“Bring Ros and Branus to my tent,” Scipio tells him. “Tell them I have a mission for them.”
An hour later, the centurion leads in two slightly built men with ragged tunics, their greasy brown hair roped into ponytails. The two men slink toward the generals, warily eyeing the stern centurion. They fall upon their knees and clasp their hands. “Mercy, Master! We have done nothing wrong!”
One prostrates himself, clawing the earth. He stares beseechingly at Sempronius. “Please Dominus, do not beat us.”
Sempronius wrinkles his nose. “They smell like horseshit,” he murmurs to Scipio.
“That’s because they have horseshit on their tunics,” Scipio says. “These two stinking slaves are Branus and Ros, my prize speculatores.” He waves them upright. “You can quit the performance now.”
The two men spring up and stand straight as an arrow, their white teeth grinning from their grimed faces. “Thought we’d show you we’re not out of practice,” one replies, laughing.
“You never seem to be,” Scipio retorts. “If I didn’t know it was part of your disguise, I’d flog you Gauls for being so repulsive.”
Sempronius stares at Scipio. “Gauls? You trust a Gaul to spy on a Gaul?” The two spies grin at his discomfiture.
“I trust a Gaul who gets a purse of silver for the right information, and a lash for his back if he lies,” Scipio declares. “These are two of the best spies in Rome. They are Montani, the mortal enemies of the Boii.”
Branus grins. “You can trust us to deliver. I need some women money. When do we start?”
“As soon as you can,” Scipio says. “I need to know how many men they have, and the locations of their huts and barracks.”
“We’ll join the next bunch of peasants heading into camp,” says Ros. “We’ll strap a pile of wheat sheaves on our back and join the parade.”
“Return by nightfall, if you can.” Scipio says. “There will be some wine money as a bonus.” The two men trot from the tent.
“You wouldn’t know it to look at them, but they are wealthier than many of Rome’s merchants,” Scipio says.
Sempronius looks confused, prompting a grin from Scipio. “The senators hire them to spy on their wives and enemies!”
The next morning, the two spies totter into Scipio’s tent, interrupting his breakfast with Laelius, Lucius, and Sempronius. Branus snaps out his right arm in a salute. “It was a fruitful mission. We have learned much that is valuable.”
Scipio eyes the two. “Why are you bent over?”
Ros grimaces. “One of the Insubres caught us poking around the stables. He laid a branch to our backs.” His eyes flare. “I would welcome a chance to join your assault and repay him.”
“You will not. I need you alive, and I pay you well for such indignities. Now what did you discover?”
“They have a wide pathway around the inside of the wall, allowing for troop and livestock movements. The barracks are stuck by the east gate, on the other side of that pathway. There are hundreds of huts outside the rear gate. Looks like most of them are filled with camp followers and families. The stables are at the rear of the west gate. Nothing by the front gate, except a clearing.”
Scipio nods. “Those outside walls would be difficult to ignite, but if they did catch, they would be very difficult to extinguish. Those barracks, and the huts, they are quite another matter. They will burn readily.”
Laelius crooks an eye at him. “What are you thinking?”
“Remember what we did in Africa, when Syphax and Hasdrubal had their camps near us?[xxxvii] We can use that strategy.”
“But the Gauls have only one camp, not two,” Lucius notes.
Scipio waves his hand, dismissing the remark. “I’m thinking of how we handled the overwhelming numbers we faced there, and what we did by their gates.”
“I see. We use the forests as cover. What forests the Gauls have left here are near the mountains by the east and west gates.”
“Mars’ cock, what are you talking about?” Sempronius blurts.
“We are talking about some very un-Roman tactics we’ve used before,” Laelius replies. “Night raids. Black raiders. Gauntlets.”
Sempronius shakes his head. “I still don’t understand.”
“You will,” Scipio says. “As soon as we talk with Prince Sophon and Tribune Marcus Aemilius.”
The consul stares at him. “The Numidian prince? Who is this Marcus Aemilius?”
“He was the tribune who led a mountain ambush upon Philip’s troops at the Aos River.[xxxviii] He’s quite adept at surreptitious assaults.”
“You’re going to have him spy on them?”
“Gods, no,” Scipio replies, enjoying his game. “I’m going to have an entire legion spy on them!”
Two nights later, the Roman horns call for the troops to retire to bed. Torches and campfires blink out, one by one. A blanket of darkness drops over the camp.
Sophon leads his horse out from the main gate, pulling it along by its rope bridle. The Numidian prince is covered with gray-black wood ash, as is his horse. Five hundred ash-covered Africans pad out behind him, leading their rangy little ponies. The warriors fan out and flow toward the quiescent Gallic camp, gray silhouettes outlined against the moonless nighttime sky. Each horse carries a sling of pitch-covered torches. Each man lugs a knapsack full of fist-sized, stoppered jugs.
General Sempronius trots his horse out from the gates, leading the fourth legion’s cohorts. Five thousand Romans creep toward the front of the enemy camp, their shields covered with black cloth. The legion’s ten cohorts divide into two groups. One group heads to the left of the front wall, the other to the right.
When the cohorts are halfway across the plain. they slow to a halt. The legionnaires drop to one knee and watch the flickering torches of the Gallic camp.
“What are we waiting for?” asks one of third cohort’s legionnaires.
“We’re waiting for the Africans to do their job,” his centurion whispers.
“Where are they?”
“They’re there, you just can’t see them. Just get ready to march, triple time, when the signal comes.”
“You mean when I hear the cornicen?”
“I mean when you see the flames.”
While the Romans look on, Sophon and his riders creep toward the camp. Soon, Sophon hears the jangling of mail-covered horses, backdropped by the muted conversations of their riders. He crouches, pressing his hand upon his horse’s neck. The pony silently kneels with him. All across the plain, the Africans settle to the earth, turning into indistinguishable black mounds.
The Gallic patrol trots toward the Roman castra, heedless of the dark mounds about them. As they pass, a dozen Africans rise up behind them, scurrying forward with daggers drawn. Grunts and cries erupt—quickly stifled—followed by the thud of falling bodies. Two Africans lead the riderless Gallic horses toward the Roman camp, as their fellows creep closer to Boiorix’s emplacement.
Sophon draws within three spear casts of the enemy. He whistles softly, imitating the trilling call of a night bird. He hears his signal repeated on both sides of him, an affirmation that all is well. Sophon peers into the foothills his left, his eyes straining into the darkness, looking for his signal.
Off to Sophon’s left, Scipio leads a legion of his men through the lower foothills, down a winding game trail to the bottom of the forest. He treads out onto the darkened plain, his men lining up behind him. Scipio examines the side gate, estimating its width and thickness. He waves over Laelius.
“Get your cohorts ready to go to the left side of the gate. My cohorts will take the right. The triarii go in front, just like we planned it.” He looks to the mountains on the other side of the camp. Marcus, I hope you have done your job.
“Silvus!” Scipio hisses. The archer appears next to Scipio.
“This is it. Give the signal.” Scipio orders.
Silvus pulls two arrows from his sling and clasps them between his knees. Striki
ng flint and steel, he ignites the arrows. He shoots one high overhead, then follows it with another.
On the other side of the Gallic camp, tribune Marcus Aemilius stands in front of the other legion. The night before, his legionnaires ventured deep into the mountains, drawing nearer to the Gallic camp by the next day’s sunset.
Marcus has led the legion down the mountain pass toward the enemy emplacement, wandering ahead to dispatch the few guards that were placed along the trail. Now, he and Lucius wait on the wide plain facing the east gate, their cohorts arrayed behind them. They stare into the dark sky.
“Come on, brother, give us the sign.” Lucius mutters.
Marcus glances over at him. “Be patient. Men will die soon enough.” The words no sooner escape his mouth than a flaming arrow rockets high into the sky, followed by another one.
Lucius swallows. “This is it. Get the men ready for the charge.”
Out on the plains, Sophon sees the arrows arc up into the sky. He rises from his concealment, puts his fingers to his lips, and blows one shrill note. He hears the rustling of his five hundred men as they climb upon their horses.
Sophon vaults onto his mount, his youthful heart hammering with excitement. He dives his long-fingered hand into his saddle sling and yanks out a pitch-covered arrow. The Numidian ignites the arrowhead and waves it slowly over his head. A constellation of tiny fires winks to life across the plain.
With an ear-piercing scream, Sophon digs his heels into his horse. He hurtles toward the Gallic fort. His men thunder in after him, abandoning all pretense at concealment. The riders stream forward like a horde of maddened fireflies.
The Numidians close in upon the front wall. Guiding their horses with their knees, they pull their bows off their backs and nock their flaming arrows. When they draw within a spear’s cast of the front gateway the riders split to the left and right, each heading for his assigned target.
The riders on the left gallop past the front wall and head to the side gate. They shoot their flaming brands high over the walls. dropping them into the stables and hay bales. Flames leap up, followed by the whinnying screams of the stabled horses. The terrified beasts pound through their fences and stampede into the camp, crashing through the Gauls’ tents and huts.
The west side riders loop around the west wall and unleash a storm of arrows into the thatched huts outside the rear gate, begetting another conflagration. Men, women and children dash madly across the plain, desperate to escape the leaping flames.
The Numidians wheel about and race back along the walls, dodging the spears hurled from above. They reach into their knapsacks and fling their pottery jars into the wall timbers, coating the walls with thick black pitch. Aided by the firelight of the burning camp, they shoot their flaming arrows into the pitch smears, setting them afire. The west wall becomes a sheet of fire.
The east side riders repeat the same maneuvers. They rocket arrows into the barracks clustered about the east gate, then set fire to the outside huts and east wall.
In the distance, Lucius and Marcus watch the African riders rush past them and set the rear huts aflame. Minutes later they see them return, setting fire to the camp walls.
“That’s it,” Lucius says excitedly, “Time to get out there and form our lines!”
“Sound the call,” Marcus yells to the cornicen.
The horns blow. Thousands of legionnaires trot toward the east gates, encouraged by screams erupting from the flame lit camp. The Romans array themselves in a wide, three-deep gauntlet in front of the gates, their swords and spears at the ready.
Six hundred triarii form the front lines of the quarter-mile gauntlet. The elder legionnaires kneel and plant their curved shields into the ground, their seven-foot spears sticking out in front of them. A second line moves in behind the first, repeating the formation. The triarii form a double wall of bristling spears, backed by rows of hastati and principes. Hundreds of velites stand behind them, with dozens of pila at their feet.
While the east legion finishes forming its gauntlet formation, the east gates fly open. Thousands of Gauls dash from the burning camp, seeking the safety of the cool night air. Unarmed and unarmored, they run through the night-shadowed gauntlet, heedless of the death that awaits them on either side.
“Loose!” screams Marcus Aemilius. He draws his sword and steps into the front line of triarii.
The velites unleash their javelins, aiming them low to avoid hitting their compatriots on the other side. The pila skewer hundreds of unprotected Gauls. The night air fills with the screams of dead and dying. Wave after wave of spears fly from the velites. Soon, thousands of corpses lie silent in front of the flaming gates.
Mad with fear, the Gauls dash from the center of the path, only to run into the spear walls of the stone-hearted triarii. The triarii lance their spears into their vulnerable foes, lining the ground with their Gallic victims.
“Line change!” Marcus yells to the nearby cornicen. The hornsman blows the signal, which is echoed from the other side. On each side of the gauntlet, the triarii turn their shields sideways, readying for the legion’s final assault.
The hastati and principes edge in between the triarii, their iron blades flickering in the firelight. They walk over the corpses strewn in front of them and close upon the compacted Gauls, stabbing down all within reach. The Gauls try to retreat from the walls of swords, but their comrades fleeing from the camp push them into the threshing Roman blades. Hundreds more fall. An hour later, all that remains is a thick band of Boii and Insubres pressed into the center. Hundreds of Gauls fall to their knees, begging for mercy.
The Gauls are struck down where they kneel. Many others attack with bare fists and javelin shafts, desperately beating upon the Roman shield wall. With the quick thrust of a blade or spearpoint, each of these attackers fall.
On the west side gate, Scipio’s and Laelius’ men are engaged in similar butchery, with an unanticipated obstacle. Scores of horses have burst out from the west side gateway, trampling through the Roman lines. Hundreds of barbarians sprint through the openings created by their mounts, frantic to escape the abattoir behind them. Dozens leap onto the backs of the panicky horses, careening toward the protective foothills.
Scipio and Laelius are on their horses, directing men to the gaps in their murderous shield wall. “A bunch of those bastards are getting away!” Laelius shouts to Scipio.
“They won’t get far,” Scipio replies. “Sophon has his orders.” He points to the end of the gauntlet, near the foothills. “See?”
Sophon’s Numidians gallop past the Roman lines, hurtling toward the escaping Gauls. As Laelius watches, they close upon the runners, striking them down with their short curved swords. The Africans amuse themselves by shooting the remainder of their flaming arrows into the Gauls’ backs. They watch the flaming riders bob away into the night, soon to fall sideways to the earth.
Back at the front of the Gallic camp, Consul Sempronius has followed Sophon’s men toward the front gates. He draws his legions into a wide semicircle about the main portal, knowing that the body of the Gallic army has yet to emerge—that there will be too many to contain within the gauntlet. He does not have long to wait.
The barbarians pull open the front gates and run madly out onto the plain, only to find themselves facing an enormous curved wall of ten thousand enemy shields. Avoiding the thick wall of legionnaires to their sides, the Boii and Insubres escape into the dimly lit darkness in front of them. They meet death in that darkness, cut down by men they can barely see.
Hearing the screams of their fallen colleagues, hundreds dash back into the main gates, running to their smoldering barracks and armories. They grab shields, swords, axes—whatever weapons they can find. The barbarians run back through the gates, determined to die as warriors.
Fighting with the desperate ferocity of doomed men, the Boii and Insubres batter openings into their enemies’ lines. Scores of Gauls stream through the gaps and dash into the night. Mad with terro
r, they slash at any silhouette that appears nearby, heedless of whether they are friend or foe.
“Close ranks,” Sempronius yells, riding along behind his lines. “Get the cavalry after those bastards!” He hears a rumbling coming from the camp, as if a herd of giant beasts were stampeding toward him. The consul squints into the cavernous gate opening.
With the sound and suddenness of a thunder strike, dozens of wagons burst forth from the front portal, drawn by horses desperate to escape the burning bales in the backs of their wagons. The maddened beasts careen into the Roman encirclement. The wagons pitch over, tumbling the flaming bales onto scores of helpless legionnaires. Their tunics and cloaks burning, the unfortunate soldiers scatter among the ranks, screaming in anguish and supplication. The hastati and principes rush to pitch earth onto them.
Squadrons of Gallic riders gallop out from behind the wagons. Boiorix rides in the lead, his helmet glinting redly in the flickering firelight. His brother Sudarix rides next to him, his head pressed tight against the neck of his fleeing mount. The squadron gallops past the sides of a large burning wagon and flees into the night, heading for the western foothills.
While the wagons are bursting from camp, Scipio is overseeing the slaughter in the west wall gauntlet. His eyes are captured by the fiery wagons careening out into the front of the burning camp. He watches a knot of Gauls gallop past a tumbled wagon, heading for the hills. Clever ruse. Someone had the wits to devise that in the midst of all this insanity.
He sees the glint of golden horns, and his mouth drops. It’s Boiorix! He’ll get out and start this all over again!”
“Laelius! Laelius! Damn it, where are you?”
“Quit yelling!” Laelius barks, trotting in next to Scipio. “Nothing to worry about, we’ve got them cornered like pigs in a pen.”
“Boiorix! He’s heading toward the foothills!” Scipio wheels his mount about and gallops off.
“Gods be cursed, I thought we had finished him!” Laelius slaps the neck of his horse and chases after Scipio. “Wait, damn it. Wait for the guards!”
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