Flamininus’ heart flutters in his chest. Gods, I wish I could see what we’re getting into! “Get back up there, Scout. Let me know when they are within four spear casts of us.”
The scout whirls around and disappears back into the foggy slope. “Get Fontius!” Flamininus tells one of his guards. The guard returns with the grizzled First Tribune of the Fifth Legion.
“We are ready to take heads,” Fontius rasps. His one eye twinkles merrily as he pulls out his dagger. “I may even take a few ears for my belt, just like the Gauls!”
Mars’ cock, the man is half-barbarian! “Just get the men ready to march immediately. When the scout returns we attack.”
“Most of us are General Scipio’s veterans,” Fontius says. “We know how to save our energy. We can fight through the night!”
Soon, Flamininus hears the sound of galloping hooves. Here he comes! Get ready to give the signal.
The scout’s horse emerges from the fog. Its headless rider is slumped over it, roped to the horse’s neck. The scout’s head dangles from a rope tied to his belt, its shocked face staring at Flamininus.
A deafening roar erupts from the fog behind the horse. Eight thousand Macedonians scream out their war cries. A wall of phalangites trots down the hillside, waving their iron swords high over their round bronze shields.
Flamininus’ eyes start from his head. “Attack!” he shouts wildly. “At them, men. Attack!”
The cornu blare three times. The Romans tramp up the incline, each spaced three feet from his compatriots, their javelins pointing out in front of their scuta.
The Macedonians crash into the Fifth’s shield wall, battering at the hastati from all angles. The thick press of enemy gradually pushes the legionnaires back down the hill, leaving scores of Roman bodies to mark the army’s retreat.
Flamininus gallops back and forth behind the front lines, desperate to halt the retreat. “Don’t give in to them! You are the pride of Rome! Beat them back!”
Fontius trots across the center of the battle line, shoving men into line with their fellows, calling for replacements to those who fall. “Don’t back up to these pussies,” the tribune bellows.
The sturdy old captain marches out from the front line. He steps sideways and jabs his sword into the thigh of an unwary Macedonian, who howls with pain. “Come on, get at them!” he screams.
“Bring up the velites!” General Flamininus yells. “Get their spears behind the hastati!” The Roman light infantry lope into the wide space between the front-line hastati and the backup ranks of the principes. “Loose!” Flamininus calls, a command echoed down the line by his centurions.
The velites fling round after round of javelins into the advancing Macedonians. Without their spear wall to protect them, hundreds are pierced by the relentless rain of bronze, crawling among their fellows. The Macedonian horns sound. The phalangites draw back to regroup, leaving a thirty-foot space between themselves and the Romans.
Minutes later, King Philip rides into the space, followed by a score of his guards. “At them, men!” he shouts. “You almost had them! Follow me!” Philip spurs his horse into the front Roman line, renewing the fight.
Mad with the urge to conquer, Philip careens about like a madman, striking at the hastati with his gleaming silver sword. “Come on, boys! They’ll be a fine feast tonight after we run these pigs away. Come on!”
Flamininus trots along behind the front rows of his hastati, exhorting his men to dig in and hold their place. He watches Philip boldly attacking the Roman front. He may be a sly as a weasel, but he is as fierce as one, too.
The reinvigorated Macedonians charge the Roman line. They batter at the legionnaires’ helmets with their swords, and ram their bossed shields into the Romans’ curved scuta. The force of their attack pushes the Fifth Legion farther down the scrabbly slope. Dozens of Romans lose their footing and fall. They are quickly stabbed by phalangites who storm into every break in the line, determined to destroy the Romans and feast all night.
I’m losing hundreds of men, Flamininus thinks. They’re going to break at any moment. “Call the principes forward,” he screams to his bugler. The horns echo across the din, sounding the call for a line replacement.
The principes step to the front, replacing the hastati. The veterans calmly deflect the Macedonians’ mad sword blows, and turn their shields to deflect the ramming shields. Waiting for an opening, the veterans jab their spears into the Macedonian’s arms and legs, knowing the cuts will eventually weaken them.
The Roman line holds, but battle-tested phalangites resist the Romans’ efforts to push them up the hill. The Macedonians replace their first two rows from the thirty rows behind them. Both sides battle resolutely, and the fight becomes a stalemate.
They won’t break! Philip fumes. He rides over to Jagoda, one of his infantry commanders. “Tell Mitron to get some of our cavalry into them,” he says. “We’ll destroy them from the side!”
The sun rises high over the surrounding hills, Mitron leads two hundred Macedonian and Thessalian cavalry into the legion’s left flank, abandoning their hillside conflict with the Roman riders. Dozens of legionnaires fall to the rampaging cavalry. Mitron’s riders rush into the breaches, and scores more Romans die.
Desperate to save their flank from disintegrating, the left side Romans break formation and swarm over the stampeding riders, pulling them from their horses. As soon as a rider hits the ground, a Roman stabs him down while another leaps onto the horse. Scores of improvised Roman cavalry lunge about Mitron’s riders, chopping down at them with their swords. The Macedonian cavalry retreat and regroup, gathering themselves for another charge.
The Roman horns sound another call. The rear line triarii step out and march along the left flank in a three-deep column. They kneel in front of the oncoming Macedonian riders and dig their seven foot spears into the ground, forming an angled spear wall against the cavalry attack.
“Break that line!” Mitron shouts. He gallops out, leading his riders at the triarii. The Macedonian cavalry ride into the spear wall. Dozens of horses and riders impale themselves, crashing on top of the older legionnaires. Their spears broken, the old warriors calmly draw out their short swords and pull their shields off of their backs. They step over their fallen enemies and coolly thrust at any riders who dare approach them, determined that none will advance. The Macedonians continue the attack.
The Fifth Legion is beset by enemies on two sides. The front ranks hold position, but they cannot advance. Scores of Romans fall under the relentless attacks from front and side. The legion edges ever backward.
Our men are trapped. Our only hope is the right wing.[cxvii] Flamininus races to his right, heading toward Vibius’ legion. The sun breaks through the clouds, lighting up the misty battlefield. The fog is lifting! Gods above, I hope that is an omen!
When Flamininus reaches him, Vibius is leading his legion up the incline in a slow march, closing in on the massing Macedonian troops at the top of the ridge. Twenty mail-covered elephants march ahead of the Roman front, as perfectly aligned as the legionnaires.
“What’s going on?” Flamininus asks. Vibius stabs a finger at the ridgeline. They’re collecting up there, looks like there’s two, maybe three thousand of them.”
“Those Macedonians are late to the battle,” Flamininus notes. “They’re still in marching formation, arriving in columns.”
“All the better,” Vibius says. “They’re nigh impossible to beat when they’re in that cursed phalanx.”
Remember what Marcus Aemilius said about strength and quickness. Flaminius thinks. Strike while the iron is hot! “We have to get at them now, before they organize.” He stares at the mighty beasts in front of him. “Send the elephants at them. Where are the Numidians? Are they ready?”
“On the far right flank,” Vibius replies. He smiles wryly. “They’re certainly ready. They’re chasing around like madmen, waiting for the attack signal.”
“Let’s use them and keep ou
r cavalry in reserve,” Flamininus says. “When the elephants hit the Macedonian front, send the Numidians into the Macedonians’ left side. Those Africans were raised with elephants.”
“It is done,” Vibius replies. The old commander waves over one of his messengers and sends him away with the order.
Flamininus and Vibius ride out to the front of the Sixth Legion and rein up behind the center of the elephant line. “There’s Hamilax, he’s the lead mahout.” Vibius says.
He shouts over to a lean man standing next to the largest elephant. The mahout wears a leopard skin robe and sharply pointed helmet, a fourteen-foot goad resting against his shoulder. The lead mahout trots over to Vibius and prostrates himself upon the earth.
“I am yours to command,” Hamilax declares in his pidgin Latin, his nose touching the ground.
“Get up and get ready,” Flamininus barks, his voice edgy with nerves. “When you hear the horn sound twice, you will charge the elephants up to that ridge. I want them trampling through the front lines. If we drive them away, the rest will follow.”
“The elephants, they mighty warriors,” Hamilax declares. He bares his pointed white teeth. “They go wild there, kill many men. You keep Romans away from them.”
“The Numidian cavalry will join you,” Vibius says. “They will come in from the side.”
Hamilax’ grins widens. “Ah! Numidians know how fight with elephants. No problem.” He repeatedly flashes the fingers on both of his light brown hands. “We all kill many-many, you see!” The mahout sprints over to his fellows, barking out orders in Carthaginian.
“Tell the tribunes and centurions to get ready for a rapid march,” Flamininus says to Vibius. “The Sixth Legion will follow the elephants, once the beasts are two spear casts from us.” He grips Vibius’ wrist. “Tell them we are not coming back down, no matter what the cost.” Vibius nods solemnly and gallops away.
Minutes later, Vibius returns with one of the legion’s cornicines. “Prepare to sound two short blasts,” Flamininus tells the bugler. The soldier lifts his large, g-shaped horn to his shoulder.
Flamininus stares up at the Macedonian columns massing along the ridge. He looks to his right and left and sees nothing but long rows of Roman soldiers, standing rigidly at attention as they await the command to charge.
Gods, they are such fine men. I hope I’m not killing us all! Flamininus stands rigidly, his fists clenched.
“General?” Vibius says, his tone as much an order as a question.
Flamininus raises his head, his eyes fixed on the rocky slope in front of him. “Sound the charge!” he orders. The cornicen blows two short notes.
The elephants lurch forward, goaded by the mahouts running next to them. Each elephant is flanked by a contubernium of twenty velites, agile infantrymen trained to defend the elephants from attackers while eluding the beasts’ random charges.
Trumpeting with excitement, the huge beasts trample up the rocky slope. The legions’ maniples march behind them at safe distance, the men anxiously watching the attack of these strange beasts.
The Numidian cavalry trot alongside the legion’s right flank. Carrying a brace of javelins and a small round shield, the lightly armored Africans flow over the terrain in a loose square of two thousand men. They watch the elephants’ charge, waiting for their chance.
The elephants rumble quickly up the ridge. When the beasts approach the edge the Macedonian horns erupt from everywhere across the ridgeline, as Philip’s buglers frantically call the arriving troops to mass into a phalanx. But the signal comes too late—the elephants are upon them.
The ten-ton beasts crash into the two columns arrayed along the ridgeline, bashing the heavily armored phalangites aside as if they were children. Spurred on by the mahouts, the elephants stampede across the front of the Macedonian army, trampling down scores of hapless warriors. The pachyderms swing their tusks into the spearmen that charge them, flinging them high into the air. Screams flow through the Macedonian front, following the path of Flamininus’ juggernauts.
Dozens more Macedonians charge forward with long spears, intent on goading the elephants from the battle. The Roman contubernia swarm at them. The legionnaires deflect the spears with their broad shields and dodge past them, leaving them free to stab their javelins and swords into the shieldless Macedonians. All the while, the elephants rage on.
High upon the backside of the ridge, Commander Philocles watches in helpless fury as the proud phalangites retreat back into their own men, trying frantically to escape the rampaging elephants.[cxviii]
“Get the cavalry to follow me down there!” he shouts to one of his captains. “We’re going at those Romans who are protecting the elephants!”
Philocles gallops out from the back of the left column, heading toward the elephants. Five hundred cavalry follow him, intent on driving the Roman vanguard down the hillside.
The Macedonian commander draws his sword and leans over his horse’s neck, guiding his stallion toward a knot of velites near the closest elephant. He hears the yells of his men behind him, screams of alarm and warning. Looking over his shoulder, he observes a dense cloud of dusky-skinned riders arrowing across the top of the ridge, heading straight into the side of his oncoming cavalry.
“Fucking Africans!” he mutters. He turns his horse toward the oncoming horde.
The lead Numidians whirl through the Macedonians as if they were trees scattered along the hillside, pausing only to fling javelins into their slower-moving foes. Yipping and crying, the Africans delve into the phalangites milling along the front columns. The Numidians lean low aside their mounts, bending over to stab their lances into the bodies of the foot soldiers, striking into a new enemy before the old one has fallen to the ground.
Hundreds of Macedonians ram into the lines in the center, desperate to escape the maelstrom of beasts and men. Hundreds more run out into the open spaces, flinging away shields and weapons as they dash madly for the safety of their camp. Bleeding from dozens of spear cuts, the maddened elephants wreak destruction in every direction, their mahouts goading them on.
Philocles pushes his horse into the center of the milling phalangites. “Back to formation, you cowards!” he rages. “You are the greatest warriors on earth! Get back there!” The crazed soldiers continue to swarm past him, ignoring Philocles’ curses and sword blows.
“Cowards! Cowards!” he shouts.
A sword stabs into the side of his horse. The beast rears sideways and topples, pitching Philocles to the ground. He shoves himself upright, dodging the terrified infantrymen that flee from the rampaging Numidians.
“Guards! Where in Hades are you?” he shouts. “Bring me a horse!’
A young African notices the glint of gold on Philocles’ sword pommel. He waves over six of his companions, signaling that they are to follow him. Lancing down the Macedonian foot soldiers in front of them, the Numidians close in and encircle Philocles. The Africans halt, studying the black bearded man who glowers at them, naked sword in hand.
“I will fetch much ransom,” Philocles says, sheathing his weapon. The uncomprehending Numidians stare back at him. They talk to one another, glancing at the Macedonian commander. They point at his silver armor and jeweled scabbard. Several trot slowly toward him, their lances aimed at his chest.
So that’s the way it’s going to be. The Macedonian commander reaches inside the top of his cuirass. He pulls out a long gold chain and lets it fall across his breastplate. A hammered gold likeness of Eros, god of love, dangles against his armored chest. He pulls it to his lips and kisses it. Sorry, Veronika. We had a good life, though. Take care of the children. The Numidians edge closer.
Philocles whips out his sword. “All glory to mighty Macedonia!” he screams. He runs at the closest Numidian, dodging under his outthrust spear With a skill born of a hundred combats, he slashes open the African’s thigh and spins about, his sword thrusting at the man he knows must be behind him. His sword catches the Numidian’s horse in the throa
t. The animal rears back, flinging the rider to the ground.
The smiles disappear from the Africans’ faces. As one, Numidians lunge in at defiant commander. One strikes Philocles in the side, wedging his spear between the front and back plates of his cuirass. Another catches him in his upper arm, lancing open an artery. Gushing blood, Philocles stumbles about the battleground, blindly swinging his sword. The Numidians lunge in. Their spears thrust home.
Flamininus leads the Sixth Legion over the ridgeline in time to see the Numidians gathered in a circle. Curious, he trots his horse forward. He sees the glint of silver armor, shining below a black-plumed helmet.
“Halt!” he screams. Heedless, the Numidians lunge forward.
Flamininus spurs his horse toward the Africans. “Stop, stop!” he shouts. “We want him!” He barges through the gathered Africans, just as Philocles crumbles to his knees.
Flamininus leaps from his horse and races to the fallen commander. He glances at Philocles’ wounds, and his mouth tightens. Flamininus kneels into the bloodied earth. He shoves his right arm under the fallen general, and lifts his head up.
“Apologies, Commander. I tried to stop them.”
Philocles’ face twists into the rictus of a bloodied grin. “Ah, who wants to live forever, anyway?” He coughs up a clot of blood. “Especially if Romans will be running things!”
Philocles clutches his simulacra of Eros. He holds it in front of Flamininus. “Her name is Veronika. She lives in Pella. Give this to her.”
Flamininus wipes his wrist across his eyes. “On my honor, It will be done.” He lays Philocles back to the earth and waits, watching him die.
Marching shield to shield, the Sixth steps into the infantry mob in front of them, felling hundreds with their carefully placed sword thrusts. The Macedonians press together and plunge toward the rear. Seeing their compatriots swarming at them, the rearmost Macedonians turn and run. Thousands flee, and the battle turns into a rout.[cxix]
On the right flank, the Numidian captain raises his small brass trumpet and blows one long, plaintive note. The Numidians reverse course and swarm back into the fleeing Macedonian cavalry, flinging spears into their backs as they chase them into the hills.
Scipio Rules Page 30