Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (25 page)

But instead a single warrior came forward, an older man with flowing grey-flecked hair who had not yet taken part in the combat, his armour and weapons still gleaming and clean. He was wearing a muscled cuirass that looked Etruscan, and his helmet was like the Greek ones that Fabius had seen carved on the Parthenon in Athens. He remembered that many of the Celtiberians had served as mercenaries during times of peace at home, fighting for Carthage in the last war, and that battle scars and looted armour were all the pay they wanted. This man was not old enough to have served Carthage, but he could have been among the mercenaries on the Macedonian side at Pydna; his left eye socket was empty and he had a livid weal across his face that must have been caused by a savage blow decades ago, when he was a young man. Behind him an emaciated boy held the great curved cow horn that had signalled the retreat. Fabius realized that the man must be the chieftain. He had stopped at the edge of the mud, resplendent in his armour, his feet planted apart in defiance, looking at the Romans and then focusing his gaze on Scipio, who was standing dripping in the mud a stone's throw away and watching him intently

The man pointed at him. ‘You are Scipio,' he bellowed hoarsely, speaking in heavily accented Latin. ‘My grandfather fought a Scipio at Cannae, and now I will fight a Scipio at Intercatia.'

‘Do you challenge me?' Scipio bellowed back.

‘On my command my warriors will return and fight to the death, and many more Romans will die. Or the contest can be finished with a single combat.'

‘What are your terms?'

‘That my men should be allowed to leave their arms and go free, that the woman and children of Intercatia should be left unmolested with their remaining houses unburned, and that they should be fed. I have heard that the word of a Scipio is a word of honour. Is that so?'

Scipio squinted up at him. ‘It is so.'

‘Do you give me your word?'

‘I give you my word.'

‘Then let the contest begin.' He dropped his shield, shoved his sword into the ground and removed his helmet, taking a thong offered to him by the boy and tying his hair back. The boy undid his cuirass and took it from him. He was wearing nothing beneath it except his kilt, revealing a torso that had once been finely muscled but was now showing his age, the scars of many wars standing out as red weals against his pale skin. Scipio stripped off his own armour as the chieftain picked up his sword and limped towards the mud, dragging one leg behind him. Fabius could see why the man had not joined the melee earlier: he would have found it virtually impossible to stand upright. As his warriors closed up in a semi-circle behind him, Fabius sensed that they had done this before, watching duels for honour and women and power in this very place, contests that the chieftain in his younger years had undoubtedly walked away from many times victorious. This time it would be different. The contest with Scipio could only have one outcome, and they all knew it. The terms did not even allow for the chieftain's victory, and if it came to it he could not afford to deal Scipio a death blow; if he did so it could only result in the Roman soldiers going on a rampage and massacring his people, whose future therefore depended on Scipio surviving and keeping his word. The chieftain was sacrificing himself for his women and children, in a time-honoured fashion that would also leave his warriors satisfied that honour had been done and their own rituals observed.

Fabius turned and looked at Scipio, at his hardened torso and his sword held ready by his side, his face grim and emotionless. He could guess the thoughts that were running through his mind. As boys they had dreamed of war as glorious contest, as battles between armies and warriors where the best fights were the most evenly matched, not just for Rome and glory but tests of manhood where the victor could walk away uplifted by killing an opponent who could as easily have won the day. But the reality of war was rarely like that. It was uneven, and messy. There might be honour in Scipio's word, in his
fides,
but there would be no glory for him in this fight. Scipio was doing what he had to do to allow the enemy warriors to walk away with dignity, a decision that might make them more likely to be Rome's allies in future, and to save his legionaries from dying unnecessarily. But this would be little more than an execution, the chieftain's fate as certain as the deaths of the deserters they had watched being mauled by lions at the triumphal games after the Battle of Pydna. After years of yearning to return to war, Scipio was in at the ugly end, and Fabius knew he would be steeling himself to show utter resolve in what he had to do.

He knew that Scipio would not sham a fight, that he would respect the old warrior's pride by fighting him man to man with his full strength for however long it lasted. The chieftain limped into the mud and stood a few feet from Scipio, his legs apart and his sword held in front of him with both hands, the blade down. Scipio nodded, and the man suddenly swung his blade like a scythe in front of Scipio's chest, nicking the skin and making him fall back, staggering slightly. The man still had strength in his arms and a lifetime's skill with the Celtiberian sword, its slashing blade longer than the Roman
gladius
but less versatile at close quarters. His weakness lay in his poor mobility, and Scipio was going to have to get around him and under the arc of the blade, deflecting it and going for a thrust. Scipio edged forward, crouched down this time with his sword held at the ready, just raising it in time to parry another vicious sweep by the chieftain that nearly sent Scipio's
gladius
flying. He backed off again and crouched lower, suddenly springing to the side and catching the chieftain off-balance as he tried to twist his body round to confront him. Scipio darted in and thrust his sword hard into the man's good leg, pulling it out of the calf just in time to avoid another sweeping blow. The man shifted, nearly toppling over, the mud beneath him shiny with fresh blood from the wound, steaming on the cool ground.

The chieftain had shown his skill and courage in front of his warriors, but now they would expect no more. At the next swing Scipio parried the blade, deflecting it, and then leapt forward and this time thrust his own blade into the man's abdomen, running him through to the hilt and then holding him close, swaying together with him in the mud. The chieftain retched, throwing up yellow bile streaked with blood, and then Scipio pushed him back and heaved the sword up and down, slicing open a huge wound from the man's pelvis to his ribcage. He withdrew the sword and the chieftain fell back, staggering and twisting, and as he did so the wound gaped open and his intestines spilled out, blue and red and steaming, dripping with blood. He looked down with his one eye, his face sheet-white, his expression uncomprehending. His intestines had dropped in a loop to the ground and he tripped over them, sprawling forward and then raising himself on his knees, scooping them up with his hands in the mud and trying to put them back inside.

Fabius looked at Scipio. It was time to finish it. Scipio dropped his sword and fell on the chieftain's back, flattening him and holding him there, pushing his head into the liquid mud. The man coughed and spluttered and then suddenly heaved upwards in a last show of strength, tossing Scipio off his back and staggering to his feet, his arms held out and his head high, bellowing something towards the sky. He saw his sword in the mud and staggered towards it, trailing his insides behind him. Scipio leapt back and pushed him down again, this time not trying to drown him but holding his head tightly in an armlock. The man knew what he was trying to do and resisted, his neck and head held rigid against the pressure. Then he gave way, his energy spent. In that instant Scipio twisted the head sharply sideways, and the body suddenly went limp. Scipio pulled up the chieftain's head by his hair, knelt back and then severed it with a single swipe of his sword, holding it high for a moment so that all could see and then dropping it into the mud.

Fabius felt light-headed, as if he had forgotten to breathe. He relaxed, and then inhaled deeply.
It was over.

Scipio got up on his knees, then to his feet, staggering backwards and almost falling again. He was covered from head to foot in blood. He reached down to a muddy pool beside the chieftain's body and splashed his face, and then caught a cloth tossed to him by one of the
fabri.
He wiped his eyes and then turned to face the Celtiberian warriors, who still stood in a semi-circle, silent and watching. For a few moments nothing happened, and Fabius let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword again. Then the warriors began to drop their weapons and turn back up the hill, where the entrance to the palisade was open and the women and children stood outside, also witness to the fight. Scipio remained where he was standing until the last of them had gone, and then he turned and made his way out of the mud, his feet squelching and slipping until he reached firm ground. The legionary who had given him the cloth gave him a wineskin, and he tipped it up and drank gratefully, and then shut his eyes as he poured the wine over his face and his neck, letting it drip to the ground. He wiped his face again, passed the skin back and looked at Fabius. His eyes were hard, burning with fervour. He scanned the legionaries, and raised his right arm. ‘Men, gather round.' The legionaries came closer, forming a circle around him, several hundred exhausted and mud-spattered men. Within the space the second centurion was hunched over the body of the
primipilus,
laying his sword across his chest. Fabius stared at him, his mind blank. It had been less than fifteen minutes since the
primipilus
had taken the javelin thrust to his leg, yet it seemed almost too far back in time to remember.

Scipio raised his hand in salute. ‘You have fought hard and with honour today, against a worthy enemy whom we will honour in defeat by allowing the surviving warriors to return unharmed to their families.' He turned towards the body on the ground, and the second centurion. ‘To the
primipilus, ave atque vale.
To the new
primipilus,
you are a worthy successor. To all who fell here today, we will meet again in Elysium.' He turned to Fabius, and put a bloody hand on his shoulder, his eyes gleaming. ‘And to the legionary Fabius Petronius Secundus, you have earned the insignia of a centurion. The promotion is for Ennius to give as commander of our force, but he was watching from the walls and will have seen you in action this day. By spotting the danger and stopping our advance when you did, you won the battle for us and saved many Roman lives.'

There was a ragged cheer of approval from the legionaries. Fabius turned to Scipio. ‘You have earned the esteem of your men, Scipio Aemilianus. No legionary forgets a commander who fights an enemy chieftain in single combat.'

Scipio wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked around the assembled legionaries. ‘One day, one day soon, I may lead an army. Will you men be my personal guard? I can't promise you booty. But I can promise you glory. And for those of you who are
fabri,
I can promise you plenty of digging and building and siege works.'

The new
primipilus
stood at attention. ‘We know your destiny, Scipio Aemilianus. We know where you will lead your army. And we will follow you anywhere, in this world or the next.'

Scipio nodded, and slapped him on the shoulder too. ‘Good. And now I think there is a cartload of Falernian wine sitting down below, sent ahead of the legion to be ready for Lucullus' headquarters staff. I think they might just discover that the cart was in an accident and the amphorae smashed, don't you think? But make sure you dilute it with plenty of water from the river. We need to remain clear-headed for funerary rites for our fallen comrades, and to build a pyre high enough to send them to their rightful place alongside the war god himself. Only then, when the fire is lit, can we let the wine flow freely and let ourselves go.'

13

Twenty minutes later, Scipio stood before Ennius, who had come down from his position on the walls and was addressing him. ‘I am the only officer of tribunician rank who saw what you did today. I will recommend you for the
spolia opima,
for defeating an enemy leader in single combat. You must strip the armour of your opponent and affix it to an oak tree, and then take it to Rome and dedicate it at the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius. You will be only the fourth in Rome's history to receive this honour, as Romulus did for defeating Acro after the rape of the Sabine women. You will be the greatest living hero in Rome. Your military reputation will be assured.'

Scipio draped an arm around Ennius' shoulder, leaning against him and breathing heavily. He wiped the mud and spittle from his mouth with his other hand, and then pushed back, turning and looking at the body of the chieftain. ‘Do you remember what Achilles did at Troy? He stripped the fallen Hector and dragged the body round the walls, taunting his enemy and distressing Hector's wife and children. And then, just days later, Achilles himself lay dying, felled by an arrow to his heel, the one place where he was mortal. It's an allegory, or so Polybius tells me. Achilles had let pride and exaltation overtake him and had forgotten to protect his vulnerable spot, just as Icarus flew too close to the sun and the wax in his wings melted.' He wiped his face again, and then straightened up, looking at the ring of Roman soldiers who had been watching the combat, and at the Celtiberian dead on the other side. ‘I will receive the
corona muralis
for being the first on the walls of Intercatia in the assault on the
oppidum
last week. To receive the
spolia opima
on the same day as Lucullus' triumph in Rome would be to overshadow his glory, and earn me suspicion and envy that might play into the hands of Metellus and his supporters – those who would see me never command a legion. On this day there are many among the legionaries now who have fought their own battles worthy of the
spolia opima.
I care little for the esteem of Rome, but I care everything for the esteem of these legionaries. You and your cohort of
fabri
will form the core of the army that I will one day lead. When your men advance into battle they will always remember this day before the walls of Intercatia. That will be my reward.'