Dawn of The Eagle

by Francis Mulhern

  “They started the fighting and broke the sacred truce” roared Decimus, “the gods have spoken, and they will lose. The day is ours boys. For Rome” he bellowed the last words to great cheers from the ranks behind him. Marcus heard the message passed on along the lines of soldiers as the Centurions repeated it to their men and the cheer “For Rome” rose like a clap of thunder rumbling into the distance as the men clashed their swords on their shields in a great drum beat of noise which startled Marcus more than anything he had ever heard, yet sent a thrill of excitement through him at the same time. The trumpets blared and the phalanx of men moved forward as the Leves once again sprinted into no-man’s land to launch their javelins and sling bullets at the enemy.

  Chapter 2

  The command tent was thick with the smell and smoke from three soot-blackened iron braziers belching heat into the small space. The cool night air wafted through the tent and the noise of men working to erect a marching camp drifted in with the breeze.

  “I don’t understand what happened” said Decimus scratching at his blood-matted hair. “The Hastati walked in and the Aequii just crumpled and fled.” He looked around the tent at the ragged, blood covered faces of his fellow officers and added “if it weren’t for those damned Gauls we would have come out of this fight with hardly any casualties”, he looked around at all the other Centurions and members of the Equites who were cramped into the small tent and took a long swig from the silver wine goblet on the table in front of him.

  “Maybe the enemy could smell your breath, Decimus” said a portly, ruddy faced man at the far end of the table who was immaculately dressed in clean white toga and elaborately laced sandals. He half raised his goblet sardonically as he sat back in the campaign chair, which was bulging under his weight.

  “Ha bloody ha, Senator” said Decimus as the laughter spread around the tent and Decimus grinned inanely at the man. Senator Javenoli was an old friend of many of the senior officers on the campaign, as well as being a very well regarded general from previous campaigns. The Senator was certainly enjoying the wine and was calling for another refill when Postumius and Lucius entered the tent. As one the men rose and saluted.

  “Please gentlemen” said Lucius, indicating that the men sit as he reached for his campaign chair, unfolding it as he pulled it closer to the table.

  “A great victory” said Fabius Fulvius, a stern middle aged, white haired Eques, a cavalry officer, from the town of Tusculum, and he held his goblet in the air for all to salute the winning generals. “Even if the enemy were a bunch of women” he chided and brought more laughter from the men at his side as Fulvius slapped Lucius on the shoulder. They had known each other since Lucius’s birth and as an old family friend Lucius was pleased to have Fulvius in his company and was also pleased to see that he had survived the short but brutal battle.

  “Indeed” said Lucius smiling, his eyes quickly taking in the remaining soldiers in the tent. “How many men did we lose?” he asked looking for Decimus.

  The Centurion fumbled in a small box at his feet and pulled out the wax tablet with the report. “Just over three hundred, sir” he said “With another four hundred and seventy three walking wounded and we also lost four of the horses. We’ve counted over two thousand dead Aequii” he added nodding stiffly to the Centurions sat around the table.

  “Have we started the funeral collection for the families?” asked Lucius as Decimus nodded and waved towards the small black box on a table by the entrance to the tent.

  “We lost all three Cordia brothers” he added in a flat tone as he picked up his goblet. There was a moments silence before he added with a far-away look in his eye “you should have seen Amatus go mad when the Gaul’s took his younger brothers’ head” he made a swinging action with his arm and continued “he waded into them and killed about six of them before they could cut him down”. A general murmur and nodding of heads circled the tent.

  “Damn good workers those Cordia boys” added Javenoli, his bald head glistening in the heat of the tent and his neatly trimmed grey beard hiding his grim expression, “they’ll be missed” he exclaimed with true sadness in his eyes. While many nods and murmurs of assent went around the tent Postumius sat back in his chair and spoke over the noise. “That’s what the plebians are for though isn’t it? They give their lives so that their betters can look after Rome and its lands, feed them, pay them and keep them out of harm’s way. Without us they would have been dead to farm raiders years ago”. He re-filled his goblet and sat back smirking and looking to his small group of friends who laughed and raised their goblets to him in mock salute. Some of the other Patricians in the tent agreed with this and a number of heated debates quickly broke out as people argued for and against the role of the common people of Rome.

  Marcus was sitting to the right of Senator Javenoli and as the general noise of people arguing got louder and louder he could see the Senator was looking strangely at Postumius. Marcus had not joined in any of the debates and leant forwards and asked, in a loud whisper, “What do you think was the decisive action of the battle Senator?” The closest group to the Senator overheard his remark and stopped talking, looking instead towards Javenoli with a keen interest. The young man Marcus Furius had fought well today and many were warming to his quick intelligence and un-assuming manner.

  It had been Marcus Furius who had cut off the escape of the Gauls when the second line of Aequian Principes, the better equipped soldiers, had unexpectantly turned and fled. Marcus had quickly understood the advantage and pressed Decimus to close on the gap that had appeared between the two lines of fighting soldiers and to then turn and face the Gauls, effectively out-flanking them and cutting off their escape route.

  “Well Camillus” he said putting a hand on Marcus’s arm “Can I call you that as you have not had your naming ceremony yet?” he looked to Lucius, who nodded.

  “Of course Senator, if I can call you Gaius?” said Marcus.

  “Then we have a deal” smiled the round face of the Senator as he shifted in his chair to face the tent, a new light in his eyes as he became the centre of attention. By now all but a few members of the assembled Roman leaders had stopped talking and turned towards the Senator. The only face which seemed angered by this change in topic was Postumius who grabbed a wine pitcher from the slave and filled his goblet, spilling half of it on the floor as he did so and flashing an angry look at Javenoli.

  The Senator recounted the early moves of the battle, and Marcus found himself re-living it from his own viewpoint. It was remarkable to him how others saw the movements of troops and individual fights differently to what he had seen amidst the dust and noise of the fighting. The initial crash of the phalanx, fighting in their Greek style, had quickly led to the second rank of Aequian troops, the Principes, turning and running as the front rank crumpled under the weight of the Romans. Often the phalanx style of fighting would be hours of pushing and shoving from each side with hardly any casualties and the largest phalanx were often the winner by merit of brute force alone. Yet for some reason the Aequians front line had turned, leaving only the Gauls standing to face the Roman attack as they stood and fought in small groups rather than the traditional phalanx. Their fighting style had been particularly effective as they drove into the Roman phalanx in short bursts before retreating to a safe distance and returning to equal success again. Marcus wondered if it was the poor quality of weapons or just the many young boys he had seen in those front ranks of the enemy that had caused the sudden change in the battle lines of the Aequii, but others argued that the gods were on their side and so the Aequians had no chance in the battle regardless of the strengths or weaknesses of individual soldiers.

  As they were outflanked by Decimus and his troops the Aequii had quickly been overcome and the Romans gave chase to them until it became too dark to hunt them down. Thousands had died. When he was unsure or had lost track of the movements of the battle, Marcus asked others in the tent how they had seen the battle from their v
iew, and as the night wore on the leaders of the Roman army used stones, goblets and coins to draw out the image of the battlefield on the campaign table in the centre of the tent and argued for their own roles in the great victory. It seemed to Marcus that each man seemed to think he had led the last charge to victory. The only voice remaining silent in the discussion was Postumius. Nobody seemed to know where he had been in the fighting, but he was certainly close to the front when the Gauls had finally been killed.

  Marcus was particularly interested in the loose formation used by the Gauls. It had been very effective until they were outflanked and Marcus quizzed everyone on their view of their fighting style. The ability of their small warbands to slice into the heavily armoured Hastati and come out almost untouched was debated long into the night. Lucius watched as his fifteen year old brother talked tactics with men who had fought more battles than he had years. They taught him as he questioned them and he learned from their experience. Lucius smiled as he happily drifted off to a wine induced sleep, his cup dropping quietly to the floor as his head nodded onto his chin.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning was clear and crisp with a small warm breeze blowing gently from the mountain. The camp was being dismantled and the horses were being watered in the brook, the smell of cooking fires lay heavy in the air as soldiers followed the pattern they had been used to in the previous months. Riders had been sent in every direction for miles, but no sign of the remaining enemy had yet been found and the hubbub of camp life filled the space around the army.

  Marcus and Lucius were with a number of the senior commanders at the shrine of Mars, erected in a small campaign tent in the centre of the camp, giving libations to the gods for the fight the day before when suddenly the peace was broken by shouting from the front gate of the camp. A knot of soldiers appeared to be brawling, kicking up dust and shouting loudly as they grappled with each other. Marcus finished his prayers, as a Camillus he knew it would not be right to leave the ritual un-finished so he continued, his head covered in his ritual hood, until the final chant had been completed. He then followed Lucius and a dozen officers as they strode across the camp to find Postumius had arrived before them and had apprehended one of the soldiers.

  “Tie him to the gate post and give him 20 lashes” he yelled at the Centurion who was clearly still drunk from the revelry the night before and struggled to stand straight. The Centurion looked to Lucius as he approached and delayed for a moment. “Bassano” yelled Postumius at the Centurion who jumped as his name was called, “do it or I will have you flogged as well”.

  Lucius stood twenty paces away and watched. It would not be seemly for him to countermand the orders of his fellow Tribune but he was acutely aware that the man to be flogged was his junior Centurion who had been decorated with the highest bravery award for the fighting the day before.

  “Brother” whispered Marcus arriving at Lucius’s side, “you can’t let him flog Mella, he is a Furii clansman and will be broken back to the lowest Principe and lose not only his rank but his decorations and the money awarded from his fighting yesterday too” he blurted out in a hoarse whisper, his face an unemotional mask as he watched the scene in front of him. Lucius shot a dark look to Marcus and said nothing.

  Postumius stared at Lucius and smiled. “Seems your man is nothing but a thief and a brawler after all, Lucius.” He said grinning and circling Mella as he was held down by three of Postumius’s soldiers.

  “He stole this from the Aequii yesterday and didn’t share it with his fellow soldiers” he snarled, his lip curling and his eyes narrowing as he spat the words. He waved a small brown cloth bag, which jingled as he did so. “It’s a good job he was seen by Fasculus” he added waving his arm towards a small thin man stood by his side and throwing the bag of trinkets to him. Fasculus stared at his feet but smiled as he caught the bag of coins and quickly hid it away in a fold of his tunic.

  “I didn’t keep anything back” raged Mella as he struggled to free himself from the grip of the soldiers, dragging them to the floor in a cloud of dust and kicking one in the stomach as he did so. One of the other soldiers punched him in the side of the head and he yelped as he collapsed and stopped struggling. Marcus took a stride forward but was instantly blocked by Lucius who walked quickly across him and directed him away from the scene. “As you order Postumius, he is yours to punish as you see fit” he added walking away and steering his brother with him.

  ********

  “But why?” demanded Marcus when they were back in the command tent minutes later. Lucius poured a small goblet of wine and added a double measure of water. “Because Marcus” said Lucius quietly and looking to the front of the tent to suggest that Marcus keep his voice down, “Some battles we cannot win. Postumius is annoyed that he did not distinguish himself yesterday in the fighting as you did and that we Furii took the glory. He is taking it out on those we support. You know he could have executed Mella on the spot or exiled him, twenty lashes is a small price to pay and Mella will know that too” he added softly but not looking Marcus in the eye.

  Mella had been Marcus’s Hastiliarius, his weapons instructor, at home and was as close to the boy as any man. Postumius would have known this and used it to take maximum effect without directly affronting Lucius. Under military rules any man caught stealing at camp or holding back spoils from the battle could be subject to fustuarium, death by the cudgel, where his fellows would beat him to death for his crimes. The punishment was usually condoned by court martial in front of the whole camp, but minor offences were treated by flogging or at worse with the individual being sent into exile, unable to ever return to Rome or her lands.

  “To react to him would place our position and his against each other and as one of the two Military Tribunes he will counter every decision I make, as is his right”. Lucius was right. Each year six military tribunes were appointed, and campaigns would often be led by two. Each had equal authority in the eyes of the law, though a senior Tribune with more campaign experience was usually given the lead role. In times where the Tribunes did not see eye to eye there was often stalemate and the campaigns would be nothing more than a season hunting bandits on the Roman roads with no bounty or spoils to speak of.

  Marcus fumed but said nothing.

  “You must learn to control your temper Marcus” said Lucius as he sat behind the campaign desk raising his goblet to his lips and watching his younger brother with his deep brown eyes. “In years to come you will be faced with the same problem. There will always be rich families who buy their son a place in the military and expect him to cover himself in glory. This year it’s that idiot out there” he said, breathing heavily and slumping back in his chair as he waved his arm nonchalantly towards the tent flap. “We need Postumius, his men and his money, you know that” he said placing the goblet on the campaign desk and looking straight at Marcus. “Without families like his these campaigns would be nothing. The people of Rome and the allied tribes who have signed the Foedus Cassianum fight for the families that look after them, pay them, feed them and give them places to live” he said as he turned to look at the guards stood by the entrance to the tent. The Foedus Cassianum was a legal contract between a number of the tribes on the Latin delta who agreed to fight together against joint aggressors and enemies. It also allowed the Latin League of some thirty tribes to have equal spoils from any victory at war and to jointly settle in conquered lands. Each tribe were to levy soldiers each campaigning season and were joined to the Roman legion, with each legion holding some four and a half thousand fighting men. There were usually two legions levied for each campaigning season, with addition troops drafted as required. The Foedus Cassianum had been a masterstroke of diplomacy which had ended many years of war and at the same time given the Romans the support they needed to march into and take much of the land around the Italian peninsular. The Patrician families could then levy the land to their favourites and to the soldiers who fought for them, moving them up the propertied cl
asses of the plebeians.

  “Medullus there is one of our farm tenants at home” continued Lucius nodding to the thin, bearded man dressed in a red tunic and short blue cloak. “There are over a hundred Furii clansmen here, and it’s the same for every one of the Equites, as well as the levied men from the Latin League tribes”. The blue cloak of the doorman showed he was a member of the Furii household as did the quality of sandals on his feet and spear in his hand. The man grinned but did not move from his position nor look in their direction. “We need the people of Rome more than they need us Marcus” whispered Lucius leaning forwards so not to be overheard. “These plebeian riots and constant arguing at the Rostra to give them more rights to govern Rome are a symptom of our success, brother. Rome is growing faster than the Patrician families can control. The people demand more and more from the state, they have to give up their sons to military campaigns, they expect plunder and land to settle in to make a good living. If their sons die, they get nothing, and if they do not have other sons to fill their places, they will be evicted from their homes or die in poverty. Their lives are hard, brother. If they fall to the head count they will never raise themselves back to property” he said as he refilled his goblet with water.

  This was a reference to the lowest class of Rome, the common man, the Capite Censi or landless commoner. The Capite Censi had no property so could not join the legions, and in the Roman system they were simply called ‘those counted by head, not by property’. They often worked alongside the slaves of the rich or simply begged in the streets and their numbers had grown as Rome had grown, defeated towns in Rome’s expansion bringing all manner of vagrants to her door. Ex-soldiers and migrants often fell into this class of people if they could not make a living in the city. “Postumius and his clan care little for the plebians or the head count, he would throw them all at the Aequii, the Volsci and any other enemy that he could find. And there are many of the old families who agree with him” nodded Lucius watching his brother closely. “The Republic is still young and many want a return to the Kings. One master and not two they say,” he added, a reference to the fact that many plebeians were clients to Patrician families, paying rents or working for them, as well as to the state. Marcus had grown up in Rome and seen terrible hunger amongst the ordinary people. He had also seen how the Patrician families did their best to support their favourites, or simply taxed others to the point of starvation, but he did not understand the politics his brother spoke of.