by Dan Wallace
Sextus rode up with his auxiliaries and spurred them around to the left of the fortress-town galloping on the outside bank of the Durius River to the far side of Numantia. As he disappeared around the hill, an occasional arrow flew from the stronghold into the middle of the river, scarcely noticed by the pounding horsemen.
Mancinus and his entourage emerged from the woods in front of Numantia even after Sextus had ridden out of sight. Fabius rode at his side as did the tribunes of his legions. Tiberius took up the rear, partially because of the newness of his commission, but mostly because of the debacle of his slave’s attack on the consul.
“There it is, men, the thorn in Rome’s side, a jumble of stick huts clinging to an anthill.”
“An African-size anthill, Consul,” said Fabius, “surrounded by a well-disposed set of ring walls. Going up that slope will challenge the resolve of any legionary.”
Mancinus screwed his lips into a sour pout, as if someone had thrust a lemon in his mouth. “Our troops have proven themselves at Corinth, and now again at Malia. They’ll march up this hillock like it isn’t there and roll over those bowlegged chicken herders. Tribunes, form up the line. Make camp, then make ready.”
Just then, Sextus came storming back at the head of his flying horsemen and rode straight to the cluster of officers. Tiberius watched him pull up directly in front of Mancinus and Fabius, the consul’s senior tribune, without even a gesture or nod in his direction.
“What have you, Sextus?” Fabius asked.
“No getting in from that side. A sheer escarpment, deadlier than the Tarpeian Rock. Looks like it’ll be up through the front door, sir.”
“Well, the men are up to it,” Mancinus said dryly. “You are dismissed, Eques.”
Sextus walked his horse past Mancinus back to Tiberius. “I can see why this little bump has been such a tough nut to crack.”
“Mancinus seems confident that he’s the one to crack it.”
Sextus looked at Tiberius skeptically. When he realized that nothing else was forthcoming from the tribune, he moved his horse away toward where the stable area of the new camp would be set up.
The army, now 24,000 strong, pitched camp with an efficiency and cheer that must have been daunting to the Numantines watching from their parapets. The Roman soldiers sang bawdy songs as they dug the big, square trench as the perimeter of the camp. Once completed, they rushed with equal enthusiasm to hammer in the camp stakes of the palisade and to help to raise the gate and corner towers, singing all the way. For, their goal lay at hand, Numantia itself. Hispania was not Greece, there would be little in the way of silver, gold, or other rich spoils, Malia had proven that. Butt here would be wine, women, slaves, and glory for being the Roman army that finally forced the Numantine renegades under the yoke. Most likely, too, there would be new land for the taking.
Mancinus didn’t wait for his praetorium tent to be raised, he called for field tables to be put up in front of the camp construction. Surrounded by the tribunes, immunes, and architecti, he began plotting out his assault plans just out of arrow shot from the Numantine walls. The public strategy gathering was simple posturing, another deliberate ploy to demoralize the Arevaci tribe, another massive Roman army at their walls, another threat to their freedom.
Mancinus posed as the hard-jawed master of Rome’s relentless forces, sometimes defeated but never vanquished, never turned away. The Numantines could worry this knowledge in their minds as they watched the purposeful chaos of the Roman preparations. They could wonder if it was worth it to fight again because they only had to lose once in order to lose everything. Surrender might mean hostages and tribute, maybe even the execution of their leaders. The loss of a battle meant the loss of the war and the likely razing of Numantia, the death of most of their people, and enslavement of the rest. Remember what they did to Carthage; look what they did to Malia.
A lot for them to chew on, Tiberius thought. Despite the Consul’s playacting, he would be delighted if the Numantines simply capitulated without a fight. Tiberius was much more skeptical after his experience marching to Malia. Since then, he had learned, too, that the Hispanic tribes were warlike people who cherished death in battle. He found out that the rocky places where the bones and weathered scraps of skin and flesh had not been a dumping ground for slain foes. Local tribesmen had told him they were shrines to the warriors, that the birds that picked their bones lifted the spirits of these valiant heroes to their rightful seats next to the gods. Tiberius wondered at this elemental belief and the fierce, almost careless way in which they fought. Could death in battle be a goal as much as winning? If so, these renegades had an intense advantage over their enemies, perhaps even the Roman legionary.
In time, the camp was up, the watches assigned, and the legions in bivouac stared into the cooking fires warming their grain mash, plying vinegary wine as they waited. A few broke out instruments to play a tune and others joined in, singing bawdy lyrics with their tribunes’s, centurions’s and optios’s names replacing those of the original satyrs in the old songs.
The officers’ mess was the same, spirits soaring and invectives flying through the air. Mancinus had opened up his private wine store to toast his tribunes and their troops ready to serve Rome.
“To the Roman legions destined to destroy the Numantine stronghold,” he shouted out, and the rest roared. Tiberius turned to Casca and said, “Who has the last watch?”
“We do, Quaestor Tribune.”
“Good. Make sure they’re up to the task. No drunks.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Tiberius took himself off to the latrine, and among those in the trench, found a spot to squat. A shadow moving to stoop next to him blocked the torches from the camp.
“Salve, Tribune,” a voice from the dark said. Tiberius turned his head to find Ulpius scrunched down next to him. “Centurion. How goes it?”
“The wound is healing, sir, but too slowly. I’m still unable to step to. The surgeons say another week or so. ”
“Enjoy it while you can, Ulpius. You’ll be back humping with the rank and file before you know it.”
“True enough, but I do get bored.” His voice trailed off. “And, how goes it with you, sir?” the grey-haired spear asked.
“Everything seems to be in working order, here.”
Yes,” laughed Ulpius, “it’s good to evacuate before a battle.”
Tiberius didn’t reply.
“When my guts feel a bit balky,” Ulpius said, “I like to distract myself by trying to think up little ditties for marching. It keeps the boys’ spirits up, I think.”
“A useful pursuit,” Tiberius agreed.
They were silent for a time. Then, Ulpius sang.
“I once met a beautiful lady
who, sad to say, was very hairy.
When plying my stiff prick so precious,
I got caught up in all her tresses.
It took a barber and his knife to free me,
Now I’m a lesser man when I wee-wee.”
Tiberius stared at the dark, stooped shape next to him. Even in the dark, Ulpius must have felt his eyes on him. He said, “I know, I need to work on the last line the next time I’m here.”
As ordered, the immunes had made a score of thick-planked wooden barriers on wheeled sleds for the legionaries to push up the slope. In the middle was a shed with a V-shaped roof made of thick horse hides set on wooden wheels. Inside, the trunk of a large tree stripped of limbs swung from meter-wide, tanned leather straps, a half-dozen in all. The end of the trunk facing the city-fort had been hewed to a point and covered with a metal cap. Mancinus called up his beloved Fifth and Eighth Legions to man the ram and the blinds, with archers filling in behind them.
Tiberius’s immunes assembled their catapultas and ballista under the seasoned eye of Titius. They placed the machines next to the heavier mangonels with Tiberius’s Ninth Legion in support. Sextus joined the other army auxiliaries on the right flank to stave off any attacks by hor
se outside of the Arevaci stronghold. The Fourth Legion also was held in reserve, and the Seventh manned the camp’s palisades.
Mancinus rode his horse across the lines, ignoring the occasional arrow that fell around him. He barked a curt command to Quintus Fabius, who signaled the Cornicens to sound the order of the day. As if one, the catapults, mangonels, and ballistas fired in concert while the Fifth and the Eighth slowly pushing their wooden walls and rams up the mountain hill to the walls of Numantia.
Tiberius watched with grudging admiration. Whatever his misgivings might be about Mancinus’s casual approach to campaigning, the training of the Roman legionary looked to promise victory by default. Good or bad generalship aside, the Roman soldier might win any engagement simply for being the Roman soldier.
At first, the advance progressed deliberately in order. With the hail of projectiles and rocks raining on Numantia, not a soul could be seen above the parapets. One of the towers supporting the gateway to the city-fort took a direct hit from a mangonel boulder, exploding in a cloud of wooden splinters and dust. Muted cries of pain could be heard even at this distance, which caused some of the troops to laugh. Mostly, though, the stones and spears arched over the walls to plow into the city behind. They were less likely to hit the defenders, but they cleared the streets while terrorizing the people, always a desirable effect. The soldiers on the walls might not be able to help turning to look back to see if any of their family had been injured. Worry like this was sure to shake an enemy soldier’s resolve. In any case, not one Numantine missile had been fired in kind since the Roman’s barrage had begun.
The ascending troops, however, had slowed in their climb. The navigable ground to the city’s gates had begun to narrow, a natural funnel that caused the wooden walls to crowd together. The centurions called for them to take turns and form columns rather than lines, but the changeover had brought the massing legions to a crawl. Nearly brought to a standstill, the Fifth and the Eighth suddenly found themselves in the shade of a flight of Numantine arrows.
Without warning, hundreds of Numantine horsemen pounded out from around the left side of the fortress, appearing as if out of the air.
“Sextus said there was nothing but cliffs in that quarter!” exclaimed Tiberius. “They’ve come out of the two rivers!”
The Numantines swarmed around the backs of the wooden mantlets, slashing any Romans within reach or casting their short spears into their bodies. When the legionaries turned to face their assailants, arrows from the walls struck the soldiers in their backs. The Numantines completed their run behind the Roman lines and wheeled around before they came too close to the auxiliaries. Barely losing any momentum, they galloped back to make another pass at the confused and wounded legions in the front line.
Mancinus roared out another command, and the cornicens blew their signal. With Fabius and Sextus in the lead, the auxiliaries immediately charged to pursue the enemy riders. As they rode by, the Numantines took a few more strokes at the crippled legionaries, then simply ran east, away from the city toward the wooded hills.
Tiberius squinted as he watched the action unfold before him. Aside from the near disaster with the forward legions, who were now regrouping behind their wooden walls, something seemed wrong. Even as he realized this, a cloud of dust rose from behind the right side of the Numantine fortress.
“Casca, form up the men! Shields up, pila ready. Testudo! March them out to support the assault!”
Casca shouted above the din of the battle, and the other centurions picked up his call. The men moved into action, hurrying in a smooth, practiced motion. Tiberius spurred his horse as they marched to close the distance between them and the frontline troops.
But it was too late. Another column of Numantine horsemen tumbled down from around the right side of the city walls straight at the troops pressed hard against the wooden barriers. The riders spun their swords and spears into the packed mass of legionaries, cutting out large gouts of flesh and spraying blood as they sped by. They turned at the last to fire a parting volley of arrows point-blank at the huddled soldiers as they passed the end of the Roman line.
Casca ordered the pila cast, but the distance was still too great. Tiberius reined his horse to a stop. “Cack!” he shouted out as he saw the second Numantine cavalry group gallop behind the Roman auxiliaries running headlong in pursuit of the first group of enemy horsemen. Even if he couldn’t see beyond the forested hills, he could picture graphically what would happen to the Roman riders caught between them.
“Send them up, Casca. Get the survivors off of that hill!”
“Aye, sir,” shouted Casca, who turned his head to roar orders at the Ninth. The men held shields in front and above their heads, ignoring the arrows and spears slicing toward them from Numantia’s walls. Finally, they reached the beleaguered Fifth and cautiously passed them beneath their shields held higher so that the rescued troops could carry their wounded mates back with them.
Mancinus rode up to Tiberius.
“Jupiter’s bolts, what happened?” Mancinus cried out.
Without thinking, Tiberius said, “A minor massacre. I’m guessing several hundred casualties, maybe more.”
“Where did they come from?” Mancinus said.
“Two hidden passages on either side of the fort. One by the brush near the river junction, the other high up on the hill above their burying grounds.”
Mancinus set his jaw, muscles flicking at the edges. “That’s a trick they can’t use twice,” he said.
“They won’t need to. Look,” Tiberius said, gesturing with his head.
Sextus came back in a slow gallop at the head of perhaps half of the army’s auxiliaries, many of them riding wounded, barely able to keep their mounts. The crippled cavalry rode into the camp too fast, knocking aside several legionaries slow to move out of their way. Sextus pulled up in front of Tiberius and Mancinus, and only then did they see Quintus Fabius clinging to the tall eques’s back. Fabius slowly slid off Chance’s rump, crumpling into a ball.
Tiberius was off his horse at once to kneel next to Fabius opposite Sextus, who held the tribune’s head under his thigh. Fabius gazed up at Tiberius with imploring eyes, opened his mouth, yawned one bloody bubble, and died.
“He was far out in front of the charge,” Sextus said, “when the entire Numantine host suddenly reversed and attacked. He didn’t have a chance, they speared and hacked him off his horse before we could reach him. As it was, they rode right through us, we were so shocked. Then we were hit from behind by a second force. It took no more than a few minutes for them to cut down half of us, and they were gone. I gathered together those that could ride, picked up what wounded we could, and made it back here.”
Tiberius looked up at Mancinus. The consul’s face was flooded black with fury. “Form up your legion, Tribune, and bring back our fallen Romans. Eques, are you up to leading the way?”
“At your command, sir,” Sextus said, “But I’ll need a horse.” He turned his gaze to Tiberius and said softly, “Chance took a spear point in the breast. Not deep, though. He should survive, Goddess Diana willing.”
Tiberius nodded, and shouted to Casca to bring up the men with wagons and oxen teams. The Fifth assembled in short order, though the wagons seemed to take forever. In the meantime, the few surgeons traveling with the army did their best to treat the legionaries wounded in the assault. Many moaned from the pain, sending up constant lowing like livestock before a storm. A few shrieked loudly as an arrow was cut out or one of their limbs was removed. For those mortally wounded, the surgeons gave them opiates to ease the pain on their journey across the River Styx.
Once the wagons pulled up, Sextus road up on a small roan to join Tiberius at the head of the troops. “It’s not far, maybe a mile past that hillock.”
“I know,” said Tiberius,” I saw you all dash after the Numantines like dogs after a baby rabbit.”
Sextus’s lips formed a pressed white line. He said nothing.
The
men marched quickly, able to direct themselves by the horde of black birds looping back and forth just beyond the hill pointed out by Sextus. The velites signaled the hill cleared, and the main body scurried over the crest and halted. Again, the scouts encountered no resistance, and the legion marched on. Eventually, they reached the killing ground in a meadow on the other side of a ragged stand of trees. The velites had run off the vultures picking at the bodies of their dead comrades. Even so, the sight of their twisted bodies in rictus was hard to take. Tiberius was surprised to see that, except for the disfigurement caused by the ravens, the corpses seemed not to have been mutilated by the Numantines. Killed only, he thought, except for the handful found still alive, fewer than a hundred.
Their comrades gently laid them into hammocks made by stretching capes between four pila tied together and took them to the front wagons. The dead auxiliaries were piled into the rest of the wagons behind. Tiberius did a quick count―there must have been close to 500 casualties. His legion would be hard pressed to bringing them all back if the Numantines decided to attack again. Some 4,000 enemy cavalry still ranged freely in the field, essentially a one-to-one ratio. He seriously doubted that they would return to the city when they could inflict much more damage on the Roman army through ambush and harassment. He’d learned that much on the march to Malia.
“Casca,” he said to the primus sitting on a wagon. “Make sure the velites spread wide, and not just in front and rear, but on both sides up on the hilltops, too.”
The burly centurion nodded and strode off to pass the order.
Sextus cantered up to walk his horse next to Tiberius.
“Sextus,” Tiberius said, “the consul will need a true eques, now that his de facto cavalry captain is dead.” Shaking his head, he murmured, “Fabius had a penchant for taking over duties beyond his grade’s purview. This time it cost him his life.” He gazed up at Sextus and said, “My guess is that you’ll be the new head of horse.”