A smile cracks Vibius’ weathered visage. “That I will gladly do, General.” He motions to one of his centurions. “Sound the call to arms. Now!”
The cornu blare out the command. The front-line centurions shout for their men to advance. The columns tramp forward as the cavalry race past them, heading toward the Macedonian riders that are flowing down from the flanks of the phalanxes.
Thousands of riders clash inside the ravine’s narrow mouth, javelins flying through the air. With little room to maneuver, the cavalry fight turns into hundreds of individual duels. The riders fight face to face, their horses pushing against each other, stabbing and hacking with their swords. Those who fall are indiscriminately trampled in the milling confusion, slain by friend and enemy alike.
The Roman infantry advances into the gorge, heading directly into cavalry milieu.
“Sound the retreat!” Flamininus commands. The cornu sound the withdrawal, and the Roman cavalry gallop to the flanks of their advancing columns, leaving the Macedonian riders to face the legionnaires.
“Pila!” Flamininus barks. The Romans hurl a cloud of spears at the Macedonian riders, bringing scores of them screaming to the earth. Another rain of spears follows. The Macedonians retaliate with the few javelins remaining to them.
The enemy riders scramble back up into the gorge. The Romans tramp past their victims’ bodies, heading toward the implacable phalanxes.
Fifteen hundred feet above the valley floor, Marcus Aemilius and the shepherd are wending their way along a wide plateau stippled with thick stand of scrub oak. Four thousand men follow silently, the army edging their way to the precipice that overlooks the gorge.
Marcus waves his hand at the men, signaling a halt. He pulls his forest green cloak about his armor and edges through the trees toward the point where the path switchbacks to the valley floor.
Two Macedonian guards stand with their backs to him, enraptured with the battle unfolding below them. Marcus retreats into the scrub and quietly removes his arms and armor, then his sandals. He grabs his dagger and slips through the trees next to the guards.
Marcus studies the two men’s backs, looking for openings in their armor. He notices that one has a curved horn dangling from his belt. The army might hear that horn above the din, but if those two scream, no one will hear them. I cannot let them fall down below. Marcus crouches down, coiling himself for the spring.
One guard turns and looks back over his shoulder. He walks back from the precipice, heading toward Marcus. The young tribune freezes, daring not to breathe. The man steps to the side of the path and lifts up the hem of his tunic. He urinates on a nearby boulder, his back to his Marcus. Marcus slowly exhales. Fortuna smiles upon me!
Marcus tiptoes out from the trees’ shadow. He darts across the space between himself and the guard who stands at the precipice.
The Macedonian hears footsteps. He whirls around. Marcus Aemilius rams into his cuirassed chest and knocks him flat. His dagger saws into the man’s throat. Marcus rises and rolls the gurgling body away from the precipice.
“What? What’s going on over there?” yells the second guard, fumbling himself back inside his tunic. He draws his sword but he acts too late—Marcus is upon him. The tribune grabs the Macedonian’s sword arm and bends his arm backward. He rams his head into the Macedonian’s jaw, knocking him dizzy. A split second later the guard is facing the ground, clasping his serrated jugular.
Wiping the blood from his blade, Marcus peers over the edge of the precipice. He watches the thick rectangles of the Macedonian phalanxes flow down toward the Roman columns. He sees the soldiers on the lower crags hurling missiles of every type at the legionnaires. His heart races with desperation. We have to get down there. Our men’s backs are completely exposed.
He glances at the hills directly below him. There are only two guards down there. They are all that separates us from the battlefield, unless someone’s hiding in the trees.
Marcus spies a figure in silver armor at the rear of the phalanxes. The tall man is seated upon a black stallion, a black robe flowing from his shoulders. His heart quickens. King Philip! That one will be mine!
The tribune dons his armor and races back to his legion. He drags the shepherd over to the precipice and points at the trail below. “Is that it?” he demands. “Is that the path down? You had best be truthful, because you are coming with us!”
The shepherd furiously bobs his head. “Yes, yes, the path widens as you go down!”
Marcus returns to his men. “Tiberius, send up the smoke!” The young legionnaire grabs his iron firestarter and runs over to a mound of branches topped with dried fungus. He strikes his iron tool against his flint stone and showers sparks onto the tinder. A fire springs to life. When the blaze is full, he heaps damp grass upon it, sending billows of smoke skyward.
“Glaxus!” Marcus shouts, waving over his First Centurion. “I want you to count to a hundred after I leave. Then bring the men down the trail. I’ll be waiting for you near the bottom.” The stocky young man pulls his forest cloak over his head and disappears into the trees.
After he finishes counting, Tiberius leads the army down the path, weaving through the dense pines and oaks. On the way he passes one dead sentry, then another, their bloodied throats yawning.
Tiberius emerges onto a wide rocky terrace just above the Macedonian rear. Marcus pops out from the trees next to the path and waves him over.
“Line the men up here as soon as they come down,” Marcus hisses. “No talk until we are all together.”
“We are going sneak up on their backs?”
“Gods, no!” Marcus says softly. “I want our men screaming like a bunch of drunken Gauls! We want to make the noise of a force ten times our size. They’ll think Scipio himself has come to kill them!”
While Marcus’ men filter into the trees, Flamininus’ columns close upon the waiting phalanxes. Marching with his front-line hastati, young Flamininus studies the rocky ground beneath his feet. He notes they are negotiating a particularly uneven stretch of steep rocky ground, forcing his men to weave among its head-sized boulders. This is the place. He signals for Vibius to approach him.
“We are going to fight and retreat, Vibius.” Flamininus tells him. “When the Macedonians are over this ground, we counterattack. Tell the officers.” Vibius trots off.
Minutes later, the Romans close in on the bristling spears of the Macedonian front. Flamininus draws his sword and steps out in front of his men. “Into them, Romans! Today is victory or death!” He steps forward and rams his scutum against the thick spear wall.
The Romans rain javelins upon the bristling rectangles. There are scattered screams as the spears strike home, but the phalanxes hold. The Romans march steadfastly into the sarissas, shoving their scuta against them. A few brave hastati manage to slip between the spear thicket and cut into the vulnerable Macedonians holding them, but they are quickly punctured by the spearmen in the rear rows.
The Macedonian horns sounds. The phalanxes tread forward, one step at a time, pushing the battling Roman backwards. Dozens, then scores of legionnaires fall from every place in the columns. Many are casualties of the jutting spears, still more fall to the hail of rocks and spears thrown from above.
Flamininus nods toward Vibius. “Retreat in order!” Vibius yells to his nearby centurions. The Roman horns sound the signal. Slowly, grudgingly, the Roman columns back up, dragging their wounded comrades with them.
Watching from the rear, King Philip’s vulpine face splits into a grin. We’ll push them out into the open plains. Then the cavalry can get into them. We’ll wipe them out! I’ll have a clear path across Greece.
He trots his horse to the back line, where Philocles is slapping a wayward officer. “Leave off him. Get the rear phalanxes ready to replace our center when we enter the open plain. The cavalry will attack their flanks.”
Philip’s barrel-bodied old commander shoves away the officer. He raises his blood-smeared palm. “It will be
done.”
Satisfied, Philip trots back for his overlook. He notices a dark gray splotch in the sky. What in Zeus’ hell is that smoke up there? If those locals started another fire up there I’ll have them roasted over it!
“Perseus, see what’s going on up there,” he tells one of his senior guards.
On the plain of battle, the Romans have backed into the treacherous boulder field. Many stumble and fall as they walk backwards, trying to hold up their shields against the prodding Macedonian spears. Their comrades reach down and yank them upright, though many are wounded for exposing themselves. The columns edge backward like giant worms, twisting around the rocky wreckage.
The Macedonian phalanxes enter the rocks. The phalangites stumble over the uneven terrain and hundreds drop their ungainly twelve-foot spears, trying to keep themselves from falling onto the sharp rocks.
Flamininus peers intently into the wall of spears. He notices that many of the front spears are drooping low, and many of the rear ones are tilting to the side. Their wall is breaking. Marcus, where in Hades are you?
For the hundredth time, Flamininus glances up into the cliffs. This time he sees thread of smoke snaking skyward. His heart leaps into his throat. He’s coming in behind them!
“Lines forward,” Flamininus screams, his voice cracking with the effort. “Attack, attack, attack!”
The legionnaires halt. The veteran principes shoulder to the front, edging between the hastati. The principes are the battle-tested veterans of Scipio’s army, victors over a dozen types of warriors and weapons. They are not dissuaded by spear walls.
A Roman horn sounds. The legionnaires fling their pila into the wearying and disorganized Macedonians. They immediately hurl out their other two javelins, the missiles coming so close together it seems as if a river of spears has washed upon the Macedonians. Hundreds fall, victims to the javelins that pierce their bodies while they are blocking the ones that preceded them.
The principes stride into the broken spear wall. Many ram their shields sideways to deflect the front spears, while others team with their fellows and yank the sarissas out of their way, enabling them to slide behind the Macedonians fronting them.
The phalangites drop their spears and grab their swords, widening the gaps in the spear wall. The Romans cut into them, wielding their gladii hispaniensis with deadly accuracy. They stab and slash their way into the second line of the Macedonians, leaving a trail of bodies behind them.
Perseus is just entering the hillside trees when he hears a horn sound above him. The Macedonian stops in his tracks, listening. Suddenly, the trees erupt with hordes of attacking Romans. The last thing Perseus sees is the flash of a spear hurtling at his face.
Marcus and his men flow down from the trees and onto the plain, dashing across the open space between them and the rear ranks of Philip’s infantry. They fling their spears as they run, screaming for all they are worth.
The Macedonians turn and see wave after wave of Romans pouring out from the trees, flinging javelins. Screams erupt about them as the spears strike home.
“At them, at them!” Marcus screams, sprinting toward the phalangites with his sword in his hand. The Romans draw their blades and rampage into the confused Macedonians, screaming taunts and curses as they hammer at them.
“Romans in the rear lines!” the Macedonians cry. The alarm spreads like wildfire amongst the rear ranks. Hundreds of phalangites drop their arms and dash for the sheltering hillsides opposite the Roman attack, as much unnerved by the Romans’ uncharacteristic wildness as by their numbers.
The front-line phalanxes hear roars and screams behind them. They look over their shoulders and see their army dissolving before their eyes, their compatriots running in every direction as the screaming Romans cut through them with their flashing Iberian gladii. The rear lines completely break; thousands run across the narrow plain to their left and scrabble up the boulder field into the succoring trees.
King Philip hears the yells of attackers behind him. He watches the Romans stream out from the nearby forest. Minutes later, he gapes in horror as his men flee the battlefield. Ah, my gods, we are undone! I’m going to die in this stinking little gorge! The king’s mind fills with a single thought—Escape!
“Philocles, we have to get out of here!” he bellows. Philip puts heels to his horse and bolts for the mountain pass opposite the Romans, fleeing without a backward glance.[xcix]
Flaminius is directing the line changes in the space between the principes and hastati. He watches the vaunted Macedonian army disintegrate before his eyes, dropping spears, swords and shields as they disappear into the pines. His breath catches in his throat.
Steady. It’s not over yet! “Maintain your ranks,” he shouts to Vibius. “They may counterattack.”
The consul sees scores of Macedonians dropping to their knees, begging for mercy. Don’t turn this victory into a slaughter. They could yet be our allies. “Take them prisoner,” he commands.
Flamininus runs his horse through the broken ground above him, seeking Marcus Aemilius. He finds him with his men, battling a knot of Macedonians who have refused to retreat, his green cloak still draped over his armor. Flamininus dismounts and strides toward the young tribune, who is deftly slicing the right hamstring of a rangy Macedonian who faces him.
“Marcus, over here!” he shouts. The sturdy little soldier tramps over, a smile beaming in this blood-grimed face. “We have them, General,” he bellows over the clash of arms behind him.
“You have done well, Tribune, “ Flamininus yells into his ear. “Now call your men back. We want the rest alive.”
Marcus strides back toward the surrounded Macedonians. “Cease!” he orders. His men step back from the terrified infantrymen.
Marcus steps into the space between the phalangites and his waiting men. He drops his sword and shield. With arms spread wide and hands open, he walks within a sword thrust of the warriors.
“Drop your arms or you will die. If you do, I promise none will be killed.” He stands there, hands spread, waiting. One, then another, then all drop their swords. The legionnaires rush to rope them together.
The cornu sounds the call to restore ranks. The Romans cease their murderous pursuit, leaving the field littered with two thousand Macedonian bodies.[c]
Flamininus looks up the steep rise at the back of the gorge. He notices that the Macedonian pennants are still waving above the timbered ramparts of Philip’s camp. They didn’t even pause to take their flags. All their baggage and animals must be up there—and all their food!
“Get our men into that camp,” Flamininus orders. “Bring me every weapon, every foodstuff, anything we can barter with.”
The long shadows of eventide flow down from the steep peaks about the gorge, signaling that the day’s end approaches. The Romans march out from the Macedonian camp, exhausted but happy, leading a miles-long baggage train of Macedonian plunder. [ci]
Five miles from battle, Philip finally reins in his panting horse. They can’t follow me in this terrain, he decides.[cii] Philocles draws his horse near to his king.
“Gods, what a mess!” Philocles blurts, rubbing his eyes. “Those cowards sneaked in behind us!”
A clever move, Philip thinks. “Send out all our messengers and scouts. They are to comb the woods and get the survivors back here. The Romans won’t come after us—yet.”
“Will we counterattack?” Philocles says.
Philip grimaces. He shakes his head. “I would love to go back and destroy them, but we have lost too many men and too much equipment. No, we will take the pass back to Macedonia and reorganize. We will burn every town and field on the way. That will slow their advance.
“Even our allied towns?” Philocles says.
“Anything or anyone that would give them strength will be removed,” Philip says. “We take the town’s men with us and burn the rest. The townspeople can keep what they can carry—we will take the rest.” [ciii]
That night Flamininu
s takes pen to papyrus and writes a letter to his mentor Scipio.
General Scipio:
Gratitude for your advice about fighting phalanxes on broken ground, using the column formation. Both stratagems worked perfectly. I have won my first major victory, and I owe you much.
I will soon set out in pursuit of Philip. I will destroy his army, though I must follow him over every crag and mountain in his domain.
I know the march will be slow, but I will persist. I only hope to meet him again before my term expires and I am recalled to Rome. Please sacrifice a goat for me at the Temple of Mars, that Fortuna will favor my campaign.
Your grateful pupil,
Titus Quinctius Flamininus
A week later, as Flamininus leads his army through the mountains of Thessaly, a dust-covered messenger rides up and salutes him. He hands Flamininus a small scroll of finest goatskin, sealed with the wax impression of an owl. “I rode all night to get you this. It is from the Imperator himself.”
The consul breaks the seal and carefully unrolls the scroll. He reads the brief message. Then he reads it again.
My Friend:
Congratulations on your defeat of Philip. I am grateful I was able to provide some assistance to you, however small the measure.
I understand your distress about your yearly term ending. I will not allow time to become your enemy; desperation has undone many a commander.
Take all the time you need to finalize your victory. I will ensure that you have enough of it.
Publius Cornelius Scipio
Princeps Senatus and Censor
“Is it good news?” says Vibius.
“Good news indeed, if it comes true,” Flamininus replies. He shakes his head. “But I am at a loss to see how it will be accomplished.”
ROME, 197 BCE. Scipio shakes the new consul’s shoulder so hard his head rocks. “That won’t work, fool! If I tell the Senate that Flamininus must stay in Macedonia, the Latins will strike it down as quickly as if I asked for a vote to make me king!”
“But they won’t listen to me!” consul Gaius Cornelius wails. “Let Quintus Minucius do it.”
Scipio Rules Page 27
