ROME’S ZENITH.
There is perhaps no military dictum so universally quoted as Napoleon’s
“Read and reread the campaigns of Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Gustavus
Adolphus, Turenne, Eugène, and Frederick; take them for your model, that
is the only way of becoming a great captain, to obtain the secrets of
the art of war.” In another of his maxims he said, “Knowledge of the
great operations of war can only be acquired by experience and by the
applied study of all the great captains. Gustavus, Turenne, and
Frederick, as well as Alexander, Hannibal, and Cæsar, have all acted on
the same principles.”
Here Napoleon appears to single out a list of six, or possibly seven,
commanders who stand out as supreme in the history of warfare. Whether
consciously or unconsciously, there has been a general tendency among
students of war to accept Napoleon’s list as a standard classification
of merit—not merely a haphazard mention—when completed by the addition
of his own name. True, some have felt the absurdity of counting Eugène
as worthy to the exclusion of Marlborough, and others have dropped
Turenne because of a perhaps mistaken idea that greatness is synonymous
with vastness of destruction, or for the rather better reason that his
record lacked the decisive results gained by his compeers. In this way
one finds that not a few commentators have arrived at a list of three
ancient commanders—Alexander, Hannibal, and Cæsar—and three
modern—Gustavus, Frederick, and Napoleon—as the Himalayan peaks of
military history. That Frederick, with his gross blunders and most
unoriginal “oblique order,” should receive preference over such
consummate artists as Turenne and Marlborough must remain one of the
mysteries of military criticism. This is not the place to deal with the
fallacy. Here we are concerned with the great captains of the ancient
world, and so far as we desire a comparison with the modern, Napoleon
himself affords it, since his supremacy is hardly questioned.
Let us therefore compare Scipio with these three ancient great captains,
by a threefold study and test—as general, as man, and as statesman. Any
such comparison must be based on the conditions these men had to deal
with, and on the skill with which they turned these conditions to their
advantage.
Alexander, and to a hardly less degree Cæsar, enjoyed the immense asset
of having autocratic power, complete control over the forces and
resources available. Even Hannibal, if poorly supported, was immune from
the petty interference with his operations against which Scipio, like
Marlborough later, had to contend.
Alexander’s victories were won over Asiatic hordes, whose lack of
tactical order and method offset their numerical superiority, and as
Napoleon demonstrated in his well-known comment on the Mamelukes, the
defects of Asiatic troops increased in ratio with their numbers. No
critic places Clive in the first rank of great captains, and but for the
clear brilliance of his manœuvres and the scale of his conquests
Alexander would suffer a like discount. Cæsar, also, was hardly more
than an able “sepoy general” until Ilerda and Pharsalus, and, as he
himself is said to have remarked, he went “to Spain to fight an army
without a general, and thence to the East to fight a general without an
army.” And even so, Cæsar found himself, owing to an unwise dispersion
of force, twice forced to fight under the handicap of inferior strength.
In the first, at Dyrrhacium, he suffered defeat, and though he atoned
for it at Pharsalus, this single first-class victory is a slender base
on which to build a claim to supreme generalship.
But if we are to accept Napoleon’s dictum that “in war it is not men but
the man who counts,” the most significant fact is that both Alexander
and Cæsar had their path smoothed for them by the feebleness and
ignorance of the commanders who opposed them. Only Hannibal, like
Scipio, fought consistently against trained generals, and even as
between these the advantage of conditions is on Hannibal’s side. For his
three decisive victories—the Trebia, Trasimene, and Cannæ—were won over
generals not only headstrong and rash, but foolishly disdainful of any
tactics which savoured of craft rather than of honest bludgeon work.
Hannibal knew this well—witness his remark to the troops who were to lie
concealed for the flank attack at the Trebia, “You have an enemy blind
to such arts of war.” Flaminius and Varro were mental Beefeaters, and
their names are instinctively bracketed in history with those of
Tallard, Daun, Beaulieu, and MacMahon. Hannibal taught the Romans the
art, as distinct from the mechanism, of war, and once they had profited
by his instruction his successes were limited. Marcellus and Nero were
capable of winning tricks off him, and if they could not take a rubber
neither could Hannibal. But in surveying Scipio’s record, not only do we
find his tactical success unchequered, but that his opponents from the
outset were generals trained in the Barcine school, and all the evidence
goes to show that Hannibal’s brothers, Hasdrubal and Mago, were no mean
commanders. And the apex of Scipio’s career, Zama, is unique in history
as the only battle where one acknowledged great captain has, on his own,
defeated another decisively.
Thus if conditions, and the extent to which they are not only met but
turned to advantage, be the test, Scipio’s pre-eminence is clear.
If the quality of a general’s art be the test, universal opinion
concedes that Hannibal excelled Alexander and Cæsar. Alexander’s
victories were rather triumphs of method, calculations working out with
straightforward precision, but unmarked by any subtle variations and
traps for the enemy. In Alexander, for all his greatness, still lingered
traces of the Homeric hero, the glorification of the physical elements
at the expense of the mental. It was this knight-errantry which led him
to stake his life so often in the forefront of the battle, needlessly
risking thereby the collapse of his plans and the lives of his army. To
him might well be applied the rebuke made by Timotheus to Chares, when
the former remarked: “How greatly ashamed I was at the siege of Samos
when a bolt fell near me; I felt I was behaving more like an impetuous
youth than like a general in command of so large a force.” This mistaken
Bayardism, too, explains the absence of the subtler artistry in his
battles—it is epitomised in his rejection of Parmenio’s proposal to
attack Darius by night at Arbela, on the ground that he would not “steal
a victory.” Cæsar’s plans were assuredly more difficult to guess, but he
did not “mystify, mislead, and surprise” to anything like the degree
that Hannibal attained. So general is the recognition of Hannibal’s
genius in this battle art that he is commonly termed the supreme
tactician of history. Yet in ruse and strategem the record of Scipio’s
battles is even richer. Recall the unfortified front, the timing of the
direct assault, and the lagoon manœuvre at Cartagena; the double
envelopment and reversal of adverse ground conditions at Bæcula. The
change of hour and of dispositions, the refused centre, the double
oblique, and the double convergent flank blows at Ilipa. As Colonel
Denison notes in his ‘History of Cavalry,’ Ilipa is “generally
considered to be the highest development of tactical skill in the
history of Roman arms.” I would suggest that the student of war, if he
considers it as a whole—from the mental opening moves to the physical
end of the pursuit,—cannot but regard it as without a peer in all
history. Continuing, observe the use of ground first to counter his
enemy’s numbers and then to force him to fight separated battles, as
well as the wide turning movement, against Andobales. Watch Scipio
luring on his enemy into the ambush at Salæca; study his masterpiece in
firing the Bagradas camps—the feint at Utica, the sounding of the
evening call, the timing of and distinction between the two attacks, and
the subtlety with which he gains possession of the main obstacle, the
gates of the Carthaginian camp, without a struggle. Note, later, his
novel use of his second and third lines as a mobile reserve for
envelopment at the Great Plains, and the chameleon-like quickness with
which he translates his art into the naval realm when he frustrates the
attack on his fleet. Finally, at Zama, where he is confronted with an
opponent proof against the more obvious if more brilliant stratagems, we
see his transcendent psychological and tactical judgment in his more
careful but subtly effective moves—the “lanes” in his formation, and the
synchronised trumpet blast to counter the elephants; the deliberate
“calling off” of the _hastati_; the calculated change of dispositions by
which he overlaps Hannibal’s third, and main, line; the pause by which
he gains time for the return of his cavalry, and their decisive blow in
Hannibal’s rear.
Is there such another collection of gems of military art in all history?
Can even Hannibal show such originality and variety of surprise?
Moreover, if Hannibal’s “collection” in open battle is somewhat less
full than Scipio’s, in two other essentials it is bare. Even his devoted
biographers admit that siegecraft, as with Frederick, was his weakness,
and he has nothing to set off against Scipio’s storm of Cartagena,
which, weighed by its difficulties, its calculated daring and skill, and
its celerity, has no parallel ancient or modern.
The other and more serious void in Hannibal’s record is his failure to
complete and exploit his victories by pursuit. Nowhere does he show a
strategic pursuit, and the lack of even a tactical pursuit after the
Trebia and Cannæ is almost unaccountable. In contrast we have Scipio’s
swift and relentless pursuit after Ilipa, and hardly less after the
battle on the Great Plains—which alike for range and decisiveness are
unapproached until Napoleon, if then. In ancient times Scipio has but
one possible rival, Alexander, and in his case there was repeatedly an
interregnum between the tactical and the strategic pursuit, which caused
a distinct debit against his economy of force. For his turning aside
after Issus a strategic argument can be made out, but for his delay
after Granicus and Arbela there appears no cogent reason save possibly
that of distance—the fact at least remains that his campaigns offer no
pursuit so sustained and complete as that down the Bætis, or
Guadalquiver. It may be suggested that Scipio did not always pursue as
after the two battles cited. But an examination of his other battles
show that pursuit was usually either rash or unnecessary—rash after
Bæcula, where he had two fresh armies converging on him, and unnecessary
after Zama, where there was no enemy left to be a danger.
From tactics we pass to strategy, and here a preliminary demarcation and
definition may simplify the task of forming a judgment. Strategy is too
often considered to comprise merely military factors, to the
overshadowing of the political and economic, with which it is
interwoven. The fallacy has been responsible for incalculable damage to
the fabric of warring nations. When such critics speak of strategy, they
are thinking almost solely of logistical strategy—the combination in
time, space, and force of the military pieces on the chessboard of war.
Between logistical strategy and chess there is a distinct analogy. But
on a higher plane, and with a far wider scope, is grand strategy, which
has been defined as “the transmission of power in all its forms in order
to maintain policy.” “While strategy is more particularly concerned with
the movement of armed masses, grand strategy, including these movements,
embraces the motive forces which lie behind them, material and
psychological.... The grand strategist we see is, consequently, also a
politician and a diplomatist.”[11]
As a logistical strategist Napoleon is unrivalled in history—save
possibly by the Mongol, Subutai, from what we can piece together of the
scanty records of his campaigns. The ancients suffer, in common with the
modern precursors of Napoleon, the handicap that the organisation of
armies in their day did not permit of the manifold combinations that he
effected, a handicap which persisted until the divisional system was
born in the late eighteenth century, beginning with De Broglie.
Previously we find detachments, or occasionally, as in Nero’s classic
move to the Metaurus against Hasdrubal, a two-army combination, but the
scope and variation of such combination were inevitably narrow until
armies came to be organised in self-contained and independent strategic
parts—the modern division or army corps—just in time for the genius of
Napoleon to exploit these new possibilities. But within the inherent
limitations of pre-Napoleonic times, Scipio develops a range of
strategical moves which, it may be fairly claimed, is unequalled in the
ancient world. The hawk-like swoop on Cartagena, so calculated that none
of the three Carthaginian armies could succour their base in time. The
hardly less bold and calculated blow at Hasdrubal Barca before either
Hasdrubal Gisco or Mago could effect a junction—how closely the margin
of time worked out we know from Polybius. Nor is there any doubt whether
these strategic moves were deliberate, as in many ascribed to ancient
commanders on supposition by military critics who view old theatres of
war through modern spectacles. Polybius and Livy both tell us that these
calculations were in Scipio’s mind. Again, the way in which Scipio stood
guard over Hasdrubal Gisco while his detachment under Silanus moved and
fell on Hanno and Mago before they had word of his approach. Swift as
the march, as thorough was the defeat.
Next, the master move leading to Ilipa, whereby his direction of advance
cut Hasdrubal and Mago off from their line of communication with Gades,
which in the event of their defeat meant that retreat to their fortified
base was barred by the river Bætis (Guadalquiver). The upshot showed
both the truth of his calculation and the proof of the fact—the result
was the annihilation of the Carthaginian armies. This seems the first
clear example in history of a blow against the strategic flank. Here is
born the truth which Napoleon was to crystallise in his cardinal maxim
that “the important secret of war is to make oneself master of the
communications.” Its initiation is sometimes claimed for Issus, but at
best Alexander’s manœuvre was on the battlefield, not in strategic
approach, while the simple explanation is that the sea prevented a move
on the other flank and that the bend in the river Pinarus dictated the
direction of it.
Admittedly Scipio’s strategic intention at Ilipa is a hypothesis, and
not definitely stated in Livy or Polybius; but the established facts of
the advance, and still more of its sequel, form a chain of indirect
evidence that could not be firmer. Even Dodge, one of Scipio’s
consistent detractors, emphasises this threat to the strategic flank.
Before passing on to his African campaigns, we may note Scipio’s
anticipation of, and trap for Hannibal at Locri. Then note how, on
landing in Africa, his first care is to gain a secure base of
operations, fulfilling the principle of security before he passes to the
offensive. See him baulk the enemy’s superior concentration of strength
by the “Torres Vedras” lines near Utica. Note the rapidity with which he
strikes at Hasdrubal and Syphax at the Great Plain, before their new
levies can be organised and consolidated, and how in the sequel he once
more stands guard, this time over Carthage, while his detachment under
Lælius and Masinissa knocks Syphax out of the war. Finally, there is his
move up the Bagradas Valley by which he simultaneously compels Hannibal
to follow, and facilitates his own junction with Masinissa’s
reinforcement from Numidia. So complete is his mastery on the
strategical chessboard that he even selects the battlefield most
favourable to the qualities of his own tactical instrument. Then, Zama
decided, he pounces on Carthage before the citizens can rally from the
moral shock.
What, if any, mistakes can be set down on the debit side of his
strategy? A study of military commentaries shows that his critics
advance but three—that Hasdrubal Barca and Mago in turn escaped from
Spain, and that Scipio did not lay siege to Carthage immediately on
landing in Africa. The obvious reply is to ask how many times did
Darius, a far more vital personal factor, escape Alexander, why Cæsar
let slip Pompey after Pharsalus, or Hannibal fail to move on Rome after
Trasimene or Cannæ—there were far less adequate reasons. But apart from
the extreme difficulty of catching an individual without an army, it is
hoped that the earlier chapters may have disposed of these empty
criticisms. Even after Bæcula, Scipio was still markedly inferior in
strength to the Carthaginian forces in Spain, and further, Hasdrubal was
only able to elude Scipio’s watch and cross the Pyrenees with so weak a
contingent that he was forced to recruit in Gaul for two years before he
could advance on Italy. Mago’s escape was still more an individualistic
effort. As for the question of an immediate advance on Carthage, Scipio
would have been an impetuous fool, not a general, if he had laid siege
to so vast a fortified city as Carthage with the small original force
that he carried into Africa. The clearest proof of his wisdom in first
seeking a secure base of operations lies in the overwhelming enemy
concentration from which he only escaped by his foresight in forming his
“Torres Vedras” lines.
In Alexander’s record even his modern biographers do not suggest any
notable examples of logistical strategy, apart from certain swift
marches such as that from Pelium on Thebes. There are no combinations or
checks to enemy combination. His strength lies in his grand strategy, of
which we shall speak later.
With Hannibal, too, his logistical strategy is mainly a matter of direct
marches and of admirable care to secure his communications, apart from
the very disputable purpose of his move on the line of the Po which, in
effect, separated the elder Scipio from Sempronius, his fellow-consul;
and secondly, his feint at Rome in the attempt to relieve the pressure
on his allies at Capua, which, though clearly intended, was abortive.
Against these must be set, first, the fact that the advantage of his
hazardous march over the Alps was foiled of its purpose by the elder
Scipio’s quicker return from the Rhone by the Riviera route; second, the
fact that he failed to prevent the junction of Sempronius with Scipio on
the Trebia. Later, there are, among other indisputable failures, the
neglect to exploit Cannæ even by the seizure of Canusium, let alone a
thrust at Rome; the times his moves were parried by Fabius and
Marcellus; Nero’s brilliant deception by which Hannibal remained
stationary and in the dark, while his brother was being crushed on the
Metaurus. Finally, we see him outmanœuvred by Scipio in the preliminary
moves before Zama. Outstandingly great as a tactician, Hannibal is not
impressive as a strategist; less so, indeed, than several of Scipio’s
forerunners among the Roman generals.
Cæsar, in contrast, stands out more in logistical strategy than in
tactics. But classic as are many of his moves in Gaul one has to
remember that they were made against barbarians, not trained generals
such as those with whom Scipio, Hannibal, Nero, and Marcellus had to
contend. Against Pompey’s lieutenants in Spain he extricated himself
with surpassing skill from a critical position, into which perhaps he
should not have got. Then in Greece he threw away his superiority of
force by dispersion, and suffered a severe defeat at Dyrrhacium, nearly
disastrous as he confessed when he said: “To-day the victory had been
the enemy’s, had there been any one among them to gain it.” His retreat
was a masterly feat, if we overlook the quality of his opponents, but
later he failed in his attempt to prevent the junction of Pompey and
Scipio Nasica, and had to fight at Pharsalus without his detachments
against a concentrated force. That his tactics turned the balance does
not affect the reflection on his strategy.
If Scipio, then, may be given the palm for logistical strategy among the
ancients, how does he compare with Napoleon? We could adopt the
historical argument that a man must be judged by the conditions and
tools of his time, pointing out not only the indivisible organisation
with which Scipio had to work, but that he was a pioneer where Napoleon
had the experience of ages to build on. But we prefer rather to abandon
this sound and normal test, which inevitably negatives true comparison,
and admit frankly Napoleon’s supremacy in this sphere. The scales are
amply balanced by Scipio’s superiority as a tactician. By wellnigh
universal opinion Napoleon’s tactics were below his strategical level,
and it is this compensating factor which has led military criticism to
bracket Hannibal with Napoleon among the great captains—a factor which
we suggest applies still more in Scipio’s favour compared with Napoleon.
From logistical strategy we come to grand strategy. This lies in the
domain of peace as much as in war, and hence for simplicity it may be
well to deal with the grand strategy which contributed to the winning of
wars, and reserve for our study of Scipio as statesman that part of his
grand strategy which had its goal in the subsequent peace.
If our examination of the years 210-190 B.C. has achieved its historical
purpose, it should be clear that Scipio showed an understanding of war
in its three spheres—mental, moral, and physical, and of their
interplay, such as is just dawning on the most progressive
politico-military thought of to-day. Further, he translated this
understanding into effective action in a way that we may possibly
achieve in the next great war—more probably, we shall be fortunate to
get out of the physical rut by 2000 A.D.
For proof of this claim look at the progressive and co-ordinated steps
by which, starting from the valley in Rome’s darkest hour, he climbs
steadily and surely upwards to the summit of his aims, and plants Rome’s
flag on the sunlit peaks of earthly power. Scipio is a mountaineer, not
a mere athlete of war. The vision that selects his line of approach, and
the diplomatic gifts which enable him to surmount obstacles, are for him
what rock-craft is to a climber. His realisation of the importance of
securing his base for each fresh advance is his snow-craft, and his
employment of military force his ice-axe.
Watch him, on arrival in Spain, make wide inquiries about the position
of the Carthaginian forces, and the importance and topography of
Cartagena. His genius tells him that here is the base and pivot of the
Carthaginian power in Spain, and shows him the feasibility, the way, and
the effect of such a stroke—at the moral and economic rather than the
purely military objective.
Cartagena gained, note the wisdom which by conciliating the citizens
secures his acquisition against internal treachery, and further enables
him to economise the garrison by converting the citizens into active
partners in the defence. What a diplomatic coup is the prompt release
and care of the Spanish hostages. If Napoleon’s presence was worth an
army corps, Scipio’s diplomacy was literally worth two. It converted
allies of the enemy into allies of his own.
There was grand strategy, too, in his wise restraint from a further
advance, in order to allow the moral and political effect of Cartagena
and its sequel to develop. Thus Hasdrubal Barca, seeing the Spanish sand
trickling fast from his end of the hour-glass to Scipio’s, was drawn
into the offensive move which enabled Scipio to beat him before the
other Carthaginian armies came up. Once more victory paves the way for
diplomacy, as that in turn will pave the way for further victories. He
sends home the Spanish captives without ransom, and, still more
shrewdly, returns Masinissa’s nephew loaded with presents—surely never
in history has the money invested in presents brought a greater ultimate
dividend.
Next, note the rapidity with which Scipio nips in the bud the incipient
threat from Hanno, and in contrast the constraint by which he avoids
wasting his force on a number of petty sieges which could bring no
commensurate profit. The wider effect of Scipio’s action in Spain also
deserves notice, for Livy tells us that this year Hannibal in Italy was
for the first time reduced to inaction, because he received no supplies
from home owing to Carthage being more anxious about the retention of
Spain.
Scipio’s grand strategy was from now onwards to lift the pressure off
Rome in ever-increasing degree. His success in Spain compelled the
Carthaginians to invest there the forces that might have been decisive
in Italy, and at Ilipa he wipes them off the military balance-sheet.
The instant that victory in Spain is sure, and before turning to the
mere clearing operations, his grand strategical eye focusses itself on
Africa. His daring visit to Syphax, his meeting with and despatch of
Masinissa to Numidia—here are two strings to a bow which shall soon
loose a shaft at the heart of Carthage. For an object-lesson in the
selection of the true objective, and its unswerving maintenance in face
of all obstacles and perils, the next few years are a beacon light for
all time. He schemes, he prepares, he works unceasingly towards the
goal. The military interference of the enemy is almost the least of his
difficulties. Sexual passion frustrates one of his shrewdest diplomatic
moves, but his plan is too flexible, too well conceived, for even this
blow to have more than a transient effect. Jealous rivals, short-sighted
politicians, military “die-hards” do their best, or worst, to block his
plan, and failing in this, to obstruct him and curtail his strength. He
builds and trains a fresh army out of adventurers and disgraced troops.
Yet he never makes a rash or a false move, mindful always of the
principle of security. By diplomacy again he creates in Sicily a sure
source of supply. He sends a reconnoitring expedition to clear up the
African situation, and appreciating Masinissa’s material weakness,
refuses to be rushed into a move before his own weapon is forged. When
he lands, his first efforts are directed to gain a secure base of
operations. And gauging exactly the strength and weakness of Carthage
and of his own position, he adapts consummately his immediate end to his
existing means. Each successive move is so directed as to subtract from
the military and political credit of Carthage and transfer the balance
to his own account. His restraint when this ultimate goal is so close in
mileage, though not in reality, is almost miraculous in a commander so
youthful and so early successful. But he has long realised that Syphax
and Masinissa are the two props of the Carthaginian power in Africa, and
before he attempts to turn this power out of its seat his first aim is
to upset its stability, by taking away one prop and knocking away the
other. Just as he has gained this end, passion once more intervenes to
threaten his military achievement as it previously thwarted his
diplomacy, but the psychological master-move by which he foils
Sophonisba’s wiles averts the danger.
Now assured of security he aims at Carthage itself, and
characteristically pauses in sight of Carthage to achieve, if possible,
the supreme economy of force of a moral victory instead of the drain of
a physical siege. The move succeeds, and Carthage capitulates with
Hannibal still across the seas, helpless to aid. And when by a gross
breach of faith the treaty is violated, Scipio is not caught off his
guard. By a fresh and rapid series of moves, a perfect combination of
military, economic, and psychological pieces, he achieves the checkmate
in a brief span of time. Is there anything in history which for
continuity of policy, combination of forces—material and moral,—and
completeness of attainment can compare with it? Scipio is the embodiment
of grand strategy, as his campaigns are the supreme example in history
of its meaning.
Alexander certainly preceded Scipio as the first grand strategist, but
without arguing the question how far his moral and economic action was
fortuitous rather than marked by the exquisite calculation of Scipio’s,
his task was much simpler, and as a despot he had none of Scipio’s
internal obstacles to surmount. It is, above all, because of the close
parallel with modern conditions, political and organic, that Scipio’s
grand strategy is so living a study for us to-day.
Alexander’s achievements may have excelled Scipio’s in scale—not really
so much, for if Alexander established for himself an empire from the
Danube to the Indus, which collapsed on his death, Scipio built for Rome
an empire which stretched from the Atlantic to the Black Sea and the
Taurus mountains—an empire which endured and increased. And whereas
Alexander built on the foundations laid by Philip, Scipio came on the
scene at a moment when the very foundations of Roman power in Italy were
shaken by a foreign foe. There are grave blemishes, too, on Alexander’s
strategy—while he was consolidating his offensive base in Asia Minor, he
was in acute danger of losing his home base in Europe. By the
disbandment of his fleet he exposed the European coasts to the superior
Persian fleet, and Darius’s one able commander, Memnon, seized the
chance to raise Greece, where the embers of discontent smouldered in
Alexander’s rear. Only Memnon’s death saved Alexander from disaster, and
gained time for him to carry out his plan of crippling Persian sea power
by land attack on their naval bases. Again, by lack of strategical
reconnaissance, Alexander blundered past the army of Darius, lying in
wait in northern Syria, which moved down and cut his communications, a
danger from which he only saved himself, facing about, by tactical
victory at Issus. It is well to contrast this with Scipio’s thorough
strategical reconnaissance and search for information before every move.
If Alexander’s grand strategy has a narrow advantage by the test of
quantity, Scipio’s is clearly superior in quality.
In the comparison of Scipio with Napoleon, if the latter’s superiority
in logistical strategy is recognised, we have to set against this both
his tactical and his grand strategical inferiority. As a grand
strategist Napoleon’s claims are marred not only by his failure to
realise the aim of grand strategy—a prosperous and secure peace,—but by
his several blunders over the psychology of his opponents, over the
political and economic effects of his actions, and in the extravagant
later use of his forces and resources.
Finally, let us point out that while Alexander had the military
foundations laid by Philip to build on, while Hannibal built on
Hamilcar, Cæsar on Marius, Napoleon on Carnot—Scipio had to rebuild on
disaster.
From the comparison of generalship we pass to the comparison of
character. Here, to enumerate at length the qualities which
distinguished Scipio as a man would be wearisome. His moderation, his
self-control, his human sympathy, his charm of manner, his magnetic
influence over troops—shared by all the greatest captains,—his
exaltation of spirit, these have shone through his deeds and speeches.
Of his private life we know little save by inference. He married Æmilia,
daughter of the consul Æmilius Paullus who fell at Cannæ, the marriage
apparently taking place after his return from Spain and before his
departure for Africa.
From the solitary anecdote or two which survive, the marriage seems to
have been a happy one, and Scipio to have shown more deference to his
wife’s opinion than was common at the time. That she had tastes too
expensive for Cato’s liking seems assured; she was probably one of those
leaders of Roman female society against whom he directed his
complaints—that by wearing “a garment of various colours, or riding in a
carriage drawn by horses” in the towns, they would undermine the social
fabric and create discontent. The indulgence shown by Scipio to his
wife, and his breach with tradition in treating her better than his
slave, was certainly one of the factors which rankled in Cato’s mind. Of
the moral influence distilled in the Scipio family life, the best proof
is an indirect one. Their daughter Cornelia was given in marriage to
Tiberius Gracchus, apparently after he had so generously defended
Scipio’s reputation, and was the mother of the Gracchi. The way in which
she carried out their education, and the principles with which she
inspired these future reformers, make one of history’s noblest pages.
Outside the domestic sphere, Scipio’s influence on social history rests
on his love for and introduction of Greek literature and philosophy. “A
man of great intellectual culture,” he could speak and write Greek as
well as he could Latin—he is said to have written his own memoirs in
Greek. To his Greek studies he clearly owed that philosophy of life
which permeates all his recorded acts and sayings. He seems to have
taken the best elements from Greece and Rome, and to have blended
them—refining the crudeness and narrowness of early republican Rome
without diminishing its virility. So marked was his influence that he
may, with some justice, be termed the founder of Roman _civilisation_.
“To him is attributed the rise of manners, the origin of their taste for
propriety, and of their love of letters.” A rather touching instance of
his own love of letters is enshrined in his friendship and admiration
for the poet Ennius, a regard so profound that he left orders that after
his death a bust of the poet should be placed with his in the tomb of
the Scipios. Yet it was this very influence as an apostle of
civilisation and of the humanities that earned him the bitter animosity,
as it stimulated the fear, of Romans of the old school. Cato and his
kind might have forgiven his military success and his self-confidence,
but nothing but his downfall could atone for his crime in introducing
Greek customs, philosophy, and literature. It is not unlikely that this
damaged him, and undermined his influence even more than his contempt
for pettier minds and his moderation to conquered foes. These are the
only charges which his enemies could bring against his character, and in
this fact lies perhaps the strongest proof of his superior moral
nobility. For the malice of an enemy will fasten on any conceivable
weakness, and thus the charges levied against a great man form a
standard of moral measure which is one of the best of comparisons.
From this test Scipio alone of the great captains of antiquity emerges
scatheless of any charge that suggests a definite moral blemish. It is
true that we can discount most of the charges brought against
Hannibal—impiety, avarice, perfidy, and cruelty beyond the customs of
his day. But Alexander, whatever allowance we make in other accusations,
stands convicted of want of self-control, violent outbursts of temper
and prejudice, cruel injustice as to Parmenio, ambitious egotism verging
on megalomania, and ruffianism in his cups. Alexander was tarred with
the brush of Achilles.
Similarly, Cæsar’s many great qualities cannot disguise his sexual
license, his political corruption and intrigue, and the predominantly
selfish motives which inspired his work and achievements. There are
interesting parallels between the careers of Cæsar and Scipio. Compare
Cæsar gaining the province of Gaul by intrigue and threat, Scipio the
province of Spain at the call of his country in the hour of adversity.
Compare Cæsar forming and training an army for the conquest of Rome,
Scipio for the salvation of Rome from her foreign foes. Compare Cæsar
crossing the Rubicon, Scipio the Bagradas—and their objects. Compare
Cæsar receiving the honour of a triumph over fellow-Romans, Scipio over
Syphax and Hannibal. Lastly, if it be true that “a man can be known by
the friends he keeps,” compare Catiline with Lælius and Ennius.
Napoleon’s saying that “Laurels are no longer so when covered with the
blood of citizens,” comes curiously from his lips. For Napoleon’s
ambition drained the blood of France as surely as Cæsar’s spilt the
blood of Rome. It would suffice to strip the laurels from the brows of
both, and enhance the contrast with Scipio, the supreme economist of
blood and of force in the selfless service of his country. It is not
difficult to guess why Napoleon should ignore Scipio in his list of
military models!
By any moral test Scipio is unique among the greater captains,
possessing a greatness and purity of soul which we might anticipate, not
necessarily find, among the leaders of philosophy or religion, but
hardly among the world’s supreme men of action. The clergyman who, a
century ago, was Scipio’s one English biographer, and whose work suffers
by its brevity, its historical slips and the omission of all study of
Scipio as a soldier, had yet one flash of rare insight and epigrammatic
genius when he said that Scipio was “greater than the greatest of bad
men, and better than the reputed best of good ones.”
Last of all we turn to Scipio as statesman—that part of his grand
strategy which lies definitely in the state of peace. The Abbé Seran de
la Tour, who compiled a life of Scipio in 1739, dedicated it to Louis
XV., and in his dedication wrote: “A king has only to take for his model
the greatest man by far in the whole of Roman history, Scipio Africanus.
Heaven itself seems to have formed this particular hero to mark out to
the rulers of this world the art of governing with justice.” The lesson,
we are afraid, was lost on Louis XV., a man who at the council table
“opened his mouth, said little, and thought not at all,” whose life is
as full of vulgar vice as it is bare of higher aims. We suspect the Abbé
of a capacity for subtle sarcasm.
When Scipio came on the stage of history, Rome’s power did not even
extend over the whole of Italy and Sicily, and this narrow territorial
sway was gravely menaced by the encroachments, and still more the
presence, of Hannibal. At Scipio’s death Rome was the unchallenged
mistress of the whole Mediterranean world, without a single possible
rival on the horizon. This period saw by far the greatest expansion in
the whole of Roman history, and it was due either directly to Scipio’s
action, or made possible by him. But if territorially he stands out as
the founder of the Roman Empire, politically his aim was not the
absorption but the control of other Mediterranean races. He followed,
but enlarged, the old Roman policy, his purpose not to establish a
centralised, a despotic empire, but a confederation with a head, in
which Rome should have the political and commercial supremacy, and over
which her will should be paramount. Here lies the close parallel with
modern conditions, which gives to the study of his policy a peculiar and
vital interest. Cæsar’s work paved the way for the decline and fall of
Roman power. Scipio’s work made possible a world community of virile
States, acknowledging the overlordship of Rome, but retaining the
independent internal organs necessary for the nourishment and continued
life of the body politic. Had his successors possessed but a tithe of
the wisdom and vision of Scipio, the Roman Empire might have taken a
course analogous to that of the modern British Empire, and by the
creation of a ring of semi-independent and healthy buffer States around
the heart of Roman power, the barbarian invasions might have been
thwarted, the course of history changed, and the progress of
civilisation have escaped a thousand years of coma and nearly as much of
convalescence.
His peace terms alone would place Scipio on a pinnacle among the world’s
great conquerors—his entire absence of vindictiveness, his masterly
insurance of military security with a minimum of hardship to the
conquered, his strict avoidance of annexation of any civilised State.
They left no festering sores of revenge or injury, and so prepared the
way for the conversion of enemies into real allies, effective props of
the Roman power. In the meaning of Scipio’s name—a “staff”—was
epitomised his grand strategy in war and peace.
The character of his policy was in tune with his character as a man,
disdaining the tinsel glory of annexation as of kingship, for the solid
gold of beneficent leadership. Scipio laboured for the good and
greatness of Rome, but he was no narrow patriot, instead a true world
statesman. The distinction between Scipio and Cæsar has been
crystallised in the phrase, “Zama gave the world to Rome, Pharsalus gave
it to Cæsar,” but even this does not render Scipio full justice, for he
could look beyond the greatness of Rome’s glory to the greatness of her
services to humanity. Not an internationalist, he was a
supra-nationalist in the widest and best sense.
Attila was called the “scourge of the world,” and with a difference only
in degree most of the great captains, from Hannibal to Napoleon, have
had no higher objective conception than to thrash their enemies, or at
best their country’s enemies, into submission. Thus this fallacy paved
the way for a reaction equally shortsighted, which led Green, in his
‘History of the English People,’ to write: “It is a reproach of
historians that they have turned history into a mere history of the
butchery of men by their fellow-men,” and to follow this up by the
absurd declaration that “war plays a small part in the real story of
European nations.” So arose a very large modern school of historians who
sought, irrationally, to write history without mentioning, let alone
studying, war. To ignore the influence of war as a world-force is to
divorce history from science, and to turn it into a fairy tale. The
grand strategy of Scipio is a signpost pointing the true path of
historical study. Scipio could administer military beatings at least as
effectively and brilliantly as any other of the greater captains, but he
saw beyond the beating to its object. His genius revealed to him that
peace and war are the two wheels on which the world runs, and he
supplied a pole or axle which should link and control the two to ensure
an onward and co-ordinated progress. Scipio’s claim to eternal fame is
that he was the staff, not the whip, of Rome and of the world.
Footnote 11:
‘Reformation of War,’ by J. F. C. Fuller.
BIBLIOGRAPHY.
After due reflection and discussion with others, I have decided not to
litter the actual pages of the book with footnote references, but to
list the various historical sources in this bibliographical appendix.
The modern fashion tends to treat an historical study as a literary
card-index rather than as a book to be read, and in many instances this
tendency is carried so far that the footnotes swamp the text. Experience
suggests that even the barest footnote reference is a distraction to the
reader’s eye, and momentarily dams the flow of the narrative through his
mind. For this reason I have omitted references from the actual pages
except where they could be woven into the text, and if some readers hold
that I err in this decision, I can at least plead that I do so in good
company.
The ancient sources—all of which, except Polybius, require to be treated
with critical caution—have been:—
Polybius, X. 2-20, 34-40; XI. 20-33; XIV. 1-10; XV. 1-19; XVI. 23;
XXI. 4-25; XXIII. 14.
Livy, XXI.-XXII., XXV.-XXXIX.
Appian, _Punica_, _Hisp._, _Hann._, _Syr._
Aulus Gellius, IV. 18.
Cornelius Nepos, XXXI.-XXXII.; _Cato_; _Hannibal_.
Plutarch, _Cato_; _Æmilius Paullus_; _Tib. Gracchus_.
Valerius Maximus, III. 7.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
○ Footnotes have been moved to follow the chapters in which they are
referenced.