David Durham - Pride of Carthage

The massacre beside Lake Trasimene was unprecedented in Roman history. It was not a repeat of the Trebia disaster; it was worse. This time, fifteen thousand men were killed in the initial slaughter. Among them, the consul who had led them went down, run through by the spear of an Insubrian Gaul. Six thousand managed to escape the defile and flee to a nearby town, but they held out no longer than a day, giving up along with thousands of others. In addition, Geminus' cavalry had been met by Maharbal's superior force. The Numidians killed or captured all four thousand of them. If the last defeat had struck each Roman a blow to the chest, this one hit the collective soul of the people like a blacksmith's hammer. It left the citizens breathless, shocked, unsure what the limits of Hannibal's powers were, taking nothing for granted.

Soon, word came that some of the soldiers were straggling home. The people flocked to the gates of Rome, crowding the walls, wailing at the sight before them. Women ran forth, gripping the grimy, blood-caked soldiers, gazing into their faces, calling out the names of husbands, sons, brothers, beseeching the gods to bring their loved ones home. But the gods had turned away. Rome faced the possibility that Hannibal could not be beaten. Perhaps he had trapped Fortune and kept her caged and twisted her always to his advantage. Perhaps this man was more than just a man.

Great as the panic was, as lurid as the stories were, the Republic's leaders did not waste much time in hand-wringing. In the Senate, the faction dominated by the Fabian family and their allies called for the immediate naming of a dictator. It was a stunning proposal, one that nobody wished to believe was needed. With absolute power came grave danger, but if ever extreme measures were called for, this was such a moment. And somehow it was clear to all that the leader of the Fabians' own party was the only clear choice for the position. The gray-haired Fabius Maximus: former censor, twice consul, twice interrex, and once already named dictator, the very man who had declared war on Carthage by throwing out a fold of his toga. He was the embodiment of Roman virtue, steadfast, dogged, single-minded to a fault. He was neither fiery in speech nor quick to action, but he was vigorous once roused. He did have an affliction—his poor vision—but it was not one for which his peers thought less of him, as it came upon many men with age. He arranged for a pair of eyes to accompany him during his tenure as dictator, a young officer with eyesight rivaling the keen stare of a hawk: the former consul's son, Publius Scipio.

As his first act in office, Fabius pronounced that the Trasimene disaster had been the result of Flaminius' impiety and disregard for religious formality. Had nobody around him paused to notice that he began his pursuit of Hannibal on a dies nefastus, an inauspicious day, when no work should take place, during an hour when the gods looked askance at those who commenced new projects? Fabius ordered study of the Sibylline Books, hoping that the prophetic sayings of the Cumaean Sibyl would provide some direction, as they had in times past. He consulted priests and called for the immediate commencement of the rites, games, dedications, and vows that they said the gods demanded. Next, he issued an edict that all country people should destroy their crops, their houses, and even their tools at the first sign of Hannibal's approach. He ordered the call-up of two new legions to protect Rome. He sent Lucius Postumius to Cisalpine Gaul with two full legions, with the responsibility of keeping the Boii and Insubres under pressure. At best, he hoped, their armies might desert Hannibal to protect their own. At worse, Postumius could prevent them from sending new reinforcements to join the Carthaginian.

And then, just before leaving to take over Geminus' legions, Fabius addressed the Senate and conveyed to them the surprising strategy he had developed to defeat the enemy. He said that his grand plan was actually marked by its simplicity. He would simply not fight the barbarian. An army that does not engage in battle cannot be beaten in battle, he said. When asked if he would then let the invaders ravish the countryside, Fabius answered that yes, he would.

“Let them crisscross the land as they wish,” he said. “Let the land not be burned only in their wake but also let the fires precede them. Let weeks and months pass without a decisive battle. Let them die one by one from the various hazards of life: illness and injury, or even age if they hang on long enough. By these various measures we will reduce the enemy's limited number.”

He explained that he would not be inactive meanwhile. His army would shadow Hannibal's, harassing them and making life difficult for them. He would make it hard for the Carthaginians to feed themselves or to replenish their arms. He would let fatigue and time wear the invaders down. Rome's strength was that she could replenish her losses, recruit new soldiers, plant new crops. Hannibal could do none of these things—not easily, at least. This would be his undoing.

Fabius' strategy troubled many in the Senate. One man, Terentuis Varro, rose in the silent chamber and asked, “What madness is this, Fabius? Are you so full of despair? Have we elected you only to learn that you believe us doomed?”

“Hannibal cannot be beaten on the field,” Fabius said, “but he can be beaten. Think wisely on this and deeply, not with vanity but with reason. Was Cornelius a lesser general than any man in here? Was Sempronius? Flaminius? And has the Roman army a history of defeat? Has any nation stood against us and prevailed? No. What we face now is the greatest challenge to our Republic since its founding. I do not know what god breathes genius into the young Barca, but we must admit that for the moment he is our superior in the open clash of arms. Friends, you did not elect me for my wit. You did not bestow this responsibility on me because my mind is so nimble as to dance around this Carthaginian. You elected me because you believed in my judgment. That is what I offer you today. By my policies we will defeat this invader. Carthage will have its day of sorrow. Be patient and trust in me. I am your dictator. Rome will be saved.”

He walked from the hushed chamber, his attendants all around him, Publius at his elbow. “How do you think they received that?” he asked, once out on the streets.

“Sir,” Publius said, “birds could have built nests in their mouths and raised young, such was their shock.”

Fabius smiled and said, “Let us hope it strikes Hannibal the same.”

After Trasimene, Hannibal turned the army east and marched through Umbria. It was not a campaign at all but a moving feast, the whole country one great market from which they plucked goods at will. In each precinct Hannibal kept his ears open for encouraging words, for any people or city wise enough to desert Rome and join the winning cause. But people of Latin blood were a stubborn, recalcitrant lot. Several towns rejected the Carthaginian offer of goodwill and paid for it. The city of Spoletium was somewhat more formidable. It repulsed the Carthaginian attack with disdain. Foolish, that. Had Hannibal the equipment and time to besiege the city properly he would have done so, but there were other matters to see to.

In the first week of July, he settled the army in along the Picene coast and had them lay down their burdens, rest their bodies, and assess the booty they had amassed thus far. Despite their triumphs the men were in pitiable shape, wounded from battle, malnourished from the winter, tired from the march, and plagued by bouts of diarrhea. The animals were no better off. So Hannibal gave them time to recover beside the ocean. They bathed in the warm waters, baked in the sun, and put well behind them the hardships of the winter. They slaughtered the locals' fat lambs and cattle, ate fresh bread, and munched fruit pulled ripe from the trees.