The Gates of Rome. Conn Iggulden
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me what you see,’ Vepax said quietly to Gaius.
‘Two forces, one of more than fifty thousand, the other nearly forty. The red is … the red is Roman, judging by the heavy infantry placed to the front in legion squares. They are supported by cavalry on the right and left wings, but they are matched by the blue cavalry facing them. There are slingers and spearmen on the blue side, but I can’t see any archers, so missile attacks will be over a very short range. They seem roughly matched. It should be a long and difficult battle.’
Vepax nodded. ‘The red side is indeed Roman, well-disciplined veterans of many battles. What if I told you the blues were a mixed group, made up of Gauls, Spaniards, Numidians and Carthaginians? Would that make a difference to the outcome?’
Marcus’ eyes gleamed with interest. ‘It would mean we were looking at Hannibal’s forces. But where are his famous elephants? Didn’t you have elephants in your bag?’ Marcus looked hopefully over at the limp cloth sack.
‘It is Hannibal the Romans were facing, but by this battle, his elephants had died. He managed to find more later and they were terrifying at the charge, but here he had to make do without them. He is outnumbered by two legions. His force is mixed where the Roman one is unified. What other factors might affect the outcome?’
‘The land,’ Gaius cried. ‘Is he on a hill? His cavalry could smash …’
Vepax waved a hand gently.
‘The battle took place on a plain. The weather was cool and clear. Hannibal should have lost. Would you like to see how he won?’
Gaius stared at the massed pieces. Everything was against the blue forces. He looked up.
‘Can we move the pieces as you explain?’
Vepax smiled. ‘Of course. Today I will need both of you to make the battle move as it did once before. Take the Roman side, Gaius. Marcus and I will take Hannibal’s force.’
Smiling, the three faced each other over the ranks of figures.
‘The battle of Cannae, one hundred and twenty-six years ago. Every man who fought in the battle is dust, every sword rusted away, but the lessons are still there to be learned.’
Vepax must have brought every clay soldier and horse he had to form this battle, Gaius realised. Even with each piece representing a five hundred, they took up most of the available room.
‘Gaius, you are Aemilius Paulus and Terentius Varro, experienced Roman commanders. Line by line you will advance straight at the enemy, allowing no deviation and no slackness in discipline. Your infantry is superb and should do well against the ranks of foreign swordsmen.’
Thoughtfully, Gaius began moving his infantry forward, group by group.
‘Support with your cavalry, Gaius. They must not be left behind or you could be flanked.’
Nodding, Gaius brought the small clay horses up to engage the heavy cavalry Hannibal commanded.
‘Marcus. Our infantry must hold. We will advance to meet them, and our cavalry will engage theirs on the wings, holding them.’
Heads bowed, all three moved figures in silence until the armies had shifted together, face to face. Gaius and Marcus imagined the snorts of the horses and the war cries splitting the air.
‘And now, men die,’ Vepax murmured. ‘Our infantry begin to buckle in the centre as they meet the best-trained enemy they have ever faced.’ His hands flew out and switched figure after figure to new positions, urging the boys along as they went.
On the floor in front of them, the Roman legions pushed back Hannibal’s centre, which buckled before them, close to rout.
‘They cannot hold,’ Gaius whispered, as he saw the great crescent bow that grew deeper as the legions forced themselves forward. He paused and looked over the whole field. The cavalry were stationary, held in bloody conflict with the enemy. His mouth dropped as Marcus and Vepax continued to move pieces and suddenly the plan was clear to him.
‘I would not go further in,’ he said and Vepax’s head came up with a quizzical expression.
‘So soon, Gaius? You have seen a danger that neither Paulus nor Varro saw until it was too late. Move your men forward, the battle must be played out.’ He was clearly enjoying himself, but Gaius felt a touch of irritation at having to follow through moves that would lead to the destruction of his armies.
The legions marched through the Carthaginian forces and the enemy let them in, falling back quickly and without haste, losing as few men as possible to the advancing line. Hannibal’s forces were moving from the back of the field to the sides, swelling the trap, and, after what Vepax said was only a couple of hours, the entire Roman force was submerged in the enemy on three sides, which slowly closed behind them until they were caught in a box of Hannibal’s making. The Roman cavalry were still held by equally skilled forces and the final scene needed little explanation to reveal the horror of it.
‘Most of the Romans could not fight, trapped as they were in the middle of their own close formations. Hannibal’s men killed all day long, tightening the trap until there was no one left alive. It was annihilation on a scale rarely seen before or since. Most battles leave many alive, at least those who run away, but these Romans were surrounded on all sides and had nowhere to flee to.’
The silence stretched for long moments as the two boys fixed the details in their minds and imaginations.
‘Our time is up today, boys. Next week I will show you what the Romans learned from this defeat and others at the hands of Hannibal. Although they were unimaginative here, they brought in a new commander, known for his innovation and daring. He met Hannibal at the battle of Zama fourteen years later and the outcome was very different.’
‘What was his name?’ Marcus asked excitedly.
‘He had more than one. His given name was Publius Scipio, but because of the battles he won against Carthage he was known as Scipio Africanus.’
As Gaius approached his tenth birthday, he was growing into an athletic, well-coordinated lad. He could handle any of the horses, even the difficult ones that required a brutal hand. They seemed to calm at his touch and respond to him. Only one refused to let him remain in the saddle and Gaius had been thrown eleven times when Tubruk sold the beast before the struggle killed one or the other of them.
To some extent, Tubruk controlled the purse of the estate while Gaius’ father was away. He could decide where the profits from grain and livestock would be best spent, using his judgement. It was a great trust and a rare one. It wasn’t up to Tubruk, however, to engage specialist fighters to teach the boys the art of war. That was the decision of the father – as was every other aspect of their upbringing. Under Roman law, Gaius’ father could even have had the boys strangled or sold into slavery if they displeased him. His power in his household was absolute and his goodwill was not to be risked.
Julius returned home for his son’s birthday feast. Tubruk attended him as he bathed away the dust of the journey in the mineral pool. Despite being ten years older than Tubruk, the years sat well on his sun-dark frame as he eased through the water. Steam rose in wisps as a sudden rush of fresh hot water erupted from a pipe into the placid waters of the bath. Tubruk noted the signs of health to himself and was pleased. In silence, he waited for Julius to finish the slow immersion and rest on the submerged marble steps near the inflow pipe, where the water was shallow and warmest.
Julius lay back against the coldness of the pool ledges and raised an eyebrow at Tubruk. ‘Report,’ he said and closed his eyes.
Tubruk stood stiffly and recited the profits and losses of the previous month. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall and spoke fluently of minute problems and successes without once referring to notes. At last, he came to the end and waited in silence. After a moment, the blue eyes of the only man who’d ever employed him without owning him opened once again and fixed him with a look that had not been melted by the heat of the pool.
‘How is my wife?’