Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  Larth’s eyebrows arch up. “Back home before spring? You promise?”

  “On my honor,” Scipio says. “Consul Marcellus will listen to me about this.”

  Larth nods, his face doubtful. “I see your brother. He nice, but he not you. But he can do no harm out there, eh?”

  Yes, he is harmless. That’s the problem. “That’s right, Larth. When you fight, he leads the charge. You fight however you want. That’s all.”

  “I do it.” His face grows anxious. “Hope we get chance to fight. Gauls kill forty my men.”

  Scipio’s mouth tightens. “Oh, I would not worry too much about that. Your chance will come, I am sure.”

  The next morning, Marcellus’ army files out from its temporary camp, sixteen thousand Roman and allied foot soldiers flanked by a thousand Roman and Latin cavalry. Marcellus and Scipio ride in the vanguard, the light infantry striding along behind them, six abreast.

  Hours later, the army steps across the timbered river bridges built by earlier legions. Regrouping on the other side, their columns enter the wide plains of Insubre territory. Three of Marcellus' scouts gallop in from the northern hills. Scipio has only to see their faces to know what they will say.

  “The Insubres are coming!” one scouts says to Marcellus. “They are marching out from their camp, straight toward us.”

  “How many?” Marcellus asks, a quaver in his voice.

  “Twenty-five, maybe thirty thousand,” another scout says.

  “Any cavalry?” Scipio says. A scout shakes his head. “Not many. A few hundred.”

  “Get back out there,” Marcellus says. When the scouts have left, he leans toward Scipio. “What do you think?”

  “If they’re coming out of camp, they are looking to fight us before the end of the day. If I were you, I’d get into battle formation and let them come at us.” Scipio pulls out a scroll from his saddle pouch. “My map shows the plain narrows by some low hills in front of us. We can set up there. Send your cavalry into the hills. Send them now, before we get there.”

  “You want me to send cavalry into the hills?” Marcellus says.

  Scipio nods. “Half the force; both Romans and Latins. We need the rest with us so the Gauls don’t wonder why we don’t have any. Let Laelius take the men up there, he’s very good at hiding.”

  Marcellus summons Laelius and Adrianus from the rear, where half his cavalry are guarding the baggage train. “Adrianus, I want to send half our force into the Comum Hills. They will attack the Gallic flank.” He faces Laelius. “Would you lead them?”

  Laelius nods. “The Gauls will have scouts patrolling it, so we will take to the highest passes. Scouts rarely go up there. I’ll lead the Romans. When the Latins see us come down, Adrianus can come from the other side.”

  “Why don’t you take half the Latin socii and half the equites?” Marcellus says.

  Laelius shakes his head. “I’ll tell you who I want,” Laelius says. “I’d like to take the cavalry I trained back in Rome.” He smiles. “I brought some special weapons for them—they’re in the wagon. We will give those Gauls a little surprise.”

  Marcellus shrugs. “Why not? Take who you want.”

  Laelius and Adrianus gallop back to their men. Minutes later, Marcellus and Scipio watch the riders race ahead of them, the equites heading to the left and the Latins to the right.

  An hour later the Roman army columns enter the narrowed plain, flanked with darkly forested hills. The scouts race back with news that the Insubres are only a few miles away.

  Marcellus summons his tribunes. “Prepare for battle,” he tells them. Scipio stands several paces away, letting Marcellus have the moment.

  The army spends the next half hour setting up in combat formation. The two Roman legions man the half-mile front. Following Scipio’s advice, Marcellus has divided the legions into cohorts of five hundred instead of maniples of a hundred and twenty, to better withstand the shock of the Gallic charge.

  The Marsi are arrayed in two cohorts behind the Romans, backed by cohorts of allies. The rear horses and baggage are rounded up into a circle at the rear, guarded by a contingent of light infantry.

  The remaining Latin cavalry set on the right of the legions, and the equites on the left. Camp slaves run through the ranks with bulging waterskins, fetching men a last drink before they fight—or die.

  Two miles away, a tall chieftain marches in front of the Insubres, his face as grim as death. His bare chest is carpeted with steel gray hair, but it cannot hide the blue boar’s head tattooed on his iron-muscled chest.

  There is no mistaking that Guidgen is the leader of the Insubres. The chieftain’s gold neck torque gleams brightly, a carnelian-eyed skull glowering in the midst of it. A large red plume wafts over his demon’s-head helmet, making him appear to be seven feet tall.

  Guidgen’s two sons flank him, one carrying the chief’s aqua-colored shield, the other his yard-long ironsword. Almost as tall as their father, the auburn-haired giants sport their father’s demonic crest on their battered bronze helmets.

  Guidgen is in a good mood today. The soft-handed Roman general has emerged from the safety of his camp, and has had the temerity to march upon him—Guidgen, the mightiest leader of the mightiest Gallic nation. Now he can avenge the hundreds who died at Cremona, and wipe out the Romans before the Boii gain the honor. Now he will have plunder, and rich prisoners to ransom. Already he dreams of a new parcel of land, a new chariot. Perhaps a second wife—or a fourth concubine.

  The Roman front comes into sight. Guidgen notices they arranged in an unexpected formation, in larger squares than the ones he is accustomed to fighting. He snorts derisively. We’ll break them, no matter what they do.

  He checks the amount of cavalry on their flanks. Not too many. I’ll send mine out to keep them busy.

  “What did the hill scouts report, Owin?” he says to his son on the right.

  “They only found a few scouts in the foothills. They ran when they saw us coming.”

  Guidgen nods, satisfied. “We’re going to march straight into those runts.[cxxxiii] I want to break them on the first charge.”

  Marcellus and Scipio ride their horses to the Roman front, halting their stallions in front of the center maniples. They watch the line of Gauls approach, straining their eyes to see an end to the rows of auburn-haired warriors. Waves of voices soon wash over them, the shouts and curses of thirty thousand men.

  Watching the oncoming horde, Scipio feels the all-too-familiar flutter of nervousness in his stomach. His right hand begins to shake. Oh no. Not now! Jupiter, I beg you, keep me from an attack. He grabs his right hand and pushes it to his side, hoping Marcellus has not noticed.

  Scipio sees Guidgen’s gold neck plates shimmering in the early afternoon sun, his plume nodding above the tall men that surround him. If we can just stop their first waves of attack, they might break. But if they get through us, they won’t quit until we’re dead.

  Still marching, the Gallic chieftain grabs his sword and shield from his sons. He raises the sword high. “Remember Cremona!” he screams. Thousands of voices echo his cry. The Romans stand unwavering, but many eyes are wide with fear.

  Marcellus’ velites dash out between the front-line hastati. When they are halfway to the Gauls, their centurion orders them to halt. “Loose!” he cries. The velites fling three rounds of javelins into the oncoming mob. Scores of Insubres fall, yelling with pain. The Gauls slow their charge, looking to see if more javelins are coming.

  “You cowards!” Guidgen bellows at his men. “Do I have to kill them all myself?” He shoves his two sons. “Come on!”

  Guidgen stalks forward, flanked by his sons. The Gauls in the center hurry after him, desperate to avoid the disgrace of their chief being slain in front of them. The Insubre attack forms into a roughshod wedge, its edges aimed at the legions’ wings. As they close upon the steadfast velites, the barbarians fling spears, rocks, and clods—anything they can lay their hands upon.

 
The velites retreat from the hail of missiles, dashing for the front lines. Dozens of them fall, pierced by spears or clubbed by rocks. Their comrades grab them by each arm and drag them across the battle plain, crouching to avoid the onslaught of missiles. The light infantry edge through the hastati and principes and reform behind the triarii, waiting for their next attack.

  “You see?” Guidgen bellows, smiling at his men. “The little men are little women!” He waves his sword over his head, and dashes forward.

  Shouting with triumph, the Insubres stampede at front-line hastati. The stolid Romans raise their shields, their javelins clenched in their fists. They dig their sandals into the grasses beneath them, and lean their left shoulders into their shields. Then the Gauls are upon them.

  The Insubres bash into the Roman shield wall. Howling and kicking, the barbarians pound against the steadfast legionnaires, frantic to get inside their lines. Mad with the urge for revenge, many forsake their safety and grab the Romans’ shields, trying to yank them away. The hastati jab their spears into the invading hands and shove their shields into the Gauls’ bodies, repelling the assault.

  Dozens, then scores of barbarian corpses litter the front, but the Insubres do not relent. Guidgen rages in the center of battle, his two sons fighting by his side. He cuts down a hastati in front of him and pounces on the soldier marching up to replace him, battering him senseless with the butt of his axe. His sons battle on each side of him, beating back the hastati. The Insubres flow into the gap. The Roman front begins to break.

  “Call for a line change,” Scipio shouts to Marcellus. “They’re going to break through!” Marcellus waves two fingers at his ever-watchful bugler, and he signals the change.

  The principes march in between the retiring hastati. With fresh arms and legs, the experienced fighters attack the barbarians with renewed vigor, killing hundreds with their careful swordplay. Still the vengeful Gauls come on, heedless of the deaths around them. The Roman front is again driven back, with mounds of legionnaires in its wake. [cxxxiv]

  Scipio and Marcellus ride across the gap between the front and rear lines, shouting encouragement. Scipio watches the veteran principes losing position. They are our best men, and they’re going to break. He grabs the reins of Marcellus’ horse and draws him near.

  “They can’t hold them,” Scipio shouts. “Call up the Marsi.”

  “We don’t need the allies—our men can beat them!” Marcellus shouts, his face reddening with embarrassment. “I’ll bring up the triarii and the cavalry.”

  “Scipio grabs the shoulder of Marcellus’ cuirass and shakes him. “There aren’t enough of them, do you hear me!” Marcellus stares at him, his eyes glazed with indecision.

  Scipio shoves Marcellus away. “Here, I’ll bring them up myself!” He rides over to the lead cornicen. “Come with me,” Scipio says, his tone brooking no disagreement. He trots his horse toward the waiting allies.

  Lucius waits there, perched atop his white stallion, nervously watching the fray. Larth stands next to him, eschewing a horse so that he can fight on foot with his men. The lean chieftain grips his short thick fighting spear, his studded round shield resting against his shin. A naked short sword dangles from his rawhide belt.

  The Marsi mill about restlessly, cursing and shouting, eager to fight the men that have ransacked their towns.

  “Larth! Get the men ready,” Scipio says. “We’re going to the front!”

  “Good!” Larth says. “Those big men, they get tired soon. We fight all day. They quit from us, you watch!” He grins and waggles a finger at Scipio. “You remember what you say. Home by spring!”

  Scipio draws next to his brother. He forces a smile onto his face. “This is it, Lucius. Your chance for glory. Lead the Marsi to victory, and Rome will sing your name!”

  Lucius looks at his brother, his eyes wide with fear. “Look at them up there—they fight like wild beasts!”

  “Yes, and they have as just about as much discipline. If you get them moving backward, they won’t stop.” He notices the sweat trickling down the brow of Lucius’ helmet. He grasps Lucius’ forearm, and feels it quaking.

  Scipio’s voice softens. “Look, you and I will go in together, side by side. Just like when we were kids. We always whipped the other boys, remember?”

  Lucius swallows. He nods mutely. “Get ready.” Scipio raises two fingers to the cornicen. The bugler blows two long blasts. Scipio and Lucius trot out ahead of the Marsi.

  “Time to kill!” Larth screams. The allied rams’ horns sound the charge. Shouting at the tops of their voices, the Marsi tread quickly toward the battlefront.

  Hearing the allies’ call to attack, the Roman tribunes order their men to retreat. The front-line principes slowly retreat, always facing the Insubres.

  The Marsi draw near to the rear lines of the legions. Scipio rides over to Larth. “When you see me charge, I want your men to come fast. Go between the Roman soldiers. You understand!”

  Larth bares his gold-capped teeth. “No worry. We jump them quick.”

  Scipio rides back to Lucius. They ease into the open space between the two legions, moving slowly to keep pace with the Marsi. Scipio watches the Marsi turn their shields sideways and slide through the rear lines of the triarii, then the hastati. Only the double lines of the principes stand between them and the raging Gauls.

  “Now!” Scipio shouts to Lucius. He spurs his horse forward, with Lucius following.

  “Attack!” Larth bellows to his officers. He strides quickly forward as the Marsi horns sound a new command. The allies run through the three-foot gap between each principe, sprinting toward the battle line.

  The Insubres hear a groundswell of screaming voices coming toward them, men bellowing as madly as themselves. They look at each other, confused and concerned.

  The Marsi burst into the front, hewing to the right and left with their thick, double-edged blades. Larth surges sideways and buries his spear into the liver of an unwary Insubre, eliciting a satisfying scream of agony. “Kill all!” he shouts back to his men.

  Fighting like whirlwinds, the rangy mountain men cut into the wearying Gauls, exultant in their superior energy and quickness. Hundreds of Insubres stagger back from the front lines, arms and bodies gashed by the whirling Marsi blades.

  Scipio charges into the front of the fight, his sword hacking at the Gauls in front of them. Lucius leans down and stabs at the foot soldiers with his cavalry spear, his fear forgotten.

  Marcellus sees the Scipios fighting along the front. I’m not going to let him take over my army. He forces his horse to the front, joining Larth in the center.

  “No retreat, no quarter!” Marcellus screams to the men around him. The Marsi cheer Marcellus’ words, and fight with renewed vigor. The Gallic front becomes a jagged line, with the Marsi cutting deeply into their front.

  Guidgen and his two sons rage in the center, refusing to take a single step backwards. Owin notices that there are two Roman officers fighting on horseback along the front, driving back the Insubres in front of them. He peers at the face of one of them, and his eyes dawn with recognition. Is that really him?

  Owin steps back from the fray. He reaches into his purse and fumbles out a handful of plundered Roman coins. He picks out a newly minted denarius and studies the face upon it, glancing back at Scipio. His heart pounds. It’s Scipio Africanus! What a prize his head would make! Owin strides toward Scipio.

  “Get back here!” his father Guidgen cries. But Owin is already into the Romans, shoving away a soldier in front of Scipio.

  Owin runs in behind Scipio and stabs his blade deep into his horse’s haunch. The stallion rears, whinnying in pain. Scipio tumbles from the horse, crashing onto his side. He reflexively rolls away from his kicking mount and rises to one knee. Scipio picks up his gladius and holds his small round equites’ shield in front of him, shaking his head to clear it.

  Owin stalks forward. Scipio rises to his feet and extends his shield arm. He turns his body s
ideways, gladiator style, his feet splayed wide apart.

  The Gaul swings his blade at Scipio’s bare neck. Scipio blocks the blow, angling the shield to deflect it. Nevertheless, the mighty stroke numbs his forearm, and his shield hangs limply from it. Owin levers another blow at Scipio’s head. Scipio flips up his limp shield arm to stop it.

  The Gallic sword splits the shield. Half of it falls to the ground, the other half hanging from Scipio’s numbed arm.

  Now or never. Scipio darts forward and stabs his gladius at Owin’s middle. The young Gaul deftly blocks it with a swing of his oblong shield. His foot darts out and scoops Scipio’s leg from under him, tumbling him onto his back. The barbarian steps in, cocking back his sword arm.

  “Hold on, brother!”

  Lucius’ rams his horse into Owin’s shield, knocking the Gaul sprawling. “Come on!” Lucius cries, tears running down his face. “He’s getting to his feet!”

  Scipio scrambles up, knowing his opportunity is brief. He runs over to the stunned barbarian and grabs his hair, yanking his head back.

  “Here, prick!” he spits.

  Scipio stabs his blade deep into the side of Owin’s throat and yanks it out, stepping back with his blade at the ready. The young chieftain staggers to his feet and grabs his throat, trying futilely to staunch the blood that streams down his naked chest. His panicked eyes search Scipio’s vengeful face, as if begging for help.

  Scipio steps forward and plunges the blade into the Insubre’s eye socket. With a final, anguished wail, the young man crumples to the bloodied ground, curling into a twitching ball.

  Lucius watches in horrified fascination. He pulls up next to Scipio. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, Lucius. Just a minute.” He pulls off Owin’s demon-headed helmet and gives it to Lucius. “Hold that up and shout that you have it,” he says. “Ride over near the front, but don’t get too close. Go.”

  Lucius blinks at him. “Shout about this helmet? Why?”

  “Just listen to me!” Scipio yells, still flush with excitement. “Show those barbarians that one of their leaders has fallen. Show it to the Marsi. Now go!”