Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  Involuntarily, Sextus’s eyes lit up.

  “If he does choose you, and you lead the same way as your predecessor, you’ll soon follow him to the funeral bier.”

  A flash of anger crossed the equestrian’s face, and Tiberius continued in a more ameliorative tone. “Sextus, don’t you understand that this is how the Numantines have kept Rome out? You saw it on our march here. They never took us on directly, they always nibbled at our heels until we tired and make some critical mistake. You can’t chase after them in their land, they’re the masters of ambush. That’s the only way they can win, there are too few of them to confront us directly.”

  Sextus’s angry expression gradually shifted to a begrudging, wary look, almost that of a petulant boy who knew that his lecturer was right but didn’t like it anyway. “Unless they all come together under one leader, like Virithius,” he muttered.

  Tiberius nodded, “Well, yes, that’s true. But they never seem able to stay together long. Too many squabbles among tribes. I’m merely trying to caution you, Eques, to ride clear of what they do best.”

  Sextus grunted and spurred his mount ahead. Tiberius sighed as he walked his horse along.

  The funeral pyre for Quintus Fabius burned high into the night, the white ash rising above the flames as if to join the other stars in the cosmos’ firmament. Mancinus stood rigidly, almost at attention as he witnessed the freeing of his most trusted officer’s spirit and body from common corruption.

  Tiberius entertained other thoughts. There goes the only witness to that part of my quaestorship when I was absent in Etruria. Who knows what creative accounting might have been accomplished between Mancinus and his right arm Fabius? Aside from the consul himself, only the gods know now. Pray they keep their peace if misdeeds have been done.

  Fires ringed Fabius’s mounded bier, the funereal flames of those who died with the senior tribune, plus those who died beneath Numantia’s walls. Except for the guards on duty at the camp’s walls, the entire army stood in honor of their fallen comrades. Once dismissed, they would straggle back to their tents to eat cold fare as the evening’s last meal. A swig of vinegary wine might wake them up long enough to wonder what tomorrow would bring.

  As soon as the priests finished their offerings and prayers, Mancinus snapped around to Tiberius and said in a low rasp, “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  They walked off among the troops falling out and plodding into the encampment, exhausted from the day’s events. Mancinus led Tiberius on a circuitous route through the back lanes of the camp close to the palisade walls so that they remained mostly in the shadows. Only Mancinus’s adjutant accompanied them, trailing behind.

  Soon, they arrived at the camp stables. Mancinus walked into the corral, past the strings of horses on either side toward the stable hands’ bivouac. Beyond them was a log lean-to which looked to be where the work was done to repair the auxiliaries’ riding gear.

  Tiberius noticed a small, open hearth burning charcoal just outside of the structure, white hot heat hovering over top. Two large, bear-like men wearing leather aprons and nothing else shifted metal rods and blades in the white coals of the fire, something he expected to see in the armory rather than here.

  And the smell, sickening and familiar. As they skirted the forge to stand behind it, he realized that he’d just smelled a more corrupt version of it at the funeral fires. Burnt flesh.

  Behind the forge beneath the lean-to, a naked man lay stretched out on a wicker raft. Or, what was left of the man. His feet were gone, his eyes burnt out, his ears and nose pussy messes of blood and charred skin. A Numantine warrior from the look of his hair, he moaned softly, plaintively.

  Mancinus stared at him, as if measuring him for the next step in his ordeal. He said to Tiberius, “He’s one of the Numantine horde who failed to escape or die, sadder for him. But listen to what he says.” He nodded at one of the men at the fire.

  The man slipped a long, white-hot blade from the fire and laid it on the Numantine’s already blistered and scarred chest. The howl of pain almost caused Tiberius to cover his ears reflexively, but he resisted the urge.

  The quaestionarius turned to Mancinus, waiting.

  “Ask him,” said the consul.

  He turned and spoke to the supine man, first in Latin, then in the Hispanic tongue.

  “Who are the Numantine allies?”

  The Numantine warrior slowly swung his head as far as he could on the rack without speaking. The quaestionarius turned to his partner, who handed him the burning iron blade. He faced the man on the rack again and proceeded to saw at one of his wrists until the left hand fell away. This time Tiberius put his hands to his head to dull the screaming.

  Oblivious to the horrible din, perhaps because he still wore his helmet, Mancinus told the quaestionarius to ask again.

  “Who are your allies? Where are they coming from? Come on, your sword hand is next, then your manhood. Who are they? Docius, the blade again,” he said.

  “No, no, no!” screeched the crippled soldier as the white hot blade separated his tendons until his other hand dropped to the floor. The shriek that followed roiled through Tiberius’s stomach.

  “Your allies!” shouted Mancinus in Latin.

  The Numantine’s eyes rolled back, and the quaestionarius doused his body with water, which sent him into a torso-wrenching spasm.

  After arching his spine several times, a silent howl shaped in his mouth, he subsided into an unsettling stillness. The quaestionarius leaned over and whispered to him, then moved his head around to bring his ear close to the wretch’s mouth.

  “The Beroni, Peledoni, and the other Arevaci. The Turmodigi, and Vacceci. The Vettoni and the Lusitani.”

  Mancinus looked shocked. “The Vacceci and Vettoni? The Lusitanes?”

  The quaestionarius nodded.

  “Dispatch him,” Mancinus said, as he turned his attention to another Numantine warrior, who hung, tied to the low crossbeam of the building in a makeshift crucifixion. The quaestionarius drew the hot blade across the neck of the maimed man tied to the rack at the same time that Mancinus said, “Did you see what happened to your brave comrade? Do you want to suffer the same, and die the same?” Mancinus said, the second quaestionarius translating quickly the consul’s words into the Numantine tongue.

  The hanging Numantine smiled a bloody smile of his own and spoke.

  “What did he say?” Mancinus demanded.

  “A bhás álain,” the quaestionarius said, “a beautiful death.”

  Mancinus scowled. “Kill him.”

  They walked by the shimmering heat of the forge and past the line of horses out into the welcome, cool spring air, Mancinus mumbling as he took long strides.

  “These Numantines have inspired a general uprising. We need to take down their fortress tomorrow, or we’ll be facing the entire Hispanic horde.”

  Tiberius gazed at him, startled. “You think that warrior told you the truth? They’re likely to tell you anything while being dismembered.”

  Mancinus briskly shook his head, “No, the story was the same from the other captives questioned before him. They all said that the Arevaci had united, which is natural, of course. But the Vaccaci and the Lusitani? And all the other tribes?” He swung his head, “No, we must win tomorrow.”

  After a moment of self-reflection, Mancinus jerked his head up. “Prepare your troops, Tribune. We storm Numantia at dawn. No reserves, five legions full force.”

  He pounded his fist into his hand and strode off toward his tent. Tiberius watched, then hurried to his own quarters to call attention to Casca and the other centurions of the battle looming.

  Chapter 15. Assault

  In the dark just before daybreak, all of the legionaries mustered behind the camp palisade. Rain poured down on the troops, chilling them as they awaited the call to march forward. Except for the cold, they didn’t mind the change in the weather, thinking that the darker it was, the harder it would be for the Numantin
es to target them. The priests had performed a rather perfunctory sacrifice before the battle, struggling hard to keep the sacred flames afire long enough for the battle auspices to be deemed good. Even as the holy sacrifices sputtered, the immunes sighted in their mangonels and ballistas to pummel the Numantine defenders and demoralize their families. Mancinus had split the auxiliaries, putting them on the flanks to blunt any soirees by the Arevaci horse, either from the city or the surrounding woods.

  This time, Mancinus had decided on speed as the only way to storm the walls. Therefore, the immunes had worked all night crafting new, lightweight ladders for the troops to climb the relatively low walls of Numantia. They would run up the mount with the ladders over their heads, which would protect them somewhat from the defenders’ arrows and spears.

  When Mancinus laid out his plan of attack, the tribunes never changed expression, though Tiberius figured that they all contemplated the same thoughts. If they could take such a drubbing the first time, with men well-protected behind wooden barriers, how bad would it be running to the walls in the open slowed down by ladders made unwieldy by the rain and wind? No matter, the consul had spoken, and the Roman legions would follow through. It wouldn’t be the first time that the grit of the legionary had succeeded despite overwhelming odds. But the cost would be high.

  Tiberius had dismounted and sent his horse to the rear. He stood in front of the maniples of the Ninth, which occupied the left wing next to the Fifth, which shared the center with the Eighth. On the far side, the Second held the right flank. A single legion guarded the camp, mostly made up of wounded men from the last encounter who were mobile enough to man the parapets.

  Sextus’s half of the auxiliaries rode on the right flank with the Second, where the steep grade made it difficult for them to maneuver their mounts near the walls. The left flank fell away to the two rivers, presenting the other cavalry contingent less in the way of physical obstacles, except for a dangerous narrowing of ground near the water’s edge. Given these obstacles, Tiberius didn’t expect the Roman horse to play a telling role in the attack, outside of keeping Numantine riders at bay. The success of the assault hinged, then, on a frontal charge of 20,000 soldiers up the mountainside and over the walls.

  The thought caused him a ripple of memory, the mad rush across the mole at Carthage, Fannius at his side, the death of Casca Capito, and all the others falling around them amid chaos. Since that time, he’d often relived that harrowing charge, feeling stark fear set in even while sitting around the fountain in his placid peristylum. Then, he would get up and look for Claudia or the children, anything to distract him from that time. Now, that ambient fear had returned in full force. The dread he felt as he readied himself to plow up that slope cut his breath short. He’d come full circle, back into the nightmare horror where he had never wanted to be ever again. At Carthage, he sweated in the burning sun before they crossed the mole. Here in Numantia, he sweated again, this time in the dreary cold of a wet, spring dawn on the high plains of Hispania. Again, he could never show such dread in front of the Roman troops surrounding him, men who expected him to lead. Craven instinct would pull at him to run with fear, but honor dictated that he race full out toward the plane of death.

  Gorge climbed up his throat, which he forced down with several swallows. He glanced over at Casca Naso, who gripped and regripped his sword. The centurion’s broad face seemed twisted with resentful anger, as if he hated the Numantines even more for daring to threaten him at all. Tiberius clamped down on his teeth, hoping that determination would win out over the sense of panic that he barely could quell within him.

  The cornicenssounded the order and the Roman mass began to move forward as one, quick-marching up the gentle part of the slope, slapping their swords against the sides of their shields. Mancinus had commanded the shield beat, declaring that it never failed to strike fear in the hearts of Rome’s enemies. The tribunes wondered if the troops would be better off doing their best to slip up the slope silently under cover of darkness. No way of knowing now, Tiberius thought as he turned and nodded at Casca.

  Casca, bellowed leonine-like for the Ninth to advance. The men shouted back with a ragged roar, hoisted their ladders up and started trotting forward as fast as they could. Tiberius paced himself up the hillside, trying to breathe evenly. As they advanced, he noticed the lines of his men closing ranks involuntarily as he knew they would from his first survey of Numantia’s seemingly natural defenses. Rock outcrops with jagged edges funneled the lines of the Ninth into the path of the left flank of the Fifth’s line, slowing their progress. Still, no missiles flew over the Numantine walls. Tiberius could see the advantage for the enemy to wait until the entire Roman force had been crowded together.

  He stopped running and called out an order to Casca, “Form column!”

  Casca relayed the order, soon followed by the other centurions, and the Fifth shifted from their three-line maniples into a narrowing column of fours, Velites trotting loosely on either side. The pace of the Fifth immediately picked up, causing them to move slightly ahead of the long legionary line. As soon as the other tribunes saw that the Fifth was breasting the line, they ordered their troops into the same formation. In the middle of the shift, the hailstorm of fire began from behind the Numantine walls. Rocks came first, then bolts and arrows pouring down on them, appearing suddenly out of the dark rain like wraiths turned into hardened snakes. The men staggered, slipping on the slick surface back into the men coming up behind them. Tiberius urged them forward, and Casca whipped them with his vitus from behind. The men rallied and forced themselves up, encouraging each other, helping to their feet those who had fallen.

  Even so, the columns formed by the four legions were closing in on each other again. Tiberius barked to Casca and Shafat to double the pace. The men responded by bounding out ahead of the front lines of the legions, some dragging their ladders, some holding them in front as they ran. The first chain of Numantine walls was just 300 feet ahead, the rocks and projectiles flying behind the Fifth’s charging mass. Arrows still sliced through their ranks, though, filled quickly by men behind. Without an order from Tiberius or the centurions, the column spread naturally in front of the wall, throwing up their ladders with shouts of triumph. In a matter of seconds, they would be up and over the short wall, raging to destroy their tormentors cringing on the other side.

  Tiberius stood back, waving the rest of his men on with his sword. He glanced back and saw that the Fifth and the Eighth would soon reach the crest. They’d join the fight in an instant, and it all would be over in short order, Tiberius thought. No equal force, much less a smaller one, could stand up to the might of Roman legions. Numantia would fall. He joyously turned back to the fray.

  The cornicens suddenly sounded their horns. Retreat.

  Tiberius looked back again, unsure. The curved horns blared again, and he realized that he had heard right. The Fifth and the Eighth had halted their ascent. They milled around, some going ahead hesitantly, others reluctantly stepping back, flinching as a boulder fell among them, others dropping from bolts striking them. The horns called again, and the legionaries seemed to melt away.

  “No!” cried out Tiberius. “No, no!” he shouted again at the disappearing legions. Casca ran up, bellowing, “What’s happening? Where have they gone?”

  Tiberius raised his voice above the din, “They’ve retreated. Pull those men off the ladders, we’ve got to get them back down!”

  Horrified, Casca scowled as he pivoted and rushed up, bellowing at the top of his voice to fall back. Shafat and Didius soon picked up the cry, and the men began to come down. Tiberius ran up and down the base of the wall, dodging missiles thrown from above. Sacerdus Quarto was halfway up a ladder, his shield above his head when he heard the call to withdraw. He started down the ladder when a boulder knocked his shield aside followed by another that smashed his head, knocking him into his son on the rungs below. Quarto’s son cried out, cradling his father in his arms at the bottom of
the ladder. Tiberius moved over to them and saw immediately that the old centurion’s head had been crushed.

  “He’s gone, Quarto Minor, you can do him no good. Get up and get back.”

  The young Quarto, Severus by name, glared at Tiberius. Before his tribune could say another word, he stood up, lifted his father’s body over his shoulder, and trotted down the hill. Tiberius slipped under the ladder against the wall to avoid the plummeting projectiles. He watched the young man and his burden fade down the side of the mountain under the eyes of the gods, no doubt, arrows falling all around without striking them.

  The ladder crashed to the ground, prodding Tiberius to move out before he was hit by anything from above. By this time, Casca, Didius, and Shafat had moved the men back, some carrying wounded comrades on their ladders. Others fashioned a haphazard testudo overhead to protect them from the missiles piercing the engorged, black sky above Numantia.

  As the Fifth legionaries scurried down the incline, Sextus appeared on the summit trailed by his auxiliaries.

  “What in the name of the gods happened?” Tiberius shouted to him.

  “The Numantines attacked our camp at the farther gate. Mancinus signaled for the recall.”

  “Did they breach the palisade?”

  “No, but the men inside panicked and ran for the front portal. As soon as they opened the gates, a gang of Numantines rushed inside. They had the rear portal opened in no time, and their horsemen overran the compound.”

  “Dis in Hades!” Tiberius cursed. He looked around, realizing that the roar of the battle had faded. Sextus’s men had formed a ragged line to shield the descending troops, but by this time, the Numantines had stopped firing, unwilling to waste more of their arrows on the few Romans left clinging to the slopes.