Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

“We will finish it by tomorrow morning.” Menippus says. The Syrian commander trots toward the hundreds of light infantrymen lolling along the brush-lined beach. Hannibal and Antiochus hear him shouting commands. The young soldiers march gloomily into the passage. They grab the jagged rocks that sprinkle the landscape and begin piling them into a wide, shallow wall.

  Antiochus and Hannibal return to the front of the Thermopylae pass. The Syrian phalangites are hard at work with mattocks and shovels, digging out a two-hundred-foot-wide trench.

  Nicator is there, fully armored. He sits upon a flat boulder embedded into the side of the hill. Nicator watches the men work, their white loincloths splotched with dust-grimed sweat. Those digging the trench have only to glance at Nicator, inscrutable in his silver mask, to find the motivation to dig harder.

  Seeing his king approach, Nicator springs off his rocky perch. “How goes the work, Commander?” Antiochus asks. Nicator glances at his men. “They will have it done by dusk, or I’ll cut one of their ears off. I have told them that.”

  “Good. We’ll put up a palisade right behind it. The Dahae infantry are coming over to build it.”

  “Dahae!” Nicator snorts derisively. “They are dog eaters!” His red-rimmed eyes fix on Antiochus. “When is the battle? I want to see how good these vaunted Romans fight.”

  “You will soon have your chance,” Hannibal replies. “The scouts say Glabrio’s army will arrive by afternoon tomorrow. They will likely come at us a few days after that, after they have established their camp.”

  “Now we will settle this thing, and prove who’s best.” Nicator points his forefinger at Antiochus. “I make you this promise. They come and fight us, I will bring you a commander’s head. You can make a drinking bowl from the skull.”

  Antiochus chuckles uneasily. “Well, I suppose that would be a very unique goblet. Why, two of those skulls would be even better. In case I have a drinking companion!”

  Syria’s deadliest warrior genuflects. “It will be done, or I will not be upon this earth.” He stalks back toward his boulder.

  Hannibal chuckles. “You know, I believe he’d come back with the consul’s head, if you just asked him to do it.”

  “His skills are only matched by his devotion,” the king replies. “I’m glad he is fixed on a goal. It will get his mind off that Thracian he has sworn to kill.”

  Hannibal cranes his neck, studying the castle-shaped peak above him. “You know, if I were Glabrio, I’d lead a war party down from those mountains. That’s what their general Flamininus did when he defeated Philip at the Aous Gorge.”[cxix]

  “We can prevent that. There are thousands of Aetolians inside nearby Heraclea, they fled there when the Romans approached. I will tell them that they must send half their men to guard the mountaintop passes, or I will take their city myself.”

  Hannibal snorts derisively. “Yes, I think threatening Aetolians works better than requesting.” He points to a peak towering in the distance. “Make sure they put the main force around the goat path on top of Mount Callidromum. That’s the trail the Persians used to get at the Spartans.”

  “The Aetolians will be up there by tomorrow night, or I’ll declare war on them!” Antiochus declares. “I’d rather have them as a certain enemy than a dubious ally. That way I know whom I’m fighting!”

  * * * * * *

  Two days later, the Roman army camps out a mile from the mouth of Thermopylae Pass.

  Consul Glabrio holds a final war meeting in his consular tent. The young commander stands over the oak slab that serves as his map table. Baebius, Lucius, Cato, Flaccus, and Marcus Aemilius circle the table, studying the scouts’ recently-drawn map of Thermopylae. All are clad in the simple gray tunics that soldiers wear, the Roman eagle blazoned across the chests of their garments.

  Glabrio runs his finger along the thick black line that depicts the Thermopylae Pass. “Antiochus has blocked the pass with staked palisades and stone walls. We will need more than a frontal assault to take them.”

  “We can’t get through the swamplands. That leaves the mountains on the other side,” Baebius says. “If we can make our way to the top of the pinnacles, we can descend upon their flanks.”

  “We can ambush them,” Flaccus says. “Excellent!”

  Cato shakes his head. “I doubt we will surprise them. Hannibal is in his camp. The Carthaginian is an expert on military history. He will know that Leonidas was surprised by the Persians there.”

  “He’s right,” Lucius adds. “The Syrians will have scouts patrolling that goat path the Persians used. They might have troops stationed up there, too.”

  Glabrio purses his lips. “So, we have no choice but to storm the pass? We will lose many men.”

  Cato snorts. “Just because they know we’re coming doesn’t mean we can’t kick their asses! Give me a cohort, and I’ll cut through whoever is up there.” He nods at Flaccus. “My fellow consul can join me.”

  Flaccus gapes at him. “Uh, I am more successful at fighting on the plains. Perhaps someone else?”

  The room is quiet for a moment. “I will be that ‘someone else’,” says Tribune Marcus Aemilius. “When I served under General Flamininus, I led a cohort up into the Aous Mountains, and we managed to sneak down upon Philip’s flank.[cxx] Give me a day and a night to explore the animal trails. I will find a way for us to ascend undetected.”

  Glabrio nods, relieved. “I have heard about your mountaineering skills, Tribune. Consider it done.”

  “Good,” Cato says. “But we still need you, Flaccus. We will have to split our forces to cover all that terrain. You can take one half of them.”

  Flaccus starts to protest. Glabrio raises his palm. “Cato, you will take two thousand men up near Mount Callidromum,[cxxi] above the front of their ramparts. Flaccus, you take two thousand more to Rhodontia and Tichius, the two lower mountains by their rear.[cxxii] Marcus, explore the routes that lead up to there, and come back with a plan.”

  The tribune snaps out a salute. “I will leave after this meeting.”

  “Very good,” Glabrio replies. “That leaves us to finalize the frontal attack. Praetor Baebius, you will lead the eighth legion into the mouth of the pass. I expect you will encounter a phalanx formation. But Hannibal is with him, so be prepared for anything.” He shakes his head. “We don’t know what they’re going to do with their elephants.”

  “I’ll keep my cavalry ready on the flanks,” Baebius says. “They can move swiftly to counter whatever occurs.” He grins tightly “Whatever it is, we will handle it.”

  “I trust you to hold the point of attack,” Glabrio says. “Your heart would not quicken if Jupiter himself appeared before you.”

  The consul glances sideways at Lucius. “Lucius, I need you to lead the sixth legion, and take charge of our elephants. Your men will back up the eighth.” In this narrow a passage, I doubt if we’ll need him.

  “As you command, Consul,” mutters Lucius.

  “What about that trench they’re digging?” says Baebius. “If my men have to crawl in and out of it, they’ll be easy prey for the phalangites on the other side.”

  “We’ll give you a hundred escaladers to solve that,” Glabrio replies.

  “Ladder men? That trench isn’t deep enough to need ladders.” Baebius says.

  Cato shakes his head. “They will go across the trench, not in it. Remember what our ancestors did at the Battle of Comitium?”

  Baebius grins. “Of course! I’ll get the carpenters working on the ladder modifications.”

  “Any other details?” Glabrio asks. The officers stare at the map, then at each other. No one speaks.

  The young consul takes a deep breath. “That’s it, then. We march into the pass the day after tomorrow. Cato and Flaccus, you will lead their advance troops out tomorrow, after Marcus returns with a route.”

  Cato nods his assent. “I suggest we ascend the mountains at night, to gain the cover of darkness. We can sneak up on any who wait up there.”

/>   “I did not think you one to stoop to a sneak attack, Cato,” snipes Flaccus, still irritated at him. “You always choose the direct approach.”

  “I know, but I have learned a few things from you,” Cato replies.

  Glabrio rolls up the goatskin map. “Enough talk. Prepare the men for battle. Two days hence, we’ll test the mettle of these Syrians.”

  Cato spreads his arms above his head, taking in his fellow officers. “May Victoria favor you, and Mars be at your side.” The Roman commanders hasten off to prepare their men—and themselves—for the conflict.

  The ten flap closes behind the last to depart. Glabrio holds his right hand in front of his eyes, watching it quiver. Gods, I’m shaking like a dog shitting olive pits! Did they notice?

  He pours himself a goblet of watered wine, and flops onto his sleeping pallet, staring up at the gray tent roof. Get some sleep, boy. You have lots of planning to do tomorrow.

  He suddenly leaps up and marches over to the corner of his tent, rummaging through his armor. Reaching into his belt purse, he pulls out a ivory figurine of a fox-faced woman in a flowing gown, her hair piled high on her head. He takes it back to his sleeping pallet and lies on his back, sipping wine as he holds it in his palm. I promise you, Livia, next year this will all be over, and I will return to you. We get us our villa, and Rome can go to Hades.

  * * * * *

  Two days later, Marcus, Cato, and Flaccus lead their mountain assault troops out into the predawn morning, riding in front of four thousand legionnaires.

  The soldiers carry only a sword, helmet, and two javelins. Following Marcus’ directive, they have forsaken their armor so they can travel quickly up the mountains. The hastati and principes have exchanged their cumbersome rectangular scuta for the lightweight circular parma used by the velites, a shield small enough to maneuver through the dense mountaintop foliage.

  Marching double time, the assault party quickly crosses the mile-wide plain that fronts the rocky foothills of the Thermopylae Mountains. Marcus leads them to low rise between two hillocks, where they pause to take in water.

  “We have to leave the horses here,” he says to Cato. “They won’t make it along the upper trail.” The three officers dismount. Marcus walks over to a pine tree marked with two slashes. He waves over Cato and Flaccus.

  “This is our trail to the three mountains. I marked it last night.”

  Flaccus peers into the dense stand of scrub oak and pines. “What trail?”

  “Here,” Marcus replies. He bends over and points to a foot-wide thread of trampled vegetation. “This is an animal trail, used by the generations of elk and deer. It will take us to the saddle between Callidromum and Rhodontia. From there we split into two groups and take separate paths. We can attack the Aetolian camps that are stationed at each peak.

  “How many are up there?” Cato asks.

  “There must be, oh, two thousand or so, from what I could see.” He nods at Cato. Most of them are on Callidromum, overlooking the front of their battle lines.” He chuckles. “Aetolians are so cocky! They only have a dozen sentries guarding the Callidromum camp, and most of them seem half asleep.”

  “All the better,” Cato replies. “I’m not looking for a noble battle with our former allies. I’d rather murder them in their sleep.”

  The Romans tread silently up a steep forested switchback, with Marcus Aemilius leading the way. Hours later, they come to a high country meadow ringed with jagged pinnacles. Marcus signals for a halt. He walks to the edge of the meadow and whistles shrilly. An answering shrill comes from the opposite side. A young man pops up in the midst of the meadow grasses, clad in green tunic and leggings. He smiles and waves.

  “That’s my local man. He says all is safe,” Marcus tells Cato and Flaccus. “Come on. We can take refreshment while we wait for the night.”

  The Romans sprawl out among the tall, golden grasses, chewing on the dried fruit and cheese that are their only rations. Marcus leads the brown-skinned youth over to Flaccus and Cato. “This is Castos, one of the local hunters.” Marcus says. Castos greets the commanders with a gap-toothed grin.

  “Castos will lead Flaccus’ men up a hidden trail up to Rhodontia and Tichius.” He points to a large boulder on the right side of the meadow. “Cato and I go to the left of the boulder. You and Castos take the right.”

  “Why do I get him? Why not you?” Flaccus snaps.

  “I want to be where the fighting is the worst, Flaccus. The greater danger is at Callidromum. Many more men are there.” He grins at the youth. “Besides. Castos has hunted here for years, he knows the woods better than I do.” He eyes Flaccus. “You’ll be much safer with him. Isn’t that what you want?”

  Before Flaccus can reply, Marcus stretches out and puts his hands behind his head. “We have to wait for dark. Best you take some rest while you still have the time.”

  As the sun creeps behind the mountaintops, the assault parties set out on their missions. Marcus leads Cato and his men on a winding trail around the midpoint of the mountain, hiking toward the side that overlooks Thermopylae Pass. Finally, near midnight, he calls a halt.

  “We’re close,” he says to Cato. “Follow me, and walk quietly. Tell the men to sheathe their swords, their blades could shine off of the camp firelight.” The tribune disappears into the murky forest.

  Cato follows Marcus’ shadowy outline, his feet crunching softly upon the path’s dried pine needles. After an hour of weaving through scrub and pine, Cato sees scores of flickering lights ahead of them. A spear’s cast farther, and the lights become campfires.

  “That’s them,” Marcus whispers. “There are twelve, maybe fourteen hundred infantry. Most of their guards are facing the other side of the mountain, near that trail Leonidas used. That’s where they think we’d come, if we came at all.”

  “We can take them at dawn, when Glabrio’s men attack the pass below us,” Cato says.

  Marcus nods. “Soon as there’s light enough to tell who we’re killing.”

  For the next two hours, the Romans slowly through the trees along the camp perimeter, stringing out into a semicircle. Cato murmurs a command to his cohort’s tribune, who relays it to the centurions. The command is whispered from one soldier to another: wait for the battle horn, then rush in like madmen.

  The first stripe of dawn glows above the eastern ridges. Marcus tiptoes barefoot toward a sentry dozing upright against a pine. In one swift motion, Marcus jerks the man’s head back and slices his throat, then pulls the gurgling corpse into the bushes. Behind him, hundreds of legionnaires step closer to the camp. Marcus repeats the maneuver two more times, quietly removing the bodies. He sees that only one guard remains.

  Marcus nears the fourth guard, his dagger gripped in his bloodied hand. A twig snaps beneath his feet. Shit!

  The sentry jolts upright and peers behind him. He sees Marcus rushing toward him. “Romans!” the Aetolian yells. “Alarm! Alarm!”

  Marcus lunges forward. He tackles the guard and wrestles him onto his stomach, slipping his forearm under his neck. He jerks his arm back, snapping the guard’s neck. Rising from the spasming corpse, Marcus draws his sword and rushes into the heart of the camp.

  Cato elbows the cornicen standing next to him. “Blow, curse you, blow!” The hornsman trumpets a long, lingering blast. Screaming like a mob of berserking Gauls, the Romans flood into the camp. The legionnaires plunge their spears into sides of the Aetolians’ tents, jabbing until the screams inside turn silent.

  Hundreds of Aetolians scramble from their tents, grasping whatever weapons they can find. The campsite soon becomes a swirling, dawnlit melee. The Aetolians and Romans dash in every direction, fighting whatever foe they stumble upon.

  Ducking and stabbing, Marcus Aemilius fights his way into the center of the camp, heading for a cluster of large black tents. That must be the officer’s quarters.

  He sees a silver-armored Aetolian standing in front of them, a tall man flanked by two armored soldiers. Crouchi
ng low, the blocky little tribune weaves his way between the surrounding tents.

  A rangy young Aetolian leaps out from behind a tent. Screaming like a madman, the Aetolian swings his axe toward the top of Marcus’ helmet, seeking to split his skull. Marcus’ shield arm flashes out and rams against the underside of the Aetolian’s forearm, knocking the blow aside. The tribune lunges forward and chops the man’s arm off at the elbow, leaving him with a spurting stump.

  The Aetolian youth falls to his knees, screaming in pain and despair. Without a backward glance, Marcus rushes toward the captain.

  The Aetolian’s screams alert the two guards. They march toward Marcus, their swords raised to strike.

  Running at full speed, Marcus bends over and snatches a tent from its tethers. He flings the eight-foot sheet into the faces of the oncoming Aetolians, draping it over their heads. Sliding to the earth at their feet, he plunges his blade into the arch of the first Aetolian’s foot, cutting through bone and tendon. The groaning soldier hops sideways, grabbing at his foot, He loses balance and crashes to the earth.

  Marcus blocks a downward sword thrust from the other guard and jabs his blade into a bare spot above the man’s greaves, delving into his kneecap. The Aetolian bellows in pain. He chops his blade at Marcus’ head. The blow rings off the side of the tribune’s helmet, stunning him. Marcus falls to one elbow, his shield raised over his face. The relentless Aetolian limps forward. He kicks Marcus’ shield aside and leans over him, his sword raised for the killing blow.

  The Aetolian’s head jerks back, his face contorted into a rictus of agony. A swordpoint juts through the chest of his cuirass, thrust by an arm powerful enough to cut through solid bronze. The Aetolian falls on top of Marcus, feebly clawing at the tribune’s face.

  Marcus rolls sideways and flings him off, pausing to crunch his gladius into the Aetolian’s forehead. The tribune totters to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.

  Cato stands before him, wiping his blade on the edge of his tunic. He frowns disapprovingly. “Will you come on? Their commander’s getting away!”

  Cato wheels about and runs toward the Aetolian commander, who is vainly shouting for help. Marcus dashes after him, his blade dripping a trail of blood.