The Fall of Veii- Part 2

by Francis Mulhern

  ****

  Marcus watched from the walls of Faleria as the movements below him played out. In the city captives were huddled together, bound by thick ropes and circled by a ring of spears as the Romans continued to scour the city. On the field the first movements had worked to perfection, the outer phalanxes circling as they created the dust cloud which would hide their movements before moving back to the camp, before the remaining men split, half towards the city, the other half to remain in a thin line across the battle field as a support should they be required. The movement, noise, smells and screams of the battle made Marcus feel truly alive. He mumbled a prayer to Mater Matuta and Fortuna, thanking the goddesses for guiding his plans and giving him strong leaders. As he spoke the men around him nodded and mumbled their own words. Marcus silently pledged three goats to the deities for their support and help, his mind going over the words as he considered what bargains he would have to use in the future. The Roman gods were fickle. They watched over their favourites but were as easily swayed to let them die as to raise them to glory, and each man bought greater and greater favours with the gods as his virtus rose in society. Each man had to bargain with the gods, not knowing if their offers and prayers would be listened to until the gods allowed their actions to be a success. Marcus touched the Eagle that hung around his neck as a reminder of the words he had heard all those years ago. He had bargained with his gods, he had given them great sacrifices and he had asked their favour, but he still felt the cold fear that one day they would turn their backs on him. His thoughts grew darker as he watched the camp, his heartbeat quickening as the Falerians appeared and rushed at the wooden palisades, Rufus and his men moving into a double time run to close the gap to the camp as quickly as they could. Dust and noise filled the air. Marcus glanced away to the right, where was Virginius? He felt himself gripping the tuff wall of Faleria, the white-grey stone brittle but strong as his nails scratched along the surface. Where was he? He cursed for giving the man his chance and shook his head angrily. Wait. There, at last, the horses appeared. Rufus was closing the gap, excellent. Falerians breached the trees as they scampered back into the woods but the main body of the attack seemed close to the gates. Marcus suddenly felt worried for his friend Potitus, had he made an error and left enough men to hold that gate? He rubbed his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a deep, heavy, breath.

  “Sir”

  Marcus, startled by the sudden words, turned to see Narcius appear ten yards away, his face stern but calm.

  “Yes Centurion”

  “The city is empty of everyone except a few stubborn old men and a few dogs. It seems the Falerians have fled” he said with a shake of his head and a glum expression.

  “Hmm” replied Marcus, his thoughts more concerned with Potitus’ situation than the city, which he had already guessed was empty. “Food, water, stores, and goods?” he asked as he saw Potitus move from the walls and start to run back into the fort.

  “Some, sir, but not much” came the reply as Narcius came and stood next to his Tribune. “Problem?” he asked softly, noticing the concerned look on Marcus’ face.

  “I’m not sure” came the half whispered reply as Marcus was clearly thinking.

  Narcius watched and waited for his commander to speak again. The noise from the camp was growing as men screamed and cheered. From this position neither man could clearly make out the activities at the walls and Narcius understood why Marcus seemed suddenly sullen. He’d noticed a change in his commander since he had been made Military Tribune. He seemed to weigh the burden of the leadership more heavily than he had done before when he was an adviser and a leader of small attacks. Leading thousands of men and the elite of Rome’s patricians was no easy task. Men like Virginius, Rufus, Caelio and even Potitus could easily make mistakes despite Marcus’ detailed and constantly drilled instructions, and every mistake would fall on Marcus’ shoulders to burden. Any loss would blemish his military record, not those of his junior officers. He glanced at the face of the Tribune, his eyes continually scanning the field and his mind working through what would happen next.

  “Potitus is a good commander” Narcius replied slowly. “They will prevail” he said as he saluted and headed back into the city to continue to oversee the garrisoning of the gates.

  “I hope so” Marcus replied.

  ****

  The line of men had been reduced to fifteen soldiers, the dead still being stood on by their comrades as there was no time to drag them out of the way. Spears were thrust through the lines, men darting left and right to avoid the deadly strikes. The rear line was now inside the gates, the front line slipping backwards under the press of Falerians.

  “Engage” called Potitus as he slipped between two of the Eagles and hefted his short round shield into the face of a Falerian, who, seeing the sudden gap appear, had stepped forwards to press his advantage. Before Potitus could move his long sword to follow up on his lunge with his shield the soldier to his left thrust his shorter, stabbing, sword into the face of the shouting attacker. The sword crunched into the man’s teeth, shattering the upper jaw as his shriek died in his throat and the man fell instantly, dragging the sword of the Roman towards the floor with the speed of his body’s sudden fall. Expertly the soldier regained his feet and had closed next to Potitus before the officer had even had a chance to raise and blood his elaborate, highly polished, weapon. Without another word the soldier called “Step” and every man in the front line edged forwards.

  “Get those bodies out of the way” yelled Potitus as he was barged from the front and his foot slipped on the slick of blood across a dead man’s armour. The archers, not experts with their swords had filled in the gaps but two were already down, one clutching at his throat as a stream of red leaked from a slice across his neck his bulging eyes telling the words his voice could not. Expertly the Eagle to his left thumped his chest with his right elbow and the man fell backwards, out of the way of his sword arm as the archers’ elbows were restricting his movements. Potitus had never fought like this, parrying, clawing, gripping his sword and stabbing forwards, not able to swing and bring the weight of the blade into action against the enemy in front of him. His arm tired almost instantly, the muscles tensing and tightening as his movements were constrained. His breathing became rapid and short as he lunged into an attack, his shoulder smashing into the shield of the man to his right who swore indignantly as a spear shaved his helmet, the rasping sound followed by a grunt as the Roman thrust his sword into the armpit of the Falerian, shrieks of pain echoing from the square roofed doorway.

  As Potitus edged forward at the command from the soldier to his left there was a palpable easing of the force of pressure in front of him, a sudden lessening of the weight of men shoving against them and then brightness appeared as gaps in the press of soldiers became spaces as the Falerians turned to run. Elated Potitus roared at the fleeing enemy and raised his sword, slipping on the corpse of a brown clad soldier as he tried to take a running step forwards before being yanked back by the scruff of his neck by the soldier to his right.

  Twisting angrily to stare into the eyes of the man, he growled “What...?” before the soldier shook his head with a grin and simply said “Sir, your orders were to stay here at the gate and not to give chase. That is someone else’s job.” He finished with a wink to his officer before returning his stare out to the front and a letting out a deep breath from his grinning mouth.

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  Chapter 6

  “How many dead” Marcus asked, his face cold as his senior officers stood around the room he had made his head quarters within the city. It had only been an hour since the Falerians had turned and fled, leaving over half of their number dead or captured in the field. The men had laughed and joked as they arrived at the briefing and soon came to telling tales of their own valour in the attacks, but Marcus had remained silent.

  His voice stopped the quiet conve
rsations in their tracks as heads turned to him and men stiffened. He was sat behind a thick oak table, a platter of meat and figs laid out in front of him, with several cups and an ornate black vase, probably Greek by the look of the mythical beasts on the glaze, next to them. The men edged towards seats, some of the more politically astute already grabbing the seats directly opposite Marcus so that they fell into his eye line. Marcus turned his head to Narcius as he was handed a series of tablets depicting the dead or injured from each century.

  “No more than sixty, sir” came the Centurions reply.

  Marcus nodded, his appreciation clear in his eyes. “A good result” he commented as he glanced around the faces in the room. “Has anyone found Quintus yet?” he asked sombrely with a shake of his head. Quintus Fabius had last been seen chasing Falerians into the woods, his sword swinging into the back of several as he screamed in rage at the fleeing enemy soldiers.

  “Not yet” came the reply.

  Marcus smiled as he looked up. “I am sure he is well” he said “though he may run a few miles before he realises nobody is with him” he added with a small shake of his head. Fabius was a favourite with many of the men, his friendly demeanour and rich old family making him easy to get along with as well as being a man to be close to if you wanted a good political career. A short rumble of laughter went around the room.

  “A job well done men” Marcus said as the heads of his officers nodded to him. “I will read your reports and recommendations for promotions and phalera before the night is out” he added as he patted several wax tablets to his left. “But, as some of you will know” he glanced to Rufus “we are not done yet” he said as a few of the officers cocked their heads in interest at his words. “Our task is to stop Faleria and Capena from being the needle that pricks our side at Veii” he said. “Tomorrow at sunlight we march for Capena.”

  Some of the officers glanced to one another, others grinned and nodded their heads, Marcus committed each action to memory as he watched the men, the cleverer, more stoically trained, simply looking at him with an expressionless look on their faces.

  “Narcius will hold the rear” he handed a wax tablet from a pile on his right to the Centurion. “Caelio” he said, looking up at the small faced man “you have the watch tonight and will follow with Narcius in the morning.” Caelio nodded.

  “Fuscus, Fasculus” you will lead the main body out at dawn” he handed two more tablets across. Glancing at the decreasing pile of tablets he looked to Potitus with a warm smile “you have the camp and the scouts, my friend” he added to a few nods from the men. “I want the reports from the scouts following the Falerian leaders relayed to me as soon as they arrive” he said with a nod.

  “Virginius” he looked up for the handsome face of the officer, whose features remained a picture of calm. “Eques” he stated, the patrician beaming as he saw this as a vindication of his actions in the battle and took the orders from the outstretched hand of his Tribune with a curt nod. Marcus noted the smile and inflation in the man’s chest and smiled inwardly. Giving the man a promotion might make it easier to palm him off on another Tribune later in the season. This had actually been Potitus’ idea and Marcus reminded himself that he must pay more attention to asking advice from his junior officers. Marcus was all for giving the man a dressing down and blaming him for the loss of several of his soldiers, something about which Narcius was livid. Virginius had been lucky that the Falerians had concentrated their efforts on the gates and not wheeled to attack and overwhelm the scorpions, which Marcus knew he would have done. He nodded to the officer, who nodded a warm response. How he wished he had Scipio running his Eques, Marcus thought as he smiled to Virginius as the man snapped his order shut and saluted theatrically.

  After handing out the orders he spoke again. “Have we collected all we can from the city?” asked Marcus with a half turn to Narcius.

  “Yes sir. The Falerians have stripped the city, It seems they took everything of value before they left.” He sighed before continuing. “The prisoners said that half their army is at Veii and the rest of the population has moved to Capena where they have been granted safety by the National Council of Etruria. They left the city in three groups over the past week with escorts from the Capenates.”

  Marcus took a moment to answer, his eyes narrowing as his thoughts ran through his head, counter thoughts fighting rational ones as he grappled with his next move. Looking up he caught the eyes of his senior soldiers, each one raising eyebrows as his eyes caught theirs and he grinned. “Then Capena will be doubly laden” he stated with a smile as a few of the men caught his meaning and grinned back before the slower officers caught up and started to mumble agreement with their laughter.

  ****

  “I cannot sanction any more” said the urgent voice, his eyes wide and fearful. “If the Senate find out I will be hung from the walls” he added as he stared at the greasy hands of his guest.

  A silence fell into the room as the Senator lay back on his couch and took a deep breath, ruing the day he had agreed to this scheme. Yes it had been successful and he had pocketed a great deal of silver, but it was starting to get dangerous as the Senate clamoured for an end to the war, some even calling for peace terms to be agreed with Veii.

  Wiping his hands to remove the chicken fat the guest nodded his head, his dark eyes and deeply ridged forehead frowning as he did so. The Senator knew he was working through ideas and options and decided to play the stoic, keeping his face and body movements to the absolute minimum as he sat and drank from a beautifully crafted wooden cup, the grapes and leaves standing proud from the surface as he raised it to his lips.

  “The King” the man said as he cocked his head to one side and turned his eyes to the Senator “has ordered me to offer you three pounds of bronze for a thousand arrows and two pounds of bronze for each thousand weighted stones” he said with his eyes narrowing.

  The Senator caught the movement in his eyes and tightened his jaw as he considered the increased rate for the weapons which he had been smuggling into the city. The stones were easy, he had his gangs of slaves scouring the fields to pick the best missiles. The arrows were more difficult as their production had already caused him to silence two local officials and the net around him seemed to be closing as his political enemies continued to spy on his every move. The wood alone was costing him almost his entire fee, but three pounds of bronze per thousand was a good rate and he licked his lips at the thought before he twisted his body back towards the guest. He contemplated the man, knowing that he was skimming off a decent profit himself and wondering where his gambit should be.

  “Agreed on the stones” he said, putting his hand up as the guest raised his eyebrows and was about to speak. Shaking his head and dropping his chin, whilst staring back at the Etruscan, he added, “the arrows are too difficult. It has cost me a lot of money to silence local officials.” He looked up and nodded “Four” he stated with a set jaw and a determined look.

  “Four?” spluttered the man, his dark pupils suddenly alone in a sea of white as his stare widened at the Senator and his mouth gaped. “Four?” he said again, shaking his head. “No, no Senator, I cannot agree four. The King” he continued shaking his head “he cannot afford such costs.”

  “The Alliance can” replied the Senator with no emotion in his voice. “Each day they sit back and watch the Veientines in their city. They send raiders to attack the Roman lines, but they avoid any major losses. As you know Camillus has been sent to attack Faleria and for all we know he has sacked the town” he said as a scowl came across the guests face. “If he has, then the alliance will want Veii to win and they will pay for supplies.”

  The guest swallowed loudly as the Senator watched his eyes narrow and his face grow stern as he considered the counter offer.

  “Camillus is indeed lucky”

  “Camillus is one of those fellows upon whom the gods smile with military intelligence and luck in equal measure” replied the Senator, knowin
g that he had his man as his features screwed into a grimace.

  “Four then!” he said with a look of anger as he held out his hand. Gripping it the Senator smiled.

  “In seven days I will have ten thousand arrows delivered to the usual place.” The guest marvelled at the words as he calculated the profit he would make from this transaction and a broad grin slowly crept across his face.

  ****

  “The winter comes and once again our men will freeze in their huts, deprived of their liberty and starved of the love of their families” called the plebeian councillor, his wide eyes protruding from his face. “Each year their land goes un-worked and their women are left to be raped by bandits and thieves” he added as he shook his head, a series of calls of agreement coming from the hundred or so men standing listening to him in the forum.

  “What can we do Apuleius?” called a voice, a deep scar across the man’s left arm as he raised a fist in the air. “The Senate have decided, the Tribunes have agreed with them” he called, his face a mask of anger.

  “Vote for me as Tribune, Virgillus. Vote for me and I will champion your cause, taking the true word of the plebeians to the Senate, not the soft over-fed words of the Tribunes this year. What have they given you? What have they done for you?” he called as the noise grew around him and the crowd cheered his name.

  As he waved his arms for silence two men wandered away from the back of the crowd, the taller man taking the hood from his head as he stepped around a beggar who was pleading for alms, his blind eyes staring pitifully into the distance as people avoided his stench.