The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  “It’s possible, sir,” I said, “but that suggests he expected the same general to be following him in consecutive years. Could he really make such an assumption as more than a wild guess?”

  “I believe he could. He must know that we think he’s been weakened. And he’s surely seen that we’ve progressed from Fabius’ defensive mode to one of aggressively seeking him out. He must also know that there’s only one Roman general who could possibly lead the attack.” He nodded confidently and touched his chest.

  “That’s true, sir. He could very well know all of that, but I worry that trying to guess his next move at any time comes with an extremely high risk. Rather than believing we are outwitting him, would it not be safer to imagine, especially after this last episode, that he might also anticipate your current thinking—and add yet another twist to his scheme? In the end, we’ll be caught in such a complex game of move and countermove that again we’ll just be guessing. That’s not being cautious, the necessity of which you’ve impressed on all your officers, it’s taking big chances.”

  Marcellus ran his hand through his hair, thought for a moment, then frowned. “But what we’re doing now is getting us nowhere.” He slammed his fist onto the table. “That’s exactly what Hannibal wants. It gives him what he needs most—time. Time for his brother to gather his troops and bring them to Italy. I don’t think we can fool around any longer. We must force his hand, and we can only do that by anticipating his moves.”

  I knew I couldn’t change Marcellus’ mind. He took my silence as agreement and returned to staring at the map. The man’s first attempt to interpret Hannibal’s movements had surprised me. This second attempt had me worried. This was not the Marcellus of the previous two campaigns. With my mother’s safety in play, it could hardly have come at a worse time for me.

  CHAPTER 89

  The mood in the camp grew tense with indecision and inaction. The recent misstep and week of doing nothing but training, which only infuriated the soldiers more, had filled the staff with doubts about their commander. The officers began to talk among themselves. Nero confronted Marcellus on his tactics in a briefing.

  “The summer is half over, Consul, we don’t have time to sit here and do nothing.”

  “The situation is difficult, General. I realize that,” replied Marcellus, equally frustrated. “But it’s senseless to simply march off with forty thousand men without a target. We must get word of some sort before we go anywhere.”

  “Well then,” snapped Nero, “you might put together one of your schemes, close your eyes, and point to some location on the map. Maybe Hannibal will be there.”

  Throughout the three campaigns Marcellus had always maintained the highest levels of respect from the ever-changing array of officers who came through his command—except for Nero, who Marcellus tolerated because of his great value in battle. But this recent comment tested his limits.

  Marcellus walked away from the table to the far side of the tent. He stood there, his back to his officers, staring down at the carpet. After a moment, he turned, directing his eyes at Nero.

  “No one here, General, is more anxious than I to rid the world of Hannibal. No one feels this army’s frustration more strongly than I. I say this to all of you, pass it on to your tribunes. We are fighting an enemy led by a man who has a unique talent for war. His methods are designed to frustrate his opponents, and he uses that frustration to get an edge on the battlefield. Hannibal is deliberately playing with our minds, and he will win if we fight among ourselves because of it. He knows that.

  “Two weeks ago I made an attempt to outwit this man. Maybe that in itself was a mistake. At this point in the campaign, I’m prepared to take risks, but only if there’s some reason to believe they can work. If any of you has a better idea, let’s hear it.”

  No one made a suggestion.

  Nero glared at everyone beneath the tent. “But we can’t just sit here!” He stormed out of the tent. Purpurio, similarly exasperated, followed.

  CHAPTER 90

  Thankfully we got a report the next morning that Hannibal was outside Venusia. It was a three-day march. We left immediately.

  Early in the afternoon of the third day we found him almost entirely by accident. He was nestled up against a rock formation in the middle of a tight valley between Bantia and Venusia. We immediately set camp. Crispinus was half a day away. He arrived at the far end of the valley at dusk, distant enough that Hannibal might not have noticed his arrival, and close enough that both Roman armies could assemble together the next morning. It was exactly what Marcellus had hoped for. He spoke to his commanders that evening. Crispinus would receive his instructions by messenger that night and be at our camp the next morning to review the strategy.

  “It might have been chance that we stumbled on Hannibal this afternoon, but the location could not be better,” said Marcellus to open the meeting with his officers. “Crispinus is currently setting camp at one end of the valley. We are at the other. Though I haven’t seen Hannibal’s camp yet, our scouts place it in between.”

  All of the officers understood what this meant. Marcellus’ excitement was palpable. “This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. If he won’t answer to the challenge of battle, he has nowhere to go.”

  “What if he were to leave tonight?” asked Lentulus.

  “If he’s seen Crispinus’ arrival, he may try that. At this point I don’t see how we could stop him. But if he’s still here tomorrow, we can pin him in, blockade his camp, and force him to either answer to battle or starve.”

  “Do we have any numbers on his cavalry?” asked Asellus.

  “Nothing conclusive. At least three thousand, probably six. I’d like to scout his position immediately after daybreak. If things are as I expect, we can have both armies in battle formation before noon.”

  “Didn’t Fabius have Hannibal in a position like this earlier in the war?” asked Vibellius Rullus, the prefect commanding the levies from Brundisium.

  Everyone there knew the story. Marcellus nodded. “Meaning we may have him now, but things could change.”

  “He must know of Crispinus’ arrival,” said Purpurio. “I’m guessing he’ll leave tonight.”

  “We’ll know in the morning,” said Marcellus. “Prepare your men for battle.”

  With these final words, the men left headquarters to confer with their tribunes. I was the last to leave the tent. Low clouds covered the stars. A light mist added to the closeness of the night. I hurried to catch Marcus as he strode down Via Principalis. We hadn’t spoken since I’d asked him about Sempronia. Even as his friend, I had to respect certain formalities because he was an officer. I didn’t know if he were purposely avoiding me or not, but on this evening I needed to talk to him regardless of the circumstances.

  I came up from behind him and spoke his name. He didn’t turn around, so I touched his shoulder and stepped up beside him, saying his name again. When he didn’t stop, I remained at his side and forced the issue.

  “Marcus, do you have a few moments? I’d like to talk to you.”

  He took the briefest glance at me. “What is it?” he said, continuing to stride along.

  “A couple of things,” I said. “It would be better to talk out at the corral.”

  “Fine.” He seemed irritated by my intrusion.

  We didn’t say anything more until we reached the corral. Marcus stared out into the mass of horses, fifteen hundred head or more, then whistled into the night. “All right. What do you have to say?”

  Euroclydon clomped up out of the darkness. Marcus reached into his tunic and gave the horse a carrot, then stroked her forelock.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re right about your father.” I looked over my shoulder to ensure that no one could hear what we were saying.

  Marcus turned his head toward me. The night was dark. I couldn’t read the expression on his face.

  “Your father confides in me, Marcus. He’s studying and restudying the maps,
trying to figure out Hannibal’s troop movements in advance. I don’t think it’s possible. He doesn’t listen when I try to tell him that. You heard what Nero said a couple nights ago. It’s true. He may as well close his eyes and point to a spot on the map.”

  Balius must have heard my voice. He came out of the mass of horses and stood beside Euroclydon. I ran my open palm over the top of his muzzle. He nickered and fluttered his lips.

  “I’m worried your father’s attempts to outthink Hannibal will lead to an ambush or something worse.”

  “It’s not your responsibility, Timon. You must know the other officers are already upset with him. Let me talk to Lentulus.”

  I hung my head, knowing the mood in the briefings had soured, then looked up at my friend. “But those men are upset because he’s being too cautious. I’m worried their pressure will push him to take risks.”

  Marcus nodded. “Let’s see what happens tomorrow morning, Timon. If Hannibal is gone or declines battle, I’ll talk to Lentulus and see if he thinks there’s a way to advise my father without completely insulting him—or starting a mutiny. If there’s a battle, everything changes.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We stood there a while longer without saying anything. Marcus had another carrot. He broke it in half and gave part to each horse. “You said a couple things. Is there something else on your mind?”

  “You’ve avoided me ever since we spoke about Sempronia.”

  Marcus’ face was no more than a silhouette.

  “I said things, Marcus, that were none of my business. I wanted to apologize to you for being out of line.”

  Marcus looked off into the night. After a moment, he turned to me. “I should be the one apologizing, Timon. I asked you as a friend to find out about Sempronia. From that moment on it was your business. I’m sorry for avoiding you, but not about my decision. I don’t like what has happened and I will not marry her. I don’t want another scandal. Because I’ve never met her, this is easier for me than it may be for you. But more importantly, I have denied your friendship when I should have recognized that your comments were meant as support and were inspired by your high opinion of Sempronia. If anything, I must thank you for coming to me tonight—on both counts. I anticipate hard times ahead, and I’ll need a friend that I can trust.”

  Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I hoped they were obscured by the moisture in the air.

  “May the gods allow Lentulus and me to speak as candidly to my father tomorrow as you and I have spoken to each other tonight.” Marcus embraced me as a brother and a friend.

  I went back to my tent and thought of my mother. She was across the valley not more than two miles away and yet I could not go to see her. Perhaps the events of the next day would change that.

  CHAPTER 91

  Crispinus arrived at dawn the next morning with his twelve lictors. Marcellus met him out front of our camp. The scouts had already reported that the Carthaginians had not left during the night. The soldiers woke to this news and the camp immediately filled with that peculiar mixture of anxiety and excitement that came before all battles.

  Our camp sat on a rise overlooking the dog-legged valley that triangulated the three camps—Crispinus’, Hannibal’s, and ours. A small oblong hill, not a mile from our camp, prevented a clear view down the length of the valley to Hannibal’s camp. Crispinus and Marcellus were looking at this hill when I arrived with my wax pad and bronze stylus to take notes. Both men wore their battle armor and the purple cape that signified their positions as consuls.

  Marcellus pointed to the north. “I’d like to take a small scouting party to the top of that hill. I want to verify the enemy’s exact position and numbers. Often what appears to be an advantage over Hannibal at one moment can become a liability the next.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” replied Crispinus, watching the sun peek over the tree line to the east. “I’d like to go with you. We should consider the possibility of placing an outpost on that hill.”

  Marcellus nodded, but he was looking at the camp gate. Sextius Buteo, wearing a hooded white robe, was coming our way. His two priests followed him, carrying a squealing lamb by its legs. With a battle in the offing, the gods needed to be consulted. I wasn’t certain how Crispinus felt about this, but Marcellus would simply put up with it and move on.

  Given time, our two previous augurs had adjusted to Marcellus’ skepticism and overbearing presence. They had learned to stay out of his way. Though there had yet to be a conflict, Sextius had not given in and openly showed contempt for Marcellus. He gave the consul an ugly look as he walked up, then motioned to the two priests. They placed the lamb on its feet before the augur and held it still. With overdone theatrics, Sextius withdrew a flint knife from his robes. He sprinkled a handful of salted flour on the animal’s back, dribbled some wine on its head, then slid the knife from its sheath and ran it lightly down the lamb’s spine.

  Sextius nodded to the priests. They flipped the lamb over on its back and held the bleating, squirming animal to the ground. Sextius said a short prayer, then cut the lamb’s throat.

  Crispinus watched every action. Marcellus stared out at the hill and the brilliant orange ember rising in the east. The entire area had been scoured by his scouts. Only the hill had not.

  After the lamb had bled out, Sextius punctured the animal’s abdomen with his knife, then drove it up through the ribcage to the throat. The two priests pulled open the incision. Sextius glanced up at Crispinus, then scowled when he saw that Marcellus was paying no attention. Clearly disturbed by the consul’s indifference, Sextius dipped both hands into the lamb’s glistening pink entrails and sorted through the various internal organs. After a moment, he lifted the liver from the dead animal and used his knife to cut it free. He took a moment to poke and prod the liver with his finger before standing with the purple organ cradled in his hands. He presented it to Crispinus as though it were one of the Sibylline Books. Marcellus, knowing it could not be avoided, came up alongside.

  Sextius acknowledged Marcellus with a tip of his head. His hood hid his eyes. “As you can see, consuls, something is amiss,” he hissed with a cruel little grin. “This liver has no head.” He was referring to the bulbed end of an ordinary liver. “You tempt the gods if you proceed on your mission this morning.”

  Marcellus didn’t hesitate. “Try another lamb.”

  Sextius glared at Marcellus, then, visibly angered, turned to Crispinus. “Is that your wish also, Consul?”

  Crispinus looked to Marcellus. His co-consul simply walked off. “Yes, another lamb,” Crispinus replied.

  Marcellus stood well away from the other men, appraising the hill. The sun, now a yellow ball, glared in his face. The hill’s profile matched that of a swayback horse. Trees covered the rump and shoulders. A green meadow lay in between. Small trees and shrubs aproned the hill where it met the valley floor.

  The priests returned with a second lamb. Sextius repeated the rituals, then killed the shrieking animal. Marcellus didn’t even turn his head. Crispinus stood up close, watching the augur sift through the lamb’s innards, as though it were important to him to get a good reading.

  Sextius rose from his knees with the second liver quivering in his hands. Long threads of congealing blood strung from between his fingers. Marcellus reluctantly returned to the group of men. Sextius held the organ out for inspection. It jiggled and glittered in the morning sun like a helping of plum pudding. “Another curious abnormality, consuls.” Sextius grinned, showing his broken teeth. “Have you ever seen so large a head on a liver before?”

  Crispinus peered into the augur’s hands to see for himself. Marcellus gave the organ an obligatory glance.

  “It seems,” said the augur, “we have one irregularity after another. One with no head.” He swung his eyes to Marcellus with visible distaste, then softened them for Crispinus. “A second unusually oversized. Best stay in camp. No battle today. Mars has spoken.”

  “One is small, o
ne is large,” said Marcellus without emotion. “I read this the same as if we had two of ordinary size. What say you, Crispinus? The sun is up and we are wasting time.”

  Crispinus tugged uneasily at the clasp to his cape. He had clearly been unnerved by the augur’s words, but he also seemed intimidated by Marcellus’ majesty and command. “I’m with you, Consul, I think the augur overreads.”

  Sextius cursed violently in Etruscan, shot an angry look at me, then spun around in a flourish and stormed toward the gate. The priests gathered up the lambs’ corpses and trailed after him into the camp. This ugly drama set the mood of the morning so darkly that even I, a non-believer, felt the gods’ disdain.

  Marcellus quickly assembled a contingent of two hundred horse—one hundred and sixty allied levies and forty hand-picked Fregellae, some of the best fighters and most loyal men in our camp. Marcellus, Crispinus, his prefect Lucius Aulius, Marcus, and myself made the one-mile trip to the hill with the squadron of cavalry.

  By this time the augur’s warning had evaporated like the dew. We rode out that morning with little real concern beyond accurate observation. Marcellus and Crispinus took the lead, their decorative armor brilliant in the morning sun, their stunning capes fluttering out behind them like ambition burning off their shoulders. Marcus and I rode in the middle of the pack. We cantered up a dry creek bed on the east side of the hill and followed it to the elevated meadow. It took the shortest time. We never lost sight of our camp.

  Midmorning we gathered in the meadow and got our first look at the ground to the north. The Carthaginian camp sat at the top of a small swell in the valley floor, pressed up against a tall rock formation. Any approach to their position would have to be uphill.