The Eagle and the Lightning
Furor I
Man is never so quick as when death is upon him.
~~~~~~~~~
They marched toward the city, ten thousand before ten thousand, uncountable. Shouts rose up among them, songs cheered them along, everywhere sounded the one-two stamp of humanity. The sun rose behind them, and seeing the ground lighten at their feet one shouted ‘West!’. The word seized the ranks, and soon the chorus of ‘West!’ rang out in time with their footsteps.
West! Their hearts burned to see it. The city, the center of time, for which they had fought these seven long years, lay before them. The youngest among them fooled themselves to see her walls rise in the distance, and beat their shields in time. The commanders and old priests were swept up as well; they rocked their idols back and forth, called out their names to the sky, and gave thanks for their glory. One more victory, one more rout, one more siege, and the sun could set on these old men; for the gods the life to come, for the love of their countrymen.
‘West!’ The shout rang out across the fields. This land was not accustomed to their harsh language, nor the fury of their voices. Their passion cut the cool spring air, and their feet came heavily to the ground. Some in the crowd lost their nerve, and cried out some warlike slogan. To this the whole rank would shout their approval, and the rank before, a wave of sound.
West! All-seeing El, father Time, stood behind the rising sun and watched over his children. He had drawn a river between the sides; on the one side Jupiter, pater omnipotens, who could split the sky with his hand, and on the other Ba’al-Hamon, lord of the ninety realms, whose word brought forth the spring. Jupiter stood unknowing; Ba’al marched on.
~~~~~~~~~
Morning brought fog to the ancient city. An old man woke up in the street. He lifted himself, his body groaning, his arms bare and cold. He stood up, his shoulders loose – knees gave way – he stumbled down the street.
In her temple flawless Juno stood open-armed. She watched over the city and her people at every time of life; she blessed their birth, praised their youth, smiled upon their old age and comforted them at the hour of their death. Juno stood with eyes open. The women of the city crowded her temple, weeping and begging for salvation. They fell to their knees and wiped the floor with their hair, as is their custom. The temple heaved with their bodies, and rang with their cries. Watchful Juno looked on.
The great council of elders was in uproar. From every corner a voice, and every minute another old man stood up, giving his advice to no one. Pronouncements of great weight and merit flew back and forth. It was as though every god of warfare, of statesmanship, of authority had been called into one building in one city, and found its elders discussing a game of cards. ‘A sweep from the south-west’, one man begged, and another ‘bravery without recklessness’; mouths moving without minds.
Publius Cornelius Asina took the stage, having determined himself in that hour to be the most stalwart patriot. ‘The city must be defended above all. Should the enemy take her, our cause is surely lost, and theirs triumphant. In our eternal flame is the light of the world, and should she be extinguished, the virtue of our fathers will be forgotten.’ He paused, and looked around as though expecting shock, but, finding his fellow elders lost in his own thoughts, continued.
‘Therefore I am of the opinion that we must remove our forces from all corners of the country where they are presently occupied, and bring them to the defence of the Capital. This, I continue, would include those at the siege of Capua.’ This too failed to rouse the ire of those assembled, to his disappointment. He knew, but refused to believe, that he himself would not have replied had he heard the same speech. In speaking he found his courage.
‘Our burden today goes beyond Tarentum, beyond Capua, beyond Rome herself and Italy. We bear a burden for the whole world – for our fathers, and their fathers, and our children and their children. Who among us would see our traditions, our sacred rituals, the blessings bestowed upon our country fall? Rome must stand.’
Such was the palace of Publius Cornelius Asina’s imagination. His words had found themselves in his speech, and like the best of Greeks his role had become his person. Here was Asina, father of his fatherland, who alone merited the defense he proposed out of his love for the city. Whatever the barbarians should accomplish, his war was already won; he was right, he knew, and his cause was just. He took his seat satisfied.
Fabius Maximus leapt to his feet. With each step to the floor he let his role be known. He held out his hands and lifted his face to the senate. ‘Do you believe’, he began, his voice rolling like the bow of a ship on the waves, ‘that this man – who could not even muster the courage to approach us in our greatest peril – will now attempt an assault in defeat? Will you fear so childlike a manoeuvre?’ He let the question settle in the air. ‘I say we will not. The enemy, it is clear to us, has no force behind this assault. He has no intention of taking our city – he wants only to bring us out into the open, and abandon us there, as a man banished from a brothel.’ He paused. It was an attempt; it received a cough. They knew the role he played.
‘Renowned senators, there is no need for such wailing, nor such fear that we should lose sight of all other aims. The army now present in Rome is more than sufficient to ward off the enemy. Let them throw themselves against our walls, or else starve in their camps’. At this a shout, ‘and our people starve with them!’ – a brief respite from apathy, but Fabius Maximus continued, louder to reply. ‘Nor less the gods! – nor less should they fear the wrath of the gods, for they have seen the holy treaty broken, they know the fates of the innocent ones fallen to the Carthaginians. Jupiter stands with us, and who should stand against us?’
Fabius Maximus looked at the crowd. They were no more, nor less enthused than when he had began, but he did not notice. He looked beyond the walls before him, to the whole city, and saw within it Maximus, the wily watchman, who knew the enemy’s every word and movement, and brought his Rome to the greatest glory, the conqueror of the hordes. His war was won; his cause was just.
Publius Valerius Flaccus held his head in his hands. He counted out the seconds after the end of Maximus’ speech, and at three stood up. He carried with him an air of great deliberation, and held the bench-ends as he proceeded to the stage. With a brief glance at the senators assembled, he began to speak, and when he did he had the attention of his whole audience. His voice pervaded the curia, tremoring and full of force, and his neck quivered with every note he struck.
‘It is an unlucky man who must choose between panic and a gamble. The eminent speakers before me have shown it as such.’ He paused, as though deep in thought. ‘Yet this choice need not be ours to take. We forget that this manoeuvre is not our retreat, but theirs – they flee from our offensive in Capua. With this in mind I propose that we split our army along the lines of necessity. We must maintain the siege, but withdraw all those forces which can be spared. A messenger may be dispatched today, and find what the army can spare for our defence. Every man in the city, meanwhile, will of course stand up for the defence of his fatherland.’ He paused once more. ‘Between fury and lassitude, fathers, there is moderation.’
Publius Valerius Flaccus sat down, smiling inwardly. In these words, he thought, was the will of his country. Moderation, temperance, patience – he was guardian to these virtues. This was the sacred role, inherited from the earliest fathers of Rome.
After Flaccus’ speech was concluded, the senate was thrown into uproar. Every man attached himself to one of these three arguments, there being no other recourse, and defended it for his life. Here was the flash of a pale arm; here the flight of saliva thrown from an angry word; here the creak of bones rising mindless. In the center of this great commotion, among the din of great men, spoke the still, calm voice of Jupiter, who made the world; of Aeneas, who took his birthright; and of Romulus, who united the warring tribes.
Vatum ignare mentes! It drowned in the roar of tongues.
~~~~~~~~~
The old sun set on the camps, and the fires took its place. Nothing more was heard of the clamour of the midday march; night had made whispers of its shouts. Every man had found his tribe and took his place within. There was no longer any need for the centurion’s barks, nor the beat of the marching drum.
In the great camp of the Libyans one warrior sat by the fire. He cradled a drum in his legs, but his arms were slack at his sides. He looked into the flame, watched it dance, thoughtless. Behind him he heard the chatter of a crowd. Their words and names reminded him of his country, and he knew some of them himself, but he did not turn back to join them. The day had drained him entirely, and the strength even to stand would take the air from his lungs, so with his body slack he stared into the fire.
The chatter waned, and after the last laugh the crowd stood silent, until one among them saw the drummer. He turned back to his companions, and, grinning, put them to the question.
‘Why don’t we have a song, then?’
With nothing better, they gave him the mandate. He walked up to the fire and kicked the drummer on the back. He looked up, startled.
‘Hit that drum there, call them up.’ He nodded, and began a slow, deliberate beat. The newcomer looked back to the crowd and called the warriors from their tents.
‘Come on, you old Libyans, sing what your fathers taught you!’
Slowly, one by one, every man was woken, and, groaning, brought forth toward the fire. To the beat of one drum came another, and another, and a voice. Have you ever heard the music of the Libyans? Their voices rise over the drums like white smoke, an unmistakeable sound. The whole nation was brought to that fire, and those who did not sing danced. They assembled and formed a circle; slowly at first, they began to walk rings around the fire, clapping with every beat, then as one mind they sped up, their footsteps growing lighter and lighter until they were running, sprinting; the noise and the flame and the stamp of their feet merged into one, turning faster than the eye could see, faster than the wheel of the sun, faster than heaven itself, when he pulls along the stars.
From the first camp in the west to the last in the east, from the Numidians to the Gauls of the valley, from African deserts to the green fields of the north, the same scene played out. Their fires shone in the night, their footsteps shook the world, and their song rose to the sky. The Romans heard their voices; they shivered behind their high walls, and their fear was such that they asked one another, ‘who are these men?’
These were the Carthaginians, whose leader was the great Hannibal.