Swords of Rome

by Christopher Lee Buckner

  Mago had with him the rings and other markings of the Roman Senate and elite — thousands of small pieces of gold that had been stripped from still warm corpses following Cannae. When he stepped foot in the Senate, for the first time in his life, Mago threw the rings onto the Senate floor for all the leaders of Carthage to see with their own eyes what Hannibal had accomplished.

  He spoke passionately about what he witnessed — three consuls dead, hundreds of thousands of Roman soldiers killed — whole settlements and communities destroyed, Italy was Hannibal’s.

  Mago expected, with his words the Senate to bow to Hannibal’s wishes and rally their swords. The only question would be: how many soldiers should they send? However, that question never came.

  When Mago finished his speech, those within the Senate, enemies of Hannibal, who had grown jealous of his success turned against him as they called him a warmonger — a tyrant and a traitor for instigating the conflict with Rome in the first place. It sickened Mago. These men were merchants and businessmen who cared only about money, and not the pride of their nation. And, before he knew, the whole Senate had rallied against Hannibal, calling his actions a crime as they turned their attention towards protecting Carthage’s interests from Rome, namely its territories in Spain.

  Hannibal would not get any reinforcements as he hoped. Rome’s walls would remain strong and still standing, and he, as he began to lose support from his Gallic allies, was trapped, as his opponents under the leadership of the Dictator Fabius Maximus refused to confront him in open battle.

  It was an embarrassment! Mago left furious as he was refused the chance to return to his brother after he was ordered by the Senate to take up command in Spain, and make ready for a new Roman offensive. And so he had been for the past five years, trapped, freezing his ass off, holding firm against the Scipio, a man unlike any Roman he had ever encountered — one that fought more like his brother.

  Now, Mago returns to Italy with terrible news. He races to tell his brother in no short order that Spain had fallen — New Carthage had been taken by Scipio, and that Hannibal was cut off from his only reliable source for reinforcements and supplies. However, Mago would not get the chance to deliver his terrible message through words — just symbolically as a small bag was thrown by a Roman horseman over the high walls that surrounded Hannibal’s camp.

  The bag was found momentarily by a Carthaginian soldier who read the notation that it was a message meant for Hannibal. He raced as quickly as he could across the camp to his leader’s tent where he presented the bag to him.

  As Hannibal unfurled the string that sealed the bag shut, the smell alone indicated to him what it was, just not who.

  A moment later, Hannibal pulled the severed head of his brother, Mago out from the bag; his white eyes rolled into his skull; his neck dry of blood with only a note attached to the base, pinned into the flesh indicating the sender — Scipio.

  Even Hannibal’s bravest men shuttered when they heard him scream in agony over the loss of his beloved brother.

  If there were any doubt to the long-term outcome of the war, Hannibal’s army had lost all hope of claiming another smashing victory against their bitter rivals upon Mago’s arrival. Little did they know they would all be going home soon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “Julia,” Gaius whispered to himself as she began to fade from his dream, as if she had never existed.

  Gaius opened his eyes as he heard his name being called by a familiar voice. Someone had walked into his tent and stood just beyond the sleeping area separated by a thin curtain. For a moment as he lay, not moving, desperately hoping to recapture the exquisite image of his beloved, he wished the intruder would leave. However, his name was called with more urgency for a second time.

  “It is time for you to wake, my friend. I know you can hear me, so there is no pretending otherwise.”

  “I do hear you, though I wish I had not,” Gaius finally replied with a low mutter as he forced himself to rise from his cot, tossing his wolf pelt covers to the ground.

  “Just give me a moment.”

  “As you wish. I’ll go outside and tell the war to wait for a couple more hours,” the man replied with a sarcastic yet friendly tone. Gaius actually managed a faint smile.

  As he stepped out from his small sleeping area, he looked up at his officer, who smirked at him, as if he was in on a joke that Gaius had no knowledge of.

  “What is so damn amusing?” he groaned at Maurus, who stood in full armor, admirably cleaned and polished — he might have been on parade.

  “You look like you were dragged under your horse,” Maurus joked.

  “I’m fine. Do not give second thought of my appearance; just a rough night’s sleep. The damn sand fleas and such,” Gaius lied as he walked over to a large copper bowl in the corner that was filled with cool water.

  He dipped his hands and splashed the water over his face, and rubbed his aching shoulders and neck. He repeated this for several minutes until he removed the foul smell of the forsaken country from his flesh, for the moment.

  “How are the men?” Gaius asked as he reached for a clean cloth and began to wipe down his naked body.

  “They are fed, armed and marching out onto the field as we speak,” Maurus answered, as he walked over to the far side of the tent. A wooden mannequin stood, holding Gaius’ black leather armor.

  “By the gods, Maurus, why did you let me sleep so long? You’re my chief centurion.”

  “I felt that you needed rest, at least an extra hour. We need your mind clear this day, above all others. Besides, what good is being your chief centurion if I can’t attend to things on my own without you looking over my shoulder?” Maurus answered with a warm grin as he tossed Gaius his tunic and belt.

  “Regardless, I should have been awakened.” Gaius sighed as he dressed. “Are they nervous, the men?” He then asked.

  “More excited, I would have to say. It has been seven years of war, which I would rather forget. We’ve waited a long time to reach this point. I can hardly believe it myself. I wonder where the time has gone, if home is even like we remember it.”

  “I’m sure it is the same as we left it.”

  “I do wish one thing, though,” Maurus said as he walked over to where Gaius’ helmet lay, on a nearby table, as Gaius buckled his armor in place.

  “What is that?”

  “If this is to be my last day on earth, my only regret is that I couldn’t have died on my own soil,” Maurus answered, sounding uncharacteristically moody as he turned with the helmet in hand, and walked back to his commanding officer.

  “The gods decide such things, my friend. However, I do believe you will get the chance to see home again after this battle is done.” Gaius’ words were encouraging, but he too seemed to have a slight hint of doubt in his voice.

  “And what of you, do you think the gods favor you such that you will see our homeland?”

  Gaius hesitated to answer at first as he considered Maurus’ words. He did not want to seem uncertain, as the two of them had survived so much that the prospect of dying now would have been aggravating.

  “I believed the god of war will have plenty of blood this day. That much is certain. However, if he wants mine, he shall have to fight for it.” Gaius managed a wide smile as he slammed his palms down onto Maurus’ shoulders.

  “Look to the heavens and praise the gods, my nervous friend. We still breathe and shall continue for a long time to come. I’m sure that both of us will live through this day. We will go home. We will marry beautiful women who will tend to our every need. We shall drink long into the night recalling tales of our victories, while our children grow together, bored stiff of those stories. Of this, my friend, I am certain as I’m confident the dawn will bring a new day. However, when that day comes and death’s hand reaches down for us, far from now we will leave this world with honor and pride, and shall rejoin our fallen brothers as heroes of the Republic.”

  “A wonderful
paragon that would be,” Maurus smiled widened.

  “Indeed it is — one worth living for.”

  Maurus walked over to Gaius, holding out a helmet that was capped off with a bright-red feather crest, which signified his rank. He carefully placed it onto his head and laced the straps in place, preparing himself for what lay beyond the folds of his tent.

  “Enjoy this day, Maurus for there will never be another like it in our lives. Today the sons of the Republic walk on the soil of our bitter enemy. We will avenge the losses we have sustained in this war. Carthage will finally know our pain, tenfold.” Gaius’ voice was firm as Maurus smiled, placing hands at the entry to the tent. The warmth of the morning sun entered, illuminating the interior. Already the organized chaos of the barracks filled Gaius’ ears.

  “Then, Legate, sir, let us not waste a moment. We would not want to disappoint our enemies by being late for the battle, now would we?”

  Gaius rode into the main camp, which lie several miles to the east of his legion’s barracks. His destination was a series of large interconnecting tents that served as the headquarters for the army’s commander. Waiting outside were a dozen legionaries, who stood guard despite the intense heat, poised in their full armor and kit. One of those soldiers, a centurion with a scarred face, walked over to Gaius and grabbed the reins of his horse as he stopped a few yards from the tent.

  “Sir, the legates are assembled and are awaiting you,” the centurion quickly spoke as Gaius leaped down.

  “And what of Scipio, has he arrived?” Gaius quickly asked, fearing he may be delaying the assembly.

  “No, sir. He is still surveying the men, but is expected back at any time now.”

  “Thank you, Centurion.”

  The inside of the tent was spacious and lit well, with oil lamp's burning. It was also surprisingly cooler than outside, which was a welcome relief as the African heat did not agree with him.

  Everywhere Gaius noted the splendors of a proper Roman home that a nobleman couldn’t seem to leave home without. He found it amusing that many of the prefects, tribunes and legates he had served under would not begin a campaign until their creature comforts were attended to. Although he hadn’t dared say it beyond a few whispered jokes around the campfire, he figured he was just too used to sleeping under the stars and living out of a pack to care much about these luxuries. A sharp sword, good armor, bread in his stomach and a sky to look up at was all he desired.

  His destination was back toward the rear, where a second section had been built into the main living quarters. This area was the war room where the officers were gathered, waiting for their commander to arrive.

  As Gaius parted several layers of silk veils that separated the living quarters from the war room, he saw a dozen officers standing around a long, rectangular wooden table that had a leather-hide map stretched out across it, detailing the entire region where this army was camped.

  “Legate Gaius, it is good to see you’ve joined us. I’m pleased to see you managed to get out of bed on this momentous day,” one of the Roman officers joked as he greeted Gaius with a warm smile, a full cup of wine in his left hand.

  “It is good to see you as well, Avitus. And I’m simply amazed to see that you aren’t drunk, yet. How will you be able to command your men with such a clear mind?” Gaius replied with his own grin as he took the man’s hand and shook it.

  Avitus was one of the old commanders, a burly man who had survived every battle of the war. He commanded two legions — frontline troops that had fought across Italy since the war began. He had never been popular under the old-guard — too different, well connected to his men, having risen through the ranks, currently going on some thirty-eight years of service to the Republic. Men such as he had become favorites of the new leaders of Rome — they were very nearly the only seasoned commanders left after the disastrous battle of Cannae, at present five-year past.

  “Oh, give me another hour, my boy, and I shall not disappoint you,” Avitus bellowed with his characteristic laugh.

  “Perhaps you should have stayed in bed and allowed real officers to conduct this battle,” another general by the name of Cassius spoke up, not even trying to hide his contempt for Gaius.

  Cassius was an officer from the old-guard: wealthy, proud, and descended from a long line of equestrians who had not agreed with the transitions that had been made to the army in recent years. He believed that only noblemen had the right to hold command, and Cassius was not alone in his stance to maintain the old ways, even if their resistance nearly destroyed their country.

  “Yes, well, I had to rise and make sure you, and your men don’t turn and flee from the battlefield yet again,” Gaius replied, which brought a sneer from Cassius, while several other officers, including the foreign Numidia commanders, chuckled.

  Gaius ignored Cassius and those like him. Neither he nor his Wolves had to prove anything to anyone. They had stood on the wall of their city after Cannae, when there was no army left to defend the capital, while so-called Roman noblemen, such as Cassius, fled.

  “I grow tired of these strategy sessions Scipio continues to insist on,” Flavius was one of the younger officers, complained as he stood over the table.

  “You know how Scipio likes to remind everyone that he is in command," Claudius Nero spoke. He was a few years older than Gaius, but was fairly new to the campaign. He avoided much of the war at his Greek estate, overseeing his family’s wealthy shipping business until no longer able to refuse the call to arms or, more likely, the chance for immortal glory.

  Gaius didn’t bother to listen to the bickering between the old and new guards’ obvious dislike for one another, which continued without pause. He was standing on the far side of the table, surveying the map that was laid out before him, focusing on the particulars of the army’s formation and the terrain.

  There was nothing inventive about the battle plan. It was surprisingly simple, one that did not rely on numbers, terrain or hidden surprises.

  This was done less for their army, but to hamper its opponent, which often had defeated superior forces with trickery and deception. Out here, on the flat ground with nowhere to hide, the two armies faced one another, an advantage Gaius was certain would bring them victory.

  Carefully positioned across the map were two sets of wooden figures. The blue characters represented those of the Romans, while the reds were the Carthaginians. The enemy lines were made-up of infantry, three formations deep and nearly half a mile long. Two cavalry units were placed on either side, with a unit of reserves in the rear, while Carthage’s elite soldiers, veterans of Italy, were also in the rear. This was the formation that the generals believed the enemy would assemble.

  Rome’s numbers equaled that of the enemy — two cavalry units to the side, with infantry in the center. However, Scipio had changed the formation of his infantry, splitting them into cohorts’ numbered close to five hundred men, creating gaps between the formations, which ran three lines deep and across.

  Lack of mobility had cost the Republic deadly in the past, so it was hoped that this time the army would be able to adapt to any situation that may arise once the fighting began.

  The Numidians, who had begun the war on the side of the Carthaginian, stood to the right of Rome’s line. He did not trust them, so he needed his men to perform beyond expectation if he hoped to break through the Carthaginian cavalry.

  He needed to flank the enemy, encircle and attack them from the rear while the main force pushed into the center. It was a tactic that had worked for centuries and one that had been used successfully against his people five years ago.

  The officers’ attention turned to Scipio who had finally arrived. Saluting, the men went silent, their eyes following Scipio as he rounded the table and took his place.

  “Gentlemen, you must excuse my tardiness. I will not spend more time than is needed. I know that each of you is eager to get to the battlefield and win this war for the Republic,” Scipio said as he stood before
his officers.

  “It has been a long and costly endeavor to reach this point, hasn’t it my friends? Each of us has lost much: men, family, land and wealth. I’ve picked each of you for your past valor,” Some of the old guard couldn’t help but sneer at Scipio’s comment, which he let pass.

  “Today, we will make Carthage know what we as a people have endured in this war, a war that was not of our making. We will make them suffer as we have. And our victory today will not just end this war, but it will send ripples across the world to all those who would dare raise arms against the Republic. Today is the first day of our nation’s destiny.”

  Scipio began to reposition several of the blue and red figures, anticipating how he believed the opposing army would react.

  Gaius studied Scipio as he carefully laid out his strategy to his generals.

  Scipio was an unassuming man who hardly exhibited the qualities of a great leader. He was only ten years older than Gaius; twenty-eight.

  Like everyone in the room, Scipio seemed much older than his years, maybe more so as his hair had already begun to recede from his scalp and several deep wrinkles settled under his exhausted eyes. And while he was still able and ready to fight, Scipio’s eyes told a somber story of a man that was weary of war and death, which included his own father, who died in the opening stages of the war now seven years past.

  He led his legions through Italy, to Spain, into Greece and now finally to Africa, the home of Carthage. His strategies turned the tide of the war. However, even he knew that no Roman living or dead, had beaten the Carthage army led by one man, Hannibal. That fact weighed heavily on his shoulders and on each man in the room as they listened carefully to every word.

  Gaius was deep in his own thoughts, staring down at the wooden figures, picturing in his mind how the battle might play out, and did not notice that Scipio finished his briefing.

  Standing silently Scipio stepped back from the table, looking at each officer intently before speaking again.