Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter XIV: Confrontation

Massilia, on the southern coast of Gaul

Fabricius stared at the Greek columns on the temples opposite the quay and smiled. ‘Very different to those at home,’ he said. ‘It feels good to be in a foreign land at last.’

Five days before, the Roman fleet and its commander, the consul Publius Cornelius Scipio, had finally set sail. Fabricius and Flaccus had been on board one of the sixty quinqueremes that had left from Pisae, on the west coast of Italy. Hugging the Ligurian shoreline all the way to the Greek city of Massilia, a long-term Roman ally on the south coast of Gaul, the flotilla had arrived not two hours previously.

‘Too many months were spent talking,’ Flaccus agreed. ‘It’s time now to carry war to the Carthaginians, and settle the matter swiftly.’ He eyed Fabricius, who was nodding in vigorous agreement. ‘You don’t like sitting on your hands, eh?’

‘No.’ His recent spell in Rome had brought home to Fabricius the fact that he was no politician. He’d stayed in the capital because he was eager to fight. His desire for action, however, had vanished beneath a wave of debates in the Senate, just one of which could take more than a week. ‘I know that the politicians’ original reasons for delaying were simple,’ he admitted. ‘With most of the army disbanded, it was logical to wait for the new consuls to be appointed before making any far-reaching decisions. But to take so long after that?’

‘Don’t forget the other matters of foreign policy which had to be discussed.’ Flaccus’ tone was reproving. ‘Rome has many concerns other than what goes on in Iberia.’

‘Of course.’ Fabricius sighed. That had been one of the hardest lessons for him to learn.

‘Philip V of Macedon has never been the greatest friend of Rome,’ said Flaccus. ‘But giving refuge to Demetrius of Pharos showed that he really wishes us ill.’

‘True.’ Demetrius, the deposed King of Illyricum, had himself been the cause of much recent trouble to the Republic. ‘Is a month of debates about the two of them really necessary, though?’

Flaccus’ face took on a pompous expression. ‘Such is the Senate’s way, as it has been for nearly three hundred years. Who are we to question such a hallowed process?’

Fabricius bit back his pithy response. In his mind, the Senate would work far more efficiently if only the debates were better controlled. He smiled diplomatically. ‘To be fair, it reacted fast when word came of the unrest among the Gaulish tribes.’

Flaccus looked pleased. ‘And as soon as it became clear that the proposed new Latin colonies at Placentia and Cremona would not be enough, it requisitioned one of the legions from our expeditionary force. While I was stuck in Rome, raising and training the new units that were required, at least you got a taste of action!’ He wagged a finger at Fabricius. ‘Three months of it.’

Fabricius had grown used to the other’s patronising manner, but still found it irritating. ‘You weren’t there. The Boii and Insubres are no pushover,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you remember Telamon? We did well to end it so swiftly. Hundreds of our soldiers were slain, and many more were injured.’

Flaccus flushed. ‘I apologise. I did not mean to belittle your efforts, or those of the men who died.’

‘Good,’ Fabricius replied, placated. ‘It doesn’t take away from the fact that we should have been in Iberia three months ago!’

Flaccus made a conciliatory gesture. ‘At least we’re in Massilia now. Soon the Saguntines will be avenged.’

‘A bit late, isn’t it?’ demanded Fabricius sourly. The Senate’s refusal to act had meant leaving the Saguntines to their fate, which had not sat well with his conscience. It still didn’t.

‘Come now,’ entreated Flaccus. ‘We’ve just been through all that.’

‘I know,’ Fabricius replied heatedly. ‘But an ally of Rome should never be treated as Saguntum was.’

Flaccus’ voice grew soft. ‘You know that I agree with you. Did I not speak repeatedly in the Senate about the dishonour of abandoning the city?’

‘You did.’ Yet you probably knew that your words would make little difference, thought Fabricius. It had sounded good, however, and showed a pleasingly combative side to his prospective son-in-law’s character.

‘Thank all the gods that we’re serving under Publius rather than Tiberius Sempronius Longus,’ said Flaccus. ‘We shall see action far sooner than they will. Last I heard, Longus’ fleet wasn’t going to be ready for another month.’

‘How frustrating.’

‘Whereas we can set sail the moment that the fleet’s supplies of food and water have been renewed.’ Flaccus rattled the hilt of his ornamental sword.

‘Let’s not forget to hear what information the local intelligence has gathered,’ warned Fabricius. ‘Nothing has been heard of Hannibal for several months.’

‘That’s because he’s sitting on his hairy gugga arse in Iberia, drinking local wine and waiting for us to arrive!’ Flaccus sneered.

‘Maybe he is,’ said Fabricius with a smile, ‘but being forewarned is to be forearmed.’

He had no idea that, within the next few hours, his words would be proven true.

Hannibal was no longer in Iberia.

According to the exhausted Massiliote messengers who rode in on lathered mounts, he was probably no more than a day’s march away.

Flaccus and the other senior officers received an immediate summons to attend Publius in his headquarters, a sprawling tent at the centre of one of the legions’ temporary forts. Fabricius was pleased and surprised to receive a similar order less than an hour later. As he arrived, Fabricius saw Flaccus standing outside with the other high-ranking officers, including Gnaeus, Publius’ elder brother, a former consul who was also his legatus, or second-in-command. Fabricius saluted, and nodded at Flaccus. To his surprise, his future son-in-law barely acknowledged the gesture. Indeed, his face wore such a thunderous expression that Fabricius wondered what had gone on in the moments prior. He had no time to find out. Recognising Fabricius, the officer in charge of the sentries ushered him inside at once.

They found Publius talking animatedly with a young Massiliote soldier over a table on which a crudely drawn map had been laid out. Both men were wearing Hellenistic bronze cuirasses, layered pteryges, which protected the groin and the tops of the thighs, and bronze greaves. Yet there was no question, even to the untrained eye, who was in charge. The Massiliote’s armour was well made, but, with its magnificent depiction of Hercules’ face, Publius’ positively exuded quality and wealth. The same could be said of his ornate plumed Attic helmet, which sat on a nearby stool. Although the Massiliote towered over the grey-haired consul, Publius’ confidence more than made up for the difference in height. Fabricius had come to know his commander a little, and liked him. Publius’ calm presence and direct manner were popular with everyone, from the rank and file to the military tribunes. Gnaeus, his brother, was no different.

Publius looked up. ‘Ah, Fabricius! Thank you for coming.’

Fabricius saluted. ‘How can I be of service, sir?’

‘First meet the commander of the unit that brought us the dramatic news. Fabricius, this is Clearchus. Clearchus, meet Fabricius, of whom I have spoken.’

The two exchanged courteous nods.

‘Obviously, you have heard about Hannibal’s whereabouts,’ Publius enquired archly. ‘You’d have to be deaf not to.’

Fabricius grinned. The news had been shouted from the rooftops. ‘They say that he and his army have crossed the Rhodanus, sir, and are camped on the eastern shore.’

‘Indeed.’ Publius regarded the Massiliote. ‘Clearchus?’

‘Since word came that Hannibal had crossed into Gaul, we have been patrolling deep inland, using small, highly mobile cavalry units. One such sighted the Carthaginians about two weeks ago, and shadowed them to the river’s western bank. It’s a long day’s ride from here.’

Fabricius’ heart thumped in his chest. The rumour was true. ‘And their number?’

‘Perhaps fifty thousand men all told. Not quite a quarter of that is made up of cavalry.’

Fabricius’ eyebrows rose. This was a larger army than he’d ever faced in Sicily.

Publius saw his reaction. ‘I was surprised too. Hannibal means to attack Italy. Fortuna had been generous indeed to alert us to his purpose before he arrived. Go on, Clearchus.’

‘They camped by the river for several days, constructing rafts and boats, and no doubt planning their tactics against the Volcae, the hostile natives on the eastern side. The result was extraordinary, sir. Hannibal sent a strong force upriver, which crossed undetected and fell on the tribesmen’s rear.’ Clearchus made a circle of his thumb and forefinger. ‘They crushed them with ease. Nearly the whole army has traversed safely since then. Only the elephants remain on the far bank.’

‘Imagine if we had landed a week earlier, and been there to contest the passage of the river. The war might already be over!’ Publius cried in frustration. His face turned cunning. ‘We still might have a chance, though, Clearchus?’

‘That’s right, sir. Getting the elephants across will take at least two to three days. Perhaps more. Several attempts have already failed.’

‘Excellent. Now, I need someone to take a look at the Carthaginian army. A Roman officer.’ Publius glanced at Clearchus. ‘Not to belittle our Massiliote allies in any way.’

‘No insult taken, sir,’ said Clearchus, raising his hands.

‘Naturally, others wanted this job, but I felt that the task was suited to a veteran. A man who knows how to keep his cool. I thought of you.’ Publius fixed his eyes on Fabricius. ‘Well?’

Fabricius felt his breath quicken. Had Flaccus asked for the duty, and been turned down? That might explain his sour expression. ‘Of course I’ll do it, sir.’

Publius gave a small smile of approval. ‘Speed is of the essence. If you leave at once, you could be back by tomorrow night. The next day, at the latest. I will want good estimates of their numbers, and a breakdown of the troop types.’

Fabricius wasn’t going to back down from a challenge like this. ‘I will do my best, sir.’

‘How many men have you?’

‘About two hundred and fifty, sir.’

‘Take all of them. Clearchus will guide you.’ Publius looked at the Massiliote. ‘How strong is your force?’

‘Two hundred riders, sir, all experienced.’

‘It should be enough.’ Publius turned back to Fabricius. ‘You’re in charge. Avoid contact with the enemy unless it cannot be helped. Return quickly. I’ll have the army ready to march the moment you return.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fabricius saluted crisply; Clearchus did the same.

They left the consul poring over his map.

Fabricius wasted no time. Less than an hour later, he led the ten turmae — cavalry units — under his command out of the camp and towards Massilia’s north gate. It was a pity that he hadn’t had time to replace his losses from the recent campaign, thought Fabricius. Still, he was reasonably happy with the rest of his cavalrymen, who had fought well during the summer. As citizen cavalry, his men were equestrians, and most dressed in a Hellenistic style similar to his own. They wore Boeotian helmets and bleached white tunics, which had a purple stripe running from each shoulder to the hem. Sturdy leather boots that completely enclosed the feet were ubiquitous. All carried thrusting spears, and round cavalry shields, made of ox hide. Few carried swords. The heavy cavalry cloak, or sagum, owned by each man and used in bad weather, was tied up in a roll behind the saddlecloth.

They met Clearchus and his riders just outside the city walls. The Massiliote cavalry were irregulars, and no two were dressed alike. With their helmets, spears and small shields, however, they were similar in appearance to the Roman cavalrymen. Fabricius was reassured by Clearchus’ calm manner, and the way his men responded to his orders. If it came to a fight, they’d probably do all right.

With the Massiliotes in the lead, they rode north, stopping only when it grew too dark to continue. Clearchus knew the countryside well, but, as he confided to Fabricius, it was possible that Carthaginian patrols could be operating in the area too. There was no point exposing themselves to unnecessary danger, and riding at night fell into that category. Fabricius did not argue. Clearchus’ judiciousness made perfect sense. Ordering no fires to be lit, he had the men set up camp. Double the normal number of sentries were stationed around the perimeter. Long after the soldiers had retired, Fabricius walked from picket to picket, his ears pricked. This was a mission of the utmost importance. If that meant hardly any sleep, then so be it. Nothing could go wrong. Thankfully, he heard nothing other than the occasional screech of an owl.

He and Clearchus had their men up long before dawn. Tension among both sets of riders was immediately palpable. Contact with the enemy was likely before the day was out. After a brief chat with Clearchus, Fabricius sent ten Massiliote riders to scout the trail a mile in advance of the main party. One turma, under the command of his best decurion, accompanied them. Their orders were to return at the slightest hint of anything untoward.

Fabricius’ hunch turned out to be the best decision he had ever made.

They had ridden for an hour or so when an outrider returned at the gallop. He dragged his horse to a stop beside Fabricius and Clearchus, who were riding together, and saluted.

Fabricius took a deep breath. ‘What news?’

‘We’ve spotted a group of Numidians, sir. Perhaps two miles away.’

Fabricius went very still. His memories of fighting against the lightly armed African horsemen were exclusively bad. ‘Did they see you?’

The cavalryman grinned. ‘No, sir. We were able to get behind a stand of trees.’

Fabricius hissed in relief. Their mission had escaped discovery — for the moment. ‘How many of them were there?’

‘Perhaps three hundred in total, sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, sir. The decurion said to tell you that there’s a copse about a mile from here that would make a perfect place for an ambush. If you move fast, you could get in place before the Numidians reach it.’

Fabricius’ mouth went dry. Publius had ordered him to avoid confrontation at all costs. How was that possible in this situation, however? To let the enemy cavalry pass while continuing with their own mission would leave his patrol at risk of attack from behind. Aware that everyone’s eyes were on him, Fabricius closed his eyes. ‘Three hundred men, you say?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, sir.’

Fabricius made up his mind. They were 450 strong. Easily enough. Opening his eyes, he laid a hand to his sword and was pleased by Clearchus’ fierce nod of agreement. ‘Swiftly, then,’ he said. ‘Take us to the copse.’

A short time later, Fabricius found himself in an excellent position overlooking the narrow track they had been following. Thanks to Clearchus’ quick-witted suggestion, the entire patrol had ridden up and out of view well before the far entrance to the stand of trees. The trap would be sprung long before the Numidians saw their incriminating tracks — he hoped. Fabricius also wished that they could have concealed themselves better, and effected some method of preventing the Numidians from retreating. With time running out, that had not been possible. Instead, they had to place their trust in the gods. He glanced to either side, seeing the same tense expression on his riders’ faces that he felt twisting his own.

The reasons were simple.

Soon, they would set eyes upon the first Carthaginian troops to act in aggression against Rome for more than twenty years. The enemy were not on Sicily either, their historical hunting grounds. The unthinkable had happened, and Fabricius still couldn’t quite take it in. Hannibal was in Gaul, and heading for Italy! Calm down, he thought. Of more relevance right now was the fact that if he and his men weren’t very lucky, the approaching Numidians would spot them and flee before the ambush began.

The following quarter of an hour felt like eternity to Fabricius. Focusing his gaze on the point where the track entered the copse, he ignored the faint jingle of harness around him, and bird song from the branches above. He couldn’t block out all sound, however. A horse stamped a hoof as it grew restless. Someone coughed, drawing a muttered rebuke from the nearest officer. Fabricius glared at the rider responsible before returning his attention to the path. Spotting movement, he blinked. Then his arm shot out, pointing. ‘Pssst!’ he hissed to the man on either side. A judder of anticipation rippled through the line of waiting cavalrymen.

Amazingly, the pair of enemy scouts who emerged into view were only a short distance in front of the main body of their countrymen. The Numidians appeared no different to the men Fabricius had fought in Sicily. Dark-skinned, lithe, athletic, they rode small horses without saddles, bridles or bits. Their loose tunics had large armholes and were pinned at the shoulder and belted at the waist. The Numidians carried javelins and light, round shields without bosses. Instead of looking around for danger, they were busy talking to each other. Given the empty countryside, thought Fabricius delightedly, it wasn’t that surprising. He’d made similar mistakes himself before, and been lucky enough to get away with it.

In they rode, without so much as a glance up the gentle slopes where the Romans and Massiliotes lay hidden. Fabricius held his breath, counting the distance. Eighty, then fifty paces. The front ranks of Numidians entered the copse, and Fabricius’ mind flashed back to the war in Sicily. They did not look like much, but these were some of the finest cavalry in the world. Sublime horsemen, they were best at skirmishing, and frustrating the enemy with their stinging attacks. He knew from personal experience that the Numidians’ pursuit of a vanquished foe was even more deadly.

It was too soon to sound the charge. As many riders as possible had to come into the copse where the trees would ensnare them. With every passing moment, though, the risk of being discovered grew. Fabricius’ stomach clenched painfully, but he did not stir. By the time two-thirds of the horsemen had ridden in, he saw that his men were on the verge of breaking ranks. He could no longer take the pressure either. ‘Charge!’ he shouted, urging his horse down the slope. ‘For Rome!’ Bellowing with excitement, 250 cavalry followed. An instant later, Clearchus and his Massiliotes emerged from the other side of the track, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Fabricius revelled in the look of stunned disbelief on the Numidians’ faces. It was their job to ambush and fall on an unsuspecting enemy, not the other way around. Surprised, outnumbered and with the advantage of height against them, they instantly wheeled their mounts’ heads and tried to flee. Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, total confusion reigned. Although some of those at the rear were already riding away, the vast majority were trapped by the trees. Horses reared in panic; men shouted contradictory orders at each other. Only an occasional rider prepared to fight. All the rest wanted to do was escape. Fabricius bared his teeth exultantly. They had ridden within thirty paces of the enemy without suffering a single casualty, and things were about to get even better. For all their horsemanship and skirmishing skill, the tribesmen were poor at close combat. ‘Ready spears,’ Fabricius yelled. ‘Kill as many as you can!’

With an inarticulate roar, his men obeyed.

Casting fearful looks over their shoulders, the surviving Numidians fled for their lives. Eyeing the bodies littering the ground, Fabricius estimated that more than a hundred of their number had been slain or injured in the initial ambush. The Roman and Massiliote casualties were perhaps half that number. Given the circumstances, this was more than satisfactory. Catching sight of Clearchus, Fabricius beckoned him urgently. ‘We’ve got to follow them,’ he said. ‘Stick tight to their tails, or there’ll be no chance to assess Hannibal’s forces.’

Clearchus nodded. ‘The wounded, sir?’

‘They can fend for themselves. We’ll pick them up on the way back.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The Massiliote turned to relay the order.

‘Clearchus?’

‘Sir?’

‘I want no further engagement with the enemy. A running battle could easily lead to disaster, especially if we encounter more Carthaginian forces. Our mission is more important now than killing a few more Numidians. Understood?’

Clearchus’ teeth flashed in the sunshine. ‘Of course, sir. Publius is waiting for us.’

Soon all the able-bodied men had formed up and were ready to ride. Without a backward glance, Fabricius and Clearchus led them after the Numidians. This time, there was no advance party. They rode at top speed, four abreast, knowing that the chance of an attack from the panicked enemy riders was slim to none. It wasn’t long before they glimpsed the last of the tribesmen, who screamed in dismay. At once Fabricius ordered his men to slow down. He was relieved when his command was obeyed without question. Poor discipline was too often the reason for battles being lost.

They followed the Numidians along the winding track for perhaps five miles. The flat terrain and the well-beaten track made the pursuit easy. Fabricius had no idea how far the Rhodanus was, but Clearchus reached him as they neared a low, stone-topped hill that stood alone, dominating the surrounding wooded area.

‘The river is on the other side of that, sir.’

Immediately, Fabricius held up his hand. ‘Halt!’ As his order was obeyed, he fixed the Massiliote with his stare. ‘Let’s go up. Just you and me.’

Clearchus looked startled. ‘Are you sure, sir? There could be enemy pickets at its crest.’

‘They’ll be running after the Numidians!’ Fabricius replied confidently. ‘And when we come leathering back down here, I want everyone ready to ride, not bunched up on a narrow path.’

Clearchus blinked; then a mischievous smile twitched across his lips. ‘I suppose two men against an entire host are as good as a few hundred.’

With a fierce grin, Fabricius slapped his thigh. ‘That’s the attitude.’ He turned to the nearest of his decurions. ‘Rest the men. We’re going to take a look at what’s on the other side of the hill. I want you ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Fabricius led the way up the path. He was surprised to find himself feeling more nervous than he had in years. He would never have expected to be the first Roman to set eyes on Hannibal’s army. Yet here he was.

Nearing the crest, they found evidence of a sentry post: a stone fireplace full of smoking ash, and bedding rolls, which still bore the imprint of those who’d been sitting on them. They dismounted and tethered their horses before clambering to the peak. Instinctively, Fabricius went down on his belly. The first thing that caught his attention as he peered over the edge was the mob of yelling Numidians driving their horses down the slope. Behind them were a dozen or more running figures: the sentries from the abandoned picket. Fabricius’ lips peeled up in a snarl of satisfaction, but as he took in the scene beyond, his mouth fell open in wonder.

In the middle distance glittered the wide band that was the River Rhodanus. Perhaps a hundred paces from the water’s edge, the enemy tent lines began. They stretched as far as the eye could see. Fabricius was used to legionary camps that could hold 5,000 men, or even 10,000. What lay before him was much less organised, but far larger. It was more than twice as large as a consular army, which was made up of approximately 20,000 men. ‘You weren’t exaggerating. This host is immense!’ he muttered to Clearchus. ‘Publius should have moved on your intelligence. We’d have caught the bastards napping.’

The Massiliote looked pleased.

Fabricius scanned the encampment, mentally noting everything he saw. Hannibal had superior numbers of horsemen compared to an equivalent Roman force, which worried him. Few things were more important than the quantity of horse at one’s disposal. There were the usual Carthaginian stalwarts: Libyan spearmen and skirmishers, Balearic slingers and Numidian and Iberian cavalry. Most plentiful of all were the infantry, the majority of which were scutarii and caetrati. And last but not least, there were the elephants: the battering rams that had so terrified Roman armies in the past. Perhaps twenty of the massive beasts were already on the near bank. ‘Gods,’ Fabricius whispered in amazement. ‘How in the name of Jupiter did they get them over the river?’

Clearchus touched his arm and pointed. ‘On those.’

Fabricius peered at the two massive wooden rafts being pulled back to the far side by rowing boats. There, he could see a dozen or more elephants waiting to be ferried across. Before them, an enormous jetty formed by a double line of square platforms projected some sixty paces out into the fast-flowing water. Dozens of ropes and cables secured the makeshift affair to trees upriver from the pier. He shook his head at the scale of the engineering that had gone into the pier’s construction. ‘I’ve heard that elephants are intelligent creatures. Surely they wouldn’t just walk on to a floating square of wood?’

Clearchus squinted into the bright light. ‘I can see a layer of earth all along the walkway. Maybe it’s meant to look like dry land?’

‘Clever bastards. So they lead their charges to the end of the jetty, and on to the rafts. Then they cut them free and row across the river.’ Rapt, Fabricius watched as, encouraged by its mahout, an elephant was slowly led down the walkway. Even from a distance, it was clear that the creature was not happy. Bugles of distress blared out again and again. It had only walked a third of the jetty’s length before it stopped dead in its tracks. In an effort to make the elephant continue, a group of men behind it began shouting and playing drums and cymbals. However, instead of continuing to the raft, which was now tethered to the end of the pier, the creature jumped into the water. There was a wail from its unfortunate mahout as he disappeared from sight, and Fabricius closed his eyes. What a way to die, he thought. When he looked up, the elephant was swimming strongly across the river. Fabricius was engrossed. He had never seen such an incredible sight before.

Suddenly, Clearchus tugged at his arm. ‘The Numidians have raised the alarm, sir.’

At the edge of the camp, Fabricius could see the tribesmen milling around. Many were pointing at the hill and beyond. Faint shouts of anger carried through the air, and he smiled mirthlessly. ‘Time to go. Publius will want to hear the news. Good, and bad.’

Fabricius was delighted by Publius’ instantaneous response to his dramatic news. The consul was not afraid of confrontation. Ordering the heavy baggage to be loaded on to the quinqueremes for safety, Publius led the army north as soon as was humanly possible. Nonetheless, it was three full days before the legions and their allies arrived at the point where the Carthaginians had crossed the river. It was a huge disappointment to find the vast encampment abandoned. As the Roman officers picked their way across the remnants of thousands of campfires, the only life to be seen were the skulking forms of jackals looking for scraps, and the countless birds of prey that hovered overhead for similar reasons.

Hannibal had gone. North, to avoid a battle.

Publius had difficulty concealing his amazement. ‘Who would have thought it?’ he muttered. ‘He is heading for the Alps, and thence to Cisalpine Gaul.’

Fabricius was still astonished too. He knew no one who had even contemplated that Hannibal would pursue such a plan. Stunning in its simplicity, it had taken them all completely unawares. It was lucky chance that had them standing here today. Now Publius faced a hard choice. What was the best thing to do?

The consul immediately convened a meeting of his senior officers on the riverbank. As well as Gnaeus, his legatus, there were twelve tribunes present, six for each regular legion. Following tradition, alternate legions had three senior tribunes, men who had served for more than ten years, while the others had two. The junior tribunes needed only to have seen five years’ service. It was a mark of the times, and of the influence of the Minucii, that Flaccus, who had no military experience, should be accorded even the lower rank of junior tribune. As the patrol leader, Fabricius was also present. He felt distinctly nervous in the presence of so many senior officers.

‘We are faced with four choices, all of them difficult,’ Publius began. ‘To pursue Hannibal and force him to fight, or to withdraw to the coast and return with the whole army to Cisalpine Gaul. The third option would be merely to send word to the Senate of Hannibal’s intentions, before continuing as charged to Iberia. Or… I could bring the news to Rome myself while Gnaeus takes the legions west.’ He scanned his officers’ faces, waiting for a response.

Fabricius thought that either the second or fourth options were the best, but he certainly wasn’t going to say anything before any of his superiors did. As the silence lengthened, it appeared that none of them were prepared to speak up either. Fabricius fumed. This was one of the most pivotal moments in Roman history, and no one wanted to say the wrong thing. That is, he realised, apart from one. Flaccus was shifting from foot to foot like a man possessed. Fabricius struggled to master his exasperation. Probably all that kept Flaccus’ mouth shut was the desire not to breach military protocol by speaking out of turn, before the five senior tribunes.

Eventually, Publius grew impatient. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘Let us be frank. You may speak without fear of retribution. I want your honest opinions.’

Gnaeus cleared his throat. ‘In theory, Hannibal should be confronted immediately. However, I wonder if it would be the right thing to do?’

‘We know that his forces outnumber ours by at least two to one, sir,’ added a senior tribune quickly. ‘And if we suffered a setback, or even a defeat, what then? Massilia’s defences aren’t up to withstanding a siege. All of the other legions are occupied on other duties, either in Cisalpine Gaul, or in Sicily with Consul Longus. We have no support to call on.’

Sensible words, thought Fabricius. He was surprised to see Flaccus’ face grow red with indignation.

Another senior tribune, an older man than the rest, stepped into view. ‘Is the enemy’s strength so important, sir?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Our legionaries are the finest soldiers in the world! They are used to winning victories against vastly superior numbers, and have done so against Carthaginian armies in the past. Why should they not do the same against this… Hannibal?’ He filled the last word with contempt. ‘I say we follow him, and stamp on the gugga serpent before it slides into Cisalpine Gaul and prepares to bite us in the heel.’

It was difficult to respond to the tribune’s fierce words without seeming unpatriotic, and the first speakers sealed their lips. Even Gnaeus looked unsure. Naturally, Flaccus beamed and nodded in agreement, turning to his fellow junior tribunes for support. Cupping his chin with one hand, Publius gazed at the nearby fast-flowing water. Everyone waited for his response.

Roman soldiers are indeed without equal, thought Fabricius, but the Carthaginian forces who had left this camp were led by a man who, in less than a year, had conquered large areas of Iberia, passed through the mountains into Gaul and, despite fierce opposition, successfully crossed an enormous river, elephants included. Chasing after Hannibal could prove disastrous.

Publius held his counsel for an age. At length, he looked up. ‘It seems to me that pursuing a larger enemy force into unknown territory would be most unwise. As some have already said, we are alone here apart from our Massiliote allies, who do not number more than a few thousand. We must reconcile ourselves to the fact that the Carthaginians will enter Cisalpine Gaul within the next two months.’ Ignoring the shocked gasps this comment produced, Publius continued, ‘Let us also not forget where Hannibal’s main base is. If his access to that is cut off, his chance of supplies and reinforcements will be greatly reduced. With this in mind, I propose to hand the command of the consular army to my brother, and for him to lead it to Iberia.’ Publius acknowledged Gnaeus’ accepting bow. ‘I myself will return to Italy with all speed. I intend to be waiting for Hannibal when he makes his descent from the Alps. In this way both our problems will have been addressed, the gods willing.’

Publius’ decisive manner was good enough for most of the tribunes, who muttered in agreement. Only the older man and Flaccus seemed unhappy. The former was experienced enough to know when to keep quiet, but the latter was not. Ignoring Fabricius’ warning look, Flaccus started forward. ‘Think again, sir! Hannibal may win many allies among the discontented tribes in Cisalpine Gaul. The next time you meet his army, it could be far bigger.’

Publius’ eyebrows rose at Flaccus’ temerity. ‘Is that so?’ he said icily.

Fabricius was impressed by his future son-in-law’s insight, but it was time to shut up. Angering a consul was not an intelligent thing to do. Again, however, Flaccus ignored his pointed stare.

‘It is, sir! For the honour of Rome, you must follow Hannibal and defeat him. Think of the shame of a foreign enemy, especially a Carthaginian one, setting his foot on Italian soil.’ Seeing his fellow officers’ horrified expressions, Flaccus faltered. Then he looked for support. Finding none among his compatriots, his gaze finally fell on Fabricius. ‘You agree with me, don’t you?’

Suddenly, Fabricius was the centre of attention. He did not know what to say. Agreeing would make him party to Flaccus’ insult to the consul. Refusing to agree would, in effect, renege on the newly founded alliance between his family and the Minucii. Both choices seemed as bad as the other.

To his intense relief, Publius leaped in. ‘At first I thought you courageous for speaking your mind. Now I see that it was your arrogance. How dare you speak of Rome’s honour when you have never drawn a sword in her defence? The only one here who has not, I might add.’ As Flaccus’ cheeks flushed crimson, Publius continued. ‘Just so you know, I too hate the idea of an enemy on Roman soil. Yet there is no shame in waiting to face an opponent on the best terms possible, and in Cisalpine Gaul we shall have the entire Republic’s resources behind us.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Flaccus muttered. ‘I spoke out of turn.’

Publius did not acknowledge the apology. ‘Next time you place your foot in your mouth, do not try to redeem yourself by asking a junior officer such as Fabricius to disagree with a consul. That is a shameful act.’ He stalked off with Gnaeus. The other tribunes fell to talking among themselves. They pointedly ignored Flaccus.

Fortunately, Flaccus’ outrage was so great that he assumed Fabricius was of the same opinion as he. Complaining bitterly about the public humiliation he had just suffered, he accompanied Fabricius back to the legions. For his part, Fabricius was content to remain silent. He had dismissed Atia’s concerns out of hand before, but Flaccus’ rash action revealed monstrous arrogance, but also a worrying lack of awareness. What else was he capable of?