Scipio angles to his right, intent on cutting off Boiorix before he enters the sheltering forest. He watches Sempronius’ allied cavalry hurtle out from camp walls, aiming at the fleeing horsemen. They won’t get to him in time. Scipio hammers his heels into his prize stallion. He races through the field of fleeing Gauls, his gaze fixed on Boiorix’s horned helmet.
Boiorix sees two Roman horsemen racing across the plains toward him, one with a purple cape flapping from his shoulders. That must be Scipio!
“Come about, Sudarix,” Boiorix yells. “Scipio’s behind us!” The two brothers wheel about and race headlong toward Scipio, with six of their men following.
Scipio sees the two chieftains racing at him, followed by their guards. Here they come! Now what are you going to do? He draws his sword and leans into his horse’s neck. I’ve got to get Boiorix before his brother catches up to me. And the others.
An arrow whistles out from behind him, then another. Scipio looks over his shoulder and sees Laelius guiding his horse with his knees, shooting arrows as he rides. Good! Got to trust he’ll get some of them. He gallops straight for Boiorix.
As Scipio closes in, he straightens up. He holds his small round shield in front of him, his sword arm cocked for a skull-splitting blow. Boiorix charges in from Scipio’s left, holding his hand axe over his head.
The two riders dash past each other, a hand’s breadth apart. Boiorix chops his axe at Scipio’s head. Scipio grasps his horse’s mane and leans sideways toward Boiorix, just as the axe swooshes over him. He jabs out with his short sword, gouging his blade across the Gaul’s exposed thigh.
Boiorix screams. He tumbles from his horse and crashes onto the ground. The chieftain totters to his feet, grasping his gushing thigh. Scipio veers about and closes upon Boiorix. The chieftain grabs his oblong shield and crouches behind it, axe in hand.
“Hold on, brother!” Sudarix cries. He charges in from behind Scipio, both hands grasping his long sword.
There is a flash of wood and feather. Sudarix jerks back in his saddle, staring at the arrowhead that juts from his breastplate. Another blooms next to it. Sudarix drops his sword. He fingers the twin arrow points, gaping at the bloodstreams that flow beneath them. The chieftain slides sideways and crashes onto the trampled earth.
Boiorix gapes at his brother’s fate. An arrow thunks into the side of his neck. He grapples at his gushing windpipe, his eyes wide with horror.
Scipio hurtles into his enemy, leaning sideways from his mount. His sword arcs down. The Gaul’s head tumbles from his body. His headless corpse joins his brother’s body.
Laelius pulls up beside Scipio, gripping his horn bow in his right hand. “I got a couple of them, but I wasted some arrows trying to hit them. I need more practice!”
Scipio grins with relief. “That saggitarius training has proven to be beneficial.”
“Maybe so, but here come the rest. Let’s get out of here!”
Six Gauls close in upon the two men, fury upon their faces. Scipio and Laelius race for their lines, pounding their heels into the sides of their mounts. Six more enemy riders angle in from the foothills, their eyes fixed on Scipio and Laelius.
Scipio hears the thudding hooves growing louder. “We’re not going to make it,” he yells to Laelius.
“We don’t have to,” retorts Laelius, pointing off to their left.
Prince Sophon races across the plains, flanked by scores of his Numidian tribesmen. Facing certain death, the Gauls wheel about and race for safety.
Whooping and shouting, the Numidians thunder past Scipio and Laelius. They close quickly upon the Gauls’ heavy horses. Minutes later, the enemy riders lie upon the ground, their bodies stitched with spear cuts. The Numidians weave across the plains, hunting down the last of the fleeing Boii and Insubres.
Laelius whooshes a sigh of relief. He grabs Scipio by the shoulder and shakes him. “Are you fucking crazy? Why’d you run after him?”
Scipio shrugs. “He’s the mastermind. He would have raised another army.”
Laelius shoves him backward. “So we lose our mastermind because he wants to kill some half-wit barbarian. That was more stupid than brave!”
Prince Sophon trots back to the Scipio and Laelius, his face as calm as if he were riding along the seashore. “It was fortunate you were wearing that purple cape,” he tells Scipio. “Else we would have left you to your own fortunes.”
“Gratitude,” Scipio replies. The trio trot back toward the burning camp, back to the screams of their slaughtered enemies. “Call the men back,” Scipio tells his lead tribune. “The Gauls are broken. More killing serves no purpose.”
The next day’s dawn breaks upon a battlefield strewn with thirty thousand Boii and Insubres, a sea of bodies interspersed with five hundred Romans. Though the dead lie silent, the field is a hive of activity. Hundreds of Romans and Umbrians pick their way through the fallen enemies, bared swords in hand.
Wounded comrades are pulled from the mounds of bodies, and wounded enemies are quickly dispatched. Few words are spoken by the Romans, so intent are they upon their hunt. The Romans’ vengeful blades strike home. The quiet field is punctuated with the enemies’ agonized cries.
Hundreds of villagers congregate at the edges of the charnel landscape, which was once the site of their tall, waving grainfields. They wait for the invaders to finish their killings and plunders, anxious to pick through the remains. After decades of battles, the locals are quite expert and finding treasures that the victors overlook.
The Roman armies tread back to camp, so weary from stabbing and throwing that they can barely raise their arms. Still, many of them manage an anticipatory smile. Tonight, they know, there will be much feasting, drinking, fighting, and singing—all celebrated with the giddy desperation that only men who have escaped death can feel.
That night, as thousands of drunken soldiers careen through the camp, Scipio, Sempronius, Sophon, Laelius, and Lucius sit at the map table in Scipio’s command tent. Goblets of wine replace yesterday’s battle figurines.
Marcus Aemilius stands to the rear of the tent, standing at attention behind the senior officers. He forsakes any drink, contenting himself with tidbits of the roast mice that the camp cooks have prepared for them.
Sempronius raises his bronze goblet. “Let us toast our victory. We estimate thirty thousand enemy slain, and at least another five thousand captured,” he crows. “It is a great victory, Rome will give us a triumph when we return!”
Scipio plunks his goblet upon the table. “Perhaps, but we are not going home.”
Sempronius gapes at him. “What? We’ve killed their chiefs and broken their army. Our mission is fulfilled.”
Scipio slowly shakes his head. “There are a dozen Gallic garrisons between here and the northern highlands. The Gallic threat remains.”
“Pish!” Sempronius snaps. “The remainders can be attended to by next year’s consuls. We have done more than Flaccus did last year. Let’s go home and receive our honors.”
“You think you will be honored?” Scipio says. “Rome still remembers that you lost a legion’s worth of men in Milano. It will take more than one victory to erase your foolish mistakes.”
“You cannot address me in such a manner!” Sempronius huffs, his face reddening. “I am a consul!”
“And I am the man who got you elected, or did you forget that? Your losses are the Hellenic party’s losses. If I don’t help you out of this mess, we will never win another election!”
“This matter does not concern me,” Sophon says, rising to leave. “I’d rather brush my horse than listen to you two argue.” He opens the tent flaps and strides into the tumultuous night.
Scipio’s voice softens. “It’s not just for politics, Sempronius. I’d like to go back, too, because Antiochus is the real danger. But we have to eliminate the Gallic presence. If we don’t the Senate may send another two armies up here, and neglect the Syrian threat. Can you see that?”
“When we get back, I will speak on be
half of committing troops to Syria,” Sempronius says. “Wouldn’t that suffice?”
“No. We are going to take all of the Po Valley. You will return with such a load of plunder that the Senate will have to give you a triumph.” He crooks an eye at Sempronius. “Of course, you will receive a sizable portion of that plunder.”
I could buy a larger farm. Get out of Rome forever. Sempronius sips his wine. “Well, I suppose we should make our borderlands safe for Italia.”
“That is a noble sentiment,” Laelius says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Scipio slaps Sempronius on the back. “So it will be, Consul. We will march out after the men have rested. The Gauls have a fort near Comum, that will be our next objective.”
“I am going to check on my men,” Sempronius says, stalking out from the tent.
“That’s is a good idea,” Marcus says. “I don’t want my men too hung over.” The stocky young tribune follows Sempronius.
As soon as they leave, Laelius plops onto Scipio’s sleeping furs, his hands behind his head. “I am yours to command, pumpkin-head. I just hope we are back in Rome at year’s end, so I can begin my campaign for consul.”
“Agreed,” Scipio says. “I think you would be best served by accruing more victories here, anyway. We will report each one to Rome. Your reputation will grow.”
“What about me?” Lucius interjects, his face anxious. “Do I have to go with you?”
Scipio flicks his eyes at Laelius, who gives the barest of head shakes. “After that incident with the pirates, I am worried about Amelia and the children. I would feel much better if you were there to guard them.”
Lucius laughs, relieved. “Of course! Anything to help my brother! I just hope you can get along without me.”
“We will manage,” says Scipio. Laelius and Scipio fall silent, looking at the floor.
“I think I’ll go out and join the festivities,” Lucius says stiffly. “Who knows when I’ll have another victory to celebrate.” He pushes through the tent flaps and merges into the night.
“Who knows when, indeed,” Laelius says.
“He tries his best, Laelius. He just has more to overcome than some of us.” He frowns. “I recognize the burden he carries as my brother.”
“You know he will not rest until he becomes a consul, like you,”
“There have been worse than he would be.”
“If you say so. But then he won’t be yours to command, like he is now. He may have to lead an army into battle. Against the Gauls—or the Syrians!”
Scipio purses his lips. “I made a promise to my mother. I intend to keep it,”
Laelius swirls the wine in his goblet. “You promised your father you’d protect Rome, and you promised your mother you’d help Lucius make his way. The day may come when you can’t do both.”
“Gods, I pray that day never comes,” Scipio mutters. He springs up. “Come on, why speculate about gloomy possibilities? Amusement awaits us, just outside my tent!”
Laelius laughs. “I do not believe it! Somber Scipio telling Laelius he should lighten his spirit! Yes, let us cut loose from dreary speculations, and celebrate with our men.”
The two step out of the tent—and quickly jump back in. Eight naked legionnaires barge past them, clanging pewter spoons upon the tops of their plundered Gallic helmets.
“Those men know how to celebrate,” Scipio declares.
“I like getting naked and screaming, but I prefer it with a single partner,” Laelius replies. He tugs at Scipio’s tunic sleeve. “I have the urge to deprive some men of their wages. I’m going to pitch some knucklebones. Come with me.”
“I’ll come, but only to watch. It’s unseemly for a consul to participate. If I lose, it lessens the men’s confidence that I am favored by the gods. If I win, they resent a wealthy patrician taking their hard-earned money!” He spreads his hands. “I cannot win, even if I win!”
“Huh, Then maybe I shouldn’t be a consul, I enjoy my recreations too much.” Laelius grins. “What would the men think if Consul Laelius stripped naked and challenged them to wrestle?”
“You would give them confidence,” Scipio replies. “One look at your tiny thing and they would feel much better about themselves!”
Laelius punches Scipio in the shoulder. “You are just jealous! Come on, you can at least watch—and drink!”
Arm in arm, the two childhood friends walk into the heart of the raucous camp, heading to the dice games at the back of the stables.
Four days later Scipio rides out from camp, weaving through the carpenters who are disassembling the front gates and towers. Sophon and his Numidians follow behind him. The wary Africans scan the flatlands and foothills, still searching for attackers.
The party halts near the head-high ash piles of the army’s funeral pyres. Scipio grasps Sophon’s forearm. “We part here. A turma of my cavalry will accompany you to Rome as an honor guard. I give you thanks for all your help.”
Sophon bows his head. “It was an honor to work with you. I have learned much.” He jerks his fist into the air, signaling his men to follow him.
“Sophon!” Scipio yells. The Numidian prince looks over his shoulder. “Send my regards to your father, Masinissa.”
Sophon smiles tightly. “I will tell him, though I doubt they will be well received.” The Numidians gallop across the plain.
Scipio nods, his mouth pinched into a line of regret.
For the next three months, Scipio and Sempronius’ armies storm across North Italia. The Gauls’ Comum fortress falls to them, its walls scaled by hundreds of escaladers. That victory is followed by successful sieges of the Clastidium and Ticinum garrisons. After each conquest, Scipio sends messengers back to Rome, alerting the people of their victories. Their conquests become the talk of Rome—and the envy of the Latin senators.
Scipio and Sempronius ride together in the vanguard, but they speak little to each other. Chastened and resentful, Sempronius acquiesces to Scipio’s directives, knowing they give him the best chance for victory—and a safe return home. The young general’s mind often wanders to the Sabina Hills of Rome, to the farm and family he envisions for himself.
After months of campaigning, the legions return to Placentia, laden with wagonloads of money and valuables. The Romans pitch camp around the city. Scipio personally directs the storage of the plunder into the city’s storehouses.
“We can leave for Rome with the week,” Scipio tells Sempronius. “With all these riches for the treasury, the Senate should readily approve your triumph. The quaestor can tally all of it in a few days, after we have sorted it all out.”
The young consul smiles. “Then let us depart as soon as possible. I ache to be done with the military life.”
The next night, three wagons trundle from the rear portal of the sleeping town, their oaken axles groaning under the weight of their load. Scipio stands next to the wagons, his hooded face in shadow.
Two sentries approach the portal. They spy the wagons departing and run toward them, their hands gripping their sword hilts. “Here now, where are you going?” one of them shouts to a driver.
“Let them go,” says a commanding voice behind them.
The two legionnaires march toward the hooded figure. “And who might you be?” one of them blusters. Scipio throws back his hood.
“Ap…apologies, General,” the lead guard stammers. “We did not know…at this hour we see wagons leaving, how could we—“
“We are sending some captured armament to Tibur,”[xxxix] Scipio replies. “They need weapons to protect themselves against the Sabines.”
The guards nod. They continue their rounds.
One sentry pauses. He looks back at Scipio. “I am one of the survivors of Sempronius’ second legion. I have to tell you, were you in charge at Milano, we would not have lost all those men.” He turns about and marches into the night.
I wish I were, too, Scipio thinks. And I would not carry the guilt of getting that puff elected. Scipi
o ambles toward Placentia’s main street, intent on offering a sacrifice at the temple of Clementia, the goddess of forgiveness.
Scipio rounds the street corner. Titus Paullus walks out from the horse stable’s shadows, pulling his dark gray hood from his head. The camp accountant takes out a wooden stylus and carves some numbers and dates into a wax tablet.
Well, Cato, it seems as if you had cause for concern.
TEMPLE OF BELLONA, 194 BCE. “You are denying us a triumph?” Scipio blurts incredulously. “We have secured all of northern Italia, and brought enough plunder to buy the city! We have eighteen tons of silver, and two tons of gold! Does any of that mean anything to you?”
Following custom, Sempronius and Scipio are meeting with the Senate outside of Rome, so that the army may be disarmed before it returns. Sitting on the semicircular steps of the beautiful little temple, the senators stolidly endure Scipio’s outrage.
Senator Laxtus rises from the temple steps. The senior senator smiles ingratiatingly at Scipio. He spreads his arms in a placating gesture. “It’s not that you two have not achieved great victories, honored general. But we lost a legion’s worth of men at Milano, a very severe loss. That has palled the shine of your conquests.” The senator glances at Flaccus, who makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
And you wouldn’t want to honor two Hellenic consuls right before the elections, would you, Senator? Scipio glares at a smirking Flaccus. This smells of your doing, prick.
Scipio sees Sempronius’ head droop in defeat. Poor bastard, you are the one who needed this. “I am not going to beg for honors,” Scipio declares. “That is an act dishonorable in itself. I would only ask that we be allowed to parade through the gates, that our men may receive their due respect.”
Flaccus stands up, his eyes alight victory. “Of course, Consul.” He spreads his hands. “We are not unreasonable men! You and Sempronius can have your parade. There will be no gold wreaths for you, but we will provide a welcoming speech at the Forum Square.” He grins. “Why, I will give it myself!”
Scipio winces. The Latins will throw a bone to us so the people aren’t angry with them. At least Laelius and Sempronius will get some recognition.
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