David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“We must send word to Hasdrubal,” Hanno said during a meeting of his officers. “We don't have the numbers to meet them.”

A lieutenant, though junior to Hanno in both rank and age, shook his head. “There can be no reinforcements. Hasdrubal is south of New Carthage. A message has already been dispatched to him, but we must act independently.”

“Decisively,” another added.

Hanno pressed the flat of his palms over his eyes and dug his fingers into his flesh. An unusual gesture for a general, but he ignored the nervous shuffling of the officers. His bowels twisted and pulled knots and his chest felt constricted, as if with each released breath a strap pulled tighter across his chest so that he was denied a full inhalation of air. Should he act decisively? Of course he should. It could do him no good to wait. The Romans might land more troops. They might forge alliances with the Iberians and learn the features of the land and find ways to gain advantage. They would only become stronger with passing days. And Hasdrubal might still not reach him. But Hanno had no plan. What could he do to make their numbers more equal? Why did he have to struggle with this question? He should have had more men. It was Hannibal's misjudgment that had created this situation. He left him here to manage the Iberians, but not truly prepared to fight a Roman legion. Still, still, he had to act! Perhaps he could catch the Romans off guard with a full frontal attack, before they had even settled in. They would never expect such boldness. Surely, this was the way to proceed. And if his gamble rebounded on him? Well, at least Hannibal could not chastise him for hesitation as he had at Saguntum.

Hanno finally peeled his fingers from his forehead. He looked around at the junior officers and gave them his decision. It was a choice for which he was to suffer terribly.

The first boulder announced itself with a tremor, a rumble that came from no specific direction but was transmitted through the bones of the earth itself. Mago felt it in the soles of his feet. When he saw it—a chunk of stone as large as an elephant, gray just like those beasts, first sliding down a sheer section of cliff at near free fall, then striking the slope and churning, end over slow end, snapping and pushing trees out of its path—he thought the commotion of the army had loosened it. The boulder landed on the ravine floor a short distance away, crushing under it a mule and the two men driving it. Then the whole scene flooded with a dusty confusion and a rain of smaller stones. And that was just the beginning.

The army had made steady progress in the days leading up to this one, but they spent the bulk of the fourth day winding into a narrow defile. They had to travel a few abreast, for the rock walls closed in on either side, sometimes rising up vertically around them. Mago rode near the vanguard, with the bulk of the cavalry and the two Allobroge guides, while Hannibal brought up the rear with corps of infantry. They progressed awkwardly, negotiating the stream that wound in front of them at each step, climbing over rocks, managing the horses, convincing the elephants that nothing was amiss. The line must have stretched for miles; the front of the column could not see the rear, and communication between them was difficult. It was a perfect trap.

A chorus of shouts went up from high above, followed by spears thrown down in a coordinated hail. The bulk of a freshly hewn tree careened to earth in a spray of pine needles. More boulders fell, and smaller stones, and more trees. The damage they did was amplified by fright. Pack ponies made easy targets and when wounded began to scream in pain. A few bolted and this maddened others. They looked wide-eyed around them and kicked out at the men trying to steady them. They bared their teeth, for they were not sure who was causing this alarm and believed it to be anyone who sought to control them. Mounts steady and calm in battle were caught off guard by this, and more than one threw its rider. And the elephants . . . They had been spread along the lead of the column and this was fortunate. Mago watched a single creature, maddened by three darts in the back, as it roared down the narrow passageway, trying to flee, knocking over carts, trampling men, and butting horses out of its path.

“General,” Maharbal called, “what is your command?”

Mago spun and called out, asking the question he already knew the answer to. “The Gallic guides—where were they? Somebody grapple them,” he said, but his order was unanswered in the chaos, and the Gauls were nowhere to be seen. He scanned the heights for some way to dislodge the attackers, but there was no clear route. And, it now seemed, there were too many of them up there to deal with quickly even if they could gain the heights. It was clear the head of the column was outside of the main danger, but any sense of relief this provided was short-lived.

Gauls poured out of a ravine a short distance ahead of Mago's position. In an instant they cut the army in half and inflicted terrible damage on the confused Iberian unit they met. They worked under a protective cover of spears thrown down from a knob on the cliffside that offered a view up and down the ravine. It was clear that this was the center of the ambushers' operations. Mago noted as much. He was to the rear of the Iberian soldiers, but rushed forward to direct their charge. A few moments' observation changed his mind. Stones of all sizes fell among them, denting helmets and knocking them at strange angles on the wearers' heads, battering shields more forcefully than the blows of any sword. He saw one man impaled through the foot by a spear, pinning the limb to the ground. The man threw his head back in a howl of pain that Mago could not hear for the other noises. It was short-lived anyway. Stationary target that the man now was, two other spears pierced him. One slammed through his lower back and out his pelvis. A death wound if ever there was one.

Mago called for an ordered retreat, which was easier requested than accomplished. A sliver of rock sheared from high above fell among them. It was as tall as a man and twice as thick. It impaled the path like a spearhead. The men around it stood back in horror. When it stayed upright, however, they dismissed the threat of it and moved around either side of it like water around an obstacle. There seemed no end to the confusion. No end to the objects hurled down on them. Mago was kicked in the flat of his upraised palm by a frenzied stallion. The blow spun him with a force he thought might have shattered the bones of his fingers. But his hand was only bruised, and it tingled the rest of the day.

He did not reach Hannibal's council until after dark, traveling in stealth with a small contingent of guards. He found the officers huddled around a fire in the cover of a lean-to, talking in low voices that betrayed their fatigue and dejection. As he stepped into the circle of firelight, Bomilcar rose and grasped him in a quick, painful embrace. The big man tended to be both ferocious and affectionate after battles. “You are sound?” he asked.

“Yes, but only by the whim of the gods. Monomachus was right,” Mago said, nodding at the taciturn general. “This was treachery planned thoroughly. How did you fare back—”

He did not complete the question. His eyes were drawn to one among the group and this silenced him. Visotrex' son sat among them, leaning back against a pack, still as one contemplating the fire. Mago stood gaping at him. Though he had just witnessed a day of carnage, something in the young man's presence beside the fire seemed even more horrific. His jaw hung open and his eyes stared straight before him. The damage to him was not obvious, and yet it was clear that he had been dead several hours now, his skin a pale greenish blue.