Текст книги "Swords of Rome"

Автор книги: Christopher Buckner

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTY

The dust obstructed Antony’s view as much as it choked his throat. He could barely see more than a dozen feet in front of him. His men, who had formed along the right flanks, had already faltered, as had the entire army. Carthaginian soldiers were now mixed with his own troops, as discipline had failed. He tried as best he could to keep order; to try to reform his men but his words were drowned out by the screams and fighting of men all around him as his men were being cut to pieces.

The battle had started promising he had to admit. The mass of Roman bodies hit the smaller forces of Hannibal, while the Carthaginian general had sacrificed his Celtic soldiers in the center, which began to falter when the superior Roman formations advanced on them. However, Hannibal’s s cavalry overwhelmed the Roman counterparts, as the center continued to advance once the Celts had begun to withdraw. Unknown, the Romans fell into a trap as Hannibal’s center had created a gully, which the legions were trapped.

It was impossible. There was no way that Hannibal could have tricked his enemy for a third time, not when Rome had poured all its resources, and had finally gotten a pitched-battle. However, Antony soon learned that Hannibal’s forces, with years more experience and dozens of victories, while outnumbered, equaled any thousand Roman soldiers.

Antony had gotten word that Hannibal’s horsemen; his Carthaginian and Numidian riders struck the rear, completely enveloping the whole formation – trapping a hundred thousand men like cattle.

As the Roman frontlines, which were too tightly packed, were encircled, no one could retreat, no less form a proper defense. What orders might have reached Antony’s own men, was lost, its messengers killed, or the officers who would have issued them already deceased. Now, after five hours, those that were left were being sucked into a pool of men and metal, grinned to blood and bone until the ground was littered with Roman dead.

Antony knew that fleeing was no longer an option. That time came and past. Now, he, like his portion of the army was trapped on the far-right flank. He was thankful to not be stuck in the center. At least here his men could stand and die on their feet, with sword in hand, like true Romans, and not wait till their turn to fall.

Antony knew he was not the best swordsmen, despite what training he had received, but he did his best, standing before his men, trying to give them encouragement. He wondered if Gaius would have done any differently.

At times, it was difficult for Antony to determine friend from foe. Not only had the dust blocked his view, but many of Hannibal’s men were equipped with Roman gear and armor, stolen from the previous won battles. They used these tools to their fullest affect as they drove through the Roman formations man-by-man.

And then, out from the thick cloud of dust Antony thought he saw a face that was strangely familiar. The barbarian, bare chested was massive. He was older than his father, but was built like a mountain, shaped by decades of killing. Antony watched as this man, in single combat struck down Roman after Roman as if they were children: their heads flying from their shoulders, or bodies cut in two as the man had the strength of a titan.

Antony wondered if this man wasn’t a demon, called forth from Hades. Did Hannibal have such powers?He wondered as the man murdered soldiers in droves, never tiring as he slowly worked his way over towards him. It was then that Antony suddenly realized that the monster was coming towards him. He had been distingue by his black-brimmed helmet and long red cape, indicating that he was an officer, and one of wealth as his armor was adorned with ivory and gold.

Antony called to his bodyguards, but they were already dead, or engaged in their own battle for survival.

He gripped his sword firmly in his hands, while raising his shield, hoping that the wood between, he and the barbarian would be enough to save him.

His eyes were locked on the giant as he slowly came towards him. He carried two swords, both caked with the blood and bits of flesh, which dangled from the edges of the blades.

The barbarian grinned widened as he stood ready. Antony could do nothing but shiver as he decided against his better judgment to attack first.

He charged forward, roaring as loud as his lungs could bear, but what fear, he hoped it might have struck in the heart of his opponent had done nothing.

His single thrust with his sword was easily deflected by the barbarian, who then slammed his second sword down against Antony’s shield.

His arm felt like wax as his shield was torn from his grip and cast aside like a piece of useless plywood.

The barbarian did not counterattack. He stood before Antony, looming over him as he stared down at him, his teeth grinning with delight.

Antony tried to attack again, but his effort was stopped as the man grabbed his sword arm and squeezed.

Antony screamed as his wrist was being crushed under the man’s impossibly powerful grip, until his sword dropped from his fingers. And then, the barbarian twisted, snapping Antony’s hand, at the wrist before he let him go.

Quickly, even before the pain set in, the barbarian rammed his fist into Antony’s face, shattering his nose as blood gushed, splashing out across the barbarian’s chest.

Before Antony could comprehend what was happening, the barbarian continued to beat him, slamming his closed fists across his face time and time again. Upon the fourth strike, Antony fell from his feet – his vision blurred as his faced was layered in blood and grit. He did not think he could ever stand again, but, with all his strength, Antony struggled to his feet. However, as hurriedly as he tried, he fell back down on his backside as the world was fast becoming one big haze, where no single sound could be sorted from another.

It was in this haze that Antony suddenly remembered where he had seen this man before: the imagine of Calfax, the gladiator that had haunted him for years after he had seen what he was capable of in the arena, filled him with panicked fear.

“Calfax?” Antony whispered as he looked up at the man who stood over him.

Calfax smiled.

Calfax grabbed Antony by his hair, lifting him up effortlessly. He was like a limp doll in the powerful gladiator’s grip. He didn’t even bother to struggle against him, nor could he, even if he still had the strength.

Calfax dropped his lengthy sword to the ground and with his freed hand, he reached around Antony’s neck and grabbed the broken half of the clay medallion that was now hanging freely outside of his armor. He seemly admired what he was seeing, perhaps even wondering where the top-half was.

With one easy yank, the chain that had secured it around Antony’s neck broke, even as he fought against him trying to take back the medallion, his last act.

Calfax let Antony go.

Antony wanted to reach out and take back the medallion. If he was going to die, he wanted to die with it around his neck, but his feeble efforts were in vain.

Calfax closed his fists around the medallion, holding it as he obviously decided to keep the memento of the easily won victory on the plains of Cannae. And next, without a care or even a second’s thought, he grabbed his sword and pulled it out from the ground, and as carelessly as a farmer slitting the throat of a pig, he brought the tip of his blade to Antony’s neck, and drew the full five feet of the iron across the young Roman’s throat, slowly.

There was so little force behind the cutting that, Antony, as he bled, arms and hands down by his side, knelt on two knees, stared straight ahead, taking his last struggled breaths, fighting for one more moment to stay alive, Calfax stepped around him and continued on with his killing. In those terminal few moments, Antony’s mind returned to his childhood – his time with Gaius and his sister. His last thoughts of happier times – how he wished he could live in them forever.

Before his last breath escaped his lungs, he hoped he had made the right choice in sending Gaius away. He prayed with his last gasp that the gods would protect his sister from the very real monsters who now would be free to strike at Rome.

A moment later, as the world around him grew silent, his eyes closed as the last drop of his blood flowed out from his neck. He was gone, spared having to see the slaughter that would continue for hours more.

Varro stood within the ranks of his army. He was surrounded by hundreds of his men, yet, never before in all of his life had he felt as alone as he did at the moment. Dozens of officers ran up to him, each one relaying reports from the battle, which was taking place on all sides. His army, all eighty thousand plus men were totally surrounded with nowhere to run. He couldn’t fathom how this could have happened. The battle was going so well. He had every advantage, and most of all, strength in numbers.

This was impossible, or so the thought ran through his mind repeatedly.

His men eagerly demanded to know what to do – what they could do, but Varro had shut himself off. He simply didn’t know what he could do. He wasn’t a soldier; he had no brilliant tactics or strategies that would save the day. He could hardly think straight; barely comprehend what had happened to his army – all the books he had read about famed heroes of the past: Alexander, Leonius, Romulus, Agamemnon and what strategies they might have used to salvage this defeat, escaped him.

“Console Paullus, where is he?” Varro called to the nearest officer.

“Sir, as I said already, we don’t know. You’re the only ranking officer on the field that we can find, or know that is still alive,” the man cried out.

“Dammit Paullus, dammit, where are you?!" Varro couldn’t help but cry out to himself. He suddenly wished he had listened to the man the night before.

“We…We have to reform ranks. We have to push against…” He was a loss for words. He couldn’t think straight and no matter what he said, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He could barely tolerate the screaming of his men any longer as he watched the distant line of marching enemy soldiers draw nearer to him.

Varro’ eyes opened wide as he watched one of his own men slit his throat, killing himself, over waiting for the approaching Carthaginian army. That man was not the only one to do so either as Varro saw panicked men fall on their swords, or ask that their friends to kill them where they stood. Other men held stronger, pissing and shitting in their pants, waiting endless minutes to die, but still determined to meet their end on their feet. A few of the braver, older veterans called out, saying prayers and demanding that they stand and fight – take a few of the bastards with them so that Rome will have fewer barbarians to deal with tomorrow!

“My son, where is my son?” Varro called as loudly as he could. “Antony!” However, no one had an answer for him, at least one that he wanted to hear.

“Sir, we can still try to get you out of here if we act now,” the officer said as he tried to bring Varro out of his stupor.

“My son, where is he? Tell me Flavius, where is he?”

“Sir, we’ve already reported, he is dead…Now we have to act before it is too late.”

“No, Antony…my dear boy. No…”

As he watched the Carthaginian army near to his position, he knew what he had to do.

“May all of you forgive me,” Varro said more to himself than to any man near to him, as he drew his dagger out from behind his back, and raised it quickly up to his throat.

“Sir – No!” Flavius tried to stop him, but even before he could reach out, Varro rammed the knife through his own neck.

He slumped off of his horse, falling to the ground, still alive, but not for much longer.

No one came to him as he fell. He just lied there, bleeding as he stared up at his men who were all around him. Their fate was already decided. It would only be a few more minutes before they were all dead as well.

Then too, Varro’ eyes closed to the world; to the failure that he created. Only history could judge him now.

Across the plains of Cannae, much of the fighting had stopped as Hannibal stood on top his horse, on one of the far hills surveyed the battlefield. Just a few pockets of survivors continued to challenge his men, who were now superior in numbers, and bloodlust. He had only the faintest smile. He did not enjoy seeing so many brave souls dead at his feet; more bodies then he had ever seen gathered into one place that, the birds circled overhead by the hundreds, would certainly eat to bursting, for weeks to come. However, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment and pride. He had won a victory that would forever be remembered in the chronicles of warfare, which by each new day was closer to not being written by a Roman’s hand.

“The Republic is broken!” Hasdrubal cried out with joy as he rode up and stood beside his general.

“Are they?” Hannibal asked as he refused the offer of wine that his officer attempted to pass over to him, as the two stood looking out over the battlefield.

“Do not be so doubtful, general. You have won a great victory! How proud your father would be of you. Now, there is no force of man or nature that stands between us and the gates of Rome. And when we arrive, we will make the Senate eat our shit as they lick our asses. They will give you their kingdom, and the entire world shall know that Carthage is again the sole power in existence.”

Hannibal glanced over at his friend, not rebuking or agreeing with his statement. It was true. He knew that there was nothing left standing between he and Rome. What men had escaped would not be enough to mount an effective defense of the city. He could have the capital in a matter of days. However, still, as he turned his head back towards the battlefield, the sense of joy and excitement that his men showed was not evident on his face.

“There are still Romans out there who have escaped our trap. I want them found and dealt with,” Hannibal finally spoke; his words ice-cold even in the growing summer heat.

“That will be done. I will put Calfax and his men on the task at once. Even so, shouldn’t we ransom some of the survivors we find?”

“No. I want our Senate to see my resolve. Find me the Roman elite, living and dead. Tear their wealth from their bodies; their rings and anything that represents their authority and collect them. Do not melt them or pass them out. I want them all. I want them delivered to those old fools on the first ship out of Italy. Is that understood?”

“That will take some time. That is a lot of rings to collect from the battlefield.”

“I know. You best get started.”

“And what about the survivors who aren’t of the Roman elite?”

Hannibal stared at his man for a long time before he finally answered.

“Use your imagination.”

Hasdrubal smile widened as he took a long swig from the wineskin before he kicked his horse, and raced down towards the battlefield. Already Hannibal’s mind turned towards the future, which for him, was strangely uncertain.

Rome was defeated and left open to him. What was stopping him from marching his army to its gates now?

Nothing…yet, he was hesitant, despite his victory this day, there were still many uncertainties. He knew this enemy – Rome, was a hydra. He had severed its head so many times all ready – its body was far from dead, that he knew, even as he watched the endmost vestiges of survivors slaughtered – no quarter given. Rome would, however, rise again. This fact vexed him without end, even upon his great victory.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It was silent, far to tranquil. Gaius hated silence. He needed activity: the sounds of a city or the steady breeze of a warm summer’s day, as farmers worked their fields – the sounds of their pickaxes breaking through the earth, curing up rocks, dirt, with the songs of birds overhead. Here in the nearly abandoned city of Canusium, it was eerily still, as if everyone knew a terrible storm was brewing over the hills. Only a handful of the town’s people stayed behind. A few stubborn farmers and store owners, or those that simply had nowhere else to go. Tens of thousands already fled to Rome, or the southern most cities. However, in truth, there wasn’t anywhere people could go, north, south, east or west. The enemies of Rome were everywhere, or so it seemed.

Standing up on top of the high stone wall that surrounded the town, Gaius looked out towards the east, towards Cannae. He and his men came to this place two days ago, on orders to make ready for any casualties who might come this way once the battle was won. He knew it was an excuse. There was no real reason to expect any Roman casualties to come this direction, not if the battle was indeed won, not when the main army’s camp had all the needs for those wounded. And if not the camp, then the city of Cannae would suffice.

Gaius wanted to be at Cannae more than anything. He had no real wish to be in a battle against Hannibal, not after surviving Trebia. Still, he wanted to be with the army. He wanted to be doing more than babysitting a small and unimportant settlement as this. It was his right as a soldier of the Republic to face his enemies head on, and not be sent away on the Eve of Rome’s finest victory, or its greatest defeat.

A part of him hated Antony for what he had done. Why he sent him away? It was unprofessional to put his feelings before his duty as an officer. The Wolves deserved to be at Cannae. They had fought, lost and suffered as much as any two legions since this war had begun. Still, however, something in Gaius’ old friend’s eyes told him a different story. It wasn’t as if Antony was afraid of battle. While he wasn’t nearly as seasoned or as trained as he, Antony was no coward, Gaius knew that. It seemed as if he had seen something, perhaps a vision of what was to come in his dreams; that something horrible was coming, and that he needed Gaius away from it; for Rome, for himself, for Julia.

He knew the reasoning, but failed to understand its meaning. Now going on two full days, there was no word from the army. The battle should have started by now. However, there had been no dispatch or wounded coming in from Cannae from the time he arrived at Canusium. If there was a victory, subsequently Rome would have sent word. Even if the battle was a defeat, still word would have arrived about what actions the men stationed here should take.

Even the worst imaginable defeat couldn’t have been that suffered.

Gaius could not take it anymore as he had spent the better part of the day pacing back and forth along the high walls, looking out over the rolling brown hills that surrounded the town, waiting, hoping for any sign from Cannae to reach them. He was done waiting. If he had to ride out to Cannae on his own, he would. However, before he deserted the army to seek his answers, Gaius figured he had better ask permission first, and see what came of it.

As he walked down the crowded streets towards the building that Valerius had chosen for his headquarters, the roads were mostly filled with bored and frustrated soldiers who had little to do, other than sit out in the hot sun and speculate among themselves why they were here, doing nothing.

They, like he, needed to know what was going on. Many were not happy about missing the battle, victory or defeat they just wanted to be where the action was. Some watched Gaius as he walked by them, he could tell that they wanted to ask him for any updates, if he knew anything, but most hesitated, seeing that he was obviously rushing towards the headquarters.

Truthfully, for the whole fourteen minutes that it took him to cross the town he was trying to think of a million and one excuses that he could make up so that Valerius would authorize him to take men to the battlefield. When he finally reached the building and stepped inside, into what had been the home of one of Canusium’s wealthier citizens, he saw Valerius in the back room, in what had been the dining hall. A dozen aides were with him, all going back and forth taking care of the various orders that Valerius was issuing out. He had scouts in the field, shift rotations for men behind the walls that needed taking care of, management of the food stocks, and over a thousand men who were bored with nothing to do but listen to each other’s fears and doubts about what was happening.

Valerius glanced up and saw Gaius standing in the doorway. To even his surprise, Gaius never got the chance to say anything – use one of his reasons for why he should take some men to Cannae. He had a good argument ready, but Valerius just looked back down at his maps and started speaking.

“I want you to take the first cavalry cohort to Cannae. Find out what the fuck is going out there, and report back to me once you have some answers. Is that understood?”

Gaius perked up, standing a bit taller as he was a loss for words. He didn't expect his old mentor to issue such an order.

“Yes, sir. At once.”

Gaius turned quickly and raced out of the manor and towards the army barracks that housed the men he would be taking with him to Cannae. It took him less than five minutes, and when he called forth the eighty men that he would be taking, they all eagerly leaped to their feet, grabbed their gear, and raced off with Gaius.

The distance between the city of Canusium and Cannae was covered by Gaius and his men fairly quickly. They had left Canusium in the morning, and now with less than an hour before night fall, he could see the surrounding hills of Cannae before him. And immediately, he knew something was wrong as he could see thousands of birds circling overhead, further towards the plains set between the city of Cannae, which was where Hannibal had based his army, and the Roman camp.

He kicked his horse, demanded that it run faster as he needed to get to the far side of the hill and see for himself what he already knew a battle took place. But who won? The knot in his stomach gave him early indications that it wasn’t his side.

It was very hot, and the smell of the dead and putrid flesh hit him hard as he rounded the bend, following a narrow paved road that was cut in between two daunting hills. And then, when the fields of Cannae came into view, Gaius’ mouth opened wide as, he and his men stopped abruptly in their tracks.

For miles, further than he could see with his naked eyes, laid the bodies of tens of thousands, all stretched out, and clumped together like stacks of logs, as if an entire forest had been cut down.

Banners, flags and standards of the various Roman cohorts, units and entire legions stuck out of the ground, between the fallen. Birds, thousands, more than Gaius had ever seen flew, landing between the dead, filling their bellies with putrid human flesh; even wild dogs had come down from the hills and walked among the Roman deceased as well. None fought one another, there were so many bodies that they could feast for months without worry of hunger.

Gaius and his men slowly trotted into the battlefield. Along the outer edges, they could see the severed heads of their countrymen stuck on pikes, a clear warning set by the barbarians that were under Hannibal’s command.

A number of Gaius’ soldiers, mostly his newest recruits, could not stand the sight or the smell as they dropped from their horses, and puked their guts out. A few men leaped down from their animals and helped those few that couldn’t bear to look at the carnage any longer, as more than a few of them were openly crying now.

Gaius paid little attention as he continued forward, eventually leaping down from his horse as the animal could not go further through the thick carped of dead men.

He looked around him, barely sure of where he could go. There were so many bodies that he couldn’t avoid stepping on pieces of men, entrails and globs of blood that had pooled, soaking into the earth before drying under the baking sun.

He hated the faces of the dead. Most, nearly all had their eyes open, mouths wide as the look of share terror had filled their expressions, before they had died, slowly, painfully, clumped together with the men before them, beside them, and behind them. Many of the dead were naked. The Carthaginians and their allies would have picked the lifeless clean of anything useful: armor, weapons, coins, jewels, even body parts such as tattoos and heads to be displayed as trophies.

Gaius had a rough estimate where Antony would have been positioned. He needed to move forward and find him. He knew it was impossible to find one man among the countless thousands. It did not matter – he had to try.

He could see, as he worked his way deeper into the body laded ground a few hundred people also walking among the corpses. Most of them were women, and all were sobbing openly. Gaius knew that these women would have been the wives, mothers, sisters and other relatives who had followed the army. They would sift through the remains of the dead looking for a familiar face of a loved one, hoping that they could find them so that they might give them a proper burial. It was morbid and a tedious task, but these women would stay here for as long as they could – weeks, even months picking through the stacks of dead, trying as hard as they could to find those men they had loved; only now, most of the dead looked alike.

A number of other people were also among the dead. These people were mostly men, and were human scavengers. Their task wasn’t as mournful as the women whom he saw. They searched through the bodies looking for whatever they could take, at least what the Carthaginians had overlooked. It appalled Gaius; these people were the filth of the earth, but it wasn’t illegal either. They were common when any army of size marched to battle. They would stay miles behind the lines, just waiting to see who won the fight, and then, would move in and pick clean the dead of anything remotely valuable.

“I never thought I would live to see such a thing,” Maurus, who stood behind Gaius, said as he gazed across the battlefield.

“Send a rider back to Canusium and inform Valerius of what happened here. In addition, start breaking the men into teams of four. Have them search among the dead and try to find any survivors if they can,” Gaius spoke, but not looking back towards his young officer.

“How long do we look?” Maurus asked.

Gaius only glanced back at him. “For as long as we can.”

“And what about you? Where are you going?” Maurus asked, but Gaius did not answer as he started making his way deeper into the sea of broken and bloodied bodies.

A few minutes later as he glanced down at the various faces, most if not all staring up at him, eyes glazed over with death. He saw what looked like a large pile of hands, arms and fingers that had been collected into a dozen stacks, each nearly five feet high. For a moment, he wondered, as he looked at the gory scene, why the Carthaginians would have done this; what purpose it might have meant. Then, it dawned on him, as he looked closer, many of the appendages that had been cut off ring fingers. Each officer, tribune, legate, quaestors and senators, they all wore rings. There were hundreds of them, if not thousands in the army before the battle had started. Gaius realized that Hannibal had probably had each ring collected and cut off from its owners’ hands, dead or alive. The wealth alone would make any one man rich for the rest of his life.

After a few hours, long after the sun had gone down and night had filled the sky, Gaius finally gave up his search. He didn't find Antony, his body nor his head. He could see how the battle had gone as he stood, alone, on top of a sloping hill as his men continued with their work, lit by torchlight, as they worked their way in a grid pattern through the carnage below.

He had found survivors, a few dozen so far, and that he was thankful for. Valerius was sending a cohort of men and wagons, which would take all night to arrive, but at least these men wouldn’t die among their brothers. However, as he stared down at the flickering fires that guided his men’s morbid work, trying to find signs of life among the many dead, he broke, finally.

He failed; he failed to find Antony, his oldest and dearest friend. All he could think about at the moment was, how little time they had spent together, how much he wanted to say to him but never had the courage to say before.

He didn’t know what he was going to say to Julia, how he could possibly tell her that both her brother and father were dead, slaughtered nearly to the man, and by a weaker army no less.

He cried, not only for Antony, not just for Julia, or for his own father, or the men down below, and those that had died in the past year alone. No, he cried for them all, letting out years of built-up anger, sorrow and pain flow out of him.

From this day, on, Gaius, the boy who had dreamed great things once – believed in the superiority of his beloved Republic, was a different man any longer. He had grown up, forever changed by what he has seen, and lived through. Above all, he craved justice for what had happened to his people, and as the gods as his witness, he would see it served.