Perched on top of the barricade, Nicator watches the spearmen march toward him. What are they up to? He runs to the rear lines, where the slingers and archers stand at the ready.
“When I raise my fist, you unleash everything you have,” he tells the light infantry captain. “Just over the top of the barricade.” Nicator returns to his place along the rampart, watching the Roman advance.
The triarii cross the improvised bridge. The Syrian captain rises his right fist and jerks it down. The Syrian missiles fly out over the phalangites’ heads, swooping down upon the oncoming Romans. Four of them fall, then four more. The triarii raise their shields and march on, unperturbed.
“Just a few more steps,” Baebius yells to the spearmen, holding his scutum over his head. “Then we’ll be too close for them to fire on us!” The Romans stride toward the rows of spears jutting down from the top of the barricade.
The triarii arrive at the barricade. They quickly kneel down, raising their shields up to block off the spears that are jabbing at them. They jam their spears between the stakes and turn them sideways, hooking the barbed end into the wood. Grunting and cursing, the triarii yank backward with all the strength in their iron-muscled bodies, dropping their shields to pull with both hands.
With a grinding crash, a stake topples out in front of them. Four more follow, then a dozen. Pulling, pushing, and prying, the Romans wedge the ramparts apart. Two man-sized openings appear, then four. The barricade’s packed earth walkway collapses in front of the legionnaires, tumbling out the phalangites who stood upon it. They are cut down before they can rise.
“Into the breaches!” Baebius shouts. He runs at the wall, screaming like a madman. The triarii plunge into the openings, holding their long spears in front of them. The principes follow them and spread out to the sides, slashing into the unprotected phalangites. Within minutes, hundreds of Romans are inside the wall.
The rampart battle becomes a freewheeling swirl of phalangites and legionnaires. Scores of Syrian spearmen fall during the first few minutes, their unwieldy weapons providing little defense. The Romans wedge their shields between the spears and jab into the men holding them, methodically stabbing down the first rows of defenders. The Syrians retreat, slamming into each other in their haste to escape.
“Come on, boys, we have them!” Baebius shouts. “Follow me in!”
A silver masked warrior appears before him, shoving his way through the fleeing Syrians. Baebius watches him slide between the press of fighters. Baebius stalks toward Nicator, his sword arm cocked.
Nicator watches Baebius approach. His eyes rove over Baebius’ stance, studying the way he angles his body. He sees the Roman is readying himself for a quick, short strike. You want to stab me? Good, I’ll let you!
Nicator spreads his shield a little farther from his body, presenting the Roman with a larger target area. He raises his sword arm high, knowing it will be easy for Baebius to block at his chest.
Baebius lunges forward, his scutum raised to block an overhead cut. He jabs his sword at Nicator’s unguarded chest. With the speed of a striking snake, Nicator spins sideways and lunges past the stabbing sword blade. He whirls down his arm, changing his overhead sword cut into an uppercut.
The Syrian’s curved blade crunches through the side of Baebius’ jaw. The legate’s eyes start from his head. His lips flap spasmodically as they spew out streams his life’s blood. Baebius swings feebly at the Syrian. Nicator swats away the blows.
The Syrian yanks out his sword and steps back, watching the Roman crumple to the ground. “You think to kill me?” he barks at the spasming corpse. Nicator spreads his arms apart and bellows out his victory.
Caldus glances toward the screams. He stares at the sight of Baebius lying on the ground, his scarlet cape spread under him like a blood-flower.
“Baebius has fallen! Get that bastard in the mask!” A quartet of principes dash toward Nicator, with Caldus and two triarii following them.
Nicator stoops over and saws off Baebius’ head, throwing the helmet to the side. He holds the head aloft by its hair, laughing as he brandishes it at the Romans.
The assassin spins around and dashes into the thick of his phalangites, intent on giving his prize to his king. I’ll come back and get that tribune. And the consul. That will break them.
Caldus straddles his commander’s headless body, ready to kill any enemy who dare approach it. “Avenge him!” he screams. “Avenge Baebius! Kill them! Gods damn them, kill them all!”
The Romans attack the packed Syrians with renewed vigor, slashing and stabbing like demons gone mad. The Syrians retreat, step by step. They battle back with spears and swords, but the enraged legionnaires refuse to relent. Soon, the narrow pass becomes an open graveyard. Piles of Syrian bodies lie heaped upon one another, scattered boulders serving as their unmarked tombstones.
* * * * *
Hannibal and Antiochus observe the Roman advance from a high point farther up the pass, surrounded by their reserve troops.
Antiochus rubs the back of his head, frowning at what he sees. “They made it through our first wall, but our second rampart will be more difficult for them. We have a thousand men behind it, ready to refresh the men along the front of it. I’ve already ordered replacement stakes if they try to yank them out again.”
“They’ll have to charge through it, there’s no other way.” Hannibal observes. “Then they’ll have to get past the other rock wall. They’ll lose thousands. It may cost them the battle.”
Nicator trots up to Antiochus, carrying Baebius’ dripping head by its hair. He lays the head at the feet of Antiochus’ mount. “This is the skull of their legion’s commander,” he says proudly. “I’ll bring you his tribune’s in a moment.” The Syrian trots back toward the battle.
“Charming little fellow,” Hannibal remarks dryly. An uncomfortable thought occurs to him. “There’s only one way the Romans can get to us. Are you sure the pass is guarded up there?”
“Did I not tell you before?” Antiochus snaps. “I put two thousand Aetolians up there. Look, you can see them moving around on the Callidromum. See the shine of their helmets? They’d let us know if anything is amiss.”
MOUNT CALLIDROMUM, THERMOPYLAE. Poised on the edge of the five-thousand-foot peak, Cato studies the battle below him, its insect-like figures swarming around the floor of the pass. He grimaces at sight of the Romans battling their way toward the second Syrian rampart. They’ll lose a lot of men fighting their way through a second spear wall, and that rock pile behind it. The Syrians will be ready for them this time.
He turns to Marcus Aemilius. “We have to get down there. Is the way clear?”
“There were three sentries,” Marcus says. “They never saw me coming.” He gazes across the valley, peering at Mounts Rhodontia and Tichius. “Where do you suppose Flaccus is doing?”
Cato snorts. “He’s probably lost. Conveniently lost, if I know him.[cxxv] No matter. We cannot worry about where he’s at, we can only control our own fate.”
Marcus looks inquisitively at Cato. “I have to remind you. We don’t have to take that trail the Persians took. We can sneak down upon them on a narrow side trail. It’ll take a little longer, but they won’t see us. We’d have the element of surprise.”
“That is not my way,” Cato growls, thinking of Flaccus’ jibe about him being sneaky. “Would Dentatus or Cincinnatus sneak in like some cowardly Carthaginian? No, we raise our standards high, and let our trumpets blow. Let them see the mighty Romans descending upon them. March down in a narrow column, so it looks like we have an endless line of soldiers.”
Marcus grins. “That will not be a problem, the trail’s barely wide enough for several goats!” He turns to the tribune behind him. “Take the men down behind us, Cassius.”
Cato and Marcus begin to tramp down the winding goat herder’s path, marching in full view of the Syrians. The Roman battle horns sound the call to attack, their brassy notes echoing through the canyon.
> The Syrians see the glint of armored soldiers descending upon them. Their hearts soar with the notion that reinforcements are coming to aid them.[cxxvi] Then the Roman horns sound out above them, blaring the notes of their enemies.
“Romans!” A Syrian captain calls out. “The Romans are upon us!” The warning spreads like wildfire through the ranks. Terror grips the massed Syrians. Hundreds throw down their arms and run,[cxxvii] swarming past the second rampart.
Glabrio hears the echo of the Roman cornu. He peers at the mountain, searching for signs of Roman standards. He sees a bright red pennant fluttering atop a tall pole with a brass serpent coiled atop it. His heart soars. It’s Cato’s men!
The consul pushes his horse to the second barricade, shouting as he wedges his way through them. “We have the pass! Look, we’re coming down upon them! Victory is ours!”
The Romans swarm over their demoralized enemy. They stab into the backs of their fleeing Syrians, flinging victims aside to get at the men behind them.
The velites run to the rampart on the left side of the pass and fling javelins into the elephants stationed there. Maddened by the stinging spears, the elephants rampage up through the pass, trampling over friend and foe alike. The beasts mill about the narrow passage, slowing the Roman pursuit.[cxxviii]
“Get at the drivers!” Glabrio screams.
The velites spear down the mahouts driving the elephants. They jab at the beast’s haunches, herding them into the Syrians’ front lines. The maddened beasts crash down the rampart and rock wall.
While the Syrian elephants wreak destruction on the left. Cato and Marcus lead their men down into the right flank of the Syrians, slashing through the terrorized phalangites and light infantry. Dozens of legionnaires remain on the hillside, flinging boulders into the compressed masses. Terrified by the attack from above, hundreds of Syrians run toward the pinnacles bordering the pass, seeking shelter among its trees.
Hannibal watches the rout unfold below him. His feelings shift from disappointment to dread. “We have to get you out of here, Antiochus.”
The king stares glassily at the massacre, his mouth agape. “The pass is supposed to be impregnable!” he stammers.
Hannibal suppresses a sneer. “It is, when you hold the high ground. Come on, we can go to the Elatia garrison and gather your men before we go to Chalcis. You have a hundred thousand men in Syria. This war is not yet lost.”
“As you say,” Antiochus replies numbly. Hannibal grasps his shoulder and gently shakes it. “Get your guards.”
The king calls his elite guard to his side. “Follow me to Elatia,” he says. “We will regroup there.” The riders gallop through the narrowing pass. Turning left, they start up a switchback pathway to the mountain valley town of Elatia.
While his king rides from the scene of the battle, Nicator wades into the maelstrom of men and beasts. The Roman equites have charged over the crumbled second rampart, only to find that their horses are terrified by the foreign smell of Antiochus’ rampaging elephants.[cxxix] The horses stampede across the battleground, trampling Roman and Syrian alike.
A wide-eyed stallion thunders toward Nicator, its equite futilely yanking at its mane. Nicator pirouettes to the side of the rampaging beast. He slashes upward with his sword, skillfully severing the equite’s artery. The young patrician careens away, grasping at his gushing groin. “Ride away, boy,” Nicator shouts. “Go ride to your death.”
Scanning the battlefield, Nicator spies the black-plumed helmet of a tribune nodding above a mound of fallen phalangites. There’s the head I want.
The Syrian crouches down and weaves his way toward the Roman officer, pausing only to pierce the heart of an attacking principe. He springs over two Roman corpses and stalks toward the tribune.
Caldus stands in a small clearing, shouting orders to his men. A glint of silver catches his eye, and he looks to his left. He sees a masked Syrian stalking toward him, poised to attack. The old tribune looks about and sees his triarii are occupied with pursuit. He shrugs. No way out, it’s him or me. Caldus pulls his shield close to his chest and strides toward Nicator. The two draw within arm’s reach of each other.
Caldus thrusts his blade at Nicator’s stomach, aiming for the spot where his silver cuirass ends. The Syrian dances to the side of the tribune. He suddenly lunges in and batters his sword against Caldus’ shield, driving him backwards. Caldus retreats three steps, then counters with a slash at the Syrian’s sword arm.
Nicator skips sideways and repeats the attack, driving Caldus back another two steps. He notices that the tribune is standing directly in front of a Syrian corpse.
Nicator leaps upon the tribune bashing his shield against his scutum. Caldus staggers back. He trips over the corpse and crashes to the earth. The Syrian is instantly upon him. His blade plunges toward Caldus’ throat.
A large rock clangs off the side of Nicator’s helmet, hammering him sideways. He tumbles to the ground, rolls over, and instantly springs up, his sword poised to kill.
A short, stocky, tribune faces the assassin, his sword arm cradling two jagged rocks. “Come on, pot-face,” says Marcus Aemilius. “I’ll give you a fight.” Marcus surges toward him, flinging one rock after another. Nicator takes the blows on his shield. By the time he lowers it, Marcus Aemilius is upon him.
Marcus sweeps his foot under the Syrian’s ankle, tumbling him to the earth. He lunges in, stabbing at the side of Nicator’s head. The Syrian jerks his head sideways. Marcus’ blade rasps into the gravelly earth.
The assassin springs up and jumps forward, his sword darting for the tribune’s unprotected shoulder. Marcus turns sideways, catching the blade on the edge of his shield. He spins completely around, swinging his razored blade in a backhand cut. The blade slices across Nicator’s triceps.
Nicator yelps with pain and drops his sword. He quickly lunges down to retrieve it. Marcus kicks him backward and pinions Nicator’s blade under his hob-nailed sandal. The tribune points his sword at Nicator’s face. “Surrender, or I’ll cut your throat.”
Inside his mask, Nicator’s lips twist into a snarl. I’ll have to beat this little bastard to death. The Syrian grabs the edges of his shield with both hands and slams it into the tribune’s chest. Marcus staggers backward. He plants his foot and batters back with his scutum, readying his blade for a cut to the Syrian’s throat.
Nicator slides his left hand into his shield. His right hand grabs the dagger from his belt. Come on, a little closer.
“Let me have him,” cries Caldus, rushing toward the dueling warriors. “I’ll cut his fucking balls off!”
Nicator grabs his dagger and trots back several paces. The two legionnaires stalk toward him, their eyes fixed on the Syrian’s blade. Nicator shifts his weight to his rear foot, preparing to leap at Marcus.
“Hold on, Caldus! We’ll get him!” comes a cry.
The Syrian glances to his right and sees four triarii marching toward him, aiming their twelve-foot spears at him.
Nicator spins about and runs into the press of Syrians retreating into the rear end of the pass. “I’ll get the bastard,” Caldus tells Marcus, his face flush with excitement.
Marcus yanks at his forearm. “Let him go, Tribune, you won’t catch him in that mess. We have to organize the pursuit, before our men get too scattered.”
“We should send the cavalry after him,” Cyprian replies. “He is a very dangerous man.”
“I’d rather they went after Hannibal,” Marcus says. “He is the mind behind the throne.”
Nicator pushes his way to the base of the foothills. He clambers onto a boulder embedded in the hillside, intent on rallying his men. “Halt!” he screams, blood streaming from his arm cut. “Reform ranks! Halt! Do you hear me?”
The Syrians rush on, trampling each other in their haste to escape. Cowards! He shakes his head in frustration. This battle is lost, I’ve got to find the king.
Four Roman cavalryman ride by beneath him, slashing at the fleeing phalangite
s. Nicator throws down his shield. He springs onto the back of the last horse, grasping its rider about the middle. With a quick swipe of his jagged dagger, he saws through the Roman’s jugular and pitches him off the horse. Nicator steers the horse through the fleeing Syrians, screaming for them to get out of his way.
The Syrian captain comes to the spot where Antiochus and Hannibal last stood. He scans the Syrians fleeing past him, noticing that none of Antiochus’ royal guard are among them. He’s run for Elatia, or Chalcis.
Nicator spots Baebius’ dust-grimed head lying on the ground near him. He slides off his horse and picks the head up by bloodied hair, ready to stuff it into his saddle sack. He pauses. Best to leave them a reminder.
Nicator grabs a fallen javelin and shoves its butt end into the ground. He grasps the legate’s head by the ears. With an audible crunch, the Syrian jams the head onto the spearhead. He puts heels to his horse and gallops into the side of the foothills, heading toward Elatia.
A half hour later, General Glabrio trots up to the spot Nicator vacated. A centurion stands next to the spear holding Baebius’ head.
“I thought you should see this before we took him down,” says the middle-aged soldier, his voice breaking. “You go tell the Senate, tell them what they did to him. Don’t let them get away with this.”
The young consul eases off his horse. He walks to the centurion and lays his hand onto the back of his neck. “This is just our first encounter. We will have our chance to revenge him.”
Glabrio’s cavalry commander pulls up next to him. “The elephants have jammed up the other end of the pass, but we’ll get them out soon. When we do, should we go after the remains of his army?”
Glabrio looks to his left. He sees scores of Syrians swimming into the Gulf of Malian, their armor scattered across the shore. To his right, hordes of weaponless Syrians swarm into the pass’ foothills, scattered in every direction.
“They are broken,” he answers. “We only have a few more hours of daylight. We’ll resume the hunt tomorrow.”
Glabrio glances at Baebius’ skull. His eyes take on a vengeful light. “Take a week’s supplies with you tomorrow. Get as many of them as you can.”
Scipio's End Page 23
