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  Then from the other side — terrible to see — six javelins hurled by six arms came flying, and as many spears were hurled with might. So, when Moorish hunters in the land of Libya have beset the den of a mother-lioness and press her hard, her cubs at once begin a furious battle but cannot prevail because their teeth are not yet grown. Hannibal parried all six darts with his shield; then, gathering himself together behind it, he withstood the impact of the spears with their crashing blows; and, not content with all the wounds and slaughter he had dealt out already, he breathed hard in wrath, if he might not slay all the six and lay their corpses beside their father’s, and destroy the hapless family, root and branch.

  Now he addressed Abaris, his squire, who shared his martial ardour and ever accompanied him to battle: “Give me supply of weapons. Yon band of brothers who assault my shield are eager to go down to the dark waters of Avernus; and soon shall they reap the fruits of their foolish devotion to their father.” As he spoke, he pierced Lucas, the eldest of them, with a javelin; the point went home, and the youth fell with upturned face on his brothers’ shields. Volso’s turn came next. He was trying to pluck forth the fatal steel, when Hannibal laid him low, piercing his nostrils through his shield with a pilum which he had chanced to pick up from a heap of corpses. Next Vesulus, whose foot slipped in the warm blood of his brothers, was beheaded by a swift sword-cut; and then, O inhuman warfare! he hurled helmet and severed head together, using them as a weapon, at the backs of the retreating brothers. Then Telesinus, smitten to the marrow by a stone, where the backbone knits the frame together, fell prostrate; and he witnessed the fall of his brother Quercens, who was stunned by a bullet hurled from a distant sling, even while Telesinus was breathing out his life and closing his swimming eyes. Perusinus was staggering over the ground and sometimes stopping, disabled at once by grief and fear and rapid movement, but not bereft of courage, when Hannibal stabbed him above the groin with a stake which his squire had snatched from the back of a dead elephant and handed to him. The fierce thrust of the scorched brand held him down. He had tried to appease that furious wrath by entreaty; but the fatal heat filled his mouth as soon as he opened it, and the breath of it drove the fire down to the lungs. Thus at last fell Crista, a name long famous in Umbria, and all his sons with him. So a tall oak-tree, planted long ago by our forefathers, when smitten by Jupiter’s thunderbolt, sends up smoke; and the flames and sulphur of heaven make havoc of the boughs revered for centuries, until it crashes in wide ruin, conquered by the god, and the huge trunk, as it falls, covers all the scions that grow round it.

  While the Tyrian leader performed these feats near the waters of Aufidus, Paulus avenged his own coming death by slaying many victims, and fought like a conqueror among a thousand foes. Down went huge Phorcys, who came from the caves of Calpe, sacred to Hercules; on his shield was engraved the Gorgon’s head; for that cruel goddess derived her birth and beginning from Calpe. Phorcys pressed forward, proud of his ancient race and descent from Medusa, the monster who turned men to stone. As he aimed a furious blow at the left groin of Paulus, the consul seized him by the crest of his tall helmet and turned the blow aside: then, dashing him down upon the ground, he drove his sword downwards through him, where the belt curves round the base of the spine and protects both the hips. A hot stream of blood gushed forth from the gaping entrails; and the dweller by Atlas went down beneath the soil of the Aetolian chief.

  In the midst of this carnage there was a sudden alarm. A fresh onset of war was launched, and the Roman rear was surprised by troops trained by Hannibal, a master of stratagem, for this very purpose. Pretending to desert from the Carthaginian army, they had surrendered. Now, equipped with guile, they rushed in a body upon the Roman rear, with hearts wholly bent on slaughter. They lacked not for spears and swords; for they tore weapons from the corpses. From far off Galba saw an enemy seize a standard and carry it off; defeat has no power to quench a brave man’s spirit; and with an exertion of all his strength he caught up the spoiler and struck him dead ere he could escape. But while he grasped his prize and wrenched it from the dying hand that was slow to yield it up, Amorgus came up quickly and ran a sword through him; and Galba fell and died, balked of his high emprise.

  Meanwhile, as if cruel Enyo had not yet glutted her savage wrath, the Sirocco lifted the surface of the field in whirling clouds of dust, and drove the burning sand in all directions. And now the tempest with frightful howling blew the resisting bodies of men to a distance, as far as the limit of the plain, dashing them against the sunken banks, and sinking them in the swollen river. Such was the end of ill-starred Curio; and here the Aufidus marked the limit of his life with an inglorious death. For, while stopping with furious anger the terrified ranks and trying to arrest them by throwing his body in the way, he was driven headlong forward by the mass of fugitives and swallowed up by the swollen stream; down he sank to the bottom and lay on the sands of the Adriatic, without honour in death.

  Mighty in endurance and incapable of bending the neck to Fortune, Paulus rushed right against the weapons of the victorious foe. Nothing gave him confidence now but his longing for a soldier’s death, and his certainty that he must die. Then Viriathus, the high-souled ruler of a Spanish kingdom, drove before him a war-wearied Roman and slew him under the eyes of the consul and close beside him. O grief! O tears! Servilius, the best warrior in all the host, the best after Paulus, was slain by the sword of the barbarian, and his single death added a darker stain to the guilt of Cannae. Paulus could not contain his fierce anger. Though the wild fury of the wind in his face disabled him and veiled the daylight with dust, he broke through the thick dark cloud of sand and strode on in wrath. While Viriathus in Spanish fashion was shouting a savage song of victory and beating on his shield, Paulus attacked him and pierced the vital part in his left breast. This was his last victim, his last labour; no longer might Paulus take part in the war, nor might Rome make use of him hereafter in the great battles still to come. A huge stone, whose enormous weight was hurled by an unseen hand, struck him in the face, driving the fragments of his brazen helmet into the bone and covering his face with blood. Then he drew back and rested his failing limbs on a rock near by; gasping from his streaming wound, he sat down upon his shield, a formidable figure with his gory face. So a huge lion shakes off the lighter spears; but when at last the sword has been driven home in his breast, he stands in the centre of the arena, quivering but resigned to the blow; the blood streams from mane and mouth and nostrils, and from time to time he utters a dull roaring, and spits out blood and foam from his wide jaws. Then the Libyans came down upon Paulus; and Hannibal himself came galloping where the wind drove him, and where his sword, his charger, and the fierce beasts that fight with their tusks, had cleared a path. When Piso, buried beneath weapons, saw Hannibal riding over the dead, he raised himself with an effort on his lance and stabbed the horse’s belly with his uplifted point. When the beast fell, he tried in vain to bestride it. But Hannibal picked himself up in a moment, though the horse had thrown him when it fell sprawling on its head; and thus he spoke: “Do the Roman ghosts come back again to life, to fight a second time? Can they not rest even in death?” With these words he rose to his full height and, while Piso tried to lift his wounded limbs, plunged his sword in up to the hilt.

  Behold, Lentulus, wounded in the foot by a Cretan arrow, was galloping off the field, when he saw Paulus seated on the rock wet with his blood, and staring with fierce eyes as he sank down to death. Lentulus changed his purpose and felt ashamed of flight. It seemed to him that he saw Rome burning now, and blood-stained Hannibal now standing at her gates; now for the first time he saw before him the Aetolian plain, the grave of Italy. “What still remains,” he cried, “to prevent the enemy from marching on Rome to-morrow, if you, Paulus, abandon the ship in such a storm? By Heaven I swear — if my words are harsh, grief prompts them — that, unless you take command in this terrible war and live on against your will amid the tempest, you are more guilty
even than Varro. Sole hope of our suffering country, take my horse, I entreat. I will lift your weakened frame on my own shoulders and seat you safely on the saddle.” Thereupon the consul answered, spitting out the streaming blood from his mutilated mouth: “Go on and prosper, worthy son of brave ancestors! Nor is the prospect dark, when such stout hearts as yours still are found in the realm of Romulus. Spur your horse as hard as your wound will let you, and fly; bid them close the city gates instantly; the Destroyer will rush against her walls. The control of affairs must be given to Fabius. It was madness that resisted our warnings. My life is ended; and nothing remains but to prove to the ignorant populaee that Paulus knows how to die. Shall I be carried back to Rome, a wounded and dying man? What would not Hannibal give to see me retreating? No such intention has Paulus; and my ghost shall not go down thus humbled to the shades below. I who once —— But why should my failing accents detain you, Lentulus, with useless complaining? Away! and use your spear-point to urge your weary steed from hence.” Then Lentulus made off for Rome, carrying his weighty message. Nor did Paulus suffer his last moments to pass without striking a blow. So a tigress when mortally wounded gives way at last and lying down fights against death; she opens the jaws that have no strength to bite in earnest, and the tip of her tongue licks the spears with efforts that cannot gratify her rage. When Iertas came close, brandishing his weapon in triumph and sure of his victim, Paulus rose up suddenly and plunged his sword in his foe’s body. Then he looked round for Hannibal, eager to yield up his life, a warrior’s life, to that glorious hand. Not so: he was overcome by a shower of darts from every side, from Numidians and Garamantians, from Gauls and Moors and Asturians. Thus Paulus died. A wise heart and a mighty arm were lost in him; if he had been given sole command in the war, he might perhaps have ranked as the equal of Fabius. His noble death gave fresh glory to his country and raised his fame to the sky.

  The hope and courage of the Romans fell with their general; the army, like a headless thing, was overthrown by fierce assaults; and victorious Africa raged over all the field. Here lay the men of Picenum and brave Umbrians, and there Sicilian warriors and Hernican troops. Everywhere were lying scattered the standards, borne by warlike Samnites or men from the Sarnus, or by Marsian contingents; the ground was covered with battered shields and helmets and useless swords, ‘with targets broken by collision ‘with other targets, and with foam-covered bits, wrenched from the mouths of mettled steeds. The Aufidus, red with blood, cast up his swollen waters over the plain and in rage restored to the banks the corpses that belonged to them. So an Egyptian vessel is seen like an island in the great sea; but, when the rainy East-wind has dashed her upon the rocks, she covers the sea with scattered wreckage; the surface is strewn with floating benches and masts, with stern-ornaments with tattered sails, and with hapless sailors spitting out the brine.

  Hannibal had spent the livelong day in stubborn conflict and fierce slaughter; and, when the darkness robbed his frenzy of that glorious day, he ceased at last from fighting and spared his men from slaying yet more Romans. But he was anxious and wakeful, and resented the inaction of night. When the gods had given him so much, it stung him to think that he had not yet gained his object — to enter the gates of Quirinus. Resolved to march on the morrow, he intended to hasten thence with swords still drawn, while the soldiers’ blood was hot and their hands stained with carnage; and already he sees the barriers broken and the walls on fire, and makes the burning of the Capitol follow close on Cannae.

  The daughter of Saturn was disturbed by Hannibal’s design. Knowing well the displeasure of Jupiter and the destiny of Italy, she took steps to curb the rash ardour of Hannibal and his eager hopes of a success he could never win. At once she summoned Sleep, the regent of silent night, by whose aid she often conquers and closes her brother’s eyes against his will. She smiled on him and said: “I do not summon you, divine Sleep, for a burdensome task, nor do I ask of your silken wings to overcome Jupiter and place him at my mercy. Not now need you close a thousand eyes, nor conquer with deep darkness the guardian of the heifer, Inachus’ daughter — the guardian who made light of your divinity. I pray you to send a strange dream to the Carthaginian general, that he may not be eager now to behold the forbidden walls of Rome; for the lord of Olympus will never suffer him to enter there.”

  Swiftly he did her bidding and winged his way through the darkness, carrying juice of poppy-seed in a curving horn. In silence he glided on, and went first to Hannibal’s tent; then he waved his drowsy wings over the recumbent head, dropping sleep into the eyes, and touching the brows with his wand of forgetfulness. Then Hannibal’s excited brain was troubled by unpeaceful dreams. He dreamed that he was even now surrounding the Tiber with a great army, and standing defiantly before the walls of Rome. Jupiter himself was seen — a shining figure on the summit of the Tarpeian rock; his hand was raised, to launch fiery thunderbolts; the surrounding plains smoked with sulphur, and the blue waters of cold Anio were shaken; again and again the dreadful fire was repeated and flashed before his sight; and at last a voice came down from the sky: “You have gained glory enough, young man, at Cannae. Stay your steps; for the Carthaginian may as soon storm our heaven as burst his way within the sacred walls of Rome.” He was appalled by the dream, and dreaded a future and more terrible war. Then Sleep, having done Juno’s bidding, left him; but daylight could not wash out the dreadful vision from his mind.

  While the general’s sleep was thus disturbed by groundless alarms, Mago came, reporting that the Roman camp with the remnant of the army had surrendered during the night; and behind him came a rich array of booty. He promised that, when the fifth night was followed in succession by day, Hannibal should feast and make merry on the Tarpeian height. Concealing the divine warning and suppressing his fears, Hannibal pleaded in excuse the wounds and weariness of the soldiers after their fierce conflict, and spoke of over-confidence due to success. Then Mago, as much disappointed as if he had been ordered to turn and march back from the very walls of Rome, thus protested: “Then our mighty effort has not defeated Rome, as Rome herself believed; it has only defeated Varro. What fate makes you throw away the bountiful gift of Mars and keep your country waiting? Let me rush forward with the cavalry, and, I swear by my head, the walls of the city will be yours and the gates will fly open before you without a battle.”

  While Mago spoke thus in his rage and his more cautious brother refused to believe him, the Roman soldiers had begun to rally behind the walls of Canusium and to build a rampart round the fugitives beside the town. How mean, alas, was the aspect of that beaten army, without eagles, without standards, with no consul in chief command, and no axes borne before him by lictors! Men struggle to support upon feeble limbs their frames, sick with fear and mutilated, as if they had been crushed in the fall of some great building. Sometimes a sudden shout was heard, sometimes there was silence with downcast looks. Most of them are defenceless, with no shield on the left arm; there are no swords to fight with; every horseman is wounded; rejecting the pomp and pride of war, they have plucked the splendid plumes from their helmets. Their corslets are pierced with many a spear, and in some breastplates a Moorish arrow is still sticking and hanging down. Sometimes with cries of sorrow they ask for their lost comrades. Some weep for Galba and Piso, and for Curio who deserved to die sword in hand, while others lament Scaevola, that stout warrior. Each of these is mourned by some; but to all alike the death of Paulus is grievous as the loss of a father: “How true a prophet he was, when he foretold the evils that have come upon us, and thwarted Varro’s folly! How often he tried in vain to save Rome from to-day’s defeat! How brave too he was in battle!” But those who felt anxiety for the future made haste to dig trenches along the city walls, or used such materials as they had to fortify the gates. And, where the plain lay open, with nothing to obstruct the assaults of the enemy, they planted fire-hardened boughs shaped like deers’ antlers, whose concealed points would wound unseen the horses’ feet.

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nbsp; But now, on the top of defeat and incurable disaster, a treasonable panic and a more dreadful madness stirred the hearts of those who had escaped the Carthaginian sword. They planned to cross the sea and by a change of clime to escape the Tyrian blades, the might of Carthage, and Hannibal. The leader of the exiles was Metellus, a man who took no delight in war though his family had gained high renown. He pressed his shameful design upon cowardly spirits and degenerate hearts, and had in view a hiding place in some distant land, which the name of Carthage would never reach, nor any news of their own forsaken country.

  But when Scipio heard of this plan, his wrath was kindled. He snatched up his sword — as mighty a figure as when he confronted Hannibal in deadly combat on the battle-field. He burst open the doors of the place where cowards were hatching their plot to bring disgrace and destruction upon Italy; he rushed towering in. Then he brandished his naked sword before their frightened eyes as he spoke: “O Father ° that inhabitest the Tarpeian temple, next after heaven thy chosen abode; and thou, daughter of Saturn, whose heart is not yet softened by the sufferings of the Trojans; and thou, fierce Maiden Goddess, who bindest on thy breast the aegis and the terrors of the Gorgon; and ye gods of Italy — hear me when I swear voluntarily by your divinity, and by the head of my heroic father, as sacred to me as any god! I swear that never while I live shall I leave the realm of Lavinium nor suffer others to leave it. Make haste, Metellus, and call heaven to witness, that, even if the walls of Rome blaze with Carthaginian brands, you will not dare to turn your steps to any foreign land. If you refuse to swear it, the Hannibal, the thought of whom terrifies you and breaks your sleep, is present here, sword in hand. You shall die; and no man who slays a Carthaginian shall win more glory than your slayer.” These threats put an end to their design. At once they pledged their lives to their country in the manner prescribed, and swore to heaven the oath that Scipio dictated, and so cleansed their hearts of guilt.