“Our objective is very simple. When the Tectosages engage our cohorts in the center, and we are given our signal, we are to wheel about and flank them. They have no cavalry of their own to repel us, and their men will scatter like whipped dogs.”
The chants of our enemy increased in volume, sounding far more like the howls of wolves than pups.
“When the order is given, halt your advance,” Lucius added. We had been given express orders by General Marius to remain with the center, even if the enemy fled. The Tectosages would meet their demise, but not at the cost of Roman lives.
“Remember who you are, men.” I turned again to face our enemy. I unsheathed my gladius and hoisted it into the air. As the command to march was given to the center once more, slow and deliberate now, encroaching the base of the hill with the Tectosages atop it, I directed our cavalry to follow me away from Marius, creating a larger gap between us and the center.
I leaned down closer to Sura, and placed my left hand on her mane. I eased her into a gallop, and our men followed.
The Tectosages, in a blood lust, charged down the hill to meet the Roman center. Our mules marched as silently as ghosts, the Tectosages howling as they crashed against our line like a strong current on jagged rocks.
“Steady, men,” I shouted over the stampede, unsure if I could be heard. I said this to calm myself as much as them.
Yellow flags from the center rose and dropped in quick succession. This was our signal. Typically, general orders were given audibly and unit orders were given via the centurion’s whistle, but Marius had ordered our line stretched as thin as possible. He knew they couldn’t beat us man-to-man, and felt that the sooner they felt surrounded, the sooner they’d surrender.
I lifted my sword to the heavens, to Mars and all of my ancestors, and then dropped it toward the enemy.
“Now, men, now!” Lucius shouted, kicking his stallion to a full sprint.
The sharp winds whistled in our helms. This was my first time riding to meet an enemy on horseback. It was even more exhilarating, and terrifying, than I had previously imagined.
We careened toward them like a stone rolling down a hill, picking up speed as we went. They shifted from a shapeless blob to defined men with facial features. When they spotted us, we were close enough to see the terror in their eyes.
I could feel Sura resisting beneath me, even as the velocity of her body carried her on.
“Come on, girl. Come on, girl!” I cried. She could not hear me, but she felt it in my heels and the hand on her mane, and obeyed.
We crashed into the enemy, our horses jumping over and onto them like a skipping stone on top of the water.
Limbs were splintered under the weight of our hooves. We cut savagely, left and right, to meet them, our swords knocking off their loose-fitting bronze helms and slicing their faces deep.
Our center gave the order to advance, and they pushed farther into the enemy, capitalizing on the panic and chaos we created in the Tectosage ranks.
Across the battlefield, I could see that Sulla was meeting the enemy with equal force, himself tall and visible atop his horse, a distinguished purple plume on his helm and a uniquely crafted black breastplate with silver etching.
My vision spiraled when I looked down at my enemy. My depth perception had been skewed since the moment I lost my eye, but in the heat of battle, I could hardly tell how close or far my opponent was. I swung violently regardless, and tried to look away when I could. The horse gave me a bit of distance that most warriors coveted, but I could still feel when my sword sliced through flesh.
Sura bucked and roared beneath me. Such an innocent beast. But I held fast to her, and even as men fell in piles beside and behind us, she did not turn and run.
The Tectosages were broken, their undisciplined lines faltering. The bravest among them charged into our center and were swallowed up. The rest scattered, stumbling up the hill, their eyes set on the feigned safety of their villages below.
“Halt men, halt!” I shouted, seeing the red flags waving from the center.
“Halt, damn it!” Lucius shouted with me, some of our men not hearing me over the chaos. That, or their first taste of blood had suited them. They wouldn’t experience the residual effects until afterward.
Shouts carried out from our center, and the red flags continued to wave furiously. I looked back and forth between Marius’s guard and Lucius, trying to interpret what was wrong. It was then that I noticed that Sulla was leading his men forward.
In hot pursuit of the fleeing enemy, they rolled them up like a carpet, slicing through their backs and trampling over them like tilled earth.
I still believe I could hear Marius himself over the tumult, shouting for Sulla to obey his orders and return to line.
If that were so, Marius’s second-in-command did not heed the order. He advanced with reckless abandon, into the villages, sacking the baggage carts. His men chopped down any in their path, and soon the smoke of fires rose from the huts.
Marius at last had no other option. He gave the order to advance, and we moved among them. We progressed at a brisk pace, but by the time we had arrived, Sulla’s work had been completed. The Tectosages were annihilated and Sulla’s men were already enjoying the spoils.
Marius was infuriated with Sulla’s insubordination. Sulla had been victorious, hailed as a hero by his own men. Marius had little room to criticize him, so he did so only with irritated glances and grunts when Sulla spoke.
The battle had been an overwhelming success. Our enemy had been punished for their transgressions, and the alliance of the Massiliots had been solidified by their lack of support for the vanquished. Few Romans fell that day, and only three from our left flank. I proceeded to tell Lucius that we must sacrifice twenty-two pigeons, the next time. He didn’t find this humorous, but neither did I.
Most of the time, it took longer to reconvene after a battle than the fighting itself. We had to form up, which was difficult after a battle when everyone’s out of breath and patting themselves to make sure they aren’t bleeding. Then the centurions must take their counts. The enemy survivors must be secured and transported.
But when we arrived back in camp, and were freed for the evening, even the most morose soldiers become quite conversational.
Equus found Lucius and I, or perhaps stumbled upon us, as his eyes were wild and darting all about.
“Are you well, comrade?” Lucius said with a chuckle.
“Wow… That was… My father would…” He pivoted and emptied his stomach onto the dirt. He turned to us again, holding up a finger, seemingly obvious to the string of bile that hung from his lips. “Don’t let that sully your image of me. I’m quite…euphoric.”
“That sensation in your gut will dissipate once you fill it with wine. Come on, then.” Lucius threw an arm around Equus’s neck and led him on.
As was custom, Marius hosted a meal for the officers who had helped accomplish the victory that day. Marius kept a rather boorish cook, but we were all thankful for a nice meal, and for the fact that we were all still alive to partake of it.
The general himself sat at the head of the table. He was mostly silent as the rest of the officers swapped stories, laughing and embellishing as they did so. Sulla was clearly the most jovial among us all, and Marius watched him with suspicion the entire evening.
As Volsenio and the rest of Marius’s slaves collected our dishes, the wine began to flow more freely. We were celebrating, after all. Marius was ahead of all of us at that point. He had finished his first few cups before the meals were even prepared. And just as his cook was uncouth, whoever prepared his wine had made it quite strong.
Marius’s eyes were glossed over and his head was slightly swaying by the time our meal was concluded.
“Alright,” Marius’s gruff voice boomed. It caught our attention because he had spoken so little that night. “I believe my daughter’s mourning for Maximus has concluded,” he said. All of us cringed and looked down at the
table when Maximus’s name was mentioned. Maximus’s death had only been declared a month prior, and so we wondered what Marius was getting at. “She will be needing a new husband.”
His eyes were fixed on Sulla as he spoke, who held his cup of wine between his hands and swirled it around.
“Sulla, I would like you to marry my daughter,” Marius said. It seemed more like a command than an offer, but I assumed it was the wine. Perhaps it was more of a test than either one.
Sulla continued to stare down for some time, but he finally looked up and clicked his tongue.
“My apologies, Consul. But I am already engaged to be married to another,” he said. Everyone at the table shifted uncomfortably, except for Sulla himself.
“And you were not going to tell me?” Marius said, his words slightly slurred from the wine.
Sulla shrugged. “I’m focused on the war right now, Marius. I hadn’t even thought of it.” He acted as if he had simply forgotten to update Marius on a chariot race or a new food he had tried in the forum.
“Well, you should break off the engagement.” Marius placed his elbows on the table with force, leaning in toward his second-in-command.
Sulla hesitated for a moment. “I will not.”
The tension in the room was rising to choke us. We tried not even to breath, to blink.
All that was heard was the heavy breathing from Marius’s nostrils.
“I am the consul of Rome.”
“And I have the utmost respect for you and your position.”
“I drew you from the gutter and built your career! I saved your milk-drinking life more than a few times in Numidia too.” Marius voice rose and carried through the praetorium.
“And I have tried to honor that, Marius. And you know I do not drink milk,” Sulla said, meeting the general’s eyes. “I am sorry. But I will not call off the engagement.”
“And who is this trollop you are to marry, that you should shun my daughter?” Marius asked, his chest heaving with poorly restrained anger. Sulla did not answer but returned his attention again to his cup of wine. “Tell me, Sulla, is it I or my daughter who do not meet your standards?”
“Marius, be reasonable!” Sulla finally shouted. “I need a patrician marriage to further my career. It’s not personal. It’s pragmatic.” He lowered his voice as he spoke. Everyone knew this was the one thing Marius did not want to hear. His plebeian origins were both a source of pride and sore embarrassment to him. To be rejected by his protégé for it was the ultimate betrayal.
“A patrician? Your…career?” Marius’s voice was suddenly light, in total disbelief. He could hardly catch his breath. In a flash, he pounced to his feet and sent his chair clattering to the ground. He paced out of the praetorium.
We all remained as still as statues, unsure of what to do. Sulla alone stirred, finishing his wine and asking for another cup.
Finally, Sulla smiled, and looked around the table at each of us.
“Have you seen how hairy his backside is? I can only imagine what his daughter feels like, if she takes after him.”
Fortunately, Marius wasn’t around to hear him.
13
Scroll XIII
Kalends of March 651 ab urbe condita
I tried to return my attention to training the men. Now that they had tasted battle for the first time, they approached weapon’s drills quite differently. As each of them took their turns approaching the dummies, there was something different in their eyes, as if they now saw a long-haired Gaul before them instead of a lifeless wooden post.
“Maintain your balance, Galbus,” I said to one of the nearby legionaries as I passed in between the training lanes.
“Left high. Right low. Right high,” the first spear centurion of the Seventh Legion called out. His name was Gnaeus Herennius and he was the kind of leader I had confidence in rearing a good crop of soldiers. He was a grizzled old veteran, having seen a dozen campaigns or more in his time.
In many ways, he reminded me of Scrofa in how he approached the discipline of the men under him, although they looked nothing alike. Herennius was rotund but solid as a rock, while Scrofa had been lean and agile. Scrofa had always ensured his face was clean shaven and his hair properly maintained—before his capture, at least. Herennius, on the other hand, always maintained the gray shadow of a growing beard across his face, but I assumed this was simply because of the swiftness of its growth rather than a lack of tending to it.
“They look good, Centurion,” I said. The mules seemed to increase their speed and accuracy as they heard the compliment.
“They’ve tasted blood now, Tribune. And you’re ready for more, aren’t you, boys?” he asked.
The men shouted in response and stabbed harder at the posts.
“Left low.”
The men continued with fresh vigor for a moment until they came to a halt. All of their eyes rose and looked behind me.
“Oh, continue, men. Don’t mind me. Just inspecting.” In a camp of rough accents and urban dialects, the voice of Lucius Cornelius Sulla was unmistakable, each word polished like an orator’s.
I turned and nodded to him but hoped he wouldn’t engage in conversation. I felt him approaching. Chills crawled down my arms as I heard the crunch of his sandals behind me.
“It’s a totally different legion than the one we first joined, isn’t it?” he asked, jovial and smiling like we were old pals.
“It is,” I said, although he didn’t join the same legion as I did either. How could his experience resemble mine when he never wore anything but an officer’s crest?
“Marius has his faults, but these reforms were quite remarkable. I’m inclined to believe his associate Publius Rutilius Rufus has more to do with it then Marius’s pundits like to admit; regardless, I’ll give the man his due.” I remained silent, eyes fixed on the training soldiers, hoping that if I didn’t engage, he might saunter on. “He has certainly been sour lately, hasn’t he? Like a spoiled apple.”
“He’s under enormous pressure,” I said.
He stepped into my line of view so that I was forced to meet his gaze. His bronze skin glistened with sweat, but his blue eyes shone brighter. His silklike skin and the slightness of his waist made him appear effeminate, but his chest and arms were built like a Greek wrestler’s. His jaw was thick and imposing too, so no one would ever call him feminine to his face.
“Marius throws so many baseless accusations at me, it’s difficult to keep count,” Sulla said.
“Like what?” I said. I tried to keep my face passive, but I balked at this. I had begun to adore Marius the way Lucius did, even though I remained cognizant of his faults.
“Well, for one, he keeps shouting about rescuing me from the gutter.” He brought a hand to his face and waved it to cool himself off. The smell of perfume on his freshly pressed tunic clung in my nostrils. I didn’t say anything. “I was, for certain, born in the gutter. When your daddy is the most hated drunk in the Suburra, that tends to be the case. But by the time Marius was introduced to me, I was rich as Croesus. My father’s second wife left me a fortune when she died, and my first lover did as well.”
“That was fortunate.” I stepped away, but he followed alongside me, matching my stride.
“I’ve so much money, I hardly know what to do with it. I could also give you a loan if you’d like?” His eyes locked on mine, and I suddenly felt the impulse to step farther away from him.
“I appreciate the offer, Legate, but that won’t be necessary,” I said. He shrugged, unconcerned.
He placed a hand on my arm and led me a few paces from the trainees. When we stopped, he turned and smiled. The grin was friendly and unassuming, reminding me why Sulla was so well liked, by everyone from the lowliest slave to the highest-ranking officers, with the potential exception of Marius, at least at the current moment.
“Are you afraid of leaving for your mission?”
I was too taken aback to respond for a moment.
“No. No, I
don’t think so. I just want to ensure I have all the information I’ll need before I depart.”
He nodded but continued to look into my eye to see if I was being honest.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were afraid. It is quite the thing you’re doing.”
“I thought I was going to die at Arausio. That seems to make death a little bit less imposing.” I found some fresh resolve and met his eyes. I didn’t know if I really believed this, but I found it easy to say.
“Gods bless you. I feel the same. I’ve never encountered death, not closely, but I do not fear death. The gods speak to me. They tell me I’ll be safe.”
“Oh?” I tried to keep my eyebrow from raising and my lips from smirking.
“Yes, they do.” He looked down for the first time, and for a moment he seemed embarrassed. “Marius keeps the Harpy priestess around to get a glimpse of what it’s like to commune with the gods. But I really talk to them. Apollo guides everything I do. I don’t expect anyone to understand that, though.”
“The next time you talk to him, put in a good word for me. Perhaps he can help me return safely,” I said. I meant it seriously, but I’m afraid anything I said in reply to a man who claimed to speak with the gods was going to sound insulting.
Regardless, he leaned his head back and laughter bellowed out. He slapped me on the back rather forcefully.
“Very good, Tribune,” he said after he composed himself. “I’ll ask him for guidance. Mostly he tells me about the future, though.”
“Am I in it?”
He shrugged, a charming smile still stretched across his face. “I don’t know yet, young tribune, but I hope. He tells me that I’ll one day be the first man in Rome.” Every inking of humor disappeared from his face. “He tells me I’ll be the greatest Roman to have ever lived. That I’ll usher in a new era, one that harkens back to Rome’s finest hour. Strength and prosperity.”
I concluded several things in that moment. It suddenly made sense why he had this peculiar look in his eye, as if Rome, the war, the whole world, were absurd, and he was somehow above it all. As if everything was a game or a play he was simply witnessing. If he believed he already knew the ending, how could he feel otherwise?
The Noise of War Page 13