Carthage Must Be Destroyed, page 27
part #2 of Soldier of the Republic Series
“We surrender,” the bearded man wearing the Punic cap called out in a frantic voice. “We surrender. The ship is yours.”
As more and more marines leapt across and onto the Carthaginian vessel Manus glared at the terrified enemy sailors, as he slowly advanced towards them with his sword drawn and stained with blood. Pausing briefly to gaze around at the chaos of corpses, wounded men, broken and discarded weapons that lay strewn across the deck, Manus slowly turned to the enemy ship’s captain and then to Julian’s surprise he spoke to the Punic captain in a language that Julian had never heard him use before. The Carthaginian captain however seemed to understand Manus, for he quickly nodded and started to yell at his men and, as he did, the Carthaginian sailors hastily got down on their knees and placed their hands over their heads.
“You speak their language, Sir?” Gordianus cried out.
“Four fucking years of training, son,” Manus growled, as he replaced his sword in his sheath. “Four long years in their mines.”
Julian grinned with sudden relief. They had captured the enemy ship. The fight was over. They had won. Without warning one of the Carthaginian prisoners screamed, leapt to his feet and before anyone could stop him, he rushed at Manus, catching the centurion off-guard in a savage, high-tackle that sent both stumbling towards the side of the galley and overboard into the sea. With a yell, Julian dropped his shield and without thinking about what he was doing, he shot across towards the spot where Manus had gone overboard and boldly leapt after him into the sea. As he crashed into the water the world abruptly turned into a green, swirling mass of confused bubbles. Surfacing Julian gasped, spluttering at the shock of the cold water and turned to search for Manus. On the deck three yards above his head Roman voices were urgently shouting to each other as the soldiers dashed about. Close by, the Carthaginian was struggling, spluttering and coughing but before Julian could do anything the man was struck by a Roman spear that killed him. Then Julian caught sight of Manus. The centurion’s hand was feebly trying to grasp hold of the side of the Carthaginian vessel, his mouth and head barely out of the water. He seemed to have struck his forehead on something for he was bleeding heavily and seemed to be rapidly losing consciousness.
With a determined cry, Julian began thrashing through the sea towards Manus feeling the weight of his body armour dragging him down. As Manus lost consciousness and his head slipped beneath the waves, Julian frantically lunged at him catching his arm just in time and dragging the centurion back from his journey to the depth. Wrapping his left arm around the officer’s neck, Julian gasped as he struggled to stay afloat, and at the same time hold Manus’s mouth and nose above the water. He was tiring rapidly. He was not going to last much longer. Desperately Julian turned to look around for support and noticing one of the wooden boarding-ladders floating nearby, he struggled through the water towards it. Summoning the last of his strength and will power, he half managed to heave Manus’s head and shoulders out of the water and onto the wooden planking.
Suddenly a figure came abseiling down the side of the ship with one of the grappling ropes securely tied around his waist. It was Lucius. As the big man hit the water the rope went taught. Twisting around, Lucius yelled at Julian beckoning to him with both his arms.
“Get over here,” Lucius yelled. “Don’t you dare give up now.”
Hanging on to the drifting piece of flotsam, his left arm still wrapped around Manus’ neck, Julian coughed up some sea water and closed his eyes. He could feel his muscles starting to cramp up. The weight of his armour dragging him down, making everything harder. He was spent, drained of energy. But Lucius was right. He could not give up now. Finding the strength from somewhere, he sucked air into his lungs and started to kick and push the wooden boarding-ladder towards where Lucius was dangling on his rope. As a helpful wave pushed him up against the side of the Carthaginian ship, Lucius boldly leaned forwards, caught hold of Manus with both hands under his arm pits and with a mighty bellow, the big man hauled Manus half out of the water. Tightening his grip around the unconscious officer’s chest, Lucius grinned as he and the centurion dangled on their rope half in, half out of the sea, with Manus’s head flopping from side to side and blood pouring down his face.
“I have got him. They have launched the small boat,” Lucius called out. “Hang on there, Julian. We are going to get you out. Just hang on.”
Wearily Julian clung on to the piece of flotsam as above him, anxious Roman faces peered down at him crying encouragement from the deck of the ship.
***
As Julian, soaked to the bone, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, staggered back onto the moving deck of the captured prize, he suddenly realised that he had lost his helmet and gladius. Across the blood-stained-deck, the corpses were still lying where they had fallen and, from below decks the shrieks and cries of the wounded could be clearly heard. Along the edge of the ship, parties of Roman marines were securing their silent miserable looking prisoners. The Carthaginians were kneeling, their heads facing downwards whilst their hands were being secured behind their backs. Catching sight of Lucius and Gordianus standing on the stern deck, Julian came towards them and the three friends quickly and silently embraced. Sitting on the deck, surrounded by the maniple’s officers, his head-wound being attended to by a sailor, Manus was conscious but seemingly still in some pain.
“Report,” the centurion growled in an irritated voice, as the sailor tried to bind a white bandage around the centurion’s head.
“Manus,” the maniple’s optio exclaimed, unable to hide his glee. “The battle has been won. It is a great victory. We have destroyed the Carthaginian fleet. Their naval power has been broken. We have sunk four enemy ships and captured two more out on the water, including this one for no loss. The rest of the Carthaginian fleet then turned away and beached their ships. Their crews have fled inland. They did not have the stomach to fight us. The navy is now preparing to haul away the beached Carthaginian ships with grappling hooks. Looks like we are going to capture at least another twenty-five prizes. It’s the bulk of their fleet.”
Sitting on the deck Manus nodded.
“Casualties?” he growled.
“Twenty-three men, sixteen wounded, seven dead,” the optio replied. “Most of the wounded should recover. Two however are likely to succumb from their wounds before dawn. We are doing all we can.”
As the sailor finished fixing the bandage around his head, Manus seemed to mutter something to himself. Then looking up he caught sight of Julian, Gordianus and Lucius standing watching him.
“Well aren’t you a bunch of bloody heroes,” the centurion snapped. “There I was on my way to meet Neptune himself.”
“I told you that we make our own way, Sir,” Julian said with a cheeky, relieved smile. “The Gods are just spectators.”
Chapter Twenty-Three – The Route South
Late Spring 217 BCE – Near the Boii settlement of Felsina – Cis-Alpine Gaul
Across the wooded hills and meadows, the deep greens of spring had brought a welcome change after the long, bleak winter. It was afternoon and the warmth of the sun, shining in a clear blue sky, seemed to be encouraging plants and animals throughout the beautiful rolling countryside. Leading the band of foragers on horseback along the forest path, Gisgo contentedly raised his chin and sniffed the air. The fresh optimistic scent of new life was everywhere, drifting on the breeze, buzzing and rustling amongst the undergrowth and chirping away in the trees. It was a welcome change he thought - for he was sick to death of the sight of snow and the cold. The long winter had made part of him yearn for the heat of his north African homeland. Yearn to run his fingers over Asha’s coal black skin.
Clad in a fine coat of ring-mail body-armour, leg greaves, a black woollen cloak and wearing his splendid high-domed Thracian helmet, Gisgo looked formidable. A powerful and proud prince of Numidia. For a thirty-one-year-old, he was in fine physical condition, nearly six feet tall and with broad powerful shoulders. His darkish skin colour however, seemed to conflict with his piercing blue eyes. Across his left arm the gash he’d picked up from a Roman spear during the battle of the Trebbia had left an angry white scar. In his right hand, he was clutching a couple of javelins and around his neck, hung a beautiful curved horn made from ivory, and a leather cord off which dangled three tiny painted terracotta heads. Loosely strapped to his horse’s mane, was his small round shield, covered by his family blazon, a black horse on a white background.
The noise of a breaking twig in the forest, abruptly made him turn and suddenly, fully alert, he peered into the undergrowth. There had been no reports of Roman forces in the neighbourhood of Felsina. The Boii were allies of Hannibal. Their tribe’s territory was considered safe. Still the villagers had not been happy, when he and his Numidians had arrived earlier that day to take away their food without compensation. The mood had quickly soured and turned ugly, as the Gaul’s had realised what was happening. Only the presence of Magilus, one of the leaders of the Insubres, had prevented a riot and bloodshed. Carefully Gisgo peered into the forest, searching for the slightest sign of movement. It was tough on the locals but there was no other way. He and his men had to eat and until Hannibal decided to march south and cross the Apennines into Italy, the Gaul’s would have to bear the burden of supporting the Carthaginian army. That was the price they had to pay for their anti-Roman alliance.
Amongst the forest nothing moved. At last, satisfied that they were not about to ambushed by vengeful villagers, Gisgo twisted around on his small Numidian horse and turned to look back at his mounted men. The Numidians were strung out along the narrow track, escorting the wagons loaded with requisitioned supplies back to the Carthaginian camp on the outskirts of Felsina. For a moment Gisgo observed his soldiers. The respite that the winter had provided had been welcome, for it had given his wounded the chance to recover after the epic crossing of the Alps and the battles of the Ticinus and the Trebbia. The six hundred and thirty-one survivors, from the eight hundred men who had set out from New Carthage almost a year ago, were still wearing their old, tattered, worn tunics. But on their thousand-mile march across the Pyrenees and Alps, Gisgo could see that many had acquired Gallic, Roman clothing and weapons. It gave the whole Numidian cavalry unit a rather miscellaneous and ragtag appearance. But there was no doubting that his men were the finest and toughest, battle-hardened veterans he had ever fought with.
Staring at his men, Gisgo’s expression abruptly softened. Nearly a whole year had passed since they had begun their long journey with Hannibal from New Carthage in Spain. They had fought Iberian tribes north of the Ebro, crossed the Pyrenees into Gaul and forced a way across the Rhone in the face of bitter resistance. Then they had scaled the Alps and twice defeated the Roman consuls at Ticinus and Trebbia. His men would follow him into the gates of hell if he commanded them to, Gisgo thought. They were loyal to a fault, his brave mountain lions and fast as falcons on their small shaggy horses. Turning his attention back to the track ahead, Gisgo grunted as he was suddenly reminded of something. The men’s mercenary contracts were nearly due for renewal. None of his Numidians would refuse to sign up for another term, but it meant a shed-load of administrative work, which he would have normally passed on to Mastanabal, his deputy. But Mastanabal was dead, killed during the crossing of the Alps and now he would have to do the work himself.
Carefully Gisgo reached up to touch the three tiny terracotta heads that hung around his neck as his expression soured. What had he personally gained, as a mercenary commander, from a whole year’s service in Hannibal’s army? Absolutely fuck-all.
He had left Carthage and the service of Hanno the Great to join Hannibal’s army, with the intention of making a fortune for himself. A fortune with which he could pay off his father’s vast debts, reclaim his ancestral home and restore the greatness of his family name. This was the heritage that his father had squandered; the reputation he had trashed and the home that he had lost to the banks in Carthage. That had been the plan. Instead, a year later, he still had nothing to show for all the hardships that he had endured. He was no closer to winning a fortune. In fact, he seemed to have grown poorer. What money he had had to start with had all been spent on nursing his wounded back to health by employing the women, who had accompanied the army across the Alps, as stretcher bearers. He had lost out on his commander’s bonus because he had killed the rapist Segomaros, and the loot after the battles against the Romans had been disappointing. Maybe Xenocles was right Gisgo thought with sudden gloominess. Maybe he was just shit at making money. Maybe Tanit, the cruel bitch of a goddess just had it in for him. For he seemed to be constantly losing everything that meant something to him. He had lost his heritage and home as a young boy - forcing him to spend his early years on the run, hiding out amongst the Bedouin on the outskirts of the Sahara. He had lost his wife and son in a shipwreck. He had lost good friends on the journey to Italy. He had lost his savings and commander’s bonus and now he had lost Amia too. For a week ago Magilus had come to him bearing a message. It had come from the Gallic family with whom Amia, Mastanabal’s widow, had been staying, informing him that the poor girl had died during childbirth.
With a weary sigh, Gisgo nudged his horse on along the forest track. Despite his luck and occasional doubts, he had resolved to keep going. There was nothing else he could do. He was not going to quit. He would follow Hannibal’s star. His faith in Hannibal was undiminished. It was the one thing he was certain about - if he followed, Hannibal it would eventually lead him to his fortune and all his sacrifices would have been worth it. He had to keep to the path he’d chosen.
It was a little while later when Gisgo caught sight of the solitary man sitting on a rock at the edge of the track. As he approached, Gisgo frowned. The stranger looked around forty with an unmanly, wimpish appearance. A woman’s basket was slung over his shoulder and he was grimacing in pain as he frantically rubbed his knees. Catching sight of the Numidian column moving towards him, the stranger abruptly stopped what he was doing.
“Numidians,” the man suddenly called out in perfect Punic. “Friends. Good to see you.”
On the forest path, Gisgo quickly raised his fist into the air, bringing the column behind him to a halt. Sat on his rock the stranger was eyeing him with clever, crafty-looking eyes.
“You must be the leader,” the stranger said with a little polite dip of his head.
“Who are you? How come you speak Punic?” Gisgo said.
“I am one of you,” the man replied. “I serve and follow Hannibal. Is that not obvious?”
“I have been with Hannibal since we left New Carthage,” Gisgo retorted. “And I have not seen you before. Did you cross the Alps with us?”
“No,” the man said with a shake of his head. “I came up from the south, but I serve Hannibal just like you do.”
Then the man paused as another spasm of pain seemed to wrack his body. Grimacing and groaning he turned to look away. Taking the opportunity, Gisgo nudged his horse towards the man and leaned forward to peer at the contents of the man’s basket. As he saw what was inside, he frowned again.
“Poppy flowers,” the man exclaimed, as he saw Gisgo looking. “I suffer from recurring and chronic pain in my joints. It makes it hard for me to walk sometimes, like now. But if I smoke the poppies it makes the pain go away.”
“You smoke them,” Gisgo said in a doubtful voice.
“Yes, it makes me feel better. You should try it,” the stranger replied.
“Is that why a Carthaginian is out here, all alone, so far from home,” Gisgo asked raising his eyebrows. “You just decided to go out into the countryside and collect these poppies?”
“Yes. That’s right,” the stranger replied. “My supplies were running low. I needed a refill but now the pain in my joints has come back and I can’t walk. I must wait until the pain passes.”
“And how long does that take?”
“I don’t know,” the stranger replied in a patient voice.
Coolly Gisgo turned to look back at his men, strung out along the forest path. For a moment he seemed undecided. Then abruptly he dismounted and came up to the man.
“I will give you a lift to Hannibal’s camp on one of my wagons,” Gisgo said quietly. “It’s not far. Climb onto my back and I will carry you over to the wagon myself. Can you do that?”
A surprised look appeared on the stranger’s face and for a long moment he did not move or say anything. Then as Gisgo turned and stooped the man hastily reached out for his basket and clambered awkwardly onto his back. Heaving the man up, Gisgo grunted as he started out towards the nearest ox drawn supply wagon. The stranger was light as a feather.
“You are the commander. You did not have to do this,” the man said as he clung to Gisgo’s back. “You could have got one of your men to carry me. Why are you being so kind to me?”
“Hannibal once told me,” Gisgo growled, “that I should learn to handle people I don’t like without killing them. He threatened to withhold my commander’s bonus payment if I didn’t show some restraint and understanding. Well - this is me handling people I don’t like.”
