Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  “A good reason to hide two thousand Thracian warriors, and two thousand legionnaires? I’d say he’s as dumb as his fucking brother!” Then Thrax falls silent, staring off to his left. “Look over there, by the river. There’s riders coming at us.”

  Marcus closes one eye, squinting into the scrublands. “Are those Antiochus’ men?”

  “Who knows? They’re either running to attack us, or running from something that attacked them. We’d best prepare for the worst.”

  Thrax clambers down a palisade ladder. “Get our tribesmen out here,” he orders one of his chieftains. “Every one of them!”

  Marcus calls out the order to assemble. Within minutes, four thousand seasoned warriors are pressed about the camp gates, waiting for them to open.

  Marcus and Thrax scramble back to the wall, standing near a guard tower that looms over the gates. “What do you see?” Marcus asks a tower sentry.

  “Give me a minute, I can’t be sure.”

  The two men pace along the palisade, staring at the dark line of approaching figures. “There’s infantry, and horses,” the sentry says. “And a larger force behind them. Chasing them.”

  “Gods curse you, who’s in the front?” Thrax yells at the Roman.

  “I’ll handle it, Thracian,” Marcus growls.

  The two tower sentries mumble to each other. One leans over the side of the tower, looking down at Marcus Aemilius. “They are Romans! It’s our men who are running toward us. Cavalry and velites!”

  “Our men are running from a fight?” Marcus shouts, not believing his ears. The sentry shrugs. “I tell you what I see.”

  “The Syrians must be coming,” Thrax says, his voice rising with excitement. “They’re coming after the camp!”

  “We’re not going to hide inside here!” Marcus declares. He beckons over one of his tribunes. “Get our men ready. We’re going out to confront those cowards, and wreck whoever is chasing them!”

  “Thanks the gods,” Thrax exclaims. “My men are ready for good fight!” His eyes gleam. “Maybe that Nicator bastard is out there.”

  “That would not be disappointing,” Marcus says, balling his hands into fists.

  The guards open the camp gates. Four cohorts of legionnaires double-time their way onto the plain. They line up in battle formation, several spear casts from camp. Thrax and his Thracians pace out behind them, arranging themselves into ten blocks of two hundred men.

  A wide swath of riders gallop toward them. The soldiers shift about uneasily, wondering if they will be trampled.

  Marcus faces his cohorts. “Those men are deserting the battle. Do not allow them to pass!” His eyes grow cold. “I order you to kill them if they try!”[ccxl]

  Marcus pulls out his battered gladius and rests it against his thigh. Soon, a Roman decurion gallops in from the right side of the field, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Get back to the fort!” the decurion exclaims. “The Syrians are coming. Thousands of them!”

  The officer’s riders approach, halting behind their leader. The equite glares down at Marcus. “Let us pass, Tribune. We’ve got to get inside the camp!”

  These are the men who were commissioned to guard the river, Marcus realizes. “What is your name?” Marcus demands.

  “Aureolus, from the house of Junia,” says the young decurion.

  “Well, Aureolus Junia, you ran from your post!” he glares at him. “Now you turn your ass around and get ready to fight! We’re not hiding inside our camp!”

  Hundreds of velites rush across the plain, devoid of arms and armor. They dropped their weapons to run faster Marcus thinks, disgusted.

  “The cataphractii are coming!” shouts an infantryman. He halts in front of Marcus and flaps his arms at him. “They’re right behind us, we have to get into camp!” He shoulders his way past the tribune.

  Marcus clubs the man with the pommel of his sword, crashing him to the ground.[ccxli] As the velite lies stunned at his feet, Marcus grabs Aureolus and drags him from his saddle, pressing his sword tip against his throat. “I’ll kill the next man who tries to cross our lines!” he yells. “I don’t care who you are!”

  He glowers at the frightened velites, his eyes burning with rage. “Get a javelin from the men behind you, Romans, and line up in front of me. You are going to reclaim your honor.”

  The abashed young infantrymen fetch spears and line up in front of the hastati. Marcus sends the cavalrymen onto his flanks, with orders to strike the attackers’ rear lines. The Romans and Thracians wait, eyeing the horizon.

  A silver strand glimmers above the distant scrublands. The strand takes on the jagged outline of a horde of armored riders. Antiochus’ cataphractii thunder toward the waiting Romans, their mailed horses gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

  The velites peer nervously over their shoulders, trying to see if Marcus Aemilius has changed his mind. “Get ready,” the tribune shouts at them.

  Thrax appears at Marcus’ side. “Let us go at them first, Marcus. My men know how to handle cataphractii, we’ve fought them before.” He grins malevolently. “We have a special surprise for them.”

  Marcus says nothing, pondering his choices. Thrax grasps Marcus’ bicep. “They destroyed our homeland! Let us have them.”

  Marcus nods. “Go at them, then. May your Ares be by your side.”

  “He is always with us,” Thrax replies with a grin. “We are the war god’s children!” He nods toward Marcus’ cohorts. “You take care of whatever infantry is coming.”

  Thrax trots back to his tribesmen. He puts his fingers to his lips and whistles three sharp, penetrating notes. The Thracians spring to life, lining up in the spaces between the cohorts. Each unarmored warrior lugs two javelins and an eight-foot spear with a hooked end.

  The cataphractii close upon the front line velites, aiming their twelve-foot lances at the velites’ unprotected bodies.

  This won’t do us a shit’s worth of good, but those boys have to be men, Marcus thinks. “Loose!” he bellows, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  The young Romans hurl their spears at the cataphractii. The javelins fly into the oncoming warriors, clacking harmlessly off their armor. A few spears find their way into the horses’ shoulders. The horses whinny and rear, tumbling their riders to the ground. The hastati and principes cheer.

  “Retreat!” Marcus bellows. His hornsman trumpets Marcus’ command. The relieved velites dash for the cohorts.

  Marcus turns around and waves at Thrax. The chieftain nods. He whistles twice, and repeats the command. Two thousand Thracians trot toward the cataphractii. Thrax runs in the lead, his wolfskin cape flapping against his shoulders.

  The lumbering Syrian cavalry tilt their lances toward the chests of their ancient enemies, aiming for a quick kill. The cataphractii close upon them. The Thracians spin sideways, holding their crescent shields tight against their bodies. As their opponents thunder past, the Thracians’ barbed spears snare the wire underpinnings that support the cataphract’s scaly armor.[ccxlii]

  The Thracians yank the cavalrymen sideways, toppling them from their horses. Weighted by ninety pounds of armor, the Syrians crash heavily to the earth. Stunned and encumbered, the Syrian noblemen are easy prey for the merciless Thracian swords.

  Hundreds of cataphractii fall along the front. The Syrian attack line becomes filled with bloodthirsty Thracians stooping over fallen Syrians, jabbing into their throats, armpits, and intestines—anywhere they find a gap in their armor.

  The front line cataphractii wheel about to attack the Thracians. Hundreds of Thrax’s men fall, but still they persist. Many leap onto the backs of the Syrians, pulling their heads back until they fall off their horses. The rear lines of cataphractii rush into the battlefront, lancing down more Thracians.

  Marcus Aemilius watches with growing dismay. There’s too many of them. They’ll wipe out Thrax’s men. He summons his four senior centurions, and the decurion of the fleeing cavalry. “Forget formation and discipline, that’s
a mob scene we’re entering. I want your men are to attack at will. Aim for the hands and feet!”

  Marcus grasps the decurion’s wrist in a viselike grip. “As soon as you see me run across that field, I want your men attacking the flanks. You hear me? If I see even one of your men run for camp, I’ll kill the both of you!” Aureolus nods mutely.

  The centurions rush back to their respective cohorts. Marcus walks ten paces out in front of his men, his back to the battle raging a mere spear’s cast away. He raises his blade high.

  “For Rome and the Republic!” he shouts. The cry echoes across the line. Marcus strides slowly toward the battle, then breaks into a run. The hastati and principes follow, yelling at the top of their lungs. They Romans attack like a mob of crazed Gauls.

  Aureolus sees Marcus plunge toward the battle, running ahead of his men. “At them!” he yells to his men. The Roman cavalry loop toward the flanks of the battle.

  Marcus’ soldiers crash into the front line of cataphractii, hewing at them from every angle. The battle lines fill with screams as the Romans jab into the Syrians’ exposed feet and hands. Hundreds of cataphractii whirl about in circles, beset from every angle. Dozens of Romans and Thracians fall to the cruel lances, but hundreds of cavalry lie by them. The Thracians vault onto the riderless horses, attacking the cataphractii with their own lances.

  The Romans move into the rear of the enemy cavalry, blocking the lance assaults with their sturdy curved shields. The Syrian riders begin to retreat, dismayed by the relentless swarm of their enemies.

  Aureolus’ cavalry plunge into the sides of the Syrians, weaving through their slower opponents like antelope through cattle. Scores of cataphractii race for the river.

  Thrax dashes back and forth through the swirling melee, shouting commands to his troops. Having left his spear in the back of a Syrian captain, he fights on with his beloved polearm. Thrax slashes into the legs of a passing rider, his sickle blade gouging through the stiff rawhide wrappings.

  A flash of black catches his eye, swirling behind the rear line of cataphractii. He sees a black plume nodding above a black cape. Antiochus! He’s there behind his men!

  The world narrows for Thrax. He sees nothing but the bobbing black helmet in front of him. The Thracian chieftain crouches low, praying he will not be seen. He slinks through the milling cataphractii, studiously avoiding any combat.

  Antiochus looms less than a spear cast away. Thrax eyes the six guards that surround the king. He summons himself for a final charge.

  A silver-masked warrior steps into the space. He points his curved sword at Thrax and beckons him forward.

  It’s Nicator! Thrax realizes, his heart hammering with excitement. At last!

  The Thracian stalks forward, his eyes fixed on Nicator’s chest. The Syrian commander widens his stance and balances on his toes, his curved blade poised by his side. He steps toward Thrax.

  “Where are you going?” Antiochus cries. “I need you here!”

  “I will return soon, my King,” says Nicator. “There is someone I promised to meet.”

  Thrax slows as he closes upon Nicator, studying the assassin’s stance. The Thracian lowers his shield, covering his legs. With an ear splitting cry, he sprints toward Nicator, his polearm cocked for a killing thrust.

  Thrax swoops his blade at Nicator’s head. The Syrian leaps sideways, readying his counterthrust. Thrax alters his cut in mid-strike, curving it downward to the spot he anticipated Nicator would move to. The blade slices across the back of Nicator’s calf, drawing a bright ribbon of blood.

  Nicator leaps backward. He glances at his bleeding leg. “For that I will carve out your intestines while you watch.” Nicator stalks toward Thrax.

  Thrax stabs out with his polearm. Nicator slaps the thrust away and springs next to Thrax’s chest. The Syrian rams his silver mask into Thrax’s face, splitting his nose and forehead.

  Thrax staggers backward. His polearm drops from his hand. Nicator pivots on his left foot and scoops Thrax’s feet with his right, dropping him onto his back.

  The Syrian is instantly upon him. He plunges his sword into Thrax’s chest.

  The Thracian gasps. Nicator pushes the blade deeper, slowly twisting it. “You thought you would kill me, Thracian hog? How does that feel?” Thrax’s face contorts in a rictus of agony. He glares into Nicator’s shadowed eyes.

  “See how this feels,” Thrax growls.

  The Thracian’s left hand grabs Nicator’s sword arm. His right hand flashes to his belt, yanking out his dagger. He chops it into Nicator’s side.

  Nicator gasps. He yanks out his blade and pushes it toward Thrax’s face, intent on shoving it into his forehead. Thrax’s iron hand pushes back Nicator’s sword arm, his knuckles whitening with the effort. He plunges his three-inch blade into Nicator’s side, the blade slapping wetly through muscle and intestine.

  The Syrian batters his shield against the side of Thrax’s helmet. Thrax’s dagger strikes again, slicing into the Syrian’s stomach.

  Nicator cries out in pain and rage. He slams his shield into the Thracian’s face. Thrax’s hand falls from Nicator’s sword arm.

  “You stupid fucking puke,” Nicator spits. He eases the point of his blade into the space between Thrax’s glassy eyes, watching the blood trickle down his nose.

  Marcus Aemilius slams into Nicator, knocking him flying. The Syrian rolls over and springs to his knees, but his attacker is already upon him, throwing him onto his back as if he were a doll.

  In one furious motion, Marcus Aemilius grabs the sides of Nicator’s helmet and slams his head into the hard winter ground. The Syrian’s face plate flies off.

  Marcus gasps, momentarily, transfixed by Nicator’s scarred and pustulent visage. “Monster!” he blurts. He grabs Nicator by the ears and rams his head into the ground, again and again. The Syrian’s red-rimmed eyes roll up into his forehead. Marcus releases his grip.

  “Watch out, Roman!” a gruff voice bellows. Twenty Thracians dash past Marcus Aemilius. The mountain men swarm over the six cataphractii galloping toward Marcus. Six Thracians leap onto the riders’ backs, while the rest hook into the Syrians’ mail. Within seconds, all six are upon the ground, spasming out their life.

  Marcus drops the unconscious Syrian’s head onto the ground. He locks his rock-hard forearm around the Syrian’s lower jaw, and grabs the top of his head. With a mighty twist, he breaks Nicator’s neck.

  The tribune rises from the convulsing corpse, his chest heaving. He staggers over to Thrax. The Thracian leans on one elbow, coughing dark blood. Marcus’ eyes well with tears, but he forces a smile. “That monstrosity’s dead. I got him.”

  Thrax bares bloodstained teeth. “You got him? I softened him up for you. If you hadn’t got in the way, I’d have his head right now!”

  The somber Thracians encircle their fallen leader. Marcus kneels over Thrax. He puts his hand behind the Thracian’s neck, supporting his sweaty head. “Apologies, Chief. I did not mean to interfere with your kill.”

  Thrax’s chest wracks with a hacking cough. Clots of blood fly from his mouth. “It does not matter. He is dead. And I will join him.”

  An elephantine Thracian bends over Thrax, tears trickling from his eyes. He starts to wrap a strip of his tunic about Thrax’s red-stained chest. The chieftain waves him off.

  “You have more important things to do, Gravlix,” Thrax rasps. He looks around. “Where is my polearm? Give me my polearm!”

  Gravlix hands Thrax his weapon. He shoves it against Gravlix’s chest.

  “Put his head on this.” Thrax tells Gravlix. “Show it to the Syrians. That will do more good than bandaging a dead man.”

  His men shuffle their feet, reluctant to leave him. “Gods damn you, do what I say!” Thrax barks, spitting out more blood.

  Gravlix draws his sica and bends over Nicator. There is a wet, crunching sound. He lifts up Nicator’s bloody head and jams it onto the curved point of Thrax’s polearm, twisting it back and forth to sec
ure it. The enormous Thracian lifts the polearm high. His tribesmen cheer.

  Thrax grins, his eyes squinted with agony. “Go. Show them all. Show them our victory.”

  Thrax falls upon his back. He closes his eyes, and shudders. His eyelids open. Thrax stares sightlessly into the heavens.

  Marcus waves over a group of his legionnaires. He points at Nicator’s head. “Come on, we’re joining the Thracians. We’re going to show this to Antiochus.”

  Scores of Thracians join them. The small army tramps toward Antiochus and his guards, attacking any who dare stand in their way.

  Antiochus does not notice the attack party. He stares over his shoulder, back toward the plain he had raced across mere hours ago, when victory seemed so close. Where are my infantry? And King Darya’s archers? Where is Hannibal? What the fuck is going on?

  The sound of clashing weapons becomes more audible. A dozen of his guards abruptly gallop toward the battlefront. Antiochus turns to see where they have gone.

  He sees Nicator’s ghastly visage staring at him, bobbing from the top of a Thracian polearm. Scores of Romans and Thracians stalk toward him, with dozens more battling Antiochus’ guards. A diminutive Roman marches in front of them all, with murder upon his face. His yellow-green eyes are fixed on Antiochus.

  “Sound the call!” Antiochus shouts to his entourage. “Back, back to camp!” His bugler sounds two long, plaintive notes. Antiochus gallops toward the river, with the rest of his cataphractii following.

  “They’re retreating!” cries Marcus, and his men take up the call. The Romans and Thracians erupt with cheers. Thirty-four hundred voices unite in celebration of victory, and life for another day.

  Marcus does not cheer. He returns to stand vigil over his fallen comrade’s body, his head bowed in silence while the fierce Thracians kneel and weep.

  Moments later, Marcus lays his hand on Gravlix’s ham-sized shoulder. “Apologies, but we have to return to camp. We have left it unguarded.”

  The Thracians gather a dozen javelins and lace them into an improvised litter. They lift Thrax onto it, placing Nicator’s mask in the crook of his arm. The Romans fall into formation and march back to camp, followed by Thrax’s solemn tribesmen.