Gaius watched the army arrayed far ahead of him. He feared Sempronius’ eagerness to end the war might be a price too high to pay if things kept going the way they were, a sentiment shared by many officers.
As Gaius marched in the rear of the Roman formation, which moved slowly down the embankment of the Trebia River, his mind still drifted back to Julia. He knew it was wrong to continue to think about her, so he struggled to keep focused with each step he took.
A lingering fantasy played in Gaius’ mind that he could win enough honors in the coming battle he could go back to Rome and demand Varro present Julia to him as a prize, much like his own father won his mother in the previous war with Carthage. However, that fantasy was an illusion, which angered him and made his already cold and restless nights all the more tiresome. It affected his duties as he was quick to anger, snapping at his men when their discipline lapsed for only a moment. He did not like the person that these feelings created. He did not know how to deal with them, but he soldiered on, nonetheless, hoping the pain would go away.
Gaius’ thoughts returned to the reality as his foot kicked over a small stone that rolled down into the cold water.
The pace was unbearably slow, made worse by the snow that blinded the army’s advance. Ahead, Gaius could see through the fog the main formation of Sempronius’ lines. They were only two men across, not ideal for a quick defensive formation if an attack should come from the trees. There was no other choice as the riverbank and the sloping hills, surrounded by thick forest, had forced the legion to travel in a long line.
Gaius glanced over his shoulder, seeing Valerius, who rode on horseback a few paces behind. His old mentor did not look happy. Gaius had never seen him more on the edge as he silently cursed Sempronius’ impatience, despite his warnings that legions should not advance in this manner.
Earlier in the morning the consul summoned all his senior officers to his tent. The legions had been attacked daily since it had camped some miles from their current position days before as Hannibal’s dark-skinned horsemen continued to harass the army’s extensive supply lines, and each time Sempronius sent out his cavalry to confront the Numidians, they broke and retreated. This frustrated the consul to no end. Now, Sempronius was driven by madness as he was determined to find Hannibal and crush his ragged army once and for all, even if it put his whole army at risk.
Gaius knew the moment that he laid eyes on Sempronius this morning that the mad was deathly sick, and clearly not thinking straight. He was running a high fever; however, that fact did not stop him from planning his next move despite the urging of Valerius and a number of other legates.
Sempronius wanted, needed to confront Hannibal, not for the sake of defeating the man, but to return him to his former standing before the eyes of the Roman people and the Senate. He was not the most popular figure in politics, commonly known to all those living in Rome. He spent half his time in Sicily, or in Greece, attending to private affairs in regard to his vast land-holdings and businesses. This made him an easy target for his opponents in the Senate, namely senators such as Varro, who challenged Sempronius on his priorities and conventions to the Roman people. He had only been made co-consul out of desperation after Scipio’s death because of his previous experience dealing with Carthage and the Gauls north of the Po River. Other than that, the Senate would have been content to let him rot somewhere else if there had been a more able man — one that was that actually cared about confronting Hannibal. This battle, despite his early victory was still not one that most senior commander’s saw important for their notice — not enough fame or glory to be had, but, enough for Sempronius.
Several paces ahead of Gaius, he heard one of the legion prefect’s call-back, demanding that the rear guard, which comprise of the first cohort of the Sixth Legion and two cohorts of auxiliary troops to maintain the pace, as it seemed to be falling back from the main body.
“Bloody fool should get his ass back here and see if he can keep this pace up,” grumbled Valerius, which even Gaius, heard from where he was standing.
Gaius looked out towards the looming trees as visibility was becoming especially difficult as the snowfall picked up, coming down in violent sheets. It was nearly impossible to see anything beyond the faint outline of the forest, but then, for only a moment he caught sight of something standing out among the trees, staring right toward him: a white wolf.
Everything was eerily quiet, as if the world, the army, and his surroundings faded away until only he and the wolf, which stared at Gaius with unblinking eyes, remained.
Gaius felt himself reaching up to his chest, before placing his right hand over the spot where he wore the broken half of the clay medallion that Antony had given him ten years ago.
The wolf and the medallion, all seemed familiar, as if he had seen this same animal before.
“Lupus?” Gaius whispered softly, and subsequently all at once the noise of twenty thousand men marching rushed back as he blinked, and afterwards, the wolf was gone.
Gaius looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else had witnessed what he had, but those behind kept marching forward, like he, unaware of what was in the trees.
Gaius looked back to the trees, which were nearly impossible to see by now. The wolf was gone, as if it was never there. It was then that a horrible thought accrued to him, one that sent shivers of panic up his spine.
Gaius sudden broke from his formation to the dismay of those around him, and rushed back towards Valerius, who halted his horse, seemly ready to bark at Gaius for breaking rank, but Gaius never allowed Valerius a word as he spoke frantically.
“Valerius, we have to stop the army, now!”
“What are you babbling about, boy?” Valerius asked, confused and angry at the same time. In front of him, the first cohort of the Sixth stopped, which forced the long column of auxiliaries to end their march. Quickly, murmurs queried from man-to-man, all the way down the ranks.
“We have to stop the army, now, or we are all dead, Valerius. You have to believe me,” Gaius pleaded; his own words filled with terror, which quickly caused panic among the other men who were close enough to overhear him.
“An ambush?” Valerius pondered as his eyes began to scan the trees, seeing nothing but snow falling, and the ever consuming white haze that was obstructing his visibility.
“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I feel — “Gaius did not know what to say, or how to say what he’d seen. “I just know if we keep going, something terrible is going to happen to us. We have to warn Sempronius to turn us back, or to form ranks. Something before he marches us to our graves.”
“Damn it, boy,” Valerius lowered himself, speaking firmly. “Don’t you think I know this is foolhardy? However, there is nothing that can be done. We have to keep pressing forward until we reach the far side of the embankment, to open ground. If we stop now, or pull back, we are doomed regardless.”
“Then we have to form ranks, now, and make a stand. We may still have a chance.” Gaius reached out and placed his hand on Valerius’ shoe, squeezing it; his eyes opened wide with fear. “Please, Valerius, you have to trust me.”
The legate seemed ready to kick Gaius aside, perhaps even order one of his officers to take him into custody, but then, suddenly, after staring into Gaius’ eyes for a long while, his own expression changed.
“By the gods, “Valerius cursed under his breath. “Lepidus!” he then called out. A moment later one of his junior officers ran forward and saluted, awaiting his orders. “Hurry to Sempronius, at once, and inform him that I’m holding the march. There might be a risk of attack from the trees, and that, I’d advise him to do the same. Now go!”
“At once, Legate,” the young man replied as he ran on the outer edge of the formation, quickly disappearing into the mist and snow.
Valerius looked down at Gaius and spoke as he turned his horse, facing the trees now. “You’d better be right about this, or more than our careers will be over.”
“I pray
that I’m wrong,” Gaius replied.
Valerius sneered as he cried out, “Form ranks.” Each man did so, turning to face the trees, the only way an attack could come, and joined their shields together, creating an unbreakable wall.
Gaius rejoined his men as well, taking his spot among them. His breathing quickened as he tried not to relieve himself, even though he was shaking terrible, and not because of the cold.
Silence fell upon the group of fifteen hundred plus Romans waited, listening for any hint that an attack was coming.
The trees were the only logical place for an ambush. With the river at their backs, some men standing in ankle-deep water, they waited. And then as the first ten minutes drifted by, the only sound that could be heard was the breathing of men and animals.
The running that Valerius sent forward came back into view, racing past Gaius, before he stopped before Valerius, who remained on horseback.
“Sir, Consul Sempronius demands that we rejoin the rest of the column, or as he said, he’ll have your head,” the runner relayed Sempronius’ instructions.
Valerius glanced down at Gaius, who stood in formation several dozen paces to his right, and stared at the young centurion.
For a moment, Gaius feared Valerius would do as he was instructed, but then, the old veteran turned his focused back to the runner and said, “Return to the Consul and inform him I’m holding position, until I’m confident an attack is not imminent. And, that I advise him to do the same — form ranks and look to the trees.”
The runner looked nervous, clearly afraid to repeat to Sempronius what Valerius had told him.
“Do as you are ordered, soldier,” Valerius ordered with a firm, but understanding tone.
“Yes, sir.” The massager ran off, again disappearing in the thick haze before he was gone from sight.
Gaius took a deep breath. He knew if the boy should return, more than likely it would be with a detachment of soldiers to relive Valerius of his command. All Gaius could do was glance back up at him, giving him worried eyes, mumbling his gratitude for believing him. Valerius did not reply, but held his position.
“You’re risking the legate’s live, Gaius. Are you a fool?” Agrippa muttered. The big man stood to Gaius’ left, and at glance, Gaius could see that his sentiment was shared by the rest of the men in his century as they stood uneasy, nor for threat of ambush, but for what Sempronius might do when he turned his men around and removed their commander from the Sixth.
“I’m not doing this because — “Gaius’ words were broken when his and every man’s attention was turned suddenly to the trees, as a strait of drums and horns blew, echoing, knocking snow from barren branches.
Gaius’ heart skipped a beat as the roars of thousands of bloodthirsty men cried out, yet unseen, but clearly heard, as if a powerful beast of unimaginable size dwelled within the forest.
“Hold formations and ready javelins!” Gaius heard Valerius bellow at the top of his lungs. His orders were repeated by each centurion up and down the formation, including Gaius, who had to lick his dry lips twice before he could repeat the command to his century.
A moment later a swirl of whistling sounds blew through the trees. Most of the men, too young to know what the terrible warning was, were unprepared as hundreds of arrows impacted against their shields and armor. A moment later, when the last shot struck its mark, a chorus of moans rang as men struck by the sharp projectiles, shrieked in horror as they were hit.
Gaius turned abruptly as he heard one of his men go down. No arrows had struck his shield, but as he looked down, he saw that one of them had torn through Agrippa’s throat.
The man whizzed violently as his hands reached up to his neck, trying desperately to stop his own blood from gushing out through the hole in his throat.
Blood bubbled from Agrippa’s neck. No one could help him even though a number of men called his name, or cried for the doctor to rush to his aide, but with the impossible gap between the men and the river, no one could get to Agrippa in time, as if it would have help, before he choked on his own blood.
Gaius was in near panic as he looked back towards the trees. Only now did it seem the weather was lifting, as if the attackers had the power to control nature.
He gazed upon thousands of murderous savages, many of them bare-chested, painted with bold blue patterns on their bodies — others covered in head-to-toe in the furs of wild animals. They bashed their assortment of weapons against their small wooden shields, as they bellowed loudly in their barbaric tongue.
Gaius was panicked by the sight of the demon-men, all of whom seemed larger than the greatest gladiator in the arena. He wanted desperately to run, even risk freezing in the river, as long as he escaped. And as he glanced around him, seeing the same fear in his men’s eyes, Gaius knew he had to take charge. He was a centurion and the Wolves never turned their backside to the enemy.
“Hold your formation and wait for these bastards to come to us!” Gaius yelled as loud as he could, surprised even by his own voice and the renewed confidence in it.
“We are Wolves, and these men are only sheep. Show them what Roman iron can do!” he added, which brought a joyful boom from his men as they cried out his sentiment, challenging the Gauls to test them.
Further commands from other centurions and less important officers carried across the whole Roman formation, as the Sixth and its escorted auxiliaries knew what their duty was. They had all trained for war, young and old alike, and while individually a Roman was marginal to a Gaul in a straight fight, as one, they were a machine created for one purpose, and that was to destroy anything that was before it.
Another volley of arrows shot from the trees, only this time the Romans were prepared for the attack, as hardly a whimper was heard from the lines, as an arrow struck against the harden Roman shields, deflecting harmlessly to the snow-covered ground.
And then, with one last monstrous war cry, thousands of Gauls charged down the steep embankment.
Gaius waited, his eyes just over the brim of his shield, holding firm as his grip on his shield with one hand was strong, equaled by his hold on the hilt of his sword. He could hear, feel and see the breaths of the men beside and behind him, as the soldiers of the Sixth waited for the oncoming charge, which rolled down the hill like a juggernaut, bent on one task alone — to spill Roman blood.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Pilums, let fly!" Gaius cried out, as seconds later the men behind him unleashed their devastating iron-tipped spears at the charging Gauls.
Screams of barbarian foreigners blossomed as the triangle-shaped tips of the javelins tore through flesh and bone, wood and armor alike as hundreds of men were struck by the heavy Roman weapons.
There was no time for a second volley to be ordered. On open ground, the Romans might have gotten three or four attempts to weaken the enemy formation, but with the narrow terrain and rushing river behind them, it did not take long before the first wave of Gallic warriors collided against the Roman shields, like water against rock.
Gaius had never felt such power before as dozens of screaming, spitting, and enraged men fell against his shield. He and the whole line slid several inches back as the hard-packed snow was quickly being chewed into mud. However, the line held as the shield wall, proven time and time again in battle, could not be broken, regardless of the determination of the opponents.
“Push them back!” Gaius bellowed, unsure if his voice could be heard by his men. As instructed the men in the rear pushed against the men in front of them. A moment later the minuscule ground the Gauls had gained, was again reclaimed.
Gaius had often wondered if his training would indeed become second nature to him. He heard stories from the veterans that a soldier acts on instinct, losing himself in the battle as a strange sense of calming peace overtook them. Others had said the opposite — battle was chaotic, frantic and loud, that a man, regardless of how many years he had to his name, was an enraged beast, hacking and slashing to stay alive, and
that all the Roman discipline counted for shit.
Gaius found that the former was true, at least for him. The fear and panic that had gripped him moments ago vanished. He responded as if his actions were not his own as ten years worth of drilling — the memory of Centurion Quintus’ vine-cane against his back, pushed Gaius forward. Lost into himself, his mind hardly recognized the first man he killed.
The moment came quickly and unceremoniously. A screaming Gaul with long brown hair, matted and caked with dirt and grit, a bright painted face, rotting teeth and thick wooly beard, the barbarian could have been twenty, but looked decades older under so much hair. He squared himself against Gaius’ shield, brandishing his small axe, which he held in his right hand — a tiny wooden shield in the other. He cursed Gaius in his native language, which Gaius understood enough of the Celtic tongue from his father’s teachings years before.
The barbarian tried desperately to get his axe-head over the brim of Gaius’ shield, wailing frantically, but Gaius was taller and protected by the well-crafted iron helmet that covered his head, and the wide shield he held tightly in his grip.
The act of killing the man came quickly, within the first few seconds after the Gallic horde had crashed headlong into the Roman formation, as Gaius rose up, peeking for just an instant over the top of his shield, and struck.
The short Roman sword, a gladius was a faultless weapon in Gaius’ trained eyes. While it wasn’t too good at slashing or bashing at an opponent, it was flawless for thrusting. Its narrow, but sturdy iron blade rested comfortably in his striking arm, precisely balanced. The ivory grip, showing wealth beyond Gaius’ station once belonged to his father — the engravings of the pack of wolves, carried the lineage of the Sixth Legion.
As the Gallic warrior screamed, his deep-blue eyes blazing with rage, Gaius thrust his sword neatly over the brim of his shield, and plunged the tip into the man’s mouth. His expression changed suddenly with the realization that, despite his, many years as a proud warrior, and the victories he must have achieved, meant nothing when his end came quickly, and without proper challenge.
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