Governor Lucius Furius Purpurio rides in the vanguard, a man as wide as he is tall. Nicknamed “Crispus” by his admiring soldiers, the bull-bodied magistrate is anything but curly-haired—his head and face are as hairless as an egg. Furius Purpurio ignores the jibe; he knows he has the men’s respect.
Furius leads his army toward the plumes of black smoke rising miles to the northeast, where the Cremona garrison is located. His army marches with a pace which mirrors their leader’s conduct in battle: steady and unrelenting, always forward. There is little talk among the Romans: they have marched all night to get here and they are far too weary for conversation. They dream of a hot porridge breakfast, with a drink of wine to wash it down. And sleep, blessed sleep. In the meantime, they nourish themselves with dried cheese and fruit, knowing they may be fighting at any minute.
The governor eyes the faint plumes of smoke. “Those are too small to be a burning city, Quintus.”
Quintus rides next to the governor. His head wrapped in bandages beneath his new helmet, protecting the wound he received at Placentia. “Those fires are too big to be cooking fires, though,” he says.
“Perhaps they are the smoldering remains of another Gallic celebration,” Furius remarks. “The brutes celebrate all the time. I only hope it is not a victory celebration.”
The lead scouts race in from the direction of Cremona. They rein in their lathered mounts in front of Furius and Quintus, their eyes alight with excitement.
“Good news! The town is still intact!” a scout says.
“The Gauls are strewn all over the fields there, they are busy gathering food,” the other adds. He cocks an eye at Furius. “Their camp is almost empty.”
“They could be very vulnerable to a surprise attack,” Quintus says. We could catch them in the fields.”
Purpurio shakes his head. “There’s still forty thousand of them, from what I hear. That’s a lot to fight without preparation. And my men are exhausted. I will wait until we make camp.”[lv]
He eyes Quintus. “You are exhausted, too. When I met you returning to Rome, I should never have agreed to let you come along. It would be better if you stayed out of this.”
“They killed my men. They killed my friends. Was I supposed to sit idle without any chance for revenge?” Quintus growls. He looks away from Purpurio. I am sorry I didn’t come home, Horatia. I could not live with myself if I didn’t do this.
“As you wish, Quintus. Just remember, you promised to stay out of the fight.”
Quintus eyes the smoke plumes, his mouth tightens into a line. “I will do my best.”
Miles to the north, two scouts race in to the Gallic camp, seeking their commander. “General Hamilcar! The Romans are coming! They are only a few hours away!”
Hamilcar nods to Luli. “Now it starts—the battle for north Italia. Sound the recall.”
Riders gallop out into the field, blaring the call to prepare for battle. Thousands of bare-chested Gauls raise their heads from the fields they are harvesting with their swords, listening to the summons. They drop their loads of forage and trot toward camp, blade in hand.
They come upon Hamilcar circling his stallion at the front gates, waving the warriors into the pentagon-shaped camp. “Inside, quickly. Get to your weapons!”
The men line up outside the crosshatched logs that serve as the camp palisade, ready for a Roman assault. More of Hamilcar’s scouts return. They report that the Romans are occupied building camp, and pose no immediate danger. Hamilcar laughs with relief.
“Fools! They should have got at us while we were dispersed,” he tells Luli. “That will be their fatal mistake.” He jumps from his horse and paces about, excited. “Go get the chieftains. We have to prepare for a full assault tomorrow. We’ll hit them quickly, before they have time to organize. What a victory it will be!”
The three tribes’ chieftains are in Hamilcar’s tent within the hour. “We have more than twice their numbers,” says Hamilcar. “If you rotate your front lines, we can hold them in place and eventually outflank them.”
He glares at the three Gallic officers. “That means your men must be ready to fight all day. No drinking tonight! When the sun rises, everyone must be ready and sober. Do that, and north Italia will soon be yours!”
The chieftains nod solemnly, and rush out to prepare their armies. Hamilcar turns to Luli. “You know, I have changed my mind—we can take Rome. After we destroy this army, no one blocks our path south to it. We could do what Hannibal never did: throw down its walls!”
“We shall see,” Luli says. “The Gauls can be temperamental. If they thinks their lands are secure from Roman incursions, they may just want to go home.”
“Pah! When we tell them about all the plunder, all the soft patrician women, all the slaves that are there for their taking, they will run to Rome!” He rubs his hands together. “I’d love to see the faces of that Carthage’s Council of Elders when they have to negotiate with me instead of Scipio and his ilk! Ignore me, will they?”
The next day’s dawn finds the Gallic camp swarming with activity. Thousands of Gauls strap on their helmets and weapons, cursing about rising so early in the day—and about their dearth of wine the night before.
Forty thousand infantry pour into the field and group themselves by their nations: the Boii are in the center, Ligurians on the right, and Insubres on the left, each tribe grouped about their clan’s standard bearer. The field is filled with tall poles holding the heads of bears, wolves, elk and other beasts, with multicolored squares of fabric flapping beneath them.
Hamilcar rides out to the center of his army, his black stallion caparisoned with blood-red ring mail. He holds a silver sarissa over his head, the twelve-foot spear glinting in the sharp morning sun.
The rams’ horns sound behind him. Hamilcar slowly trots to the head of his men, his silvered armor gleaming. The Gauls march forward, following Hamilcar’s shining spear.
As his army closes upon the Roman camp, Hamilcar speeds up his trot. The Gallic horde follows at a rapid march, flowing toward the somnolent castra.
Lucius Furius Purpurio’s attendant shakes him from bed. “The Gauls are coming! They’ll be here within the hour!”
“Sound the call to arms,” orders a bleary-eyed Furius. “Get my lead tribunes in here immediately. And bring the allied commanders.” The praetor’s officers soon gather about him, strapping on their bronze cuirasses and greaves.
“Listen carefully, we don’t have much time. Claudus, your allies will form the front line, and Marcus’ cohorts will back them up.[lvi] Julius, you will lead the allied cavalry on the right, and Lucius will command our equites on the left.”
“The allies will be in the front instead of us?” says Marcus, irritated. “You are using our two legions as backups?”
“They are from north Italia.” Furius replies coldly. “They fight to preserve their homeland. They will not break.”
“What’s the strategy, then?” asks Quintus.
Furius rubs his forehead. “We can’t set a strategy, we don’t know what they’re doing yet. We’ll have to formulate one as we go.” He smirks. “Our plan is, don’t have a plan! Be ready to adjust! Now go!”
The officers race to position their troops. Furius turns to Quintus. “Stay with me, Quintus. We’ll be at the back of the front line, to see how the allies fare. If they can hold the Gauls, our legionnaires might hit their wings and get behind them.”
“I’ll stay near you,” Quintus says. He notices Furius looking expectantly at him. “And I’ll stay out of the fighting,” he adds morosely.
The two trot in behind the two front lines of allies. They join Furius’ two lead tribunes there, Gaius Laetorius and Publius Titinius.
“All right, let’s get out there and get into formation,” Furius orders.
The Romans form ranks with expediency and efficiency. Furius’ army is soon arrayed in battle formation a quarter mile from camp. They watch a mile-wide line of Gauls approach them, with Hamilcar riding fro
nt and center.
The Gauls draw within a spear’s cast of the Romans. With a wave of his hand, Hamilcar halts the advance. He surveys the Roman lines, trying to peer behind the Roman allies who face him. Why are the Romans in the rear? Their ranks are deep, but not wide. If we hold them in place we can surround them. He turns his horse toward his men and points his silver spear at the Romans.
“Victory!” He shouts, kicking his horse forward. The Gauls dash out, toward the Roman lines, screaming as they run.
The Umbrians and Etruscans stare wide-eyed at the wave of giants hurtling toward them. “Hold up your shields,” the allied centurions command. “Dig your feet into the ground.”
The soldiers extend their right legs behind them and dig their sandals into the soft earth. They raise their shields to their noses, nervously peering over the edges. Men void themselves in terror, gaping at the Boii, Ligurians, and Insubres who thunder down upon them. The odor of urine and feces wafts through the air.
With a chorus of delirious screams, the barbarians crash into the allied lines. They batter their swords and axes against the allied shield wall, shoving out their own shields to knock the soldiers backward. The disciplined socii counter with javelin stabs, pricking the Gauls’ legs and arms. The allied centurions roam behind the front line, shoving men into gaps. The Gauls cut down scores of their opponents, only to find each opening quickly filled by a fresh fighter.
Allied commander Claudus rides his horse across the two-hundred foot gap between his men and Roman cohorts. “Stand your ground,” the rangy old warrior yells. “They will tire out soon if you just stand your ground.” After an hour of furious fighting, the barbarians have pushed the Roman allies back a dozen feet, but have not broken their lines.
Hamilcar rides behind the Boii occupying the center. He can see the Roman cohorts readying themselves to replace them. We can’t break their center; we’ll have to outflank them with our numbers.[lvii] He waves over Luli.
“Get the chieftains to send their back lines to the side. When the horns sound, I want them to run out past the wings of the Romans and circle back inside. We’ll catch them on three sides.” Lucius starts to ride off, but Hamilcar grabs the shoulder of his tunic. “Get Lugos over here immediately.”
The massive Boii chieftain marches in from the front line, where he is leading the attack on the allied center. “I need your men to hold the center for an hour, Lugos. You don’t need to beat them back, just hold them off until we can circle around to the Romans.”
Lugos nods. He grins through his gore-spattered beard. “They no get by us. Anyone run from fight, I bash their head in.”
Minutes later, Hamilcar’s trumpeter blows three long blasts. The Gauls in the rear trot to the right and left, spurred on by their tribe’s chieftains.
Furius hears the battle horns sound. They’re up to something. He pushes his horse closer to the front, peering through the dust. He spies movement within the whirling dust clouds, shadows of men flowing to his flanks. They’re going to outflank us! If they get behind us we’re dead.
Furius can see the center line Boii are now only two deep, though they continue to furiously attack the allies. He waves over Quintus. “They’re going around our wings. We don’t have enough men to stretch past them, our lines would be too thin.”
“But their lines are thin, too,” Quintus replies. “We can cut through the middle. Their front has got to be tiring, and they don’t have many reserves.”
Furius looks across at the moving Gallic lines, and back at his own men. He looks back and forth again. His eyes glaze with confusion. He doesn’t know what to do, Quintus decides.
“Believe me, Governor, their center is vulnerable. You have two fresh legions, let’s go after them!” He leans closer to Furius’ ear. “You have to call the attack, Sir. And you have to do it now!”
The stout old warrior shakes himself, as if waking from a dream. His eyes relight with determination. He whirls upon his attendants, his face flush with excitement. “Get Lucius, Julius, and Claudus over here!” He bellows. The three commanders arrive within minutes, irritated at being called from the fight.
“They’re going to circle around our wings,” Furius explains. We have to stop them or we’re dead. Lucius, send your equites at any who cross outside our infantry flanks. Julius, do the same with your allied cavalry.”
“There’ll be thousands of them coming at us,” Julius says. “We only have about twelve hundred each.”
“Listen to me—this is important,” Furius says. “You don’t have to drive them back, you just have to keep them from going forward. You hear that? Just hold them! Claudus and I, we will drive them back in the center.”
“And if you don’t?” asks Lucius.
Furius smiles one of his rare smiles. “Then you should be glad you’ve got horses, because you’ll be the only ones to get away. Go!”
The two cavalry commanders disappear. Furius faces Claudus. “This is it. We are marching straight through that center. Your legions had better be as good as you say they are.”
Claudus puts his hand on his heart. “If my men cannot break that line, I will fall on my sword.”
Furius smiles again. “Don’t worry. If they can’t break that line, some Gaul will do the job for you. Get the men ready.”
The Roman cornu sound a long, plaintive blast. The Roman legions move forward. The young hastati march in the front, backed by the veteran principes, followed by the senior triarii. The legionnaires step sideways through the three-foot gaps separating the allied soldiers, slithering toward the battling Boii.
The Boii have begun to tire in the warm sun, their energies drained by their extended fighting. They hear an unfamiliar clattering, which grows ever louder. Then they see the Romans pushing their way to the allied front lines, endless columns of fresh soldiers stepping to the front.
Before the Boii can draw back and regroup, the Romans are upon them. The Romans push past the exhausted allies and march straight into the waiting Gauls. They ram their bossed shields into the Boii’s bodies and stab out their pila from between their shield wall, gouging their enemies’ limbs and torsos. The tiring Boii gamely bash back at the attacking Romans, but the legionnaires’ punctures and cuts take their toll. The Gauls’ shield and sword movements slow. Hundreds fall to the relentless Roman.
“Halt,” the Roman centurions shout. The legionnaires stop their advance. The Gauls step back from them, grateful for the respite. Many reach for their wineskins, eager for a deep drink.
“Loose!” the centurions shout. The Romans hurl their javelins into the back line of the Gauls. Scores of unwary enemies fall, groveling and moaning. “Forward!” the centurions shout, blowing their attack whistles. The Romans draw their swords and march forward, tramping toward the regrouping giants.
Lugos shoulders his way to front of the Boii. He plants his feet in the short clearing between the lines and waves his enormous cudgel at his men.
“Romans come to take our lands!” He screams. “We kill them now!” He rushes toward the Romans, a human juggernaut hurtling toward the arrow-straight lines of the advancing hastati.
A red-haired Gaul steps out behind Lugos, totally naked, to show his disdain for his opponents. “Come on, you women!” he shouts, and runs in after his leader. The weary Boii charge out again, screaming their defiance. The Ligurians and Insubres follow them from the sides.
Lugos rushes up to a young hastati and batters him backward, driving him into the man behind him. Kicking them on top of one another, he bashes the skull of the man on top. Another swing and he crushes the shoulder of the man beneath the dying legionnaire. The young soldier rolls on the ground, moaning piteously.
A gladius blade slashes across Lugos’ melon-sized shoulder. He roars angrily and swipes his club sideways, knocking the legionnaire away. Grinning with battle lust, he reaches under his loincloth and shakes his penis at the legionnaires. “Come fight me, little cowards! I put this in your ass!”
&nb
sp; The Boii swarm in about Lugos, battering at the Romans. The Roman line becomes jagged. Sections give way to the rejuvenated Gauls.
Furius rides back and forth in the clearing between the lines of hastati and principes. He sees dozens of his young soldiers fall, and his men ease backwards. They’re tiring after that long march, and losing their will.
The praetor catches the attention of his lead tribune, and gestures with his thumb toward the principes waiting behind him. The tribune nods his understanding. He shouts an order to his nearby centurions. The battle whistles blow again.
Javelins swoop over the heads of the embattled hastati. The principes march in to the front, edging their way between the retreating hastati. The veteran fighters agilely deflect the Gauls’ blows with their shields, patiently waiting for an opening in which to thrust their swords. Hundreds fall to the principes’ practiced blades, and the Gallic advance halts.
Furius and Quintus follow in behind the principes. The two gallop from one cohort to another, shouting encouragement. As he returns to the center of the battle line, Quintus notes the dwindling number of Boii. Their center is thinned—we can break through them. He grabs Furius’ cape and tugs on it, leaning in so he can be heard over the din of the fray.
“Furius, we can break through if we charge,” he says. Furius nods. “I’ll get my guards. We’ll form a wedge.” He looks about him. “We have to tell Claudus. Where is he?”
Quintus scans the front lines. He points to the right. “Over there. The fool’s going after that big naked bastard with the blue tattoos.”
Claudus steps out in front of his principes and rams his shield against the red-haired warrior, knocking him back from the legionnaire he was battling. The Boii jumps forward and swings his long sword at Claudus’ knees, aiming to cut his legs off.
The veteran fighter crouches with his shield held low, taking the brunt of the blow on its iron edge. Even so, the force knocks him sideways. Claudius lands on one knee, his shield falling from his numbed arm. The Gaul raises his sword back for a decapitating blow to Claudus’ neck.
Scipio Rules Page 13