Authors: David Anthony Durham
Though he spoke this forcefully he seemed to doubt it a moment later. He muttered, “I would not want to act mistakenly here, would you? Find a tribune, at least. But in the meantime get them off their horses and keep them under guard.”
They forced the Numidians to dismount and march between a company of armored guards who smacked them with the flats of swords, poked them with the butts of spears, taunted and threatened them, insulted the bitch creatures that had birthed them, and ridiculed the commander who had led them to their enslavement. Finally—collected in a tight group on a flat stretch of barren, sun-baked ground—they were told to sit on their black asses and not to move.
Few of them spoke. They looked at each other with their somber eyes, and this sufficed as communication. The man in front of Tusselo looked over his shoulder and offered him a strip of dried meat. Tusselo nodded in affirmation of the man's calm, but refused the food. He still tasted the Roman legionary's sweat on his sore lips. This reminded him of things he wished to forget, and yet something in him wanted to
remember
what he wished to forget. He thought that if ever a race of people shared an identity it was the Romans, even down to the consistency and taste of their sweat.
Tusselo alone among his countrymen spoke the enemy's language. He listened as reports came in, each more optimistic than the last. Word passed from man to man that Varro believed victory was theirs. Apparently, they were punching right through the Gallic center. They were a moving point of iron that Hannibal was powerless to stop. The plan was progressing so perfectly that Varro ordered men pulled from the wings to the center, to make them narrower yet and to drive the wedge further into the Carthaginians.
The man beside Tusselo nudged him, ribbed him, and then hissed in his ear, asking what the Romans were saying. Tusselo slammed him with his elbow and spoke from the side of his mouth. “They say the hour of their death approaches,” he said.
This was spoken with cold force and fully convincing, but in truth the Roman news filled him with dread. Yes, he knew Hannibal had said as much would happen, but what if he was wrong? Despite all his faith in the commander, it did seem impossible that they could combat the Roman numbers. If only a quarter of the enemy managed to kill or wound an opponent, Hannibal's cause was lost. He realized that—strange as it seemed—he alone among the army at that moment was balanced between allegiances. To betray Hannibal, he need do nothing but sit where he was. He gazed out at the distant rear of the Roman army, all those many backs turned toward him. Nearer, before and behind them, swarmed the noncombatants, camp followers, horse boys, and slaves, all engaged in various tasks in support of the army. So many slaves. What people on the earth had ever so thrived, or ever would, on the suffering of others?
Tusselo chose his moment at random. Deserting was no real possibility. His loyalty was not simply to Hannibal, not even simply to his people. His loyalty was first to himself, and he knew his enemy better than anyone. He rose to his feet. He dusted himself off and stretched his neck from side to side. One of the guards shouted something at him and walked toward him, hand on the hilt of his gladius in threat. Tusselo uttered a single word, a clipped syllable that let loose a flurry of motion.
An African seated near the passing Roman pulled a sword from beneath his tunic. He struck the man with a swinging blow to the back of his knees. By the time the Roman fell to the dust the whole four hundred were on their feet: first a commotion of brown skin and tribal garments; then a bristling flurry of cloth-covered blades. They cut down all the guards, hacking them to death with the advantage of surprise and pure numbers. They then stood staring at the various noncombatants, some of whom just gawked, most of whom turned and fled in all directions.
Tusselo, knowing he needed to keep the men focused on combat instead of plunder, clucked his tongue and began walking. The others followed him. As they walked they stripped the remaining stray bits of material from their weapons and dropped them to flap and skitter across the ground, propelled by a dry wind. A little ways on they came to their shields and picked them up, and most of them managed to regain their horses, which had been hastily abandoned by the boys handling them.
So it was that, four hundred strong, they fell upon the Romans' rear. Not one of the Romans turned to look at them. Not one expected the attack about to come. Tusselo was only a few feet away from his target when that Roman soldier turned his young face around in sudden, short-lived terror.
Before the battle commenced, the commander had sent out a message, in every possible language and to each quadrant of his army, to all the men of his army's many nations. He said, “We are the enemies of Rome, all of us from races beleaguered by the men of the Tiber. Today Hannibal asks you to honor your ancestors with offerings of Roman blood. Follow his call and you cannot help but prevail. When the Gallic horns blast, know that in them is the voice of your commander shouting to you. When you hear cries of anger from any tongue, recognize Hannibal's roar within them. Know that the clamor of arms clashing is Hannibal's will transmitted through iron. Even when an enemy opens his mouth, it is our commander who you will hear. If he yells at you in threat, he is reminding you of your duty. If you twist an enemy on the point of your sword, it is Hannibal's praise that spurts from his mouth. It is his joy at your deed and his order that you step over the corpse and carry on. Hear the Lion of Carthage in everything, and this day will be ours. Whenever men speak of war in the future, they will speak of today. Let it be your names they utter in awe.”
Fine words, Imco thought, but bravery is more easily spoken of than demonstrated. Perhaps Hannibal contained within himself such brutal confidence, but Imco cared more that morning about saving a life—his own, that is. The years in the army had shaped him into a skilled warrior, often against his will and without his consent. His hands and body and mind moved nimbly during combat, faster than his thinking mind, with instincts of their own. His eyes found weaknesses to press home attacks. Only he knew that he fought simply for self-preservation, so that he might live while some other died in his place. He knew this was not entirely noble. Was it not better to kill for the pure joy of it, fearlessly? That was the type of man the gods rewarded and bred in abundance.
Imco gazed at the veteran killers milling around him. Already the bowed front ranks of the center of the army were engaged with the enemy, but these soldiers stood about cool and seemingly unconcerned with the chaos soon to descend upon them. They chatted among themselves and calmly stretched. They tested the fit of their armor, scratched absently at their scruffy beards. One man urinated where he stood; another pulled up his garments and squatted to defecate. A few kicks and jibes discouraged him from this. He stood and cursed them, but then agreed to wait and crap on a Latin corpse instead. Many of them were outfitted as Roman legionaries, from captured gear that made them a grotesque parody of their enemies. Some ran their hands up and down their tall spears; a few hefted these and practiced the overhand thrust with which they struck; still others tested the feel of the Roman swords in their hands. Imco felt as he had high up in the Alps: as if some mistake had been made a long time back and never corrected. He did not belong in this company. He was sure that the world never had created a more reluctant soldier than he. Never had Fortune played so mischievously with an individual, time and time again placing him in the maw of human folly.
The din grew as the minutes passed. Carthalo's horsemen galloped past on their way to meet the eastern wing of the Roman horse, a confusion of hooves and battle cries that soon faded into the haze. Still Imco's company waited. It was nearing the noon hour and the heat of the late-summer sun pressed down upon the heavy air. Clouds of dust blew over them, propelled by blistering gusts, foul-scented like breaths from some giant, tooth-rotted mouth. Sweat poured first from Imco's armpits, soon after from his forehead, his groin, his feet and hands. The moisture found its way into his eyes and they, in turn, dripped salty tears. From somewhere behind, a shout came for them to tighten up. They did so, each man measuring the small space around him, fitting himself in close to the man beside him, testing the position of their shields. Few spoke now; none stretched or joked; but still they waited.
When the shout came, Imco could not quite make out the order. He felt a press at his back and saw the man before him shift forward. He stepped into the space thus vacated. For a moment, that was all there was to it. He stared at the dented iron of the man's helmet and saw in it his own reflection. It was too dim to provide details, just a shadow in human form. Then a series of horn blasts finished their orders, driving them into a forward march. Still he did not fully understand. There was nothing in front of them, just a flat stretch off to the side of the main battle, but the horns were insistent. Like the others, he took short, shuffling steps, barely lifting his feet. Forward into nothing. For five minutes and then nearing ten. Forward farther.
Then the horns spoke once more, some turning maneuver. Again, Imco did not know how to interpret it. Fortunately, others did. The whole block of men, thousands strong, careened around a slow pivot, one side stationary, the other in full motion, as if swinging on the hinges of a great door. The man behind Imco savaged his heels, stepping on them every few moments. Imco was about to turn and curse him when a horn blasted a halt.
They all stopped in a single breath. Armor clattered to silence. Only then, peering around the man in front of him, did Imco see their goal. They had completed the turn. Before them, less than a hundred strides away, ran the long, exposed flank of the enemy army. By their dress it appeared they were not actually Romans but an allied legion. They were tightly packed, part of one tremendous body. Not one of them was turned outward. All had eyes forward. They had no idea they had suddenly become targets of Hannibal's finest infantrymen. The next order was easy enough to understand. They charged.
Few of the Roman allies seemed to notice the approaching Africans until the last moments. The ones most exposed tried to re-form, but the soldiers next to them were pieces of a much larger formation and they held to their positions. Imco did not know what people these were but he would always remember the sunlike emblem embossed in red upon their white shields. The Carthaginians hit them not at a dead run, but at a slow jog, with a weight of impact that sent shock waves echoing through the close-packed men.
With the moment of first contact all ordered movements ceased. From then on it was pure blood work, different even from what they had trained for. Instead of the phalanx formation—shields locked, thrusting overhand in a deadly bristle of spears—they instantly spread out. Everyone already seemed to understand that this was no ordinary battle. The Latins almost refused to turn and face them, leaving open vulnerable spots at the side of the neck, down the arm, on the outer thigh, portions of the face. There were so many spots to strike and so many targets to choose from that the attackers fanned out in ravenous chaos, each man searching for the best place to enter the fray. Thus Imco was presented with his first enemy more quickly than he might have been otherwise.
There were men all around him, but he and a Latin spotted each other and both knew destiny asked them to contest their lives. Imco—not yet in full possession of his courage—let his spear fly. The man batted it down with his shield and stepped over it. It would not be that easy. Imco's early swordplay was tentative. He found it hard to find a place to strike. The Latin's shield was heavy and tall, the sunburst on it most distracting. It covered almost all his body. The high crown of his helmet looked impenetrable. Imco struck small blows, aiming at the face, at the man's sword arm, at the sword itself, trying to knock it free of his hand. For each attack he made he had to parry one in return, staying close behind his shield, taking a blow that nearly knocked his helmet off, receiving a thrust that just nicked his shoulder blade. He could not help but notice that the man's cheeks trembled spasmodically and that he closed his eyes each time he struck and that he seemed to suck in more air than he ever expelled. He realized that he might well be dueling with the single soldier more frightened by all of this than he.
At that moment something so strange and questionable happened that Imco would never afterward tell it to anyone, not even when they praised his murderous prowess. Hot air seemed to gather in a swirl beneath his legs, sweep up under his tunic, and enter him through his ass. His chest billowed, his head hummed, his arms and legs trembled with the power of it. He would later believe that it was a breath of fury sent to him by the beautiful woman, a blessing for poor Imco, a command to prove himself worthy and to live, to live.
Almost by accident—as his own body convulsed away from a thrust—the point of his sword sliced up from the tip of the man's chin, through both his lips, and on to split his nose into two equal portions. The man howled in anguish, spraying blood over Imco's head. He ducked beneath it and drove his sword up under the Roman soldier's chin. He felt it catch in the vertebra at the base of the head and he felt the snap as this gave way and let the blade drive up into the lower portion of the man's brain. Imco yanked the sword free and watched the man collapse, stunned that he had prevailed, amazed at the way a body lost all dignity in a single instant. The man hit the dirt, eyes opened but staring at the worst of possible views. But Imco was not to contemplate him for long.
Another Latin came at him, shield-smacked him, and sliced at his head. Imco punched him with his own shield, slammed a heel down on his foot, and struck until his blade bit the man at the neck. He then struck several more times just out of rage, until the soldier's helmet slipped up over his head and Imco's blade split the man's skull. Two deaths down and he had warmed to the work. The next one died even faster.