“Good. That will keep them out of the way,” Scipio says. Now we’ll have some of our best fighters to defend the camp. Scipio stretches his arms and yawns. “I had best get some sleep. The sickness has not yet left me.”
“Get your rest,” Lucius says. “We are soon going to fight them, whether they decline battle or not.”
SYRIAN CAMP, MAGNESIA. King Antiochus III stands outside the front gates of his imposing camp fortress, surrounded by scores of tribal commanders. He points his ebony scepter at the vast plain in front of him, indicating tomorrow’s battle formations. “Our men have grown restless from inaction. There is talk that we are afraid to combat the Romans. The time for action has come.”
The commanders clap and whistle. Zeuxis steps out from the crowd and faces the captains. He raises his fist. “Now, now is the time of our glory! When we defeat the Romans, the world will know we are the greatest fighters in the world!” The commanders cheer.
Antiochus’ heart thumps with excitement. There is no turning back now. He steps forward to stand next to Zeuxis.
“We have seen Lucius Scipio’s army arrayed for battle. It is always the same. The standard Roman formation of legions in the center, allies on the flanks, cavalry on the edges. We will arrange ourselves into three points of attack, each led by a separate faction.”
Antiochus gestures to the right, pointing his scepter toward the wide Phyrgius River. “Hannibal, Nicator, and I will direct the right flank, along with Judoc and his Galatians. Darya, your horse archers will back us up.”
He sweeps his scepter to the center of the plain, pointing at the faint outline of the Roman camp. “Zeuxis will lead our Syrian phalanxes in the attack center, with Philipus and his elephants stationed between each of our ten phalanxes.”[ccxxix]
The king points to the far left, near the round-shouldered hills. “My son Seleucus directs our cavalry and chariots on the left flank, joined by Duha’s camel riders and Artagam’s Galatians.”
“We will initiate the attack with our twenty thousand skirmishers, a veritable army of slingers, archers, and spearmen. After we have opened gaps in their defenses, we’ll send in the chariots and camels on our left flank.”[ccxxx]
A wolfish grin crosses his face. “We will send the chariots out after the skirmishers have withdrawn. Woe betide any man or animal who gets in their way!”
“What of our camp?” Darya says. “If the Romans take it, we lose all our supplies and weaponry.”
“They won’t,” says Antiochus. “The fort is impregnable. We have thousands of our allies there, with two thousand of my Syrians. That will still give us a field force of over seventy thousand men.”
For the next two hours, Antiochus’ officers review strategy and tactics. The commanders disperse to their respective tribes, with several groups lingering to confer one last time. Hannibal and Antiochus stand alone, surveying the vast plain before them.
“What do you think?” Antiochus says, his voice ringing with pride. “Do I have enough warriors for these Romans?”
Hannibal turns around. He surveys the sea of tents. “Quite enough for these Romans, however greedy they are.”[ccxxxi]
“You jest? Or are you serious?” Antiochus bristles. “I have carefully prepared all this.”
Hannibal clamps shut his eye. “Yes, I jest,” he finally replies. “Sometimes I see humor where others do not.”
“Obviously,” Antiochus snipes. “Let’s get back to camp. We still have many preparations. There is a long night ahead for the both of us.” He rubs the back of his shoulder. “You know, I am fifty years old now, and you are fifty-seven. We are becoming too old for all of this!”
Hannibal nods somberly. “Very true, my King. Very true.” He gazes across the plain, watching a pack of gray wolves lope through the low-lying scrub, closing in on a limping deer. “Then again, I have a feeling this will be the last battle for the both of us.”
XI. Masters of the World
PLAINS OF MAGNESIA, 190 BCE. The day of battle dawns grayly, laden with the weight of early winter mist. Thousands of legionnaires wake to the clanks and curses of their compatriots donning weapons and armor. Men who woke hours earlier, hearts pounding, wondering if this is the day of their death.
The Roman patrols trot toward the closed gates, two dozen men intent on identifying every soldier and formation in the enemy army. The sentries pull open the gates and wave them out into the morning fog. The camp buccinae sound the call to rise, their notes muffled by the misty air.
Scipio pokes his head between the flaps of Lucius’ command tent. He finds his brother lacing on his silver-plated shin greaves, his hands shaking. “I’ll be back soon,” Scipio says to Lucius, “Do not lead them out without me.” Lucius nods, not trusting himself to speak. Scipio’s head disappears.
Lucius shuffles to the tall stool that serves as his improvised altar, his armor clanking about him. He kneels before the figurine of Victoria, his hands clasped in front of him. “Goddess of Victory, make this my day,” he murmurs. “I promise to sacrifice four oxen at your temple.”
He pinches his eyes tight. A tear trickles from the corner of one eye. “It is not for me, I swear. I just want to make Mother and Father proud. And my brother proud. Just this once, let me do right.”
Lucius rises from the altar and wipes his eyes. He raises his chin high. His tear-glazed eyes become clearer, glinting with the green fire of determination. He pokes his head outside his tent. “Abraxos! Bring me my stallion. It’s time to go to war!”
As Lucius mounts his horse, Scipio trots from the camp gates, arriving at a mist-shrouded field of auburn tents. Masinissa and Sophon stand in front of the Numidian king’s tent, stuffing spears into their horses’ leather saddle slings. Scipio dismounts next to them.
“The fog is lightening. Lucius and I will start the march in a few minutes. I wanted to wish you both good fortune today.” He steps forward and extends his hand to Masinissa. “Here’s hoping we have us another victory.”
Masinissa slowly unfolds his arms. He lightly grasps Scipio’s forearm. His icy stare melts momentarily. “May your gods follow you today.” He turns on his heel and strides back to his tent.
Sophon beams at Scipio. “This is so exciting! My first battle on Asian soil! Is it true Antiochus has elephants the size of temples?”
Scipio smiles. “Well, not quite that large, but they make your African elephants look like mules!” His smile fades. “Be careful today, Prince. This is not like us fighting that Gallic mob in Italia. There are all types of beasts and warriors out there!”
Disdain glints in Sophon’s eyes. “I am not worried. I have seen those armored riders of theirs, what they call cataphractii. They lumber about like pregnant oxen. We will ride circles around them.”
“I believe you. That’s why I asked your riders to come here.” After a final embrace, Scipio slides onto his horse and returns to camp. He arrives in time to join Lucius at the front gates.
Lucius smiles nervously at Scipio. He fingers his purple consular cape. “Look at this, my cloak’s already getting damp. Perhaps I should break tradition and leave this behind. I’m an easy target with this on.”
“I know what you mean!” Scipio says with a smile. “But it makes it easy for your officers to find you.”
Lucius snorts. “That’s just it, Brother. It makes it easy for everyone to find me!”
Scipio chuckles. “You are cursed with visibility, consul!” He waggles his dull green cloak at Lucius. “Now me, I must remain inconspicuous. That way I can be your messenger, riding back and forth through the lines. That will give me something to do!”
Lucius leans across his white stallion and grasps Scipio’s shoulder. “Apologies if it seems I abandoned you at Elaea. You were sick, and I needed to stand on my own.”
“And so you have,” Scipio says. He thinks of Lucius’ decision to leave his left flank exposed near the river. For better or for worse.
Scipio places his hand over his brother�
�s. “And now it’s time to fight. Your men are waiting for you.”
Lucius takes a deep breath. He raises his right arm, willing it not to shake, and jerks it down. The battle horns sound. The equites and legionnaires cheer.
The Scipio brothers ride through the gates, leading a ten-wide column of fifth legion veterans. The hastati lead the advance, followed by the veteran principes. The senior warriors of the triarii follow them, their long spears pointing at the sky. The stern-faced centurions march alongside the Roman columns, yelling at any who stray out of line.
The light infantry bring up the rear, youths armed only with sword, helmet, and shield. The velites’ slings carry double loads of spears, the better to cope with their enemy’s overwhelming numbers.
The five thousand legionnaires of the fifth tramp out onto the rain-dampened plains of Magnesia, followed by the battle-hardened cohorts of the sixth. The soldiers wear their wool sagum as proof against the cold, their rust-colored cloaks contrasting with their tribunes’ scarlet capes.
The Italia legions follow the Romans, similarly armored and arranged. Barrel-chested Tarquin leads out the socii, singing a centuries-old Etruscan battle hymn. Nicknamed the Yellow Elephant by his men, the blonde-haired commander trots about his columns, sharing jokes and exhortations.
“This is the day that will make my life!” Tarquin exclaims to Larth, his grizzled Etruscan captain. He knows history will be made this day, and he rejoices to be part of it. Tarquin intends to kill many enemies, hoping for Antiochus himself.
The Italia allies are followed by the riders of Pergamum, mortal enemies of Antiochus and his Syrians. Stately King Eumenes rides in the vanguard of two thousand swift cavalry, their blue plumes flowing from their polished bronze helmets. Eumenes’ men have forsaken their shields in favor of the twelve-foot thrusting spears used by the Macedonians, relying on their bronze cuirasses and helmets for protection.
Four thousand Cretan infantry follow them through the fading morning drizzle, lightly armored men with a flat oval shield and a short, thick thrusting spear. The mountain men tread quickly and lightly, easily keeping pace with the horses in front of them. They are quick-striking soldiers, famed for their swiftness of foot.
Masinissa’s two thousand Numidians follow the Cretans. The bareback riders wear wool tunics and pants as protection against the northern cold. The Africans laugh and joke as if they are riding to a celebration, prancing about on their swift mountain ponies. Masinissa’s face is stern, but his eyes shine with excitement. He tugs at the lion’s head that covers his domed helmet, rearranging its fangs so they do not interfere with his vision. Sophon laughs at his father’s fussiness, glad his leopard’s head has smaller teeth.
Sixteen elephants complete the battle train. At Scipio’s urging, the elephants will be deployed behind the legions. Though they are smaller than Antiochus’ massive beasts, he knows they can become deadly weapons, when loosed among enemy infantry.
Marcus Aemilius and Thrax the Thracian lean out from the front gates’ guard tower, glumly watching the army leave for battle. Though they are left to guard the camp, they are fully armored and weaponed. Both know that in the chaos of battle, enemies appear in unexpected places.
When the army columns are halfway across the plain, Lucius calls them to a halt. The buccina sound the call to formation. The Romans and their allies spread across the plain, the legions in the center and the allied legions on their flanks. The Roman and allied cavalry line up behind them. The Roman army stands at formation under the lightening morning sky, waiting for the Syrians to appear. They do not have long to wait.
The legionnaires hear their enemy before they see them, their presence announced by the pounding thrum of a thousand drums. The Galatians appear emerge from the misty veil, two throngs of enormous bearded warriors, separated by a half-mile space. Artagam’s Galatians halt in front of the men of Pergamum and Crete. On the other flank, Judoc’s warriors line up against the Etruscans.
Slavering for battle and plunder, the Gauls slap their clubs and swords against their long oblong shields. Several dash into the clearing between them and their enemies, waggling their bare backsides.
A rumbling sound begins in the gap between the Galatian flanks, growing ever louder. Scores of scythed chariots burst out from the murk, trundling toward the Roman lines. The chariots turn to their left and spread out across the right flank of the Roman army. They halt several spear casts across from the Roman and allied legions, their drivers and archers staring at them. Hundreds of Duha’s Arabian camel riders trot in behind the chariots, brandishing their thin, six-foot stabbing swords.
Lucius and Scipio watch the chariots and camel cavalry enter the scene of battle. Lucius gapes in amazement. “What are the chariots doing out there on the right? They never came out there before?” His eyes roam across his army. He bites his lip. “Should I bring up the cavalry? They are way behind me.”
Scipio grasps his brother’s wrist. “Don’t do anything until we see who’s in the center. They might have—” Scipio halts in mid sentence, gaping at the plains in front of him.
Antiochus’ ten phalanxes appear in the middle void, rectangles of sixteen hundred men, each square bristling with eighteen-foot spears. The phalanxes march in as they have the previous four times, five in the front and five in the back. But this time they have brought some allies.
Eight gigantic Indian elephants lumber between each pair of phalanxes. The elephants wear a bronze frontlet over their massive foreheads, a long-nosed helmet the size a bathtub. A pair of Syrian archers lean over the wicker towers strapped to the elephants’ backs, their barbed arrows cocked and ready. The elephants’ sides are draped with blood red chain mail, adding to their nightmarish appearance.
“They’ve changed their formations there, too,” Lucius declares. “Vulcan’s balls, I hadn’t planned on elephants!”
“This is Hannibal’s doing,” Scipio says. “He loves the element of surprise.” Scipio watches hundreds of heavily armored riders ease in behind the Galatians to his left, their horses covered in shimmering ring mail. A tall man in silver armor leads them, his black cape flowing to his unarmored stallion’s haunches.
“There’s Antiochus!” Scipio tells Lucius. “He’ll lead his cataphractii around the flank near the river, I’d bet my son on it.” Scipio peers at Antiochus’ accompanying cataphracti. “Hannibal must somewhere over there. Watch out for him, he’ll have some trick in mind.”
More chariots rumble into the opening between the armies, lining up to charge. Scipio’s dream flashes to his mind. He recalls the vision of Lucius, paralyzed by indecision, standing immobile as his men are hewed under the chariots’ wheels.
“Lucius! I have to go talk to Eumenes. Don’t do anything yet!”
Lucius gapes at the two-mile line of enemies. “What should we do about those phalanxes and elephants?” he says, staring at the center phalanxes. “They’re monstrous!”
“Tell Tiberius and Domitius to hold the line at all costs. Help is coming!” Scipio races away.
Lucius summons his two legates. “You have to hold formation!” he barks, his face flush with excitement. “Don’t let the phalanxes break you!”
Tiberius studies Lucius’ moist, glazed eyes. He’s scared shitless!
Domitius snaps out his right palm and salutes. “We hear and obey, General.” The two legates return to their legions, bawling orders to their tribunes.
Scipio races behind the allied cohorts on his right, searching for King Eumenes. He finds him in front of his cavalry, poised behind the right wing of the Italia infantry. The Cretan infantrymen stand behind his riders, ready to follow them into battle.
“Eumenes! There are chariots massing in front of you. We have to get to them before they break the infantry.”
“I can run my cavalry at them,” Eumenes replies, “But those chariots are difficult to stop. One misstep, and you are chopped to bits by those wheels!”
“We don’t need to stop them,�
� Scipio says, “we just need to redirect them! We can turn them into a weapon for us, like I did with Hannibal’s elephants at Zama. Herd the chariots into those Galatians behind them!”
Scipio pulls out his sword and sweeps it in front of him, as if he is shooing flies. “Your riders should attack the chariot’s horses; poke at them from all sides. Scatter your Cretans among them, they can use their spears. Get your men to scream like madmen, that will sow confusion among the beasts.”
“I remember that tactic,” Eumenes says. “Alexander used it to great effect.”
“As did I,” Scipio replies. He grasps Eumenes’ forearm. “Fare you well, King.”
Scipio gallops back toward Lucius. He looks over his shoulder to check on the Pergamum cavalry. Eumenes and his riders are already looping around the allied cohorts, racing toward the center of the Syrian battle line. The swift Cretan infantrymen trot behind them.
As Scipio races to rejoin his brother, King Antiochus watches the last of his phalanxes march into the center of his battle line. “We’re ready,” he tells Hannibal. “Our center will keep their legions occupied, while the chariots break into their right flank. Judoc’s Galatians will take over the left flank.”
Hannibal nods. “If Judoc can keep the Etruscans occupied, we can attack the Romans by the river. Once we get past them, we can get at their camp and their rear lines.”
Antiochus gestures to his hornsman. “Sound the attack.”
Lucius hears the Syrians’ attack call. “Send out the skirmishers!” he yells, his voice quavering. The cornicen blare three short blasts, and repeat them.
The velites trot out in front of the Roman legions. They arrange themselves into a three-deep staggered line, their left feet planted in front of them.
“Loose!” shouts their lead tribune.
The velites hurl their javelins into the phalanxes, eliciting scores of anguished cries. Dozens of the javelins clank off the elephants’ armor. The beasts are unperturbed.
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