of information came in from other parts of Italy, Marcellus would adjust the position of these markers.

  Two days after Meles fell, Marcellus gave his soldiers an afternoon to sell the spoils they had collected. Buyers of plunder followed armies for just that purpose. A motley collection of prostitutes, indigent wanders, and scavengers—or pickers as they were called—trailed after these men, hoping to cash in on the soldiers’ new-found wealth. Our quaestor Lucius Oppius took the opportunity to sell our prisoners to the slave traders who were also a part of this entourage. The wheeling and dealing could get pretty ugly, but it allowed the soldiers a chance to convert excess baggage into cash.

  I took a long ride with Marcus that day, making sightings from the highest peaks in Samnium. That night I went to headquarters to make additions to the map. Marcellus was there alone in the dimly lit tent. He stood in the shadows beside the divan. He turned his head when I entered but said nothing.

  I immediately went to work, trying to ignore his brooding presence in the corner. After a while he approached the table. Although his sandaled feet made no noise on the rug, I could feel him coming. He stood over me, a hand to his chin. “Our markers show three possible locations for Hannibal’s army, all many miles apart. They are little more than guesses. Maybe none of them are correct.” Marcellus said this so suddenly I thought he was talking to himself. “We may as well have one hundred markers on the map. How can we track this man when he seems nothing short of invisible?”

  I looked up but had no answers for him.

  He stepped up close to the map and with his forefinger touched the locations of Salapia, Meles, and Marmoreae. “By taking these three cities, we are gradually compressing the region from which Hannibal can expect support. If we work our way south taking one city at a time, we can press him into the toe of the boot.” He swept his open palm across the map to the city of Rhegium.

  He paused to look upward. He spoke as though thinking aloud. “An army of thirty thousand living off the land leaves a trail that can’t be missed. We will map his movements, even if it’s only based on where he’s been and not where he is. By the end of the summer, I want this map so clearly marked with Hannibal’s movements that we can predict where he will be and where he will go. There must be a method to his genius. Between you and me, Timon, we will figure it out.”

  I was as tall as Marcellus, but weighed half as much. I put my compass down and stood up straight to look him in the eyes. The light from the lamps accented the bones in his face with shadows. The fine lines around his eyes seemed etched in black ink. “I am honored, sir, that you think I can help. My experience is limited, but I will do all that I can.’

  He stared down at the map and said nothing.

  CHAPTER 31

  After the fall of Capua, Tarentum was the most important Carthaginian stronghold on the peninsula. A strategically valuable seaport on the boot heel of Italy, Tarentum was a Greek colony as old as the Roman Republic, with a history that contained several conflicts with Rome. Although Tarentum had supported a Roman garrison when Hannibal first arrived in Italy, the Roman defeat at Cannae had left the city susceptible to the influence of Carthaginian agents. The same thing had happened in the nearby city of Croton where I had spent the first thirteen years of my life.

  In the fourth year of the war, Hannibal had initiated talks with King Philip of Macedon, hoping to draw him into an alliance against Rome. At the same time, Hannibal set out to capture Tarentum, knowing it would be a perfect seaport for allied troop transport from Greece. After two years of siege, Tarentum finally fell when a Tarentine naval officer by the name of Nico Percon betrayed the city by opening the gates to the Carthaginians. While Hannibal’s soldiers rampaged through the city, the Roman garrison had fled to the city’s citadel, a sanctuary of last resort on a point of land that extended into the Tarentine harbor. Two years later, the Roman garrison still clung to their position in the citadel, preventing Hannibal from taking full advantage of this seaport, and accenting his recent loss of Salapia.

  The Roman Senate understood that the garrison trapped in Tarentum was essential to reclaiming the city and preventing the potential arrival of reinforcements from King Philip. Midsummer, the Senate directed Marcellus’ co-consul Laevinus to send thirty transport ships filled with grain from Sicily to resupply the men in the citadel. A Roman naval officer by the name of Decimus Quinctius was assigned to escort the transports to Tarentum with five triremes.

  The Tarentine navy led by Nico Percon intercepted the fleet before it reached Tarentum’s protected harbor. At the height of the ensuing naval battle, the bows of the two lead ships plunged into each other. Nico leapt onto the Roman vessel and ran his sword through Decimus’ midsection. The momentum of the battle immediately turned. The transport ships never made it to the citadel with their grain.

  About the time of this failed effort, we broke camp outside Meles and began the long march south in search of Hannibal. By the evening of the third day we were halfway through the Apennines on our way back to Via Latina. I was sitting near the camp entrance, making some notes on my wax pad, when a Roman soldier, riding at a furious pace, pulled up his mount in front of our camp. I stood to get a better look. The man slid from his horse as though exhausted. One of the guards assisted him into camp, and with the help of two others, took him directly to headquarters.

  The soldier’s arrival caused a minor stir in the camp, and when I returned to my tent as curious as everyone else, Statorius stood at the entrance. “Where have you been?” he demanded with his usual roughness.

  “Sitting near the front gate, sir.”

  “Learn to be close to your tent and accountable at a moment’s notice—day or night. Come with me.”

  As far as I knew, I was in trouble. I followed Statorius across the camp to headquarters. Four guards stood on duty instead of two.

  Statorius presented me to the guards. “The scribe from the second cohort, as the consul requested.”

  One of the guards pulled back the flap to the tent. I went in. Statorius remained outside.

  Marcellus stood in the center of the tent, flanked by his four commanders and Asellus. Marcus stood off to one side. Marcellus addressed me immediately. “Scribe, take detailed notes of everything this man says.” He motioned to a man lying on the divan across the tent. It was the soldier who had just arrived on horseback. His armor had been removed, revealing a red tunic stained black with dried blood. A pillow propped up his head.

  “At the beginning of the campaign,” said Marcellus to his officers, “I sent Gnaeus Fulvius to Herdonea with two legions to reclaim it from the Carthaginians. His last report spoke of great progress. That was a week ago. According to this soldier, Hannibal attacked and destroyed Fulvius’ two legions this morning outside Herdonea.”

  A thick sense of dread swelled within the tent. We had been twenty miles from Herdonea when we had taken Salapia. Our route from Meles had taken us west across the Apennines. Hannibal’s army must have passed within miles of
us on their way to Herdonea. We hadn’t the slightest idea they were there—or even could be there.

  “Fulvius and eleven of his tribunes died in the battle,” Marcellus said somberly. “More than ten thousand soldiers were killed, many more taken prisoner. The survivors are headed this way in small bands, looking for our camp. This man was the first to find us. That’s what he’s already told me. I asked him to hold the rest of his story until my officers could be assembled.” He crossed the tent to stand by the man. “Continue.”

  The soldier sat up with difficulty. A deep gash on his temple disfigured his face. “It’s true,” he gasped. “The tribunes and our general are all dead.” He shook his head with fatigue. “We’d just heard that Hannibal had retreated to Tarentum because of the reversal at Salapia. We figured it was the perfect time to advance on Herdonea and didn’t take the precautions we should have. Hannibal appeared without warning with thirty thousand men. We had just over twenty thousand, but Fulvius wasn’t the sort to turn down a battle.”

  Marcellus glanced at his officers.

  “We formed two lines—mirroring Hannibal’s formation. Our Fifth got right into the battle, with a supporting allied legion on their left. The Sixth stood behind with another allied legion. For a good part of the morning, we maintained order. Not a single standard out of place, each maniple holding rank. When we advanced the second line, Hannibal’s light cavalry circled around us from behind. Order broke down. The Sixth legion fell first. Then the Fifth. It became a blood bath.” He hung his head. “They hit our camp while we were still engaged. The shrieks and cries of our guards could be heard above the battle din.”

  Marcellus looked directly at Asellus. “Hannibal’s cavalry is divided into heavy and light. Their heavy matches well with ours, but we have nothing like their light, the speedy Numidians. They are commanded by Maharbal, a clever man whom Hannibal gives free rein.”

  Asellus nodded.

  “Sometimes the Numidians lead a second horse and switch to the fresh mount while riding,” added the injured man. “It’s total havoc if you’re not prepared.”

  Marcellus sought the eyes of his other officers.

  “The surprise did us in, sir. It seems Hannibal got word that Fulvius was intent on taking Herdonea. He had his agents pass the word that his army was moving farther to the south. Then he triple-timed his foot soldiers and let his baggage lag behind. I still don’t know how he could have crossed such a great distance so quickly.”

  “But what was that distance?” asked Marcellus, not to the soldier, but to all of us. “We don’t know how many days he marched or even where he started.” Marcellus crossed the room to the map and looked down at the red and black markers. “We had three possible locations for Hannibal’s army, but they were no better than wild guesses. All we know for certain is where he was this afternoon.”

  Marcellus reached out with his left hand and removed the four red markers representing Fulvius’ army. He placed six black markers on the plain outside Herdonea. “This is where Hannibal and his army were last seen.” He said this as though Hannibal could make his army appear and disappear at will. “Tomorrow at dawn, we will pack up and head to Herdonea along this route.” He used his right index finger to trace the path we would follow. “I don’t expect to find Hannibal there when we arrive. But he should be no more than three days ahead of us. We’ll try to make up one of those days with forced marching. Our intention will be to find him and immediately engage him in battle.”

  The allied prefect, Papus Laetorius, spoke up. “With no disrespect, Consul, I wonder if our army is large enough to confront Hannibal’s? Shouldn’t we request reinforcements?”

  “We know where he is now and there’s no telling where he’ll be next. We can’t wait for reinforcements. We must make contact with him as soon as possible. We can increase our numbers by collecting stragglers from Fulvius’ army.”

  “But the man is a genius. Wouldn’t it be prudent to have another legion?”

  Marcellus glared at Papus. “The man has shown great ingenuity on the battlefield, but he’s not a magician. We’ll do with what we have.”

  Papus looked at the ground.

  Marcellus continued. “When you address your tribunes and when they address their men, repeat what I’ve said about the deftness with which our enemy moves. We must match that.

  “And one thing we must never forget,” he said with increasing gravity, “make no assumptions about Hannibal or the location of his army. We will only accept his position as accurate when it comes from reports by our scouts or through our own eyes. Every step we take will be with caution. Every concealing forest, every rise, every gulley will be passed with readiness for battle. It may be that Hannibal can defeat every other Roman army, but he won’t defeat this one by deception. In any and all cases, we will be prepared.”

  This was the moment Marcellus had been waiting for. He had encountered Hannibal twice during the war, both times when defending Nola. Now he had the freedom to go after him.

  “Go to your tribunes,” he said, nearly glowing with the prospect of battle. “Tell them we strike camp at daybreak. Scribe, stay here.” Marcellus stared down at the map. “I have work for you.”

  The officers filed out of the tent one by one. Marcus was the last to leave. He lingered at the tent flap. He appeared tense and apprehensive. In camp, Marcellus gave Marcus no preferential treatment. The consul lifted his head. “Tribune, have a stretcher prepared for this soldier. He will need somewhere to sleep tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcus gave a glance to me then ducked out of the tent.

  Marcellus addressed me. “Write a dispatch to the Senate in Rome. Describe the events that led to Fulvius’ death and his army’s defeat. Tell them I will track down Hannibal and make him pay for it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I began a draft of the letter immediately. Two soldiers came to the tent with a stretcher and took away the wounded soldier. Marcellus continued to study the map as though waiting for it to speak to him. After a while he looked up at me. “Timon, if we consider all three of these locations as possible starting points, and Herdonea the end point, and that it took Hannibal seven days to get there, could you calculate his marching speed from each location to Herdonea?”

  “Yes, sir, but they’ll only be approximations. I have a long way to go with these maps.”

  “I understand. Make those calculations after you finish the letter. I can only predict where Hannibal will be if I know how far his army can travel in a day.”

  CHAPTER 32

  We marched the entire next day, often uphill and on rough ground. I was exhausted by the time we finally stopped to set camp much later in the day than usual.

  Sitting around the campfire that night, I listened to the animated talk of the new recruits matched by the sobering stories of the veteran Pulcher. The talk always returned to Hannibal. Every solider from lowly velite to seasoned triarius knew that our general had one goal, confronting Hannibal on the battlefield. When would we find him? Could we defeat him? What kind of man was he? Those were the questions of the night.

  “I heard that he was ungodly large,” said Decius, a handsome, well-chiseled young man, perhaps six or seven years my elder. “Twice the size of an ordinary man.”

  “And his skin is black as night,” added Livius, standing behind our circle around the campfire. Livius had a wife and three children in Rome, and talked incessantly of when he might see them again. “I heard he can only be killed by a stake driven through his heart.”

  “That’s all rubbish,” snorted Pulcher. “He’s just like me or you, Livius. A man who bleeds when he’s cut and dies when he bleeds too much. But he’s clever, and a fair soldier to be sure.”

  “I would love to see Marcellus take him on with a gladius,” said Spurius, a man nearly of greater girth than height, lying on his side, surely as tired as I was.

  Pulcher scowled. “It may be that Marcellus can handle a sword as well as any Roman ever
has, but he’s no longer young. He nears his sixtieth year. Hannibal is not yet forty and in the prime of his life. When Marcellus is in the field, our job is to protect him.”

  “Aye,” the rest of our unit chorused, their eager faces illuminated by the flickering glow of the campfire.

  “One thing you can be sure of,” continued the sub-centurion, the flashing flames making this ugly man look like a monster, “we will march from one end of Italy to the other to find him, and not until he’s dead will our general give us rest.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gnaeus, another married man, but one who seemed to enjoy life with his fellow soldiers more than being home. “I thought we knew where he was.”

  “Where is Hannibal?” Pulcher laughed. Due to an especially deep scar that ran the length of his left cheek, laughter contorted his face, denying any sense of mirth. “That’s the question we’ll be asking every day from here on out. We have an idea where he was today—Herdonea, but we don’t know if he’s still there. He does nothing but move. One day he’s ten miles ahead of you, the next he’s ten behind. Then all of a sudden he’s coming out of the forest on either side of you. Where is Hannibal? No one ever knows until they’re fighting him.”

  Pulcher might have been exaggerating, but we all knew what he meant. Hannibal had bewildered every Roman general he had fought, and in all manner of ways—ambushes, feints, hidden troops, and forced marches. Yes, the Carthaginian general was an ordinary man in body, but as smart a field marshal as the world had ever known. Even with the bubbling enthusiasm and bravado inspired by the prospect of the summer’s first major battle, trepidation for fighting Hannibal ran through the minds of young soldiers and veterans alike.

  As a Greek and an outsider, I just listened to the banter, trying to fit in as best as I could. I had become the butt of humor among my peers, and yet was respected, more than that, valued for my mind, by one of the most influential officers in the Roman military. How strange, I thought. The situation had been similar in Syracuse. I was appreciated by Archimedes, the most famous mathematician in the world, and ridiculed by the kitchen staff I worked with.