David Gibbins: Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage

Polybius suddenly turned and took the bridle of his horse from his equerry. ‘There is one thing I can do.’ He turned to his sword-bearer and took his helmet, an old Corinthian type with a large nose guard and cheekpieces that concealed his face almost completely. He put it on, pulled the strap tight under his chin and then leapt expertly onto the horse, leaning forward and patting its neck as it stomped and whinnied. He pointed to his shield and his equerry handed it up to him, a circular form embossed at the centre with a thick rim of polished steel around the edge. He put his left forearm through the two leather straps at the back and held it tight to his side, keeping his right hand on the neck of the horse. There was no saddle, and he had cast off the bridle; Fabius remembered Polybius telling him how he had learned to ride bareback as a boy and always charged into battle that way. The horse reared up on its hind legs, its eyes wide open and its mouth chomping and foaming, knowing what lay ahead.

Scipio looked up at him, alarmed. ‘What are you going to do? You haven’t even got a weapon.’

Polybius raised his shield. ‘The edge of this is as sharp as a sword blade. We trained to use our shields as weapons under the riding master at Megalopolis when I was your age. Another weakness of the phalanx is that the spears are held so rigidly together that they can be broken by riding at them along the line.’

‘You’ll be cut down,’ Scipio exclaimed. ‘You’re too valuable to die like that. You’re a historian. A strategist.’

‘I was commanding officer of the Achaean cavalry before I was sent as a captive to Rome. I was your age, leading my first cavalry charge when you were barely able to walk. But you know where my allegiance lies now. I can’t bear to see a Roman ally charge to their deaths without giving them a chance, and I’m the only one here who knows how to do this.’

‘If the Macedonians unhorse you and take off your helmet and recognize you as a Greek, you’ll be hacked to death.’

‘The sarissae are not throwing spears, remember. As long as I stay just beyond their reach and my horse Skylla does her duty, I will survive. Ave atque vale, Scipio. Hail and farewell.’ Polybius dug his shins into the horse and it thundered off, kicking up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the view. As it cleared, Fabius could see the reason for his abrupt departure. The Paeligni had already begun their charge, bounding forward like wild dogs, making a noise like a thousand rushing torrents. They were running at astonishing speed, and the distance between them and the phalanx had already narrowed. Fabius could see Polybius making for the gap, his shield held out diagonally to the left, charging in a swirl of dust. Another horse had followed, riderless, breaking away from the Roman lines until it overtook Polybius and disappeared into the storm of dust. For a horrifying moment it seemed as if he would not make it in time, as if the gap would close and he would hurtle among the horde of Paeligni warriors. But then he was gone, and all Fabius could see was a streak of silver along the line of Macedonian spears, as if a wave were passing along it. The spears in front of the Paeligni were broken and in disarray, leaving the phalanx vulnerable and exposed. Then the Paeligni were among them, their huge curved swords scything and slashing, their yells and screams rending the air. Fabius could see no way that Polybius could have survived to come out the other side; he closed his eyes for a moment and mouthed the brief words of prayer that his father had taught him to say at the passing of a fellow soldier in battle.

‘Look to your front, legionary,’ Scipio ordered, his voice hoarse with tension. He stood beside Fabius with sword drawn, staring ahead. While they had been watching Polybius the rest of the phalanx on either side had moved rapidly forward, exactly as Scipio had predicted. They were no more than two hundred paces away now, but the line directly in front of Fabius and Scipio had been broken as the Macedonians negotiated a dried-up watercourse caused by melt-water run-off from the mountain, widening into a gulley with sides about the height of a man.

‘There’s our chance,’ Scipio said. ‘We need to get at them while they’re in the gully, before they close up the line again.’

Fabius glanced at Aemilius Paullus, who had put his helmet on and stood among his other staff officers with sword drawn. Behind them the maniples of the first legion stood in full battle array, the centurions marching up and down in front of them, bellowing orders to keep in position, to wait for the order, to do what legionaries do better than any others, to kill the enemy at close quarters, to thrust and slash and draw blood and show no mercy.

Scipio put his hand on Fabius’ shoulder. ‘Until we meet again, my friend. In this world or the next.’

As Scipio turned to him he looked young, too young for what they were about to do, and Fabius had to remember that Scipio was only seventeen years old, a year younger than he himself was; it was an age difference that had given him an edge of authority over Scipio when they had been boys, which made Scipio still listen to him even though they were divided by rank and class, but now the difference was irrelevant as they stood as one with six thousand other legionaries ready to do their worst. Fabius replied, his voice hoarse, sounding strangely disembodied, ‘ Ave atque vale, Scipio Aemilianus. In this world or the next.’

He grasped his standard tightly and drew his sword. He saw Scipio catch his father’s eye, and Aemilius Paullus nodding. Time suddenly seemed to slow down; even the increasing crescendo of noise seemed drawn out, distant. Fabius watched Scipio run to the left, out in front of the first maniple, and then turn to the lead centurion, leaning forward and bellowing at him, then looking back to face the enemy, the sweat flicking off his face. He raised his sword and shouted again, and the legionaries behind him did the same — a deafening roar that seemed to drown out all other sensations. Fabius realized that he was doing the same, yelling at the top of his voice and shaking his blade in the air.

He tried to remember what the old centurion had told him about battle. You will see nothing but the tunnel in front of you, and that tunnel will become your world. Clear that tunnel of the enemy, and you may survive. Try to see what goes on outside the tunnel, take your eye off those who have their eyes on you, and you will die.

Scipio began to run. The whole ground shook as the legionaries followed. Fabius ran too, not far behind Scipio, parallel with the primipilus of the first legion. The gap in the phalanx was narrowing as the Macedonian soldiers divided by the gully realized their mistake and ran forward to the head of the gully to join up again; but in so doing they extended their line along the sides, some of them swinging their spears around to protect the flanks and others surging ahead to try to close the gap.

Fabius was breathing hard and could feel the dryness of his throat. Scipio was no more than a hundred paces from the phalanx now. Suddenly an elephant appeared in a swirl of dust from the right, a Macedonian spear stuck deep in its side, out of control and dragging the mangled corpse of a rider behind. It saw the gulley and veered right into the phalanx, trampling bodies that exploded with blood as it crashed through the lines and then tripped and rolled to a halt inside the gully, creating further disarray in the Macedonian ranks. Following the elephant came the first of the Paeligni warriors, screaming and waving their swords as they hurtled into the Macedonian line. The first one was skewered on a spear but kept running forward into the shaft until he reached the Macedonian soldier, beheading him with a single swipe of his sword before falling dead. The same happened all along the line, suicidal charges that opened more and more gaps in the phalanx, allowing the mass of legionaries who followed to break through and get behind the front ranks of spearmen, using their thrusting swords to bring down the Macedonians in their hundreds.