In 193 BC, Scipio met Hannibal at Ephesus, and asked him who, in his opinion, were the greatest generals of all time. Since he’d personally defeated Rome’s most dangerous enemy a decade earlier, he rather expected to be on his list. But Hannibal first named Alexander the Great; then Pyrrhus (who like him had come within a whisker of sacking Rome); and for his third choice — one can’t help but feel he was taunting the self-important Roman — himself. And what, Scipio expostulated, if I hadn’t beaten you at Zama? In that case, the Carthaginian replied with a smile, I should have placed myself first.
Of course, as Anthony Everitt observes in his excellent guide to Rome’s early history, this story is too good to be true. But who cares? Not Everitt — or rather, he does care. Of course he cares: he’s a responsible historian, after all. But one of his book’s many virtues is its recognition of the truths concealed inside myths and stories. Another is its sympathy for Rome’s enemies, who, like the devil, have all the best tunes.
Take Pyrrhus. ‘No beauty’ — as Everitt notes with soft humour — he reportedly had an upper row of teeth that consisted of a single curve of bone, the different teeth demarcated only by slight grooves. No wonder his enemies quailed. A rare example of an important Albanian, he rose up from the unarable lands opposite present-day Corfu, and became Rome’s rugged nemesis. One story has it that a vast warrior among the ranks of his enemies challenged him to single combat. Although already horribly wounded, Pyrrhus didn’t hesitate, according to Plutarch:
Wheeling round, he pushed through his guards — enraged, smeared with blood, and with a terrifying expression on his face.
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