With ear-splitting yells, the Iberian infantry dashes at the Romans, flinging their spears as they run. The Romans raise their shields and return fire with their javelins, releasing three quick spear bursts. Scores of Iberians fall in mid stride, their bodies pierced by the iron-tipped spears. But still the Indigetes come on.
The barbarians crash into the Roman shield wall. The conflict becomes a collection of front-line sword fights, the Romans’ disciplined resistance combatting the swarming fury of the determined Indigetes.
The Iberians hammer their swords against the hastati on the front line, their falcatas hewing away chunks of shield and armor. Scores of Romans fall, but they are swiftly replaced by the men behind them.
Cato rages along the space between the First Legion’s front lines, threatening to kill any man that steps back from the conflict. After a half hour of furious fighting, he sees that many Indigetes are holding their shields low, that their sword blows are slower. He turns to his cornicen. “Line replacement!” he barks.
The horns sound three times. The cohort’s first line withdraws, step by step, as the second line slides forward between them. The battle rages anew, with the Romans steadfastly holding against the waves of Iberian attackers. Cato barks another order, and the rear lines step forward to freshen the fight.
A half hour later, Cato notices that many of the Iberians are staggering from exhaustion. Time for the next ploy.
“Take the men back a spear’s cast,” he orders.
The front cohorts retreat and halt, standing their shields on the ground. Grateful for the respite, the Indigetes stay where they are, drinking water from their wineskins while they attend to their wounded.
Cato hastens to the Second Legion’s legate. “Send two cohorts around our left flank, double-time.”
Within minutes, two cohorts of reserves march quickly around the left flank of Roman’s front line, looping toward the Indigete rear. [clxxxvi] The Iberian warriors anxiously watch them but they remain in place, more concerned about the Romans in front of them.
Cato watches the cohorts trot briskly around the flank, edging into the space between the legions and the cavalry. He waves a signal to Cassius, the First Legion’s commander.
The cornu sound again. The First Legion’s five reserve cohorts hasten to the front. The centuries in the center advance ahead of the side centuries, creating an attack wedge. [clxxxvii]
“No retreat,” Cato bellows to this officers. “Kill any who turn their backs.”
The wedge delves into the Iberian center, splitting their front lines. Scores of Indigetes fall beneath the disciplined Roman blades, then hundreds.
The Iberian chieftains shove their men at the Roman wedge, pounding on their backs to drive them forward. The Iberians’ counterattack halts the First Legion’s advance. Then the Second Legion’s two cohorts crash into the Iberians’ rear lines, driving them into the men ahead of them.
Beset from the front and back, the Indegetes run for the safety of their garrison. The Iberian cavalry abandon their fight with the equites and race for the open gates, leaving the Roman cavalry free to cut down hundreds of fleeing foot soldiers. Thousands of barbarians scramble for the open portal, with thousands more strewn along the plain.
Cato watches the tide of battle turn to his favor. He summons the First Legion’s lead commander. “We need to finish this, Cassius. Bring on the escaladers. Roll in the ram.”
The First Legion’s men attack the front of the fort. The escaladers pitch their ladders against the walls as the infantry rams an iron-headed tree trunk against the sturdy gates. The desperate Indigetes fling down everything they can lay their hands on: spears, stones, furniture, even statues. The Romans huddle under the their shields, and gradually retreat out of range.
Cato’s face flushes with anger. Gods curse them, they act like a bunch of women! I have to find a weak spot. He races around the outside of the walls, scanning the ramparts. He notices that a side gate has few sentries posted above it. Here. If we move quickly, before they can get reinforcements.
He races to the First Legion’s legate and grabs him by the shoulder. “Attack the front with everything you have, Cassius. Use your rams and ladders, anything to keep them occupied. Now wait for my command.” The legate nods, his eyes wide.
Cato spins his horse around and trots to the oncoming Second Legion. He pulls up in its center, next to the legion’s legate.
“Hostus, give me two thousand hastati and principes,” Cato says. “And forty ladder men and a battering ram.”
Cato rides to the edge of the Second Legion’s left flank and waits. The Second’s hastati and principes soon march out to join him. The escaladers and the ram’s men follow.
Paulus and Tiberius trot along with the rest of the escaladers, lugging their ladder on their shoulders.
“Where are we going?” Paulus asks nervously, eyeing the men pushing the eight-wheeled battering ram.
Tiberius forces a grin. “You know where we’re going. Up!”
After the hastati and principles line up behind him, Cato calls over Cassius, the First Legion’s legate. “Now! Attack the front and keep them occupied. And woe to you if your men retreat!”
The First Legion tramps back toward the fort’s front, their light infantry leading the charge. The Indegetes crowd the front wall, hurling the last of their spears and stones. As they First Legion approaches the walls, the velites fling their spears at the ramparts, quelling the Iberians’ assault.
The First Legion’s battering ram rolls back to the front gates, its operators sheltered by a bronze-covered roof. The ram booms against the gate, prompting more missile assaults from the Iberians.
Seeing the Iberians are occupied along the front wall, Cato hurries his men toward the side gate. “Up with the ladders!” he shouts. “First man over the top gets a silver corona muralis!”
“You hear that, Tiberius?” Paulus exclaims. “I go over the top first, I get a silver crown! I can pay off everything!” He grabs the front of the ladder and dashes forward, pulling his friend with him.
The ladder men race to the wall and fling up their ladders, holding their shields above their heads. The two thousand hastati and principes fling their spears at the wall defenders, their covering fire buying time for the laddermen.
The Second Legion soldiers trundle their ram to the side gate. They pull back on the tree-trunk shaft suspended from ropes and shove it forward, bashing it into the timbered portal. The barred doors bow inward.
“Block those gates!” an Iberian captain yells. Dozens of wall defenders race from the wall, pushing themselves against the splintering side gates.
“Look,” says Paulus. “They’re running from the wall. Let’s get up there first!” Paulus flings his ladder onto an unattended portion of the wall and scrambles up, his shield dangling from his back.
“Wait for me, fool!” Tiberius barks, crawling up the tree-branch rungs as fast as he can.
Paulus nears the top, glancing sideways to see if anyone has preceded him. He hears a scream and looks to his right. A ladder man plunges down, his neck gouting blood from a spear thrust. Don’t rush, Paulus chides himself. The crown won’t do you any good if you don’t have a head. He slowly lifts his head over the top.
An Iberian pops up in front of him, a boy barely taller than the falcata he grasps with both fists. Trembling with fright, the boy chops at Paulus’ wrist. Paulus screams as the blade bites into his forearm.
“You little bastard!”
The boy strikes again. Paulus falls from the ladder, his hand still clinging to the rampart stake.
Tiberius sees his friend plunge past him and crash to the earth. His eyes flame with rage. He scrambles up and vaults over the rampart, heedless of whoever may be waiting for him. He sees the young man standing there, clutching his bloody cleaver with both hands.
“You!” he snarls. He leaps at the boy and drives his sword blade through the boy's forehead, pushing until the hilt strikes his b
rows. The boy’s eyes bulge from his head. Tiberius yanks out his sword and watches the boy topple onto his face. He rushes at the next Iberian on the wall, slashing at him until he tumbles from the rampart.
The rest of the escaladers join Tiberius on the wall, followed by scores of legionnaires. Fighting with measured ferocity, the Romans cut down the defenders and hurl their bodies off the wall. They rush down and thrust into the defenders bracing the side gate, forming a semicircle of death about it.
Minutes later, the gates open. Two thousand of Rome’s veterans storm into the fort, with Cato walking in the forefront.
“On to the front gates,” Cato orders. Sword in hand, he marches across the courtyard, his eyes fixed on Iberians protecting the front gates.
The hastati and principes stride toward the front gates, listening to the defenders scream out a warning. Hundreds of Indigetes rush to attack them. The veterans beat them back, pushing them into the Iberians massed by the gates. [clxxxviii]
Word spreads among the Iberians that the Romans are inside the fort, killing all that oppose them. Hundreds of Indigetes run out the rear gates, fearing that the legions have taken the town.
The front gates split open. The First Legion pours into the fort, beating back the Iberians that bravely rush to defend it. Jammed together by assaults from both legions, thousands of Iberians die where they stand, cut down by the Romans’ relentless advance.
Seeing their death imminent, hundreds of Indegetes cast off their arms and fall to their knees, tears of shame streaming down their faces as they beg for mercy.
Soon, the din of battle settles into a series of sporadic screams, as the Romans begin the onerous task of rooting out those who hide in the fort’s buildings. Cato stands in the center of the courtyard, calmly bandaging a deep gash on his sword arm.
“Let the men take what plunder they may find,” he says. He glances at the sun. “Make the prisoners drag the bodies outside and burn them. We still have enough daylight to tidy up this mess.”
The night finds the Romans inside the garrison, feasting on the wine and food they have taken from its stores. Outside the gates, a massive funeral pyre sends flames leaping into the blackened night, fueled by the burning flesh of twenty thousand Indigetes.
Tiberius sits on a log inside the fort, chewing on a large chunk of Iberian ham. “Here,” he says, laying the ham on the ground, “let me freshen that.”
Using a long strip of linen, he carefully wraps Paulus’ stump with a fresh bandage. Paulus grimaces, but he nods his thanks.
“Ah, gods, it hurts. That little prick was barely weaned from his mother’s teat, and he did this to me!”
“He was an Iberian. Be thankful he didn’t take your head.”
“Now how am I going to work the farm?” Paulus moans. “I don’t have enough money for a slave.” He stares at the ground. “Fortuna is a bitch goddess.”
“Perhaps she isn’t, soldier,” comes a voice behind him. Cato steps in from behind them. His right hand slides out from his flowing red cloak. It holds a silver crown.
He bows slightly and gives the crown to Paulus. “You were first man over the wall,” Cato says.
Paulus takes the crown in his good hand. He blinks at Cato, his eyes glassy with tears.
“You two were a key to our success today,” Cato continues. “You will have first pick of the plunder.”
Cato turns about and marches away, leaving the two friends staring at his back, dumbfounded.
“You will be rich,” Tiberius says. Then, wonderingly: “I will be rich.”
Paulus waves the silver crown at Tiberius. “But I will be richer. Maybe I’ll hire you to do my work!”
Word spreads quickly of Cato’s destruction of the Emporiae garrison. Soon, all of Iberia knows about the stern young man with the burning gray eyes. His army marches from one rebellious town to another, prepared for battle. At each town, Cato is met by a deputation of officials, magistrates who are only too willing to avoid a fight.[clxxxix]
Cato's response is always the same--unconditional and immediate surrender. He sends a cohort into each town and marches to conquer another, his mind fixed on elevating his family name to glory.
As he rides along, he muses about Rome and the upcoming consular elections. Iberia will be under our control again, but Syria looms before us. I hope they elect someone who knows how to fight.
SCIPIO MANSE, ROME. “More ostrich, Senator?” Scipio asks, proffering a platter with a ham-sized drumstick upon it.
“Gratitude, General, but I will explode if I take another bite,” the fleshy young man replies, patting his ample midriff. “Where did you get such a delicious bird?”
“I brought it live from Carthage, Pontius,” Scipio replies. “Near the site of my battle with Hannibal.”
“Ah, Zama,” Pontius says. “You saved Rome that day.” He grins knowingly. “I will not forget that, Candidate Scipio.”
“Good,” Scipio says. “But save some room for the final dish—you will not be sorry.” He hands the tray back to his slave attendant, a handsome young Gaul with straw blond pigtails.
Prima has loaned the slave to Scipio for his election banquets. The slave is an accomplished nomenclator.[cxc] He knows the name of every Roman senator, including the twenty-two who are attending tonight’s festival.
The senators fill the domus’ spacious atrium. Laughing and chatting, they recline on dining couches that surround a large table laden with meats and fruits from far-off Africa. Scipio bustles about with the Gaul following him, sharing jokes and gossip. He wears the unadorned, chalk-white toga of a consular candidate.
Amelia circulates among the senators, cradling a jug of dark red Numidian wine. She is a vision of loveliness, wearing a sapphire gown with a plunging neckline, her auburn hair piled atop a gleaming gold coronet. More than one senator gulps his wine so that he can ask her for a refill, enjoying the sight of her perfumed breasts swaying in front of him as she pours.
Laelius struts slowly between the couches, resplendent in his gold-embroidered black toga. He plucks at a lyre and sings the bawdy songs he learned at the docks of Ostia. Several tipsy senators join him as he walks, rising to bellow out half-remembered lyrics. Laelius rolls his eyes at their slurred words, but he never loses his smile. He knows he will need their support when he runs for consul.
The slaves clear out the main table’s plates. Scipio moves to the center of the atrium. “Now for a special treat,” he says. “Two foods from far Numidia, the delights of King Masinissa’s court!”
Scipio claps his hands. Six slaves appear with shield-sized silver platters laden with small pewter plates. Each plate is ringed with slices of Numidian chicken, fragrant with the aromas of dates and coriander. The center of the dish is filled with a mound of savory cumin and beans.[cxci]
The senators take their forks and tentatively sample the exotic foods. Soon, the atrium fills with exclamations of pleasure and delight. Quintus Tertulius teeters to his feet. The senior senator raises his wine goblet and places his hand over his heart. He opens his mouth to speak but an enormous belch escapes him, leading to the loudest laughs of the evening. Nonplussed, Quintus raises his goblet higher.
“Well, you have just heard what I think of the food,” he says, provoking more laughs. “Now let me tell you what I think of the man.” He sips from his goblet and extends it toward the crowd.
“To Scipio Africanus, Rome’s greatest general and finest man. And the next consul of Rome!” Amid a chorus of cheers and acclimations, Scipio rises to his feet.
“Gratitude for your attendance. We are truly honored by your presence. Do not forget to attend the games at the Circus Maximus this Saturn day. I am holding it in honor of Rome’s triumph over Carthage!” The senators cheer.
“You mean your triumph over Carthage!” Quintus shouts. His comments provoke more cheers.
“I promise you will not be disappointed. The gladiatorial schools of Cassius Rufus and Aulius Certus will perform, with a very spe
cial guest leading them.”
“I wouldn’t miss it if Charon himself came to take me to Hades,” Quintus says. “All of Rome will be there!”
Saturn day morning dawns bright and clear. Thousands of plebians and patricians file onto the wood benches that surround the Circus Maximus’ oval racing track, ready for the day’s entertainment. A dozen trumpets blare outside the stadium, signaling the entry of the game’s participants.
Scipio rides into the stadium, flanked by Laelius and Lucius. All three wear silver-plated battle armor, their blood-red capes flowing down to the backs of their white stallions. Amelia and the two Scipio children follow in a white chariot, waving enthusiastically at the crowd. The Scipio party rides to the center stands and sits under the white linen awning provided for them. Scipio stands and waves to the crowd, acknowledging their cheers.
A dozen flute players stride into the racing grounds, playing lively dancing tunes. A score of svelte young women follow them, spinning about in diaphanous white gowns, their moves coordinated with the flute players’ notes.
The foot racers follow them, then the horse racers and the charioteers. All of them wave at the cheering crowds, bowing their heads toward those that call out their names. The crowds cheer the racers enthusiastically, but they are saving their loudest accolades for those that come next.
The gladiators march onto the race grounds, and the stadium erupts with deafening roars. Thirty pairs of gladiators parade in, each man marching with the one he will fight. A trident and net gladiator walks next to a hoplomachus bearing a sword and small shield. A heavily armored samnite fighter walks next to a scissor warrior garbed in quilted coverings, his right arm encased in an iron tube that ends in a half-moon blade.[cxcii] Each gladiator wears a red or blue ribbon about his arm, the red for those from the school of Rufus, the blue for those from the ludus of Certus.
Prima walks at the head of the procession, wearing only a black leather loincloth and breastband. For this game, she fights as a dimachaerus, forsaking a shield to fight with twin swords. In honor of Scipio’s victory at Zama, her opponent has the armor and weapons of a Carthaginian soldier.
Scipio Rules Page 43
