Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (33 page)

Scipio leapt off his horse, smoothed down an area of ground and unsheathed his sword, using the tip to inscribe three parallel lines in the dust. He glanced at Gulussa, his face flushed with excitement. ‘That fits perfectly with what I argued when we simulated Zama at the academy. This is Scipio's order of battle for each legion:
hastati
in the front rank,
principes
in the second, and
triarii
in the third, with
velites
on the flanks. Everyone who's studied that battle knows that the balance was nearly tipped against us when the
hastati
were thrown back after the initial Carthaginian attack. But the weakness that Masinissa identified was in the overall division of forces: in the line of battle, the legions were not homogeneous. Why do we persist in organizing our legions in this way, with divisions that go back to the days of individual citizen warriors, when their weapons and armour and their role in battle were based on their own personal wealth? We claim to have done away with the wealth test, now that all recruits have access to basic arms and equipment, but we still maintain these divisions in training and in battle order based on age and experience. How can it be sensible to put all of the inexperienced men in one division, the
hastati,
and put them up at the front as if they are no more than a human buffer, expendable and practically useless?'

‘The centurions have been grumbling about it for years,' Fabius said. ‘Like the disbandment of legions after each campaign, it's something that prevents the experience of veterans from filtering down to the new recruits. Unless you mix them up in the same units, the recruits have to learn everything the hard way by themselves and the generals have a much less effective fighting force.'

‘Precisely.' Scipio kicked away the lines in the dust and slapped his sword against the palm of his hand, staring out at the battlefield. ‘Rome needs a professional army. It is the only solution.'

‘You would have a hard time persuading the Senate of it,' Gulussa said. ‘Those with no experience of battle, and that's most of the Roman Senate these days, would look at Zama and say that the existing army organization was good enough to beat Hannibal, so why change it? And stronger, more cohesive legions would make stronger armies and produce stronger generals who might return to Rome with their eye on dictatorship, or more. That's what really frightens them.'

Scipio sheathed his sword and mounted his horse, then took up the reins. ‘We'll see about that. To take Carthage is either going to require a professional army, or a general who will already be seen as a threat by those in the Senate who oppose change.'

‘There's something else my father told me,' Gulussa said. ‘Hannibal was an honourable man who accepted defeat. But Hasdrubal is different. In Spain you experienced the resilience of the Celtiberian chieftains, those who would die rather than dishonour themselves by surrender. Hasdrubal is more than that: he has a huge grudge against Rome, and he's obsessively defiant. That's a far more dangerous thing. There will be no honourable way out for him, no single combat as you fought with the chieftain at Intercatia. Hasdrubal will fall only when the city of Carthage falls. That is something else that the Senate in Rome must understand. The surrender of Hannibal does not provide a foretaste of what is to come if Carthage were to be besieged now. This new war, if it happens, can only end in the utter destruction of Carthage and of Hasdrubal.'

‘Let's hope that Polybius has luck in his mission,' Scipio said grimly. ‘But, for now, we must honour those who fell here that day, whose shades watch us from Elysium. There is one who must join them, whose wishes I must now fulfil. On his deathbed I promised that I would one day return to Zama, and that I would see that their general would rejoin his beloved legionaries for all eternity. I must ride along the lines of battle, and they must see that Scipio Africanus has returned. Leave me now.'

Fabius had seen the sealed alabaster cremation canister in Scipio's saddlebag, something he had rarely let out of his sight. As long as Rome lasted, Scipio Africanus would be honoured by his
gens
in his family
lararium
and at the tomb on the Appian Way, but his spirit would be here, alongside those he honoured the most. Fabius thought of his own father, and of the old centurion Petraeus, both men who had been here on this battlefield alongside Africanus, and both now among those shades too. Fabius swallowed hard, closed his eyes and spoke their two names under his breath, then spurred his horse and followed Gulussa, who was already part-way up the ridge. He could hear Scipio galloping away across the plain behind him, but he did not look back. In a few minutes the sun would break through the haze, and he wanted to return to the watercourse to let his horse drink and then to find a rock to sleep behind. He was dead tired, and they still had a long hard slog ahead of them before they reached the Roman camp on the plain outside Carthage.

*   *   *

Three weeks later they sat drinking wine in Scipio's tent at the cavalry depot that he commanded some ten miles east of Carthage, on the edge of a wide lagoon within sight of the twin-peaked mountain of Bou Kornine. Polybius had arrived back from Rome two days previously, with the news that Cato had died. He and Scipio had conferred together for hours after that, with Fabius always in attendance, running over various possible courses of action. It had become clear to Fabius that the only way forward would be for Scipio himself to return to Rome; for him to stay in Africa any longer as a mere tribune would advance neither their cause nor his career. There were now enough veterans in Rome who had served alongside Scipio in Spain and Africa to bolster his popularity among the plebs, and Cato had died with the satisfaction of bringing the tribunes of the people to their cause. If Scipio could be persuaded to return now, the pendulum might swing in their favour. One thing seemed certain: if he were to return to Africa, it would no longer be as a tribune. If there was to be war, Scipio would accept nothing less than a legion, and as a senator with support from the tribunes of the people he had the chance of an emergency election to the consulship, even though he was still officially too young. Events could now move very fast if Scipio seized the opportunity that Polybius had been presenting him to bolster their case by returning to Rome itself.

One of the legionaries at the entrance to the tent entered and spoke quietly to the centurion in charge of the guard, who turned to Polybius. ‘It seems there is a man here to see you. He claims to have come by fast galley from Pella. He's a Macedonian, named Phillipus.'

At the mention of the name, Polybius jumped up and went out of the tent, followed by the legionary. A few minutes later he returned, his face solemn. ‘Phillipus is one of my informants. He works on Metellus' staff as an interpreter for the Thracian mercenary commander, who knows little Latin, so he hears everything that goes on in the Roman army headquarters in Macedonia. It seems that four days ago Metellus defeated and killed Andriscus in a big battle, at Pydna.'

‘At
Pydna?
' Scipio exclaimed. ‘The same place where my father Aemilius Paullus celebrated his victory? The battle where I was first blooded?'

Polybius looked at Scipio grimly. ‘My informant tells me that Metellus deliberately chose the battleground to try to overshadow your father's achievement. Andriscus' army was a ragtag force, and the battle was a massacre. But Metellus is presenting it as a great victory, as the final conquest of Macedonia, as if he has finished what your father left undone twenty years ago. He brags to his officers that both the Scipiones and the Aemilii Paulli make a great scene of going to war, but after winning an easy battle or two they run back home with their tails between their legs because they haven't got the guts to finish the job. He's talking about you, of course. And there's more. He's dismantled the monument at Dion, the bronze horsemen by Lysippos representing Alexander the Great's companions who died at the Battle of Graviscus. He's boasting that it will far overshadow anything your father brought to Rome. He says that, unlike the wealth that he claims your father took for his own coffers, he will give the bronzes to the people and set them up in a new temple precinct dedicated to Jupiter and Juno that he will have built on his own expense on the Field of Mars.'

Scipio stood up, his fists bunched, trying to control his rage. ‘The Battle of Pydna was one of the greatest Roman feats of arms ever, a battle against the largest Macedonian phalanx ever fielded. And if Metellus is referring to my father leaving without annexing Macedonia as a province, that was because Aemilius Paullus was following the express order of the Senate. It was also his own instinct, proved right, that the pacification of Macedonia would take a permanent Roman garrison, one that the Senate would not allow either. He was not coming back with his tail between his legs, nor was my grandfather from Zama. They were both obeying orders from Rome. And as for the Graviscus monument, my father and I visited it after the battle to lay wreaths, to honour Alexander's companions. We would never have dreamed of desecrating their memory by removing it. Metellus has shown his true character by what he has done. He is no soldier of Rome.'

Fabius spoke quietly. ‘You are right, but you need to be careful not to sound too defensive. As far as the legionaries out here are concerned, the news means that a few more amphorae of wine will be cracked open tonight, so, whatever you say, this news will be a cause for celebration. Few of the legionaries have reason to despise Metellus as we do.'

‘And it's a reason for you to return to Rome,' Polybius said, addressing Scipio. ‘You've done all that you can out here. You've won the
corona civilis
and the
corona obsidionalis.
In Spain and in Africa you've made up for all those years when there was no war in the offing. No one doubts your courage or your leadership. But you are still just a military tribune. You must return to Rome to take up your seat in the Senate and make your mark. Only then will you be given a legion or an army to command. And this news increases the odds against you, again. Metellus will celebrate a huge triumph and try to overshadow you. You must show yourself as a successor not only to your grandfather and your father but also to Cato, to the cause that he made his own. And you must remain on your guard. Metellus may believe he now has no need to try to arrange for your disappearance as he did ten years ago, when Andriscus was his ally and you were in the Macedonian forest. But if he feels threatened again, if he sees you rise up in the Senate and gain popular support, then you must beware. Fabius, you must remain with Scipio at all times. I have already arranged for my informant to make his fast galley available for your passage to Rome. You will be there before Metellus returns from Macedonia, and you should seize the chance to make your mark. Drum those words of Cato into the people.
Carthago delenda est. Carthage must be destroyed.
If there is going to be a final conquest of Carthage, it is a Scipio who should be standing in triumph on the temple platform. The people should know that, and you are the one to tell them. Go now.'

PART SIX

CARTHAGE

146
BC

18

Fabius stood with his feet apart on the wooden platform high above the harbour, his helmet held against his left side and his right hand grasping the pommel of his sword. The old scar on his cheek was throbbing, as it always did before a battle. He took a deep breath, savouring the few moments he had here alone. The sun had not yet risen above the jagged mountain of Bou Kornine across the bay to the east, its twin peaks etched against the red glow of dawn like a giant bull's horns. To the south, the pastel blue of the sky seemed to merge with the horizon, a smudge of dull red that obscured the arid hills and low plain leading up to the coast. For days now a wind had blown in from the desert that covered everything in a fine red dust, making their eyes smart and their throats burn. Today it had abated, and he was able to take in lungfuls of air without coughing. The tang of dust was still there, a coppery taste, and it made his veins pound as if he had just drunk a draught of wine, quickening his pulse. It tasted like blood
. It tasted like war.