Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage

by David Gibbins

  He pushed the door open and crept inside, shutting it quietly behind him. The room was large, windowless where it faced the street outside but with an open gallery on the other side overlooking the arena in the courtyard below. Two slaves stood in attendance against the back wall, holding trays with fruit and water pitchers, beside an open passageway coming up from the courtyard where the old centurion would make his entrance. In the centre of the room was a large table, some three arms’ breadths in length, covered with the diorama of a battlefield; the terrain was represented by sand and stones and tufts of grass, and the opposing armies by coloured wooden blocks arranged in rows. Fabius knew exactly which battle was being represented. When Polybius had taught him Greek he had read him a passage on the battle from the history of the war against Hannibal that Polybius had been writing ever since he had arrived from Greece as a willing captive who had always been a great admirer of Rome. And the old centurion had told Fabius about it, an eyewitness who had fought there beside the elder Scipio himself. Fabius had gone to the tavern one evening with him and had spent hours drinking wine and listening to the stories. It was the Battle of Zama, the final confrontation with the Carthaginians in North Africa that had forced Hannibal to surrender and the city of Carthage to lay itself at Scipio’s mercy, almost thirty-five years ago now.

  The table was lit by four candles at each corner, and by an open skylight in the roof. In the gloom Fabius could make out a dozen or so figures standing back in the shadows, including the bearded figure of Polybius, taller than the rest and some fifteen years older, attending today as their professor in order to better his understanding of Roman tactics for a special volume in the Histories that he was writing.

  Scipio was leaning forward with his hands on the table, staring intently. Fabius quietly passed him the bronze greaves he had been carrying, and Scipio put them on, deftly tying them behind his legs and nodding acknowledgement to Fabius before looking at the table again, concentrating. Fabius knew the protocol. They had finished reconstructing the actual battle, and now were entering the realm of speculation. Each one in turn would come up to the table and alter a series of variables, and the next would suggest possible outcomes. It was a game of tactics and strategy to show how easily the course of history could have been altered. Scipio as leader of the group was the last player, and Polybius as the previous player had set him the challenge.

  ‘You’ve taken away the Celtiberians,’ Scipio muttered.

  ‘They’re mercenaries, remember?’ Polybius replied. ‘Almost the entire Carthaginian army is mercenary. I’ve imagined that on the eve of battle they’ve demanded their pay, and Carthage has no gold left. So they’ve melted away into the night.’

  Another voice piped in. ‘Have you heard the rumour that the Carthaginians have revived the Sacred Band? An elite unit made up entirely of Carthaginian noblemen. They say it’s been resurrected in secret, for the last defence of Carthage, should we attack again.’

  Scipio looked up. ‘My friend the playwright Terence told me that too. He was brought up in Carthage, so should know. But it’s irrelevant to the game. At Zama it’s the year 551 ab urbe condita, and the Sacred Band was annihilated years before.’ He turned back to the diorama. ‘So, removing the Celtiberians makes Roman victory even more assured.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Polybius replied. ‘Look at your food supplies.’

  Scipio glanced at a cluster of coloured counters behind the Roman lines, and grunted. ‘You’ve depleted it by three quarters. What happened?’

  ‘In the lead-up to the battle the Romans ravaged the land, taking all of the crops at once instead of foraging carefully with a view to a long campaign. For three weeks before the battle the legionaries have lived on half-rations.’

  ‘So, morale plummets. And physical ability. An army lives on its stomach.’

  ‘And I’ve made another change, the third one I’m allowed. Scipio Africanus, your grandfather, has told the legionaries that there will be no looting in Carthage if they take the city. All of the treasures stolen by the Carthaginians from the Greeks in Sicily will be returned.’

  ‘Even worse,’ Scipio muttered. ‘No food, no loot.’

  ‘But there is one saving factor,’ Polybius said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Polybius came forward out of the shadows. ‘Another change: my fourth and final one. Five years before, Scipio Africanus has been allowed by the Senate to create a professional army. He has set up an academy for officers, the first ever in Rome, in the old Gladiator School, identical to the academy here today. As a result, when the legionaries go to war they have the pride and solidarity of a professional army. They fight for one another, for their honour, and not for loot. And the officers have simulated past battles just as we are doing, they’re always one step ahead of the enemy. So they win the battle, as we would.’

  ‘And then they go on to destroy Carthage,’ Scipio said, grinning at Polybius. ‘Without the interference of the Senate.’

  Polybius cocked an eye at him. ‘So what do you do, then? You’ve won the battle, and the campaign. But have you won the war? When are wars ever over? Do you return to Rome for your triumph and rest on your laurels, or do you capitalize on your victory and seek out the next threat to Rome, the next region ripe for conquest?’

  ‘It would depend on the will of the Senate and the people of Rome,’ one of the others said.

  ‘And on who was consul,’ another added. ‘Consuls are in office for only one year, and if the next consuls see little in it for themselves they may order the legions to return to Rome.’

  Scipio pursed his lips. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘The constitution of Rome puts a lid on any attempt at a wider strategy.’

  ‘Constitutions are made by men, not gods,’ a figure with a deeper voice said. He stepped up beside Polybius, and Fabius saw that it was Metellus, a man closer in age to Polybius. He was already a serving tribune, at home on leave from the Macedonian war to recover from wounds; he already bore the scars of an eagle’s talons from his youth, where a hunting bird had missed his wrist and landed on his face. ‘Rome has already changed her constitution once, when she got rid of the kings and created the Republic,’ he said. ‘She could do it again.’

  ‘Dangerous words, Metellus,’ Polybius said. ‘Words that smack of dictatorship and empire.’

  ‘If that’s what we need to keep Rome strong, then so be it.’

  Polybius leaned his hands on the table, looking at the diorama pensively. ‘It will be up to those of you here, the next generation of war leaders, to navigate the best course for Rome. All I would say is this. The course of history is not a matter of chance, nor a game in which we are pieces like these wooden blocks, moved about on a whim by the gods. In the real world, you are not the gaming piece; you are the player. You follow the rules of the game, yes, but you bend them, you press against them. The rules will not win the game for you: you must do it yourselves. History is made by people, not by gods. Scipio Africanus was not a slave to some divine will, but was his own master and his own tactician.’

  ‘And what of empire?’ Metellus asked. ‘Could Rome have an empire?’

  ‘Imperialism must be built on moral responsibility for the governed. Outrageous behaviour will bring retribution. An empire must not grow beyond the capacity of its institutions to manage it.’

  ‘Then we have done so already,’ Metellus said. ‘We already have provinces, but we do not yet have the organization to administer them. We are an empire in all but name, yet Rome persists in behaving like a city-state. Something must change. Someone must rise above it all and see the future. As you have taught us, Polybius, history is made by individuals, and it is they and not institutions that cause change. That is what this academy is about. It’s about creating future emperors.’

  ‘I don’t think that was exactly what my grandfather intended,’ Scipio said, looking at Metellus coldly.

  ‘Should we not look to the past?’ one of the others said
. ‘The lessons for wars of the future are in the wars of our ancestors.’

  Polybius stood back from the table. ‘That is the Roman way, to feel that the busts of the ancestors you all have in the tablinae of your houses are constantly looking over you, guiding you,’ he said. ‘But sometimes we need to make our obeisances to the past and then shut that door, and look solely to the future. Studying history is about learning from the past, but not always about seeking a precedent from it. Strategy and tactics in war are built on experience of past wars, but each new one is unique. The world is not static. If you choose to look forward, and do so aggressively, and you learn all of the lessons that you have been taught in the academy, then you may change history. History is not laid out for us like some ever-rolling rug. You may weave your own thread in it, or you may twist the rug sideways, and send it tumbling down the steps into the unknown. That’s my lesson for today. We end with a final thought from each of you, as usual. Ennius?’

  ‘Keep your word. Only then will cities surrender to you.’

  ‘Good. Scipio?’

  ‘In a new province, define your borders,’ Scipio said. ‘Otherwise war is inevitable.’

  Polybius nodded. ‘When Carthage was allowed to keep some of her territory in Africa after the Battle of Zama, the borders were ill defined. It was a recipe for war. Lucius?’

  ‘Exploit superstition. If your army feels they have divine guidance, then encourage them to believe it.’

  ‘Brutus?’

  ‘Punish savagely those you have conquered who are not yet obedient, to inspire fear and terror.’

  ‘Zeus above,’ Polybius murmured. ‘That sounds like something from Sparta.’

  ‘My father taught it to me,’ Brutus said, his massive forearms folded over his chest. ‘He said there would be more to the academy than swordplay, and that I should be ready with some ideas.’

  ‘Maybe you’d better stick to your strengths,’ Polybius muttered. ‘Fabius?’

  Fabius was discomfited. ‘I’m only here as Scipio’s servant, Polybius. I will never lead an army.’

  ‘You may not lead an army, but men like you will be the backbone of the army. What do you say?’

  Fabius thought for a moment. ‘Cowardice must not go unpunished.’

  Polybius nodded slowly, and then smiled. ‘All right. That’s enough gravitas for today. Hippolyta’s offered to teach you how to use a Scythian bow. See you all in the arena in half an hour.’

  Scipio said, standing up and stretching, ‘Twenty minutes’ rest before the centurion arrives. Drink some water and eat some fruit. You’ll need it if we’re going out on to the arena.’

  Polybius pointed at the diorama. ‘If Julia had been here, she could have told us more. Her father Sextus Julius Caesar was at Zama as a junior tribune. She knows the battle like the back of her hand.’

  Scipio looked around, suddenly missing her. ‘Has anyone seen Julia?’

  ‘She’s not coming today,’ one of the others said. ‘She’s accompanying her mother to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins for some kind of ceremony.’

  ‘Let’s just hope the Virgins don’t take her,’ someone else sniggered. ‘That would deprive us of some fun. That is, if Scipio will let us have it.’

  ‘Shut it, Lucius,’ Polybius said tiredly. ‘Or Scipio will have his friend Brutus here hack off your manhood.’

  Fabius saw Scipio clasp the amulet around his neck that he knew Julia had given him, an ancient Etruscan device of an eagle passed down through her gens, and then look down in annoyance. He knew that Scipio hated himself for showing his feelings for Julia. He saw Metellus staring at Scipio, questioningly, and he suddenly remembered. Metellus had been away in Macedonia for almost two years, so would have no idea of Scipio’s affection for Julia. Scipio shook his head dismissively, as if Julia was of no consequence to him, and then stood square and folded his arms over his chest, nodding at the diorama. ‘I’m expecting all of you to memorize the entire order of battle, down to the last maniple and rag-tag auxiliary unit. You can spend the next twenty minutes doing that instead. When the centurion returns, he’ll test you on it. Get one thing wrong, and you know what will happen. I can assure you that the pain from his vine staff will be greater than anything Brutus might be likely to mete out. Now get on with it.’

  In the silence that followed, Fabius scanned the room. Most of them were sixteen or seventeen years old, on the cusp of manhood, several a year or two younger. When the trumpets of war sounded, when the centurion deemed them ready, they would be appointed as military tribunes in the Roman army, the first rung in the ladder that might lead those who survived to command legions, to lead armies, even to the consulship, the highest office in the Republic. They were scions of the greatest patrician families of Rome: the gens Julii, the gens Junia, the gens Claudia, the gens Valeria, and Scipio’s adopted branch of the gens Cornelia, the Scipiones. In their sprawling houses on the Palatine were shrines filled with wax busts of ancestors who had gained glory in war, some dating back to the time of Romulus and the foundation of the city almost six hundred years before, and many from the succession of devastating wars that Rome had fought in recent centuries: against the Latin tribes and the Etruscans near to Rome, against the Celts to the north, against the Greek colonies of Italy and Sicily, and above all in the titanic struggle against Carthage, a conflict that had begun almost a hundred years before and still haunted them all, a war that should have ended with the Battle of Zama if the senators had allowed the act of destruction that would have secured Rome’s dominance in the west Mediterranean and allowed her to focus her whole might on Greece and the riches of the east.

  And they were not all men. Fabius let his eyes linger on a dark corner of the room and saw her, taller than any of them except Polybius, watching everything intently, her eyes briefly catching his. Her red hair was woven into a long tail behind her head, and she had dark kohl rings around her eyes. In the arena she took off her gold neck torque and bracelets and fought without armour, wearing only a white tiger skin wrapped tightly around her midriff and chest. They had been astonished at the tattoo on her back, an eagle with wings outstretched from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. They knew her by her Greek name, Hippolyta, meaning ‘Wild Mare’, but the centurion had told them before she arrived that her name in her own language was Oiropata, meaning ‘Killer of Men’. They had scoffed at it, but everyone had gone silent when she had walked through the door and they had seen her physique. She was a Scythian princess, the daughter of a client king from the steppe lands to the north of the Black Sea, and the centurion had explained that there were more of them, expert female horse riders and archers, and that one day she might lead an ala of Scythian cavalry alongside a Roman army. Polybius spoke her language and had questioned her at length about Scythian history, and had helped to improve her Latin. The others kept their distance, fearful of being singled out by the centurion to fight her in unarmed combat and endure the humiliation of almost certain defeat.

  And then there was Julia. She was from the Caesares branch of the gens Julia, the daughter of Sextus Julius Caesar who had fought as a tribune at Zama. She was no warrior princess like Hippolyta, but she had a shrewd tactical mind and would have swept the floor that day with her knowledge of the battle that had made her father’s name. Fabius had seen how Julia had made Scipio’s pulse quicken, how when she was watching him in the arena fighting he was possessed by a force that seemed to come from the gods. Fabius himself had felt a stab of pain when he first saw Julia’s affection for Scipio, casting his mind back to that night when she had come to him in the servant’s quarters, but it had quickly passed. He remembered the look that Metellus had given Scipio. Fabius knew that Scipio had been dreading the arrival of Metellus, and welcoming it at the same time: dreading it because it might break the bond between him and Julia, welcoming it because it might help to suppress the feelings he had for her which could threaten his career. Metellus had been betrothed to Julia since she had been a small child, an
d he was Scipio’s second cousin on his mother’s side.

  Scipio himself was enmeshed in social obligations; he was the son of Aemilius Paullus of the gens Aemilii but also the adoptive son of Publius Cornelius Scipio, eldest son of the great Scipio Africanus, who was also Scipio’s great-uncle on his mother’s side. He had been given up for adoption only because he had two elder brothers, and because the third son was never accorded the same privileges in his career; without adoption he would never have been poised to become a military tribune as he was now. It had been a huge honour to be adopted by the son of Scipio Africanus, but it had come with the burden of his own betrothal to Claudia Pulchra of the gens Claudia, a girl he profoundly disliked who hardly lived up to her cognomen, yet whom he knew was counting down every day with bated breath until his eighteenth birthday and the formal beginning of the marriage rites. Every time that he and Fabius had to go near her house on the Esquiline Hill they made elaborate detours to avoid being spotted from the bower where she sat with her slave girls overlooking the city, looking forward to the kind of future doing the social rounds and scheming with the matrons of the other gentes that Scipio dreaded far more than the worst enemy on the battlefield.