And that many more I have to manage while we campaign, Zeuxis thinks. “You know, Hannibal was a genius at making his diverse army a single instrument of his will. Perhaps we should invite him over for a visit. He might welcome the chance to leave Carthage. I hear he has accrued some powerful political enemies.”
“As all great men do,” Antiochus replies. He rubs his chin. “Perhaps I will ask Hannibal. Or perhaps I’ll just get me more Gauls and Thracians. Now those are men who can fight!”
“We could send the Pamphylians back,” Zeuxis says hopefully. “They fight with each other more than our enemies.”
“No, let’s keep all the tribes. I know it’s a pain to remember who’s here and who does what, much less to find food for their different tastes. But our variety is our strength. Even Scipio himself would have a difficult time combating all their different fighting styles. And all their different weapons.”
“Very well,” Zeuxis says resignedly. His face brightens. “Look, here come your charioteers. Imagine them charging into the Romans!”
The two-horse chariots rumble into view. Hundreds of the bronze-sided war machines parade past in five-wide columns. The wheels’ curved scythes whirl around the hubs, their razored blades glistening in the late morning sun. The Syrian charioteers extend their left fists in salute to Antiochus. Their spearmen raise their barbed spears over their bronze-domed heads.
Antiochus rises from his gold throne. His leopardskin robe pools at his silver-sandaled feet. He extends his right palm. Where would I be without my chariots. They hacked the Egyptians to pieces. Wonder how they’ll do against the Greek phalanxes? And Rome’s legions?
Antiochus lowers his palm and steps back toward his seat, smiling as he imagines his men wreaking havoc.
“Don’t sit down, my King. The Galatians are coming. Their chieftains would take it as a slight.”
Antiochus sighs. He straightens his long frame and raises his chin, trying to look as regal as possible.
The Galatians tromp into view, Gallic tribes who inhabit Thrace and the western edges of Antiochus’ kingdom. The bare-chested giants wear their tribes’ signature brown plaid pants. Their polished stone necklaces dangle beneath their long scraggly beards. Some carry head-splitting longswords on their broad shoulders; others heft hand axes next to their thighs.
Antiochus smiles at the grim-faced warriors. They will make good shock troops. Now that they’ve arrived, I can attack Pergamum and take it back from the Egyptians. Those meddling Romans will be occupied with Philip’s forces; they’ll let me alone.
“How many men do I have now, Zeuxis?”
“If we count the Cretan mercenaries, who will arrive at the next moon, we have well over a hundred thousand fighting men.”
“Then I’ll have the largest army in the world?”
Zeuxis shrugs. “I would imagine. Certainly, Philip does not have as many. Since we destroyed Ptolemy’s southern army, the Egyptians are greatly reduced.”
“That is good. We will need every man if Rome sends their legions at us.”
“When Rome sends their legions, you mean,” Zeuxis says. “We can lay ancestral claim to Pergamum, but they will not sit by if we attack the Achaen League of Greek cities. Or the Aetolian League. Scipio has made them friends of Rome.”
“When we attack them,” Antiochus rejoins. “I will restore our kingdom to the glory it had before it fell apart under my dear father.” I will show everyone that he was a fool to insist my brother be king instead of me. He smiles. Of course, the assassin dealt with Dear Brother, so we’ll never really know how well he’d have done.[xxv]
“Philip is ready to invade Greece, my King. He has taken Abydus. Our scouts say he will cross the Hellespont and march on Athens.” He cocks an eye at Antiochus. “That will be close to our western borders.”
“Philip?” Antiochus laughs. “I am not worried about Philip! He has the Romans to contend with. That will keep them both occupied.”
He watches the last of the Galatians march away. “We can move on Pergamum and take Thrace. Then on to Greece. Rome will have exhausted its resources fighting Philip. After Greece, we cross the Adriatic land unopposed in Italia.”
“Perhaps Philip will defeat Rome,” Zeuxis observes. “Then he’d be a real threat.”
Antiochus laughs. “That would make it all the easier for us—we’d only have to conquer Macedonia! Philip’s army would be depleted after fighting Rome’s legions. Either way we win.”
The king rises from his seat. “Look, here come the cataphractii! I’d like to see the Romans try to deal with them!”
Three thousand Syrian riders prance into view, a forest of twelve-foot spears looming over their egg-shaped iron helmets. The torsos of horse and rider are covered in polished bronze scale armor, shining a blinding white in the noonday sun.
Zeuxis shades his eyes with his palm. “Whoo, they are like suns on earth! I think they win half their fights by scaring their enemies to death!”
Antiochus smiles. “Wait until the Romans see my cataphractii bearing down on them. The sight will strike them blind!”
As the last of the gleaming cataphractii rides past the king, a booming din of drums rises. A square of five thousand Parthian archers[xxvi]trots in, their multicolored feathers waving from the nipples of their bronze domes. Wearing only tunics and pants, the unarmored youths pound their cup-shaped war drums in unison, their curved horn bows slung across their backs. Aiyee-ah-oh, they chant, Aiyee-ah-oh-ah-oh!
“I bet Hannibal could have used some of them against Scipio’s Numidians,” Antiochus observes. “They’d shoot those slippery bastards right off their horses!”
“Better still, he could have used a thousand of your king’s Friends.[xxvii] They are the best riders in the world.”
“Here they come,” Antiochus says, rising to his feet. He waves his hand like an eager boy, belying his forty years.
The Friends arrive in triangular formation, their movements so synchronized that the triangle seems to float across the parade grounds. Antiochus’ prized cavalry ride the black stallions that have been specially bred for them, rangy and swift beasts that are strong enough to carry their heavily armored riders.
Antiochus’ cavalry carry their thirteen foot lances straight in front of them, forming a giant arrowhead for their king. The spears bear pennants with the springing lion insignia of the house of Antiochus. Each bronze cuirass has a lion’s head painted upon it, signifying their lifetime allegiance to the king.
“We can send some of these troops to the Colophon garrison,” Antiochus says, “But I’m taking the Friends with me.”
The parade of riders concludes with Antiochus’ two thousand Arab archers, dark-robed men riding atop their wicker-covered dromedaries. The swarthy men stare straight ahead. Fiercely independent, they ignore the foreign king who temporarily presides over them.
They act like I have enslaved them, fumes Antiochus. Very well, they can lead the initial charge instead of the Galatians. Let the enemy tire themselves out with killing them.
The parade concludes with the Syrian king’s prized beasts: sixteen gargantuan Indian elephants. An oak plank tower sways atop each of the strolling monsters, with a Syrian archer and lancer peering out from them.
“The Romans defeated Hannibal’s little elephants at Zama,” Antiochus tells Zeuxis. “But wait until they face my beasts! Mine won’t run from a few horn blasts or spear pricks. They’re trained better.”
A bugle sounds, and the elephants halt. Slowly, ponderously, the elephants bend to one knee, paying obeisance to their king.
We will conquer the world! Antiochus muses, his heart pounding with excitement. I’ll show Father, I’ll rebuild his kingdom and stretch it to the ends of the earth!
As the elephants rumble out of sight, Antiochus and Zeuxis step down from the dais and mount their horses. With his royal guard around them, the two leaders trot out to a dozen mansion-sized tents outside the city walls, following the thousands of soldier
s who are marching to the sprawling ceremonial feast that is already in process.
The army’s tribes and nations scatter across acres of the dusty plains, each to its own section. The Gauls and Thracians sprawl next to each other, eyeing each other suspiciously.
Though every group keeps to itself for the feasting, the soldiers gather afterwards on the sloping hillside outside of camp, facing the large field beneath them. They murmur and shout excitedly: it is time for Antiochus’ games.
The nations’ contestants vie with each other in foot races, wrestling, javelin throwing, archery, boxing, horsemanship and boulder lifting, as thousands cheer and jeer. Antiochus places a golden wreath on each victor’s head, reveling in the deafening cheers that cascade about him. I have united them. They are ready to go to battle. Now for the climax!
The Syrian trumpets sound three long, plaintive notes. A man strides into the empty ring, tying the straps of his conical helmet underneath the chin of his silver face mask. The crowd mutters excitedly—they know the reputation of the man who stands before them.
No one knows his real name, and he would never tell it. He is known only as Nicator, the Victor, because he has never lost—nor have any of his opponents ever lived.
The crowd sees a man of average height, with a lean, loosely-muscled build. He walks about the ring with the loose grace of a leopard, his sandaled steps both fluid and sudden, as if he were a dancer instead of the captain of Antiochus’ royal guard. Thousands on the hillside watch him, rapt with anticipation for the coming duel.
The tan-skinned man pauses in the center of the ring, his limbs slack. The crowd hushes with anticipation, so quiet they can hear Nicator clacking his short, double-edged sword blade against his silver greaves. He waits silently. His plate-sized wrist shield hangs limply next to his thigh.
There is a clanking and shuffling from the side of the field. Three chained men emerge from a group of Antiochus’ guards, dragging themselves into side of the ring. They are sturdily built men, their copper-colored bodies striped with the thread scars of countless nicks and slashes. They are obviously veterans of many battles.
A guard unlocks the men’s wrist and ankle chains. The three warriors rub their arms and legs. They calmly look about them. Having seen death a hundred times, in all its guises, they are ready for whatever fate brings them.
The Syrian guard motions with his spear for them to approach the center. The three step onto the freshly-trampled earth, watching the staid silver warrior who stands before them.
A young slave scurries out toward the threesome, his arms cradling weapons. He gives each an iron sword shaped like a question mark and a tombstone-shaped wooden shield, the timeless armament of Egyptian soldiers. The men slide their arms into the shield grips. They heft the familiar swords, testing their balance. The youngest man ducks low and swoops his sword about him, practicing his moves.
Antiochus walks to the edge of his viewing platform. “Attend to me!” he shouts to the three, though the hillside is quiet as a tomb. As one, they turn and face the king.
“You kill him, you go free,” he says in flawless Egyptian. The warriors nod, and turn back toward Nicator.
The silver-faced warrior says nothing. Nicator taps the tip of his blade against the brim of his domed helmet, as if saluting them. He spreads his legs and arms. Shifting his balance to the balls of his feet, Nicator stands immobile as a statue.
The seconds drag into a minute, then another. No one moves. “Go!” shouts an Arab, breaking the unbearable silence. “Fight, fight!” bellows a Gaul.
“Don’t make me come down there,” warbles an elder Syrian, prompting laughter.
The three Egyptians look at one another. The one in the middle nods to the other two. He slaps his sword against his shield.
The three dash forward. “For Monte!” they scream, invoking their god of war as they spring into action.
The Syrian does not move. The three close on him, raising their sickle-swords high. When the trio is within two steps of Nicator, he leaps into the space between the man in the center and the one to his right, angling his body sideways. Nicator shoves up his left arm. His small shield rams against the center man’s downward cut, diverting the blade. His sword clangs against the Egyptian’s thrust on the right.
As Nicator slides between them, he catches his foot around the right man’s ankle and jerks it off the ground. The Egyptian tumbles sideways. Quicker than a striking serpent, Nicator’s sword flashes. The point of his blade jams into the back of the man’s neck, cleaving his spine. The warrior crumples to the ground, convulsing helplessly.
The other Egyptians spin about with swords raised, ready to slash into him. They find Nicator has already resumed his battle stance, arms and legs spread wide. The two step warily toward him, blades bobbing nervously at their sides, staring into his silver mask as if it would somehow show some expression.
“Fight him!” yells Antiochus. “Fight or I’ll come down there and kill you myself!” The crowd roars its approval of his words.
“Together, battle formation,” mutters the older Egyptian to his fellow. The two stand next to each other, their joined shields forming a wall in front of them. The lead Egyptian crouches low.
“At him!” he bellows.
The two march forward, shields locked in front of them. They raise their blades, ready to strike him simultaneously from different sides, knowing his small shield cannot divert both blows. They cock their arms for the strike.
Nicator does not move.
“Now!” shouts the elder soldier. The Egyptians swing their scythed swords toward the Syrian’s bare neck.
Nicator springs to life. He turns sideways and jumps toward the younger soldier’s sword arm, just as the elder’s blade whistles past his back. The Syrian arcs his tiny shield into the Egyptian’s fist, blocking his blow in mid stroke.
Nicator’s razored blade slashes upward. The Egyptian’s forearm falls to the ground, still clutching his sword. The man wails with pain, gripping his gouting arm stub. Nicator springs towards the wounded man, slashing his liver as he passes in front of him. The young warrior crumples, covered in blood. Nicator resumes his stance.
The senior Egyptian whirls to face Nicator. He stares into the eye holes of the silver mask, but sees only darkness.
Nicator beckons him with his blade. With a resigned shrug, the Egyptian marches in.
When he is within a few feet of the Syrian, the elder warrior flings his shield into Nicator’s face and dives into his legs, yanking at his silver-sandaled feet. The Syrian stumbles sideways. His sword stabs past the Egyptian’s back and crunches into the sandy earth.
With desperate strength, the Egyptian yanks Nicator’s feet out from under him. The two tumble to the ground. Nicator’s wrist shield falls off. The two roll about, grappling with each other’s sword hands.
The hillside onlookers are delirious with excitement. Hundreds scream for the Egyptian to kill Nicator, while hundreds more scream for the Syrian to finish it. Fights break out among the cheering factions, and the onlookers begin to cheer the combatants.
The Syrian rises to one knee, grabbing his larger opponent’s sword arm at the wrist. As he shoves the Egyptian’s arm upward, his foot slips on the forearm of his last opponent, the stub slick with blood.
Nicator tumbles forward and lands on his face. He quickly rolls over, but the Egyptian is already upon him. His left hand grabs the chin of Nicator’s face mask and yanks it off, ready to shove his poised blade into the Syrian’s face.
The Egyptian freezes with horror.
Angry red eyes glare out from the wells of lumpy white scar tissue that surround them. Snaggled yellow teeth snarl from a lipless mouth ringed with pustulent red sores. The Egyptian gapes at the nightmare visage.
The moment’s pause is all the Syrian needs. He twists his shoulder from under the Egyptian’s relaxed grasp and buries his short sword into the side of the man’s stomach. The Egyptian rears back his head and wails with pa
in. His sword drops to the ground.
Nicator saws a jagged rent across the Egyptian’s convulsing stomach. The Egyptian’s bowels spill out onto Nicator’s chest. The Syrian shoves his groaning opponent backwards.
The Egyptian falls onto his back. He rolls onto his side, cradling his intestines in his hands, crying with agony and despair.
Nicator lunges for his mask, his head bowed into his chest. He slaps it onto his face and swiftly knots the rawhide strings onto the back of his head. Then, only then, does he raise his head and arms triumphantly. The hillside onlookers scream with delight and disappointment.
Antiochus walks down from his dais and enters the ring. He grabs the Syrian’s bloody arm and holds it high, prompting more roars from the crowd. Now to make them mine.
The king steps back and draws his sapphire-hilted sword. Warriors of nineteen nations watch in amazement as the King of Syria faces off against his mightiest warrior.
The middle-aged king shrugs off his robe, letting it crumple to the blood-spattered dust. Antiochus stands in loincloth and sandals, his ropy muscled body glistening with olive oil. He bends over and lays his jeweled crown on top of his robe. His eyes flick sideways to the hillside, measuring his audience. Now they will see that their commander is no soft-assed drunk, like my father.
Antiochus whirls upon Nicator, his scythed blade flashing toward his neck. The Syrian captain rings his sword against his king’s weapon. He jabs his sword at Antiochus, who sidesteps it while chopping at Nicator’s thighs. The silver-masked warrior raises his leg just in time to take the blow upon his silver greaves. The crowd cheers each cut and block, now aware that they are watching a practiced demonstration.
Nicator and Antiochus continue their dance of thrust, parry, and block, moving to the music of steel edges ringing on bronze and iron. The two men pivot and spin. Their blades whirl toward a mortal blow to neck or chest, only to be blocked at the last moment. The crowd roars with each sequence. Many make note of a move they plan to use in their own fights.
Scipio Rules Page 6
