The exiles who are able to limp away do so, carrying their dead and wounded. The river runs red with the blood of your men, and that of the enemy. The very next day the Olcaades, Carpetani, Hermandica, and Arbocala, desperate men with nothing to lose, mount another attack, fighting to the bitter end. At the end of the second day your army is in pieces, a small fraction of its original size. You retreat. There is no chance of mounting a war against Rome, or even against Saguntum now. Humiliated you appoint Maharbal, the son of Himilco, as general to oversee the remaining Carthaginian bastion of Cartagena and retire back to Carthage, never to serve Carthage again, your spirit crushed.
