Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (7 page)

But Fabius knew there was more to it than that. Scipio was shy and could seem aloof; that had already earned him the scorn of those without the imagination to see the strength within but with the power to humiliate and torment him while he still had the vulnerabilities of adolescence. Scipio was Roman to the core, a true exemplar of Roman morality rather than one who simply paid lip service to it as so many of the others did, but he had also benefited from the intellectual rigour of a Greek education and could see where Rome had become self-absorbed, where the lives that aristocrats were expected to lead no longer had the hard edge of the old ways. He hated the oratory and sophistry that they were expected to learn in the law courts, the skills that would see the sons of patricians climb steadily through the
cursus honorum,
the step-by-step sequence of magistracies that were essential to rise to the highest office, to the consulship. Above all, he hated the fact that the
cursus honorum
was also the route to army command, rather than military experience itself. Scipio had to endure the critical eye of those who questioned the ability of a young man to rise to high office and honour his
gens
– a young man who, instead of being in the law courts, spent his days studying military strategy and learning swordplay, and his leisure time hunting in the mountains as far away from Rome as he could get.

But Fabius had overheard Scipio's father Aemilius Paullus talk to his mother about him one day in their house, about how Scipio was living up to the hopes that Africanus had expressed for his successors, for the next generation of Roman war leaders. He had said that morality was the key, a personal code of honour. Aemilius Paullus had known that his son would suffer for it, but that his sensitivity to the criticism of others would be the seedbed of his strength. Scipio already had a reputation for keeping his word, for
fides,
and his abstinence from debauchery was also a good sign. It was then that Fabius had made it his own mission to watch out for Scipio, not only protecting him physically but also keeping him from being ruined by his own sensitivities, and from developing a resentment of Rome that would be self-destructive. Seeing him here at the head of the boys in the academy was an important step in the right direction, although there were many challenges ahead.

He glanced at the sand-timer on the table, seeing that the twenty minutes of study were nearly up and the boys were becoming restless. Ennius had been working on something in the corner that Fabius hoped would keep them preoccupied until Petraeus arrived. What happened then would depend on the old centurion's temperament that day, on whether the baths had soothed the fire that raged within. Fabius had smiled wryly to himself when he had seen the newest arrival in the academy, Scipio's cousin Gaius Paullus, go white at the mention of the centurion's imminent arrival, his fearsome reputation having preceded him. Whether or not Petraeus was in an indulgent mood, there could be no doubt that the next big challenge confronting the boys was not some distant enemy on a Macedonian battlefield but the very embodiment of all that was strong about Rome herself. The old centurion Petraeus was about to bear down on them and mete out wisdom and toughness that one day might make some of them the equal of such a man on the battlefield.

2

‘Scipio! It's ready!' The voice came from the corner of the room opposite Hippolyta, from a wide recess containing a fireplace. Fabius could just make out a figure in the gloom squatting over the brazier, a lighted tallow candle in one hand. He saw Scipio glance anxiously at the door where the centurion would arrive, and then look at the others. ‘All right. Ennius has something to show us. But at the first sound of the centurion coming down the corridor, everyone rushes back to their places around the table. You know what old Petraeus thinks of Ennius' inventions. We'll all be for it.'

They crowded around the recess, Hippolyta included. Polybius stood alongside Scipio, his hands behind his back, peering with interest over the others, looking much more a scholar than a soldier. Ennius' experiments of the last few months owed much to Polybius, who had introduced him to the wonders of Greek science and fuelled his fascination with military engineering. Scipio nudged Polybius. ‘So what ancient magic have you revealed to him this time, my friend?'

Polybius shrugged. ‘We talked yesterday about Thucydides' account of the siege of Delium.'

Gulussa was standing beside them, and looked keenly at Polybius. ‘In the year of the three hundred and fiftieth Olympiad, that is, a hundred and fifty-six years ago,' he said, his Latin accented with the soft guttural sound of Numidian. ‘The action where the philosopher Socrates fought as a hoplite, when the Athenians were routed by the Boeotians. The first major battle in history to involve full-scale tactical planning, including the detailed coordination of cavalry and infantry.'

Polybius cocked an eye at him. ‘You listen to my lectures well, Gulussa. Full marks.'

Scipio peered into the recess. ‘So what is it? Some kind of engine of war?'

‘All I know is that after I told him about the siege he disappeared off to Ostia, where he has a friend in a back alley behind the harbour who supplies him with all manner of exotic substances, brought from all corners of the earth,' Polybius replied.

‘That would be Polyarchos the Alexandrian,' Scipio said resignedly. ‘Usually that means pyrotechnics, and usually you can't get the smell out of your clothes for days.'

Ennius had his back towards them and was shaping something with his hands on the brazier, moulding it. ‘Just give me a moment,' he said, his voice muffled in the recess. Fabius listened out for the centurion's distinctive step, but only heard the swish of blades and the sound of scuffled feet in the arena below, and the occasional grunt. Brutus had left them during the study period, and was practising his swordplay again. Fabius turned back to the squatting figure in the gloom. Since Fabius had first met him as a boy, playing on the Palatine Hill with Scipio, Ennius had been intrigued by all manner of contraptions: bridges, boats, cranes for bringing stone columns and blocks into the city, the principles of architecture. The old centurion approved of that: when a legionary was not fighting, his proper job was to dig fortifications and build forts, presided over by centurions who prided themselves on their building skills almost as much as their fighting prowess.

But Ennius' latest craze was a different matter altogether. With Polybius' introduction to Greek science had come a fascination with fire. Ennius had even accompanied Ptolemy when he had sailed back to Egypt three months ago, after Ptolemy had been recalled from the academy to assume the throne of Egypt. Ostensibly Ennius had accompanied him for Ptolemy's marriage ritual and to go crocodile-hunting, but mainly he had wanted to visit the university at Alexandria to see the work of Greek scientists at first hand, and he had returned only the week before, overflowing with enthusiasm. He had even suggested to Petraeus that the Roman army needed a specialised cohort of
fabri,
engineers, with himself as tribune, tasked to supervise and improve fortifications and also to develop new weapons of war. Scipio had never seen such a black cloud descend over the old centurion's face. To suggest that specialists should do the traditional work of legionaries was an affront to their honour. To suggest that new weapons of war were needed was not only an affront to the legionaries, but also an insult to the centurion himself; Ennius was questioning his ability to kill with the time-honoured weapons of thrusting sword and javelin and bare hands. But even the week of punishment Ennius had endured mucking out the dung of the elephant stable had failed to diminish his ardour, and here he was again risking the wrath of the centurion to show them yet another miracle of science.

‘All right.' Ennius shuffled back from the fireplace and swivelled round to face them, the object he had been shaping lying in his hands. It looked like a sphere of wet clay, only it glistened black. In front of the fireplace were pots filled with powders – one bright yellow, others red and brown. Ennius coughed, then stared at them, his expression brimming with excitement.

‘Well?' Scipio said. ‘We haven't got all day.'

Ennius picked up a waxed writing tablet and a metal stylus. ‘First, you need to understand the science.'

‘No.' Scipio held up his hand. ‘No, we don't. Just show us.'

Ennius looked briefly disappointed. He put down the tablet, and picked up the lit candle again. ‘What do you know about Greek fire?'

Scipio thought for a moment. ‘The Assyrians used it. They made it from black tar that boils up in the desert.'

‘I myself have seen the tar, when I visited the land of the Israelites, beside the briny inland sea,' Metellus added. ‘The Greeks call it
naphtha.
'

‘They also call it water fire,' Polybius murmured. ‘It's not extinguished by water, and will even continue to burn if you throw it on the surface of the sea.'

‘Right,' Ennius said, twitching with excitement. ‘Now watch this.' He put the ball into a bed of kindling below the brazier and thrust the candle into it. The chips of wood ignited and flames enveloped the ball, the flames rising towards the chimney. Suddenly the ball crackled and erupted in a violent flame that roared up the chimney and disappeared, followed by a suck of wind and leaving nothing but embers in the brazier and an acrid smell in the air. Ennius tossed a pot of water on the flames, watched the smoke disappear up the chimney and turned to them again, a broad smile on his face. ‘Well?' he said. ‘Impressed?'

Metellus was closest to the fire, and held his nose. ‘What did you put in that, Ennius? Elephant dung?'

‘Not far off.' Ennius wiped his forehead, leaving a black smudge. ‘Nitre, made from ground-up bird droppings. An Egyptian priest showed me how to do it. But the smell is sulphur.'

‘What's your point, Ennius?' Scipio said, his ear cocked for any sound from the corridor.

‘Did you see how the rising heat from the fire drew the flames from the naphtha up the chimney? By the time it reached the roof, it would have erupted out in a jet of flame far higher even than the Capitoline Temple.'

‘Jupiter above, I hope the old centurion didn't see that,' Scipio muttered.

‘So you think this might be a weapon?' Metellus said doubtfully.

Ennius looked up. ‘Polybius, tell them.'

Polybius cleared his throat. ‘At the siege of the Boeotian fortress of Delium, the Athenians set up metal tubes to throw fire at the enemy. Thucydides called them flamethrowers.'

‘You see?' Ennius said. ‘Somebody had the idea almost three hundred years ago, but then it's forgotten. It's typical of our attitude to technology. Why? Look at our beloved centurion. Total inflexibility.' He shook his head in frustration but then became animated again, gesticulating as he spoke. ‘You would need a tube of bronze about six feet high and a hand's breadth in width, set at an angle facing the enemy. At the base would be a brazier with a fire to create the necessary draught up the tube. You drop a ball of naphtha down the tube, and then you have an arc of flame a hundred or more feet high.'

Scipio looked sceptical. ‘To operate such machines would take valuable men away from the front line, men who could kill more of the enemy with their bare hands than with this contraption.'

‘They wouldn't be legionaries. They'd be recruits of the third or fourth class, unsuited to front-line action. They'd be a specialised maniple of fire-throwers.'

Scipio pursed his lips. ‘You might use it against the wooden palisades of the Celts, but it wouldn't be much use against a stone wall. You'd have to get close enough to project the fire over the ramparts, and then you'd be within easy range of the defenders' arrows and javelins. As a battlefield weapon the burning naphtha falling on men would cause terrible injury, I'd grant you that, but assault under interlocked shields, the
testudo,
would provide a barrier, and by advancing rapidly the attacking force would soon be in relative safety, under the arc of fire.' Scipio put his hands on his hips, thinking. ‘I can see its use in naval warfare, providing the wind was in the right direction and you didn't burn your own ships. But for land warfare, I'd be on the centurion's side with this one. It would be little more than a spectacle. Come on, let's get back to the table before he arrives.'

‘Wait a moment,' Ennius said, agitated. ‘We've only been thinking about a crude version, and I'd agree with you. That's precisely why it didn't go anywhere three hundred years ago. But my idea is different. Suppose you seal up one end of the tube, leaving only a small hole at the base to introduce the flame. And supposing you then pack the naphtha down the tube, and drop a stone or lead ball down on top of it, of a width to fit snugly in the tube and keep the gases from blowing out around it. The Greek scientists in Alexandria showed me that volatile substances can burn more violently when they are compressed into a small space. With this tube, it would not be the fire that was the weapon, but the missile. A heavy ball projected out of the tube at sufficient velocity could damage wooden walls, even stone ones. Smaller projectiles could be used on the battlefield: spheres of lead or iron, weighing less than a pound each. Thrown at high speed such a ball could decapitate a man, or tear him in half. As individual weapons, the fire tubes might not make much difference to the outcome of a battle. But massed together, fired in volleys like arrows or javelins, they could unleash hell. Even armoured men could be knocked down and killed by the shock of impact.'

Scipio stared at him. ‘Well, have you tried it?'

Ennius looked down, suddenly dejected. ‘The ball only goes part-way up the tube. The force of the naphtha isn't powerful enough. I need a mixture that would really explode.'