The Shield of Rome Read online

  The Shield of Rome

  The Shield of Rome

  William Kelso

  Published in 2011 by FeedARead Publishing

  Copyright © William Kelso

  The author(s) assert the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author(s) of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  British Library C.I.P.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Chapter One – Young Titus

  Early on the 2nd August 216 BC

  The massed ranks of heavily armoured Roman infantry stood densely packed together in neat, straight lines, as if the whole vast multitude of men resembled a single impregnable metal beast. It had taken the Tribunes nearly three hours to get the huge army into position, but now all was ready. Across the plain, separated by half a mile, through the swirling clouds of dust, Titus could make out the enemy. The sight of the Carthaginians seemed to have a sobering effect on the Roman soldiers. Titus licked his lips nervously. Fear and tension had tightened every muscle in his body. There was no escape now from the approaching battle. No way out. It was going to happen. His heart was thumping wildly. He licked his lips again and thought of his family back in Rome. As long as he was thinking about them and could picture them in his mind he knew that he would not panic.

  He was tall for a seventeen year old, powerfully built and his skin tanned by much hard outdoors work. His short hair was black and his eyes even darker. In his hand he gripped his long throwing spear and his large oval shield, with two lightning bolts emblazoned on it, rested against his legs. Around his neck, his Focale, the soldiers scarf, protected his skin from chafing on his body armour. It would not be long now before the Centurion signalled the order to advance. Ahead of him were seven lines of Legionaries, proper Roman citizens unlike himself and the second Cohort of Samnite allied infantry whose equipment betrayed their provincial origins.

  “For Samnium, for our gods,” the soldier to his right cried. The man caught Titus’ eye and winked encouragingly.

  “Boy, don’t fear them, honour your ancestors.” another man behind him said reaching out to lay a sweaty hand on Titus’ shoulder and gripping him tightly.

  “Silence,” the Centurion bellowed in Titus’ native Oscan language. Titus said nothing. His dark eyes watched the enemy line. The sun beat down on his head and he felt the sweat on his neck and back where the close fitting armour gave him no respite from the searing heat. Whatever happened today he thought, he had to stay alive. His mother and sister were relying on him to come home. They had no one else to support them. He had to stay alive for them.

  The Romans had begun to chant their battle cries and rhythmically crash their weapons into their shields and from the Carthaginian ranks a similar roar rose up until the 135,000 men packed into the tight space between the hills and the river were all shouting. It was a tremendous noise and Titus was only aware that the forward ranks of Legionaries had started to move when his own companions lifted their shields from the ground and began to advance.

  “Carthage must die! Carthage must die!” the Legionaries began to chant. Titus did not join in. The skirmishers, lightly clad, agile men, armed with all types of missiles were filtering back through the solid ranks of the Roman infantry. Their job had been done but it was impossible to see what they had achieved.

  “Carthage must die!”

  Titus glanced to the right and left but clouds of dust, kicked up by thousands of hooves obscured what was happening to the cavalry on the flanks. He was swept along in the remorseless Roman advance that was taking him straight into the centre of the Carthaginian line. He kept his eyes on the enemy ranks until he could begin to pick out individuals. The men facing him were Celts, wild looking men, some naked from the waist up, other’s at least a head taller than the Legionaries. No easy looking opponents. They may be bigger than us but always remember, his instructors had told him, in skill and bravery they do not compare to the Roman soldier.

  The front ranks of the two armies closed to within ten paces of each other and then halted. For an instant all was silent and in that moment, just before the first clash of arms, an unknown Roman raised his voice, cursing the enemy. Then the air was filled with spears and with a loud cry the front ranks charged at each other. Titus watched mesmerized, too far back to take part in the initial contact.

  “Ready your spears!” the Centurion bellowed.

  Titus raised his spear above his shoulder like he had been taught. In front of him the Roman Hastati, the youngest and fittest soldiers, who always formed the front line, were pushing and stabbing at the enemy with their shields and short swords. The fighting line rippled forwards and backwards like the tide on a beach. A man fell to the ground clutching his stomach and was swiftly lost and trampled to death under the feet of his comrades. The clash of metal on metal could hardly be heard over the din of thousands of voices. Titus edged forwards as the second and third Roman lines became caught up in the melee. The Romans pressed around him eager now to get on with the fighting.

  Some of the men beside Titus glanced nervously towards the flanks where the distant noise of battle was obscured by the dust and the thousands of Roman infantrymen moving forwards. Then, just as Titus was expecting the order to throw his spear, the Celts in front of him began to give way. Around him Roman voices cried out in triumph. The enemy was beginning to crack under the weight of the Roman assault. Titus was ten paces from the fighting line and sure enough the Hastati were beginning to drive the Celts back, step by step. A soldier directly in front of him threw his spear into the enemy mass without having been ordered to but the Centurion was too busy to notice. Then the whole line was throwing their spears and Titus, with a savage, liberating cry, followed suit.

  The Centurions and Tribunes, identifiable by their plumed helmets and splendid armour were urging their men onwards. Titus could see many of the officers already bore wounds. Their men edged forwards, thrusting and stabbing at the enemy with their short swords or smashing their shields into the faces of the Celts and slowly the enemy retreat began to gain momentum. Titus however never managed to reach the fighting. When his maniple was two lines away the cohesion of the Celts finally broke and they turned and ran, routed. It happened in an instant. One moment they were fighting. Then their line was crumbling and breaking up into individual groups.

  With a triumphant roar the Romans set off in pursuit and suddenly Titus found himself running, carried along by the vast numbers pressing from behind. In an instant the neat maniple lines of soldiers dissolved and he lost sight of his Centurion. The only way he could go was forwards. He ran and nearly tripped over several bodies. The Romans were crying out to each other sensing victory. A wounded Celt tried to rise to his feet but a soldier at Titus’ side ran him through with his spear. Up ahead the Celts were running for their lives now. This is the moment when the enemy is vulnerable. This is when they will die in huge numbers his instructors had told him. Titus charged deeper into the enemy centre.

  But something was not right. Gasping for breath Titus suddenly halted and turned to look first to the left and then to the right. All around him the Romans were surging forwards in great disorganised masses. Then suddenly he gasped. A hundred paces away to his left a solid line of men, some dressed in Roman uniforms were advancing into the Roman flank. With a shock Titus suddenly realised they were Hannibal�
��s men.

  “Libyans.” a soldier at his side hissed.

  “To the right also,” another man cried in alarm.

  Titus stared with incredibility as the front line of the Libyans cut straight into the flank of the mass of disorganised Romans and kept on coming towards him. Up ahead the Roman pursuit seemed to have run out of steam and the Celts were reforming.

  “Form a line. Form a line!” a Centurion shouted but no one was listening to him. The men around Titus were staring at the new threat that had appeared on their flank.

  “This is no good,” an old soldier muttered.

  “Forwards, keep advancing men.” a Tribune yelled urging the soldiers onwards with his sword. The next moment his voice ended in a rattle as he was hit in the throat by a spear.

  “Run lad, get to the rear now!” the old soldier who had spoken earlier now raised his voice in alarm. “Nothing is going to stop those cursed Libyans. We have run into a trap!”

  And with that he pushed Titus backwards.

  The masses of Romans milled about in confusion. They were being attacked from three sides and the sudden reverse of fortunes was completely unexpected. Yet they did not give up, and here and there, individuals and small groups began to form up to try and stop the surprise attack on their flank. Titus did not know what to do. There were no officers to give commands. He had no idea where the men from his maniple were. Everything was a terrible mess. He felt panic starting to rise in his stomach.

  A howling, shrieking melee broke out twenty paces away from him as a group of Libyans attempted to punch through the thin disorganised Roman line. Titus screamed as the adrenaline surged through his veins. Then he charged straight into the melee. It was as if he had hit a brick wall but he didn’t feel any pain. Fear gave him a desperate strength. Wildly he thrust his sword into the struggling group of men, without thought or aim, and felt the blade strike someone’s armour and slide away. He took a step back and rammed his shield into the nearest man but no one was taking notice of him. Then a Libyan was suddenly upon him and Titus, dropping his shield, grabbed the man by his hair and sank his teeth into the exposed neck. With a moan the Libyan fell to the ground. Titus stepped back his mouth and chin covered in blood.

  A yard away from him on the ground, a young Roman equipped with very fine armour was wrestling with a Libyan. Both men had lost their weapons and were trying to throttle each other. Titus lunged with his right foot and caught the Libyan square in the head. Then he stabbed him in the neck. A fine spray of blood shot up into the air and the Libyan collapsed backwards without a word taking Titus’s sword with him. The young Roman who had nearly been strangled was on his feet in instant, pale faced and panting for breath. It was only then that Titus saw that he was a Tribune, a senior officer of the Legions. The Tribune looked just as young as himself.

  “Scipio of the Cornelii,” the man gasped. Then before Titus could do anything else the Tribune had snatched up an abandoned sword and was struggling towards the rear calling for Titus to follow him. Whether it was the officer’s natural authority or the deeply ingrained army drill, Titus obeyed, knowing somehow in that instance, that the battle was lost.

  Chapter Two – Cannae

  Late on the 2nd August 216BC

  Hannibal leaned forwards on his horse and adjusted the eye patch that covered his blind eye. His breath came in short, sharp gasps as he studied the dusty plain below in utter disbelief. His earlier exhaustion was forgotten. He said nothing. His armour was covered in dust, and in places dented and damaged. Sweat streaked his face. A group of Numidian horsemen had gathered around him on the small hillock. No one spoke. All were staring at the incredible sight that stretched before them.

  Across the plain to the north east, between the hill top town of Cannae and the Aufidius river, groups of Carthaginian soldiers had flung themselves onto the ground to rest. The great battle they had just fought had exhausted them. As Hannibal sat watching, a young Roman soldier with a focale tied around his neck, rose up from a pile of corpses, pointed his sword at Hannibal and tried to attack. The boy's face was smeared with blood and there was a crazed look in his eyes. He managed a few paces before he was set upon by a gang of Iberian swordsmen who cut him down. The soldier’s body vanished under a flurry of blows.

  Hannibal didn’t seem to notice the soldier. Across the battlefield he could hear the cries of the wounded and the dying. But Hannibal was not interested in them either. His eye was fixed on the huge piles of dead Roman soldiers that covered the plain as far as he could see. The dead did not just lie side by side on the ground. They lay in great bloody heaps, in some places stacked as high as a man’s head. Others he’d been told, in their desperation to end their suffering had dug holes in the ground and had suffocated themselves. And spread throughout this sea of lifeless bodies was the wreckage of a great army, heads without bodies, torsos without limbs, swords, cracked helmets, broken spears, mutilated horses, battered shields, proud unit standards and in the summer heat, the gathering, overpowering , stench of death. In the end it had not been a battle. It had been a massacre on an unprecedented scale and now when it was finally over, fifty-six thousand corpses lay packed into a space no larger than a square mile.

  “They are all dead Sir,” a bodyguard muttered.

  Hannibal leaned back in his saddle and slowly wiped the sweat from his brow.

  One by one his generals gathered around him and Hannibal turned to look at each in turn. Hasdrubal, the aging cavalry commander, who had forced the crucial breakthrough on the flank, old enough to be his father, blushed in awe like a young maiden. Gisgo, the politician’s son smiled slyly. Maharbal the African, whose Numidian cavalry had routed one of the consuls, came with wildness in his eyes as if he was suffering from fever, and Mago, the last to join them, young sensitive Mago, his younger brother, looked up at him in astonishment. Dust, sweat and blood covered their faces and Hannibal could see fatigue etched around their eyes but they didn’t seem to know they were tired. No one wanted to be the first to speak.

  Then as the silence lengthened Hannibal started to laugh. In that brief moment, those clustered around him knew that their leader, Hannibal had become a legend. And as his laughter grew they all joined in turning to look at each other, eyes flashing wildly, filling with relief, awe and the fierce elation of knowing that they had won. They had won! They had done what the politicians back home had said was impossible.

  Across the battlefield soldiers paused to stare at the group of laughing generals.

  “They have lost four consular armies in a single battle,” Hasdrubal cried. He turned to Hannibal. “I was with your father in Sicily and again in Spain but I have never seen a victory like this. As Tanit is my witness, I swear that you Hannibal are the greatest general Carthage and the world has known.”

  “This is just the beginning,” Gisgo smiled slyly.

  Hannibal felt the fierce surge of euphoria slip away as fast as it had come. Suddenly he felt his aching and bruised muscles again, the dryness of his mouth, the sweat stinging in his eyes. Mago, noticing the change anxiously touched his shoulder.

  “Are you wounded brother?”

  “I need to rest,” Hannibal sighed. “But it can wait.”

  He raised his spear above his head. He had worked for this moment ever since he’d been a boy.

  “Tell your men this. Tell them that today, here in this field, we have avenged our father’s defeat and humbled our enemy. Tell your men that all the good friends we’ve had to leave behind during these past two years have not fallen in vain. With this victory I have given Carthage back her pride, her power and her dignity. The might of Rome is broken. She is finished.”

  Hannibal paused and then continued in a softer voice.

  “My one regret is that my father is not here to see this day for this was his dream and my inheritance.”

  “He sees you now Hannibal,” Mago said quietly.

  “What shall we do with the prisoners?” Hasdrubal said, “We have tak
en fifteen thousand so far,” and before anyone could reply he added his own suggestion. “Let’s bury them alive so that we won’t have to fight them again. I am sure I recognised a few who fought us at Trebia and Lake Trasimene.”

  They laughed at that, all except Hannibal.

  “No,” Hannibal shook his head, “we shall ransom all Roman citizens according to their wealth and class. The Italian allies shall be sent home unharmed bearing our usual message of good will to their community.”

  “Again?” Hasdrubal groaned.

  “General,” Gisgo interrupted smoothly, “Fostering a reputation for clemency will gain us more allies and cities than your blunt sword ever will.”

  “Ha!” Hasdrubal snorted and shot Gisgo a contemptuous look.

  “You have said that before and how many came over to us after Trebia or Trasimene? None.”

  “It will be different now,” Gisgo nodded confidently, “the Greek towns have had enough of Roman rule. Once they learn that the largest army the Romans have ever fielded has been totally wiped out they will desert the Republic in droves. Hannibal’s war strategy will work.”

  Hannibal ignored Gisgo and his veteran general. Instead he turned to Mago and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. With his index finger he pointed at the battlefield.