Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  “The Thracians are embarrassing us,” the king growls. “I want them destroyed!”

  Commander Zeuxis touches the top of his forehead. “As you say, my King. We have forty thousand infantry to their ten. I’ll send them all.”

  “Send the Parthians too,” Antiochus commands. “And get the chariots out there. I want them crushed before nightfall!”

  The Syrian army marches onto the plains in front of the captured city of Lysimachia, heading toward the battling Thracians. Five thousand Galatians lead the charge, the giant Gauls tramping along in loosely ordered groups, eager for kills and plunder. The Syrian phalanxes follow, bristling with twelve foot spears.

  Seeing their enemies approach, the Thracians rearrange themselves into squares of 144 men. Scores of them wear the mailed armor of their recent cataphractii victims, a trophy of their battle prowess.

  Three hundred Thracian cavalry wait behind their footmen, the finest horse warriors in Greece. The riders patiently study the gates of Lysimachia, waiting to repel any new cavalry attacks.

  The Galatians halt within a stone’s throw of the Thracian lines. A dozen Gallic chieftains march out in front of their men, facing the Thracians. The eldest chief raises his tribe’s ram’s-head standard over his head. The Gallic horns blare the call to attack. The chiefs stride forward, waving their swords and axes.

  The Galatians run past their leaders, roaring with excitement, and burst into the Thracian spear wall. As soon as the Gauls collide with the Thracians, the agile peltasts strike out with their short spears, ducking under the Gaul’s heavy swords. Scores of bold Thracians ram their bodies against their brawny enemy, wielding their dagger-swords with deadly effect.

  The Gauls batter down hundreds of the front-line soldiers, but the fierce Thracians refuse to retreat. Each fallen man is replaced by another eager to avenge the pillage of Lysimachia, their prized city. The Thracians rip the necklaces and torques from the necks of their fallen opponents, pausing in the midst of battle to gain the plunder they covet as much as their kills.

  After an hour of relentless combat, the Syrian horns sound a troop recall. Step by step, the weary Galatians retreat, dragging their wounded with them. The Syrian phalanxes move forward, each square moving as one, an impenetrable wall of spears.

  The Thracian tribesmen are wise in the ways of phalanx warfare. They do not resist the advance. They retreat, step by step, maintaining their square formations, keeping themselves distanced from the fearsome spear wall that presses upon them. As their infantry retreats, the Thracian cavalry breaks into four squadrons. They arrange themselves behind the gaps between the Thracian squares in the center and on the flanks.

  The Thracian soldiers back into the nearby creekbeds, stepping carefully through its brush and broken ground. The Syrian phalanxes follow. Their spears wobble as the Syrians lurch over the lowland’s clumps and furrows. Scores of men fall on their face, dropping their spears.

  Thrax notices the gaps that appear in the daunting spear wall. The Thracian chieftain sees the Syrians slip and stumble as they press forward, cursing the ground they walk upon. He knows the time has come.

  “At them!” he yells to his chieftains. “Hit the right side of every phalanx.” The chieftains dash off to relay the orders to their men.

  Minutes later, the attack command echoes across the battlefield. The Thracians push into the advancing phalanxes, pitching their javelins into the middle of the formations. Four rounds of throws elicit hundreds of painful screams from the Syrians.

  Their spear supply exhausted, the Thracians draw their swords and attack, chopping at the spear wall in front of them. With the Syrians engaged with the front-line infantry, the rear ranks of Thracians dash out and cut into the phalanxes’ right flanks, the places where the sword arms of the right-handed Syrians are exposed to the open space. The Syrians on the right and center try to shift their lengthy spears toward the onrushing Thracians, but the tribesmen are already upon them.

  The Thracians duck between the scattered spears, their swords bared and ready. They ram their shields into the shieldless Syrians, jabbing their short swords into Syrian bodies. Hundreds of terrified Syrians drop their spears and grapple for their daggers, vainly trying to defend themselves.

  “Loose!” Thrax commands. More javelins hurtle into the phalanx’s center and right, plunging into their exposed enemies. Hundreds of Syrians fall. Thrax smiles, savoring the cries of agony that erupt from his enemy’s lines.

  “Bring up the riders,” he says.

  The cavalry’s four squads stampede in from the gaps between the infantry formations. They swerve into the rear of the front-line phalanxes, using their lances to stab down the vulnerable spearmen.

  The front phalanxes begin to break apart. The remorseless Thracians cut deep into their ranks, their swords quieting the Syrians’ surrenders and cries for mercy.

  Antiochus watches in horror. “Get the Demon Riders in there,” he screams at Zeuxis. “Bring the rear infantry to the front. Send everyone—everyone, damn it!”

  Five hundred Dahae horsemen ride out from Lysimachia: short, lean, brown-skinned Asians who are adept at shooting arrows on horseback. The Dahae swoop down upon the Thracian cavalry, heading into the rear of the disorganized phalanxes. They cock their short horn bows and release hundreds of arrows into the Thracians, mowing down scores of them before the Thracians can reverse themselves and attack.

  The Thracian riders gallop into the Dahae, spearing them down before they can loose more arrows. Many of the nimble Asians escape the attacks, giving them time to release arrows at point blank range. Soon, hundreds of the proud Thracian cavalry are upon the ground, arrows jutting from their heads and bodies. More Thracians fall but they still press the fight, chasing their tormentors around the plains.

  With the Thracian cavalry occupied, fresh Syrian phalanxes move to the fore, driving away the infantrymen who were attacking the phalanxes’ right flanks. The Thracians find themselves in a fresh battle, vastly outnumbered by reinvigorated troops.

  “Stand! Thrax bellows to his men. “No one moves his feet!”

  Thrax’s men plant their right feet behind them and lean forward, putting their shoulders to their shields. They refuse to give ground, using the uneven terrain to attack gaps in the Syrian spear walls. For every dozen Thracians that fall, thrice as many die beneath their blades—yet their numbers continue to shrink.

  Thrax fights on foot with his front-line infantry, directing charges into the weak spots in the Syrians’ formation. They’ll break soon, Thrax tells himself, slashing the thigh of an unwary Syrian. If they break ranks, we can wipe them out. Just a little longer.

  Thrax see two enormous dust clouds coming at them from the plain, one on each flank. He hears a distant rumble, growing louder. Thrax sees scores of bright metallic flashes within the dust clouds, and he realizes what approaches.

  Ares’ balls, why did they have to come now! We almost had them!

  Hundreds of bright bronze chariots rumble out of the dust, their iron hubs flashing with their scythed whirling blades. The chariots loop around their phalanxes and cut into the unarmored Thracian infantry, battering them aside while their wheels butcher the unfortunates who fall before them. The chariot drivers careen through the field of battle, sowing chaos wherever they go.

  Scores of fearless Thracians throw off their shields and helmets and run at the chariots. They leap onto the backs of chariots and chop their swords and axes into their occupants.

  The Thracians pitch the Syrians from the chariots and grasp the reins. They bash their chariots into the sides of the Syrians’ carts, knocking them sideways to the earth. The Thracian infantry swarm over the fallen charioteers, rejoicing in their vengeance.

  Watching their chariots cut apart the Thracians, the Syrian phalanxes smell blood. They stride forward with renewed vigor, shoving their long spears into the sides and backs of the milling Thracians. Hundreds fall to the relentless bronze, their bodies in rows where the spea
r wall has cut into them. Hundreds in the rear break and run, heading for the foothills behind the creekbed.

  Thrax still rages in the center of the front line, surrounded by the thousands who refuse to retreat. Heedless of the danger, he dives between gaps in the spear wall. The Thracian commander slashes into the stomachs and chests of the shieldless phalangites, running back to his men before they can draw their swords on him.

  One of his chieftains grabs him by the shoulder. “The flanks are caving in, Commander,” he yells. “The greasy bastards are all about us!”

  Thrax moves behind his front line, heading to the left flank. He sees that the flank is caving in, the chariots rumbling through his men while the Dahae horse archers shoot down dozens in the rear. He grimaces with regret. There’s too many of them. Too many weapons. We have to live to fight another day.

  Tears of shame well in his eyes. He waves over one of his attending captains. “Tell the horn men to sound the retreat. We will gather at the mountain camp. They won’t dare follow us up there.”

  The horns soon sound the recall. The Thracians step backward, facing their enemies, battling every step of the way. The Syrians are only too glad to see their fierce enemy depart. They are content to skirmish with the retreating warriors, flinging rocks and spears at them.

  A glint of silver catches Thrax’s eye. In the distance, he sees a silver-masked Syrian stabbing into the chest of one of Thrax’s men, adding to the pile at his feet. The shiny one must be their champion. Killing him would be fitting revenge. Thrax hands his attendant his sword.

  “Give me Nightfall,” he says. The attendant brings Thrax’s favorite dueling weapon. Grasping Nightfall’s handle, Thrax stalks toward the silver Syrian. Who is this freak? he wonders.

  Thrax has never met Nicator.

  “Ah, pig Thracian. You die slowly today, yes?” says Nicator, champion of the Syrian army. He leans over his supine opponent and raises his hand to his ear, as if he is listening to him.

  “What, you no talk?” he says to the groveling Thracian. “I speak for you. I say ‘yes!’ Come on up and fight!” Nicator steps back, waiting for his man to rise.

  The Thracian totters to his feet, his curved sword dangling from his numbed fist. His eyes roam the Syrian’s body, looking for a weak spot. There by the groin. One stab into his veins. He raises his sword arm and stumbles forward.

  “Oh, now we dance some more?” Nicator says, his eyes twinkling.

  Antiochus’ premier warrior is enjoying himself. He has made the twenty kills he sets as his goal in every battle, cutting down a score of front-line Thracians while the battle was still undecided. Now, as the Syrian hordes beat back their outnumbered opponents, the silver-masked assassin rewards himself with a lingering kill.

  Nicator has toyed with the warrior as a cat would with a bird. He has parried his enemy’s slashes and feints just before the blade cuts his flesh, whooping with mock fear. When the Thracian deftly slashed his sword arm with a counterthrust, it only made Nicator more eager to draw out the game, enjoying a fight with a worthy opponent. That the young Thracian is handsome has only added to the disfigured Syrian’s relish in besting him, particularly when he sliced into his opponent’s attractive face.

  Nicator is becoming bored, however. He has cut the man in a dozen places, and the blood loss is telling on the Thracian’s reflexes. Finish it, he tells himself. There are more waiting.

  With a deft sweep of his right foot, the Syrian knocks the wounded soldier’s feet out from under him. The Thracian crashes onto his back. Nicator leaps in and cuts into the Thracian’s limbs before he can rise, disabling him.

  The Syrian flicks the point of his sword across the throat of the Thracian. A ribbon of blood blooms across the man’s neck.

  “Oh, look! You wear a bright red scarf!” Nicator chuckles. “Perhaps you like to dress like a woman, Pretty One?” Nicator nicks another cut into the Thracian’s cheek. “You not so pretty now!”

  The Thracian rolls onto one shoulder and glares into the Syrian’s face mask. “Fuck you, pot face.”

  The Thracian takes a deep breath. He jerks his head forward and spits a clot of blood onto the Syrian’s silvered breastplate. The Thracian bares his carmined teeth into the rictus of a grin. “Now you’re even uglier.”

  The Syrian laughs tinnily, his voice echoing inside his metal mask. “You have balls, don’t you, Scarface? That is bad for you, what you say—no one call me ugly.”

  Nicator steps between the warrior’s outstretched legs and angles his blade underneath the Thracian’s tunic, resting its point against his testicles.

  “Now we see how much you laugh.”

  “Get away from him, camel shit,” comes a voice behind him. “Get back, or I’ll cut your legs off.” Nicator spins around, his blade arrowed out in front of him.

  A rangy Thracian crouches in front of Nicator. His gray hair cascades down beneath his dark green helmet, draping around the blue snake tattoos that cover his shoulders and chest. The warrior holds a rhomphaia in his sinewy hands, a five-foot polearm that is half sword and half ax handle, its scythed blade perfect for slashing and battering. The Thracian’s light gray eyes study Nicator’s armor and stance, looking for the best killing spot.

  Nicator bobs his head, delighted. “Ah, you are big chief Thrax!” Nicator chortles, eyeing the eagle crest on top of the Thrax’s helmet. “You come to save your man? Too late; he dying.”

  “Then you will accompany him on his journey to the underworld,” Thrax replies, his voice quaking with anger. He stalks toward the Syrian, his polearm cocked back for a butchering cut.

  “I think not, old man.” Nicator springs lightly from his dying foe, eager to kill the tribe’s leader. The fool has no shield, the Syrian thinks as he closes upon the older man. I’ll cut his thigh open and watch him bleed out; I’ll put their faces together so they can watch each other die!

  Nicator dips low, aiming for the thigh cut. With a speed that belies his years, Thrax whirls the polearm handle at Nicator’s head. The Syrian jerks up his shield to ward off the blow, but he is an instant too late.

  The handle clangs into the side of Nicator’s silvered helmet. The dazed Syrian falls to one knee. Thrax leaps at him, aiming a murderous blow at his face.

  Instinctively, Nicator ducks inside his upraised shield. The polearm’s heavy blade cleaves through the shield, jamming against its center boss. The blow knocks Nicator flat. His head bounces off the ground, his legs splayed out in front of him. He shakes his head to clear it.

  Thrax jerks at his rhomphaia, but the blade is wedged in the shield’s brass boss. Cursing vehemently, he plants his left foot on the shield and jerks. “Gods curse you, come out!”

  Nicator yanks his shield sideways, and slashes his sword across the Thracian’s calf. Thrax yells. Nicator cocks his sword arm back, his eyes fixed on Thrax’s leg artery.

  Thrax realizes he is seconds away from death. Desperate, he lunges backward with his entire body. The polearm screeches free from the shattered shield, sending Thrax stumbling backward. He regains his footing just as Nicator springs at him, his sword poised for a killing stroke.

  Thrax reverses his polearm and rams the butt end of the handle into the Syrian’s shield. He hammers at it, again and again, driving Nicator backwards. Undismayed, Nicator aims a lighting quick thrust at Thrax’s midsection. The former gladiator turns sideways, and the blade cuts air.

  As the sword stabs past him, Thrax pivots on his right leg and kicks into the side of Nicator’s knee, knocking sideways. Thrax leaps in and swings his curved blade at Nicator’s sword arm. Nicator whisks his arm back, an instant before the polearm cuts off his hand.

  This one moves like a striking snake, Nicator says to himself. Best end him quickly.

  Nicator retreats from Thrax, feigning discomfiture. When the Syrian draws next to the Thracian’s corpse, Nicator stumbles over the dead man’s legs, tumbling to the earth.

  Thrax runs in, his polearm raised. When the Thraci
an leans over him, Nicator wraps his legs around Thrax’s ankle and jerks his leg into the air. The Thracian crashes to the ground, his sword-ax flying from his hands. Nicator springs up and bends over him, darting his blade at the Thracian’s bare throat.

  But Thrax has fallen before many a man in the gladiatorial ring, only to rise the victor. He reflexively spins sideways. The sword crunches into the scrabbly ground, burying itself to the middle. The Syrian yanks out his weapon and lunges toward Thrax. The Thracian rises to one knee and grabs a fistful of gravelly earth. He flings it into Nicator’s face mask.

  The Syrian halts, choking out the dirt in his mouth while he grapples at his clouded eyes. Instinctively, Nicator steps back from his opponent, but he does not step far enough.

  Thrax bounces up. He swoops his polearm’s curved blade behind Nicator’s knee guard and yanks it forward. The keen blade bites deep into the Syrian’s upper calf, cutting into his tendons. Cursing with pain, the Syrian drops to one knee. He blindly swipes his sword about in front of him, blinking to clear his eyes.

  Now to end this Syrian bastard. Thrax kicks the Syrian in the face, knocking him flat. Nicator’s mask flies off. Thrax gapes at the scarred, pustulent visage that glares up at him. He grins.

  “You are one ugly motherfucker, aren’t you?” Thrax says. He bends over to make his killing strike. Nicator grapples for his sword.

  A javelin thuds in front of Thrax, then another to his side. Angry shouts erupt behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees two enemy chariots rumbling toward him, their occupants grabbing more javelins from their spear tubes.

  “Another day, freak,” Thrax says. He dashes toward the dissolving battle line, jumping onto the horse of a passing Thracian cavalryman.

  Nicator dashes to his face plate and ties it into place. He straightens his armor and raiment, shaking his head to clear out the last of the pebbles. The two chariots pull up in front of him.

  “You are all right, Captain?” says one of the drivers, wrapping a linen bandage about Nicator’s bleeding calf.