The Seven Hills (41 page)

Mastanabal had seen these intricate formations practiced when the Roman soldiers first arrived at Carthage, but now
he was seeing them under battle conditions. He saw the bright paint on the unscarred shields, the new armor worn
by the men. "He's using his untried boys for a platform," he
said. Now there were three layers to the platform. The shields were now at the base of the wooden palisade. Mastanabal's men threw down anything that might break the formation: first heavy spears, then stones, timbers, even wagon wheels. Nothing shook the overlapping shields.

"Bring oil and torches!" the general shouted. Then he
saw the next line advancing: fierce-looking, sunburned men whose stride carried a chilling assurance. The veterans had
arrived, men he had last seen half a world away, in Egypt. "Get the oil quick!" he screamed.

But already the veterans were mounting the human platform, fending off missiles with contemptuous ease, until they were standing against the palisade, thrusting with
their spears at the faces that appeared there.
Why aren't they throwing the spears?
Mastanabal wondered. It was always
their prelude to a hand-to-hand fight. Then the trumpets blared out again, and all along his wall, the crouching legionaries who made up the platform
stood.

There came a great, cry from beneath the structure of overlapped shields as men made a superhuman effort and
got to their feet, lifting the vast weight above them. Slowly,
not quite evenly, the great formation lifted, extended, rose by inches like some gigantic, incomprehensible machine. Then the veteran legionaries of Norbanus were standing
above
the palisade that topped his camp wall. And now their
arms rocked back and they threw their spears, casting them downward onto the terrified enemy, already unmanned by this seemingly inhuman method of making war.

There was a brief, shield-to-shield struggle as the Romans drew their swords and sought to force a way onto the
wall. Every man was determined to win the
corona muralis:
the crown awarded to the first man atop an enemy wall. The
mercenaries and allies strove as desperately to keep them out, but now the Romans had the advantage of height and gravity. The front line, first here and there, then along the whole length of the wall, began jumping from the shield
platform onto the walk behind the palisade. They tore at the timbers and made gaps for easier passage. More of the vet
eran troops mounted the shield platform and poured across.
Fighting was general all along the wall; then it spilled down
the rear face of the earthwork and into the camp.

Mastanabal looked on, appalled. Once in the camp, the Romans could not use their fine teamwork and coordination, and had no time to muster a formation. But his own men were crowded together, getting in one another's way, while the Romans never let themselves get too close for a man to be able to wield his weapons. They fought as individuals as fiercely as they did in formation, and these men had the smell of blood in their nostrils. They slew relentlessly, the razor-edged
gladii
lancing out to open throats, bellies, breasts, severing arms, opening thighs to let the bright, arterial blood jet out into the befouled air. Mastanabal's men were going down in heaps, often unable to so much as raise their arms.

Below him, Romans were forcing the gate open from in
side, and now the shield platform was breaking up, the young men forcing their way into the camp through the gate, or over the earthwork now that the palisade was demolished. Mastanabal's cavalry tried frantically to escape, heading for the river. In an unbelievably short time he knew that all was lost. Only his Greek and Macedonian professionals still stood firm, holding their tight, disciplined formation. There was a standoff in that part of the battle, as the Romans isolated the Greeks from the others. Now they were surrounding his tower and he saw the golden boy himself, Titus Norbanus, riding leisurely to the base.

"General Mastanabal!" Norbanus called up to him. "It's
good to see you again, after so long. Will you surrender? It's
only a formality, you know. You're beaten. I am willing to spare your life."

Mastanabal snorted. "I'll not surrender to an enemy I have beaten before. Today the gods love you, Titus Nor
banus. Perhaps we should have performed the
Tophet
before embarking on this war. No, between your yoke and my master's cross, I will choose honor instead." So saying, he drew
his sword. Balancing atop the tower wall, he saw the Romans watching with great interest as he placed the point of his sword into his mouth. Then he toppled from the wall,
headfirst. His blood showered Norbanus and made his horse
shy. The other Carthaginian officers followed suit until all were dead. Only the Spartan remained on the tower, and he leaned over its parapet.

"I think we should talk, Roman," the Greek officer said.

Norbanus looked toward the south end of the wall, where
the Greeks still held firm. His men were probing with long spears they had picked up, some of them rushing in and hacking at shields and spear shafts with pickaxes. He sent an officer with an order to pull back for a while.

"Can you negotiate for those Greeks? They are good soldiers."

"They will listen to me," said the Spartan. "I'm Xantippus."

"Then here are my terms, offered once. If they lay down their arms, they may live. Otherwise, I will kill every one of
them."

"Does surrender mean slavery, or will you let them go home?"

"They will be free to go. If they will take service with me
as auxilia, they may even keep their arms."

The Spartan seemed surprised. "That is very generous. Let me speak with them."

Norbanus rode though the gate, and Xantippus descended from the tower. He walked along beside Norbanus
as they passed along the wall. Norbanus watched with inter
est as his men mopped up the last, desperate resistance.
Most of the surviving mercenaries were at the river, fighting
knee-deep in the water or trying to swim to the other side. But the Roman cavalry had already crossed and cut off escape for all but a very few.

The legionaries were in no mood for merciful gestures, and enemy warriors were seldom good slave material, so
most were cut down where they stood and the wounded fin
ished off on the ground with swift thrusts of pilum and
gladius.
The women of the camp, some with children in tow,
were already being rounded up, as were the slaves, who now
had new masters.

. Across the river, Norbanus saw detachments of Mastana
bal's former cavalry force splitting up and running, some with his own horsemen in pursuit. He would have preferred to bag all the cavalry as well, but there had been no possibility of shutting off all escape.

He rode to where the Greeks stood sullenly, weapons gripped in their fists, many. of them bloodied. They had
taken some casualties and had inflicted some as well, but in
this sort of fight the casualties were usually light until one side lost its cohesiveness and broke formation. That was when the real slaughter began. He let Xantippus go and confer with the officers; then he addressed them.

"I am Titus Norbanus. I have just destroyed Mastanabal, as you have seen. I intend to do the same to Hamilcar, and to Carthage. But that is for the future. Right here and right
now, you have a choice. We can make a fight of it, and it will be a hard one, and all of you will die; and some of us will, as well. You can lay down your arms and I promise none of you
will be enslaved. Or you can take my oath, keep your arms and join my army as auxilia. You'll get no share of the loot from this fight, of course, but otherwise you will have the
same status as the rest of my soldiers, short of citizenship. I
am generous, but I am not patient. Decide quickly."

Xantippus and the other officers conferred in low voices;
then they took a quick poll of the men. The Spartan spoke
first: "We accept your offer of honorable service. We will be
your faithful soldiers to the end."

"Then speak with my quartermaster and he will assign you your place in camp. I will make you all rich men."

In all, Norbanus reflected as he rode away, it was turning out to be a very fine day. But it got even better. As he sat in
front of the late Carthaginian general's tent while the loot was piled up and tallied, a rider came from the coast on a lathered mount. He brought news from the
duumvir
Decimus Arrunteius: victory on the sea, that very same day! Word spread through the camp and men congratulated one
another on serving so lucky a general, such a favorite of the
gods.

In the evening, Norbanus performed the proper sacrifices, then assembled all the men for the award ceremony.

He gave the
corona muralis
to a young officer who had been
first to stand atop the wall, and the civic crown to several
men who had saved the lives of fellow citizens in the fight
ing. Certain centurions he singled out for honor, bestowing upon them military bracelets. He was about to dismiss the formation when the senior centurion of one of his legions strode forth and stood below his reviewing stand. The man raised an arm and extended his fist toward his general. "Imperator!" the grizzled officer shouted. "Imperator!" The other soldiers took up the shout: "Imperator! Imperator!!" Slowly, it turned into a chant: "Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor!" On and on it went and Titus Norbanus felt himself to be a god. To be honored with the title of imperator by spontaneous acclamation of his own soldiers was the highest honor to which a Roman general could aspire. In a triumph he would be honored by the citizenry as a whole, but these were the men who counted.

Hamicar and Carthage might still await, but this would never be taken from him. He let the intoxication flow through him as the chant went on and on and he knew what it was to be worshipped.

The Senate held silence while Publius Gabinius read out the dispatches. They had arrived that morning, two of them at once and both wreathed in laurel. It was a thing unprecedented in Roman history.
First, he read the report of the
duumvir
Decimus Arrunteius. The senators gasped and broke into spontaneous clapping as
he detailed the battle, the enemy ships destroyed, the loot taken. Otherwise, they remained quiet.

The princeps came to a momentous passage: "My marines and sailors behaved with uniform valor and discipline. I cannot commend their behavior too highly. Most of
them are men from the towns and countryside of Italy, with only a few citizen legionaries to act as their officers. I believe
that our Italian allies have rediscovered their manhood forfeited by their ancestors when ours accepted the Exile."

Gabinius looked around him. Some of the senators looked pleased to hear this; others did not. Hostility against the Italians went deep in this body. Most had agreed that the Italians should do the dangerous but menial work of rowing in the new fleet. Many had protested their bearing
arms as marines. While sea service was inferior to that of the
legions, it was honorable, and many believed the Italians had forfeited all claim to honor when they knuckled under to Carthage in the days of Hannibal the Great. But there had been no choice. They were embarked upon a war of unprecedented magnitude and every citizen was needed for the legions. If they were to have a fighting navy, the Italians had to be enrolled.

Next, Gabinius brought out the dispatch from Nor
banus. This time the senators could not keep quiet. The fac
tion that supported the Norbani cheered lustily, and even
the old family adherents who despised them made sounds of approval, lest they seem churlish. The totality of the victory
lost nothing in the telling, as young Norbanus detailed his ruse, his night march to the battlefield, his daring direct assault upon the Carthaginian camp and his novel assault
plan, culminating in the suicide of Mastanabal and his principle officers, the destruction of his army and the sack of his camp. The loot was described in great detail, along with the
information that the eagles and other standards captured at the disaster of the Arnus had been recaptured and were returning to Rome with an honor guard, to be deposited in the Temple of Saturn.

Finished, Gabinius closed the wooden case with a snap. "Senators, I propose that we declare ten days of thanksgiving for these great victories. The gods must be thanked properly."

A new family senator stood. "Ten days? These victories
deserve a month of thanksgiving!"

Old Scipio Cyclops stepped forward. He had just returned from a tour of inspection in the South. "I agree with our princeps. These are fine victories and I rejoice that the standards have been taken back. But the main Carthaginian fleet is still afloat. The main Carthaginian army is still in
tact, under the personal command of Hamilcar. Carthage itself still stands. Let us not celebrate foolishly, when so much
is left to be done."

"Sour grapes, Cyclops?" jeered the same new family senator. "You are just jealous because our new family com
manders are winning glory while your grandson luxuriates in Alexandria, accomplishing nothing!"