Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage

22

Two hours later, Fabius was back on the wharfside with Scipio and Polybius. He felt drained, but exhilarated. Had Porcus reached Corinth and the message fire been lit on Bou Kornine, it would have been Metellus on Acrocorinth and not Scipio who would have been celebrating the defeat of Carthage. Fabius had focused solely on the task in hand and was barely conscious of his own role, but he knew that by pursuing and destroying the lembos, he had changed history. At the moment all that was important was the added urgency it put on the countdown to the assault; he could see Scipio beginning to look impatient as he watched the preparations at sea. The catapult ships had assembled in a line off the sea wall, with the transport barges containing the legionaries finding their places behind in preparation for heaving forward and landing the first wave of shock troops with grapnels and ladders on the quay, ready to scale the walls. The gamble was that the defenders would be caught off-guard, not expecting a breach of the harbour defences as well as an assault on the sea walls, and that, with Carthaginian attention turned to an attack from the sea, the legionaries assembled at the harbour would be able to pour in to the breach and advance fast towards the upper city and the secondary line of defence around the Byrsa hill to the west.

A young tribune appeared on the platform, took off his helmet and stood to attention. He had startlingly blue eyes, fair hair and angular features — a face that seemed quintessentially Roman, destined to become craggy and hard and one day take its place in the lararium of some patrician house alongside the images of his ancestors. Scipio looked up and nodded at the tribune, who saluted. ‘I bring word from Gulussa, Scipio Aemilianus. The assault force outside the land walls is now ready. The catapults are all aimed at the same length of wall, already weakened by bombardment over the last weeks, and Gulussa thinks a breach will be made immediately. As soon as you give the word, they will let fly.’

Scipio squinted at the line of catapult ships being drawn up close to the sea wall. ‘Then tell him to make it so. By the time you return to him, Ennius will be ready in the ships. The assault will begin in an hour, when you hear my signallers blast the horns.’

‘I will lead the first cohort myself.’

Scipio looked him up and down, and then stared into his eyes, his gaze lingering as if he saw something in the boy. ‘Do you have a good centurion?’

‘The best. Abius Quintus Aberis, primipilus of the first legion. He fought at Pydna, and in Spain.’

‘Good. The centurions are the backbone of the army. Respect them, and they will respect you. But they will expect you to lead from the front. Have you seen action before?’

‘I have spent my whole life preparing for this day. I have studied all of the works of Polybius. I won the sword-fighting competition held for boys in the Circus Maximus, for two years running.’

Scipio glanced at the boy’s belt, where Fabius could see the thin line of shimmer along both sides of the blade where it was visible for an inch or so above the scabbard. ‘You have a double-edged sword.’

The young tribune nodded enthusiastically, pulling the sword out and holding it forward, his grip strong and unwavering. ‘A lot of veterans came back from Spain with Celtiberian swords, and many of us have had the smiths create Roman versions. This one was a present from my uncle.

‘Your uncle?’

‘You will know him,’ the young man said proudly. ‘He served with distinction in Spain. Sextus Julius Caesar.’

Polybius glanced up from the plan, peering over his crystal spectacles. ‘Did I hear someone mention my name a while back?’ He caught sight of the boy. ‘Ah. This is Julia’s son. I don’t think you’ve met him before. Gnaeus Metellus Julius Caesar.’

Fabius suddenly realized what had been familiar about the boy: he had Julia’s hair and eyes. But there was something more, something that made him stare hard at the boy. Scipio clearly saw it too, and after looking at the boy in silence for a few moments he spoke to him again, his voice strangely taut. ‘When were you born?’

‘Four days before the Ides of March, in the year of the consulships of Marcus Claudius Marcellus and Gaius Sulpicius Gallus.’

‘The year after the triumph of my father Aemilius Paullus.’

‘Nine months, to be exact. My mother said that I was conceived on that very night, that it was auspicious. Every year on that day when I was a child we went to the tomb of the Aemilii Paulli on the Appian Way and made offerings.’

Fabius remembered that evening on the day of the triumph almost twenty-two years before, when Scipio had taken up Polybius’ offer of his rooms and taken Julia there for an hour, just the two of them, and then later in the theatre when Metellus had come to take her away. But he also knew from Julia’s slave girl Dianne that she had resisted Metellus’ advances that night, and had gone straight to the Vestals to be with her mother until the marriage a month later. She would have known who the father was, and Metellus too must eventually have guessed. Gnaeus Metellus Julius Caesar was Scipio’s son.

Scipio suddenly looked sternly at the boy. ‘It is unheard of to make offerings at the tomb of another gens. You must be wary of offending the social order. Does your father know?’

‘We went without his knowledge. But my mother wanted me to tell you that we did it, when I had the chance to speak to you. My father was absent for most of my childhood, on campaign or holding administrative posts in the provinces. My mother never accompanied him. Even in Rome he lives in a separate house. I have lived with the failure of their marriage all my life.’

Polybius turned to Scipio. ‘I know that you had no interest in gossip among the gentes during your recent time in Rome, but it’s become an open secret that Metellus is more at home among the prostibulae than he is with his own wife. He has changed little in his habits since you were at the academy. It is said that they have not shared a bed for years.’

‘Not since my sister Metella was born,’ the young man said, looking at Scipio. ‘He tried to beat my mother, and I have no love for him. I was brought up in the household of my uncle Sextus Julius Caesar, and am betrothed to his daughter Octavia. My mother says that her legacy and mine will be in the bloodline of the Julii Caesares not the Metelli.’

Fabius remembered the words of the Sibyl: The eagle and the sun shall unite, and in their union shall lie the future of Rome. He looked at the embossed symbols on the breastplates of the two men in front of him now: Scipio with the radiating sun symbol over a solid line of his adoptive grandfather Africanus, representing his ascendancy over Hannibal in the desert, and Gnaeus with the eagle symbol of the Julii Caesares, the same image that was in the pendant that Julia had given Scipio and that he still wore. He suddenly realized what the prophecy had meant: not Scipio and Metellus, a union of generals, but Scipio and Julia, a union of blood lines, of gentes. For a moment, Fabius felt dislocated, as if all around him had become a blur and he was seeing only these two men, as if they alone were the strength of history. Somewhere in the future, perhaps many generations hence, this union of gentes might create a new world order, not because of some divine prophecy of the Sibyl but because of the power of men to shape their own destinies, a strength of vision that had led Scipio Aemilianus to stand before the walls of Carthage now alongside the future that he had created with Julia, their son.

Gnaeus stood to attention again. ‘I will be the first through the breach, just as you were at Intercatia.’

Scipio reached out and put his right hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Ave atque vale, Gnaeus Metellus Julius Caesar. Keep your sword blade sharp.’

‘Ave atque vale, Scipio Aemilianus Africanus. May victory this day be yours.’

‘Victory is for the legionaries, tribune. For the men of Rome. You must never forget that.’

Gnaeus saluted, turned and strode away, holding the hilt of his sword. Scipio turned to Polybius. ‘One evening twenty-two years ago you gave me the keys to your house, so that Julia and I could be alone for a precious hour. Perhaps in that single act you shaped the destiny of Rome, more than all of your books and your advice to me in the field.’

Polybius put a hand on Scipio’s shoulder. ‘My job is to observe history, not to create it. But even a historian can make a few adjustments here and there, making possible what had previously seemed impossible. Your union with Julia may have ended that night, but it lives on in your son. This day, when you stand victorious over Carthage, you may see your destiny fulfilled and return to the folds of Rome, having brought the highest honour to the gens Cornelii Scipiones and the gens Aemilii Paulii, your place in history assured. Or you may choose to break away, to see the world unfold before you as Alexander did, only this time with the might of the world’s greatest army behind you. Yet, even if you turn from that vision, you now know that your bloodline will carry it forward.’

Scipio said nothing, but stared forward. His face was set and hard, but Fabius knew the emotion within. Rome held only one attraction for Scipio, the possibility that one day he might be with Julia again, that their future together did not lie just in the glades of Elysium. If Scipio turned from Rome, he might never see Julia again; if he passed on the torch to his bloodline, he might. His love for her might shape the future of Rome. But everything would depend on the outcome of this day, on the blood that coursed through Scipio’s veins as he saw what his army had achieved, on a vision of the future that Scipio might see before him: a vision fuelled not just by the bloodlust of war, but by the exultation of conquest.

There was a harsh sound from the ships, of torsion being released, and they turned to look. A fireball rose lazily to the sky from one of the catapults, arching over the city walls and slapping into a building near the Byrsa, spraying burning tendrils of naphtha over the city streets below. Ennius was finding his range, and testing the volatility of his substance. Scipio turned to Fabius. ‘Take a message to the strategos of the fleet. Tell him to issue the men with their ration of wine, and to make their final libations to their ancestors. Before this hour is done they will be at war.’

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Fabius watched Scipio stare at the whitewashed walls of the city in front of them, tapping his fingers against his sword pommel. He remembered the last time they had stood before a besieged city, at Intercatia in Spain, when Scipio himself had led the assault and was the first to stand on the walls, sword in hand. Then, he had killed the chieftain but spared the city. Intercatia pacified was no threat to Rome, and its destruction was not part of his destiny. This time it was different. This time he knew that Scipio would show no mercy: Carthage must be destroyed.

A centurion from the guard came striding up from the naval party on the wharfside, where Fabius had noticed a commotion a few minutes earlier beside a transport ship. The centurion slapped his breastplate in salute. ‘Ave, primipilus. I would speak with Scipio Aemilianus.’

‘What is it?’

‘We have a deserter.’

Fabius pursed his lips, and led him to Scipio. The centurion spoke quickly, and pointed back to the ship’s crew, who were assembled on the quay. Two legionaries dragged a man from among them and brought him before Scipio. Fabius looked at the man in astonishment: it was one of the marines who had accompanied him on the liburna, who had fought alongside him when they had boarded the lembos. The centurion turned to Scipio. ‘This man was a marine with the special assault unit, but his true identity was revealed when a veteran of the Macedonian war identified him. He then ran, discarded his armour and weapons and tried to join that transport crew in disguise, but he was recognized. It turns out that he had first deserted at the Battle of Pydna, twenty-two years ago. He changed his name and lived a quiet life as a fisherman near Ostia, but says that he could not bear the remorse and joined up again three years ago, when he saw that the galleys were being fitted out for the assault on Carthage. His optio in the marines says that he has been a brave fighter in several naval actions, killing many of the enemy and putting himself in front of the other men, including the action with Fabius.’

Fabius looked at the man, and at Scipio. They were about the same age: tough, sinewy men with grey-flecked hair, the sailor darker-skinned and more swarthy from years at sea, but both hard-eyed and strong. They were men whose lives had been shaped by the battle they had experienced as teenagers: Scipio to live up to it and the reputation of his father, the other man to make amends for the guilt of desertion that had clouded his life. They stood together now in front of the walls of Carthage as they had stood before the Macedonian phalanx all those years before — one of them resolute and unwavering, the other baulking and abandoning his comrades.

Scipio turned to Fabius. ‘What do you have to say for this man?’

‘He personally accounted for many of the enemy. On one occasion he put himself over a fallen comrade to protect him. Had I been of sufficient rank to do so, I would have recommended him for the ornamentalia. He fought bravely and with honour.’

‘Then he shall be spared being beaten to death by his comrades, and will be yours to deal with as primipilus.’ Scipio nodded to the trumpeter, who raised his horn and blew three shorts blasts in quick succession, over and over again, a signal bound to provoke dread and fascination in any legionary: the call to witness field punishment. When the final blast died away, Fabius ordered the two legionaries to drag the man back into the centre of the wharf, in full view of several thousand men around the harbour, including his former marine unit who had been mustered to attention to watch. Fabius knew what he had to do: he was primipilus now. The legionaries held the man with his arms pinned behind, and Fabius stood before him. ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

‘I have a wife and child, in Sicily,’ the man said hoarsely. He fumbled with a leather pouch at his waist, and pulled out a little lead dog, his hand shaking. ‘My son made this for me. It’s our dog. It’s to bring me luck, so that Neptune will spare me.’

The man’s knees gave way, and the two centurions held him up, his head lolling. He dropped the dog, and it hit the stone with a leaden thump. Fabius stood over him, unflinching. They all had wives and children. It was the lot of soldiers, everywhere. Sometimes they returned to them, sometimes not. He reached down and picked up the dog, remembering his own dog Rufius, and put it into the man’s hand, closing his fist around it. ‘Neptune may have spared you death at sea, but Mars will not spare you now that you are on land,’ he said. ‘Your son’s prayers will speed you to Elysium, where you must await him, just as those who fell in battle at Pydna await their loved ones. To those comrades whom you deserted in their hour of need, you must account for yourself.’

He drew his sword and ran one finger along the blade, feeling its sharpness. He stood back and slowly turned around, the sword held high, so that all of the assembled soldiers could see. The man bowed backwards against the two legionaries, who had twisted him round and pinned his legs with their own to stop him from kicking. He was wild eyed, panting and foaming at the mouth, and Fabius saw the brown wetness down the legs that he had so often seen at executions, and smelt the foul odour. For a split second he remembered the boy Gaius Paullus, another casualty of Pydna all those years ago — whether he too had been a coward or a hero, and whether had he survived he might have proved himself as brave as this man had been in battle: the truth could never be known, only that the fortunes of war could break a man as easily as make him. He stood before the man, and spoke quietly. ‘Remember your son. Do not dishonour him. Remember who you are. You are a legionary of Rome. Stand to attention. Salute your general.’

Fabius nodded at the two legionaries, who looked at him uncertainly and then released the man, leaving him reeling and staggering backwards, slipping on his own faeces and urine. He fell down heavily on one hand and stayed there, panting and grimacing. Fabius gestured to the two legionaries to keep back, to give the man a chance to stand up without help, to allow those of his comrades who were watching the chance to tell his wife that he faced death with dignity. The man wiped his face with the back of his other hand, and then raised himself slowly up, wobbling back to where he had stood before and bringing his hand up in salute to Scipio, his fingers still bunched around the little model of the dog.

Fabius grasped the back of the man’s neck with his left hand and with the other thrust the sword below his ribcage, driving it up through the heart and lungs and windpipe until the tip came out through the back of his neck. The man exhaled once, a moaning gargle, and then died, his eyes wide open and his mouth gushing blood in pulses with the final beating of his heart.

Fabius let him fall, withdrawing the sword as he did so. He held the blade up, dripping with blood, and looked around. All of the men around the harbour were watching him. He knew what he had to do now. He had shown the man compassion in life; there could be none in death. He gestured to the nearest of the two legionaries. ‘Give me his tunic.’ The man went over and ripped the clothing off the corpse, leaving it rolling naked in its own blood and faeces, and passed it to Fabius. He wiped his sword on it, carefully and deliberately so that all could see, and then sheathed it and tossed the bloody tunic back on the corpse.

He walked back to Scipio, who turned and spoke to the centurion. ‘Get those navi of the transport ship, those who helped to conceal him, to clean up this mess and toss his body on that pile of Carthaginian corpses by the harbour entrance. Nail a board to his head saying ‘Deserter’ and have every cohort march past, close enough to smell it, before sundown today. The navi of that ship are to stand down and be replaced, and put on cremation duty. The captain and his officers are to be taken in chains to the outer harbour, stripped naked and given fifty lashes in full view of the fleet. If they survive that, they are to be distributed among the liburnae and chained up as galley slaves. That is all.’

The centurion saluted and marched away as the harbour bustled back to life again. A great siege ballista creaked along the shore, drawn by two lines of Nubian slaves, its counterpoised timber tottering precariously on a loose lashing. Ennius saw it, shouted at the slave-driver to stop and ran over to supervise. Fabius put his hand on his sword hilt and stood alongside Scipio. ‘How did it feel?’ Scipio asked.

Fabius drew his sword again and looked at the blade, its doubleedged design copied from the Celtiberian swords they had taken from the battlefield at Intercatia, but retaining the short thrusting shape of the Roman gladius. ‘It slides in easily, and doesn’t bend. It will serve well as a slashing sword too. It felt good.’

‘Well, Fabius,’ Scipio said, peering up at the defences of Carthage. ‘Shall you be first on the walls of Carthage, or shall I?’

‘You are the general, Scipio Aemilianus. I am a mere centurion.’

‘But I already have the corona muralis, for Intercatia. It is time for another to take the glory.’

Fabius thought for a moment, and then reached into a leather pouch on his belt. ‘Well then, we should toss a coin for it, soldier to soldier.’

Scipio cracked a smile. ‘I should like that.’

Fabius took out a shiny silver denarius, and raised it up. On one side was the head of the goddess Roma, straight-nosed and clear-eyed and wearing a winged helmet, with the name ANTESTIUS along the edge. On the other side was the word ROMA and above it two galloping horsemen with spears, a dog leaping up on its hind legs below them. He handed the coin to Scipio. ‘This is fresh from the mint, given to me by my friend the moneyer Antestius just before I embarked at Ostia. He wanted me to throw it into the ruins of Carthage, in memory of his grandfather who fell at Zama. But I reckon if we toss it and leave it here, that’ll do the trick.’

Scipio turned the coin in his hand. ‘Six hundred and eight years ab urbe condita, in the year of the consulship of Lentulus and Mummius,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if history will remember this year in that way, or as the year in which Carthage fell?’

Fabius was quiet for a moment, and then pointed to the horsemen on the coin. ‘If you were to ask Antestius, he would say that those are the Dioscuri, Castor and Pollux,’ he said. ‘But Antestius sketched this design in the tavern after I’d come back from Macedonia and told him about our hunting exploits together, and the goods times we’d had before my dog Rufius was killed.’

Scipio peered at it closely, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Who needs to conquer cities when a mere moneyer in Rome can give you immortality like this?’

‘Antestius told me something else about that coin. He said that one day when he was a boy he passed the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, walking with you in the Forum. It was Julia, of the gens Caesares. When he came to design that image of the goddess Roma, it was really Julia that he was depicting.’

Scipio stared at the coin, his voice hushed. ‘That’s her?’

‘Antestius said that the people no longer want gods and goddesses on their coins, but real men and women, those who are shaping Rome and her future, in our lifetimes and those of our children and grandchildren.’

Scipio swallowed hard, and his lips quivered. He held the coin up against Carthage as a backdrop, and then turned to Fabius, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘I gave her up for this, you know. So that I could stand before the walls of Carthage with an army, about to order its destruction.’

‘You gave her up for Rome, and for your destiny. And Julia lives on with you now in your son.’

Scipio looked at the image on the coin again, and held it ready to toss. ‘If that’s Julia, she’s my call, then.’

‘And mine’s Rufius.’

Scipio flicked the coin on his thumb and it spun high into the air, flashing silver in the sky, then falling and bouncing on the stone pavement of the harbour front, the horsemen and the dog facing up.

Scipio turned and peered at him. ‘Rufius it is. You will lead the first maniple through the breach in the wall. You will finally have a chance at that crown.’

Fabius kicked the coin into a crack between the stones, and turned to Scipio, standing to attention. ‘Ave atque vale, Scipio. Until we meet again, in this world or the next.’

Scipio slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Ave atque vale, Fabius. Go now and gird yourself for war.’