Scipio hustles across the shrubby expanse that separates the sixth legion from its cavalry. He halts in front of Glaucus Justinius, the rangy young commander of the sixth legion’s three hundred riders. Tiberius bows his head and salutes.
“Imperator! It is an honor! Is it our time? We languish here, without plunder or glory!”
“You will soon have plenty of both,” Scipio replies. “The consul orders you to attack the east flank of the phalanxes. Harass them with your javelins. But don’t try to break into them, you’ll lose all your men.”
“I should go now?” the young man says, his face flush with confused excitement.
“Are you waiting for Mars to join you? Yes! Go!”
Scipio wheels his horse about and races to the west flank of the army. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Glaucus’ riders thundering toward the right side of the legion, heading out to harry the phalanxes.
The Numidians sit mounted in an open space behind the fifth legion, calmly watching the carnage unfold in front of them. Scipio sees Masinissa standing next to his horse, talking to his son Sophon. Scipio pulls his horse next to the Numidian king.
“You are ready for us?” Masinissa says.
“It’s time,” Scipio replies. “You and I need to break the phalanxes. Our legions cannot do it.”
“You and I?” says Masinissa, his voice edged with resentment.
Scipio takes a deep breath. “I am going with you. One last battle, my King. Together.”
“Excellent!” Sophon exclaims, before his father can reply. “This will be the honor of my life!”
He turns to his father, his eyes pleading. “Come on, Father. You told me about all your victories together. Do not deny me the chance to fight with the both of you!”
The ghost of a smile crosses Masinissa’s face. “You have your mother’s persistence. And wiles.”
He nods at Scipio, and extends his forearm. “One last time, Publius Cornelius Scipio. For all the other times.” Scipio solemnly grasps Masinissa’s forearm.
Scipio throws off his drab army cloak. “We need to rain death upon the phalangites. Give me two slings of javelins.” Scipio straps the rawhide slings across the back of his black stallion and clambers onto it. He reaches into his pouch and grasps the wood figurine of Nike that his son carved for him.
“I am ready.”
Masinissa and Sophon strap on their helmets. Masinissa trots out and faces two thousand of the finest riders in the world. “Do not charge their spears—you will die,” he tells them. “We attack with spear throws. Follow my lead.”
The three gallop toward the left flank of the fifth legion. They ride across the open field, sprinting past the battling Galatians and Italians.
The Numidians hurtle past the front lines of the fifth legion, and rush into the phalanxes. Masinissa, Scipio, and Sophon run their horses along the side of the phalanx, close enough to see the eyes of the grim Syrians who stare at them.
Masinissa hurls his javelin into the center of first phalanx. A scream erupts. The king smiles. Scipio and Sophon hurl their spears as they gallop past, followed by hundreds from the riders behind them. The Syrians, Galatians, and Arabs are so tightly packed that few spears miss their mark. The phalanx fills with cries of agony.
The Numidians race past the first rows of phalanxes and resume their attack on the five rows behind them, keeping their distance from the jabbing sarissas.
Masinissa pulls up next to Scipio. “Your men are on the other side!” He points to the far side of the phalanxes. Scipio looks across and spies Glaucus’ scarlet pennant jogging past the forest of sarissas. Javelins fly out behind it, darting into the Syrian formation. “That’s Glaucus and the sixth legion cavalry,” he tells Masinissa. “They’ve got the other side covered.”
The king nods. “Then we will go back the way we came, and kill some more.”
Beset on both sides, the phalanxes withdraw to regroup. As the Syrians retreat, the legions’ velites trot into the space they have vacated, eager to revenge the chariots’ slaughter of their compatriots. They pause in front of the exhausted hastati, waiting for their signal.
The army horns sound. Fifteen hundred velites dash forward and hurl their spears with all of their might, raining them down upon the shieldless phalangites. They grab another of their seven javelins and repeat the process, sending a steady stream of spears into the enemy’s front. Hundreds of Syrians and Galatians fall, rolling between the legs of the tightly packed phalangites. The phalangites stumble over them, dropping their spears.[ccxxxviii] More gaps appear in the wall.
Gnaeus Domitius races his horse to Tiberius Gracchus, his fellow legate. “There are breaks in the line!” he shouts excitedly. “We have to attack now! Use the principes—they fought at Zama.”
As soon as Tiberius nods his assent, Domitius races across the open battlefield and faces his cohorts. He raises his gladius high over his head. “Death or victory awaits us, there is no other choice!” He chops down his sword. All across the half-mile front, the battle horns sound the legionnaires’ advance.
The fifth and sixth legions’ principes march forward, backed by the hastati. The Syrian phalanxes move out to counter them. The elephants follow, arrows flying from their saddle towers.
The centurions grab their battle whistles and screech out the charge command. As one, the principes hurl their spears and tramp forward, swords drawn. They turn their shields sideways and edge into the phalanx gaps, striking down dozens of unprotected phalangites. Scores of terrified Syrians drop the unwieldy spears and grab their swords, creating more openings. The principes stream into the new openings, stabbing down hundreds of Syrians and Gauls.
Captain Philipus gapes in dismay at the destruction of his front phalanxes. “Bring in the elephants! Trample those bastards!” he screams at his captains. Minutes later, sixteen gargantuan elephants lumber forward, their drivers aiming at the oncoming legions.
Domitius trots back to one of his rear cohorts. “Any of you men who fought elephants at Zama, get out there!” A hundred principes rush past the front cohorts and surge into the gaps between the phalanxes, heading straight for the gigantic beasts. Using the tactics they learned fighting Hannibal’s elephants at Zama, the brave veterans rush in and jab their spears into the beasts’ sides and underarms,[ccxxxix] herding them sideways.
Trumpeting with pain and anger, the elephants lumber away from the offending spears, bashing into the sides of the phalanxes. The nearby phalangites scatter, and the once-impenetrable spear wall disintegrates. With their formations broken, the Syrians become easy prey for the relentless principes. Hundreds fall quickly to the stabbing Roman swords.
After attacking the rear phalanx nearest to them, Scipio, Masinissa, and Sophon ride back toward the Roman front, flinging their remaining spears at the Syrians. Scipio spies ten elephants lined behind the front phalanxes. He waves over Masinissa.
“Call your men to a halt!” Scipio says. The king reins in his horse. The Numidians circle around him, waiting for orders.
“We can break their inner lines if we stampede their elephants,” Scipio says, pointing at the ten beasts between the front and rear phalanxes.
Sophon grins. “They may be bigger than our elephants, but they are still elephants. We know how to handle them!”
The Africans stream into the gap between the front and rear phalanxes, flowing around the waiting elephants. Dozens of Numidians fall to the archers in the elephant towers, but still they ride on. The Africans swoop in and spear the elephants’ backsides, driving them forward. The monstrous beasts careen through the rear of the front phalanxes, destroying the last vestiges of their formations.
Beset by Roman and elephant, the proud phalangites run toward camp, setting the rear phalanxes into a panic of retreat. Thousands of Syrians and Gauls swarm up the gentle rise that leads toward Antiochus’ camp, seeking shelter within its fortress-like fortifications. The army’s rearmost infantry and cavalry join in the flight, panicked at the
sight of their army stampeding toward them.
Domitius’ Roman equites ride in from the left flank, joined by Eumenes’ Pergamum cavalry. They hunt down the fleeing remnants of Antiochus’ center forces, lancing down hundreds.
An elated Lucius Scipio trots in behind advancing principes. He watches his victory unfold before him. We’ve broken their center! he marvels. I did it!
“Get my legates over here,” Lucius tells his messenger. Minutes later, Gracchus and Domitius appear at his side.
“I want their camp!” he blurts. “Don’t let up until we have it!”
The legions march double-time through the field abandoned by the phalanxes, pausing only to stab down the enemy wounded. They tramp up the rise toward the tall palisades of Antiochus’ camp, knowing they have one final, gruesome task.
Having driven off the elephants, Scipio and the Numidians regroup on the flank of the advancing legions, waving their arms at the triumphant legionnaires. Scipio sees Lucius’ purple cape flapping in the center of the marching cohorts.
Let him lead them in without you, Scipio decides. His men will say that he led them to victory. He looks across the field, where the Italians are still engaged with the Galatians. I had best check on the allies, they appear to be having a rough time of it.
“Let’s head over there.” Scipio points to his right, and turns his horse toward the river. Masinissa nods, waving for his men to follow him. Scipio, Masinissa, and Sophon gallops towards the sound of battle. As they draw near, Scipio raises his right arm, calling the riders to a halt. He surveys the battle scene before him. His face twists with dismay.
Hundreds of Italian corpses are strewn along a half mile length of battlefield, a charnel record of the Galatian’s relentless advance. A five-deep row of Galatians hammer against a compacted line of Italian infantrymen, the lone survivors of Judoc’s unrelenting assault.
Scipio notes there are no cavalry behind the Gauls. Where are Antiochus’ cataphractii and Dahae? They were in formation behind the Galatians, they should be backing them up.
His blood freezes. He took them by the river! He turns to Masinissa.
“We have to turn the tide of this battle, and do it quickly,” he says to the king. “We are needed by the river.” He points to the center of the Gallic line. “Take out that big, red-bearded one. He looks like he’s the chief.”
“Make sure every man has a spear,” Masinissa tells Sophon. “We are going to ride right through them.”
Nineteen hundred Africans hurtle across the plain, their braided locks fluttering from their helmets. The Africans flare out into a wide attack wedge, with Masinissa and Sophon riding at the point. Scipio gallops a spear’s cast behind them, his stallion laboring to keep pace with the Numidian ponies.
The Galatians feel the ground tremble. They hear the thunder of hooves. They turn from the Italians, staring at the dark horde descending upon them.
“Blocking formation!” yells a chieftain. The order echoes among the Gauls. The barbarians dig in their feet and plant their oblong shields into the ground. They cock their sword arms, ready to cut into any horse that attacks them. Then the Numidians are upon them.
The Africans wheel their horses sideways and batter against the Gallic shields, stabbing their lances into the torsos of those who lose their cover. The Africans churn through the scattered clumps of Galatians, dodging and thrusting, then spin about for another attack. The Gauls scatter across the plain, some dodging the relentless Numidians, others raging after them. The Galatians turn in every direction, unsure where their next attack will come from.
The Italian allies gape at the whirling Numidian attack, as amazed as if the gods descended to help them. “At them!” screams an Etruscan centurion, the legion’s highest surviving officer.
The Etruscans and Samnites sprint across the field, roaring their ancient battle cries. They attack like madmen, chopping at any exposed body part their short swords can reach, their vengeful lust blinding them to any danger. The battle becomes a swirling confusion of screams and shouts. The outnumbered Gauls fight like trapped animals. Scores of Italians and Africans pile at their feet.
Sophon steers his horse through the melee, his eyes fixed on the red-bearded giant. That’s the one Scipio talked about. If I kill him, I’ll be the hero. The battle suddenly parts in front of Judoc. Sophon spurs his horse at him.
As Sophon plunges forward, Judoc delves the point of his pickaxe into the top of an Etruscan tribune’s helmet. The hapless officer falls to his knees, dead before he hits the ground. Judoc yanks out his axe and kicks the body sideways. He spies the young Numidian charging at him, his lance leveled at Judoc’s chest.
The chieftain sneers. Fool! I will jam that stick up your ass! Judoc raises his shield, as if to take the brunt of the lance’s force. He lays his pickaxe alongside his leg, freeing his right hand.
Sophon leans over the neck of his horse and thrusts his lance at Judoc’s shield. The Galatian angles his shield sideways, and the spear scratches across it. Judoc leaps in and grabs Sophon by the back of his loincloth. He jerks him off his horse and hurls him to the ground.
The chieftain grabs his pickaxe and stalks over to his stunned foe. Sophon struggles to his feet. Judoc’s shield bashes him back to the ground. He arcs down his pickaxe.
A black stallion crashes into the side of Judoc, catapulting him sideways. Judoc quickly clambers to his feet, groaning from the pain of two cracked ribs. He retrieves his mud-grimed pickaxe and cocks it back for a strike, searching for the man who interrupted his kill.
Scipio’s riderless stallion trots off. Scipio staggers upright, still woozy from his tumble. He bends over and grabs his small round cavalry shield, sliding its straps across his left forearm.
“Roman dog!” Judoc bellows. He lurches toward Scipio, his face a rictus of rage. Scipio pulls out his gladius and crouches low, his eyes fixed on the charging giant’s heart.
He’s injured, Scipio thinks, noticing how Judoc leans to his right. Judoc leaps upon him, swinging his axe blade at Scipio’s head.
Scipio shoves out his small shield. The pickaxe crunches into it, buckling it in the middle. Scipio grabs his arm, his face contorted into a rictus of pain. He drops his ruined shield and scrambles backward, waving his sword in front of him.
Judoc’s teeth bare in a yellowed, gap-toothed grin. He tramps forward, his pickaxe held low. Block his sword and chop into his guts, Judoc tells himself. He can watch you kill the boy while he dies.
Scipio scrabbles sideways around Judoc, forcing the chieftain to follow him. The Galatian chieftain grimaces as he turns, stooping sideways to favor his broken ribs.
Scipio circles faster, watching as Judoc’s face twists in agony. Judoc charges repeatedly, but each time Scipio retreats and circles him. The chieftain’s charges grow slower, and his breathing grows heavy. He pauses to wipe the sweat from his axe grip.
Scipio darts in and slices into Judoc’s kidneys. The chieftain’s mouth gapes, his eyes wide with shock and pain. He swipes his pickaxe backwards, but Scipio has already leaped out of range. Judoc turns and faces Scipio, readying himself for a final charge. Scipio raises his blade, his broken arm dangling at his side.
An ebony spear plunges into Judoc’s chest, its white shaft feathers blooming from his breast. Another plunges into his abdomen. The pickaxe falls from Judoc’s hand. He staggers, drunkenly swiping his axe hand about him.
Scipio rushes in, his cleaver-like gladius poised. With one swipe of his steel blade, he strikes off Judoc’s head.
Scipio steps back, watching the gouting corpse crumple to the earth. He jabs his blade into the spear-studded body, gasping with effort.
“You can stop now, he’s dead,” says a voice behind him.
“May he rot in whatever hell his gods have for him,” says another.
Sophon stands behind Scipio, his chest heaving. Masinissa stands next to his son, a black spear clenched in his fist. A dozen of Masinissa’s guard stand behind their king, hoo
ting their approval of the three men’s kill.
Scipio grins dazedly. He sheathes his sword and stumbles toward them. He falls onto his back, grasping at his arm.
Masinissa and Sophon rush in and kneel over him. “Do not try to get up,” Masinissa says, gently pushing him flat. “The Gauls have fled. My men are hunting them down.” He grins. “My tribe will have many stories to tell about the campfire tonight, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to you, I still have life,” Sophon adds. “I will never forget that.”
Masinissa squeezes Scipio’s shoulder. “Nor will I.”
“I have to get to our camp!” Scipio rasps. He tries to rise, and collapses.
“My men and I will ride to the river and follow Antiochus’ path. But you are going back with Sophon and some of my men.”
Masinissa rises. He points to Scipio and barks out several orders. The king springs onto his horse and gallops toward the river, followed by twelve hundred of his men.
One of Masinissa’s men pulls several linen strips from his satchel and expertly bandages Scipio’s arm. They lift Scipio onto the back of Sophon’s horse and rope him against the prince. The prince and his riders trot slowly toward the Roman camp.
We should go faster, they may be in danger, Scipio thinks blearily. Antiochus may be there already. His head falls onto Sophon’s shoulder. He feels sleep descending upon him.
Marcus and Thrax are there, he says to himself. They will hold them off until Masinissa arrives.
While the battle rages across the fields of Magnesia, Marcus and Thrax observe it from the camp ramparts, leaning their heads between its sharpened stakes.
“Can you tell if we are winning?” Marcus asks.
“All I know is we’d have a better chance for victory if my men were out there,” he grouses. He spits over the wall. “That’s what I think about that cursed Scipio sticking us back here.”
“I don’t like it any better than you do,” snaps Marcus, “but he must have had a good reason, or we wouldn’t be here.”
Scipio's End Page 42
