Trouble in the Wind Read online

  Even though heavily outnumbered, the Romans had fought the Numidians to a standstill, but thousands more Carthaginian heavy cavalry turned the tide immediately. Like the right flank, the cavalry on the left fled the field in panic.

  Then Hannibal’s trap closed.

  The Carthaginian Army still had about nine thousand men on horseback, and as Paullus watched, they attacked the Roman infantry from behind, thereby closing the trap. The Romans were now surrounded on all four sides.

  * * *

  At the Carthaginian Center

  12:22 p.m.

  August 2

  In places, the Carthaginian center was only two men deep and fatigue began to set in. As Hannibal watched, two of his men fell simultaneously, leaving a hole in the front line for the Romans to pour through. If they could push through in strength, the battle was lost, so he personally filled the gap, stabbing one Roman in the groin and another in the side. Then some Spaniards pushed him to safety and filled the gap.

  Once again mounting Zinnridi, Hannibal could see his cavalry in the rear of a huge, writhing mass of Romans, who were pressed so close together they couldn’t fight, or even turn around. The battle had become a slaughter, exactly as he’d planned.

  * * *

  Behind the Roman Center

  12:27 p.m.

  August 2

  The last reserve legions were on their feet and being organized by their centurions into battle formations. Hoofbeats alerted Paullus to turn in his saddle as young Scipio rode toward him. Before Scipio could speak, Paullus called out his orders.

  “Post your men on the left flank and take to battle at the double step! Hurry, every minute is costing Roman blood.”

  With a whoop of joy, Scipio whirled and joined the column of marching triarii.

  The two reserve legions formed up beside each other when Scipio’s men moved up beside them. Drawing his sword, Paullus pointed it toward the battle. Turning to the two legions assembled behind him, he yelled, “Follow me!” Closing on Scipio’s right, they effectively formed a three-legion-wide marching juggernaut.

  * * *

  The Carthaginian Center

  12:42 p.m.

  August 2

  Hannibal’s sword point slid across the Romans’ pectorale, his heart guard, punctured his right shoulder and sent blood running down his side. The man fell, and Hannibal stepped back, searching for another enemy to kill. Coated head to toe in mud and blood, at that instant, he first noticed men fleeing on his army’s right flank. At the same time, his brother Hasbrudal rode toward him with his horse’s mouth flecked with foam.

  “We are undone!” Hasdrubal said. “The Romans have broken our line!”

  Hannibal grabbed the horses’ reins and tried to calm the heaving animal. Hot breath snorted from its nostrils and across his arm.

  “Calm down, brother. Tell me exactly what has happened.”

  Hasdrubal nodded and gulped a few breaths. “Your plan worked to perfection. We defeated their cavalry and rather than chase them, we rode to the aid of the Numidians. Between Hanno’s men and mine, we crushed the Roman’s on our right flank and then attacked their infantry from the rear. We cut them down like ripe wheat until three new legions marched into our rear. I tried to fend them off but it was hopeless. They have turned both our flanks! We must retreat now, Hannibal, while we still can!”

  With his one good eye Hannibal saw men running for their lives, first by ones and twos, and then whole groups. Mounting Zinnridi again he looked for some part of the line that still held around which he could rally his men, but saw none.

  “Hannibal! We must go!”

  “Where is Mago?”

  “I do not know!”

  “He was on my right the last time I saw him, over there, rallying some Gauls.”

  Hasdrubal turned in the saddle to look where his brother pointed, but all he could see was Romans chopping their way through the Carthaginian line.

  “Mago is smart, he will meet us at camp. Now let us go and organize the defense.”

  With the nearest Romans no more than fifty feet away, Hannibal looked over what was left of his army. The remnants of the cavalry had already cut their way out and left the field, galloping for the main Carthaginian camp across the river. Across the line, Allied infantry soldiers had thrown away their weapons and run for their lives. But a large part of his army fought on, regardless of how hopeless the situation. They likely realized that capture meant slavery or death.

  “Hasdrubal, go to the camp! Prepare it for defense. I’m staying here to organize a fighting retreat. We will meet back at camp.”

  “In this hour of our greatest trial you cannot be selfish! The army is lost, Hannibal, but without you the war is lost!”

  There was no escaping his brother’s logic. Dying on the battlefield would uphold his personal honor, but without Hannibal driving the war forward, the Senate in Carthage would make peace. While breath yet remained in his body he could not allow that. So, with his mind made up, Hannibal turned Zinnridi to the east and followed Hasdrubal back to their camp.

  * * *

  The Main Roman Camp

  8:34 a.m.

  August 3

  Well wishers came until late in the night, bringing wine and rare delicacies to share with their victorious commander, Consul Lucius Amelius Paullus. More than eighty Senators had accompanied the army to Cannae, along with many of their sons and even a few grandsons. A few had died in the fighting and a few more had been wounded, but all the survivors who could walk came by Paullus’ tent to offer congratulations. The worst blow came when Paullus heard that young Scipio had fallen while leading his legion of triarii.

  Despite a raging hangover, Paullus crawled out of bed, donned his uniform, and did what victors were supposed to do; see to his army. After a quick visit to Varro’s bedside, where the doctors told him they’d set the leg and kept their patient asleep so he could use his strength to fight off infection, Paullus drained two cups of watered wine and forced down some bread. He performed a short ceremony of thanksgiving to Mars, God of War, and then another to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Then, surrounded by three hundred Roman cavalry who survived the fight, he went out to survey the battlefield and decide his next move. Riding toward him came Servilius.

  “Ave, Lucius!”

  Paullus waved for him to lower his voice.

  “Salve, Gnaeus.”

  “Victor’s head?” Servilius said, smirking.

  “That, or I angered the gods.”

  “We all know that cannot be the reason, unless the Carthaginian gods are having their vengeance. Alone of all of us you, discerned the enemy’s trap. Had we committed all of the reserves the entire army would have been trapped. I recommended it, and Varro would have done it. I congratulate you, Lucius.”

  The proper Roman response was to show humility, and no Senator personified the Roman outlook on life more than Lucius Amellius Paullus.

  “Jupiter granted me one day of insight greater than is normal.”

  “It is certainly not hard to see his hand in keeping Varro from having command on the fateful day.”

  “Gaius may have won a more complete victory than I did. Perhaps the the Senate will honor me with a triumph, at which time it might be proper to again explore the hand of the gods in yesterday’s events. Let us speak no more of it now. What news of our enemy?”

  “Hannibal fled with perhaps six thousand cavalry. No man claims to know his destination and that is probably true. I doubt that Hannibal knows. He rode north but that could be to deceive us.”

  “What were our losses?”

  “Aurelius has the exact numbers, but I believe we lost about two thousand auxiliary infantry and eight hundred Romans. The cavalry lost some seven hundred men and another four hundred auxiliary.”

  “Close to four thousand then.”

  Servilius nodded. “A few enemy infantry may have escaped into the countryside but more than twenty-five thousand fell and so far we have captured thirteen
thousand, including at their camp.”

  “Food stores?”

  “It appears they tried to burn whatever they had in their camp but failed. The warehouses at Cannae are untouched. By any measure, it is a complete victory. And I hope that you found my service worthy of praise.”

  The question contained far more innuendo than an outsider might have known, but Paullus was not an outsider. He understood perfectly the real question that Servilius asked and, in asking it, the implied promise that went along with a yes answer.

  “I know you preferred Varro as your commander, Gnaeus, but without your wisdom our victory would have been far more difficult. Should the Senate reward me with a triumph, it would be my honor if you would agree to ride at the head of the infantry.”

  “I would be proud to do so, Lucius, and rest assured that I shall champion the cause for you to be so rewarded to the Senate.”

  * * *

  Epilogue

  Off the Coast of Southern Italy

  6:27 p.m.

  August 9

  As the old Greek-style lembus galley set course to the south, the small port city of Locri receded to little more than a dark strip on the horizon. The captain’s sidelong glances and squinted eyes betrayed his suspicions about the identity of his passengers, but Hannibal did not care. With forty of his best remaining cavalry men on board he doubted the man would be brave enough to try and collect the reward for the Carthaginians’ head. The captain might understand Punic, though, so as they sat on the starboard gunnels Hannibal and Hasdrubal kept their voices low.

  “We have escaped for the moment, Hannibal, but they will be coming after you.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “You cannot count on aid from the Senate, either. Some of them hate our family more than they do the Romans.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what are your plans?”

  Hannibal patted his brother’s shoulder and stared into the halo of the setting sun.

  “My plans have not changed. Nor have I abandoned my promise to our father.”

  * * * * *

  William Alan Webb Bio

  As a West Tennessee native raised in the 60s and 70s, and born into a family with a long tradition of military service, it should be no surprise that the three chief influences on Bill’s life have been military history, science fiction and fantasy and the natural world. In 1972 he won the Tennessee State High School Dual Chess Championship, and spent every waking moment playing board games, role-playing games, and naval miniatures. College featured dual concentrations in History and English. Everything after that is anti-climax, except for wife, kids, published books and all that kind of stuff.

  Website: www.thelastbrigade.com

  Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/keepyouupallnightbooks

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  To Save the Republic by Sarah A. Hoyt

  Gaius Terencius Varro woke up muttering obscenities undirected and unfocused. The words dropped from his lips half-growled, “Faex! Cane! Deodamnatus! Irrumator!”

  Coming fully awake on the hard, uncovered couch, Gaius wondered precisely about whom or to whom he was speaking. After a few moments’ contemplation, he was bereft of response, unless it were “himself.” Still fighting off the last vestiges of unconscious, he turned over and looked up at the ceilings of this provincial house which his seventy bodyguards had commandeered for him and tried to force his mind to function. That process, strangely, was easier attempted than done. Above him, there were squares of wood that someone had tried to form into a ceiling and paint into a contrivance of marble. The contrivance didn’t work, and there was a corner where water had leaked in, having poured past a hole in the roof.

  It was the home of some local grandee, whose name Terencius neither knew nor cared.

  There was something like fear rising up in him like gorge, but more importantly, there was self-disgust and self-hatred.

  I ran, he thought. Like a hare, I ran from the field of battle. Before he’d succumbed to exhaustion there had been reports from that field, brought to him by a late-following member of his retinue. The pride of Rome lay dead by the river Aufidius. The crows and wild boars would feast well tonight on noble Roman flesh, and forty thousand Roman mothers would mourn their sons. And all of them, all of them would heap their abuse on the head of Terencius Varro, the butcher’s son who had become consul.

  Only a week before, he had been proud of his ascent, happy as Consul of Rome, proud of his role, standing as equal of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, man of noble blood, one of the Cornelii. And now…

  Of course, Terencius had been sick of the war of harassment Fabius had led against the Carthaginian for two years, ever since cursed Hannibal had crossed to the Italian peninsula with his following of mongrels and the freakish elephants of war.

  The elephants hadn’t lasted long, even if long enough to cause damage to the Roman cavalry whose horses hated the very smell of the beasts. But they had—Terencius had thought—left a stamp of fear on the psyche of Romans, perhaps on their very soul.

  What else explained the attacks and retreats, the ambushes and small fights with Hannibal over these two years, the vile, petty confrontations that were as drains to Roman pride?

  He and Paullus had thought so. He and Paullus, in concerted, intent talk, in the discussions prior to their standing for consul, in their decision of what to do instead.

  He and Paullus. They had agreed that Rome needed to stand up and provoke a manly battle with the Punic invader, and wipe him from Italy, remove the blot of spit from the Republic’s face. Or perish of the shame.

  He and Paullus.

  But Paullus was dead and, at any rate, his family would never let any of the blame fall on his noble shoulders.

  Which left Varro to bear the blame.

  * * *

  Rome had never raised a prouder army. And Varro was proud of it. It had been his—and Paullus’—impassioned speeches that had caused so many it enlist. It was all due to their eloquence, begging the people of Rome to have a care of their reputation, of their standing as the military power in Italy, lest they be seen as weak, their city as easily invaded and subjected to attack after attack by every passing barbarian until they collapsed.

  The citizens had responded to the call. Many men had enlisted. The core of the force were blooded veterans, legionnaires remaining from the two legions Publius Scipio had salvaged from the defeat at Trebia. They’d been passed on to Germinus and then transferred to Fabius Maximus.

  They had spent two years harassing and chasing—and losing—Hannibal. They’d been repeatedly ambushed by the Gauls. They’d been nearly destroyed under Minucius. And as proud fighting men, they were sick and tired of this constant retreating and fruitless chase.

  Hannibal didn’t fight like a man, but like a boy or a woman, playing games of deception and retreat, of ambush and then disappearing, like a creature without honor.

  Which left those chasing him feeling twice as humiliated in defeat. Sure, those two legions had been augmented and rebuilt after each loss, but the core of it remembered the humiliation, and the betrayal. They knew with whom they were dealing. This force had then been augmented by a fresh recruitment of men equally tired of watching their city humiliated, even if they hadn’t been on the front lines themselves.

  And all of them agreed with Verro.

  Verro remembered the pounding heart, the exhilaration of the moment.

  For if there was no greater honor than to be born a Roman citizen, the honor must be greater still when the city elected one to defend her. When the city reposed its pride and its confidence in you.

  And the confidence had been as massive as the force raised, the largest force ever raised by Rome: eighty thousand men on foot, alone.

  Varro and Paullus commanded double armies each. Four legions apiece, plus equivalent allied units. In all, eight legions and eight alae. In effect, a quadruple consular army.

  The night before they’d left Rome, after the festiv
ities with which Rome had toasted its valiant defenders, a doubt had assailed Varro.

  Not a strong doubt, precisely, but a slight niggling problem.

  He was, after all, the son of a butcher. He’d seen his father’s servants handle herds brought in from the countryside for slaughtering, and as such he knew there was a number beyond which a group of any animal—and humans were after all animals, even if reasoning ones—became impossible to handle, impossible to cause to learn to act in concert.

  He’d seen the handlers of large herds break them in smaller groups to bring them in safely. And a thought assailed him that perhaps this massive army they had raised—a proof that the people of Rome agreed with Varro and Paullus that it was time to fight without subterfuge—was too large a herd, too difficult to cause to move cohesively as though controlled by a single mind. As good armies must be to prevail.

  They were reclining at table at Paullus’ home, and Varro—always conscious that he’d trained under Paullus and always was—and always would be—in some measure junior to this man of noble ancestry and education—cleared his throat and said, “Do you believe we can manage to make them fight together, as a unit?”

  Paullus had grinned. “Undoubtedly. Surely, though the new recruits have only fought together for a very few months, we are all Romans. Every man has been trained in the virtues of the republic and the art of war from birth. Else, they would not be Romans but mewling barbarians. And besides, Varro, the core of our forces is experienced. And we’ve worked together before. We know how to coordinate our forces.”

  Varro had swallowed down his doubts with a handful of olives and the excellent wine that Paullus had provided.

  The next morning had proved both exhilarating and terrifying. Both the doubts and the pride, the certainty and the prickling questions had warred in his mind as they left Rome.