The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  Our men returned to camp in no order. The battlefield was covered three deep with the dead and wounded. The cost of the encounter had been vast to both sides, the number of dead catastrophic. Over a third of each army had been lost in the three days of fighting. Hardly a man on either side escaped without a serious wound.

  There was no victor. What we lost one day, Hannibal lost the next. That our men could rise up from the defeat of the previous day and show such a resounding resurgence of spirit did, however, mean something to Marcellus. But it was a pyrrhic victory from any other perspective—and less than two miles from where Pyrrhus had similarly won a costly victory against the Romans seventy years earlier.

  Still, we had routed Hannibal’s army. Only their mad dash into camp had saved them from greater losses. A morbid elation filled our camp that night, accompanied by the cries from Olcades’ tent and the groans of the wounded who had crawled back across the battlefield after nightfall and stumbled through our gate like walking dead.

  Paint that day blood-red to match the sunset. Marcellus’ angry criticism the night before and his encouragement prior to the battle had so filled his men with passion that they seemed to fight beyond their capacity, rising to super-human efforts, ignoring wounds like immortals, only to suffer all the more for their courage when the day was over and the butcher’s bill was finally paid.

  Our cohort had been in the second line. Though all four of the soldiers in my tent had suffered debilitating wounds, even Troglius, who had received a deep puncture in his right calf—all were in the tent that night to crawl beneath their blankets.

  CHAPTER 65

  When we awoke the next morning, Hannibal was gone. His army had departed during the night, leaving camp without burying their dead. The mood was exultant in our camp, but the celebration was short-lived. Such was the state of our troops, the massive number of wounded, the loss of horses and men, that Marcellus, who finally had Hannibal on the run, decided not to go after him.

  The situation was probably much the same for Hannibal. For three days the two armies had beaten each other into a bloody mess and neither would be fit for battle for quite some time.

  Among the seriously wounded was Marcus, whose life seemed in jeopardy from the plunge of a Spanish saber in his left side. He also had a variety of other wounds, including a hard hit to the head. Many officers were in a similar state. Men with missing limbs and gaping wounds populated every tent. The surgeon enlisted teams of soldiers to help with the wounded.

  Asellus had taken a fall from his horse. His forearm had been broken and his shoulder separated. Purpurio had fared well in the second line. Nero had taken on as much hand-to-hand combat as any of the commanders and received a minimum of injury. Lentutus had lost two fingers, had nearly lost his left ear, and had taken a slinger’s pellet in the cheek. One side of his face swelled purple and black below the eye. Junius Pennus lay in the surgeon’s tent awaiting the amputation of his leg. It had been a hard three days.

  Marcellus had spent much of the battle close to the fighting. He had been forced to wield his gladius and had also suffered several ugly wounds, but one particularly bad one. He had taken an arrow in the thigh. He had yanked it from his leg in the midst of battle, tearing the puncture into a ragged hole, making a difficult injury considerably worse. Despite the huge number of severely wounded, Olcades devoted an hour to stitching up Marcellus.

  The morning after Hannibal broke camp, Marcellus called me to headquarters for a debriefing. From what I had heard in camp, I expected him to be lying in bed. Instead, he stalked from one side of the tent to the other with a hand-fashioned crutch, his leg bound from ankle to thigh with strips of linen. What I told him he already knew. Roman spirit had taken the day.

  I went to see Marcus after my report. A large tent had been set up in the south intervallum for the most severely wounded. Men lay on the ground in rows, looking more like corpses than live bodies. Olcades worked with two assistants in the center of the tent, removing a man’s arm at the shoulder. I found Marcus at the end of one row. He appeared better off than most. His eyes opened when I knelt beside him.

  “War is horrible business,” he said weakly.

  “I never doubted that,” I replied. “Two crews of soldiers are out there now fighting off the buzzards so that others can collect the dead.”

  Marcus started to lift himself into a sitting position, winced in obvious pain, and gave up the effort. “Might be burying me right now if not for Gaius Flavus. That man saved the day.” He shook his head. “And Hannibal is gone again? My father can’t possibly be thinking of chasing after him—can he?”

  Olcades’ patient let out a violent scream. We tried to ignore it, but the man howled again and again as Olcades cut through tendon, muscle, and bone with a copper-bladed saw.

  “We aren’t going after Hannibal,” I said in a break between screams. “Your father knows what shape the men are in.”

  “Thank the gods for that. Following up the debacle of the previous day might have produced a victory of sorts, but it was far too...” He stopped short of criticizing his father.

  A patient not fifteen feet away let out a deep, anguished groan.

  “How is my father?” Marcus asked.

  “Better than you, but not by much. His left leg is in bad shape. He hikes around on a crutch as though it’s nothing.”

  The tent became silent except for our conversation.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing. It could be weeks before our men will be ready for hard marching.” Marcus shuddered from a sudden spasm of pain, then gathered himself. “What about Lentulus?”

  Olcades cursed to Zeus.

  “Compared to what I see here, he was one of the fortunate.” I turned to take in the landscape of suffering. Olcades’ assistants were wrapping up the man with one less arm for burial.

  “And Nero?”

  “He’s stalking through the camp growling at everyone he sees. If it were up to him, we’d be hot on Hannibal’s trail right now.”

  Marcus frowned. “Any estimate of the dead?”

  “We’ll have a better idea at the end of the day, but your father mentioned the number seven thousand for the three days here in Asculum.”

  Olcades’ two assistants carried the one-arm corpse past us. One of them muttered, “Make that seven thousand and one.”

  “And the Carthaginian losses?” asked Marcus.

  “Maybe not quite so many. They pulled back into their camp just in time. Our assault on their ramparts cost us more than it cost them.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Marcus closed his eyes.

  I put my hand on his forehead. “Get some rest, Marcus. You’ve got a big wedding coming up when we get back to Rome.”

  Marcus opened his eyes a crack and almost smiled.

  CHAPTER 66

  Three days after the battle, with our dead burned in a giant pyre and the ripening Carthaginian corpses heavily scavenged by Apulian beggars, Marcellus called for the assembly of the troops by cohort in front of the camp. The acrid smell of charred human flesh hung over the gathering as our general hobbled out of camp on a wooden crutch. He looked down on the men from the rise the camp had been built on and addressed them with a voice full of pride.

  “We have just weathered three encounters with the Carthaginian army on three consecutive days. While we cannot claim a victory, we have proven above all else that Hannibal is human. That his army can be beaten.

  “Looking out at all of you now, I can see the toll those three days has taken. Our numbers have been reduced by one third. Junius Pennus, the commander of the troops from Brundisium, died last night. Many other soldiers are severely wounded. Some so badly they remain in the camp hospital.

  “There are two things that I want you, as soldiers, to take from this past week. First, when we maintain order and rank, when we apply ourselves to battle as true Romans, as we did the third day of combat, we are more than Hannibal can handle. You are the superior army.

 
“Second, our task is not done. The Punic army is no better off than we are, but being on foreign soil, Hannibal won’t be able to rebuild his cohorts as quickly as we can. In the weeks to come, we will hunt down his army and finish the job we have begun.

  “That said, we are in no shape to act yet. To defeat Hannibal, we need time to heal our wounds and enlist more recruits. Once I judge it wise to travel, we will return to Venusia. There we can get better care for the wounded and set up a camp designed for an extended stay. We will continue to train and prepare with the intention of going after Hannibal as soon as we are battle ready. I don’t like this delay. The war does not stop when we stop. But I see no other choice.

  “While our overall performance this past week was uneven, I am proud of the way you rallied on the third day. I was proud that day to be a Roman.”

  Several of the soldiers shouted out Marcellus’ name. One cohort began to beat their swords on their shields. This spread to the entire assembly.

  Marcellus raised his right hand to end the demonstration. Silence came almost immediately.

  “We didn’t achieve the victory I had hoped for when we arrived here in Asculum. No one is more disappointed than I—except the families of those men who will never return home. Still, the actions of two men deserve recognition.”

  Guesses who those men might be whispered through the soldiers.

  “On the first day of battle, when we caught the Carthaginians setting up camp, several of our soldiers surmounted the unfinished palisades. Though nightfall cut our effort short, the first man over their defenses deserves recognition, not only for that single action, but also for three days of superior and dedicated combat. Will the legionnaire named Troglius from the first maniple of the second cohort of the Eighteenth legion come forward.”

  Every man in the two Roman legions knew Troglius by now, and a great cheer exploded from the ranks as Pulcher prompted Troglius out of formation. The huge, misshapen man limped in his awkward, bow-legged way up the slight incline to Marcellus.

  Upon reaching Marcellus, Troglius, who never sought or wanted attention, removed his battered helmet and gingerly took one knee. “To you, Troglius,” said Marcellus, “I present the Mural Crown.” It was an award given to the first soldier to top the wall of an enemy fortress under siege. Marcellus placed the wooden crown, carved to represent the walls of a city, on Troglius’ head. For a second time the men let out a cheer for one of the camp favorites.

  After Troglius had self-consciously tottered back to his place in our maniple, amid congratulatory slaps on his back from those who knew him best, including me, Marcellus resumed.

  “One man, however, was responsible for changing the course of the third day of combat.” Everyone knew who this was before Marcellus said another word. “When the day looked darkest, Gaius Decimius Flavus, a tribune in the Twentieth legion, stood up against the advance of the Carthaginian elephants. With a single stroke from the third maniple’s standard, he reversed what could have been a horrible defeat. To Gaius Flavus, I give the Golden Crown for defying defeat when all seemed lost. Because of this one man, we can all hold our heads high today.”

  The roar of approval for Flavus was twice what Troglius received. As a tribune, he was at the front of the formation. He strode forward and knelt to accept the general’s accolade. He would receive the gold crown itself only after we had returned to Rome.

  When Flavus stood and faced the troops, another huge cheer arose from the soldiers. They knew that he had saved the day, and probably the lives of half of those still standing.

  CHAPTER 67

  We broke camp three days later and marched slowly north. For the time being we would camp outside Venusia until the men were healed enough for battle.

  In the six weeks we had been chasing Hannibal, progress had been made in other parts of the Roman military campaign. Fulvius’ continued pressure on the Hirpini, Lucanian, and Volceii people in lower Samnium had resulted in a complete reversal of their allegiance. A region Hannibal had counted on for support went entirely over to Rome. Far to the south in Bruttium, the garrison from Rhegium had begun an active, but yet unfinished, siege of Caulonia, an important but lesser seaport held by the Carthaginians near the toe of the Italian peninsula. At the heel, Fabius had successfully captured Manduria, eliminating its garrison of four thousand Carthaginians and gaining valuable resources, including a large supply of wheat. From there, Fabius had marched south to Tarentum, the key piece in the summer’s effort.

  The Greek colony of Tarentum had caused Rome trouble off and on for nearly a hundred years. The current situation, however, needed immediate attention. A substantial Carthaginian force under Nico Peron controlled all of the city except the citadel, which was held by Marcus Livius and his garrison. When Fabius arrived with two legions, all variety of siege equipment, and thirty Roman warships, it was in preparation for a long and difficult siege.

  While we rested in Venusia, Hannibal enjoyed no such luxury. Thinking that highly fortified Tarentum could hold out long enough for him to address other matters, he marched through Bruttium to Caulonia. As soon as the besieging force from Rhegium learned of his approach, they abandoned their effort and headed for the hills outside the city. By that time, Hannibal understood that Tarentum was under greater pressure than he had anticipated, but it was a good two-week march from Caulonia. Before Hannibal could get there, Fabius caught a lucky break.

  A wealthy Bruttian officer by the name of Philomenus, a co-conspirator with Nico Percon in the betrayal of Tarentum to Hannibal two years earlier, was infatuated with the sister of a soldier in one of Fabius’ legions. The woman, who lived in Tarentum, wrote a letter to her brother telling him that Philomenus was so wildly in love with her that he would do anything for her—perhaps even betray the city. The soldier brought this information to Fabius who devised a plan.

  The brother, disguised as a Roman deserter, gained entry to Tarentum. The man was then introduced to Philomenus by his sister. Over a period of several days, the brother and sister convinced the Bruttian captain to change sides. The plan suggested by Fabius was agreed upon. The brother slipped out of Tarentum during the night and returned to the Roman camp to verify the details with Fabius.

  Two days later, in the predawn darkness, three thousand of Fabius’ best soldiers advanced to the foot of the east wall of Tarentum. At the same time, the thirty Roman warships waiting offshore sailed into the harbor to attack the city from the west. Meanwhile, the soldiers in the citadel made a break to escape. When the Carthaginian trumpets sounded the alarm, the defending troops were focused on the harbor to the west. On the other side of the city, the Roman troops quickly advanced to the east gate, which had been opened by the love-struck Philomenus and a brigade of Bruttian soldiers. The Romans stormed through the center of Tarentum and surprised the Carthaginians from behind. By the end of the day, Nico Percon was dead and the Carthaginian garrison had surrendered the city to Fabius.

  The primary goal of the summer campaign had been the conquest of Tarentum. That was now complete. Many thousands of prisoners, huge quantities of silver, and some three thousand pounds of gold were part of the bounty.

  Hannibal learned of the betrayal of Tarentum while on his way from Caulonia. “It seems the Romans have their own Hannibal,” he is said to have commented to his officers. “Fabius has recaptured Tarentum with the same strategy that won it for me.”

  Hannibal set up camp ten miles outside Tarentum. He stayed there for several days waiting for word from his agents inside the city, hoping there might be an opportunity for a reversal. Finally, when no options arose, he packed up his army and withdrew to Metapontum several miles down the coast to the west. But he wasn’t done.

  Always trying to turn a setback into an advantage, Hannibal hatched a scheme in Metapontum to ambush Fabius. He sent two locals to Fabius’ camp outside Tarentum with a letter signed by the leading citizens of Metapontum. The letter said that Metapontum was ready to betray the Carthaginians if Fabius
could promise there would be no retaliation against the populace when the city fell. Fabius wrote a letter in return including that promise.

  Fabius’ letter went straight to Hannibal. The following day the Carthaginian positioned his troops in the forest on both sides of the road between Tarentum and Metapontum in anticipation of Fabius’ arrival.

  As was his way, Fabius consulted the auspices the morning he intended to leave. The chickens would not eat. Worried he might be missing a tremendous opportunity, he posed the question to his augur. A calf was sacrificed. The reading of the entrails was similarly unfavorable. Fabius decided to cancel the march to Metapontum and instead sent six scouts. They returned two days later with news of Hannibal’s planned ambush. A huge disaster had been avoided either by insight from the gods or, as I imagined, some advanced notice Fabius might have kept to himself to enhance the esteem of Rome’s soothsaying rituals.

  CHAPTER 68

  We had been in Venusia three weeks. The worst of the injured, many hundred in number, were housed within the city. Marcus spent a week there recovering from his wound. Even on his return, he could lift no weight—much less a shield—with his left arm. Marcellus, however, who had denied the severity of his own wound, had remained in camp the entire time, anxious to resume his pursuit of Hannibal.

  I was in headquarters late one evening working on the maps we used to track Hannibal’s troop movements. As Marcellus hiked around the tent on his crutch, his face taut with pain, I could see that he was still in bad shape. He came up beside me and stared down at the three maps I had laid side by side on the table. They tracked Hannibal’s movements during the three separate occasions we had encountered him in Apulia. One dated back more than a year to the three weeks before the confrontation outside Numistro. Another came from the weeks after that battle. The third was from the current campaign, leading up to the three-day battle at Asculum.