Prologue: Cannae (Revised)
"We should've destroyed Carthage! Every man, woman, and child, many years ago!"
"They need to pay for their insolence!"
"Avenge Segontium!"
"Carthage must burn!"
"ENOUGH!"
"Damn you old fool!"
"Segontium is lost, and our Western allies have failed us! Where was the last report of his whereabouts?"
"My spies in Iberia tell me his fleet has sailed. We must expect an invasion at Massalia!"
"Unspeakable-"
"Foolish!-"
"This is nonsense! No fleet has sailed! Rome controls the Mediterranean. He's not attacking, he's making allies! At this very moment, he courts the Macedonians -- the Greeks! Illyria will rise up against us, and the Adriatic will be lost, once more!"
"Ridiculous! Epirus won't stand for it! Our legions have sole military access to their land. I believe the attack will come from Africa itself. He intends to cross the Mediterranean and invade from Sicily. Syracuse with revolt, and sweep up from the south."
"That's wild specialization-"
"We cannot afford to risk-"
"We should reduce taxes-"
"We cannot afford-"
"Our legions cannot handle-"
"He will come not from the south, nor the east. Our mercenaries in the north report that he has forged an alliance with the tribes of the Po Valley. He intends to circumnavigate Massalia, and march his army-"
"Over the alps, perhaps!"
"Hahahahahaaah!"
"Ha!"
"Pff- hahahaha!!"
"He would lose have his army from attrition alone; the other half would desert!"
"We must defend the mountain passes!"
"Do you expect the Gauls to welcome him when he arrives?"
"I suppose he would bring with him an army of elephants!"
"Ahahahahaha!!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Senators! I dare say that would be quite a feat, even for the great..."
"Hannibal Barca!"
Hannibal looked upon the massive mountain range that his army still had to surpass to reach Italy. Beyond that gateway to a cold hell was Rome. Rome: the Eternal City. Such a long way, such a burden. Yet he would press on, he would see Rome burn. For Hannibal Barca made a promise to his father on his dying breath, tears streaming down his face. He promised one thing, and one thing only, from this day until his last, that he would always be an enemy of Rome.
He will fulfill that.
He and his army burned Seguntum to the ground. When the Roman ambassadors came, only their heads returned.
Sadly, he had to leave Hasdrubal behind to keep the Carthaginian senate backing him politically and defending the city from Roman invasion-- he would gladly keep his two closest kin with him
Like marching an army through a cold mountain pass.
He looked back upon his army of several thousand, native to Africa, Iberia and Gaul, and all eager to annihilate an age-old enemy that claimed dominance over the world; Rome had long believed they were the rightful rulers over everything, their claim given to them by their stolen gods.
Rome, the power who thought themselves the greatest; Rome, who had murdered his father for his role in the First War! Rome, the corrupt, disgusting nation that had were so arrogant to prove themselves the betters of all!
They would fall. They had to fall.
For Hamilcar.
He used his anger to fuel his steps, pounding his way through the snow and through the mountain pass.
His father would be proud.
Trebia. Trasimene. Ticinius. All places where Romans fell.
With blood and steel, they came upon them like wolves upon sheep for the slaughter!
And the Romans? Shocked. In their zeal, they hadn't bothered to expect an invasion from their own back door! They had never expected someone to conquer the feared, mighty northern Alps and appear right behind them. Everything they threw at Hannibal was annihilated utterly. At Ticinius, Maharbal led the cavalry to victory in a fast-paced battle, easily sweeping away their Roman counterparts. At Trebia, the Punic line held the Romans in place while hidden forces, commanded by Mago, tore and ripped through their sides. And at Lake Trasimene, they had come upon them as a sudden wave, driving the Romans into cold, unforgiving waters.
And so, the war was his. With each of his victories, his reputation grew, and men of the north came down virtually unopposed to join his side. While they had no general leader, their 'representative' seemed to be a man known as Crahask the Unyielding, a Gaulish chieftain who had united most of the tribes of the north and led them on an unsuccessful crusade against Rome. They had managed to carve a substantial figure through Italy indeed, even managing to, at one time, reach the gates of Roma itself. They, unfortunately, had not been able to down The Enemy, for their strength was too great. Crahask, however, had not been willing to surrender so easily, earning him his title of 'Unyielding.' For many more months, they had fought through the hills and fields before being forced to fall back to tend their wounds.
The Romans considered it nothing more than a 'petty insurrection of the northern savages,' but the northerners would never forget how they nearly felled Rome, the nigh-unstoppable power of the Mediterranean. And when the opportunity to eradicate them once more presented itself to them, who were they to decline such a gift?
Hannibal ordered his new allies to ravage the countryside, crippling Italy's fields and breaking the will of the people. For half a year, they had free reign over Italy.
Unfortunately, the Romans did not take kindly to being on the losing side of a war. They employed a 'scorched earth' tactic: small-scale hit-and-run attacks against his army instead of large, grand battles. However, his spy network, which was large and complex, reported that they were beginning to amass a force of great size, seldom seen on this earth -- possibly as great as the one at Gaugamela and Thermopylae.
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Hannibal stood watch on the eastern side of his camp. Before him were many stakes fixed to the ground, and before even that was a trench. Many more men stood with him, keeping watch against any Roman attacks.
For a while longer, he stood there, until he noticed a figure coming into view. Shrouded in the heat of the mid-day sun and a small dust cloud rising in its wake. Then, after a few more moments, one could make out a figure on a horse, galloping forward, and through the dust emerged several more figures on horses.
A few of the men shouted, and the skirmishers fitted their arrows. As the figures became more distinguishable, however, they loosened their grips.
Half a dozen riders, Hannibal's brother, Mago, at their head, rode towards the camp. They rode with a sense of urgency to their gallops, and they seemed to be slightly panicked. They looked over their shoulders every now and again as if expecting someone to be following them.
As they drew closer, a few men noticed them, and gathered to hear what the scouting party had to report. The group arrived into the camp, and men rushed forward to tend to the coursers as the riders dismounted.
"What news from the eastern road?" said Hannibal immediately, mainly at his brother.
Mago, a head shorter than his brother and of the same complexion, briefly flicked his gaze to the side and, with a hesitant breath, said, "Romans."
Immediately, murmurs washed through the men. The Romans? Here? Already? Hannibal's spy network said they weren't scheduled to arrive for two more weeks. They were early.
Hannibal remained calm, but internally a million thoughts ran through him. His first priority, however, would be to calm his men. He turned to the surprisingly larger crowd.
"This changes nothing!" he cried. "We will fight just as we have planned already; and they will die, and the whole of Italy will be ours."
"What hope do we have against a force twice our own size?" shouted a man. "We'll all be killed!"
"There is no amount of planning that can be done to stop them! Their numbers are too great!" added another.
"I heard they have a million warriors!"
"Silence!" bursted Hannibal. He turned to Mago. "Tell me more."
"Gather the council," said Mago. "I will speak there."
Hannibal nodded, and Mago began walking to the war tent. Hannibal made to go with him, but he glanced back, and noticed a small golden dot on the horizon.
Romans.
"Fifteen, sixteen legions, most likely," reported Mago. "Largest Roman army I've ever seen."
"The largest Roman army ever seen," corrected Hannibal. "And they will all die here."
"How could you be so certain?" said Crahask in loose Carthaginian. "The battle has not even been fought, and yet you seem certain of victory."
"I do not know of the outcome of battle, Crahask," said Hannibal. "But my plan, if executed properly, may secure us victory."
"Tell us again," demanded Crahask. "Tell us of your strategy again."
Hannibal smiled, and leaned forward, his hands dancing over a few figures on a makeshift battle table with a crude sketch of Italy. "Discipline is both a redeeming and a sinning quality." He moved a few figures that represented that of Roman commanders. "The Romans are only trained to fight in one way, and one way only. This makes them easily predictable -- something you, Crahask, don't realize." He pointed an accusing finger at the man who had once attempted to conquer Rome, only to fail terribly. "Present them with something unexpected, and they will easily fall apart.
"Crahask, your own force and the Iberians shall be placed as so, like the outside of a bow." He waved his right index finger along the curved line. "On the flanks, commanded by Maharbal and Hanno," he nodded at the two cavalry commanders, "shall sweep up the Roman cavalry while the lines clash." He moved two horsemen figures forward to the figures depicting Roman horsemen, and moved the Roman forces towards his own. "Then, when the line breaks -- which it must -- the Romans shall be sucked in. They shall press their reserves forward, and now that the time is right, we shall press in." He grabbed two figures on the flanks that represented the African natives -- the Lions of Carthage and the Libyan infantry -- and moved towards the side of the Roman forces. "Our hidden reserves of Africans shall press in, blocking the Romans off on either flank. They'll be surrounded on either side. Nowhere to go..." he moved the Roman figures back, "but backwards.
"That, Maharbal, Hanno, is where you come in." Hannibal knocked over the Roman cavalry and swept his own behind the Roman lines. "Sweep in from the rear, and cut them off. There will be no mercy."
He felled all of the Roman figures.
"None."
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It had been many days since the two armies began their standoff. The Romans, camped on both sides of the rivers, dared not to attack their great enemy, for they feared he may have had some sort of trickery planned for them. Hannibal, in turn, had offered battle many times already, only to be denied. So, he ordered the Numidian cavalry commander and his friend Maharbal to take a handful of cavalry and ambush men carrying water back from the river.
Whether it was this or a matter of honor or even the inability of the Romans to keep such a large force in one place, battle was soon to take place. The two sides decided on making battle on the southern side of the local river. Hannibal was renowned for his trickery, so they sought to limit the maneuverability of his infantry and cavalry.
The day had finally come, of countless weeks of planning, for the time of battle.
The allied army marched across the river crossing in an orderly fashion, heavy infantry taking precise positions according to a carefully-laid plan. They marched in staunch columns, the fierce Spanish and Gaulish veterans taking the head. What followed was a mix of African archers, composed of soldiers from various African nations, Gaulish and Phoenician javelinmen, and the crack-shot mercenary slingers from the Balearic Islands. Then, the elite Lions of Carthage, made of men from Carthage herself, and the Libyan infantry followed close behind, hidden on either flank. What seemed like an obvious trap on a map was a mere line of troops to the Romans.
On the other end, the Romans, numbering close to the 80,000's, marched as well. They were deployed in the signature triplex aces, in which men were organized based on wealth and age.
Screening the force was a large amount of velites, poor skirmishers in loose formations armed with small shields, a short sword, and a number of javelins. They wore very little armor apart from the caps on their heads, which were sometimes topped with wolf skins.
The Roman Hastati -- young men, eager for blood and battle -- stood behind them, ready to take the brunt of the assault after the skirmishing took place. They were poor men, and only had enough money to buy themselves some cheap light chainmail, along with any other piece of armor they could scrape their purses for. In one hand was a gladius and in the other was the large rectangular scutum, their signature shield.
Next in line were the Principes, wealthier citizens that could afford higher quality ring-mail cuirasses. They wore a single leg greave facing the enemy, with some sporting a second, if they were wealthy enough. If the Hastati line broke, the fighting would come upon these men.
Taking the rear was the battle-hardened members of the Triarii, though these men had seen mostly defeat in the recent past. In one hand they held a hasta thrusting spear, and fought in a close-ordered phalanx.
On the flanks were the Roman equites, knights of the Equestrian order and the wealthiest of the classes, able to afford the highest quality armor. However, they were far from an effective fighting force, and were often prone to foolish acts on the battlefield, intending to win distinction. It was not uncommon to see an Equestrian dismount and fight on foot, since the Romans were typically better infantrymen.
Composing the other half of the Roman force were the alae, troops from the other parts of Italy summoned to aid Rome. They were built similarly, with the notable exception of the extraordinarii, the more elite soldiers of the alae.
Leading them were the consuls Caius Terentius Varro and Lucius Aemilius Paullus, the latter of which was the more wise and careful commander. Hannibal had feared that he would have been leading the attack, but was relieved when he heard that it was Servilius Geminus who led the main force, while Paullus would be commanding the right cavalry wing and Varro, a reckless fool, the left.
Tens of thousands of these men stood in their respective columns, marching forward to meet Hannibal's considerably smaller force. Of course, that wasn't saying that the Carthaginians weren't more than a match for the Roman forces. Carthaginian armies were not typically made of natives, for they were a trading empire, and did not rely on brute force. Instead, they hired mercenaries with their riches to fight their wars.
The Gauls were ferocious, almost savage fighters, especially in the opening moments of battle. Their fearsome charge could break almost any line of infantry, no matter their discipline. They wore varying amounts of armor, though men with little armor or none at all were common. They wielded varying weapons, from swords to axes or long blades known as a falx. Their shields were patterned, and oval-shaped. The Iberians, in contrast, were more organized, typically wearing scale or chain mail. They had a sword in one hand and a large ovular shield in the other.
Hidden behind the line were the cream of his force; men who knew nothing but combat and killing. Some were the Libyan infantry, armed with stolen shields and armor stripped from fallen Romans and kopis'. The rest were the Lions of Carthage, men handpicked from the great city herself. They were donned in shining silver shields and armor, and their capes, purple and white, were of the finest fabric; the plumes of their fine helmets were dyed purple and white to match their cloaks. They were the elite of the elite, fighting in a close-ordered phalanx and with swords. When the time was right, these men would spring the trap.
Hannibal himself stood in the center, his brother Mago at his side. They stood at the head of Hannibal's personal guard of Sacred Band; inspired by the Greek hoplite, they wore the linothorax, trained to fight both as one in an organized, disciplined phalanx and alone with both spear and xiphos and were more skilled than any man, even the Lions of Carthage. Their helmets, plumed, and patterned round shields of their choice identified them as a force not to be taken lightly, just like the Greek states.
Crahask stood a unit to his left, a massive war axe teasing for blood in his strong grip. His bodyguard, elite swordsmen in chainmail, numbering in the four-hundreds, stood with him.
Just as he had ordered, the entire line was like the outside of a bow: curved, flexible. Hannibal took a glance to where the cavalry would be on either flank. Right now, they would be charging forward towards their Roman counterparts, ready to push forward no matter the losses. This, Hannibal knew, was the most crucial part of the battle: if the cavalry failed, so did his strategy. The sheer amount of Roman infantry would overwhelm his own, and he would fail his father.
That was not going to happen.
Across the field from them, the Romans advanced forward; a massive sea of men from one end to the other. Their rank-and-file marched in brisk order, shields locked and men at a slight crouch. The fierce gazes of the soldiers were locked on their enemy, and their minds were bent on one thing: utter destruction of their foe. Their feet rose and pounded upon the ground, the very earth shaking at their approach. The sounds of marching filled the air; metal clanked and men breathed heavily under the hot sun.
As they came closer, they took up a cheer, shouting and spitting taunts at their enemy. They marched forward further, and one could almost feel the enthusiasm radiating off of them. They shouted and cheered and taunted, hyping themselves up for a bloody and decisive battle. Then they stopped, while the velites marched on. The more eager ones ran. The first stage was about to begin.
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"Bring the skirmishers forward!" shouted Hannibal.
Gaps formed in the Punic line, and through them rushed the 8,000 men of Gaul, Africa, and the Balearic Islands. Most were javelinmen or archers, although the Balearic men were crack-shot slingers, able to inflict many losses in short amounts of time and at a great distance.
And soon, they all halted. They hefted their weapons, took aim at the still-approaching velites: the slingers swinging their slings above their heads, the archers drawing back their bows (the javelinmen could not hit anything effectively at such a short range), and fired.
Several hundred fell outright in the initial bombardment, with even more wounded, and not fully dead. Some managed to block the missiles with their small shields, only to find another barrage falling upon them once again. But the young men, shaken slightly, did not flee, for they had a burning fire in their hearts that would not be quelled by a few meager volleys.
The closer they approached, the more casualties they took, yet still they encroached like an ocean upon a shore. More and more fell in bursts of blood and screams muffled by shuffling feet; the endless tide cared not, ignoring the bodies without as much as a glance.
What soon followed was a bloody stalemate between 20,000 young, inexperienced men and 8,000 elder veterans. Javelins, arrows, and sharpened stones flew through the air, descending upon men in droves. The two sides released endless barrage after barrage at one another, and men from both fell like fish before a whale. Minutes passed, and the stench of death spread, unhindered, through the air of the fields of Cannae. Blood and bodies littered the field on both sides; ravens circled overhead, seeking the flesh of the dead.
For several long minutes, the alliance against Rome fought their great enemy under the watchful eye of both armies. Volley after volley, barrage after barrage filled the air, literally momentarily blocking out the sun as if they were Persian salvos.
The young souls of the velites, eager as they may be, could hardly match the sheer skill of their Punic opponents. The former, in contrast, experienced as they may be, could not overcome the incredulous size of their opponent.
And so, neither side seemed to gain the advantage over the other, yet still they tried, for it was a matter of pride now. Endlessly, they tormented one another with waves and waves of projectiles. Blood and dust were in the air, as were countless screams.
"Pull them back!" said Hannibal to an officer. "They've had their fun for one battle."
"Yes sir!" the officer replied. Then, he cried, "Pull them back!" A horn blew, and the men in the rear fell back, the front ranks covering their retreat. Soon, the remaining skirmishers were behind the lines. The Romans did likewise, pulling away their velites to the rear of their colossal force with the sound of a horn.
Soon after, the Roman line moved forward again, only slightly faster. The front line of Hastati were practically jogging, eager to spill the blood of their enemy. They shouted and screamed, cried and hollered and spat taunts, psyching themselves for battle. Captains barked commands and officers addressed the ranks. The Gauls and Iberians shouted and swore back, while the Sacred Band remained silent.
Suddenly, they picked up their pace, practically running and unlocking their shield. While they were drilled of the normal discipline expected of a Roman army, they did not show it. They ran forward, eager for a taste of blood. The men withdrew the infamous Roman pila and hefted it, taking aim and throwing it.
The Roman pila was designed to penetrate shields, tearing apart the first few ranks of an enemy unit; those that did not would lodge themselves in a shield, making it practically unusable. However, the shape of Hannibal's line prevented this, and many missed their mark. "Volley!" Hannibal shouted.
The Gauls and Iberians opened fired with their own javelins, usually stolen pila, using the Roman weapon against their creator. The Roman line fell into momentary disarray as the volley came upon them; men falling over screaming while clutching javelins that had embedded themselves virtually anywhere -- chests, legs, even eye sockets -- became a common sight. Then the Roman army regained their composure, reorganizing their lines and marching forward, shields locked together, stepping over the bodies of their wounded brethren without a second thought.
"Second volley!"
More javelins flew forward, tearing apart the Roman lines in massive bursts of blood.
Hannibal charged, followed by Mago and his Sacred Band bodyguard. Then, with a ferocious war cry, his entire force charged with a great fervor. The wave of men came crashing down on the disorganized Roman line, ripping apart the first few lines easily. The next Roman lines pushed forward.
Hannibal bashed his shield with an enemy's and stabbed. He turned and connected blades.
Mago ducked under a swing and slashed his blade. Blood arced in the air.
Swords and axes clanged as they ripped through the air and flesh; shields were hammered upon relentlessly. And the Punic army, a spirit of fiery wrath in the air, charged through their startled enemy, shrieking like banshees as they cut through. For many minutes, they cut away, driving their foe back.
As the Hastati fought, the Principes advanced forward.
They endlessly hacked away at one another; blood flew about in all directions, followed sometimes by dismembered limbs; some men tackled one another, stabbing their enemy stunned by the weight of their armor; they all shoved themselves at one another, forcing their swords through gaps in armor and through critical arteries, such as necks and legs.
Hannibal blocked several swings to his chest. He swung his sword down. Blood splattered the floor.
Another jumped forward. They connected blades.
Crahask wildly swung his axe in an arc, slamming it into several shields. They all fell away at his might. He began cutting away at his foes.
A sword suddenly connected to his side. Grunting, he turned and slammed the hilt of his weapon into his opponent, knocking them down. He swung his axe down. Blood flew up.
The chain-clad members of his bodyguard rushed forward, swords and shields at the ready, and dragged Crahask away from the fight. He never spilled blood for the rest of the battle.
For a time, the battle was a stalemate.
Across the battlefield, small gaps formed as time went on. Combat took place in pulses or waves. During these, soldiers regained their strength and confidence. Fresh men would be shuffled to the front. Battle would resume when one side had readied themselves for another charge.
The stability of a unit relied heavily on the coherence of its formation -- something the Romans held in their favor. If one could fall back to a stable, solid line of their allies, they could rest and continue fighting. If, however, the men in the rear began wavering, one had no safe haven. It was at times like these that a line would usually break and when most of the killing took place.
At the same time, the cavalry clashed.
On the Carthaginian left, the combined force of heavily-armored Gauls and lightly-armored Iberians stormed forward on their horses, shouting madly. Their target had, oddly, dismounted (this was due to Paullus, the Roman in command of the equites on the right, taking a head wound from a rock, though their enemy did not know this). Without so much as a warning, they crossed the crest of the hill and charged forward to their enemy, driving right through them without mercy. They tried to flee, terrified, but were pursued and cut down. Those that tried to fight back fell. Many equestrian knights and senators fell in the slaughter.
On the right, Numidians, headed by Maharbal, charged the still Roman cavalry. The two sides fought fiercely for many minutes, though it was a stalemate -- something Varro had hoped to achieve.
The victorious heavy cavalry from the left flank approached from the rear. The allied cavalry stampeded at once, sweeping up Varro in their desperate retreat. The Numidians easily tore them apart.
At the same time, Hannibal's line began wavering as combat raged. They slowly were pushed back. The Romans, with a jubilant cheer, pushed forward, forsaking any discipline still left. The three orderly lines and spacing of the triplex aces disappeared, and became a red mob.
"Fall back!" cried Hannibal. "Back now!"
The Iberians and Gauls, panicked, fled, pursued by their emboldened enemy. Thousands fell. They ran down the plain, the Romans giving chase.
Into the kill box.
A horn was blown, and several thousand African natives charged from the sides of the Roman army, announcing themselves with sharp javelins. The men on the sides were terrified at this sudden change in events, and fled inward, bringing chaos and panic with them. The Lions and Libyans chewed away at their sides.
The Iberians and Gauls cheered and rallied to Hannibal, rushing back into battle with him.
The cavalry, having chased the fleeing enemy cavalry from the field, came about and galloped towards the rear of the Roman horde.
The Romans were suddenly terrified, for this unexpected change of events had shattered their morale and their formation. They could hardly move or swing, much less draw, a sword. They tried to flee to the rear, but the victorious cavalry stopped them.
They smashed apart the Roman rear, driving their horses through the Roman ranks. Javelins were thrown and blood splayed upon the earth; bodies littered the ground by the thousands. Romans discarded their shields and swords in favor of trying to escape, only to be slaughtered like swine. They screamed and shouted, even taking their own lives in favor of escaping the wrath of their foe. The air was filled with smoke and blood.
The Carthaginian army pressed forward, eager to destroy their unorganized, shocked enemy.
It was no longer a battle. It was a massacre.
For several hours, the battle raged on, although it was more of a massacre in terms of the brutality. The second Maharbal and Hanno arrived with the cavalry, what little order the Romans had left dissipated easily. Emotional shock-waves rippled through the entire Roman force with the attack, spreading panic and disorganization among the helpless mob of soldiers. In the state they were, the Romans were completely paralyzed, unable to coordinate any form of counterattack. The compacted space further helped to spread panic, with soldiers barely able to use their weapons, some not even being able to draw them. And thus, Hannibal had achieved the impossible: crush a force double his size completely.
The killing had only just begun.
The emotional stress Hannibal had expected to come of his tactics had worked in his favor. When his front line conceded ground, this gave the Romans the illusion of a quick victory, and thus, they pressed forward, eager for just a taste of battle, and even a chance to kill the man personally responsible for Rome's strife themselves. They had pushed forward, out of formation, eliminating one of the strengths of the Roman infantry: discipline. Eager to get as much as a brush of the action, everyone ran forward with the promise of victory in their hearts.
And then the African infantry appeared.
Their surprise introduction, announced by a hail of javelins, had sent a wave of panic through the now unorganized Romans. The almost unbearable heat had also played a pivotal role in his plan: when a Roman would try to receive a breath of fresh air in an attempt to re-energize themselves, they would only receive a gulp of hot, dusty air.
They were unable to flee, their large size working against them, and, literally able to do nothing, their bodies fell into a state of physical and emotional exhaustion that one had to experience to truly understand.
The truly massive force was unable to be taken prisoner, and even surrender had become impossible - the liquidation of all Roman command had seen to that. And so, for hours and hours on end, with cold, hard steel, the Romans all fell. While some may have rallied together, forming tight formations together, allowing the soldiers among them to catch their breath and possibly mount an escape attempt. To counter this, Hannibal had ordered his men to form false corridors of retreat to tempt the Romans to act before descending upon them.
There were no survivors.
The Libyan infantry and Lions of Carthage had taken few casualties, the Libyans remaining in the thousands, the Lions still retaining 6,000 or so men.
As of the Iberian and Gaulish forces that lay dead, there were many, but many more were alive, and ever eager to crush Rome beneath their heels. Of Hannibal's entire force, an estimated few thousand fell -- a truly remarkable feat in proportion to the Roman army.
In total... too many lay dead to count. Hannibal walked among the countless dead and nearly dead, spread upon the field as far as the eye could see, just... death. Roman, Iberian, Gaul, Carthaginian, it did not matter to Death, for he took them all.
Often, Hannibal would write in his journal, recording events in his journey. This day was no exception.
My father would be proud. On this day, I have accomplished what the great Alexander or Cyrus or any other great hero could only dream about. The cream of Mediterranean power has been eliminated in a single day. Italy is divided. Rome is fading.
But yet... I feel no sense of triumph. This is the greatest battlefield victory in history, and I feel nothing. Only remorse.
Gods protect me.
Hannibal later found himself sitting in his camp, pondering about things, evaluating tactics. Word had most likely not reached Rome yet, but it would soon, and the Romans would act however they chose to. And when it would, chaos would spread. Panic would infect the streets and the hearts of politicians, and many would flee for their lives. Those who did not flee, however, would prepare the city for battle, as it only made logical sense that Hannibal would choose the Eternal City, the heart of Rome, as his next target.
The question was to attack Rome or not?
This question presented itself over a meeting in the war tent, presented by none another than Hannibal's close friend Maharbal.
Crahask, a cloth dried red around his waist, smiled. "I should not have doubted your skills, Hannibal," he said.
Before Hannibal had a chance to thank him, Maharbal said, "I say we march on Rome." He pointed his finger at the map of Italy, directly where Rome would be.
Hannibal looked to his friend, surprised. Maharbal had shown himself to be a reckless, stab-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, but this was something the Carthaginian had truly not expected out of the Numidian.
"My cavalry can scout the city for us, and we can march our army and finally crush the Roman's at the source."
Hannibal simply responded, "No."
Maharbal looked to his fellow with a fierce devotion burning in his eyes. "We march on Rome."
"No."
"Hannibal!" Maharbal cried. "They've only such precious time to hide their women, for their children to cry! This is the moment of their final defeat! We march on Rome, we come for the Romans! Strike them down!"
Hannibal slammed his fist down upon the table, toppling the figures that represented his army. "And what of our own army? They only number so greatly! We have not the strength to take the Eternal City, to stamp the flame of Roman power!"
"Fucking damn it, Hannibal!" Maharbal cried, slamming both his fists down upon the table with great force. The two guards posted at the flap of the tent shuffled uneasily, as if they had to spring at a moments notice. "Stop being so fucking cautious! Act for once in your life!" He stormed out of the tent.
Hannibal watched him go with unsettled eyes. He sighed and shook his head. Marching on Rome was the worst thing he could do in his current position.
Sure, marching on the heart seemed like a good idea on the surface, but getting into details would dispel any general. For one, Hannibal did not have any siege engines at his disposal, so breaking through the walls were out of the equation. Going over them, too, was impossible -- he had no ladders or siege towers or any material to make them. He would have to send word to Carthage to send him extra supplies, if Hasdrubal was doing his part in keeping the Carthaginian senate on his side.
"You've been friends for some time, no?" Crahask finally broke the silence with his question.
"Yes," Hannibal confirmed, hiding no small amount of dismay in his voice.
Crahask sneered. "Odd pair."
Hannibal gazed up at the tall, muscular Gaul with a small mustache and green robes on that was Crahask. Even at Hannibal's full height, Crahask easily towered over him. Frustration and, more importantly, rage, boiled within him -- they may disagree frequently, but Hannibal had a friendship with Maharbal that would not be broken. No one understood how close they were. Nevertheless, he chose not to bicker with Crahask on this pointless matter any further -- it was not worth his time.
Mago, it seemed, sensed Hannibal's emotions, and acted by placing his hand on his older brother's shoulder and saying, "Sleep on the matter, brother."
Hannibal sighed and, reluctantly, left the tent.
There was no flash of light, no strange vision. No sign to signify the change in position. All he knew was that he and the Lions of Carthage and the Sacred Band of Carthage were now in front of a city, on a mountainside.
The sheer image of the city would easily be able to rival that of Roma. Gold-tipped ivory towers reached high into the sky, like fingers; elegant houses were spread as far as the eye could see. Neat and organized streets of stone separated the various homes and shops. In the rear, a massive palace of gold towered above the city.
However, it appeared to be under attack. Columns of smoke rose into the sky and fire licked the heavens; roofs burned and towers crumbled into piles of rubble.
The city was inhabited by equines, only they were multicolored and had abnormally large eyes. Some had horns, and some had wings, and some neither at all. Many ran about the streets, pursued by demonic black bug creatures. Others were in armor, and fought the creatures.
And down the winding path of the mountain-city, they who were thought extinct stood, dazed, unknowing of the impact they would cause.
