S.P.Q.R. - Senatus Populusque Romanus

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Libo and the four legions had been following Hannibal and his army for days, the Proconsul often pressing ahead with scouts while the main army hugged the mountains and trailed behind the invaders, hidden in the thick forest. Libo, ever patient, what waiting for a moment, when both fortune and the Gods provided him and the army with an opportunity, and he was smart enough to know that this would mean patience and timing.

The army was in a constant state of readiness, humbled by the fact that Hannibal had beaten every Roman army for the last year sent against him, almost utterly destroying a generation of young Romans that would never feel what it was like to grow old, naturally.

Things had started off well for Hannibal. Every Roman Legion that had been sent against him had ended up totally destroyed, and that many of the northern Gallic tribes had flocked to his banner. His army had swollen back to about 30,000, and he had enough provisions to keep this war going on the peninsula almost permanently

But oddly enough, none of the Roman cities had come over to his side, even in the Italian allied states areas where traditional anti-roman feeling had spawned countless wars.

That puzzled him.

Did they not remember how they had fought to remain apart of the Roman yoke? Every Italian soldier he had captured in the defeated Roman armies he had released, but few had joined his army….

At that very same moment, Libo and his tribunes sat on their horses, hidden from view by a large copse of trees that provided ample cover, and took yet another opportunity to watch his opponent. This man Hannibal seemed to have a strong personal bond with most of his troops. Riding right in the middle of the formation, and constantly in touch with the other commanders in his army.

A truly worthy foe….

And then the opportunity arose.

It started off simple enough. The Carthaginian /Hispanic army marched in force across the coastal valley, heading down on its way to Jenuensis. Making very good time, due mostly because they chose to march along the beautiful Roman road that cut right through the sweeping countryside, the army was in the process of marching down the face of a large massif and were headed into the thick woods at its base, when Libo realised that their force was likely to lose most of its tactical flexibility as soon as the main body hit the trees.

Calling for Fulfius, he sent back to the four legions and ordered that they be immediately be brought up on the blind side of the nearest hill, so as to be able to fall on the enemy army as soon as it came off the slope.

The tension in the air around Libo was palpable, for in making the decision to attack, Libo was clearly stating where the roman army was located, and if he failed, a prolonged game of cat and mouse could possibly ensue, right where it would do most damage: on Roman soil.

All would have gone to plan, had it not been for the Numidian horsemen that had been out foraging for food, and had seen the dust cloud kicked up form the approaching Roman column, alerting Hannibal just as the Roman troops hit the rise of the nearby hill. Seeing that further progress would land him in much jeopardy, Hannibal rapidly called the halt, and turned his army around, in order to take up position on the heights that he had just abandoned.

Libo saw his second chance, and took it.

‘Fulfius! Advance all the cavalry forwards at the double to that ridge, and take it away from Hannibal. He must not reach that position. You hear me, Fulfius?’

Seize those heights!

Calling up the rest of his tribunes, Libo burst into rapid action.

‘Army to advance, at the fast march. We must cut off Hannibal from that peak, and force his to line up for battle on the slope. Speed and timing are everything.

Today, Hannibal will advance to further on Roman soil. We attack!’


What happened then was a mad dash by both armies to gain those heights, the Carthaginian force in complete disarray as it tried to reverse its direction and make it up the hill before the romans got there.

Fulfius and half the Carthaginian horse arrived at the same time, and both forces swung round to deal with one another, as a huge dust cloud signalled the imminent arrival of both armies.

Hannibal had sent all of his horsemen and Elephants on ahead, to buy time for the foot as they rearranged lines and prepared for the roman onslaught. Fulfius had experienced elephants before, and knew full well that naturally the horses were no match for the armoured beasts, but such was the thought of sane men, and wars were not sane men's activities......

Rome, his people and his life were threatened. Today was a fight to the finish.

Having his hornsman blow the attack, the Roman equites launched at the enemy number, hopelessly outnumbered but fighting for a cause, and the lives of those that they cared for and loved. Issuing perhaps his last command to his men, he told them tersely:

'You fight for Rome, your Consul, and me! Never forget the honour that binds us!

For Rome!'

With that, they tore across the wide open face of the mountain towards the massive horde of enemy horsemen that were bearing down upon them.

Hannibal too knew that the moment of victory or loss had come. His year on the peninsula, his victories, it had all come to this. Screaming to his bodyguard, he broke from the army, and went to join the rest of his cavalry.

It would be now. Today.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Scribonius had never run so hard in his life. The Centurion was leading the right flank of the army up the slope, the Roman line sweeping down the hill to his left, cutting off any hope for the Carthaginians that they could assault the Roman rear.
His feet were pounding into the hard packed earth, and it was as if he could feel every movement of his heart, painfully forcing the blood through his body to fuel his limbs, which were past the point of pain and now worked beneath him as though they belonged to a machine. His men in the right flank maniples kept pace with him, all craning to see what was happening on the peak ahead of them, as the Roman cavalry moved to engage the Carthaginian cavalry and elephants.

His lungs screamed for more air, but he fought the urge to stop, bawling out a harsh command instead, telling the men to keep their lines and be ready for any sudden counter. The sweat from under his helmet ran down in torrents into his eyes, and he wiped away the veil with the back of his wrist, hearing the steady drumming of the Legionaries' feet behind him.

Elephants.

There were 30 of the beasts, turning now and swinging towards the roman line. We must be formed up ready for them, or the lines would falter and break. Scribonius glanced over to his friend and mentor, the Tessarius of the Triarii of the right, Livio, who had spotted the beasts, and was bringing up the Triarii to form a hedge of spears, creating an impenetrable fence as the veterans grounded their spears in the hard clay, placing one foot against the butt of the spear, preparing themselves for the worse.

Fulfius.

Fulfius saw the first group of elephants making their way forwards, and screamed a command at the mounted Numidian missile troops to intercept while he held off their cavalry. He and his horsemen had won the race and had taken the heights, and now wheeled to intercept the first wave of cavalry rushing towards them.

The Iberian horsemen shied away from their attack on the numidians, fearsome of drawing too close to the Roman horse bearing down upon them now at an incredible speed. Fulfius and his Equites chased them back down the slope, giving the Numidians precious time to start their barrage, arcing gracefully in the sky to fall menacingly onto the advancing elephants.

Cato the soldier.

Decimus Porcius Cato, proud member of a noble line and vocal advocate for the destruction of Carthage, when given a choice in battle always elected to stay and march with the Legionaries rather than hare off after the cavalry, dispensing with his horse and marching alongside those in the front rank, his presence stiffening the resolve of all around him. A practitioner of the most harsh Greek philosphy, stoicism, he always chose to subject himself to the harshest zone of battle, saying that it was his duty both as a citizen of Rome and as a member of the Senate to engage himself in the thick of battle. Holding his shield tightly to his right, he exhorted the men to remember that they were fighting for everything they believed in, a way of life and a government that represented their great city and people.


The cavalry battle.

Libo’s second band of Numidian horsemen leapt to the right of the advancing elephants on a signal from the Proconsul, and shot out a constant hail of missile fire into the fearsome beasts, as Fulfius and the Equites slammed into the Carthaginian light horse, screening the attack. Scantly armoured, these Iberian horsemen stood no chance of going toe to toe with the heavy Roman horse, and after a short stand half their number immediately broke for the rear, catching the attention of Hannibal, who was still tearing his way up the hill with his bodyguard. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he managed to rally the other half, who milled about, trying to hold off the ever pressing Romans, hacking and slashing at whatever they could.

Libo.

Libo, atop the hill now, eyes sweeping the battlefield taking in the progress of the battle, saw Hannibal’s advance and, sending word by fast rider to Cato that the foot were his to command, personally led his bodyguard forwards to intercept the Punic leader. Libo and his horsemen raced across the side of the hill, his sword out and ready, glinting in the sun.

This is our battle, Hannibal. Today will be your last, may the Gods grant me this one wish.

About to intercept Fulfius, Hannibal saw the Proconsul appear from the Roman right flank, making a direct line for his position. Wheeling his own horse about, he stopped their pursuit in order to challenge the Consul. He had yet to kill one in battle, and he knew full well that striking him down in front of his army would deal them a mortal blow, and possibly put a quick end to the battle.

Libo bent forwards and yelled at the top of his lungs for his men to aim only for the Punic General, as he saw the famous man and his bodyguard turn and race to meet him…..

Hannibal and his horsemen disappeared into a sea of Romans, and the force of gravity carried the Equites clean through the heart of the Carthaginian formation, the initial charge slaying many of their number. He saw the old Proconsul Libo, and was turning to face him when his horse was totally surrounded, separating him momentarily from what was left of his men.

It was time enough. Raising his sword to rally his men, Hannibal was run through repeatedly by a dozen roman spears, gasping for breath as he fell and drowning in his own blood as his pierced heart pumped the precious fluid into his lungs. A huge shout went up from Libo’s bodyguard as the rest of Hannibal’s hand-picked men turned and fled, their commander’s body left to be trampled into the dust.

The line.

The Carthaginian spearmen were still trying to make their way up the hill when the Roman line deluged them with pila, hitting their exposed right flank with a deadly hail of lead. Many were transfixed where they stood, and noticeable gaps appeared in their lines, the Punic captains frantically trying to redress the line and wheel to face the Romans, who had made it to the brow of the hill before them and had a few precious moments to gasp much needed air.

Cato.

The Tribune Decimus Porcius Cato called the second volley, this time the heavy pilum, and their extra weight helped the Legionaries throw them far down the slope, lending velocity to their efforts.

Cato let out a fierce yell, and pulling his sword from its scabbard, tore down the slope towards the enemy line, the four legions of foot chasing after him, crashing broadside into the still wheeling phalanx.

Scribonius.

Scribonius was in the thick of things too, keeping the right in order as it pressed around the flank of the Carthaginian line, then turning once more to squeeze the tip of the Punic left flank from the rear.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Triarii race by, and grimaced as he saw too the second group of elephants supported by what was left of the Iberian horse dangerously close, still advancing up the slope. Dodging a Carthaginian spear aimed at his neck, he batted it aside with his shield, and stepping forwards, hacked off its tip with his gladius and closed in for the kill.

Fulfius.

Fulfius had seen the reserve elephants too, and realised that if they made it to the Roman line, they would crash into the rear, creating absolute chaos.

Seeing no-one else available to stop them, he wheeled about and shouted to his men. As he turned to address them, he realised at a glance that their numbers were already horribly thinned from the first assault. Grimacing at the seriousness of the situation before them, he spoke to them as a father would to his sons.

‘I do not expect you to follow me, but those elephants must be stopped. If need be, I will go alone, so I say my farewells now, and will meet you in the other world. It has been an honour serving with you.’

Saluting them with his gladius, he swung his horse around one last time, and seeing that his entire bodyguard was turning with him, not a man amongst them willing to abandon their commander, felt hot tears of pride sting his cheeks. He was a Roman.

Screaming out a name, he tore down the hill towards the elephants, as the hooves of his bodyguard’s horse thundered in his ears.

‘Roma !’

Fulfius led the suicidal charge down the hill, right into the flank of the advancing elephants, some of the men sacrificing their mounts by driving hard right into the sides of the huge animals, those few that survived the initial impact embedding their lances as deeply as possible before jumping off their mounts and attempting to make their way back to the main line. What was left of the Carthaginian horse milled about with them, a whirling melee of horse, rider and elephant, who fought fiercely, knocking riders from horses, goring some with their sharpened tusks, and trampling those that were unlucky enough to cross their path.

Fulfius felt the Carthaginian spear drive deep into the chest of his mount as it let out a horrible scream of pain, and collapsed on its side, momentarily pinning him to the ground as he struggled to free himself from its weight. He rose to his feet only to be assaulted immediately by what was left of the very angry Carthaginian force, his armour conspicuous and thus the subject of every warrior’s attention. Roman riders fell all around him, but he saw that most of the elephants had been mortally wounded, the last running amok across the battlefield with lances protruding from their hides, bleeding profusely, bellowing in pain. They would never reach the Roman line….. He had done it.

He never saw the spear that pierced his back, too busy fighting hand to hand with a huge Numidian mercenary, but suddenly he felt a blinding stab of pain and looked down to see its bloody tip protruding from his chest. Falling to one knee, he reached behind and tried in vain to pull it from his back, but his eyes gradually filled with light, and suddenly the whole world dissolved into….

nothingness.

Libo.

Libo, having got off his horse and dispatched Hannibal to the other world, was taking stock of the battle, gasping for breath and trying to summon enough saliva to spit out the dirt that caked the inside of his mouth. No time to drink. His head swivelled this way and that, tryng to see where the gaps lay, and wishing he had a clearer view of the far slope of the mountain where the foot were engaged, now clouded with thick dust.

He had turned his head back to where the second group of elephants were advancing, and was just in time to see Fulfius go down, and screamed at his men to go to his aid, jumping back on his mount and slamming his feet into the sides of his already spent horse, hearing it whinny in painful response as it went beyond the natural level of endurance. He saw his Praetor fall to one knee and pitch face first into the dirt, feeling hot angry tears burst from his eyes as he yelled out in disbelief.

NO!!!!

In a rage, he ran his horse full tilt into the side of what was left of the Iberian horsemen, and took his torment out on their number, as the Equites surged around him and did much the same, fully aware of the loss of their brave Praetor and enraged by the loss. By the time the fury had lifted from his mind, dead bodies lay all around him….

Cato and Scribonius were steadily cutting their way through the Punic spearmen towards each other, the Romans now pressing in from all directions. Word was spreading through the ranks that Hannibal was dead, and the fight was rapidly going out of the Carthaginians, who were breaking formation in ones and twos in search of escape.

The rear Punic line, made up mostly of Gauls and Iberians and still held in reserve, saw that the Punic heavy foot were in deep trouble, and that the roman line was spreading wider and wider, intent on engulfing them too in a wall of steel. Seeing that it was too late for them to effect any change in the outcome of the battle, they turned and bid a hasty retreat, evading the roman foot eagerly running towards them, thus stealing from them absolute victory.

Libo had composed himself by the time he and his horsemen returned to the main line, and he and Cato watched impassively as the body of Fulfius was brought reverently back to where the exhausted foot stood, which contrasted with the treatment that Hannibal’s corpse received, his head summarily hacked from its shoulders and sent back by rider to the capital.

Such is war.

The Proconsul spoke no more that afternoon, entering his command tent that evening to prepare the funerary arrangements for his lost Praetor and dead soldiers. That evening when he invoked Jupiter and the other proprietary Gods to come to the massive bonfire that had been lit to burn the bodies, his mind was caught in complexities of war, and the heavy price in human flesh that was always paid.

In victory, there is always death.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 35- The Crossroads.

Rome- 215BC.

Septima -12:00 to 12:44 P.M.

‘The Senate will come to order!!!’

The shouting had finally subsided, many of the senators retaking their seats for the first time in hours, such was the tumult regarding the current situation.
The ex-consular Libo had the floor, the only man stubborn enough to ignore the Senatus Principes, who knew that if he dare tell the ex-consul to repair to his seat, he would never hear the end of it from the rest of the senators.

‘Fellow Senators, we are in a time of crisis. At every turn, the wolves are circling, waiting to break into the house. Are you aware of the state we are in? Let me show you.’

Five slaves came in and rapidly drew a map of the roman world on the floor of the senate house, ideal for this task since the tiers stretched back up the walls and gave each senator a clear view of what had been drawn. Libo grabbed a staff from one of his servants, then shooed them out of the building, rearranged his toga, and began speaking.

Pointing out the rought features of the map, he explained to the house the current situation.

‘To the North, we have expelled the Carthaginians, but constant incursions from the Gauls has mean we needed to secure the passes into Gaul, so we have taken the old Greek colony of Massilia under our protection.
The eminent Cato and some of the other senators are of course calling for us to march off to Iberia, and put an end to Carthaginian presence there once and for all. But recent events have shown that this is not the only threat that Rome and her people face.’

He peered up at the faces that were looking at him, solemn faced.

‘Remember Bolgos? Yes, some of you have already forgotten, not that many years since. The Iberians have advanced as far as Gergovia, here. Narbo is theirs too, and all of southern Gaul. If we launch our invasion of Iberia, what is to stop the Iberians marching into Rome? Yes, I know that they trade with us, but they are a fickle people, not one to keep a promise.’

He moved, heading east as stood near what represented Rome’s north eastern reach, near Bononia.

‘This is my biggest concern. Macedon. The have swallowed all of Illyria, and Thrace into their empire, and now their armies even eat into Germania! Asia Minor is not free of their curse either, and Philip V still moves aggressively east, into Sarmatian territory. Yes, we are not at war with him. But who is to say when that will end? What is to stop him from turning and heading west, towards us?’

Murmurs got louder in the House, as worried glances and whispered words of shock echoed around the room.

‘Yes, Gentlemen. We must think, and decide the best course for Rome. Haste could lead to errors of judgment, and the loss of all that we have fought so hard to protect.

I call for three days of debate, and then a decision has to be made, must be made.

We are at a crossroads, gentlemen. May the Gods protect us.’

He moved to sit back down in his seat, as the house once more broke into chaos.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 36- The Pressures of Empire.

Pia arma, quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur opes.
It is right to take up weapons if no means of assistance remain but weapons.
-Titus Livy.

The Senate and People of Rome have decreed, in cooperation with the Tribal Assembly of the Plebiscite, to pass into law the bill to enact the militarization of the Roman peninsula, due to the threat of war with Gaul, Iberia, Carthage and Macedon


Initial estimates as proposed by the Senate are as follows

1. Army Group 'Hispanicus'- 8 legions, with possible expansion to twelve if Iberian forces choose to attack the Romans expeditionary force. The recently captured city of Palma in the Balaeric Islands will be used as a staging point for the invasion.
2. Army Group 'Illyrica'- 8 legions, to hold the frontier securely in Cisalpine Gaul and maintain watch of Macedonian activity in the region. This number can be increased if necessity dictates.
3. Army Group 'Sicilia'- 6 legions to invade the African homeland of Carthage once the holdings in Iberia are secured. Legions will be drafted from Corsica, Sardinia and Sicily. Troops will be withdrawn from the theatre once the region is stabilised, to be used in the invasion of the Greek peninsula.
4. Praetorian Army assault force to be stationed in Tarentum, 2/3 legions, to conduct punitive raids against Macedonian holdings in Illyria in the event of a Macedonian attack, and which ultimately will become the backbone of the assault on the Greek peninsula.

The Senate has further isued a senatus consultum stating tactical aims and limits, whereby

A. Army Group Illyrica is to maintain a holding action against all and any Macedonian attacks, and is not invade the region until the war with Carthage is decided.
B. War is to be avoided with the Iberian forces for as long as possible.
C. All peoples in Italian allied areas are to be offered limited citizenship for service in the legions.

Rome and its allies must work together to prepare for this momentous task. Rome must mobilize and maintain at least 27 Legions in the field to fulfill this objective. Every available man must come forth to offer their services for our city.

The future of Rome is at stake. Sacrifices will me made by many. But we shall prevail!

May the people of Rome remain in the favour of the Gods.

Long live Rome!

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 37

A Tale of two brothers.

They had walked up to the square, the large banner proclaiming that the legion that they would signup for that day would see action in Iberia, since the word ‘Hispanicus’ was plastered all over the red cloth, and the Signifier holding the banner was covered in exotic trappings; a bearskin cape, a shield that bore strange glyph like emblems, and a deep scar down his right cheek.

Titus and Sextus, their father watching them from the corner of the market, stepped forwards to the table, a grizzly old Centurion sitting there, bent over a large scroll that was still to have a name grace its page. The two boys had pushed each other in their hurry to get to the front, past the steadily milling crowd and other young and not so young men that were ready to line up for what was being called ‘The Great Adventure.’

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That had been over a year and a half before, and they had suffered under a gruelling daily schedule that had taken them from mere lads to men, their bodies hardening under the constant drills and hardships that all who served under the Legions of Rome had grown to know and love. For they were all well-honed fighting machines, ready to take on an enemy that was as mobile as they were elusive- the Carthaginians.

Inspection

Titus swatted a fly and farted in the general direction of the annoying Tribune, Lucanus, who always seemed to be nosing into the men’s business, constantly checking their equipment and readiness for battle, the state of their feet after the hot, dry marches. Sextus, the elder of the two, smacked his brother audibly loud across the back of his head, and then put his arm around his brother in a loving gesture as the Tribune in question looked back over his shoulder at what was going on between them. Shaking his head in understanding, he smiled and moved on down the camp, eyes into everything and having a word or two with many of the men.

They had landed the day before on a flat, sandy beach north of New Carthage, the four Legions disgorged from the sleek Roman vessels that had stayed off shore, letting the men jump into the warm briny water and make their way bouncily to the shore, where they dried in the warm sun by lining up in battle formation, and warding offthe advance guard of Punii horsemen that had tried in vain to prevent their landing.

The soil here on the coast was a red that both the brothers had never seen before, and it seemed to dry to a fine grit that meant every piece of metal had to be cleaned twice a day if it was to work as smoothly as it was meant to.

When they awoke the next morning, New Carthage was but a short march away, and the men were already halfway between there and the coast when a large Punic force appeared on the horizon, cutting off the approach to the city. The meaning was clear- you will advance no further. The Consul, using the morning coastal mist to his advantage, remained just a hazy form to the Carthaginian force, skirting around the advance guard and climbing the coastal mounatinside, where he could protect one flank with the heights.

But the enemy decided to come on, trailing the Roman army as it climbed, the rear guard reporting that more and more troops were assembling and joining the force, and that the day would probably not end without a fight.

For the two brothers, it was all they had longed for and much much more. Their father had served with the Legions, and had brought them up on a steady diet of battle accounts and bloody stories, enough to scare away the feint hearted, but like balm to the two boy's dreams. They wanted to know, and now longed to out do even their father.

The Great Adventure, was was they had heard in Rome.....

They fought in the same maniple, originally, Titus the stronger was put in the second rank, and Sextus, being the smarter, had been placed close to the right flank of the line where the greatest dangers lay. But by the end of any battle they had always managed to be found fighting side by side, until the Centurion had finally given in and placed them side by side, a fearsome team.

They wore the green tunics that marked them as the 'young men ' of the line, surrounded by other youthsas eager as they were to do battle, but placed in the charge and care of the old Centurion, Decimus, whom they all called affectionately 'Dad', and who prowled around now, telling the whole lot of them to look to their comrades for support, and never ever break from the formation that they had been trained to keep.

The enemy rolled on towards them, the right flank massed with heavy cavalry, and a fearsome sight, for any soldier, their bay horses whinning and clinking as they moved towards the line.

Thousands of them

The two brothers, standing side by side, heard the horn blow, and their maniple marched forwards to fill in the gap in the main line. As they marched forwards , they could see the Carthaginian General, his armour shining in the sun, directly in front of them surrounded by a fierce looking bodyguard. Almost close enough to throw a well aimed stone at.... thought Titus.

With barely enough time to get into position, the entire mass of Punic horsemen surged forwards, as if knowing where the potential weakness of the Roman force was centered, and started directly for the line of Hastati in the front rank.

Decimus blew his whistle, and the maniple hurried to a halt, the centurion trying in vain to scream out commands over the now steadily increasing crescendo of hooves that where flying towards them.

'Look to your comrades! Fight as one!'

His voice was drowned out by the fierce cry of the Punic warriors and the thunder of their hooves screaming down towards them.....

[Paxdax]

Very good!

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 38.

Fas est et ab hoste doceri

It is right to learn, even from the enemy.- Ovid.

The Carthaginian cavalry smashed straight into the Roman line, sending men, shields and spears flying every which way, as screams of pain and terror erupted from the wounded. The line buckled in the center, and the force of thousands of pounds of horseflesh steadily pushed the maniples backwards, step by bloody step.

The old Centurion, Decimus, totally concentrated on keeping his maniple in order, had turned his back for a moment on the tide of horseflesh surging towards him, when he was felled by the full force of a horse and rider slamming into his shield, knocking him down, sprawling, as the Punic horse crowded further and further, trying to penetrate the line.

Titus saw him go down, and immediately went to his aid, jumping forwards into the massed ranks of horsemen, and trying to cut his way closer to the Centurion before the man was trampled underneath, or worse still, run through. In an absolute rage, and completely forgetting all the rules and regulations that supposedly hold fresh rankers in position, he ripped a spear from one of the Carthaginian horsemen, and ran him through with the man’s own weapon, sending that man bellowing horribly to the earth. Throwing aside his shield, he lay about him with the spear, whirling it above his head like a mad man trying to purchase some room in which to move forwards, to reach Decimus, still knocked unconscious, Titus screaming at the top of his lungs:

‘Dad! Daaaaad!’

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The line in the sand.

Back in Capua, they had played a game that every foot soldier had experienced, where two maniples lined up against each other and used force of numbers to push the opposite number as far back as they could. The game was limited by a thin rope that marked a line in the sand, used to create even less grip for the soldiers’ feet, and if one of the teams broke through to the end of the pit, the game was over.
It was always force of numbers that won in the end and the maniple that exhibited the most coordination and teamwork would inevitably triumph.

Today, this far flung Iberian field was slippery with blood and gore, and they were not fighting for eminent position in the food line: They were fighting for their very lives.

"Te futueo et equum tuum!!!" *

Sextus swore out loud, slicing one rider’s horse a deep cut in the stomach, its hot intestines spilling out onto the ground as it fell, creating even more gore.That made the other riders nearby shy away in fear, and concentrate on another section of the maniple, which was bent concave, but holding. All he could think of was getting to his brother, who was a good ten feet ahead, but surrounded by milling horsemen trying to cut him down.

Titus had finally made it to the fallen Centurion, awake now but groggy, having taken a couple of good blows to the head by horse hooves, the centurion helmet now with a big dent in one side, but still enough to offer his head protection. He looked up to see the massive thighs of Titus step over his body, wielding the spear like a demon possessed, yelling profanities at the Punic horsemen, who were keeping well out of his way.

'Fellatores! Derideo te! Futue te ipsum!'**

With almost no time to think, Titus reached down and grabbed the Centurion unceremoniously by the collar, and started dragging him backwards towards the line, throwing the spear away and now had his free hand firmly on his gladius, slashing wildly around him to give them room. Sextus suddenly appeared screaming from the rear, and smashed his shield into the face of the closest horse, sending it crashing sideways into another and causing both mounts to fall, spilling their riders on the blood wet earth.

Dispatching them both, it brought the three men precious seconds to make it back to the line, which was reforming itself thanks to a reprieve from the endless cavalry and foot attack. The maniples cheered at the sight of their old commander, and the two brothers looked around at what needed to be done. The Signifier and the Option were both dead, the maniples' banner lying in the bloody earth. Looking at each other, Titus picked up the banner, and Sextus screamed at his unit to form up and brace for the next charge. Yelling at the top of his voice, the men roared at his command:

‘Line in the sand! Line in the sand!’

The four Legions were under severe attack on all fronts, the enemy’s massive superiority of horse telling on the front ranks as they tried time and time again to sweep round to the flanks and assault the maniples from the rear. The Consul and his cavalry units were busy fending off an assault on the left flank, and it seemed like half of the roman commanders on the field were either dead or wounded.

The rest of the Hastati holding the front were still in place, some ranks reduced by more than half, but none of the units had broke, and the call of Sextus was being picked up by the rest of the maniples. The aged veteran in charge of the Hastati, Prima Pilus Norbanus Livio ran up to line, and seeing that the Centurion Decimus was unable to do much except scream for breath, looked at the two brothers, pointing at the enemy.

‘Hold the line! They come no further! The veterans will sweep round to the flank. Keep that banner where I can see it Titus! We will meet you from behind the enemy, or later meet in hell!’

The brothers roared their approval, and prepared themselves for the next onslaught.

The enemy horsemen were milling around, working in tandem with the Iberian foot and spearmen, trying to find a chink in the roman line. Norbanus was already at the rear, sending half the Principes round to the left, screened by the Consul and his horsemen, still trying to fend off the Iberian missile troops that seemed to flying around in droves.

Norbanus and the veterans ran like madmen, to the right of the Roman line and then swinging round to the front, past the Triarii holding the flank, but heavily pressed.

The Carthaginian General rallied his entire force one last time, mixing the horse with the heavy foot, for one last massive punch at the Roman center, which had held but was desperately thin....

They came on like the wind, screaming like banshees, wailing and yelling, horse and man all bunched together, awesome and terrible by their number. The horse seemed to come together at the last minute, and in one huge body, slammed into the Roman left, the Triarii there skidding back in the dry earth under the force of pressure.

Titus and Sextus were standing, side by side and surrounded by the men of their maniple, joined now by the other rans of Hastati that had reformed and pulled up alongside of the fearless pair. The Carthaginian General and his elite bodyguard, seeing that their courage was rallying the line, shouted his men into action. Pointing at the pair, he sent what was left of his horsemen straight for them....

Men were knocked flying yet again under the incredible force of impact, and the two brothers did everything in their power to rally the men around them, those that had had the shields knoecked out of their hands grabbed anything they could, helmets, broken spears, disguarded weapons, fighting back like furies, totally caught in the moment between life and death.

The Principes were around the flank of the enemy now, unseen in the melee of blood and grime that caught everyone elses's attention, Norbanus turned his feet eastwards, and the reserves broke into a run, intent on catching the enemy in a deadly vice.

The enemy general, seeing that the moment had come, committed everything that he had into the middle, and one last tidal wave of brown smashed against the line. At one point, he thought he could see the daylight appearing from the rear of the Roman line, and urged his men on even further....

But the moment dissappeared as swiftly as he had seen it, as the entire roman reserves stabbed into the Punic rear, reinvigorating the exhausted Triarii who surged inwards too, stabbing at any and everything in their path.

It was too much pressure to bear. With what seemed to be a giant sigh, the Iberian and Carthaginian army realised that the end had come for them, and the entire force collapsed to become a sea of animal and beast, sliding this way and that on the bloody earth.....

What was left of their force was gradually dismembered and destroyed, amongst them the General who had almost snatched victory from defeat, his corpse crsuhed beneath the mad animal scramble for escape....

It was a bloody victory, and one that none of the combatants would ever forget.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, the Romans broke camp and marched into New Carthage, deserted except for a few natives, as what was left of the Carthaginian population, fearing for their life and safety, boarded every ship that was available in the port, and straggled off into the blue distance in hope of reaching a port of refuge, or Carthage itself.

The army marched into an eerily quite city, the strange phoenecian-like architecture displaying to them once and for all that this was definitely not their homeland.

There were three very public decorations made later that day in the city square: Norbanus, for bringing up the reserves at the crucial point in the battle, and the two brothers Sextus and Titus for their rescue of old Decimus, still heavily bandaged but smiling broadly. Recounting the battle, the Consul stated that the enemy horse had charged some eight times, and had been repelled each time by the valour and bravery of many.
The veterans smiled at the younger troops, knowing full well that the life as a soldier held more lows than highs, and when moments such as these came, it was best to celebrate them with those to whom it meant most- your comrades in arms. Many in the Lagions who had just been boys before the campaign and battle were now men.

The army also had two new Centurions.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

*- 'Screw you and the horse you rode in on!' (In Latin)
**-' C*cksuckers, I laugh at you! Go F*ck yourselves.'

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Editors note- The extent of Roman expansion in Iberia, 201 BC.

Rome's victorius Army Group 'Hispanicus' has taken both of the remaining Punic settlements in Iberia, and is now in control of the territory south of the Ebro know as Baetica. Ther remnants of Carthaginian forces there have fled to other Punic holdings elsewhere, and the Consular army is busy establishing new trade links with the natives and attempting a gradual pacification of the area.

Recent attempts to contact the local population and tribal elders have proved themselves futile, and massed formations of Iberian tribal warriors have been seen on the borders north of the Tagus River. It is the sincere hope of both consuls that war can be avoided with the indigenous populations, as the might of Rome's army now prepares for an assault on the Carthaginian homeland in Africa.

May the Gods grant us victory.

Long Live Rome!

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 39.

Bis interimitur qui suis armis perit

He is doubly destroyed who perishes by his own arms- Syrus.

Salanus Merca had waited half a lifetime for this, or so it seemed to him as the boat made its steady progress forwards, the movement of the oars not that dissimilar from the beating of his heart.

He had lost his father, mother and sister in the Punic invasion of the homeland some ten years before.Just a mere lad of a mere ten years, he had stood by, helpless, while his house, all their animals and belongings burned into dust, watched as his noble father and mother were dragged off into slavery, never to be seen or heard of again, and his sister was maltreated in the worst possible ways imaginable, until all signs of life and sanity had left her body.

The Carthaginian troops had laughed at him, mocking his feeble attempts at defending himself and his family, taking the wooden sword from his hand and beating him across his back with it until he had passed out. When he finally awoke, everything that he had once known and loved was gone.

Everything.

They had found him, several days later, wandering the fields and moving about like an animal, so deranged was the boy from his horrific ordeal. He had been taken in by some distant cousin, another noble, who had taken the boy away from Latium to Campania, where it was thought that the clear blue sky, wide open fields and healthy hard lifestyle would heal all wounds.

Indeed they had, for time has a knack for making that which was once unbearable, bearable again.

Salanus had thrived on the country lifestyle, but the local boys that had befriended him and included him in their games saw a fierceness in his eyes that scared them whenever their play or mock battles grew too serious.

He had studied, seemed to pay much more attention to the Greek tutor that had been hired specifically to heal the boys wounds, who had noted at once that the boy could study the works of homer and understand them in greater detail than many men much older disposition, and understood them so well because the stories were littered with tales of revenge and justice. So, thanks to the Greek and the rhetorical /historical training that he had provided, Salanus had learned to mask his desire in a learned disposition of a young noble roman.

But his heart burned…..

The steady thop thop thop of the oars slapping against the surface of the calm sea brought him back to the present, and he peered ahead to the approaching white landmass that was being pulled towards him.

Africa.

All he wanted, and all he had ever wanted to do, was to pay back in kind the enormous damage that had been inflicted upon him and his family. That burning hatred had propelled him into the army, refusing the post of Tribune due to him by birthright, to enter as a foot soldier. Three years had already passed, and he had cut his military teeth of Northern Gauls and the Iberian incursion, earning him place already in the highly valued right flank Hastati, known for their aggressive attitude and stubborn refusal to retreat in the face of adversity. Only three years in the service, but in the eyes of the army, he was already a veteran of many battles.

Centurion Salanus Merca was one of the first to jump down from the boat, and feel the hot white sand burn into the soles of his Caligae. But that was the last thought on his mind. He wanted only one thing:

Revenge.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Atque ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant
And where they make a solitude they call it peace.
-Tacitus

Prologue- Army Group 'Sicilia', utilising the summer tides had staged a landing east of Carthage, where it had split in two- 4 legions under the command of the Praetor Scaurus had headed inland to cut off reinforcements, while 4 legions under the command of Consul Septimus Sulpicius Rufus had beseiged the ancient Carthaginian capital, reinforced now by refugees still streaming in from Iberia.

Scaurus and the troops with the 4 advance Legions had headed deep into the dry interior, in the hopes of catching the Punic army at Hadrumentum off-guard and hurrying to reinforce, leaving the Consul to face any threat that would come his way, alone. The Centurion Salanus Merca busied himself with a fortified rampart that beseiged the city, knowing full well that soon enough the Carthaginian Senate would respond in force.

And so they sweated beneath the scalding sun of Africa.....

Let us continue Salanus' story.

Merca swatted fruitlessly at the horde of flies that constant clung to his back, trying their best to suck any blood and sweat they could out of his oily dank skin. The army had been waiting now in battle position for hours, and the sun was high overhead, making his mail shirt and shiled and Gladius feel like lead.

But the army stood, for they new what was coming: a large Carthaginian relief force from Utica, reinforced by many troops that had been run out of the Hispanic peninsula and stirred up like a host of angy bees, the dust swirling behind their colums as they approached, their dull droning thud of their distended hide drums filling the air with an ominous tone.

Cacat. Elephants.

Foot soldiers always hated elephants, as they could run a man down or crush him in any attempt to run from the beasts, who were surprisingly fast when they were irate, and in a battle tended to be so. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Consul send out the Numidian mercenaries that had turnedd up to their camp a few days before and had offered their services as scouts, and ideed they had been the ones that had informed the Romans of the Carthaginian's approach, the Roman horse still finding their way somewhat difficult, due to lack of landmarks.

Outnumbered, but not overwhelmingly so, the Romans had lined up on the edge of a wide plain that signalled the divide between the coastal regions and the dry interior, offering no advantage to either side, but excellent ground for mobile troop manouvers.

This was to be a fight to the finish, and Salanus had a score to settle. Seeingt the army come on before him, he had to fight every instinct in his body just to stand still, as the awesome might of all those spears marched on, closer and closer.

Salanus was edgy for another reason too: he was not fighting in the front line, instead he and eight maniples were tucked neatly behind the right flank, with strict instructions not to move an inch until the enemy was fully commited, when they would be released like banshees on the enemy left flank and rear.

Knowing full well that his Centurion had a score to settle, the Consul prudently held him in reserve, since if the battle did not go the way he intended it to, the sheer force of the Centurion's fury would be enough to reinvigorate any troops stationed nearby. Such was Salanus' reputation. The Hastati he commanded were heavily enough armoured to be able to stand up to the punic spearmen's assault, yet also fast enough to operate well in the oppressive semi-desert heat. The Principes would be the blocking force: the Hastati today would deliver the killer blow.

Many secretly thought that somewhere in the nobly blue roman blood that ran through Salanus' veins, there must have been a savage gaul in the past who had shed his seeds into the blood line.....

-----------------------------------------------

The Punic force marched onwards methodically, the elephants now breaking free now and running headlong at the Roman line. But they never got there. On a signal, the velites broke from the legions formation and pepperd the beasts with missile fire, agilely coaxing the beasts to move right, away from the Roman line and into the direction of the numidian cavalry, who formed cantabrian circle and incensed the beasts further by remaining just out of reach yet still launching a horrendous amount of javelins onto the frantically advancing beasts. With many spears dragging stubbornly in their hides, the animals exhausted themselves on a fruitless exercise that saw their numbers cut steadily, with no gain to the enemy.

The phalanx marched on......

The enemy commander broke left, in an attempt to shatter the will of the Hastati guarding the extreme right of the Roman line. As hs main line of spearmen charged the Roman center, the mercenary Spartan general Chaeremon raced to the flank, doing his best to invigorate the charge with his own valiant bravery.

The two lines hit, the Romans launching a full two volleys of pila into the Carthaginian foot, but they were so heavily armoured that the effect was minimal, and the full force of their charge pummelled the Roman line.

Both forces groaned and sweated for an hour under the hot midday sun, its full power beating down on their metal tools and heating them in their sweaty grips, as they swung at each other in a deady dance.

Salanus waited- what else could he do? He fidgeted, trying not to move and be the pillar of calm that his men needed right now, at the same time the haunting drone of the Punic drums calling back memories and emotions that he had thought were longdead and buried.

He saw his mother's face, and her screams as they pulled her by the hair, her noble robes torn and bloody.

His father, face beaten to a pulp, being dragged behind a horse, falling to the ground and being dragged away by a grinning savage, laughing at the boy as he did so.

He saw his sister, surrounded by a group of men, who when they had eventually walked away, had left a shell of a young girl who had died scant weeks later, never eating food and screaming in terror at all hours of the day.

He stood there on the battlefield, as if he was not even there. The battle that he was fighting was internal, but the anger and pain that he had though long since past was with him, and every sinew of his body shook in anger, hate, and sorrow.

It was as if he could still here his mothers voice, telling him: Run! Run!!!

His eyes snapped back to the present, as a tribune came screaming up from the command post, eyes livid.

'Salanus! What in all the God's name are you up to? The Consul is signalling you- Run!

Now man!!!'

Pulling his Gladius from his scabbard, Salanus took off at the run, his face a mask of pure anger, eyes shining like fire. The six maniples took off after him, the men watching him run like a machine, a steady, powerful step that meant death at every step.

The Carthaginians were still trying to adjust to the mobile maniples, who had broke into sections, only fighting where the phalanx actually touched the line, the other maniples pulling back to a resting position in the rear, ready to exchange with those heavily engaged. This meant that where although the Punic spearmen were fighting consistently, the Romans were able to cycle fresh troops into the battle, and this was gradually wering down the phalanx into sections rather than one consistent line.

Salanus saw the Spartan Mercenary General Chaeremon rallying his cavalry for yet another assault on the Roman right. As he and his maniples ran past wide, he saw the Consul Rufus take off after the man, splitting his Equites in two and launching both halves at the enemy General. The result was a forgone conclusion...

The enemy was still pouring troops into the attack on the center, in a fruitless attempt to break though. Salanus and the Hastati paused for brief seconds, catching their breath which was already rasping their dry lungs, then took off full tilt into the rear of the enemy line.

All Salanus could see were the faces of his dead family, all the faces of those he had known and loved.....

The Spartan mercenary general's head was already impaled on the end of a cavalry lance, but the fighting was so thick and intense in the center that virtually no one had noticed. The Roman right started to fold in two, coming in behind the last of the Carthaginian reserves as pushing them towards the quagmire in the center. As clouds of dust kicked up all over the battlefield, it seemed as though the battle was taking place not in this world, but in some dark and fearsome corner of the next.

And the most horrifying creature of that world was the Centurion Salanus, who fought like a gorgon intent on devouring as many human souls as it could. He cut down everything in his path, and when the enemy started to break and flee, he cut down everyone that tried to escape......

The Carthaginians ended up running in whatever direction offered the potential for escape, but many such as Salanus remembered the horrible atrocities that had been committed when Hannibal had invaded their homeland not so many years ago.

The Romans wanted their pound of flesh, and the field resembled a butcher's block that day.....

At some point, one of the other Centurions, Mencius, had to come over to Salanus and wake him up out of his blind rage, the enemy already long gone but the Centurion walking around in some demented torment, stabbing and cutting into the still warm corpses that littered the field.

It took the Consul to wake him, riding up on his horse and asking the Centurion to report.

Looking up at his master, lost for words, Salanus collapsed to his knees and wept, for the first time in ten long years.

It was done.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Ave all,

I just want to say- thank you for voting for me at the awards.

I am truly honoured, and hope to continue writing exciting stories for you this year.

sincerely,

MCM

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

If one was to say something about the Licinii family, it was that they had a canny knack for making money and realising potential business opportunities when they saw one. As a Gens nobilis ( noble bloodline), they were not of Patrician stock, yet the family had grown in prominence as the nation state of Rome gradually expanded and had made various lucrative business ventures in neighbouring countries and roman settlements on the Italian peninsula, thus rising in prominence in the city.

This whole class of nouveau riche that had sprung up in the city, of which the Licinii were just one family, were called Equites, the knights, and since rising in prominence and power were in a constant struggle to rise up in the existing social order to the highest offices that the Senate and People of Rome could offer.

Two such enterprising sons were now in command of the Licinii family destiny: Septimus Otacilius Crassus, 62, Consul and lord of an ever expanding domain of farms, trading companies and investments, and his son Publius Otacilius Crassus, 25, both businessmen of the highest order, and both possessed with a cunning nose for a deal when ever they smelled one.

In Iberia, these men smelled a fortune.

It was with great fortuitousness that Septimus was elected to the Consulship in 194, and he prudently called for the services of his son Publius to perform the duties of Tribune (and unofficially Praetor) while ensconced in this fat land.

For indeed, that is what this family of not so nobles saw- an opportunity to become richer still, expand their power base, and raise the family to the permanent heights of the Patricians, which had eluded them thus far.
In Rome, many said behind the backs of the Licinii that they were gluttons for money. To the family Crassus, it was just business.

Like the old saying went: what does the richest man in the world want?

More money.

Their ship had barely hit the dock in New Carthage, and Septimus sent out his agents in search of local business representatives to start finagling a deal. In his official position as Consul, he could not be overt in this endeavour, and so prudently he sent out the family freedman and accountant, Nobilus, who had been chosen for the task due to his proficiency with languages and ability to remain relatively unseen.

As Consul, Septimus could commander cargo space on any vessel that left port in the name of Rome, and could commander any ship he felt fit for ‘special service’. That left him with just the task of assessing accurately just what exactly there was in the country to offer. He had every intention of exploiting his position and the opportunity that it presented to him to the fullest.
Easily arranged: as Consul, it was his duty to tour the frontier and the new territory, subject it to his rigorous inspection, then pass on this report and his recommendations to the Senate regarding what they should do from here. Publius was busy too, sent immediately to the northern reaches to find out about the supposed bronze and tin trade that the Carthaginians had profited from so immensely, now sitting in ruins and just needing someone to tie the loose ends back together.

Crassus senior looked all the part of the nobleman; bedecked upon a dressy white public horse, he stood out amongst his peers, upon whom he set regulations regarding their mounts and attire, the effect of which made him positively glow in their presence. He understood the subtle and not so subtle arts of manipulation, often able to clinch a business deal when in fact he had little to offer except his appearance and office, his cash on hand going out in multiple directions so fast that the chests of money that he had brought from Rome were sitting, empty of gold, but refilled with brass blanks and locked, so that if by chance somebody was to move them, they would indeed have the feel and weight of the genuine article.

The locals saw a near roman God astride a noble horse, the local business interests saw money.

It was a match made in heaven for both.

In the grand game of things, the Crassus family was a master.

Far from the eyes and ears of Rome, the Senate had just let loose the worst of enterprisers on their new territory. The ramifications of this gross miscalculation would have effects hundreds of years into the future.



To be continued.......

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

The Breath.

When battle calls, man’s animal thus laid bare,
And those it beckons long hopelessly for peace,
The family’s, home, do stand and wait for morrow,
The loved one’s precious call they wait, in vain.

Once started, like an engine it doeth runneth,
Pours like a torrent brok’n, surging wild,
All in its grip do struggle ‘gainst its current
Some lucky few break free, strong will, survive.

For once committed in, there is no quarter,
Man on man, man on beast, and hand on bloody metal,
Shout, curse and cry are all one hears around them,
Such simple calls are all that can escape.

Blood, not thought; fear, not love,
Hate, not question; stand not fall,
Such simple choices, battle movement does decide.
So, toss and turn, dear heartless waves of fate, our brothers,
Thrown to the rocks, some live, some be spate.

All claim the Gods, 'Protect me!
It is I, your favoured son that doth now ask',
Such promises sworn in battles, oft forgotten,
The struggle to survive, now so paramount and clear,
As those that fall do cry out, now in vain.

Those that think, die; those that act, live
Those that quail, slain, for those that hate, scorn
Not one can escape the scars of battle, leave.
And all awhile, the Gods they are a ‘laughing,
This mortal coil so desperately we turn.

Not King, not knave, nor hero, slave
nor brother, father uncle, not valiant vassals fierceset cry,
nor the greatest victor, who one day too will die,
none escape this bloody struggle and its cost.
In death, they are all equals, both the noble and the king,
the blood that run between them like grains of desert sand.

At home, they wait…..for the scars are twofold:

‘Pray tell, dear trav’ler, stay and speak to us,
What news carry you, hear’d this of said battle?
How many live, how many died, who is the victor standing?
Did we prevail, or are we bound to run?'
and all awhile, while hopes held dear, they listen in both hope and fear,
With anxious heart, caught breath they sit and wait.

The storm, when pass’d , the refuse, storm toss’d amongst the rocks,
Slowly wake, and struggle to survive, still.
First life, then limb, then brother, then friend,
One by precious one they are all accounted or mourned,
and love laid lost is paid, for we are all this motral journey's slave.

The march of thoughts always lead to home………..

On one fine day, a figure in the distance,
Could not be them, so burdened is the step,
Yet words they cease and arms are spread a’widened
To grasp said lov’d one’s hand forevermore.

But oh the scars, lie deep, they do,
some buried in hearts that anxiously await a tender touch,
others never to feel that child like rush,
laid bare and scorned across a bloody field somewhere.

So sleep well dear lads, this night before another battle,
tighten both your straps of war, and your hearts do fill with courage,
for yet another bloody day doth stand, my friends,
between the home we call, so fair and bright, and yon field of war,
so terrible and full of fright.

Be brave my sons, do snatch some sleep,
for tomorrow, the morrow......

And simple thoughts swell through the night ,
leading endlessly to …..

Home.

*Quintus Cornelius Aneas, 195 BC

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 43. New Carthage, Iberia: Summer, 180BC.

‘Some fine bloody rest this is! Ecastor! This wine taste like shit!’

Titus spat out the watery red liquid and growled menacingly at the other Iberian guests that were sitting at the next table, still waiting to be served in the crowded inn. Sextus wanted to chide his brother for the remark, but truth be told, he felt the same way.

The furlough in Carthago Nova had turned out to be an expensive affair, regardless of their extra pay and Centurion uniforms, as the Iberians seemed to great delight in cheating the roman troops at every turn, and therefore Titus’ surly attitude was justified in the eyes of his somewhat wiser but nevertheless disgruntled brother.

The fact of the matter was, given a choice of three masters, the Punii, the local Iberian chieftains and the Romans, the Iberians would choose the average Roman, due to their naivety in trade and the ease at which they parted with their coin. These Romans lived as if there was no tomorrow, and were usually out of pocket within hours, and easy prey for money lenders charging exorbitant rates.

Sextus was glad the money had run out; Titus was now in a bad mood, and that usually meant that trouble was not far behind. He was already well drunk, regardless of the poor quality vinegar they were drinking, and it was time to move on and find lodgings for the night before their only choice was some dusty flea bitten barn.

He was still trying to coax his little brother to his feet when they heard the city alarm go off- two long deep blasts from a horn, and the second two blasts ten seconds later. Although technically on furlough, they were still duty bound to report to the city legion headquarters and report, but the state that Titus was in meant that the only words they would receive on report would be a tongue lashing for being overly inebriated.

Hearing the sound of well nailed caligae running down the street, the two brothers stormed out the door, Titus yelling out to a passing Legionary to find out what the problem was. The answer was returned by more than one soldier that ran by: an Iberian army was at the gates and close enough to throw stones at from the city wall.

Sextus ran up to a nearby well and grabbed a bucket full of water, dousing his head in one sudden movement, feeling the icy cold water bring back precious sense to his throbbing head. Turning to look at Sextus, who was fumbling over his boot, he screamed at his brother to stay in the hotel till the battle was done.

‘Fool! You are in no state for battle! Get back in there and find us a room!’

‘What, you think I am going to let you go out there and get yourself killed? Go fuck yourself!’

With that, Titus walked up to the horse trough and flung himself full body into it, emerging moments later totally soaked from head to toe. Grabbing his kit which was bundled up by the door of the inn, he staggered down the street while Sextus made his way more steadily after him.

The army was pouring out through the main gate, no time for organized unit drills, it was every man in a mad dash to get out side of the walls and form up, ready for the assault. Romans always preferrred to meet the enemy in the field rather than sit withing their sity walls and let the enemy devestate their lands. Such was the stubborn and obstinate way of Roman war.

Quaestor Norbanus, in command of the Legion left to defend the city while the Consular Crassus was off assessing the new territories, would have preferrred to have all four legions sitting within the walls to defend from local attacks. But of course the Iberians new that, and hence had doen that very thing. He would have to tighten up security around here, far too many leaks for his liking.......

The army was drawing itself up in front of the wall, trasnforming itself from the sea of humanity crushing through the gates, into the organized rank and file of the maniples, as his tribunes barked orders and pushed the ranks into place.

And then he saw them, knowing immediately who they both were by their twin like size and then trying not to laugh out loud when he saw the state that Titus was in: he had obviously done his best to dress himself as they ran, for his mail shirt was on back to front, and half the straps bearing his armilae were dragging on the ground behind him as he half staggered/half ran to the command post. Covering the smile in a commander's frown, he gazed down from his horse disconsolately at them.

Sextus, not in much better condition than his brother but at least dressed properly, saluted Norbanus and reported.

'Sextus and Titus Salianus, reporting sir! We were on furlough in the city when we heard the alarm.'

Titus made his best attempt at a salute, smiled at their old commander, and spoke.

'Norbanus you old bastard! What are you doing here?'

Sextus turned and slapped a hand over his brother's mouth, and almost knocked his brother flying.

'Terribly sorry sir, the wine we have been drinking was of poor quality, and I am afraid he has had a little too much.'

His blood red face said it all.

Again trying not to laugh out loud, Norbanus spoke.

'Well, get the pair of you off to the reserves, it will give that fool brother of yours time to sober up and me enough space not to demote the pair of you back to new recruits. Now off with you both!'

Sextus saluted, and virtually hauled his brother bodily as fast as he could from the Quaetsor before he had a chance to open his mouth again.

Norbanus turned back to the task at hand, and gazed out at the mass of Iberian cavalry that was threatening his left flank, as the Roman troops continued to pour out of the city gates....

[Ludens]

Still reading .

Please carry on!

[455trt43trg]

Really nice work, I like this.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Auros watched as his army smashed into the hastily drawn up Romans, not more than a couple of hundred paces from the main gate of the city. His Devotio horsemen milled about, rushing forwards to support the drive against the Roman right, then pulling back out of range of the artillery emanating from the high city walls, which could cut them down like flies if they drew too close.

It was only one Legion, obviously ill-prepared for the assault that had been planned today, the main army out in the field trailing after the Consul, who seemed more busy making one sided business deals than interested in battles.

He had been given a task, an opportunity to raise himself in the eyes of his peers, and he had no intention on reneging on the task. To that end, he was screaming himself hoarse, making sure that his troops worked well, coordinating their movements and ensuring that they supported each other in the drive to crush this small garrison.

The medium and light Spanish foot moved lightening fast, running forwards to propel their javelin deep into the roman ranks, trying to coax the maniples to break out of formation and into a headlong run after them, which would lead to a very bloody end for these white skinned invaders.

But, the Romans stood, supported by the officer so visible on his horse, commanding the troops from their center, and keeping his lines straight and tight. Auros’ frustration was mounting….

Titus had sobered up sufficiently to have rearranged his mail vest the right way round, and was standing with the maniples of veterans guarding the gate of the city. His brother too watched the battle intently, wishing that they had more troops available to take it to the enemy instead of just stand there and do their best to repel.

Norbanus knew exactly what the Iberian general was trying to do, and thanked his lucky starts that the soldiers under his command were not raw recruits, and had the sense and good training to stand where they were, under fire or no. Having a slight advantage of height, he had all of his men waiting for the major assault, holding back from throwing their pilum until it was absolutely necessary, instead standing tightly, shields locked and defiant, letting the enemy exhaust themselves in this constant assault.

Both armies were playing a deadly game of patience…

Auros could see that the foot alone would not be able to break the Roman’s resolve, and undertook to launch all of his cavalry at the Roman flanks, which were angled to the rear, their farthermost tip almost touching the city walls.

Almost!

Splitting the cavalry in two, he barked his commands in a voice that was almost lost, but still had enough power to make himself understood.

We have one chance- take it!

Norbanus saw what was happening and immediately realised the jeopardy they were in. Sending for the two brothers, he noted with grudging admiration that they were both now fully cognizant, and their eyes glimmered with a fierce intensity of which both were famous.

‘Titus, support the left, Sextus, the right. Whoever breaks through the cavalry assault sweep to the centre and roll up the enemy flank. I will meet you there and we will push these barbarian bastards back into the mountains. Understood?’

Two nods of determination was all that it took for his to know that they understood, running back to the reserve and splitting it neatly in two, the Triarii racing to seal both flanks, their long heavy spears and pale blue shields eerily sweeping to the dust splattered ends of the line.

Auros signalled the attack, and the Iberian foot pulled back for one last time, ready to surge ahead with the cavalry in one gargantuan blow. Norbanus screamed out the command to ready pila, and two opposing forces prepared for the final outcome.


Roman dead and dying lay everywhere, mixed in amongst the piles of Iberian dead prone beside them, but the lines still stood, and showed no signs of breaking. But a solid wall of angry human flesh now raced towards them in the deciding engagement.

Norbanus waited for the enemy to make the crest of the slight rise that marked the entrance to the city, wanting to launch every pila at almost point blanks range in order to do the greatest psychological and physical damage as possible. Surging forwards himself to make his voice heard, he gave the terse command, and the sky was filled with angry darts that arced gracefully up into the pale blue sky, only to fall with increasing velocity on the sea of flesh that screamed forwards to meet them.

The Iberian army smacked into the Roman line, as a blood sea of human and animal refuse tore from the impact, the screams and shouts of the living, dying and wounded competing for air. Norbanus saw the enemy cavalry sweep around blindingly fast to the flanks, searching for a precious opening, and heard the roar of the veterans as they raced forwards, spears at the ready, to resist their advance.

The stink of blood, sweat and anguish filled the soldier’s nostrils, as both sides struggled for supremacy, urged on by their commanders that were cut down one by one, as their orders faltered on the rocks of reality. Titus hacked the arm off an opponent who had grazed his flank, a little too close for comfort, and cut diagonally into the enemy formation in front of him, the Triarii pressing forwards to keep the Devotio horsemen at bay.

Sextus and his Hastati were busy fighting Auros, who was doing everything in his power to cut a swathe through the Roman line and get to Norbanus. The rear ranks launched their last pila and holes started to appear in the Iberian attack.

Titus and the Triarii broke through the enemy horse, running headlong back down the slope towards to coast, to get as far away from the Roman spearmen as possible. Norbanus saw it out of the corner of his eye, and ordered the entire line to start the inexorable push forwards, pressing the enemy back in the direction from whence they had come.

Sextus thought he had Auros in his grasp, and was running forwards to stab the General’s mount, when Auros made one last bid for survival, battering his way through a wall of Hastati and urging his mount forwards in a headlong flight for freedom.

Losing his feet, Sextus fell heavily on a pile of dead and dying bodies, and was still struggling to right himself when the entire roman army raced past him, in hot pursuit of what was left of the enemy army.

Auros would never forget that day. He had stared victory and death in the face, and had been shunned by both. The army that he had been given command of lay in bloody piles across the entrance of the big city, and all he had to show for it was his horse, a huge gash down his left leg, and one lone rider who raced beside him, their mounts now close to death.

Such was fate………..

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

To my father, and ex-consular, Septimus Otacilius Crassus, Hail!

May the gods shine their blessings down on both you and my blessed mother, Perpinia. I hope this missive finds you both enjoying your life in our Palatine mansion, and that you have found the time to drag yourself away from the turgid activities of the Senate to spend some time on our oft maligned estate in Campania. How goes Rome? I find myself missing it more day by day, even if political life involves a constant struggle against both friend and foe. What of Macedon? Do they still threaten our borders to the north? The day will come when Rome will have to face the Greeks, and I foresee a long and difficult struggle.

Things go well for our business here in Iberia. The metal trade has brought us a steady income, and the islands to the north in the great sea will one day bring us untold wealth. For now, we must content ourselves on the promise of future diveidens once this land is truly ours.

At your request, I have commissioned the building of six new vessels, which I am assured by the Poeni designer will be of the fastest speed in a good wind, and will consider another three in the next year. Our little trade concession has been lucrative, 10,000 talents all told over the last year and a half. It helps to be able to cut out the opposition though, and the Consulship you bought me means that no-one dares try to counter bid our neat little operation. The warehouse are built, three in N.Carthago and one to the north in Arse, with allowance for the expansion of trade once these unpredictable people are firmly under Rome’s thumb.

Life here in Iberia is active, an understatement of epic proportions as I am sure you are well aware. We have been totally run ragged by that tribal fellow Norbanus nearly killed in Nueva Carthago, Auaros. What a stubborn problem he has been for us, I can tell you! The man has fomented rebellion at every corner, and in spite of the fact that his last army was completely wiped out by us. So what does he do but has created two new ones in its place! I have spent the best part of this summer chasing him around like a cat after a mouse, but the sly fellow always seemed to be able to get away.

The Gods have smiled on me dear father, but it took a ruse and a large amount of cash to trick him into a decisive battle. Once bitten, twice shy as the saying goes, Auaros wouldn’t sit still long enough for me to bring his army to battle, and I had rather a frustrating time of it until Norbanus figured out how to lure the bear to the honey, so to speak.

This is how we did it. Norbanus suggested that I make a big show in public about going off north of Arse towards the Ebro, while he would leave N. Carthago with two legions during the rainy season and lose himself in the mountain passes, cutting back towards the city of Arse in time for the peak of summer. All this while Arse would supposedly be undefended, a ripe juicy apple for our friend Auros to pluck. The plan was for me to double back catch this wily young man when he chose to appear, and Norbanus would cut off his flight to the west.

As with all things, chance plays a big part in war, and our man decided rather too swiftly to race down to the coastal plains and avail himself of his prize. He was in the process of investing it when lo and behold! I reappeared from the north, and placed my Legions in fortified camp denying him access to escape to the northen coast.

Well, I had barely got the ramparts complete when word was brought up by the scouts that Norbanus had caught Auaros’ rear guard and gave them a good hiding, unfortunately this sprung out trap a little too early, and the Iberian was informed of the fact that Norbanus was on his way cutting off his escape. The bright young man figured that it was better to face the lion instead of the cub, and drew up his army for battle before my encampment.

His task was a noble one- to crush my army before Norbanus’ arrival, then turn on the cub and claim his country for himself. It is said that many of our enemy are noble, truly we must count Auaros amongst those most valiant.

I had hardly even formed up the Legions when he came on, the entire weight of his forces bearing down upon my lines like a thunderstorm. Tribune Filo was by my side, making sure that the orders were heard above the din of battle.

It was a straight battle, 27,000 Iberians on four legions, and a good 6000 of his troops were either Devotio cavalry or blood band foot. Ye Gods! How they fight! The battle had barely begun when word came that the right flank was in peril; Auaros himself had led an assault that threatened to burst through to the rear.

I have never seen braver soldiers, this enemy that was arrayed against us that day. His horsemen were fearless and headstrong, their horses literally falling out of the sky upon the flank, taking the first maniple out completely and pressing through to the rear with constant pressure.

I had to intervene myself to save the flank- there was no other choice but to stand by and watch my army bend and break under the pressure. Filo and the rest of Equites raced after me, and I caught most of the Iberian horse whilst they were busily entangled with the struggling Hastati.

Father, I am not afraid of battle, but I must admit to you that I have never been more scared of defeat than on that day. There was no time to think- I flung myself headlong at the enemy and led the charge that plugged the enemys’ breach.

Bodies lay everywhere, the dead and dying intermingled with those of us fighting to survive the quagmire, but the men fought well, cheered in fact by my willingness to subject myself to the same perils that they experience each and every day. I watched in vain as Auaros pulled himself back out of the melee and gather another force to assault the main line.

I personally slew three of the enemy and wounded a good number more, when suddenly their line broke and the remnants flew backwards, to regroup and rally to Auros.

I turned back to the line to keep the flank from peril, fearing that if I got caught up in some headlong pursuit of the Iberian, the rest of the Legions would be laid bare to a cunning enemy.



The battle raged for most of the afternoon, and I knew that that day would be the decider of the future of this rebellion. Auaros was persistent, and wily: every time he sent his cavalry forwards, he himself would break off with his bodyguard and attempt to punch through the main line. Being short of cavalry, I let my officers fight the battle, the orders that I gave them were simple- hold the line and wait for the final push.

I don’t remember how many times I personally engaged with the enemy, I only just remember that my valet brought up water to me halfway through the afternoon, and that one horse was killed underneath me while we fought (the bay one, that you sent, I am sorry), but it was quickly replaced by another, and I remained in action most of the afternoon.

The Hastati held the line while I snuck round the reserve to the right, and we managed to catch what was left of his cavalry forces in a steel wedge, leaving piles of dead horses littered across the slope.

Well, Auaros, that man Norbanus said had nine lives, finally met his end about 4 in the afternoon, when my right started to roll up his line, exposed now as they were since all the cavalry had been either killed or run off.

The fool let himself get trapped in the centre, while I and what was left of the Equites ran off the remnants of his Devotio horse, and Romulus Cantor (you remember, the Centurion you promoted, the one from Capua?) caught him a good gladius thrust up the rib cage, and that was that.

Well, that was all it took for the battle to be won, the troops got a second wind and pushed the enemy back towards Norbanus until we couldn’t take another step.

I heard the next morning that he had killed off all the survivors, and had crucified the leaders for their bad behaviour , for good measure! So I think its safe to say that things will probably be a bit quite around here for the time being, may the Gods make it so!

So, dearest father, do not forsake me when the wine harvest comes in. You no know I have a penchant for the red thats grown down near Rhegium, could you see it in your heart to send me a crate with the next supply ship from Rome? And oh, before I forget, please find me another steed, something flashy but with spirit will do, as I fancy I will tour around a bit in the spring to lord it over the locals.

May you and my dearest mother enjoy this summertime of your lives, please give my regards to Cinnus and Laetia, tell them I have a present for them next summer.

From your son, Senior Consul of the Senate and People of Rome,

Publius Otacilius Crassus.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 46.
The March of Lions:End of Book Two.


Epilogue.

Rome, her people and her power have grown to unexpected heights over the last 50 years, and the word the represents our great city is said with reverent awe at all reaches of this world’s limits. Superior technology, organization, and manpower have placed her firmly in control of the Italian peninsula, diminishing the once overpowering strength of the Carthaginians to a mere shadow of its former self.

Rome finds herself at a new beginning, owning large tracts of land far from the hallowed halls of Italy, and in defending herself against the aggression of others has found herself now in control of a gradually expanding sphere of influence that spreads itself across the Mediterranean.

That which once seemed impossible has come to fruition-

Empire.



North Africa

• Uttica
• Carthage
• Handrumentum
• Thapsis

Carthage is reduced to the ownership of two cities, far separated, at one end squashed between Rome and the burgeoning Ptolemaic dynasts, at the other between Rome and the Numidii. Numidia threatens the southern and western borders of Rome’s acquisitions.

Iberia

• Neuvo Carthago
• Arse

Under intense counter attack from the Celt-Iberian forces there, Rome must expand in order to stabilise her position, or face peril and loss. Expanding north will give Rome access to further mineral wealth, and create an eventual link with transalpine Gaul.

Transalpine Gaul

• Massilia

The ongoing war with Iberia will lead to Rome ultimately pushing back their possessions in Gaul, and eventually connecting with Roman held territories in Iberia, creating a land mass that could exceed the size of the Italian peninsula.


Cisalpine Gaul

• Jenuensis
• Mediolanium
• Bononia

Under constant incursion by Gallic and Iberian forces, the fabulously rich Macedon threatens the northern reaches of the Italian peninsula.

The Mediterranean

• Sardinia
• Corsica
• Malta
• The Balearics


Secured and now under intensive reconstruction, heavy with grain, metals, gold and foodstuffs, these islands will one day create a powerful network of economic resource crucial to the development of our Empire.

Rome’s resources are stretched thin, finely balanced to survive the three fold pressures of other nations seeking to gain dominance over them.

The battle for survival is not over yet…..

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Prologue.

'Get me out of this god forsaken, flea bitten country!!!'

Decimus Claudius Nero, patrician and hallowed son of Rome, spat onto the ground from his horse, and reached inside his cuirass to find a cloth to wipe away the sweat and grime that had accumulated on his neck, which was attracting flies of a size and ferocity that left him covered in bites wherever his skin lay exposed. Patrolling the river delta that marked the entrance into Transalpine Gaul proper, they had camped the night before next to a big and turgid river that yet meandered in parts, which when combined with the liquid heat of the Gallic sun, created a blanket like warmth and humidity that was ideal breeding ground for every type of insect imaginable.

He was here both because it was his family's duty and for a love of martial duty, the sons of the original Claudii having done so stretching back over more than 20 generations, as far as back to the original founding fathers of the city of Rome and the struggle between the families that had led to the division of Roman society into plebeian and patrician.

Few could countenance the iron determination and suredness of purpose of that blue blooded young man who led the army of advance into Gallia proper, but he was after nothing more than to wreak vengeance upon those Iberians that had killed a Consul of Rome in a recent battle: 'Aulus the crippled' as he had been called due to the withered leg that had been tainted by injury as a boy, and who had served Rome and the Legions with great honour until offering his life in a battle that ultimately saw the Legions victor.

Lured into a parley that had indeed been an ambush, Aulus, ever seeking peace and harmony with the Iberians and tribal people of the region, had paid for that quest in his own flesh and blood, even after rallying the army and crushing the Iberian force to a mere fraction of its size, the wound in his side refusing to mend and taking his life in a fever a few days later.

The Senate had been specific: this was a special command or retibution for Decimus, and he had vaulted his place in the cursus honorum thanks to the decision of the august body to send him instead of one of his peers. The best Generals were already busy in the field, as every day Rome's territories swelled and burgeoned with life and trade, and that which had been hard fought for was in turn in need of vigilance.

Decimus watched the troops as they marched past, swatting at flies like he, and staying close to the river because it gave the army cover until they could reach the prize they had been sent to take:Gergovia, seat of the provisional Iberian command and figurehead of resistance to Rome's expansion.

We did not want this war, Decimus thought to himself, but we will indeed finish it, for the armies that Rome churns out year after year and stronger and more technically advanced than any other on the face of this hard trodden earth.

As another fly bit into his neck and caused him to grimace in pain, Decimus though hard of what punishment he would mete on those that had dared kill a Consul of Rome.

For he would be the one that would issue out justice, and soon.........