He taught me to fight with my men, not behind them,” Septimus replies testily.”
Galba raises his eyes heavenward. “Be your own man, then. I will have my cohorts at the ready, should you need them.”
“I won’t,” Septimus replies. “Our cavalry will see to that.” He dismounts and walks to the front of the heavy infantry, facing the Macedonians.
The Illyrians march thirty yards out from the Cretans. They turn sideways and crouch forward, ready to sprint. The Cretans nock an arrow into their bows and look out toward the Roman lines, picking their targets. They chatter about the force and direction of the breeze, formulating the best angle for their shots.
Waiting with the Companions in the rear, Athenagoras sees the Roman light infantry sliding up between the three-foot gaps that separate the infantrymen. The velites are unarmored men with spears, shields, and domed helmets, blooded veterans of the Iberian and African campaigns. Scores of them have wolf’s heads covering their helmets, honorifics that Scipio awarded to them for bravery in battle.
Athenagoras watches Septimus step out in front of the velites, conferring with a group of centurions as he looks over his shoulder at the Macedonians. He sees the tribune wave his arm to the right and left, sending his centurions to man each flank. They’re getting ready to charge us, Athenagoras decides. We should seize the initiative.
“Ready, Borko?” Athenagoras asks. “Let the Illyrians wear them down, then our Companions will cut into them before the Roman cavalry can reach us. The equites are slow riders.”
“We’ll spear down whoever is still standing,” the huge cavalry captain replies. He laughs. “Those Romans ride around like turtles, all covered in a shell of armor. If they come out to get us, we will kill all of them.”
Athenagoras chops down his right arm. A ram’s horn blasts three times. The Illyrians dash out, running pell-mell at the waiting velites.
Septimus’ heart thuds in his chest. Here they come! Remember what General Scipio said: you fight pandemonium with organization. “All together now, and hold your lines!” he shouts.
Septimus’ skirmishers trot out from the front and arrange themselves in a two rows. The centurions step out in front of them and beckon their men forward, with Septimus leading in the middle. The velites march forward as one man. The gap between the two enemies begins to close.
The Cretans trot in behind the Illyrians. On command, they halt and nock their arrows into their bows.
“Fire!” their commander shouts. Their bows thrum like a hive of bees. A torrent of arrows swarms in upon the oncoming velites. Dozens of the light infantry stumble and fall, arrows buried in their faces and necks. Their compatriots gaze at them, tight-lipped, vowing vengeance.
Holding his shield over his head, Septimus feels an arrow thunk into its center. “Testudo!” he shouts to his officers. The centurions direct the light infantry into turtle shell squares, with shields held over their heads and in front of their bodies. The Romans march forward, their shields bristling with arrows.
Screaming and shouting, the Illyrians close in upon the Romans. “Formation! Get into formation!” shouts Septimus. The velites break out from their testudos and reform as a two-deep line of seven hundred men.
“Loose two!” shouts the lead tribune. The Romans fling two rounds of javelins into the onrushing Illyrians, bringing scores of them rolling to the earth. But still they come on.
“Wait for the signal,” Septimus orders. The veterans hold on to their last javelins, arms cocked and ready. The onrushing Illyrians draw within a hundred feet of the Roman line, then fifty.
“Loose!” Septimus shouts, drawing his sword. The Romans fling their last round into the faces of their onrushing assailants. Dozens of Illyrians crumple to the earth, javelins jutting from their faces and chests. But still they advance.
The centurions blow the defensive formation signal on their neck whistles. The velites draw their swords and pull their shields next to their bodies, bracing for the Illyrian charge.
With a resounding crash, the Illyrians collide shields with the Romans—and bounce off their shield wall. Septimus steps out from his men and cleaves his gladius into the collarbone of an Illyrian stumbling backward. The man falls onto his back, writhing in pain. Septimus stabs his blade into the man’s unprotected chest.
“Come on, women!” he shouts. His men move out and surround him. “Attack!” he screams, beckoning them with his bloodied sword.
The Romans slash out with their Iberian swords. The steel blades split the Illyrians’ small round shields, leaving the warriors vulnerable to the Romans’ biting thrusts into their bodies. Within minutes, dozens of Illyrians lie upon the ground. The Romans march forward to engage more of the disorganized enemy, stabbing down the wounded as they tramp past them.
“Forward!” shouts Septimus, as he gouges his sword through an Illyrian’s sword arm. The Romans cut through the second line of Illyrians and head toward the archers.
The desperate Cretans shoot arrows straight at the faces of the Romans, but their velites’ shields protect them well. Within minutes, the legionnaires cut into the front row of the Cretans. Armed with only a sword and helmet, the Cretans are chopped to pieces by the double-edged Iberian swords.
“Retreat!” screams the Cretan captain. The archers run for the camp, joining the Illyrians in flight.
Athenagoras watches in stunned disbelief. They’re running like sheep! It hasn’t been an hour!
“Send the Companions!” he orders.
Borko charges out ahead of his men. He grasps his heavy lance with both hands, leveling its barbed spearhead at the foot soldiers in front of him. The hetairoi thunder in behind them, spears lowered, a wave of lances bearing down toward the Roman light infantry.
“Shield wall!” Septimus barks. The Romans genuflect and dig their shield and right foot into the earth, ready for the onslaught.
Borko’s heavy mount crashes into the shield wall, knocking two velites onto their backs. Grinning with triumph, Borko pushes his long lance through the chest of one fallen youth, pinning him to the earth.
”See? They're all weak!” he bellows at his men. “Follow me!” Borko plows his horse into the second line.
The Companions batter into the resolute Romans. Dozens break through the shield wall, pushing their lances into the soldiers’ sides and backs. The velites strike back, but their sword blows glance off the heavily armored riders. The Roman lines start to break apart, as men turn from the front turn to defend themselves from a rear attack.
Septimus ducks under a charging Companion, slashing at the horse’s haunch as it runs by him. He sees the velites turning in all directions to defend themselves, charging at the rampaging riders. They can’t hold their ground forever. Best to hit them now, while they are engaged with the foot soldiers.
“Sound the cavalry attack!” Septimus shouts to his trumpeter. The cornu sounds the call.
Hundreds of Numidians burst out from the main army’s flanks and storm across the plain, galloping madly toward the Macedonians. With only a spear and shield, the tunic-clad Africans cross the gap in minutes. The Africans whirl into the flanks of the slow-moving Companions.
The hetairoi are brave and skilled riders, but they have never faced an opponent like the acrobatic Africans and their nimble Numidian ponies. Guiding their horses with their knees, the African riders duck under the Macedonians’ heavy two-handed spears. They jab their cone-headed javelins into their shieldless opponents’ legs and feet as they hurtle past, drawing first blood. Before the Macedonians can spin about to face them, the Numidians charge back to inflict more wounds.
The Numidians attack the Companions from every side, their spears flying into them from all angles. The Macedonian cavalry reel about, bleeding from front and back wounds, not knowing which way to turn.
Borko rages on in the middle of the velites, ignoring the Numidians’ flank attacks. “Break their center,” he screams to his men. “Follow me into them!”
Borko rams his spear into the helmet of a centurion. The officer topples to the earth, feebly trying to raise himself. Borko lowers his lance and aims it at the centurion’s face.
A rock clangs off the side of Borko’s helmet, bringing stars to his eyes. Borko looks over his shoulder and sees Septimus striding toward him.
“Coward!” Septimus shouts at him, flinging another rock. “Sheep-fucker!”
“You die today, old man,” Borko snarls. “I feed your head to the pigs!” He spins about and charges toward the tribune, his spear leveled at Septimus’ breast. Too late, Borko notices Septimus is looking past him.
Borko feels a sharp, blinding pain in his lower back. A spearpoint emerges from his stomach then quickly disappears. A rangy Numidian bolts past him, whooping with triumph as he races after new prey.
Septimus closes on Borko. “We’ll see who feeds the pigs,” he says, drawing his sword. With one strike, his gladius cleaves Borko’s thick lance in half, leaving him with a stub.
“Roman pig!” Borko bellows, ignoring his bloodied stomach. “Now you see your gods!”
The Macedonian flips the stub away and reaches for his curved sword. His bloodied hand slips on the hilt. He pauses to wipes his hand before he grabs it. It is a fatal mistake.
Septimus hurries to the side of Borko’s horse and plunges his blade into Borko’s thigh, severing his artery. Bright red blood gushes from the Macedonian’s leg. Borko reels his horse about and swipes at Septimus’ head, but the veteran combatant blocks it with the edge of his shield. The wounded Macedonian strikes at him again; his blow is feebler and Septimus easily deflects it.
“You are dead,” the Roman commander says to Borko. He trots away.
“Coward! Come back and fight!” Borko puts heels to his horse and gallops toward Septimus. Tottering in his saddle, Borko raises his arm for another sword blow. Septimus hears Borko’s hoofbeats. He looks over his shoulder and turns back, ignoring Borko’s charge.
Borko topples backward, rolling off the rear of his horse. He crashes onto the ground.
Septimus halts his horse, watching Borko twitch out his last seconds. Pig meat, eh? He rides back to the front line of his men.
General Athenagoras fights in the center of the maelstrom, using his sword to strike at infantry and cavalry alike. A Numidian darts in behind him. The African shoves his dripping spear deep into the shoulder of Athenagoras’ horse. The animal rears up on its hind legs, pitching Athenagoras to the ground. The Macedonian captain sits up and rubs his forehead, trying to clear his head. Four of his Companions dismount and encircle him, bared swords at the ready.
A Companion stuffs the horse’s flowing mane into Athenagoras’ hands. “Here, my King. I will double with another.” Athenagoras woozily clambers onto the mount.
“This way, Commander. We must get you back to safety!” The captain is meekly led from the battle, surrounded by a contingent of his riders.
Seeing their leader depart, the dispirited hetairoi soon follow. The Macedonian riders leave a hundred of their dead upon the plain, joining hundreds of brutalized Illyrians and Cretans. The Numidians chase the Companions across the plain, flinging their spears into their slow-moving opponents.
Best we get our men back, before Philip’s entire army comes at them. “Sound the recall,” Septimus barks. The recall sounds, and the Numidians and Romans head back to the waiting cohorts. The cohorts erupt with a mighty shout, knowing their men have won the day.
Galba rides out and joins Septimus on the front line. “You acquitted yourself well today.”
“Gratitude, Consul,” says Septimus. “General Scipio taught us that surprise can be your greatest ally. They thought our velites would fight and run away, like most skirmishers. But these men have learned to fight like hastati.” He grins. “They fight quicker than the regulars, without all that armor.”
Galba nods, his face pinched. “And the Numidians?” he asks sarcastically, “I suppose Scipio taught them to fight?”
Septimus chuckles. “Gods above, he had no hand in that. They are like a force of nature. They blow in and surround you like a desert wind. He only taught us how to defend against them.”
“I see,” Galba replies. “Tomorrow, we will try out those elephants you wanted. Maybe that will be another surprise for these Macedonians.”
The next day, Septimus marches his entire army up to Philip’s camp, with the elephants leading the way. [lxxi] The army arrays itself in front of the Macedonian ramparts. And they wait. An hour later, Galba himself rides out toward the Macedonian gates, determined to challenge them to battle.[lxxii]
“Philip! King Philip! Come out and fight! Why do you hide behind your ramparts like a rat in a wall? Alexander the Great would be ashamed of you!”
Philip watches Galba and his army from one of the gate’s watchtowers, dismayed at what he sees. They’re using elephants! They’ve never had elephants! What’s going on here? He notices the dusky-skinned Numidians are whirling about outside the flanks of the Roman lines, chasing each other as if they were children playing a game of tag. And he’s got all those Africans with him! I need more time to figure this out.
Philip’s sticks his head out of the tower’s window. “Go back to camp, peasant. I will be the one to pick the time and date of our next encounter, and you shall not be so lucky then. Go back and celebrate your little victory, while you still can.”
Galba removes his helmet, glaring at Philip. He spits on the ground and trots back to camp, riding over to the waiting Septimus. “He’s not going to fight.”
“He will, eventually. Philip cannot let our win go unchallenged; he will lose command of his men. He will have to do something soon. And it will likely be a sneak attack. We must be very careful.”
“I hear what you say, but we need food. We have to gather what’s left of this spring wheat while we can,” Galba says. “We will have to go outside of camp, no matter what he plans.”
“He may ambush our foragers.” Septimus says. “Just as his friend Hannibal did. Let’s not make it easy for him to do it.”
Galba rubs his forehead. “Hmm. Let’s pack up and move north. Our scouts say there is much grain to be had near some place called Ottolobum. We’ll quickly fill our stores and return.”
“What about Philip?”
“Our scouts will keep an eye on him. When he moves, we will move after him. And end this thing.”
Two days later, the Romans decamp and move eight miles north of Philip’s fort, lugging the palisades from their old camp. They settle into the fertile wheat fields of Ottolobum province, where they rebuild their camp next to a river in its valley.
The Macedonian scouts follow the Romans to their new site. When they see Galba’s men digging the wall trenches, they hasten back to inform Philip. The king receives the news with great equanimity.
“Good, they are near enough for an attack, but far enough to give them a false sense of security. They probably intend to ransack the area, and don’t want us bothering them.”
“And will we bother them?” asks Athenagoras.
“Oh, most certainly,” Philip replies. “Most certainly, indeed. They like to give me surprises. Well, I have one for them.”
ROME. “Here now, Publius, that’s not for you!”
Scipio gently pulls his swordbelt from his young son’s grasp, laying it atop his goatskin traveling satchel. “You’ll be wearing one of those belts soon enough,” he tells the chubby boy. “Gods willing, it will be during peaceful times.”
Bobbing his son on his hip, Scipio stuffs more clothing into his bag. With one arm around Publius, he continually drops and retrieves his items. This is next to impossible to do with one hand. How does Amelia get anything done with him and Cornelia about? Thanks the gods I can escape to the Senate!
“Here, lay down and stay out of trouble!” Scipio plops Publius onto a sleeping pallet. He hands him a soldier doll of tied rags. “Amuse yourself until Uncle Laelius comes.”
“Wh
at, you want me to tell jokes to a baby?” comes a voice from the doorway.
Scipio grins. He turns, spreading his hands in mock exasperation. “Your humor is usually at Publius’ level, Laelius. Why not?”
“Careful, old man. I have no reason to go to Capua other than to keep you company. I’d sooner be wrestling in the gymnasium than plunking along on some leaky old trireme!”
“I do need your company,” Scipio says. “Little Surus there is not much of a conversationalist.” He glances at the family molossus. The enormous puppy is dozing in a corner. He raises his seamed, jowly face at the sound of his name.
“He is a bit easier on the eyes than you, though,” Scipio says.
An elderly red-headed slave hobbles into the room, leaning on his carved ivory cane. “Apologies, Master. There is someone asking for you.”
Scipio folds a green tunic into his satchel. “Who is it, Rufus? Not another one of those artists? I told them I don’t want any statues made of me!”[lxxiii]
“It is a woman of noble birth, I would say,” the elder slave replies.
“Jupiter’s balls, it’s impossible to get anything done around here!” Scipio eases his shaving blade into his satchel’s side pouch and ties the valises’ top strings together. “There. That’s ready!”
“Hurry it up. We have to get to the docks soon.” Laelius says.
“Yes, yes, we’ll get there,” Scipio snipes. “let me tend to this woman.” He stalks from the room, muttering to himself.
His frenetic pace eases when he sees who is waiting for him. She is a tall and thin woman, her blonde hair elegantly coiffed above her head. Wearing a long burgundy gown, the woman has the aura of a queen, beautiful despite her advanced years.
Scipio walks up to her and takes her hands in his. He kisses her lightly upon both cheeks. “Proserpina! This is an unexpected honor.” His eyes moisten. “I am so sorry to hear about Manius. He was a true man of the people. I admired him deeply.”
“Gratitude, Imperator. Manius always spoke well of you.” She stares into Scipio's eyes. “He said I could come to you if I ever needed help.”
Scipio Rules Page 18
