The Seven Hills

by John Maddox Roberts

  "Advance and take them all," he called. "I want none to escape." His signals officer barked orders and the flagmen transferred the admiral's commands. The triremes swept forward in a broad crescent, pivoting on the right, landward ship, swinging around like a huge door to close off the little harbor. A large detachment of the biremes broke away from the main formation and rowed southwestward along the coast. They would take up a position in line abreast to trap any vessel that tried to escape and carry warning to Hamilcar's fleet.

  All this was one of several prearranged battle plans. The Romans, consulting with their Greek sailing masters, had concocted a number of these, each with its own signals, each precise but allowing for flexibility for individual initiative and contingencies. History had taught them the folly of rigid adherence to a battle plan.

  Inshore, the enemy was wasting no time. From the moment the Roman fleet heaved in sight, battle preparations commenced. Even with the before-action tension twisting his stomach, Arrunteius found himself admiring the efficiency with which his opposite number was coping with the unexpected danger. Ships in the water were prepared for battle with amazing speed. Masts were lowered, sails and yards stowed away or merely pitched overboard to clear the decks. All inessential gear was disposed of in this manner. Even slaves working on the ships were thrown into the water to swim or drown.

  Ships that had been drawn up on shore were dragged into the water, their crews scrambling aboard, running out oars before the hulls were fully afloat. Transports and cargo vessels were pulled close inshore, leaving the war fleet as much maneuvering room as possible. All, clearly, was according to a long-established naval practice.

  In an amazingly short time the Carthaginian fleet was in the water, in battle order and heading for the Roman line, before the Romans had even completed their encircling sweep to shut off the harbor. The first elements were heading straight for the Roman center. Straight for Avenging Mars.

  The first Carthaginian trireme seemed on top of him more quickly than Arrunteius could have imagined. He felt cooler now, because his task as admiral was substantially done. Now the battle devolved upon the individual ships' captains and their crews. The ship bearing down upon him was like something out of Hades: a lean, low dragon shape from which trails of smoke arched toward him—fire arrows, he realized. Above the ship's fanged ram squatted the hideous little god Patechus, the Punic terror demon. The archers around Arrunteius on the castle began to send shafts toward the enemy, and from the deck below him came the thudding of the ballistae as they fired their heavy iron javelins.

  The enemy ship swerved to one side, an old naval maneuver intended to send the galley plowing through the oars on one side of Arrunteius's ship, their flailing handles reducing the rowers inside to dog meat, crippling his ship so that the Carthaginian could ram at leisure. But his sailing master turned into the other's bow, an unexpected maneuver devised to take advantage of the Roman galley's greater mass.

  Going ram-to-ram was the one thing the Carthaginians were not prepared for. The bronze-sheathed ram of Avenging Mars struck just below and to one side of the crouching god, crunching through the wood with the awful momentum of both ships. Seconds before the impact, the Roman rowers drew in their oars. Arrunteius grabbed the railing before him as his ship lurched, then rose. Amazed, he realized that his own vessel was riding up over the keel of the lighter craft, splitting its deck like a huge saw splitting a plank. Boards and timbers flew; splinters showered the men on the tower as the heavy Roman galley plowed through the Carthaginian. Below, men screamed, flailed, dived into the water or were pulped.

  Arrunteius saw one side of the enemy ship open up and the oar benches, along with the rowers, topple into the sea. Armored men waved their weapons in perfect futility as their ship broke up beneath them. A man he took to be the captain stood for a moment beside the steering oar, his face a mask of incomprehension. Then the stern was swamped and the whole ship, now in many pieces, settled into the water.

  Arrunteius stood, astounded. In moments, a magnificent ship was reduced to bits of floating debris. And he had done it! He, Decimus Arrunteius, in his invincible ship! He waved his fists aloft. "Mars is victorious!" he shouted. All over the ship, men regained use of their tongues and took up the cry. "Mars is victorious! Mars is victorious!"

  Now he remembered that he was an admiral and there was still a battle to win. He looked around him and saw a score of ship fights in progress. Some ships were locked together by the corvi, soldiers swarming across to fight hand-to-hand. Others lay grappled, and men scrambled over the rails. He could see the results of other rammings, some of them with the same devastating result his own had accomplished. Here and there, Carthaginians had managed to ram Roman vessels, and some of these were sinking, though the heavier timbers of the Roman ships usually gave their men time to board the enemy. Roman boarding inevitably led to the Carthaginians' capture, for the mercenaries manning their decks were no match for Roman swordsmen, even those who had been mere Italian villagers or bandits the year before. Their gladii quickly turned the enemy deck to a bloody shambles.

  "How are our oarsmen?" Arrunteius demanded. "Can we maneuver?"

  "Haven't lost many," the sailing master answered. "They shipped oars in time."

  "Then find us another to ram!" He looked around, and saw a Carthaginian galley backing away from the hole it had punched in the side of a Roman vessel. Arrunteius pointed toward it. "That one!"

  With the sailing master shouting down to the oar master and that officer barking the orders to his charges, Avenging Mars turned on its axis until its ram was pointed at the Carthaginian; then it surged forward, picking up speed as the hortator increased the tempo of his drumbeats. Arrunteius saw faces along the enemy rail turn, go pale. He saw fingers pointing and mouths forming shouts as they saw the doom bearing down upon them, but it was far too late.

  The ram of Avenging Mars caught the Carthaginian galley amidships, where the timbers were thinnest and most stressed. This time the castle barely vibrated beneath Arrunteius's feet as the enemy ship broke in two, filled and sank so swiftly that it was like some sort of conjurer's trick. Again he raised the shout, "Mars is victorious!" The men aboard the rammed Roman ship cheered as loudly to see their vessel so quickly avenged, cheering as they scrambled to jam canvas and wood and dead bodies into the gaping hole in her side.

  "Find me another!" Arrunteius cried, exulting. He knew now that his ship was invincible. Rome was invincible.

  Within an hour, the battle was effectively over. The waiting biremes pounced on the few warships that managed to get through the Roman battle line, two or three biremes attacking each larger Carthaginian craft, ramming and then sending boarders across to butcher the defenders. Desperate crews beached their ships, threw away their arms and took to their heels, running for the interior. They would be desperate, hunted men, for if the Romans caught them they faced slavery, while Carthage would crucify them.

  Avenging Mars rowed through the wreckage toward a wharf, and Arrunteius surveyed the scene with the greatest satisfaction. Here and there, hulks lay low in the water, smoke drifting from their timbers. Some ships were still sinking; others wallowed, abandoned, their crews all dead. The water was thick with blood, and sharks converged from, all quarters, tearing excitedly at this abundance of flesh. Arrunteius's officers were taking inventory of the captured supply ships and transports and were questioning surviving officers with great rigor.

  The entire Carthaginian fleet was destroyed or captured. Arrunteius had lost seven triremes and a handful of biremes, but the crews, rowers and marines of these ships had mostly been saved. A few days of hard work would put his fleet back in order. He knew that the main Carthaginian fleet would be far larger and it would be a harder fight, but now his men had confidence in their admiral, in their ships and in themselves.

  With his ship made fast to the wharf, Arrunteius went ashore and erected an altar, demolishing a Carthaginian altar to Baal-Hammon for the purpose. He sacrific
ed to Jupiter, to Mars and to Neptune in gratitude for his victory. He poured oil and wine over the altar, then the blood of the sacrificial animals; then he kindled a fire and burned the sacrifices, chanting the ancient prayers until all was thoroughly consumed. When the ritual obligations had been observed, he assembled his officers.

  "I want the rams from all those Carthaginian ships," he ordered. "Send salvage divers down if you have to, but I must have every one of them. They will adorn the monument I will erect in the Forum when we return to Rome. I can't petition the Senate for a triumph—it's not allowed for a mere naval battle, especially since it hasn't concluded a successful war—but I will see to it that Rome never forgets what we did here this day. Our generals are taking back our empire from Carthage. But we are taking back our sea!"

  His officers cheered lustily, and his marines and sailors took up the shout. He felt all his ancestors looking down upon him with approval. He had made the name of Arrunteius shine with glory. He. was the first duumvir of Rome's resurgence.

  Mastanabal watched the approaching roman lines with wonder. What could they possibly intend? With no ladders and no towers or other machines, how did they expect to take his wall? And they were not concentrating on a single point, but advancing on a front as wide as the wall itself. Arrows began arching out from his fort, but at such range the Romans had plenty of time to see them coming and raise their shields. When the Romans were a hundred paces away, they stopped, the entire front freezing on the same step, as if the army were a single creature. The silence continued.

  "Ah!" Mastanabal said. "They have made their show; now they will send out envoys to negotiate." But the Romans surprised him again.

  Abruptly, all the trumpets blared, using a technique he had never heard before—a great, feral snarl that sent a bolt of cold fear up the spine. Then, in unison, the soldiers beat the inner sides of their shields with their spear butts, chanting something incomprehensible. At last, they raised spears and shields, shaking them and roaring as if to draw the attention of the infernal gods.

  Mastanabal saw that his men were already confused and terrified, and they had not yet experienced the first arrow, spear or sling-stone of battle. "It's just noise!" he shouted. "Don't let a little noise scare you!" But even his Spartans looked uneasy. He felt shaken himself. That war cry made the Greek paean sound like a whimper of surrender.

  "Tanit!" someone breathed behind him. "What now?"

  For the Romans were advancing again, and not at their previous, stately pace. This time they were running.

  Carthaginian arrows began to fall among them, then sling-bullets, then javelins, but the Romans kept their shields high and took few casualties from the missiles. When they were close, closer than Mastanabal would have deemed possible, the front-line shields dropped, arms rocked back, and the men hurled their javelins. First the light javelins sailed over the wall and its defenders to land among the reinforcements behind. Then the heavy, murderous pila smashed into men and shields, sowing havoc.

  Their javelins gone, the front-line men knelt at the base of the earthwork, their shields overlapped and raised overhead. The second line hurled their javelins and knelt behind the first, then the third line did the same. Another line charged in. These men jumped onto the roof of shields, threw their pila, then formed a second story to the human platform.

  Mastanabal had seen these intricate formations practiced when the Roman soldiers first arrived at Carthage, but now he was seeing them under battle conditions. He saw the bright paint on the unscarred shields, the new armor worn by the men. "He's using his untried boys for a platform," he said. Now there were three layers to the platform. The shields were now at the base of the wooden palisade. Mastanabal's men threw down anything that might break the formation: first heavy spears, then stones, timbers, even wagon wheels. Nothing shook the overlapping shields.

  "Bring oil and torches!" the general shouted. Then he saw the next line advancing: fierce-looking, sunburned men whose stride carried a chilling assurance. The veterans had arrived, men he had last seen half a world away, in Egypt. "Get the oil quick!" he screamed.

  But already the veterans were mounting the human platform, fending off missiles with contemptuous ease, until they were standing against the palisade, thrusting with their spears at the faces that appeared there. Why aren't they throwing the spears? Mastanabal wondered. It was always their prelude to a hand-to-hand fight. Then the trumpets blared out again, and all along his wall, the crouching legionaries who made up the platform stood.

  There came a great, cry from beneath the structure of overlapped shields as men made a superhuman effort and got to their feet, lifting the vast weight above them. Slowly, not quite evenly, the great formation lifted, extended, rose by inches like some gigantic, incomprehensible machine. Then the veteran legionaries of Norbanus were standing above the palisade that topped his camp wall. And now their arms rocked back and they threw their spears, casting them downward onto the terrified enemy, already unmanned by this seemingly inhuman method of making war.

  There was a brief, shield-to-shield struggle as the Romans drew their swords and sought to force a way onto the wall. Every man was determined to win the corona muralis: the crown awarded to the first man atop an enemy wall. The mercenaries and allies strove as desperately to keep them out, but now the Romans had the advantage of height and gravity. The front line, first here and there, then along the whole length of the wall, began jumping from the shield platform onto the walk behind the palisade. They tore at the timbers and made gaps for easier passage. More of the veteran troops mounted the shield platform and poured across. Fighting was general all along the wall; then it spilled down the rear face of the earthwork and into the camp.

  Mastanabal looked on, appalled. Once in the camp, the Romans could not use their fine teamwork and coordination, and had no time to muster a formation. But his own men were crowded together, getting in one another's way, while the Romans never let themselves get too close for a man to be able to wield his weapons. They fought as individuals as fiercely as they did in formation, and these men had the smell of blood in their nostrils. They slew relentlessly, the razor-edged gladii lancing out to open throats, bellies, breasts, severing arms, opening thighs to let the bright, arterial blood jet out into the befouled air. Mastanabal's men were going down in heaps, often unable to so much as raise their arms.

  Below him, Romans were forcing the gate open from inside, and now the shield platform was breaking up, the young men forcing their way into the camp through the gate, or over the earthwork now that the palisade was demolished. Mastanabal's cavalry tried frantically to escape, heading for the river. In an unbelievably short time he knew that all was lost. Only his Greek and Macedonian professionals still stood firm, holding their tight, disciplined formation. There was a standoff in that part of the battle, as the Romans isolated the Greeks from the others. Now they were surrounding his tower and he saw the golden boy himself, Titus Norbanus, riding leisurely to the base.

  "General Mastanabal!" Norbanus called up to him. "It's good to see you again, after so long. Will you surrender? It's only a formality, you know. You're beaten. I am willing to spare your life."

  Mastanabal snorted. "I'll not surrender to an enemy I have beaten before. Today the gods love you, Titus Norbanus. Perhaps we should have performed the Tophet before embarking on this war. No, between your yoke and my master's cross, I will choose honor instead." So saying, he drew his sword. Balancing atop the tower wall, he saw the Romans watching with great interest as he placed the point of his sword into his mouth. Then he toppled from the wall, headfirst. His blood showered Norbanus and made his horse shy. The other Carthaginian officers followed suit until all were dead. Only the Spartan remained on the tower, and he leaned over its parapet.

  "I think we should talk, Roman," the Greek officer said.

  Norbanus looked toward the south end of the wall, where the Greeks still held firm. His men were probing with long spears they had picked up, so
me of them rushing in and hacking at shields and spear shafts with pickaxes. He sent an officer with an order to pull back for a while.

  "Can you negotiate for those Greeks? They are good soldiers."

  "They will listen to me," said the Spartan. "I'm Xantippus."

  "Then here are my terms, offered once. If they lay down their arms, they may live. Otherwise, I will kill every one of them."

  "Does surrender mean slavery, or will you let them go home?"

  "They will be free to go. If they will take service with me as auxilia, they may even keep their arms."

  The Spartan seemed surprised. "That is very generous. Let me speak with them."

  Norbanus rode though the gate, and Xantippus descended from the tower. He walked along beside Norbanus as they passed along the wall. Norbanus watched with interest as his men mopped up the last, desperate resistance. Most of the surviving mercenaries were at the river, fighting knee-deep in the water or trying to swim to the other side. But the Roman cavalry had already crossed and cut off escape for all but a very few.

  The legionaries were in no mood for merciful gestures, and enemy warriors were seldom good slave material, so most were cut down where they stood and the wounded finished off on the ground with swift thrusts of pilum and gladius. The women of the camp, some with children in tow, were already being rounded up, as were the slaves, who now had new masters.

  . Across the river, Norbanus saw detachments of Mastanabal's former cavalry force splitting up and running, some with his own horsemen in pursuit. He would have preferred to bag all the cavalry as well, but there had been no possibility of shutting off all escape.

  He rode to where the Greeks stood sullenly, weapons gripped in their fists, many. of them bloodied. They had taken some casualties and had inflicted some as well, but in this sort of fight the casualties were usually light until one side lost its cohesiveness and broke formation. That was when the real slaughter began. He let Xantippus go and confer with the officers; then he addressed them.