Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  Lucius raises the dripping helmet and rides behind the front-line Marsi, shouting triumphantly. The Marsi recognize the helmet as that of a chieftain. They scream with triumph.

  “Owin is dead!” shout the Gauls, the cry echoing through the lines.

  A distant cry is added to the Gaul’s lament, the brassy wail of cavalry bugles. Laelius’ equites stream in from the hills, hundreds of riders plunging toward the right flank of the Gallic horde.

  The Insubre chieftains spot the oncoming equites. They direct their men to face their shields toward the oncoming horde, ready for the charge.

  But Laelius and his men do not charge. They draw within a spear cast of the Gauls and begin to stream past them, looping around the flank and rear. As they gallop past, they pull short, curved bows from off their backs and nock arrows into them, watching Laelius for the signal.

  “All right, sagittarii!” Laelius screams, using the Greek term for horse archers. “Do as I taught you. Shoot over the front men!”

  Laelius sends an arrow whistling over the heads of the Gauls at the front-line shield wall. It crunches into the back of an Insubre in the middle.

  Flocks of arrows land upon the Insubres in the inner lines. They yowl with pain and surprise, arrows jutting from their exposed backs and necks. The Insubres turn their shields to fend off the surprise onslaught, leaving them vulnerable to the charging Romans’ spears and swords.

  The front-line legionnaires see their opportunity. The centurions whistle for a line change, and fresh troops march forward. Wielding their spears and swords with deadly effect, the Romans cut through the first two lines of the Gauls, driving them back into their fellows.

  Adrianus and his men flow into the plain from hills on the other side, galloping for the Insubres’ left flank. The Gauls lower their shields into a wall, their swords at the ready.

  When the fur-clad riders allies approach the shield wall they form an attack wedge, with Adrianus in the lead. The young commander lowers his head and shoulders next to the neck of his horse, his spear out in front of him.

  The chieftain Sudrix notices the socii forming into an attack wedge. A veteran of a dozen Roman battles, the old chieftain nods knowingly. “Horse trap!” he yells to his warriors.

  When Adrianus and his men plunge into the massed Gauls, the warriors dash to the side, leaving Adrianus and his men galloping into an open space in the Gallic lines. The Gauls run back together and swarm about Adrianus and a score of his riders, completely encircling them.

  “Back out the way we came!” Adrianus screams, turning his horse around. His order comes too late.

  “Get the horses!” Sudrix cries. He lumbers forward, with scores of his warriors following. They stab their swords and spears into the Romans’ horses. The beasts rear and pivot, pitching their riders into the ground. While the horses gallop away through the lines, the Gauls pour over their fallen riders, chopping them to pieces.

  Adrianus rises to one knee, scrabbling for his sword. Sudrix runs in behind him and swings his thick sword into Adrianus’ neck. There is a sickening crunch. Adrianus partially severed head lolls upon his shoulder. His body crumples to the ground.

  Grunting with delight, Sudrix grabs the young captain’s helmet by its feathered crest and jerks his head upright. Another swing of the axe, and Sudrix holds Adrianus’ head aloft on tip of his sword, roaring with triumph.

  After the Gauls close their shield wall upon Adrianus and his lead riders, the other cavalry mill about in confusion, uncertain of what to do. The socii hear a great shout arise from the Gallic ranks. They see their commander’s bloody head held up on a sword, his dead eyes staring out at them, as if entreating them for help. Moans of anguish erupt through their ranks.

  “Revenge!” yells one of the riders. “For Adrianus!” screams another.

  As one, hundreds of riders storm forward at full speed, heedless of the tall shields facing them. The Umbrians and Latins crash through the wall, trampling through the Gauls as if they were statues. Screaming with anger, they stab madly at any Insubre within reach, intent on hurting as many as possible.

  Now beset from three sides, the Insubres mill about, not knowing which way to attack. Scores of them run from the battlefield, some riding the horses of the fallen Roman and allied cavalrymen. The Insubre chieftains shout vainly for them to reorganize.

  Lucius returns to Scipio, his face flush with excitement. “You should have heard them cheer me!” he exclaims.

  “I heard them,” Scipio replies, glancing about for attackers. “Now do me a favor and get me a horse.” That will get you away from here before you get killed. Lucius trots back toward the Roman baggage area, still carrying his trophy.

  Scipio watches him go. There. Now you’re a hero. Mother would be happy.

  “My son!”

  Scipio hears the cry coming from behind him, an anguished, furious roar. He whirls to face it and his heart leaps to his throat. Marsi warriors are stumbling sideways, as if a giant plow were pushing them aside. A bronze demon’s head bobs above them, its grinning head closing upon Scipio.

  Guidgen batters his way forward, his baleful eyes fixed on Scipio. A blade stabs into the chieftain’s side. He swats the attacker away, his stride never wavering. The skull’s carnelian eyes wink madly at Scipio, its gold teeth fixed in a malevolent grin.

  Shit! Look at the size of him! Scipio jumps to the side of a dead legionnaire. He yanks off his large rectangular shield and slips his still-numbed forearm through it, snugging against his bicep. Scipio strides forward, peering out over the shield’s iron edge.

  Roaring with anger, Guidgen slams his sword against Scipio’s scutum. Scipio retreats with the blow, but still the immense force almost knocks him off his feet. I’ve got to wait this monster out, he decides.

  With every blow Scipio steps backward, desperate to maintain his balance. He repeatedly jabs his wasp-waisted gladius at Guidgen, searching for the slightest opening. Twice, the tip of his gladius cuts into Guidgen’s chest, but the wounds only further infuriate him.

  Scipio feels himself tiring. Listening to the ring of the two blades against each other, he makes a fateful decision. His sword is made out of iron. Mine is steel. Good Iberian steel. He remembers the time he pitted his Iberian steel gladius against Cato’s iron sword in a friendly match—and its effect.[cxxxv]

  Scipio drops his shield. He bends his knees and leans back, his legs tensed like a javelin thrower. Guidgen swoops his long sword toward Scipio’s head, aiming to cleave his skull. Scipio grabs his gladius with both hands and swings it with all his strength.

  There is a sharp clang. Two thirds of Guidgen’s sword blade cartwheels into the air, leaving him clutching a jagged shard. The chieftain stares at the broken sword as if had betrayed him, giving Scipio the instant he needs.

  With a short, quick chop, Scipio arcs his cleaver-like blade into Guidgen’s wrist. The rest of his sword plops into the dust, his hand still clutching it.

  Guidgen’s face purples with rage. Ignoring his gouting stump, he charges in and batters his shield against Scipio’s breastplate, knocking him flat. The chieftain leaps forward and straddles Scipio. He pitches away his shield and pulls out his dagger, squirting his stump into Scipio’s face.

  “You die first, pig!” Guidgen drops to his knees and stabs at Scipio’s neck.

  With a strength born of terror, Scipio jerks his head and shoulders away from the blade, blindly thrusting up his gladius. He gasps in agony as he feels Guidgen's serrated dagger saw through the top of his collarbone.

  He hears the Gaul roar.

  Guidgen stares into space, his mouth spasmodically opening and closing. A deep gash bleeds from his solar plexus, the spot where Scipio’s razored blade has severed his abdomen. The Gaul slides sideways onto the ravaged earth, clutching at its bloody clods.

  Scipio crawls out from the fallen chief and pushes himself upright, his sword poised. The enfeebled giant props an elbow on the ground and scrabbles to push himself upri
ght. His eyes glare at Scipio, even as his life’s blood drains from his stomach and wrist. Scipio steps back from him, fearing he might strike again. The Gaul rises to his knees, only to fall again.

  “Gods, what is happening here? Are you all right?” Marcellus rides in with Lucius behind him, towing an empty horse. The consul’s guards surround the officers, ready to repel any Insubres.

  Lucius leaps from his horse and yanks off his red cape. He dabs blood off Scipio’s face and bandages the cut on his neck. “Mars’ balls, you look like a sacrificial cow!”

  “I am fine,” Scipio says, he picks up his scutum and leans on it, panting with fear and exhaustion. “Just a bit weak.”

  “That’s Guidgen, the leader of the Insubres,” Marcellus says, staring at the twitching body.

  Scipio spits a clot of blood on the ground. “Cut his head off, Marcellus,” he mutters.

  The consul blinks at him. “What?”

  “You heard me. Cut his fucking head off!” Scipio hacks up more blood. He wipes his mouth with his wrist, glaring at Marcellus. “I’ve got to say you killed him and cut his head off. Do it while he’s still alive, and it will be true.”

  “Go on, Marcellus,” Lucius says encouragingly. “He’s trying to give you the glory.”

  Marcellus slides off his horse and gingerly steps toward the dying Gaul. He stands over Guidgen and looks into his slitted, bleary eyes. Drawing his blade he looks back at Scipio. Scipio nods.

  Marcellus stoops over Guidgen. He grabs his gladius with both hands and swings it down. There is a cracking, choking noise.

  “It didn’t come off,” Marcellus wails.

  “Gods curse you, finish it!” Scipio blazes. “Finish it, or I’ll cut your head off!”

  His sword chops again, and again. Lucius looks away, nauseated at the sight.

  “That is enough,” Scipio says. “Pick it up.”

  Marcellus reaches down and plucks the helmet up by its crest. Guidgen’s head gapes from the helmet, fastened by a gory chin strap. Marcellus holds it at arm’s length and looks back at the Scipios, a question in his eyes.

  “Stick it on a spear and ride to the front,” Scipio says. “Do that and you’ll sow dismay in their ranks. They are already dispirited by Lucius’ showing them that other chieftain’s helmet. When they see their leader’s head, they’ll wilt.”

  Marcellus’ eyes brighten. He grins with anticipation. “I see. Show it to the Gauls!” He wheels his horse about and gallops forward, his guards surrounding him.

  Marcellus rides into a gap in front of the battling Marsi, brandishing the chieftain’s head high above him. “Guidgen is dead!” he shouts in pidgin Gallic, shoving the spear up and down. “Dead!”

  A javelin flies at Marcellus. He jerks up his shield just before the spear thuds into it. Alarmed, the consul races back behind the Marsi, savoring the cries of dismay that scatter throughout the Insubres.

  Sensing victory, the Marsi charge forward. The dispirited Gauls are no match for the vengeful mountain men. Scores, then hundreds, run for the rear. Screaming with triumph, the Marsi cut into the remaining Insubres in the center, their tireless swords hewing down hundreds.

  The Roman legions march into the wings and join the slaughter. Thousands of Gauls die in the surge, many trampled by their own men.

  Finally, the Insubres’ rear lines break for the empty plains. The rest of the Gauls follow them, chased into the hills by the cavalry.

  Scipio and Lucius join Marcellus in the center of the erstwhile battle front, watching the soldiers tie up the Gauls who surrendered.

  Scipio scans the layers of dead that carpet the field. “My gods, must be twenty thousand of them lying out there,” he says sadly.

  “But I doubt we lost a thousand,” Lucius says excitedly.

  “It is a great victory!” Marcellus crows.

  Scipio glances sideways at the consul. “One that cost us a thousand good men.” Along with the three thousand you lost in that Boii ambush.

  Larth stalks in from the killing field, a bloodstained cloth wrapped about his middle. His teeth flash into a painful smile as he looks up at Scipio. “Big men dead. You keep promise, yes? We go home?”

  Scipio turns to Marcellus. “Consul, I request that you send these men home as soon as possible. I’ll get you more allies.”

  Marcellus glowers at Scipio. “I need them here! They are good fighters.”

  Larch scowls at Scipio. “You keep promise, yes?”

  Scipio draws his horse closer to Marcellus. “Do you want Rome to know you as the man who killed the Insubre chief? Or do you want them to know the whole story?” Scipio says. “I could tell the Senate that—“

  “They’ll go,” Marcellus interjects, riding away. “I’m going back to camp. I have to prepare a victory celebration.”

  “Wait! You forgot this.” Scipio trots toward Marcellus. He holds up Guidgen’s bloody neck torque. “Take this back to Rome, Marcellus. Give it to the Senate as a symbol of your victory.” [cxxxvi]

  He smirks. “I will tell them I saw you cut the chief’s head off—that much I can truthfully say.”

  Marcellus cocks his head. “And what of you, Imperator? What do you want?”

  “Give my Lucius credit for leading the Marsi charge.” That will help him when he runs for office.

  “You want Lucius to be a hero?” Marcellus says, the hint of a sneer on his lips.

  Scipio stares steadily at Marcellus. “Do that and you will have the glory for winning the battle. Otherwise, I will be more detailed in my report.”

  “Bring the torque,” Marcellus says to a guard. He trots away, his back stiff with resentment.

  Laelius rides in behind Scipio, his helmet cradled in his arm. “I don’t think he likes you very much right now,” he says, grinning.

  “Wait until he hears that he’s going to join forces with Consul Purpurio. That man may be a rock-headed Latin, but he is a born general. He’ll keep Marcellus from killing any more of his own men.”

  “Marcellus is a consul. You may be the First Man of Rome, but you can’t boss him about.”

  “No, but I can promise him honor if he does, and disgrace if he doesn’t. I still have the power to do that.” He turns his horse toward camp. “Come on, I need to get back to my tent. My wounds are taxing me.”

  Hours later, Laelius staggers into Scipio’s tent, a half-empty wineskin in his hands. He proffers it to Scipio, who lies bandaged on his sleeping furs.

  “Here, thought I’d bring you a drink,” Laelius says. “You should come out and join the party, the men are asking about you.” He grins. “They aren’t stupid. They know who won that battle for them, and it wasn’t Marcellus.”

  “Just what I need,” Scipio replies, gulping from the wineskin, “a hangover on top of a headache and a neck wound.”

  “Take another drink—you deserve it. It was good of you to give Lucius the conquest,” Laelius says. “It will help him move up the cursus honorum. Maybe he will make consul some day.”

  “I am not sure if I want to hope for that,” Scipio mutters. “But I did promise mother I would help him make his way in life.”

  Laelius grins at Scipio. “Who knows? Maybe he can run for consul when I do. I’d be the plebian candidate, and he’d be the patrician. We’d be coconsuls!”

  Scipio shakes his head. “I hope the wars are over by then. I can’t imagine Lucius leading an army against Macedonia or Syria. I love him, but he reminds me of Marcellus!”

  Weeks later, Marcellus’ army joins Consul Lucius Furius Purpurio’s in Boii territory. After taking over several of their citadels, the Romans surprise the Boii army returning from a plundering adventure.

  Marcellus’ men remember the Boii ambush that killed thousands of their brothers in arms. They attack the Boii with a relentless vengeance, leaving only a few messengers to relay news of the massacre back to their tribes.[cxxxvii]

  Marcellus returns to Rome, leaving Furius Purpurio to conclude Rome’s conquest of the Ga
llic tribes. He enters Rome as a hero, leading a mile long train of captured wagons filled with bronze and silver.[cxxxviii]

  Even as he parades toward the Forum square, waving at the cheering throngs, Marcellus’ mind is on Scipio, wondering what he has told the Senate.

  But Scipio is not there to meet him. He lies abed in his house. Weak from his wounds, Scipio is taken with a fresh bout of fever. On the night of Marcellus’ arrival, Febris’ fever dreams fill his head.

  Scipio is in a wide valley ringed with rippling hills. Thousands of legionnaires fill the dusty plain in front of him. The Romans stand rigidly at attention, their javelins clutched in their fists.

  All around them, Syrians flow down the hills like a wave of insects, darkening every hill as far as the eye can see. Laelius and Lucius stand in front of the legions, both wearing the purple capes of Roman consuls. They argue animatedly with each other, their faces flush with anger.

  The Syrians enter the plain and flow toward the immobile cohorts. Lucius and Laelius continue their feud, their eyes fixed on each other.

  “Stop it!” Scipio shouts. “Get the men ready!”

  The two look at him. “Which of us should give the order?” Laelius asks.

  “I don’t know,” Scipio says. “Just attack them!”

  Lucius looks at him. “Should I do it, brother?”

  “I don’t know, it’s not my decision!” Scipio rages. The two return to their bickering. The Syrians flood onto the plain, a massive dust cloud trailing in their wake.

  The silver-armored Syrians plow into the unmoving Romans, their curved swords hewing down the legionnaires as if they were stalks of wheat. Antiochus rides in front of his murderous soldiers, grinning voraciously. He rumbles his sickle-wheeled chariot through the fallen warriors, its scythed wheels flinging heads and limbs.

  “Get them!” Scipio wails.

  “Who? Which one of us?” Laelius asks. “You have to decide.” Laelius and Lucius look at Scipio, waiting for an answer.

  Scipio vaults upright, his eyes staring at the walls of his bedroom.

  “What is it, love?” Amelia sits up and cradles his sweaty back with her arms. “Another bad dream?”