They had been waiting for almost a week now, a week during which the Celtiberians had endured yet more starvation and misery, pelted by the hail and rain that had turned the place into a soggy mire, and by the fireballs that Ennius’ artillerymen had been lobbing over the walls into the houses, where even in the rain the burning pitch and oil had ignited the thatched roofs of the houses and forced the people out into the open, unprotected from the elements and the ballista balls. It seemed hardly credible that they had held out for so long, but Fabius had been hearing from the other legionaries of the Celtiberian endurance and how a siege like this could last until every person inside had died of starvation or by their own sword.
He looked across at Scipio, who was hunched over a tactical diorama that he and Ennius had created using mud and stones from the riverbank. Scipio was almost thirty-five years old now, his face craggier than it had been the last time they had gone to war together, his stubble and short-cropped hair flecked with grey. It was six years since they had left Macedonia, six years that Scipio had devoted with reluctance to the law courts and debating chambers of Rome – a burden they had managed to ease by spending months every year hunting in the foothills of the Apennines and on the high slopes of the Cisalpine mountians to the north, and in Rome working out daily with the gladiators to keep themselves fit and battle-ready. Unlike his contemporaries in Rome who had succumbed to self-indulgence, Scipio was as muscular and sinewy as the fabri who toiled around them now, as comfortable pitching in with ditch-digging as he was at joining the wrestling matches and swordplay that kept the legionaries in shape while they waited for the siege to wear down the Celtiberians and force them into battle again.
Scipio’s battered breastplate was shaped like the musculature of a human torso, a legacy of the Aemilii Paulli that had once been a splendid example of Etruscan metalwork but was now pocked and dented by war. It had been worn by Scipio’s father as a young tribune in the war against Hannibal and by his grandfather in the war before that, the first great clash with Carthage over a hundred years ago. War with Carthage was never far from their thoughts, even out here. They were only fighting now because the Celtiberians had sided with Hannibal in his trek through Spain towards Rome more than sixty years before, and since then had proved an obstacle to Roman attempts to reach the gold-mining districts further to the north-west. War had flared up three years earlier and been put down by the Romans only after an arduous campaign in these desolate foothills, sapping the energy of attacker and defender alike. But then with peace in the offing Lucullus had been elected consul and had decided to raise a new legion and go out to finish the job in Spain in his own terms, reneging on the promises that had been made to the Celtiberians by his predecessors. Everyone knew that the campaign was a way to an easy triumph, the first opportunity in almost two decades for a consul to lead a victory parade through Rome, and that the Celtiberians had been treated with a contempt that angered those who had fought against them and learned to respect their sense of honour as warriors.
Scipio had been privately scornful of Lucullus, a boorish novus homo with little military background, and had thought the renewed war in Spain a distraction from the imminent threat of Carthage. But Scipio had just been made a senator and had seen his future trapped in Rome, with no other chance of attaining the military reputation he would need to be appointed to command a legion or an army when the time came for an assault on Carthage. For once Polybius had been absent, away in Greece advising the Achaean League on its military organization, and Scipio had been forced to mull over the question on his own, weighing his own ambition and sense of destiny against his conscience over joining a dishonourable war. Then, a few days before Lucullus and his legion were due to depart from Rome, word had reached him that a group of older senators who opposed Cato and were suspicious of anyone with the name Scipio were engineering an appointment for him as aedile in Macedonia, a post that would have been a welcome break from Rome except for the fact that the new provincial governor was his arch-rival Metellus. He had discussed it with Fabius, and the die was set. They had remembered what had happened in the forest of Macedonia six years before, and had no wish to end their days with a knife-thrust in some back alley of Pella.
Scipio had gone to Lucullus as he was forming up the legion on the Field of Mars and volunteered. He had accepted appointment as a military tribune, not among the young men who led the maniples and cohorts, but as an officer on Lucullus’ staff, to act as an emissary when the time came to discuss terms again with the Celtiberians. Lucullus was trading on Scipio’s reputation for fides, for keeping his word, a role that Fabius knew would batter Scipio’s conscience given Lucullus’ duplicity towards the Celtiberians. Scipio and Fabius were only here at Intercatia while they waited for the rains to abate and the road to the coast to become passable again, having marched into the camp ten days before with a reduced century from the oppidum of Cauca where Lucullus was encamped with his legion. Ennius was already here, commander of the small besieging force, and had deferred to Scipio because he knew how much Scipio yearned to see action, and honouring his seniority in the academy years before. Ennius’ main force was a cohort of fabri who were meant to complete the fortifications before the arrival of Lucullus’ legion, at which point Lucullus expected the oppidum to capitulate and another victory to be added to his basket without any need to risk his own skin leading his men into battle.
Fabius watched Scipio stand upright and peer at the walls. He was not wearing the silver phalera disc that his father had awarded him for valour at Pydna. Scipio had told Fabius that Pydna had been fought when most of the legionaries here were boys, and would have been an old war story told by their fathers. They all knew that he was the son of the legendary Aemilius Paullus and adoptive grandson of Scipio Africanus; they all knew that princes often wore decorations bestowed on them by kings, even when they had never seen action. He would not rest on past laurels, but would earn their respect before their eyes. And he had done it a week before, storming the walls at the head of the legionaries, the first to stand atop the rubble and see the Celtiberian warriors fall back on their second defensive position, the wall across the centre of the oppidum that enclosed the huts and wooden halls of their settlement. The scars that gleamed fresh on Scipio’s breastplate from those few moments of ferocious fighting on the walls had far greater meaning to him than any decoration that Rome might bestow. And out here, where set-piece battles were never going to happen, where war meant tedious days and weeks of sieges punctuated by terrifying moments of violence when the Celtiberians sallied forth, individual combat was the key to a man’s reputation. No general was ever going to lead a fully formed legion into battle in this part of Spain, where the terrain of hills and confined river valleys only suited small-unit action by maniples and cohorts led by centurions and tribunes, or where action only took place during sieges in places where the Celtiberians themselves were prepared to give fight, on sloping ground below the oppida or in confined spaces within the curtain walls that were more like arenas for gladiatorial duels than battlegrounds for armies.
Fabius knew there was another reason why Scipio was not wearing the phalera. He had not worn it since the night of his father’s triumph in Rome when he had been jeered at by Metellus, when Julia had been by his side for the last time. It was the night when Scipio knew he had lost Julia, and when he had hardened his resolve not to let the derision of others and the conventions of Rome blur his focus on his destiny. Spain was to be his proving ground, and he would prove himself not as the son of Aemilius Paullus or the grandson of Scipio Africanus but as a soldier, engaging the enemy close-up as the legionaries did, when the fight was for survival and for your comrades and not for any other glory or honour.
* * *
Fabius leapt out of the ditch and walked over to Scipio and Ennius. He stared at the diorama, at the marks in the mud that Scipio had made with his stick, and pointed at a long furrow. ‘If that’s meant to be the river, it’s not quite righ
t,’ he said. ‘It curves around to the south, beyond the camp of the fabri.’
Scipio shook his head. ‘This isn’t Intercatia, but Numantia. If we’re ever going to defeat the Celtiberians, we’ll need to take Numantia.’
‘It is their greatest stronghold,’ Ennius said.
Scipio pursed his lips, staring thoughtfully. ‘The biggest weakness of the Celtiberians is their clan structure, which means a lack of overall strategic control. They’re shepherds, just as we at Rome were cattle-drovers at the time of Romulus, loyal to our families and clans on each of the seven hills, but sharing allegiance with them only when we were attacked by a confederation of the Latin tribes. It’s a weakness of the Celtiberians but it’s also what makes the war arduous for us, as we have to fight each tribe piecemeal and besiege the oppida one at a time with no assurance that the fall of one oppidum will make the siege of the next one any less difficult, as the inhabitants may be from different clans and normally hostile to one another.’
‘It’s as if we’re fighting lots of small wars in succession,’ Ennius muttered. ‘You can finish each war by negotiating peace and keeping your word, giving the chieftain a sense of honourable defeat, even aloofness from the other tribes that remain at war. But if you break your word, it’s a different story; the clans might respond by banding together and presenting a more unified opposition. That’s what seems to have happened now with the arrival of Lucullus, and his reneging on the deal that pacified the Celtiberians last year.’
Scipio nodded. ‘The dynamic of the war against the Celtiberians has changed. The Arevaci are the largest tribe, and their main oppidum is Numantia. Take Numantia, and the other oppida of that tribe might fall to you without a fight, and the war would be over.’
‘Is that Lucullus’ plan?’ Fabius asked.
Scipio’s face was impassive. ‘He has only one legion, freshly raised and inexperienced. He intends to win enough sieges for a triumph, and then to leave. But by coming to Spain with no more than personal glory in mind he has set in train a war with Rome that will not be extinguished until Numantia is taken, perhaps years from now. That’s what Ennius and I have been war-gaming.’
‘What would you do?’ Fabius asked.
Ennius pointed with his stick. ‘This is the river Durius. I’d build towers on either side of the river, in two places five hundred feet apart. The towers on the near side of the river would be close enough for archers to rain down arrows inside the oppidum. I’d circumvallate the oppidum with a deep ditch and rampart, and double it outside the main entrances where a strong force sallying forth might overwhelm a single ditch system.’
Scipio grinned at him. ‘Spoken like a true engineer. You’d build another set of walls around Rome if you had the chance.’
‘That’s not a joke. The city is getting too big for the Servian walls. They’re over two hundred years old now. And the more wooden tenement houses that are crammed inside the walls, the more likely there is to be a devastating fire.’
‘Polybius and one of his scientist friends from Alexandria did a mathematical calculation about city walls,’ Scipio said. ‘They established that unless you have a population even more densely crowded than the population of Rome, living in tenements that would have to be eight or ten storeys high, you simply wouldn’t have enough manpower in a city to defend its outer limits.’
Ennius nodded. ‘City walls are only really ever for show.’
‘You need defence in depth, a smaller area of fortification to fall back on. That’s what the Celtiberians did here at Intercatia a week ago.’
‘Do you remember Polybius taking us to Athens and showing us the Acropolis? That’s something the Greeks have got right, and we haven’t.’
‘Because the Roman spirit is offensive, not defensive. But the Celtiberians, like the Greeks, are generally inward looking; it’s unusual for them to expand beyond their borders and to take over adjoining oppida. Rome, by contrast, has been outward looking for centuries now, devouring surrounding tribes and then the city-states of the Greeks and the Carthaginians, forever expanding.’
Ennius gave him a wry look. ‘Yes, and see what happens when invaders do reach Rome: the Gauls two and a half centuries ago, and very nearly Hannibal in our grandfathers’ time. The Capitoline Hill where people took refuge from the Gauls was easily overwhelmed, and remains unfortified. One day Rome will reach the limits of its expansion and will suffer from the same weakness revealed by Polybius’ calculation, of not having enough manpower to defend the frontiers. Yet great efforts will be expended to fortify the frontiers at the expense of Rome itself, which will remain vulnerable and will fall.’
Scipio grunted. ‘The Celtiberians regard their oppida as refuges, as do the Gauls,’ he said. ‘The lower courses of their walls are built of stone, the upper structure of wood with thatched roofs, vulnerable to fire. That is their greatest defensive weakness. They knew nothing of siege engines when their walls were designed.’
Ennius nodded. ‘I would bring up batteries of ballistas and catapults, for solid shot and fireballs.’
Scipio pursed his lips. ‘The river is still the weak point.’
Ennius stared for a moment, and then traced a line across the furrow between the two stones. ‘What about this. You attach a thick cable between the towers, tensed so that it lies on the surface of the water. You twist the cable around sections of tree trunks, so that they form a boom. Then there is no way that boats could be dispatched from the oppidum to reach safety.’
Fabius looked at him. ‘I have a suggestion.’
‘Speak your mind.’
‘Have you ever been to the chariot races in the Circus Maximus when they attach blades to the wheels?’
‘A great spectacle, total carnage,’ Ennius said. ‘It’s not just what the blades do to the chariots when they lock together, but to the charioteers who fall within them.’
‘What’s your point, Fabius?’ Scipio said. ‘Numantia’s a long way from the Circus Maximus, and chariots would just bog down in the mud out here.’
‘Not chariots, Scipio, but those floating logs. A week after we arrived in Spain I went with a reconnaissance patrol to Numantia, to size up the defences. Now that I know your model is meant to represent the oppidum, I recognize the lie of the river. At those points where you’ve put the towers it flows particularly fast, being narrower, especially when it’s bloated with the rains that seem to fall all the time here. Instead of seeing that weather as an impediment, we could turn it to our advantage. Paddles affixed like the spokes of a wheel at either end of those logs would make them spin around with the current.’
‘I’ve got you,’ Ennius said enthusiastically. ‘Attach blades jutting outwards along the length of the logs, and they would scythe away like the wheels of a chariot. Not only would boats be unable to get through, but neither would swimmers.’
Fabius took the stick from Scipio and traced two lines across the furrow. ‘The river is nearly fordable at these points. Place your towers and the log booms there, and the blades would nearly brush the riverbed. Swimmers would be unable to dive beneath.’
Ennius nodded, staring at the mud. ‘A brilliant suggestion, Fabius. That’s one for Polybius’ textbook. If the Intercatians continue to tax our patience and hold out longer, I will keep my fabri occupied by having them build an experimental boom on the river here to see how it works.’
Scipio slapped Fabius on the shoulder. ‘We’ll make a general of you yet.’
‘Centurion will do, Scipio. One day, when I’ve earned it.’
Ennius peered at Scipio. ‘So much for our siege works. How would you dispose your men?’
‘One third for the assault force, one third in reserve. One third of the reserve to move up and man the enemy walls once the assault force has moved through the breaches made by artillery, including all available archers and slingers. The forward line of the reserve to include fabri ready to spring forward and provide scaling ladders and demolition teams if called for. The remaining
third of the force to comprise ballista and catapult crews, the heavy cavalry to repel any sally from the enemy and a light cavalry force to hunt down any who would escape from the oppidum to seek aid.’
Ennius grinned at him. ‘Now that’s straight out of the textbook.’
‘I’ve had plenty of time to prepare. When I haven’t been hunting and training, I’ve been war-gaming. The law courts and the debating chamber only take up a few mornings every week. They’ve knocked down the old Gladiator School where we held the academy, but Fabius and I managed to salvage the diorama table where we studied battles. Whenever Polybius and any of the others are around we get together in a room I’ve had specially added to my house on the Palatine and recreate the great battles of the past, changing the variables to try to alter the outcome, just as we were taught to do. We must have done Zama fifty times, Cannae about the same. But my special fascination has always been sieges.’
‘I wonder why,’ Ennius said, eyeing Scipio. ‘Let me guess. A large city on the southern Mediterranean shore, with enclosed harbours and a high acropolis housing a temple to Ba’al Hammon, and a place where they sacrifice children. Rome’s greatest enemy, still unvanquished.’
‘It’s all I can think about. It’s my destiny.’
‘Well, Intercatia is not Carthage, and you have only five hundred men here, two thirds of them fabri.’
‘Fabri are legionaries too.’
Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage Page 16
