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 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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