Flaccus spreads his arms. “And if the Syrian does go to war with them, his depleted army would be easy prey for General Flamininus and his men. No, my colleagues, Gaul is where Scipio is needed. Let him join his fellow consul.” Flaccus stalks back to his seat, amid scattered shouts of agreement. He crosses his arms and smirks insolently at Scipio.
Scipio resumes his place on the floor. “Yes, the Aetolians and Macedonians are powerful opponents. But whose opponents will they be? The Aetolians still complain that they were not given due credit when we conquered Philip at Cynoscephalae.[xiv] And Philip, we all know he serves his own interests. Either of them could easily join Antiochus.”
“Flamininus is still there with his legions, Scipio,” interjects a senator.
Scipio waves away the comment. “He is a fine general, but he would be overwhelmed. And he does not want to be there. He thinks we should pull our troops out of Greece, and let our amici fend for themselves.”
He shakes his head. “That they could not do. The Syrians would take them all and become more powerful than ever.” He eyes the Senators. “Then they would move on us.”
Flaccus digs his elbow into Cato’s ribs. “Get up and say something!” he hisses. “Do you want those Hellenics spending tax money on libraries and museums? Bringing in Greek doctors?”
The stocky little farmer shoves Flaccus sideways. He rises from his seat, turning to face the senators sitting above him.
“Why are we even discussing this? Scipio indulges in impossible scenarios, in speculations of what would happen in Greece. But we know what is really happening.”
Cato walks over to Cyprian, the Senate Leader. He extends his hand to the aged man. “May I have the letter?” he asks. The elder hands him a goatskin scroll. Cato brandishes it at the senators.
“This is the letter from Consul Sempronius, which came to us yesterday. He asks that Scipio join him as soon as possible, because he is besieged by a vast army of Boii and Insubres.”
Scipio winces at Cato’s words. Gods damn it! I should never have backed that puff Sempronius, regardless of the money he brought to the campaign.
Flaccus senses a change in the Senate’s mood. He pushes himself up from his place. “General Sempronius is in danger! The Gauls are going to invade Italia! We cannot allow this!”
Scipio whirls upon Flaccus. “Had you not hastened back here after your little victory up there, perhaps there would be no rebellion to quell!” And perhaps you’d have gotten that triumph you so dearly wanted. But no, you had to rush back to oppose my election. Fool, you have been bit by your own dog.
Cato grits his teeth. He stands up and spreads his arms. “You know I am a good soldier, Senators. I quelled the Iberian revolt, and returned with a mountain of plunder. I tell you now, as a proven general, that General Scipio must go to Gaul.”
The Cyprian totters up from his chair. The eighty-year-old booms his oak staff upon the floor. All fall silent.
“You three have made your arguments. Is there anyone else who would speak?”
Lucius starts to rise. Dozens of senators turn to look at him.
Scipio gapes at the sight. That’s it, brother, show some spine!
“I, ah…my father Publius once said…” Lucius flushes with embarrassment. He eases back down and looks at the floor.
“I hear no one else, so I call the vote.” The elder points at a twelve-foot statue of a blindfolded goddess holding a set of scales. “Those in favor of Scipio taking his consular army to Syria, step over to the statue of Jusititia.” He swings his arm to the opposite side of the floor. “Those who favor Scipio joining Sempronius in Gaul, go stand by Jupiter.”
The senators step down the benches and walk toward one of the two statues. Scipio watches expectantly, his fists clenched. Minutes later, his face falls.
Cyprian booms his staff. “It is decided. Scipio Africanus is to join Sempronius in Gaul.” He looks at Scipio. “You are to take your two legions and the two of our allies. For your army, you will be given—“ He pauses when Scipio springs up from his chair.
“Save your breath. I know what I’ll be given, and I know what I’m supposed to do with it. By the gods, I have done this enough times before!” Scipio strides from the chambers, his back stiff as a shield.
“I am off to marshal my troops,” he flings over his shoulder. “We set out for Milano on the next full moon.”
A grin splits Flaccus face. He rises and cups his hands to his mouth. “Come back here, Consul, this meeting is not yet over!”
“Shut up and sit down,” Cato mutters glumly, his face in his hands.
Scipio gallops through Market Street, scattering the street’s vendors and shoppers. The people’s shouted curses fall on deaf ears—his mind is already on Gaul.
I will be there, Sempronius. You had best have a damn good reason for ruining my plans.
II. Initiation
MILANO, PO VALLEY, 194 BCE. Sempronius and a tower guard stare at the thousands of Gauls lined across the plain. “This is the second day they’ve stood out there,” the consul says. “What do you think they’re waiting for?” His eyes grow large. “Do you think they’re getting more men?”
“I don’t know, General,” the guard replies testily. “Looks like they’ve got plenty enough as it is.”
“Well, they are waiting for something. I just wish I knew what it was.” The consul throws up his hands. “This is so frustrating! We can’t just hide in here like mice, it will dispirit the men. I’m going to put our men out into battle formation. We need a display of force.”
“Whatever you say,” the stout older man says. Why is this pup complaining to me? He should be talking to his legates.
“What I say is action. Now.” The youthful consul clatters down the tower stairs, his chin set with determination. Soon, the camp horns sound the call to formation.
On the far side of the stream-lined plain, Boiorix stands in front of his infantry, his two brothers at his side. They watch as ten thousand legionnaires march out from the main gates.
“Ah, the mouse roars,” says Boiorix.
“I hope they attack us,” Sudarix says, fingering his twin-bladed axe. “Old Skullcleaver needs some exercise!”
As the Gauls look on, the second and fourth legions arrange themselves into precisely-spaced squares of five hundred men. The Umbrian legions follow them out the gates, assuming the same formation. Twenty thousand men face the Gallic camp.
Boiorix’s youngest brother stirs restlessly, his slim fingers closed about his belt axe.
“Are they going to attack, Boiorix?” he says eagerly.
The chief grimaces. “No, Tarbos, they are just out there as a gesture of defiance.” He shakes his head, his twin braids flapping against his gold neck torus. “A pity they’ve come out at all. Our men felt like they were hiding from us.”[xv]
“The men are restless from inaction,” declares barrel-chested Sudarix. “They long for glory—and plunder.”
“Let’s go after them!” Tarbos urges. “It’ll be easier to fight them outside their camp.”
Boiorix turns around and studies the Alps. He notes the darkening skies about its saw-toothed peaks. His eyes gleam with excitement.
“The weather will be changing tonight,” he says to his brothers. “Tomorrow will be the day I’ve been waiting for.”
“I never understand you,” Tarbos says. “The day for what?”
“The day the clouds come to earth,” the chieftain replies, grinning mysteriously.
At dawn the next morning, a tribune shakes Sempronius from his slumber. The general cocks a sleepy eye at his officer. “What is it?” he murmurs. “Are we under attack?”
“I think not, but you should see this.”
Clad in his knee-length sleeping tunic, Sempronius steps out from his tent—and steps into a thick wet mist. “Fog!” he mutters. “This must have come in last night.”
Sempronius marches toward the front gates, following the tribune’s fog-shadowed
outline. The two officers clamber up the tower ladder and peer toward the Gallic camp.
All they see is a soupy cloud of mist. They hear the jangle of a Roman patrol riding past the gates, its leader shouting directions so his men can find him. But they cannot see anyone, or anything.
“What do the scouts tell us?” Sempronius asks.
“The early patrols reported that they heard movement in the Gallic camp, sounds of many men stirring about. But they cannot say any more than that. Too hard to see.”
Shit! “Get the men ready. We have to prepare for anything.” The tribune clambers down the tower. Soon, the camp horns sound the call to arms.
Sempronius strides back to his tent, cursing the weather gods. Why now? Scipio is still days from arriving. As his attendant straps him into his bronze cuirass, he hears the faint call of a ram’s horn. The call is quickly echoed by a dozen of its fellows. The consul’s heart leaps. They’re coming!
With trembling fingers, Sempronius straps on his helmet and his sword belt. He dashes for the front ramparts. Hundreds of half-naked legionnaires run past him, a sword or spear their only armament.
The consul clambers up the tower. He stares into the fog, searching shadowy outlines of enemies. His two legates soon join him.
“What a cloak of shit this is! This is an Olympian fucking mess!” says stern, gray-haired Britannicus.
“We won’t see them until they’re on top of us,” Caduceus says. The tall young legate frowns. “We’ll need line discipline more than ever for this fight.”
“Who in Hades offended the gods, that they would do this to us?” Britannicus continues. “You know they’re going to attack. I think that Boiorix has been waiting for the fog to come in.” He snorts. “He is smart for a Gaul.”
“This could work to our advantage, Consul,” Caduceus replies. “They can’t charge into the cohort gaps like they usually do, if they can’t see them. We just have to fight with discipline. Tell our men to fight the man in front of them and forget about everything else.” He grins. “One thing we know, the Boii and Insubres are not disciplined. If you can withstand their initial surges, they grow bored and give up.”
Sempronius nods. “We can use that stratagem, if we can get out of camp to repel them. We have to get our legions out there before they break through our walls.”
“Then we had best act quickly, because they won’t—“
The Gallic horns interrupt Britannicus, louder and closer than before. Straining his ears, Sempronius hears a tumultuous sound, as if surf were rolling into a seashore. The rumbling becomes more distinct, and he recognizes it. It is the sound of thousands of voices combined into one gigantic, constant roar, backdropped by the clanking of shields and armor.
“Prepare for battle!” Sempronius shouts to his legates. “Put the light infantry on the ramparts. Get the cavalrymen up there, too, they’re no use on horses. The second legion will go through the front gates, and fourth follows them. Allies to the rear portal.”
The legates dash down the stairs. Minutes later, thousands of soldiers swarm about the camp, rushing to their assigned defenses. The equites tether their horses and scramble up the ramparts. They line up along the mile-long walkway that borders the eight-foot walls, their short swords bared for any who try to scale it.
The light infantrymen follow the equites up the stairs, lugging fistfuls of javelins. The young soldiers station themselves among the cavalrymen, holding their small round shields over their throats. The velites and equites look toward their guard tower’s faint outline, waiting for the signal that the Gauls are within striking distance.
The enemies’ roars grow louder, their voices drowning out the Roman officers’ commands. A ragged line of shadowy shapes appears along the camp front.
“Loose!” the tower guard screams.
Hundreds of javelins whistle over the rampart, disappearing into the drizzly fog. Screams of agony erupt, followed by a return volley of thick Gallic spears. The Romans fling another round of pila, provoking more cries. The rams’ horns sound again. The roar of enemy voices grows deafening.
The Boii and Insubres burst into view. Thousands of tall, brown-haired men run headlong toward the camp ramparts, ignoring the javelins that plunge down upon them. The Gauls attack with their naked longswords in their fists, holding their oblong shields high to ward off the fog-shrouded spears.
Many of the Roman pila find their mark, and scores of Gauls fall. Their compatriots trip over the shadowed bodies. leaving their backs exposed to the pila. Dozens more fall, but the Gauls do not relent.
Boiorix leads the charge, his two brothers running alongside him. “Insubres to the rear gates!” he shouts to his chieftains. “Boii to the main! Pass it on!”
A javelin thunks into his raised shield. Easy, there, he tells himself. If you get killed they’ll all fall apart. He pauses to let his men surge past him.
The Gallic horde surrounds the Roman walls. They flow across the plain and clamber up to the staked walls. The Boii lay down scores of tree-limb ladders. They scramble to the top of the walls, shoving their blades into the Romans stationed along the walkways. The velites jab the back with their spears, striking down dozens. The equites dash back and forth along the walkway, stabbing into any hands or heads that appear between the fog-shrouded stakes.
“Bring up the ram,” Boiorix shouts.
Ten heavily armored Gauls break through the front line, cradling a thick pine tree. They surge toward the main gates, heedless of the spears plunging down on them. One falls sideways, screaming as he clutches at the javelin jutting from his kneecap. Another crumples wordlessly onto the earth, his dimmed eye staring at the spear in his other socket. Undeterred, the ramsmen bash the tree against the gates, yelling triumphantly as the timbers bow inward.
The Gauls sense the gates will break soon. They bunch up about the front gate, making a roof with their shields. The Boii watch the rammers prepare their next charge.
“Come on, you curs, give it a lick!” bellows a stout older Gaul, his flaming red beard a beacon in the fog. The Gauls back up and boom the tree against the gates. They hear the sound of splintering timbers.
“One more time!” the leader yells. The Gauls trot backward and prepare for the final charge.
Inside the gates, the second legion has massed about the entryway. Fabian stands in the fourth row of soldiers, watching the camp gates splinter. He turns to his friend, young Cassius.
“Those lunatics will break in here soon. We’re going to fight hand to hand, no way around it. Just remember what our centurion told us. Keep your head about you, or you’ll lose it.”
He barks a grim laugh. “I have to. Portia would kill me if I died over here!”
Fabian hears a trickling sound, and looks over to his right. Cassius stands there, his eyes glassy with fear. A yellow stream runs down his leg.
“Easy, son. Don’t let fear slow your arm.” Fabian says.
The tall boy glances sideways at him. “Easy words for you to speak,” he quavers. “You’re not the one that’s scared.”
Fabian shrugs. “It serves no purpose. Attend my words, I’ve fought these savages before. That’s a mob out there, not an army. All muscle and guts, no organization. Just keep your place next to me, and I’ll see you through this.”
Cassius’ eyes stare from the shadows inside his domed helmet. His mouth tightens into the rictus of a smile. He nods jerkily, too terrified to speak.
Britannicus rides in behind Fabian’s line, his scarred face as calm as if he were going for a holiday ride. “When they haul back to make another charge with that ram, take the bars off the gates. Fling them open as soon as the ram gets ready to hit.” He points up to one of the flanking guard towers. “The centurion will give you the signal.”
Minutes later, six legionnaires quietly slide the bars from the gates. They grab the iron handles that hold the bars in place, looking up at the centurion standing in the tower.
The centurion peers down into the
mist, his hand above his head. He chops down his hand. “Now!”
The Romans jerk open the gates. The battering ram plunges into foggy space. The rammers stumble into the camp, running into a gauntlet of the Romans.
“At them!” Legate Britannicus shouts.
The front line hastati swarm over the rammers, stabbing into every exposed place. The ram falls to the earth and rolls to the side, draped with the rammers’ corpses. The hastati reform and wait, their blades poised to kill.
The Gauls see the ram disappear into the mist, but they hear no sound of a crash. They look at each other, confused.
“The gates are open, you idiots. Attack!” screams the red-bearded Gaul. His order comes too late.
Marching six abreast, the men of the second legion stride out through the open gates. They draw their swords, brace their shields, and march straight into the charging Boii. Stabbing methodically with each step they take, the hastati thresh through the first line of Gauls, driving the barbarians from the entryway.
“Get back at them!” screams Boiorix, but his voice is drowned in the din of clashing swords. The Gauls retreat farther from the gates, leaving a wide swath of open space in front of them.
The second legion’s rear cohorts march out to fill the gap, lining up along the front wall. The velites and equites continue their onslaught from the ramparts. They fling their javelins over the heads of their ground troops, rejoicing in the screams that tell them they have found their mark.
Boiorix’s face purples with frustrated rage. He turns to Sudarix and Tarbos.
“Tell the chieftains to spread the word. If we break into the camp we will have a three-day feast. The men can have all the plunder they can grab. Everything!”
The chieftains trot back to their men. An excited murmur spreads through the ranks of the Boii and the Insubres, punctuated with cheers. “That will get them going,” Boiorix tells Tarbos.
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