by Dan Wallace
Sextus spread a vulpine smile. “I speak theoretically, Quaestor Sempronius. I meant no insult, certainly not of anyone above my station, of which there are many, even in this camp.”
Tiberius was about to retort when a crashing noise and tumultuous cries rose from outside their tent. Both men gripped the hafts of their swords as they bolted out of the tent. They saw a throng of legionaries milling around in front of the Praetorium, blocking their view.
“Out of the way!” shouted Sextus, pushing the soldiers aside. Tiberius followed him, stepping in front to see what was going on.
In the middle of the camp forum before his tent crouched Mancinus, holding one hand at his throat, a trickle of blood seeping between his fingers. His other hand held a dagger at the back of the neck of a small figure pinned to the ground by the consul’s sandal on his head. Sextus noticed a small boy appear behind the consul from inside the tent, then bolt away, hugging the canvas side until he was out of sight.
“Demons of Hades,” cried out Tiberius in a whisper, “that’s Lysis!”
Sextus was confused, until he realized that Tiberius meant the youth under Mancinus’s foot, not the fleeing boy. Lysis, Tiberius’s man servant, he thought.
“This little Greek maggot tried to assassinate me!” roared Mancinus. “I’ll cut his head off with his own knife and hang it from my standard as an example!”
Mancinus moved his foot between Lysis’s shoulder blades, and grabbing his hair with his free hand, pulled his head up and brought the blade to his throat.
“Lysis!” Tiberius shouted out at the top of his voice.
Startled, Mancinus held up. Sextus and the rest of the onlooking crowd of soldiers turned their eyes to Tiberius who shouted again, only this time in a language unknown to them.
Lysis cried out a muffled sentence from beneath Mancinus’s sandal.
Mancinus stared at Tiberius, dumbfounded. Then, he gathered himself and slowly started to bring the blade back to Lysis’s throat. But Fabius stepped in and whispered into the consul’s ear while gently grasping his forearm. As he whispered, he glanced toward Tiberius.
The blood left Mancinus’s face, and he raised the knife from Lysis’s neck. “All right. Tribune Gracchus, this little Greek is your, yes?”
Sextus watched Tiberius step further forward in front of the crowd, which seemed to number every legionary in the army.
“He is my slave.”
“Then, deal with him.”
Mancinus pulled Lysis halfway up by his tunic and flung him at Tiberius’s feet. Lysis peered fearfully up at his master, but Tiberius stared straight ahead.
“Casca!” shouted Tiberius.
“Sir!” snapped Casca, who had quietly moved to Tiberius’s left shoulder.
“Crucify him. Put him with the Arevaci.”
Casca grabbed Lysis by the neck and marched him stumbling off in the direction of the gate. Mancinus nodded briskly, dropped the knife, and swept back into his tent.
The men drawn to the tumultuous scene gradually turned back to resume their duties, helped along by the vitae of their centurions. Tiberius stood still in the middle of the camp forum until Sextus suggested they return to his tent.
“Wait!”
Fabius slipped up to the two men. “This is yours, I believe, Quaestor?”
Wearing an unctuous half-smile, Fabius held the knife thrown down by Mancinus by the blade, the haft resting on his forearm. Tiberius resisted the immediate reflex to reach for his scabbard as he recognized the knife. Its beautiful engraving and gold finish marked it as the blade given to him by his mother, his father’s knife. He hesitated, then took it from Fabius. Instead of putting it in his empty scabbard, however, he headed back to his tent holding it in his hand.
Fabius looked at Sextus and smile smugly. Then, he pivoted and entered Mancinus’s tent after a perfunctory knock on one of the wooden poles.
Sextus could not believe what he had just seen. Why did that crazy Greek sliver of a slave try to kill Mancinus? And why did Tiberius shout? Did he really cry out to save the slave? Maybe he wasn’t just writing letters when he was hiding away in his tent. Even so, to risk defying a consul, what enchantment did this slave hold over him?
Sextus shook his head, still flabbergasted by the weirdness of it all. Well, that was the end of Tiberius’s military career for sure, he thought. It might be a good time to request a transfer to another legion. My Mural Crown might stand me in good staid for that, he thought.
Time to check on the interment of Triumph. They should be close to finishing, now, or they better be since the camp was fast disappearing onto the backs of the legionaries. Sextus hiked over to the stable and picked out a horse to ride to the grove. He galloped as much as he could, but his mount was a nearly worn-out nag, good only for transporting men with leg wounds on the march. But he made do.
The men burying Triumph had just finished putting on the last few spades of earth when Sextus loped up. Good, he thought, they knew their officer well enough not to dawdle.
He jumped off the horse, which did its best to bolt away. A couple of the exhausted men ran stiffly after it while Sextus walked to the head of the grave. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a twist of hay and a small pouch. From the pouch, he took flint and stone and started a small fire with the hay. Then, he laid some incense on the small flame, causing a feathering of smoke up to the sky as he prayed.
“Mighty god Mars and goddess Diana, take the spirit of my wonderful warhorse Triumph to your breast and away from the black shades of Hades. Let him run hard among the clouds and introduce him to Pegasus’s mares and fillies to start another great line of warhorses. For, he was a great one himself, second only to Alexander’s Bucephalus. Bring me his colt so that I may honor you both again in the field of combat and hunting the hart.”
That was as good as he could do, he thought, but fat chance that he’d see another horse like Triumph. Still, he owned the Mural Crown.
He left the grave and saw that the two men, bent over and breathing hard, had been able to run down the old nag, which stood behind them nibbling grass. Without a word, Sextus strode over and mounted the horse. As he started to ride, he told the men to return to their posts to get ready for the march.
The horse walked back toward the camp, Sextus allowing it to have its head as he thought deeply about today’s occurrences. He still couldn’t dismiss the strange behavior of his commander. Bewitched, perhaps, by some satyr or imp, he mused. And what had he said to him in that bizarre tongue, clearly the speech of demons. The boy had spoken back to him in the same language.
This was too much, he thought, his brow furrowed. He pulled on the reins and dug his heels into the nag, pulling her away from the camp and its hay and wheeled toward the field where they had planted the Arevaci prisoners and the deserters.
Approaching the grove of crucifixes, Sextus found the smell to be almost overwhelming. He yanked the neck of his tunic up over his nose and wandered around through the forest of hanging men. Birds pecked at them, crows at the eyes of both the living and the dead. Eerily, it was quiet with very few plaintive voices crying out their mortal misery. Most of them were dead or dying, he thought, quick to go with almost all their energy sapped by the battle itself. As he passed by men who until recently had been fellow legionaries, he averted his eyes, hiding the sense that a flogging would have done the army better rather than Mancinus’s queer form of decimation for desertion.
Eventually, he saw a small group trudging back to camp, soldiers he knew from the Ninth. As he passed them, he saw one figure standing opposite a cross. On the cross hung the Greek slave.
Sextus dismounted and walked up next to Casca. The Ninth’s First Spear was a hard man whom he didn’t like much for both his forwardness and silent disrespect. Despite his heroics, Casca Naso could never match the valor of an eques, being stuck on foot as he was. And, he was the son of a slave himself, not so far removed from the one hanging above them. Yet, he had his airs.
Sextus gazed up at the slave, seventeen he supposed, but still not a much of a figure of a man. Striking, though, with his raven hair and those sorrowful eyes. Understandable that he could be attractive to those who went for that sort of thing. Tiberius, though? And, the lad could sit a horse pretty well, he recalled, better than Tiberius on that massive gelding of his that the boy exercised. Done with all that now, he thought. So, what was it about him?
Casca started to walk away when Sextus called to him, “Centurion.”
The broad-backed man halted, allowing his shoulders to drop, and swiveled. “What?”
“A sad day, eh? Tiberius’s man servant and all.” Casca pivoted to go, and Sextus hurriedly said, “What do you think made him do it? Shout, I mean, to stop Mancinus?”
Casca stalked back to Sextus and planted himself inches away from his face. Sextus stood a good six inches taller than the Centurion, but somehow Casca seemed to look down upon him.
“Sextus, you’re a self-centered, ridiculous jackass. A good soldier, but a jackass, nonetheless. Tiberius had that boy in his household since he was nine years old. Slave or not, he was a member of his family. And, now this.”
“Oh,” said Sextus.
Again, Casca made to leave when Sextus said, “So, what did he say? I mean, when they spoke in that barbarian language, what did Tiberius say to him?”
Casca sighed, “It was Greek, you fool. Tiberius asked him why he’d attacked Mancinus.”
“And?”
“The boy said the consul had killed his family and taken away his little brother.” Sextus appeared completely bewildered and Casca continued. “Mancinus and Fabius fought in the Corinthian war when the city was razed. Lysis is from the Corinthian peninsula. The timing is right.”
Shaking his head slowly, the centurion seemed to muse sadly. “Perhaps he’d recognized Mancinus when we first joined up. But seeing the consul with another young boy like his lost brother ….” Casca trailed off.
“Gods above,” murmured Sextus.
“Right. No matter, our tribune is Roman and does what is required.” He looked up at Lysis, silent in agony. “Orders are orders or I’d finish this for him. But I must do my duty, too, of course.”
Casca left.
Sextus peered up at the youth struggling for breath, his huge eyes cast down, unfocused but imploring. The eques mounted the nag and yanked the reins to turn, then jerked them again until he’d done a complete circle, glancing once more at the slave on the cross.
Then, he said to himself, Well, it’s not my duty. Wheeling around once more, he drew his sword, thrust it through the little slave’s heart and galloped back to camp.
The army was on the march at last. Sextus trotted up to his horsemen, who rode on either flank of the Ninth as they awaited further orders. The five legions were strung out over several miles, with both the head and the rearguard in the hills, out of sight. Sextus was surprised to see that the auxiliaries he could see flanked their legions closely. He would have thought that they would be out scouting for ambushes and other enemy activity.
“Ah, here you are, Eques.”
Sextus twisted around to see who called him even as he recognized the voice. Tiberius walked his horse up, holding the reins of another trailing behind him. Something struck Sextus as odd, until he realized that Tiberius wasn’t riding as high as he usually did. Then, it dawned on the young equestrian that the quaestor-tribune wasn’t on his dappled warhorse, but on a smaller bay mare. The horse he led behind him was his big war horse Chance.
Tiberius smiled, though Sextus could see deep wells of pain in his eyes. He looked drawn, too, worn out.
“You’re the Ninth’s eques, Sextus, and a good one, a brave leader. You need a good mount beneath you to do your best, like you did at Malia. The survival of the legion could depend on it. So, here,” he said, handing the reins to Sextus.
“You’re giving me your horse?” Sextus said, completely baffled.
Tiberius shrugged, “I’ve never been much of a horseman. This sweet mare is good enough for me. I know you’ll make good use of Chance in defending the honor of the Ninth. So, ride, Eques.”
He smiled at Sextus again and walked the mare away to the front of the legion.
Sextus could not believe his good fortune. Maybe he prayed to the gods better than he knew. He shook his head again at the thought of Tiberius. What a strange one he was. But here was his horse.
Sextus slid off the nag and jumped up on Chance. The horse reared uneasily for a second until it recognized the sitting of an old hand.
What a steed! exulted Sextus, balls or not. He slapped its flank and bolted out in front of the auxiliaries at a quick gallop, then curved around and back, thinking to himself, Maybe I’ll hold off on that transfer request for a bit.
Chapter 14. Numantia
Avarus and Rhetogenes sat under a large tree taking turns sipping from a wineskin. They wore glum expressions on their faces, not looking at each other as they spoke.
“And the Malian heroes?” Aravus asked.
“We cut them down and laid their bodies on the sacred stones,” said Rhetogenes. “We left the Romans hanging. Let them rot until they fall.”
“Why would they crucify their own men?” Avarus said.
“Deserters, cowards, something like that.”
Avarus nodded. “Any survivors in the town?”
“None that we could find. Those that lived must have fled, both from the Roman murderers and to find water and food. The earth was scorched.”
Avarus bit his lower lip. “They stormed Malia.”
Rhetogenes dipped his shaggy head up and down, “According to the few who escaped, the Romans were on their heels until they sent in another legion. It seems one horseman rallied them, and they swept up and over the walls. From his description, I thought this chieftain might have been Gracchus the Son himself. Instead, it appeared to have been a man much like him in height, though younger from what I heard.”
Avarus said, “Yes, Tiberius Gracchus is almost as tall, but a little bit older―not nearly as old as we are, of course. The other man is the captain of his cavalry. I saw them both when we were surprised at the riverbank. The young horseman led riders around our flank to attack us fiercely from behind at the same time that Roman foot soldiers surprised us on the hillside. The young Tiberius rode with more riders and the rest of his foot soldiers back upon us from the far end of the riverbank. We barely got out. I saw Gracchus leading his men into the middle of the clash. He rode a giant grey horse and raised his sword when he saw me. I swear by the great gods, he was the image of his father.”
Rhetogenes grunted. “Maybe we’re lucky he isn’t leading all of the Roman soldiers.”
Avarus said, “It was a simple maneuver, but we rushed right into it. How he managed to get those soldiers past us into the hills without our knowing . . . . The Romans are such poor fighters in our land, terrible on the hoof. What they are good at is sending more and more soldiers to bludgeon us. They’re good on foot, and at bringing down walls.”
“And, they are closing on Numantia.”
Avarus scratched his belly scar. “True. A week, maybe a little longer. They march slowly, slower than the other Roman armies.”
“Have you been pressing them?” Rhetogenes asked.
Avarus grimaced, “It’s harder now. That cavalry captain of Gracchus’s? He has his scouts riding in numbers around the ridge tops. It’s difficult for us to gather without being seen and chased ourselves.”
“So, what do you do?”
“We draw back and wait. They’ll get sloppy and slack off. Then, we can go after them again.”
“But won’t they arrive at Numantia before that happens?” Rhetogenes asked, puzzled.
“Yes, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Besieging the city will occupy their horse even more, which will give us a better chance to chew on their flanks again.”
“Meanwhile, the Romans could bring Numantia’s walls down. They’re
good at that, I’ve been told.”
Avarus looked for the first time in the conversation directly at his old friend. “Megavaricus and Thurro agree, the only way to defeat the Romans is to have them think that the battle is for Numantia. While they turn their forces to breeching the city walls, we will turn on them and drive them out.”
“You think this is a good strategy? You think it will work? Is it worth the risk of losing the town, of risking Sicounin and your family?”
Avarus appeared unnerved by the question, which he quickly covered with an expression of resolve. “It’s the best chance we have. Remember, Numantia has never fallen, not to the Romans or anyone else.”
Then, he stared straight ahead into the afternoon light.
At last, the forward Roman units reached Numantia. Velites emerged from a shallow wood that covered a low hill in front of the elevation where the great Numantine stronghold town was situated. Hastati followed, and as soon as they saw the walls above them in the distance, they spread out into loose maniples. The sight in front of them was daunting. Numantia covered a hill only a few hundred feet in height, and the fortifications seemed rudimentary, two twelve-foot walls constructed of stones and wooden beams wrapped around the slope in concentric rings. Timber towers covered with shingled roofs bolstered the walls, though these, too were of modest height, maybe fifteen to twenty feet each. A seasoned architectus might surmise at first that siege towers could dominate the walls in short order. Slowly, though, details began to register with the Roman scouts.
Two rivers, the Durius and the Tera, met on Numantia’s left side, severely compromising any assault at their juncture. On the right side of the city, the hill fell off sharply, clearly impossible to traverse without fixed ropes or railings. The middle part of the hill formed a V that led up to the gates, a high arx itself with towers on both sides. The approach sloped steeply up and lay directly in the path of missiles, arrows, and spears. Nothing but scrubby grass grew on the promenade, bare of any other cover except for occasional outcroppings of sharp-looking rocks. This was the place where every other Roman army had failed, where elephants brought by Nobilior to crush the Numantines were stampeded instead back on their own troops, causing an outright panic. Shaken, Nobilior retreated to a former camp where his legionaries froze or starved to death during the winter. Another campaign lost.