"Close to our numbers," Niger said. "I'd say we have a slight superiority, unless he has some sizable elements out foraging." That was a matter for concern. The sudden return of a large party after a battle was joined could be disastrous.
"We'll chance it," Norbanus said. "We'll never have a better chance. I want our men in battle order on that field at first light tomorrow, even if it means moving them around all night to get them in position."
What he proposed was risky and difficult, but his subordinates made no protest. They had confidence in their leader now.
Just before sundown a party of scouts rode in and informed Mastanabal that they had seen elements of an approaching Roman army. The scouts were Edetani, black-haired warriors with legs formed to the barrel of a horse.
"What were these Romans doing?" the general asked.
"They behaved very strangely," the head scout said. "Almost as soon as we saw them, they halted at a piece of flat ground. Some men took odd instruments from their shoulders and stuck them into the ground. They looked along the tops of these instruments and waved their arms and shouted to the others. Then many men ran about the field and stuck colored flags into the ground. We think it was some sort of religious rite, although we saw no sacrifices."
Mastanabal and his senior officers chuckled. They had seen the elaborate Roman system of encampment many times during the Alexandrian campaign. These Spaniards were too primitive even to post sentries, much less recognize the nature of such a proceeding. The general made sure that he had the exact distance and location of the Roman force and dismissed the scouts.
"Excellent!" Mastanabal said. "They will break that camp before first light and will be here by late afternoon tomorrow to find us blocking their way."
"So, will we give battle the morning after?" asked a subordinate.
"Why wait? If there is as much as an hour's light left when they arrive, I intend to give battle immediately! These Romans rely heavily upon their formations and battle order. We will strike before they can deploy fully."
In the blackness before dawn Mastanabal was awakened by the sound of trumpets. His eyes snapped-open and he knew something had to be wrong. His groom held his horse ready and he mounted. As he pelted through the camp, men were tumbling from their tents, demanding from one another what was happening. Roman soldiers would already be armed and on their way to their positions on the rampart, Mastanabal thought enviously. He had seen the Romans' night drills, how every man tented in exactly the same spot in every camp and manned the same spot on the wall, so that no matter where they were, the Romans were in the same fort as always.
Not for the first time, Mastanabal wished he had an army made up solely of Carthaginians, instead of this polyglot rabble. But that would not be the Carthaginian way, he thought resignedly. He came to the tower over the main gate and ran up its wooden stair. "What is it?" he barked. "If this is a false alarm, I'll have you all crucified!" The soldiers looked fearful, knowing this was no idle threat. Their officer seemed unimpressed.
"Movement out there, General," he said. "They're being quiet, but it's no scouting probe." He gestured to a rope ladder that lay coiled at his feet. "I went down the wall and walked out a way to be sure. Couldn't see anything, but there's a sizable force gathering on the field to the east of us." The officer, a Spartan professional, knew his business. Mastanabal began to have a very bad feeling.
His senior officers gathered behind him on the platform. No one spoke while their general held his silence. He was not about to speak until he knew exactly what he faced. The coming dawn would tell him all he needed to know. Dawn was not long in coming.
Shouts of wonder rah up and down the rampart; men babbled in a score of tongues and called upon a hundred gods as growing light revealed what had appeared upon the field before them. A huge army stood there, drawn up in great rectangles, standard-bearers to the fore. The most terrifying thing about them was not their numbers, which were no greater than those of the Carthaginian army, or their perfect order, for the Greeks and Macedonians were as disciplined. What struck Mastanabal's men with fear was their eerie, utter silence. It was like beholding an army of ghosts.
The Roman encampment had been a ruse. Mastanabal cursed himself for falling for such a trick. They had marched all night to get here. Such a night march was in itself a considerable feat. But to get out onto that field and form up from marching order to battle order in darkness, completely undetected save for a keen-eared Spartan soldier? Who was capable of such a thing? Certainly not a Roman general like the one he had already beaten. Then he knew.
"It's Norbanus," he said quietly.
"Can it be he, my General?" said a subordinate. "The spies said he was back in Italy, but to come all the way here-"
"It can be no other. I came to know him on the Egyptian campaign. He is wily and imaginative. Only he could have done this."
"I knew him, too," said a Libyan commander. "He can make men march, but he has little reputation as a fighting general. His part in the battle outside Alexandria was well done, but it was just a field maneuver that gave us the advantage. His men did little fighting."
That was true, and the words put heart in the Carthaginian leader. "Counting standards, I make his strength at eight legions. We still have superior numbers, and we are far stronger in cavalry. And the gods of Carthage are stronger than the gods of Rome. He's taken the best ground, naturally, but we won't fight him there. He can come here and fight us, where we have the fortified camp at our backs and the river on our flanks. The advantage is all ours here."
"What if he refuses to give battle, My General?" asked the Libyan.
Mastanabal smiled wolfishly, showing sharp teeth. "Then we will take our ease right here. Soon the shofet will join us, with an army twice our size. Norbanus can fight us then, if it pleases him." His commanders chuckled. That was better. The unexpected shock to their nerves was receding. "Order the men to breakfast. We'll send out a delegation to parley, then make our battle dispositions when the sun is high-"
"My General," said the phlegmatic Spartan, "you had better look over there."
The sun had risen behind the Romans, casting its glitter from standards and spear points and polished armor. At first, nothing seemed to have changed. Then he saw the rhythmic flashing along the line. It came from the polished greaves worn by the centurions. They were walking. With the same incredible precision, without the sound of so much as a single trumpet, the Roman army was advancing.
"My General," said someone, "I don't think they want to parley."
They had given him no time! No time to plan, no time to feed his men, no time for a harangue, no time to make the customary sacrifices. Were he to rush through the ceremonies now, he would look like a half-beaten man, no longer in control of his and his army's fate.
"Do we meet them here or on the field?" demanded the Libyan. "We must know now."
"There is no time to deploy properly. They would catch us with half our men outside the camp, half in. We will meet them here on the walls. It will just take longer to kill them all this way. They must be exhausted after marching all night, and our men are well rested. This is just like Norbanus. What he is doing is bold, but it is foolish. He wastes his men needlessly." It galled him but he had little choice. It was safe enough, but from here he could not concentrate his strength as he pleased. He could not take advantage if he saw a weakness in the Roman formation. There was no scope for generalship in such a fight. On the walls, the ferocity of his Gauls and his Spaniards would be wasted. His splendid cavalry would remain penned up like sheep, completely useless.