He takes out his horn and blows a single note. He hears an answering note from the other side. Sextus rides halfway back toward camp, pausing to watch the rest of the foraging expedition as it heads out of camp.
The Romans march into the edges of the fields, their mules dragging along the grain wagons they will load. The allied legion follows them, four, thousand Umbrians who are grateful not be chopping wheat stalks all day.
The Romans spread out along the width of the field. They chop off the tops of the wheat stalks and throw them into the wagons that follow them, grumbling and cursing about their ignominious task. The Romans inch farther into the field, their backs bent to their work.
Riding the foothills trail, Sextus watches the Romans hack their way into the middle of the field. He looks back toward camp and notes the hills of wheat that pile there, ready to be winnowed and bagged when the stubbled fields are burned. Gods, I hope I am on a scouting mission tomorrow, so I don’t have to do all that slave work!
He watches the tall plants waving in the wind, their heads bowed toward the harvesting Romans. Sextus notices that the plants are bending contrary to the wind’s direction, as if crawling away from it.
“Come on, Glaucus, there’s something strange down there.” Sextus eases his horse down the side of the foothill, closer to the field. He spies the glint of a bronze helmet in the field, its top sheathed with stalks. His stomach churns with shock. The Gauls didn’t harvest the grain, they harvested the stalks!
“They’re hiding down there!” he shouts to Glaucus. Sextus grabs his tuba and blows a short blast, then another.
The tuba flies from Sextus’ spasming hand. He gapes at the spearhead jutting out from his throat, its three-pronged head dripping with gore. Sextus tumbles sideways from his horse, coughing out his lifeblood. He crashes to the ground and lies there, feebly fingering the cruel bronze shaft that protrudes from his neck.
Glaucus’ decapitated head thumps to the ground in front of Sextus. It rolls over and faces him. Sextus stares into his friend’s glassy, half-lidded green eyes. His mouth moves wordlessly. Then he sees no more.
Two deep, brassy notes sound out from the wheatfield beneath the two bodies. Then two more.
Thousands of Gauls rise up from the fields, throwing off their cloaks of woven wheat stalks. Clad only in their tribal blue plaid pants, the bare-chested giants charge forward, bellowing their battle cries as they raise their two-handed long swords. The stunned legionnaires have only time to raise their swords before the Gauls are upon them, hacking them down. The Boii dash from one victim to another, a vengeful bloodlust upon them.
The field echoes with screams of agony and rage, as hundreds of individual battles erupt. The tall stalks dance madly in every direction, battered by the bodies that lunge and roll beneath them.
Standing in front the camp gates, Campius hears Sextus’ truncated warning. He sees the fields lurching madly in every direction, as if herds of wild boars were stampeding through them. He stares at the flash of Gallic swords arcing over the tops of the stalks, looping down to hew into Roman bodies and heads. He hears a tuba sound from his second scouting party. The blast begins, but it ends abruptly.
Campius’ breath catches in his throat. Gods save me, it’s an ambush!
“Get the Umbrians out there!” he shouts to no one in particular. But Claudus is already hobbling toward the fields, sword in hand. Thousands of Umbrians follow, rushing pell-mell toward the Gauls.
Campius waves over his cavalry commander. “Follow me into the fields!” Moments later, three hundred horsemen stampede into the wheat-shrouded melee, their lances at the ready.
The Umbrian cavalry swirl about in the fields. They shove their spears at the Gauls, who parry the thrusts with their five-foot swords. Scores of barbarians fall, pierced through their broad chests by Umbrian spears.
“Keep moving!” Campius bellows. “Strike and move on!”
Roaring in anger, the Boii attack the allied riders from all sides. Dozens of the Umbrian cavalry are struck from their mounts, with dozens more pulled down from behind. Every fallen rider is stabbed to death and decapitated. His gory head becomes a prized souvenir.
Campius darts into the center of the fields, galloping past mounds of butchered Romans. “Get the cavalry into line,” he yells to Claudus. “We’ll move through the fields together, with the infantry behind us.”
Claudus replies, but his voice is drowned by the rumbling of hooves behind them. Campius turns his horse toward camp. His heart quivers.
Hundreds of Gallic horsemen are thundering toward him, tall warriors cloaked in ring mail tunics, their heavy lances leveled at the Umbrian infantry behind Campius. The charging Boii drive the Umbrians into the field, cutting them down as if they were harvesting their bodies.
Hordes of Boii infantry run out of the field and dash into the unprotected camp, pitching torches into the buildings. As flames leap about the camp, hundreds of Gauls ride in from each side of the foothills, completing the encirclement.
Campius watches in horror as the Gauls loop around the edges of the fields. They were waiting for us to charge into here. He slaps himself in the face. I fell for their trap. I deserve to die.
The commander looks over at Claudus, whose face mirrors his distress—and resignation. Their eyes meet, and an unspoken decision passes between them.
Campius smiles sadly. He drops his lance, draws his sword, and plunges toward the onrushing horde.
With a cry of desperate defiance, Claudus follows his friend. Hundreds of Umbrians charge in behind their leaders, heading into the teeth of the Gallic charge.
A half hour later, the remnants of Campius’ army dashes for the mountains. They dodge and weave through the concealing grasses. The tall stalks that concealed their enemies now become their friends. The Gauls quit chasing their elusive enemy, content to plunder the seven thousand bodies that are strewn through the fields like death’s own harvest. [vii]
A stout, one-armed Gaul rides into the wrecked Roman camp, his black bear robe draped down to the haunches of his snow-white horse. Scores of blood-spattered Boii cavalry flow past him, searching for movement among the Roman bodies strewn about them.
The Boii chief halts in the middle of the camp. He silently surveys the tents, armor, and wagons, nodding appreciatively. We can use all of this. These Romans make good stuff.
“Galdant!” the chief shouts. He waves at a rangy young cavalryman who is roping two Roman heads to his belt. Galdant trots over to the chief, the heads bouncing against his bloody thighs.
“Shall we burn the camp, Drustan?” Galdant says.
“Idiot!” Drustan snaps. “Take all the tents. All armor and weapons, too. Leave the walls. We can use this place for a livestock pen.”
The young man slaps his right hand to his chest. “Done. Then what?”
Drustan stares south, down the dirt road that leads toward Rome. “Then we wait. They will come back for us, you can be sure of it.”
Two days later, Aelius’ army is marching up the mountain pass that leads down into the Po Valley—and Mutina. Aelius rides in front of his lead cohort, confident that no harm can befall him.
One of his lead scouts returns from the crest of the pass. He rides up to the consul, pointing back up the way he came. “General, there are men waiting for us up there.”
“Are they Ligurians?”
The scout shakes his head. “Umbrians. And Romans.” He swallows. “They say they are the last of Campius’ men.”[viii]
“What?” The stout little patrician puts heels to his horse and hurries to the top. He finds sixty-four soldiers waiting for him, half of them swathed in bandages.
“Thank the gods, you have finally come,” says a young centurion, leaning on his tree-branch crutch.
“What are you men doing up here? Where’s Campius? Where’s my cohorts?”
The centurion limps forward. “We are what’s left of the army. The Boii surprised us while we were gathering grain. Mo
st of our men are dead. Some are hiding in the hills.”
Aelius looks about him, his eyes dazed. “How could this happen?”
“I do not know,” the weary soldier replies. He points below him. “But I know the result.”
Aelius looks into the valley below, at the fields of naked dead—at the thousands of birds walking upon the bloated corpses, pecking away at them. The consul turns to his cavalry commander, his face slack with horror.
“They are gone, Tiberius. All my men are gone. What can I do?”
The aged officer rubs his eyes. “We can leave no man behind. Let’s go to the camp site and reinforce it. The survivors come to us.” He glances back at the fields. “The smoke from the pyres will attract their attention.” He shakes his head. “The dead need us, too.”
For the next two days, Aelius' men scramble to rebuild the walls and trenches. Soon thereafter, clouds of smoke billow into the sky, as the Roman dead receive an honorable burial.
The Romans remain at their new encampment for weeks. Every day, every hour, several men stagger into the camp. Some rush to the gates, weeping with relief. Others walk in as though they were under a spell, their eyes fixed with a distant stare. Dozens march in with bared sword in hand, tears running down their face as they scream for revenge.
Mounds of grain stand unmolested in front of the charnel field, rotting in the sun. Only a few birds attend to the pile, preferring to continue their feast on the field’s grisly remains.
After recovering hundreds of survivors, Aelius marches his army back to Rome.
He finishes the remaining months of his consulship without achieving anything of note.[ix]
In the meantime, Drustan marches his Boii south into northern Umbria, ravaging the fields and towns of those allied to the Romans. He gathers men and food everywhere he goes, preparing for Rome’s retaliation.
ROME. “In the Fourth Legion: two thousand, four hundred infantry. One hundred eighty-six equites. Twenty-three centurions. Six tribunes.”
Standing in the center of the Senate floor, the Senate Elder slowly reads the tally of dead from Aelius’ army. The senators sit in grim silence, their eyes avoiding the rotund little figure who slumps in a chair next to the Elder. For his part, Consul Publius Aelius stares fixedly at the floor.
Looking at the forlorn consul, Scipio feels a rush of guilt. If I had been there to advise him, he wouldn’t have sent Campius near the Boii. Amelia was right, I must use my newfound status—I must lead!
After reading the totals, the Elder takes out a second, smaller scroll. He reads the name of every equite and tribune who died in the battle, all of them patricians. Each name elicits a gasp or groan from a senator who knew the deceased.
An eternity later, the Elder finishes his funerary chant. He hands the scrolls to the young patrician who serves as his assistant. “Have these read from the rostrum in the Forum. The people must know of Rome’s loss.” He looks up at the senators ringed around him.
“The Boii have destroyed our legions and invaded Umbria. We must decide what to do about it. The floor is open to discussion.”
Flaccus rises from his privileged seat in the row. “This destruction cannot go unpunished. After the next consular election, one of our new consuls must march on the Boii immediately!” Scores of senators mutter their approval.
Sensing he has the moment, he just points his forefinger into the air. “In fact, I think we should send both consuls! We’ll send two consular armies, and end the Gallic menace forever!” Dozens of Latin Party senators rise to their feet, shouting their agreement with their party leader.
Scipio rises from his seat in the front. He walks out and stands next to Flaccus, waiting for him to return to his seat. The stork-like senator stands silently, his lips pursed like a stubborn child.
“Scipio Africanus has the floor,” the Elder intones. Flaccus stomps back to his place on the front bench and slumps onto it, arms crossed.
“It would be folly to send two armies to Gaul,” Scipio says. “As the saying goes, ‘we all cannot do everything.’ [x] Yes, we must drive the Gauls out of Umbria. But I ask you: can we end their menace with one sweep of a massive army? Why, we have been fighting them for hundreds of years!”
“You are backing down from a fight,” Flaccus growls, provoking muttered assent.
“If you recall, honored Senator, I was the one who led the fight in Iberia, when none would take it.[xi] And I took our legions to Carthage itself. The Gauls are a concern, but a larger menace looms to the east—King Philip of Macedonia. Just last month, the Aetolian league came to us for help, asking us to halt Philip’s incursion into Greece!”
“We just signed a treaty with Philip four years ago,” [xii] an elder senator shouts from his seat. “He is not at war with us.”
“No, he is not,” Scipio replies. “Nor will he be, if we send an army near him. We need to send a consul to Macedonia, along with his army.”
Cato rises from his seat, his face flushed. “Why dither with Philip by sitting idle in Macedonia? If he is the threat you say he is, let us march forth and destroy him!”
Scipio shakes his head. “Philip has his uses. He keeps other nations in check. Besides, the people will not approve another war. Many still mourn those we lost fighting Hannibal. But they do not have to approve us sending an army over there.”
“Honored Scipio, I have a concern,” says Horatius Julius, a fellow member of the Hellenic party. “We can’t wait until a new consul is elected, Philip will take control of northeastern Greece. Didn’t you hear the Greek delegates? As we speak, he is marching to take Abydus!”
Consul Aelius jumps from his chair. “The year grows late,” he blurts, “but I am willing to take two legions to Macedonia right now, if you will assign them to me.” He expectantly searches the senators’ faces.
No one replies. The consul’s recommendation is met with the thundering silence of disapprobation. Aelius’ rounded shoulders slump. He realizes his power is forever gone. From now on, he will be a Man Who Sits in the Corner, a silent and ineffective senator.
“Gratitude for the offer,” Scipio says softly. “But I think we should send an emissary to Philip. Let us warn him first, and see if he desists. Diplomacy before aggression, Horatius. The Gauls will always fight us, but they will always lose, eventually. Since Hannibal left Italia, they haven't had a leader to unify them, to train them as a single instrument of his will. They are not the true threat.”
ABYDUS, HELLESPONT,[xiii] 201 BCE. “By Zeus’ beard, this is turning into the most dreary battle ever,” Philip moans. His manicured fingers pluck at the thin gold wreath that surrounds his brow.
The Macedonian king slumps down into the tall throne inside his tent, frowning with disgust. “I swear, Philocles. If you can’t get over one little wall defended by a few hundred bumpkins, I shall have to get myself another general!”
“Five hundred bumpkins,” the stocky old officer replies. “Their outer wall is very thick. Our catapults have had little effect on it, yet their own machines rain stones upon us. And their soldiers fight like demons. Our spies tell us the Abydans have taken a vow to kill themselves before they let you take them.”[xiv]
“They’d kill themselves before surrendering to me, the king of kings? Gods above, what an impulsive lot!” He throws up his hands. “You’d think I was going to deny them sex or wine for the rest of their life! All I want is to make a garrison of their town. And loot their treasury, of course.”
“Our spies say they’re going to throw all their gold and silver into the sea,” Philocles mutters.
“Throw away all my plunder? Now that is truly a barbarous act!” Philip points toward the tent entrance. “Go tell Admiral Heraclides to put some ships around their seawall. I want a hundred divers there, in case those fools start throwing jewels into the sea.” He slaps his knee. “Fools with jewels, hahaha!”
Philocles rolls his eyes. “As you command. But the issue with their walls still remains to be solved. Th
ey have an inner one built around the heart of the town. If we get through the first barrier, they’ll make a stand behind the second.”
Philip steeples his spiderlike fingers and presses them to his mouth. “Hmm. Can’t we do a full scale attack on that big first wall? Just swarm all over it?”
Philocles shakes his bald head. “We would incur heavy losses, my King. We need every man if we are to campaign across Greece.”
“Details, details! I need solutions from you, not problems!” The leanly muscled king pushes up from his gilded seat. He paces about the tent, his black cape trailing along the ground.
Philocles patiently watches him. He is a clever man, for all his frippery. He will think of something.
For the third time this morning Philip fills his wine goblet. He walks back to his throne and plunks into it, sipping moodily at his drink. His sea-blue eyes stare at the battle tapestries hanging from his goatskin walls. The tapestries are laden with battle scenes of his two famous forebears, Alexander the Great and Philip II.
Philip’s eyes wander over to a map table holding the bust of Alexander the Great. What would Alexander do? They’re always comparing me to him.
He wrinkles his nose at the statue. Well, you died young, and I have no intention of doing that! I’ll be more cautious in my moves.
“What about a seaside attack?” Philip asks. “We have dozens of catapults on the ships.”
“The cliff is too sheer, and their outside wall goes all the way around it,” rejoins Philocles. “It’s impossible.”
“Must you undermine every suggestion I make?” Philip fumes. Philocles takes a sudden interest in a tapestry over the tent entrance.
Hmm. ‘Undermine.’ Philip slaps his forehead and laughs. “I swear, I’m becoming as slow as a Roman. We will undermine them.”
“Undermine?” asks a baffled Philocles. “You want our spies to spread rumors in town? About what?”
“No, nothing that devious. Well, actually it is that devious, but much more fun! Do we have those slaves we captured at Laurium, the ones who worked in the silver mines?”
Scipio Rules Page 3
