The Gauls surge forward with renewed vigor. They swarm in as a tightly packed mob, jostling each other in their eagerness to reap their plunder. The battle becomes a clash of shield against shield, and body against body.[xvi]
Grunting and cursing, the densely packed Gauls batter their shields at the steadfast Romans. The front-line hastati patiently stab at the enemies’ exposed arms and legs, bloodying their limbs. Still the Boii rage on, hammering at the Romans. Slowly, step by step, the legionnaires retreat.
Sempronius rides along the gap between the hastati and the principes, his fear lost in his urgency to rally his troops. “Get some fresh troops to the front,” he tells Britannicus. “We’ve got to get the rest of the fourth legion out past the gate!”
“It will be done,” replies Britannicus. He gallops to the front lines.
“Principes to the front,” Britannicus yells to his senior tribunes. “Tell the men not to worry about what is going on around them, they just have to kill the man in front of them.”
At a signal from the tribunes, the centurions blow their attack whistles. The elite principes edge up between the hastati. They spread their shields in front of the weary legionnaires, offering them a safe withdrawal. The hastati retreat between the gaps and line up in front of the senior triarii, waiting for orders to return to the front.
Calm and practiced, the principes cut down hundreds of the rampaging Boii. They step over the bodies of the fallen, pausing only to administer a killing stab to any who show signs of life. The front line Gauls retreat, pushing their own men backwards.
Boiorix grimaces at what he sees. I should have bribed the Ligurians to join us. They wouldn’t take this shit from the Romans. He pulls his two brothers next to his face so he can be heard over the din. “Get those fucking cowards back into the battle! Tell the chieftains to use the Ox Driver on them.”
Minutes later, the clans’ chieftains shove their way to the back of the two front lines. Each carries a wrist-thick spear. Grasping the neck of their spears with both hands, the chieftains beat upon the backs of their warriors,[xvii] screaming for them to push forward. The terrified Boii ram frantically against the Romans, heedless of their stabs and slices. The battle again becomes a stalemate. The Roman attack whistles blow. The hastati step forward to refresh the principes.
First Tribune Quintus Victorius marches up with them, his face flaming with anger. The men are losing their will to fight, he decides. I’ll give them something to fight for!
He jostles his way to his legion’s standard bearer, a muscular giant with a wolf’s pelt draped across his back. “Trexis, give me our standard!” he barks, reaching for a six-foot pole that sports a silver boar’s head atop it.
The signifer jerks back the standard. “No! I swore to guard this with my life!” he splutters.
Victorius takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Apologies for what I must do,” the diminutive centurion says. He reaches into his belt pouch. “Here. Take this.”
Victorius jerks his hand from his pouch. He springs upon the standard bearer and delivers a crunching blow to his chin, his fist encased in wooden boxing knuckles. Trexis’ eyes roll up in his head. His knees collapse.
Quintus reaches under the signifer’s massive shoulders and eases him to the ground. “Protect this man,” he yells to two stunned principes. The tribune grabs the standard and races to the front.
Quintus rears back and hurls the standard into the Gallic lines.[xviii] The standard’s spearhead thunks into the ground behind the front line of the Boii. The delighted barbarians grab the boar’s head pole and bob it over their heads, hooting and laughing at the astounded Romans.
“They have our standard!” Fabian cries to Cassius. “The bastards have taken our honor!”
“Let’s go get it!” Quintus Victorius screams. He blows the whistle for a full-scale attack.
Fabian and Cassius stride forward with their linemates, heedless of the thick swarm of Gauls in front of them. Ducking, stabbing, and slashing, the men of the second legion cut their way deep into Gallic center. They swing their scuta sideways, battering away the barbarians’ long shields, and thrust their short swords into the Boii’s exposed torsos. Within minutes, a mound of dead are piled about the blond-haired Gaul holding the standard. The legionnaires rush at him, screaming like madmen. The Gaul drops the pole and flees.
On the left flank of the battle line, fourth legion tribune Gaius Atinius watches the second legion storm over the Gauls. He purses his lips with dismay—and shame. Charon take me, I should have thought of that!
Atinius dashes over and wrenches his legion’s silver eagle from its stunned signifer. He dashes into the vertical gap between the two legions, the standard bearer chasing after him.
Running forward like a javelin thrower, he hurls the standard straight into the faces of the Boii.[xix] The fourth legion surges forward to retrieve their standard, beating back the Gauls. Minutes later, they triumphantly wave their standard above their heads. Having broken the Gauls’ ranks, the Romans press their advantage.
The Boii retreat slowly from the camp, battling the Romans with each step they take. The ram’s horns sound, and the chieftains repeat their Ox Driver tactics. The Gauls surge forward again.
With the Gauls’ retreat from the Roman camp walls, the rest of the legionnaires march out and extend the battle line, preventing the legions from being surrounded. The battle now rages along a mile wide arc, with neither side giving quarter.
The sun rises high. The fog dissipates under its burning rays. The day grows hot and humid. The Boii’s hours of frenzied attacks begin to take their toll—on themselves. They hold their shields low. Their shield-splitting blows lose their force. Their reflexes slow.[xx]
Riding behind the front lines, Sempronius pauses to remove his helmet and wipe his brow. Vulcan’s balls, it’s getting hot out here! He looks at the sweat pooled in his palm. If I am sweating just from riding this horse, those big bastards must be soaked with it. He calls over his two legates.
“Old Sol has joined us as an ally,” he says, referring to the sun god. “Maintain a steady onslaught. Don’t worry about breaking through their lines, just don’t let them break into ours. Refresh the front lines constantly.”
Fighting with the measured energy of disciplined troops, the Romans advance, step by step. Their murderous thrusts pierce opponents who previously blocked them. Hundreds of Gauls fall to the men of the second and fourth. The Gallic horns sound, and the Gauls withdraw to regroup.
Sempronius senses that he is on the cusp of victory. He summons his two legates. Britannicus rides over to join his consul. Gaius Atinius, the fourth’s senior tribune, trots in on foot.
“How are the allies doing?” Sempronius asks Britannicus.
“They are holding their own. They are working to drive the Gauls from the rear gates.”
Sempronius scowls at Atinius. “Where is Caduceus? Go get your legate!”
“An ax split his head,” Atinius replies, his voice quavering. “He died before we could get him to the rear.”
Sempronius bows his head. “May Charon guide him to the underworld.”
He grasps Britannicus’ and Atinius’ shoulders. “Caduceus’ death cannot delay us, this is our moment! Bring up the rearmost cohorts, they are our freshest troops. Double-time them into the Gauls. Bring the velites in behind them. Do not relent!”
The two commanders disappear. Twenty minutes later, each legions’ seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth cohorts march to the front, sturdy fighters who have yet to raise a sword against the enemy.
“They’re attacking again,” Boiorix yells to his chieftains. “Get out there and kill them!” The weary warriors sally forth to meet the legionnaires, tramping past the bodies of their fallen comrades.
The Roman attack whistles blow, and the cohorts halt. Clouds of spears fly out from behind them, cascading upon the advancing Gauls. Scores of them fall and stumble, pierced by the rain of javelins. Hundreds join them when t
he next two volleys descend.
“Charge them, curse you!” Boiorix yells.
A scream erupts next to his shoulder. He sees his brother Tarbos staring beseechingly at him. A spear dangles from Tarbos’ intestines, dark blood flowing down its shaft. He crumples to his knees.
“Tarbos!” Boiorix grabs his brother by the shoulders and drags him back behind the battle lines, all thought of conquest gone. I should have made him wear a mail shirt!
Sudarix stumbles along behind Boiorix, weeping unabashedly. “You’ll be fine, little brother, you’ll be fine! We just need to get a poultice on you.” Sudarix looks at Boiorix, a question in his eyes. The chief shakes his head.
The brothers strap Tarbos into a horse travois and tow him back toward camp. “Vercix, take over for me,” Boiorix tells a chieftain. “I will return shortly.”
The Boii see their leaders depart. “They’re running back to camp!” shouts a chieftain, and others take up the call. Many of the veteran warriors steel themselves for a final battle with the Romans, ignoring Boiorix’s departure. Many more look longingly back toward their camp.
The Roman whistles sound again. The fresh cohorts resume their rapid charge into the Gauls. They cross the space between them and thresh into the disorganized Boii. Moving in unison, they push the barbarians so close together that they cannot raise their long swords to strike back, leaving them vulnerable to the Romans’ dagger-like thrusts.
Scores of Boii drop their weapons and dash for camp. They are soon followed by hundreds more. Then thousands.
The Insubres at the rear gates see the Boii retreating. They abandon their fight with the allies and run for their home base, pursued by the Umbrian cavalry and foot soldiers.
Sempronius watches the Gauls stampede across the plain, leaving thousands of bodies in their wake. His heart swells with pride. I have my first victory! Rome will give me a triumph!
He rides into the center of the second legion. “Victory is within your grasp!” he shouts repeatedly, riding across the rows of hastati in the front. He gallops to the fourth legion and repeats his call. The soldiers respond with cheers.
“We have them!” shouts Britannicus, excited by the consul’s words. The impetuous young velites dash out from the rear ranks, hurling their spears into the backs of the fleeing Boii and Insubres. They dash after the fleeing Gauls, followed by the hastati and principes.
Inflamed with their desire for revenge, the disciplined legionnaires turn into vengeful killers. They scatter across the battlefield, stabbing down any of the fallen who show signs of life.
Cassius and Fabian watch the men in front of them hurtle out in pursuit. “Come on, let’s get them!” Cassius yells. He dashes away.
“Wait, damn it, keep your place in line,” Fabian yells. But Cassius is already fading from sight. “Stupid boy!” Fabian mutters. He takes a deep breath and runs after him.
The Roman army spreads across the battlefield, flowing toward the enemy camp. Sempronius watches them, his elation replaced with dismay. The cohorts are breaking apart. We are more like a mob than an army.
The consul puts heels to his stallion. He races toward Boiorix’s camp, running from one tribune to another. “Get your men back into formation and return to camp!” he screams.
Across the battlefield, the cornicen sound the call to reorganize. Soon, the scattered Roman pursuers reform and march back toward camp—except for the cohorts of the second legion. Four thousand men dash onward, heedless of the men withdrawing behind them.
Thousands of Boii and Insubres pour through their camp’s entryway, dragging along their wounded. Inside his command tent, Boiorix rises from Tarbos’ corpse. He wipes the tears from his eyes and pulls a weeping Sudarix from the floor.
“Come on, brother. We have to organize our men. And get our revenge.”
The two walk to the camp’s gateless opening, watching their men clamber over the wagons and tree trunks that form the camp walls. He strides outside of the entryway and studies the oncoming Romans.
Boiorix notices that thousands of Romans are marching back to camp, save for a wide swath of legionnaires continuing the pursuit. His breath quickens. “Get the men ready to attack,” he says to Sudarix, his eyes never leaving the oncoming Romans.
His brother blinks. “But our men are still coming into camp.”
“I don’t care if they’re fucking crawling in here! Mass them up for a counterattack!” His eyes grow feral. “This battle is not yet over.”
Fabian nears the front of the Gallic camp, gasping for breath from his run. “Cassius, get back here with me!” He yells. He sees the boy charging in with the pursuing legionnaires, throwing spears and rocks at the fleeing Gauls. Gods damn him, he can’t hear me! I ought to throw a spear into his back.
Fabian hears the rams’ horns sound inside the Gallic camp. His stomach churns with the realization that the Gauls are sounding a counterattack.
The decurion watches in horror as ten thousand warriors trot out from the camp gateway, led by a golden-horned chieftain who grips a hand axe in each fist. A silver-horned warrior runs next to him, his long sword at the ready. Fabian sees the edges of the Gallic wave fan out toward the flanks of the scattered legionnaires, initiating a deadly encirclement.
I’ve got to get him out of there! Fabian throws down his weighty shield and runs toward Cassius. “Get back here!” he screams.
Too late, the pursuing Romans realize they are outnumbered. They reverse course and start to flee from the enemy camp. But the Gauls are already closing in upon their flanks.
The Gauls sense that revenge and slaughter are theirs. They sprint toward the retreating Romans, crying the names of their fallen clansmen.
The Roman tribunes see that retreat will only expose them to slaughter. They draw their men into rude battle lines and face the crazed onslaught, their faces grim with the knowledge of their chances.
Boiorix is the first to reach the wayward cohorts. Screaming demonically, he crashes into the centurion who faces him. “For Tarbos!” he screams, swirling his hand axes over his head.
The chieftain loops his left hand axe toward the Roman’s stomach. When the centurion moves his shield to block it, Boiorix springs into the air and chops his other axe into the Roman’s helmet, delving it into his skull. Before the centurion hits the ground, Boiorix is chopping into a nearby hastati’s knees, mad with his lust for revenge.
The hastati falls. Boiorix steps over the moaning Roman, seeking further prey. He sees a tall youth staring at him, his eyes glassy with fear. Time to skin that rabbit. Boiorix cocks his twin axes in front of his chest. He stalks forward.
“Cassius!” Fabian screams. With the last of his energy, Fabian rams through the legionnaires in front of him and arrives at Cassius’ side.
“Run, Cassius! Get back to camp!” He shoves Cassius backward. Fabian grabs a fallen scutum and surges toward Boiorix, his eyes searching for an attack spot.
The Boii chieftain swoops his left axe at Fabian’s foot, aiming a crippling blow. Fabian blocks the blow with his shield’s iron rim. Boiorix loops his right axe toward Fabian’s head, and Fabian clangs his sword blade against it.
The decurion shoves his shield into the chief’s bronze breastplate, knocking him onto his back. Fabian steps in for the kill. Boiorix rises to a sitting position and grabs his axes.
Fabian jabs his sword through the straps of the Boii’s calf-high sandal, slashing deep into his ankle. The chieftain bellows with pain, but he manages to push himself unsteadily to his feet. He lunges forward, aiming a killing axe blow at Fabian’s head.
Boiorix’s injured foot crumples under him. He crashes sideways onto the ground. Quick as a striking snake, Fabian dives upon him, his sword arm ready.
Fabian feels a blinding pain in his lower back. He sees a gory swordpoint protruding from his lower stomach, sliding out through him as if it were alive.
Sudarix stands behind Fabian, gripping his long sword in both hands. He yanks the blade out a
nd stabs at Fabian’s head, but the legionnaire has already fallen onto his stomach.
Boiorix scrabbles forward on his hands and knees. “Roman pig!” he growls. He raises his right arm and arcs down his axe.
There is a bony, wet crunch. Fabian’s head rolls away from his twitching body. The eyes blink once, twice, and then turn glassy.
The Gallic chief tries to push himself upright, but he falls sideways. “I’m worthless, Sudarix. Get me out of here.” His brother places his shoulder under Boiorix’s arm and shuffles him back toward camp.
“Aaaagh!” screams a voice behind them. The two turn to see a willowy young Roman charging toward them, his sword raised to strike.
“Apologies,” Sudarix says. He drops his brother and yanks his long sword from his chest scabbard. The Gallic warrior crouches down and grasps his blade with both hands, seeking one telling blow.
Tears streaming down his downy cheeks, Cassius leaps upon Sudarix. He thrusts his bossed shield into the Gaul, seeking to batter him to the ground. Sudarix steps to his left, shoves out his foot, and scoops Cassius’ foot from under him. Cassius falls onto his back.
Sudarix is instantly upon him. He chops his blade into the underside of Cassius’ right knee, severing his hamstring. “You should have stayed with your mother, boy!”
He slices deeply into the young soldier’s groin. Sudarix watches the bright arterial blood spout from Cassius’ crotch. He grins.
The Boii chieftain stalks away from the moaning youth. He pulls his brother from the ground. “He’ll bleed out soon enough,” Sudarix tells him. Let’s get you back to camp.”
Wailing with pain, Cassius grabs his dagger and saws a strip off the edge of his tunic. With trembling hands he wraps the bandage about his upper thigh, hoping to stanch the wound. He sees the gray bandage darken, then overflow with blood. Recognition dawns in his eyes.
Cassius crawls to his friend’s head. He reaches out and strokes Fabian’s muddied curls. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry,” he cries.
With the last of his strength, Cassius reaches out with his fingertips. He gently closes Fabian’s sightless eyes. “Safe passage,” he murmurs, stretching out next to him. Cassius shivers, shakes, and moves no more.
Scipio's End Page 5