The Forging of the Man

 Click! Click! Click! Click! It was a sharp slope that they climbed, slowly trudging up the hill on a dark muddy day. The air was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of mud over leather. The ground was sticky with slush and as the earliest drops of rain precipitated around them, the men marched on, wordless in their exhaustion. Today was a good day. A great raid, a grand victory. To the middle of the troop train rode the commander himself, surrounded by his guard, the finest of his men. He was in a good mood today. The double envelopment maneuver was a success. It was the lynchpin of his grander plans. He could feel the smile form up on his face, uncontrollable. The commander was a passionate man. Given the right army and a clear mandate, he would have sailed out to conquer the world. Alas, he was stuck to the sticky forests of Iberia. He could feel his heart pulse with excitement, this one was long awaited. The air was cold, smelling of oncoming rain and storm. The wind gaining turbulence. The troops moved in a single file, trudging up the hill as they hulked their food stacks and gold reserves. It was the day's plunder. Another village burnt, another people evicted. It was not to his taste, the destruction. But it was necessary. The leaves rustled slightly as the wind moved against their march, tunneling through the tight forest path, the smell of wildflowers and berries in the air. The commander stared out over the distance, as he trotted along upon his horse. He was tempted to celebrate. His first great victory. A boy of mere sixteen. But he won't, not today. His father's words run through his head, over and over. "Remember this day, my son. Remember this day on the date of you're finest victory" He prayed it was not this day he spoke of. This was too early.

  It was a strange day, a half-decade before when he heard those words. He grimaced slightly at the memory. The cut still fresh across his face. The gash still sharp across his chest, a cut upon his shoulder. A gift from his father. The commander rode along on his massive stallion. A horse of dark brown, he cast a majestic shadow upon the ground in the evening sun. All seemed to be going well, if a little painful. He couldn't help but reminisce. All those nights training, fighting at the bottom of the legions. Rising up the ranks. The fear, real. No bodyguard to protect him. Perhaps it was all to pay off. He could see it still, his father standing over him, blade in hand, swinging away at him as he parried the strokes with ever increasing franticity. All up until the first strike cut through. A cut upon his shoulder. The chamber was a stone structure, dimly lit by the flame of a single urn set in the center. It set ghostly shadows upon the wall as the boy fell to the ground. It was the first time he asked his father for a place on the Iberian campaign. His father had looked down upon him a moment, not a word escaping his mouth. "Only when you are worthy" he had said. And when he protested, claiming he was ready, his father had looked seemingly hurt a moment, then taken him by by the hand and led him down to the temple. There he had taken off his armor, staring down at the kid. He had raised his blade in challenge and struck down upon his own son. He said nothing as the boy parried the blow barely, the blade glancing off his shoulder. The boy was skilled. But even the most skilled fighter must bend to the rules of reach and strength. His father was a taller man of great strength. A monster of a beast before the child, and he showed little mercy. As the ghostly shadows of the flame danced around the cove, the men joined in the dance, striking away at each other with ever-increasing ferocity until the boy was left merely defending against the fury of his father's blows. Blocking and deflecting with rapidity. A strike, a parry, then one to the legs parried, all at an increasing lag, and then the man struck. Drawing blood from the boys shoulder. In the dim red light of the fire the wound was barely visible, but the pain was real. Ripping though boy's body as he stepped back, only to be thrown back by a kick from his father. The boy chaffed at the unfairness of it, the size of his opponent. He hoped to hide it, but the father understood all "Do you think it will be fair, when you send your men off to die against the legions?" He smirked, looking down at the kid. "Do you think it will be easy, to have your men face down an army twice their size? To have them stand their ground, let alone fight." He smirked. "Why would they do that for you?" He muttered. "This fear you feel is merely awe at the strength of your opponent. You have not been afraid in your life. Not until you have been stabbed through the neck, stomped down upon by a metal boot thinking to yourself that not a thing in the world would change if you were to die lying there upon that ground." The boy rose charging at his father only to be kicked back onto the wall. "You fight because you want something. You fight for a purpose of your own. But why must your men fight? Answer that question for yourself" He swung his blade, opening up a gash in the boy's chest. He collapses, the pain intense. A tear runs down his cheek. "Feel that pain, my son" The father held his son against the wall. "On the greatest day of your life, in your finest victory, remember this day. This is what you led your men into" He mutters. He presses the blade into the kids skin, drawing a line across the skin of his face. Up close, all of his scars are laid bare. All the cuts, bruises and burns from his many campaigns. The artillery scalds, the arrow cuts, the bones broken upon maces. Shadows of light fly over the marks as the fire flickers in the background. "This scar will remind you, my son. Every time you feel powerful, every time vanity threatens your mind, remember where your strength comes from. Remember the source of it all. The day you forget that, is the day of your final victory" The commander placed his finger across the scar, tracing the line down his cheek. His finger comes back wet. The rain is now a torrent. He smirks. He hasn't forgotten. He never will, or so he hopes.

 The commander was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of a single spear. The silence of the forest broken by the felling of a single man. Thwip! a spear flew through the air hitting a man on guard. It was as if the air itself were charged. In an instant the forest was alive. The bodyguard was the first to react. They moved with rapidity prodding the general's horse to push him out of harm's way. A spear flew out of nowhere, killing the man to his right. The commander stared out, not quite sure how to react. The bodyguard though, was a professional force. Within a moment another man was in the space, completing the cordon. The commander must be protected. They charged up the hill as the men fall apart around them in disarray. Bogged down by their supply packs, the troops were slow to react, struggling to form up battle lines. Thousands seemed to fall within an instant, not a chance to fight. Looking down from the hill it became clear, the masterful maneuver. The barbarians awaited the passing of the front, to isolate the back of the troop train. Then set themselves upon the enemy with savage abandon. As the front half of the troop train moved past the hill, the rear was ravaged and surrounded by the savage foe, hitting them from all sides. Blocking them off from the frontal troops. The commander scanned the battlefield, unable to comprehend the disaster that he faced. A full half of his men lay in the maelstrom. "Rally the troop" he commanded the lieutenant "We must face this enemy" The frontal forces had gathered behind him by this time. Rapid action was required. The lieutenant though, was a wise man, a veteran of many a war. Known for his keen advice to the man in command. He stared at the commander "We must retreat" he muttered. His voice solid as wood "We must cut our losses, commander, pull back and return with reinforcements. We are outnumbered" The commander grips his sword tight. He can see it yet. The image of his father diving into the flames. The last he saw of him. He would not leave. Never to abandon his men. But he could also see the foolishness of a charge. The lower forces were spent for force. The upper troops that he carried on the other hand did not have the might to batter the barbarian force. He would have probably struggled to face them in open battle leave alone an ambush.  He wanted to call out for aid, a strange impulse pulsing through him. Call the commander. As a soldier, you learn to trust the chain of command. You hope and pray, the commander you follow is a man to trust. Where's the commander? And then he realizes something. He is the commander. "The last man to leave the field." His father had once said. The last man to leave the field. He nodded at the lieutenant slightly. Feeling his chest balloon up with courage. "Pull back the troops" He muttered, and before the old man could respond he turned his horse about, turning to face the enemy. He raised a prayer to the high heavens... and he charged.
  "For Carthage!" the cry echoed off the valley hills, as the lone man charged into the throng. The commander would die with his men. But it was not to be, for without even a moment of silence, the commander's cry was met with another. The entire Carthaginian force rallied down the hill, charging down to hell and all else, no orders given, no exhortations need. The entire force charging as one. But as they charged down the hill, it was not Carthage that they called out for. It was not the the nation that they fought for, tears streaming, blades swinging. That was not what this army was built on. And so it was with his name echoing off the walls of the valley, his arms spread in a charge to the death, that the man was forged....

The Greatest Plan Ever Made

Part 1: This will be beautiful

Tell me we won
 The words slip out of my mouth, my voice shaky and weak from the serum. I'm hazy, and yet, barely lucid, lying in a bed of stone, a physicians instrumentation strewn about me. He stands before me, Maharbal. Anguish spread across his face. He stares at me, shaking his head slightly. My teeth grind together, my mind struggling to construct a response. I'm usually more eloquent, as a commander. But here.... I'm speechless. Truly silenced. I knew this was coming. It was always a possiblity. And more so with time. And yet at the edge of the ravine, it's easy to be overwhelmed. Knowing full well that there's no way but ahead. "Fuck" I feel an aching pain spread through me. And then rage. "Fuck!" My voice is ragged. Pure rage and fury. It hardly matters who hears me now. This is it.... This is what happens when you live your life for a single moment. I smirk. It passes. "Fuck" A tear rolls down my cheek. My head runs the permutations. Over and over they run. Allies, manpower, gold. It has never failed me, my mind. Where can I find the men for a counterattack? Perhaps the Numidians can be turned. I could train a citizen levy to man the center. It makes no sense. But I hardly care. I cannot allow this. I cannot allow defeat. I push myself up from the bed. I have little else. A sharp pain cuts through my system. Maharbal moves. A sharp glare handles it. "I am not helpless" I push with solidity. He eyes move over me. "Where is the council?" The man hesitates "Where is the council, Maharbal" I sigh "I must take command" He steps back "They are debating...." I narrow my eyes. "Debating what?" His voice shakes, his face white. "T-Terms." I sigh. A savage fury gripping. Terms? Fucking Terms? I dedicated my life to this city and they will discuss terms? There will be no terms. There will definitely be no surrender. I struggle up. He walks up to me with franticity "You must rest, commander." I fend him off with a glance and a swipe. Another burst of pain flares up. "Your wounds...." "I must take command, Maharbal." I mutter as I stand before him. My hand bleeding through its stitches. Dressed in a medics tunic, a cut across my face and a bandage across my forehead. I step forward with difficulty, my face hot "I must take command...."

10 YEARS AGO
CANNAE, SOUTHERN ITALY, ROMAN REPUBLIC
AT THE BATTLEFIELD
Hannibal Barca- Commander of the Carthaginian Field Armies in Italy
"We're screwed"
 The officer mutters wryly to his comrade. His face pale, his eyes built of fear. I look back, a little struck. A strange look on my face. "Screwed, eh?" The man stares at me. "Commander" The officer stutters, not quite sure what to say. "Commander..." "What's your name" "Gisgo, sir" "A fine name you have, officer" I smirk to myself. A solid name indeed. "You know what I find fascinating, Gisgo?" I shake my head. Looking across the ravine. "In all the thousands that face us... there is not one man that could call himself Gisgo" My lips widen into a wry smile as the officers eyes follow. "Keep strength officer, there is gold immeasurable to be had across the ravine." I shake my head. "All down to an hour of courage" I walk away as a laugh breaks out in the cohort. The weather is cold today. A strange mist hanging over the field. I shake my head as I feel the wind move across. What hell have we brought upon ourselves. Maharbal waits for me at the front of the line. His horse at his side. The commander of the cavalry cohorts stares at me. "Are you sure this is wise?" I scan the distance. An open field. I shake my head. Flatlands until the eye can see and then the beast. I smile as I look at it. It seems to cover the horizon, moving as if a shadow on land. And as I stare at it I feel myself shudder. 80,000 men brought to the field. 8 legions and attached auxilia. I sigh. The greatest army to ever step into the field. Before the Roman behemoth, it's tempting to feel puny.
    It is easy to imagine the scene beforehand. To see it in the mind's eye. But nothing prepares a man for the sight. There is nothing like staring at the greatest army ever assembled right across the field. Knowing it's your job to defeat it. It's momentous... and it should be scary. I can feel the troops shifting behind me. Their morale withering. I smirk, looking down at my blade. I am not afraid. Not today. Fear would not serve me on this field. Fury on the other hand, I got plenty of that to spare. My lips open up, stating what I truly feel, under all the layers "Calm down dear Marharbal. Calm down and calm your men. Today... today is important" I stare across the field "Today will be beautiful."

A FEW HOURS LATER
What does it take?
  I sigh, staring at the scene that faces me. What does it take to pull together a nation? It is a question I have struggled with a multitude of times. It is the defining question of my profession. The question that defines the greatest of generals, and emperors. What does it take to whip up a mass. For what else are we doing than rallying the mass of our nations to a cause, our every move aimed at maximizing the focus of the nation. Victory very often finds itself in the hands of the more focussed power. An absolute determination to master the art, is often the key. For the average man, though it is about purpose. The masterful general can construct purpose from thin air. Produce enough dedication to power a nation's pulse. And you cannot win wars without having soldiers to fight them. As I said, it is the defining the question of my profession. I smirk to myself. It is rare to find the answer staring you right in the face. Quite literally, as it seems. And yet here I am.... The answer it seems is one scrawny general and the 40,000 odd barbarian mercenaries at his back. I sigh, clenching my sword. I might have pushed the envelope on this one. I feel the sweat run down my arm. My shield held in my right arm as my knees buckle for impact. I nod to the officer beside me as we lock shields. Shields lining up across the line. The orders are clear. I clench my teeth looking into the distance as I feel my heart palpitate. This will be ugly. Maharbal stands at the flank leading the cavalry. I smirk. The plan is clear in my head, almost too elegant to work. It is a thing of beauty, the plan. And yet I can see it happen as if right before me. It is as if it were the simplest thing... the most beautiful thing in the world. The officer at my side nods with confidence. Gisgo. I smirk as I nod back. Solidity is key. I must radiate solidity. An absolute and complete stability of thought. As if victory were assured. No matter how bad things get, the morale of an army lives and dies with it's general. Right until the last man falls, the great general could rally his men. Bringing entire armies to risk their lives out of pure dedication. I pull out my spear, bracing my shield. I can hear the enemy charging in the distance. 80,000 men's worth of pure muscle descending upon us. A pulsing beat pumping through the ground as it shakes from the impact. And then I feel it in my heart. A surge of crazy. I smile to myself as I shake with glee. This will be beautiful.




A FEW HOURS BEFORE
    I walk the distance inspecting the formation. The Romans are still in camp. Not ready to engage. We have a few hours, perhaps a day if they chose to delay. Maharbal walks by my side muttering protests. "I would reccommend a retreat. We do not have the numbers. Perhaps we can find an advantageous location. Hannibal" He holds me by the shoulder pulling me to a stop. I look up at him a reassuring smile spread across my face. "If we retreated every time they outnumbered us, Maharbal" I wag my finger at him. "We would be back in Iberia by now." I smirk, raising the facade. He stares back at me. Maharbal is a loyal man, if a little conservative. The perfect advisor, as I have learned. Someone to play the contrarian. The man would speak his mind irrelevant of what I think. I can respect that, and I can definitely use that. I smile wryly, responding to his concerned expression "We have to win someday, Maharbal" I mutter. "If there is someplace we must fight, then I would rather it be here." He sighs. "I hope you know what you're doing" I nod looking at him "Gather the cavalry and await instructions" I turn to walk away, giving him a withering glance "Cheer up Maharbal. It's a good day to fight" He smirks. "Worse day to die" I swear at him, walking away as I feel the stress come on. I walk into my tent, placing myself upon the cushions. This one is tough.... not nice. I gotta pull myself together. This one could challenge me. Might've stretched it enough. Time to get down to business.


Hannibal
  What game am I playing here? I consider it. They have the big cards, it would seem. Superior numbers on the field with 2 men marching to a man of ours. They have better training and better armor, a deadly combo. Weaknesses? 80,000 well-trained men. Fighting for their homeland facing  before them a severely outnumbered mercenary coalition with little national loyalty and seemingly low unit cohesion. I smirk. I love this one. It does not add up for me, or so it would seem. But the math is never so cut and dry. Rarely if ever. I have troops coming from Gaul, Iberia and some from Africa. That's half of Europe and Africa. More than a couple dozen languages and close to that many cultures. Different styles of fighting across the fighting line. I smile slightly. Looks like a clusterfuck. At least from the outside, that is. I consider it. We have a stronger cavalry force. Significantly faster, if lighter. And much stronger in numbers. But not enough to turn the tide. Not on its own that is.

    I feel my heart thud in my chest. Until today everything has gone well. A day ago I was excited. This was exactly what I wanted. Victory by annihilation.The tacticians strategy. I smile to myself. It's elegant. The trick is to pull the fight onto your field and play the game to your advantage.  If you are weak strategically, make it a battle of tactics. And vica versa. Draw your enemy to the field and make strange things happen. The Romans hold the Peninsula. They have the resources in both gold and men. I have 40,000 men and no food. The strategic game, as they say, is a losing one. The war itself is a losing one. I smirk.  Unless, that is, I make the strategics irrelevant. I burn the harvests, kill the peasants. Make it a matter of honor. Draw them to the field. But this can't be just any battle. This must be a stroke of the soul. A devastation of the Roman prestige. Like destroying the only standing army in all of Italy, now that would hurt. But most importantly, it will terrify. And so here we are. Two major victories on the march and this is what shows up. Rome sends it's best. It's beautiful. In a single day a battle of strategy becomes a tactician's game. And the tactician's game is where the beauty lies. For once you're on that field, anything can happen. Larger armies have been upset before. Greater empires have been brought to their knees. And this...? This will be a massacre.

  I look down at the ground. Considering it. It's easy to whip oneself into a fury. But I am struck by the beauty of the line. It will be a massacre. Either way this goes, it will be a massacre. It's amazing.... I have lived my entire life for this day. It is the rarest day.... When something truly magical can happen. The opportunity for greatness comes along rarely. Till yesterday I was a joke. A thorn in the Roman side. Tomorrow... tomorrow I could be a legend. I look at the enemy and then back at my troops. Mercenaries. There's only so much a man will do for gold. But these men have fought through the dirt for me. I can imagine the Romans staring down at us from across the field. From that distance we must look utterly harmless. An ant waiting to be swept by the flood. I smirk. It's poetic. The puny punic hero facing the Roman Goliath. They must think we are a joke. What a joke.

  And that's when it hits me. Like an arrow through the heart and a shard of glass, the idea is brilliant. I smile with glee as the absolute brilliance of it hits me. It is elegant... yet so obvious. Cutting through my thoughts with precision. The weakness... It's fascinating. A strength in the weakness. An advantage staring me right in the face. I shake my head. Trying to separate truth from fluff. And yet the picture does not leave. Damn.... I feel the mania come on. This might just work.

    The punch and the palm. I smirk. It's elegant. The greatest weaknesses are psychological. They represent the cracks in our thoughts process. The overconfidences we overlook because they seems so goddamn... obvious. I mutter the word in my head. The key to it all. And suddenly the beast looks like no beast at all. The behemoth is now slow and foolish. Hamstrung by its own size and strength and lacking in mobility. Trapped in an open field and waiting to be picked apart. I can see it play out before me. My greatest victory. My Pieta. And I have never felt better. Not once and never again. I grin up at Maharbal as he stares down at me. Watching from the entrance of the tent as he questions my sanity. I feel a rush flow through me looking at him "You bloody beautiful bastard... Maharbal. I have done it! I have figured it out! Call the officers, gather the troops. This is glorious" I laugh. Chuckling to myself. "We got business to do" I look into the distance. This will be beautiful. Holy hell, this will be beautiful. And that's how the greatest plan in history was made. With a scrawny general hunkered in a tent. Half mad and laughing at himself. A moment without a plan and the next he was crazed.



BACK UPON THE FIELD
Oh... boy is this gonna hurt. I brace for the impact. Bang! The sound is closer to the rush of water hitting the edges of a wall. Smashing hard with intensity. I'm pushed into the great crush as the line smashes into us. Shield hits shield, spear cuts spear. I feel my bones crunch as I smash into the Roman war machine.
  The Roman cohorts charge in in tight formations. Smashing through, shield first after flinging their javelins. I feel the javelin dig in as the enemy missile hits its mark. The pila breaks as it is designed to. Curving down from the sharp end as the handle hangs limp, leaving me with a uselessly heavy shield and an unusably broken javelin. Goddamn Romans. I swear to myself as I fling aside the shield and scream pulling out my sword. Goddammit. This is it. I stab out as I feel the chaos surrounds me. Very little means anything anymore. I could be praying for Maharbal to succeed at this moment. But to be honest I'm not. It's as if the world dissolves around me as I fight. Maharbal must win. The though flickers past like an arrow through an apple. I might have cut through a few jaws and broken a few bones. Or perhaps not... but who knows? In the grand crush, we are all meat. Gisgo is gone. I find myself picking up a shield from a fallen man as I push ahead in the crush of battle, praying it has no pila in it. And then everything is red.

 I stumble back as another man replaces me in the crush. I feel no pain. I have little time for pain. I look around as it hits me. I have a job here. I shake my head scanning for injuries. At the skull, if I were to theorize. But I can think, so there's that. "Step back!" I scream, praying they hear me. "Step back!" This is crucial. The center of the line pushes back ever so slowly. It has to subtle. I clench my teeth. It has to be subtle. But moving a line has its stresses. Men fall as they fail to retreat while they fight. I can see the line arcing as the sides hold their ground. It's subtle at first, but definite and obvious. A man dies at my side as I realize I am now at the front. I stab out. I might have hit a neck judging from the blood. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. I stab out. My sanity holding on by a thin string. This is crazy. So fucking crazy. I laugh out loud. I love it.

 I scream. Tempted to shove ahead and force a forward charge. But that would be suicide and I have little love for suicide. So I step back with the rest of the line. Stabbing out at intervals. Pushing to the back on tiredness as a man replaces me in the crush and repeating the cycle again. And at one point it seems eternal. From past to future time ceases to mean anything. It's tempting to lose track. To dissolve into the cycle and lose myself. It takes a blade to my shoulder to bring me back. I swear as I smash my hilt into his helmet. The man falls. Perhaps to live another day. I step back as the blood gushes from my shoulder. I can feel the force of the battle. It's as if the line revolves around me. The troops are close to a rout. The Romans have run a deep formation, as I theorized. They hit us with the force of a brick wall. I see men fall all around me. And for a moment it seems hopeless. The tears running down my face. I swear to myself. Goddammit. I have to collect myself. I sigh. Fuck. I smile hysterically. If there ever were a moment, for something beautiful, this would be it.

  The line is at breaking point. I look around. The arc is complete. We are at our thinnest. Stretched to the limit. I can see the sides at the front, holding their positions. I cough. Vomiting blood. I swear. Fuck! I pull out my blade and push ahead. It's up to Maharbal now. All I can do now is hold the line.

  We are at our weakest. The men fight fearfully. I can smell the panic as it flows through the troops. Panic is the precursor to collapse. We are so close to a route now, I can feel it. It's strange how close victory and defeat can get. I can see it all falling apart. I scream in frustration. This doesn't make any sense. The trap worked. Every single thing moving in perfect symmetry. How can something so beautiful fail? My heart palpitates in it's cage. So close. And it means nothing. This cannot happen. Not if there were any elegance in the universe. Fuck. What will it take? What will it fucking take.

   I feel the frustration pulsing through me from toe to temple. Nothing! I have lived for this moment my entire life. And it means nothing? The blood is everywhere now. I'm not sure which of it is even mine. Some spraying in my face. Some across my armor. Some running across my arm. I should feel pain. But I have little time for pain. Come on Maharbal. I can see the men peel away now. Fleeing the battlefield. Roman morale rising. As the victory appears before them. So close. And I feel more pain than I have ever felt. A pulsing crushing pain in my heart that far overshadows any pain in the physical. I feel my muscles compress. My grip tightening on the blade. My teeth clenching.

No.

    No they won't. No one flees. Not until the last Roman has fallen. Not until I win! I will not lose. I will not be beatern.... I grit my teeth and charge.
  What follows... follows. The last string breaks. And I slip into insanity. Driven by barbarity and madness. If only temporary. The cycle exists no more. I have no need for rest. I don't know if it works. I don't know if it makes any difference. But I honestly don't care. For after a moment has passed and we have won, who cares why? And if am glad for anything, it is that horses can gallop, and men can fight.

   It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A line of horses smashing into the backs of the Romans. Maharbal prevails. The cavalry charges in. And I smile with glee. My Pieta. This is it! This is everything I ever lived for. The perfect moment. Trebia, Transimene and Cannae. The trifecta is complete. And if ever there were a tale written about me it would be because of this moment. Because in a single instant the game changes. And right before my eyes it happens. The greatest military achievement of all time. The perfect double envelopment. The tears are now ones of joy. It was perfect. Perhaps to never be seen again. Not like this. Never again. The encirclement is complete and the Romans are surrounded. Driven by vanity they pushed hard into the center where the weakest troops lay. Held together through the sheer willpower of the general. And so vain were the Romans, they could not see the game falling apart right in their faces. And like a punch landing in an open palm, they are surrounded. And just as they think they are winning, Maharbal charges in with devastating zeal having beaten the flanking cavalry with superior forces. It's beautiful, the completion of the circle. And with nowhere to escape the Romans are massacred. Ripped down and broken to a man.

  Perhaps I should rest... Lol. I've earned this. And I go berzerk, spilling guts on blood. No order is required. No command. And history is made... And as we go about our bloody business, if only for a moment, I feel truly.... free. Capable of anything in the world. Undefeatable and Invincible. I smirk as I look over the scene. The fallen lying before me. It's a lie, of course. An illusion. But so tempting to live on. I shake my head, looking into the distance. Not today. I smile to myself as I walk away. Not today....
TO BE CONTINUED


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This is Part 1 of The Greatest Plan Ever Made. The tale of the greatest campaign in all of history and the man who led it. Stay tuned for upcoming posts in the coming days as we look through the mind and journeys of one of the greatest generals in history.
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The absolute power of Tenacity: The siege of Masada

 I have always found Zombies fascinating. Or precisely our fear of them. Zombies are relatively weak creatures. Very often slow, dragging across the ground and exceedingly stupid. As a threat they really don't have much firepower. They aren't even very gory. Grey and skinless at times, but they got nothing on Freddy Krueger. And yet they remain an enduring symbol in modern culture. Appearing repeatedly in our movies and games and doomsday survival plans. These creatures have very little going for them except of course for their tenaciousness. Zombies are difficult to stop. They just keep coming. They're not smart, but they are determined. You can rip out their limbs, shoot of their heads and rip out their hearts and they will keep coming. You can push them back. Fairly easily very often. But they will always be there. And there will always be more. And eventually little by little they will defeat you. It's inevitable. And that is what scares us. Because there is nothing scarier than an opponent you cannot defeat.

The Roman Empire at its peak

 The Romans built an empire spanning a vast majority of Europe. Uniting a land mass that was broken into a variety of warring tribes and pulling together one of the greatest empires of all time. They sustained that rule for close to 2 millennia. That's 2000 years. Talk about endurance. The fascinating thing about the Romans is that they were essentially originally just a city. The empire was literally the city of Rome and it's tributary provinces. Imagine India as the Mumbai empire (I am not going to say Delhi) or the United States being completely conquered by the city of Washington. That is stunning. Never before or again (until now...) would a single city dominate the world like that. So how do the citizens of a single city pull together such absolute power for themselves? Ruling empires and nation states a world away. It's fascinating to consider this question. How does a continent go from a million warring tribes, cities and empires to a singular power raised by a single city? The answer always seems to be complex. And yet the underlying truth is often simple. The personality of a civilization is often revealed in singular moments of desperation and drive. If ever there was such a battle for the Romans. One that would explain how such power and legacy was built singularly it would be the siege of Masada. An absolute masterclass of tenacity. If you ever need to understand how empires are built, this is the battle to look at. Read on to know more about one of the most fascinating battle of all time and the men who fought it.
 
I present to you the Siege of Masada

 If ever there was a battle won through pure audacity it would be this one. You see that picture above? That is the modern day ruin of Masada.

Masada was a fortress nigh impregnable. Those small walls you see above? They were 6 metres tall originally. That’s more than 19 feet. The fortress was built on a mountaintop and was considered nigh impregnable. It had double walls with space in between to store food. The area under the land that you see stored water for long periods of time. It was in the middle of nowhere. So any besieger would run out of supplies before the garrison in the fort. The only entry paths were snaking and thin or extremely steep. Nowhere near ideal for assault.
 That is to say no ordinary army, no matter how big could have broken through those walls. To paraphrase the great George R.R Martin "A million men could have marched on those walls and million men would have been repulsed" But the Romans… the Romans were a force of nature. Noone denied the Romans. Noone stood in their paths. Not unless they were allowed to. In 73AD the Jews of Judaea revolted in a revolt that shook the very base of the empire. It was a bloody brutal rebellion. As casualties mounted rapidly the Romans responded with impunity. Claims from the time place the casualties of the siege of Jerusalem at 1 million. With 97000 prisoners taken. This might not be an accurate number, almost definitely, but it gives us a good idea of the psychological impact of the rebellion on the people of the time.
But as with all the rebellions they faced the methodical brutality and military brilliance of the Romans won out. And city by city, town by town the zealots were subdued until finally, only Masada remained. The last stand of the Sicarii rebels. Knife-wielding murderers, the Sicarii were known to carry out kills in crowded marketplaces and surprisingly enough could also hold their ground against Roman legionaries in the field. A garrison of less than a thousand held the fort. Many of them refugees. The fortress was located in a region of minimal resources. Supplies were difficult to provide. Any other empire would have ignored the rebels. They could do very little from their hidey hole. Their numbers were weak. Their army, for all intents and purposes, broken. But you do not last in power for two millennia by letting rebels fester away in your territory. No, a message had to be given. No matter where their enemies hid, the Romans would find them. And they would kill them.

Yep, that’s what they were facing

And so the Romans marched past the dead sea and into the Negev desert. They sent the very best, the Legio X Fretensis or the 10th Legion of Rome. Levied by Augustus Caesar himself, it had been around for more than a hundred years since the era of the first Emperor of Rome. With a multitude of Auxiliary cohorts (Allied troops) the 10th Legion set seige to Masada. They built a set of walls around the fort. Walls of stone, quarried from the region itself. Reaching a total length of 3.2 km the walls can be seen even today, more than 1900 years later. The walls were formidable, cutting off the Zealots from the outside world. They had camps set up on both side and multiple outposts where they kept auxilliary troops on guard. This was to be a perfect operation.

One of the Roman Legionary camps that can still be seen

At this point, the zealots still held the advantage. They had supplies that could last decades. And the Romans had literally no chance of breaking through with the 10,000 men they had. Or so it seemed.
What follows is one of the most impressive military maneuvers of all time. A marvel of human brilliance actually. For I cannot imagine calling it anything else. Imagine standing on the hill. Looking down on the sieging army. Knowing with absolute certainty that you are safe. Knowing that there is no way on planet earth that those men can come up that hill. And then imagine looking down and watching a miniature mountain rise. Imagine it as it reaches ever closer by the day. And day by day it threatens you more. There is no scarier feeling in the world than this. Than watching the impossible happen right before your eyes. Watching it slowly walk up to you, smiling, blade in hand. Ready to kill you. What do you do when the conditions don’t suit you? When every single variable stands against you? If you are the Romans, you change the conditions and break the variables.

 The Romans effectively reshaped the mountain. They built a ramp along one side with a more forgiving slope than the mountainside. A ramp as tall as the mountain itself. The massive construction weighed one and a half times the empire state building. And it was built in 2 months. Pushing rock up the hill until the fort was a short leap away and then nothing. The construction remains a masterpiece of military construction. Built by the legion and by a labour force consisting of slaves captured from the great revolt. Because nothing raises the middle finger like rebel slaves working under arrow fire from their own side.

Yep, that route you see up the hill was built by the Romans. The square structures on the right are the Roman camps at the fortifications.
And when the ramp was ready the Legion marched up the hill. Swords and Shield in hand. Ready for a grand fight.
They found a massacre.
The cowardly zealots decided to kill each other rather than risk getting captured. They watched for months as the Romans pushed their siege engines up the hill. Firing arrows at the marching besiegers. But when the time came to fight they would not raise their blades.
And that was the difference between the Romans and their enemies. They would fight to the end. Even when there was no hope. Hannibal faced the same problem 4 centuries before. He brought Rome to its knees. Marched into Italy and destroyed an army of 16 legions (84,000 men). And yet the Romans would not surrender. They would not surrender until they were completely destroyed. The only two options in any war for them were victory and total annihilation. Very few in war as in life can truly annihilate their enemies. Victory depends on capitulation. And thus the rare opponent like the Romans that never relent and never surrender end up winning over the larger scale of time. The Sicarii thought they were safe cowering in their forts. They could not have been farther from the truth. No one is safe from the truly relentless. And the Romans were nothing if not relentless. If there was no other option they would held the fortifications for decades if necessary until the zealots surrendered. And they would have surrendered. Or died. And so it happened. The siege of Masada ended in a Roman victory. Yet another in a long list to come. The empire would live on for 3 more centuries. Until their determination crumpled. And with it their power.

 If you like this post do subscribe to this blog to know about our latest updates. This is Of Ballads and Broken Dreams where we explore History, Philosophy and the intersection between the two. Next we will be exploring how the humble stirrup changed the history of Medieval Europe, Hannibal's masterpiece of a victory at Cannae and the connection between the Romans and Mcdonalds. Stay tuned for more!
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Parth Thakur
(Check me out on Quora if you're interested)
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The genesis of evil

 The Earth is dying. Or so it would seem. The seas are rising. The forests are dying. Species are going extinct. It seems like we are bringing a whole great armageddon upon the planet. Then there are the deniers. The doubters and the skeptics. We laugh at them. How could it not be real. The end of the world. The scientists say it. Of course, it has to be true, doesn't it?

 As a species humanity has often bent towards delusion to do what it felt was necessary. When the Romans rained hell over Gaul and Iberia (Modern day France and Spain) they were 'unifying the Mediterranean'. What they were really doing was digging for mines. Searching for gold. Until they ran out and needed more. But their citizens truly believed they were doing good. That the people they were subjugating were barbarians. Unclean people in need of civilization. When the British sailed across the seas and conquered a quarter of the world they were doing the same thing. They convinced themselves they were 'educating the natives'. The argument had merits. But even the minorly observant viewer could tell that they were looting them. That this was no benevolent venture. It was as self-centred as could be. For better or worse. And yet they needed the illusion. Man is rarely evil at his core. It is few that truly enjoy causing pain to people. And fewer still with have the gumption to do it at scale. And yet the acts were committed. The slaves were carried across the Atlantic in chains and starving. It is fascinating to consider the logic that drives these people. I know no one personally that would support such an act. No one generally believes they themselves would do it. Even if we assume that some people support the act today it would be a safe assumption that a majority of people would be horrified by it. And yet, for millennia slaves were bought, sold and exchanged across the world. And without much opposition. It seems difficult to understand. Because it leaves us with very few options to consider. Either the generations before us were somehow evil or they were right. If we are to assume that slavery is evil then you have to consider that those people were somehow evil. And that's difficult to accept. Looking across history we see patterns repeating. Faced with similar circumstances people react in simple manners across generations. And with good reason. We haven't changed much genetically across the centuries. (It's too short a time frame for evolution) So what gives? What makes us so different from those that walked the earth merely 300 years ago?

 The answer it seems is choice. We are different from our predecessors because it suits us. Throughout history, slaves have been bought and sold because they were the most efficient item of labor. Simply put a slave was cheaper than a worker. Don't believe me? Julius Caesar of Rome gained much of his political influence on the promise of labour reforms. The problem he claimed to fix? The Italian people were jobless because all the jobs in Italy were taken by slaves imported from Roman conquests. (Sounds familiar?) This was a real problem. The slaves were so much cheaper that landowners bought large masses of land and used slave labour to till the land. It was efficient. And very profitable. Slavery was simply better for the rich. And this remained true for centuries as human progress continued to chug on sluggishly. And then came the machines. Until the Industrial Era, it was cheaper to hire slaves to get jobs done. But then the mills and other factories made slave labour seem inefficient. With jobs not available it actually for a while was cheaper to hire a worker than a slave. This is why slavery did not gain strength in Britain. It was cheaper to pay some chap a few pieces than to feed, clothe and shelter an African slave all the way in Britain. And so suddenly, it seemed, we woke up. Slavery went from passe to evil to downright devilish. And only where it was economically less viable. The American civil war was fought between states where slavery was big business and states where it wasn't. It is easy to hate something when you no longer gain from it. Now you still seem to disagree, don't you? Those people earlier were evil, you say. They had to be. They supported slavery! You can't just convince yourself of something. You can't just tell yourself slavery is good, can you?

 Then again you'd be surprised at what a person can convince themselves off. It is a great talent of man to believe what he wishes to believe. Don't believe me? (See what I did there?)  What if I told you that in 20 years it is very probable that the people of the future will look back at us and shake their heads. How could we eat animals? They will say. How barbaric that is! I have no doubt for that matter that someday people will consider meat-eating an atrocity. And this coming from a fairly regular non vegetarian. Let us consider this scenario. If you have been observing the news it seems synthetic meats are being considered a very real possibility. Something of a potential future technology. Let us assume as a thought exercise that such a meat were to be invented. Now let us think about what happens. Over the course of time such a meat (If it is cheaper) will replace natural meat. Now as a person who eats synthetic meat you look at a documentary about the brutal methods that chickens were bred in the 'dark times'. And you consider this question. Why did the people of the past consume meat? And the answer comes to you. As clear as day. The taste. We ate chicken because it was tasty. It wasn't cheaper or easier to produce. I was simply tastier. We brutalised and massacred a variety of species of animals for the sake of our taste buds. We think nothing of it. Rationalise it even. An argument claims that more insects are killed in the field while harvesting crops than chickens murdered for our food. We can all agree that that is a foolish argument. (See what I did there?) The reason it is a foolish argument is because we are attacking something that's causing us harm. They attack our food supply. More importantly, there is no torture involved. We are not imprisoning, breeding and genetically modifying them to our benefit. Now there are other arguments that can be made. But not ones that people know of. People don't know that plants can show emotions, for example. But people still eat chicken. The truth is we don't care. We do what we want to do. Whatever we believe works out best for us. And then we rationalize it. The slave owners weren't 'educating the black man'. But it gave them some peace to think that they were. Because the other option of doing the less brutal thing was less beneficial and often not acceptable economically. And the same applies to us. There will always be greenies and civil rights activists. But the majority of mankind will always do what is best for it. People will not buy hybrids and electric cars until they are cheaper and better than gasoline cars.

Edit:
Let us put aside the animals for a moment. It is implied by some that they are inferior species, not possessing the same rights as humans. It is an argument with some merit. Fascinatingly similar to the case against the blacks, but I digress. Let's make this apples to oranges comparison into an apples to apples comparison. Let's shift our attention to our favorite punching bag and enemy number one, Adolf Hitler. Now it is clear that his acts against the Jews were awful. Comparable quite easily to slavery. It is easy to assume that any all support of these acts was fanatical. That all his supporters were psychopathic killers like Heinrich Himmler and the like. But then you have a population of nearly 80 million people. These people actively supported him. They didn't just bend to his subjugation. They rejoiced for it. Hitler ruled with unprecedented approvals even while he massacred and otherwise undermined the jews. These people were not hypnotised. So why then did they support something so obviously evil. Even if we are to assume that the worst of it was hidden, pulling people out of their homes and packing them in trains was not exactly a promising sign. I don't think you think you would support that. But don't you see? This is a large sample space of 80 million people. It is a social experiment of unprecedented scale and consequences and no one is reading the results. Because we do not like them. The reason they allowed it was because it worked for them. A post World War One Germany had risen from the ruins. The economy was booming. The trains ran on time. And contrary to popular belief in the right direction too. (The cargo was questionable.) The point is that as long as the system worked for the majority they chose to overlook any problems with it. They chose to believe that the jews were evil, vile vermin in need of extermination. They believed that because it worked for them. They could still be good people in their own eyes. The jews were only vermin after all. Not too different from the black 'animals' of Africa. That's how propaganda works. It tells us what we want to believe. It feeds a narrative. The moment the narrative ceased to be productive though, the illusion collapsed. The jews were no longer vermin because believing that they were was no longer profitable. The Germans choose to ignore the period of time. Assume it to be some form of anomaly. It is no anomaly, though. It is human nature. It shows up again and again. Whether it is with the Spartan Helots or the Roman invasions. Or perhaps the Americans wars and our constant obsession with the 'evil' Russians and the North Koreans.

      At this point, it seems that the people of the past were probably not evil. (If we assume we are not evil) Or at least not any different to us. We do the same things. Maybe not quite as bad. Definitely for that matter not quite as bad. But that is simply a privilege of modern technology. Heck, I'm not judging. I love meat. I eat it fairly regularly. But the ethical question is often hard to answer. I mean we use animals to test out our cosmetics. There's no real case here. But I know more than a few people that enjoy the cheap makeup. And so we return to our primary question. Were people of the past more evil than us? Not quite, it would seem. They don't seem to have been right either. So what were they? What makes all this work? And the answer to that is delusion. Mankind is delusional. At a large scale that is. We build our own reality where all that we do is right and good. Where the majority is never wrong. Are we good people because we want to believe we do no harm or are we evil people for doing all the crazy harm that we actually do? Do intentions trump (lol)(forgive me) action? Who knows. And to be honest... who cares? The parade will continue. As it always does. We will judge our predecessors. Our future will judge us. And so on. And so forth. Washington will remain a hero. And so will Martin Luther King. People will as always live life as they always have. The same people. Different circumstances.

 If you like this post do like and share it. Subscribe to this blog (Subscribe button) to get updates on our latest post. (All about history philosophy and how they intertwine) Comment if you disagree and comment if you agree. This is Parth Thakur. Or as I go by here... The Historian. (Sound cool doesn't it?) and this is Of Ballads and Broken Dreams.
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The Historiogram: What we do here

3200 years ago a hundred thousand men landed on the shores of Troy. Ships as far as the eyes could see as Homer said it. They had a single aim in mind and a single city in their faces. The resulting war would be remembered for millenia. 10 years of relentless fighting. The Trojan war, the inspiration for one of the greatest epics in history. The Illiad and Odyssey. Except well, they did not. It was closer to 5000 in reality. 5000 men not a 100,000. The original account an exagerration. It was after all impossible to sustain that many men in the field. Not with bronze age logistics. Small ships of wood and horse drawn chariots. The numbers simply don't add up. Who would feed them, clothe them and arm them? A hundred thousand men. Twice as many as Caesar's legions in Gaul which were more than a thousand years to come. The tale is as incredulous as it is fantastical. And therein lies it's charm.

 It is after all of a tale of human perseverance and dedication. For the Greeks threw their last man at those walls. And yet they did not flinch. And after the dust had settled it was conceit and trickery that did the Trojan's in. Not blood and sweat. We could of course take the practical word for it and pare down those numbers. Turn the glorious battle of a 100,000 into a mere skirmish. But where is the beauty in that? There is more to be lost than to be gained in it. For history is as much the analysis of the perception of an event as of the event itself. 

 To the greeks it was a 100,000 men on that beach. That was how they saw it and it is gives us valuable insight to see it as they did. A cataclysmic clash of civilizations. With west meeting east. It was glorious. With gods flying in on thunderbolts. A tale of spears and javelins and swords and chariots. And of the men behind them. Rallying hard for their cause. That was what the greeks felt when they fought. It was their last drop of blood drained in bringing back their princess. The pride of Greece. So what do we do here at The Historiogram? We see events as they were meant to be seen. Glorious last stands and incredible blunders. Fantastical numbers and all. We percieve history in all it's glory. It will be 200,000 men that fought in Darius's army at Gaugamela and the Persian army did shake the earth as it marched. It will be 300 men that died at Thermopylae and 10,000 men breaking an army of 230,000 at Watling Street. Legend will be told and seen as they were meant to be. With a hint of colour and just a touch of propaganda. As they were written millenia ago. And when it is all said and done we will study them as the tales they were meant to be. With a pinch of salt and great amount of taste. For these tales were written by philosophers and poets. Artists and authours of another time. Here we study the philosophy behind history and how it adds up to our time. For man has lived and wondered for millenia. And very little has changed at his heart. Let us analyze history from a fresh perspective. Seeing it with it's causes and ends. Why did the spartans fall apart? What did the Greeks fight for at Troy? And how in the hell did 10,000 roman legionarries destroy 230,000 barbarians at Watling Street? And if you're patient you might just see the connection between the Romans and your good old neighbourhood Macdonalds.

 But that is all yet to come. For now stay tuned for our weekly posts. Goodbye and welcome to the Historiogram. Home of the glorious and the grandiose and everything in between.

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