Trouble in the Wind Page 2
“I did believe him.”
Hannibal nodded as if agreeing, and then grinned. “He lied. The Romans believe they will crush us, and therein is the seed of our victory. He claimed they field sixteen legions and that I do believe.”
Hannibal looked at the sand table before continuing.
“That puts their number double our own. Moreover, all of their infantry are heavy while many of our troops are not well armored or armed. Our sole numerical advantage is in our cavalry, if you believe his number of five thousand, and I do not.”
Hannibal gave Hanno and Hasdrubal that studious look they knew so well.
“It must be higher, but the Romans discount the value of cavalry anyway. Even with equal numbers we must overcome them. When all things are considered, if I were in Varro’s place I would expect to destroy this army on the morrow, there is no sane reason to see another outcome. And that is why we will be victorious.”
There were grins at that statement and Hannibal’s confidence.
“Our formation will be that of the bull’s horns, in a crescent like this.”
Picking up some of the square stones, Hannibal placed them in an arc with the open side facing away from the Roman side of the sandbox.
“Mago, you and I will be in the center. For my plan to work, the center must hold, but that is where we will place our weakest troops, the Spaniards, Celts, and Gauls.”
Hannibal saw Mago’s consternation and continued, still smiling.
“They are also most likely to break, so we will put a single line of Africans behind them, but it will mostly be up to us, you and I, my brother, to keep the men standing in place and fighting. Inevitably they will be driven backward, but this must happen slowly. Varro will see us falling back and will commit his reserves to break our line. If that happens, if we cannot hold in the center, then total defeat will quickly follow.”
Mago nodded, and Hannibal turned to the other two.
“This moment, when the Romans commit their reserves, will be the crucial moment. If we give ground only slowly, then the Romans will fight their way into a sack, with our wings outflanking them. This is where I will have the Africans, because they are veterans and will not attack until I give them the order.”
Hannibal checked to make sure both of his generals had registered his emphasis.
“Discipline here is the key. Hasdrubal, relate this plan to Carthalo. You, Carthalo, and Hanno must be the ones to deliver the killing blow. By the moment that the Roman reserves join the battle, both of you must have driven the Roman cavalry from the field. Regardless of the cost, your cavalry must win those fights. Hasdrubal, you will be our left wing with the heavy cavalry, which number how many now?”
“About three thousand,” Hannibal’s wiry brother said.
“Less than before…why so few?”
“I left a screen near Cannae, as you said to do for warning if the Romans tried to recapture their grain stores.”
“You did the right thing. If the battle turns on those men then we have lost anyway. Hanno, you and the Numidians will be on our right. If Varro splits his cavalry equally to both flanks, which he will, then you will outnumber your enemy, perhaps by as many as two to one. Chase them from the field but offer no pursuit.”
Hanno nodded grimly, studying the battle map.
“Once you are certain they cannot come back to the fight, you must fall on the Roman’s rear, but only after they have committed their reserves. Is that clear? Their reserves must be in the fight. If all goes well and Melqart smiles on us, they will be surrounded, and their very numbers will restrict their movement.”
Hannibal paused for effect.
“Does anyone see a flaw in this plan that I may have overlooked?”
I want honest answers, Hannibal thought, looking at his gathered subordinates. Mindless obedience just leads to a mindless death. He did not punish men for questioning his plans, so when none of his closest advisors spoke up, he knew they truly agreed with him.
“Then sleep now. Tomorrow we make history.”
* * *
Main Roman Camp
Cannae
5:31 A.M., 2 August
Turning his head this way and that, Gaius Terentius Varro used the mirror held by a slave to tuck every curl of his black hair into place. His breastplate, greaves, and helmet reflected candle light so brightly as to make them appear as lamps.
“Mars himself could not look more like a warrior,” quipped Gnaeus Servilius Geminus. “And after today he may have competition as the God of War.”
“I would never seek to displace great Mars,” Varro answered. “But if the people wished to build a temple for me I would not oppose them.”
Servilius laughed. “And would no doubt be glad to pay for it, too. So you think the Carthaginian will fight?”
“Where such men as this Hannibal is concerned, who can say for certain? I can only pray he is so foolish, but we should know soon.”
As if cued onto a stage, the tent flap opened, and a tall man walked in wearing the accoutrements of a general. High cheeks and a taut face leant themselves to the perpetual scowl he wore.
“Salve, Lucius!” Varro cried, turning to embrace the man. It irritated him to use Paullus’ praenomen, his first name, since that suggested friendship, but he needed his fellow consul’s support on that most auspicious day. “How fares my fellow consul on this most glorious of days?”
“Salve, Gaius.” He nodded toward Servilius. “Salve, Gnaeus. So you mean to fight?”
“You allow no moss to grow between your toes, do you Lucius?” Varro chuckled. “If the Carthaginian will face me, yes I will fight him, yes, yes, yes!”
“If he stands his ground it’s because he has a plan to defeat us, on ground of his choosing,” Lucius said bluntly.
“Or he’s a fool, since only a fool would invade Italy without the support of a fleet. Today I will crush his army and trundle him through the streets of Rome in chains.”
“That’s what Scipio thought, and Longus, and Flaminius,” Lucius responded, his voice rising. “I have to urge caution!”
“Tell me, Lucius,” said Servilius. “What do you think the men would say if we retreated in the face of an army we outnumbered?”
“Since when do the hastati determine strategy?” Paullus bit out.
Varro’s mask of conciliation began to slip. His eyes narrowed, and his smile vanished.
“Fabius is no longer dictator, and you know why as well as I do,” Varro said, his own anger starting to creep into his voice. “Rome will not tolerate any more inaction.”
“Rome is not here; we are,” Paullus said, his eyes narrow.
“There are more than eighty senators in this army, more than half what is needed for a quorum. They know, like you and I do, that we lost a great deal of stores when Hannibal captured Cannae. To make up for that loss we can still harvest the Apuilan fields, but only if they are under our control. So if we do not fight, the Senate will find somebody else who will.”
“It’s not fighting that I object to,” Paullus replied. “It’s losing.” With that he turned and stalked out.
* * *
The Main Roman Camp near Cannae
6:13 a.m.
August 2
Mists rising from the Aufidus River drifted over what would be the day’s battlefield. The distant Carthaginian camp was still obscured by darkness and fog, but the eastern sky promised dawn’s light would soon chase away both.
Several hundred Senators and their kind stood near Varro’s tent, waiting for the day’s commander to emerge and give them their orders. In this way they could share in the glory of victory. Paullus made his way through them without too many comments. His fellow patricians knew him well enough to leave him alone when he scowled as he did then. Making his way through the bustle of the Roman camp he climbed one of the camp’s towers for a look at the ground Varro proposed to fight on. He had seen it before but wanted to evaluate it again. After a few minutes, though, he
came to the same conclusion as before.
This terrain favors the Carthaginians, Paullus thought.
The battle would be fought between the river and the line of hills. Even though his perch at the larger camp stood at the far western side of the soon-to-be contested ground, his view from above allowed for him to better understand the ground.
The Romans would be attacking up a slope. It was not steep, but it did not have to be. It was nearly four miles to the enemy’s camp outside the town of Cannae, and Hannibal wouldn’t be stupid enough to march far away from that fall back position, thereby shortening the Roman’s march. The attack wouldn’t be directly toward the Carthaginian camp and likely wouldn’t be longer than half of four miles. Two miles wasn’t so far, and the hill wasn’t a hard climb, but together they would take away some of the Romans’ leg strength.
From up that high he could also see something else he had missed the previous afternoon when he first saw the ground. The area between the river and the hills angled inward, toward each other. In other words, the further the Romans advanced the more compressed their lines would become. Room for maneuver would become more restricted. Once again, like the upward incline, it was not a major Carthaginian advantage, just another small one. And yet when combined…Paullus could almost see the coming disaster unfolding before his eyes.
Then he felt something crawling on the back of his right hand; a wasp. Red, black, and yellow, it moved across his skin slowly and Paullus could see its stinger held aloft. If it stung him the hand would swell to three or four times its normal size and he would be unable to hold the reins of a horse, much less wield his sword. Other wasps had emerged with the rising sun and flew around his head, but he remained motionless. Then it fluttered its wings and flew away. Paullus descended the ladder with all due haste.
* * *
Large Roman Camp
6:36 a.m.
August 2
When Varro’s adiutor, his adjutant, Aurelius, entered the tent, he was chewing his favorite breakfast of dense wheat bread with honey and dates. Honey stuck to the backs of his fingers and around his mouth. Servilius had already finished his meal and rinsed his fingers in a bowl over to one side.
“What news, Aurelius?” asked Varro after swallowing a last bite.
“Congratulations, consul! The enemy takes the field.”
“Does he?” Grinning, he raised his eyebrows in a triumphant expression as he turned to Servilius. “Let us go show this Carthaginian fool his mistake, eh friend Gnaeus?”
“Lead me, Gaius, and I shall follow.”
Unlike most Roman politicians, Varro and Servilius really were friends, and not falsely polite.
The commander’s tent was pitched on a large wooden platform, from which two steps led down to the level of the camp. Servilius exited first and called his fellow Senators, equites, and other commanders to gather round to hear the words of the consul in command. Paullus joined them but stood to one side.
One by one, Varro handed out the assignments based on who supported him and who did not. Servilius got the plum assignment, overall command of the infantry attacking the Carthaginian center, with some of Varro’s closest friends serving under him. Paullus got command of the cavalry on the Roman left, while Varro rode with the cavalry on the right. When he had finished dispensing orders, Paullus spoke up.
“Are the formations subject to change when we see Hannibal’s deployment?”
Like most successful Roman politicians, Varro could show hatred with his eyes while the rest of his face smiled.
“I think you have the situation backward, friend Lucius. It is Hannibal who must adjust to us!”
Laughter drowned out further objections and a buzzing wasp distracted him anyway; the damned things were everywhere. Disgusted with the complacency of his fellow consul, Paullus called for his horse. When the animal was brought forth, one of his slaves put an angled table with two steps next to the horse, which he used to climb into the saddle. Behind him, Paullus heard a few snickers. A proper Roman general was supposed to step on the back of a kneeling hastati instead of using a step ladder. There was even a protocol for how the hastati was chosen for the duty.
Paullus’ staff joined him without speaking. By now, the younger officers had learned when the taciturn consul did not want intrusions on his thoughts, so as he rode out of the camp gate to cross the river, the only sounds were those of clanking equipment and hooves hammering at sparse summer grass.
* * *
The Roman Left Wing
7:46 a.m.
August 2
Sunshine now bathed the grassland, and Paullus had to admit that in its full deployment, the Roman Army appeared unstoppable. The glittering of sunlight off more than fifty thousand men made it seem like Sol Invictus himself led the Romans into battle. Overcome with pride at being consul for a Republic strong enough to field such a host, for the moment Paullus forgot his misgivings.
Maybe Varro is right, Paullus thought. Maybe Hannibal should be adjusting his battle plan.
The Roman maniples deployed in the standard checkerboard formation, drawn up in three lines. The hastati, the youngest and least experienced men with the lightest armor, occupied the front lines. Next came the principes, men between 26 and 35 years of age and then, finally, came the trairii, the oldest, most experienced and heavily armed men in the legion. For this battle the numbers of the hastati and principes maniples had been increased from 120 to 160 men, and those of the triarii from 60 to 80. The first two lines of men carried short throwing spears, pilums, two per man, while the triarii carried the older, longer spear called the hasta.
It was a sight unequaled in all of Rome’s long military history, especially compared to the rag-tag appearance of the Carthaginian Army. Paullus knew that Hannibal’s force numbered at most 50,000 men, while the Romans had almost 90,000, the largest force Rome had ever put in the field. Directly opposite him were the Numidian light cavalry, whose fearsome reputation had become well known throughout Italy. To make things worse, even a cursory inspection showed his force was badly outnumbered.
Numbers aren’t everything, of course, for we are equites, Paullus thought. The Roman heavy cavalry, protected by armor and shields, could slice the Numidians apart with their heavy sword at close range. If the Numidians tried to stay out of reach, the quivers which hung from their saddles held three or four akontes throwing spears apiece. The Romans also picked large horses with great strength and stamina, while the Numidians’ smaller mounts had no armor. Although the Numidians’ skill with their javelins was legendary, in a pitched battle, Paullus knew his men had the advantage.
As the minutes ticked by, Paullus wondered what the delay could be. Even so early in the day, the sun was brutal to men wearing armor and to horses bearing riders, and the longer it took, the more advantage it would be to Hannibal. Could it be that Varro had come to his senses and was showing caution? Then he heard a commotion behind him and saw the equites making room for a messenger on horseback.
“Consul General Lucius Aemilius Paullus, where is Consul General Lucius Aemilius Paullus?” the man cried.
Paullus raised his arm and waved. “Over here.”
Once beside him the rider saluted and took a moment to catch his breath. “Consul, General Varro has been injured. He asks that you meet with him in his tent at the larger camp.”
Paullus asked no questions. He knew from the man’s look there was more to the story than he wanted to say among so many listeners. Leaving specific orders not to attack until his return, Paullus rode off behind the messenger. When they were out of earshot, he caught up to the messenger and faced him.
“Tell me what has happened.”
“Consul General Varro suffered a terrible accident while mounting his horse.”
“Futuo.” Fuck. “Give me all the details.”
“The general stood beside his horse, patting it, before he stepped on a man’s back to jump up to its back. It seems that some honey on his hand from break
fast rubbed off on the horse, which attracted wasps. When he tried to climb into the saddle they stung the beast, throwing the general to the ground with his leg stuck under him. When they lifted him, bone protruded from the skin in three places.”
“Please Jupiter that he live,” Paullus said. With that, he urged the horse into a gallop.
* * *
Behind the Carthaginian Center Lines
9:02 a.m.
August 2
Hannibal sat atop his favorite white Spanish stallion, Zinnridi, directly behind the center of the Carthaginian infantry, where he had stationed his allied and mercenary swordsmen. They were mostly Spanish, but with large numbers of Celts, Gauls, and even some Italians disaffected with Rome. Near him were the commanders of his various units and his advisors, including his younger brother Mago.
Hannibal’s army was like an extension of his own being, and he could feel the anxiety building within the men. They were fierce and skilled warriors, but they did not have the iron discipline of the Roman legions. A bloody fight did not bother them, but standing idle while waiting for a fight did. Nobody had expected the Romans to deploy in force and then wait.
“What are they doing?” asked one of his infantry captains, a man named Gisgo.
Hannibal laughed, knowing that all of his men watched him for his reaction to events. He never lied to them, so if he was not worried, they need not be either. And when he found something funny, so did they.
“They are afraid,” he said.
“There are a lot of them.”
“It is true, their number seems more than all the stars in the sky. Yet they lack one important thing that is needed for victory…” On the horse beside him, Mago smiled; he’d heard the joke before.
“What is that, general?”
“In all of their vast host there is not one man named Gisgo.”
Gisgo’s men laughed and pushed him good-naturedly, and for a moment, the tension dissipated. But Hannibal had commanded too many battles to think it would last. Mago motioned him to move away from others.