Carthago Delenda Est

A brief story of the Roman Siege of Carthage in 164 B.C. I wrote it for my creative writing class historical fiction piece. My teacher recommended it for publishing after it is touched up a bit

In 264 BC, the Roman Republic asserted its dominance of the Mediterranean Sea after repeated threats from the City-State of Carthage. The first of the three Punic Wars-as they would come to be called-lasted twenty three years, and cost over two hundred thousand lives on either side before Rome could claim the island of Sicily as its own. The Second Punic War lasted seventeen years and killed over half a million men. The fighting contributed to a deep-seated bitterness which lingered long after the Roman victory. Rome’s close yet costly victory truly crippled Carthage. The Third Punic War began in 149 BC, when Rome besieged the city of Carthage itself to show that it was indeed Mediterranean’s uncontested superpower. As Romans surrounded the walls of the city of Carthage and prepared for a grueling and prolonged siege, the Republican government commissioned young able-bodied noblemen as Centurions in the Republican Army. One of those young men is the principal character of this work. The rest of the army was filled with patriotic volunteers, determined to bring an end to the century-old feud between the two superpowers.

Carthago Delenda Est

As the quinquereme cut through the calm waters of the Mediterranean, Amulius stood on deck, looking in the distance. The island of Malta, where he had been stationed, was but a minor, indiscernible speck at the far reaches of his field of view. He rested his arms on a ledge, and gazed at the sky blue water as it reflected the midday sun. He removed his helmet, and ran a muscular hand through his close-cropped black hair. He reflected on the stark dichotomy between the circumstances under which he had lived just days earlier, and where he was now. Instead of the privileged son of a well-known senator, he had taken on the role of a Roman Centurion, tasked with leading eighty men in history’s most daring attack. Instead of his tunic, he wore a lorica squamata, body armor fashioned from iron scales. Instead of his old wooden training sword, he was armed with the gladius, the deadly iron blade with which all Roman officers and infantry were armed. He glanced at the white ivory hilt protruding from his belt, and knew that in the coming days, the blade would spend little time in its sheath. His hardy leather sandals were tethered to iron greaves protecting his legs. Despite his apprehension, he knew that it was his civic duty to protect his nation.

Trained from his boyhood for the day he would face combat and outfitted with the finest weapons and armor available, Amulius felt secure in his chances against the Carthaginians. Despite his apparent security, Amulius’ contemplative nature prompted thoughts which left him ill at ease. While Rome had defeated Carthage in both of the previous Punic Wars, Carthaginian wit had outperformed Roman martial skill on more than one occasion, leading to occasionally disastrous defeats. Amulius swallowed a lump in his throat, but remained steadfast. As he watched the vessel make its way through the placid waters, his thoughts shifted to his last night at home.

Just outside the city of Rome, in the picturesque rolling hills of central Italy, he watched the golden afternoon sun wane in the darkening sky. He breathed a sigh, and observed the sun’s reflection off of the Tiber River. He folded his hands behind his back, and fixed his gaze on the impregnable walls of Rome. The imposing stone walls were almost thirty feet high, and surrounded the perimeter of the sprawling metropolis as far as he could see. The stones of the winding Via Appia reflected the evening sun, and Amulius was enraptured by the constant flow of people and animals traversing the road. A comforting hand on his shoulder abruptly shook him from his trance.

“When shall you return?” his fiancee Pompilia asked him with frail uncertainty. Amulius knew that Pompilia was still but a young girl, and that he had to articulate situations in ways which she could understand. She was but seventeen years of age, after all. As he planned his reply, Amulius stood tall, and a look of determination spread across his face. He looked to the sky.

“When the walls of Carthage have crumbled. When Roman lives are no longer threatened by Carthaginian scum. When Roman women and children may sleep in peace, knowing that they are safe within our borders, then, shall I return. ” he sympathetically took her hand. Her pale blue eyes welled up with tears as they met his. He brushed an unruly strand of her dark brown hair from her face, and turned to face the sun. It was hurting him to have to look her in the face.

“My father says the walls of Carthage can withstand any attack,” Pompilia said, fighting back tears. Amulius smirked.

“The strength of our steel and the courage of our hearts can overcome any obstacle. Our men outside the walls grow impetuous. Before you are even aware that I am gone, I shall be triumphantly returning.” he gently kissed her forehead. As he prepared to withdraw from the terrace of the villa, he glanced at Pompilia once more. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She had buried her face in her hands and was choking through sporadic sobs. He quickly approached her, perturbed by her despair.

“My love, I promise you.” he pleaded, taking both of her hands in his. As he held her in attempt to reassure her, she pulled the pendant of the goddess Venus from her beaded necklace. She placed it in his open hand, and then closed his fingers over it.

“My heart goes with you. Keep this close to you.” she buried her face in his chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. As Amulius embraced her, he watched the sun set. He was counting down his final hours on Roman soil.

He rose in the early hours of the next morning, and traded the comfort and luxury of his family’s villa for the cramped quarters of the bowels of a warship. The warship on which he was to set sail for Carthage was a hulking behemoth. It was a quinquereme, a large vessel outfitted with five levels of oars. It had a large cloth sail flying from the mast in the center, and a bronze ram protruding from the bow, which would be used as a weapon against enemy vessels. Amulius felt uneasy. He had never been aboard ship before. Nonetheless, he descended the creaky wooden steps onto the second deck where his centuriae-the eighty soldiers under his command-awaited him. He had become familiar with them during their training, and they were well acquainted with Amulius’ bold yet sympathetic leadership style. Amulius’ principal focus was ensuring that his men fought in cohesion, and in order to perpetuate that idea, he ate with them, rested with them, and assured them that he would fight alongside them no matter what. He was their brother, a role which he hoped would serve him well in the coming days.

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As Amulius reflected on his tumultuous couple of days, his aide and close personal friend Horatius came to stand at his side. Horatius had long been a servant in the Gracchi household, and had become very close to Amulius. Due to his unwavering loyalty and seemingly infallible wisdom, Amulius had selected Horatius as his personal aide. Horatius was thirty four years of age, and of Iberian or Gallic ancestry. Being a descendant of barbarians, Horatius was significantly larger than the average Roman. Horatius had never known his parents, and had been a servant to the Gracchi from birth. Amulius thought it unfair that such a wise and gentle individual was bound to a life of servitude, but it was not his right to question what was natural. Instead, once he was commissioned as a Centurion, Amulius subverted the “nature” which had so displeased him. His appointment of Horatius as his aide guaranteed his freedom once his time of military service was concluded. Amulius smiled and watched his friend as he stoically stared at the placid sea. Horatius was of great size. He stood over six feet tall, and weighed almost two hundred pounds. His broad shoulders were well complemented by a body packed with trim muscle. Contrarily to his ancestors, no beard lined his chin. He was clean shaven, and kept his wavy brown hair trimmed close to his head.3

“Do you know anything about Carthage?” Amulius asked his friend. Horatius inhaled, and turned to Amulius.

“To the best of my knowledge, they are not a people to be trifled with. They have fought you Romans many times in the past, and while you have always emerged victorious, your victory has come at great cost. However, some say that the walls of Carthage are... impenetrable.” Horatius said in an urgent tone, sobering his commander.

“Of course they are perceived to be impenetrable. No Roman has yet challenged them.” Amulius pointed out.

“I do not know what is due to transpire, my friend, but know this: I will stand at your side through it all.” Horatius smiled. Amulius embraced him.

“I have had no greater companion all my life, Horatius.” Amulius said.

“You have your fair wife-to-be.” Horatius said with a smile.

“I suppose so,” Amulius grinned. “but I’d rather you take an arrow for me than she.” he laughed.

“If it is any consolation, I’d rather you take one for me than me.” Horatius smirked. There was a brief pause, and Amulius shifted his gaze back to the sea. The sun had set now, and the moon had taken its place high in the Mediterranean sky.

“I would take every arrow, from every bow, from every Carthaginian swine upon those walls, before I would let one fall upon you.” Amulius told his friend.

“And I would say ‘thank you’.” both men laughed.

“What news have you heard of the siege force?” Amulius inquired.

“I know that they are great in number. There are fifty thousand currently surrounding the city. The city has been surrounded for three years. As you are aware, we are among the thirty thousand that are to assault the city itself. The siege force is presumably weary, but they must be eager to take up arms at such long last. The storming of the city will be a bloodbath, I hope you know.” Horatius explained. Amulius gazed at the moon.

“I am ready. My life for my people.” Amulius boldly announced.

“My life, for your people.” Horatius said with a smile.

“Then, I suppose we had best be rested. Good night, my friend.” Amulius said. Each man grabbed the other by his right elbow.

“Good night.” Horatius said. The two retreated below deck, and Amulius retired to his chambers beneath the deck.

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A horn sounded on deck, and Amulius forced his leaden eyelids open. Other than struggling to keep his eyes open, Amulius had little gripe with fatigue. He washed his face with water from the washbasin by his bed, donned his armor, and walked to the deck with Consul Aemilianus and the other officers. Consul Aemilianus was a tall man with a sparrow-like appearance. His curly black hair was closely shorn, and his close slit eyes were rather farset with a long flat nose in between. He held much contempt for Tiberius Gracchus-Amulius’ father-but knew that he had to keep up the morale of his underlings, and put aside the personal rivalry.

“We are due to land in three hours,” Consul Aemilianus began, “and I do hope you are prepared. Most of you have seen many battles. You have marched with me across the plains of Macedonia, and scaled the walls of Thessalonica and Corinth. You have felt the strike of the arrow and the blade upon your shield. Forget everything you thought you knew about combat, men. These Carthaginians are not the faint-hearted Greeks or the savage and untamed Gauls. These are fierce, well trained fighting men. And today, they defend the last pathetic stronghold of their blasted civilization, if it is even to be regarded as such. It is up to us to eliminate the remnants of this blight which has left too many Romans dead before their time. I will scale the walls alongside you. I will fight, and if need be die, beside my fellow Romans. Only together can we emerge victorious. You must think not of yourselves today. Think of the devastation these impudent knaves have wrought upon the people of Rome! We will extinguish them today! We will bring peace, security, and Roman order to our enemy today, or we will die in the attempt. I choose the former! Rally your men, brave Romans!” the officers cheered, eager to finally face their bitter foe. Satisfied at his successful act of inspiration, Consul Aemilianus retreated to the bow of the ship. The brown shoreline was faintly apparent. Amulius felt a knot in his stomach. He looked at the rest of the officers. Most were much older than he. He turned to Horatius, who nodded to him.

“Aye Consul!” they echoed.

“You are dismissed.” the Consul replied.

“First Cohort!” Senior Centurion Maro called. Immediately, Amulius and the five other Centurions of the First Cohort reported.

“Reporting, Centurion!” the five junior Centurions beat their fists across their chests.

“Muster your men’s courage today. For it is sorely needed. Rally them. Pray with them. They must be motivated, and largely unafraid. You are dismissed.” he told them. The Centurions started down below deck.

“Centurion Gracchus.” Centurion Maro summoned. Amulius returned to him, and beat his fist across his chest.

“Yes, Centurion.” he sternly replied. Centurion Maro sympathetically laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Keep your men close to me today.” he asked. His voice was deep, but soothing and calm. Amulius stared him in the face, confused by the request.

“Sir?” Amulius questioned. Centurion Maro’s light green eyes lit up as Amulius made his confusion apparent. Maro smiled, revealing the deep laugh lines on the corner of his mouth.

“Have you ever been in combat before, boy?” Centurion Maro asked him. His dark olive skin reflected the early morning sun. Amulius lowered his head.

“No, Centurion.” he bashfully replied. The scars on Maro’s face, including a particularly nasty one from the bridge of his flat nose to his eyebrow, indicated that he had seen more than Amulius could ever hope to. Maro smirked.

“Twenty three years ago, I was a lad of around your age, what are you, twenty four?” Centurion Maro inquired.

“I am twenty five, sir.” Amulius replied.

"Right. Thank you. Anyways, my first battle was alongside Consul Aemilianus at Pydna, against the Macedonians. We were terrified in a manner which I cannot even describe to you. But he fought alongside his father, and I alongside him. Because I stayed with men who masked their fear, I fought with greater courage, and survived the day. I know you can do the same. You are dismissed.” Maro released his shoulder.

“Yes, Centurion!” Amulius withdrew to the second deck, where his First Centuria were stationed. Some of the men were resting on the creaky wooden floor, while others were shooting dice or conversing in small groups. Amulius stared at his men. As Consul Aemilianus said, many would not live through the day. Amulius commanded a century of Principes, who were veteran soldiers, many of whom resented answering to a man who was younger than more than half of them. They were equipped in similar fashion as their commander, save the greaves upon the legs and the crest atop the helmet. Amulius removed his helmet, and sat before his men, all of whom stopped what they were doing to pay attention to their commander.

“Today is a day unlike any you will ever experience again. We will be facing a fierce and determined enemy at his own front gate. He is desperate. He has no means of escape. He will fight to his death, and will not hesitate to take you with him. From the moment we land,” the ship was tossed about by violent waves. Amulius and many of his men were sprayed with water. Amulius shuddered, but continued. “bows, catapults, and javelins will rain Hell upon us. You must be cautious. Heads down, shields up. Do not take any unnecessary chances. Should we survive, we shall be engaged from our landing until nightfall.” the men were stunned. Some plastered tough looks of determination on their faces. Others simply looked unconcerned, reassured by their own battlefield experience. Many stared in indignant bewilderment and their commander.

“Centurion!” one man stood. “We are Romans! We shall never know defeat!” he cried. Many of the other men stood alongside him.

“If we are victorious, we will have absolved our Republic of an age-old scourge. Carthage shall be utterly vanquished. We cannot show mercy. For we shall not be shown mercy. Muster your courage today, men. For this is the day it is most needed. Today, we must show the Carthaginians the penalty for defying Rome!” Amulius cried. His men cheered, banging their swords and shields together in approval. Morale was soaring, and Amulius was deeply relieved.

A couple of hours passed, and the gravity of the situation had become apparent to most of Amulius’ men. Small groups were praying, attempting to invoke the might of the Gods to aid them. Some sat with faces of grim determination masking their terror and apprehension. Amulius sat stoically, awaiting orders from above the deck. His palms were sweating, and he was faintly nauseous. He could faintly hear siege engines on the beaches and ships opening fire on the city of Carthage. With every snap of a tether, Amulius jolted. Fear was seizing him like a plague, but by the Gods, he could not let it show. Horatius sat next to him, disguising his anxiety with an expression of puzzlement.

“First Centuria, on deck!” shouted Consul Aemilianus. Amulius took a deep breath, and rose to his feet.

“Follow me, brave Romans!” Amulius ordered through a growing lump in his throat. He marched on to the deck, and his trepidatious detachment lined up in an orderly fashion. Amulius stood at attention, but was shaken by the deafening roar of a catapult opening fire from one of the ships in the Roman fleet. Amulius’ eyes were fixed on the catapult’s flaming piece of rock as it hurtled towards the awe-inspiring walls of Carthage. Amulius’ eyes widened in fear as he gazed at the walls. They were almost as high, if not higher, than the walls of Rome. They were not white alabaster stone in the fashion of those which protected Rome. Instead, they were a light brown, as if they were fashioned out of the sand which covered the arid landscape around the city.

Before the walls, the elaborate siege lines completely surrounded the city. The Roman besiegers had erected several siege towers, which the infantry would wheel to the walls before climbing through them to assault. There were several battering rams, as well as ballistae and catapults which flung rocks and bolts at the walls and the garrison. On the walls of the city, Amulius took notice of incalculable dots. He took a closer look, and saw that those dots were the Carthaginian archers. Immediately, he grimaced at the realistic prospect of his own death. He vividly pictured himself being riddled with arrows or run through by a sword. He managed to fend off the sickening fantasy by shifting his focus to the task at hand. He observed the positions on the beach where the legion was due to land, and saw that it was completely exposed, a frustrating contrast to the sheltered positions of the siege force. The landing force would have to traverse a half-mile of open beach before they reached the positions of their comrades.

“Listen to me, men! Heads down, shields up! Do you hear me? Heads down, shields up! Move as a unit! Stay by me if you want to live!” Amulius ordered his men. They responded with a unison grunt of acknowledgement, primarily because most of them were far too anxious to properly enunciate. As the quinquereme approached the beach, the Carthaginian trebuchets unleashed a devastating volley upon the Roman fleet. Amulius watched in horror as rocks flew towards the Roman warships. Several ships were struck by the flying stones. Some had only suffered glancing blows, while one ship immediately began a rapid descent to the bottom of the sea, its crew and landing force in tow. Amulius was filled with rage.

“Damn them all! Fire!” Consul Aemilianus shouted. Immediately, a trebuchet in the center of the quinquereme fired a shot at the walls of Carthage. Amulius saw that the shot had hit, but was unable to accurately assess its effects..

“One minute! May Mithras go with you!” cried the helmsman of the vessel. Amulius stood with his shield at his side. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as if it were the last handhold on a cliff. His mind wandered. He remembered standing outside of the villa watching a horse-bound courier hastily approach him. Amulius thought little of the man’s presence, and assumed that the man was simply there to bring a message to his father. However, Amulius’ preconceived notion was dispelled when his father came tearing out the door.

“What is the meaning of this?” his father frantically inquired.

“Why are you concerned, father?” Amulius asked. The courier paid them no heed. Instead, he drew a scroll from his knapsack. He unrolled the tattered papyrus and began reading.

“Amulius Gracchus, you are hereby called into military service on behalf of the Roman Republic. The senate has commissioned you Centurion of the First Centuria, First Cohort, Ninth Legion. Six months to this day, 9 Aprilis, the Year of the Consulship of Scipio Aemilianus, you will be called into active service. You are to report to-”

“This is ludicrous! As the son of a senator, he has no obligation to-” Amulius interrupted.

“Father, please,” he held up his hand. “Pray proceed.”

“Capua in two months time, 9 December, to receive formal training. In the meantime you may train or purchase equipment as you see fit. Your Consul, Senators, and people thank and honor you for your sacrifice.” The courier rolled up the scroll.

“This must be a mistake.” Amulius’ father said.

“Father, there is clearly no mistake,” Amulius began. “As a Roman of high birth I am obligated to serve. If not I, then who? It is only fair that one who has reaped the blessings of this land is the first to defend it.” Amulius calmly explained. Inside his heart was pounding the walls of his chest. Combat? He could barely walk down the stairs without stumbling. How on earth would he be able to fight in battle? The memories of his thoughts gave him a bit of a laugh. How foolish he had been.

The lull in the chaos had abruptly been replaced with the snap of the ropes of trebuchets and the creaking of the massive warships as they lumbered towards the beaches. Amulius steeled his resolve.

“Prepare yourselves, Romans!” Consul Aemilianus cried, donning his helmet.

“Heads down, shields up!” Amulius cried. His blood had come to a boil. His mouth was dry. Despite his trepidation, he knew that now was no time to falter. The quinquereme inched toward the beach. Moments felt like an eternity. The sounds of arrows, catapults, trebuchets, ships and screams seemed to swallow reality. As a horn blared, Amulius leapt from the deck and onto the gristly wet sand. Centurion Maro landed just feet from him.

“Follow me!” he cried, pointing his sword at the city.

“Testudo! Quickly!” Amulius shouted amidst the chaos. Immediately, his men formed ten rows of eight. He stood in the first row of his centuria and ordered them onward. Stone being exchanged between the warships and the city formed a cloud overhead. Amulius could feel small pebbles bouncing off of his helmet. Amulius hastened his approach, and his men settled into a light run. He was far ahead of them, his legs pistoning on as he rushed across the sand. He looked to the walls and watched the Carthaginian archers load their bows. He turned to his left to see Horatius advancing in formation with a contemptuous glare on his face. To his right, a sea of Roman soldiers flooded up the beach. The sunlight reflected off of the iron weapons and armor of the assault force. The sheer number of men present gave Amulius chills. The synchronized twang of ten thousand bows snapped him out of his trance. Immediately, a rain of arrows blocked out the sun.

“Shields up!” he ground to a halt and pointed his shield perpendicular to the walls. His view was quickly obscured by the shield of the man behind him. Every man in the centuria raised his shield as the rain of arrows landed. Amulius braced himself. He felt a shock run through his arm as an arrow bounced off his shield. He grimaced as he listened to the screams of those who had been less fortunate. He glanced to his right to see a Roman infantryman riddled with four arrows lying in a spreading pool of blood. He continued his centuria’s advance amidst the chaos. He looked ahead, and saw that it would be at least another minute before his centuria reached the Roman ramparts. His men moved faster up the beach as Carthaginian archers on different sections of the walls picked off scores of Romans at a time with volleys of arrows. The grisly sound of arrows striking flesh, and the agonized screams of the wounded and dying shook Amulius to the core. Despite his qualms, he looked directly ahead of him. The siege forces’ ramparts were not much farther. He ordered his centuria to speed up. As the men rapidly approached the siege works, Amulius heard the twang of the bow.

“Testudo!” he cried. But his men had spread apart. The slower ones were part of the massive mob rushing across the beaches. Arrows were picking off men left and right. The early part of the siege was looking catastrophically dismal. Volley after volley of arrows were killing hundreds, leaving their corpses bloody iron pincushions in the sand, which would serve as obstacles for later landings. As the archers fired, Amulius raised his shield along with a few of the men still with him. Amidst the deafening noise he was unable to hear whether any of his own men were killed by the volley, but he led whomever remained behind a wooden palisade which would protect them from missile fire. Centurion Maro walked up to him.

“Centurion Gracchus! Good to see you...holeless!” he remarked, slapping him on the back. To Amulius’ surprise, most of the cohort had made it behind the palisade. Also behind the palisade was a thirty foot high siege tower. Amulius gulped. The cohort would have to wheel the tower up to the walls of Carthage, and then climb through it before entering the city. Not only did the rickety wooden tower run the ever-present risk of collapsing, but it would be highly vulnerable to flaming arrows. Not to mention, if the cohort less-than-expeditiously ascended the tower, the men waiting to enter would be stationary targets for missile fire.

“The only thing between you and the Carthaginians is a small stretch of sand!” Centurion Maro cried. “First, Second, and Third Centuriae, you will push that tower,” he pointed to the tower behind the palisade on the right. “Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth, the other!” he cried.

“You heard him. Let’s move!” Amulius ordered. He entered the siege tower, and carefully ascended the ladder to the top. There were three tiers to the tower. At the top of the tower, there was a lip which was forced down by the men inside. Then, the men would rush onto the walls, and would keep sending men through the tower to produce a steady flow of manpower to the engaged besiegers. Amulius was sweaty and nauseous, but knew that as a Roman of high birth, it was his duty to lead the assault on the city. Beside him stood Horatius. Several of his men stood at his side, and after the top tier of the tower was filled to the brim, the tower started to roll forward. Arrows pierced the wood of the tower, and Amulius could hear the screams of the men trailing the tower being struck by the hellish volleys. The tower continued to roll forward, and the lump in Amulius’ throat had reached a critical mass.

“Are you with me?” Amulius said to Horatius.

“By the Gods, I would die alongside you.” Horatius told him. They embraced briefly as the tower inched towards the walls. The tower came to a sudden stop. Amulius tensed up.

“At your ready, Centurion!” called a voice from the bottom tier, where the gears operating the lip were controlled. Amulius looked to Horatius, who looked to the sky. He turned to the man on his right. The man smiled at him.

“It is an honor, Centurion.” he said.

“The honor is mine, brave brother.” Amulius said with a nod. “Lower!” Amulius shouted. He tensed as the lip slowly began to lower. He tightly clutched Pompilia’s pendant. As he tightly clutched it, he could almost see tears streaming down her face. He could see his father attempting to comfort his disconsolate love. The thought of teats in her eyes pained him. “If it is the will of the Gods, my love, I shall return to you.” he whispered.

“Let’s get them!” one of the Romans cried. Many of the Romans cheered in approval. Amulius breathed deeply. This was it. He could feel the fire burning in his heart. He was ready to fight. He turned to his men.

“Take those walls!” he roared at the top of his lungs. The Romans roared in impetuous approval. Amulius could feel himself pulsing with excitement. The time was near. It was his time to make history. The patriotic Romans were determined to fight to the death for their country. Centurion Maro patted two of his nearby soldiers on the arm, nodding to them, reassuring them the way a father does a son. Horatius drew his sword. Amulius glared at the opening lip of the tower. He could hear the chaos of battle enveloping him. The Carthaginians were shouting and rushing about. Amulius raised his sword. The lip of the siege tower dropped, and Amulius plunged himself headlong into the fray.

“For Rome!” he ferociously cried as he leapt off of the tower and onto the stone wall. Upon his landing, he shoved through the surprised Carthaginian archers. One dark-skinned archer drew his dagger, but Amulius, driven by his patriotic fervor, kicked the man in the abdomen, knocking him from the wall. He frantically clawed at the air as he fell, but it was no use. Amulius was filled with an otherworldly fury.

The Carthaginians were screaming and throwing themselves at the Romans, but it was no use. The men of the First Centuria were hardened and disciplined killing machines. A light-skinned Carthaginian in a brown tunic slashed at Horatius with his sword as he joined his friend on the wall. Horatius raised his shield and stopped the blow midstream. As the Carthaginian stumbled backward, Horatius plunged his blade deep into his chest. The man fell to the ground, and Horatius quickly engaged another. Centurion Maro lead his men onto the wall with the Cohort’s standard in one hand and his gladius in the other. He waved the Cohort’s banner high, boosting the morale of the embattled soldiers.

Amulius pressed forward behind his shield, knocking a man to the ground. He stood over  him, and drove the blade through his throat as he lay. Blood exploded from the wound, soaking Amulius’ tunic and armor. Filled with zeal, he pressed at the Carthaginians on the right, leading his Centuria from the front. The Carthaginians were wavering. They were being cut down in droves, a stark contrast of what they had been told to expect. Amulius was entranced by the thrill of battle, and ferociously led his Romans onward, determined to drive every last Carthaginian from the walls.

“Keep fighting, men! Keep fighting! For Rome!” he cried. His arms were quaking, whether from fear or excitement, he could not discern. The Carthaginian presence on his section of the wall was diminishing rapidly. Many were retreating to the streets to escape the Roman onslaught. As the Carthaginians retreated, dropping their bows and swords, Amulius spurred his men onward, chasing them from their own walls. He rushed through one of the turrets on the wall, and led his centuria in a charge against the rear of an embattled Carthaginian infantry unit. Amulius was elated. Another Roman cohort had reached the walls. Bursting with determination, he leapt at one of the Carthaginians, and plunged his blade through his back. The man fell to his knees, and Amulius kicked him aside. Another turned to face him, slashing at his face. Amulius sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a splitting headache. Amulius thrusted his blade directly at the man’s nose, tearing a gaping hole through his face from eyebrow to chin. Blood erupted from where the blade had been stuck, and Amulius had to grab the man’s head and push him off to recover his sword. Amulius was faintly sickened as he heard the grisly sound of the iron blade crushing through flesh and bone.

Horatius emerged at his side as another Carthaginian approached. The Carthaginian contingent was trapped between Amulius’ Centuria and the other Roman cohort, and their desperation was growing apparent. The Carthaginians were throwing themselves upon their enemies, biting, punching, kicking, and thrashing about. One Carthaginian jumped onto Horatius, who clumsily hurled him off of the wall. The man clung to him as he was thrown, tearing scales of Horatius’ armor off as he fell to his death. Before he could react, he was struck on the head with a club, and stumbled back, falling to one knee. He could barely muster the strength to think, let alone stand up. A Carthaginian stood over him, contemptuously snarling as he prepared to strike the final blow. Blood trickled into Horatius’ eye as he lowered his head and prepared for his end. Amulius’ heart began to beat rapidly. He was stunned in shock as he watched a Carthaginian preparing to execute Horatius. Determined to not allow his friend to fall, he dashed to his aid. As the Carthaginian prepared to finish Horatius, Amulius screamed and leapt through the air. As the Carthaginian looked up to see what the commotion was about, Amulius drove his blade into his ribs. The Carthaginian struck at Amulius with his club, briefly blurring his vision. Amulius was filled with fury, and drove his blade deeper into the man’s sternum. A bubble of blood burst at his mouth, and Amulius kicked him off of his sword. Amulius turned to see that the remainder of the Carthaginians on the wall had been butchered by his centuria and the other Romans. The Romans cheered, banging their shields and swords together.

Amulius’ thoughts drifted to when his father attempted to train him for combat by having him wrestle with the other senator’s sons. Amulius was significantly smaller than many of the other boys, and he was forced to wrestle with them to prepare for the rigors of combat, as all Roman nobles were. Amulius was renowned for the rapidity with which he was defeated. He remembered wrestling Aulus, the largest of the senators’ sons. Amulius was standing outside of the dirt ring alongside his father, and was very anxious. Aulus was at least a foot taller than him, and at least twenty pounds heavier. Amulius rolled his eyes. He just wanted to go home. Aulus was large, with hair shorn close to his head, dark brown eyes, light skin, and powerful leg muscles. What a specimen, Amulius thought.

“Listen to me, son.” Amulius’ father Tiberius rested his hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes, Amulius begrudgingly looked up. He knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he was pinned. He considered passively allowing himself to be beaten to avoid the pain. It was useless to delay the inevitable. “You cannot allow him to intimidate you.”

“But father, he’s really big.” Amulius glanced at the hulking Aulus across the ring.

“So are the Gauls. But the Romans have defeated them time and time again. Size is of little significance.” his father sympathetically looked him in the eyes, as if he were expecting his son’s defeat.

“Well, I don’t think it can hurt.” Amulius replied.

“What have I always told you us Romans have that makes us different than others?” his father asked.

“Ugh. Heart and resolve.” the young boy reluctantly droned.

“You must believe you can defeat him. You must want to defeat him. You must fight like a Roman. You may not have size, or strength, but you have the resolve to overcome any foe.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Amulius sighed. His father ran a frustrated hand through his hair and exhaled.

“Make it untrue. This match is in your hands.” Amulius’ father patted his cheek, and walked away. Amulius felt the warm oil being poured onto his back. The oil would cause the sand on the ground to stick, so that one would know if one of the combatants had been pinned. Amulius stared at Aulus, and Aulus grinned as he stared back. Aulus was thinking about how good it would feel to drive Amulius into the dust. Amulius was thinking of how good a bath would feel to clean the dirt and oil off of his back.

“Ready?” the slave who would officiate the match looked to Aulus. Aulus nodded. “Ready?” he repeated to Amulius.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Amulius shrugged.

“Begin!” the slave shouted. Aulus’ father cheered him on from outside the ring. Tiberius Gracchus grimaced. Amulius stood straight up, while Aulus stood low as he approached.

“I hope you’re ready.” Aulus snidely remarked.

“What does it look like?” Amulius replied.

“For the love of the Gods, wrestle him!” Tiberius Gracchus cried, exasperated. Amulius rolled his eyes. He halfheartedly dove at Aulus’ legs. However, instead of sprawling to stop the takedown and take Amulius’ back, Aulus threw a knee up and struck Amulius in the nose. Amulius’ vision contracted, and he could feel the warm flow of blood trickle down his nose. He looked at Aulus with confusion, but was only met with a devilish grin. Aulus wrapped his arms around Amulius’ legs, and lifted him into the air. Amulius panicked, and started flailing around. Just before Amulius hit the ground, one of his flailing feet struck Aulus in the eye.

“Aah!” Aulus cried. He stumbled backward, holding his eye. Amulius looked at his father.

“Pin him!” Tiberius shouted. Amulius panicked, unsure what to do next. He frantically shook about, and without thinking, he drew his fist back and struck Aulus on the chin. Aulus stumbled back, eyes crossed and mouth agape. Tiberius Gracchus clasped a hand over his face. Amulius shrugged in confusion. Amulius looked back at Aulus, who tripped over his own feet and dropped to the ground. Amulius looked at his father and smiled.

"Amulius! That is not wrestling!" Amulius started cheering and whooping, elated by his first victory.

"Who cares? I won!" He cried. His father simply smiled and shook his head.

"Maybe we'll have to try boxing. What on earth are we to do with you?" Tiberius shook his hand through his son's hair. Despite how recently he had departed from his home, he sorely missed his father. Again, the business at hand shook him from his trance.

“Try not to scare me like that, Horatius!” Amulius said with a smirk.

“You’re looking sharp out there, my friend.” Horatius sluggishly said as blood dripped down his face.

“I wish I could say the same to you!” Amulius said with a laugh. Despite his friend's poor state, he was happy that he had lived. Horatius laughed to the best of his ability, but he was overcome by dizziness. He felt as if he could barely walk in a straight line. Nonetheless, he collected himself, and awaited orders. Through the sounds of arrows, siege engines, and embattled screams, Centurion Maro’s voice resounded.

“Listen to me, Romans! Well done!” the Romans raised their blades and cheered.

“Where are the rest? Let me at them!” one man shouted.

“Oh, there are plenty more where that came from! Descend the tower! They gather below! Soon the streets will run with blood!” Maro raised his sword high, and the Romans cheered “For Rome!” in unison. Amulius was enraptured by the thrill of battle. His anxiety had been replaced by an inexplicable lust for blood. He descended the steps of one of the walls’ turrets, and the First Cohort reformed in the streets.

“Here they come!” Amulius cried. Immediately he was overcome with inexplicable contempt for his enemies. For too long had Carthage troubled his people. As the cohort advanced, they saw Carthaginian swordsmen, clad in white body armor, charging them from the right.

“Forward!” Centurion Maro ordered. The two hundred remaining men of the first half of the cohort rushed the Carthaginian swordsmen, who looked to number around one hundred-fifty. The First Centuria met them squarely as they charged. The combat was visceral and brutal from the very beginning. The Carthaginians were fighting with a savage determination comparable to the Roman’s own resolve. Horatius gathered himself to the best of his ability and plunged himself into the combat.

The commander of the Carthaginian detachment spotted the crest of Amulius’ helmet, and tracked him down amidst the chaos. As the commander approached him, so did one of his men. The muscular dark-skinned man charged at Amulius, fiercely shouting in an effort to intimidate him. Amulius glared at him before rushing him with his sword raised high. Amulius fainted a thrust, and the man moved back, leaving himself off-balance. Seeing a chance to capitalize on his opponent’s error, Amulius drove himself forward, cutting the man along the shoulder. A few bands of his armor were cut from their place, and a few drops of blood stained the spaulder that had been cut. Amulius backed away behind his shield, and the man came charging in once more. The man cleaved at Amulius’ neck, but the savage swing was feasibly ducked under. As Amulius came back, he drove his blade into the man’s stomach. He writhed and cried out in pain as blood gushed copiously from the wound. Amulius cut upward, slicing through the flesh of his abdomen, and evoking an ungodly scream. The man frantically bashed Amulius over the head with his sword. Amulius stumbled backward, keeping a tight grip on his blade as he doubled back. The Carthaginian roared in pain as the blade tore through him. Blood was exploding from the hewn flesh of his abdomen, and the man knew he did not have long to live. He rushed at Amulius one final time, clumsily swinging his blade about. Amulius caught the blade with his shield, and pushed him back. The man contemptuously snarled at Amulius as he attempted to regain his footing. With an unbridled ferocity, Amulius struck with all of his might, severing the man’s arm. The man’s face went pale, and his eyes widened. He fell to the ground in a growing pool of his own blood. Amulius then turned his focus to the Carthaginian commander. The man wore a white breastplate with a cape, and wore his black hair down to his shoulders. His flat nose sat between two dark brown eyes, the brows of which were furrowed with a growing fury.

“You will pay for the transgressions of your people!” the commander shouted to him.

“You will learn to kneel, savage!” Amulius cried. Despite a growing fear of his enemy’s apparent combative skill, he pressed onward. The Carthaginian evilly smirked at Amulius as he contemplated his next move. Amulius feinted a charge, and the Carthaginian commander made a move to parry. Recognizing his mistake, the Carthaginian attempted to regain his balance, but Amulius was young and spry. He cleaved forward with all of his might, cutting the commander along the side of his knee. He howled in pain as Amulius came in for the killing blow. However, before he could strike, the Carthaginian sidestepped, kicking Amulius in the back, knocking him flat onto his face. The commander stood over him, and raised his sword high over his head. Amulius quickly rolled to the side, narrowly averting the blow. Amulius jammed his foot into his enemy’s wound, evoking a blood-chilling cry. Amulius jumped to his feet, but was knocked to the ground again by a swift kick to his chest from the enraged Carthaginian. Amulius raised his blade and stabbed towards the white breastplate, but the Carthaginian had anticipated the move, sidestepped, and beat Amulius’ blade from his hands. Amulius’ blade skittered across the street and disappeared amidst the chaos of the battle unfolding before him. Amulius grimaced. He had been beaten in fair combat, and was at the mercy of his foe. Beads of nervous sweat formed on his forehead, and he rose to his knees. He met eyes with the Carthaginian commander, who despite having bested him, did not make any satisfaction apparent. Amulius lowered his head, and the Carthaginian commander raised his sword.

As the commander prepared to execute Amulius in the midst of a most chaotic and grueling affair, Horatius frantically stumbled over, waving his blade high above his head. He rushed the Carthaginian commander, determined to save his friend and commander at all costs. He raised his shield and plowed through two enemy soldiers before launching himself at the commander himself. Horatius cleaved at his opponent’s head, but the experienced commander adeptly dodged, and rushed at Horatius. Having heard the commotion, Amulius rose to his feet, and grabbed a sword from off of the ground. Horatius was desperately dueling the Carthaginian commander as Amulius approached. Amulius slashed at the commander’s abdomen, cutting a grazing wound above his stomach, which appeared to be a fine line of red through the center of his breastplate. The commander roared in pain, and seeing an opportunity to end the fight, Horatius prepared to plunge his blade through his chest. As he raised his blade, the commander grabbed his sword from the ground, and thrusted at Horatius’ abdomen. The blade pierced his stomach, penetrating deep into his intestines. Horatius dropped his sword, and slumped to the ground. The commander imposingly stood over him as he lay trembling in the dirt. Horatius placed a hand over his wound, and dropped his head back as his hands quaked. Amulius was quickly consumed by rage. He renewed his ferocious assault with greater

“You b*****d!” Amulius cried. A new fury had taken him over. As tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, he grabbed the wounded commander by the head, and cut his throat. The commander’s eyes widened with fear and agony as the blade cut through his neck. Blood poured from the fatal wound, and he fell on his face, crawling at the blood covered gravel. Amulius frantically rushed to Horatius, gripping his shoulder tightly.

“It,” he heaved through intermittent gasps. “is no use. I will die here.” Amulius held his friend tightly as he fought back tears.

“Don’t say that, you!” he feigned a reassuring laugh through the lump in his throat as tears rolled down his face.

“No, no,” Horatius inhaled, “grieve not for me, my friend. For now...I am free.” Horatius cracked a smile, and as he made his final peace with the world of men, he closed his eyes, and his arms fell to his sides. Amulius buried his face in his friend’s chest and wept bitterly. He trembled and quaked, overcome by grief. His lifelong companion had been slain before his eyes, but it was his duty to advance. His vision impaired by a copious flow of tears, he watched as the First Cohort drove back the Carthaginians who had impeded their progress for so long. The panicked Carthaginians fled for their lives, abandoning their weapons in the streets as they sought respite from the Roman onslaught. Amulius was frozen, trembling with guilt and anguish.

“Chase them down, Romans! Give them no rest or pity! No mercy for those who oppose Rome!” Amulius cried, pointing his sword at the fleeing enemy. The Romans were re-energized by their advance along the road to victory, and fanatically cheered as they pursued their enemies, mercilessly cutting down the Carthaginians as they fled. Amulius stood at the front, wielding the gladius of one of his fallen soldiers. As they rounded a street corner, Amulius heard a tremendous roar. He raised a quaking hand, and the entire Cohort ground to a halt. Amulius stared ahead, paralyzed with sheer terror. Twelve feet tall and fifteen thousand pounds, the fearsome African elephant stood before the Roman contingent. The stark gray beast was protected by mail armor, and on its back sat a turret, where a spearman and skirmisher sat, behind the driver, who sat behind the beast’s head.

“Pig’s head!” cried Centurion Maro. Covered in blood and sand, Centurion Maro had been brutalized by the day’s fighting. Despite this, he stood fast against the massive beast. The remnants of the Cohort formed the “pig’s head formation”, which consisted of two contiguous lines which receded in the middle, so that any force charging the center would be pelted by javelins from the rest of the Cohort. However, the horrified Romans were slow in reforming, and were charged by the elephant, which was followed by a massive swarm of infantrymen.

“Stand fast!” Amulius ordered. He clutched Pompilia’s pendant with a grip of iron. He brought it to his face and kissed it before returning it to his pocket.

“Mithras preserve us.” muttered one soldier. The massive elephant charged the Roman formation. The Romans drew the javelins from their shields, and flung them upon the charging beast. However, the beast shook the missiles off as if they were bee stings, and reared back on its hind legs. The distraught Romans were tossed about like dolls as the elephant swatted indiscriminately with its trunk. The beast’s bellowing roar echoed through the streets, and Amulius struggled to keep his men in the fight.

“Get back, Romans! Javelins! Javelins, damn you! Keep fighting!” Amulius pointed his gladius at the colossal killing machine as it wreaked havoc on the Roman lines. One man shouted and panicked as the elephant wrapped its trunk around him. The man thrashed and shouted out as the elephant held him in the air. He drew a dagger from his belt, and plunged it deep into the beast’s trunk. The beast cried in pain, and threw the flailing Roman through the wall of a nearby building. Amulius felt a startling combination of indignant rage and sheer terror.

“If we want to advance, we must destroy this accursed beast!” Amulius cried. A handful of his men followed suit. As he sprinted across the gravel road to attack the elephant, a familiar sight ran past him. The glistening metal being that had passed him was Centurion Maro. His lungs were on fire, and his arms felt as if they were lead, but the experienced veteran was undaunted. Amulius slowed down as he saw Centurion Maro.

“Stop! Stand here! I’ll take care of this thing once and for all!” Centurion Maro ordered. Amulius shot him a look of bewilderment.

“I cannot, Centurion! You will be killed!” Amulius implored, begging him to stay behind. Maro looked the young man in the eyes, and then diverted his attention to a sickening crack as the elephant stomped on a scrambling Roman infantryman. Centurion Maro shook his head, and rushed the elephant. As Amulius begged him to fall back, Centurion Maro ignored, climbing up the elephant’s leg. The surprised driver of the elephant released one of the reins to draw his sword as Centurion Maro climbed his mount’s leg. The panicked Carthaginian slashed at Centurion Maro, but narrowly missed his dirty fingertips, cutting the hide of his elephant. The beast reared back onto two legs, and the driver struggled to maintain his hold. As the beast reared back, Centurion Maro climbed onto its back. He grabbed the driver by his tunic, and flung him to the ground. The elephant began panicking, running amok through the fray. As Centurion Maro prepared to finish the elephant, he felt a sharp pain in his back. He looked down to see the bloody tip of a lance protruding from his gullet. His vision blurred, and he felt himself growing weak. With the few ounces of strength he had left, he drove his sword deep into the elephant’s neck. The beast was killed instantly, its spinal cord severed. Centurion Maro was thrown from the front of the beast, and his world went dark as he hit the dusty gravel road.

“No!” Amulius cried. He frantically ran to his fallen Centurion. His body was contorted and covered with dirt. His leg was bent backwards, and there was a deep wound in his back. Amulius shook his head, but had no tears left to shed. Instead, he felt a fire begin burning in his heart once more. The turret on the elephant’s back had become dislodged, and the spearman and archer upon its back were disoriented and reeling from their fall. Amulius rushed the two, and stood over them. Immediately, they dropped their weapons, and attempted to surrender. Amulius stood over them imposingly. His conviction wavered. He wanted to let them go. He knew it was ethical. But these were barbarians. Men who had audaciously defied Rome. He looked back, and observed the number of dead in his midst. His Romans had suffered greatly. His best friend and commander had been killed. But he still must retain his humanity, or he was no better than his enemy. As he stood in indecision, the dark skinned archer attempted to scramble away, and without bothering to speak, Amulius furiously plunged his blade into his chest. The man writhed and squirmed, but in his rage, Amulius plunged his blade deeper. The man stopped convulsing, and slumped off of the blade. Amulius turned to his men, who stood taut lipped, some staring wide eyed at their commander. The savage display had disturbed many of the younger soldiers, who had never borne witness to such cold-hearted brutality. Despite having thoroughly disgusted himself, Amulius was determined to move forward.

As the remnants of the First Cohort marched through the streets of Carthage, Amulius and his men bore witness to the horrific devastation which the city of Carthage had incurred. Buildings were smoldering ruins. The blue sky was an ugly gray, and the whole world illuminated in a sickening orange due to the ubiquitous flames which had consumed many buildings. Amulius marched his men down the streets to the square in what had been an apparent lull in the fighting. The temporary absence of outside noise allowed for the cries of the wounded and dying, of the civilians who fled the Roman onslaught, and of the soldiers still engaged in combat to echo throughout the sprawling metropolis. Soon, however, the sounds of iron striking iron and flesh rang, chiling many Romans to the bone. The twang of the bow still evoked horrible recollections of the hail which had greeted them on the shore. As Amulius’ men trudged through the torched wreck, commotion was audible around a street corner. Amulius hurried his men, and saw that in the city square, a few hundred Carthaginian defenders were desperately attempting to fend off several Roman Cohorts. The palace of the Carthaginian King Hasdrubal and the Great Temple of Ba’al were alight. The battle was nearing its conclusion.

“This is it!” Amulius cried. “This is the end! Now go!” he ordered. Despite the seemingly imminent conclusion of the fight, Amulius felt no relief. His mouth was dry from prolonged dehydration, his limbs were sore, and with every breath he drew, his chest felt as if it were about to collapse. All he could think to do was kill more of his enemy. As the First Cohort collided with the flank of the embattled Carthaginians, many defenders gave up hope. The Carthaginian morale began to waver. Many dropped their weapons, but they were surrounded, with no means whereby to flee. Many of them boldly held their ground, fighting to their inevitable deaths. Others dropped to the ground pleading for mercy. The one thing all of those men had in common was that the Romans killed every last one. As the garrison commander desperately dueled two Senior Centurions, Amulius plunged his blade through his back. Filled with rage, he attacked a levy militiaman, who was armed with nothing but a flimsy iron sword. Amulius contemptuously slashed towards the man’s head, but the blade caught Amulius’ stroke before it rendered its fatal stroke. The man drew his blade back, leaving his front exposed. Capitalizing on what would be a fatal error, Amulius mercilessly ran him through. The man stumbled back, his hand tightly clutching the area around his wound as he stared at Amulius aghast. As the young man fell dead, Amulius stopped. He stared at the remnants of the Carthaginian defenders. They were all on their knees with their hands raised high above their heads. He was revolted.

“Stop this! Cease this! They have had enough! Throw down your swords!” he pointed to his men, who lowered their weapons. Many of his men were looking at each other confused. Amulius was sickened by the ineffable slaughter taking place in the square. His desperate appeals for humanity fell on deaf ears, and while some of the other Romans listened to him and ceased, others fought on with an ungodly ferocity. They were spilling their share of Carthaginian blood, bringing Roman order down on a defiant and tenacious enemy. Amulius turned his head to the burning palace nearby. He watched Consul Aemilianus and several of his personal bodyguards force their way in the door.

“Break it down! This is the end! No prisoners!” he cried, as his weary bodyguards smashed the door down. The men fanatically ascended the chipped marble stairs to the wooden door of the elegant rotunda, breaking down the door as they hunted down the Carthaginian King, Hasdrubal. Amulius turned back to the men of the Roman cohorts in the square. Within a matter of seconds, every last Carthaginian defender in the square had been vanquished.

“This city is ours!” the Legate cried. The Romans were bursting with excitement at their spectacular victory, but it was not over yet. From Hasdrubal’s magnificent palace, Consul Aemilianus dragged Hasdrubal himself. Instead of the imposing and formidable man Amulius had come to expect, a short, middle-aged, dark-skinned man helplessly and dejectedly lay before the Romans. The Romans did not heckle him. They remained in formation. As Consul Aemilianus dragged the dethroned king by his tunic, his bodyguards fell in behind him. Hasdrubal’s head hung low. Instead of fearful, he looked to be ashamed, almost  as if he felt guilty. He kept his head low, refusing to so much as glance at the devastation which had been wrought on his city. Amulius idly watched, his feelings mixed. A dizzying blend of confusion, grief, frustration, rage, and elation kept him wondering if he were even in the real world. He stood, entranced by the situation as it transpired. Hasdrubal was gripped tightly by the furious Consul and shoved through the streets. Amulius refused to watch, while many of his men and fellow Romans watched in delight. Others looked away. Many had prematurely begun looting.

After Hasdrubal was “safely” aboard ship, Consul Aemilianus returned to the square.

“The Great City of Carthage,” he mocked, “has been suppressed! It is now ours! All of the treasures this city has to offer are now yours! Show any who resist, the penalty for their impudence! This day is ours!” Consul Aemilianus thrust his sword into the air, and thunderous cheers echoed from the Roman lines. Amulius was repulsed. He gazed upon the burning ruin which was Carthage, strewn with tens of thousands of bodies. Romans lay lifeless on the beaches and throughout the sprawling metropolis. Some were missing limbs, others’ faces had been carved out of any discernible recognition, others were riddled with arrows, others had drowned in sunken ships, never to reach the sands of Carthage. Many of the surviving Romans began their forays through the maze of streets, killing all who would stand in their way. Amulius looked to his men.

“I shall remain here. I have had enough of...death. For a lifetime. You have my leave to go, should you choose. You are dismissed. You have served well and honorably.” he nodded to them, and removed his helmet. He heard the sound of fifty swords simultaneously sheathing, and looked back to see that all of his men stood with him. He smiled.

“Our loyalty is to you, Centurion,” one of the older men said, “not to the Consul.” the man beat his aged fist across his chest. Amulius beat his fist on his chest. He gazed at the smoldering wreck of Carthage, and thought of the great losses suffered by all throughout the course of the day. Carthage had lost its sovereignty. Amulius had lost his best friend, the very thought of which pained him deeply, and he fought to hold back tears. Rome had lost a gallant veteran soldier with the death of Centurion Maro, and had lost thousands of soldiers in the storming of the city. As his gaze panned over the scorching metropolis, he felt sick at heart. The beautiful architecture and abundant treasures would soon be ripped out of the world by many a ravenous Roman. The world had lost a great civilization this day.

“Gods love you men. Soon, we shall return home. Never to see this accursed place again.” he turned as the sun set on a most bloody day. He pulled Pompilia’s golden pendant from his pocket, and gently kissed it. He was overwhelmed with joy at the thought of seeing her face again. Already, he could see her light blue eyes meeting his as he rushed to embrace her. Tears were welling up in the corners of his eyes. He would be returning home to his beloved, and would enjoy a life of esteem, far away from the battlefield. As he watched the sun slip beneath the distant waters, he took a seat on the gravel of the square to rest.