The Roman right flank suffered especially, for these at
tacks fell upon their unshielded sides. If they were to defend
themselves, they had to face right, disordering the Roman
lines. Seeing this, Aemilius sent his reserve cohorts to rein
force the flanks. This left him with nothing to commit in case of an emergency or an opportunity, but he had no choice, not when he was this badly outnumbered.
The sun rose higher, and the battle wore on. The Carthaginian cavalry made several attempts to encircle the Romans, but the rear ranks faced about and drove them off with volleys of pila, killing some riders and many horses. Mastanabal called his horsemen back. They would be better employed in pursuing the enemy when they broke ranks and fled, speared in their backs as they ran. In most battles, the great bulk of the killing took place in the rout, when helpless, terrified men were slaughtered by the thousands.
One of the Greek professionals who sat his horse next to the Carthaginian general remarked, "These Romans are taking their time about panicking."
"Well, we've heard they were tough," said a man with a Spartan accent.
"They cannot last much longer," the Carthaginian commander said. "They are better than I anticipated; they fight well and hold their ranks. But these men are not the equal of the legions I saw fighting in Egypt. Their commander is not inspired, like Titus Norbanus." In truth, Mastanabal had no doubt that he would be victorious, but at what cost? His army was taking fearful casualties. He cared nothing for the men, who were just foreigners and many of them savages, but every man who fell would mean a weaker army to proceed against Rome.
In another campaign, he would levy troops from the subject cities he passed, but Carthage had demilitarized Italy after Hannibal's conquest. There were no soldiers on the whole peninsula, except for the Romans. If he lost too many, he would have to fall back into Gaul to rebuild his strength. When he returned, he knew he would find far more than two green legions in his way. He had to bring this battle to a successful conclusion, and soon.
His center was being chewed away by the Roman swords and spears, but he resisted the temptation to reinforce it.
The center would not collapse any time soon. Both his long schooling and his many years of experience in war told Mas
tanabal not to waste his resources in attacking the enemy's
greatest strength. Concentrate instead on his weakest spots.
"I want all the archers and slingers on the Roman right flank," he ordered. "I want them to pour missiles into that flank until they run out of ammunition."
His officers rode off to do his bidding. Soon the lightly
armed troops were on that flank, standing just beyond range
of the Roman javelins. The arrows and sling-bullets began to rain into the legion's flank, and this time the disorder in
their lines did not allow an effective shield roof to form. Ar
rows found their marks and the sling-bullets—egg-shaped
slugs of lead the size of a boy's fist—wrought terrible damage, smashing exposed faces and necks, sometimes denting a
helmet deeply enough to crack the skull beneath. Romans began to fall by the score, then by the hundred.
Aemilius turned to his secretary. "To the noble Senate of Rome. We will need more and better and cavalry. Also, we
must find great numbers of missile troops. The enemy is
very strong in these arms, and they are very annoying. Our
men cannot close with them without breaking ranks, and
their effects wear us down." This was the fifth such message
he had dictated since the outset of the battle. "Append my seal and send it off."
The messenger galloped off toward the bridge across the
Avernus. Aemilius had one tablet and one messenger left. This he would hold until the last minute, to announce either his victory or his defeat. He heard renewed shouting
and looked to see its source. The missile troops, emboldened by their success, were creeping forward, raising their trajectories to rain arrows and bullets almost into the center of the
Roman lines. A few were transfixed by javelins, but the Ro
mans were running out of spears to throw.
"Buteo," he said, "before our center gets totally disordered, we have to do something about those archers and
slingers. I want the rear lines to about-face as they did when
the cavalry tried to encircle us. Then I want them to step out, pivoting on their left flank like a big door swinging shut. If they carry it out briskly, they can encircle and kill all those half-naked foreigners."
"That's a parade-ground maneuver," Buteo said, sounding like his throat was very dry. "Do you think these boys are up to it?"
"If you have any better ideas, I'll listen."
Buteo turned to the trumpeter and spoke very urgently, at length. The man nodded and began to sound a very complex series of calls, which were picked up and echoed throughput the now badly depleted Roman army. The rear
ranks turned about and began the maneuver. The pivot man
at what was now their left flank marched in place while those nearer the center walked and those on the right flank trotted, to keep the wheeling line straight.
From his command prominence, Mastanabal watched with wonder, understanding instantly what his opposite intended. It was a marvel to behold, but it further weakened
the Roman forces and he saw exactly how to take advantage
of it.
"They are out of those damned spears," he said to his officers. "I want the entire cavalry to go around their left flank
and charge into the back of that pivoting line, then turn inward against the Roman rear. Now!"
Moments later the horsemen thundered toward the Ro
mans as if they were attacking the center, then they wheeled
right and swept around the Roman flank. Moments later they crashed into the line advancing against the missile troops, spearing them from behind, annihilating them before turning against the Roman rear. As before, the rear ranks faced about, but this time they had no pila to hurl, only short swords with which to face mounted men, and they were tired, slow to get their shields up as the lancers thrust and the Libyans threw their own short javelins with deadly accuracy. The Romans did not die easily, but they died anyway.
Aemilius turned to his secretary for the last time. "To the noble Senate. The battle of the River Arnus is lost. I die here on the field with my legions. Long live Rome." He watched as the messenger pelted away, saw him almost overtaken by
enemy horsemen; then he was clear and riding for the bridge.
Then he and Buteo watched, helpless, as his proud legions broke up into isolated groups, fighting shield-to-shield, and then there were just pairs of men back-to-back, all of them struggling until they fell.
"Not one of them fled for the camp or the bridge," Aemilius said.
"They're Romans," Buteo said, "even if some of their fathers came from Germania. Will you fall on your sword?"
"No, I'll make some of those bastards fall on mine. Will
you join me?"
"Might as well," Buteo said. The little group of men on
the platform drew their swords and descended to the bloody field below. Only the secretary stayed. He was a slave and
noncombatant.
Within an hour the field was a vast expanse of fallen men and horses, shattered shields, weapons and standards. Of the
fallen, many were still alive but maimed. Soldiers went among the wounded Romans, killing them with swift stabs
of sword or spear. Already, ravens hopped among the dead,
pecking at eyes and spilled viscera.
"So they aren't unbeatable," said the Spartan officer.
"No, they are not," Mastanabal concurred. But his satisfaction was severely tempered. The dead of his own army far
outnumbered the Roman dead. His clerks had brought him
a preliminary casualty list: more than twenty thousand dead
and many others severely wounded. The Romans had sold
their lives dearly. And this had not been a first-rate Roman army. What would it be like to face the cream of the legions?
A man rode up holding, in his hand something that dripped blood. He halted before his general and raised his trophy. It was a human head. "This is the Roman commander, general. A captive.slave identified him."
Mastanabal looked into the rolled-back eyes of his late
adversary. This had been a second-rate commander of inex
perienced soldiers and he had almost ruined a splendid Carthaginian army almost twice the size of his own. Mastanabal reached out, bloodied his fingers on the severed
neck and drew three red lines across his forehead to protect
himself from the vengeful spirits of the dead.
"Do we march on Rome, General?" asked the Spartan.
Mastanabal surveyed the field once more. "With this cut-
up remnant?" he snarled. "No! We return to Gaul. We have to rebuild our strength before we engage these people again." He wondered how he was going to explain this to the shofet.
For once, the Senate of Rome was not boisterous. The senators stood in their ranks downcast and grim. All day the messengers had been coming in from the battlefield to the north. The first report had sounded ominous, and subsequent reports had done nothing to lighten the sense of foreboding. Now the princeps stood with Aemilius's final report in his hand, and it required an effort to keep that hand from trembling.
"There you have it," Gabinius said. "Two legions destroyed, and Rome now open to attack from the north." He closed the tablet, lowered his head, then looked up at his
peers. "We have been too confident. We have had everything our own way for too long. We have been too contemptuous of our enemy. I point no fingers, for I have been as foolish as
anyone here. We should have seen it coming. This Carthaginians used Hannibal's old route, only he bypassed the Alps."
An elderly senator stepped forward. He was an old family
conservative, and notoriously reactionary. "They were infe
rior legions. They were made up of half-Gauls and Germans! We should never have entrusted our safety to such men!" This raised shouts of agreement and of protest.
The senior consul stood. "Let's have none of that! Those
men were Roman citizens. They were guilty of no worse than being green troops. This is an inevitable consequence of raising so many new legions, so quickly. We sent them
north precisely because it seemed like a quiet theater of the war, a place where they could be trained and blooded with
out demanding their utmost. We thought there might be a weak feint from the north, accompanying the thrust of the main Carthaginian army and navy from the south. As the princeps has pointed out, we were wrong. The blame lies
with this body assembled here, not with men who stood be
tween Rome and her enemies, and died on their feet, sword in hand, to repel the barbarian! I will hear no word spoken
against them!" This raised a fierce roar of agreement.
"Senators!" shouted Gabinius, whose duty as princeps it was to set the order of debate. "We must now decide upon a course of action, and do it quickly. Above all, we must know the Carthaginian's intentions. Is he still in sufficient strength to march upon Rome? We have sent scouts north to report upon the Carthaginian's movement, but we dare not wait for
them to return. I suggest that we summon some of the legions garrisoned in Campania. If it should prove that this
Mastanabal and his hirelings have been so bloodied that they
dare not advance, our legions can always be sent back, or else
posted to the north against a renewed offensive. Let's have a show of hands." His suggestion was carried unanimously.
"Secondly," he continued, "I urge that we take every measure to get the younger Titus Norbanus and his four legions back to Italy."
Norbanus the elder stood from his curule seat. "My son is
already striving to return. Have you not read his reports?"
"I have," Gabinius said, dryly. "He's not striving hard enough. He's getting involved with Eastern politics and building his own foreign policy over there."
"Building his own power base, you mean!" shouted the same old senator.
"Quiet, if you please," said Gabinius. "I submit that young Norbanus now commands our four most hardened, most experienced legions, and that they are legions that we require here in Italy. Time enough later for adventures in
the East. First, we must make Italy and Sicily absolutely secure, and that is going to take every man we have. We must
smash Carthage utterly! Only then will we be free to bring the rest of the world beneath the Roman yoke."
"And how are we to go about this?" asked the Consul
Scipio. "Young Norbanus is as far away as ever, and we can only send messages, which he is inclined to ignore!"
"Perhaps," Gabinius said, "this might be a model training exercise for that new navy we've built. A voyage around southern Greece and across to the coast of Asia might just be the thing to accustom our new sailors to voyaging. If Norbanus finds transport home awaiting him at some convenient port, he will have no excuse to avoid returning."
The possibilities were thrashed out over the rest of the afternoon. Outside, word of the defeat had spread through the city and the mood was bleak. People began to speculate that
the gods had withdrawn their favor. Gabinius was concerned that panic might set in, should word come that the victors of the Arnus were marching upon undefended Rome. He summoned a meeting of all the augurs still in Rome. Since the members of the college were all senators, all were present in the curia and he took them into a side room.