But already the veterans were mounting the human platform, fending off missiles with contemptuous ease, until they were standing against the palisade, thrusting with their spears at the faces that appeared there. Why aren't they throwing the spears? Mastanabal wondered. It was always their prelude to a hand-to-hand fight. Then the trumpets blared out again, and all along his wall, the crouching legionaries who made up the platform stood.
There came a great, cry from beneath the structure of overlapped shields as men made a superhuman effort and got to their feet, lifting the vast weight above them. Slowly, not quite evenly, the great formation lifted, extended, rose by inches like some gigantic, incomprehensible machine. Then the veteran legionaries of Norbanus were standing above the palisade that topped his camp wall. And now their arms rocked back and they threw their spears, casting them downward onto the terrified enemy, already unmanned by this seemingly inhuman method of making war.
There was a brief, shield-to-shield struggle as the Romans drew their swords and sought to force a way onto the wall. Every man was determined to win the corona muralis: the crown awarded to the first man atop an enemy wall. The mercenaries and allies strove as desperately to keep them out, but now the Romans had the advantage of height and gravity. The front line, first here and there, then along the whole length of the wall, began jumping from the shield platform onto the walk behind the palisade. They tore at the timbers and made gaps for easier passage. More of the veteran troops mounted the shield platform and poured across. Fighting was general all along the wall; then it spilled down the rear face of the earthwork and into the camp.
Mastanabal looked on, appalled. Once in the camp, the Romans could not use their fine teamwork and coordination, and had no time to muster a formation. But his own men were crowded together, getting in one another's way, while the Romans never let themselves get too close for a man to be able to wield his weapons. They fought as individuals as fiercely as they did in formation, and these men had the smell of blood in their nostrils. They slew relentlessly, the razor-edged gladii lancing out to open throats, bellies, breasts, severing arms, opening thighs to let the bright, arterial blood jet out into the befouled air. Mastanabal's men were going down in heaps, often unable to so much as raise their arms.
Below him, Romans were forcing the gate open from inside, and now the shield platform was breaking up, the young men forcing their way into the camp through the gate, or over the earthwork now that the palisade was demolished. Mastanabal's cavalry tried frantically to escape, heading for the river. In an unbelievably short time he knew that all was lost. Only his Greek and Macedonian professionals still stood firm, holding their tight, disciplined formation. There was a standoff in that part of the battle, as the Romans isolated the Greeks from the others. Now they were surrounding his tower and he saw the golden boy himself, Titus Norbanus, riding leisurely to the base.
"General Mastanabal!" Norbanus called up to him. "It's good to see you again, after so long. Will you surrender? It's only a formality, you know. You're beaten. I am willing to spare your life."
Mastanabal snorted. "I'll not surrender to an enemy I have beaten before. Today the gods love you, Titus Norbanus. Perhaps we should have performed the Tophet before embarking on this war. No, between your yoke and my master's cross, I will choose honor instead." So saying, he drew his sword. Balancing atop the tower wall, he saw the Romans watching with great interest as he placed the point of his sword into his mouth. Then he toppled from the wall, headfirst. His blood showered Norbanus and made his horse shy. The other Carthaginian officers followed suit until all were dead. Only the Spartan remained on the tower, and he leaned over its parapet.
"I think we should talk, Roman," the Greek officer said.
Norbanus looked toward the south end of the wall, where the Greeks still held firm. His men were probing with long spears they had picked up, some of them rushing in and hacking at shields and spear shafts with pickaxes. He sent an officer with an order to pull back for a while.
"Can you negotiate for those Greeks? They are good soldiers."
"They will listen to me," said the Spartan. "I'm Xantippus."
"Then here are my terms, offered once. If they lay down their arms, they may live. Otherwise, I will kill every one of them."
"Does surrender mean slavery, or will you let them go home?"
"They will be free to go. If they will take service with me as auxilia, they may even keep their arms."
The Spartan seemed surprised. "That is very generous. Let me speak with them."
Norbanus rode though the gate, and Xantippus descended from the tower. He walked along beside Norbanus as they passed along the wall. Norbanus watched with interest as his men mopped up the last, desperate resistance. Most of the surviving mercenaries were at the river, fighting knee-deep in the water or trying to swim to the other side. But the Roman cavalry had already crossed and cut off escape for all but a very few.
The legionaries were in no mood for merciful gestures, and enemy warriors were seldom good slave material, so most were cut down where they stood and the wounded finished off on the ground with swift thrusts of pilum and gladius. The women of the camp, some with children in tow, were already being rounded up, as were the slaves, who now had new masters.
Across the river, Norbanus saw detachments of Mastanabal's former cavalry force splitting up and running, some with his own horsemen in pursuit. He would have preferred to bag all the cavalry as well, but there had been no possibility of shutting off all escape.
He rode to where the Greeks stood sullenly, weapons gripped in their fists, many. of them bloodied. They had taken some casualties and had inflicted some as well, but in this sort of fight the casualties were usually light until one side lost its cohesiveness and broke formation. That was when the real slaughter began. He let Xantippus go and confer with the officers; then he addressed them.
"I am Titus Norbanus. I have just destroyed Mastanabal, as you have seen. I intend to do the same to Hamilcar, and to Carthage. But that is for the future. Right here and right now, you have a choice. We can make a fight of it, and it will be a hard one, and all of you will die; and some of us will, as well. You can lay down your arms and I promise none of you will be enslaved. Or you can take my oath, keep your arms and join my army as auxilia. You'll get no share of the loot from this fight, of course, but otherwise you will have the same status as the rest of my soldiers, short of citizenship. I am generous, but I am not patient. Decide quickly."
Xantippus and the other officers conferred in low voices; then they took a quick poll of the men. The Spartan spoke first: "We accept your offer of honorable service. We will be your faithful soldiers to the end."
"Then speak with my quartermaster and he will assign you your place in camp. I will make you all rich men."
In all, Norbanus reflected as he rode away, it was turning out to be a very fine day. But it got even better. As he sat in front of the late Carthaginian general's tent while the loot was piled up and tallied, a rider came from the coast on a lathered mount. He brought news from the duumvir Decimus Arrunteius: victory on the sea, that very same day! Word spread through the camp and men congratulated one another on serving so lucky a general, such a favorite of the gods.
In the evening, Norbanus performed the proper sacrifices, then assembled all the men for the award ceremony.
He gave the corona muralis to a young officer who had been first to stand atop the wall, and the civic crown to several men who had saved the lives of fellow citizens in the fighting. Certain centurions he singled out for honor, bestowing upon them military bracelets. He was about to dismiss the formation when the senior centurion of one of his legions strode forth and stood below his reviewing stand. The man raised an arm and extended his fist toward his general. "Imperator!" the grizzled officer shouted. "Imperator!" The other soldiers took up the shout: "Imperator! Imperator!!" Slowly, it turned into a chant: "Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor!" On and on it went and Titus Norbanus felt himself to be a god. To be honored with the title of imperator by spontaneous acclamation of his own soldiers was the highest honor to which a Roman general could aspire. In a triumph he would be honored by the citizenry as a whole, but these were the men who counted.