Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage

by David Gibbins

  In front of them was a space where the buildings had been cleared away to create open ground. A low wall had been built across it to maintain a street frontage, linking the fortified houses of the approach to the Byrsa with the buildings below. In the centre of the wall was an open entrance, and two guards. To Fabius they looked like mountain men from northern Macedonia or Thrace, huge men with dark eyes and thick beards. Scipio strode brazenly up to them, speaking in Greek. ‘Message from Hasdrubal to the strategos,’ he said. Fabius tensed, keeping his arm ready beside his sword, watching as the guard to the left eyed them suspiciously.

  The man spoke in Greek. ‘I haven’t seen you two before,’ he said. ‘You’re not Iberian, or Greek. You look Roman.’

  Scipio snorted, and spat. ‘Roman by birth, but not by allegiance. We fought as legionaries at Pydna, but then deserted. The generals thought we were fighting solely for the honour of Rome, so they took all of the loot for themselves. Can you believe it? I tell you, when the Romans run short of men they’re going to come looking for mercenaries, but don’t think of joining them. Anyway, we had too much to drink one night in Tyre and woke up chained to the oars in a galley, but managed to escape when the galley put into the harbour here a few weeks ago, and we offered our services.’ He had spotted the distinctive shape of the bow slung on the man’s back, confirming his nationality. ‘It’s good to see Thracians again. We spent ten years after Pydna with a band of Thracian mercenaries, drinking and whoring our way around the kingdoms of the east, working wherever the pay was right. They say that one day, when the star of Rome has faded, a Thracian will rise who will put Alexander the Great in the pale, leading an army to conquer all of those lands. From what I’ve seen of Thracians, I wouldn’t doubt it.’

  The guard looked Scipio hard in the eyes, and then grunted, cracking a lopsided smile. ‘You’re all right. When we’re off-duty, we go to a tavern by the sea that serves Thracian wine. Just ask for the tavern of Menander. Meet us there this evening. The owner has two Egyptian girls who are always up for fresh meat. You can show us what you’re worth.’ He jerked his head to the door. ‘Take your message inside. Just don’t linger too long. If you do, they’ll use you for sword practice.’

  ‘Mercenaries?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Carthaginians. Not much more than boys, and none of them has seen battle. But they’ve been training like this, day in and day out, for as long as we’ve been stationed here. It’s said that they’re the first-born sons of Carthaginian nobility, spared sacrifice in the Tophet so that they could train to be the last-ditch defenders of Carthage, Hasdrubal’s personal suicide force for when the Romans finally have the guts to assault this place. I tell you, when that happens, Skylax here and me, we’ll be long gone. We’ll chain ourselves to a galley to get out. Among the mercenaries, only the bone-headed Celtiberians will stick around, because they fight for honour and not for loot. Staying here when the Romans appear on the horizon will be a one-way ticket to Hades.’

  Scipio stared at the man, looked around and then spoke quietly. ‘We know a kybernetes who can help you. He’s not looking for slaves, but for the best mercenaries he can find, for an elite force to join Andriscus the Macedonian in his attempt to regain the kingdom of Alexander.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled out a leather bag, opening it and spilling out gold coins into his hand. ‘These are staters of Alexander the Great, made from Thracian gold. There’s more gold in this one bag than you’ll get for a year serving Carthage, and this is just for starters.’ He put the coins back into the bag and pulled out another bag, handing one to each of the men. ‘There’s another bag for each of you on the ship, and another when you get to Macedonia. Once we’re there, the real pay starts. You’ll form part of Andriscus’ personal bodyguard, a stone’s throw from Thrace. You’ll be sent there to recruit others to the Macedonian army. You’ll arrive home rich men.’

  The Thracian looked at his companion, stared at Scipio again and slowly nodded, weighing the bag in his hand and then slipping it under his tunic. ‘We’ve been looking for a way out for months.’

  ‘Wait for us here. When we’ve delivered our message, we’ll go down to the harbour together. There will be others.’

  The man jerked his head at the entranceway. ‘You still want to go in there?’

  ‘The kybernetes knows a Roman who’s willing to pay for intelligence. If I can say that I’ve seen these Carthaginians with my own eyes, he’ll believe it. The Roman pays well, and there will be a cut in it for you.’

  ‘All right. Try not to be spotted.’

  Scipio nodded at Fabius, and they both went in. The entranceway led through a narrow passage towards a wider opening behind some columns. Fabius spoke quietly to Scipio. ‘That was a risk. What do you intend to do with these men?’

  Scipio replied quickly, his voice low. ‘Polybius said that if at all possible, we should coerce one or two soldiers to provide eyewitness descriptions in an attempt to persuade the Senate. They wouldn’t believe Carthaginians, doubting their sincerity, but they might believe mercenaries who have no vested loyalty to the place. Once we’re on the ship and I tell them who I really am and that I will guarantee their safety and reward, they’ll still agree to go along with us, I’m sure of it. They’d have no choice – to return to Carthage after deserting would be to face certain execution. But before that they’ll also be useful when we march down to the harbour together, making us into a more credible unit. The Thracian can claim to the customs police that we are on a mission from Hasdrubal himself to inspect the newly arrived ships, and in the darkness with our cheekpieces down we might go unrecognized even if the alarm has been raised. By the time they know that the Thracians are also on the run, the ship should have slipped away.’

  ‘Do you think they have the intelligence we need?’

  ‘Already this man has given us valuable hints about the morale of the mercenary force and how it’s likely to be depleted by desertion by the time a Roman army arrives. I believe there may be enough of them to defend the harbour area, putting up a stout resistance, but once we break through the harbour defences the way will be clear through the city until we reach this point, where the final defenders will be Carthaginians prepared to die for their city.’

  Fabius pointed ahead. ‘Here we are.’ They stared into a wide space about the size of a stadium, reminiscent of the training arena in the gladiator school in Rome. Ahead of them was a unit of soldiers in drill formation, about the size of a century, stomping forward and sideways and hollering in unison, slapping their sword blades against their shields. Their armour and weapons were burnished like silver, dazzling even in the fading light. They were equipped like nothing Fabius had seen before, with muscled cuirasses and Corinthian-style helmets, the nose guards and cheekpieces extending below their chins. They looked like a vision from the past, like Greek hoplites, soldiers Fabius had only ever seen before in carvings and paintings.

  At a barked command the soldiers turned and faced them directly; Scipio and Fabius quickly pulled back behind the columns before peering out again, cautiously. Their shields were white all over, except for a painted red crescent moon over a truncated triangle on the boss. Fabius recognized it from the entrance to the Tophet sanctuary they had passed on the way up, the symbol of the goddess Tanit. He remembered what the mercenary had said, that these were men who had been given a second lease of life, who had escaped sacrifice at birth only to spend their lives training for another kind of sacrifice, a debt owed to the goddess whose symbol they wore so defiantly on their shields.

  ‘Jupiter above,’ Scipio whispered. ‘It’s the hieros lockos, the Sacred Band.’

  The soldiers stomped again, turned and marched towards a cluster of men below the walls fronting the Byrsa that Fabius could see included white-robed priests as well as officers in armour. He turned to Scipio. ‘But I thought the Sacred Band was ancient history.’

  ‘They were destroyed almost two hundred years ago at the Battle of the Krimissus in
Sicily against Timoleon of Syracuse, and then again by Agathocles a generation later outside Carthage,’ Scipio replied. ‘They were the elite of the Carthaginian citizen army, but since then Carthage has relied on mercenaries.’

  ‘Yet from what the Thracian tells us, the mercenaries will no longer defend Carthage.’

  ‘So the Carthaginians have reformed the Sacred Band,’ Scipio said grimly. ‘For all these years while Rome has turned a blind eye, Carthage has not only rebuilt her naval might but also her most feared infantry force.’

  ‘If they fought to the death twice, that will be part of their sacred history and they will be prepared to do so again.’

  ‘They are training for war in these streets, in the narrowing alley leading to the Byrsa and the old houses of the Punic quarter. When an assault force reaches this place, they will know that they stand no chance of survival, that war is about selling victory at the highest possible price. These men are being trained to throw themselves into death. They are suicide warriors.’

  ‘Yet if an assault does not come soon and Carthage regains her strength, such a force could swiftly be turned into an offensive unit, a spearhead force or a special guard for Hasdrubal.’

  There was a sharp blast from a pair of trumpets and they turned to look at the entrance in the wall where the priests and officers had been standing. The trumpeters moved aside and a figure walked through, followed by several others. The first figure was a huge man, broad shouldered and muscular, wearing a lionskin with the gaping head draped over his own, his beard square-cut and braided. Fabius stared, and reeled. Only one man in Carthage wore a lionskin cloak. It was Hasdrubal. He seemed a physical embodiment of everything that made Carthage a place to fear: the hardiness of a Phoenician and the strength of a Numidian. It was extraordinary to think that he was within a stone’s throw of Scipio, heir of the Roman who had brought Carthage to her knees, the one whose destiny since childhood had been to stand before these very walls and confront the successor to the great Hannibal.

  Hasdrubal came down the steps and stood with his feet planted firmly apart, staring at the ranks of warriors facing him. From another entrance to the south a throng of slaves pulled a bullock towards him, its legs kicking and eyes red with fear. A priest handed Hasdrubal a sword, a huge, curved shape that Fabius had never seen before, and he turned towards the bull. The slaves dragged it to a halt, several of them hanging on each leg and another two at the neck. Two priests pushed a wide metal bowl beneath it and stood back as Hasdrubal himself came forward, standing in front of it. He suddenly lunged at the bull and held its neck with one arm in a lock, twisted it up and pulling it off balance. With his other hand he thrust the sword through the bull’s neck from the bottom up, ripping the blade outwards so that its head was nearly severed. The bull emitted a terrible hollow belch as a gush of bile came up from its stomach, and fountains of blood poured into the bowl. After a few seconds the flow of blood abated and Hasdrubal let the carcass fall heavily into the dust, and the priests pulled away the bowl, now brimming. One of them scooped a drinking horn into it and held it high in the direction of Bou Kornine, the twin-peaked mountain just visible in the distance above the rooftops to the east.

  One by one, the soldiers came up and drank deeply from the horn, letting the blood flow freely down their faces and breastplates, the priest replenishing it frequently. As they walked away, each warrior took off his helmet, and Fabius could see that the Thracian had been right. These were mere boys, sixteen or seventeen years old, some of them barely able to grow a beard. Fabius felt a sudden frisson of familiarity. They looked just like the boys in the academy in Rome all those years ago, the age that he and Scipio had been when they first went off to war in Macedonia. If Rome did not attack Carthage, if the trainers of these boys were able to look beyond their suicide, then they could be groomed as the next generation of Carthaginian war leaders, just as Scipio and the others had been for Rome.

  He knew what Scipio had to do. He had to harden himself against the innocence of these boys, against their enthusiasm for war and thirst for honour, qualities that Scipio himself rated more highly than anything else. Scipio had to return here before they got much older, at the head of an army that would drive up the streets of this city like a tidal wave. He had to ensure that the darkness for which these boys had been trained came to pass. He had to kill them all.

  Fabius peered towards the men who had come out of the entrance with Hasdrubal. Two were priests, and two others were evidently Carthaginian officials, dressed not in armour but in purple-rimmed robes. It was the fifth man who caught his eye, a stocky, muscular man with short grey hair wearing a Greek chiton, clothing that seemed incongruous with his physique.

  Fabius stared. And then he realized why the clothing seemed odd. It was because the last time he had seen this man he was dressed in armour, not the armour of a Carthaginian or a Greek but the chain mail and helmet of a Roman legionary.

  He turned to Scipio. ‘On the platform, beside Hasdrubal. I’ve just recognized him, the one in the chiton. That’s my old nemesis Porcus Entestius Supinus.’

  Scipio stared. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘When someone has fought with you as often as he did when we were boys, you get to know every contour of their face.’

  ‘But Porcus is Metellus’ servant. I mean, his soldier companion, as you are to me. And Metellus is in Macedonia.’

  ‘He’s also Metellus’ version of Polybius. He’s something I could never be, a wily emissary. He must be here on some business for Metellus.’

  Scipio looked down, thinking hard. ‘Of course. That lembos by the wharf – just the vessel to bring him here at high speed from Macedonia.’

  ‘Carefully hidden away in the war harbour, with signs of a Roman crew.’

  ‘A mission that the Senate could never have sanctioned,’ Scipio said.

  ‘Even though some of its most powerful members might have done so in secret.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Scipio asked.

  ‘Remember what the kybernetes told us. About the involvement of Roman senators in those Carthaginian trading enterprises.’

  ‘You think Metellus could be one of them?’

  ‘I’m just a simple legionary, Scipio. I can’t get my head around trade deals, but I have learned a bit about military strategy. I think it’s even worse than the kybernetes suggested. To my eyes, seeing a secret embassy here from Metellus smacks of a military alliance in the making.’

  Scipio’s eyes narrowed. ‘An alliance between the Roman governor of Macedonia and Hasdrubal of Carthage.’

  ‘Maybe not just the governor of Macedonia. Maybe he intends to be more than that. We know that Metellus has been a secret supporter of Andriscus, but perhaps it’s not Andriscus who had pretentions to the Macedonian throne. It has always seemed only a matter of time before Andriscus ceases to be useful and Metellus finds some excuse to destroy him. Do you remember how fascinated Metellus always was by Alexander the Great? When I used to listen to you in the academy war-gaming past battles, Metellus always brought his name up, in tones of reverence. He said the main thing that the academy had taught him was how if he were Alexander he would have solidified his gains and not overstretched himself.’

  ‘A new Alexander,’ Scipio breathed. ‘Rome’s main enemy has not been Carthage after all. It’s been herself, a dark force unleashed because Rome has not been able to provide men like Metellus with satisfaction in their careers, men who would not just be kings, but emperors.’

  Fabius was silent for a moment. Men like you too, Scipio Aemilianus. He peered at the soldiers. ‘They could see us if we move now. But as soon as the last warrior passes, we should go. We need to get to the harbour and then to Polybius. We have no time to lose.’

  They watched the final line of men drink their libations. Fabius’ mind raced. Their mission to Carthage had uncovered far more than they could have imagined. Carthage was not only rearming, but was on the cusp of becoming the richest state ever known. Worse
still, she was conducting negotiations with a Roman whom most in the Senate would believe was one of their most loyal generals, yet who might be on the verge of setting himself up as the successor of Alexander the Great, ruler of a new Rome in the east.

  Rome had allowed herself to become complacent. Only one man stood in the way of this new world order, and that was Scipio Aemilianus. Yet Scipio’s own future, his ability to lead an army to destroy Carthage and swing the pendulum back towards Rome, hung in the balance. And few in Rome knew as well as Fabius how precarious Scipio’s own loyalty was, and what he might do if one day he were to stand on the burning ruins of the temple that towered above them now.

  The last Carthaginian walked past them, wiping his mouth and flicking droplets of blood on the ground. Fabius stared Scipio in the eye, and then nodded at him.

  His mind flashed back to the men they had killed beside the harbour. They were only two, but they would be the first of many. Scipio would return to this city.

  They turned down the alley where the two Thracians were waiting for them, and began to run.

  17

  Near the Numidian border, five months later

  Fabius reined in his horse and came to a halt, watching the solitary rider with the crested helmet framed against the early morning light on the escarpment ahead. In the months since their covert mission to Carthage and return to the Roman headquarters encampment, he and Scipio had devoted themselves relentlessly to Gulussa’s cause, helping to muster and train Numidian cavalry in the plains and semi-desert scrubland far to the south of Carthage. Fabius had relished proper soldiering again, but this morning he was tired and hungry, caked in dust from their ride through the night; he knew that as soon as he lay down with the others in the wadi below he would go out like a snuffed candle, and sleep for hours.