Hamilcar had departed Carthage with his army and was marching west. That meant he was heading for the Pillars of Hercules and Spain. Then he would turn east and march for Rome. But first he would meet Titus Norbanus.
He, Norbanus, would be first to crush Hamilcar. Not his father, not Scipio or any other Roman. The glory would go to Titus Norbanus the younger. He might have to share the glory of taking Carthage itself, but this would be his alone. It was destiny. It was the will of the gods.
He began to pore feverishly over his maps. Hamilcar would be moving slowly. Norbanus had seen the army of Carthage on the march, and it could not move at anything like the speed of the Roman legions. Hamilcar would plan to link with Mastanabal, to add that victorious general's army to his own.
But he could not do that if Norbanus found Mastanabal first. It was always good to destroy the enemy's forces in detail, before they had a chance to mass against the Romans. It was one of the oldest dicta taught in Roman military schools: Bring your greatest strength against the enemy's weakness. This was far better than challenging strength with strength. He studied his maps.
Where was Mastanabal?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The march was proceeding altogether gloriously. The massive Carthaginian Army trailed out behind him so far that should he halt, the last elements would not arrive in his camp for two or three days. Size alone did not dictate this attenuation. So vast a host would devastate any country through which it passed. Friendly territory would suffer nearly as sorely as that of the enemy. Not that Hamilcar worried overmuch for the welfare and happiness of his subjects, but his Libyan and Numidian allies could quickly become enemies and their raids might slow and distract his troops. He needed his allied cavalry and dared not offend even their flea-bitten, barbarous chieftains.
Thinking of cavalry, he admired the horsemen who rode as his escort. They were Queen Teuta's Illyrians, and they provided not only his immediate guard, but rode as flankers and forward scouts as well. Their bizarre appearance had the locals gaping wherever they rode. The tattooed men were as fair as Gauls, but they wore tight-fitting trousers and soft boots with pointed, upturned toes. They had long-sleeved jackets and tall, pointed caps with dangling ear-flaps, and every bit of their clothing was stitched with colorful embroidery in fanciful designs: flowers and twining vines and elongated animals writhing into poses of knotted complexity. In their hands were long lances from which streamed banners, and at their belts they carried cased bows and quivers of arrows. Across their backs they carried short sabers in sheaths of figured leather and tucked into their sashes were curved daggers. They did not wear armor and regarded it as unmanly.
Their queen rode beside him, and she looked as fearsome as her men. Her clothing was similar to theirs, but made of gold-embroidered silk, her trousers voluminous, her jacket fitting like a second skin. Instead of the native cap, a lightweight crown of thin gold encircled her brow. The jeweled dagger at her waist was not an ornamental weapon, and at her saddlebow was slung on one side a circular buckler of thick hide faced with bronze, and on the other an axe with a long, slender handle, its head bearing a crescent blade on one side and a cruel, downcurving spike on the other. Once, Hamilcar had asked if she could actually use this odd weapon, and she had only smiled. Later, a hare started from beneath her horse's hooves. She had given chase, then unlimbered the axe, leaned from her saddle and beheaded the creature in mid-leap, her own horse at a full gallop.
Hamilcar reminded himself to ask her no more idle questions.
The weather was splendid, clearly a gift from the gods of Carthage to their favorite. The days were sunny but cool, the evenings just slightly rainy, so that the marching feet and hooves raised little dust.
Their route was along the coastal road. Sometimes it passed behind ranges of hills, and there were days when they were out of sight of the sea, but each time the water came into view again, so did Hamilcar's fleet, keeping easy pace with the army. As they approached prearranged harbors, the ships would speed ahead, so that when Hamilcar and his army reached that spot, the supplies he needed would already have been unloaded, supplies levied from the allies, subjects readied to be carried aboard and new rowers drafted from the locals. All was orderly and in the well-organized fashion that had given Carthage dominion over sea and land for so many years.
"I never knew that so great an enterprise could be run so smoothly," Queen Teuta said when they came in sight of the Pillars. "My chieftains would be hopeless at such a thing, and even the Greeks were not so well ordered in their glory days."
Hamilcar nodded with smug satisfaction. "It is our special gift from the gods. We are not truly a race of warriors, despite our military supremacy. We are sailors and merchants and explorers. These are activities that cannot prosper without close cooperation, discipline and careful planning. Alexander accomplished wonders, but his army marched hungry and thirsty much of the time. It did not occur to that glory-hungry boy to find out whether there was forage, or water, along his route of march. He depended instead upon inspiration, and the love of the gods, and the fanatical loyalty of his men.