The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  Pollio considered this. “And you will follow, knowing he will not engage until he feels he can win?”

  Marcellus stroked down his neck with his left hand and allowed another long pause. For all his apparent calm, Marcellus was drawn taut within. The strain showed in the creases around his eyes. “Yes.” He gave a tug to his horse’s reins and rode off.

  Marcellus had always been distant, but he was growing more so.

  The legate shook his head and also rode away.

  My thoughts returned to Marcus’ concerns about his father. I simply did not agree. Marcellus was measuring the risks and not overreaching.

  CHAPTER 38

  After the confrontation at Numistro, Marcellus began to believe that Hannibal was running out of time. He had lost four cities in the first two months of the summer. This cut into Hannibal’s stores of grain for the winter and his flexibility of movement during the season of war. If they couldn’t beat him, as Fabius had long preached, the steady loss of Latin support would force Hannibal to return to Africa.

  Marcellus struggled with this strategy even as he saw it working, working so well, in fact, that Hannibal had taken on Fabius’ tactics, turning down battle, picking off foraging parties, minimizing losses, only engaging when the situation was perfect. But Numistro had given Marcellus confidence. He had seen his heavy infantry hold their own against Hannibal’s, even, arguably, outfight them. And the tactic of using his cavalry to neutralize the Numidians had worked. Marcellus wanted nothing of this war of attrition. He wanted to defeat Hannibal here and now. Although he had not said it out aloud, it was clear. He wanted the glory.

  The next two weeks evolved into a tortuous game of cat and mouse, except this mouse was capable of killing the cat. By leaving Numistro at night, Hannibal’s army had more than a full day’s lead on us. Hannibal’s cleverness added to the problem. We could not simply march after him. Because of the Carthaginian’s history for ambush, Marcellus was forced to take every precaution when following him. Under no circumstances did we march except in full daylight, battle ready, and with far-ranging parties of scouts.

  Well aware that Marcellus was following him, Hannibal would leave men behind to target our scouts. Several were captured or killed. Twice he left small squadrons of Balearic slingers hidden in the forest that were not spotted by our scouts. On both occasions we found ourselves showered by well-slung pellets of lead. Fearful of a full-scale ambush, Marcellus had brought the entire train to a halt both times with orders to align for battle, only to have no one to fight. It was as though the fear of ambush had begun to work against us as much as the reality. We began to jump at our own shadow. No turn in the road, no cluster of trees wasn’t filled with the specter of our enemy—Balearic slingers or perhaps Hannibal’s entire army.

  The Carthaginian’s tactics were more than just pestering. He wanted to slow us down. I imagined that his army was in worse shape than ours and that he was simply stalling for time to heal.

  The two armies zigzagged across the peninsula in this way from Lucania to Apulia. The forests and hills made it especially dangerous country for ambush. Then, just as it seemed that our chase would never end, our advance men came back one morning with news that Hannibal was camped outside Venusia, easily attained by afternoon. Fearing this could be a trap, Marcellus led us to Venusia with heightened caution. We encamped that evening opposite Hannibal, separated by two miles of gently rolling hills.

  That night Marcellus called a meeting with Asellus and three of his commanders. Veturius Pollio was still in Numistro. Marcus and Gaius Flavus were there as aides. I took notes.

  Each of the generals reported on the state of their legions. Purpurio emphasized that frustration was building in all the men. They were tired of marching and eager for battle.

  Marcellus might have said the same thing for himself, and yet, to the surprise of his officers, his strategy was the opposite. “We will not offer battle in the morning,” he said. “Should Hannibal offer first, we will not answer.”

  Marcellus strode the length of the tent and back. “There must be some reason Hannibal has stopped here. Judging from our previous encounter, and what has gone on in the days since, we are a force equal to his. He might have some edge with his cavalry, but as long as we are aware of that, it can be minimized. Hannibal surely saw that in Numistro and won’t offer battle unless he has some advantage. So why here and now? As I survey this ground, I don’t see what that advantage is.” Marcellus looked around the tent. “Do any of you?”

  I watched Marcus. He was watching the others, as was Asellus. Purpurio, the one most disturbed by Marcellus’ announcement, stared hard at Marcellus, but no one could answer his question.

  “As I said,” continued Marcellus, “should Hannibal align for battle tomorrow, we will not answer. This will give us a chance to appraise his formation and perhaps determine why he chose this location.”

  “I disagree, Consul.” Purpurio’s voice was deep and forceful. “I believe we should show the initiative. The men are far too restless from these weeks of marching to hole up in camp if Hannibal is out there ready for combat. We’ll get the best from our men if we stand to at sunrise. After all of Hannibal’s games, I think their thirst for another go at him will serve us well in battle.”

  “And that’s what he expects, and presumably wants, General. I believe it’s wiser to assume that Hannibal has set us up. Let’s see what he has to offer in the morning.”

  “But, sir, I know my men. They will find it dishonorable.”

  “And in another war, against another man, so would I. Tell them my reasoning. Tell them we want Hannibal to wonder what we are thinking for once.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Both camps were quiet the next morning. Lazy curls of smoke rose above the palisades, but as the morning grew long, our men became restless. While the officers encouraged patience, the soldiers, as Purpurio had predicted, grumbled among themselves. “Let’s get on with it,” barked Pulcher to the air, as those around him stewed with the anxiety that comes with putting your life on the line.

  At midday the Carthaginian camp began to stir. Hannibal’s army marched from their camp and formed two battle lines, much as they had outside Numistro. They stood ready for some time while our soldiers fretted and complained. Marcellus would have none of it. There would be no battle that day. He stood in one of the camp’s towers and glared across at his adversary, visible on his black horse, riding back and forth between the lines.

  When we didn’t answer, the Carthaginian soldiers began to beat their swords on their shields and scream insults at our camp. The tension inside our camp grew. The soldiers began to mumble and stalk about. Marcellus ignored it all and simply stared out at the formation, trying to see what it was that Hannibal was up to.

  Suddenly five hundred Numidian cavalry, pacing anxiously on the left flank, kicked their horses’ sides and galloped across the field directly to our camp. Many of our soldiers were at the camp walls watching, hoping for the command to face the hated enemy. The Numidians broke into five clusters and raced up to our ramparts, launching their darts into the camp, then pulling off to ride away. Most of their darts went for naught, but five men were struck, causing an angry uproar in the camp. Marcellus made no move to change his stance on the day.

  The Numidians cut their retreat and turned back to face our camp. Behind them the clanging of swords and shields increased. Abuse in ten languages screamed at us. Hannibal pranced and paraded before his men, clearly enjoying the entire scene, well aware of the pressure it put on Marcellus.

  The Numidians again kicked their horses’ sides and raced helter-skelter at the walls of our camp, letting go with another rain of darts before retreating. As before, most of their weapons fell harmlessly to the ground or stuck in the palisades, but some found bleeding targets, and the soldiers’ frustration climbed another notch.

  Marcellus could not ignore the men’s growing ire and gave the command to deploy velite javelineers at the front
of the camp, hidden in the ditches. At the same time, Marcellus ordered three of our finest scouts to stand ready at the camp’s rear exit.

  The circumstances repeated. The Numidians circled among themselves at a distance from the camp. The Celtibarian infantry and savage Gauls beat their weapons and hurled insults to inflame the Roman pride. The Numidians broke into clusters and raced to the edge of our trenches, launching a third wave of darts. This time, however, they were surprised by the javelineers. A handful went down.

  While this mostly harmless jousting occurred, the three scouts slipped out the rear gate and disappeared into the forest that surrounded the battle field.

  For a fourth time the Numidians gathered out of range and circled on their horses hooting and hollering. Behind them the Carthaginian trumpets blared. The first line of heavy infantry began to march toward our camp. The soldiers in our camp were now in a frenzy. The centurions cursed at their men and demanded control. But they were just as ready for battle as the Carthaginian infantry. Marcellus stood in the tower and gave the command to man the walls as the Carthaginian first line tromped forward, now halfway across the field. Even with my limited knowledge of the art of warfare, it seemed impossible that Hannibal would attack an entrenched Roman army.

  And yet the Numidian horseman came careening up to our trenches, again launching their darts and veering this way and that to dodge the javelins sailing back at them. The soldiers at the palisades were screaming now, shaking their gladii, jeering at the advancing army. Despite the improbability of attack, I was so frightened by the prospect of the enemy mounting our walls that I drew my dagger and steeled myself for combat.

  Then, just as suddenly as the whole charade began, the Carthaginian trumpets blew again. The advancing line abruptly stopped. The Numidians threw unintelligible insults over their shoulders and rode back into formation on the left flank. The formation stood still long enough to further frustrate our men, then turned and filed back into their camp.

  Late that afternoon Statorius came down our row of tents. Pulcher stood with Decius and Gnaeus, a man who seemed to love war more than time with his family, and who had been the most vocal during the moments of frustration.

  “The scouts just returned,” said Statorius to the sub-centurion.

  “What was their report?”

  I sat inside the tent. The flap was open.

  “Sometime during the night Hannibal sent his brother Mago out with two thousand Carthaginian cavalry.” Statorius spit on the ground. “They were hidden behind four swales in the trees to the west. All that we saw this afternoon was designed to lure us out, so that Hannibal could engage our line, then attack from the rear with his hidden horse.”

  “It’s something Hannibal has done before,” replied Pulcher, giving a look to Decius and Gnaeus.

  Decius nodded. Gnaeus looked away, surely understanding what it said about our general’s patience. I hoped this would also make an impact on Marcus. I didn’t feel his concerns about his father were justified.

  CHAPTER 40

  The next morning Hannibal was gone. Again he had marched away in the middle of the night. Before we had been surprised by this, now it seemed that every soldier understood what we were up against—a field marshal who made the rules up as he pleased.

  The discovery of Mago’s hidden cavalry squadrons also provided the common soldier with an important insight into Marcellus. His caution was different than Fabius’. Marcellus was absolutely ready to take on Hannibal, but the game of tactics had to be played and played carefully.

  We struck camp immediately and proceeded in our chase. I was always more anxious when we were on the move than when we were camped. The potential for the unexpected heightened on the road. That we marched in battle formation, scouts ahead, scouts behind, only added to the sense of danger.

  We continued in this way for another two weeks without having any contact with Hannibal’s army. The scouts could track him, but they were often chased off the trail by the Numidians. Swarms of them buzzed around the periphery of Hannibal’s army, looking for forage, Roman scouts, or likely recruits. Lives were lost, small skirmishes occurred, but there was no meeting of the full armies. Hannibal wound through the hills of Apulia leaving a trail of obstacles and diversions, and due to Marcellus’ steadfast caution, we could never travel fast enough to catch him. It was something in itself that we hadn’t lost him completely—unless, of course, that was part of Hannibal’s game.

  I spent many evenings alone with Marcellus. While I integrated new data into our set of maps, he would pace across the tent, every now and then looking at my work. If the maps had taught us anything about Hannibal’s movements, it was that he was very conscious of what he was doing, and as far as I could determine, avoided any kind of pattern.

  During these evenings alone with Marcellus, I began to think about the lenses. Would they not be the perfect complement to the maps? More than once I was tempted to show Marcellus how the two lenses worked, but this was the one secret I had promised Archimedes not to share unless my life was in danger. I kept the lenses in the leather pouch.

  I saw Marcellus more than his son. Marcus deliberately limited his time with me. He focused on his command, and only in rare instances did he set aside time for tutoring. On occasion we met at the corral when he took a treat to Euroclydon, but otherwise, he made an effort not to be seen with me.

  My best friend among the company of soldiers became Troglius. Despite his size and fighting capacity, he was more like a boy than a man. He didn’t like the bawdy humor of the soldiers, and was the only one more quiet than I. He would have been teased if he weren’t so physically imposing. Even as young he was, only twenty-two, no one would dare pick a fight with Troglius.

  Troglius was entirely fascinated by the crystal lens. At odd moments he would ask to look through it. A leaf, an insect, the edge of his gladius, anything could inspire him to want a look. I struggled with this because I had no interest in making the lens common knowledge. The real secret was the use of the two lenses together, but there was no good reason for me to advertise the powers of a magnifying glass to the other soldiers. I did my best to work with Troglius on this.

  I cannot deny it. I felt having Troglius as a friend was a good thing. I was not treated well in camp. I was an effeminate Greek to my immediate officers, and I wasn’t sure how far some of the other soldiers would go with their taunts.

  The topic of the lens came up one afternoon while we were on the move. The marches were grueling. I tromped along beside the soldiers with whom I shared a tent. Any time we stopped was a great relief, especially when we had a chance to get fresh water.

  We had just taken a break beside a small stream. Many of us took the opportunity to get a drink. As our unit and another returned to the column, Troglius plucked a butterfly from the air. With everyone watching, he focused one eye on the insect pinched between his fingers while the other eye glimmered at me. “Can I use the magic crystal?”

  When I hesitated, Decius announced it again for anyone within ten miles. “Magic crystal? What exactly is that, Greek?”

  “What? What? What?” echoed from several other soldiers.

  Pulcher heard the questions and pushed his way into the group. “What is this, Greek? What sort of magic have you got?”

  Troglius, my friend, dug the hole a little deeper. “He can make the small look big.”

  A dozen faces pushed up from behind our sub-centurion. I realized I had no other choice. I removed the lens from the leather pouch, leaving the smaller lens within. “Look here,” I said, kneeling on the ground and holding the lens over an ant crawling across the dirt.

  Pulcher took the first look. His eyes widened and he turned to me. “What is this?”

  The other soldiers pressed in closer, not really getting a chance to look, but drawn in by the accusation in Pulcher’s voice.

  “A crystal lens. It can make small things appear large. Let’s look at Troglius’ butterfly.” By then it was dead,
but it was still a fantastic specimen to inspect.

  Troglius held out his hand and I took a look. I had never tried this before and was entirely captivated by the intricacy and color of the wing. Pulcher pushed his head in next to mine, crowding me away so he could look.

  “Jupiter,” he swore, then stood up, drawing more soldiers in.

  Statorius suddenly rushed down the column to where we were gathered over the beautiful butterfly.

  “What horse shit is going on here?” he shouted at command level. Everyone snapped to attention—except me and Troglius. Statorius whacked his hip with his vine-stick and glared down at me.

  Troglius looked up at him. “See for yourself, sir?”

  No one else could have gotten away with this. Statorius bent over and peered through the lens. The elaborate patterns of the butterfly wing set against the detail of Troglius’ palm completely baffled him. He passed his hand beneath the lens, narrowed his eyes, then slowly looked over at me. “What is this, Greek?”

  “It’s magic, sir,” said Troglius. “The Greek knows magic.”

  Statorius didn’t like it. He knew that I had been Archimedes’ slave. He had taken part in the siege of Syracuse and had seen Archimedes’ weapons, the mirrors and the claws. To him, Archimedes was a sorcerer, and this lens was sorcery. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. Troglius stood on his own, startled by the centurion’s reaction.

  Statorius looked into the faces all around him. “This Greek is dangerous.”

  “No, I’m not,” I pleaded. “This isn’t magic. It’s a natural phenomenon.”

  Statorius raised his hand, about to strike me with the vine-stick, when Marcus rode up on Euroclydon. “Centurion,” he demanded. “What’s going on here?”