THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.
Scipio had ploughed the ground and sown the seeds for his African
campaign. The time for reaping its fruits was not yet, however. He had
first to complete the subjugation of Spain, and to deal out punishment
to those tribes who had forsaken Rome in her hour of crisis on the
Peninsula, after the death of the elder Scipios. Their heir had been too
shrewd a diplomatist to show his hand earlier while the scales still
hung in the balance, but now, with the Carthaginian power finally
broken, it was essential for the future security of the Roman power that
such treachery should not pass without retribution. The two chief
offenders were Illiturgis and Castulo, cities in the neighbourhood of
the battlefield of Bæcula, on the upper reaches of the Bætis
(Guadalquiver). Sending a third of his forces under Marcius to deal with
Castulo, he himself moved with the remainder on Illiturgis. A guilty
conscience is an alert sentinel, and Scipio arrived to find that the
Illiturgi had made every preparation for defence without awaiting any
declaration of hostilities. He thereupon prepared to assault, dividing
his army into two parts, giving command of one to Lælius, in order that
they might “attack the city in two places simultaneously, thus creating
an alarm in two quarters at the same time” (Livy). Here again it is
interesting to note how consistently Scipio executes a convergent
assault—his force divided into independently manœuvring parts to effect
surprise and strain the enemy’s defence, yet combining on a common
objective. How strongly does his appreciation of this, the essential
formula of tactics, contrast with its rarity in ancient warfare, in
modern also, for how often do commanders wreck their plan either on the
Scylla of a divided objective or on the Charybdis of a feint or
“holding” attack to divert the enemy’s attention and reserves from their
main blow.
His plan made, Scipio, realising the soldiers’ inherently lesser ardour
against mere insurgents, strove to stimulate their determination by
playing on their feelings for their betrayed comrades. He reminded them
that the need for a salutary vengeance ought to make them fight more
fiercely than against the Carthaginians. “For with the latter the
struggle was for empire and glory almost without any exasperation, while
they had now to punish perfidy and cruelty.” Such an urge was needful,
for the men of Illiturgis, fighting with the courage of despair, with no
hope but to sell their lives as dearly as possible, repulsed assault
after assault. Indeed, because of the circumstances that Scipio had
evidently foreseen, the previously victorious army “showed such a want
of resolution as was not very honourable to it.” At this crisis, Scipio,
like Napoleon at the bridge of Lodi, did not hesitate to stake his own
life. “Considering it incumbent upon him to exert himself in person and
share the danger, he reproved his soldiers for their cowardice, and
ordered the scaling ladders to be brought up again, threatening to mount
the wall himself since the rest hesitated.” “He had now advanced near
the walls with no small danger, when a shout was raised from all sides
by the soldiers, alarmed at the danger to which their leader was
exposed, and the scaling ladders were raised in several places at once.”
This fresh impulse, coinciding with Lælius’s pressure elsewhere, turned
the scales, and the walls were captured. During the resultant confusion
the citadel, too, fell to an assault on a side where it was thought
impregnable.
The treachery of Illiturgis was then avenged in a manner so drastic as
to be an object-lesson of its requital, the inhabitants put to the
sword, and the city itself razed to the ground. Here apparently Scipio
made no attempt to restrain the fury of the troops, though, as he was to
show on the morrow of Zama, he could be generous beyond comparison to an
open foe. In all his acts he evidently envisaged the future, and even in
allowing the obliteration of Illiturgis he had a direct purpose. For the
news so shook the defenders of Castulo, an obstacle made the more
formidable because the garrison had been reinforced by the remains of
the Carthaginian forces, that the Spanish commander, throwing over his
allies, secretly capitulated. The moral purpose of the Illiturgis sack
thus accomplished, Castulo escaped more lightly.
Then, sending Marcius to clear up the few remaining centres of
disaffection, Scipio returned to Cartagena to pay his vows to the gods,
and to give a gladiatorial show in memory of his father and uncle. This
deserves passing mention, for whether due to chance or, as seems more
likely, to Scipio’s taste, its nature was different from the normal
contest. Instead of the gladiators being slaves or captives, doomed to
fight “to make a Roman holiday,” they were all voluntary and unpaid,
either picked representatives of tribes or soldiers anxious to show
their prowess in compliment to their general or for desire of glory. Nor
were they all of obscure position, but included several men of
distinction, so that these games at Cartagena might be considered the
birthplace of the mediæval tourney. Some, too, used it as a means to
settle personal disputes, forecasting that still later development, the
duel.
It was shortly after this that deserters arrived at Cartagena from
Gades, offering to betray to Scipio this last stronghold of the
Carthaginian power in Spain, where Mago had collected ships, fugitive
troops from outlying garrisons in Spain, and auxiliaries from the
African coast across the straits. The opportunity was one not to be
missed by Scipio, and he at once despatched Marcius “with the light
cohorts” and Lælius “with seven triremes and one quinquereme, in order
that they might act in concert by land and sea” (Livy). Apart from the
light these few words shed on Scipio’s grasp of the advantage of
combined land and sea operations, already made evident at Cartagena, the
specific mention of “light cohorts” would seem to have a significance.
From Cartagena to Gades is a full four hundred miles. To detach light
troops, purely, for a move of this range—a landmark in military
evolution—suggests Scipio’s appreciation not only of the time factor,
but also of the advantage of a highly mobile striking force in
situations where rapidity was the coping-stone on opportunity.
The likelihood also is that he intended to follow with his legions; but
if so, this and his plans in general were upset by a severe illness,
which laid him low. Exaggerated by rumour, reports that he was dead soon
spread throughout the land, causing such commotion that “neither did the
allies keep their allegiance nor the army their duty.”
Mandonius and Andobales, dissatisfied because after the expulsion of the
Carthaginians the Romans had not obligingly walked out and left them in
possession, raised the standard of revolt, and began harassing the
territory of the tribes faithful to the Roman alliance. As so often in
history, the disappearance of the oppressor was the signal for
dependencies to find the presence of their protector irksome. Mandonius
and Andobales were but the forerunners of the American colonists and the
modern Egyptians. There is no bond so irksome as that of gratitude.
But the menace of the situation was made more acute through the mutiny
of the Roman troops themselves at Sucro, midway on the line of
communication between Cartagena and Tarraco. It is a truism that line of
communication troops are ever the least reliable, the most prone to
discontent and disorder. Lack of employment, lack of plunder, were
aggravated in this case by lack of pay, which had fallen into arrears.
Beginning at first with mere disregard of orders and neglect of duty,
the men soon broke out into open mutiny, and, driving the tribunes out
of the camp, set up in command two common soldiers, Albius and Atrius,
who had been the chief instigators of the trouble.
The mutineers had anticipated that with the general disturbance
resulting from Scipio’s death, they would be able to plunder and exact
tribute at will, while escaping notice to a large extent. But when the
rumour of Scipio’s death was refuted, the movement was, if not quenched,
at least damped down. They were in this more subdued frame of mind when
seven military tribunes arrived, sent by Scipio. These, evidently under
instructions, took a mild line, inquiring as to their grievances instead
of upbraiding them, and speaking to them by groups rather than
attempting to address an assembly, where the mob spirit has full play at
the expense of reason.
Polybius, and Livy clearly following him, tells us that Scipio,
experienced as he was in war but not in dealing with sedition, felt
great anxiety and perplexity. If this be so, his course of action does
not suggest it. For a novice, or, indeed, for a veteran commander, his
handling of the situation was a masterpiece of blended judgment, tact,
and decision. He had sent collectors round to gather in the
contributions levied on the various cities for the army’s maintenance,
and took care to let it be known that this was to adjust the arrears of
pay. Then he issued a proclamation that the soldiers should come to
Cartagena to receive their pay, in a body or in detached parties as they
wished. At the same time he ordered the army at Cartagena to prepare to
march against Mandonius and Andobales. These chiefs, incidentally, had
withdrawn within their own borders on hearing that Scipio was definitely
alive. Thus the mutineers on the one hand felt themselves stripped of
possible allies, and on the other, were emboldened to venture to
Cartagena by the prospect of pay and, still more, of the army’s
departure. They took the precaution, however, to come in a body.
The seven tribunes who had inquired into their grievances were sent to
meet them, with secret instructions to single out the ringleaders, and
invite them to their own quarters to sup. The mutineers arrived at
Cartagena at sunset, and while encouraged by the sight of the army’s
preparations to march, their suspicions were also lulled by their
reception, being greeted as if they made a timely arrival to relieve the
departing troops. These marched out, according to orders, at daybreak
with their baggage, but on reaching the gate were halted and their
baggage dumped. Then, promptly, guards were told off to bar all the
exits from the camp, and the rest of the troops to surround the
mutineers. Meanwhile the latter had been summoned to an assembly, a
summons which they obeyed the more readily because they imagined that
the camp, and, indeed, the general himself, were at their mercy.
Their first shock was when they saw their general vigorous and full of
health, far from the sick man they had supposed, and their second
followed when, after a disconcerting silence, he addressed them in a
manner strangely inconsistent with the apparent insecurity of his
position. Livy purports to give this speech word for word and at great
length, and in his rendering it is a masterpiece of oratory and of
style. Polybius’s is shorter and crisper, more natural too, and is
prefaced by the remark that Scipio “began to speak somewhat as follows.”
The lover of literature will prefer Livy’s version; but the historian,
weighing the evidence of date and circumstance, will prefer to accept
Polybius’s version, and that as giving the general sense rather than the
exact words of Scipio.
Despite these doubts, we will quote Livy for the opening phrases,
because they are so telling, and because it is not unlikely that such a
beginning might have been recorded with some exactitude. Saying that he
was at a loss how to address them, he proceeded: “Can I call you
countrymen, who have revolted from your country? Or soldiers, who have
rejected the command and authority of your general, and violated your
solemn oath? Can I call you enemies? I recognise the persons, faces, and
dress, and mien of fellow-countrymen; but I perceive the actions,
expressions, and intentions of enemies. For what have you wished and
hoped for, but what the Illitergi and Lacetani did?” Next he expresses
wonderment as to what grievance or what expectations had led them to
revolt. If it is simply a grievance over delays of pay, caused by his
illness, is such action—jeopardising their country—justified, especially
as they have always been paid in full since he assumed command?
“Mercenary troops may, indeed, sometimes be pardoned for revolting
against their employers, but no pardon can be extended to those who are
fighting for themselves and their wives and children. For that is just
as if a man who said he had been wronged by his own father over money
matters were to take up arms to kill him who was the author of his life”
(Polybius). If the cause is not merely a grievance, is it because they
hoped for more profit and plunder by taking service with the enemy? If
so, who would be their possible allies? Men like Andobales and
Mandonius; a fine thing to put their trust in such repeated turncoats!
Then he turns his scorn on the leaders they have chosen, ignorant and
baseborn, parodying their names, Atrius and Albius—“Blackie” and
“Whitie,”—and so appealing to their sense of the ridiculous and their
superstition. He throws in a grim reminder of the legion which revolted
at Rhegium, and for it suffered beheading to the last man. But even
these put themselves under command of a military tribune. What hope of
successful revolt could they have entertained? Even had the rumour of
his death been correct, did they imagine that such tried leaders as
Silanus, Lælius, or Scipio’s brother could have failed to avenge the
insult to Rome?
When he has shattered their confidence and stimulated their fears by
such telling arguments, the way is paved for him to detach them from the
instigators of the revolt and to win back their loyalty. Changing his
tone from harshness to gentleness, he continues: “I will plead for you
to Rome and to myself, using a plea universally acknowledged among
men—that all multitudes are easily misled and easily impelled to
excesses, so that a multitude is ever liable to the same changes as the
sea. For as the sea is by its own nature harmless to voyagers and quiet,
yet when agitated by winds it appears of the same turbulent character as
the winds, so a multitude ever appears to be and actually is of the same
character as the leaders and counsellors it happens to have.” In Livy’s
version he makes also a deftly sympathetic comparison, well calculated
to touch their hearts, between his own recent sickness of body and their
sickness of mind. “Therefore I, too, on the present occasion ... consent
to be reconciled to you, and grant you an amnesty. But with the guilty
instigators of revolt we refuse to be reconciled, and have decided to
punish for their offences....” As he finished speaking, the loyal
troops, who had encircled the assembly, clashed their swords on their
shields to strike terror into the mutineers; the herald’s voice was
heard citing by name the condemned agitators; and these offenders were
brought bound and naked into the midst of the assembly, and then
executed in the sight of all. It was a perfectly timed and concerted
plan, and the mutineers were too cowed to raise a hand or utter a
protest. The punishment carried out, the mass received assurance of
forgiveness, and took a fresh oath of loyalty to the tribunes. By a
characteristic touch of Scipio’s, each man received his full demand of
pay as he answered his name.
This masterly handling of a gravely menacing situation has more than a
reminder of Pétain’s methods in quelling the mutinies of 1917—had the
great Frenchman perchance studied the mutiny of Sucro?—not only in its
blend of severity to ringleaders with the just rectification of
grievances, but in the way the moral health of the body military was
restored with the least possible use of the knife. This was true economy
of force, for it meant that the eight thousand became not merely
unwilling reinforcements, cowed into acquiescence with orders, but loyal
supporters.
But the suppression of this mutiny was only one step towards restoring
the situation caused by Scipio’s illness. The expedition against Gades
had been abortive, primarily because the plot had been discovered by the
Carthaginian commander, and the conspirators arrested. Though they won
local successes, Lælius and Marcius found Gades prepared, and so, forced
to abandon their project, returned to Cartagena.
There Scipio was about to march against the Spanish rebels. In ten days
he reached the Ebro, a full three hundred miles, and four days later
pitched his camp within sight of the enemy. A circular valley lay
between the two camps, and into this he drove some cattle protected only
by light troops, to “excite the rapacity of the barbarians.” At the same
time he placed Lælius with the cavalry in concealment behind a spur. The
bait succeeded, and while the rival skirmishers were merrily engaged,
Lælius emerged from cover, part of his cavalry charging the Spanish in
front, and the other part riding round the foot of the hill to cut them
off from their camp. The consequent reverse so irritated the Spanish
that next morning at daybreak their army marched out to offer battle.
This suited Scipio excellently, for the valley was so confined that the
Spanish by this act committed themselves to a cramped close quarter
combat on the level, where the peculiar aptitude of the Romans in
hand-to-hand fighting gave them an initial advantage over troops more
adapted to hill fighting at longer ranges. And, furthermore, in order to
find room for their horse they were forced to leave one-third of their
foot out of the battle, stationed on the slope behind.
The conditions suggested a fresh expedient to Scipio. The valley was so
narrow that the Spanish could not post their cavalry on the flanks of
the infantry line, which took up the whole space. Seeing this, Scipio
realised that his own infantry flanks were automatically secured, and
accordingly sent Lælius with the cavalry round by the hills in a wide
turning movement. Then, ever alive to the vital importance of securing
his intended manœuvre by a vigorous fixing attack, he himself advanced
into the valley with his infantry, with four cohorts in front, this
being the most he could effectively deploy on the narrow front. This
thrust, as he intended, occupied the attention of the Spanish, and
prevented them from observing the cavalry manœuvre until the blow fell,
and they heard the noise of the cavalry engagement in their rear. Thus
the Spanish were forced to fight two separate battles, their cavalry
neither able to aid their infantry, nor the infantry their cavalry, and
each doomed to the demoralising sound of conflict in their rear, so that
each action had a moral reaction on the other.
Cramped and assailed by skilled close-quarter fighters, whose formation
gave them the advantage of depth for successive blows, the Spanish
infantry were cut to pieces. Then the Spanish cavalry, surrounded,
suffering the pressure of the fugitives, the direct attack of the Roman
infantry, and the rear attack of the Roman cavalry, could not use their
mobility, and, forced to a standing fight, were slain to the last man
after a gallant but hopeless resistance. It is a testimony to the
fierceness of the fight and to the quality of the Spanish resistance,
when hope had gone, that the Roman losses were twelve hundred killed and
over three thousand wounded. Of the Spanish the only survivors were the
light-armed third of their force who had remained on the hill, idle
spectators of the tragedy in the valley. These, along with their chiefs,
fled in time.
This decisive triumph was a fitting conclusion to Scipio’s Spanish
campaigns—campaigns which for all their long neglect by military
students reveal a profound grasp of strategy—at a time when strategy had
hardly been born,—and of its intimate relation to policy. But, above
all, they deserve to be immortalised for their richness of tactical
achievement. Military history hardly contains such another series of
ingenious and inspired battle manœuvres, surpassing on balance even
those of Hannibal in Italy. If Scipio profited by Hannibal’s unintended
course of instruction on the battlefields of Italy, the pupil surpassed
even the master. Nor does such a probability diminish Scipio’s credit,
for the highest part of the art of war is inborn, not acquired, or why
did not later captains, ancient and modern, profit more by Scipio’s
demonstrations. Wonderful as was Hannibal’s fertility of plan, there
appears in Scipio’s record a still richer variety, a still more complete
calculation, and in three directions a definite superiority. The attack
on a fortified place was admittedly in Hannibal a weakness; in Scipio
the reverse, for Cartagena is a landmark in history. The pursuit after
Ilipa marks a new advance in warfare, also as the wide concealed turning
movement in this last battle against Andobales, a development clearly
beyond the narrow outflanking manœuvres which had hitherto been the
high-water mark of tactical skill.
Scipio’s military motto would seem to have been “every time a new
stratagem.” Has ever a general been so fertile an artist of war? Beside
him most of the celebrated captains of history appear mere dabblers in
the art, showing in their whole career but one or two variations of
orthodox practice. And be it remembered that with one exception Scipio’s
triumphs were won over first-class opponents; not, like Alexander, over
Asiatic mobs; like Cæsar, over tribal hordes; or like Frederick and
Napoleon, over the courtier-generals and senile pedants of an atrophied
military system.
[Illustration: Spain at the time of the 2nd Punic War.]
This victory over Andobales and Mandonius proved to be the coping-stone
not only on his military career in Spain, but on the political conquest
of the country. So decisive had it been that Andobales realised the
futility of further resistance, and sent his brother Mandonius to sue
for peace unconditionally. One imagines that Mandonius must have felt
some pessimism as to his reception and as to his tenure of life. It
would have been natural to have dealt out to these twice-repeated rebels
a dire vengeance. But Scipio knew human nature, including Spanish
nature. No vengeance could improve his military or political position,
now unchallenged, whereas, on the other hand, it would merely sow the
seeds of future trouble, convert the survivors into embittered foes,
biding their time for a fresh outbreak. Little as he counted on their
fidelity, generosity was the one course which might secure it.
Therefore, after upbraiding Mandonius, and through him, Andobales,
driving home the helplessness of their position and the rightful
forfeiture of their lives, he made a peace as generous as it was
diplomatically foresighted. To show how little he feared them, he did
not demand the surrender of their arms and all their possessions, as was
the custom, nor even the required hostages, saying that “should they
revolt, he would not take vengeance on their unoffending hostages, but
upon themselves, inflicting punishment not upon defenceless but on armed
enemies” (Livy). The wisdom of this policy found its justification in
the fact that from this juncture Spain disappears from the history of
the Punic War, whether as a base of recruitment and supply for the
Carthaginian armies or as a distraction from Scipio’s concentration on
his new objective—Carthage itself. True, revolts broke out at intervals,
the first avowedly from the contempt felt by the Spanish for the
generals who succeeded Scipio, and recurred for centuries. But they were
isolated and spasmodic outbursts, and limited to the hill tribes, in
whose blood fighting was a malarial fever.
Scipio’s mission in Spain was accomplished. Only Gades held out as the
last fragment of the Carthaginian power, and this, being then an island
fortress, was impregnable save through possible betrayal by its
defenders. By some historians Mago’s escape from Gades is made an
imputation on Scipio’s generalship, yet from a comparison of the
authorities it would seem probable that Mago left there, under orders
from Carthage, while Scipio was occupied with the far more pressing
menace of the mutiny and Andobales’s revolt. Mago, too, was not such a
redoubtable personality that his departure, with a handful of troops,
for other fields was in itself a menace to the general situation, even
if it could have been prevented, which militarily was impossible.
Actually, on his voyage from Gades, he attempted a surprise assault on
Cartagena in the absence of Scipio, and was so easily repulsed and so
strongly counter-attacked, that the ships cut their anchors in order to
avoid being boarded, leaving many of the defeated soldiers to drown or
be slain. Forced to return to Gades to recruit afresh, he was refused
entry to the city by the inhabitants, who shortly surrendered to the
Romans, and had to retrace his course to the island of Pityusa (modern
Iviça), the westernmost of the Balearic Isles, which was inhabited by
Carthaginians. After receiving recruits and supplies, he attempted a
landing on Majorca, but was repulsed by the natives, famous as slingers,
and had to choose the less advantageous site of Minorca as his winter
quarters, there hauling his ships on shore.
With regard to the chronology of this last phase, in Livy’s account the
suppression of Andobales’s rebellion is followed by the story of a
meeting between Scipio and Masinissa, and then by the details of Mago’s
departure from Gades, from which it would appear that this happened
while Scipio was still in Spain. But for accuracy of historical sequence
Livy is a less reliable guide than Polybius, and the latter’s narrative
definitely states that directly after the subjugation of Andobales
Scipio returned to Tarraco, and then, “anxious not to arrive in Rome too
late for the consular elections,” sailed for Rome, after handing over
the army to Silanus and Marcius, and arranging for the administration of
the province.
The meeting with Masinissa, whenever it occurred, is worth notice, for
here the seeds of Scipio’s generous treatment of Masinissa’s nephew
years before bore fruit in the exchange of pledges of an alliance, which
was to be one of Scipio’s master-tools in undermining the Carthaginian
power at its base in Africa.