Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  Corolamus hears a soft rustling in the brush behind him. The Boii chieftain spies a bright red plume flashing between the tangled branches, growing closer. He grabs his hand ax and slithers into the brush, determined to kill the Roman before he can cry out.

  “It is me!” a man harshly whispers, raising his grimy hands in front of his face.

  Corolamus lowers his ax. “By Belenus’ cock, what are you doing in that helmet?” the chieftain hoarsely whispers. “I almost split your head!”

  The young scout’s gap-toothed grin splits his face. “This is my new prize! I took it from a Roman scout this morning. The little bastard was looking to see if any Boii were around.” He holds up a bloody ear. “I guess he found one, eh?”

  “Good. We don’t want anyone warning them. Now get down and be quiet. We’re going to charge them.”

  “Everyone is ready to fight. What are we waiting for?” says the scout.

  “We’re waiting for them to get tired from working on their road,”[cxxviii] mutters Corolamus.

  The afternoon lengthens. The weary Romans stop more frequently now, taking long draughts from the water buckets the velites bring them. Ten thousand Boii line up along the edges of the hillside. They wait silently, watching the legionnaires.

  Claudius Marcellus rides along the outside of the excavated roadway, urging the men to finish their trench section before sunset. The consul is a thin and angular man with skin as white as ivory. As a scholarly and refined Hellenic, he was favored by Scipio, who picked him to succeed the feckless previous consul, Gaius Cornelius.

  Marcellus has joined coconsul Lucius Purpurio up in the Po Valley. The two are tasked with controlling the Gallic nations while Flamininus completes his operations against Philip in Macedonia.

  “C’mon, men, one more hour,” Marcellus shouts as he rides along. “Dig it out proper and you’ll have an extra ration of wine tonight.”

  Looking at the miles-long excavation, Marcellus smiles with satisfaction; he has always preferred to build things instead of tearing them down. Tomorrow we’ll put in the gravel and fill it with concrete. Then we’ll have a road for five hundred years.

  “I’m going back to camp,” he tells Manius, his First Tribune. The squat old warrior nods. “I’ll get those lazy Umbrians to put their backs into it.”

  Marcellus turns his dappled stallion and trots towards camp. The Senate will be quite pleased if I finish this road. I won’t have to get into any battles. I’ve got twenty thousand infantry and twelve hundred cavalry, the Gauls won’t dare attack.

  The consul admires the snow-capped Apennines clawing against the azure sky. Everything’s working out fine. A few raids, a few skirmishes, and I can go back home in honor—and in one piece!

  Marcellus hears his men shouting. The shouts turn to screams. What in Jupiter’s name is going on down there? He sees a mile-wide wave of Boii racing across the narrow plain, heading for the trench workers. Gods save us, the Gauls are attacking!

  The consul stares dazedly at the waves of brown-haired giants. He looks back at the open gates of his sheltering camp, his heart pounding. You would be shamed forever if you ran in there. He kicks his heels into his horse and gallops down toward his men.

  The Italians fling away their tools and dash for their weapons, but the Gallic cavalry arrives before they reach them. Screaming with delight, hundreds of riders trample their thick-chested mounts through the Romans’ piles of weaponry and armor, scattering it across the fields.

  The Boii stab their long swords into scores of soldiers who scramble for the weapons and shields, killing dozens more as they frantically strap on their helmets and cuirasses. Many legionnaires wisely grab their shields first to fend off the attacking riders, using them as a defense and weapon.

  The allied centurions run in to defend their men, having kept their swords and shields. Chopping at the riders as they hurl past, the line officers yell for the men to group into their maniples.

  The Gallic infantry thunders into the milling Italians, chopping down hundreds of unarmored men. The legionnaires, stab their gladii into scores of overly eager Gauls that rush into them alone. They form roughshod maniples and step slowly backward, grabbing shields and swords from whatever corpses lie near them. Only the Marsi stand fast, chopping furiously with hoes, shovels and swords, outraged that anyone would dare attack them.

  “Retreat!” Consul Marcellus screams as he rides into the line. “Get back to camp!” The Roman lines slowly withdraw, stepping back in unison with their shields held in front of them.

  Marcellus spies a thick square of allies standing fast in the middle of the battle line, refusing to retreat. Those fucking Marsi! They won’t listen to reason! He rides over and grabs the allied commander, a barrel-bodied man with a bear’s head draped over his helmet.

  “Return to camp!” Marcellus bawls, knowing better than to use the word ‘retreat’ with the Marsi.

  “We kill right here,” the Marsi bellows. “Die fighting; not scared of fat men.” As if for emphasis, he hurtles a spear into the neck of a Gaul fighting with one of his tribesmen.

  “Come back now,” Marcellus urges. “We’ll fight them another day.”

  “Fight now. Kill these bastards.”

  “Gods damn you, if you don’t come back, I’ll tell everyone they killed you as you ran away. And there won’t be anyone left to deny it!”

  The Marsi glares at him. “You lucky you the general.” He screams for his men to withdraw.

  Battling every step of the way, the Roman army retreats back up the hill toward their camp. The Roman cavalry stream out from the camp gates and hurtle into the flanks of the Gauls, throwing their javelins with deadly accuracy. Five thousand legionnaires march out after them, armored and ready.

  The chieftain Corolamus is fighting on foot, wielding his hand ax with murderous delight. His son pushes his way through the pressing hordes about his father, and leans into his ear.

  “The Romans are sending down a fresh legion, with lots of cavalry.”

  “Just a minute.” The chieftain drives his ax into the shield of an Umbrian, knocking him sprawling. Three of his men swarm over the fallen warrior. A keening scream erupts from their midst.

  Corolanus glances up at the setting sun. “Sound the withdrawal,” he says. “Our day’s work is done.”

  The Gallic horns sound the recall. The fierce Gauls turn about and stalk from the battlefield, leaving a field strewn with plundered and dismembered corpses. Corolanus leads them up into the back hills, regrouping his men in their mountain valley camp.

  The Romans lower their swords and tools, staring mutely at the receding horde. Some sob with relief, their arms shaking with exhaustion. Others begin the grim task of identifying their compatriots from the three thousand who were slain,[cxxix] rolling over bodies and searching for heads.

  Marcellus leads the survivors into camp, his men marching past the cohorts of legionnaires who came to their rescue. He rides to his command tent and slides awkwardly from his horse, handing the reins to one of his tribunes.

  “Double the sentries and send out the scouts. I want no disturbances until tomorrow.” The consul marches into his tent and goes directly to his writing table. Still clad in his gore-spattered armor, he pulls out several scrolls and begins to write.

  Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus:

  The Boii have ambushed my army and killed thousands of them. Now they lie in wait outside my camp, waiting to attack us again. I am trapped here, and don’t know how to escape.

  When you made me promise to run for consul, I told you I was not well versed in the ways of warfare. You assured me that the Gauls in my area would be no trouble. Now I am faced with defeat and disgrace.

  I beg you to come here immediately, and provide me with counsel.

  Consul M. Claudius Marcellus

  Marcellus pens an identical note, then writes two consular orders on small squares of papyrus. He seals each missive with his horse-head signatory and calls in hi
s two best messengers.

  “Take this message to Scipio Africanus,” he tells them. “You are each to take different routes, that one of you may make it there safely.”

  He hands each of them one of the small squares. “These orders allow you to command whatever horse you find at each of the way stations to Rome. You are to deliver your message before midnight tomorrow.”

  The messengers rush for the stables. Marcellus sheds his armor and flops onto his sleeping pallet, his hand over his face. You’d better come, you bastard. And you’d better get me out of this.

  At dawn, Corolanus leads out his men to collect the dead. Thousands of Romans and allies stand guard, while hundreds more heap bodies and onto large pyres. That night, the battlefield is bright as day from the field of funerary fires that burn long into the night.

  The next morning, Corolanus’ Boii army marches out from the forest and camps at the base of the camp’s hill, clearly challenging Marcellus to fight. For days, no one emerges from the camp. Bored with waiting, the Boii return to their towns.[cxxx]

  Four days later, Scipio, Laelius, and Lucius ride through the camp gates with their guards, their faces grimy with road dust. A large wagon trundles in behind them, its contents covered by wool blankets.

  “Where is the consul?” Scipio barks at the gate sentry.

  “In his tent, like he always is,” the guard replies, with thinly veiled contempt. Scipio trots through the camp’s orderly dirt streets, halting in front of Marcellus’s large command tent. He pauses there, taking several deep breaths to calm himself.

  “Wait for me,” he says to Lucius and Laelius. “This will be quick. We’ll either get what we want or leave.”

  “Fine,” Laelius says. “But the way you look, perhaps you should leave your sword with us.”

  “He is a Hellenic,” Lucius adds. “Remember, he is one of us.”

  Scipio snorts. “He will never be ‘one of us!’” He slides off his horse and faces the two guards flanking the entry flaps. “Marcellus!” he shouts. “Are you in there?”

  Marcellus pokes his tousled head out of his tent. A relieved grin crosses his face. “Imperator! You are indeed a welcome sight.”

  Scipio does not reply. He pushes past Marcellus and plops onto a tall stool at the general’s map table. He studies the war figurines scattered across a map of the Po Valley.

  “Can I fetch you wine? Bread?” Marcellus asks anxiously. “Do you want Laelius and Lucius to come in?”

  “They can wait out there for now. What you say will determine whether they come in—or whether we all go back to Rome.”

  Marcellus’ face flushes. “You were famous for your manners, General,” he stammers, “but I confess I do not see it. You treat me like a common soldier.”

  “That’s because you are leading like a common soldier!” Scipio blazes. “Your two scouts told me what happened. How could you let thousands of Gauls mass in the hills above that roadway? You should have had scouts combing those cursed woodlands, reporting to you every hour!”

  “I had men out there,” Marcellus says. “They did not return to warn me.”

  “And you did not grow suspicious? You did not send more to find them?” Scipio shakes his head in amazement.

  Marcellus starts to reply, Scipio shoves his palm at his face. “No. No more discussion. That die has been cast. Now we must work on rescuing your consulship, for the sake of the party—and Rome.”

  Scipio turns toward the map table and jabs his finger onto the thick line designating the Po River. Three clay warriors stand along the river’s edge, figurines with winged helmets and long beards.

  “Is this true? The Insubres are gathered here across the river from you? Below Comum?”[cxxxi]

  “That is what my scouts reported yesterday,” Marcellus replies sullenly. “And the scouts are natives,” he adds. Scipio nods.

  “Where are the Boii?”

  “They have left the area. They returned to their settlements.”[cxxxii]

  Scipio grips the round table with both hands and leans forward, staring into the map. “And why have you not attacked the Insubres?” he says, not deigning to look back at Marcellus.

  “I—I didn’t know if it was safe to go out yet. I just received the scouting reports about the Boii and Insubres.”

  “Safe? The Insubres are massing to attack you, and you are worried about being safe from them? Romans don’t hide behind walls—our enemies worry about being safe from us!”

  Marcellus’ shoulders slump. Seeing it, Scipio pauses. Easy, boy. He needs confidence to lead his men to battle. They will know if he is afraid.

  “Do not think me untoward. I only mean to help you win. If you can defeat the Insubres, and take some of their towns, Rome will celebrate your victory for days.” He smirks. “Our people have a knack for celebrating victories and forgetting losses.”

  “I told you I didn’t want to get into battles when you pushed me into this consulship,” Marcellus snips. “I am a builder, not a fighter.”

  “I truly see that now,” Scipio says. “But here you are. Do you want me to help get you out of this mess or not?”

  “You’re the best of our generals, I know that. I would welcome your help. If you think it is time to fight, we will go fight.”

  “Fine. Together we will beat them. And who knows, Rome may even give you a triumph for it.”

  At the mention of the word ‘triumph,’ Marcellus’ eyes gleam.

  Now, Scipio tells himself. Get what you want. He raises his forefinger. “I have one condition.”

  Marcellus eyes Scipio suspiciously. “What?”

  “Laelius will guide your Roman cavalry and Lucius leads the allied infantry. They have both won battles in that capacity.”

  “Impossible!” Marcellus blurts. “I’m not dismissing the commanders of my equites and socii. They have done nothing to deserve it.”

  Other than listening to you, Scipio thinks. “You will not have to replace your commanders. I would not embarrass them that way. Laelius and Lucius will be at their sides. They will give no orders to your men, but your commanders are to do whatever they say.”

  He steps nearer to Marcellus. “And me, I will be next to you—acting in that same capacity.”

  “My men know who you are,” Marcus says petulantly. “They will think you are leading me.”

  I had better be, if we are to survive. “Just tell them that I am here on a camp visit. Old generals frequently do that. I promise you will get the credit for our victory.”

  Scipio jumps off the stool and stands in front of Marcus. “So, what will it be? Do I stay or go?”

  “I would welcome your advice, General,” Marcellus sullenly replies. Scipio continues to stare at him. “And the advice of Laelius and Lucius.”

  Let him have his little victory. “Excellent.” Scipio says. He pokes open the tent flap. “Laelius! Lucius! Come in.” He turns back to Marcellus. “You should march on the Insubres as soon as possible. If the Boii join them, they could number over fifty thousand.”

  “My men can be ready in three days. But what about finishing the road?”

  Scipio scowls. “Forget the road. Your prisoners can build the thing for you. You have to get at the Gauls now, before they grow too large.”

  Four nights later the Roman army is camped on the east side of the Po River, preparing to enter Insubre territory. Lucius, Laelius and Scipio enter Scipio’s tent in the tribune’s section, having concluded combat preparations with Marcellus and his officers. Laelius grabs a wine pitcher and hastily pours himself a cup.

  “Whoo! What a meeting!” Laelius says. “Those men worry more about how they can lose than how they will win!”

  “That young Umbrian Adrianus, he seems to have a thick spine,” Scipio says. “He could lead the allied riders.”

  “The Marsi commander wasn’t like the rest of them, either,” Lucius says, “He was very angry that they had to retreat from the Boii. He acts like he’s ready to kill them all himse
lf!” A worried look crosses Lucius’ face. “I hope I can get him to listen to me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Larth will listen to you, Lucius. Marcellus and he have an understanding. Just don’t give him orders in front of his men.” He looks over at Laelius. “You have any qualms about going out with the cavalry?”

  Laelius looks at Scipio as if he were mad. “Why should I? I taught half of them back in Rome, and that includes young Adrianus, their commander!” Laelius chuckles. “Why, those men idolize me!”

  “Just don’t embarrass Adrianus. Let him lead his men’s charge. You tell him when and how.”

  “You know me. I am the essence of diplomacy,” Laelius replies.

  Scipio rolls his eyes.

  Late that night, Scipio strolls through the somnolent camp, chatting with the few soldiers that are still prowling the streets. He strolls over to the allied section, and stops in front of a small tent with a wolf’s head standard shoved into the ground.

  “Larth, are you in there?” Scipio says.

  A bushy-bearded head juts out of the tent entry, a pair of brown eyes peering from the curly black bramble about it. “General Scipio!” he says in his rude Latin. “What you want this late? You drunk?”

  Scipio chuckles. “No, unfortunately. I just wanted to talk to you about something. Something good.”

  Larth crawls out from his tent, his hairy, muscled body completely naked. “You worried about fight? No worry. We Marsi, we drive them back into forest. No running away this time, don’t care what pussy consul say.”

  Scipio smiles. “No, I never worry about the Marsi. I just have a request. My brother Lucius will be joining you.” He takes a deep breath. “When your men go in to battle, let him lead the charge.”

  Marsi’s bushy eyebrows close above his flaring eyes. “I know you big hero, General, but you crazy. I the man; I lead my men. I earn that; kill many enemies.”

  “Just let him run out in front of your men, you can go alongside him. Rome needs to know he led the charge. If you do, I promise you this: your men will be back at home for the early spring plantings.”