Marcus Aemilius is directing the back rows of the Sixth Legion’s principes. He watches the rout unfold in front of him, and he grimaces with disappointment. They’re running away—I won’t even get a chance to fight! The young tribune looks to back down the hill to his left. There, in the distance, he watches the Macedonian phalanx battering the Fifth Legion down the rocky slope, stepping over the corpses of the fallen legionnaires.
Marcus looks at the rows of principes alongside of him, veteran warriors who are watching the hastati cut through the remnants of the fleeing Macedonian columns. We’re just standing here, while our men are being massacred!
Marcus runs to the front lines, searching desperately for his commander. He spies Flamininus on the right side of the second hastati line, conferring with Vibius.
“General! General!” Marcus shouts, shouldering his way through the spaces between the soldiers. Marcus halts in front of his commander and snaps out a salute, his lungs heaving.
Vibius stares curiously at Marcus, a wry smile on his face. “Why so anxious, Tribune? Our work is almost done here.” The commander looks around. “Have you found a vulnerability somewhere?”
“Philip’s men, over there!” Marcus shouts, pointing down the hill. “They’ve pushed the Fifth down toward the bottom of the hill. Now their rear lines are exposed to us! We have the high ground on them!”[cxx]
Flamininus’ eyes widen. “He’s right, Vibius. Jupiter’s cock, those Macedonians aren’t even looking this way!”
Vibius nods. “I should have seen that myself.”
“Do it, Marcus,” Flamininus says. “Take the hastati and principes with you. We have the velites and triarii to finish here.” He sees Marcus staring at him, dazed. “Go on, Tribune—you thought of this! Take the men and get down there, before we lose any more!”
“I’ll inform the rest of the officers,” Vibius says, galloping off to the left flank.
Minutes later, the battle horns sound. Twenty maniples of hastati and principes wheel to the left and march quickly down the hill.[cxxi] Marcus trots out in front of them, holding his sword straight up over his head as if it were a legionary standard, with dozens of standards bobbing behind it.
“Double-time,” he shouts excitedly. “Quickly, now, before they can turn around on us!”
The maniples angle down the hill, spreading out as they near the Macedonian rear. Without breaking stride, they march toward the backside phalangites.
The Macedonian commanders scream orders for the rear lines to turn about. The confused soldiers slowly turn and rearrange themselves to face the Romans, colliding with comrades who are pressing toward the front.
Marcus sees a muscular older man wearing a helmet sculpted into a lion’s head. That’s got to be one of their commanders. He runs across the narrowing gap between the Romans and the Macedonians, his sword in his fist.
Commander Jagoda spies the stocky tribune running at him. He sneers. You want a fight, little man?
“Leave him to me,” he tells his men. Jagoda steps out from the shelter of his guards, pulling his double-edged xiphos from its leather scabbard. He crouches down and holds his large round shield in front of him. Only his face and shins are visible.
Marcus sprints toward Jagoda. His men are behind him. I’ve got to make it quick, before they can get to me. Marcus lowers his head. He plants his rock-hard shoulder inside the recess of his curved shield and stoops over as he closes in.
Marcus rams his scutum into the lower half of Jagoda’s shield. He knocks the Macedonian backwards, turning his shield sideways. Marcus stabs his gladius into the arch of Jagoda’s foot, delving through bronze scales that cover it until his sword blade is buried in the ground.
Jagoda arcs his head back, screaming in agony as he clutches at his pinioned foot. Now! Marcus tells himself. He darts his hand into his belt and flicks it outward.
A knife hilt juts from Jagoda’s eye. The Macedonian commander collapses to the ground, twitching out the last moments of his life.
Marcus grabs his throwing knife and throws his shield over his back. He dashes back to his lines, just as the first Macedonian javelin thuds into his shield. Jagoda’s guards chase after him, flinging spears and rocks. A rain of javelins drives them back.
“Jagoda has fallen!” cries a Macedonian. “The Romans killed Jagoda!” wails another. Their laments are cut short by the Roman attack.
The legionnaires shove their pila into their enemies’ milling back lines, wounding and killing hundreds. Shouts of confusion erupt from Macedonian ranks, soldiers crying that Romans are attacking from the front, the rear, the flanks.
Along the front line of the Fifth Legion, Tiberius Servilius hears the enemies’ cries of consternation. The centurion sees scores of Roman standards bobbing about behind the Macedonian rear.[cxxii] Fortuna be praised, our men are behind them! We have a chance! He grabs a nearby velite. “Get Rufus and Julius over here,” he commands. “They are on the right flank.”
The two centurions trot over from their centuries. Tiberius grabs them by the neck and bends their heads to his, that they may be heard over the metallic clangor of the battle.
“The Sixth Legion is behind those bastards! Now we have a chance to break them! When the horn sounds, push forward. Tell the men to shout with joy, as if Jupiter himself has come to fight with us! Go now, and alert the others!”
The two centurions jostle their way into the back lines, yelling for their fellow officers. Tiberius glances back toward the infantry center, where Philip and his Companions are raging against his front-line principes. He watches the king madly hacking at the retreating Roman shield wall, waving forward his royal guard. The Companions cut down several legionnaires near Philip, forcing the Roman line to retreat and reform.
Mars, god of war, give us time to make one more charge. I swear to sacrifice a white ox to you if you will but give us a little more time.
“Give me that,” Tiberius shouts to his cornicen, grabbing his horn. The lanky centurion sidles between the first and second rows of the battling principes, edging toward Philip. The principes and hastati watch his every step, waiting for the horn to sound.
Tiberius pauses several yards from Philip. “Hold them just a little longer, men,” he shouts to the principes battling in front of him. “We’re going to counterattack!”
Tiberius spies the body of a fallen triarii lying behind the second row of hastati. He trots back and grabs the long spear lying under the corpse’s stomach. Hurrying back to the front, Tiberius lays the long spear at his feet. With a final prayer, he slips the G-shaped cornu over his head and blows an ear-splitting blast, repeating the call until he gasps for breath. Dozens of cornu echo the call across the legionary lines.
From front to rear, the legion erupts in a deafening, exultant roar. The hastati march to the front, screaming out their challenge, and ram into oncoming Macedonians. Philip’s men stare at one another, confused by the Romans’ shouts of victory.
“What in Hades is going on?” Philip demands. The captain of his guard cranes his neck into the back lines. “I see Roman standards!” he shouts to his king. “The Romans are attacking from the rear!”
“Silence, fool, you’ll panic the men!” Philip shouts. But the damage is already done.
“Romans, the Romans are behind us!” shouts a nearby infantryman. The warning is shouted throughout the lines. Hundreds of Macedonians drop their weapons and run toward the exposed flanks, their eyes fixed on the forested hillsides.
“You idiot!” Philip spits. “He rams his sword into the guard’s eyes, spitting on him as he collapses from his saddle. The Companions watch their captain fall, their eyes wide with shock.
“Attack, curse you, attack!” Philip yells to his men. He pushes his horse forward, battering at a hastati’s shield. The Companions desultorily follow.
As his legion’s horns sound, Tiberius casts down his cornu and picks up the triarii spear. “Let me through!” he shouts to the hastati. The senior centur
ion shoulders his way to the front of the battle line and runs toward Philip.
Philip notices the centurion coming toward him. Another glory seeker! He turns his horse from the hastati and faces Tiberius. He waves his sword at the charging centurion, beckoning him forward.
Tiberius draws his spear back, his eyes fixed on the large stallion’s unarmored chest. If I can bring him down from his high horse, I can kill him.
A Companion’s horse rams into Tiberius, knocking him sprawling. The Companion turns his horse about and tramples over the fallen centurion. Tiberius cries out in pain; his spear tumbles from his crushed right hand.
In a flash, the Macedonian cavalryman jabs his lance into the base of Tiberius’ throat, penetrating the unprotected area above his breastplate. Tiberius rolls onto his side, spitting blood.
Philip watches Tiberius fall, smirking as the spear cuts into the centurion. “Thought you had me, eh?” he exults. He looks over his shoulder. “Muster the infantry for a counterattack,” he tells his officers. “Kill anyone who shows their back to you!”
Philip’s stallion rears back, whinnying in agony. A spear dangles from its heaving chest. Philip catapults backward, crashing to the ground. He lays still, his hands twitching feebly.
Tiberius watches Philip’s fall, grinning through his bloodstained teeth. “Some of us can throw spears with either hand, Macedonian cur.” He feels a bronze spearpoint break into his spine. His eyes close.
“Philip’s down!” a Companion shouts. “Help him!” His royal guard jump from their horses and swarm over their fallen king. Two riders lift him up onto the back of another’s horse and lash him against its rider. The Companion gallops from the fray, with Philip drooped across his back. The infantrymen watch their mighty king’s exit, horrified.
“The king has fallen!” redounds through the Macedonians, a blow more telling than any Roman assault. The disheartened infantrymen take flight,[cxxiii] dashing from the hillside in every direction.
The Numidians abandon their assault on the rear ranks and gallop after the hordes of fleeing, unarmed Macedonians. Trained since childhood to pursue and kill, the Africans expertly lance down the fleeing foot soldiers, delving into their backs and necks without breaking stride.
The Macedonians who are battling Flamininus’ men see thousands of their comrades running from the battle. Their commanders see the futility of fighting any further. They instruct their men to point their spears straight up—the traditional Macedonian sign of surrender.
Watching from the rear lines, Flamininus summons one of his senior tribunes. “What are they doing out there with their spears?”
The tribune shrugs. “Perhaps it is some new maneuver. Some surprise attack.”
Flamininus rubs the back of his neck. “Really? I do not see the purpose.”
The tribune calls over one of his centurions. “Cassius, you were in Greece. What are those fools doing?”
Cassius looks at them as if they are insane. “They are surrendering.”
“Hera help us,” Flamininus cries. “Do our men know that?”
Flamininus’ men have never seen such a sign. They only know they have an opportunity to finally breach the Macedonians’ bristling spear wall. When the Macedonians in front of them raise their spears, the legionnaires cut into the unprotected front lines,[cxxiv] slaying hundreds before the rest drop their spears and draw their swords, determined to die fighting.
“Call them off!” Flamininus shouts, “Call them off! Take nothing but prisoners!” You fool. You let those warriors get killed like sheep! The tribunes bark out Flamininus’ order, and the Romans step back from their slaughter. The Macedonians drop their swords and clasp their hands behind their backs, awaiting capture.
The deafening din quiets to the sporadic screams of its final victims. The Romans bring out their ropes and chains and begin the tedious task of gathering five thousand prisoners. Eight thousand Macedonians and Thracians lie dead among the boulders and scree, their mounds of dead punctuated with the bodies of seven hundred Romans.[cxxv]
Up in the hills, Philip’s Companions huddle about an unsteady Philip. The king sits on a tree stump, sipping from his wineskin, watching the campfire his men built for him. Minutes pass into half an hour. The Companions shift about unsteadily, their ears craned to the faint sounds from the battlefield below them.
“What now?” ventures one of his guard. Philip stares up at him. “Where’s Philocles?” he murmurs, dazed. “Where’s my commander?”
“Dead,” one of his riders tells him. “I saw his body carried away by the Romans.”
“Ah, shit!” Philip moans. He peers into the darkness “Mitron! Are you out there?”
“I am here, but not for long.” The cavalry commander staggers into the light. His torso is wrapped from chest to stomach in a linen bandage splotched with bloodstains. As Philip watches, the stains widen—and drip.
“Your pardon, my King.” He crumples to the ground. Grimacing with pain, he forces himself to a sitting position. “It was a bad day, but we will recover. I can see—“
Mitron falls sideways his breath rasping heavily. He shudders, gasps, and breathes no more.
Philip cradles his face into his hands. His shoulders shake, then shake again. He takes a deep breath and raises his head. His blue eyes burn with determination.
“We march back to Tempe, our last garrison in Thessaly. Then on to Macedonia. Send scouts out to gather our survivors. Tell them to meet me there.”
“What about the Romans down there?” says his senior guard. “They might get our scouts.” He looks over his shoulder. “Or they could be coming after us.”
Philip shakes his head. Several bloodied twigs fall from his dressed ringlets. He picks up one and rolls it in his fingers. “No, we are safe for now. Night is coming, and the Romans will return to their camp. Then they’ll be busy selling their prisoners and plunder.”[cxxvi] Philip peels the twig and cleans his teeth with it. “Prisoners that were once my men.”
“I need a drink.” He blurts. Philip grabs a wineskin and tilts it high. The dark red wine dribbles down his chin. He wipes his wrist across his mouth and looks up at his men.
“Perhaps it is time to send envoys to the Romans,” he says to no one in particular. “I am not sure we can extend our empire, but I am sure we can lose it.”
His men say nothing.
Night falls upon the Roman camp. Tonight, the sounds of celebration are muted. The exhausted soldiers crawl into their beds, grateful for another day of life.
As the camp torches are lit, Flamininus pulls out a sheaf of finest papyrus from his tent’s storage chest. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he dips his quill into a pot of octopus ink and begins his message.
To Publius Cornelius Scipio: Consul, Imperator, and Princeps Senatus of Rome:
Honored Mentor:
Philip is broken. The war is won.
Now begins our fight for peace.
Consul Titus Quinctius Flamininus
By the Way: Gratitude for the elephants and Numidians.
Flamininus rolls up the papyrus and stamps it with his boars’ head seal. He summons a messenger.
“Get this to Scipio Africanus in Rome, as soon as possible.”
When the messenger leaves. Flamininus unstraps his blood-specked cuirass and slips out of his tunic. Naked and weary, the young consul slips into his sleeping furs. He looks up to make sure no one is in the tent, and the flap is completely closed.
The consul buries his face in the bedding and sobs out his relief.
X. Surface Glory
MODENA, NORTH ITALIA. 196 BCE. Cassius Severius bends over and groans, rubbing his naked lower back. “Hera’s cunt, if I have to swing a pick one more day, I’m going to join the Gauls!”
“And I’ll go with you,” Agrippa replies. The wiry soldier unties his wool bandana and shakes the sweat from it. “How in Hades can I sweat so much in such a cool clime? If this is what summer’s like, I don’t want to be here for autum
n!”
“Then we’d better get to killing Gauls pretty soon, because autumn is almost here. The architecti say we’re going to dig this road all the way to Placentia!”
“Ah, then we’re stuck here with this Consul Marcellus, just like we were with that little Cornelius last year,” growls Agrippa. “All we did was build roads and forage fields. What a sponge! He would have shit his subligaculum if a Gaul came at him!”
“Well, at least this Marcellus had us built a sturdy camp before we started this slave’s work. We’re not likely to be taken over by any attacking Gauls.”
“Gauls? Hah!” Agrippa spits onto the eight-foot wide trench. “They are the least of our problems! I haven’t seen a Boii since we raided those farms up north. I think they’ve ran away to join the Ligurians. I’m more worried about breaking my fucking back than the Gauls!”
Cassius glances down the mile-long line of half-naked soldiers. He points to a large contingent of hairy, square-boded men. “Look at the Marsi. They’ve been hauling gravel all day, and still they roll those wheelbarrows as fast at they did in the morning! I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with that lot.”
Agrippa chuckles. “Me neither. They’re a bunch of crazy men, living in those dark forests above Lake Fucinus.[cxxvii] I hear they’re too stupid to even know when they’re beaten. You cut their legs off and they’ll crawl after you on the stumps!”
“Lot of good their prowess will do them here,” Cassius retorts. “They’ll be digging trenches with us until a new consul comes here!”
A quarter mile east of the two legionnaires, Corolamus peers out from the sheltering scrub of the Modena hillside. His dark brown eyes scan the thousands of half-naked Umbrians and Etruscans working along that section of the road.
The Boii chieftain notices that his enemy’s weapons and armor are piled up in the fields next to the new road, a spear’s cast from their work. He smiles. It will take them a while to strap on all their stuff. Especially if we surprise them. Our patience is going to pay off.
Scipio Rules Page 31
