The Shield of Rome Read online

  “Go back to Carthage, brother, and tell them what you saw here today. Gather the gold rings of all the Roman senators and knights you can find. When you are amongst the council of 104, in the great hall, pour them onto the floor so that all will see what we have done to Rome. Urge them to send us reinforcements at once. Don’t let them delay you with excuses.”

  “Reinforcements, what do we need those for?” Maharbal now spoke up for the first time and there was no mistaking the fiery passion in his voice and eyes. He rounded on Hannibal.

  “Let me take my Numidians and ride on Rome tonight. In five days, Hannibal, we could be feasting in the forum. The city is defenceless.” Eagerly Maharbal extended an arm towards the battlefield. “The flower of the Roman army lies dead in those fields. This war could be over in a matter of days. Let’s end it now.” His voice rose in excitement, “for how else will this war end if not with a victorious march on Rome?”

  The others remained silent as Maharbal’s plea trailed off.

  Hannibal sighed wearily. “I hear you Maharbal and your part in this great battle will not be forgotten.”

  But his reply was not enough for Maharbal.

  “The very sight of our army at her gates will crush any remaining Roman will to keep on fighting,” he said fiercely. “They will capitulate. They are ready to run like never before, Hannibal.”

  Hannibal smiled gently at his general’s enthusiasm.

  “Don’t you think, Maharbal,” he said wearily, “that I too would like to ride on Rome and end this war? But it is not so simple. The road to Rome from here is a long one, her walls are still standing and our army is not in any fit state to move. We have many dead. We have even more wounded; many more than we had at Trebia and Trasimene and the men need to rest and recover their strength.”

  Hannibal paused to glance at the battlefield. “Besides maybe there is no need to march on Rome. The Romans know they are beaten and have lost the war.”

  “So what do we do?” Hasdrubal said gruffly.

  Hannibal paused again and then seemed to make up his mind.

  “Gisgo, select ten Roman nobles from the prisoners and send them to Rome with our terms for the ransom of the prisoners.” Hannibal glanced carefully at Gisgo who nodded in agreement.

  “We need the money,” Hannibal said turning to Hasdrubal, “but with the Romans will go Carthalo. He will have the authority to present our conditions for peace to the Roman Senate.”

  Then Hannibal turned to Maharbal with a perplexed expression.

  “They are beaten, old friend. They will make peace. No city can keep on fighting after what we have done to them today. They have no choice. The Romans are a rational and practical people. They will recognise a hopeless situation when they see it. Then we shall take back all that is rightfully ours and the name of Rome will soon be forgotten by history.”

  The others nodded in agreement, all except Maharbal, who frowned in exasperation.

  “Truly Hannibal,” he cried, “you know how to win a great victory but you don’t know how to use it.”

  Chapter Three – Hannibal’s gamble

  11th August 216BC, the battlefield at Cannae

  The flames licked greedily at the body which was carefully wrapped in white linen cloth and placed on a large heap of dry wood. Blood seeped through the linen. Hannibal stood close by waiting for the priest to finish the sombre burial rites. In a mark of respect he had removed his helmet and held it tucked under his arm.

  On the funeral pyre lay the body of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, Consul of Rome. The Consul’s body had been found by chance and some Roman prisoners had confirmed that it was indeed their former leader and general who had fallen in battle. It was right to honour such a man and send him on his way to his gods, Hannibal thought. He had no quarrel with brave men who fought for their country like he did. His quarrel was with Rome and what she had done to his native city, Carthage.

  As the flames began to devour the body Hannibal turned away. His army had not moved since the battle and his men were scattered across the plain, looting and recovering from their ordeal as he himself was. The vast numbers of Roman dead still lay where they had fallen. He was not going to bury them. Let the dead be a warning and a reminder to the Romans of what he could do to them. But he would not be able to stay here forever. In the hot August weather, disease could strike at any moment and Hannibal feared disease. He had heard his father’s tales of what disease had done to a Carthaginian army in Sicily some fourty years before.

  He caught sight of a group of horsemen threading their way from the river towards the Carthaginian camp. He frowned as he thought he recognised one of them. Then as the riders drew closer Hannibal stirred uneasily. Too soon he thought. They had returned too soon.

  Seeing him the riders immediately changed direction and urged their horses up the hill towards him.

  “Well?” Hannibal said with a growing sense of foreboding, eyeing the tall sweating officer who stood before him.

  Carthalo looked uncomfortable and took a few moments to catch his breath. His clothes and face were caked with dust and his lips cracked by thirst, but he asked for no water.

  “I took the road to Rome, with the prisoners, to give the Romans our peace terms and ratify the ransom, as you instructed,” Carthalo said. “I reached the city gates but they would only allow the prisoners to enter. I gave them our peace terms and told them I would wait for an answer. Later that day a senator came to see me. He gave me a message which I am to repeat to you.”

  Carthalo licked his lips nervously.

  “Well?” Hannibal demanded.

  “To Hannibal from the Senate,” Carthalo said reciting from memory. “The Senate and People of Rome refuse to discuss the possibility of peace as long as an enemy army remains on Italian soil. Rome will negotiate with you, Hannibal, only when it has won the war. The ransom for the prisoners will not be paid, nor will any private Roman citizen be permitted to pay for the release of men who, like the consul Paullus, should have died nobly on the battlefield. All the prisoners who came to Rome will therefore be returned to you.”

  Carthalo cleared his throat. “That is all Hannibal. I was told to leave Roman land before nightfall if I valued my life.”

  Hannibal gaped at him in shock.

  “They refuse to make peace?” he bellowed. “After we have just utterly destroyed the largest army they have ever fielded. What madness is this! They have lost the war. What more do I have to do to make them realise the truth?”

  Carthalo bowed his head and remained silent.

  Hannibal frowned unable to comprehend the message. In later years Carthalo would remember this moment as the only time he was ever to see the great Hannibal look shaken.

  For a long moment no one spoke. Then Hannibal’s face darkened.

  “Fabius”, he hissed. “You are behind this foolishness!”

  He spun on his heels and stormed towards his tent.

  “Execute a hundred Roman prisoners,” he shouted at Gisgo as he passed him. “Do it now. Fabius has condemned his own people to death. Sell the rest of them into slavery. By the great Baal, I shall teach these Roman jackals the meaning of fear!”

  Hannibal’s tent was furnished with looted Roman objects. In a corner was the camp bed taken from Consul Varro’s tent. Beside the bed was a wooden table for writing dispatches, a chair, washing bowl and from a hook at the top of the leather canvas hung his armour and weapons. Alone Hannibal paced up and down his fist tightly clenched in anger. But mingling with anger was something else. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. The Roman refusal to make peace had not only shocked him, it had rattled him. The balls of it! No nation had ever continued fighting after suffering such a crushing defeat. Only one man had ever managed to rattle him like this before. His old enemy, the aging senator who three years earlier had come to Carthage with the temerity to ask for Hannibal’s surrender in exchange for peace, after Hannibal’s destruction of the Roman allied city of Sagunto that had started t
he war.

  Quintus Fabius Maximus!

  Hannibal’s thoughts turned to the past two years. His army had been in a dreadful state when it had at last descended from the Alps. Winter was closing in. There was a shortage of food and he’d lost over half his men on his five month journey from New Carthage and only one elephant out of 37 was still alive. But the punishing journey had weeded out the weak and those mercenaries, Iberians from Spain, Carthaginian citizens from the heartland and Libyans and Numidians from North Africa who still remained with him were the best of the best. He could rely on their fighting skills and they in turn would follow him into the gates of hell.

  The Celtic tribes, whose hatred and mistrust of the Romans was well known and who lived amongst the slopes of the Alps and in the Po valley flocked to his banner by the thousands. He had expected them to, it had been part of the invasion plan but it hadn’t stopped him worrying about their fickle nature. Too often, when he was still in Spain, he had seen the local tribes switch sides for a handful of Gold. This too had been the time when Roman arrogance was at its highest pitch and he’d eagerly looked forward to the day when he would teach them a lesson about warfare.

  That first sharp lesson had been taught to the Consul Sempronius Longus, an aggressive and impulsive man whom had rashly committed his army and had been soundly defeated at Trebia in the Po Valley. Afterwards Hannibal had moved south, carefully making sure that his new Celtic allies did not have the chance to desert or leave the army to go raiding the Roman towns and farms. Crossing the marshes in northern Etruria, Hannibal lost an eye to a painful infection. Then the following year he’d ambushed the Consul Flaminius and killed him and fifteen thousand of his men by driving them into the waters of Lake Trasimene. It had been another splendid victory but some of the more uncharitable Celtic chiefs had commented that Hannibal only knew how to win a battle by unfair tricks and ambushes.

  And then a new Roman commander had been sent against him. This man, Quintus Fabius Maximus had been a dictator, combining the power of two consuls in one office and elected by the Senate for a term of six months only. On the dictator’s approach, Hannibal had immediately drawn up his army and offered to fight a battle but the dictator’s decision had surprised him. Fabius and his army had remained safely on the high ground and had refused to fight. The Romans had contented themselves by shadowing and watching the enemy from a safe distance. Surprise had turned to grudging admiration as Hannibal had begun to understand the dictator’s strategy. Instead of risking a battle with his half trained troops Fabius planned to starve Hannibal into submission by denying him access to food. Without food to feed his thousands of men, Hannibal knew that his army would melt away like the spring snow.

  On numerous occasions he’d tried to lure Fabius into battle but the old man stubbornly refused to be baited and the Romans had given Fabius a nick name, the delayer. Hannibal had pillaged the Roman countryside far and wide hoping to provoke a reaction but there had been none and as the months had passed, without a decisive battle, his admiration had turned to anger, born from increasing desperation. It was a cowardly way in which to conduct a war Hannibal thought but an effective one. He’d known that he had to force a battle and destroy the Romans before they starved him into surrender for Fabius had abundant supplies and could afford to wait.

  It had therefore been with considerable relief that he had learned that the dictator’s six month term had expired and that new more aggressive commanders were being sent to face him. Of those Consuls, two were now dead, one had retired and the other was severely discredited.

  Hannibal stopped pacing and slowly unclenched his fist. Yes he knew why Fabius had got under his skin. The man knew how to defeat him.

  Hannibal slowly became aware that a man was standing in the entrance to his tent waiting to be noticed. It was Gisgo. There was a cruel gleam in the Carthaginian politician’s eyes.

  “I have executed the prisoners,” Gisgo reported, “the slave merchants are nervous though Hannibal. They say that taking so many Roman prisoners in the heart of Italy will not be good for the market. They are refusing to buy them all.”

  “Lower the price per man and if that doesn’t work kill the ones that are not sold,” Hannibal snapped.

  Gisgo paused, seeing that his general had something weightier on his mind. “What’s the matter Hannibal?”

  Hannibal glanced at his subordinate and sighed.

  “We have a problem,” he replied.

  ***

  Gisgo stayed silent as he waited for his commander to speak. Hannibal unrolled a scroll of parchment and spread it out on the table. It was a map of Italy. With his finger Hannibal jabbed at Neopolis on the west coast of Campania.

  “I need to capture a port,” he muttered. “Without a port Mago will never be able to land his reinforcements from Carthage.”

  Then his finger slid northwards and came to rest on Rome. He tapped the parchment. “Or, we can march on Rome like Maharbal suggests.” He looked up and Gisgo could see the sudden indecision on Hannibal’s face. “We may not be able to take the city by assault without suitable siege equipment but that’s not the point. The objective would be to destroy Roman morale and their desire to keep on fighting. With our army at their gates so soon after they have suffered catastrophic defeat; it may be too much for them to bear and their morale will collapse. Then they will sue for peace like they should be doing now.”

  “It’s a gamble Hannibal,” Gisgo frowned. “If the Romans continue to refuse peace talks and move to defend Rome, we will only be able to remain outside their walls for a few days at the most before we start to run out of food.”

  “Yes,” Hannibal sighed, “and if we had to retreat from Rome it would be a humiliating blow. It would look like we were not capable of taking the city. How many potential allies would we then lose by such an action.”

  The tent fell silent as both men studied the map. Hannibal was conscious of the great decision he had to make, a decision to which his fate and the outcome of the war now surely depended.

  He turned to Gisgo with sudden ruthlessness.

  “Find me a man who can do a job,” Hannibal muttered.

  Gisgo’ face slowly broke into a smile as he understood.

  “You mean an assassin?”

  Hannibal nodded looking uncomfortable.

  “I have been away from Carthage for a long time now,” he muttered, “but I understand that the use of assassins is still a normal part of doing business in our city, is it not?”

  Gisgo nodded looking pleased, “You hired me to advise you on political matters. There is no dishonour in using an assassin during peace or war. Every tool has a purpose and should be used when necessary. It’s a splendid idea and will not stain your reputation. Our citizens will understand.”

  Hannibal grunted and for a moment he looked embarrassed.

  “Roman morale may be close to collapse,” he muttered to himself, “but as long as Fabius remains to rally the Senate, they will never surrender.” He paused hunched over the map and his face darkened.

  “He’s back in charge, I can feel it. I cannot march on Rome whilst he still lives”.

  He glanced up at Gisgo. “Our prestige cannot be seen to suffer. If we, at any time, appear to be weak then our allies will desert us. This war Gisgo will no longer be settled by armies, it has become a contest of wills.”

  Gisgo dipped his head in salute. “Leave it to me,” he replied, “I know just the man who can solve our problem.”

  Chapter Four – A good horseman

  2nd August 216BC, the battle of Cannae…

  It was getting harder to keep up with the Tribune. Titus struggled with increasing desperation through the great mass of Roman soldiers trying to keep the officers tall plumed helmet in sight. Everywhere there was chaos. Those men who could still fight did so bravely but increasingly a sense of terror and panic was spreading amongst the Roman troops. They were being attacked from three sides and slowly the great disorganised mass was
being squeezed tighter and tighter until the centre of the shrieking mob was so tightly packed together that no one could use their weapons or defend themselves. Dust billowed into the air making it hard to see for more than twenty paces.

  Titus fought to keep his balance using his elbows to hack his way through the ranks of desperate men. If he stumbled and fell now he would be trampled to death in an instant. Follow the officer he thought. The man seemed to be the only person who knew what he was doing.

  On the edges of the Roman mass he caught a glimpse of the enemy. The Libyans were cutting the Romans to pieces. Hundreds had to be dying every single minute. Without space to move the Romans had become helpless targets, unable to fight or flee. Heaps of the dead were forming and in places the Carthagians were climbing over the bodies to get at the living. Titus felt another spark of panic and fought for control. The carnage was too awful to look upon. It was a scene that belonged in hell and not in the world of the living.