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.
Remorselessly, the legionaries came on. He scanned to their flanks and rear. They seemed to have no siege-train. That was excellent. With no heavy missile hurlers or specialized assault equipment, they must attack the rampart with infantry alone. That would prove very costly to them. It was the worst possible way to assault a fortification, simply hurling human flesh against steel.
He looked along his own wall. It was only earth and timber, but the earth was heaped eight feet high and topped with sharpened stakes. He had not entrenched. He had not dug a ditch lined with traps and foot stakes. But he had never expected to have to defend this place. It was merely a temporary camp for amassing a force to renew the attack on Rome.
It was no matter. He had beaten Romans before. He would beat this army as well. Already, his men were over their first astonishment. All up and down the western wall, tribal war chants boomed out. Spaniards waved their vicious falcatas and Gauls whirled their long swords. Slingers were taking their positions, their pouches full of lead slugs. Archers arranged their arrows tidily. At the southern end of the wall the Greeks stood silent and ready, superbly armored and holding their long spears.