Night falls and scores of bonfires appear, accompanied by much shouting and singing. Quintus watches from the parapet over the gates. He studies the distant silhouettes of the large, thick, men dancing about the towering flames, swilling wine and waving swords.
The young governor sighs. They’ll be at us tomorrow morning, as sure as Jupiter dwells in the sky. Quintus clambers down the parapet’s wooden steps. He strides across the open courtyard and enters his stone block command house. Pulling up a stool at his command desk, he picks up his quill pen, dips it into a clay pot of octopus ink, and writes on his best papyrus.
Dearest Horatia:
I trust this letter finds you well, riding about the golden fields of our new farm, rejoicing in a bountiful fall harvest.
I thank the gods we decided to that you and Claudia would stay near Rome. I dream of you plucking fat purple grapes from our vines and popping them into Claudia’s pudgy little mouth. I think of your happiness, and I am comforted.
Events here may mean I do not see you for quite a while, though my thoughts are ever with you. While I am gone, I only ask one thing: when you are about our villa, or playing with Claudia, or shopping at the merchants’ stalls—stop for a moment and take me into your heart, with a memory of how we were.
I love you forever.
Quintus
The governor rolls up the papyrus and seals it with his wolf’s head stamp. He stoops over, his shoulders quivering. A sob escapes his throat.
Quintus slaps his face. Enough!
“Coaxtus, come here!” A one-armed legionnaire appears in the doorway. “Bring me our three best riders, ready to fly.”
The gray-haired soldier nods. “I know just the ones, Commander. He grins. “Not as good as I was in my prime, but you know how this new generation of soldier is!”
Quintus forces a laugh. “Bring them anyway, or I’ll make you get on a horse yourself!” While he waits, Quintus pens out a note to the Senate, writing with quick, bold strokes. He quickly makes two copies of each message.
Three young equites step through the doorway, wearing their riding armor. “I need each of you to take two messages to Rome,” he tells them. “I want three of you to go, that one may survive the trip. Take off that armor—it will only slow you down. I want you in dark tunics and leather caps. Gods be merciful, you will all soon be dining in Rome.”
“Wh-when do you want us to go?” stammers a thin young patrician, his eyes anxious. “The Gauls are getting thicker out there.”
“Now!” Quintus barks. “Now, while those drunken clods are wandering around in a stupor. Go!”
The three horsemen hurriedly jostle out the door. Quintus stares into the blackened doorway. Fortuna bless them with safe passage. I cannot bear Horatia would never read my message.
“Coaxtus!” he shouts. The old soldier appears. “Yes, Commander?”
“Bring me the Falernian,” Quintus says. “The one with the golden faun painted on the jar.”
“The Falernian?” Coaxtus’ eyes widen. “As you say.”
The assistant quickly returns with a sealed urn. He scrapes the thick sealing wax off the wood stopper and pulls it out. Quintus nods. “No water—just fill it up.” He holds out his bronze goblet. Coaxtus carefully fills it with the fragrant, heady, white wine.
“You, too,” Quintus says, pointing at another goblet.
“I get some Falernian?” Coaxtus says. “Now I’m truly ready to die!”
When both vessels are filled, the praetor pours a dollop onto the ground. “To the gods,” he says. The two drink deeply, smacking their lips. “A drink fit for the gods,” Coaxtus affirms.
Quintus raises his goblet. “To Rome, may she rule forever.” The two drain their cups. Quintus toys with the rim of his goblet, tapping it against his left fist. “Such a life it has been, Coaxtus: a farm, a wife, a child, and service to Rome.”
Coaxtus laughs and raises his cup. “Such a life it has been! Lots of wine to drink, women to fuck, and fights to win.” he laughs. “I can say that my life cup was filled before it was drained!”
Quintus nods. “As it was for me. Now excuse me, friend. I must rest.”
Coaxtus’ eyes grow wistful. “Aye, it will be a big day tomorrow.”
With Coaxtus gone, Quintus lays back on his sleeping pallet and stares at the wood-beamed ceiling. He thinks of how he will place his men on the walls, and how he will bolster the main gates. He recalls his years in the Sabina Hills near Rome—growing up, enlisting, fighting, marrying, and fathering.
After hours of tossing and turning, Somnus blesses him with relief.
The sun breaks the horizon, its sharp light crawling up the back wall of Placentia. Quintus stands on the walkway above the gates, his freshly polished breastplate gleaming in the bright morning sun. He pulls off his helmet and leans his elbows on the wall, watching the dawn illuminate the Gallic camp. He sees that there are thousands of barbarians still sprawled out in sleep, their weapons scattered about them.
They’re all half drunk. If I had two legions of veterans, I could march out there and wipe them from the face of the earth. If, if—fucking if!
An hour drags by. The Gauls rouse themselves, grappling for their shields and long swords. They chew on dried meat scraps from their packs, washing them down with drafts from their wineskins. Many wander over to the latrine ditches on the fringe of their camp, shouting crude jests at each other as they relieve themselves. The barbarians wander back to their clan’s places along the front lines, ready to attack.
Quintus spies an eagle soaring high in the sky, approaching the front of the town. Come this way, spirit bird, he prays. Give us a sign that Fortuna is with us.
The eagle wheels away from Placentia. It swoops low over the Gallic camp, drifting above the thousands of Boii who are massing opposite Placentia’s main gates. Quintus’ shoulders slump.
A horn blares out from the Gallic camp. Scores of others echo around the encirclement. Quartets of Gauls march out to man the catapults that encircle the garrison. They push them through the thick ring of waiting warriors, out into clear space in front. The barbarians crank back the catapults’ ropes and load the baskets with head-sized river stones, readying them for attack.
Hamilcar Gisgon rides out from his men and pauses opposite the Placentia gates. He turns his horse about and faces his soldiers. The Carthaginian pulls out his curved sword and holds it high in front of him. The Gauls are hushed, expectant. Hamilcar swipes down his sword. The horns blare again.
From all directions, pairs of Gauls burst out from the ring and race toward the walls, each duo lugging a rude tree-branch ladder, the leaves and branches still dangling from its sides.
The Gallic army trots in behind the hundreds of ladder men, ready to follow them up the walls.
Watching his army advance, Hamilcar’s eyes shine with murderous lust. We’ll see how tough you are now, he gloats.
“Prepare a covering fire!” he yells to Luli. Moments later, the air fills with the groans of thick ropes being pulled to their breaking point. Hamilcar stares into the sky over Placentia, ready to enjoy the destruction he will unleash. “Loose!” he screams.
Dozens of snapping sounds erupt. The catapults jolt forward. Their lethal boulders fly at Placentia from all directions.
The large stones arc over the walls. They crash into Placentia’s roofs and courtyards, bashing down its citizens and soldiers. Screams erupt throughout the town.
“Give the men on a walls a taste of it,” Hamilcar commands. A second volley crashes into the parapets, knocking out gaping holes.
Unperturbed, Quintus shouts over to his men manning his catapults. “Back at them! Load and fire as fast as you can.”
The groaning crack of catapults rattles across Placentia’s parapets. A cloud of river boulders whooshes down upon the attacking Gauls. Dozens fall face first to the earth, their helmets bashed into their skulls. Scores writhe on the ground, hugging their broken shoulders and arms.
Th
e Boii, Ligurians, and Cenomani continue their charge, leaving a trail of fallen kinsmen behind them. The Roman catapults release again, angled for shorter range. The rocks crunch into the front lines approaching the walls, knocking the huge Gauls down as if they are children.
Heedless of the carnage about them, the tribesmen continue their rush to the base of the walls, holding their oblong shields high above their heads. The ladder men fling their ladders onto the wall and scramble up, eager to receive Hamilcar’s purse of silver as the first to land on the walkway. The warriors follow them up, their axes and swords at the ready.
The Roman defenders leap onto the first barbarians who appear above the wall, attacking them in groups of two and three. They chop at the Gauls with their double-edged gladii, ramming them off the ladder with their shields. Scores of warriors hurtle onto their men below.
More ladders clack against the top of the wall, too many for the Romans to cover. The barbarians flow onto the walkway, and a free form fight erupts around the perimeter.
The Romans’ short swords serve them well in the close-in fighting. They step inside the Gauls’ long swords and stab into their enemies’ chests and thighs, felling scores of the them. But the fierce Gauls do not relent, so focused are they on killing their hated enemies. Mad with battle lust, many simply grab the legionnaire facing them and fling him off the wall, ignoring the thrusts into their chests and stomachs. More barbarians pour over the wall, hacking swathes through the Roman defenders.
A quartet of Boii plunge their swords into the two legionnaires guarding the steps above the gates. They fling the men aside and scramble down into the courtyard.
“The gates!” yells their Boii leader, a fleshy older man with a jawless skull dangling from his neck. “Open the fucking gates!” The four run toward the square timber barring the passage. Two rush to the short stairway at each end of the gate and grasp the waist-thick bar.
“Now! Lift together,” the older man shouts, “get it off the—Aggh!“
A javelin crunches into the man’s lower back, arcing him backward. The leader reaches behind with his left hand and yanks it out, bellowing with pain. He stumbles back to the gate timber and grabs it. Another spear clunks into the palisades above his head.
“Now, boys, before they finish killing me,” he shouts, gasping for breath.
Groaning with effort, the brawny warriors lift the timber over its braces and watch it thunder to the ground. Another javelin spears the older man in the neck. He falls face first on top of the gate timber, where he lies still.
More spears rain in on the remaining defenders. The three tumble from the steps, spears jutting from their backs.
“Get that gate closed!” Quintus yells. He rushes for the portal, leading a cohort of 480 legionnaires, the city’s main force. While his men brace themselves against the gates, Quintus throws down his shield and grabs the center of the timber.
“Come on! Help me get this monster back up there!”
He hears the gates groan. A narrow opening appears. A dozen Gallic sword blades jut through the opening, stabbing at the air. “Hurry, hurry!” Quintus screams. He and his men waddle the timber toward the gate braces, ready to drop it in place.
The gates fly open, knocking the Romans backward. Lugos stands in the center of the opening, his brown hair flowing from his horned skullcap. The bearlike Boii chieftain swoops his tree-root war club over his head.
“Into them!” Lugos shouts to his men. “Kill them all!”
Hundreds of Boii stream through the front gates, led by their screaming chieftain. Quintus pushes himself to his feet and grabs his shield. Mars, give me strength to kill him—then I am yours.
Quintus strides toward the onrushing horde. His eyes are glassy with fear, but his step never falters.
“Here now, Governor. Don’t be going anywhere without your best man.” He looks over his shoulder and sees a grinning Coaxtus’ limping toward him, his shield tied onto his arm stub. “I was good at getting rid of rats on the farm,” he says. “Now it looks like I’m back to work at it way over here!”
Quintus manages a small smile. “Come on, old friend. Let’s drive them out!”
Lugos spies Quintus’ purple-plumed helmet. “He is mine!” the barbarian chieftain shouts to his men. He rushes toward Quintus, his war club raised for a killing blow.
Quintus raises his left arm and takes the chieftain’s blow upon the boss of his shield. Even so, the force of the heavy club knocks him to one knee. He stabs futilely at the empty space between him and the Boii, as the chieftain again raises his club.
Coaxtus suddenly appears between the two combatants. The older man rams his shield into the chieftain's barrel chest, knocking him back. He stabs his blade into the Gaul’s club arm, slicing it across his forearm.
“Stupid old bastard,” Lugos growls. With a deft sweep of his foot, the Boii yanks Coaxtus’ foot sideways. As Coaxtus falls, the Boii sweeps down his weighty club. It bashes into the side of Coaxtus’ head.
The old Roman’s eyes bulge. Blood spurts from his gaping mouth. He crashes to the ground, his lips spasming wordlessly as he chokes on his blood.
“Coaxtus!” Quintus screams, rising to his feet. Mad with rage, the governor sprints forward and crashes into the surprised chieftain's chest. The Boii’s lethal club sweeps harmlessly over Quintus’ back.
Quintus stabs into the Boii’s ribs and breast. Bellowing in agony, the wounded chieftain drops his shield and shoves Quintus onto the ground. He leaps upon him and swings down his club.
The cudgel bashes into the top of Quintus’ helmet, denting it into his skull. Blood spurts from Quintus’ nose and mouth. His eyes glaze over. He crumples to the earth, twitching, and lies still. Lugos raises his bloodied club to the sky, screaming his triumph to the gods.
The nearby legionnaires see Quintus fall. Enraged, they leave their individual battles and swarm to protect his body, stabbing at any Gaul that nears it. The Gauls press into the defenders, hammering at them with their axes and swords. Mounds of dead combatants heap over Quintus and Coaxtus’ bodies, but the Romans refuse to give ground.
Slowly, inevitably, hundreds of Boii surround the legionnaires. The victorious Cenomani and Ligurians descend from the walls and join the Boii. The Romans fight on top of an island of bodies, their numbers dwindling as their enemies tighten their circle.
A chorus of screams erupts from the streets behind the Gauls. Hundreds of townspeople run toward them, their faces contorted with fury. Men, women, and boys attack them, brandishing swords, spears, hoes, and mattocks—anything that can cut through flesh and bone.
The outer circle of Gauls faces the attacking citizenry. Some laugh, some chuckle. For others, a wolfish gleam comes to their eyes.
“At them!” shouts Lugos, flinging a Roman head at the townspeople. The other chieftains echo his call.
Hundreds of Gauls run forward. They scream out their renewed bloodlust, their axes and swords ready for the kill. The barbarians stampede through the citizenry, swinging their weapons to the right and left, heedless of who they strike.
Without shields or armor, the townspeople are easy prey. Many a Gaul extends his fight with a boy or woman, toying with them as a cat with a mouse, taunting them until he becomes bored and strikes a final blow.
Hamilcar rides through the gates, accompanied by Luli and his Carthaginian guards. He calmly watches the slaughter in the streets.
“Those people are spirited, I will give them that,” he says to Luli.
“Do those savages really have to chop the heads off the women?” Luli says, tightening a linen arm bandage with his teeth. “They’d fetch a lot of silver in the slave market.”
“You’re right, we’re losing money. Where's Lugos?” Hamilcar waves over the Boii chieftains. “Stop the massacre, we need slaves for the market!”
“They try kill us, we kill them,” Lugos barks angrily.
Hamilcar shakes his head. “You’re killing your money! Your plunder! Go on, n
ow. Keep the women and children alive. The young women, at least. You’ll make much money!”
The chiefs stalk back to the massacre. After a few shouted orders, the Gauls turn from slaughter to capture, roping their captives together about the ankles. The forlorn survivors are dragged into the stone meeting hall fronting the courtyard.
Now that’s better! Hamilcar wheels his horse toward the Romans defending the gates, surrounded by a deep circle of Gauls. The soldiers stand exhausted and bloodied but unbowed, their feet planted atop a hillock of their fellows’ corpses.
“Halt the attack!” Hamilcar shouts. He pushes his horse through the ring of barbarians and faces the legionnaires.
“Death or slavery, slavery or death,” he chants rhythmically, “throw down your weapons, or breathe your last breath.”
A lone centurion stands in the center of the defenders. He surveys the hundreds of Gauls around him. He throws down his sword, and the two dozen survivors follow suit.
“Put them with the rest,” Hamilcar orders. His grin splits his face. What a victory! Hannibal himself couldn’t have done better. Wait until word gets out about my conquest, I’ll have twenty thousand Carthaginians up here!
Hours later, Hamilcar’s captain comes into his tent and gives him the news. The Gauls have leveled the city and captured two thousand survivors.[xliii] Ten thousand townspeople and legionnaires sprawl dead beneath the hazy winter sun.
The Carthaginian commander pours himself a goblet of deep red Iberian wine. He sips it thoughtfully, reclining on his sheepskins. No sense stopping now. The Gauls have the bloodlust upon them. Let’s see if the Cremona garrison will capitulate.
After two days of feasting and revelry, Hamilcar moves his army east toward Cremona, his back to the smoldering ruin of once-proud Placentia.
PLACENTIA RUINS. The Roman scouts dismount in front of the shattered Placentia gates. Throwing a rope about their horses’ necks, they lead them carefully through the wreckage, weaving between the fallen blocks and bodies. The four men pause before the mound of Roman corpses at the gates.
Scipio Rules Page 9
