The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  Statorius grabbed the lens from me and extended it to Marcus. “This man is a sorcerer, sir. I was going to bring him to you.”

  Marcus sat back on his horse. I’m sure he had seen that I was about to be struck, but when he saw the lens, he also knew why these men might be upset. He inspected the lens as though he had never seen it before and handed it back to me. “What is this, scribe?”

  “Not sorcery, sir, just natural principles. Look here. Come to the edge of the stream.”

  I led the three officers and twenty other men to the edge of the fast running stream. A deep pool spooled by the bank. “Give me one of your pila,” I said to anyone.

  A legionnaire held his out to me. I took the spear and inserted it in the pool at a location where the surface was still and you could see several feet down into the water.

  “See that,” I said. “The pilum shaft appears to bend at the surface of the water.”

  Twenty some faces leaned over and saw what was very obvious. I pulled the pilum from the water and demonstrated that it was still straight.

  “The clear water is like the clear crystal. What we see changes when we look through them. It’s not magic. It’s just,” I hesitated, “just the way things are.”

  Everyone there was enthralled by the demonstration. It definitely impressed them that I knew something so intriguing, but they really weren’t sure what it was. Statorius rubbed his chin and frowned.

  Marcus settled it. “This is no different than birds flying. It’s unusual, but it’s also a natural occurrence. This Greek is no sorcerer. He’s simply been educated in science. Get back in formation. It’s time to move out.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Several days later, just as it seemed Hannibal would do anything to avoid a confrontation, the scouts came back to the column reporting that Hannibal was camped ten miles ahead and that we could reach him by the end of the day. Marcellus immediately doubled our scouting parties and issued an order for heightened vigilance in the column. The soldiers had grown weary of the chase, and though there was clear apprehension about a second battle with the Carthaginians, excitement quickened our pace.

  Late that afternoon we came over a hill in south Apulia. Hannibal’s camp sat on the far side of a wide expanse of pasture. The location was likely chosen because of the openness of the land and the presence of a small stream that ran along the north edge of the field.

  We immediately made camp in preparation for battle the next morning. Spirits in the camp were unusually high. Although any evening before battle was tense, the Roman soldier thrived on combat. The culture of Rome promoted the glory of war. This was what all young men dreamed of, and there could be no glory greater than defeating Hannibal.

  Marcellus called a staff meeting that night. I was there in headquarters early to sketch a map of our current location and would stay through the meeting to take notes. Accurate notes for these meetings, which I copied onto papyrus when I had the chance, had become an obsession with Marcellus. He wanted documentation for everything he did, knowing that regardless of his success or failure, he would be questioned in detail by a certain cluster of senators when he returned to Rome.

  About the time I settled into drawing the map, a new officer, Lucius Cornelius Lentulus, arrived at the camp to replace Veturius Pollio, who remained in Numistro. Not yet thirty-five, Lentulus was the cousin of Publius Cornelius Lentulus, the man who had taken Marcellus to task for his management of the siege of Syracuse. Lucius Lentulus, who had no such grudge against Marcellus, had recently been promoted to general, and though young compared to the other senior officers, had acquired a reputation for intelligence and energy. Marcellus, who was always looking for Rome’s best men, made a specific request to add him to the staff.

  Lentulus came to headquarters early to receive his orders. I looked up from my work when the handsome, fair-haired man entered the tent. Marcellus welcomed him with unusual warmth.

  “I feel very fortunate to have you as part of my staff,” said Marcellus, giving the man a firm embrace. “You’ll be the legate for the Twentieth legion. As I’m sure you’ve heard, Hannibal is camped nearby. The other officers will be here for a briefing.”

  “Thank you for this opportunity, Consul.” Lentulus spoke with confidence and enthusiasm. “This is my first command and what could be better than an opportunity to give battle to Hannibal.”

  Marcus slipped into the tent and immediately smiled upon seeing Lentulus. Marcus had known Lentulus since his youth, and he embraced him as warmly as his father had. They talked briefly about their families, but the pleasantries were quickly put aside when the other officers began to filter in.

  Asellus, the other three legion commanders, and the tribune Gaius Flavus filled out the meeting. After Lentulus was introduced and welcomed, the group grew serious.

  Marcellus projected patience and calm, but everyone in the meeting knew that he was drawn taut as a tent line. He probably slept less than any man in camp, yet never looked tired. All his energy focused on Hannibal and a strategy to defeat him.

  Marcellus paced the length of the tent twice, seemingly oblivious to the other men, then suddenly stopped and faced his officers. “I’m not sure why Hannibal has chosen to stop here after leading us around in circles the last two weeks. The wide-open ground surely favors his mix of cavalry and infantry, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. We won’t have the luxury of cutting off one flank like we did in Numistro. Hannibal may never allow us that option again.

  “Our tactics will be a variation of what we did in Venusia. We’ll have scouts out all night. If they don’t find any hidden troops, we’ll march out of camp at daybreak and assume two lines just as we did in Numistro. We’ll use the legion from Aesernia and the Twentieth to form the first line.” Marcellus looked directly at Lentulus, then led the men over to the map. Markers were in place to represent the pieces of both Hannibal’s army and ours. I moved away from the table to make room for the officers.

  “If the scouts discover hidden troops, we’ll decline battle. If Hannibal takes the battlefield before we do, and there are no hidden squadrons, I will make an assessment of his troop alignment and adjust our formation appropriately. If any of you see anything of note, I want to know immediately. As long as there are no surprises, I know we can hold our own. Until we are on the battlefield, we will arm the trenches with velites in case Hannibal decides to pester us with his Numidians. Any thoughts?”

  “Yes, Consul,” replied Asellus. “As you noted, because of the ground, we will be forced to present two open flanks. This will spread my cavalry awfully thin if our priority is to defend the flanks and the rear from the Numidians. If we stagger the second line, we could provide some protection for one flank.” Asellus moved the markers to the position he suggested. “It would allow our cavalry to concentrate on the other flank.”

  Marcellus looked down at the map, studying the implications of Asellus’ suggestion. “There’s a critical trade-off with that. We lose balance when the second line advances and that could leave Hannibal an opening during the transition.”

  “Unless the battle is decided before that’s necessary,” ventured Lentulus. He was new to the campaign but, as I would learn, was never hesitant to offer an opinion.

  Marcellus though a moment. “No, I’m not sold on this, but let’s not forget it either. We may decide it’s a better option after seeing Hannibal’s deployment.”

  “What if Hannibal doesn’t offer battle?” asked Laetorius, whose allied troops would share the front line with the Twentieth.

  “Why would the man suddenly stop like this if he has no intention of fighting?” demanded Purpurio.

  “That’s our biggest problem, General,” said Marcellus, “half of what Hannibal does is designed to frustrate us.”

  “I don’t like it, sir. Rather than try to play this game with him, why not take the initiative. I believe the men want to fight it out.”

  “And so do I, but we won’t swing a punch until
we’ve double-checked everything. As I said, head-to-head we are the better army—as long as we can contain his cavalry. Asellus, can you manage two flanks?”

  Asellus grinned without humor. “I believe there’s only one answer you will accept, sir. Yes, of course, we are up to it.”

  “Then we will wait for news from the scouts in the morning. That’s all I have for now.”

  Lentulus spoke out. “Admittedly, sir, I am new to this command. I don’t have the experience with Hannibal that all of you have. But why has he been so reluctant to engage?”

  “It’s uncertain, General,” said Marcellus. “There has been some speculation about Hannibal’s health and the condition of his troops. Neither can be confirmed. For the time being, our working premise is that he’s limiting combat to conserve his troops while he waits for reinforcements. Otherwise, he’s simply taunting us, trying to lure us into a mistake.”

  Lentulus nodded slowly as though pondering what Marcellus had said.

  “Prepare your men for the morning,” said Marcellus. “As soon as I hear from the scouts, I will issue orders.”

  This concluded the meeting. The officers filed out of the tent. Marcus remained after the others had left.

  “Is there any reason, sir, why you have placed my command in the second line?”

  Marcellus was staring down at the map. He gave the slightest glance to his son. “The Eighteenth legion took the hardest hit in Numistro. The Twentieth is in better shape right now.”

  Marcus glanced at me then ducked out of the tent.

  CHAPTER 42

  The scouts who had been out all night reported to Marcellus at dawn. They had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Varus Nasica, who it seemed had taken Marcellus’ advice to heart, once again reported the God of War’s approval. Soon afterward, Marcellus gave the order to assemble in front of the camp.

  The sun was peeking over the trees to the east when our men drew up in formation. I stood on a slight rise to the west of our camp to observe.

  Marcellus rode his white charger back and forth between the first and second line, giving encouragement to the legionnaires and issuing last-minute instructions to the officers.

  Hannibal’s troops never came out of their camp. At noon, Marcellus withdrew the second line, then the first. The rest of the day was quiet except for the mumbling of the soldiers. Their opponent was losing his luster. None of them spoke with fear of Hannibal anymore. Marcellus, who as much as anyone wanted another full engagement, remained patient.

  The next day went just like the first. The scouts found nothing unusual. The troops lined up and waited. The pre-battle tension diminished each time we did this. By midmorning the soldiers were beating their shields and screaming insults at the Carthaginian camp, but Hannibal’s troops never appeared.

  When Marcellus spoke to his commanders that night, he confronted growing impatience. Purpurio suggested attacking Hannibal’s camp. It was a sign of the level of frustration in the men. Attacking a well-fortified camp usually resulted in a much greater loss of life for the aggressor than their opposition.

  “Then perhaps we impose a siege,” suggested Pacuvius Calavius.

  Marcellus shook his head. “With twice our number that might work. With what we have, we would be spread too thin, leaving ourselves open to greater losses if Hannibal suddenly made a break for it.”

  Three more days passed with the same result. The mood in the staff meetings grew increasingly uncomfortable. At the beginning of the campaign, the officers had never questioned Marcellus’ methods. Rarely had anyone even voiced an opinion. Now the meetings stretched out into long arguments. Everyone had a suggestion. Marcellus continued to push patience.

  The long days of unanswered anxiety wore on all the men. Except for foraging parties, everyone was confined to the camp. Petty fights broke out between soldiers periodically throughout the day. One had to wonder if Hannibal were simply intent on creating dissension in our ranks.

  On two occasions, Marcus and I relieved the tedium by pursuing the subtleties of plane geometry. Lentulus chanced by Marcus’ tent while we were concluding one of our sessions.

  Marcus welcomed him with an embrace, then grabbed him by the shoulders and looked into his face. “I knew one day we would serve together, Lentulus. Thank the gods, my father put you in charge of the Twentieth. I don’t think I could stand being under your command.”

  Both men laughed.

  “I never imagined it would be this way,” continued Marcus, “us chasing down Hannibal with the future of Rome on the line.”

  Lentulus was a bold man with a dynamic personality. “What limited your imagination, Marcus? Aren’t we Romans destined to be attacked from all sides? By barbarian kings and Persian satraps of all breed and color? One can’t be the greatest republic since the beginning of time without expecting the world’s most ambitious to try your mettle.”

  “You might be right about that,” said Marcus with a chuckle, then he got serious. “What do you think of the Carthaginian? Is he not something special?”

  Lentulus strode around the tent, taking in the modest living space. An oil lamp burned on the table where we had been working. He turned back to Marcus with his head slightly tilted and his right brow upraised. “I don’t understand Hannibal’s delay. That’s not special at all. Hannibal will only be special to me when he’s dead.”

  “This man is no common soldier, Lentulus. You don’t know him yet. We have dogged him all summer and encamped across from him as we are tonight innumerable times. Only once have we engaged in combat. His source of mercenaries has been stretched thin. He will risk nothing, and accepts battle only when he sees certain victory. The way he winds through the hills, he’s as dangerous as an adder in a tent. He’s as likely to double back on us as disappear for two weeks. There are no easy moments with Hannibal. Even when he retreats, he seems to wear you down.”

  “That will only make the final victory more satisfying,” Lentulus crowed. “Yes, I know who sits across the way. But the way I see it, he is the only opponent worthy of a Roman’s blood. So how do we lure him out for a fight?”

  “There’s more to it than that, my friend. We’ll see what you’re saying in another month.”

  Lentulus tipped his head as though he wasn’t convinced, then looked at me. “Who’s this Greek in your tent, Marcus? A slave you bring along for your pleasure?”

  Marcus responded with more ire than I would have expected. “Mind your tongue, Lentulus.” I wondered if the episode with Capitolinus years before provided a history for this crude joke from an old friend. “This man is no slave. He’s our mapmaker and a brilliant tutor. His name is Timon Leonidas.”

  Lentulus grinned showing his teeth. “I saw him in headquarters when I first arrived. He looks quite young. What could he possibly be teaching you but Greek tragedy?”

  “Geometry,” I blurted out. “The most powerful knowledge there is.”

  “I’ll not have insolence from a youth.” Lentulus stepped toward me, hand cocked.

  Marcus stepped between us. “Strike me first, Lentulus.”

  The two young men puffed up like bantam roosters, then Lentulus pulled back. “Marcus,” he said suddenly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I meant nothing.”

  Marcus, always quick to heat, pushed his arm away. “Then say nothing when you mean nothing. This man is as important as any to this campaign.”

  Lentulus glared at Marcus.

  Marcus clenched his fists in anger, then caught himself. “See what this Carthaginian is doing to us? We’re all on edge.”

  Lentulus nodded. “You’re right. My apologies, Timon.” He extended his hand and I accepted it.

  “Had you been there in Syracuse and seen the work of Archimedes,” said Marcus, “you would know why my father has enlisted the talents of Timon.”

  “Tell me something about this most powerful knowledge in the world, Timon. If this Hannibal is as crafty as Marcus says, we might need some of this science
before the campaign is over. I’ve heard something of lines and circles. Tell me something more?”

  I looked at Marcus and he nodded.

  “Much of geometry stems from the principles of the triangle,” I said, going to the table and using my stylus to draw a three-sided figure on my wax pad.

  Marcus smiled because he knew this beginning all too well. I thought Lentulus might become sarcastic, but he proved curious and followed my demonstration intently. He would come back on other evenings and sit in on the lessons. I even grew to like this somewhat impetuous and personally powerful young officer.

  CHAPTER 43

  The following morning Hannibal was gone. Even the scouts hadn’t seen him leave. We began the process of breaking down camp shortly after daybreak. The tents went first, then the palisades.

  My tentmates had hardly spoken to me except in ridicule through the first ten weeks of the campaign. Since the demonstration with the magnifying lens, however, I had gained a modicum of respect, though to be sure, I still remained an easy target for teasing.

  While pulling the stakes, Pulcher asked me what Marcellus was thinking. Our little group stopped working to listen. They all knew I spent several evenings a week in the headquarters’ tent.

  “I can’t say for certain, sir. I know he’s as frustrated as you are, but he also hasn’t let down his guard. All through the campaign, his position has remained the same. Never underestimate Hannibal. He has a motive for his every action or inaction. As far as I can tell, our general believes that the best philosophy with Hannibal is to accept that nothing is as it appears. Caution trumps impatience.”

  Pulcher nodded at the reason of my words. Decius, another reasonable man when you dug down deep enough, also seemed to understand. Seppius frowned. “Hannibal is a coward. That’s how I see it.”

  “And what if this is his game?” I asked. “What if all his stalling is designed to draw us into a trap? Or break the morale of the camp? What if this is his intention? We get so frustrated we take a risk. We do something stupid like rush his camp. I’ve heard that suggested more than once by the men.”