Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  The Aetolian captain sees the two Romans rushing toward him, their faces fixed with murderous intent. He looks about for his guards and sees none, only the press of enemies drawing ever closer. He drops his sword and raises his arms.

  Cato and Marcus slow to a walk, scanning the surroundings for attackers. Cato halts in front of the captain. He presses his swordtip against the commander’s throat.

  The captain leans his head back as far as it will go. “I surrender!” he blurts. “Thoas talked us into fighting for Antiochus. Fuck them both, they’re not worth dying for.”

  “Will you tell your men to surrender?” Marcus asks.

  The commander smiles bitterly. “From the looks of it, there aren’t many left to tell.”

  Cato grabs the Aetolian by his shoulder straps and pulls him forward. “Come on, you have men’s lives to save.” He drags the commander into the center of camp.

  “Go on, tell them!” Cato barks.

  “Drop your weapons!” The Aetolian shouts, time and again. Soon, several hundred unarmed Aetolians are gathered about their crestfallen commander, listening to the cries of triumph and pain from those still fighting.

  As the sun peeks over the eastern mountains, the last of the Aetolians are rounded up and tied together. Marcus and Cato stand in the midst of the ravished camp, watching their men drag the Aetolian wounded from their collapsed tents.

  “We have to hurry. General Glabrio will soon begin his assault,” Cato says. “We’ve got to get our men to the edge of the descent, so they’re ready to come down upon the Syrians.”

  “That’s fine,” Marcus says. He points to the east end of the camp. “There’s a narrow trail where we can march down undetected, at least until we get to the rocky sections just below the floor.”

  Cato shakes his head. “No more sneak attacks. We want them to see us coming. And I want us to come down on that goat trail, the same one that the Aetolians used to get up here. The one that the Persians took to foil the Greeks.”

  “You want us to be seen?” the young tribune says, bewildered.

  Cato’s lips draw into a tight smile. “Exactly. The Greeks are decadent weaklings, but that philosopher Aristotle made sense on one point. Men are creatures of impulse, and they are controlled by them.”[cxxiii]

  Cato chuckles dryly. “We are going to give those Syrians a mighty strong impulse.”

  THERMOPYLAE PASS. Calm, be calm. The men are watching you.

  Consul Glabrio rides out in the vanguard of his army, watching the pinnacles of Thermopylae Pass grow ever larger. Ahead, thousands of Syrian light infantry straddle the pass, unarmored young soldiers grasping a brace of javelins and a sling.

  The Syrian phalangites stand behind them, bunched in a narrow phalanx that is sixteen men wide and sixteen men deep, squares bristling with the eighteen-foot spears Antiochus has commissioned for defense of the pass.

  Glabrio sees a wide trench lying before his men, backed by a staked palisade. He swallows. That looks impassable! Gods, I hope Cato and Flaccus have done their job.

  The army halts within several hundred yards of the Syrians. The consul waves over Baebius, his legion commander. The two study the compact Syrian phalanxes.

  Glabrio frowns. “Once we get through the light infantry inside the pass, we’ll have to break through those phalanxes, somehow.”

  “The ground is uneven behind them,” Baebius notes. “It’s lined with rocks and furrows. That could work to our advantage.”

  Glabrio nods. “I remember Scipio saying that was how he defeated the Macedonian phalanxes who fought for Hannibal. He got them on uneven ground, where they couldn’t hold formation.”

  “If we use a maniple formation, our men would be more mobile than if they were in cohorts,” Baebius notes. “We could get inside any gaps that appear.” He grins. “Those phalangites have got to use both hands to hold those oversized lances. If we get inside them, our short swords could cut them to pieces.”

  “Relay the message to your tribunes. Maniple formation on the front lines. Use the principes instead of the hastati on the front—we need our best men first.”

  Baebius’ legion quickly divides into maniples of one hundred twenty men. The veteran principes form into an attack column four maniples wide. Glabrio watches his soldiers fall into formation and stand at the ready, waiting for the order to attack.

  He feels his stomach flutter. Gods curse it, I should have ate a pancake or something this morning. Ah, I’d probably throw it up if I did. He looks to the front of Baebius’ maniples and sees the praetor expectantly watching him.

  Come on, no turning back now, Glabrio leans sideways on his horse, inclining his head toward his hornsman.

  “Sound the charge!”

  The cornicen raises his e-shaped horn and blows a deep, lingering note. A score of his fellows echo the order, the signal resounding through twenty thousand men. His heart pounding in his ears, Glabrio snaps the reins of his horse and moves forward. The maniples tramp in behind him.

  King Antiochus hears the Romans’ brassy call to battle. He watches Glabrio’s maniples marching toward him, their brightly colored standards bobbing above the rows of glistening helmets.

  He glances at Hannibal. “This had better work. We have nowhere to go.”

  Hannibal scans the pinnacles above his head. “Thermopylae Pass is a legendary redoubt. As long as your Aetolians can hold the mountains, we can hold the bottom.” Just be glad your men aren’t fighting them on the plains, he thinks. The Romans would cut through your men like a honed scythe through grass.

  Nicator kneels on a rock outcropping twenty feet above the Syrian light infantry and phalangites, his eyes fixed on the Romans’ maniples. The Syrian warrior hears the Roman attack signal. He rocks back and forth, stirring with excitement. Now I kill Romans. Bring my king some skulls.

  He bends over the edge of the ridge. “Put up the planks!” he yells. A score of rear-line infantry scurry over to a pile of planks near the swamplands. Working in groups of four, they lug the twenty-foot boards to the trench and lay them across it, creating a temporary roadway toward the barricades.

  Nicator waits until the last board is laid into place. He peers down at his men and raises his curved sword. “Get ready!” The phalangites raise their spears. The velites load their slings and grasp their javelins.

  “Charge on my command!” Nicator shouts to the light infantry. He looks up to a rock shelf directly above him, where forty archers and slingers stand. He raises his fist toward them. “At my signal!”

  When the maniples arrive at the mouth of the pass, Consul Glabrio draws his horse to one side. “They are yours to command, Praetor.”

  Baebius dismounts and marches to the front of his principes. “On to victory!” he shouts, waving his gladius over his head. Baebius leads his men toward the waiting Syrians. The maniples draw within two spear casts of the Syrian infantry.

  “Charge!” Nicator screams. The Syrian light infantry dash forward, screaming their battle cries.

  “Loose!” bellows Nicator. The Syrians stop, plant their feet, and fling their javelins into the oncoming legionnaires.

  “Testudo!” yells Baebius, raising his shield.

  The maniples lift their scuta above their heads, creating a turtle shell of interleaved shields. Hundreds of spears thunk harmlessly into the sturdy shell. Scores find an opening, however, felling dozens of Romans. As the velites drag back the wounded, the principes yank the spears from their shields and fling them down. They march farther into the narrowing pass, crunching the spears beneath their hob-nailed sandals.

  The Syrians unleash a second volley. When the rain of spears diminishes. Baebius trots to the right flank and vigorously waves his arm. “Come on! Get at them!”

  The velites dash in from the flanks and unleash a torrent of javelins. With only a helmet and plate-sized shield to defend themselves, hundreds of Syrian light infantry are struck down by the Roman missiles. The survivors grab their wounded and drag the
m into the pass, slinging rocks as they retreat. The velites jog back to regroup behind the heavy infantry. And the maniples march on.

  “Get ready!” Nicator shouts to the phalanx captain.

  “Lower your spears!” the captain barks. The first four rows of phalangites level their sarissas, creating a thickly layered spear wall. The Romans approach, every step in unison, every face set with purpose. The principes lower their shields and place them in front of their chests, ready to barge into the sarissas.

  Nicator raises his fist, his eyes on the ridge above him. He jerks it down. “Loose!” he shouts.

  The archers and slingers rain missiles upon the advancing legionnaires, downing scores of them.

  “Testudo!” Baebius shouts, holding his shield over his head. The Romans reform their shield shell and step forward, leaving a trail of wounded behind them. The Syrians rain down more arrows and stones.

  Baebius grits his teeth. We’ve got to kill those pricks up there! He beckons the velites forward, jerking his index finger at the rock shelf in front of him. “Strike them down!” he commands.

  The Roman light infantry rush past the legion’s right flank, their small shields raised to block the Syrians’ fire.

  “Loose!” the velites’ tribune yells. The young warriors fling out a hailstorm of javelins. A handful of Syrians plunge from their rocky perch, crashing down onto the phalangites.

  “At will!” the tribune shouts. Loading and firing as fast as they can, the velites release a steady stream of missiles. A score of slingers and archers fall. The others cower beneath the relentless onslaught.

  Nicator waves for his men to retreat. The relieved Syrians hurry down a steep trail that leads behind the ramparts, seeking succor within the main body of troops.

  Marching in unison, the Roman maniples collide with the Syrian spear wall. The Roman shields grate and clatter against the thick, immobile lances. The Romans batter their swords against the jabbing Syrian sarissas, but the wall does not move.

  “Back!” Baebius shouts. The Romans back up twenty paces, leaving a line of principes’ corpses in front of the staggered spear wall. The Syrians hoot and jeer, flinging stones and food scraps.

  We’ll kill ourselves trying to break through that mass. Baebius decides. He calls over the velites’ tribune.

  “Help us out, Justus. Those first four lines don’t have any spears held above them. Can you concentrate your fire on them? Just give us a few openings, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  The lanky old warrior slaps his palm to his breast. “It will be done, Commander. Get your men ready to charge.” The tribune strides back to his velites, barking orders at them.

  Baebius call a hasty conference with the centurions leading the front line maniples. He grabs a stick and scratches a new attack plan in the dirt. “Get back there and get ready. We will only have a few moments for this to work. Do not waste it!”

  Minutes later, the Roman horns sound a call to retreat. The legionnaires step back a spear’s cast from the phalanx. The Syrians cheer again.

  Baebius smiles. Good. There’s nothing like dashed hopes to demoralize a man. He snaps down his arm.

  The velites trot into the space separating the Syrians and Romans. They hurl their javelins on a low trajectory, arrowing them into the faces of the phalangites along the front rows.

  Though many javelins clack off the Syrians’ spear shafts, scores plunge through to their mark. The phalangites grab their faces and shoulders, screaming in testament that the javelins have found their mark. The ground becomes mounded with fallen, squirming, phalangites. Scores of Syrians stagger about, clutching at their bleeding heads and torsos. Man-wide gaps appear in the spear wall.

  “Replacements to the front!” Nicator shouts down to the phalanxes. He scurries from the ridge, intent on rallying his men.

  “Double time! Charge!” screams Baebius, frantic to seize the opportunity. The Romans trot forward, their eyes fixed on the gaps in the phalanx. Ducking low and turning sideways, dozens of legionnaires manage to edge their way into the second and third lines of the phalanx, slithering through the forbidding spears.

  Striking to the right and left, the penetrators cut down scores of the unprotected phalangites, creating more openings in the wall. Many Syrians drop their spears and grab their dagger-swords, intent on protecting themselves. The front wall disintegrates, and the Romans rush in.

  Nicator barges into the back lines of the phalanx. Screaming and cursing, he shoves men into the breaches, only to see more fall to the methodical Roman assault. His eyes grow black with fury. “Get up there, or I’ll kill you myself!” he yells, to no avail.

  The Roman attackers cut into the rear lines, scattering the Syrians. The terrified phalangites rush toward their fortifications.[cxxiv] They clatter across the trench planks and file into the sides of the timbered ramparts. The last men to cross remove the bridges.

  The phalangites regroup behind the barricade, their lines spanning its perimeter. The Syrian light infantry hasten to the sides of the barrier. They pile rocks into a thick five-foot high wall, blocking any flanking incursion.

  “To the wall, spears first!” Nicator shouts. The phalangites march up onto the packed earth walkway that lines the inside of the ramparts. They level their long spears over the wall, forming a dense row of deadly spearpoints.

  Praetor Baebius watches the Syrians form a new spear line. He waves over his senior tribune. “Jupiter curse them, I thought we had them whipped. Send out the escaladers!”

  The Roman laddermen rush forward, lugging two ladders lashed together and covered with wood planks. The Syrians rain arrows and stones upon them, felling dozens in mid-stride. Still the laddermen run on. They throw their narrow bridges across the trench, stacking them side by side until they span the opening.

  “Come on across!” Baebius orders, beckoning his legionnaires with his blade. He marches over the rude bridge, stones bouncing off his chest-high shield. The maniples rush past him, intent on breaking through the staked ramparts.

  “Stop! Get organized!” Baebius screams. His shouts are drowned by the din of battle. Scores of legionnaires rush headlong into the spear wall.

  Nicator has been waiting for just such a moment. “Stab them!” he shouts.

  The phalangites retract their eighteen-foot spears and thrust them forward. Hundreds of lances plunge into the Romans from every angle, cutting into heads and bodies. Dozens of Romans die upright, futilely squirming upon the spears that impale them.

  Behind his silver mask, Nicator grins wolfishly. “Look at you, stuck like pigs on a spit. Come on, charge us again!”

  Baebius runs to the rear of the attacking principes and beats them on the back. “Get back to your lines! Gods curse you, get back!” The wayward attackers retreat to their maniples They resume their places along the front lines, wrapping their wounds with bandages from their belt pouches.

  Baebius surveys the rows of phalangite spears. He notes the enormous elephants poised near the swamp border, their mahouts standing ready with their goading lances. Trying to take that barricade will cost us hundreds of men. Maybe a flanking maneuver into the swamp? No, we’d just get bogged down, they could pick us off at will. We could use our elephants, but they could cause more havoc than good.

  General Glabrio rides in to join Baebius, his face lined with concern. “What is happening? Why are we stalled?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how to get through the ramparts,” Baebius snaps. “It’s not so fucking easy to do, Consul.”

  Glabrio’s face flushes. “We have to get through it,” he replies. “I leave it to you, but you have to do it.” He wheels his horse about and walks it toward the mouth of the pass.

  Baebius feels his stomach turn. Gods save me, we’re going to have to charge right into them. He calls over his tribunes. “Prepare for a full attack. There will be no retreat.”

  “You know what that means,” says a grim-faced tribune.

  “I do, and i
t will be on my head.”

  The officers solemnly return to their men. Baebius waves over his cornicen. “When I jerk down my hand, sound the charge.” The praetor raises a trembling fist.

  A hand grips his shoulder.

  “Hold, Legate,” says Glabrio. “I have a plan. We will attack the ramparts, not the Syrians.”

  Baebius blinks at him. “What?”

  “The triarii,” Glabrio replies, looking expectantly at Baebius. “They can use their barbed spears.”

  Recognition dawns in Baebius eyes. “That may work!”

  The young consul looks over his shoulder. He smiles wryly. “It is good you agreed, because I have already summoned them. They are yours to command.” Glabrio rides back to his place between the two legions, halting his mount next to Lucius.

  Baebius smirks. The pup is smarter than I thought.

  The elder triarii edge into the front, sliding sideways between the rows of principes. Their lead tribune marches over to Baebius and salutes. “We are ready,” the middle-aged legionnaire says, gesturing toward the three hundred soldiers who stand behind him, each man gripping a barbed twelve-foot spear.

  “Let me talk to them, Caldus.” Baebius steps past the tribune and faces the battle-hardened triarii, the middle-aged soldiers who act as the legion’s last line of defense.

  “That barricade needs to come down, or all is lost. You have one task before you—one great, glorious task. Pull it down!”

  A voice rings out from the ranks. “Don’t you worry about that, Praetor. We’ll pull down their little stick fence, though Pluto himself rise to stop us!”

  Amid scattered nervous laughter, the legate grins. “I do believe you would, Legionnaire. And I’ll be up there watching you do it.”

  Caldus turns toward the Syrians, and raises his sword. “Together now!”

  Baebius raises two fingers toward the cornicen. The hornsman blows the attack signal. Caldus and Baebius tramp forward, the leather-tough triarii following in two ten-wide columns.