There were witnesses to the battle; scholars, writers and civilians hoping to see something memorable. They had told that, in the first hours, everything seemed to be going Rome’s way. Hannibal’s front lines, mostly Gauls; a people that hated Romans as much as the Carthaginians, sustained heavy losses as the center formations broke under the superior numbers of the legions. When the center fell back, Rome thought it had victory. The officers blindly ordered their front ranks forward, chasing after the fleeing barbarians, unknowing that they were heading right into Hannibal’s trap.
No one thought it possible. The army was raised to force Hannibal out into the open; to engage a proper army on equal terms so that he could not use trickery or deception to win the day. However, Hannibal knew the Romans better than the Romans did. He knew that the two consuls and their lackeys of senators, and noblemen, would want to cease the advantage, and push the lines forward without thought to the whole battlefield. And when that happened, Hannibal only had to sit back and wait.
As the Roman front advanced, Hannibal’s left and right flanks swung around the whole formation like a mythical bird closing its wings around its prey. The army was so large, and tightly compact, that even when the calls went out to reform, it was too late, as the ranks could not move or adapt to the changing battlefield.
Hannibal’s cavalry closed the rest of his master plan. They broke the Roman horsemen, scattering them. With them gone, the rear was exposed and cutoff from any chance of retreat. The witnesses said after that it was just a matter of time; hours longer, as those still alive up until this point, were compacted shoulder-to-shoulder with barely an inch to move.
Gaius recognized it. It was a mirror image of the Battle of Marathon, hundreds of years before, when the Athenians defeated a larger Persian army. Hannibal clearly knew his history as well, and had made use of that knowledge.
Gaius couldn’t imagine being in the battle. He wasn’t even sure if he could have survived it. Because of this, he was confused. Antony, as angry as Gaius had been with him for sending him away, had saved his life. Antony did not rob him of a brilliant victory, and most certainly, not a glorious death. It was a slaughter, and as far as he knew, Antony had paid the price for his father’s arrogance.
Hannibal’s army was still out there, somewhere. More than likely it was heading towards Rome, to lay siege to the city, and either force terms from the Senate, or sack it. Even though there were probably more survivors from Cannae, and certainly other legionaries scattered throughout the countryside, Valerius had ordered Gaius to pull out and return with what survivors he had found, those that could be moved, and weren’t beyond helping, and head back to Canusium to regroup with the only organized, and combat effective legion left in the country, the Sixth.
They broke camp and quickly began to march back to Rome, hopefully getting there before Hannibal’s army. After that, only the gods knew what might come next. Fifteen hundred men, a few thousand city guards, and whatever civilians might be armed was not enough to stop a prolonged siege for any given amount of time; no less stop an entire army from burning Rome to the ground. No matter, the facts, it was not going to stop these men from getting back. Gaius had made a promise that he would protect the city and Julia, who remained within its apparently safe walls. If Rome should fall, he would get her out of the city, out of Italy if he had too. Her safety was his sole priority.
The night was tranquil with only a slight easterly breeze that cut through the tall grass to disturb the stillness. Gaius rode, scouting ahead of the main column. They had to hurry back to Rome, but Valerius had chosen a longer path to avoid coming in contact with the bulk of Hannibal’s forces. As it were, they did not see or hear any signs of his forces, until now.
Gaius halted his horse and raised his hand, signaling for his men to stop. He felt for just a moment that he had heard something, a noise, a yell perhaps, carried over the wind.
His men looked around eagerly trying to see in the moonlight if they had been spotted, or if they could see any enemy presence, but the fields were empty of anything or anyone.
Gaius waited for a full five minutes until his ears again caught something, which he knew was a man’s scream, carried by the wind as it changed direction, cutting across his position. It was very faint and distant, coming from the west. Some of his men had also heard the same sound as they looked over at their commander and waited eagerly for his orders. Gaius just nodded to them as he dismounted from his horse and quietly, but quickly, started to make his way towards the noises, which grew louder as he neared.
The Romans stayed low as they reached a raised hill that was over a mile from where they left their horses. Only five men were with him, the rest staying back to watch the animals and cover their rear.
When they near the top of the hill they knelt onto their knees and crawled along the edge of the incline. And even before Gaius reached the top of the hill, he saw the glows of camp fires burning, and the continuing screams of men that were mixed with joyful laughter.
“Those are our boy,” Cato, one of Gaius’ men, a burly centurion said as he stared down at the camp.
Gaius focused his eyes, leering through the darkness and into the well-lit interior of the camp that lied at the bottom of the hill. Scattered throughout he could see Roman soldiers, some being tortured, all captives; tied back-to-back with other legionnaires, while others seemed to be forced to fight each other as if they were gladiators.
“Those can’t be the rogue gladiators, do you think?” Cato asked.
“I would bet a year’s pay that they are. We’ve finally found the bastards,” Gaius answered; his blood boiled at what he was seeing. Even from this far the screams and sights of his countrymen resonated heavily on his soul.
He caught sight of one group of gladiators as they stood around a long wooden table. They all seemed to be in a drunken stupor as they talked loudly, placing bets and jeering as one of their comrades dragged a Roman soldier towards the gathering rogues.
The Roman seemed young, perhaps no more than seventeen. Most of the soldiers who fought at Cannae were of such age, as that army had been put together hesitantly.
The two men who had dragged the Roman to the table, after secured him, backed away, joining their comrades. A third man approached the boy; the Roman was already peeing and shitting himself as he begged for mercy, but his amused captors would not have any of it.
Gaius then watched as the third gladiator raised a very large mallet, one that would normally have been used to slaughter pigs or cows.
The crowd grew more anxious as they waited.
As the young Roman was yelling, continuing to beg for his life, his cries echoed over the crowd that cheered as the large hammer was slammed down onto the back of his ankles.
Even from his distance Gaius could hear the sound of bones breaking. A number of his men also squirmed as two of his soldiers drew their swords and seemed ready to charge down the hill. Gaius quickly reached and grab Cato’s arm, stopping him from going any further. The old soldier reluctantly eased back, but not wanting to watch anymore as the young Roman’s second ankle was broken; and with each bone that was shattered, the surrounding gladiators cheered louder.
The torturer moved up the Roman’s thin body as he slammed his hammer down onto the boy’s legs, before next his hands, and then his arms, and finally down onto the lower back, crushing his spine; the boy had already stopped screaming as he lost consciousness seconds earlier. Afterwards, when the torturer had broken nearly every bone, he slammed the bloody blunt down onto his head, which split in a splatter of gore like a small melon.