“Console Paullus, where is he?” Varro called to the nearest officer.

“Sir, as I said already, we don’t know. You’re the only ranking officer on the field that we can find, or know that is still alive,” the man cried out.

“Dammit Paullus, dammit, where are you?!" Varro couldn’t help but cry out to himself. He suddenly wished he had listened to the man the night before.

“We…We have to reform ranks. We have to push against…” He was a loss for words. He couldn’t think straight and no matter what he said, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He could barely tolerate the screaming of his men any longer as he watched the distant line of marching enemy soldiers draw nearer to him.

Varro’ eyes opened wide as he watched one of his own men slit his throat, killing himself, over waiting for the approaching Carthaginian army. That man was not the only one to do so either as Varro saw panicked men fall on their swords, or ask that their friends to kill them where they stood. Other men held stronger, pissing and shitting in their pants, waiting endless minutes to die, but still determined to meet their end on their feet. A few of the braver, older veterans called out, saying prayers and demanding that they stand and fight — take a few of the bastards with them so that Rome will have fewer barbarians to deal with tomorrow!

“My son, where is my son?” Varro called as loudly as he could. “Antony!” However, no one had an answer for him, at least one that he wanted to hear.

“Sir, we can still try to get you out of here if we act now,” the officer said as he tried to bring Varro out of his stupor.

“My son, where is he? Tell me Flavius, where is he?”

“Sir, we’ve already reported, he is dead…Now we have to act before it is too late.”

“No, Antony…my dear boy. No…”

As he watched the Carthaginian army near to his position, he knew what he had to do.

“May all of you forgive me,” Varro said more to himself than to any man near to him, as he drew his dagger out from behind his back, and raised it quickly up to his throat.

“Sir — No!” Flavius tried to stop him, but even before he could reach out, Varro rammed the knife through his own neck.

He slumped off of his horse, falling to the ground, still alive, but not for much longer.

No one came to him as he fell. He just lied there, bleeding as he stared up at his men who were all around him. Their fate was already decided. It would only be a few more minutes before they were all dead as well.

Then too, Varro’ eyes closed to the world; to the failure that he created. Only history could judge him now.

Across the plains of Cannae, much of the fighting had stopped as Hannibal stood on top his horse, on one of the far hills surveyed the battlefield. Just a few pockets of survivors continued to challenge his men, who were now superior in numbers, and bloodlust. He had only the faintest smile. He did not enjoy seeing so many brave souls dead at his feet; more bodies then he had ever seen gathered into one place that, the birds circled overhead by the hundreds, would certainly eat to bursting, for weeks to come. However, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment and pride. He had won a victory that would forever be remembered in the chronicles of warfare, which by each new day was closer to not being written by a Roman’s hand.

“The Republic is broken!” Hasdrubal cried out with joy as he rode up and stood beside his general.

“Are they?” Hannibal asked as he refused the offer of wine that his officer attempted to pass over to him, as the two stood looking out over the battlefield.

“Do not be so doubtful, general. You have won a great victory! How proud your father would be of you. Now, there is no force of man or nature that stands between us and the gates of Rome. And when we arrive, we will make the Senate eat our shit as they lick our asses. They will give you their kingdom, and the entire world shall know that Carthage is again the sole power in existence.”

Hannibal glanced over at his friend, not rebuking or agreeing with his statement. It was true. He knew that there was nothing left standing between he and Rome. What men had escaped would not be enough to mount an effective defense of the city. He could have the capital in a matter of days. However, still, as he turned his head back towards the battlefield, the sense of joy and excitement that his men showed was not evident on his face.

“There are still Romans out there who have escaped our trap. I want them found and dealt with,” Hannibal finally spoke; his words ice-cold even in the growing summer heat.

“That will be done. I will put Calfax and his men on the task at once. Even so, shouldn’t we ransom some of the survivors we find?”

“No. I want our Senate to see my resolve. Find me the Roman elite, living and dead. Tear their wealth from their bodies; their rings and anything that represents their authority and collect them. Do not melt them or pass them out. I want them all. I want them delivered to those old fools on the first ship out of Italy. Is that understood?”

“That will take some time. That is a lot of rings to collect from the battlefield.”

“I know. You best get started.”

“And what about the survivors who aren’t of the Roman elite?”

Hannibal stared at his man for a long time before he finally answered.

“Use your imagination.”

Hasdrubal smile widened as he took a long swig from the wineskin before he kicked his horse, and raced down towards the battlefield. Already Hannibal’s mind turned towards the future, which for him, was strangely uncertain.

Rome was defeated and left open to him. What was stopping him from marching his army to its gates now?

Nothing…yet, he was hesitant, despite his victory this day, there were still many uncertainties. He knew this enemy — Rome, was a hydra. He had severed its head so many times all ready — its body was far from dead, that he knew, even as he watched the endmost vestiges of survivors slaughtered — no quarter given. Rome would, however, rise again. This fact vexed him without end, even upon his great victory.

It was silent, far to tranquil. Gaius hated silence. He needed activity: the sounds of a city or the steady breeze of a warm summer’s day, as farmers worked their fields — the sounds of their pickaxes breaking through the earth, curing up rocks, dirt, with the songs of birds overhead. Here in the nearly abandoned city of Canusium, it was eerily still, as if everyone knew a terrible storm was brewing over the hills. Only a handful of the town’s people stayed behind. A few stubborn farmers and store owners, or those that simply had nowhere else to go. Tens of thousands already fled to Rome, or the southern most cities. However, in truth, there wasn’t anywhere people could go, north, south, east or west. The enemies of Rome were everywhere, or so it seemed.

Standing up on top of the high stone wall that surrounded the town, Gaius looked out towards the east, towards Cannae. He and his men came to this place two days ago, on orders to make ready for any casualties who might come this way once the battle was won. He knew it was an excuse. There was no real reason to expect any Roman casualties to come this direction, not if the battle was indeed won, not when the main army’s camp had all the needs for those wounded. And if not the camp, then the city of Cannae would suffice.

Gaius wanted to be at Cannae more than anything. He had no real wish to be in a battle against Hannibal, not after surviving Trebia. Still, he wanted to be with the army. He wanted to be doing more than babysitting a small and unimportant settlement as this. It was his right as a soldier of the Republic to face his enemies head on, and not be sent away on the Eve of Rome’s finest victory, or its greatest defeat.