Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  The young infantrymen hurl another volley. As they ready their third onslaught, cries of anguish erupt from their right flank.

  The Syrian chariots crash into the right wing of the velites, cutting through the lightly armored troops. The chariots’ archers loose hundreds of arrows into the scattering velites, lining the ground with their dead and wounded.

  The death wagons steer toward the fleeing velites, carefully aiming their wheels’ spinning blades. The blades strike home. Gore sprays from the wheels, accompanied by heart-rending screams. The velites dash for the safety of the legionary lines.

  The front-line Romans watch hundreds of their compatriots crawl toward them, wailing with the agony of mangled arms and legs. They see men they have gambled with, whored with, fought with, lying with their intestines strewn across the field. The legionary ranks fill with the stench of voided bowels and bladders.

  Tiberius Gracchus gallops across the front lines of the hastati, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him. “Hold your place!” the warrior priest bellows. “Hold for Rome and family!” Tears stream down the faces of the battle-tested hastati and principes, but none move from their spot. Hundreds clench their javelins, shaking with the urge to revenge their young colleagues. They stay, and wait, knowing they will soon have their chance.

  The chariots wheel around. They begin another grisly pass through the prone velites, searching for any sign of movement. The nearby Galatians howl and cheer, thoroughly enjoying the murderous spectacle in front of them.

  A brass trumpet sounds, followed by the thunder of thousands of hooves. Eumenes’ cavalry stampede into the field, led by the Eumenes himself. The riders races past the allied and Roman front, spreading out in front of the chariots.

  When the lead cavalrymen reach the far end of the chariots, they whirl about and race toward them. The riders behind them follow their lead. A solid line of attackers gallops at the Syrians.

  “At them!” yells the chariot commander, waving his command pennant at the Pergamum riders. The chariots rumble forward, their scythed wheels spinning.

  Eumenes’ cavalrymen close on the chariots. When they draw within a spear’s cast, they break formation and dash madly in all directions.

  “Get after the horses!” Eumenes shouts.

  The cavalry fling their lances at the chariot horses, ignoring their drivers. Dozens of javelins strike the steeds’ necks and shoulders.

  The chariot horses rear in pain, shafts dangling from their bodies. They run from the tormenting lances, heedless of their drivers’ commands. Scores of chariots bash into their fellows, flinging out the occupants. The Pergamum cavalry gallop into the openings, charging into the center of the Syrian wagons.

  The Cretan infantry enter the fray, trotting into the maelstrom of horses and riders. Following Eumenes’ command, they break ranks and disperse, attacking whatever chariot is nearest to them.[ccxxxii]

  Dodging between the charging chariots, the Cretans fling their thick spears into the horses, following with hails of river stones. The Cretans scream at the top of their lungs, adding to the fearful clamor.[ccxxxiii] Dozens of chariot horses stampede aimlessly through the fight, dragging their drivers and archers.

  Perched atop a rise, Chief Duha watches the chariot attack disintegrate. “Get at them!” the Arab commander yells. He tugs on his camel’s bridle and surges forward. The camel riders lurch down to the chariot fight, their beasts running as fast as a horse.

  The Arabs close upon the swirling cavalry and infantry, keeping a careful eye on the chariots’ deadly scythes. They sheathe their long swords and pull out their short, curved bows.

  “Shoot!” Duha yells over his shoulder. Hundreds of arrows fly down into the fight.

  A Cretan infantryman plummets onto his face, an arrow jutting through his throat. Another stumbles to the earth, yanking at an arrow in his thigh. Scores follow them, groveling upon the ground. One, two, then ten Pergamum cavalrymen drop from their horses, pierced by the Arab’s long, barbed arrows. The vengeful charioteers steer their chariots over Eumenes’ fallen men, blood spraying from their wheels.

  Eumenes trots through the battlesite, his eyes taking in everything. “Herd them, herd them back at the camels!” he shouts, pointing at the fleeing chariots. His cavalry captains echo his refrain.

  Stabbing and screaming, the Pergamites and Cretans drive the chariots into the camels. The cruel scythes cut into the dromedary’s stem-like legs. Dozens of camels honk in agony, panicking their fellows. Hundreds of camels and chariots careen away from the assault, heading toward their Galatian allies.

  Chieftain Artagam watches with horrored amazement. “Get out of their way!” the Galatian screams at his men.”

  The words have no sooner left his mouth than four chariots crash into the Galatian front. The drivers yank their horses’ reins, trying desperately to slow their wagons. The chariots tumble sideways, cartwheeling into the fleeing Galatians. Howls of anguish erupt from the Gauls. A dozen more chariots trundle madly into the Galatians, followed by scores of fleeing camels. The Gauls scatter in all directions.

  “Get those fucking chariots out of here!” Artagam yells, insane with anger. He leaps onto the platform of a passing chariot and throws out its archer and driver. He yanks the horses to a halt. He waves for his men to emulate him.

  The Gauls swarm over the chariots and camels, striking down any beast within arm’s reach. Infuriated, the chariot and camel drivers retaliate with their swords and bows. The Galatians retaliate, chopping into heads and torsos. The Galatian front becomes an internecine battle between Syrians, Arabs, and Gauls.

  Eumenes’ cavalry delve into the midst of the bedlam, jabbing their lances at the distracted Gauls. The Cretan infantry dash in behind them, flinging spears into the compacted mass of enemies. Scores of Galatians fall, and scores more soon join them. The Gauls flee into the rear lines, dissolving into the mist.

  “Get back here!” Artagam rages, watching his men run past him. He grabs a fleeing Galatian and flings him to the earth. He throws down another. “Stay here and fight, or I’ll bash in your brains!”

  A Cretan spear crunches into the middle of his broad chest, quivering like an oversized arrow. Roaring with anger, the huge barbarian yanks out the spear and flings it at a knot of oncoming Cretans.

  “Come on, women, try me!” he bellows, raising up his club. The Cretans see two of their fellows lying near Artagam’s feet, their helmets bashed into their skulls. They halt.

  The eldest Cretan looks at his fellows. “Spread out. You know what to do.” The Cretans spread out into a semicircle. “All together now,” the elder warrior says, raising his spear. “One, two, three!”

  The six Cretans fling their weapons at Artagam. The huge Galatian catches one shaft with his shield, and agilely ducks under another. A third lands crunches into the grainy soil between his feet.

  A fourth cuts into his thigh, and another delves into the side of his stomach. The sixth buries itself in his chest. Artagam crumples to his knees, grappling at the javelin in his intestines. The Cretans swarm over the fallen giant like a pack of dogs, stabbing with spear and sword. Minutes later, Artagam’s head dances on the end of a spear.

  Word spreads like wildfire of Artagam’s fall. The last of his Galatians dash from the battle, fleeing in all directions. Many hasten to Antiochus’ camp, chased by Eumenes’ vengeful cavalry and infantry.

  A quarter mile behind Artagam’s Galatians, hundreds of cataphractii wait on top of a hillock, anticipating Seleucus’ orders to charge. They hear the sounds of battle emanating from the morning mist below them, though they can only see shadowy shapes surging within it.

  “Get ready,” says Antiochus’ son. “We’ll get the order to attack soon. Take no prisoners, however much they beg.”

  The clamor of voices rises. A driverless chariot careens past them, then several riderless camels. The Galatians explode from the fog, hundreds of fearful faces screaming that the Romans are coming. They weave thr
ough the amazed Syrians, casting off their shields and swords.

  The cataphractii watch them flee headlong toward Antiochus’ camp. Seleucus’ riders stir restlessly, looking anxiously back toward the escaping Gauls. “Hold,” Seleucus barks, pointing his six-foot lance at his men. “I’ll kill the first one of you that turns your back on me!”

  King Eumenes’ riders surge out from the haze, followed by waves of the tireless Cretans. Seleucus’ eyes start from his head. “Wedge formation!” he screams. “Get ready to charge!” His orders come too late.

  The rear cataphractii break and run, following the Galatians. Before the slow moving riders can organize, Eumenes’ cavalry are upon them, swarming over their outnumbered opponents. The Pergamum riders jab spears into the cataphractii’s armor from every angle, searching for an opening. Dozens of Syrians sprawl across the battlefield, bleeding from multiple wounds.

  The Cretans soon join the cavalry. They jab their blades into the horses’ withers and haunches, prompting them to throw off their riders. Weighted down with heavy armor, the grounded cataphractii are easy targets for the Cretan swords and spears.

  After mounds of their kin lie dead upon the ground, the surviving cataphractii pitch down their weapons and take off their helmets.

  Eumenes draws his horse near Prince Seleucus. The Syrian prince removes his gold-wreathed helmet and drops it to the ground.

  He’s even younger than I am, Eumenes marvels. Thanks the gods I didn’t have to kill him!

  Seleucus wipes the corners of his eyes. He draws his sword and cradles its blade with both hands, presenting it to Eumenes. “I am Seleucus, son of Antiochus,” he declares. His reedy voice quavers with fear.

  Eumenes nods somberly. “Prince Seleucus, you will face a fine ransom. Be assured you will come to no harm.”

  Eumenes’ soldiers rope the prisoners together, divesting them of their armor. The king waves over his brother-in-law Attalus, a diminutive man with an oversized ego. “Tell the men to rest for a bit, and take their breath,” Eumenes says. He gazes toward the center of Antiochus’ battle line. “We may have to go back on the attack.”

  “Good,” Attalus says. He hoists up his studded leather skirt and begins pissing on a fallen cataphract. “I’m ready to take down some elephants!”

  Eumenes winces with distaste. Why did I let my wife talk me into taking him?

  While Eumenes rounds up his prisoners, a messenger hurtles in to Antiochus, bearing news of the Galatians’ demise. “Gods damn them all!” Antiochus splutters to Hannibal. “Artagam’s Galatians broke and ran!”

  “Initiate the center attack,” Hannibal urges. “Quick, before the Romans destroy your flank!”

  “They won’t break my phalanxes!” says Antiochus. “I’ve taken over half of Asia with them!”

  The Syrian horns sound the attack. The phalanxes tramp toward the legions, their Indian elephants lumbering along between them. The phalangites lower their eighteen-foot sarissas, presenting the hastati with an impenetrable thicket of spears.

  Scipio draws his horse next to Lucius. His brother stares across the battlefield, transfixed by the specter of the phalanxes and their gigantic elephants. Scipio squeezes Lucius’ shoulder.

  “Go ahead, brother, send out our infantry. There are lots of my veterans in our legions, men who fought with us at Zama.[ccxxxiv] They know what to do with phalanxes and elephants.”

  “Yes, we handled them that day, didn’t we?” Lucius exclaims, his eyes alight with renewed determination.

  “And you will do it again,” Scipio replies.

  “Legions forward!” Lucius barks to his cornicen.

  The trumpeters sound the advance. Lucius and Scipio trot their horses toward the front, moving past the rearguard triarii.

  The legions close upon the oncoming spear wall. The front cohorts are five-hundred-man rectangles of veteran fighters. Their stern centurions stride alongside them, searching for attack points in the oncoming phalanxes. The legionnaires raise their spears as Scipio passes by them, buoyed by the sight of their former commander.

  As the two Roman legions advance in the center, the Italia legion treads out from left flank, heading for Judoc’s stationary Galatians. The chief paces in front of his Galatian tribesmen, slapping his pickaxe against his broad, leathered palm.

  “What is that Syrian pisspot waiting for?” Judoc fumes to one of his commanders. “We’re standing around like a bunch of fucking sheep!” He sticks his pickaxe under his captain’s nose. “I don’t care what that Syrian pissant told me, I’m going to attack those bastards!!”

  While Judoc fumes, Antiochus and Hannibal carefully monitor the Italians advancing in front of them. “They’re close enough for Judoc’s men to charge them,” Antiochus says to Hannibal.

  “Then send them!” Hannibal says peevishly. “What are you waiting for? If we break the allied flank, your cataphractii and horse archers can attack his legions from the rear.”

  Antiochus shakes his head. “I will stick with our original plan. While Judoc’s men occupy the Italians, I’m going to attack their cavalry by the river. When they are out of the way, we have a clear path to the Roman camp.” The king waves over his trumpeter. “Sound the Galatian charge.”

  Judoc hears Antiochus’ trumpeter blaring two shorts and a long. His red-bearded face splits into a wide, bloodthirsty grin. At last! Those Italian bastards were going to crawl up our ass while we just stood here!

  “Come on! Time to take some heads!” Judoc leaps out into the clearing, waving his pickaxe. He hits the ground running, screaming as he charges at the stone-faced Italians.

  Two thousand Galatians spring to life, rushing to catch up to their leader. They hold their oblong shields high, fending off the stones flung from the socii’s rear-line slingers.

  The Gauls crash full speed into the allied cohorts, ignoring the spears that jab into their bodies. They leap upon the steadfast Samnites and Etruscans, hewing at them with their long swords and axes. The allied infantrymen counter with quick stabs from their short swords, puncturing the bodies of any Gaul who draws within arm’s length. The Galatians persist, enduring the slashes for an opportunity to hack open an enemy’s head.

  The allied battle line is soon littered with Galatian bodies. The barbarians continue their assault, undeterred by the sight of their fallen comrades. The socii retreat a pace, then retreat again.

  Judoc rages in the center of his battle line. He delves the point of his pickaxe into the helmet of an unwary Etruscan, smiling when the blood flows down his enemy’s forehead. The Etruscan falls to his knees. Judoc kicks him out of the way and steps into the gap, battering at the next man in line.

  “Come on, you shits!” he shouts over his shoulder. He whirls his pickaxe at two Italians standing in front of him, driving them back. A dozen Galatians charge into the opening, widening the split in the socii’s front line. Scores of allies fall to the attackers. Judoc’s Galatians batter the socii backward, leaving a trail of corpses to mark their progress.

  “Now!” Antiochus declares. He gallops to his right, heading toward the banks of the Phyrgius River. His cataphractii and light infantry follow.[ccxxxv]

  Hannibal gallops behind Antiochus’ men, riding with King Darya and his Dahae horse archers. In the distance, Hannibal can see Antiochus’ black cape flapping at the front of his heavily armored cavalry. The man does not hide from battle, I will give him that. Perhaps he can win this, after all.

  As Antiochus leads his men toward the river, the center phalangites clash with the Roman cohorts. The Syrians shove their spears into the Roman front, their small round shields strapped across their left forearms.[ccxxxvi]

  Crouched behind their scuta, the staunch legionnaires draw their swords and hack at the sarissas pushing against them. The phalangites persist, pushing inexorably forward. The Romans step backwards, following their centurions’ shouted commands.

  Antiochus’ elephants lumber into the fray. The tower archers rain arrows into the princ
ipes and triarii who are stationed behind the hastati, felling scores of them. The phalanxes again step forward, and the legions again retreat.

  As the center legions retreat, their left flank allies begin to break apart. Their lines disintegrate under the relentless hammering of Judoc’s battle-mad Galatians.

  With growing horror, Lucius watches his men retreat. “We’re losing the front!” he cries. “They’re caving in our center!”

  Scipio points to his right. “All is not lost, Brother. Looks like Antiochus’ men are attacking each other!”

  Dozens of Artagam’s retreating Galatians burst into the left flank of the phalanxes, madly fleeing Eumenes’ assault force. Scores more follow, then hundreds. The huge barbarians jam themselves into the Syrians’ orderly ranks, forcing gaps into the spear wall. [ccxxxvii]

  Zeuxis rides along the front line of the phalangites, cursing the breaks in his formation. “Hold the advance,” the Syrian commander tells Philipus, his captain. “Those Gauls have crowded our columns. Our men can’t move!”

  The midday sun rises, burning off the last of the mist. Stationed behind the front-line cohorts, Scipio and Lucius watch the Magnesia battlescape clear. Scipio notices the myriad gaps in the phalanxes’ front wall. He looks to his left and sees Antiochus’ cavalry disappearing around the left flank, heading toward the river.

  He grabs Lucius by the forearm. “The phalanxes don’t have any cavalry protecting their sides. It’s our turn to strike!”

  “With our legions?” Lucius says, confused. “They can’t handle them.”

  “No, not the hastati. Send the velites at their front. Blanket those phalangites with every spear we have. I will rejoin you in a bit.” Scipio turns his horse toward the rear ranks.

  “Where are you going?” Lucius demands. Scipio halts his horse.

  “I am going to summon our equites. And Masinissa’s Numidians.” He sees Lucius’ face flush. “With your permission,” he adds.

  Lucius chuckles bitterly. “I am not so much of an ass that I don’t recognize your tactical genius, Brother. Bring them out to the flanks. I will unleash hell upon their front.”