Cannae, Again

Hannibal would die that day, at Cannae.

The sun rose, red as blood. It was as if the sky itself had been cut and bled over the land.

Hannibal was confident that morning. It made no sense to worry. He had long awaited this moment. It would be the hardest trial in his life. And he was ready. Across the plain waited eighty thousand Romans, to face his forty thousand. The Romans, stubborn as ever, would charge with little tactical subtlety. But as always, Hannibal had a plan. The night before, he had jested to his officers about the Roman army. Now, the jokes were gone, and his officers awaited orders.

“Mago, my brother,” he called out, “split the Numidian cavalry on both wings. Cavalry is our only advantage today, they must break the Roman cavalry and flank the infantry.”

“It will be done, brother,” said Mago. “The Romans will be no match for us.”

He left, galloping towards the Numidian camp.

“Gisco, take the Pyrenean slingers and the Gauls in ambush on that hill over there. Attack on my signal, after the cavalry has won.”

He gave his orders. When everyone was gone, he rode down to the forming Libyan infantry. Facing south, they would hold the line against the Roman onslaught. They had to give time to the cavalry to defeat the Romans, then open the way for a flanking maneuver from Gisco. Ten thousand against eighty thousand. They had to hold. The wind blew against them.

The Romans came—and, as expected, charged. Shield wall buckled. Men screamed. The Libyans were his most elite troops. They hungered for bloodshed. But even for them, it was too much. For every two Romans slain, four more came forth. They did not have to win here. Hannibal glanced at the wings. The cavalry was stuck. The Numidians were superior riders, but their numbers were equally matched with the Romans. They could not break through. Not fast enough.

Hannibal turned his head to find a Roman blade flashing toward him. He parried the blow and struck back, only to be stabbed in the side by another Roman.

****

The sun rose, red as blood—again.

Hannibal stared at the horizon. He had already died here once. How? Had he dreamed the battle? He touched his side, where the blade had bitten. Nothing. What had happened?

He would not have the time to reflect on it. The Romans were coming. Hannibal had a battle plan. His officers awaited the orders. But, if his dream was a prophetic one, the plan would fail. Should he believe the vision? It seemed so real.

The plan was a good one: break their wings, flank them with fresh troops, push them towards the river. But the dream had shown flaws in that plan. Hannibal needed to adjust.

“We maneuver so we face north, and keep the wind in our back. Mago, my brother, take the full force of the Numidian cavalry on the right flank. Crush their cavalry, and waste no time, the battle depends upon you.”

“We will crush them,” said Mago. He left.

“Gisco, put the Pyrenean slingers on the left flank. Take the Gauls and hide them in those bushes over there. Wait for Mago to defeat the cavalry before you charge.”

He gave his orders. When everyone was gone, he rode down to the forming Libyan infantry. He was confident. He had always won against the Romans, had he not? Would this time be different? The vision scared him.

They faced north. The Romans were coming. They had to hold.

The Romans crashed into them. They always did. Just like in the dream. Vengeful Romans whose lands Hannibal had defiled were slashing at African men whose homes Rome had drained for generations. Horses screaming. Shields crashing and falling.

Hannibal looked to his right. Mago had crashed through the Roman right wing and sent them packing. Mago gave pursuit, while Gisco led the charge on the Roman flank. His Gauls hit the Romans hard, but the Roman army did not move. Gisco pushed, Hannibal could see it, but they would not succeed in pushing them into the river as he had hoped.

Hannibal turned his head to find a Roman sword swinging at him. He parried the blow, but remembered his dream. He turned his head again, just in time to block another blow from another Roman. Hannibal lashed out. His two assailants were dead.

He looked to his left. The Pyreneans had broken before the Roman cavalry, and the horses were charging deep into the Libyan flanks. The men around Hannibal broke in fear, and started running away. The Romans were breaking formation and pursuing the fleeing Carthaginians. From behind him, a spear pierced through Hannibal’s chest.

****

The sun rose, red as blood. As usual.

How many times had Hannibal seen that omen? Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? He had lost count. Long ago meant nothing. Long ago was always the day to come.

He had tried everything.

One morning, he had hidden the Libyans in the water.

Half had drowned. The rest were spotted and slaughtered before Hannibal’s eyes.

Once, he had led a frontal cavalry charge.

They had crashed into an iron gate of shields and spears.

One day, he had split his army into two parts, hoping the Romans would simply charge ahead into nothing and fall for a double-envelopment.

It was the one time the Romans had not charged headlong into battle. They had dismantled the two halves of his army without breaking a sweat.

One morning, he had even tried going out alone to negotiate with the Roman consuls.

He had almost laughed before being decapitated with no warning. He had not even hoped it would work. He often wondered why he had even done it.

Today, his officers waited for his orders. He had none to give today.

Hannibal was lost for ideas. Every time, he had tried. Every time, he had failed. They had always crumbled. He knew the name of every hill, the direction of the wind, the temperature of the river. His troops may be better trained. But it was never enough. The odds were stacked too far against them. The Romans were simply too many. He had seen his men die in droves, so often now that the weight of lives on his conscience had started fading. He knew the names of each of his men, and how most of them would die. The Gauls usually died first. Now, he just waited for their screams. They were only pawns now. In the end, they all died. In the end, he died too.

Hannibal looked up at his generals.

“You are my trusted friends, in the face of an unstoppable monster coming to erase us from the face of history. Do as you see fit. The gods will provide you with the wisdom to defeat the Romans today. Believe in your own genius, for it is there, and the Romans will stand no chance.”

The officers looked at one another, unsure what to do.

“Go. Now.” said Hannibal.

They saluted and left. Hannibal did not go down to the field. Perhaps this would turn out better without him.

What was it all for? Why was he trapped inside this day? Why had the gods chosen to torture him like this, to condemn him to fail at his task every day and start over? Was he to stop and step down to please them?

Without his presence on the battlefield, his generals were crushed even faster than before. The Romans caught up with Hannibal and brought him to the consuls. Paulus and Varro were bickering about who would claim the laurels for their victory. Listening to them, Hannibal glimpsed how they thought. He found his curiosity struck again, before he was executed by Varro himself. Hannibal found solace in dying to a blade that had never struck him before.

****

The sun rose, red as blood. It was hard to imagine a time when this seemed like an unusual omen.

If Hannibal had aged for every day he had lived, he might have been fifty years older than he was now. He had not counted the days, but he felt old. Older than the earth he was treading upon. He had tried, and failed, for so long now. But this time, he hoped, his torment would end. He had it all planned out. It had taken thousands of failed attempts, but he had found it. The last try had almost been successful. He knew every detail of the battlefield now, he knew exactly what to do. But then again, how many times had he thought those thoughts precisely before? Why would this time be any different?

His officers waited for his orders. He gave them with vigor and precision. The officers doubted the plan. Hannibal showed no hesitation. They all went and took their position.

Hannibal went to the center, with the Gauls. The weakest at the center, with Hannibal himself. The infantry would have to hold the bulk of the Roman assault. They would not break. But they would bend.

On both sides, the Numidian cavalry was split unevenly. On the right were just enough men to block Varro’s charge. On the left, Mago would lead just enough men to overpower Paulus’ cavalry.

On the flanks, hidden from sight, were the Libyan infantry, led by Gisco.

They faced north. The hot wind blew dust into the Roman faces. His pawns were in place. Hannibal had set up all his pieces perfectly.

The Romans, as always, charged. The Gauls took the blow with the crashing sound of metal on metal. The line bent. They stepped back. Hannibal knew they would break. They always did. But for now, they held.

On the sides, behind the dust, Mago’s cavalry overpowered Paulus’. They chased the Romans, before turning back and falling on Varro’s back. Varro, seeing he was about to be surrounded, took his cavalry and fled the battlefield.

But the center was crumbling. Again.

The Gauls were running for their lives. The Romans broke formation and started chasing.

This was the missing piece. A broken center, of all things—something for the Romans to chase right into his trap. They always chased. They always broke formation. Hannibal could not help but laugh.

The Libyan infantry, fresh and battle hungry, wearing stolen Roman helmets, leaped from their hiding places and collided with the Roman flanks. The Romans were blinded by the dust. Exhausted from pressing the center. Out of formation. They thought the Libyans, with Roman uniforms, were their allies. The shock was astounding.

The Numidian cavalry came back from chasing Varro and fell upon the Romans’ rearguard. Panic spread through the Roman army like wildfire.

“We have them surrounded! Fight! Quench your bloodthirst and let none live!”

His powerful cry was heard by all on the battlefield. The fleeing Gauls turned around and, witnessing the situation, charged back into the Roman army.

This was it. At last. He would break free. He would see tomorrow. Victory was at hand, but he cared little for that. His unending nightmare was soon to end.

Hannibal turned back, only to find a blade swinging at him. He dodged back. He had almost forgotten to survive. The blade came back, he moved out of the way. Another Roman thrust his spear at him. Hannibal tore the spear free of its owner's hands. The second attacker was tackled to the ground by a Gaul warrior. Hannibal did not look. He knew how that ended. He took the spear, deflected a third blow from his other opponent, then skewered him through the neck. The Roman warrior fell to the ground. Hannibal was alive. He had done it.

****

The sun was once again blood red as it set on the horizon. The battle was over.

Hannibal was sitting high on a hill, mesmerized by that spectacle like it was the first sunset he had seen in his life. The stench of blood and iron was the strongest he had ever smelled. It had been a total slaughter. No prisoner had been taken. Aside from the Roman cavalry, none had escaped. The officers were in shock. Hannibal did not blame them for it. He doubted any battlefield had ever seen such bloodshed.

He did not taste the iron in the air. He did not hear the murmurs of his tired soldiers. For the first time in a thousand years, he looked at the sunset. He was done. He had given eighty thousand lives to the gods, and in exchange, they had ended his torment. Roman lives. Did it matter? He barely cared for his own men anymore. The plains of Cannae would still remain red for decades to come all the same.

“Brother,” said Mago, coming up the hill to meet him. “We have won.”

“Yes. Finally.”

Mago did not hear that word.

“Our losses are few. A few thousand at most, from what we can tell now.”

“Good.”

Mago paused.

“Should I tell the others to prepare for the march to come?”

Hannibal blinked.

“What march?”

Mago hesitated, as if he was going to say something silly.

“The march on Rome, of course.”

Hannibal said nothing. He stared west, into the sunset. Towards Rome.

It had not even occurred to him that there would be a war tomorrow. For so long now, only Cannae had existed. He had tried to run, only to be caught and killed. His world was but a mere miles wide. Go to Rome? Wage war? Again?

He shivered.

Was there another endless trap waiting for him at the next battle? Would he carelessly send his own men to their graves, in fear of defeat? He had lost thousands of times. He had won once. Who was he, now, to think his victory was assured?

“No.”

Mago said nothing. He probably thought he had said something silly. Moving on Rome now was the right move. The Carthaginian morale was high, Rome would have no young man left to defend it. It made sense. But Hannibal wanted no more of it.

“Send messages to the neighboring cities. Capua, Tarentum, all of them. Send word of what happened here. Tell them that Rome has no army to enforce their laws upon them. Tell them to join our cause. And then we will see. We have all deserved a day’s rest at least.”

Mago nodded, turned around and walked down the hill.

Was it a mistake? Yes. Strategically, there was no doubt about it. Hannibal knew it, but his choice was made. He found himself wondering what history would say about this day. Would he be remembered as a glorious conqueror who had singlehandedly defeated a force twice his size through brilliance and genius alone? Or would he be the fool who had not capitalized on his success?

He chuckled. History. What was History to a man who had died for thousands of days in a row? The mere idea of a future brought a tear to his eye. He was tired, like he had carried the weight of a millennium on his shoulders. But at long last, Hannibal was free. And, for the first time in so long, he was excited to see what tomorrow would bring, when the rising sun would not be red.