Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  Claudus plants his numbed left hand in the dirt and lunges forward on his knees. He jabs his gladius into the Gaul’s foot, splitting open the top of his arch. The red giant screams and totters sideways, hopping on one foot. Claudus scrabbles to his knees and plunges his sword into the Boii’s bowels, yanking it sideways.

  Bellowing in agony, the relentless Gaul swipes his sword sideways at Claudus’ neck. His weakened blow clangs off the boss of Claudus' shield. The tribune swings his sword with all his might. There is a crunch, and a scream. The Gaul’s arm falls off at the elbow, geysering blood. He falls screaming onto the earth, grasping his bleeding stump.

  Claudus drops his blade to his side, gasping to catch his breath. The principes cheer. With renewed heart, they charge into their opponents.

  He hears footsteps coming toward him. He turns just in time to see a wide-eyed Lugos running at him, his club clutched in both hands.

  “Yeaaaagghh!” the Boii warrior screams, his eyes glazed with murderous lust. He swoops down his tree-root cudgel. A fist-sized tree knot bashes into the side of Claudus' forehead. Claudus’ eye pops from its crushed socket, dangling on his cheek. Blood gushes from his gaping mouth. His sword falls from his hand as he topples forward, dead before he hits the ground.

  Lugos screams out his triumph. The Boii echo his victory and storm back into the Romans.

  Furius and Quintus watch Claudus’ triumph and fall. Quintus leans over the side of his horse, retching. “We have to break through now!” Furius blurts. “They are rallying.”

  He studies Quintus, concern on his face. “We’ll have to lead them.”

  “Don’t worry about me—I am fine,” Quintus shouts. “Just get your guards up here and let’s go!”

  Furius waves over the two dozen elite veterans that serve as his mounted guard. “We’re going right through the middle,” he shouts to them. “You three get behind me. The rest form a wedge behind them. There is no turning back—we make it to the open or die in the trying!”

  Quintus grabs Furius’ forearm. “I’m ready. See you on the other side!”

  Furius spurs his horse forward. “Make way, make way!” he shouts. The riders crash into the front line of Boii. They slash furiously at the enemy warriors who surround them, edging their horses ever forward.

  Lugos spies Furius’ black-plumed helmet. He instantly grasps the Romans’ plan. The Boii chieftain stalks over to the battling cavalry, gripping his bloodied club. I kill him, they all quit he thinks, his black eyes fixed on Furius.

  Lugos ducks under an attacking equite’s spear thrust. He swipes his club sideways and bashes in the Roman’s kneecap. The guard careens away. Lugos stalks on, fixed on Furius’ red-caped back in front of him. He sees the unprotected gap between the governor’s cuirass and sword belt. He can see the bumps of his naked spine. One stroke there. The chieftain scurries forward, grasping his club with both hands.

  A spearhead bites into the back of Lugos’ neck, at the join of head and spine. Even as he jerks his hand back to pull it out, the javelin plunges into his back again, and again.

  Lugos’ club drops from his numbed hand. He crooks his head over his shoulder. Quintus stands behind him on his horse, his dripping lance clutched in his hand.

  “You’re not killing any more men, you piece of shit,” Quintus spits, his face flaming with anger. With a lightning jab, he crunches the spearhead deep into Lugos’ ear hole, letting the pila dangle from the Boii’s head.

  Lugos scrabbles aimlessly at his face, his mouth working like a beached fish. He staggers through the battling equites and Boii, his arms twitching limply at his side. Finally, the dread barbarian falls onto his face. With a final kick, he lies still.

  His warriors pause in their assault, horrified at the death of the man they thought invincible.

  “Lugos is dead,” shouts a Boii. Other Boii take up the cry.

  Quintus hears it. “Lugos is dead!” he shouts in Gallic. “Lugos is dead!” The news echoes across the lines. The Boii mill about, confused and dismayed.

  “Now!” Furius shouts to his men, “Full speed.” He digs his heels into his horse and barges through the quiescent Boii. Quintus and his guards follow, their wedge formation widening the gap in the front-line Boii.

  Sensing victory, the principes barge into the gap, beating the Gauls aside. After stabbing down the second line Boii, the Romans break into open space.

  “Into their backs!” a centurion shouts.

  The principes turn about and attack the Boii from the rear. Now the barbarians are caught between Roman assaults from the front and the back. The Boii panic, colliding with their own men in their haste to escape. The Romans cut through them relentlessly, destroying the center of Hamilcar’s army.

  On the Roman left flank, the Ligurians march rapidly around the Roman wing, hastening to outflank the allies and attack the Roman cohorts behind them.

  Lucius’ cavalry stampede out from behind the allied line, aiming straight for the surprised Ligurians. Twelve hundred riders rampage through them, following Lucius’ directive to concentrate their attack there. The equites fling their spears into the lead infantry. They draw their swords and plunge through the disorganized barbarians, hacking at them from all directions.

  The Ligurians’ rear lines jam into their disorganized front-liners, limiting the Gauls’ use of their long swords and axes. Cutting into the edges of the Ligurian mob, the equites hew them down from every side. Hundreds of Ligurians fall.

  The Ligurians’ erstwhile flank attack turns into a chaotic, desperate rout. The Roman cavalry stampede the Ligurians back toward the Roman infantry that penetrated the Boii center.[lviii] The remnants of the Gauls’ rear lines break and run toward camp, flinging off arms and armor.

  On the Roman right flank, the Insubres fare even worse. Marcus has led his twelve hundred allied riders into the side of the oncoming Insubres. Most of his men are north Italians, people who have long been victims to the Gauls’ predations. The Italians cut into the barbarian infantry with a vengeance, striking down hundreds before the Insubres retreat.

  Directing the battle from the rear, Hamilcar watches his flank attacks break apart before his eyes. He notices that Furius and his men are destroying the Boii’s rear line, and he realizes the day is lost. I’ll have to rebuild my army. Another two years lost. Shit!

  “This day is theirs, Luli,” he says to his commander. “We’ve got to get to camp and get all our money. Then we get out of here!” The two wheel their horses about and gallop away.

  The Ligurians see the flash of Hamilcar’s silver armor behind them. “Hamilcar has deserted us!” shouts one.

  “That fucking Carthaginian has run away!” screams another.

  As the message circulates, the fierce Gallic army loses their last taste for fighting. They run toward camp, joining the thousands of Boii already fleeing toward its fragile safety.

  Furius watches Hamilcar’s army dissolve. He sees the Roman and allied cavalry roaming across the plains, stabbing down their unarmed enemies. He feels a jolt of pity for the victims, but he quickly quells it. Now to finish it. Give the tribes something to remember.

  “Looks like you have beaten, them, Furius” says an elated Quintus. “They’re running like dogs.”

  “Not yet,” replies Furius, his eyes fixed on the retreating hordes. “Hamilcar is still on the loose.” He turns to the two tribunes standing to his left. “Call the men to order. We are marching on their camp.”

  “When?” asks one of them.

  “Now! I don’t want anyone getting away,” Furius barks. The chastened officers gallop off to seek the other tribunes. A half hour later, the exhausted allies and Romans pause to reorganize their ranks. The soldiers refresh themselves with water and food, sprawling out a stone’s throw from the field of the dead. The battle horns sound again.

  The troops march toward the Gallic camp, spread out in a miles-wide line across the plain. The soldiers methodically stab into any enemy felled by their cava
lry, be they moving or still, ignoring any pleas for mercy. Furius and Quintus follow along in the center, directing the slaughter.

  Rufus rides in and salutes Furius. “There’s something you’ll want to see, Commander,” the scout says, nodding his head toward the enemy camp.

  Quintus and Rufus follow Rufus out to the right, galloping ahead of the advancing Roman army. The scout pulls up to a dead stallion, its body covered in blood red mail. A man in silver armor lies spread-eagled next to it, an Umbrian spear jutting from his spine. Another in Carthaginian armor lies next to him, staring at the sky. His motionless chest is dotted with six spear punctures.

  Furius dismounts and walks over to the corpses. He grab the shoulder of the one in silver armor and rolls it over. He stares into the face, then rolls the body back over.

  “It’s him all right.” He smirks. “The Gauls didn’t even stop to plunder his body. They must have been really scared.” He points to Luli’s body. “That little bastard must be his second in command. We got them both.”

  “What do we do with Hamilcar’s?” asks Rufus.

  Furius bites his lower lip. He looks back toward the Roman camp, at the scattered mounds of Roman and allied dead. His eyes grow cold.

  “Cut his head off and stick it on one of the Gauls’ standards,” he growls. “Maybe it’ll make them think twice before they try this again.” He looks at Luli’s corpse. “Put this one up, too. And that big bastard with the tree club. Maybe it’ll help prevent any more rebellions.”

  “Speaking of preventing rebellions, if I would you I would send Hamilcar’s head to Carthage!” says Quintus, smiling. He looks toward the Gallic camp and his smile vanishes. “Come on, Governor, the camp’s just ahead of us. We have one more battle this day.”

  The two join the Roman and allied cavalry, heading for Hamilcar’s camp. With the hour, Furius’ cavalry have completely encircled the enemy camp. The equites sit on their horses, a fresh set of javelins in their hands.

  Lucius rides out and meets Furius. “There’s thousands of them holed up in there, Commander.”

  Furius nods. He eyes the rude pile of timbers and branches. “I daresay they don’t have much water stored in there, because the river is so close. We’ll use the ring of fire.”

  Lucius raises his eyebrows. “Ring of fire? No attack?”

  “No. I’m sick of my men dying and their men living. You know the rules: capture any without a weapon, kill any who carry one. The infantry will back you up.”

  Lucius sticks up his right arm, palm down. “I hear and obey.”

  A half hour later, dozens of cavalry gallop around the camp perimeter, hurling burning torches into the palisade. The logs’ branches crackle with flame, slowly igniting their parent trunks. The thick logs turn into walls of flames, flames that leap into the tightly bunched huts and tents inside. Screams and shouts erupt within. Anger and despair echo from every corner.

  The Roman army stands quietly, every man facing the camp. The commotion inside grows. Minutes later, the gates fly open. Hundreds of Gauls race out from the burning camp, scattering in all directions.

  The Roman and allied cavalry spring to life. The rush into the herd of fleeing Ligurians, Boii, and Insubres. Those who brandish a sword or spear are swarmed over and killed. Those without weapons are ordered to kneel and wait. Several chieftains refuse, standing unarmed but proud. They are lanced down.

  After scores of Gauls are killed, the rest drop their weapons and kneel. The hundreds more flee from their burning camp. They see their compatriots being led away and drop their weapons. A few storm out, roaring their defiance. They rush at the nearest enemy they can find, seeking a warrior’s death over a slave’s life.

  By dusk, the camp is in ashes. Hamilcar’s army is only a tale to be told. Thirty five thousand Gauls lie dead.[lix]

  Two thousand Roman and allied bodies burn on the plains outside the Roman camp. Furius’ army solemnly watches the gigantic pyre. Many clutch a clay statuette of a dead comrade’s wife or child.

  Furius, Lucius, Marcus, and Quintus stand in front of their men, watching the charnel flames soar into the night sky. The officers wear sandals and simple gray tunics. Tonight, everyone is just a soldier, saluting their deceased brothers in arms.

  “We’ve got to get back to Arminium tomorrow,” Furius says, “and begin setting up winter quarters for the army.” His lips wrinkle with disdain. “Now that the Boii are vanquished, perhaps Consul Cotta will deign to pay his men a visit, if his ‘pressing affairs’ in Rome are resolved.”

  “I’ll go back and give them the news,” Quintus replies. “It will be a pleasure to tell the Senate. I can finally see my wife Horatia.” His eyes start in panic. “My gods! I have to send her a message that I am alive!”

  He rubs his wounded jaw, chuckling. “I am alive, after all this madness!”

  “You are Fortuna’s child, there is no denying it,” says Marcus. “What will you do in Rome, Favored One? You should go to the Capitoline Baths and put some money on their dice games!”

  Quintus laughs. “Well, one thing for sure, I will venture to the baths as soon as possible. I’d give a year of my life to be soaking in a big hot tub, far from these stinking Gauls!”

  ROME. Amelia rubs the back of her neck and looks at her fingers. Ugh! I’m oily as an Etruscan pig!

  “Lucretia!” she shouts, “let’s go take a bath!”

  The curly haired young woman appears in the atrium doorway. “Why tell me? Do I look like your servant? I’ll tell your slaves to fill the wash basins.”

  “No, no,” says Amelia, waving her hands. “I want a proper cleaning. I’m going to the public baths. I’m spending too much time with the new baby. I want to be with people—grown up people! Let’s take a soak in the big pools at the Capitoline Baths.”

  “It’s a farther trip than Minerva’s Baths behind us,” Lucretia says.

  Amelia winks at Lucretia and smiles. “The Capitoline will suit you. cousin. The main pool is for both sexes. There are sure to be some handsome bachelors there!”

  The dark-haired young woman laughs. “You say you are doing that for me, eh? Your husband had better return soon, cousin, lest he find you’ve ridden off with some young tribune!”

  Amelia rolls her eyes. “You will make a wanton woman out of me yet!” She grins. “Now you have to come with me. You have to keep an eye on me, lest I become the wanton woman you wish you could be! Tell Caldus and Nascus to meet us by the door.”

  A half hour later, Amelia and Lucretia are strolling down the narrow sidewalk that abuts the main street of Rome, accompanied by Amelia’s two house guards. The group passes through the Forum and enters the bustling marketplace that surrounds the front of the Capitoline, heading for an enormous rectangular building bordered with tall granite columns.

  “Magnificent!” exclaims Lucretia. “It’s beautiful enough to be a temple.”

  “Look, there’s a bunch of soldiers on top of the Tarpeian Rock,” says Amelia, pointing to the precipice behind the bathhouse.

  “I heard they’re preparing for another execution,” Lucretia says. “They’re going to fling a Macedonian spy off the cliff.”

  “Another spy?” Amelia says. “They’re getting to be as bad as the Carthaginians.”

  The two women walk up the limestone steps that lead to the entryway statues of King Neptune and Queen Salacia, Rome’s favorite sea gods. Caldus and Nascus stroll four paces behind them, looking about for anyone who seems suspicious. Neither guard notices the petite woman that walks to the right of them. She skips lightly up the steps, her long olive tunic flapping against her slim tanned legs.

  Caldus and Nascus pause at the entryway, facing the ox-sized Thracian that guards its wide bronze doors. “No sense paying for you two,” Amelia says. “We’ll meet you out here in a couple hours,” She turns to Lucretia and holds her palm out. “Give me two denarii. I’ll pay you back when we get to the house.”

  “Hmph! I have heard that before.” Lucretia
drops two newly minted bronze coins into her palm. Amelia looks at them and grins. Scipio’s profile is stamped on one of them, the back side depicting him on a rearing stallion. She grins. The Latins must hate this. They’ll have to stare at his face every time they give out one of their bribes!

  Amelia gives the coins to the burly Thracian. He pulls open the thick iron doors. The women pass through the vestibule and enter the women’s dressing room, its walls built of pink marble slabs. They slide out of their robes and loincloths and hang them on a peg.

  Amelia considers Lucretia’s slim, firm body. I’ll have to get her married soon, while her breasts are still high. She’d be the perfect match for Laelius, if he wasn’t so...disinterested. She chuckles. Lucretia’s so hot-blooded, she’d probably cheat on him a month after they were married! At least Laelius would have children then—that would help his run for consul.

  She looks down at her full breasts, and squeezes her bicep and shoulder. She runs her hands down her slightly curved stomach—down to her nether regions. Look what children have done to me. I’m bigger and looser—everywhere! I’ve got to start lifting the heavy ball again, do some gymnastics.

  Two male slaves appear to pick up their clothing. A nude Amelia grabs back her robe and shakes it under one slave’s nose. “You put that in a safe place!” she barks, knowing the capsarii are notoriously light-fingered. “If anything’s missing, I’ll cut your dicks off!”

  She reaches into a hidden pocket inside the robe’s midriff, feeling the hilts of the two throwing knives she’s cached there. Wish I could keep my knives. But I’d look pretty silly wandering around naked with a knife in my hand. The balneator would probably throw me out.

  The two women pad through the dressing room exit and step into the frigidarium, whooping like children when they enter its cool waters. “I wish I had a man could make my nipples this hard,” Lucretia declares. “My luck, I’ll marry some old senator who only wants boys!”

  “This is bracing, but I’ve had enough of being cold,” says Amelia, rubbing her arms. “Let’s go warm up.”