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Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle.
By now, there are only minor preparations to make. Scipio’s diagrams and notes lay sprawled on too many war tables in this camp, so much so that even the most dimwitted of soldiers will be familiar with the mechanics of his plan.
When Scipio was a child, before Ticinus, he used to think of battles as a puzzle, a game. There was always a correct way to defeat your opponent, you just needed to find it.
Then, at Ticinus, soaked and bloodthirsty and alive, he had to concede there was more to war than the game. There was always something unaccounted for on the battlefield, even something as mundane as a mosquito bite. There was no accounting for every factor, no planning for every move and countermove.
Scipio knew this battle would not be easy to win, but he is not expecting it to be such a long, arduous affair. The cavalry is driven from the battlefield like Scipio planned, and the infantry crash into each other over and over again. Scipio positioned his army to be able to turn into one line of continuous infantry, constantly rotating men in and out of the frontline. Across the field from him, Hannibal has positioned his army into three lines, each one stronger than the last.
Unfortunately for Scipio, Hannibal’s strategy is genius.
There is a long moment Scipio knows he will think back on, when the fate of the battle tips. Where Hannibal’s veterans bear the teeth they’ve sharpened for the last decade, where they push back and almost knock the Roman army off their feet.
But then the Roman cavalry comes back, and the battle tips again.
Scipio sees Hannibal gather what little is left of his cavalry and flee before the final line of infantry has fallen. Scipio knows his enemy, it was smart to leave then, before Scipio was forced by Rome’s will to clap irons around his wrists.
The third line of Carthaginian infantry falls, and the war is won.
There is an attempt at festivities, however everyone is simply too tired to allow for a roaring celebration. But there is enough merriment to warrant a speech from the general.
Scipio recounts to the crowd the long months it’s taken the army to get here. From his siege of Utica two years ago, to their battle on the plains, all of it culminating in today’s battle. He speaks of the pride he has for his men, the glory that Rome will bestow on all of them when they return. How tomorrow they will march to Carthage, and the city will throw its gates open for them. How the war is over, and they are the ones who have won it.
He stays amongst the company of his men until the sun is set, but eventually orders him to rest and he begins the walk back to his tent.
It is then, right as he’s retired, does a scout come in and inform him.
The news of Rome’s victory spread to one of the plains’ nameless towns, which one Hannibal Barca was resting in. A fight broke out, between who is not known. It may have been the remaining soldiers, the locals, or a mix of the two. It does not matter, truly. For after the dust was settled, the last of the Barcids was beheaded.
Hannibal is dead.
Something close to a kick to the stomach settles in Scipio’s gut. The scout is carefully stoic, probing the reaction of the now superior general.
Internally, Scipio flinches at the thought.
But he is being observed, so he rearranges the tension of his face. He matches the scout’s stoicism, but allows the corners of his lips to twitch upwards. He speaks politely of tomorrow’s plans, rising early, marching before noon, until the scout leaves. It’s only when he’s climbed atop his furs does Scipio allow himself to mourn.
He is dully surprised at the depth of his grief. Not like that for his sister, messy and hazy in its intensity, nor that for his father and uncle, sharp and shocking. No, for Hannibal he is mourning the shadow of the man. The man he has followed for more than a decade, from that skirmish in Italy’s northern woods to the dusty landscape of Spain to these plains in Africa. The man who took from the great generals of Alexander, Xenophon, Darius, and Pyrrhus, and made himself one of those greats. Who made it necessary for Scipio to ascend to their ranks. Scipio is mourning the man he could’ve known, the man who he’s only met once but feels as if he’s known for years. The careful advice Hannibal provided him, the hints of sass sprinkled throughout, and the hesitant touches he afforded him after the translators retired.
Enough of this, he thinks as he turns over in his furs, now uncomfortably warm from his restlessness. It is over, he thinks. There is nothing to be done. And with that flimsy reassurance, Scipio tosses and turns into a fitful rest.
Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle. Confused, he frowns and gets dressed.
“I do not understand.” He says, cornering Laelius. “I thought we fought this battle yesterday.”
Laelius looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Are you quite alright?”
Scipio thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Forget what I said. I had a particularly vivid dream.”
The concern does not dislodge itself from Laelius’ expression. He brings a hand to Scipio’s forehead, which Scipio unsuccessfully attempts to swat away.
“You are not coming down with another fever, nor do you appear delusional.” He states before straightening himself, looking like the military man he’s trained to be. “Well, perhaps it is a sign from the gods. What was the outcome of the battle?”
And it’s easy then, to slip into the role of the commander, the master strategist. He remembers the dream and makes minor adjustments to his plan. He lengthens the distance between his first line of men, the hastani, and his second line, the principes. He thins out the number of velites, the light infantry, at the front and orders more of them to be between the lines of the principes and the triarii, his third line of infantry.
They meet on the field much like Scipio remembers from his dream. His eyes automatically seek Hannibal, but Hannibal does not look at him back. Instead, he does exactly as he does in the dream, and orders his elephants to march.
Scipio orders his velites to open fire, which throws the elephants into a panic. The majority of them turn and go to wreak havoc on the Carthaginian side. For the remaining elephants, they walk down the columns in his lines, and the added distance between his infantry lines guarantees his soldiers aren’t pushed too tightly together.
He orders his first line to march, clearly surprising the first line of Hannibal’s infantry, not having expected to battle so quickly after the elephants had been disregarded. The lines crash into each other, and soon after they’re engaged, Scipio orders his principes to advance and flank outwards, his infantry forming one long line. With their training they cut through Hannibal’s first line easily.
Scipio gets a bit worried once Hannibal brings his second line of infantry forward, but in the move that will surely win them the battle, Laelius comes back from fending off the Carthaginian cavalry and encircles the remaining third line of infantry. Hannibal, surprised by this, quickly uses his third line to fend off the cavalry, leaving his second line without reinforcement.
It’s going well. It’s going so well that Scipio allows himself to look over the battlefield with something close to a childlike glee.
That elation lasts barely a minute, when he hears a voice, echoing across the battlefield. Scipio turns, and any mirth he had about the battle turns to dust.
Hannibal had charged into the battle, heading what must have been the remaining Carthiginan cavalry. But Massinissa’s cavalry had just returned to join the fight, and with Scipio’s infantry lines still holding strong, this is a fight Hannibal cannot win. And Hannibal knows it.
Scipio grips his reins tighter. The idiot, he thinks. Even the voice in his head is shaken by fear.
Massinissa’s cavalry are beginning to approach Hannibal, and they show no signs of stopping. Scipio cannot order the cavalry back, that would remove their advantage and make no sense tactically. No, all he can do is watch and pray that Hannibal sees his doom before it is too late.
Hannibal, of course, notices the incoming Numidian cavalry. But he makes no move to flee as Massinissa reaches him. The scene is so reminiscent of when Scipio was a boy, forced to watch Ticinus unfold a far distance from the battlefield. He remembers being unable to do anything but watch as his father is surrounded by enemy troops, hungering for the head of a consul. Scipio remembers watching his father fall off his horse.
As if history is already repeating itself, Scipio watches with the same level of horror as Hannibal finally is knocked off his horse. Something cold and firm grips his heart then, and without realizing the full extent of his actions, he pulls on his reins and rides towards where Hannibal fell.
It is only halfway from the action when he realizes what he’s just done. He hears the indignant shouts of his bodyguards, clearly trying to catch up. The infantry he has just rode to the edge of looks up at him, confused.
Hannibal may still be alive, Scipio thinks, desperately.
So Scioio holds out his sword and rallies his men to push forwards, closer to the site where Hannibal fell.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Laelius berates him as the medic finishes cleaning a graze wound from a spear.
“It was necessary.” Scipio said, grinding his teeth at the burn of the vinegar.
“You damn well know it was not.” Laelius hisses at him.
“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” Scipio snaps, Hannibal going down on his horse playing over and over in his mind. “We have won, in a particularly glorious battle if I dare boast.”
Laelius stares at him for long moments, his face utterly unreadable.
“Leave.” He finally tells the medic, who doesn’t even put his supplies away before the tent door flaps behind him.
“I have never seen you do what you did today.” Laelius states with the underbelly of an accusation.
Scipio stares daggers at Laelius, whose gaze is as calm and still as a rock. Knowing when there is a battle he cannot win, Scipio swallows down the bitterness on his tongue and looks away.
Laelius huffs a breath out with his nose. The celebrations of the camp outside are beginning to pick up. The dead have been counted (less than in his dream, Scipio thinks), and there are soldiers eager to celebrate the end of war. Scipio cannot join them, and Laelius knows why.
“They have found his body.” Laelius says, and Scipio’s attention snaps towards him.
“Do you wish to see it?” Laelius asks, voice gentle, far gentler than it should be. Scipio’s fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.
Scipio stands, and nods at Laelius to lead the way.
Scipio is weary. But when he closes his eyes, the image of Hannibal’s corpse flashes before his eyes, and he sits upright in his bed, gasping.
He does not get much sleep that night.
Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle.
He should be scared, he notes absently. Or at least more shocked than he truly is. But there’s really only one thought that flashes through his head, the one that drives him out of his bed and into his armour faster than he has ever been.
Hannibal is alive.
He doesn’t speak to Laelius this time. He acts much like he did on that first day. He eats, speaks to his men, barks out orders, and assumes his position. He moves, speaks, and behaves as if this was a normal situation.
That, in the end, was his flaw.
He notices it immediately when surveying the battlefield. The relief of Hannibal being alive overshadowed the fact they were still preparing for battle, and he did not think about how Hannibal, now with this additional knowledge, would alter his plans.
There is only one change that Scipio can see, but it’s a daunting one. In Hannibal’s front row of elephants, there were a mere 40 elephants.
There are half the amount of elephants on the battlefield today compared to the last two days. Scipio begins ordering a scout to look for the missing elephants, but he barely gets the words out before Hannibal makes his signal, and the elephants march towards the Roman line.
The scout, it would turn out, was never needed. Once Scipio orders his men to reveal the columns in their lines, he notices. Walking from the direction of the Carthiginan camp come the elephants. Hannibal’s cavalry hasn’t moved, and Scipio now knows why. Hannibal planned to use both his cavalry and elephants to flank and out maneuver Scipio’s own cavalry, which would give Hannibal’s superior infantry the advantage in the battle.
Scipio grinds his teeth, then shouts his orders in quick succession. The cavalry is just going to have to pray to whatever god listening they can hold their own. Scipio grips the reins of his horse and does the only thing he can. Watch.
Scipio watches the left cavalry fight against Hannibals’, but they are outnumbered. Hannibal sent 30 of his 40 elephants towards them. Massinissa, on the right cavalry, is more confidently holding his own.
But it’s not hopeless. Laelius is leading the left cavalry admirably, and they are starting to even out in numbers. If only they could hold their hold for a while longer…
Then, an elephant practically steps on Laelius, and he is flying in the air.
Scipio’s mind, usually full of plans and diagrams and speeches, goes fully blank as he watches. Laelius lands amongst the fighting infantry, and Scipio never sees him emerge.
Without a leader to turn to, the left cavalry crumples, allowing Hannibal’s cavalry to flank the left Roman infantry. Scipio quickly orders Memmius to the right cavalry, and for Massinissa to take half of his and attack the left, but it’s too late. Without cavalry support, Scipio’s infantry can only take so much. He tries, desperately, to command them back to their stations, but his men are exhausted, and they begin to fall in mass numbers.
With the sun beating down the African plain, Scipio orders the only retreat he’s ever delivered in his life. His soldiers, disciplined as ever, arrange themselves into their retreat formation, and head back to the camp.
He will never be sure if it’s out of pity or similar exhaustion that Hannibal’s troops do not pursue them, but if Scipio knows his best enemy, he would bet it’s on the latter. Scipio gives a quick speech, applauding his men’s bravery and willingness to continue fighting, before he orders their weary bodies to pack up camp and march as fast as they can towards Utica.
But with their severely reduced numbers, there’s only so much they can pack up. In the end, Scipio orders them to be in formation after a mere hour, leaving dozens of tents and the camp wall. In the hour after that, the Roman army is well on their way from marching away from the plains of Zama and into the arms of defeat.
They set up camp earlier than Scipio would like, but with a heavily reduced army who have already fought then marched all day, Scipio acquiesces.
He makes one last speech to his men, soothing them that this is not the end, that they will have another opportunity to defeat Hannibal. But he sees their skepticism. The trust in him that Scipio had cultivated that is beginning to crack. He thinks of the messengers he sent to Rome to inform them of his loss, the first he’s ever had. He thinks of how Cato will make him the laughing stock of the senate, how if he does not win another battle soon, he will be called back to Rome by December. How he will have failed.
He does not think about Laelius. Does not allow himself to even touch the thing that is quickly consuming his heart. But every time he closes his eyes, the image of Laelius being flung across the battlefield flashes through his mind, and his eyes snap open again.
Needless to say, Scipio does not sleep that night. He spends the night pacing and drawing diagrams, wondering how he could possibly salvage the situation. Anxiety churns in his stomach, clawing up his throat. He does not allow himself to think of it, but the more he ignores it, the worse it gets. Until finally, he throws down his stylus and begins to pray.
He prays to every god that has blessed him before. He moves in a haze through prayers to Juptier, to Mars, to Minerva to Neptune to Apollo to any deity who would take pity on him. The hour before sunrise, he collapses in a heap at the foot of his bed, his mind blank from exhaustion, but his body still tense and alert.
Just as the sun is set to peak over the horizon, the world shifts under Scipio.
Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle.
He stares at the ceiling of his tent and resists the urge to cry.
”But, consul,” Memmius asks, approaching a stone-faced Scipio. “Where are you going?”
“To the Carthaginian camp.” Scipio responds, a servant bringing him a horse. “I must speak with Hannibal.”
“You spoke with him yesterday!” Memmius exclaims as Scipio climbs onto his horse. “What has changed since then?”
Scipio nearly laughs. Yesterday was four days ago, so really, quite a bit has changed since then.
He doesn’t tell this to Memmius, obviously. He ties himself onto his horse, pulls at the reins, and begins to steer it towards the exit of the camp.
”Scipio!” A familiar voice calls out from behind him, and Scipio turns to see Laelius running towards him. Yesterday flashes through his mind, an image of Laelius lying among the dead on the plain. His jaw is clenched so hard it hurts.
“I will be back within the hour. Make sure the men are well rested.” Scipio says quickly, pulling on his horse’s reins and allowing no room for Laelius’ response.
As he expected, he’s greeted with an uneasy truce from the Carthaginian camp. Hannibal’s been waiting for him.
Scipio dismounts from his horse and a man who introduces himself as Marhabal greets him in Greek. He hides it well, but his confusion over Scipio’s appearance, and what Scipio is sure were very odd orders from Hannibal, is evident. Still, Scipio greets him cordially before the two walk towards where Hannibal waits, soldiers and commanders surrounding him, partly out of curiosity, mostly out of concern.
The two generals greet the other formally, politely. They speak in Greek, neither of them having brung a translator. Even if they spoke no common language, Scipio thinks he could communicate with Hannibal solely through the way their faces twitch and tense.
After pleasantries are finished, Hannibal’s eyes flicker to a nearby servant. He says quick words in Punic, and the servant comes to take Scipio’s horse. Scipio hesitates for only a second before relinquishing the reins.
Hannibal does not wait for Scipio before he turns and walks through the Carthaginian camp. Scipio, bearing the consular might of Rome, walks behind him.
He sees the wary faces of soldiers throughout the camp, some of whom are already in armour. Scipio thinks he’s seen some of their faces among the dead, but in truth, he recognizes no one. Some particularly brave soldiers scowl at him, and Scipio keeps his face passive.
Eventually, they come across a tent that resembles all the others. There is no extra glamour to it, no signifiers of who it belongs to. Only two soldiers positioned at the entrance. They eye Scipio with a healthy amount of suspicion before moving out of the way for the two generals.
Once they are alone, Hannibal’s demeanor shifts. His shoulders sag and he lets out a sigh, and all of a sudden he looks as if he’s aged a decade. He has been fighting this war for far too long, and an apology rises in Scipio’s throat before he bites his tongue.
“Can I get you some wine?” Hannibal asks, gesturing for Scipio to sit at the desk.
Scipio can’t help smiling. “I do have a battle to beat you in.”
Hannibal shrugs. He may not be smiling, but amusement radiates from him. “It was worth an attempt.”
Hannibal sits across from him, setting down some bread. “I assume you have not eaten.”
Scipio schools his face into revealing nothing even partially valuable to his enemy, but he does nod in thanks. While he is certain the bread is not poisoned (Hannibal isn’t an idiot), he can’t be certain of what is in it.
“Has anyone else noticed the days repeating?” Scipio asks and Hannibal shakes his head.
“No. It seems to be just you and me.” Hannibal does not even glance at the piece of untouched bread. “The animals do not seem phased either.”
“Hm.” Scipio grunts, biting the inside of his cheek. “Well, I would imagine that if the day is repeating itself, some condition is not being met.”
Hannibal nods. “What I thought of as well. Something must happen today, something important enough that the course of time cannot proceed otherwise.”
They both lapse into silence. Not to think on their own, but simply because the following facts are simple and easy to communicate with glances.
The fact it is the two of them who are the only ones who remember is telling. It is their actions that will have an effect on history. The fact time itself is restarting speaks to the importance of this event. There is a correct course of action here, they simply need to find it.
Scipio - and so is Hannibal given the slight crease in his forehead - is having a hard time moving beyond the outcome of the battle. Both of them have lost, both of them have won, and still the day does not move forward.
However, they haven't postponed the battle. Scipio grimaces at the thought. It puts Scipio at a tactical disadvantage to allow another day for Hannibal’s Numidian allies to reach them. Still, if there is a correct course of action to this day, they must attempt it.
There is, of course, the other idea.
“Shall we battle tomorrow?” Hannibal asks.
“Perhaps I need to die.” Scipio says instead. His hands are shaking. Hannibal notices, but admirably, does not comment.
“Not today.” Hannibal says, voice tense under its languidness. Scipio hears what he means behind it: neither of us will die for the sake of this game. And in gratitude, Scipio bows his head and allows himself to shake.
“What are we doing?” Laelius hisses towards midday, the two armies still locked in position.
“Hannibal is the one who must make the first move.” Scipio says, continuing to stare straight ahead. He is growing hot and uncomfortable underneath his armour.
If Laelius had been a lesser man, a man less accustomed to Scipio’s incessant planning and many nights of diagrams and maps, he would’ve questioned him more. But Laelius knows his friend. And while he may stare at Scipio for a few more moments, he eventually looks away and retreats to the cavalry line.
Scipio’s the one who folds first. Half an hour before sunset, he orders his army to begin retreating to camp. He and Hannibal had agreed on this course of action through two quick glances that morning. Scipio’s army was more stable internally, and this would certainly not be the first time Scipio’s army was forced to sit and wait for a battle that never came.
His commanders do not come to question him. They know that when Scipio’s begun to act like this, he has a plan brewing. Only, this time, he isn’t quite sure what the plan is. Only Laelius sees through that, and briefly comes to check on him at the end of the day.
”Are you not going to inform me of your masterplan?” He asks as he enters Scipio’s tent, Scipio flipping through some Anacreon at his desk.
”I have no plan for the battle you do not know.” He says, turning to face his old friend. “Hannibal has to make the first move.”
Laelius scoffs and observes Scipio. Not in the way most people observe something, with a cursory glance and a few noted points of interest. Laelius looks at Scipio and catalogs everything. The tiredness in his eyes that speaks to a series of sleepless nights, his untamed and wild hair, his hands which are still, still slightly shaking. Laelius isn’t an idiot, there is a reason he is Scipio’s finest officer and closest friend.
But whatever truth Laelius reaches, he does not share. His eyes carry a soft, sympathetic look, before he nods at Scipio and turns to leave.
”Take care of yourself.” He says before disappearing into the African night, leaving Scipio to sigh and crawl onto his furs.
Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle.
He stands and attempts to go and start the day again, but finds himself sitting at the foot of his cot, staring into empty space until the sun has risen.
He brushes off Memmius and Laelius much like he had done yesterday (today?), and rides towards the Carthignian camp.
He is greeted much like yesterday. Marhabal greets him, he exchanges pleasantries with Hannibal, and he is led to the general’s tent.
“I am getting worried.” Hannibal states as the tent flap closes, and Scipio nods. They have repeated this day five times now, and if they couldn’t rule out a single factor soon, they would be forced to play out dozens of possible combinations.
”I must die today.” Scipio says, keeping the dread out of his voice. He does not want to die, he thinks in the most private corners of his mind. He still has poetry to read.
Hannibal does not look pleased at the suggestion. “We shall leave that idea for when we are desperate.” He takes a rolled up map and spreads it across his desk, gesturing for Scipio to come closer. “Perhaps we must tie the battle? Leave no clear winner.” He says, but Scipio is already uneasy with the idea.
”We have not discussed this.” Scipio says, very aware of everything they both stand to lose from this…meddling. Scipio’s a pious man, he’s done his service to the gods. But if this is what they demand from him, that he is to forsake the outcome of his battle, of this war, for his personal good, they will have to find other followers.
Hannibal nods, not looking up from his map. “I know. I am not asking you to win or to lose. Simply help me figure out what plans will give us the most equal chance.”
“Do you not know what I plan to do?” Scipio asks.
“Of course I do.” Hannibal turns to look at Scipio, his eyes twinkling and his expression dangerously close to fond. “The problem, I’m finding, is I have an enemy who knows what I am planning.”
Scipio watches the battle with something close to apathy. A dangerous thing for a commander, but when one has watched his soldiers charge in the same way for the 5th time for the same battle…well, it can be forgiven if he doesn’t pay as close attention as he should.
It’s this, his distraction, he will blame later, why he doesn’t notice the lessened amount of Hannibal’s cavalry. It’s only when a reserve branch comes barreling down the plains, set to crash into Scipio’s left infantry wing, does he notice. And then it is too late.
Scipio’s infantry fights gallantly, but cavalry charges are dangerous things to be caught up in, and few are brave enough to even attempt standing in the way. Scipio thinks back to his diagrams, sees that the Carthignian cavalry must be stalled long enough for Laelius to come back. Then, the Roman infantry can escape from their prison, trapped between both Carthaginian cavalry and infantry. The issue is keeping his men engaged long enough.
Then, the idea hits.
”You are dismissed.” He tells his three bodyguards, all of whom look at him in surprise. “You are needed on the right flank.” He tells them, watching the left infantry hold the Carthiginan cavalry. “I will be alright.”
Only when all three of them have ridden so far to be unable to stop him does Scipio pull on the reins and steer his horse towards where the left infantry was struggling to hold the line.
His soldiers move out of the way for him, some looking up curiously at him, awaiting orders. Awaiting a plan. Scipio has a plan, but it isn’t one he’s keen to share.
He orders the soldiers to move as if there were elephants charging at them, and although confused, they part and allow a column straight towards the Carthiginan line.
Gripping his horse’s reins, Scipio charges down the column.
As he reaches the last Roman soldier, he orders the column to close. The Carthiginan cavalry is too confused to understand what is going on, which gives Scipio the opportunity to knock the two closest off their horses. He is, all of a sudden, extremely grateful for his riding practice as a child, weaving his horse between the trees in the forest near his father’s villa. He charges through the Carthaginian cavalry, knocking any soldier he can off his horse. His presence is quickly causing panic, and soon the Carthignian cavalry turn from the Roman infantry towards him.
It’s exactly what his men need, seeing their commanding officer in the midst of the enemy. With the Carthaginian cavalry backing of the Roman infantry, it gives Scipio’s men a moment to rest. Then, the Roman war machine roars back to life and pushes towards their commander.
But Scipio’s too deep in the Carthiginan’s own ranks, and as the cavalry turn and surround him, Scipio is not foolish enough to think he will win.
Still, he raises his sword and shield and defends himself. He’s very pleased when he knocks one more soldier from his horse, and hits another’s horse so hard with his shield that the horse bucks the soldier off. But that’s all he manages to do before something cold and sharp and metallic lodges itself under his armour.
He cries out, legs momentarily slipping from his hold on his horse, but he knows it's too late.
He fights for awhile longer, but is unable to knock another soldier of his horse. Two, three more daggers are lodged under his armour, making him cry out and flail. He holds onto his horse for as long as he can, but eventually he loses grip of his sword, his legs slip, and he falls.
One soldier disembarks from his horse, following Scipio down. Scipio can hear them, the marching of Roman soldiers, fast approaching. They must’ve seen Scipio fall. But he knows it will be too late by then. With the last of his strength, Scipio looks at the man who will be the one to boast of killing him.
The boy, really, cannot be more than 17. His jaw is set with grim determination, and he raises his sword high above his head.
Scipio deliriously thinks he can’t have looked that young at Ticinus, before there is pain, excruciating pain, and then there is nothing.
Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle. He stares at the ceiling of his tent, then gets dressed.
Hannibal is doing an admirable job of not showing it, but when Scipio arrives at the gates of the Carthaginian camp, he is clearly furious. Even the other soldiers are standing a little further away from him than in the last cycle.
They do not extend formalities. Hannibal simply nods at him and turns his back. And in the midst of enemy territory, Scipio can only follow.
Only when the tent is closed does Hannibal unleash the anger he has held by a chain. His eyes are hot coals when they turn to Scipio, and Scipio feels himself burning under their gaze.
“You knew that charge would kill you.” Hannibal hisses in Latin.
Scipio responds in Greek. “Of course.”
Hannibal looks as if he wants to rip his throat out, and Scipio is briefly confused if he wants to step backward or forwards. In the end, the two ideas cancel each other out and he stands as still as ever.
“You did not want to die.” Hannibal states.
“You did not want to die either, and you still did.” Scipio retorts, thinking back to watching Hannibal go down amongst Roman soldiers. The body, practically mauled, that they would recover later. Did Scipio’s body look the same, nestled among the Carthaginian dead?
Hannibal practically growls at him, and Scipio stands up straighter. “You are different. You have a home to return to.”
Scipio stares at him. “This is my home.” He says, and Hannibal’s mouth snaps shut.
“What was the outcome?” He asks instead, trying to change the subject. Hannibal faces him, eyes cold and lips pulled into a thin line.
“It was close.” He says, revealing nothing. Scipio seethes, and it’s the first time in this whole situation, where they are forced to fight this battle over and over again, where Scipio is actually mad at Hannibal.
“Enough of your tantrum.” Scipio snarls, stalking closer to Hannibal, who still does not reveal anything on his face. It feels remarkably like a rejection.
“We now have confirmation my death isn’t what will break the cycle.” Scipio continues. He is very conscious of the volume at which they are speaking. The guards may not understand Greek, but no chances are to be taken.
Hannibal’s eyes are still hard and upset, but he gestures for Scipio to sit down at the desk.
“Eat.” Hannibal says, sitting across from him and putting the loaf of bread between them.
Scipio does not say anything, and, much like a child, starts to push the plate away from him.
“Please.” Hannibal pleads, sounding desperate. And, well, that gets Scipio to pause.
Hannibal looks almost surprised at the depth of emotion he’s shown, at the card he’s revealed to Scipio. Scipio expects him to hide it, to straighten himself and twist his expression to that of impassivity. But he doesn’t. Hannibal allows himself to look anguished, to look tired, to look desperate.
Slowly, as if not to startle a wild animal, Scipio takes the bread, rips off a piece, and puts it on his tongue.
All of a sudden, Hannibal’s shoulders sag, and he sits back in his chair to rub his face. “Thank you.” He says, sitting across from Scipio.
They sit in silence as Scipio finishes the bread. He’s barely eaten these last few cycles, and he’s a bit ashamed to devour the bread in the time he does. Once he finishes, Hannibal goes and returns with another loaf.
While eating the second loaf, Scipio turns to the problem they face. Now, they have both won, they have both died. They have stalled the battle, and they have both lived. There are dozens of combinations of factors, but Scipio lets his mind wander. Is there a single factor they haven’t tried yet?
The idea comes just as he’s finished the bread, and Scipio grimaces at the thought. Hannibal notices and frowns.
”You have an idea.” He states. Scipio nods and opens his mouth, then proceeds to close it. Hannibal’s frown deepens, and he gestures for Scipio to continue.
Scipio clenches his fist, then releases it. Drily, he opens his mouth once again.
“You are not going to like this.”
“I thank you for your hospitality.” He says to Marhabal as he escorts him to the exit of the camp. It is tense between the two, but Scipio does not feel as if he is in actual danger.
“I hope you and the commander had a productive conversation.” He says, and Scipio nods. “It was very helpful.” And, because Scipio is good at his job, he smiles warmly at the man and lets admiration coat his tongue. “I do wish the circumstances were better. The men of this camp are honourable and make your state proud.”
Marhabal blinks, clearly a bit shaken by this gesture of goodwill on Scipio’s part. He wonders what role this offhand comment will take in the ensuing chaos that is to follow.
“Yes, well. Your own men are expertly disciplined.” Marhabal stiffly replies as a servant returns with Scipio’s horse.
Scipio is sure to smile as if it’s the first time his leadership has been complimented. He knows that emphasizing certain boyish features startles his enemies. It’s not a skill to display amongst Romans, but when taking your enemy off guard, Scipio’s found it very useful.
He smiles once more at Marhabal before climbing onto his horse. With a nod at the Carthaginian soldiers, he rides towards the Roman camp.
…except he only rides for as long as the Carthaginian watchmen can see. As soon as he’s out of their sight, he turns around and makes a grand sweep of the Carthiginan tents, watching the back of the camp.
He does not have to wait long to watch the cloaked figure on a horse riding in the opposite direction of the camp. He yanks on the reins to catch up with the cloaked figure, the two reuniting a mile away from the edges of the Carthignian camp.
Under the cloak, Hannibal’s eyes gleam at him. His expression is steeled and clearly upset, displaying what Scipio himself feels.
“How long do we have?” Hannibal asks, tossing Scipio a bag. Hannibal’s packed light, surely only some furs, food, water, coin, and firemaking materials. They may not even need this much, given they aren’t sure if this will cause the day to restart.
”Aproximately half an hour.” Scipio says, tying down the bag to his horse. “I am unsure where to go, so I will be following you.”
Hannibal nods and pulls down the cloak. Adjusting so the cloak will not get in the way of his riding, he pulls on his reins, Scipio right behind him.
They ride south until the sun is straight above them, and only then do they turn slightly west. Scipio has forgotten what it feels like to ride like this, as fast as his abilities let him on flat, empty land. The sun’s heat is no match for the wind across his face, surely messing up Scipio’s hair.
In front of him, Hannibal rides low to his horse, his curls bobbing in the wind. He has let his beard grow long, and while the missing eye had Scipio concerned when he first saw Hannibal again at Cannae, after all these years Scipio cannot truly imagine Hannibal without his eyepatch.
They do not stop riding until the sun is low in the sky and the horses need rest. They do not speak to each other, less out of awkwardness and more out of weariness. They communicate through glances and quick gestures, splitting food and water between the horses and each other, silently watching the sun get lower and lower in the sky.
Right before the sun slips below the horizon, Hannibal slings himself onto his horse and Scipio follows. They need to ride as far as they can.
They ride right through the sunset and for perhaps a half hour more until it becomes too dark to ride quickly. They slow to a trot, which they continue for another hour.
Scipio is sure that if they could, they would ride all night. But the lack of sleep has taken its toll on Scipio, and when he falls asleep and nearly slips off his horse, Hannibal stops and begins to set up camp.
Scipio doesn’t even try to protest, sluggishly getting off his horse and beginning to prepare a fire as Hannibal sets up the horses for the night.
By the time Scipio has a small fire crackling, he’s not as tired.
Hannibal approaches him with bread and salted meat. Scipio nods his head in thanks and takes part of what Hannibal offers him.
“Where do we go after this?” He asks after he’s swallowed the last of the meat. Hannibal passes the water to him.
“We avoid the Numidian Kingdoms, and we head west.” Hannibal says, looking towards the sky above them. The stars are beginning to come out. “If we head too far south, we come across the sand dunes.”
Scipio thinks as he gulps down the water. He wonders what it would be like to travel through the sand dunes, so far south they came across new land. If there would be people there. If they would have ever heard of Rome and Carthage and this war. If Hannibal and him could grow into domesticity, somehow scrub the stench of bodies and blood from their skin, and settle into a quiet, unbothered life.
He looks to the man beside him, and wants to laugh at himself for even thinking of the idea.
Hannibal notices his amusement and raises his eyebrows in return. They have barely left Zama, and already they are sitting shoulder to shoulder, passing meat and bread and water between them as if they were comrades.
The idea of something more flashes through Scipio’s mind, so quick and so sudden he has no time to smother it before Hannibal notices.
What had been easy camaraderie a moment ago tenses and stiffens and nearly cracks under the pressure, and suddenly they are both stiff, tense bodies with only a single point of contact.
There are many long moments of this awkwardness, and Scipio is the first to break under the pressure, shuffling away so their shoulders no longer touch.
But, much to Scipio’s shock, Hannibal follows him, and bumps their shoulders together.
Baffled, Scipio looks towards Hannibal, who is gazing at Scipio in return. Hannibal’s tongue slides across his upper lip, and Scipio, for once, does not stop his brief glance downwards.
For as much as their accomplishments elevate them among their peers, this is a fumblingly awkward affair. They shuffle closer together in a way more befitting of youths than great generals. Hannibal’s eyes flutter shut as their noses meet, Scipio’s eyes lidded only to watch the way the fire reflects on Hannibal’s skin. He smiles, and it’s so unexpectedly fond that he’s grateful Hannibal’s eyes are closed.
Scipio is content to watch Hannibal like this for the rest of his life, but Hannibal is evidently not when he surges forwards and closes the distance between them. And Scipio can concede as he surges into Hannibal, their kiss quickly becoming something desperate, teeth clacking together, pawing at Hannibal’s damned cloak, being reminded that both of them are still soldiers at heart, that this is much better.
“I do not think this will break the cycle.” Hannibal murmurs as they lie under the stars. They have spent the last hour tracing the constellations, telling each other the myths they know by heart. Scipio tells Hannibal the stories Roman youths would hear, and Hannibal tells Scipio of Ba’al Hammon and the Punic gods. They take turns sharing the Greek myths, if only to hear them again on another’s tongue.
They both knew sleep would not come easy tonight, so it is a surprise that eventually, a gentle drowsiness descends on both of them. They are lying shoulder to shoulder, one fur on the ground beneath them and one fur thrown overtop.
Scipio turns to tuck his face into the crook of Hannibal’s neck. The fire has long since run out of firewood, and it’s just him, Hannibal, the plains, and the stars. Hiding in Hannibal’s nape, Scipio feels safer than he ever has anywhere else.
“I do not think so either.” He mutters against Hannibal’s skin, his eyes closing.
Right as he’s descending into the realm of sleep, he feels a hand come to cradle the back of his neck.
Scipio wakes right before dawn. Outside his tent, there is the sound of an army preparing for battle.
His hand comes up to his neck, and he presses down on a spot Hannibal had bitten a bruise into. He lets himself linger on the spot, rolling the unmarked skin between his fingers, before getting up and moving to get dressed.
He fends of Memmius’ asks with ease now. Laelius, the ever watchful second in command he is, grows harder to shake every time. But this once, he seems to understand some of what Scipio’s been through the last few days, and holds Memmius back himself.
”Do not be longer than an hour.” He says, and Scipio is sure to smile at him in thanks before riding towards the Carthigian camp.
To the casual observer, nothing has changed between him and Hannibal. They speak the formalities they must, exchange pleasantries, and Hannibal guides Scipio to his tent as he has for the last four days.
Hannibal’s tent has become dangerously familiar to him now. Scipio sits at the desk without prompt, and Hannibal follows him with a loaf of bread. Scipio is halfway through the bread before either of them deign to speak.
Well, they do not speak, but Hannibal glances at Scipio with something determined yet hurt in his eyes, and Scipio responds with the same. The message is clear between the two of them. They must fight this battle.
Uncalled for, a memory of his home in Rome comes to Scipio’s mind. He thinks of the many meetings he’s held in his tablinum, of watching his sons run through the halls he ran through as a boy. He thinks of Aemilia, and how he hasn’t seen her face in three years. He thinks of peacetime, and how now it is more an idea than a memory. Rome was last at peace when he was a boy. He is now over 30, and still fighting her wars.
He looks to Hannibal. He thinks of something his uncle used to say, of all the pleasantries you give up in war. He thinks that maybe, there are also pleasantries you give up in peacetime.
”I do not want to alter the outcome of this battle.” Hannibal says, and Scipio nods.
There is little else to say after that. They have their plan for the day. If they should fail, they will meet tomorrow in the same way they have done for the last few days.
“I cannot help wondering,” Scipio starts, and if Hannibal is surprised at his talking, he does not show it. “What the gods want from us.”
Hannibal hums. “It is not our place to guess what gods want.”
Scipio shrugs. “Perhaps. But I cannot help…” He stops himself, looking down at the remains of his piece of bread. What he wants to say is too vulnerable. It would be like Achillies parading his heel in front of the Trojans with a great “aim here!” sign. But when he looks up, it is the first time he has ever seen curiosity on Hannibal’s face.
So he clears his throat, and says “I did not like dying.”
Hannibal startles. It is clearly not what he expected Scipio to say. “What are you talking about—“ He starts, but Scipio interrupts him.
“I did not like dying.” Scipio states again. “But I would rather die thousands more times to prevent having to watch you die in front of me again.”
Hannibal isn’t bothering to hide his shock. Neither of them move for a very long time, and Scipio thinks back to that skirmish at Ticinus. The heat of Hannibal’s gaze when Scipio charged towards where his father had fallen. The gaze that followed him across Spain, to Africa, to this damned plain, and across these last few days.
Hannibal hasn’t stopped staring at him. Scipio begins to feel skittish. And after what is surely minutes of silence, he gets up to leave when—
“Wait.” Hannibal calls out, grabbing Scipio’s forearm. Scipio, confused, turns to Hannibal, who is looking at Scipio with…something that Scipio cannot read. Scipio is momentarily irked by the notion there is something about Hannibal that Scipio cannot infer, before Hannibal’s gaze softens and oh—
Scipio thinks, briefly, that he should ask Hannibal to run away again. That they could spend another day in this cycle, wasting another day to learn more of the other all over again. But Scipio is so, so sick of reliving this day, this battle, this war, over and over again. He wants something more than these stolen moments. He wants something more than living only in this stolen time. He wants—
Hannibal’s mouth crashes into his, and something in Scipio’s heart soothes as he kisses back.
”Please.” Hannibal says after they part, mouth red and hand gripping Scipio’s so tightly it hurts. “Do not die.”
Scipio exhales and leans into Hannibal, pressing their foreheads together. He squeezes Hannibal’s hand as hard as he physically can. He thinks of what Hannibal has asked. That it is the most they can ask of each other.
Scipio nods against him, then lets go and walks out of Hannibal’s tent.
For all their attempts at countering the other’s moves, their formations end up eerily similar to that first day. Hannibal uses all his elephants in the initial push towards the Roman infantry, and as it was on that first day, it causes more damage to the velites and hastani than Scipio would like to admit. Scipio sets his jaw and orders the cavalry to move, and soon it is just the two sets of infantry facing each other. This they have kept the same, Scipio’s rotating infantry, Hannibal’s three lines. And with their armies in position, the only thing there is to do is fight.
Even this plays out how Scipio remembers. Scipio’s own infantry numbers steadily drop as the quality of Hannibal’s infantry gets better and better. But here Hannibal has done something different, he has somehow put more men into his second line of infantry, cutting down more Roman soldiers than in the first loop.
As the Roman infantry engages the last line of Hannibal’s infantry, Scipio is gripping the reins of his horse so tight the horse is beginning to become agitated. Without the cavalry, Scipio’s infantry stands no chance of breaking through Hannibal’s final line. Scipio’s infantry will be slowly slaughtered where they stand, defeated not through a sweeping move or with the satisfaction of knowing there was nothing they could do, but the grind of attrition that has made meat of so many men.
Then, one of his bodyguards point, and there, there is the cavalry.
He watches Hannibal as the final line of Carthiginan infantry crumbles, the gates of Carthage being opened before him. His greatest foe seems uncharacterously still as he watches the Roman cavalry smash into the rear of his infantry.
Then, across the battlefield, Hannibal turns and makes eye contact with Scipio. There is nothing prying in his gaze, nothing overt.
But Scipio knows, would know if they were still at Ticinus, that Hannibal is asking Scipio.
And it is selfish, it is, to ask a general to flee before he is slaughtered with the rest of his army. To flee before Scipio must do as Rome wants and shackle him.
But Scipio knows that if Hannibal asked him the same, Scipio would run.
Scipio tears his gaze away as he watches Hannibal pull on his horse’s reins. Somewhere beneath his skin, lodged deep in his bones, he feels Hannibal get farther and farther away.
The army is exhausted. Scipio gives his speech, likely with less enthusiasm than he should, but his men still buy it. Still roar and cheer and spend the night celebrating.
But Scipio is on edge the whole night. Waiting. Waiting for that damned scout. Waiting for the confirmation that Hannibal is lying dead in some dusty, unworthy of a name town.
But that scout never comes. And Scipio is now in his cot, staring at the ceiling of his tent.
Please, he begs silently. Please, do not let me return to Rome in shame. Please, do not let all of this have been in vain. Please, there have been no scouts to tell me of Hannibal’s body. Please, please, please.
Scipio wakes right before dawn, and his heart sinks.
If this wasn’t the correct order, the correct way to break the cycle, what on Earth was?
Panic begins to build up in Scipio’s throat. No, he does not want this. Does not want either of them to die for this war, does not want either of them have to keep countering and finding ways to outwit the other.
He cannot do this day again.
Then, the flap to his tent opens, and in comes Laelius.
Before Laelius can open his mouth, the words come out of Scipio’s mouth in a rush. “Gaius, what is the agenda today?”
Laelius, concern blooming across his face, says “We are set to march to Carthage, as you ordered yesterday. Is something the matter?”
Letting out a shaky sigh, Scipio buries himself in his hands, and begins to cry.
In the coming days, Carthage will surrender. He will have won Rome the war that has raged for 16 years, the war that has put his father, his uncle, and countless numbers of his countrymen in the ground. Today marks the end of the fighting.
But today, and tomorrow, and hopefully the day after as well,
Hannibal is alive.