Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome. John Stack

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      Hannibal Gisco watched the Romans’ activity from the heights above the city of Makella, having arrived from Panormus two days before, covering the twenty miles in one ride. He had witnessed the last of the attacks on the Romans’ supply train as they completed the remaining miles of their march. The ambushes were near ineffectual in themselves, the Romans’ anticipatory preparations and defence blunting the cavalry charge. And yet Gisco had noted minor damage to the supply column, a fallen ox, a burning wagon, as his cavalry retreated to the safety of the surrounding hills. When the Romans had resumed their march they had left a small pile of smouldering supplies in their wake, a mere drop of blood from a wounded beast, but when taken in combination with all the attacks of the past days, Gisco was sure those same wounds ran deep.

      Gisco was joined on the summit ridge by Hamilcar, the initial uneasy truce between the two men having now developed into a more tactical alliance. Gisco, an admiral by rank and a sailor by nature, relied on Hamilcar’s greater experience on land and he had learned to trust the younger man’s instincts. Gisco also saw an advantage in forging a friendship with the heir of the Barca family, an ancient line that claimed a direct link to Queen Dido herself, the legendary founder of Carthage. The Barca clan had a permanent seat on the Council of Carthage, a seat now occupied by Hamilcar’s father, and Hamilcar often alluded to the close relationship he enjoyed with his father, a relationship Gisco planned to use to his own ends.

      ‘Prisoners in charge of their own prison.’ Hamilcar smiled at the sight of the last of the column unwinding into the rectangular palisade.

      Gisco smiled in return at the description. It wasn’t far from the mark. Hamilcar had persuaded Gisco to abandon the siege of the city below, arguing that the prize was no longer necessary. The Romans were welcome to Makella, and Hamilcar was sure that the price they had exacted for the city’s freedom was more than the Romans had bargained for.

      Marcus’s maniple was one of the last to ford the River Eleuterio before climbing the gentle slope into the palisade beyond. The countryside around him was quiet, the terraced vineyards unattended, the walled city of Makella – less than half a mile away – tranquil in the late evening light. The centurion’s eyes were drawn upwards to the surrounding hills, the tallest rising a thousand feet to the north. He was sure the enemy were somewhere nearby, watching their every move, and he hated the sensation.

      The IV of the Ninth was no longer a frontline maniple, not on paper at least. The last nine days had cost Marcus fifteen dead and twenty-six wounded, fifteen of whom were walking and in the ranks. The other eleven were buried somewhere in the supply train on a wagon. Marcus had personally checked on the wounded men himself that very morning and he had come away bitter and angry, knowing he was going to lose at least four more before the day was out, their wounds mortal. The maniple would be stood down until replacements could be found, replacements that Marcus knew would never come, not from Rome at least. Now one of two scenarios would unfold: either another maniple would fold before his and he would be given the remnants, or his maniple would be broken up to feed others. For a proud fighting man it was a bitter coin toss.

      From his tent in the centre of the encampment, Lucius Postumius Megellus, commander of the Second and Ninth, heard the shouted order for the gate to be closed. The sound gave him a profound sense of relief and he immediately chastised himself for the feeling, cursing the Carthaginians who had hounded his column for the past nine days and chased them like wolves until, now, Megellus only felt safe within the confines of a perimeter wall.

      The camp was temporary only, built with the six-foot-long pointed oak sudis stakes that travelled with the column. The lead maniples had begun the camp three hours before dusk, laying out the boundaries of the rectangular encampment before beginning the digging of a trench, ten foot wide by five deep, the earth thrown inwards to form a rampart, on top of which the sudes were implanted and intertwined with lighter oak branches. The camp had been built each night on the march and dismantled each morning with an efficiency born out of repetition and training, the hard labour of construction forgotten each new day as the column marched onwards.

      Megellus would now change the nature of the camp. He would order it transformed into a castra stativa, a standing camp. The walls would be made more solid. Stone would be gathered from the nearby river and added to the vulnerable points of the wall around the gates. Towers would be built on the four corners of the castrum to warn of any approach by the enemy.

      The legate bit back the bile of disappointment that had emerged so soon in the campaign. Scouts had returned from the city with reports that the enemy had fled at the sight of the advancing column, although Megellus suspected they had simply withdrawn rather than offer combat to an enemy that would be defeated in time anyway, and with a lot less Carthaginian blood spilt.

      The legate would confirm the reports in the morning by sending ten maniples to the city gates. The show of force would impress the Council of Makella and imbue in them a sense of victory, justifying their decision to support Rome and not Carthage. Megellus would then split his command and send the Second forward to cover the three days’ march to the city of Segeste, again to lift the siege that the legate was sure would be already lifted when they arrived. The enemy would attack their supplies on the march and again there would be losses, the quartermaster estimating that already nearly half of their original equipment was gone.

      The Second would take Segeste but would go no further. They would build a second standing camp, a second island in a sea of hostility. The campaign would grind to a halt, the army forced onto the defensive in an effort to protect and hoard its valuable, now irreplaceable supplies. This was no way to fight a war, Megellus thought bitterly, a man used to fighting aggressively and offensively.

      The legate walked out of his tent and observed the hurried activity around him as the army prepared to bed down for the night. It was becoming dark and Megellus watched the vigilae, the night guard, take their posts on the walls, their eyes searching the darkened surrounding countryside for the unseen enemy. There will be no attacks this night, Megellus thought sarcastically, for why would the Carthaginians attack the now inert Roman army. Only two weeks before Megellus had informed his men that the campaign would continue as before, as if the blockade did not exist, but the Carthaginians’ tactic of specifically targeting the supplies had thwarted the legate’s intentions. The Punici had drawn their blades and used them to deadly effect. The legions were now hamstrung, crippled and cut off from home.

      At the forefront of Megellus’s thoughts were the vital questions of how long the legions could now hold out in hostile territory, for without resupply they would eventually have to turn back – and how far they would need to withdraw. On the first question, only time would tell. The second? If the legions did finally withdraw, the Carthaginians would pursue them, of that there was no doubt, the enemy gaining СКАЧАТЬ