Founding Fathers

by Alfred Duggan

  Marcus said no more. He had a hut to fight for, a hut marked with the memories of his married life; his son slept in it now. His place was in the third rank, and he carried a broad shield. Unless he was willing to fight for his share in the city he had no business to live in it.

  That unprepared attack uphill in the dark was a bad introduction to serious warfare. There could be no question of surprise, for the Sabines were still plundering their newly captured fortress. As the Romans pushed up the slope they were met by a shower of javelins and sling-stone. To shielded men such missiles were a nuisance rather than a danger, but in such a press a few warriors were bound to be unlucky; it was most disheartening to lose good men while there was still no way of damaging the foe. The charge faltered as it neared the crest of the hill; and came to a dead stop when it encountered a steady line of Sabine spears, projecting between the stakes of the high palisade.

  King Romulus set an example. He advanced alone, covered by his great shield, until he could poke his spear through the palisade. But at once he must defend himself against the darting points of half a dozen Sabine spears, and even the superb shield of a rich leader could not keep off so many attacks. He jumped back out of reach to save his life; and where their leader dared not stand the Romans were disinclined to follow.

  All the same, the full levy of Rome greatly outnumbered the small force of Sabines who had crowded into the little fort. The enemy dared not leave their palisade, and now the Roman slingers pelted them until they must cower in shelter. After half an hour both sides acknowledged the stalemate. King Romulus withdrew with most of his troops, to eat breakfast on the Palatine. A party remained on the slope of the Capitol, where they could contain the invaders.

  The Aemilian clan were among the unlucky ones who must keep in their ranks while their comrades breakfasted and armed at leisure for the coming battle. It seemed an unfairly long time before they were relieved, and Marcus could hurry back to the meal Sabine had waiting for him. Between mouthfuls of salt pork he bewailed the misfortune which had befallen Rome.

  ‘We must fight all day with an enemy post on our flank, our right flank, the unshielded side. If our line breaks those Sabines on the hill can run down and catch us before we can get away. We must win the fight, or we shall all perish in the retreat. What makes it so maddening is that it isn’t the fault of our leaders, or of any individual Roman. No one took precautions against that kind of treachery. Why should they? I don’t know whose side you are on today, my dear, and I deliberately don’t want to know. If you feel a sudden impulse to let the Sabines into the Palatine you can be sure some Roman spearman will be watching you. We remember where you came from. But Tarpeia – damn it all, she came here with the original founders. She must have been with the baggage, down by the marsh where we shall fight today, while King Romulus was tracing the line of the palisade and seizing the opportunity to have his brother murdered. If anyone is on our side, she ought to be. Why on earth did she betray us, and why did the Sabines murder her as a reward for her treachery?’

  ‘If you live in a stable it doesn’t make you a horse,’ said Sabina. ‘Poor Tarpeia saw Rome from the beginning, and hated all she saw. She did not come here of her own free will, she was brought by her father. All she got out of your new city was a miserable lonely life, surrounded by men who knew they might not marry her and therefore never bothered to court her. I’m not surprised she tried to take a Sabine lover.’

  ‘All it shows is that you can never trust unmarried girls. Even so, why did your countrymen kill her?’

  ‘Why indeed? We shall never know. I suppose they are ordinary manly warriors, who loathe traitors even when the traitors work for their side. Would you love me if I had helped Rome against my own people? You might be glad of my help, but that isn’t the same thing. So now I send you off to battle, with a clean tunic and a nice bit of pork in your wallet. I shall pray that you come home safely. But I shan’t tell you for whose victory I shall be praying at the same time.’

  Although Marcus had never been present at a pitched battle he thought that everything ought to be familiar, from the descriptions in the old songs. This would be a field of the old-fashioned kind, where there could be no manoeuvres, no tactical surprises; incidentally, he noted with a qualm, there would be no room to run away. Twenty thousand Romans were jammed between the Palatine and the river, filling the cramped plain; and behind them rose another steep hill, the Aventine.

  Looking northwards towards the enemy the river bent away to leave a wider space of level ground. That was the plain known as the Field of Mars, because in the second year of the city the Dancers of Mars, carried away by enthusiasm, had pranced all over it instead of remaining inside the palisade. A patch of swamp in the middle might catch a few Sabine strangers, but there was plenty of dry ground on either side.

  Marcus was in the third rank of the Aemilian clan, the proper place for a poor spearman who did not own a corselet. He was cheered to find that the Aemilians as a whole were in the second line of the army; for there was not enough room for such a great host to draw out in single line. Fifty yards ahead stood another triple rank of spearmen, and ahead of that a loose scattering of slingers and archers; men who were too poor to come shielded to battle and who by rights should have no vote in the assembly.

  From his reasonably safe place he could not see very far forward, and only a clamour of defiance from the ranks in front told him that the Sabines were in sight. Then he made out a cloud of dust, and lurching through it the standards of the enemy. Most of these standards were mere tufts of leaves fastened to tall poles; but he saw one little figure of the wolf of Mars. That angered him, for the Romans were especially the children of Mars; the same wolf figured on the standard carried aloft in the midst of his own Aemilian clan.

  Presently warcries rang out, and he knew that the front lines were engaged. Still he could see nothing of the fighting; nothing but a cloud of dust billowing high, and looming through it a few horsemen, showing clear above the mass of struggling infantry. He understood with a shock that his future was being decided within a few hundred yards of where he stood; and he could do nothing.

  The suspense endured for a very long time. Marcus stood where he had been told to stand, feeling his feet grow tender as the ground beneath them baked in the glowing sun. If this went on much longer he would be unable to run swiftly, whether back or forward. It was impossible to tell how the battle was going; no wounded men hobbled to the rear bringing rumours, for in front the press was so thick that the wounded must die in their ranks. But the Roman front line did not yield ground, so for the moment they must be holding the attack.

  At last Aemilius, who was mounted, rode along the front of his clan bidding them prepare for the charge. The trumpeter beside the wolf-standard blew down his long brazen tube, and the bellowing grunt was taken up further down the line. The whole Roman reserve moved forward at a shuffling and reluctant trot.

  They did not charge with dash or enthusiasm, for they could not see the foe. They were advancing, with levelled spears, straight at the backs of their own comrades. It was the wrong way to use a reserve, but in that plain cramped between the river and the hills there was no other way they could come into action.

  Aemilius rode steadily at the head of his clan, until just before they reached the first line he drew aside and pulled back level with his men. His followers lifted their spearpoints and slowed to a walk, for there seemed to be no room for them in this battle. That was not what their leaders wanted from them. Shouting, Aemilius ordered them to run in and push.

  Marcus kept his spear carefully upright as he ran in behind his shield, left shoulder forward. He settled the shield against the back of another Roman, and pushed; the man did not seem to mind. Then he remembered that he ought to be in the third rank of the reserve, and that there ought to be two men in front of him. He looked for them, and saw them both a little to one side, filling gaps in the front line. Those people in front had lost a great many de
ad.

  There were Romans on each side of him, fellow-clansmen, pushing as he pushed. He grunted over his shoulder to the man on his right: ‘How long do we keep this up? And how does it help our men in the front ranks?’

  ‘We keep it up all day, or until the Sabines have had enough. When you are in the front rank you’ll find that it helps to be pushed from behind. If you can make the enemy go backwards some of them stumble and lower their guard.’

  The new phase of the battle seemed to last for hours; in fact it did actually last for hours. Every man on both sides was now fully engaged. There could be no manoeuvres, and with the lines so closely locked together the army which first turned to flee would be massacred before it could get clear. Both Sabines and Romans knew this, and concentrated on keeping steady on their feet. Few men fell. Nearly everyone was too busy pushing to be able to use spear or sword.

  There were no gaps in the struggling mass, save where some mounted leader forced his way to the front to get at a mounted champion of the enemy. Those heroes on horseback sometimes rode down their own foot; but at least they were striving to kill, not to push. The half-dozen single combats between these cavaliers seemed to be the only deadly fighting in what was otherwise a wrestling match.

  On the whole the Romans were getting the better of it. From time to time they surged forward, and they never went back so much as a step. But they could not get the Sabines on the run, moving so fast that they would be tempted to turn and expose their backs; and until one side or the other succeeded in that aim it seemed that the pushing must continue.

  At last, when everyone was exhausted, the bronze trumpets of the enemy blared out a signal. At the same instant every Sabine spearman ran back for at least twenty paces. So quickly and unexpectedly was it done that the whole line got clear of the Roman spears. It was now midday, and after fighting since sunrise the Romans saw once more before them an unbroken line of Sabine spears, lowered to meet the charge.

  ‘That’s a good bit of drill,’ Aemilius shouted cheerfully to his clan. ‘You oafs couldn’t manage it, not if you practised for a thousand years. But it has its bright side. They only tried it because their leaders think we are too much for them.’

  ‘Hallo,’ he added a moment later, ‘they didn’t get away scotfree after all. Some horsemen have got stuck in the marsh. The riders can scramble clear, but the horses will smother. That’s what comes of running away a bit too quickly. Now you boys try and get your wind before the next clash.’

  By mutual consent there was a pause in the fight, while exhausted men adjusted damaged harness and regrouped. There was room between the armies for King Romulus to ride out where all his men could see him. He spurred his tired horse until it pranced, and prepared to make another rousing speech. But before he could begin an enemy horseman charged down on him.

  ‘Watch this, boys, they have something to fight about,’ Aemilius called to his followers. ‘That man riding against the King is Hostilius, the Sabine husband of the lady Hersilia. Tonight she will be a respectable woman, with only one husband, whichever way it goes.’

  By this stage of the battle every horseman had thrown all his javelins; the champions encountered with drawn swords. Hostilius aimed a sweeping blow at the King’s head, and Romulus, instead of using his sword to guard, gave proof of his daredevil courage by thrusting as the blow fell. The crest of his bronze helmet was shattered, but the leather padding beneath it was just thick enough to save his skull; before the Sabine could recover the point of the King’s sword was deep in his belly. Hostilius toppled from his saddle, to lie dead on the ground; while King Romulus, blinking, shook his buzzing head and reined his frenzied horse.

  The Romans cheered in ecstacy. But the King, sitting motionless and half-stunned on a motionless horse, was an easy target for enemy marksmen. A shower of sling-stones rose in the sky, and one hit Romulus square on the side of his battered helmet. Unconscious the King slumped forward on the neck of his horse. As a Roman ran up to grab the bridle the Sabines charged all together, with a cheer.

  Marcus was not the only Roman to be dismayed by the injury to his leader. All day the citizens had fought stubbornly because they thought that under the leadership of the son of Mars they could not be beaten. To see him dazed, perhaps mortally wounded, drained the confidence from them. Under the impact of the Sabine charge the front rank gave ground; and the rear ranks, instead of pushing forward to hold their comrades in place, turned to flee.

  Marcus had been taught again and again, ever since he was old enough to exercise with spear and shield, that at close quarters to turn your back on the foe was not merely disgraceful, it was the quickest way of getting killed. It was unlikely that an armed spearman could run fast enough to outdistance pursuit; and once you had turned your back you could not protect yourself with your shield. All the same, seeing his fellow-clansmen turn to flee, he also whipped round. He found that he was too tired to run very fast.

  He was staggering along, and whooping for breath, when he was aware of a horseman beside him. A hand came down and clutched at the neck of his tunic. Expecting death from a Sabine cavalier he looked up, to see the anguished face of King Romulus. ‘Halt, you, and turn round,’ shouted the King, shaking him as a dog shakes a rat. There was something in the grasp of a royal hand, the hand of a son of Mars, which made him think it would be better, perhaps even less painful, to meet death with his face to the enemy. He turned about, covering himself with his shield.

  Other Roman horsemen rode through the rout. Aemilius rounded up a group of fugitives as the King seized a second flying spearman. Where Marcus stood a rank formed beside him; until the Roman reserve once more formed line across the plain. The front rank, still engaged with the Sabines, gave ground slowly, so that their comrades behind had time to form in good order.

  King Romulus, sitting his horse in the midst of his army, pulled up the end of his cloak to veil his head as he prayed. ‘Jupiter, Skyfather, ruler of all,’ he called, so loud that his men could hear, ‘Jupiter, fount of all law and good order, whose will keeps warriors firm in their ranks, Jupiter, Stay of Armies, inspire my citizens to fight for their city. If now you inspire them to rally, so that Rome endures, I vow to mark out for you here in the plain not only a templum of holy ground, but within it a house of brick where your image shall dwell in splendour. Jupiter, Stay of Armies, help your city of Rome.’

  Now the remnant of the front rank was running back; but they halted when they reached their supports, and the Sabines coming after them hesitated.

  ‘Here it is afternoon, with hundreds of good men killed on both sides; and the battle is just as it was before we made our first charge,’ Marcus thought to himself in dismay. He wondered whether they must stay in that narrow plain, surging up and down between the Capitol and the Palatine, until one side or the other had been killed to the last man.

  Neither army was anxious to renew the battle, though neither was willing to leave the field. Romans and Sabines stood glaring at one another, a hundred yards apart, while the leaders busied themselves in thickening the front rank by bringing forward unwilling men from the reserve. One of the mercenary Luceres, who had no business among the Aemilian clansmen, suddenly rounded on Marcus and pushed a battered shield in his face. ‘Here, look at that,’ growled the rough hairy giant. ‘See the fresh scars on it. And your bit of leather, big enough to hide two little shrimps like you, hasn’t a scratch. You’ll change places with me, or I’ll shove this spear down your throat until it comes out at your backside.’

  Marcus made a virtue of necessity, since he dared not defy this ruffian. ‘Why, certainly, comrade,’ he said with a sickly smile. ‘Of course I will take your place in the front line until you have recovered your breath. Let me know when you are ready to rejoin your own clansmen.’

  ‘The minute you are dead I shall step into your place, dear comrade,’ the other answered with a leer. ‘That’s how we do it among the Luceres.’

  ‘As you wish. Don’t accidentall
y stab me in the back,’ was the best rejoinder Marcus could think of.

  ‘Not accidentally, I never do that,’ said the other; which did not leave the situation any more comfortable.

  At last Marcus found himself in the front line. He levelled his spear, took a firm grip of the shaft, and waited with set teeth for the Sabine charge.

  Suddenly on his right he heard shouts of amazement, and the Sabine line before him seemed to waver. He craned forward to look to his right, even though the movement brought him a little in advance of the front rank. He could not understand what he saw. There seemed to be a crowd of women, descending the slope of the Palatine with wreaths on their heads and green branches in their hands.

  The column of women flowed between the two armies. All were clad in clean tunics, as though for a festival, and their hair was carefully dressed. Most of them carried babies. At their head walked the lady Hersilia, for the last hour the lawful wife of King Romulus. His face blank with stupefaction, the King rode to meet her.

  Marcus, carrying his son in his arms, trudged up the steep path to the Palatine, while Sabina beside him carried his shield and spear. His wife had just finished telling him the whole story of the exploits of the women; now she anxiously awaited his response.

  ‘Well, it must be a good idea, or King Romulus would not have consented to it,’ he said doubtfully, and Sabina sighed with relief. ‘But why,’ he continued, ‘was Hersilia so late in starting, if from the beginning she intended to make peace between us?’

  ‘Can’t you guess her reason? Every woman must be either an untouched maiden, or else the wife of some reputable man. Unless she is properly married she soon sinks to the level of those miserable harlots by the Wolf’s Lair, “she-wolves” as you call them in your jolly manly jokes. Through no fault of her own Hersilia found herself with two husbands. One day Romulus might cast her off, since she was not properly his wife; but Hostilius could not be expected to take her back, after she had shared the bed of another. She very sensibly made up her mind to wait until she had only one husband alive. She knew Hostilius would seek out the King and challenge him to single combat; any injured husband must do that. As soon as she knew that Hostilius was dead – we could see it all from the watch-towers on the palisade – she led us down to make peace, a peace that would leave her undisputed wife of a great King.’