The Seven Hills

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The march was proceeding altogether gloriously. The massive Carthaginian Army trailed out behind him so far that should he halt, the last elements would not arrive in his camp for two or three days. Size alone did not dictate this attenuation. So vast a host would devastate any country through which it passed. Friendly territory would suffer nearly as sorely as that of the enemy. Not that Hamilcar worried overmuch for the welfare and happiness of his subjects, but his Libyan and Numidian allies could quickly become enemies and their raids might slow and distract his troops. He needed his allied cavalry and dared not offend even their flea-bitten, barbarous chieftains.

Thinking of cavalry, he admired the horsemen who rode as his escort. They were Queen Teuta's Illyrians, and they provided not only his immediate guard, but rode as flankers and forward scouts as well. Their bizarre appearance had the locals gaping wherever they rode. The tattooed men were as fair as Gauls, but they wore tight-fitting trousers and soft boots with pointed, upturned toes. They had long-sleeved jackets and tall, pointed caps with dangling ear-flaps, and every bit of their clothing was stitched with colorful embroidery in fanciful designs: flowers and twining vines and elongated animals writhing into poses of knotted complexity. In their hands were long lances from which streamed banners, and at their belts they carried cased bows and quivers of arrows. Across their backs they carried short sabers in sheaths of figured leather and tucked into their sashes were curved daggers. They did not wear armor and regarded it as unmanly.

Their queen rode beside him, and she looked as fearsome as her men. Her clothing was similar to theirs, but made of gold-embroidered silk, her trousers voluminous, her jacket fitting like a second skin. Instead of the native cap, a lightweight crown of thin gold encircled her brow. The jeweled dagger at her waist was not an ornamental weapon, and at her saddlebow was slung on one side a circular buckler of thick hide faced with bronze, and on the other an axe with a long, slender handle, its head bearing a crescent blade on one side and a cruel, downcurving spike on the other. Once, Hamilcar had asked if she could actually use this odd weapon, and she had only smiled. Later, a hare started from beneath her horse's hooves. She had given chase, then unlimbered the axe, leaned from her saddle and beheaded the creature in mid-leap, her own horse at a full gallop.

Hamilcar reminded himself to ask her no more idle questions.

The weather was splendid, clearly a gift from the gods of Carthage to their favorite. The days were sunny but cool, the evenings just slightly rainy, so that the marching feet and hooves raised little dust.

Their route was along the coastal road. Sometimes it passed behind ranges of hills, and there were days when they were out of sight of the sea, but each time the water came into view again, so did Hamilcar's fleet, keeping easy pace with the army. As they approached prearranged harbors, the ships would speed ahead, so that when Hamilcar and his army reached that spot, the supplies he needed would already have been unloaded, supplies levied from the allies, subjects readied to be carried aboard and new rowers drafted from the locals. All was orderly and in the well-organized fashion that had given Carthage dominion over sea and land for so many years.

"I never knew that so great an enterprise could be run so smoothly," Queen Teuta said when they came in sight of the Pillars. "My chieftains would be hopeless at such a thing, and even the Greeks were not so well ordered in their glory days."

Hamilcar nodded with smug satisfaction. "It is our special gift from the gods. We are not truly a race of warriors, despite our military supremacy. We are sailors and merchants and explorers. These are activities that cannot prosper without close cooperation, discipline and careful planning. Alexander accomplished wonders, but his army marched hungry and thirsty much of the time. It did not occur to that glory-hungry boy to find out whether there was forage, or water, along his route of march. He depended instead upon inspiration, and the love of the gods, and the fanatical loyalty of his men.

"We know that such things are not to be depended upon. The favor of the gods must be purchased with continuous sacrifice. Men must be paid well and regularly. The supplies required by a marching army and a sailing navy must be arranged for down to the last detail before the first trumpet is sounded. Only thus does one gain an empire, and sustain it through generations."

"I shall remember that," she said.

At the Pillars, the fleet was waiting to ferry the army across. Triremes, cargo vessels and great, wallowing barges, many of them built since the fire in the harbor, were ready to take them across the narrow waters. The operation took more than ten days, with ships plying back and forth, carrying men and animals and supplies. Hamilcar found his confidence waning, his nerves assailing him.

"What troubles you?" Teuta asked. They watched the crossing from the tower erected on his personal warship: a huge vessel made of two ordinary triremes With a single deck spanning both.

"We are vulnerable here," he told her, an admission he would have made to no man. "If the Romans arrive, they could catch me with half my army on one side of the strait, half on the other. Even their contemptible navy could give us great trouble, with most of my fleet overloaded and dedicated to transport."

"Still, your might is sufficient to deal with them."

"True, though it would be a great bother. But what I truly dread is a change in the weather. At this time of year great storms can appear on the horizon and be upon us before we can seek shelter. Entire fleets have been lost to such storms, and there would be no way to rebuild here. I would have to march such of my army as I could salvage back to Carthage, and then I could not resume the war for at least a year, perhaps two. And that would mean waiting for a Roman army to cross from Sicily and besiege us."

"Worry does no good," she assured him. "You must trust your destiny."

Somehow, her words did not inspire him as usual. It was not her empire in the balance here, imperiled by every puff of wind and the whim of the gods. What if Zarabel was right and the gods were angry because he had not dedicated them a Tophet?

Norbanus found the army of Mastanabal in a valley south of the Pyrenees. His outriding Gallic cavalry located a foraging party and returned with prisoners to confirm what lay ahead. These men were local Gauls, of a breed heavily interbred with the old Spanish natives, impressed into the Carthaginian forces to make up for the heavy losses inflicted by Rome. They said that Mastanabal was drilling his new army just miles away, near the confluence of the rivers Iberis and Secoris.

Immediately, Norbanus gave two orders. First, the land forces were to redouble their marching speed. Second, his warships were to speed westward and catch any naval force supporting Mastanabal's army. Not a single craft was to be allowed to escape.

He wanted to achieve complete surprise, but knew that this was unlikely with an army the size of the one he led. Sooner or later a patrol of Mastanabal's cavalry must detect them and speed back with warning. No help for that. But he could be assured that the Carthaginian would have as little time as possible to prepare.

The land was hilly and wooded, very different from the lands of the East his men had seen on the long march. But the Romans felt at home here. It was not greatly different from the country where they had been fighting for generations, since the Exile.

He was tense but exultant. At last, he would be tested in a real battle, against a formidable army led by a general of proven experience and skill. Not that he had any doubt of the outcome. Clearly, Mastanabal could not be accounted a general of the first rank. He had allowed himself to be badly mauled by an inferior Roman army, indifferently led. This was no Hannibal. The situation was ideal. Norbanus's army could be blooded here, at no great risk. Victorious, they would believe themselves to be invincible always. And he knew that true victory lay not just in arms and skill, but in the minds of men.

With a small band of his officers, he rode ahead of his army. They rode cloaked to cover the gleam of their armor, keeping away from the skyline. It was risky, but Norbanus wanted to examine the ground personally before committing his troops. Reconnaissance was an art that a commander neglected at his greatest peril.

The smoke from hundreds of campfires told them they were near the main army, and from this point they proceeded with caution. Eventually they found a spot of high ground and rode just short of the crest. Then they dismounted and went on foot to peer over the ridge at the huge camp below. It spread along the river for a great distance, behind an earthen rampart set with stakes and patrolled by sentries.

"It's a pretty well-ordered camp, for barbarians," noted Niger.

Norbanus had Selene's gift out and was using it to scan the camp, counting standards. "He has his Greek troops on the south end. You can tell by the way their tents are lined up. The rest must be Gauls and Iberians and other savages. They have no idea how to encamp. I'm amazed he got them to stay behind the wall." He passed the instrument to Cato.

Cato looked over the camp and passed the thing to Niger. "The important thing is: He hasn't linked up with Hamilcar yet." Word had come to them that Hamilcar had crossed the strait and that meant they would meet him in Spain.

"Close to our numbers," Niger said. "I'd say we have a slight superiority, unless he has some sizable elements out foraging." That was a matter for concern. The sudden return of a large party after a battle was joined could be disastrous.

"We'll chance it," Norbanus said. "We'll never have a better chance. I want our men in battle order on that field at first light tomorrow, even if it means moving them around all night to get them in position."

What he proposed was risky and difficult, but his subordinates made no protest. They had confidence in their leader now.

Just before sundown a party of scouts rode in and informed Mastanabal that they had seen elements of an approaching Roman army. The scouts were Edetani, black-haired warriors with legs formed to the barrel of a horse.

"What were these Romans doing?" the general asked.

"They behaved very strangely," the head scout said. "Almost as soon as we saw them, they halted at a piece of flat ground. Some men took odd instruments from their shoulders and stuck them into the ground. They looked along the tops of these instruments and waved their arms and shouted to the others. Then many men ran about the field and stuck colored flags into the ground. We think it was some sort of religious rite, although we saw no sacrifices."

Mastanabal and his senior officers chuckled. They had seen the elaborate Roman system of encampment many times during the Alexandrian campaign. These Spaniards were too primitive even to post sentries, much less recognize the nature of such a proceeding. The general made sure that he had the exact distance and location of the Roman force and dismissed the scouts.

"Excellent!" Mastanabal said. "They will break that camp before first light and will be here by late afternoon tomorrow to find us blocking their way."

"So, will we give battle the morning after?" asked a subordinate.

"Why wait? If there is as much as an hour's light left when they arrive, I intend to give battle immediately! These Romans rely heavily upon their formations and battle order. We will strike before they can deploy fully."

In the blackness before dawn Mastanabal was awakened by the sound of trumpets. His eyes snapped-open and he knew something had to be wrong. His groom held his horse ready and he mounted. As he pelted through the camp, men were tumbling from their tents, demanding from one another what was happening. Roman soldiers would already be armed and on their way to their positions on the rampart, Mastanabal thought enviously. He had seen the Romans' night drills, how every man tented in exactly the same spot in every camp and manned the same spot on the wall, so that no matter where they were, the Romans were in the same fort as always.

Not for the first time, Mastanabal wished he had an army made up solely of Carthaginians, instead of this polyglot rabble. But that would not be the Carthaginian way, he thought resignedly. He came to the tower over the main gate and ran up its wooden stair. "What is it?" he barked. "If this is a false alarm, I'll have you all crucified!" The soldiers looked fearful, knowing this was no idle threat. Their officer seemed unimpressed.

"Movement out there, General," he said. "They're being quiet, but it's no scouting probe." He gestured to a rope ladder that lay coiled at his feet. "I went down the wall and walked out a way to be sure. Couldn't see anything, but there's a sizable force gathering on the field to the east of us." The officer, a Spartan professional, knew his business. Mastanabal began to have a very bad feeling.

His senior officers gathered behind him on the platform. No one spoke while their general held his silence. He was not about to speak until he knew exactly what he faced. The coming dawn would tell him all he needed to know. Dawn was not long in coming.

Shouts of wonder rah up and down the rampart; men babbled in a score of tongues and called upon a hundred gods as growing light revealed what had appeared upon the field before them. A huge army stood there, drawn up in great rectangles, standard-bearers to the fore. The most terrifying thing about them was not their numbers, which were no greater than those of the Carthaginian army, or their perfect order, for the Greeks and Macedonians were as disciplined. What struck Mastanabal's men with fear was their eerie, utter silence. It was like beholding an army of ghosts.

The Roman encampment had been a ruse. Mastanabal cursed himself for falling for such a trick. They had marched all night to get here. Such a night march was in itself a considerable feat. But to get out onto that field and form up from marching order to battle order in darkness, completely undetected save for a keen-eared Spartan soldier? Who was capable of such a thing? Certainly not a Roman general like the one he had already beaten. Then he knew.

"It's Norbanus," he said quietly.

"Can it be he, my General?" said a subordinate. "The spies said he was back in Italy, but to come all the way here-"

"It can be no other. I came to know him on the Egyptian campaign. He is wily and imaginative. Only he could have done this."

"I knew him, too," said a Libyan commander. "He can make men march, but he has little reputation as a fighting general. His part in the battle outside Alexandria was well done, but it was just a field maneuver that gave us the advantage. His men did little fighting."

That was true, and the words put heart in the Carthaginian leader. "Counting standards, I make his strength at eight legions. We still have superior numbers, and we are far stronger in cavalry. And the gods of Carthage are stronger than the gods of Rome. He's taken the best ground, naturally, but we won't fight him there. He can come here and fight us, where we have the fortified camp at our backs and the river on our flanks. The advantage is all ours here."

"What if he refuses to give battle, My General?" asked the Libyan.

Mastanabal smiled wolfishly, showing sharp teeth. "Then we will take our ease right here. Soon the shofet will join us, with an army twice our size. Norbanus can fight us then, if it pleases him." His commanders chuckled. That was better. The unexpected shock to their nerves was receding. "Order the men to breakfast. We'll send out a delegation to parley, then make our battle dispositions when the sun is high-"

"My General," said the phlegmatic Spartan, "you had better look over there."

The sun had risen behind the Romans, casting its glitter from standards and spear points and polished armor. At first, nothing seemed to have changed. Then he saw the rhythmic flashing along the line. It came from the polished greaves worn by the centurions. They were walking. With the same incredible precision, without the sound of so much as a single trumpet, the Roman army was advancing.

"My General," said someone, "I don't think they want to parley."

They had given him no time! No time to plan, no time to feed his men, no time for a harangue, no time to make the customary sacrifices. Were he to rush through the ceremonies now, he would look like a half-beaten man, no longer in control of his and his army's fate.

"Do we meet them here or on the field?" demanded the Libyan. "We must know now."

"There is no time to deploy properly. They would catch us with half our men outside the camp, half in. We will meet them here on the walls. It will just take longer to kill them all this way. They must be exhausted after marching all night, and our men are well rested. This is just like Norbanus. What he is doing is bold, but it is foolish. He wastes his men needlessly." It galled him but he had little choice. It was safe enough, but from here he could not concentrate his strength as he pleased. He could not take advantage if he saw a weakness in the Roman formation. There was no scope for generalship in such a fight. On the walls, the ferocity of his Gauls and his Spaniards would be wasted. His splendid cavalry would remain penned up like sheep, completely useless.

Remorselessly, the legionaries came on. He scanned to their flanks and rear. They seemed to have no siege-train. That was excellent. With no heavy missile hurlers or specialized assault equipment, they must attack the rampart with infantry alone. That would prove very costly to them. It was the worst possible way to assault a fortification, simply hurling human flesh against steel.

He looked along his own wall. It was only earth and timber, but the earth was heaped eight feet high and topped with sharpened stakes. He had not entrenched. He had not dug a ditch lined with traps and foot stakes. But he had never expected to have to defend this place. It was merely a temporary camp for amassing a force to renew the attack on Rome.

It was no matter. He had beaten Romans before. He would beat this army as well. Already, his men were over their first astonishment. All up and down the western wall, tribal war chants boomed out. Spaniards waved their vicious falcatas and Gauls whirled their long swords. Slingers were taking their positions, their pouches full of lead slugs. Archers arranged their arrows tidily. At the southern end of the wall the Greeks stood silent and ready, superbly armored and holding their long spears.

Mastanabal was satisfied. There were few recruits in his army. Most were men with long experience of war. The Romans were raising legions too fast. They had too many untried boys, not enough veterans. It had led them to disaster before, in Hannibal's time and now in his own. He squinted toward the approaching Romans and tried to make out their dispositions. The rising sun at their backs made this difficult. They had chosen the right direction from which to make their assault.

This one leaves little to chance, Mastanabal thought.

Norbanus watched the advance with greatest satisfaction. All had worked out perfectly. The ruse with the false camp had paid off handsomely. His greatest worry had been that the scouts would leave some men behind to make a count of the arriving legions. They would have seen that the army did not halt at the camp and would have known the truth. His own horsemen might not have caught them. But the scouts had been satisfied with what they had seen and they had been too lacking in initiative to wait to see more.

And, as always, the gods of Rome were watching over their favorite, Titus Norbanus.

His men made a splendid show as they marched in perfect silence. They had stripped the covers from their shields, displaying bright new paint, the colors and devices identifying the various units. Those who had crests and plumes had mounted them on their helmets, the bright feathers and horsehair nodding to their steps. Armor and weapons were polished bright. Brightest of all were the standards. His four old legions, veterans of the long march, had turned in their old standards and been given the new, standardized eagles of silver and gold. The men who carried them were draped with the skins of lions. The bearers of the lesser standards wore pelts of wolf and bear.

And, he reflected with some satisfaction, the ruse and the night march had not been his only inspired decisions. The silent advance had been his idea as well. He had instructed his men carefully that there would be no trumpets, but all orders must be given with the voice, in words quietly but clearly spoken. Here the oratorical training of the officers had paid off, for they knew how to make themselves heard without shouting. He knew that to the enemy on the wall opposite, the sight would be awesome and frightening.

The crowning achievement was his decision to attack at first light without negotiation. It looked foolish, but he knew that it made the best possible use of his strength while crippling his enemy. Mastanabal could not know that his fortified camp was, to the Romans, nothing but a big Gallic oppidum, and they had taken hundreds of such by storm. It was one of the most basic tasks given to legionary trainees.

They had marched all night, but he had given them two days of rest before beginning it. This had been risky, since they might have been reported by locals anxious to curry favor with Carthage, and it gave Hamilcar more time to link up with Mastanabal's army, but he had deemed the risk acceptable.

No doubt about it, he thought, his planning and execution had been without flaw and without peer. The name of Titus Norbanus would live forever. And this was only the beginning.

First, though, to reduce this fortification and exterminate this army that had the impudence to exist upon what was, by right and the will of the gods, Roman territory. His battle plan was fully formulated and was even now being implemented. It was unique and, of course, it was risky. But a man proved his greatness only by pressing his luck relentlessly.

And, did the Carthaginian but know it, this was just one part of a two-part battle. The other phase was even now being fought. It galled Norbanus that he could not be in control of that battle as well.

Decimus Arrunteius, duumvir of the fleet already called the Norbanian, paced the long deck of his flagship, Avenging Mars. The deck itself was a new innovation. The traditional warship had a mere catwalk stretching its length between the benches of the upper banks of rowers. Romans liked room for soldiers to maneuver, so they had raised the catwalk above the rowers' heads and widened it into a true deck. The Greek shipwrights had protested that this would destroy the ships' stability and make them prone to capsizing. The Romans' answer had been swift and impatient: Build the ships wider. The Greeks had said that this would make the ships slow and unwieldy. The Romans answered that men were cheap: Add more rowers.

The result Arrunteius surveyed all around him: a fleet of ships larger and more powerful than the traditional Greek trireme that had been supreme on the Middle Sea for centuries. The ships might not be quite as quick or maneuverable as the Greek ships, but he had confidence that their superior qualities would more than make up for this.

And confidence was needed. He knew that a Carthaginian fleet lay ahead of him, not far away. That nation had reigned supreme on the sea since the expulsion of Rome from Italy. The Carthaginians and their many seagoing allies were long experienced and tested in sailing, in rowing, and in battle upon the waters. The Romans were none of these things. But once before Rome had bested Carthage at sea, and they counted on Carthaginian arrogance, that Carthage would have forgotten the lessons learned at such cost.

Arrunteius walked forward and mounted the "castle," a strong tower erected near the prow of Avenging Mars. Similar towers adorned the foredecks of the larger warships. Behind each tower stood a long bridge, one end hinged to a circular pivot on the deck, the other featuring a three-foot spike of iron. In battle it would be swung outboard and dropped so that the spike sank into an enemy deck; forming a boarding bridge for the marines manning every Roman ship. It was called a corvus: "crow."

In addition, every ship was built atop an extra-massive keel, its fore end tipped with a heavy ram of cast bronze.

The Romans had little confidence in their ability to maneuver in action and to ram, but they wanted both to be decisive when accomplished.

In all, the new, Italian-built fleet had nothing like the wildly imaginative innovations of the Alexandrian fleet, but its improvements had been well thought out, and some, like the tower and the corvus, had proven successful nearly two centuries before, in the first war against Carthage.

About the men, Arninteius was not so certain. The sailors were mainly Greek, each with an Italian understudy learning the craft. The rowers were Italians, working their way into Roman favor in the most arduous way imaginable. They had mastered the skills of the oar and now took pride in their work. They had formed their own guild with its special gods, rituals and sacrifices. Their loyalty they would prove in action.

The marines, likewise, were mostly Italians, with a leavening of legionaries for stiffening: They had been drilled with great intensity in the arts of Roman close combat. Every man was armed with heavy and light javelins, a short, razor-edged gladius and a dagger. They wore iron helmets and shirts of Gallic mail. These last were shorter than the legionary type, extending only to the waist, and they lacked the distinctive shoulder doublings of legionary armor. Their shields, likewise, were somewhat smaller and far lighter than those used on land. These changes had been deemed expedient for warfare at sea. The shields were painted blue for sea service, and adorned with pictures of tritons, Nereids, hippokampi, the trident of Neptune and other nautical designs.

"Admiral!" called the sailing master, a Greek like most of them. "Around that point," he jabbed a finger at a cape of land that jutted into the sea to the southwest, "lies a cove near the mouth of the Iberis. If the Carthaginian army is anywhere nearby inland, it is a natural place for their fleet to put in."

"Then we will go around the cape in battle order. If there are no hostile forces in sight, resume cruising as usual." The requisite orders were passed by flag, and the fleet prepared for action, as it had numerous times before: Yards and sails were lowered and stored away, but the masts were left standing, for the corvi were slung from them. Arms were prepared; the sky was scanned for omens. The ships took up position abreast with the heavy triremes in the first line, the smaller, swifter biremes in the second and the smallest vessels and the transports well astern. In a slow and stately maneuver, like a legion changing front on the parade ground, the great line of ships swept around the cape. On the other side they found the Carthaginians.

Despite himself, Arrunteius gaped at the sight, his hands gripping the rail of the castle's waist-high bulwark. Drill and training was one thing. This was the first time Romans had beheld an enemy fleet since before the days of their grandfathers. "How many?" he demanded of the sailing master.

"Forty triremes at least. Not the main fleet by at least a hundred warships."

Arrunteius felt the sweat of relief spring from beneath his helmet. His greatest fear had been that his untested fleet would be thrown against the far larger combined battle fleet of Carthage. He needed a smaller fight to get his men blooded first, and it looked like that fight would be big enough. He had thirty-four triremes in his command, and twenty of the smaller biremes. He was outnumbered and the enemy was more experienced at this sort of fighting, but his ships were already arrayed for battle and had caught the other fleet by surprise. That advantage, plus the heaviness and power of his capital ships, should be enough.

"Advance and take them all," he called. "I want none to escape." His signals officer barked orders and the flagmen transferred the admiral's commands. The triremes swept forward in a broad crescent, pivoting on the right, landward ship, swinging around like a huge door to close off the little harbor. A large detachment of the biremes broke away from the main formation and rowed southwestward along the coast. They would take up a position in line abreast to trap any vessel that tried to escape and carry warning to Hamilcar's fleet.

All this was one of several prearranged battle plans. The Romans, consulting with their Greek sailing masters, had concocted a number of these, each with its own signals, each precise but allowing for flexibility for individual initiative and contingencies. History had taught them the folly of rigid adherence to a battle plan.

Inshore, the enemy was wasting no time. From the moment the Roman fleet heaved in sight, battle preparations commenced. Even with the before-action tension twisting his stomach, Arrunteius found himself admiring the efficiency with which his opposite number was coping with the unexpected danger. Ships in the water were prepared for battle with amazing speed. Masts were lowered, sails and yards stowed away or merely pitched overboard to clear the decks. All inessential gear was disposed of in this manner. Even slaves working on the ships were thrown into the water to swim or drown.

Ships that had been drawn up on shore were dragged into the water, their crews scrambling aboard, running out oars before the hulls were fully afloat. Transports and cargo vessels were pulled close inshore, leaving the war fleet as muchmaneuvering room as possible. All, clearly, was according to a long-established naval practice.

In an amazingly short time the Carthaginian fleet was in the water, in battle order and heading for the Roman line, before the Romans had even completed their encircling sweep to shut off the harbor. The first elements were heading straight for the Roman center. Straight for Avenging Mars.

The first Carthaginian trireme seemed on top of him more quickly than Arrunteius could have imagined. He felt cooler now, because his task as admiral was substantially done. Now the battle devolved upon the individual ships' captains and their crews. The ship bearing down upon him was like something out of Hades: a lean, low dragon shape from which trails of smoke arched toward him-fire arrows, he realized. Above the ship's fanged ram squatted the hideous little god Patechus, the Punic terror demon. The archers around Arrunteius on the castle began to send shafts toward the enemy, and from the deck below him came the thudding of the ballistae as they fired their heavy iron javelins.

The enemy ship swerved to one side, an old naval maneuver intended to send the galley plowing through the oars on one side of Arrunteius's ship, their flailing handles reducing the rowers inside to dog meat, crippling his ship so that the Carthaginian could ram at leisure. But his sailing master turned into the other's bow, an unexpected maneuver devised to take advantage of the Roman galley's greater mass.

Going ram-to-ram was the one thing the Carthaginians were not prepared for. The bronze-sheathed ram of Avenging Mars struck just below and to one side of the crouching god, crunching through the wood with the awful momentum of both ships. Seconds before the impact, the Roman rowers drew in their oars. Arrunteius grabbed the railing before him as his ship lurched, then rose. Amazed, he realized that his own vessel was riding up over the keel of the lighter craft, splitting its deck like a huge saw splitting a plank. Boards and timbers flew; splinters showered the men on the tower as the heavy Roman galley plowed through the Carthaginian. Below, men screamed, flailed, dived into the water or were pulped.

Arrunteius saw one side of the enemy ship open up and the oar benches, along with the rowers, topple into the sea. Armored men waved their weapons in perfect futility as their ship broke up beneath them. A man he took to be the captain stood for a moment beside the steering oar, his face a mask of incomprehension. Then the stern was swamped and the whole ship, now in many pieces, settled into the water.

Arrunteius stood, astounded. In moments, a magnificent ship was reduced to bits of floating debris. And he had done it! He, Decimus Arrunteius, in his invincible ship! He waved his fists aloft. "Mars is victorious!" he shouted. All over the ship, men regained use of their tongues and took up the cry. "Mars is victorious! Mars is victorious!"

Now he remembered that he was an admiral and there was still a battle to win. He looked around him and saw a score of ship fights in progress. Some ships were locked together by the corvi, soldiers swarming across to fight hand-to-hand. Others lay grappled, and men scrambled over the rails. He could see the results of other rammings, some of them with the same devastating result his own had accomplished. Here and there, Carthaginians had managed to ram Roman vessels, and some of these were sinking, though the heavier timbers of the Roman ships usually gave their men time to board the enemy. Roman boarding inevitably led to the Carthaginians' capture, for the mercenaries manning their decks were no match for Roman swordsmen, even those who had been mere Italian villagers or bandits the year before. Their gladii quickly turned the enemy deck to a bloody shambles.

"How are our oarsmen?" Arrunteius demanded. "Can we maneuver?"

"Haven't lost many," the sailing master answered. "They shipped oars in time."

"Then find us another to ram!" He looked around, and saw a Carthaginian galley backing away from the hole it had punched in the side of a Roman vessel. Arrunteius pointed toward it. "That one!"

With the sailing master shouting down to the oar master and that officer barking the orders to his charges, Avenging Mars turned on its axis until its ram was pointed at the Carthaginian; then it surged forward, picking up speed as the hortator increased the tempo of his drumbeats. Arrunteius saw faces along the enemy rail turn, go pale. He saw fingers pointing and mouths forming shouts as they saw the doom bearing down upon them, but it was far too late.

The ram of Avenging Mars caught the Carthaginian galley amidships, where the timbers were thinnest and most stressed. This time the castle barely vibrated beneath Arrunteius's feet as the enemy ship broke in two, filled and sank so swiftly that it was like some sort of conjurer's trick. Again he raised the shout, "Mars is victorious!" The men aboard the rammed Roman ship cheered as loudly to see their vessel so quickly avenged, cheering as they scrambled to jam canvas and wood and dead bodies into the gaping hole in her side.

"Find me another!" Arrunteius cried, exulting. He knew now that his ship was invincible. Rome was invincible.

Within an hour, the battle was effectively over. The waiting biremes pounced on the few warships that managed to get through the Roman battle line, two or three biremes attacking each larger Carthaginian craft, ramming and then sending boarders across to butcher the defenders. Desperate crews beached their ships, threw away their arms and took to their heels, running for the interior. They would be desperate, hunted men, for if the Romans caught them they faced slavery, while Carthage would crucify them.

Avenging Mars rowed through the wreckage toward a wharf, and Arrunteius surveyed the scene with the greatest satisfaction. Here and there, hulks lay low in the water, smoke drifting from their timbers. Some ships were still sinking; others wallowed, abandoned, their crews all dead. The water was thick with blood, and sharks converged from, all quarters, tearing excitedly at this abundance of flesh. Arrunteius's officers were taking inventory of the captured supply ships and transports and were questioning surviving officers with great rigor.

The entire Carthaginian fleet was destroyed or captured. Arrunteius had lost seven triremes and a handful of biremes, but the crews, rowers and marines of these ships had mostly been saved. A few days of hard work would put his fleet back in order. He knew that the main Carthaginian fleet would be far larger and it would be a harder fight, but now his men had confidence in their admiral, in their ships and in themselves.

With his ship made fast to the wharf, Arrunteius went ashore and erected an altar, demolishing a Carthaginian altar to Baal-Hammon for the purpose. He sacrificed to Jupiter, to Mars and to Neptune in gratitude for his victory. He poured oil and wine over the altar, then the blood of the sacrificial animals; then he kindled a fire and burned the sacrifices, chanting the ancient prayers until all was thoroughly consumed. When the ritual obligations had been observed, he assembled his officers.

"I want the rams from all those Carthaginian ships," he ordered. "Send salvage divers down if you have to, but I must have every one of them. They will adorn the monument I will erect in the Forum when we return to Rome. I can't petition the Senate for a triumph-it's not allowed for a mere naval battle, especially since it hasn't concluded a successful war-but I will see to it that Rome never forgets what we did here this day. Our generals are taking back our empire from Carthage. But we are taking back our sea!"

His officers cheered lustily, and his marines and sailors took up the shout. He felt all his ancestors looking down upon him with approval. He had made the name of Arrunteius shine with glory. He. was the first duumvir of Rome's resurgence.

Mastanabal watched the approaching roman lines with wonder. What could they possibly intend? With no ladders and no towers or other machines, how did they expect to take his wall? And they were not concentrating on a single point, but advancing on a front as wide as the wall itself. Arrows began arching out from his fort, but at such range the Romans had plenty of time to see them coming and raise their shields. When the Romans were a hundred paces away, they stopped, the entire front freezing on the same step, as if the army were a single creature. The silence continued.

"Ah!" Mastanabal said. "They have made their show; now they will send out envoys to negotiate." But the Romans surprised him again.

Abruptly, all the trumpets blared, using a technique he had never heard before-a great, feral snarl that sent a bolt of cold fear up the spine. Then, in unison, the soldiers beat the inner sides of their shields with their spear butts, chanting something incomprehensible. At last, they raised spears and shields, shaking them and roaring as if to draw the attention of the infernal gods.

Mastanabal saw that his men were already confused and terrified, and they had not yet experienced the first arrow, spear or sling-stone of battle. "It's just noise!" he shouted. "Don't let a little noise scare you!" But even his Spartans looked uneasy. He felt shaken himself. That war cry made the Greek paean sound like a whimper of surrender.

"Tanit!" someone breathed behind him. "What now?"

For the Romans were advancing again, and not at their previous, stately pace. This time they were running.

Carthaginian arrows began to fall among them, then sling-bullets, then javelins, but the Romans kept their shields high and took few casualties from the missiles. When they were close, closer than Mastanabal would have deemed possible, the front-line shields dropped, arms rocked back, and the men hurled their javelins. First the light javelins sailed over the wall and its defenders to land among the reinforcements behind. Then the heavy, murderous pila smashed into men and shields, sowing havoc.

Their javelins gone, the front-line men knelt at the base of the earthwork, their shields overlapped and raised overhead. The second line hurled their javelins and knelt behind the first, then the third line did the same. Another line charged in. These men jumped onto the roof of shields, threw their pila, then formed a second story to the human platform.

Mastanabal had seen these intricate formations practiced when the Roman soldiers first arrived at Carthage, but now he was seeing them under battle conditions. He saw the bright paint on the unscarred shields, the new armor worn by the men. "He's using his untried boys for a platform," he said. Now there were three layers to the platform. The shields were now at the base of the wooden palisade. Mastanabal's men threw down anything that might break the formation: first heavy spears, then stones, timbers, even wagon wheels. Nothing shook the overlapping shields.

"Bring oil and torches!" the general shouted. Then he saw the next line advancing: fierce-looking, sunburned men whose stride carried a chilling assurance. The veterans had arrived, men he had last seen half a world away, in Egypt. "Get the oil quick!" he screamed.

But already the veterans were mounting the human platform, fending off missiles with contemptuous ease, until they were standing against the palisade, thrusting with their spears at the faces that appeared there. Why aren't they throwing the spears? Mastanabal wondered. It was always their prelude to a hand-to-hand fight. Then the trumpets blared out again, and all along his wall, the crouching legionaries who made up the platform stood.

There came a great, cry from beneath the structure of overlapped shields as men made a superhuman effort and got to their feet, lifting the vast weight above them. Slowly, not quite evenly, the great formation lifted, extended, rose by inches like some gigantic, incomprehensible machine. Then the veteran legionaries of Norbanus were standing above the palisade that topped his camp wall. And now their arms rocked back and they threw their spears, casting them downward onto the terrified enemy, already unmanned by this seemingly inhuman method of making war.

There was a brief, shield-to-shield struggle as the Romans drew their swords and sought to force a way onto the wall. Every man was determined to win the corona muralis: the crown awarded to the first man atop an enemy wall. The mercenaries and allies strove as desperately to keep them out, but now the Romans had the advantage of height and gravity. The front line, first here and there, then along the whole length of the wall, began jumping from the shield platform onto the walk behind the palisade. They tore at the timbers and made gaps for easier passage. More of the veteran troops mounted the shield platform and poured across. Fighting was general all along the wall; then it spilled down the rear face of the earthwork and into the camp.

Mastanabal looked on, appalled. Once in the camp, the Romans could not use their fine teamwork and coordination, and had no time to muster a formation. But his own men were crowded together, getting in one another's way, while the Romans never let themselves get too close for a man to be able to wield his weapons. They fought as individuals as fiercely as they did in formation, and these men had the smell of blood in their nostrils. They slew relentlessly, the razor-edged gladii lancing out to open throats, bellies, breasts, severing arms, opening thighs to let the bright, arterial blood jet out into the befouled air. Mastanabal's men were going down in heaps, often unable to so much as raise their arms.

Below him, Romans were forcing the gate open from inside, and now the shield platform was breaking up, the young men forcing their way into the camp through the gate, or over the earthwork now that the palisade was demolished. Mastanabal's cavalry tried frantically to escape, heading for the river. In an unbelievably short time he knew that all was lost. Only his Greek and Macedonian professionals still stood firm, holding their tight, disciplined formation. There was a standoff in that part of the battle, as the Romans isolated the Greeks from the others. Now they were surrounding his tower and he saw the golden boy himself, Titus Norbanus, riding leisurely to the base.

"General Mastanabal!" Norbanus called up to him. "It's good to see you again, after so long. Will you surrender? It's only a formality, you know. You're beaten. I am willing to spare your life."

Mastanabal snorted. "I'll not surrender to an enemy I have beaten before. Today the gods love you, Titus Norbanus. Perhaps we should have performed the Tophet before embarking on this war. No, between your yoke and my master's cross, I will choose honor instead." So saying, he drew his sword. Balancing atop the tower wall, he saw the Romans watching with great interest as he placed the point of his sword into his mouth. Then he toppled from the wall, headfirst. His blood showered Norbanus and made his horse shy. The other Carthaginian officers followed suit until all were dead. Only the Spartan remained on the tower, and he leaned over its parapet.

"I think we should talk, Roman," the Greek officer said.

Norbanus looked toward the south end of the wall, where the Greeks still held firm. His men were probing with long spears they had picked up, some of them rushing in and hacking at shields and spear shafts with pickaxes. He sent an officer with an order to pull back for a while.

"Can you negotiate for those Greeks? They are good soldiers."

"They will listen to me," said the Spartan. "I'm Xantippus."

"Then here are my terms, offered once. If they lay down their arms, they may live. Otherwise, I will kill every one of them."

"Does surrender mean slavery, or will you let them go home?"

"They will be free to go. If they will take service with me as auxilia, they may even keep their arms."

The Spartan seemed surprised. "That is very generous. Let me speak with them."

Norbanus rode though the gate, and Xantippus descended from the tower. He walked along beside Norbanus as they passed along the wall. Norbanus watched with interest as his men mopped up the last, desperate resistance. Most of the surviving mercenaries were at the river, fighting knee-deep in the water or trying to swim to the other side. But the Roman cavalry had already crossed and cut off escape for all but a very few.

The legionaries were in no mood for merciful gestures, and enemy warriors were seldom good slave material, so most were cut down where they stood and the wounded finished off on the ground with swift thrusts of pilum and gladius. The women of the camp, some with children in tow, were already being rounded up, as were the slaves, who now had new masters.

Across the river, Norbanus saw detachments of Mastanabal's former cavalry force splitting up and running, some with his own horsemen in pursuit. He would have preferred to bag all the cavalry as well, but there had been no possibility of shutting off all escape.

He rode to where the Greeks stood sullenly, weapons gripped in their fists, many. of them bloodied. They had taken some casualties and had inflicted some as well, but in this sort of fight the casualties were usually light until one side lost its cohesiveness and broke formation. That was when the real slaughter began. He let Xantippus go and confer with the officers; then he addressed them.

"I am Titus Norbanus. I have just destroyed Mastanabal, as you have seen. I intend to do the same to Hamilcar, and to Carthage. But that is for the future. Right here and right now, you have a choice. We can make a fight of it, and it will be a hard one, and all of you will die; and some of us will, as well. You can lay down your arms and I promise none of you will be enslaved. Or you can take my oath, keep your arms and join my army as auxilia. You'll get no share of the loot from this fight, of course, but otherwise you will have the same status as the rest of my soldiers, short of citizenship. I am generous, but I am not patient. Decide quickly."

Xantippus and the other officers conferred in low voices; then they took a quick poll of the men. The Spartan spoke first: "We accept your offer of honorable service. We will be your faithful soldiers to the end."

"Then speak with my quartermaster and he will assign you your place in camp. I will make you all rich men."

In all, Norbanus reflected as he rode away, it was turning out to be a very fine day. But it got even better. As he sat in front of the late Carthaginian general's tent while the loot was piled up and tallied, a rider came from the coast on a lathered mount. He brought news from the duumvir Decimus Arrunteius: victory on the sea, that very same day! Word spread through the camp and men congratulated one another on serving so lucky a general, such a favorite of the gods.

In the evening, Norbanus performed the proper sacrifices, then assembled all the men for the award ceremony.

He gave the corona muralis to a young officer who had been first to stand atop the wall, and the civic crown to several men who had saved the lives of fellow citizens in the fighting. Certain centurions he singled out for honor, bestowing upon them military bracelets. He was about to dismiss the formation when the senior centurion of one of his legions strode forth and stood below his reviewing stand. The man raised an arm and extended his fist toward his general. "Imperator!" the grizzled officer shouted. "Imperator!" The other soldiers took up the shout: "Imperator! Imperator!!" Slowly, it turned into a chant: "Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor!" On and on it went and Titus Norbanus felt himself to be a god. To be honored with the title of imperator by spontaneous acclamation of his own soldiers was the highest honor to which a Roman general could aspire. In a triumph he would be honored by the citizenry as a whole, but these were the men who counted.

Hamicar and Carthage might still await, but this would never be taken from him. He let the intoxication flow through him as the chant went on and on and he knew what it was to be worshipped.