David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“A pilum!” the tribune yelled. “Give me a pilum!”

“Do not be stupid!” Laelius said. “You're not Achilles; you'd never reach him. Don't look at him, Publius; look instead at what he sees!”

Publius did as requested, first looking again at the commander, then trying to follow his gaze back over the Romans, out on either side. Doing this, he realized almost instantly what Laelius must already have gathered. The near edge of the army showed it clearly, and, though he could not make out the other edge, the signs he could see indicated that the situation there was just the same. They were hemmed in on at least three sides. The struggle now was not one for ultimate victory. It was a fight to survive.

The next few hours passed in a singular effort at odds with the collective mind of the army. Publius tried to turn as many men as he could toward the wings, to have them punch a hole out the side of the column instead of through the front. Hannibal's troops could not be that deep. The tribune could not find a signaler to issue orders by horn, so instead he yelled himself hoarse. He elbowed his way through the throng, shoving soldiers, punching them to get their attention. He grasped men by the shoulders and shouted right into their faces.

With Laelius at his side, echoing his orders, Publius did manage to lead a turn among the troops. He slowly began to feel a shift in the collective body. The late hours of the afternoon found him at the head of the new movement, cutting a bloody path through a line of Iberians three deep. For a moment in the fighting Publius was taken by a vision of beauty—that of the splashes of blood on the Iberians' white tunics, every possible variety of swirl and slash, a million variations on red and brown and dark almost to black. He had a notion that he would like to keep one of these tunics as a souvenir, a wall hanging to be viewed at leisure, a story to be read through close study.

They poured forward, slashing and screaming, for a good distance thinking they were still fighting the enemy, only slowly realizing that their way was clogged not by enemy warriors but by dead bodies piled three and four deep. It was such an overwhelming relief to be freed that Publius believed the whole of the army would gush out after him. He found rising ground in the distance and set out for it. He tried to sheathe his sword but found he could not do so. It was bent twice along its length, in different directions, no straighter than any stick he might have snatched up from the ground. He ran with it in hand.

Small bands and lone Numidians plagued them much of the way, tormenting them for the pleasure of it. When he reached the slope, Publius turned around and viewed the chaos he had fled. He had not drained the center, as he had hoped to do. Indeed, the breach his men had created was all but sealed now. The entirety of it was finally clear to him, painfully, tragically obvious. Hannibal had planned it all. Each and every thing the Roman forces strove to do had played into his hands. As they had planned, they punched through the Gauls and Iberians in the middle; but Hannibal had wished for just that move. He had cleared the cavalry from either side of them so that as the wedge pushed forward his most veteran troops swung in upon either side. Then, once the Carthaginian cavalry had vanquished their counterparts, they returned and fell upon the Roman rear. And that was it. After that it was just butchery. A series of masterstrokes. An army of ninety thousand had been completely surrounded by a lesser force in the space of a few hours. They were immobile, the vast mass of them stuck in the middle, able to do nothing but await the moment when their lives were cut out of them.

Varro rode toward him at a canter, his closest attendants mounted and close behind him, many of them glancing again and again over their shoulders, as if they feared the whole of the enemy's army would turn to follow them. The consul gave no indication that he planned to speak to the tribune, but Publius darted in front of him, snatched his horse's reins, and stopped him.

“What news of Paullus?” he asked. “Where is the other consul?”

Varro fixed on him a momentary gaze of utter loathing. “Where do you think? He's back on that field. Dead. As is Rome's future. Out of my way!”

Publius jumped back as the consul swatted at him. He let the man ride away, shocked as much by his words and attitude as by anything he had seen that day. He looked back at the battlefield and, amazingly, all was as it had been before. Men still died in their hundreds and thousands. It took all of his discipline to move him on into action. Nothing could be done for the men trapped in the death circle, though he would have given his life to save them. He shouted to those who had escaped with him and those who trailed behind. He directed them toward Canusium.

They reached the town late that evening, finding it alight with torches and open to them. The guards native to the place stood nervously, looking out beyond the straggling line of soldiers in the clear-eyed dread they all felt—fear of Hannibal's pursuit. Battered soldiers occupied every available inch. Laelius went off to locate other officers. Publius never even paused to catch his breath from the long march. He moved straight in among the men, speaking to them with what cheer he could muster, commending them for surviving the day, asking after their leaders.

He did all this in a fog, however. He barely heard the soldiers' responses. He functioned as if another being altogether propelled him, something intelligent enough to move his body and form words with his mouth. But the true Publius Scipio occupied a more confused space. He saw again images of the day's bloodshed superimposed on the world before him. He heard in the din the voice of his father and remembered the many lessons his father had tried to teach him in preparation for his manly duties. To think of those quiet moments now cut him with a pain more acute than any of the numb aches of his body. What a child he had been! Up until this very morning he had known nothing! Even now he knew nothing! The great awakening that hammered at his head was the simple knowledge of his ignorance; the awesome possibility that the world might never be as he imagined and that he could never again occupy it with a child's vain authority.

Barely had the tribune dropped for a moment of rest when he was called again, with news that woke him from his stupor.

Laelius ran to him panting. “They're talking of abandoning the country.”

“Who?”

“The younger Fabius Maximus, Lucius Bibulus, Appius Pulcher . . . All the tribunes I could find. They're talking of turning to the sea and seeking refuge—”

Before he could finish, Publius jumped to his feet. “Take me to them.”

The officers had gathered in a hall used for public debates. Publius strode into it without a plan. In his first glance at the gathered officers he saw the defeat in their faces, the shame of conspiring men. He still carried his battered sword unsheathed. With the weapon upraised, he shouldered through the company toward the center. The former dictator's son was speaking, but Publius silenced him by shouting his name. The words that followed came out of him before thought, propelled by a strange mixture of fury and calm. Despite all the defeat and death he had seen that day, he felt a throbbing serenity inside him. In seeing these men's faces he was reminded that nothing mattered now save the certainty of honor. There was so little else that one could rely on in the world.

“Fabius Maximus!” he said. “I worked under your father. I know his greatness despite all those who malign him. Do you think he would ever consider the plan you here devise? Have you all forgotten yourselves? If so, then Rome truly died today. We are no more than the corpse; your words, the first stink of decay.”