Winter 2013 Writing Competition Winners

[StealthFox]

Author: Inarus
Winter 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition: First Place

The Sands of Britannia

The Sands of Britannia

“Leap, fellow soldiers, unless you wish to betray your eagle to the enemy. I, for my part, will perform my duty to the Republic and to my general.”

- The aquilifer of the Tenth Legion, Caesar: Commentarii de Bello Gallico, IV, XXV.

The water lapped the long sandy beach, its serene sound drowned out by the whistle of projectiles, the thunder of chariots and the shout of our aquilifer. He had leapt from the bireme, bearing the golden eagle glinting in the sunlight into the deep waters which threatened to swallow him up; the first Roman to land upon this foreign soil, Britannia they called it, an isle of pearly white cliffs and hostile natives.

It had begun before those mountains of chalk, where they had risen sheer from a short beachhead before the sea. Standing atop, the foe was innumerable; their dark silhouettes swarming like ants upon the clifftops, the terrain presenting them the chance to decimate our force of two legions before we even landed. Anchored offshore, we ultimately withdrew, navigating several miles along the coast to a place where the sands were flat and welcoming, the cliffs sufficiently distant to deprive the enemy of high ground to utilise against us. Nevertheless, as the great fleet of biremes approached the long stretch of beach, shapes loomed upon the horizon as the Briton chariots and horsemen descended upon the cold shores.

‘The barbarians want this godforsaken isle, why not leave them to it?’ Optio Flavius grumbled sourly by my side. Our feet were damp, our bodies cold and neither of us were willing to fight the foe on such unfavourable land; not only could I forgive him his misgivings, I shared them.

‘Caesar will set us right, he always has and he always will,’ I replied yet my words were half-hearted. Gaius Julius Caesar, ex-Consul of Rome, now Governor of Gaul, a man whose ambition seemed to exceed that of Pompey the Great, and soon too would his name. Gaul was subjugated, Britannia was next and it was with little doubt that I expected him to safely guide the Legions through this invasion. Yet regardless I prayed to Mars that our campaign here would be brief, for greatly did I desire to return to the peace of home, and hopefully settle down with a plot of land to make my own.

Such a land of solitude seemed leagues away, indeed leagues of marching had led us to the northern shores of Gaul, and now a small fleet bore the Tenth and Seventh Legions across this narrow sea, to an isle supposedly allied to the Gallic Tribes that Rome had conquered. It was some relief that the Briton infantry were absent for they had sent only their swiftest forces, the cavalry and charioteers, to chase us along the shore; however they had speed where we had neither manoeuvrability nor horsemen – the biremes bearing them delayed. As our vessels drew closer to the shore, it became clear to us that our ships were as ill suited to naval landings as we ourselves were, their deep hulls preventing us stationing in the shallows. Anchored where the water still seemed treacherously deep I bore little willingness to order my men out of the ships, and then one of them cried out.

The Briton charioteers were armed with javelins, though these were ones neither as neatly fashioned nor as expertly designed as the pila we bore; they killed, and that was all that mattered. In the initial volley many penetrated the bitter waters with a resounding splash, yet one arced down against the ship under my command, missing a soldier’s torso, instead slashing across his throat, severing the artery and sending a warm rush of blood over his armour.

‘Shields up!’ I ordered half-heartedly, though many were doing so instinctively.

‘It’s too deep, sir,’ my Optio warned yet even if he spoke the truth, even shallow water would hinder our advance up the beach, promising death to a unit unable to form up on such impossible terrain. I scanned the fleet, spying several of our heavier armed vessels advancing along the shore, oars swiftly slicing at the water sending up a great spray of water. On board, a garrison of slingers and archers were already returning fire upon the enemy cavalry and charioteers and as their projectiles rained down, in some places striking the Britons from their sturdy engines or unhorsing others as they galloped along the beach, I spied the heavier catapultae being turned and prepared for assault.

‘Men, ready!’ I ordered as I recognised the effects of these warships upon the Britons. The barbarians had never seen a ship so formidably armed, let alone experienced the wrath of these vessels. First Caesar would order these warships to flank them and the landing of the infantry would then drive them to a rout.

Even so, it was with no eagerness that I considered the order of disembark – and then our eagle-bearer took it upon himself, leaping from the boat with far less protection from the Briton’s javelins than our standard legionary, his head bare to the elements and only a parma – a small shield – bound to his arm to keep his hands free to bear the standard. The icy sea caressed his torso and he seemed to be regretting his hastiness. Regardless he cried out at us to follow, muttering few grand words, instead gesturing to the shore. Nonetheless I was relieved to see him stand firm in the water and with that I leapt overboard.

The water reached little over my waist, yet the shiver engulfed my entire body. Where a glancing blow would fail, the northern seas penetrated deep, caressing my flesh with a bitter embrace, instinctively I huddled close, left arm pressed close to my breast, holding the shield firmly before me whilst I used my free right hand to assist my wading through the depths. Glancing back I saw that the boats were emptying, men gasping audibly with shock as they splashed into these northern seas. If ever this barbaric land tasted Roman civilisation, I vowed to avoid the frigidarium of the local baths.

A sudden spray of water from the landing of Optio Flavius beside me brought me back to the present. After awkwardly rubbing salt spray from my eyes – the action hindered by my heavy helm – I scanned the terrain ahead: though the heavy warships had initially appeared to demoralise the foe, they were escalating their assault upon our men, using the agility of their steeds and speed of their chariots to evade our catapultae. I pressed forward with the ocean’s current behind me, cautiously hiding behind my shield and all the while confirming the progress of my men in my wake.

It seemed to take an age to reach the end of the water, all the while, the javelins sliced down, glancing off scuta or slashing through the water. Peering around my own shield, I saw comrades struck down where the missiles found gaps in their defence, but mercifully this was seldom seen. Our aquilifer advanced by my side throughout, Optio Flavius just behind me and, as the water grew swallower, I signalled for those at the front to slow, to wait for the remainder and so allow us to form up and advance in numbers. As men came into position, I checked the progress of the other cohorts, sighting few ahead of us and many lagging behind. Regardless I seized the moment when all my men were in formation, I raised my voice over the din of the dying and the death dealing to bellow:

‘Pila!’

Where the Britons assaulted without coherence or grace, the javelins of my men were hurled and arced with a motion guided by Mars himself. In one swift movement did the arms draw back those carefully crafted pila, their long tips supple – allowing them to slam into shields and there bend, locking them in position, rendering the shields unwieldy – their shafts strong, expertly balanced. In unison did they ascend into the sky, like a flock of geese did they move, seemingly in formation but clearly in elegance did they rise and fall. As one stabbed into the sand, another struck a charioteer, hurling him from his carriage and into the sand, whilst his companion lunged for the reins. Too slow, the unguided horses acted with instinct, their turn sharp, so sharp that the chariot behind was dragged rapidly into the path of another and with an explosion of wood and scream of horses, two chariots met their end.

I watched as another pilum missed a chariot yet glided gracefully between the spokes of one of its wheels, striking ground and in an instant hurled the chariot beyond control. The wood snapped free from the horses, the carriage slamming into the sand, trapping one rider beneath its weight, another being hurled into the water. I quickened my pace, the disciplined legionaries following my example, and I was the first to reach the fallen Briton.

It is a Centurion’s right, a mark of distinction, to sheath his sword on the opposite side and from there, I slid the weapon free. Finely crafted silver steel glinted in the sunlight before I drove the full foot of metal into the Briton’s breast. The gladius was designed to stab and the weapon drove in easily, I twisted it as I pulled it free, pulling with it a fountain of vivid crimson blood. The rumble of a chariot’s wheels was growing louder, preceded by the thunder of hooves, and I pulled back into formation ere another chariot rushed past. As this one came, the passenger disembarked, reinforced by more dismounted charioteers and a surge of cavalry. As the footmen confronted us, the horsemen charged past, their longswords swinging down. As I brought my shield up to block such a blow, my sword thrust from the protection of the shield wall, stabbing into the horse’s flank as it galloped by, ripping open its belly, causing it to rear and fall, hurling the rider to the ground atop another Briton. One legionary acted upon instinct, lunging forward, too quickly leaving the formation, and though his sword finished one Briton, another leapt upon him before he could return to safety. ‘Hold ranks!’ I bellowed, my voice resounding over these barbarians’ fair white cliffs, overpowering the cries of death, stemming the chaos.

Regardless, one foe into the broken formation threatened pandemonium, as I blocked the assault of a Briton before me, two made their attempt on those who had flanked the fallen legionary, exploiting the hole in the line. Desperately I thrust forth my gladius and, with Fortuna’s grace, tore open my opponent’s abdomen and though the blow was weak, I deemed it sufficient, and signalled a retreat by one pace. In unison, the front line withdrew, gaps reinforced by those in the rank behind, and then I signalled a charge.

The weight of a fully trained soldier, a veteran of innumerable battles, pressed behind those towering shields can be an almighty force in numbers. The impact against the native infantry staggered the disorganised force, and then a ballista bolt struck the Briton flank, skewering not one but two warriors, its force hurling back those struck. I signalled the advance and as one we thrust ourselves forwards, gladii peeking out from between our own and our neighbour’s shield. One by one they flashed forwards, meeting resistance, then shields bashed forwards, unsettling the opponent’s defence, and it was then that they struck again, blades driving forward, opening fleshing, sending warm rushes of blood down their skin.

It was then that the Briton infantry broke.

As their horsemen swooped down upon us, I urgently halted any impetuous charge. Another ballista bolt slammed into the sand a few feet ahead of us, missing all but what beasts may have dwelt within; a moment later the cavalry surged past. ‘Pila!’ I shouted and the spare javelins rose over the legionaries’ heads. I watched the cavalry’s movements carefully, ‘Release!’ They rushed through the sky, plunging down upon the horsemen, steeds screamed, more animals wounded than the men who rode them. Those that evaded the javelins urged haste to their horses and galloped away, leaving the field ahead a waste of broken chariots and dying beasts. There would be no pursuit, our cavalry as distant as theirs were becoming.

I turned around, eyes scanning my men, noting those present, and those not. Dead or, more optimistically, wounded. I noted no glint of gold in the sunlight, no elegance of the eagle. Then I cast my eyes down.

An augur would observe that the fall of this bird spelled doom to the campaign or perhaps the death of he who led us, yet there were no men here to read omens, just a Centurion who knew how his men thought. From the ground I took the eagle, the first eagle ashore, prying it from the cold hand of the Aquilifer who had bore it. Considering some of the patriotic remarks I could make of the slain man, I raised the standard above the heads of my companions, the gold glimmering in their eyes alongside their optimism and audacity.

‘For Caesar!’ I shouted, ‘for Rome!’ and I plunged the Eagle into the sands of Britannia.


Historical Note.

In 55 A.D., Roman Soldiers first set foot on British soil, yet the invasion failed when the fleet was wrecked by the unruly tides of the Northern Seas of which Caesar knew little. Winter on the horizon and food dwindling, Caesar returned to Gaul. The following year, a second invasion was launched with more suitable ships inspired by those of the Gallic Tribe of the Venetii, and with five legions rather than two. Caesar won several victories over the tribes, establishing the first of many client kingdoms in Britannia. Caesar withdrew to Gaul, without leaving behind a Legion to enforce his conquests. Two years later, the Gallic Tribes revolted, led by Vercingetorix, culminating in the Battle of Alesia, perhaps Caesar’s finest military victory. On the 10th of January 49BC, he crossed the Rubicon to seize Rome, ultimately ruling as dictator perpetuo. He was assassinated in 44 B.C. The distant isle was never forgotten and when Emperor Claudius needed a victory to help Rome recover from the tyranny of Caligula and support his leadership, Britannia was ripe for the taking. Caesar’s invasion may have been initially inconsequential, yet it brought Britannia into the sphere of influence of Rome, whose impact upon this Sceptred Isle would resonate through the centuries to come.

[StealthFox]

Author: General Brewster
Winter 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition: Second Place

For My Lady

Your name is love so sweet and soft,
Your name is the inscription on my heart,
I am the earth and your are my rising sun

Your smile so bright it can light my darkest night,
Your Eyes so blue the sea is jealous too.
Let me be the wind blowing through your beautiful hair,
Let me be the rain landing on your beautiful skin
Then let me be the sun that warms you after the rain,
So you can be my wife for eternity.

[StealthFox]

Author: Heiro de Bodemloze
Winter 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition: Third Place

Golden Spurs

Robert watched the field beneath him from astride his horse. The masses of infantrymen blended together in the shadow of Courtrai Castle. The besieged French fortification had been under assault from the Flemish, led by the brothers and sons of the imprisoned Count in revolt against the French monarch.

And so King Philippe of France had sent Lord Robert de Artois as his word and will against the uprising of the County of Flanders, his commission to defeat and annihilate any armed forces standing in his way. He had found the opposition here, beneath the walls of Courtrai, waiting for the castle to give up.

They would not get that chance, Robert had decided at the war-council the evening before. He would decimate them with all the might and chivalry of the Kingdom of France, in the name of Philippe. He had sent in the infantry first; armed with pikes, axes, swords and, in the case of the poorest, whatever weapons they could find. They were doing well, he judged from his peaked position.

“They are doing well,” Simon de Melun announced from his right side. The Marshal of France was a veteran of two crusades, both in Africa and Spain. He was as tough as the noblemen of France came. Robert eyed the morningstar attached to his hip, a savage weapon he had learnt to use by an old crusader. It would bash the skull of a man clad in a steel plated helmet. Lord Robert shuddered at the thought.

“Aye, they are. We must pull them out soon.” Robert stared determinedly down at the plain. It was tradition that once the battle had been secured by the footmen, the lords, counts, knights and squires would come to do the killing blow.

“Must we really do this? The battle is easily won without us,” Raoul de Clermont objected. Another man high in the King’s regard, the Constable of France. At the Constable’s side, his younger brother, Guy de Clermont, a Marshal of France, seemed in conflict whether to support his brother or commander. Raoul carried a regular wooden lance tipped with a steel spike, in his scabbard a longsword. Guy, however, preferred a cruel two-headed axe, capable of lethal impact when the carrier knew what he was doing. Robert was sure he did.

“Yes, we do. Simon, give the signal.” Robert would not have his command challenged. He was among men of high standing, feted in great crusades, but he was nothing less of a warrior than them. He had won several of the tournaments hosted by King Philippe.

The long cry of the horn sounded across the field. The officers commanding their contingents of infantrymen reacted quickly and retreated their men towards the hill occupied by Robert de Valois and his fellow commanders. Their swift withdrawal left the field muddy. Behind them a roaring horde of men, half pursuing, half waiting uncertainly. The footmen had done their part, Lord Robert de Valois decided. Now it was time for the real army.

“I’d say they still number about nine thousand, maybe eight,” Lord Simon de Melun reflected. Robert could see his frowning expression.

“It makes no matter. Our steel will smash their leather,” Robert said determinately. I cannot lose faith now, he decided, agreeing with himself.

Robert turned around in his saddle as the infantry were approaching them, clearing the field. He saw two thousand horsemen, heavy cavalry. Knights and their squires, the noble aristocrats of France. The chivalry of France was quite a display to behold. The fluttering banners were those of Normandie, Picardie and the rest of northern France. And towering above them all was the banner of King Philippe – the standard emblazoning golden fleur-de-lis upon an azure field.

“Go to your men,” Robert turned to the Clermonts and Simon de Melun. “And let us give these Flemish dogs a true taste of what comes with defying the might of France!” The men saluted him and spurred their horses to ride down the lines of mounted men.

This was it, Robert knew. He heard the clanking of his golden spurs as he shifted in his saddle. A chance to forever bolt his name in history, a chance to live forever. Robert swept a hand over the gorget protecting his throat and neck. As he signalled for the squire to hand him his helmet – a beautifully adorned piece of steel made by the King’s own royal master armourer – he pondered over how invulnerable he was. From his seat atop his huge destrier, he was only reachable with a pike. He was protected heel to head in steel, almost impenetrable he was. The only way to kill a knight would be to unhorse him. Then he was exposed. Then he was killable. All Robert de Valois would have to do was keep his seat, perched atop his barded destrier.

“Forward!!” Robert cried with all his might whilst he had lowered the greathelm onto his head, narrowing his vision into the two thin slits. He saw the Flemish waiting. Lord Robert spurred his mount into action, hearing behind him the rumble of two thousand knights charging at his command. For glory and for God, he thought to himself.

The Flemish stood waiting. They had lowered their spears and pikes, and whatever else they had which had substantial length. Robert felt his pace and momentum slowed across the muddy field, but paid it no mind. He would win the battle, to be sure, and earn an even higher position at the court of King Philippe.

The brutal clash had Robert de Artois clambering to the reins of his horse, the impact nearly shaking him off his mount. He drove into the crowd of forces, devastating those who stood before him. The wooden shaft of his lance had broken on the body of one unlucky infantryman. He discarded it and drew his longsword. He thought he could glimpse Simon de Melun wreaking havoc upon the surrounding hostiles.

A destrier raced past him, a limp man hanging from the golden spur. Robert realized the beasts head was impaled with the tip of a spear, the dying animal running wild before finally collapsing dead upon the ground. Another man fell, Robert slashed his weapon in pure anger into the side of a footman standing in front of his destrier. Trying to twist the weapon free from the man’s rib cage, he suddenly felt a twinge of pain in his back. He abandoned the weapon to see a plain faced farmer wielding a club.

Robert de Valois smashed his shield in the farmer’s face, but in his wake, two more came. Desperately looking for something longer, Robert whirled his destrier around to look for his squire. He found him on the ground, a spear buried into his gut. Robert cursed to himself.

Robert was surrounded again. Using only his shield upon his opponents, he realized he was losing the battle. Then, Lord Robert the Valois was pulled off his warhorse and fell to the ground.

[StealthFox]

Author: Jesse James
Winter 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition: Librarian's Choice

Scipio: The Bane of Carthage

Scipio: The Bane of Carthage

Scipio crouched down, and swiped his hand across the rough grains of dirt, on the flat plains of Zama. He gathered a handful of the grains, and opened his hand. The grains fell, carried a short distance by the gusting wind. It was an unusually cool breeze under the beating African sun.

Scipio's assault on Carthage's grain supply, from further into the African interior had succeeded. His intentions to draw Hannibal away from Carthage, and Hadrumetum, had worked. Hannibal marched out to meet him, at his chosen site. Scipio was keen to defeat him. With Carthage's armies depleted after a long, drawn out war, and their foolish mistake to breach their recent treaty with Rome, this is what the war had come down to.

"Macer. Report on Hannibal's strength?" Scipio said, still crouched down, looking over the vast plain before him. He could not quite see as far as Hannibal's camp, but knew the man had brought his armies forth, across the massive flatland.

"Fifty thousand infantry. Five, or six thousand cavalry..." Macer's voice tapered off eerily, as if he had something else to say.

Scipio swiveled his head around, and looked at his adjutant, "And?"

Macer cleared his throat, either parched from the beating African heat, or a loss for words, as the news he had to divulge was not good. He struggled to get the words out. Scipio noticed his hesitation.

"What of his special units, Macer?"

"A century..." Macer struggled to get the words forward. The man was clearly distraught, by his failure to conjure the words, and put them forth to the edge of his tongue, "elephants. War elephants."

Scipio nodded his head. He knew full well the devastation that elephants have caused the Roman ranks in the past. They were a devastatingly destructive unit, and they terrified the cavalry, and even more so, the men. He knew he had to figure out some type of maneuver to overcome the odds he faced. Unless Masinissa, the King of Numidia, and his ally, came soon, he might not be able to defeat Hannibal, with an underwhelmed force, on his enemy's doorsteps. This battle would make or break the war, for either side, he knew full well.

"There's something else, General."

Scipio just looked at him, and rose his eyebrows, to signal the man to speak.

"The Carthaginian General, Hannibal. He wants to meet with you."

Scipio took a deep breath, he looked away from Macer. He looked back over the plains, and stood upright, from the crouched position he was maintaining. He looked deep over, to his foe's camp, in the distance.

"So be it. Send word to the Carthaginian camp. I will meet their commander." Scipio looked up, the sun was setting as of that point. Still as beating hot as it had been at midday. "Macer," he garnered his adjutant's unwavering attention, "Dismissed. It's getting late. Convene my council, we prepare tonight."

LATER THAT EVENING...

"The cavalry shall carry the horns. It will break Hannibal's elephant ranks. I assure you, though he has the advantage in numbers, his ranks lack proper training. He is relying heavily on his advantage in his elephants. If we can remove that advantage from the equation, then our legions will make quick work of his army of mercenaries, and peasants. We also hold superiority in cavalry units."

Paetus laughed randomly, drawing the attention of everyone, and the subtle ire of Scipio.

Scipio noticed the insult, "Something to say, Paetus? Would you honor us with your insight, and tactical expertise?"

The other generals laughed at the mockery. Paetus did not think it was very funny. He cleared his throat, "I apologize, General. It's just, the horns. They might work on breaking the elephants, but if they don't, then the hastati will be left to dry-"

Scipio held up his hand to silence Paetus. "I will worry about that, Paetus. It is on my shoulders that Rome expects nothing but victory here, in Africa. And I will most certainly give them what they are after, I assure you. Even if Masinissa doesn't arrive before battle, we will engage the Carthaginians, regardless. Rome relies on only it's own sons."

Scipio then began to silently focus on the battle plans they had just finished discussing, revolving around their strategy should his Numidian allies not arrive on time.

Scipio looks up, "Council dismissed. Get some sleep."

All of the general staff parted their own ways. Scipio remained, by himself in the war room. He figured he wouldn't get much sleep that night.

THE NEXT DAY...

Scipio's envoy rode out, accompanied only by a small entourage of his general staff. He had never met the heroic Carthaginian commander, but he was at Ticinus, Trebia, and Cannae, where Hannibal secured decisive victories earlier in the war. Scipio, then, had only just been a boy, barely of military age. He had nearly died at all three battles. But he survived, perhaps through divine intervention from the Gods, he sometimes let the thought pass through his mind. Now was the moment. This man, who, had he met him on the battlefield when he was a youth, he would surely have just been another Roman whose blood would adorn Hannibal's blade. But now, he was Scipio the General. 'The Bane of Carthage', many called him. His victories in Hispania, against Hannibal's colleagues, rivaled that of even Hannibal's own victories in Italy. He had definitely earn the respect of his adversary, at least in his own eyes.

Hannibal waited, underneath an open tent, shielded from the sun, and being fanned, to assuage some of the brutal heat. He leaned back on a cushioned bed, awaiting the Roman general's arrival.

The Carthaginian commander feasted on grapes, and sipped wine from a golden, jeweled chalice. Scipio had no idea just how pampered the Carthaginian was. He wondered if this was a common display by Hannibal, or whether he was simply altering his disposition to seem boastful, despite the face that his forces had dwindled to being barely able to protect Carthage itself, as Rome recuperated after a long Carthaginian campaign of ravaging the Italics countryside.

Some thirty yards from Hannibal, Scipio dismounted from his horse. He ordered his men to wait there, despite their protests that he needed protection nearer. Scipio ignored the protests, and continued on foot, walking towards the Carthaginian envoy.

Hannibal, unlike himself, had taken the measure of having bodyguards within close proximity of him. A habit or measure he surely instituted in Italy, as he was such an important target for capture, killing, or assassination, in Roman eyes. Here he was now, Scipio thought to himself, it was his moment. He would finally meet his adversary.

Scipio arrived, before Hannibal, who remained down. He turned his head, looking away from Scipio, and could be seen sucking at his own teeth, as if he had some grape stuck in them. He ignored the Roman's presence for a few moments, before acknowledging him.

"So your Publius Scipio," he said, looking down at the man, eyeing him from head to toe, sizing him up. Hannibal got off the bed, as a slave knelt on the ground providing his back as a stepping stool for the Carthaginian commander to step down to solid ground. Hannibal stood taller than his Roman adversary, "I thought you'd be taller," he uttered in mocking tone.

Hannibal snapped his finger, and another slave brought up a wine jug. "Perhaps I can interest you in some wine? A measure of good nature between two of the known world's greatest generals?" He let a smirk up his face, but saw that Scipio was not amused in the slightest.

"May we get to business, Hannibal? You wished to speak with me. Do you propose terms?"

Hannibal raised his eyebrows, shocked, "Bold, indeed. You are the man they say you are. My men, they call you the 'Roman Hannibal'. I find it entertaining, as there has been, and will only ever be one of me."

"And there will only be one of me. It won't be such a fancy status you hold so dear, come the end of tomorrow's battle, I assure you," Scipio said boldly.

"You are too serious, Scipio. Enjoy life as it comes at you."

"I was at Cannae. I saw how serious your armies were."

Hannibal smiled, as a slaved handed him another chalice of wine, "Ah, yes... Cannae. That was a glorious day. They erected a statue of me, in Carthage, after news reached them of that mighty victory. Eighty feet it stands."

"Carthage is some distance away from here, it will give me plenty of time to figure different ways to knock it down when my legions make quick work of what remnants you still command."

Hannibal emptied the wine chalice, and tossed it to the ground. He walked up close to the young Roman general, and looked right into his eyes, "Careful who you insult, Roman."

Scipio took a step to the side, to get out of the Carthaginian's personal space, "Terms?"

"Sicily, Hispania, and Sardinia, are Rome's. Also, my guarantee that no army of Carthage, or it's immediate allies, will ever strike at Rome again. In exchange, Rome is to pull all forces out of Africa, and leave our lands, forever."

Scipio scoffed, "Never. We didn't come all this way so to be 'given' what is already ours. Sicily, Hispania, and Sardinia are Rome's. Carthage holds no might strong enough to deny our presence, or administration over those regions." Scipio shook his head, smiling in disbelief, "False promises, you make. We've seen what Carthage did with their first promises, of which, you were a large part of, which began this Gods forsaken war. There will be no terms, Hannibal Barca. And that's the end of this parley. I bid you good afternoon, as on the morrow, you will regret the day you presented your forces to mine. Sleep well, for you, nor crumbling Carthage will ever be the same, afterwards. I will look for you on the battlefield, rest assured."

As bold as his words were, Scipio turned around, and left the Carthaginian hero a loss for words. He mounted up, and returned to his camp, with his entourage by his side.

Tomorrow would be the day that decides the fate of Rome, and Carthage. Tomorrow, will become known as the battle of Zama...