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

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Prologue....

The house sat in the heart of a large clearing that had been carved out by his forefathers some hundreds of years before from the forests that had once surrounded the area. The farm now lay next to a small stand of trees which provided shade from the hot and relentless sun all year round, the trees all that was left of the once massive sea of green. Three fertile master fields were the source of this family's legacy, one a good few stadia in size providing the family with an endless supply of olive. Field number two now held the extensive vineyard that his grandfathers had built generations before and now produced a fine if earthy red every year that brought a few extra sestercii for the family to use each year. The last field was marked out as the spare field, mostly lying fallow at the southern end and providing his horse and small head of cattle with extra grazing in times of need.The gentle slope that ran around the front of the house and was bounded by seven well trimmed cypress held a bountiful little vegetable garden that kept him, his wife and children and the manumitted slaves stuffed full of vitamins and vigour the year round.

Campania was a fertile land, home to the massive sleeping volcano Vesuvius that almost no one could remember had ever erupted, and home also to a rich volcanic soil that could grow almost any crop, no matter how exotic, so the rolling slope of the land was scored with small farms and larger noble estates.

Not noble by birth, but rspected in the community regardless as peerless fighters, Marcus Anneaus Celer’s family had been there for generations, and they had thrived there ever since leaving Rome for the warmer southern climes.

His wife was still busy out in the fields with his two freedmen as he prepared his kit, not allowing her anywhere near his military gear which had been stored safely in the ceiling of the large barn, oiled and waiting for such a day.

For he had known all along since his return a year before that this day would come, as she had.

He had tried to be a good husband, and had acquitted himself admirably, tackling all the outstanding problems that hadn’t been accomplished by the help, and seeing to it the crops and vines would continue to maintain his family well into the unknown future. Celer loved his wife with all his heart and soul, but a longing for the mortal struggle of combat had stayed with him ever since returning from campaign and no amount of toil and sweat that he exerted on the farm could ever replace that rush of adrenaline that signalled the call to arms. His wife, resigned to the fact that he had another master much stronger than her love could provide, had quietly accepted that one day he would be gone once again, but had hoped against hope that the call would never arrive.

But the Gods pf War were to have their way, and the lone rider had arrived days before, informing that all those who were eligible for campaign were to report to the muster in Capua a week hence.

The day had come.

Celer was alone with his thoughts, seeing to the last documents and details on his desk, then looking at his kit one last time. Wiping the thick oil from the Gladius' blade, he saw that the last few day’s grinding had done its work on the blade, which glistened with a deadly promise as he slid it from its scabbard one last time. Looking around his surroundings one last time, he mumbled audibly to himself: goodbye for now. Grabbing his kit and slinging it over his muscled shoulder, he made his way out towards the door. As he expected, the two freedmen and his wife met him at the entrance to the house, where he hugged her firmly to his chest, husband and wife's eyes betraying their true feelings, and a monument of words unsaid. They both kneeled and prayed to the small shrine that stood at the entrance, the protector of all travellers and warriors that had protected his and his kind for generations. With that, he was gone.

It was time to go.



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Celer trudged down the winding mountain path, down the eastern slope of the long and wide volcano towards Nola, where the Via Aquilia traversed parallel to the coast and made a bee-line for the bustling city of Capua, the main artery for trade and communication between Rome to the north and Benevento in the mountainous heartland, the road then gently sloping down to the sea and Brindisi near the heel of the peninsula in the south. It was a good five day walk for most folk, but Celer’s legs were used to hard walking, having marched the length and breadth of the Italian peninsula countless times, some of those steps wounded or heavily burdened with kit and supplies. He did it in three without a blister.

As he walked he could see the large market town Acerrae over to the west, and the endless stream of traders that plied between there and the coast, and the increase of traffic and trade that coursed through the land. Rome, the city and the Empire, were burgeoning, the land ripe and fat, the crops bursting forth from the soil like a perpetual gift from the Gods.

On the third day he walked into the town of Capua as the sun rose high into the sky. The town was a bustling hive of activity, with military activity paramount, as horsemen and small detachments of men ran or marched to and fro, as supplies were gathered and the inns prepared for the rush of raw recruits that would eventually storm the town en masse and seek solace from their centurions at the bottom of a large flagon of wine . The annual draft of Roman citizens had formed two new Legions as usual, an eclectic mix of veterans and raw recruits mixed together with mathematic precision so that each new maniple had a certain number of veterans to lead them in battle and provide backbone for the younger men when the going got tough.

This particular year, the veterans had signed up in droves; bored with civilian life, already in debt, or all too well accustomed to the nagging of everyday realities and problems, they sought the relative freedom of the campaign, regardless of the pain and suffering that went with it.

They were first and foremost the fighting lions of the Legions. Everything else came second.

As the years went by, and Rome’s armies grew larger and larger, more and more ex-Legionaries found themselves forever tied to the army, as units served longer and longer away from Rome, and the soldiers looked more and more like a professional army.

And through all this Celer trudged, he step becoming surer with each and every roman yard that drew him closer to his next campaign.

As the new recruits formed up into centuries, ready to march off towards the training camp, a few of them elbowed each other as they saw these veterans like Celer march up and enrol, wondering just who they were and what exotic lands they had lived and fought in.

One such veteran was this man from the slopes of Vesuvius, Marcus Annaeus Celer, the old Signifier from the Legions that had fought against Hannibal, who had returned to the fold yet again to serve under the Legion standards, carrying his kit and a well covered pole over his shoulder.

The large table that served as the enrolment desk sat in the middle of the town agora, and the crusty Legate that saw Celer approach smiled to himself on his arrival. Telling the young cadets to step aside, he made room for the veteran, who hailed him from afar, then extended his arm forwards in the legionary embrace: both hands wrapped strongly around the other’s forearm. The officers in command of the last campaign had tried to make him a centurion for the maniples when he had re-enlisted before, but he had refused, insisting only to continue to serve as a signifier. This time would be the same. Uncovering his well hidden charge, he revealed a well oiled but very weather-beaten standard, a large wooden hand affixed outstretched atop a long pole, missing most of the smallest finger, with a partially destroyed laurel wreath beneath it. Under that were three golden phalarae, that had been honoured upon the previous units serving under it before that Legion had been disbanded. It had been given to him as a parting gift from the men who had served with him, and he had kept it well cared for until it was needed again.

‘Brought that old Manus with you again Celer? Isn’t it about time to retire it for a new one?’ the officers joked. He only laughed back at them.

‘Not if Jupiter himself asked sirs! It brought us luck in the past and it will protect us again in the future. I wouldn’t exchange it for a new on my life.’

While he spoke, the Junior Consul for the year walked up smiling, with arm outstretched to greet the hoary veteran, and addressed the assembled crowd.

‘Never fear, Marcus Annaeus Celer. That banner represents the blood, toil and honoured victories of our fair people. It will have the place of honour in our Legion as you will.’

The officers nodded in respect, and motioned Celer to move off over with the other veterans that would form the Triarii maniples, the veritable back bone of the army, who stood by and watched as the new troops were sorted into groups for training.

Decked out with their shiny new equipment, and wearing the standard off white military tunics that befitted their raw recruit status, the young men formed up into ranks and made their way out of the city. Under the guidance of the senior officers, this years recruits marched off fifteen miles into the countryside to an already decided campsite destination, where they stopped, the Signifiers planting the standards for the two Legions in the hard earth. Those standards would represent, from now on, the heart and centre of wherever the Legion would be. The Consul, here personally this year to supervise the initial training, addressed the drawn up ranks.

‘Men, we build out new home here from scratch. Have the centurions show the men where to dig and we will camp within walls before sundown. Listen and learn from the veterans, there is never enough time to prepare a man for battle, so listen and learn well. Training tribunes and centurions, I will leave it to your expert hands, gentlemen.’

With that, he rode away with the new crop of Tribunes and Legates to watch the proceedings from atop a slight rise where his command office would be established.

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The camp was built with rapid and almost machine like precision, and what had once been bare earth soon became covered with buildings, roads and unmistakeable signs of military activity, marches, drills, armed horsemen riding to and fro, and the mixed smell of animal sties being mucked out combined with human sweat and grime.

Days later Celer sat at the crossroads of the main intersection that bisected the camp, oiling the long wooden pole that was literally gouged and dented all over, vein-like with scratches and nicks from various battles that scarred the pole like the same on his body as another century of boys rapidly becoming men marched by, hounded by his old friend and drinking partner Silo. The training was going as expected, the raw recruits submitted to unending and progressive levels and layers of discipline, designed to first break them and then ultimately remake them as fighting machines worthy of the name legionary.

The other veterans chosen to be Signifiers sat around, polishing and tending to their banners, all collected as they were where the men could find them easily as they worked, right in the heart of the camp, reminding all of their sworn duty as warriors and the city whose people they represented. Two young men of about 25, both veterans of the southern campaigns, and a young lad of about 16 years, a strapping hulk of near six feet, walked over to the group somewhat boldly, and stood to attention.

‘We were told to report to you for duty, sirs. Marcus Renus and Philo Capenius. The boy’s name is Lucius- a young orphan from Arpenum that the Tribune wants you to train up’

The veterans around Celer looked the lads and the boy up and down, noting their size and bearing, but showing nothing of affirmation in their eyes.

‘Right, you will live with us every day from now on. Go back to your tents and grab your kit, and check in back to Vibius over here. He will show you to your new digs. You are now part of the very core of this Legion. Consider it an honour.’

The two men took their leave and the veterans continued to scrutinise them as they walked away, aware of the fact that of the privileged few who joined their small but honoured band, many would die in the heat of battle, their sworn duty to stand and fight to the last if necessary their ultimate duty.

The lad turned to follow, but Celer cut him short.

Not you, boy. You stay here with us. The first thing you can do is run over there to old Sextus at the workshop and see if my gladius and shirt have been seen to. The get back here as quick as you can. You start your training now.

The boy looked with eager eyes, nodded his head and left without a word. Quick learner, Celer thought. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and ears open, we might make something of him yet. He ran the boy ragged all day, until he could barely take another step, then saw to it that he was fed a meal that would make him sleep till the dawn awoke his rudely to the next day’s tasks.

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The new men with Celer learned their new trade by practice, as did all troops; every time the new Legions struck camp, the first to move were the standards, who tore their charges from the hard earth as a sign that the whole army was on the move. Public oaths were sworn on these symbols of power as well, the men of each century or maniple operating under a particular banner’s charge would stand in front of the assembled unit and swear pledge their unwavering support of their comrades for future times of duress, raw recruits would start the bonds of duty by swearing a bond of duty with their new comrades.

They would march with each unit, symbolising that particular group’s identity and totem; an eagle, a wolf, a wild boar, a horse or even a mystical minotaur was used, the name of the standard shouted out loud at times of crisis for the men to rally to, each unit’s signalmen sounding out his horn, distributing the commands of the Legates and commander.

But the Manus was special, it was the oldest such standard in the new Legion, and the men that marched under it were the best and bravest veterans that the army possessed, each man knowing that if the fight ever came to crucial breaking point, the entire fate of the army would lay on their efforts alone.


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At night, young Lucius tried to stay awake as long as he could, and listen to the stories that the veterans told each other of places far away and deeds long since done, and filed them away in his memory so that one day too, he would tell those of the men he fought and served with.

The legionaries of Rome.

To be continued......

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Ave all,

My name is Marcus Cornelius Marcellus and I am one of the Praetorians over at RTR forums. Since the forum is down for the time being and I miss my ongoing AAR over there, I have decided to share my writing with you in the hopes that you too will enjoy my stories.

I asked Myrddraal where the best place as for this work, and he suggested here. It is not a play by email thread, but a continuing collection of stories built around the characters that pop up while I am playing campaign. I hope you travel with me from time to time back into the past and imagine 'what if..'

Salve,

Marcus Cornelius Marcellus

[econ21]

Welcome, Marcus Cornelius, we are honoured that you will share your stories with us. :bow:

[Ludens]

Welcome Marcus Cornelius. This is very good story telling.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Faber quisque fortunae suae.

Each man (is) the maker of his own fortune.


Synopsis: Elsewhere in the massive training camp of Capua, men of noble birth and equiline standing were be prepared for their duty to the state. Landowning status, a family of long history or the claim to Patrician birth caused them to be seen as the very elite of Roman society, thus thrust to the front lines of command regardless of talent or ability. This sometimes had disastrous effects on the leadership and command of the Legions in the field, and some of those who wished to rid Rome of the stratified social ladder were oft stymied by the general conservatism of the Roman mind Senate. Others saw the path to salvation in training those young elites so thoroughly that mistakes could be rendered as few and far between. One such man was the veteran commander Quintus Norbanus...


The young men were ushered into the courtyard of the complex, situated on the far extent of Capua, the walls of which shone whiter than snow and glared brightly in the strong morning light. They had come from all over the countryside, from as far as Sicily, Rhegium, the north-western colony of Massilia, even from the far reaches of the northern Roman territory, and from the great city itself, all young men of noble or Equine class, brought together for special training before they took their commands in some far distant land or post.




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The courtyard, as they entered, was wider in fact that it appeared from the walled street entrance, lines of neat little bushes perfectly trimmed, and not a blade of grass or a stone out of place in the perfectly manicured square.

Waiting for them was a man of about 50/60 years, with a heavy set, ruddy face and piercing grey eyes, who took them all in sternly yet without undue judgement, sizing each young lad up and weighing their characters in his glance. Smiling belatedly, he was pleased with what he saw.



Whatever thoughts and ideas they had brought with them up until that moment were suddenly brought, lining up under the instruction of another equally weathered adjutant with a voice that carried right through their bones, and they waited quietly for the distinguished looking officer to start his welcoming address.



‘Men, you have been brought here for to be trained as the officer elite of our great city, a burden of heavy duty and responsibility that will weigh upon your shoulders for many of your adult years. In this very same building, many great Generals and officers were trained, and it is thanks to the lessons learned here that we, as Romans, still thrive and excel on the field of battle.



Most of you have never experienced life at the frontiers as of yet, but within a very short time you will be sent to lead your nation’s soldiers and fulfil your duty as officers to the Consuls of Rome. There is much to learn here, and precious little time, so listen well and take into consideration every detail that in shown to you.



We will check your grasp of military knowledge and understanding of all the fundamental duties that may be required of you, logistics, accounting, quartermaster-ship, tactics, strategy, engineering, command and control, troop training. Every aspect of your daily life as a functioning Roman officer will be scrutinized and examined here, and once you leave these hallowed walls, much will be expected of you.



Take this time to learn from your seniors. Every officer here has been in the field for at least 15 years; each is a veteran in their own right and should be respected as such. Be humble, for you know little and they know much.



Those that were trained here before you look down on your from these walls. The Consul Quintus, the Great Subduer Tiberius, the Pro-Consul Decimus Nero, the current Consul Secundus. The names are too many to list. Remember their deeds and strive to excel them in both honour and deed.



Tonight, take the time to meet all of your fellow recruits, for tomorrow you will be exercised until you drop. So rest well, and prepare for the morrow. There is much to accomplish.’



With that, the officer without a name turned and left the square, the steadiness of his gait one of a man that had once wielded great power. The way the other officers that had assembled deferred to him also was a sign that this was indeed somebody. The young cadets murmured to themselves as to his possible identity, and eventually word filtered down that this was indeed the famous Norbanus of the Iberian campaigns, recently retired back to Rome and still sporting the dark tan that had burned into him over the years of service there, making his fit and trim body look even stronger. He had rejected a position in the Senate for now, instead choosing to focus his time and energy on the next generation of officer material, wanting to ensure that the quality of fighting spirit did not diminish, even hoping that he could raise it even higher.


The men were staring fixedly at the sand box in front of them. Every day for weeks they had studied some battle or other, some stretching as a far back as Thermopylae and Gaugamela, with the wars of the Greeks over the Persians, the Spartans over Athens, the battles against Pyrrhus and even the wars against Hannibal and Hasdrubal. Each one, Norbanus guided them through step by step, explaining in incredible detail and showing that he too, knew these other Generals as if they had fought with him, side by side, on some foreign shore.



Today was Gaugamela, how Alexander had taken a force of some 35,000/ 40,000 Greeks and destroyed an army ten times its size, purely by organization, timing and sheer fighting spirit.



The young men listened, spellbound by his stories, eyes filled with light as they tried to imagine that they too had been there and seen the battle’s developments with their own very eyes. Each day, he chose another student to retell the previous day’s lesson and summarize what had been the main lessons of the battle, and then summarize for them how tactics and strategies had changed because of the outcome.



As he listened to the young men asking questions and being guided by the other veterans into the complexities of the battle, he couldn’t help but wonder what they would be capable of if put in the very same position. He wanted each and every one of them to understand that war was never static; constantly changing and transforming in nature, each new situation calling for another resource from the depths of the human mind in order to overcome a new obstacle.


Norbanus still thought of his years of service, the hot Iberian sun that had beaten down on him mercilessly on his campaigns of subjugation, and of the two brothers Sextus and Titus that he had managed to steer away from certain demise and ill repute, turning them both into fine officers that would perhaps never leave their new home for Rome again.



In his spare moments, those recruits that were brave enough plagued him with more questions, wanting to know about this battle and that, were the Iberians really as fierce as they had been told? and other such ponderings that he handled with patience and aplomb.

It was in fact the perfect place for him to be, where he could help the most and remain thankfully away from the political turmoil that was Rome.

The one story that they all wanted to here was his younger days with the Consul, Libo, then for Septimus Otacilius Crassus, and his son, Publius, in Iberia, where they fought the armies of Carthage to a bloody standstill, and then eventually fought off the persistent Celt-Iberians.


It was the officer Norbanus’ stories as a young man that enthralled them the most, for perhaps they saw themselves as him, fighting back wave after wave of barbarian hordes, huge Gallic armies that never seemed to relent without a fight, and where he had put himself at risk time and time again for the glory of Rome.



Libo had been a tough commander, and had fostered in the young Norbanus a sense of responsibility that stretched way beyond his ears and permeated his thoughts even now. He had also beaten out of him his earlier sense of reckless competition that at one battle had risked both his very life and those other cavalrymen beneath his charge. Must chastened, he had survive that day, and had since sought to imbibe in all of his students a sense of camaraderie that went beyond selfish desires for fame and glory. But it was an uphill struggle….


He saw the fierce competitiveness that burned in some of the young men’s eyes, and hoped against hope that they would live long enough and grow wise enough to see the day where dreams became reality. So many young men like these graced his memory, so many of whom now lay as so much dust, scattered across the width and breadth of the burgeoning Empire.


For him, each day was full of memories, for the men that trained under him, so many dreams. He watched them train every day, discuss and listen to the other veterans who showed them their particular area of expertise, then check that the essence of their knowledge had been digested.

Some of the recruits he grew to speak to as sons, others, the foolish, remained aloof and adrift, stuck in their lofty perception as being one of the privileged upper echelons, the days lessons falling on deaf ears, to haunt them at some later date and time, in some perilous moment, when the missing information would come back to haunt them. Most he would see leave as more competent leaders, others left, a danger to themselves and the office that they would hold. Pride, he knew, was a double edged sword.



He saw them come, he saw them go. But he left his indelible mark on every one of them, in one way or other.



They were sitting in the mess hall, at the end of their training and all impatient to head out into the steadily growing empire that was Rome. The young men were all a bit drunk, the first wine they had partaken in many months, it of course went straight to their heads and many sat, red faced, cherubic and happy.



Norbanus chose that moment to come and sit with them, and told the assembled men that he had one last piece of wisdom to share with them before they left his charge. As the young warriors quietened down, Norbanus spoke.



‘You all want to know the meaning of honour and loyalty, and many of you here already think that you have the answer. But one day, perhaps in the not too distant future, the very essence of your being will be called into question.



The men, and the Centurions will want to look up to you, and they will expect you to stand with them until they emerge triumphant, or fall. On that day, you will know what courage is. For now, I will tell you the story of Numerius Aufidius Orestes and the 78 maniples that fought off a nation…..'




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To be continued.....

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Things were not looking good.

The massive horde of Gauls were screaming at the top of their lungs, and the two maniples of troops holding all the entrances to the village were hard pressed holding them off, waiting as they were for the return of their commander, out on patrol with two Legions.



Numerius Aufidius Orestes, an energetic and rather laconic Legate of 35, had been left in command of the village, but to even call it that was a misnomer, for there were no real walls to defend it with, and the land was really still virgin Gallic territory.



All that protected them was a flimsy wooden palisade, and that wasn’t enough to even keep the wild beasts out after scraps of food that managed to find their way into the bare alleys that the barbarians called streets.



Numerius had about 78 maniples with him, an assortment of the remains of various Principe units, some Hastati, allied spearmen, Velites, slingers from the Greek settlements down south, and a few horse, all flung together as the situation developed, trying to hold off the barbarian horde. About 12,000 men. And they were already exhausted, having been awake for my than 36 hours under non stop assault.



More than half the troops were a motley collection of dribs and drabs of maniples that had sustained losses in the internecine warfare with the Gallic tribes still waiting for the next influx of raw recruits due early in the Spring, some slingers from the old Greek possessions in the south, and two maniples of Velites. The troops were flung together just to fill out the ranks, with an assortment of weapons distributed amongst them; shields and spears from the allies given to Romans who could still stand enough to form a line and fight, the healthier allies given a quick course in close combat, Roman style: stab and thrust, keep close to your neighbour, and cut down everything that comes at you, one at a time.





Arrayed against him were about 27,000 Gauls, most of whom wanted their town back, that same day, and were doing their utmost best to do so.



Preparation.



He had had ample warning of their approach and had decided to make the best of situation, piling up a large dirt berm around the city, and arranging the remnants of several building he had ripped down specially in order to use the lumber for makeshift fortifications. He knew he couldn’t stop them from making the attack; what he wanted to do was force them into avenues of attack so that he could array his defences accordingly.



So the palisade was ripped down in various areas, and climbed higher in others, according to his design. Luckily the centre of the town rose up over the rest of the village, allowing him a kind of command post from which he could direct preparations and ultimately the village defence.



The first Battle



The first day they had started out arrayed in front of the town, lined up in one solid line with the missile troops behind them, and had stood for best part of the morning fending off attack after attack. Numerius operated as best he could, swinging his bodyguard around the battlefield like an extension of his will, hitting the exposed Gallic flanks whenever the opportunity arouse, then retreating his horsemen back in order to conserve his numbers, already severely outnumbered. Numerius waited till the force of the Gauls were wrapped dangerously around the flanks of his valiant foot, which left him no other choice after one last counter attack to pull the Roman and allied troops back till they were defending the two main gates.




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The day ended in stalemate, the Romans staying within the relative safety of the village, the Gauls content to stare at them from afar and jeer loudly. Numerius had cause to celebrate: so far they had beaten back three attacks on their lines, and the ranks were holding firm, the troops in fact gaining confidence working together as they all realised that there would be no escape, resigning themselves all to stand and fight, whatever the cost.





The Sally at night…



Muffling the horses feet, they pulled down one section of the palisade at the rear of the village, and quietly horses out in the steadily worsening and fiercely howling snow storm. It had started as a heavy rain, but had quickly turned to white, the heavy wet flakes slapping against any upturned face, and had driven the Gauls to the comfort of their campfires, creating an opening that Numerius was quick to exploit.



The horsemen made about a mile march directly out of the village, and then they sliced east, around behind the Gallic camp, which was by now huddled around their large bonfires keeping warm. At this point about 30 maniples of the healthiest Roman foot made their sally, engaging the outlying Gallic posts with missile fire and coaxing the Gauls into an angry stand hear the edge of the city.




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Backs facing Numerius and caught up in the action of the moment, not one Gaul even assumed that there were any Romans behind them. His surprise complete, he blared his horns at the last minute, and the Equites crashed into the rear of the Gallic camp, catching all by surprise. A sudden terror gripped the tribe, as none could be sure where the real attack was coming from, and warriors scattered here and there to escape the sudden fury of the attack. He caught the outlying groups first, crushing them beneath the pounding hooves of the roman horse, before moving on to assault the main force already beleaguered by the sudden onslaught of the Roman foot sallying out, pilas launching into the thickening storm….


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Screams and shouts of despair filled the night sky, as friend was indistinguishable from foe in the harsh winter wind that snapped around their ears, the sounds of the dying and wounded mixed in a flurry of snow.




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Unable to establish what their dispositions were in the blinding storm, the Gauls grudgingly abandoned their advance camp, disappearing behind them in a curtain of snow as they beat their hasty retreat back to their main camp. There was not a lot of sleep that night…..






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Day Three



The bulk of the troops had awoken the next morning after sheltering from the massive snowstorm that had stormed most of the night, awaking to a bright sun that cut through the fog, displaying at least ten thousand plus Gauls still intent on taking the village. The heavy snow pulled the last leaves from the trees, and the slush underfoot gradually returned to dirt and grass as both armies stood in readiness, glaring at each other through the clearing sky. The troops cooked the last food as both sides waited, each wary of the other, but the Romans were happy to wait until the Gauls came to them.




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They had gone through three days on intense attacks, and still the Gauls came on.

Where was the rest of the Roman army? Numerius put on his bravest face and went through the troops, checking on those who were the worst wounded, encouraging some to pull back out of the fighting until it was the final struggle. But the numbers of uninjured troops were getting thinner and thinner, most of the men wounded from the relentless fighting both day and night, and they were all in desperate need for relief.







The day before the army had stood firm against a bloody and desperate battle for the eastern gate, which had ended with the Romans unyielding from the heights in the centre of the town, while group after group of Gauls tried to take it from them, to bloody failure.



Now they were down to the last embers of energy, and he packed his troops as tightly as he could between the main gates and waited for the final struggle.

They had barely snatched a few bites of stale bread before the Gauls started their banshee howl and started surging into the city once more.



‘Everyone able to stand, to their posts! Do not let them enter!’



With that, the Legionaries stood and braced themselves for what was to be the deciding encounter.






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It was a fierce hand to hand struggle, the Gauls trying to make their way up the slope to take the centre of the town, the Romans doing their best to force them down, raining down every projectile that they had into their thick ranks.






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The slope ran red with blood, making forwards progress difficult and return impossible for those Romans that slipped off the edge into the Gallic abyss below. Numerius, what was left of his horsemen plus shot down the slope to the rear of his defences, through the hastily opened gate that was then slammed shut behind them. As they raced away into space he saw the Gauls converge on the front two entrances, sure in their belief that the town would be taken that very morning.






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His horsemen swept round to the rear of the enemy horde, who had been stripped of their horsemen the day before, now only their fearsome nobles with their sworn guards to stand with them and hammer on the Roman defences.



Today, both sides would fight until the last.



Using his cavalry as a screen, the maniples formed up into tight blocks, ready for the final charge that would see the battle decided, win or lose. With a last wave of his arm, they moved forwards at the run, tearing into the back of the Gallic horde almost pushing through the thin line of Romans still standing in their way.






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It was a vicious struggle that saw the last reserves of Roman energy burn to a brilliant glow, forcing the Gauls back out of the gates of pressing them relentlessly from both front and rear.






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His horsemen finally caught up with the last of the tribe’s nobles, who stood their ground proudly, even as most of their men sought sanctuary from the fierce counter attack. But for every Roman that fell, many more Gauls were wounded, still unused as they were to roamn tactics and fighting in tight formations that used sheer horsepower and nerve to batter their way through any obstacle in their path. And so it ended there, on that autumn plain……..

When it was all over, and the Consul's army was seen later that afternoon approachng the city from the west, the troops were so exhausted that many of them fell asleep where they stood. Numerius had made a name for himself, and in fact went down in Roman history as the model of what every Legate should be, or aspired to become: a unconquerable force of nature.



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[Ludens]

Again, excellent storytelling. Please continue.
~:thumb:

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Lucius awoke with a start, feeling the slight breeze drift in through his tent flap, caressing his nose as if to prolong the ecstasy of sleep, and at the same time to gently mock him, for at this early hour it was his duty to rise before all others. Shivering while he put on his tunic and then splashing some water on his still bed-warm red face, he made sure not to wake those who still lay enraptured by dreams and perhaps the thought of some woman’s embrace.

Placing his hand on the stove out in the little courtyard, he felt the dull warmth of the last embers still captured inside, and opening the door, threw in a small handful of kindling while at the same time letting in precious oxygen from the vent, a little at a time until the embers roared back into life. Adding what was left of yesterday’s supply of wood piece by piece, he then took off at the trot down the side lane to the first legion’s wood pile, and returned with an impossible load of firewood for the day’s activities.

He didn’t mind the work, in fact he loved being a part of whatever was happening near the standards, and those troopers and centurions close by were like living legends to him, a real family for he who had been raised as something to be passed from house to house, an unwanted memory: part of a noble family that had lost both its fortune and all family members by both war and disease, until he was the only one left.

This rugged life, this group of hardened warriors was the family he had never truly had, and so he clung to both his task and to the voices of command around him like a hawk.

The fire now blazing forth a fierce heat, he set the large pot of water on top and started to prepare the morning thick porridge that kept the men in strength till the sun was high in the sky. Gradually the deafening silence around him was cut with the sounds of activity, as the camp came to life for yet another day.

Within an hour the camp was a hive of activity as usual. There were labour gangs made out of centuries going this way and that on errands or duties, some to dig out the latrine, others to repair a broken water line. The streets, virgin fields a few weeks earlier, had become well packed by now and even rut worn in places, so one crew worked every day just re-smoothing the service, a seemingly mindless task that yet was performed with aplomb. Everyone around the boy was busy, for not one was without a job to do or have some training exercise to perform. And Lucius knew his job by rote. His morning were basically spent at the trot as he ran errands for this Centurion or the other, making sure that meetings were known or equipment was repaired in timely fashion. And he was always watching out for Celer, who seemed to be involved in nearly every official capacity that operated from Centurion on down. In doing so, he learned the chain of command that ran through the camp, and learned every centurion’s name and rank, from Prima Pilus on down through each maniple.

Celer watched the lad surreptitiously as he worked, making light of the boy’s duties and gradually instilling in him in the responsibilities and rigours of army life. Truth be told, he was quite fond of the lad, as were many of the older men, for they saw in his indomitable spirit a reflection of their own not too distant youth. Had it been that long ago?


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

It was a roman maxim that if one wanted to lead, one must first learn to serve, and so it was that Lucius was trained in the arts of service before instructed in the arts of war. The boy glanced longingly at the troops training in the dedicated Campus Marcius beside the camp, and knew in his heart that he could throw a pila farther and march just as hard as the rest of the slightly older boys. But he knew his place, so did not baulk at his lot. Just worked hard and waited for a chance, if it ever came…..

Terca the Primus Pilus came by the standard bearer’s camp mid afternoon, as the sun started its slow but gradual descent in the sky. Winking at Celer who was busy fashioning a spare pole for one of the standards, he shouted out to the little group busily engaged activities that never showed an end.

‘Salve Celer! You mind if I borrow the lad for a couple of hours? I need someone to help me for a while.’

Celer grunted. ‘Well, he still has to finish stacking those stakes for the artillery boys, but I guess you can have him for a while. Just have him back here by sundown.’

Nodding at the lad, he tilted his head to the north, and the boy broke from his task like a rabbit released from a snare. The Centurions tried not to show their smiles and concentrated on looking busy while the two of them left. Terca did not let on to the young lad what was expected of him, instead following dutifully out the camp gate and out towards the Campus Martius where the men of the maniples were well under way today’s activities of brute force and group coordination.

‘Right lad- see that bunch over there with the large shields? They need an extra man today. Report to the Centurion and listen well. Don’t get yourself in any trouble, just listen and learn.’

A fierce gaze of serious concentration broke across the boys face, he nodded once and then broke into a fierce run as he made his way across the single stadia distance and screamed to a halt in front of the group. The Centurion just laughed when he took in the boy’s serious demeanour.

‘Grab a shield lad- and fall in next to Titus over there, he will show you what to do.’

Lucius lined up next to the large brute on the far right end, completing the two rank formation and now being its extreme right member. He listened carefully to the big man beside him for instructions.

‘All you gotta do lad, is brace that shield against your body, and tuck in tight next to me. Too far, and you will be knocked back a mile, so keep that edge overlapping mine. If you move too far to the right, you leave me unprotected, too tight next to me, and I cant move my sword arm to defend myself. Today, all we have are the shields- no swords. Just stand here next to me ready for whatever comes our way.’

No sooner had he braced himself than the first centuries of troops came screaming up to them, smashing into the line and causing a tremendous Crack! that tore through the air, and knocking the boy back onto the man behind him, much to the mirth of the rest of his company.

Brushing himself off amidst the laughs and jests of his fellow soldiers, he got back into line again, his nerves lost in that first resounding crash of man against man. After the third line had hit them he had already learned to keep his legs soft and flexible, and to ground the tip of his shield with his front foot just behind it to brace it, leaving a bit of space between both foot and shoulder to absorb the shock and leave some space to bounce back and hold the line.

They kept at it until the sky had started to darken, and he could barely raise his arm more than a few inches. But he marched back into the fort with the rest of them, full of a new feeling – of being accepted as an equal rather than a servant. Racing off before the sky got dark, he just managed to get his chores done before the call for dinner came, and kept himself busily out of the way of Celer in case he was to be scolded for his tardiness. Celer just smiled behind his back and kept a straight face, asking to look at the boy’s shoulder after the meal.

Standing in front of the other men at the table, the boy struggled to take off his shirt and was obviously in pain. Peeling the tunic off, he revealed and upper body covered in bruises and swellings. Grabbing some of the lard off the cook, Celer massaged the boy’s shoulder, unravelling knots that he had never experienced before, while the lad stood there indomitably with tears rolling down his face in pain, but did not utter a sound.

‘We’re proud of you lad. Titus said you drilled like the best of ‘em today. Do your work well, and you can go out with Terca every afternoon, but shirk your duties just once and you’re back to being our lackey. Deal?’

Lucius didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, the tears coursing down his cheeks as the veteran’s smiled at him openly, slapping him on his still tender back.


Lucius was growing up.



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To be continued.........

[daneboy]

SOOOOoo good to see you back. Your AAR is THE BEST.

[daneboy]

Is it a continuation of The RTR Forum story?

I think we got a war comming.:idea2:

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Is it a continuation of The RTR Forum story?

I think we got a war comming.:idea2:

Yes it is- I am going to sew this in with the stories already written once things are available to me once again on the forum, so there will be one massive post coming here fairly soon.

Anyway, I am going to develop this Lucius character to give you a grass roots experience of the Legions, and also use him to take us back in time, thereby sewing in the old story. I am curently using Imperator 2 as the mod, and working towards sewing the two stories together seamlessly.

I hope you enjoy.

Ave atque Vale,

Marcus Cornelius Marcellus Felix.

[Sabre]

Excellent AAR - I was an avid reader of your AAR on the RTR Forums - it's a good read and well put together. Long may it continue.

On a technical note how do you get such excellent screenshots in the heat of battle are you constantly pausing the game? You also seem to be able to zoom closer than I can with screenshots.

How ever you do it, you do it very well!

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

On a technical note how do you get such excellent screenshots in the heat of battle are you constantly pausing the game? You also seem to be able to zoom closer than I can with screenshots.

How ever you do it, you do it very well!

Yes I do pause the battle and try to capture action in progress. I think many people here at TWC are unfamiliar with my battle shots and I am looking forwards to being able to post the old stories once I get them off the bulk storage for RTR forums.

I also edit considerably with Photoshop and sharpen the image to make it ore vivid. Have been busy at work lately so havent had time to post a real battle epic lately, but promise to do it soon.

Vale,

MCM

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Every night, as the camp grew quiet, the young lad Lucius would listen intently to the stories of the veterans, and he learned the legends that had made Rome great.As he listened, he understood more and more the values of what it meant to be a soldier of Rome, the honour, the trials and tribulations that had seen a once small city state grow into the world power that it had become.....These are some of the stories.......




S.P.Q.R. Redux-Imperator!







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‘This is not the work of Barbarians.’
King Pyrrhus of Epirus looked down from the mountain top onto the sweeping plain.
Smack dab in the middle of the valley were the lines of a well organized Roman camp, and a veritable scene of much activity.

‘I was told these people were disorganized rabble. It it plain to me that that is not so. That camp down there has the look of an army of trained professionals. And the roads- so straight, full of purpose. I have seen nothing like this before. What do you have to say, Ethnarch?’

Pyrrhus turned, frowning, to the Ethnarch of Tarentum, who, obviously flustered by the remark aimed at him and the confused look of the other Greek allied Generals who also shrank back, attempted to justify his words in the letter he had sent summoning Pyrrhus.

‘Sir, they are savages. They war and have warred with all the tribes up and down the peninsula, the Samnites, the Sabines, the Marsi, the Gauls, Senones, the Boii, in fact they fight with everyone! This is not the behavior of civilized people!’

Pyrrhus looked askance, saying nothing, and started to make his way down from his mountainous hiding spot, the Greek allied captains meekly making their way down the mountainside with him.

In 280 BC, Pyrrhus and the Epirotes had landed in Italy with 25,000 men, including 3,000 cavalry, 2,000 archers, and 20 war elephants, coming to the aid of the allied Greek cities, Tarentum and Croton, who had aggressively and perhaps prematurely attacked a Roman fleet after it had installed a Roman garrison as Thurii. The Roman Senate angrily sent an embassy to Tarentum under L. Postumius Megellus to demand reparations, but the Greeks had been uncivil, insulting the counsel and inflaming him sufficiently that he marched back to Rome and immediately called for war.

Which had meant that the Greek colonies had pleaded with Pyrrhus relentlessly to come to their aid, summoning amongst themselves another 15,000 men to fight alongside their savior. 35,500 troops in total had made their way to the area of Heraclea, and the Romans had sent out an equally large force to meet them.
Having split off 10,000 of his number to raid deep into Roman held territory; Pyrrhus prepared to assault the Romans on the morrow. Making his way back into the command tent, his men clustered around the detailed map that was laid out on the table. The General lorded over them like Alexander the great; he had been victorious in his war of succession, and the Greek colonists wanted to be believe that he was every bit as good as his distant relative.

'Praxilaus, you will take 7,000 men and flank the Roman force tonight. In the morning, I will march out in front of the Roman camp and draw them into battle. Be swift, Praxilaus; do not tarry, you must fall upon their flank as soon as they are heavily committed to me. Then, we will crush them between us.'

‘A brilliant plan, mighty General,’ fawned the Ethnarch of Croton, trying to re-instigate his place in the way of things after their loss of face earlier.

‘Good, for you will hold my right flank with your men. Alexos, you and the city volunteers from Tarentum will form the right. I will work with the cavalry and make sure to deal the crushing blow.’

‘Tomorrow, we will dispense with this Roman army and move deeper inland. There will be much new land and wealth to be had by all. Rest well, you will need your strength.’

The men silently shuffled out of the tent, the thought of battle enough to cause many of them lack of sleep that night, but none more so than Pyrrhus. He had staked the entire future of his kingdom on new lands here in Italy, on the peninsula and in the harvest-rich island of Sicily, where he hope to build a new dynasty along the lines of the Gret Alexander. His blood is my blood…… Gesturing to his attendant, he made preparations for sleep in the few scant hours left till sunrise.


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The Consul Quintus sat on the back of his horse. Today, the fate of Rome was to be decided, as as the battle raged on around him, he realised that the outcome was still undecided.The Roman right was under heavy assault. 4000 Greek horsemen had charged forwards, straight into the ranks of the Triarii and italian spearmen who were drawn up in anticipation, the ends of their spears rammed into the hard earth and braced by their legs, a bristling forest of steel. Yet, on the enemy came, the thunder of 16,000 hooves shaking the very core of every man present.

The four Legions were drawn up deep to withstand the overwhelming cavalry superiority of the Greeks, boxed tightly together with Triarri and spearmen on each end to protect the flanks. 12,000 pila rained down on the rapidly advancing horsemen, nailing many to the earth, but still they rode on, crashing into the right flank like an earthquake, trying desperately to rip apart the Roman formation.

The Velites had managed to chase off the terrifying animals, but only after terrible casualties were taken by the Roman left. Men had been crushed beneath the beast's plodding legs, advancing straight through the maniples and crushing all who stood in their wake. One maniple of Triarii had saved the day, as the beasts, lured away from the Roman formations by the wasp like antics of the missile troops, had angrily swerved away, presenting flanks that were stabbed at fiercely by the veterans, inflicting casualties immediately. Once the Romans saw that the beasts were indeed mortal, it breathed resh hope and vigor into the men, who now sent the elephants careening back towards their own formations, out of control.

Quintus saw that it was the critical point of the battle, as the Greek leader himself was charging forwards wearing a fearsome facemask helmet with the bodyguards to support his cavalry assault. Heavily outnumbered, Quintus had no choice but to answer with his own appearance in the crucial sector, as each force was locked in a mortal struggle to survive. Rome must prevail!


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The line was holding, the Greek horsemen being slain in their hundreds by the fierce counter attack of the veterans and their spears, ideal weapons for repulsion. Mixed in as they were with the milling Roman troops, they stabbed and slashed down with sword and spear, as more and more Greek horse were called into the fray. Still Pyrrhus stormed forwards, closer and closer to the line, his horns blaring his imminent arrival.
The Consul, racing along behind his line, shadowed him with his horsemen, the low dull blare of the Roman horns calming the nerves of those that stood and fought. The machine that was Rome........

Heaven emulated earth as black storm clouds churned above, and a steady rain of missile fire tore into the Greek ranks. Pyrrhus and his sworn bodyguards slammed into the waiting lines of Romans, crushing men under the powerful beat of their horse's hooves. It was the turning point of the battle......


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It was now or never.　Quintus urged his horse onwards, the steed rapidly gaining momentum and they traversed the seam between the drawn up maniples, ready to exploit the gap. Pyrrhus and his elite bodyguard were already enmenshed with the front maniples, the Triarii now compensationg for the breach and starting their encirclement. The Greek horsemen were fearsome, their armoured horses glinting eerily in the light, making them seem surreal.


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The Greeks placed immense pressure on the line, using every spear and ike to its deadly perfection, stabbing and thrusting as fiercely as they had been taught to do. But the Roman line stood, unflinching, batting aside theirdeadly talons and fighting back, in some areas flanking the greeks and attacking their exposed flanks, so disorganized had their line become.


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Pyrrhus' men were falling rapidly, being dragged off their horses, or having their mounts cut out from underneath them. In all his many battles, he had never fought such a vicious foe. They stood! Even his much vaunted horsemen we faltering. The attack on the Roman right had been engulfed and swallowed by the troops there, and he watched helplessly as the remnants of that force turn and fled the battle. His elite guard found themselves totally boxed in, Quintus and his horse sealing off their only route to escape. Seeing his last chance for escape rapidly diminishing, he sounded the retreat, and the entire Greek line broke off and flight. Quintus and his horsemen surrounded the fleeing General, milling about him like some mechanical beast of sharply cutting iron.
They had said they were barbarians.... The Romans surrounded half of the fleeing horse, cutting them down one by one.


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In the mad rush to escape, the field was a mass of disorganized men, running in every direction as far away from the pursuing Romans as possible. Quintus stopped his pursuit to reorganize the foot, but sent his men on to bring him the Greek king, dead or alive. The resevers were sent forwards to intercept the belatedly appearing relief for under Praxilaus, who , after a bried and bloody engagement, fled too for the safety of ship and sea.


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Somehow, they had managed to repulse the enemy, which was now in headlong flight for their boats anchored in the nearby bay. Ltaer that afternoon, as the clouds suddenly burst forth their cleansing rains, his men returned with a small item wrapped up in a much bloodied piece of cloth, and the fearsome helmet that had belonged to the king.


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Not knowing truthfully what the king had looked like, the much distorted features did seem to fit the descriptions of the man, who had very nearly cost Rome her realm. As the rains scoured and cleaned the bloody earth, the Legions marched back to their fort, to ready for tomorrows march to Tarentum.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Part 1-Summer, 280BC. The army was drawn up, ready for assault. Tarentum stood before them, the city that had defied the might of Rome and sent a fleet of hers to the bottom of the ocean, triggering the latest conflagration between the two cities. Rome had responded, marching down the peninsula, meeting the Armies of Pyrrhus in open battle, defeating them and the allied Greeks. What was left of their forces had boarded ship, while the army of Praxilaus had gone back to the city to prepare its defense. And so now the Armies of Rome stood ready…

The Consul Quintus sent forwards his elite hand picked force to storm the gates, and a fierce hand to hand struggle broke out, framed in the solid oak timbers that were now being battered by rams seeking entrance to the city. The fifteen thousand Greek troops there were leaderless, with no one willing to bestow overall command of the forces, so the best they could do was form up in phalanx as thick as possible and attempt to resist the Roman assault.


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Time, and greater numbers saw them steadily forced back, until the Roman troops poured into the city from an opening in the wall, signaling the end of organized resistance, as the Greeks began to flee in every direction, with buildings already set alight and people running desperately in order to escape. The Romans poured in from the main gates, the cavalry running down the fleeing spearmen, and herded the remnants towards the main square.


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Quintus waited until the troops had secured all the main access to the city, and rode through the gates with his bodyguard, the streets still clogged with Roman troops. What was left of the shattered Greek army had surrendered and entire city was anxiously waiting for him and their future in the city square.


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Quintus arrived to a very sorry sight indeed. Women and children stood, crying, tearing at their clothes and beating their breasts, pleading for mercy. The men, or what was left of them after the slaughter, were rounded up and disarmed. Kneeling and bound in the center of the square, the men were all forced to look at the ground as the Consul approached. He looked supreme, with his red cape billowing in the terse wind behind him and his cuirass glittering in all its magnificence, he made his dramatic entrance. Unmoved by the sight of the dead bodies strewn across the entire city, he ominously made his way towards the makeshift podium, and there waited till the crowd’s noise had died down to address them. Holding his rod of Imperium in his arm, he addressed them firmly in a powerful voice used to oratory. Which he did thus:

‘Citizens of Tarentum! You defied the gesture of friendship that Rome sent to you seeking recompense for the loss of our fleet! You attacked our navies and killed innocent men who sought to fight rebellious forces near Thulii, whom you decided to help in their treacherous fight against us!

We sought peace, not bloodshed! ‘

The thunder in his voice made the people of Terntum bow their heads in shame, terrified of catching his eye for fear of reprisal. Quintus went on.

'You stood against us again today, after again I suggested amnesty. What choice did you give me but to tear your walls asunder? You are fools!'

‘And so, I must punish you for your treachery. Using you as my reprisal I will send a message to all the other Greek cities that Rome is not to be taken lightly. War upon us will only lead in your eventual demise. I will not sentence you all to death; that is too short a punishment. Instead, you will all become slaves and spend the rest of your years as our servants, to remind you that there is no place on this earth where Rome can be defied.

As for your leaders, these men who brought Pyrrhus here to kill and maim innocent Roman citizens, they shall be executed now. Never again will they be able to foment violence against us!’

The citizens looked on horrified as the gruesome deed was performed, some of the city leaders screaming for mercy, but their pleas and those of their families fell on deaf ears.

Rome was angry, and Rome sought justice.


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Seeing the bloody work was done, Quintus left and moved into the now vacant Governor’s residence, preceding to hear updates on the movements of the Greek armies. Appius, the young Praetor, gave him the status report.

‘It seems most of them have taken ship for Sicily sir, but Croton is still heavily guarded,’ reported young Appius, who spread out the fresh map on the clear marble desk.

‘The Campanian rebels have not moved, thank the Gods, but we need to be careful not become too overextended. Rome has never conquered this far south before, and I suggest we leave some kind of garrison on the Via Appia to halt all traffic north and south, while we press on to Croton and try to take the city.’

Quintus just frowned, deep in thought, knowing that the Rebellious cities of Paestum and Corfinium would use any appearance of Roman weakness to sally out and lay waste to the countryside, perhaps even assault Rome herself.

‘Then we have no choice. I want the Governor of Capua to assemble the levies, and at least start training them. I want men marching up and down the Via Appia, Via Valeria, and Via Latina daily, even if it’s the same sorry group and they wear the soles clear off their caligae! Meanwhile, we must press on south, and hope to the Gods we don’t run into another Greek army lurking on the way. Send out the scouts and ambassadors, I want to find any friendly natives in the area that are willing to act as scouts or emissaries. Lets try to fight the next battles without bloodshed, and win over the local populace. Declare a general amnesty on this year’s tax, and have some of the grain supply sent here for the new colonists. We have work to do Aulus. Move swiftly.'

With that, the Consul swept from the room, suddenly engulfed in a torrent of words flowing from the few he had pardoned in order to get the city back on its feet……. What he needed were time and money. Of both, he had little.
Time, precious time…….


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Part 2- Croton, and Rhegium. Autumn, 280BC. The two armies were lined up in the open field, the third battle and for the third time in as many months. Word had traveled fast at the demise of Tarentum, and the people of Croton and Rhegium, further from Rome and less likely to bend a knee to some uncultured northern barbarians, had also sought to take their chances in open battle. A foolish choice.....

Quintus sighed, being already tired from the long march, the recent battle and capture of the first of the two cities, Croton, still fresh in his mind. It disturbed him that again these stubborn people refused to accept Rome as a force to be reckoned with.

Croton had been a bloody affair, the entire body of men preferring to go to their deaths in battle than submit before the four legions arrayed against them. They had ended up cornered in the town square, all hope of escape removed, and had fought tooth and nail, costing him men that he could little afford to replace, so strapped was Rome by this ever expanding war.


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Glancing wearily at the rebel force arrayed against him, Quintus sighed again. Thus, it had to be. Turning to his tribune, he called out the plan of battle.

‘Two lines, Velites to the rear, Triarii and spearmen to the flanks, everyone at guard position. Put the allies at the end of the main line. If these Greeks wish to fight us today, they will have to come and get us. I am not getting drawn in to another street battle.’

The Tribune nodded, and rode off to his officers and transferred the Consul’s wishes. Chain of command, thought Quintus, too bloody slow as it goes down to each maniple….
Shrugging to himself, he sat on his horse ad watched as the Greeks and rebels, obviously impatient at the Roman lack of aggressiveness, broke their formation and started up the gentle slope to the field of battle.


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Their army came on, up the hill with a steady beat, the pan pipes that they used to keep their lines in order floating an eerie and disembodied tune across the windswept field. Quintus watched. Out here, in the open field, the phalanx had its advantages, but there were just not enough of the enemy to span the vast Roman line arrayed against them. Really only one unit deep, he held only himself and the cavalry in the rear as reserve, as he could see at least twice his number of horse rapidly approaching from the right rear.

‘Have the flanks form up tightly, in case they decide to run the flank.’

Another rider nodded and took off, dispensing his commands to one, then another, and another. Still, it was they way things were done since time immemorial, and in Rome, the mos majorum ruled supreme. Bringing his attention back to the enemy formation, he saw them send their slingers and missile troops out, seeking to sting the Roman line with missile fire and perhaps lure the reckless into pursuit.

Not on this day. The Roman stood, unmoving and unyielding, the Velites holding their position until enough of the enemy were in range to reply. Which they did, in one steadily controlled voice, and their javelins rained down from above on the enemy ranks crowding their way up the gentle hill. Their main lines surged forwards, now at the run and spears held high, ready to spear and stab at any exposed flesh that the Roman line might have. The mixture of Greek and allied troops massed into one dangerous mass and smashed forwards attempting to break through the Roman center.


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Quintus watched as their horsemen doubled back from their feint attack on the flank, surging in behind the main thrust and pressing forwards urgently to smash the line. Instantly he sent his horsemen into action, sweeping sideways and preparing to meet them head on like rocks to the surf.


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The Greek commander, emboldened by what he saw was the Roman hesitancy to seek battle, pushed ahead with his steed through his own ranks, even riding some of the allies down in his desire to see the end of the Roman threat to his city. Quintus rode to meet him head on, as the Roman foot stood firmly rooted into place by hard earned discipline and fear of their commander.


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Fruitlessly, the Greek General sacrificed some of his number in a vain attempt to roll up the Roman right, but the several thousand spearmen found themselves rapidly isolated and cut off, as the Roman foot stationed their split in two and surged between them and the main assault.


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Screaming at the top of his voice, Quintus sent the signal to the flanks to start their encirclement, and the entire Roman line started to swallow the enemy army whole. The Triarii and spearmen tore in behind the enemy cavalry, their spears prodding and forcing the horses tighter together, making easier the kill. The rest of the Roman cavalry swerved round to the rear. Suddenly the enemy army seemed to disappear into a strm tossed Roman sea…..


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The next hour was a bloody one, and as the sun gradually set in the sky, the dark of the heavens was matched by the grizzly darkness of the blood soaked earth, which ran thick with blood and sweat.

Quintus' horsemen finally caught up with the enemy general when he sought flight from the carnage, their spears unrelenting in the pursuit of his life. He put up a valiant struggle, but, cut off from all hope of relief, he succumbed to their advances, and ended up joining his comrades on the blood soaked fields.


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The light was failing as the Roman horse rounded up the last of the enemy army and slaughtered them to a man, Quintus seeing no need for mercy given their blunt refusal at parley.

That evening, as he road into the now Roman city, Quintus pondered his life and duty. Such is life, such is fate. The Gods have decided in favor of us, so we must honor them with the enemy’s blood. It is a fair exchange….. He thought no more of the matter, and only of food, wine and rest.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Quintus thought he must have mistaken what the rider had said.

‘What did you say?’

The breathless officer stood at attention, trying to repeat everything that he had been told to say, perfectly.

‘He lives sir. With about 25,000 men, just 15 miles from the walls of Rome. Came by ship from the Gods know where. Sicily we think. Encamped outside the city and blocking all traffic on the Via Appia. Its him sir, definitely. I don’t know how he lives sir, but he does. He must have escaped the last time sir.’

Quintus cursed out loud, sending the papers on his desk flying as he stood up, issuing commands in a rapid stream.

‘Get the Legions formed up now, Tribune. I want every available man on the parade ground ready to march in ten minutes.’

‘Ten minutes, sir? But its already two bells past the third watch. The men are all asleep.’

‘Then wake them up, Gerrae! I want this army on the road tonight!! Spatio, where is my bloody cuirass?’

The roar in his voice sent shivers of fear down everyone nearby, and the activity in the command tent alone was enough to create an urgent ripple of warning steadily spanning out through the well organized and tightly packed camp.

Things had gone well in the last few years. Rome had conslidated her grip on the southern peninsula, and the Rebel towns had fallen to Rome, one by one. First Paestum, then Corfinium, both with minimal losses of life, showing the superiority of the highly trained men who had stayed in the field most of the three years to fight for their beloved city.


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The army was ready to go in 15 minutes, a little slower that Quintus would have liked, but better than nothing. Sitting on his horse, and shouting out as loud as he could, he addressed the massive body of men.

‘Men of Rome! We stand here this early morning with our beloved city under threat from the Greeks yet again. The news that I have for you will come as a shock- That scourge of our people, Pyrrhus, lives.’

The stunned murmuring of the men caught the still early morning air. Quintus went on regardless.


‘We have beaten him once, we can beat him again. We believe he will assault the city in the morning, so we have no time to lose. We must march all night to find him, and then fight him before he has time to prepare.

There will be no rest for us until this is over. Rome stands undefended except for us. Are you ready to give your lives for Rome?’

The men roared out their reply.

‘Then onwards- the future of Rome is in our hands. Blood, and honour!’

‘Blood and Honour!’ the men roared back in reply.

With that, the long march began…………..

To be continued..........

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The men were cold, tired and hungry. They had marched throughout the night, crossed three rivers, and could finally see the Alban hills in front of them, marking the gradually sloping descent into Rome. The sky was an ominous colour, the moon flitting in and out behind clouds, themselves black with the promise of rain.

Most of them wore clothes that had been soaked to the bone when they forded the rivers. This had in turn been dried and then turned into swett as they marched as fast as the could, onbly to be met with another river and the same process. Yet they marched: these were veterans, all, of five years of continuous fighting against an aggressive and persistent foe.

Quintus rode along side them, his mind caught on the coming battle. Riders rode in from every direction, confirming that Pyrrhus' force was indeed more that 25,000 strong, all camped together, with a defensible perimiter around his camp. Rome was on alert, the city gates closed awaiting the decision.

He spoke to the men as he rode, riding up and down each flank of the column, exhorting them onwards. At times, he was out of the saddle and marching alongside them men, so that they could feel that he was no different than they.

As they crested the valley of the Alban mount, the men saw about a mile and half before them a vast and terrible host, already awaiting in battle formation. 20 war elephants! Thousands of spearmen, over three thousand cavalry, 1000 Cretan archers, Hypaspistai and pikemen solemnly standing awaiting them as the sky gradually brightened, from black to purple.

Signalling to his officers, Quintus ordered the column to halt and form up in battle formation high on the side of the mountain, three units, the Romans taking the center, the allies the wings, with Triarii in support on each flank. One rider skirted wide the Greek frmation and made his way through another entrance to the city, to organize the green troops and levies there to prepare to assault the enemy from the rear.

'Distribute water now, Sertius. This wil be the last rest they have till this is over.'

The front ranks stood in battle readiness as those behind drank greedily, swapping with the front after brief moments, the army forming up moment by moment.

Quintus could see Pyrrhus in front of his soldiers, his armoured horse unmistakeable, the Greek battle helmet with long horsehair plume casting an eerie shape to his head. He too was in action, riding up and down his men, obviously doing much the same as Quintus had done that whole night.

The pre-dawn light cast a surreal aura to the battlefield, like from some drug induced Dionysian orgy:everything was richly darkened, highlighted and yet unclear, full of portent. And the dark clouds refused to let in the early morning light...

'They will come to us today. He outnumbers us by a small marging, and he knows we have marched all night. Let us use this to our advantage. We will prevail today.'

His officers looked at him in various levels of disbelief, so he explained further.

'Pyrrus fights for glory. We fight for our home, country and people. If we break today, he will slaughter all of us and our families. Our cause is the stronger, tired or no. Tell the men we fight for Rome!'

The officers saluted him, and made their way back to their commands, each fighting their own private battle,each in turn wanting to excel in the task at hand.

There would be no quarter given or asked for today.


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The battle-

Pyrrhus formed his forces up into two lines of battle, placing his 3000 cavalry and elephants on his right, and himself in the center. The massive line of spearmen made their way steadily forwards up the slope. Sending his elephants forwards ahead, Pyrrhus aimed to break the Roman left and then roll up the flank from that side, using his overwhelming superiority in heavy horse to swing the tide. Hammer and anvil

From his vantage point above, Quintus read the manouever and grimaced. Hammer and anvil- classic Alexandrian techniques, and one that was learned by every Roman boy as he came of age.

'Sertius, have the Velites work as one body- the entire force is to attack the elephants. Don't let them gain access to the slope!'

Terius rode off to give the command, and the fox pelted javelinmen made their way rapidly down the hill like a gently rolling wave ready to crash against the elephants. Their height advantage game them three accurate throws before the elephants were upon them, the troops swiftly pulling back and to the left as they had been instructed to, pulling the enraged beasts with them. Withing a few short minutes, Pyrrhus' fearsome beasts were almost no more- the last three running recklessly across the slope trying to get as far away from the Velites as possible.

There! Now let's see what you can do. Quintus ordered the velites back before the got too close to the enemy cavalry, who were nervously waiting their command to pursue .

Pyrrhus, angered at the loss of his beasts, rode out ahead of his line and beckoned them forwards, and the entire force continued its advance up the slope.


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'Velites to form up behind the main line. Right flank to swing forwards 30 paces, dress the line accordingly. Lets force him to hit our left, shall we?'

'Sir!'

The line angled itself forwards, using the advantage of the slope to give access to the Greek left. The Triarii completed the move, coming out now from behind the alae and creating an impenetrable forest of spears.

The Greeks marched closer and closer, their spears and pikes now lowered in battle readiness, the entire line charging the last few yeards forwards to meet the wall of Romans awaiting them.


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This battle will be decided by the cavalry, of that I can be sure! Quintus thought to himself. Seeing the right flank was in place, giving the enemy no thought of purchase there, he rode now to his left in readiness for the enemy cavalry assault.

All along the main line Rome and Greek were locked in a bitter struggle, as pike sarissae and spear challenged Triarii spear and gladius. Two forms of fighting put to the ultimate test.

Each flank was fully engaged, but none more so that the left, which, being pinned in place by the phalanx, was now being pushed slowly to its rear left as the force of the pikes pressed in on them urgently. This gradual movement was to open up the space for his fearsome cavalry that Pyrrhus wanted, and Quintus was ready.


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Quintus sent two maniples of hastati out behind the main line to fortify the left, sweeping around it gracefully and falling on the enemy rear. Just about to relase his horsemen to finish the deed, he pulled his horsemen back as soon as he saw another action the battlefield: Pyrrhus was personally leading an assault on the right!

The Roman line stood firm as the General raced forwards with 3000 spearmen in tow. Abandoning all thoughts of self preservation, the Greek King stabbed and slashed at the Roman line, the troops there overawed by his demonical presence. Quickly recovering from their shock, the Romans responded, launching a hail of pila that tore into his numbers immediately, the Centurion in command of the maniples on the right himself personally challenging the General to combat as the battle swirled on around them.


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Quintus was needed elsewhere: the entire force of enemy cavalry surged forwards, attempting to force the gap in the Roman left and gain access to the rear. Quintus, waving his sword in the air and calling the Triaii forwards with him, rode onwards to meet them.....


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The Greek horse ran into the combined forces of a solid wall of spears and a driving punch into their ranks by the Equites, spearheaded by the Consul himself. For a full ten minutes it was anybody's guess who would be the victor, such was the tangle of horse, man and rider. Quintus received a slashing cut to his shoulder, and missed another well aimed spear to the face by inches, but fought like a man possessed, his men emboldened too by their commanders bravado.

At the other end of the battlefield, Pyrrhus and his assault troops were completely bogged down, unable to move forwards, and hindered in retreat by the press of the Triarii coming in from their left. Signalling his men to pull back and reform, Pyrrhus was in the motions of withdrawing away from the Roman line when he was hit in the neck by a well aimed Roman pilum, and he tumbled from his horse, only to fall at the feet of the tired Centurion who had fought him singlehandedly for the last eternity.


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The Centurion reached down and ripped off the general's helmet, and, grabbing a handful of the King's golden hair, cut the head clean off from the body with one swipe of his gladius. Holding the trophy aloft in his bloody hands, he let out a tremedous roar, which was taken up by the entire right flank.

'Pyrrus is dead!'


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The entire Greek force was now engaged in a deadly and fruitless vortex that threatened to sweep them into oblivion. One by one the section commanders sounded the withdrawal, but it was too late. The Romans, suddenly taken with the second wind of impeding victory, were now surging down the mountain like men possessed, tearing into any Greek troops they could find.

Quintus and his horsemen had emerged from their bloody struggle also. Piles of yellow-caped Greek horsemen lay everywhere as the last remnants of ther number flew in every direction.


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Using the last remaining drops of energy, Quintus and his men turned back to fall on the wavering enemy rear. For the next two hours the field would become one huge gladiatorial fight, as each division lost total form, structure or shape, and the battle became a bloody free for all to the death.


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Rome had opened its gates, and the Levies, green young recruits from the Campus Martius, old men and capable male slaves poured out the gates to help finish the deadly deed. By the end of the day a mere handful of Greek survivors were tied up in the central square of Rome, ready for the slave market of some Persian satrap far away, never to be seen again.

The war with Pyrrhus was over, finally.

Three days celebration were called for by the Senate, and Quintus was named Imperator fro having crushed the enemy and saved the city, and awarded the Grass Crown for saving their precious home.


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Cheers roared around his ears as he rode through the gates at the end of the day. Rome was his, it bowed down and bared itself at the triumphant victor. But that was the last thing on the Pro- Consul Quintus' mind.

He wanted sleep.

[Ludens]

~:thumb:

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 5- Adrastos the Undaunted.

He woke up with a splitting headache and the smell of filth and days old sweat all around him. As he eyes adjusted to the bright light of the sun above Ostia, he saw that he was packed tightly inside of a human crate stuffed to the gills with other defeated Greek warriors like himself, sitting on a sweltering hot dockside as the normal hustle and bustle of the busy sea port went on around them.
Squinting with the one eye that was actually working well, he made out the shape of the Armenian trade ship that had been hired to take the cargo of human booty to the slave markets of Asia minor, where they would probably end up in the possession of some despotic minor king who would takle great delight in making the rest of their existence as miserable as possible.

Pushing the body of the man next to him who had died of some untreated wound, he struggled to his feet, surprising the others in the crate who had presumed his fate was to be the same as the other. Looking around, he knew none of the faces, all mercenaries who had joined the dead Pyrrhus' army in the hope of booty and fortunes.

His retainers had all ended their lives on the battlefield, where he would have ended too had it not been for the blow to his head that had knocked him unconscious and unable to declare who he was- Adrastos, loyal general of Pyrrhus' left, whose men had stood long after the rest of the army had fled in disgrace.

Here he was, crated, ready to be sold into slavery. His closely cropped golden blond hair and pure Grecian looks made him a curious figure next to the others, all of some more heavy set northern Gallic/Thracian warrior stock, so he chose to remain lurking in the background until he could make out what was happening.

The Arabic trader was talking animatedly to the toga wearing Roman on the dock, who seemed relatively unconvinced by whatever the man was saying, regardless of the huge Numidian bodyguard that stood behind the Arab's left shoulder. Adrastos was tired, hungry and feeling worse for wear. It was probably a day or two since he had been unconscious, and a look at his shriveled skin told him he was well on the way towards dehydration.

The bustling market activity was broken by the arrival of a Roman tribune on a white horse, who rode right up to the side of the boat and headed straight for the Roman dockmaster still in discussions with the Arab. Presenting a sealed document, the dockmaster perused the handwriting and seal, shrugged, and gestured to the crates just about to be loaded.

The Tribune started at the far end and looked at each man in turn, meticulous and methodical, even checking the corpses that littered the floor on the wooden cell. As he reached the end of the first crate his eyes automatically flicked to Adrastos' fair head and skin. Yelling something to the dockmaster, he approached and produce a large set of keys that unlocked the door. The Tribune pointed at him and gestured him to step outside, the in very poor Greek said,'You- come.'

Adrastos made his way forwards, past the curious eyes of the other men present and out onto the wide dock. The Roman gestured to another cavalryman who came up leading a horse, and beckoned Adrastos to get on. Hands still bound, Adrastos leapt lithely into the saddle and followed the rest of the riders as they made their way out of the harbour and back towards the direction of Rome.


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The Chance.


‘Enter.’
Accompanied by a single soldier, Adrastos walked into the room, still bound at the wrists, but none worse the wear for his treatment the last few hours. On his arrival at the General's manor, he had been taken straight to the baths, given clean clothes, and had been shaved, all the while conscious that if he made one false move, he would end up with a gladius up the rib cage. No fool, he waited to see how this would play out.

The soldier unbound Adrastos , then made his leave. Quintus looked at him studiously, trying to gain a measure of the man who had almost voluntarily submitted himself to a life of misery rather than take his chances by declaring who he was.

‘Sit down, Adrastos.’ The General spoke in very passable Greek, and motioned to a chair sitting before the desk, dismissing the guards but only after seeing the prisoner was unbound. Surprised that the General knew his name, the Greek sat down and peered back at the formidable man before him. Quintus, victor of the Battle of the Albans hills, twice defeater of Pyrrhus and countless other battles. A true warrior.

‘You know my name, Roman. What do you want of me?’
Quintus answered as if he had completely ignored his guest's bluntness. ‘The very same Adrastos who held off the Macedonian armies in Illyria single handedly? The man known as Pyrrhus' left hand? I have read your battle accounts avidly since I was a young man. Your fame preceeds you.’
‘I am the same.’ Adrastos seemed uninterested in the conversation, but Quintus could tell that it was a bluff. Himself now sitting down, he eyed his guest even more closely.
‘You fought bravely the other day, long after your king and commander had fallen. Why?’
‘Because I have a sense of honour that perhaps you would not understand. I keep my promises.’ Adrastos glared back at the General, who seeing they were getting nowhere, called for his servants to bring food and wine.
‘I understand and appreciate that fact, and much more. You are a man worthy of much admiration. Come-let us dine and forget the squabbles of the past. I have a proposition for you.’
As the slaves brought in the food and refreshment, Quintus motioned his guest over to the table, where a sumptuous feast was being laid out. Starving, Adrastos held himself back for a moment, but Quintus motioned him to be free. He did not require a second invitation...

The two men sat, Adrastos gradually relaxing when he realized he was being treated as an equal, and that there were no guards present to dampen the atmosphere. Obviously starved, he steadily made his way through the food already there on the table while generously answering Quintus' questions, the General only interrupting when he motioned the servants for more.
Leaning over from his couch to pick at some grapes, Quintus started up conversation again.

‘Your father served with the Great Alexander, did he not?’
‘Yes, all of the campaigns in Asia, was with him to the end. Then he came back to Epirus and eventually trained Pyrrhus as a young man. I carried my father's sword into battle the other day,’ Adrastos realizing all of a sudden that the blade was long gone.

‘Yes, I thought this was rather remarkable. Quite a famous blade.’ A slave stepped forwards from the shadows and brought the General the weapon, a beautifully crafted sword of some Persian origin, superbly crafted and balanced from handle to blade. Looking at it appreciately for a few moments, he leaned over to Adrastos and gave it back to the stunned Greek.

‘When I saw this weapon, I somehow knew that you had survived the battle, although it took us days to figure out where you were. Please, take it. It is returned to its rightful owner.’
Adrastos was obviously confused, bowing his head in humility, so Quintus went on.

‘I have decided I am granting you your freedom, Adrastos, but on one condition: that you spend the rest of your years here in Rome and work for me.’
‘Freedom? What must I do in return?
‘Swear that you will serve Rome and her people as you served your late king. I need your help.’
‘Help?’ Adrastos had now completely forgotten about the food laid out before him, and was listening intently to the General.
‘Yes. You are a famous commander, one of the true tactical heirs of the great armies of Macedon. Your father was a great soldier and General, and he trained you in the very same techniques that Alexander conquered the known world with. I feel that Rome could learn much from you. You saw how we fight the other day. Victorious I know, but we are clumsy on the battlefield. Our chain of command is too complicated. Too many units, it takes far too much time to issue commands. Very few really advanced tactics, the men are normally only available for the summer campaign season, then back to their farms. Had there had been a few thousand more of you, it might have been a very different story.’

Adrastos, again surprised at the general’s humility, grunted and replied. ‘What you say is true. But, your formations are very mobile. I have never seen professionals better respond to enemy tactics. We could not adjust fast enough to your counter strikes on the field, and our cavalry was not what it once was. We were no army of Alexander’s, I can tell you!’

‘Perhaps, but if you had had more highly trained men to work with, do you think you could teach us the tactical movements your father taught you? I fear that this will not be the last we see of phalanx formations. Rome is here to stay, and many covet what she possesses. We are a new power. We need to develop new tactics. I offer you a chance at helping us. Rome would be very grateful.’

‘What’s in it for me?’ Adrastos, no mixer of words, spoke frankly. The General responded in kind.

‘Your freedom, your own house here in Rome, a stipend form the Senate, indeed a very good life, should you choose to accept.'
‘And if I don’t?’
The General looked him straight in the eye.
‘Come now, Adrastos. You are no fool- you saw what lay ahead for you on the dock. A defeated warrior can expect no mercy, especially on an enemy's home soil. Adrastos....it means the undaunted in ancient Greek, does it not? A sensible man like you would see the potentials in the offer I have given you. We seek to learn from you, to honor you as your ranks requires. I have no desire to see your life wasted in some Parthian mine.’

Adrastos thought as quickly as he could, assessing this unexpected offer. Perhaps working for the Romans was the not as bad as all that, the General was offering him a new life, a new beginning, instead of an end. Quintus went on.

‘Of course, you will work for me as the appointed representative of the Senate and People of Rome. Honor me, and I will see that Rome too honors you in return. Do we have a deal?’

It was really no choice. Standing, Adastos reached out his arm in agreement. ‘It is a deal. I am honored by your candor.’

Nodding and returning the arm with his, Quintus ended the meeting.

‘You will stay with me here in my house as my guest for the time being, until we can find you suitable accommodations. Please feel free to use my house as you see fit. There are no locked doors here.’

Quintus got up, motioning for a slave to show Adrastos to his rooms.
‘You are a man of honor, I can see that. Therefore there will be no contract between us. I hope I am not mistaken about you, am I?’

‘You have my word as a soldier and officer.’

‘Good, then I shall see you on the morrow. We shall start work straight away. But for this evening, I have business to attend to.’

With that, the General swept out of the room, and Adrastos saw his life suddenly take a dramatic turn for the better.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Chapter 6- The Maniple.

Adrastos awoke to sounds of activity permeating the large manor. Stumbling his way around the still darkened room, a servant appeared with a welcome light and fresh clothes for the day: a Roman style tunic, news shoes made in the night by some indentured slave’s hand, a leather cuirass and skirt, all the necessary equipment for drill.

Swigging from the flagon of fresh water and grabbing some freshly baked bread, he munched as he walked, over to the courtyard and the stables beyond, which was the scene of much activity. The horse were being dressed for riding by a small troop of soldiers, obviously well used to the General’s mounts, and performing their tasks with aplomb. They saw Adrastos’ approach, and welcomed him in Greek, a surprise that put a smile on his face. Laughing, the ex-Consul approached from deep inside the stables.

‘Ah, Adrastos, Salve! Did you sleep well? Come, let me introduce you to the men.’

The general introduced his staff one by one, each man saluting formally and addressing the Greek warmly.

‘These men have been chosen because of their knowledge of your language, but I have instructed them to start your Latin education, which will be indispensable in the coming months.’

‘This is Acteonis. My game keeper and also head horseman- he will provide you with your mounts from now on. I hope you will learn all our cavalry formations from him.’

Actaeonis reached forwards and greeted Adrastos in the legionary manner- grasping his forearm as the Greek returned the gesture.

‘Balbo- Centurion and Prima Pilus- my best warrior and loyal retainer. He’s not much of a talker! From him you will learn all our battle commands and the structure of our army. I hope that between you we can come up with a better battle command structure.’

‘Ah- Decimus- an ex-slave, but there is no greater roman man. He has fought many battles with me, and he will instruct you in the use of our Alae units.’

‘Lastly, my loyal tribune- Sabinus. Veteran trainer in Capua, he will show you our recruitment methods and training techniques. I hope that you can come up with some different exercises for us.’

‘Right, Let us begin.’ The General swung himself up onto his horse as a beautiful chestnut stallion was brought up for Adrastos to ride.

‘He shall be yours to use as you wish. Consider it a gift.’

Adrastos bowed his head in thanks, and leapt into the saddle, where the five men galloped down the road to where the armies and new recruits were training.

Massed on the Campanian plain were the armies of Rome, the four legions of the recent battle drawn up for inspection, their dead straight lines spanning the width of more than a roman mile. Quintus and the six men made their way down the road to the main camp, where they dismounted and walked to the inspection podium. Quintus gave the command for the legions to break for drills, so that the officers could walk through the entire army and inspect each unit at its leisure. The officers watched as the army broke up into manipular formation, spreading like army ants across the entire plain.

Adrastos remarked, ‘By the gods, you have such small tactical divisions. Why?’

Balbo spoke up, seeing his queue; ‘We have spent the last 300 years fighting the tribes of the peninsula, mountain people who fight in an unorthodox manner. There is no room for phalanx formations up in the mountainous regions, we needed units that were flexible enough to fight hand to hand, but also able to mimic the phalanx when called for. We abandoned the Hoplite spear about 200 years ago, only leaving the Triarii with the shorter spear. Against the barbarians, a sword is much more useful, especially since we still fight in close order and each unit fights as one part of the whole.’

‘I can understand the need for that in this peninsula. And your command? How many officers do you have?’

‘It depends on the size of the army, but a normal legion can have many levels of officer, which currently is compounding our command and control function in battles. A Legion consists of 30 maniples, each maniple with an officer, generally a Centurion, sometimes two maniples to one. Our armies grows larger year by year, as Rome’s territory increases, and also increasingly unwieldy.
As for total command, normally the two Consuls of the year take turns commanding the army in the field. It sometimes works well, but often this has had its disastrous consequences…..’

‘As for me, the other consulars have left me to my own devices!’ Quintus smiled and gestured that they move closer to the army training down below.

https://img231.imageshack.us/img231/4154/agrippa26ua.jpgA Flexible front.

Before them were the army’s Triarii lined up, holding long wooden spears mimicking the actions of a phalanx in formation, and two maniples of young green recruits, armed as Hastati, were attempting with their wooden shields and swords to assault the formation. As the seven men watched, the Triarii held their own against any kind of frontal assault the much younger men attempted.

Sabinus explained the drill to Adrastos, ‘This is how we trained against your army.’
‘As you can see and know, man for man, the front line of the Hastati are taxed; each Roman soldier is facing two of the front rank of the phalanx, so much so that he has to encounter and fight against ten spears, which one man, let alone veteran, cannot find time even to cut away. Once the two lines are engaged, he is virtually locked in place, quite unable to force his way through easily. In a normal situation, the Hastati will break after expending all their energy. Even veteran Triarii with their shorter spears have great difficulty against the long Sarissae. If we try to line up and fight in the Greek way, we are often lost.’

Adrastos nodded his understanding. Sabinus continued. Signaling to the Centurion in charge of the two maniples, they broke off and rested. He called up the same number of fresh troops, who prepared to hit the ‘phalanx' again.

This time the maniples moved forwards and engaged, much in the same way, but this time, the rear centuries of each maniple detached, stepping back 30 paces, wheeling to the flank, and making their way quickly to the sides and rear of the ‘phalanx’, where they fell on the unprotected sides. The end result this time was a forgone conclusion.

Adrastos spoke. ‘This is exactly what defeated us. You have a mobility and flexibility that the phalanx can only utilize on perfectly flat ground, ideal conditions. Forests, mountain passes, all are deadly as we cannot leave the flat ground and our formation without losing our strength. Whereas your units, however small, can fight anywhere, each unit working independently if necessary, or as one, as required.’

Quintus spoke up. ‘Yes, we have flexibility, but battle coordination is weak, troops get easily confused by the commands. I feel we need a complete revision of the army structure. 30 maniples in each Legion, four legions you see before you today! It is a nightmare to control! Totally unwieldy and too slow!’

But all the men could see in response was that Adrastos was intrigued, watching intently, his eyes bright with energy.
‘Please teach me your battle commands. I want a list tonight that I can study. And cavalry commands. May I train with the troops, too? You say these men are not professionals, how do you acquire such precision? Whats about…’

Quintus cut him off, laughing, as the other officers and Centurions laughed and smiles too. ‘Such an eagerness! All in good time Adrastos! All in good time! Now, come with me, there is something I want to show you……’

The men walked further into the plain, until they were lost in amongst the masses of units sparring and training on the vast field.

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NB-Some historical material taken From: Polybius, The Histories of Polybius, 2 Vols., trans. Evelyn S. Shuckburgh (London: Macmillan, 1889), pp. 226-230.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Adrastos and the veteran army were on the march, down the peninsula and gradually into the warmer climes of Rhegium, where the summer winds whipped up sand carried from as far away as Africa. The men trained as they marched, being split into two marching columns, two legions each, one alae legion paired with a Roman in order to foster teamwork and camaraderie.

Quintus, as usual these days, was in a heated discussion with Adrastos and the other officers regarding the latest tactics. The rebel held city of Messana would be an excellent place for them to test their new drills in action, Adrastos having already learned all the basic Roman commands and movements, his focus being on creating more coordination between units. He had trained them hard the last few weeks, and results were starting to show.
The Roman fleett was waiting for them at Rhegium, which was undergoing a major restructure, the last vestiges of Greek government giving way to a provincial Roman governor with an eye on steady reform. Within a day, the army took ship for Sicily, catching the same warm summer breeze that was blowing gently in Adrastos’ face as he stood on the foredeck, relishing his new life, position and feedom. The Gods surely favoured him.

Withing hours, the army was given the order to stand fast and disembarked on a sandy beach still within viewing distance of the mainland, the boats being run up onto the beach full tilt so as to ground them solidly until a safer harbour could be found . The army quickly formed up into its maniples and proceded on its march towards the rebel city. Scouts rode ahead to check the lay of the land and find a suitable site for the location of that evening’s camp. Having been spotted by the enemy on its approach, half the army formed up in battle formation while the other half preceded to dig the ortifications that would protect them.

The work was finished in barely over five hours, and the army methodically filed within its walls to their allocated spots in the camp. Adrastos marveled at the way the Romans assembled everything and moved as a controlled unit, doing everything with precision and complete impersonality. Like a machine.

Later that evening, as the last scouts reported back from their partols, Quintus laid out the battle plan for the morrow.

‘We will attack the city from two directions. Two Legions under the command of Sabinus will attempt an assault on the south entrance in the morning, while this very night two Legions and myself will take their places in the forest west of the city. I have crammed our entire force within the walls of his camp in order to delude the enemy into the belief that we are actually weaker than our true numbers suggest. Therefore it is imperative that the two legions that leave the camp at the dead of night do so without detection. We will aid in this endeavor by creating diversionary noises that will lead the enemy to think that we are engaging in a reckless feast, and burn a large bonfire that will destroy any night vision they might possess. Also the cavalry will be sent out on hourly patrols to prevent the enemy from sallying out of the city to do any reconnaissance. I plan on a sleepless night Gentlemen, but a swift victory tomorrow’

Dismissing his officers, Quintus and Adrastos sat in front of the small brazier and relaxed. Seeing how these people committed themselves to warfare, the Greek marveled at how an army of non-professionals could be so effective. Tomorrow would be another lesson.

The battle of Messane, 273 BC.

The night was spent as planned, as wood gathered from the nearby woods was burned profusely, and the loud carousing of army's supply force mimicked the actions of an arrogant host. Meanwhile, Quintus, with Adrastos in tow, steadily funneled the surprise force unseen through the rear gate of the camp, assembling them at the edge of the forest, where they began their long and painstakingly quiet journey around the still lightly defended rear of the city.

The late morning saw the last embers of the huge fire die out and Sabinus plus his two Legions marched out of the camp and began approaching the walls of the city. The army paraded itself before the walls just out of range of missile fire, goading the defenders to come out and fight by having the cavalry ride along the length of the wall at high speed, taunting.

Sabinus formed the two Legions up in line of battle arranging the missile troops behind the front line. Meanwhile Quintus, Adrastos and the other two legions had made their way undetected during the early hours of the morning and were hidden, waiting amongst the thick foliage that the forest provided. Ready with makeshift ladders, cut from fresh saplings, the light auxilliary troops had cast aside their pilum for methods of scaling walls.

The rebel general, much stressed by his lack of sleep, saw a chance of victory that was but a ruse. Having taken the bait , he opened the front gates of the city and marched out with all of its 10,000 man strong defending force to oppose the assault of Sabinus, who had already commenced a thick barrage of missile fire, and was falling his line back 50 paces at a time, as the enemy forces advanced out the gate, luring the enemy host ever closer. This seeming timidity in the Romans produced the desired effect in the Rebel General, who immediately attempted a sally against the Roman right, which stood closest to his position.


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Supported by their cavalry contigent, the rebel troops advanced rapidly, attempting to split the Roman force in two with a barrier of dense spears, but were met in reply by the Triarii and allies, who slipped through the now open formation of the retreating Hastati and moved forwards to meet them. Sabinus sent his cavalry out wide right, to find the seam in the enemy formation, brushing aside the enemy cavalry in one short slap, then swinging back behind their foot like a pendulum, in one smooth motion. Using the new manouvers that Adrastos had taught, the Roman line expanded its front, revealing many more reserve troops than had been first assessed, and the enemy advance found itself pulled wider and thinner in order to adjust. The rebel left soon fell into complete dissarray as Sabinus and his Equites made short work of their undefended and unsupported flank.


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Looking down from the hilly mountainside, Quintus awaited his opportunity with a patience that Adrastos felt was admirable, far from the impetuosity of his ex- commander. Seeing the success of the army'S manouever, Quintus nodded to the Greek in thanks, making Adrastos swell in pride at the adroitness of his new students below performing their task like veterans. Signaling to his advanced guard, Quintus ordered the light troops forwards, in teams of six towards the city walls, which within moments they had breached and gained access within. They were followed immediately by Decimus and his elite force of hand picked men, who, having themselves cleared the wall, made their way quietly towards the rear gate of the city and dispatched the guards there without sound or notice. The gates were immediately flung wide open and the general and the rest of the troops made their way rapidly into the center of the undefended city unmolested.


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Someone in the city eventually called the alarm and hurriedly sent out the main gate for the rebel general who was fighting a losing battle of position against the superior forces of Sabinus, and attempting a tactical withdrawal back into the city,losing large numbers of his troops in the process. Unfortunately the fastest galloping of his horses and fleet legs of his men could not prevent the two Legions of the General and Adrastos from reaching the city center first, and who were drawn up, ready, waiting for him.
Seeing that all was lost, the Rebel general threw down his spear and commanded the whole body of the troops under his command to do the same. It was a bloodless and yet crushing victory.


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That night as the army feasted on the food of the citizens of Messane, Adrastos commented on the ease at which the victory had been won. ‘It is the first rule of warfare,’ said Quintus, ‘that the most valuable asset a general owns is the men that fight beneath him. If I can win a battle by guile or cunning, so be it. It is a far better choice than to be greeted with the faces of the women who mourn when the army returns to Rome.’

Adrastos could not help but think to himself that had Pyrrhus applied the same technique in his war he would perhaps be with very different company that day.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter Eight- The threatening Dogs of War.

The Roman army, having solidified its position in the city of Messana, established watchtowers in the new territory, all too aware that both remnant Greek forces, rebel cities and the fearsome armies of Carthage were in possession of other parts of the island.

Theages the mercenary was a loyal general and servant of the Carthaginian Senate, having been placed in command of the city Lilybaeum as a reward for a long and loyal service, was concerned. Theages’ spies had informed him of the rapid success of the Romans in the capture of Messana, and he sent urgent messages back to Carthage to discern his next course of action. Belatedly he had received his commander and Lord, Hamilcar's response: hold for futher instructions. He was utterly frustrated. What he wanted to do was mass his forces quickly and send a counterstike against the Roman toe-hold, driving them from the island before they became too secure. Angrily, he acceded to the demands of his rulers, for he knew their punishment even for a famous and victorius general like himself: failure to obey or defeat in battle would mean execution.
In the meantime he kept the Romans under close observation, sending his spies forth into the newly captured city to gauge the measure of the Roman leadership. The more he learned, the more anxious he felt.


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The Punii: Carthage: ruler of a vast trading empire, which stretched from the sands of Africa, the shores of Sicily, Corsica, Sardinia, the coast of Iberia, and encompassed the vast wealth of the Mediterranean world. Carthage possessed a mighty fleet that patrolled its territories aggressively, its stranglehold on the Mediterranean economy supreme.

Until Rome.

Carthage had initially come to Sicily over 200 years earlier, taking over their Phoenician ancestor’s settlements there, and entering into a prolonged struggle with the Greek colony of Syracuse. Carthage’s tenure had never been stable, with territorial gains often followed by series of reversals, having recently struggled with the Syracusian Greek leader Dionysius and later Agathocles, for mastery of the island. This they had never achieved, and it tore at the Carthaginian Senate remorselessly.


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from: http://www.livius.org/sh-si/sicily/sicily.html

Since 288, Messina in Sicily had been in the hands of the rebellious tribe, the Mamertini, who had managed to keep at bay the relentless attacks of the Carthaginian armies. The ‘Tyrant of Syracuse’ Hiero the second, had been commander of the armies of Syracuse since 275, creating another serious problem for Theages, as his troops pillaged the countryside each summer campaign season, regardless of the blockades and counter actions of the Punii. The hilly and mountainous inner country proved hard to control, but the vast wealth that it represented in the form of wheat yields was a burden that the Senate of Carthage would pay for gladly, even if it meant the death of their general in its defence.

Yet by the year 273 the situation had somewhat stabilised; Syracuse and its once mighty power and army was but a shadow of its former self, having even entered into negotiations with the senate of Rome after the demise of Pyrrhus. Carthage had taken this opportunity to blockade the city, forcing the Greek city elders to call to Rome for help.

And so, the first to fall to Rome had been the Mamertines. Who would be next…………?

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Part One.

Quintus was waiting in his command tent with the Greek messenger that had been sent under a flag of truce from Syracuse. Adrastos entered the room, unfamiliar with the face but well too aware of the uniform. He flinched unconsciously, and looked at the Pro-Consul.

This man has come here with a message from an old friend of yours, Nelpus. Go ahead…’
The Greek soldier looked Adrastos straight in the eye, and relayed his message by reading the scroll in one breath, a smile plastered to his face.

‘To Adrastos, long time friend, Hail! I wish to surrender my forces to you alone, now that the war with Pyrrhus has come to a sudden close. Will you meet me in the plains north of Syracuse with a small escort on the third day from now? Your friend, Nelpus.’

Adrastos looked at the seal, which was indeed the one used by his friend. Frowning to himself, he looked at the Consul for advice.

‘You know me by now Adrastos. If I can take the city without bloodshed, it is best for all. Take Decimus and an Alae Legion with you and meet him. Then bring him and his forces here to surrender officially to Rome.’

Turning to the messenger, Adrastos spoke.’Tell Nelpus that I will meet him. Now go.’

The messenger nodded, and turned quickly out of the tent and went galloping out of the camp back towards the southern city. Adrasto looked outside the open flap of the tent, his mind filled with memories. Unwilling to prompt him, the Consul sat and waited. After a time, Adrastos spoke.

‘We were once like brothers, Nelpus and I. Fought together in Macedonia, Crete, the Greek mainland. His father and my father were great friends, though his father died soon after Gaugamela. My father took him and raised him with our family. It has been a long time…..’

‘Do you trust him? Or is this some kind of trap?’

‘That I cannot answer till I see his face. A lot has happened since then…’

‘Tomorrow then. Go and see him, but be careful. This war has ruined many things, nothing more so than friendship.’

The Consul, resting a hand lightly on the Greek’s shoulder for a moment, went out the open flap and into the Via Principalis, to leave him with his thoughts.


To be continued.....

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Friend or Foe? Part Two.

Adrastos and the Alae Legion marched southeast, over the middle ridge of mountains that split the island neatly in two, sending his scouts out ahead to check for enemy activity. AS he rode, he looked at the vast plains that were exposed from such heights, realizing why the great powers had fought so long and so often over this triangular island. It was an oasis in the middle of the sea, its fertile plains sweeping in both directions away from the mountains, already growing the bountiful harvest that provided enough to feed any large nation for years.

His troops marched down the sloping hillside, through a vast farm that offered little opportunity for cover, so he felt safe enough in his advance. As noon approached, they grew closer to the appointed place, where a small copse of trees broke the monotonous sweep of fields, bordered by a deep sided but shallow stream. Decimus looked around the valley appreciatively, thinking that he would one day like to retire to a bounty such as this.

‘Well, it seems safe enough. But where is he and his army?’

‘There.’

Adrastos pointed to the side of the copse, where a lone man sat on his horse, the armor adorning the mighty beast sparkling in the bright sunlight.


‘Ye Gods- your sight is keen. That is still a good three miles off!’

On a different occasion, Adrastos would have smiled, but today he felt a knot of uncertainty in his stomach that unsettled the compliment.

‘We must be careful: something does not feel right. A sense.’

‘Never fear. I will be right behind you if anything untoward happens.’

Decimus looked at the man he had grown to respect over the last few months, recognizing a loyalty that was unquestioned, yet an understandable difficulty in a situation such as this. To fight against people that were once your countrymen…he could not imagine it. Yet Rome had fought against herself too many times…..

The army stopped about a stadia and a half away from the man, with the small forest between them and the Greek general.

‘I will ride to meet him- no bodyguard is necessary. Wait here. I will bring him to us.’

He spurred his horse forwards quickly, not giving Decimus enough time to counter his decision. He rode the horse hard, making the distance between him and the rest of the army more than a stadia within short moments, the rushing air clearing his memory torn mind.

There he was- Nelpus, sitting proudly on his Thessalian war horse, the bronze trappings and amour glittering. A smiling face, or was it..?

Adrastos rode close, then, stopping his mount, jumped off onto the hardened earth below. He would walk to meet his friend. Stopping halfway, he waited till his old friend did the same.

‘The mighty Adrastos, Hail!’

Nelpus made his way forwards, not dispensing with his mount, instead riding forwards so as if to tower over his old friend. The face that he had seen as smiling was actually cut in a cruel grimace, the cynicism in his voice obvious.

‘Is this a Roman I see before me, or a Roman dog?’

Ignoring the barbed statement, Adrastos saw the long lance in Nelpus right arm, and immediately felt naked without his own mount. Too late, he realized had acceded the impetus to his old friend.

‘I came here in the guise of truce. What do you want?’

‘I came to see for myself if the stories are true- that you have abandoned our country for these shit eating Romans.’

Nelpus rode around his fried, taunting, not close enough to attack, but still threatening. Adrastos’ eyes followed him, taking in the immediate environment, looking for any other surprises. His eyes suddenly saw a faint movement in the copse of trees…..it was an ambush!

‘You always were an impetuous man, Nelpus. Be careful. I am not.’

‘Yet, you serve these pigs! How could you abandon your people? You are a worthless cur, and I am sorry to say that we were once friends.’ Nelpus rode close enough to spit forcefully on his old friend, hitting him squarely in the face. Adrastos kept his cool, having not sounded the alarm yet, but could see that Decimus was moving his horse and the Romans closer. Adrastos, took a step back, towards his tethered horse oh so far away…..

He tried to talk sense to his friend, buying himself time and precious steps backwards.

‘Pyrrus was a fool- how many of us died fighting these people? For what? You have no chance at re-supply, your numbers dwindle every day, the Carthaginians take your outlying settlements. It is over Nelpus. Submit and return to your family in Greece before it is too late.’

Nelpus came forwards, lunging at Adrastos, who stepped aside from the lance thrust aimed at his chest, and in once swift movement, drew his sword and sliced deep into the rump of the Thessalian stallion, sending it rearing onto its back legs, and racing away, out of control.

Seizing the chance, Adrastos raced for his horse, yelling as loud as he could.

‘Ambush! Ambush!’

As he leapt onto his horse, he saw the full squadron of Heavy cavalry lunge out of the trees and launch itself at the left flank of Decimus’ troop, smashing into the Italian spearmen who struggled to rally. Greek hoplits appeared out of the deep riverbed at the rear, and well camouflaged troops close to Adrastos’ rear launched their javelins at him as the raced forwards towards the Roman lines.


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Nelpus had regained control of his mount, and was racing headlong towards the Roman line, cursing Adrastos to the heavens and screaming at the top of his voice to attack. Troops seemed to be coming from every direction, but Decimus had swiftly deployed his Legion, who now stood their ground and were fighting back furiously.


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Nelpus was now back with his men, urging them on violently, trying to cause a rout by breaking the left, which had rallied back and was slowly cutting his heavy horse down around him. The Romans were besieged from three sides, but they held and stood firm, the Hoplites with the other Greek commander Orthaes also now making little headway against the spears of the Triarii holding the flank.


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Adrastos raced to the aid of the spearmen, slicing into the flank of the heavy Greek horsemen and dispatching three of them before he made out the shape of Nelpus riding full bore at him, his sword raised to strike. Adrastos parried the blow easily, countering his balance with the horse under his legs, and bashed his mount against the side of the Greek Generals mount, making him lose his balance and power in his strike. Surging forwards, the two were fighting as if no one else was present, but the deadly spears of the Alae grew closer and closer. Screaming in frustration, Nelpus bolted for freedom, and raced off with what was left of his cavalry, Adrastos and the Equites hot on his heels.


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Decimus had control of the situation by now, and was beginning the relentless push back, around the flanks of the enemy troops, who were now fighting leaderless and uncoordinatedly. The right was steadily pushing the Greeks together now, the Centurion there leading his men forwards deeper into the enemy formation, disrupting their line and impeding their defense.


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At that point, Adrastos and the Equites returned from their fruitless pursuit of Nelpus who had escaped, and took out their frustration on the rear of Orthaes' line. Adrastos fought like a demon, driving his horse forwards and using the Equites like a battering ram, herding the enemy's left inot a large diorganized mass unable to perform. The Greek divisions all over the field started to falter, their only hope at organization long since gone. Some of them started to throw down their weapons and beg for mercy, others took to flight. But treachery was not an attribute to be rewarded, and the Rmans had no sympathy that day....


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Later, Decimus came up to Adrastos, spent from the course of the day. The man was looking somewhere far into the distance, lost for words. He had tried, and failed. And all that was left was a bitter feeling deep in his soul......

About to say something, Decimus thought the better of it, leaving Adrastos to his thoughts, and headed back to the Legion that was preparing to make the march back to the other armies, still a good four hours away.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The army had mobilized virtually as soon and Adrastos and the Legion had made it back into camp, himself much chastened by the event, and aloof. Burning the camp as they left, they sent an obvious signal to the Greeks in Syracuse: we are coming.

The four Legions marched over the spine of the island, coming down into the much fought after valley which had seen virtually 200 years of continual warfare, uprisings and hardship. Quintus stood on a hill and watched as the long column wound its way down the mountainside, as the horse troopers buzzed up and down its length, wary of attack. Looking down, he saw the dazzling white walls of the city beckoning to him, still far off but shimmering in the heat of the day. He camped the army on the foothills that marked the approach to the city, setting up another camp and preparing a stockade that could withstand a major assault. But his thoughts were on his Greek advisor, on his understandably mixed emotions over the coming battle. Was it better to send him away, to spare him of the fight? Or would that make matters worse, in not allowing him to face his own demons?

Calling Adrastos aside, Quintus spoke to him gently.
‘Tomorrow, I will let you decide your actions. What will it be? Do you wish to fight, or shall I have you sent elsewhere?’
Adrastos looked at him, and spoke evenly.
‘Thank you for your concern, but I have sworn my allegiance to you. I shall fight by your side tomorrow. The past is done with, the future belongs to Rome now. I am sorry for the trouble of the last few days. I wish it could have been avoided.’

Quintus spoke. ‘This was not your doing. You knew it was risky, yet you offered your services to me anyway. It did not turn out as you had hoped. Such as it often is with all things. It is time to move on. Try to forget the past.’

Adrastos nodded, but his face betrayed his unsettled state.
‘There is a Greek temple near here. I will go there tonight and make peace with my Gods. I need to be alone before this battle. Please leave me the honor of dispatching Nelpus in the battle tomorrow. We have a score to settle’

‘Then go. Tomorrow you will settle your score. It will be my honor to fight beside you.’

Adrastos, nodding, left the tent and rode out of the camp. Some of his horse troopers moved to follow, but Quintus motioned them still, moving back into the tent and his maps.

The officers crowded into the command tent that night, all eager to pay back the dishonesty of the other day with interest. The plan was simple; center, with two flanks operating in unison, Triarii and spearmen holding the outer edges, two formations deep, so as to counter the enemy superiority in horse, numbered at about 3000. No less that two Greek Generals would be present at the battle: Phrixus the Governor, and the treacherous Nelpus. Scores were to be settled, but foolhardiness would see a heavy loss of life. Quintus, prudent as usual, suggested caution.

The Romans took the field first in the early morning light, and sat ready for the advancing Greeks to join them. Quintus arranged the army with a large heavy froested wood at its right flank, tucking in the two short wings behind the main line until battle was joined. Adrastos had suggested a new tactic.....


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As the Legions awaited the Syracusan army's arrival, Quintus toured his lines with Adrastos, who had emerged from his all night vigil calmer and clearer. He wore a uniform much like a Roman Centurion's, except it was capped with a Greek Corinthian style hemet, highly polished and brilliant in the sun. The Greek army gradually approached, and Quintus signalled the flanks into movement, the left sweeping forwards to create an 'S' shape in the line, signalling the extent of the right flank, which forced the advancing enemy to counter, bunching up towards the center of the main Roman line.


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The Greek foot came on steadily, protected in the rear by the steadily milling horse, who feinted left and right, trying to guage a weakness in the Roman line. The Roman slingers went to work, sending out a steady barrage that took its toll, the errant shot sending out a loud 'smack!' when bouncing off an enemy shield, and a dull thud went it hit home. The first thousands of enemy hit the Roman line with a heavy thud and roar, and the deadly game of thrust and parry began....


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Quintus' eyes were on the enemy horse...he glanced over at Adrastos, who had already picked out his man, Nelpus, and was staring at him intently, like a dog wanting to fight but held tightly by its master's leash. Quintus spoke to him calmly;

'We will wait till they attempt to flank, then ride round to the right and with the support of the Triarii, swing that flank in, closing the gate. Hold, Adrastos: you will have your chance at revenge.'

Wth that, Quintus signalled the release of thousands of pila in three waves, the deadly missile fire raining down on the advancing enemy...


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Nelpus and the Greek commander buzzed angrily behind the advancing troops, the feint to the Roman right revealing an impenetrable obstacle in the form of the heavily wooded forest, so they peeled back to the other flank in hope of an opening. The left had marched inwards already, creating another impenetrable barrier of spears that no cavalryman would dream of attacking head on. They spun away quickly, as the Funditores had zeroed in on their number, wounding horse and rider with their stinging shot.


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Nelpus too was searching for his old friend, and found him stationed next to the Roman General. Seeing that the Roman right was moving to cut down the field of action, he saw his only chance as now, and raising his spear high in the air, swivelled the 3000 horsemen once more across the width of the battlefield to attack the moving troops. Seeing his signal, the greek peltasts ran forwards and hit the Roman right with intense javelin fire as they moved into their new positions, taking down many of the Italian spearmen as they moved, still unprotected, from the air. Quintus saw what was happening, and unleashed his hound; the Equites, he and Adrastos surging forwards behind the Roman right, swinging around to the flank where thay could assault the Greek cavalry's rear. A deadly ballet was been played out on the verdant fields of Sicily...


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Barely having time to form up into the new position, Nelpus launched his entire cavalry forces at the unsteady Roman right in hopes of breaking its will. But that area on the line was many maniples deep- it had been Adrastos' plan all along to lure the Greeks into a foolhardy rush at a moving line, as each flank was more that 12 ranks deep of deadly spears. The men behind braced each man in front, as they all called on their gods to favour them over their enemy. Jupiter! Mars! Protect us! Each side braced for the impact....


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As the Roman horse raced around the space behind the line, Adrastos looked back to see the sickening sight of thousands on pounds of horse and man-flesh mix together in a bloody struggle. He saw Nelpus' face, groged with blood and anger, screaming at the Romans around him, trying to cut a path through to the rear. Wanting to turn back and face him, yet bound by his pledge, he urged his horse forwards as fast as he could, flanking Quintus as the cavalry swept around the edge into the empty vastness of the enemy's rear.


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The rest of the battlefield was completely ignored as the horse pounded their way into the Roman right, the front line collapsing, but the men spriging to their feet and running at the exposed flanks of the horses, darting and jabbing, avoiding the riders who did very much the same in return. Nelpus fought like a madman, taking out tens of Roman troops, his horse's armour now coverd in blood and gore. But the Triarii behind, moved forwards steadily, their spears held before the, reinforcing the Alae in front.


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Quintus and the Equites were now in free space, and the wall of Roman horses swung left to face the enemy rear. Calling out to all the men, Quintus made this warning:

'No one touches the Greek commander Nelpus! He is Adrastos'. Blood and Honor!'

With that, the impetus was released, and the men tore forwards like bolts from a scorpion.

Nelpus and his horse were severly hampered by the massive number of spearmen now crowding around, literally pulling some of the riders from their mounts and slashing at them remorselessly. His men were faltering, looking to him for guidance in a fruitless gesture that pride had led him into. It had been a trap!


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Rallying his men, he swung those still left standing way on their horse, and rode straight for Adrastos and the Equites. He had eyes for only one man....


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AS they left, the Greek Governor Phrixus' horse was felled by a spear to its chest, driven up into the body by the weight of the spearman's foot and arm heaving it upwards. The horse screamed in agony and fell heavily, pinning the Governor underneath and crushing his leg. The surrounding Triarii showed no mercy....


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The whole Greek line was caught in a bloody and bitter battle all along the front. Nelpus, maddened and bloody, saw his goal in front of him, racing towards him. Holding his sword high- he pointed at Adrastos and yelled:

'Kill the traitor!'


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The two bodies of cavalry crashed into each other and started a fearsome melee of horse and rider, each rider attempting to take out the opposing force, all the more confused as each rider jockeyed for position. Adrastos took a broad sword swipe to the arm, which sent a brilliant cascade of red shooting skywards. He had not enough time to cry out in pain, parrying yet another blow from the man who had once called him brother. Adrastos was not about to be stymied though, he pushed himself beyong the barriers of pain and launched a fearsome attack on Nelpus' unguarded flank, slashing deep into his kidneys and repaying in kind. Nelpus' arm dropped the reins in reply, then scrabbled desperately to regain control of his mount. Adrastos seized the moment and drove the tip of his gladius deep into the mans throat, their eyes locked together as Nelpus last words mouthed were drowned and lost, unintelligeable, in a sea of blood. Adrastos grabbed him, and watched his eyes as the light of life faded from him....


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What was left of the enemy army was in full retreat, running in one horriffic mass towards the open gates of the city. Many rallied around the banner of the dead Governor, still being held by his troops who had no idea that the man was already dead. Quintus, who saw that that banner represented their last reason for struggle, sent the horsemen forwards to capture the prize and destroy the enemy's resolve.

'Get that banner!'

The whole Roman army surged forwards as one towards the prized item, the intervening Greek soldiers cut to pieces in the process.


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The army chased that banner and the remainding Greek forces all the way to the city gates, cutting them down piecemeal like rag dolls. The Greek army never made it....


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Adrastos was so possessed by the bitter struggle that it took him hours just to be able to talk again. Seeing to it that at least his deeply wouded arm was cleaned and dressed, Quintus told the men to leave him be; he had fought his demons today and won, but it was probably the toughest fight of his life.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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He was born with a wooden sword in his hand. At least, that’s what his men said when he wasn’t around. In fact, the story actually went much like this: He was the unwanted child of a rich daughter of the Palatine, the product of an illicit affair between a rich nobleman and the daughter of a very powerful senator who, having been informed that his virginal daughter had been deflowered by a famous old lecher of the front tier, almost gave up his own life when he realized that the hallowed senator wanted nothing permanent between himself, her or the baby. Keeping her cloistered away until the baby was born, he ordered her to abandon it on the hill outside the city gates where such children were often left.


The woman, dragged there unwillingly, wrapped up the chubby little boy in a piece of cloth, tying a talisman around his wrist from the local shrine to the goddess of luck to protect him from harm. The babe was abandoned thus: many children from unwanted unions were left there over the years, and those who were secretly in need often sent servants or slaves in search of a prized possession, and a new life and future. Some would become merchants, some slaves. It all depended on the Goddess, whose bright light from the moon shone down that night, spotlighting the single child and others that were left.

Rufio was a man of the Legions, retired now with a little shop in the poorer past of the city, whose wife had lost her child in a long and hard labor that very evening. The midwife who had attended her had managed to save her life and stop the massive hemorrhage that had occurred after cutting the still born child from her body, but both the father and mother were grief stricken. The mother now slept heavily, having passed out of normal consciousness in the middle of the birth. How many times this couple had tried for a child, to give them the son that would take over the little shop and continue the family tradition of serving their city.

As he looked down at the sorry little child, too weak to have lived, the tears rolled down Rufio’s face uncontrollably. The Gods surely must have cursed him for some crime committed during battle, and they taunted him now in a cruel and heatless way. He sank to his knees and called out to the Goddess, holding the little body up as an offering, praying with all his might for a child for him and his wife.

The midwife, haven seen once again this couple’s fruitless attempts at having a child, sank to her knees as well, and holding both the man and woman’s hand in hers, supplicated the Goddess.

Fortuna, Fortuna, Great goddess of mercy and luck, smile down on this honest couple and give them the child that they so desperately desire. By the gods I swear they will protect and nurture the child with all of their being and love. Fortuna, please here our missive!

She looked at Rufio and whispered these words to him:

'You wife sleeps, she does not yet know the child is dead. I fear that once she knows she has failed yet again, she will lose the will to live. I may have the answer you are looking for. Go to that place outside the city, but first visit the Great Goddess’ shrine and make your supplication. If she smiles on you this night, perhaps there will be a child waiting there for you. Now go, quickly, and be back here before she awakes.'

Rufio looked at the crone for a second, his desire for a child overwhelming his desire for his own, and got up immediately, heading down the semi-darkened streets in the bright full moon’s light.

He made his way down and out of the city, passing the Goddess’ shrine sitting at the edge of the crossroads that lead out to the north. The shrine, lit by a few small votive candles, was obviously well attended, the piles of gifts and trinkets festooning the table. He placed the wine he had brought in the sacred cup, the food on the small offering tablet, and going to his knees one more time, closed his eyes and prayed fervently one more time.

As he prayed, he heard the calls of the stray dogs that roamed the city, looking for food or any thing left unattended to eat. Opening his eyes, he saw them heading for the brightly lit hillside where the babies were left. No time to lose, he started to run towards the area, almost as fast as the stray animals that sought an easy feast.

The dogs were already tearing apart the body of one poor innocent, fighting over the corpse enough to distract them from further search. Suddenly another baby cried out, its strong voice piercing the silent night like a warning. The dogs looked up from their combat, and two took off in the direction of the sound, closely followed by Rufio.

And there it was- a child propped up between two rocks, wrapped in cloth that glowed in the moonlight. The first dog made a leap for the child, but was knocked over by its comrade, who ripped into his soft neck and killed it, feasting on it immediately. Rufio picked up a large rock and brought it crashing down on the wolf like creature’s head, sending it spinning out of control painfully until it collapsed and died a few moments later. Snatching the child up in his arms, he protectively made his way back down the slope as the other dogs circled, his dagger out of its scabbard and been waved in warning to the others that he would fight if need be.

He returned to the shrine, unwrapping the child from its protective cloth. And before him he saw a beautiful child, fat and healthy,, with read hair like his own. Gasping in joy, he called out the goddess’ name over and over, tears of joy coursing over his rough face.

He saw the charm around the child’s wrist, and examined it. For a second time he gasped, for the child was truly protected by the Goddess herself; there was her mark, as plain as day.

He took the child home, and sat in the chair next to his still sleeping wife, where he promptly fell asleep still clutching the child to his breast. His wife woke some time later to the mumblings of the little baby, awaking in hunger. Taking the child as her own, she burst into tears and pried the baby gently from her husband’s grip, putting it to her breast and giving the child sustenance. She saw the little charm, thinking it was from the midwife, and the little wooden sword Rufio had placed it in his little paws as an offering to the gods to keep the precious boy safe. Only the Gods knew how much this little boy would need their blessing.

They called him Felix. Lucky.

He was now 30 years old, a veteran of many battles, and the most fearsome warrior of the Northern Legions under the command of Decius Cornelius Scipio.

And next, his story……..



Something a little different this time.....

Hope you enjoy!

MCM

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The soldiers picked through the corpses strewn in front of the city, many marvelling at the fact that the city had sacrificed nearly all its young men in her defence instead of submit to the power of Rome. The city was Ariminum, north up the coast in Umbria about 75 miles from Ancona, sitting on the coast of the north Italian peninsula and offering access to the northern Adriatic seaports and their trade.


The battle that morning had been a bloody one.

Decius Cornelius Scipio had taken command of his Senate appointed Legions and had been sent north by the Senate, to take the city and stabilise the potential for trade. The Pro-Consul, Quintus the Victor had, at the end of his long service, duly handed back his Imperium, retiring to become Senatus Principes , elder statesman of that august body that called itself the Senate of Rome. It was he who had called for Scipio's apppointment, who had excelled at the task of Urban Praetor earlier in his career and had shown himself to have some penchant for tactics and flair on the battlefield.

Historically, Umbria lay between Etruria on the west, the territory of the Sabines on the south, Picenum on the east, and Gallia on the north. The Umbri, who settled in the region by 600 BC, joined first with Etruria, and later with Etruria and Samnium against Rome, but were eventually conquered by the Romans by 295 BC.* Umbria had been a thorn in the side of for many many years, and remained a threat due to its access to the southern central valleys bordering the city. If Rome was to solidify its grip on the peninsula, then Umbria must be Roman.

The Umbrian rebels had, over time, realised the position they were in, and had amassed a large host of warriors disconted with Roman rule from all over the peninsula, consisting of Samnites, Marsi, Sabine stock and even Gauls. The had created further trouble for themselves while the Consulars were busy dealing with Pyrrhus, extorting large fines from traders wishing to ply their trade north, and taxing them again when they return back south. The Senate had had its hands full dealing with Pyrrhus, and had bided its time.

Till now.

Felix was with the men as usual, marching forwards down the coastal road that offered salt to any open mouths, the fresh air whipping around the Legionaries, offering them cooling refreshment and making the daily long marches seem not so taxing.

For a Roman, Felix was big. That is itself is an understatement. He stood head and shoulders above the men he marched with, much more Gallic in height than they, and this was indeed the subject of many questions as to his true origins, but none ever whispered near his person.

His parents had fed him a steady diet of cows milk, pork, red meat, and plenty of exercise, as his father had taught him since he was a boy that a roman soldier could not afford to be fussy: he ate what was available. Helping his father in his grain importing business, he had lugged many a sack of wheat and grain since he was too young to remember, and this coupled with helping plow the fields on their meager farm had bestowed upon him a remarkable physique, for his family's estate could not afford more than a few slaves, and these were employed in the shop. The field work was the sole pleasure of the menfold of the family, Felix and Rufio.

Many remembered that day on the Field of Mars when Rufio turned up wth his son that had just put on the toga of manhood. One of his old Legionary friends had joked about who was the Gallic slave that had followed him that day, and had eaten his words when the boy said he was Rufio's son. He stood a good foot and a half above his father, who was no little man himself, an ex Optio and standard bearer who was built like the farmer he was, heavy set and muscle bound. Felix was his father times a half, as broad as he was tall, yet agile thanks to the years of hard work and constant running in the fields outside the city.

The boy threw himself into his drills as eagerly as he steered a plow: like a bull, causing those that trained with him to groan in fear everytime the officers called drill. A gladius looked like a toothpick in his hands, and his shield undersized, and he had had to learn how to adjust for his height by tucking down tightly into his formation so as not to present an easy target for an enemy javelin. Even placing him in a maniple with the Legion's tallest men he still stood out, but he did his best to be as good if not better than the others, practicing the moves they were taught even after the light had faded over the training grounds, often returning home late at night to finish his chores still waiting for him. For his father taught him that answering a duty was, above all things, the mark that set men apart from one another.

But that was many years ago, and he was still the same man, but much hardened by the warrior life. His body was covered in wounds, as many as the phalerae and torqs that adorned his uniform, both front and back, so many were his deeds of valour. He was the butt of the other Centurions jokes, and he greeted those taunts with a toothy smile and a patient demeanour, yet he was the first man they would call out to in the heat of battle to come to their aid.

Sewed into his legionary belt on the inside, where no one could see it, was the little talisman that had protected him as a babe. And it protected him still.

The Umbrians had sallied out twice from the city and had launched attacks on the advancing column, but had been brushed aside after losing many of their cavalry in a prolonged engagement that turned out to be as fruitless as it was expensive. The second time, they had attempted to hold a coastal pass to prevent the Roman column from accessing the coastal road, but Felix and a few of the hardened veterans had gone over a goat track during the night an assaulted the enemy position from the rear, disorganizing them sufficiently that the pass was in Roman hands by late morning.

As they grew nearer to the city, the soldiers grew restless. No one liked a seige, they were risky and fraught with all kinds of dangers to the attacking troops, especially those that were sent in first to storm and hold the perimeter breach.

But that was not to be: as the army approached the city, they saw the rebel army was drawn up outside waiting for them. Since it was late in the day, Scipio drew up half the army as usual while the other prepared the camp for the night, and the two armies' cavalry forces engaged in a one sided engagement that saw the Rebels pull back that evening before they were sent to oblivion.

Amphimachos, their leader and General, called a counsel of war that night asking for the bravest soldiers to prepare for a a special assault on the morrow, and a group of veterans came forwards to answer the call, all men without families and all willing to do whatever it took to sway the battle in the city's favour.

The next morning, the two armies lined up again, the soldiers marching to their positions in preparation for the eventual and final clash.


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The Rebel leader rode forwards alone, proclaiming in a clear and loud voice that this would be a battle fought in the old tribal style; the best warriors would fight first, then the main battle would be fought. He called out that the Romans knew well how to fight with many numbers, but was there a man amongst them that dared fight one on one against their best spearmen?

A handful of veteran rebels came forward, armed to the teeth, taunting the Roman troops who stood their silently, held back by their discipline.

Scipio chuckled to himself, knowing full well that there was one man in the legion who would be champing at the bit to have a go at them. He swung his horse around behind the lines and rode closer to where the man was standing, sure enough, he was mumbling to himself, face red, holding tightly onto his round Centurion shield and squeezing the gladius in his hand.

In a loud voice, he asked the army who would represent them today, and their roar of response confirmed his choice. Smiling wickedly, he called out to the man:

'Well, dont just stand there, defend your Roman honour!'

Felix needed no second invitation; his sword was out of his scabbard and he raced out towards the five rebels, who were suddenly taken aback at the size of the monstrous man before them. As the whole army stood on and watched, yelling their support, he took on all five, whirling about like a creature half man, half beast, lunging and feinting, making it impossible for the men to work together at a team, and forced to come at him one by one, on his terms.


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Using his shield like a battering ram, he knocked their long spears aside, and stabbed, slashed and lunged, getting so close to them that the spearmen became their own worst enemies, one man injuring another with a badly aimed thrust that pierced the other man's chest, felling him. It was the inside game, where Roman troops fought best, and Felix smashed his gladius down on their wooden spears time and time again, snapping off the tips and driving in close for the kill.



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Three rebels were already dead, and this was too much for the General Amphimachos and the rest of their army to bear, the whole army rushing forwards now to kill this insolent Roman seemingly afraid of no man. It was enough for the Consul Scipio too, and he dropped his arm to unleash his dogs of war upon the enemy.


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It became a bloody free for all, as the maniples marched forwards at the rapidly advancing enemy formations, each wanting to crush the other. Felix's own maniple rushed forwards to protect their officer, helping him withdraw from his duel unscathed, but still seething to get at the enemy. The rest of the army swept past him, and he and his men took up their place on the flank, where they prepared for the eventual counter attack ordered by the Consul.


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The enemy were bombarded by missile fire. Blinded by the bright sun deployed behind the roman line, it was a force they could not see but felt in their steadily diminishing numbers. The Roman line spread its wings wide, and prepared to devour its prey....


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The battle lasted until about mid morning, the best of the enemy number being killed or wounded early in the fracas, thus leaving some units to mill about the field aimlessly, frittering away their chances at success. Slowly but surely, the Legions swept all before it, and step by step, the rebel army was pushed back towards the narrow confines of the city gates. Straggling units were cut down by the Consul and his Equites acting like a huge brush sweeping away useless debris.


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The Rebel troops became crammed together, funnelled towards the yawing gates that both framed relief and
their doom, for the space was not wide enough to accept so many men in such a short time. The rest was a gruesome spectacle that many would recount years later.....


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Felix was in the thick of things, having been released on the counter attack from the left, his maniples sweeping around to the rear and presenting a wall of shields, swords and spears for the enemy to cross. He lay about him tirelessly, his face a vicious mask of death to the enemy, who ran from him in terror. A lamb when at peace, he was like a gorgon in anger, displaying a wicked skill that made even his friends tremble at the sight.


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There was not much left of the enemy force by the midday sun's highest point, the Roman army, its men covered in sweat and dust were halted at the gate, festooned as it was by enemy corpses. Scipio was then approached by an old man from the city who said that there was no one left standing to oppose them- the city was theirs for the taking.


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They were too tired to celebrate, and just shut and locked the gates, placing a guard, to deal with the city's future and its people on the morrow. But the men's minds that night were filled with recounts of Felix, the Northern Legion's lucky mascot, who was supreme in battle, and truly the son of the Goddess Fortuna herself.




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*http://www.tiscali.co.uk/reference/encyclopaedia/hutchinson/m0014723.html


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Ave all,

Please feel free to post your comments here at any time.

The mod used for the story is RTR Imperator

played on Hard /Hard

I use RTR Quintus Sertorius' true Roman rules,
plus some other ones of my own, making the game as tough and realistic as possible, keeping my money under 50,000 Denarii and my expansion historical in time line.

There is much from the old forum to yet post here for you, as we have just regained access there and are now cleaning it up and out for general use sometime soon. 13,000 posts threads to organise and counting......

Enjoy the story.....

Salve,

Marcus Cornelius Marcellus Felix

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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It was cold: colder than most men could remember, but the fact that they had to march 10 miles in pitch black darkness seemed enough to keep their temperatures up. Their goal watch to catch the Carthaginian general Theages by surprise, and to that end they had marched nearly all night long.

The last few weeks had seen them fight a series of skirmishes with the Carthaginian commander, whose wily leadership had saved his men time and time again. Employing light troops from Iberia that hit, then ran, was a new tactics that many f the Legionaries were unused too, preferring the stand toe to toe, slogging matches like the tribal wars of the peninsula.

The Romans had chased Theages across the middle of the island for weeks; unable to bring him to a decisive battle, yet they themselves had been taking on casualties, which infuriated the young tribune in command,Publius, no end. Everything he had ever been taught, these Carthaginian troops contradicted, the way they moved into battle, and how they disengaged so rapidly, seemingly content with disappearing into the woods and appearing again, later, somewhere else.


The Carthaginian Theages had done his best, but without word from the Senate back in Carthage, and desperately in need of supplies, he could not work miracles. The Roman fleet had managed to blockade the harbor, so that no supplies were getting in. The men were worried too, they had no problem continuing the fight, but they needed somewhere to retreat to. The cities of the island were gradually being absorbed by the steady Roman advance, and he was rapidly running out of land. Marching steadily towards him was a Legion that just would not give up the pursuit, and the room left to maneuver was growing ever smaller.

Each day the Roman army grew closer and closer, each day his opportunities for escape were less and less. Fruitlessly they looked down the mountainside to the coast of the Mediterranean, searching in vain for ships from home. It was a forlorn hope.

Publius could feel the moment drawing nearer, and champed at the bit to be able to put this battle behind him. The men could feel it too, and allowed him to press them on remorselessly, knowing that he would not rest till it was done.

This was Publius’ first big command, and he didn’t want to blow the opportunity. So, he was cautious. Perhaps too cautious at times, but still able to herd the enemy army towards the tip of the island, which was now spilt in half by the ridge of mountains between Entella and Segesta. He didn’t want to give the Carthaginian general any room to escape, so he decided to split his army in two; sending half around the mountains to the right, and the other half to the left. Keeping track of the enemy between them, they would force him to stand and fight.

Theages saw what was happening, and started to push his army steadily higher up the side of the mountain range, looking for a way to catch one roman army without support of the other. It was his only hope, until reinforcements arrived. So his army melted into the alpine forests, skirmishing with Publius’ army enough to continue the war of attrition, but still waiting for the ideal place and time.

Publius cursed under his breath at the now disappeared enemy, and he was loath to send his men forwards into the woods to look for them, as this would mean more lives wasted. Instead, he pitched himself a stout camp, figuring that if he didn’t move, the enemy wouldn’t move either, and that would just buy time for the other two legions to swing around the rear and fall on the enemy.

That night, a huge thunderstorm broke over the island, which continued its downpour for hours, making it difficult to see more than a hundred feet in any direction.

Which gave birth to an idea...

Assembling his officers in his soggy tent, he told them of his plan. Leaving a small garrison of troops in the fort, hey would use the rain as cover and disappear into the darkness, head for the coast, then double back through the thick coastal woods and get behind and above the enemy themselves. It meant an all night march, but the enemy would not realize they had stolen a march on them, and thinking that they were in fact the other two legions, it would force them into battle.

The thunderstorm carried on through the night unabated, and true to his word, most of the two legion’s troops made their very damp way out of the camp in the dead of night, covered by the raucous cries of the thunder that rocked the skies. Soaking wet, they trudged on regardless, knowing that the resulting battle would mean reuniting with their loved ones sooner than later. They were all tired of this unusual style of warfare. And they wanted home.


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Theages awoke to a disturbed sky, as the light still threatened more rain. He looked down on the Roman camp, noticing the burning fires cooing for the troops that morning, and the movement of the men inside the walls, careful of attack. As long as they didn’t move, he was safe, or so he thought.

His reverie was interrupted by one of his Iberian scouts, who reported a large force of Romans slightly lower on the mountain, but heading for his rear. Realizing the position this would place him in, he quickly organized his troops, placing his spearmen in a long phalanx, stashed in the trees, waiting to deploy. To cover their flanks, he had his horse and missile troops lurk farther behind, and he made sure his army stayed in cover till the Roman force was most way up the slope.

Publius saw him too; and stopped his troops then and there, forming up on a small meadow that marked midway up the slope. If you want me, come and get me, he thought to himself……

Running out of options, Theages acted, sending his troops in a massive line down the mountain side, the full extent of his numbers echoed in the ever lengthening line that drew out of the trees. Publius calmly formed up his man to wait: the order was given to hold regardless of what the enemy did, and to wait till they had covered at least half the distance.

Doing exactly as Adrastos had taught him, Publius arranged his men in an oblique line, adding weight to his right which was higher in altitude, and shortening his left.


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The enemy picked up tempo, bearing down on the Roman line, attempting to use gravity and force of numbers to break the Roman line in two. Halfway down the slope. The Romans went into action, the line continued to weight itself to the right, but more than that, the entire front swung forwards obliquely, slicing its way into the enemy's path.


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Theages at this point had no time to adjust, he had pinned all his hopes in smaching the Romans in two, but found that with the now unstoppable impetus of his advancing line, the Romans were moving to counter him.


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Having advanced rapidly down the hill, Theages was in the uncomfortable position of having the Roman troops on his left already behind him, and he peeled off his reserve Iberian mercenaries to deal with the threat. Publius sent another set of maniples round to the right, who advanced upon the extreme edge of the Carthaginian line's flank. As fast as it had begun, Theages was in trouble, having lost the manouverability he had counted on.


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Finally, after months of trying to bring the Carthaginians to battle, they were withing the Roman's grasp, and the troops let fly their aggression with a gusto. Publius had the right assault the Iberians with a vengeance, while the main line, short but solid, held firm the phalanx. Once the Carthaginian line was fixed in placed, units broke off engagement, only to move to a flanking position and apply stress elsewhere. The carthaginian line started to buckle, as each unit sought to adjust to different pressures, making it all the easier for the Romans to counter.


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Theages was losing control of the situation rapidly; the Iberians were not responding to frantic signals to withdraw and regroup, and the main line was under intense pressure. Having held himself in reserve till now, he committed himself to the battle in an attemp to salvage his attack. Seeing that the enemy was now fuly committed, Publius sent his cavalry round to the left, and using the advantage of height gained within moments, engaged the struggling Iberian troops from the rear, crushing their spirit within moments.


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The flanks were now being torn to pieces, and Theages pinned above the main fighting, unable to get past the four maniples that had barred his path. Looking down the slope, he could see that some of the Iberians were being cut down in their hundreds, caught between the various pincers of the fleet roman troops, now in their element: a committed battle. He had lost the initiative and watched helplessly as his army came apart before his eyes.

As his men were steadily cut down around him one by one, Theages glanced out, one more time, to the clear blue seas of the Mediterranean, so close, and yet so far, realizing that he would never get to see the glorious city of Carthage ever again.


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Publius could afford to sit back and watch as his recently frustrated men demolished the Carthaginian army piece by piece, chasing the remnants down the slopes to the sea, and all over the countryside, in search of a refuge that had never arrived.


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Lilybaeum fell the next day. Sicily belonged to Rome.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Exordium
Spurius Aelius Ligus, 56, second time Consul of Rome’s grand Senate, watched over the raw young recruits as they drilled in the dry afternoon sun. Capua had been the training place for Rome’s legions since time immemorial; because before that, the city and the territories of Campania had been too prone to rebel, and thus by stationing a permanent large garrison there under the guise of a training camp, it had been an easy method to dissuade such thoughts.


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Ligus came down from the Capital as often as he could, since it was a reprieve from the constant bickering and in-fighting between the members of Rome’s august body, more often than not like the squabbles of stray dogs fighting over a kill. Moreover, he was a military man at heart, and hence loved the atmosphere, the veterans whipping the young new faces into fighting men, instilling a confidence in their system and movements that had proved itself time and time again.

It had been over eight months since the Legio and the recruits were starting to look like a fighting force, having survived the intensive non-stop drills that the veteran trainers threw at them on a daily basis, in unpredictable combinations. Making them think like a team, to subvert their own desire for flight and to ultimately stand fast and look to their neighbour for support, was the prime directive, for together they were a fearsome force, alone just any man.

Riding into the camp from the west, a city elder from one of the nearby settlements of Pietrabbondante arrived, obvious in his attire and worse the wear from his hard ride. The man swung his horse towards the Consul’s office, dismounting painfully and talking at high speed to the officer on the watch.

Ligus was just about to leave for Rome when his contubernalis came in with the councilman and the news: a large rebel force has attacked several villas outside of Corfinium, and was heading up the Via Latina in the direction of Rome. There was not a proper army within 150 miles of where they sat, as all of Rome’s legions were busy pacifying the north. Ignoring the frantic face of the councilman who was anxiously fraying away at the end of his robe, Ligus sprang into action.

‘Get Servius in here, and summon all the trainers. Conference in 5 minutes. Move.’

Ligus ordered his attendant to get the poor man something to eat and drink, as he assessed the situation clearly. There were about 600 rebels according to accounts, their numbers swelling daily. Far too close to the old stomping grounds of the Samnites, who were always ready to challenge roman authority.

Serius came in at the run, followed by all the Centurions and Optios, panting . In crisp and concise terms, The Consul apprized them of the situation.


‘We have a large force of Rebels blocking the Via Latina. Most are remnants of Pyrrhus’ army that have been living on brigandage in the central mountains. They have already pillaged and looted several farms, took all the livestock from Atina and killed the town officer. The force is on its way north and gaining troops from the mountainous tribes. So, gentlemen, how many men do we have here?’

Serius answered, totting up the numbers as he spoke.

‘Apart from the conscripts, about 10,000 recruits, never seen action and all still pretty green, Sir. There are about 100 senior trainers, plus we have the maniples of veterans from Rhegium being re-equipped. A lot of the old cooks and metal-smiths are veterans too, I suppose we could get together about another maniple.’

Ligus nodded, making his decision

‘Well, we need the lot. Summon general alarm and have them ready to march in an hour, two at most. I don’t care if some of them haven’t been on a march for years, today they fight for their retirement again. I want every three veterans matched with a maniple, if need be make an instant decision on who is in charge, Serius. I leave that to you.’

Many of the old soldiers grinned, seeing this opportunity to break the monotony of training the young ones and missing the taste of battle. They knew that the other veterans strewn across the camp support would all volunteer too. Ligus ended the meeting thus:

‘Anyone missing any kit, have them report to Fabius at the store and re-supply them. We are the only ones available, men. It’s up to us, or this could get out of control. Lets move men, we can sort out the details on the march.’

The men hustled smartly out of the office, their voices breaking the air outside in bellows that sent the recruits off in every direction.

They were going into battle!!!


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Medius

They marched all afternoon, chasing the rebel army’s tail north. Skirting the Campanian inland mountain range and crossing the Volturnus, Ligus sending out riders to the towns ahead to keep track of the rebel army and its progress. The word that came back was not good; the army had set Attina aflame on departure, having killed every roman they found and raped many a woman. Continuing north, they had attacked Pietrabbondante and killed ever officer there, released some of the slaved working on Roman projects and thus swelled their numbers again. According to those that had managed to escape the city before it was torched, the army was on its way to Fregellae, still picking up numbers of Marsi and Samnites daily. Ligus relayed the information to his officers as they rode, and had the veterans talk to the troops as they marched, explaining what they were to expect and where they were headed. He troops marched hard, proud that the consul trusted them, but still green enough that the veterans that were seeded through their ranks would be tough at any sign of weakness.


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*map from http://www.unc.edu/awmc/awmcmap23.html

As they marched closer and closer, the news got worse and worse; rape, pillage, burning, the rebel army was doing enourmous damage, safe in the thought that there was not another army within at least a few weeks march of them, by that time they would have reached the coast and stolen some freighter, and be on their way to somewhere far, far from Rome. Or so they thought.

The days went past, each ended by a stout camp and each begun with the bawling shouts of the veterans gald to be about their old business. They grew more and more like an army every moment, constantly being drilled and forming up tighter and tighter, yet without an experience that battle could only decide- the ultimate test of a man's worth.

They were deep inside Samnium, and the site of two full legions marching through the territory was enough to dissuade many for their thoughts of rebellion. Exactly what Ligus wanted to accomplish. As they crossed the mountain east of Fregellae, they could see the trail of smoking fires left in the wake of the rebel army, its pall clearly visoble over twenty miles away. And at the head, their challenge.

Marching to cut off the rebel force before the city, Ligus drove the Legions down to the northwest, and set up camp about ten miles in front of the enemy. Which did as he intended, halting the rebels in their tracks and forcing them to battle, as their only way forwards was through the roman army, such being the hilly terrain than markes the inland mountain rages of peninsula Italy. Knwing that the rebels would do nothing that late in the day, and cut off from access to immediate fresh water, Ligus mounted a guard around the camp and had the men rest until the morrow. The next morning arose to a dull sweltering haze that filled the immediate valley, but his men had rested and were well fed, in contrast to the rebels who had assumed their bext victuals would come from the nearby city. Such is the way of leaderless men, they think no further than a full belly, Ligus thought to himself, but noticed that the enemy had cannily formed itself up into three distinct forces.

He ordered his makeshift legion to form up outside the ramparts, in typical roman fashion; no fancy maneuvers here, only solid basic tactics and steady command would see them through this day. Two lines, keeping his veterans in the middle rear, Ligus himself swung his consular bodyguard into the fray as the roman right, directly opposite the rebel cavalry force led by their erstwhile commander.



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Calling Servius to him, he laid out the simple battle plan.

'Servius, you will command the left as we discussed. Have Sextus hold the center. We advance as one, then split into three, and hit each part of the rebel army at the same time. Once I have dispensed with their cavalry, I will fall on the rear of whatever is left. Hold Servius; only use the veterans when you are sure of victory.'


Nodding grimly, his Tribune issued his commands to his centurions, who all saluted the Consul. It was for many, their last chance at glory, and they were glad for the opportunity,aged or no.

The army advanced as one, two lines, cavalry holding the right, their numbers tightly packed but formidable.As they approached withing a few hundred yards, they made their simple but well rehearsed move; breaking into three distinct units of 21 maniples drawn up in double line, the three forces made for their targets. Putting all his faith in the wily veterans that now wielded men in battle for the first time in many years, Ligus threw the fate of Rome's young men to the Gods, training, and luck.
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The Roman army, splitting like a well coordinated three headed monster, advanced confidently forwards, displaying the fervour and sureness of men much older than their years allowed. Servius wheeled his force left, to cut off the middle unit from its heavily weighted right, while the middle force under Sextus suddenly split in two again, half to assault the rebel center, half marching at the double to flank the enemy right from the inside. Ligus watched proudly as the veterans handled each unit like the professionals they were. The Consul advanced ahead too, cutting off the rebel cavalry from the center. The first moves were struck, and the Romans had achieved their target. The rebel armys would now operate without support, and thus became all the more vulnerable....


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Sextus and the left were the first into action. Assaulting the enemy's light troops with ten maniple's worth of missile fire, he ordered the rear line split in two, hitting the enemy with both an assault to their front line and flank simultaneously.


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Meanwhile the center was now engaged as well, effectively cut off from support and under intense pila fire. Ligus sent his 21 maniples forwards at the run, having them hit the enemy with missiles before he would drive his horse into them, smashing them like rocks with a hammer.

The battle was on....

Ligus and the right wing tore at the enemy, the foot, forst launching their pila, then rushing forwards while the Roman Equites swept past them, headlong into the enemy's already thinning ranks. The young men, caught up in the exhileration of the moment, let out a huge roar as they swept forwards , and raced after the Consul who launched his horsemen straight at the enemy General in one horrendous moment.


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It was as if two tidal waves hit each other at the same time, the two opposing forces sweeping towards each other without thought of stopping, and coming together in one climactic spray of bloody foam as horse met horse. Ligus was in the thick of the fighting, batting away an enemy spearthrust at his neck, and taking the arm off one sorry rebel in his counter stroke. The rebels held for as long as they could, but the sight of the young lions racing towards them spellled certain death, and what was left of their number raced away.


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Pulling up for a moment,Ligus shouted out his command to one wily old centurion, panting furiously but with a big grin plastered all over his face:

'I will deal with the general. Go to the support of the others. For Rome!'

The 21 maniples raced off at the double, to fall on the enemy rear. Ligus and his men made short work of the fleeing stragglers, then themselves turned to suport the main force.


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Servius and the Roman left were heavily engaged, the larger enemy force there standing their ground and fighting back remorselessly. But the veteran maniples had breached the rear, and swung around of the enemy's unprotected flans and rear. What was at one moment organised, rapidly broke into masses of milling men, assaulted from all sides.

The young lions, smelling bloody victory for the first time, fought more doggedly, inspired by the Centurions and veterans that threw themsleves into the fray, standing side by side with the young men who had answered Rome's call.


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It was too much for the rest of the rebel force. Seeing themselves gradually being surrounded, they broke and ran, only to run into the Roman left that had come to assist in the fray. By the time the Consul returned, all that was left were plies and piles of bloody corpses strewn across the valley.


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Vergo.

Addressing the drawn up Legions frm his horse, Ligus spoke proudy to them.

'Men, you fought like veterans this day. Let no man say that you are not worthy to fight for your city! For you have proven what solid training and great leadership in the form of your centurions can do. You have protected your people from more hardship and suffering. Let no enemy army stand in your way.

For you are the young Lions of Rome! Now, savour the sweet tast of victory!!'

The army stood on the bloody field, and cheered itself hoarse, before turning and starting to make the long march back to Capua.

It was over.


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Editor's note:For those of you that wanted to see the Hastati in all their glory, I hope you have enjoyed this one.

Roma Victor!

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 15. Quintus the Victor.


Atque ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant.
And when they make a solitude they call it peace.- Tacitus
Quintus sat in the Atrium, awaiting his guest. He could feel the cancer gradually eating away at his body and his will, there was little that could be done except bear with the pain and wait till the final moment came.

As with all humans, the moments of calm when the pain subsided enough for him to reminisce, he thought of Adrastos. What they had achieved in the thirteen years since they had met was astounding. Sicily was truly Roman for the first time. Carthage had sued for peace. The northern rebel cities had finally succumbed to years of relentless Roman pressure and surrendered.

Thanks to the influence of Adrastos, the Legions had changed too. Learning from a direct descendant of the armies of Alexander, they had incorporated many of the advances manoeuvres into the formations of the maniples, had simplified the order of battle, and streamlined the chain of command. It was a great improvement over what had gone before, and the new troops training in Campania benefited from his expertise and experience. The men treated him as an equal, and now operated without the constant need of the ex-consul, who was lately too sick to move far from his estates and now struggling to get to Senate meetings.

Quintus had gone there for the last time a week before, and the house had stood and applauded as he struggled up the steps that led into the open chamber, unassisted, wrapped in a thick woollen shawl to keep him warm, and taking each step laboriously. He had seen the look in the other senator’s eyes, they could see the damage that the disease was causing to his body, and his once tall and proud figure was now almost bent over double. It had been enough for him.

Time to say goodbye.

Shaking the hands of many that day, he knew that he would never see their faces again, and so the poignancy of the moment was felt by all. The tears flowed as each of his faction members stepped forwards to say farewell, even old enemies too. Too weak to make it back outside of the building, the men cradled him lovingly, calling a litter to take him back to his house in the Palatine.

And so, he awaited Adrastos, who came galloping up from the north, where he had been training the new allied Legions. Not taking anytime to clean up, he made his way into the familiar house and to the consul’s rooms, where he found him lying on a sofa in his now usually reclined position. Seeing him, Quintus’ face lit up, and the two men embraced, the words unspoken but in their eyes saying it all.

‘How go the young ones?’

‘They will learn with time, the faces get fresher and fresher each year, but the quality is good. Nothing a few battles won’t fix.’

‘And you- how is your land?’

‘I have a small orchard, some sheep and a few head of cattle. My wife is about to throw our third baby, and I hope for a son. Two girls already- where am I going to find the dowry?’

Both men laughed at this, but this brought on a grimace of pain in the old consul, who was getting progressively weaker now on a daily basis. When the pain had subsided, he went on.

‘You have served Rome well, more than that, you have served and represented me better than I could have ever imagined. My time is near Adrastos, and we have some matters to discuss before my passing.’

‘To leave you as you stand now, as my servant, would be a great dishonour and a disservice to both you and Rome. So we must rectify this.’

Calling for a servant, Quintus reached out for a small scroll that he held shaking in his hands.

‘With this, I release you from my service, and grant your freedom. You will be a citizen of Rome from now, you and all your family. And I have increased your land by several hundred iugera as well. You will not be short of means, and your family’s future is secured.'

Adrastos bowed his head in thanks, feeling the emotion rising in him. He had come from virtual destruction to being reborn again, as a Roman. fate had travelled a complete circle.

‘But you have one more choice to decide: what will it be? To stay here and work for Rome, or return to your homeland. Perhaps they need you too?’

Adrastos looked at his, shaking his head.

‘There is nothing for me there. The past is gone. My future lies with Rome now. Also, I cannot leave you. I promised a life bond, and I will fulfil my promise to you.’

Quintus smiled at this answer, and reached out to take Adrastos’ arm once more, but the pain returned, and he lay back on the bed in pain, coming back to consciousness after a few minutes. A weak smile said it all.

‘It won’t be long; I can feel that death is calling me. Please stay as long as you like, I have no hold over you.’

So Adrastos sat down, and waited for the inevitable. The two friends passed the time reminiscing about the past, of old friends still and gone. It was as if the bonds of dty were no more, and it was just the discussion of two long lost friends.

Adrastos stayed two more days, until the last breath passed between Quintus’ lips. Fate had drawn Adrastos to Rome, and now he would never leave her.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 16
The First Punic War- 264-241


Prelude. Rome has been challenged. The armies and navy of Carthage have sunk Roman trading vessels, blockaded the Ports of Sicily and stolen wheat destined for Rome. For the first time in Roman history, the Senate have decided that Rome must take her military might to the seas, and contend with the Punic forces on their own territory. We fought Pyrrhus, and conquered. Now we must contend with another rival…….



Let the battle begin....

First moves.-262 BC. The Senatus Princeps called the house into order. Both Consuls were there, the Senior having returned from guardind the northern central passes, as large forces of Gauls and even a German raiding army had been seen stalking across Cisalpine Gaul.


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Decius Cornelius Scipio, consular officer and senior member of the house, addressed the body in a loud voice, as those that waited outside crowded eagerly to hear the discussion, for the fate of Rome lay in the hands of this august body….

‘Senators, we are here today to decide how to deal with the Carthaginian attacks on our trading fleet, and our new holdings in Sicily. We cannot allow them to continue these brazen acts without retribution from us.

My fellow colleagues, we have discussed the issues at hand, and pt before the floor now a course of two actions. First, we must strike a blow at the heart of the enemy by taking away from him the island of Corsica. It is the base where Punic ships are stationed, and they are too close to our beloved Rome for comfort. It is thus an extreme priority that we seize this possession from them as a preliminary move.’

Looking around the tired rows of Senators listening intently, Decius continued with the plan.

‘In order to do this my fellow senators, we must expand the army by twice its size. Four Legions will be left to secure the north, another 3 to 4 will be needed against the forces of Carthage. Also, for the first time in our history, we must build a fleet. A fleet that is capable of standing up to the Punic navy and dealing them a crushing blow. WE have allocated a large amount of funds to the shipyards of Syracuse to build us a fleet, the Greek artisans there are experts in the art of sailing, and will undoubtedly produce a fine navy for us.

'We will have to train commanders that are capable of taking the fight onto the seas, so I move that we send one third of this years Tribunes to study there and learn how to manage the ships in the water. Crews must be trained and special naval marines created so that we can board enemy vessels and take them by storm.'

'One we have taken Corsica, we can move on to the heart- Carthage itself. I move also that a special Legionary force be created to attack the Punic heartland and take the war to the enemy’s throat.'

'This is an enourmous undertaking, and one that we must consider carefully, for once we step onto this path, there will be no turning back until we are victorius or lost. In my position as one of the senior members of this body, I see we have no alternative but to war.'

'Rome must never give in to oppression from another. We have a destiny to bring peace and prosperity to the Mediterranean, and by the Gods, we shall not fail!'

Feeling the crowds emotion swell with his impassioned words, Decius closed with an ultimatum:

'Carthage must be punished!'

The house dissolved into cheers and roars, as he went back to seat on the tiers, knowing that he had set the city on a head on meeting with fate: War.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Part One. 259BC:
Corsica has been invaded with the help of the brand new Roman fleet, which now warily patrols the waters between the island and the mainland. Three Legions under the command of Pro- Consular Spurius Aelius Ligus besieged the city and took it by storm. The island was taken for Rome, but the cost was high: the Pro-Consul, suffering from a fever taken while aboard ship to the island, was lost amid great scenes of mourning.

Having secured the island, Ligus’ young Quaestor and now erstwhile commander, Gaius Publilus Philo, took command of the three Legions, and leaving a small garrison force to guard the city whilst troops were sent south for the main invasion in Africa, headed back to Capua and re-supply.

Assault on Africa, 256BC.-Rome amassed a force of three Legions to head south to Africa, and in 256, Roman troops landed there for the first time in history. But Carthage had been busy all this time too……

Back in Corsica, Captain Tiberius was alerted that a Punic army had landed from Sardinia, led by the General Aqhat Sicca, with a raiding force of about 6000 men.
All that Tiberius had at his disposal were 30 maniples of Hastati, the young men who had stood the test with Ligus those short few years ago. They were now almost qualified as veterans, and it was to them alone that stood the fate of Roman Corsica and the city of Aleria.


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They were all that stood before Carthage.....

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Part Two. Sardinia, Summer 256 BC


General Aqhat Sicca was angry. He took the Carthaginian Senate’s message and threw it at his attendant, who ducked and tried to remain calm, knowing the general’s moods well.

‘How in the name of Melqart am I supposed to attack with this?’, pointing out the window at the Iberian mercenaries that were milling about in the square below.

‘Where are my spearmen? Where are my swordsmen? Only one unit of cavalry, my personal bodyguard! The rest? All still in either Iberia or stuck in Africa unable to leave because of that Roman blockade out there.’

‘I need more men! I need supplies! Then they have the audacity to tell me; failure will not be regarded well by the Senate! We all know what THAT means!’

Taking the scroll and winding it up tightly, he went to the window and threw it as far as he could, it eventually landing in the middle on the square to the curious looks of bystanders, who on seeing his rage, went about their business.

‘Call to arms. We leave now!’

His attendant nodded his understanding and scrabbled to get ready for the journey. They would use the few small merchant vessels lurking in the area to ship them to Corsica, and hopefully find the city lightly defended. Hopefully, they had no intelligence to either confirm or deny the number, but the island had belonged to Carthage long enough to help them in any endeavour. Perhaps with success, they could return home. It had been too long…..

‘Siluk!!!’

The General roared his name somewhere down the hall, and the attendant ran after him at the double.

Tiberius was not apprised of the situation either, and had only just started to make regular communications with the island people. This was proving to be difficult, as he did not speak their native tongue, and the few that did were busy doing everything and anything. He had spent his time riding around the island and apprising himself of the lay of the land, easily defendable and blessed with a high ground down its centre, and giving those at that height unparalleled vision of the immediate area, and even the coats of Sardinia, lurking in the moist air.

Which is why he had built the series of watchtowers there, as a means to give some kind of advance warning from the south. Rome had promised re-supply, but they were still waiting for the new men and equipment to arrive.

And that fine clear morning, he did not like what he saw: a fleet of small ships clustered around the beaches to the south, and the obvious movements of men disembarking.

‘Canis filius!! That must be a good 6000 men down there! he said to himself, and turning to his guard, sent him riding at full gallop back to the city to call general alarm. Horse too! Though not many, bodyguards probably. And those brightly coloured bastards must be Iberian troops methinks. More men than us, and not enough time to meet them in the field and take some out before they get close either. I hate sieges!

Jumping on his horse, he sprinted it back to the city, all ten miles of it, till his horse was ready to give way beneath his legs. Summoning a General meeting, he addressed every one of the soldiers, standing on a table set up as a makeshift stage in the middle of the city. The men listened grimly, well aware of the fact that there was no one else around except them to defend the city.

‘We are going to have to fight this one ourselves with no relief. Yes, they have cavalry, but if we stick together, we can take them out of the equation. We will set up with our backs to the city walls, and if they want to engage, they will have to run the gauntlet of our pilum.’

‘I have no fancy speeches for you. You all know me well, and served with me. Ligus once called us his young lions. Well, I don’t think he would have called us that anymore. Most of you are ready to go back to Capua for retraining as Principes, and all that stands between that and us is this Carthaginian army. If we fall, then our endeavours in Africa will be severely jeopardized. If we lose, we will be cut down where we stand or they will sell us into slavery. We must hold! There is no other option!’

They have a good days march ahead of them before they get here. We will be ready for them in the morning. We stand as one!'

The no longer young lions filed out of the meeting introspectively, realising the weight of their actions and its effect on the plans of Rome.


The maniples stood in front of the city walls, facing the advancing enemy. Aqhat saw their rear was defended, but they had left the wide avenue that was the main entrance to the city open, effectively dividing the Roman force in two. Deeming it a weakness, he sent his Iberian spearmen forwards at the double, in an attempt to isolate each wing.


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But as the Iberians surged forwards, the Roman line suddenly became one; cutting off the entrance into the city, shortening their line but making the maniples many more ranks deeper.

Aqhat saw his Iberians engage, and rode up tight behind them to add impetus to their attack, pushing the forwards to wards the solid buyt short wall of Roman troops.

Tiberius signalled to the rear lines, who broke off from the formation as they had been trained to do, and with perfect precision, started to extend the line wider and wider, and the Carthaginian General, too caught up in the advance, pressed ever onwards.

Seeing his men stall, Aqhat screamed at the top of his voice for the foot to gte out of his way, and he drove his horse forwards, right at Tiberius, obviously commanding the line. Who stood like a rock, unflinching, as the Punic horse surged forwards......


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With the walls of the city behind their backs, the Hastati stood firm, but the force of the Carthaginian horsemen steadily told on their center. Seeing that the line was starting to break under the immense strain, Tiberius stepped into the breach, and laid about him with his gladius, cutting clean through the hock of the closest horse and sending the rider and it tumbling bloodily to the ground. His round Centurion shield rang with the weight of blows left and right, as he stood and held the center together......

At the top of his voice, he yelled out these words:

'Lions! To me!!!'

Seeing that killing the Centurion would secure victory, Aqhat sent all of his riders forwards to destroy him. A small tight cluster of men gathered around Tiberius, guarding his flanks as he fought, taking on one rider after another.......


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To be continued......

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The battle raged around him, his shield now dented with the repeated blows taken from spear and sword, yet he still stood, defiant. The enemy riders had gathered around him, and Tiberius and his maniple clustered tightly to protect him from the blows that rained down from above.

All that could be heard above the din f the battle were the screams of the dying, that piled up in front of the roman line, curved from the immense pressure, but unbroken. The clang of metal hitting metal ran out across the melee, as Tiberius’ round shield absorbed blow after blow.

Aqhat tried to cut his way through to the centurion, but was immediately surrounded by Hastati that stabbed and slashed at both he and his mount, causing him to wheel around in order to avoid their blows. The Roman line had extended to its fullest reach, now each end started its inexorable drive inwards, enveloping the Iberian spearmen and starting to hack away at their flanks.

All shape and form had been lost I the enemy, now their soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to defend each other from the intense counterattack of the Romans, held together by one man in the centre with the crosswise horse hair plume.

Try as they might, no one could kill him, and the piles of Carthaginian dead around him continued to grow larger and larger.


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Aqhat suddenly became aware that his rear was gradually being closed off by roman troops, the green of their uniforms catching the corner of his eye. Parrying yet another blow, he attempted to swing backwards to allow a better run up at getting to the Centurion, but found that Roman foot blocked his way. Frustrated, he lashed out and the nearest soldier, and managed to take him out with a strike to the head, sending that man collapsing earthwards, blood pouring out of his now opened face.


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He could see his forces being bunched together tighter and tighter, unable to manoeuvre or put up a unified resistance to the Hastati’s torrid attack. He swung his hose around one more time, looking for an opening.

Silvia, having cut his way steadily closer to the Punic General, saw the opening he had been waiting for. Smashing away the spear thrust at him, he dove between two Carthaginain horsemen, and came up slightly behind Aqhat in his blind spot, spotting his chance in the gap between the front and rear plates of the general’s cuirass. Lunging forwards, he thrust his gladius up deep into the Carhaginian leader's stomach, ending the thrust with a twist, causing Aqhat to scream in terrible agony, and fall headlong off his horse.


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Aqhat's bodyguard, now down to a mere handful, saw his body dragged downwards, and realised that with it ,the resistance to the Romans would end, so turning in their saddles, they broke free of the line, and attempted to cut their way out of the Roman circle.


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The once well coordinated Punic attack broke down into a free-for-all to survive, as the remaining units broke off from engagement, and attempted flight. Tiberius, too tired to move, stood there panting furiously as he watched them attempt escape.


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After a brief respite, Tiberius summoned his last remaining energy, and sent the Hastati forwards to finish of the fleeing enemy, leading the way with his sword held high. The Lions followed him, suddenly catching their second wind and ripping pieces slowly off the retreating force.


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The Carthaginians ran all the way back to the ships, only to find half of them not there, carried away by an errant wind. Cursing the Gods, they ran over one another to be the few that managed escape. Luck was not with them that day.


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Tiberius and the Hastati literally chased them to the sea shore, standing in the gently breaking waves, throwing their last pila at the back of the luck few who managed to survive. Many collapsed in the cool inviting waters, absolutely spent from the days exhertion.

Outnumbered and initially outclassed, the Romans had prevailed. All Tiberius could do was stand with his hands on his knees panting as if he had never breathed before.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Africa, on the coast near Hadrumentum. Spring,255BC.

Prologue-Rome has launched her first major invasion of a continent, sending the young Quaestor Gaius Publilius Philo with three legions on a punitive mission to the African mainland. After landing safely, the army headed south towards the large port of Hadrumentum, where it laid siege to the city. Sending out his scouts to warn of enemy reinforcements, young Gaius was told that Carthaginian units were on their way from Carthage, and that they would be arriving with the day.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Gaius chose battle.


The Battle for Hadrumetum, 255BC.

Sweating profusely in his cuirass, he sat upon the large hillock as surveyed the massive cloud of dust approaching his position. Having turned his besieging forces away from the city for the moment, he tried to guess the number of troops that that cloud represented. He had already found that both the land and the wind played tricks on the eyes, and that calculation at a distance was often fraught with difficulties, an absolute danger for a man in a position like he was.

This was the first time that the legions had faced the enemy on enemy soil, and he knew that his chances of re-supply or reinforcement at the moment were slim. Sicily was close, but not that close, the fleet commanders still to young to lurk aimlessly in enemy waters for fear of attack, and for the moment had returned to their base in Syracuse.

Leaving him alone and completely cut off.

A time for caution, yet the enemy marched forwards seeking battle.
He tried to assess his position clearly, as he awaited the reports from the scouts that were shadowing the enemy force. He had an obviously large army bearing down on him from Carthage, and the besieged garrison of Hadrumentum had sallied out and were now approaching his rear. He had three Legions, and about 1000 horse, putting him and all the tribunes in one force.

His scouts appeared over the low crest, and dismounted, the three men covered in the fine sandy dust that seemed to get everywhere and in to everything. Motioning for water, he offered them refreshment before they spoke. Quenching their parched throats, the leader reported his observation.

‘About 12,000 men sir, regulars, spearmen and a lot of cavalry. They obviously know exactly where we are and have somehow contacted with Hadrumentum. In total about 16,000 troops, just over our numbers.’

The rider grimaced, waiting anxiously for the Consul’s thoughts. Which, for the moment, he kept to himself. Gaius went back to the other ridge, and could see that advancing army form the city marching for him as well. IF they stayed where they were, they would be caught neatly in a trap.

Time to move.

Coming back to the waiting Tribunes, he gave them his plan.

'Fall the army in. We march to meet the northern force in the field. After we dispense with them, we turn and handle the relief. This battle will call for speed gentlemen- we strike to give the knockout blow, so there will be no time for fancy manoeuvre. The enemy will be tired, whereas we have rested since the morning. Strike hard, and strike fast, or we will me caught between two irrepressible forces. Lets move.’


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The officers left for their posts, and the Legions formed back up into their ranks in battle column. Having the advantage of height, they would be able to march forwards aggressively and deal with the first army before the relief had any idea of the result.

The army swept down out of the rocky hills and marched steadily forwards towards the dust cloud, the regular thumping of their marching feet leaving its own wake....




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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Most battles are decided in 3 hours, when one side finally comes to the realization that they are getting the worst of it. In the best of situations, the losing side realises swiftly, and attempts to withdraw before too much time and strength is lost. Not so for the Carthaginians. The Battle of Hadrumentum took nine hours to decide, and by the end of the day the army of Chemes and his army was no more, simply vanishing from this earth. But to have said that the Romans would prevail with few casualties to the Legionaries facing the Carthaginians that hot day in Africa, no one of them would have believed…..


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This was a hard fought battle, tempered not in the least by the blazing summer sun that flitted in and out of clouds that threatened rain. Gaius had marched to meet the relieving army and had met them on neutral terrain, the only advantage to the Romans were that they were rested and well watered, whereas the Punic army had marched for three days solid to get there and barely had a moment to pause before they were thrown into the battle headlong. Gaius was doing his best to cycle his men in and out of the main fracas line so that they could rest for brief moments and drink some of their precious water, which was rapidly being used up. The heat was intolerable, but was a new reality that had to be mastered, and Gaius saw that the men bore this new burden with great tenacity and spirit.


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Chemes sought to completely overwhelm the Roman line by pushing all of his spearmen and hoplites forwards in one shattering punch, thinking that he could hold the Roman line in place while his cavalry picked off any exposed units that were vulnerable to their fluid attack. Not having fought Roman troops before, he assumed that the awesome weight of his phalanx would be enough to ensure their collapse, and therefore pressed on ahead with his entire line, the Punic cavalry buzzing around the flanks.

And it was at the flanks that the battle was decided, as time and time again Chemes sent his horsemen out to gain the edge, only to be repelled by the unmoving Roman line. This battle was an out and out slugging match, the oppressive hear not lending itself to exotic manoeuvres, both sides trying to conserve the enemy and outlast the opposition.

Five hours had already gone by with the battle in stalemate. Gaius look on grimly as the battle played out, watching his Carthaginian number send out his spearmen in one solid wall, trying to smash through the Roman centre held stolidly by the Principes, while his Hastati darted around the flanks, countering any attempt at flanking.


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Gaius held the horse in reserve, not committing them to battle until it was absolutely necessary, aware that his counterpart was attempting to do the same. He saw two members of the Carthaginian Senate's leaders present, the overall commander Chemes’ banner fluttering wildly in the sand ridden wind, and the other, Carthalo’s, being repeatedly called back into position, due to his obvious impatience to attack……

An opening……

The immense Roman barrage that had opened the battle had wreaked terrible damage on the advancing line, yet it stood firm, its own flanks protected by a deadly combination of hoplites and the ever present cavalry. Gaius sent his reserves forwards again, launching their pila as the last of the enemy heavy infantry moved forwards to engage, their shields held high to ward off the rain from above. Sound like hailstones hitting slate ripped across the battle, merging with the screams and groans of thousands of men under prolonged and intense strain.

Nodding to his Tribune, Gaius whipped his right flank forwards, sending the Principes out ahead to fall on the two units of hoplites that had strayed too far to the east, pulling back his main line there to give the cavalry room to move in case of an enemy counter.


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Flagging his reserves, he sent four maniples of Hastati racing around the inside of the now pinned hoplites, backing it up with the last hail of pila that caught the exposed units tellingly , watching their formations buckle under the three pronged attack.

Chemes reacted, signalling his horns to call for cavalry attack, pointing to the left and moving his entire cavalry force forwards to save the foundering units.

Now.

Gaius called break formation, and the Roman Equites broke in two, half swinging out wide right, half moving in behind the advanced Hatasti, ready to fall on the Punic cavalry from two directions.

The Poeni cavalry raced headlong with the intent of stabbing into the already heavily commited right flank's foot, but Gaius was one step ahead, his horsemen already in position and hidden from view. Just at the point when it seemed that nothing could stop the Carthaginian counter, the Roman horse sprang forwards to catch them, and an enourmous melee broke out that signalled the peak of the battle.

Gaius too surged into the mass, coming up on the extreme right of the line and then ricocheting back into the side of the Punic nobles, his horse rearing onto its rear legs as it sought to hammer down opposition.


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The Punic horsemen sacrificed themselves there for nothing, as both Carthalos and finally Chemes were crushed between four unconquerable forces, horse, shield, pila and gladius. The Carthaginian spearmen looked on helpessly as the cream of their force was driven into the bloody soil, a lone rider making his escape.....


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Having lost any hope now of cavalry support, the Carthaginian left gradually started to give way, the Principes pushing forwards in reply, casting the whole Carthaginian left back before it.This reverse in the battle became so apparent that after a mere ten minutes the right were in fear of being cut off entirely, and they themselves started to pull back too. The Roman line tightened up in reply, coming together in a dense and sweating mass that beat their gladii against their shields as they walked forwards to drive even more fear into the heart of the already weakening enemy.


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Gaius and the Roman horse stood breathless at the extreme right, the General giving the signal to let the Triarii forwards, having waited the entire battle till this point to act. The veterans spilled around the edges of the line and started on their diagonal attack of the still standing units, falling on undefended flanks and doing terrible damage with the long but wicked spears. The organized resistance to the Romans was no more: it became instead a mass rout and hurry to flee the field.


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The Carthaginians, leaderless and without the ability to do anything except attempt resistance, fell in their thousands as they tried to withdraw in some sort of organised fashion. This made the Roman's task an even easier one,　as the Punii bunched together in isolated units, easy pickings for the fresh reserves now committed to the fracas.


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At that point, the second Carthaginian army arrived over the slight rise, and Gaius immediately split his force in two, sending 300 maniples out to chase the remnants, while the two other legions stood to meet the new thread. Foolishly, the force committed itself to battle......

Five hours became eight......

This new force was badly led and organised, proving themselves easy meat for the rested reserves, who supported by the Triarii, locked them in a vice- like grip, while the consul and his horsemen moved themselves into position.

The end result was like the hand of the Gods that smote the wicked: swift, furious, and without mercy.


At the end of the day, the cost for the Carthaginians had been enormous. Two commanders lost, both armies utterly wiped out. That night, as the purple sunset sky gradually faded to a star lit night glittering with stars, the three Legions made their tired way into an undefended Handrumentum, and their first secure sleep in Africa.


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[Ludens]

Again: nice work, but don't overdo it on the screenshots. Several of them are rather too much alike.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Thanks Ludens for the comments.

These were actually written quite some time ago, the style has changed since then.

enjoy :)

MCM

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The First Punic War 264-241. Part Two.
Ut Aquila Altivolus.


Prolusio certo- a prelude to struggle.

It is said that some men are born to lead. It is part of the Law since time immemorial that from the ranks of a few families that constitute the Patricians of Rome, the Consuls are chosen, and such has been the practice since the end of the seven kings that ruled Rome and the birth of the Republic.As with all such autocratic systems, it had its weaknesses, sometimes putting forwards men who had no practical ability except the ownership of money, an old and distinguished name and power, and that had led to horrific results and consequences on the battlefield.
But occasionally, from amongst the constant intermarrying as these few families struggle for power, comes a child and then a young man of extreme talent and potential, that rises above all others, with the personal werewithall to develop their God's given opportunity into something refined, powerful, and unique.

Tiberius Rutilius Rufus was such a man.

The war had been going smoothly enough, the three Legions existing independently on the African coast, bearing wave after wave of Carthaginian assaults with aplomb, still waiting patiently for reinforcements to arrive. The Poeni capital Carthage had fallen in 254, after Punic reinforcements from the Numidian coast had arrived and attacked the besieging legions, who had effortlessly brushed them aside, skillfully led by their commander Publilius Philo.


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But this fighting could not go on for much longer without resupply, the armies were steadily dwindling in numbers, and constant calls to the Senate had produced little more than promises and excuses when failing to deliver. Gaius, frustrated at the tardy and dangerous response, had himself made the long journey back to Rome and appeared before the Senate to appeal for more troops. Four full Legions were guarding the northern passes, he said, Rome did not need any other troops on the penisula. Therefore he pleaded that all new recruits enrolling in each year's Legio should be earmarked for African duty, and rotated through so as to give the long serving members there a chance to be relieved.


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Although the profit from the punitive war had been impressive, the cost for maintaining a vast force far from Rome had been a first for the Senate, who had been obtuse in the allocation of yearly funds to the endeavour. Gaius' words changed that situation, and a new law was passed to create an annual stipend for the overseas forces of Rome. Handing back his Imperium at the same time, Gaius made the perilous return journey in autumn, catching the last vestiges of the summer trade winds and installing himself on the African mainland as a temporary Governor.


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His reappearance on the continent was timely, for it was at that very moment that the Punii launched a massive two pronged counter attack, besieging Hadrumentum and assaulting Carthage in a desperate attempt to re-take their capital. The Romans withstood the counter-attack, and in 253 moved to take Utica, steadily expanding their grip on the coastal trade routes.


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In the campaigning season of 252, The legions had advanced further west, taking Hippo Regius in the late summer, and beat off a fresh army of 18,000 men from Iberia. The new Consul in command of the theatre, Titus Valerius Laevinus, a student of the advanced military training academy in Capua that had been set up by the late Consular Quintus and Adrastos, he dispatched the punic forces, taking on one after another, the three Legions still awaiting resupply and re-equipment, yet standing stoically in the face of adversity and ending the day triumphant. But how much longer could this noble army stand without relief? The worried look on the faces of all the men told the truth: they felt as if they had been abandoned by their city, left to rot in this African cauldron.....


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But Legends are born when men face the unbearable and triumph time and time again. So too, had the Legend been spread amongst the Carthaginians about three Roman Legions that were unbeatable, so strong that their troops were somehow not mortal, marching through the shifting sands and appearing as if from nowhere, only to attack and take cities, then dissappear off into the shimmering heat......


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The Romans reached their penultimate westward expansion, taking the city of Kirtha in 252. The city was stripped and looted, the commander Laevinus offering all the booty to the army as thanks for their long and hard service. Finally, new troops had been sent from Sicily, and slowly the veteran units stationed on the coast started the welcome journey back to their homeland. Leaving the city behind him, Laevinus started to long and dusty march back towards the Roman base camp in Utica.


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It was is 251 that a young patrician by the name of Tiberius Rutilius Rufus made his entrance to the roman plolitical stage, his name being bandied about as a possible consular candidate for the next years elections. His brilliance in both previous administrative commands, where he had served in Sicily to the constant praise of the Governor, and his subalternship with Cornelius Decius Scipio in the border squabbles with the Gauls had pushed him head and shoulders apart from his peers. A public speaker of remarkable talent, he had fought vehemently in the Senate for more support for the troops in Africa, and had become a key member in the ex- consul Gaius' faction.


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His consular hopes were stymied by the cunning work of the conservatives in the Senate, who held him over in his current Quaestoral role of reviewing unfinished assizes of the whole southern regions of the Italian peninsula. It turned out to be a boon in disguise, as he was able to visit the old commander Adrastos, now retired and living his estate with his family and sons, who saw the incredible potential in the young Roman and worked on developing his talents to a finely honed edge, both secreting away to Capua at times to drill with the new troops of that year.

Due to a sudden emergency in Africa due to the treacherous attack on the Roman army by the forces of Numidia, Gaius sought and got approval to override T.Rutilius Rufus' Quaestorship in southern Italy, having him take command of Laevinus' old army and sent him to chastise the Numidian king. Which he did so with remarkable finesse, and was mentioned in dispatches to the Senate, causing some to regret his being passed over for that year's rather lustless pair of Consuls.


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The world was changing around them: Macedon had grown progressively more obstinate, attacking its neighbour Illyria and robbing them of coastal access to the Adriatic, in an attempt to starve these sea-trading peoples out of existence. Gaius abruptly ripped T.Rutilius Rufus from his command, ignoring the pleas of his subaltern, sending him back to Rome again to lead his faction in the Senate and see the safe passage financially of the rest of the punitive expedition.

In 249, everyone's wish was granted. Tiberius Rutilius Rufus was elected by overwhelming majority as senior Consul of Rome, as was sent with two legions of green troop to reinforce the African expedition by taking the enemy port of Thapsus. The opposition to Gaius' faction in the Senate ahd been extreme, refusing countless requests of bolstering the two new legions with veteran troops by saying that there was not enough money, and that those veterans that were available were to be kept ready in case of action in Illyria became necessary. As many as there was who loved the new Consul, there were those in power who wished to see him fail.......

Not to be outdone by such political treachery, Adrastos had visted many of the southern italian settlements seeded with veterans of Quintus' armies, and on Gaius' behalf had managed to put together 4 maniples of men, which he marched to Campania as a gift to the new Consul. This welcome addition helped in the training of the men as they marched down the southern peninsula and on to Sicily, with final parting workds from the old Greek-

Those who are truly eagles often soar alone.

Arriving in Hadumentum in the mid summer, Rutilius Rufus had marched his young army south, following the coast and attempting to remain unobserved for as long as possible. It was not to be the case- Carthaginian traders had spotted the column of dust that marked their aproach, and had ample time to warn the city, which sent out a force of 22,000 veterans to smite the Roman foe.

Rufus had awoken that cool autumn morning to an awesome sight- the cream of the Carthaginian southern capital's army arrayed against the sky. Of enemy spearmen, there were twice his number. The enemy commander Balshilek had an overwhelming superiority in horse. Outnumbered by almost two to one, his entire army made up nearly entirely of Hastati, Rufus considered escape and safety, as most commanders would do given similiar circumstances. But the men were ready, trusted in him and his leadership like no other, and the veterans had already arrayed his army in battle formation......

He remembered Adrastos' last words again.

Those who are truly eagles often soar alone.....


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To be continued........

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The massive phalanx glittered in front of them, silent and unyielding. The Romans would go no further towards the Capital, and the finest veterans that the African army held stood, waiting for the command to attack and drive the invaders from their lands.

Tiberius sat on the hill, watching the Punic commander ride up and down in front of his line, calling out individual men by name and speaking to them in the harsh tones of their language. Calling his own veterans to him, Tiberius laid out his plan of battle.

‘Well, they outnumber us by a large margin, but that can be deceptive. Our advantage is speed. If the line can hold while we turn one flank, this will be over very quickly.’

The veterans were stunned by this appraisal, and their leader spoke up.

‘Sir, you mean we intend to attack them?’

‘Of course, but only once they commit to us. You will lead the counter attack. I am stationing you behind the line, at the far edge of the left flank.You will wait until the enemy line is engaged, then sweep around and assault their extreme edge. It must be done fast, and will need split-second timing and coordination with the Hastati. You will have one chance, only. Speed, Sextus. Without it, we are lost.
I will hold the right, and shadow the enemy horse. The Numidians will stand fast and expend all their missile fire, concentrating on their centre. Once they have done so, they are to sweep around the left and assist you in assaulting the enemy rear.’


'It is up to the Triarii today. Dont let me down.'

Motioning to the Hastati’s centurions, he explained their order of battle.

‘Centurions of the centre and left-They will come at us and attempt to crush us with their pikes. We will not line up straight to meet them. I want the left staggered, four maniples perpendicular to their assault. They will have to adjust to meet us, and this will break their line. Wait and see; Adrastos was no fool, and I trust in his tactics implicitly.

'When the enemy meet us, their right will be disarrayed. That is when you will strike: all units are to watch for any opening and exploit. You will be supported by the veterans sweeping in from the left, so hold! Help will get there, but you must fight as if there is no tomorrow- for perhaps there is not!’

'The right will stand fast- I intend to lure the enemy commander into a foolish assault. We must hold! You are my impenetrable forest of iron. It is not your natural disposition, but for today you will and must stand fast! The casualties will be heaviest here, so I entrust this to Decius and Lippo. I will be there with you, standing beside you. If we go down today men, I will lead the way to hell!’

‘Today there are only two thoughts for this battle: death or victory. I, for one, choose victory!!’

Laughing, the men smiled, slapping each other on the back and making their way back to the ranks, which stood there impatiently.

The men wanted battle.

The Carthaginian line started to move, its well dressed ranks sending a solid wall that stretched across the battlefield like an iron longsword, moving forwards to the steady beat of a hollow drum that sent out an ominous dull sound echoing eerily across the valley. There military might was awesome- these were the troops who had helped expand and protected their empire, a mighty combination of mercenaries from all over the known world. Spartan mercenary generals, missile troops from Iberia, the cream of the African continent together as one giant fist ready to smash the Roman troops to a pulp. They marched forwards confidently, sure that their numbers alone would ensure victory.

In comparison, the Roman line looked exactly as it was; short, with only two maniples of Triarii reserves, stationed on the far left and the cavalry, arrayed unmoving at the rear. This easternmost edge of the Roman line was arranged in the bent formation that Adrastos had explained was used when one phalanx was shorter than the other, compensating by hitting one section of the attacking force with double pressure, attempting to either break the line or roll up a flank. The Triarii were thus tucked up, kneeling, tightly behind the roman left, waiting for the given signal to rush east, and then fall on the outermost edge’s rear.


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The Poeni marched onwards, up the slight rise, closer and closer. Tiberius called out to the Centurion in charge of the Numidian missile troops, checking their fire and telling them to stand fast.

The Hastati too, were holding their pila fire, having been ordered to work together to hit a few select targets, maximizing their fire power and weakening specific units in the enemy line, later to be exploited as such.


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The enemy now scant paces away, the Hastati and the Numidians struck, sending the first wave of pila and javelins out in a high arc, some catching shields, tearing them from steady grip and pulling them earthwards, some impaling men in one fell stroke, thinning out the ranks but not stopping their forward impetus.The Carthaginians marched on regardless, men from the rear stepping forwards and over some dead friend’s corpse to take their place; inexorable and unstoppable.

The last wave of pila were launched, then men hurling into the dense ranks with all their might, the second wave telling of even more casualties in small sections of the line, then the legion's men hunched down and braced for impact. The Poeni's own missile troops were in range now, sending their arcing fire over the heads of the advancing troops and into the standing Hastati, who did their best to bat away the dangerous darts and prepare for the enemy's charge.

And charge they did, up the last few steps, driving their long spears as best they could deep into the massed roman ranks. The Punic line now steadily wrapping itself around the front of the much shorter Roman line, Tiberius gave his signal; The Triarii stood up out of their crouching potition and raced for the extreme left flank's edge, past and then into space. Uphill, they had the advantage of both speed and gravity when they turned and fell on the surprised rear of the Carthaginian unsupported right, followed seconds later by the Numidians, who having exhausted their javelins, chased after the tail of the Triarii, falling on the same unit's rear.

The Consul Tiberius Rutilius was busy elsewhere; his half of the line had not moved and were under intense pressure from the thousands of spears bearing down upon them. His men were holding, but on that section of the line the losses were steady, the rear ranks stepping forwards to plug the gaps as men fell.

The Poeni commander, seeing his chance to crack wide the Roman line, formed his horse up tightly and followed the forwards advance of his left- seeing a gap open up, he sprang his horsemen forwards at the gallop, Decius and Lippo screaming out to their men to brace for impact.

The men that fought that day on the Roman right would never forget that moment......


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Thundering forwards, the Poeni horsemen tucking their long spears in close to their bodies for strength, and drove through the first few ranks of the Hastati, sending men flying in all direction as they crashed into the line.
Horses leapt over men in their attempt to break through to the rear. The Consul Tiberius drew close, in case they managed to succeed, but the mass of Poeni spears behind the horse meant they could not counter them directly. It was up to the Hastati.....


Hold...Hold!!!


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On the left, it was the opposite story. The Triarii had sliced the last unit of pikemen clean in half, and the now split force foundered under the double strain of assault from both front and rear. The Numidians finally arrived howling some native chant, thus sealing the fate of that Carthaginian unit, which promptly folded spears and broke, running off in the direction of the Carthaginain city.

Following their explicit instructions, the Triarii and Numidians worked as a team, moving steadily right, and hitting the next Carthaginian unit in its rear, while the now free Hastati peeled off the line and commenced to break around the fighting to the Poeni rear. Like the ripples of a pond when a stone is thrown into it, the Carthaginian right flank fell a unit at a time, allowing more and more Hastati from the main line to surge forwards and move to the Carthaginian rear, doubling the effect and intensifying the process.

Tiberius and the right had held on for dear life, and the Carthaginians sacrificed their entire cavalry in the vain attempt to break through. Watching as the Hastati surrounded the few survivors, Tiberius sent his horsemen around the right flank to the Carthaginian rear, running down their missile troops and crushing them beneath the stamping feet of his chargers.


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The snowball effect of the veterans rolling up the left meant that the poeni line was tubled into one giant and unwieldy ball, as the Hastati fought back now with a vengeance, working in concert like the waves of the ocean smashing against a rocky coast.

Tiberius turned his horsemen back and persoonally led the charge against the rear of the enemy line.


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The men roared at his personal bravery, casting aside any thoughts of self preservation and charging headlong into the massed ranks of infantry, slashing left and right with his gladius as his henchmen laid waste to all around them.

Fear suddenly struck the enemy's hearts: the battle had taken an absolute reversal as the Roman soldiers fought like the damned, the ground beneath their feet growing steadily more slippery with blood.


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The Triarii swept everything before them, and the word passed down the carthaginian ranks that the Romans with the white shields were killing everything in their path. The poeni units began to buckle and crumble as the Roman dogs circled for the kill.....


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The Carthaginian army broke all at once, their soldiers fleeing in any direction that did not possess Roman troops, who pursued them closely and cut down many as they ran.


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Decius and Lippo egged their men forwards, running after the steadily dispersing enemy and cutting down those that crossed their paths. The sun shone down mercilessly on the fleeing horde, and their bodes litterd the battlefield like grains of sand.....


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The chase went on for the rest of the day, adn units were rounded up by the cavalry, and then dispensed with by the foot. The intent was to strike such a fear in the survivors that the city would yield without a struggle, and the men set about their deadly task with awesome skill.


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There was no surrender that day- the enemy had come to destroy, and had been in turn destroyed by their very own aggression and hastiness. The Romans had crushed a force almost twice their number, dealing a terrible blow to the aspirations of the Carthaginian Senate.


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The soldiers brought before Tiberius the one remaining Poeni officer who was still alive. Rutilius glanced dispassionately at the man, who could never have imagined that the overwhelming Punic force would suffer defeat at the hands of such a small foe. Speaking to the man in idiomatic Greek, Rutilius released him with a message:


'Go to Thapsus and tell them we approach. If they open their gates to us this very day, there shall be no further bloodletting- you have my word. But be warned, my men are of ill- temper, and if the city resists I will not be responsible for the outcome.

Now, go! Prepare to submit to the might of Rome!'

The man jumped on the given steed, and raced off to the south, a steady cloud of dust following in his wake.



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[Specialist290]

Haven't had time to read it all, but what I have read is rather impressive. Keep it up! ~:)

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Prologue-
Word was sent from Rome instructing the armies operating in the Carthaginian homeland that the objectives there were now deemed complete, and a systematic withdrawal of all the armies was managed, signalling the end of the punitive mission in North Africa. By the year 240, all foreign armies had returned to the homeland, Rome having seized both Malta and Sardinia as a final and lasting blow to the economic power of the once mighty Carthage. Many troops were disbanded, and Rome’s large war fleet was retired, stripped now to protecting just the immediate environs that surrounded the now totally Roman peninsula. But a truly lasting peace, for the emerging city power of Rome, seemed elusive……The armies returned to chaos, confusion and suffering.

Such is the way of men......


Part One. Rebellion.
Numerius Marcius Rex- the man who would be King.

Numerius Marcius Rex had always been a curious type of chap. A man with more lust for power there was none, and behind every back room deal that was cut within the capital, somewhere in the woodwork he would be, wrangling some political concession or another from those in need of a favour, knowing full well that he would call on them for repayment, usually at the most inopportune moments in their political careers, and for a heavy toll.
He was a powerbroker that excelled in the Senatorial climate.

Sitting in the middle tiers of the Senate, he had manipulated votes more times then there were days in a year, and he prided himself in knowing that most of the men who sat near him in that hallowed office were probably more afraid of him than he.

Yet, even a man with such power had his limits, and it bothered him no end. A man with unfathomable power behind the scenes, he wanted the whole city to award him the position that he felt was his right: that of Consul.
Plebeian by birth, he was excluded from the possibility of running for the higher office of Consul, and it constantly tore at his rather fragile and tempestuous ego.

During a rather heated debate in the Senate one day, a fellow consular who had been arguing against the passing of a bill limiting the funds given to the Africa expedition, had in passing made a humorous pun regarding Marcius’ low birth, and Marcius had taken in badly, noticing that many even with favours owed to him were laughing openly at his plight, and he had left the house that day seething with thoughts of revenge.

Calling together his clique later that evening, he harangued them for not standing up in his defence earlier that day, saying that his position had been weakened because of it. Marcius said that he had been ridiculed one time too many, and that it was time to repay those who stood in his way. Rome, and its Senate, were really just a vehicle for the petty few that called themselves patrician, and that true notables such as he were not given the respect they deserved. Marcius too was from an old and prestigious family; it had been said that his ancestors at one time had been kings, and he now openly hankered after the title.
He told his supporters to be ready to leave with him on the morrow, where they would head to Etruria and raise troops amongst the old Etruscan enemies and the Marsi, then proceed to march on Rome itself and have himself awarded the respect that he felt was rightly his- the same as that of his ancestors
Marcius felt safe in the knowledge that there were no Roman troops available on the peninsula, and by the time they were shipped back to Rome he would already be ensconced in the city and in command of the city’s war machine. Many of the returning veterans would be swayed by the large amount of money that he would be offering those that chose to serve under him, and he would create a new elite on the bare bones of the existing system.

Marcius Rex…….. it had a certain sound to it. Logic fell sway to egotism, and all thoughts of preserving the Republic were lost.

Rome awoke the next day with the news that its infamous senator had left the city, and all the senators that drew favour from him. Much more disconcerting was the fact that Marcius had somehow cleaned out the treasury of all last year’s takings, and had even pillaged the temple of Ops to fund his revolt. Word was that marcius had been secretly training an army in Etruria for this very reason, and that rebels and enemies of the city from all over the peninsula were flocking to his banner. The numbers were approximated at least ten thousand. All across the peninsula the word spread rapidly that civil war was coming…….


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It was six long months before the wheels of fate finally caught up with Marcius Rex, as he was now calling himself, having carved out a small fiefdom in the rugged mountains deep in Etruria, he trained his steadily expanding force to fight in the Roman way, having the assistance of other noblemen and ex power brokers who felt that siding with him was a realistic ticket back into power and fortune. Ex-Legionaries had come too, tired with the retired life, some broke at having wasted their pay on drink and gambling, thenrunning into massive debt that was unable to be repaid, looking for a chance at riches. Those few men helped train his army of over 10,000 men into a force comparable to two legions of Rome's finest.

The Senate had not been slow to react: it just needed time to get the wheels of the war machine to operate in a different way- reverse, and was busy ferrying the armies back to the mainland from Africa. Their plan was to wait for the armies already in the field to return to Latium, then use them to flush out Marcius Rex fromhis mountainous hideout. It would ahve been a good plan, but Marcius had his spies too, and started to march his army towards the city, knowing full welll that the veteran legions were weeks if not even months away. Or so he thought........


Betrayal is a terrible thing to encounter, and those that do normally react in one of two ways. The first is to absorb the blow and move on, albeit tainted by the experiece and perhaps never recovering. The alternative is to fight fire with fire, and destroy the betrayal at its source. The leadership of Rome, since the birth of the Republic, was such a body, and the thought of another era of monarchy abhorrent to every man and woman that called themselves a Roman.

Secretly, they had sent to Sicily and had the two Legions training there shipped back to the north, under the command of the new Senior Consul, Gnaeus Scribonius Libo, a man without peer for true nobility, and the absolute arch enemy of Marcius Rex. Having trained in North Africa with Laevinus, he knew his way around a battlefield, and had beein with Laevinus when the Numidians had decided to launched their unprovoked attack on the city of Uttica, which had been soundly punished in unceremonius fashion, sending them back to their desert dwellings and suing for peace almost immediately.

The Senate had also quietly made its enquiries into those of its body who were perhaps in league with Marcius and the rebels, and had been feeding these men much false information in the hope of keeping Marcius in the dark

It had taken a few weeks, getting up the coast against the summer winds, but it had been done, the army had decamped on the western side of the peninsula near the small town of Pistoriae, whcih had suddenly found itself under matial law as the Consul swept in from the capital with a small bodyguard contingent, setting up roadblocks to keep all traffic heading into the Appenines away from Marcius' territory. As marcius and his rebel army made their way down the mountains to Rome, they were followed not 20 miles behind by Libo and the two legions, who destroyed all the rebel bases as they passed through, summarily executing all who had remained. The man who would be King was in for a rude shock......


The battle and the day had started badly for Marcius Rex, his troops caught out in the open where Libo could use his two Legions of veterans to their fullest potential, sending out his cavalry on ahead to cut off any thought of advance in Marcius' mind. Not being a military man himself, although having served in the Legions as was his duty, Marcius held no interst except for rudimentary tactical movements, and he formed up his two legions where the text book would have told any commander to do, but one that any veteran would have know was also fraught with difficulties, for Marcius was allowing his ,massive cavalry contingent far too much distance from the Legions who stood stock still, waiting for the Roman attack.

Libo new what to do and acted quickly, splitting his cavalry force in two and sending half out to his left to lure Marcius into an impatient gesture, having his men stall a little too close to the enemy line, and baiting their entire force with his apparcnt stupidity. Marcius knew the value of command, and sent out his own cavalry to respond, leading the way on the attack of the now small numbered Roman force. Libo had his other half rotate back around the rear of his line, rolling back to the left towards the unit there that was slowly making its return to the Roman line and safety. Marcius tore on in front of his troops, his tyrian purple cape billowing out behind him as he rode, already seeing the diadem being placed on his massively curled head.

Such hope.

Libo and the main force of cavalry were now riding parallel to Marcius, but he was oblivious to them coming up on his blind side, focused on the small Roman force that had suddenly accelerated away from his approaching force. The shcok, surpirse and dismay that suddenly engulfed the would be king was supreme: His horsemen were assaulted from both the front and the rear, as the fleeing unit suddenly pivoted around and charged straight for his number.


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Marcius and most of his would be nobility died very quickly, the Roman lances slicing deep into their ranks and slaughtering them right in front of the two abandoned rebel Legions watching them....


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Taking their cue, the veterans from Sicily broke into a run, and loped towards the suddenly leaderless rebel foot who stood there, paralyzed with fear at the sudden turn of events.


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It was a rather short battle, mostly spent chasing after the fleeing ten thousand men who, after a brief attempt at organized resistance, took to their heels rather than fight nine thousand very angry veterans, who spent the rest of the afternoon chasing them down across the wide valley, giving them little opportunity at covered escape.


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Libo sent one rider back to the capital with a short note and a small wooden box to the senate. Not a man to mince words, the note was brief and to the point. The report read:

'To the Senate and the People of Rome, from their commander in the field Consul Gnaeus Scribonius Libo, hail!. Mission accomplished. Nothing special to report, just open the box.'

On receiving it the next morning, the Senate convened to hear his report. The open box said it all; in it was one beautifully coiffured head belonging to their ex-colleague, wrapped in his tyrian purple cape.

Such was the way that Rome dealt with those who would be king.

[Cassus_Belli]

Marcus Cornelius,

Ave!

I have very much enjoyed reading your MOD story and anxiously look forward to each new episode! Please continue your very good work! :2thumbsup:

I have two questions for you.

First: How are you able to take multiple screenshots during a battle scene?

When I hit printscreen, while playing the game, I am unable to access the Windows screen to save the image and then resume my game. I must completely exit the game to save the image otherwise I will overwrite any succeeding printscreens. So during a combat scene I'm limited to a single image of the battle.
Obviously you have found a way to overcome this limitation and I would very much appreciate if you'd educate me as to how you do it?

Second: What is it that you do for a living?

You obviously have a talent for story telling, and I wonder if you do so for profit? If not you should consider it. You know the history behind your characters and I for one would purchase your historical novel, if one exists. If not, why not?

The character background and added role-playing allows one to more thoroughly enjoy this wonderful game and the plethora of great "Realism" Mods that have been created for it.
Thank you again for sharing your brilliant and thoroughly entertaining (not to mention educational) imagination with the rest of us.:yes:

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Ave Cassus Belli,

Thank you for your comments, they are certainly appreciated here, as people dont seem to give much feedback on this forum re AAR's.

First things first- you need to download a program called FRAPS
they have a basic freeware package that you can install on your pc, that will help you take pics during battle...that should help you

Then, you need a damn good image editing program- I suggest Photoshop elements for the variety of choices you have how to treat the image you want to use.

Now to me...

I am an australian/brit and I live and work in Japan, and work for a Japanese company in their overseas division here in TOkyo. Been here for three years now and surviving... but they work way to damn much here. I am putting in a steady 50 hours per week, and the way I keep my sanity is to..write my AAR.

I love Roman history with a terrible passion, and I discovered about nine months ago that I can write, and started over at RTR Forums where my story is quite a bit more advanced, and I only started posting here to share my joy with the long time members that have ben around since STW.

I am considering using the basic stories indeed for a book or several, tentative title will be something along the lines of 'The Manus', and will start converting these posts here to pdf sometime when I get some free time.

But these stories are only a mere outline of what kind of depth is possible with the story; the characters need to be developed much more fully, and much more of the Roman way of life and society/politics needs to be introduced. It will happen, and is happening over at RTR...

. It brings me great joy to see others so obviously enjoy the stories, and inspires me to greater heights of artistic creation.

thankyou- I will try to write even better

MCM

[Cassus_Belli]

Ahhh, Marcus my friend,
Thank you so much for your help.

I downloaded a copy of FRAPS version 2.8.0 FreeWare
http://www.majorgeeks.com/download3934.html

I will install it tonight and see how it performs on my PC with RTR.
You recommend Photoshop Elements. I have Paintshop Pro version 7.0, will this suffice for your suggestion?

I could tell that you were either English or from one of the former colonies by your spelling of such words as “Labour,” “favour,” “Harbour,” etc. A dead giveaway!

Yes, I’ve heard that the Japanese have a mania for working extremely long hours. But I’ve also heard that many of their large companies also incorporate physical fitness exercises within the work schedule, not a bad thing, so long as it reduces stress and inhibits ulcers?

You sound like prior military: AAR (After Action Review)?

I have another question for you. Where did you acquire your knowledge of Latin?
It certainly enhances your stories to add a bit of the traditional descriptive terminology. A very nice touch, indeed.

Also, it appears you’ve done tremendous research on the culture, society, strategies and tactics of ancient Rome, as well as the contemporary nations of that time.
Would you mind sharing a list of your sources for those of us that would likewise appreciate further educating ourselves on the subject matter?
I for one wouldn’t mind expanding my library with a few more references.

The RTR forums have been tore up for quite awhile, but I will try to locate more of your stories over there, if I can.
I really enjoy reading such MOD stories, and yours read like a well illustrated novel.

I strongly encourage you to continue your writing, and even pursue to do so professionally at some point. I look forward to reading “The Manus” in hard copy at some future date. :book:
May you long continue to be inspired, and to inspire others, it is contagious!

Here are a couple of alternate suggestions/possibilities:
Among the world gaming community, especially of Total War and the very many derivative MODs, there may be a market for a collection of very good MOD stories among the fans of these games???
Also, have you considered screen writing?
Hollywood and the numerous Made for Television movie producers constantly hunger for good and “marketably timely” scripts.
There are some very professional software programs available to help you turn a good story into screenplay format.
Just something more for you to think about. :yes:

One thing I’ve learned… One should strive to either do what they enjoy for a living, or make a living ample enough to allow them to do what they enjoy!

Enjoy life and live long! Peace to you brother!

Your friend, Casus

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Ave Cassus,

many questions! I will do my best to answer them

Latin- catholic schoolboy once and now I study it again for fun- its an amazing language that grows in magesty as I learn it

History- yes I have been a history fanatic since I was a lad and I basically ready everything there is available

Amazon here in Japan is my saviour, but a lot of material is unavailable to me

Books to recommend? There are too many- I dont limit my reading to just Roman works, I read everything I can on ancient warfare and techniques . But for a few specifics which your probably already know- Anything by Adrian Goldworthy, Christian Meier, lots of theses available online if you are a scholar, or go to your local library and sign up to get access to them

I am the Head Praetorian over at RTR forums, so I have access to a lot of materials over there as well. Yes the forums were down for a bit but we are back and stronger than ever, so please visit us as a supplement to this excellent forum at the Guild.

My aar over there is http://forums.totalrealism.net/index.php?showtopic=17032

you will find lots of other mod stories there too

Now, regarding writing... I am thinking seriously of it, but to do it properly I need to get even deeper into the stories. I was skimming the surface for quite some time, and now have slowed down to develop characters a lot more, because really its the most enjoyable part.

I am actually looking for other communities with which to connect and show my work on the internet to get further feedback... any suggestions?

Let me know

MCM

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 24-The Flight of the Innocent.
Carthage was in a permanent gloom. The amount of money that Rome had asked for in order to stop the fighting in North Africa had been appalling, and now Carthage was without her fleet to provide as the main source of funds, the cost of agreeing to the strict proposals that had come with signing the peace pact.
The city was suffering. The once vibrant activity that seemed at the very heart of the Carthaginian empire was gone, covered instead by a constant weight of oppression stemming from the restrictions the Romans and their senate had placed on them.
Economics was the core of any great empire, and in one fell swoop, the Romans had cut the heart out of the Carthaginian corpse, feeding it to their hungry minions.

The people were angry. The warriors were angry, ashamed at their recent defeats and wanting recompense. The Carthaginian senate too felt the lifeblood of their empire steadily draining away from them.

It is at such moments that the truly great are defined, the human being sometimes needing the threat of absolute collapse and demise to pull them up and aout of their normal parameters and into a new world.

For the Punii, that new world was Iberia. For the Carthaginians, Iberia spelled hope.

What was left of the fleet after it had been crushed by the Romans was quickly re-assembled in Carthage and loaded with the hidden funds the Romans had not unearthed in the Capital, safe and sound under the foundation stones of the main temple to Baal Hammon. Worth close to 10,000 talents of gold, it represented a second chance for the city and their people. The Senate held a public meeting and told their people of the grand plan: that a chosen few would head west, into previously uncharted territory, and attempt to reconstruct their trading empire far from the reaches of Rome.

Their leader, the great warrior Hasdrubal Barca, had stood in the massive marble square that marked the center of the city and proclaimed their vision, exhorting each of the major families to choose one family member that would be sent with the last remains of their once massive fleet to set up the colony in what was being called ‘New Carthage’, on the south eastern coast of that hot and dry land. Those chosen few would be come the backbone of a new society, that would grow strong in time and again threaten the might of Rome.

Once proud families that had been a part of an empire that stretched back 400 years were forced to consider their options. Were they to stay in Carthage, they would be under the constant scrutiny of the ever prowling Roman fleet, which boarded Punic ships now at a whim, and took as tribute any amount of the cargo that they saw fit. In other terms, a form of legalized piracy that the Carthaginian senate could do little except petition the far of Roman government, who when acting did far too little too late.

Even the ruling warrior family Barca had to choose, and their future went to a boy of sharp penetrating mind and fierce disposition- Hannibal, whose gift for languages and prowess in the physical disciplines had shocked even the most war-like of his family. Working as a page to his relative Hasdrubal, he followed every political and military development from first hand experience, talking avidly with the Greek and Spartan advisors that still operated at the court, trying to reform the outdated military tactics that had seen their demise in Sicily, Sardinia and on the African mainland.

A new land meant new troops and new possibilities, and the Celt-Iberians were amongst the fiercest warriors the Carthaginians ever had the privilege of enrolling as mercenaries. They feared no man or reputation, and their methods of war wereso unorthodox that Hamilcar had called them ‘Carthage’s demons.’ The Romans had had a hard time dealing with them in Sicily, unused to an enemy that slipped away after brief skirmishes, only to re-appear as soon as the Romans withdrew from the battlefield, much to their consternation and dismay.

The ships absolutely glutted the docks of Carthage, Utica and Thapsus, as families stood, watching the leave of their chosen ones,torn apart by the realities of war and a fierce and unrelenting enemy. Many knew full well that such partings could possibly be the last some members would ever see of their kinsmen, and the sky was torn by a mixture of emotions, some excited by the possibilities that the future could bring, others struck by the poignancy of such partings.

Hannibal too shed many a tear, as the ship he had boarded made its way steadily out the fortified gates of the dock and into the wide and unknown sea that represented his future. He strained to see the last expressions on many of his family member’s faces, the old Greek scholar’s face who had taught him the classics gradually fading indistinguishable into the others around him.

All Hannibal could think of was of vengeance against those that had caused him and his people so much pain and suffering.

One day, he would make them pay too……..

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 25-The Boy Hannibal.

By the time Hannibal and the rest of the refugees from Carthage had reached their new home, their skin had been burned a dark deep brown, giving the boy Hannibal in particular an even more fierce look than he had before. The dreams hopes and expectations of youth gave way to the reality of his new life; looking out from the ship he could make out a sparsely treeless land burnished in deep reds and browns that warned of an unrelenting sun, constantly beating down on the fertile soil.

The ship pulled into the dock, to be met by a large bodyguard of Carthaginian troops, double the amount that had traveled with the young boy all the way from Carthage. As he stepped off the body onto the wooden dock, he could feel the heat already trapped in the wood by the hot sun permeate through his sandals.

His tutors and other attendants were there waiting for him, the official government carriage waiting to ferry him to the new palace and safety. Ignoring the gesture that was to lead him to the carriage, the young boy ripped off his shirt, exposing a torso that had already exposed itself to hours of the hot and hard sun. Beckoning to his favorite slave, Agbal, Hannibal sent him off with a glance to find him a mount.

‘Please, young master, the sun is very strong here. You must protect your skin from its harmful effects.’ Mago his old and wizened tutor clucked mercilessly, trying to coax the boy towards the curtained and cool carriage that meant they wouldn't have to walk the some two miles uphill to the palace.

The boy ignored him, seeing Agbar already returning with three horse traders leading some Iberian stallions his way.

‘That one.’

Pointing to a chestnut mount, the boy threw a bag of coins at the trader, who opened his mouth to bargain but was met by the stern look of the bodyguards who would brook no argument. Bowing his head and smiling forcefully, The trader shrugged to himself and watched as this young lad spiritedly jump and mount the horse in one swift movement, turning its head towards the coast, still ignoring the pleas of his tutor.

‘Young master! Please! Hasdrubal is waiting to greet you, and there is much to arrange for your lessons….Master?’

But the boy was already gone, racing along the coast with his slave and bodyguard Agbal tearing after him, scattering the local traffic that had clotted the road only moments before. Mago shook his head, remarking to himself that the boy was always tearing off on adventures, his spirit unconquerable even in the face of his fearsome relative, Hasdrubal. But Hasdrubal himself had warned the tutor that they boy would probably take off as soon as he landed, and a small detachment from the horse bodyguards flowed the two riders trail of dust that still hung in the air. Shaking his head, Mago turned and started on the long uphill journey that would take him back to the palace, knowing that his poor feet would be roasted raw by the sun baked soil.

The boy Hannibal knew exactly where he was heading, having made enquiries to the the troops that were stationed on his boat with him, in particular an Iberian mercenary by the name of Acco of the Lusitanii, a fierce tribe that had decided to help the Carthaginians passify the entire peninsula.

As he and Agbal rounded the spit, they could make out the large army training camp that had been set up next to the coast, strething about 5 miles inland and perfectly flat, ideal ground for the practice and perfection of military movements. Smiling in glee, the young lad urged his horse on even faster, its lithe muscles rippling under the exertion but far from tired. The boy made his way to the very heart of the camp, utterly fearless and sure of his position. He was the heir of the family Barca, and these soldiers would one day be his men, so a closer look was justified in his eyes.

As he approached the gates, two guards emerged to block his entrance, and the boy pulled his horse up smartly in fron of them, the sweat on his upper torso gistening in the sun. Addressing the guards formally, he announced his presence:

'I am Hannibal Barca, heir and nephew of the great Hasdrubal, and I have just arrived from the capital. Make way, for this is my army, and I wish to meet them!'

The guards, stunned at the boys nerve, quickly moved to the side of the road, and allowed the young lad to continue his gallop into the camp, followed by the huge and madly grinning Agbal, who had these words of wisdom for the guards:

'Remember his face and that horse, for he will want free passage at any time of day and night. Tell the others-Woe betold to the man who blocks his path!!!!'

The boy was already long gone, his eyes everywhere.looking at the taught and sweaty soldiers that ran their drills is squads all over the field.The boy was lots in reverie, his eys sprakling like candles as he watched with intense passion at the movement of each unit, assessing each man's strenghts and weaknesses. For the first time in weeks, he was at peace with himself.

Ah- home at last.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Chapter 26- The young Legend.

Clouds of dust were kicked up by the drills performed by the multinational army that was being hewn together under the watchful eyes of Hasdrubal. Employing the Libyan spearmen together with the lighter and more manouverable Celt-Iberian natives, and protecting their flanks with sacred bands, Libyans and Iberian heavy cavalry units, the army of Carthage had gained a flexibility that seemed to rival the armies of Macedon at its height. nd it was for these very reasons that hasdrubal drilled each unit to exhaustion, for what he and his family planned was using this force to secure the eventual and total subjugation of the Romans.

The boy Hannibal quickly made friends with some of the local tribal leader's sons, and together they would foray out into the surounding countryside in search of mischief and adventure. This often led to broken bones and many cuts and bruises, including those of the young Barca, but it leant the boy a certain wildness of character and unquenchable human spirit that endeared him to the local troops and the army that was forming.

Hasdrubal had tried keeping the boy back　from the actions fought as the Carthaginian army gradually secured the peninsula,but that had proven nigh impossible, the boy withstanding both the strict censure of the family's head and the punishments that had been meted out against him and sneaking away to joing the soldiers whenever opportunity presented itself. Hasdrubal eventually relented, allowing the young lad to follow along with the armies, although initially keeping him as close to the baggage train and the rear as possible. Young Hannibal had baulked at that position, and had been found time and time again riding on ahead with the scouts, forcing Hasdrubal to take his stallion away from him as a means to keep him in check.

The boy had sulked, but the advisors serving with Hasdrubal had exhorted the general to let the young teenager ride with the bodyguard, for both the safety it presented and the practical lessons it would issue to him. The two relatives had come to a somewhat belated truce, adn the boy happily rode beside the general with his mouth closed and eyes wide open, taking in every little detail that presented itself before him.

Those formative years were to betray the fierce fighting spirit that lay beneath that sun bronzed skin, and the boy earned more and more respect from those around him due to his seemingly unstoppable desire for battle and tactics.

One particular event lay in the memories of all who served in the armies at that time. The army was drawn up fighting the fearsome Olcades of the central region, the terrain not allowing Hasdrubal to deploy the full force of his army and perfect fighting ground for the Celt-Iberian natives that refused to submit to his rule.

Hasdrubal had sent one section of his army on ahead in the hope of gaining the heights behind where the main Olcades base was located, and this unit had fallen for a cunning ruse that had seen them cut off and isolated from the rest of the army, struggling to get past a natural barrier of rocks that the Ocaldes had used to their advantage, rolling them down into the ravine and effectively blocking off the entrance to the valley and trapping the advance force. Hasdrubal had sent a good thrid of his force out and around the valley to find another access point through the mountains, but he and the rest of the army could hear the frantic wails of the troops that had been cut off, and who were being assaulted from every direction by the Olcadian warriors.

Hannibal had several of his young friends in that advance guard, and he had formed a blood bond with them, all swearing that each young warrior would never abandon the others to a cruel fate. That night, he and a handful of his young friends had secretly set off up a steep ravine that they had found earlier in the day, with the hope of attacking the Olcadians from the rear. Awakened in the middle of the night, Hasdrubal was appraised of the situation and angrily questioned why his own scouts had not found the pass and yet the young boys had. Sending 3000 of his light troops off in pursuit of the young boy and his comrades, he awaked the rest of the army and had them work frantically throughout the night trying to clear a path through the rubble.

As dawn broke, the young Hannibal and his Devotios had indeed found themselves behind the main Olcadian force, and immediately set to work causing as much mayhem as possible. Setting fire to the tinder dry brush that covered the sides of the steep mountains, the young warriors awoke the Olcadians to the sounds of a rapid fire tearing through their makeshift camp, this stampeding their horses away. Fearing that the Carthaginians were already at their rear, the celts broke off their perimeter around the beseiged advance force, and pulled back to a defensible position further up the gorge, under the smoke-ridden attack of Hannibal and a handful of his tribal friends, suddenly reinforced by the appearance of the light troops Hasdrubal had sent to rescue the boy. Unable to make out the exact size of the Carthaginian force, the Celt-Iberians had panicked, and a force of a little over 3000 lightly armed auxilliaries had routed the Olcadian force of 7000 veteran warriors.

Hasdrubal, initially angry at what theboy had done, could not find fault with the result, and the effect that this action had on the native troops was astounding. In Hannibal they saw was a Carthaginian leader who lived and fought like they did, and who tried to protect them even at risk of his own life. After the battle, some of the tribal leaders had petitioned Hasdrubal to form a special unit to serve with the boy as his personal guard, and the teen Hannibal was suddenly in command of a unit of die-hard Iberian warriors who swore to stay with him through thick and thin, sharing the fortunes that were to be his life.

Hasdrubal also noted that the volunteer numbers swelled after that day too, many who signed coming specifically to serve with the young lad. Barely 15 years of age, the boy was now in command of his own unit of cavalry, and like a young Alexander he wielded them to perfection.

Slowy but surely, the tribes of the central highlands submitted one by one to the brothers Barca, and the fortunes of the Punii grew in leaps and bounds. Rome was aware of the immense surge of power, and sent emmissaries to stop the tidal wave of advance across the continent.

That fragile treaty was known as the Ebro agreement, but both sides knew that it was just a precursor to out and out war.

It was all a matter of time....


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Prelude-Some men are born to lead and be victorious in the face of awesome opposition. Others are born into power, only to live through its gradual dissipation and loss, learning terrible lessons along the way, and often at the cost of many thousands of lives.

Life is an enternal teacher, yet those that live it more often than not fail to learn from its lessons. Such is the way of all things. But there are a chosen few who learn and grow, making them all the more fearsome and terrible, the forces of nature encapsulated for a brief moment in flesh. It is men such as these that founded Roman state and indeed shaped the course of world history.Let us return for a few moments to that heady and bloodthirsty time, when men were men and morals were often lost in the heat of battle.

Prepare for War.......







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Chapter 27- An eye for an eye.

The massive barbarian horde broke from the cover of the forest and surged towards the Roman camp, the cloud of dust kicked up by their movements making an accurate count of their number an impossibility, but it was of such consequence that it was able to be seen by the Roman watch while the enemy were some ten miles away, giving the Troops in the town ample time to prepare for their onslaught. As they drew closer the scouts reported back in to the Consul Tiberius, who saw immediately that the moment had arrived to settle the constant raiding once and for all. Calling battle order, he had the maniples in the city draw up in one solid but impenetrable line that stretched in front of the city like a wall of steel.

It was time. The Gallic raids would stop here.

Today.

The attack was the tenth such encounter between the Romans and the Gauls in the last few years, but each time the enemy had managed to withdraw before the Romans could bring them to decisive battle, disappearing into the northern hills and forests as rapidly as they had appeared. Pro-Consul Tiberius Rutilius Rufus, yet another esteemed member of the famous Patrician family, had waited and longed for a day such as this to arrive, and had purposely camped his army of what seemed to the Gallic enemy to be only one legion in the village without preparing the usual fortifications only a day before, instead sneaking three other legions into the same village later that same day, under the cover of thick and dense fog. Since then, he and his original disposition had marched brazenly around the area marching around in full view, seemingly easy prey for the massive Gallic force now rolling its way rapidly towards them.


King Bolgios, Gallic leader and key strategist against the Romans in the north, was, if nothing else, a motivator. Witnessed in real time, he was a man whose movements epitomized motion, the air around him seemingly crackling with his energy, intense gaze and desire for life. He had successfully led his armies every summer now for five years, using surprise and speed to keep the Romans off balance, and keeping himself well informed by planting natives that were willing to cohabit with the Romans in their organized and well laid out towns, all the while telling Bolgios of their every move and action.

Until a few weeks ago, when suddenly all news from the south had ceased, which had worried the Gallic commander but he had continued his plans nevertheless, as the summer warring season was at hand, and his grasp on the untied tribes counted on his continual aggressive actions against the Romans in order to stave off contenders for his position and throne.

The reason for the sudden and abrupt end in communication was that Tiberius’ own information network had finally caught up with the source of the leaks, and in a very quiet way had slaughtered the best part of one village one sunny afternoon, revealing to him the names and whereabouts of the others working for the Gallic king. Justice had been swift and merciless; the enemy had been convicted on the spot and parted their thinking apparatuses in scant moments, the heads cleaned and put into boxes, and sent on to the Roman commander who viewed them casually over dinner that evening.

It is said that cruelty begets cruelty. And Bolgios’ campaign in the north had witnessed captured Roman men slaughtered to a man, and women and children sold as slaves, ending up possibly in some Germanic forest dwelling or sacrificed in some druidic festival to appease their gods. The patrician family of the Rutilius’ had long since been known to be harsh with their servants and slaves, and thus the city had turned to that family's contemporary member at the elections to deal with the northern tribes swiftly and succinctly. Tiberius, his eyes set on the hallowed halls of power for a second time in his illustrious career, and had no intention of letting down their estimation of him, hence the boxed heads that were now on their way to the Senate in Rome in recompense for lost revenues over the last few years and for his own personal satisfaction.

Bolgios had beaten the Romans before, twice alone in 236, and had learned that strength in numbers against their well organized troops paid dividends, as it gave his enemy little room and time to manoeuvre, which was their undoubted strength in the field. He had little reason to doubt that this time the result would be different, as long as he protected himself by withdrawing rapidly after the engagement. His numbers were growing, now at about 24,000 armed veteran warriors, many who had sworn blood oaths at the recent tribal counsels binding them to the result of this seasons campaigning.

His plan had been to capture the consular commander, and ransom him off to the Roman Senate in return for all the land of Cisalpine Gaul, all the way down into Etruria, confirming him as master of the North and giving him access to immense wealth in the form of well cultivated crops and vineyards. It was a grand plan, but it displayed his ignorance of understanding of the Roman mind. For, although it was true to say that the recent leadership there had been somewhat lacklustre, due to all the veteran troops been earmarked for the battles with Carthage, those troops and commanders had returned to the peninsula, and the cream of these had been immediately sent north to deal with the territory violations and him.

The Romans under the command of Tiberius were veterans, not green troops as Bolgios had become accustomed to, survivors of the war on the African coast living often without regular re-supply, and who had learned to live off the land and emulate their enemy when necessity proved itself the proper course of action. Their commander was also a man who adapted with circumstance, allegations some years before of supposed inconsistency during his Governorship in Rhegium had temporarily halted his political career, and he had retired quietly to his family holdings in Latium until those that had pointed fingers at him had in turn been shown to be corrupted by the halls of power, and he had fought with distinction in Africa before the crisis in the north quickened the Senate’s actions to have him called back into supreme command. His election had been unanimous, the city offering him any and all assistance to get rid of the barbaric scourge.

For a man who had nearly ended his career in disgrace, the second chance fated to him by the gods was one that he would not squander.

The Pro-Consul Tiberius had discovered in his long life of campaigning that information was everything: without it a commander subjected himself to enormous and unnecessary risks to both his own life and those of his troops, and in the fickle political world that was Rome that could mean loss of social standing and autocritas, authority, the very flame that ignited the nobles of the city to constant vie with each other for position. Thus he had made his swift investigation into the source of the information leaks and had acted summarily; giving him time to assemble his forces and prepare for a counter to Bolgios.

And so, he had raced north, to take on the enemy.....crushing each and every Gaul who was unlucky enough to cross his path....


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As the Gauls drew closer to the city, their own scouts reported back to Bolgios that in fact not one but four Roman legions were drawing up for battle, which secretly plunged him into despair but he was in too public a position to do much about it other than continue their advance, as the hounds that coveted his throne were literally circling him, waiting for any slip to take political advantage.

It was a battle that had been decided upon by the Gods: two men, each with political and personal motives, driven onwards by hopes of victory and reward, constant competition with others and pride.

Only one man could leave victorious from the field.

Seeing that the enemy horse outnumbered his own meagre force more than five to one, he drew up his bodyguard in the middle rear of the line, where he could see the enemy’s movements clearly. Why was it that barbarians always thought that massive numbers were enough to swing the tide of battle? He thought to himself, as he watched the voluminously large and horribly disordered army surge towards his lines, a fearsome sight to the uneducated, but nothing more than he and his men had met in Africa, where they had had to deal with elephants as well, horrible creatures that if give the opportunity would crash through their lines and cause inordinate amounts of human casualties.


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He lined up the Hastati as usual in the front, placing his Principes slightly to their rear in support, while he Triarii raced into position covering their flanks, were the Gallic cavalry attack would inevitably strike. Of auxiliary forces, he had none, having arrived far to quickly for the allies to summon and martial there troops to the area, and many of the tribal ‘allies’ were probably arrayed in the enemy army opposing him.

He called his tribunes into meeting, and confirmed that this battle was going to be an out and out slogging match, as the enemy had advance far too far and rapidly for the Romans to arrange anything other than a stout defence and repulsion. Which was fine for his troops, who were eager to teach these northern longhairs a lesson or two in manners……

Bolgios realised after a time that basically his army was not under his control, each division hopelessly mixed together with the others and rushing forwards into a massive brawl with a well ordered roman army with its back to the wall of the city. In order to save face, he took lead of the body under his command, the cavalry, and broke them left in order to attempt a flanking manoeuvre once the main line hit. Racing his horse out wide, the army called his name as it continued on its headlong dash forwards, their eyes on the prize that seemed to be theirs.



And the Romans kept pouring out of the city……

There was an obvious and deafening crash as the massive Gallic force smashed itself against the first ranks of the Roman line, helped on in momentum by the force of the other warriors following in their wake, smacking against the shield wall that faced them and doing their best to cut their way into the formation. The sound of battle was horrific, the metallic grind of steel against steel, the thump and smack of shields being battered and beaten, and the screams and shouts of the valiant as they fought hand to hand, mixed in with those of the dead and dying around them that steadily piled up like cut wood.


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Tiberius had the rear rank hold its volley of pila until the front line was fully engaged, and roaring his command sent the metal daggers flying up and over the heads of the Hastati and landing with a sickening thud into the bone and flesh of the fully engaged Gauls. This happened not one but three times, as the Roman heavy foot exhausted their missiles at almost point blank range, sending out wave upon wave of metal darts that embedded themselves in whatever they came across or interrupted their flight, be it wood, bone or flesh.


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Tiberius watched intently as the battle raged before him. The centre was holding but was under immense pressure, the Gauls condensing their front to give greater penetrative power to their advance, but in the process making them more manageable.


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Bolgios saw that the battle was stalling, and it was indeed his brave men who were being cut down like wood and not the Romans. Sending his main cavalry forwards to support the attack on the centre, he split off two units, one to the left flank and one to the right, in an attempt to gain the Roman rear and seal victory. With a three pronged assault on the Roman line, he was sure that somewhere they would find the weakness that would decide the battle.

Three thousand of their number raced forwards to slam into the Roman centre, the Hastati caving somewhat under the pressure of the impact, but recovering swiftly with the support of the Principes behind them surging forwards, the Optios cramming the ranks forwards back into formation by pressing their vine canes into the backs of the rear rank, who in turn pressed those in front back into position, their shields and gladii stabbing and slicing into the tightly packed enemy ranks, doing immense damage.


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Tiberius saw the two flank attacks but was bound by only being able to personally deal with one, and, leaving the Triarii on his right to their own devices while he pressed sideways to the left. The Roman line was starting to push back all along the front, rolling up the Gauls in the centre into a tightly packed ball, leaving the three thousand horsemen there with little room to manoeuvre and thus neutralising them as an effective fighting force.


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Tiberius was in search of the Gallic commander, but being unfamiliar with their battle order and markings was unable to find the man, for the moment concentrating on the thousand horsemen trying to break around the Triarii’s flank. Tiberius and his body of horsemen hit their inner edge just after the Triarii had received their charge, the line of tightly packed spears doing horrible work on their highly strung Gallic mounts, forcing half of them to break off and fall off to the side, Bolgios steering them round the bristling line of spears and racing behind the Roman line, back along its length towards the Roman right in hopes of catching the troops their in the rear while their troops were otherwise busily engaged.

Tiberius himself saw what had happened and cursed to himself, busy as he was dispatching the Gallic cavalry caught between his troops and the Triarii, being slaughtered to a man.
But the Roman army’s chain of command was a resolute one, not without its flaws, but also instilling those in its upper echelons to think when under pressure and act alone, if necessary. The young, intelligent and enterprising Tribune Calvinus Severus was such a bright young officer, and although his troops were getting the better of the Gauls arrayed there, he had not been totally caught up in the battle so as not to see what was going on elsewhere, spotting the breach occur as soon as it had happened, and calling up the rear maniples on the right to reverse order and turn to face the enemy King as he approached. The central reserve under the command of the Picentine Centurion, Salvinus, saw his opportunity and brought his troops in behind the King to seal off any chance at escape.


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Tiberius broke free with the enemy there in full flight, and urged his horsemen back behind their own line, chasing the path of the enemy king who he had finally made out amongst the war paint, obvious in his horned helm and heavily tattooed body.


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Whatever was said about Bolgios by the survivors later that day, he was a brave and fearless man, driving his troops onwards with little thought of his own safety, his young generals surrounding him in the attempt to seal the battle. What they didn’t realise was that that was basically already decided, the central push squashed into a tight space and unable to break free, the Romans surging now around them like quicksand.

Bolgios and his men did their best, fighting first from their horses and then hand to hand as their mounts were killed underneath them, the Romans pressing in closer and closer, sealing their fate….


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Tiberius was at the head of the horse that slammed into Bogios’ rear, cutting his way through the dwindling numbers to the king, who turned to greet his challenger, cursing him in some foreign dialect and rasing his broad sword high in the air in both salute and challenge.


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The two men circled each other in a deadly whirlpool, slashing at stabbing at each other, each seeking the opening that would seal their opposite’s fate. All thought of the battle raging around them was lost, each man totally absorbed in the other, seeing in their opposite the key to victory.

Bolgios saw ten years of successful campaigning flash before his eyes, his victories against other tribal leaders, his Roman slaves that he had sold to the Germans for peace on his frontier, his wife that he had stolen from the previous king on his assassination at a tribal feast, his thoughts of a grand kingdom encapsulated in this bloody struggle.

As his men steadily piled up around him, Bolgios thought of the underworld; would they hail him as a king there, or would he have to fight his way again into respect? Knocked down by a blow from Tiberius’ sword, and feeling his sword arm severed by a slashing blow, he closed his eyes and waited for his entry into the neverworld, coming as it did with a sword thrust to his throat , up and into his skull, piercing his brain and filling his mind with white light, the light that the druids said signalled the guardian fires marking the bridge that would lead him across……


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Tiberius was absolutely caught up in the blood lust, his face a mask of red as the jugular vein of Bolgios had sprayed his face and cuirass with a fine patina of red, making him even more fearsome than his horse hair plumed helmet suggested. As the rest of the enemy let collapsed and ran for refuge, his men took off after them, leaving Tiberius to race alone for the rear of the enemy line and start to cut his way into the rear of the still standing enemy line, to the amazement of both the Romans and the Gauls who turned to face him.


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His lone assault signalled the end of organised Gallic resistance, as the Gauls around him fled in terror, causing a mass rout of the troops near him, rippling along what was left of the Gallic line and creating a tidal wave of panic, that meant that the whole force was soon running for refuge, the Romans in hot pursuit. All along, Tiberius stood there in their path, blocking their escape, death encapsulated by his blood red mask of fury....urging his men to do battle......


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Tiberius’ bodyguard somewhere along the line realised that he was not with them, looking back horrified only to see their commander laying waste single handed to any Gaul within reach, his red face mimicking the minim of a Roman commander at a Triumph, awesome and frightening, a God among men.


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The rout from that point on was complete, the slope leading to the Cisalpine Alps not assisting the Gauls as it was a steady uphill climb, making it easier for the Romans to catch up with them and lay waste to their few surviving number.


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At some point Tiberius came back to his senses, issuing commands left and right, and starting the moves towards assessing the cost of the battle. It had been a hard-won fight, the enemy standing until the last, but from that point their casualty rate had climbed dramatically, leaving the plain in front of the city strewn with corpses of the dead and dying.

Tiberius had no idea why the men looked at his so strangely that day until his contubernalis offered to wipe off his face, at that point he realised that he was covered from face to waist in the blood of Bolgios. Shrugging it off, he made his way back to his tent, but he couldn’t help but notice the look of awe in the faces of the men that crossed his path.

From that day on, he was known as Tiberius, the killer.



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[Ludens]

Glad to see that you picked this up again!
~:thumb:

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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‘Where are they?’


‘Hiding in the woods sir. Unable to get an accurate count, but looks like about 27,000 of them, horse, about 3000/4000, also stashed, hiding in the woods over to our right flank. There are some light missile troops in the vanguard, the main force is veterans, with lots of young warriors mixed in. A major reconnaissance in force, sir. Ready for action and trouble sir.’

Scribonius Libo looked up from his map, grimaced, and peered into the scouts face, as if to test the veracity of his statement. But he had known this Gaul for quite some time now, and he was a man always ready to please his new Roman masters, without the obsequious flattery of so many of his kind.

The other officers just stood and waited, knowing Libo to be a man of patient calculation rather than spontaneous action like his senior, Tiberius.

‘Hmmm. Assemble the Legions in the clearing. I want them to break loose of their cover before we engage. I have had quite enough of haring around these alpine forests. Bring our cavalry round to the right flank, stationed at the rear where they can’t see us, and stand fast. Wait for my signal. Understood? Then move.’

The war horns of the Gauls could be heard clearly, echoing off the nearby mountains and creating an eerie moan that floated on the mildly gusting wind.

‘Ye Gods- look at their number!’

The Romans watched as the forest seemed suddenly to come alive, as the well hidden Gauls made obvious their position and merged out of the woods, whooping their war cries and shouting curses at the Romans who were rapidly drawing up for battle.

Noting the fear in some of the men as the Gauls broke cover, Libo spoke as calmly as possible, emanating a sense of trust and confidence that was infectious to those around him.

‘Keep the horse to the rear- use the cover of the forest to move them. Let’s lure them out into the open and then make our move. I want them to come to us.’

The Gauls kept pouring out of the forest, their war paint clearly visible, and making their appearing even more formidable than their numbers suggested. The Centurions and Tribunes shouted out brief commands, the Legionaries only moving to swat away the flies that were stirred up by so many men collected together, sweating under their armour and mail.

The Gauls moved forwards, beating their long swords against their shields, making threatening gestures with their weapons by pointing at individual Romans and swearing to the Gods that they would take their heads as trophies before the day was ended. The din of their movement was awesome, the regular tempo echoing from their whoops and hollers doing its best to strike fear into the Roman soldier’s hearts, who in contrast stood silently, listening to the terse words of their commanders as they waited to unleash hell upon their enemy.

The Gauls came brazenly forwards, trying to lure the Romans into a pursuit back into the trees, where uncertain numbers, lack of space, and surprise could render Roman tactics ineffective. But the legions stood firm, immune to the taunts and jests that echoed over the mountains, thanks to years of training and absolute discipline that kept the semi-professional army a controlled and tightly run operation.

Individual tribal warriors ran in front of the massive force, calling on the Romans to come and fight hand to hand, occasionally casting a javelin or spear out to clang noisily against a shield raised in defence.

Still, not a Roman moved.

Emboldened, the Gauls moved even closer.

‘Wait....Here they come-Now!’

Suddenly, like a river that burst its banks, the Gauls flooded forwards, engulfing the Roman line, sometimes leaping into the air in an attempt to gain purchase against the well locked roman shields.Once their aggressive assault was received and absorbed by the line, the Roman front started its own inexorable drive forwards in counter, pushing the surprised Gauls back step by step, walking over the corpses of those that they cut down before them. Both wings of the Roman line were unengaged, hidden as they were by the dense foliage that marked the rear of the Roman line, and these troops squatted, hiding their number and position, waiting for the command to advance, trusting that their comrades in the middle would pay rough justice to the barbarians that had come at them so impetuously.


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Libo watched on, passively, nodding to his Legate Fulfius, who nudged his horse forwards around the right flank of the Roman line and into deeper cover, circling as he did with the Roman Equites, who were all anxious to get at the enemy cavalry number, now reported at as over 4000.

The battle line was chaotic, due to the broken cover which masked the Roman’s true strength, and made the action seem disorganised when in truth it was carrying on as smoothly as some well used machine. The Romans moved forwards, step by bloody step, cutting a swathe through the massed enemy formations and leaving a bloody trail in their wake.....


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Fulfius, led by the Gallic scouts, was already deep to the right rear and around behind the enemy chieftains, who were oblivious to the flanking manoeuvre and watching intently the battle that raged in the centre.

Scribonius nodded again, seeing the main line now fully bound in place by a counter of the tribal warriors, who piled into the center as he had hoped, rushing forwards to get at any roman who stood in their path, attempting to stop the Laegion's forwards progress. At the signal, the flanks stood up from their resting position, and swung their edges out wide like the wings of a bird. Scribonius raised his hand, both flanks waiting for the command to sweep forwards and envelop the Gallic warriors through the surrounding trees.

Unseen and unheard by the rest of the troops, a major cavalry engagement was going on in the heart of the forest, as the Romans under Fulfius fell upon the rear of the unsuspecting Gallic horse, still waiting for the command to flank and attack. Fulfius, aware that his future on the cursus honorum was tied to merit in battle, threw himself headlong into the foray, leading the way as his horsemen crashed into the rear of the large Gallic contingent, causing chaos and confusion, and ultimately a massive wave of terror as their horsemen were cut down in droves by the more heavily armed Romans.


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Browns and greens mixed with reds and greys as the two forces collided, the force of the blow throwing the Gauls forwards and dangerously closer to the Roman right, who suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere to launch pila at the exposed enemy horsemen. Fulfius lay about him with his sword, barely missing a well aimed thrust to his head, but, being dealt a glancing blow to his cuirass, winced at the shock as the spear screened harmlessly away to the side, leaving that warrior hopelessly exposed to a well aimed counter strike, slicing into his pectoral muscle, sending that Gaul careening away in pain.


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Under force of pressure from their rear, the Gauls grew dangerously closer to the Roman right, and turned away to save what was left of their now severely depleted force. Fulfius and his men chased after them, flushing the horsemen out into the open where more launched pila depleted them further.


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Scribonius Libo dropped his arm, and two long and deep notes echoed out from the Roman horns. The flanks stood up as one, and started their steady march forwards, still masked by the dense foliage, wrapping around the horrific sound of battle that was so close, yet unseen by many, the soldiers twitching in expectation at the thought of the impeding counter.

Fulfius was still off chasing after the Gallic nobles, who had abandoned the field completely, leaving the corpse of their leader in their wake, their king having fallen to a well aimed spear that pierced him from the rear, falling only to be crushed under the ruthless hooves of the pursuing Romans.


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The Roman flanks, now well beyond the farthest reaches of the Gallic line, started their sweep inwards, around the trees and back into the clearing where the rest of the Gauls still stood, trying to hold back the pressure from the Roman centre. The main line's Hastati had already pulled back out of the conflict, and now made their way behind the Roman line to join the flanks in the encirclement.


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The flanks suddenly appeared, having broke free of the cover of the trees, and roared their arrival with a launch of pila and swift charge into the rear of the enemy line. The confused Gauls, looking frantically for their leaders who were nowhere to be found, found themselves engulfed by a wall of steel that cut itself steadily into their formations from every direction.


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Fulfius, now clear of the pursuit some two miles away, turned back to the sounds of the battle, hoping that the plan had gone as intended, hearing the blasts of the Roman horns faintly in the distance that signalled the full attack.

The Gauls, completely lost as to whether any of their obectives had been met and unable to adjust to the rapidly changing tactical situation, sought safety in flight and broke off at every opportunity, their staggering number flying like a flock of startled birds in every direction.


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The Roman noose closed tighter and tighter, gripping the Gauls in an unstoppable fear as they were cut down piecemeal in every direction they chose to flee. At this point, it ceased to be a battle and instead became a slaughter, and the warriors met sword and pila in every direction.


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Libo looked on emotionless, nudging his horse forwards and following in the path of the gruesome action, commanding any section that fell behind to keep up the remorseless pressure. A small gap to the rear provided the only opportunity to escape for the Gauls, and their whole number now rushed frantically forwards for the steadily dissappearing avenue of escape....


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The battle was in the Centurions hands now, as they pushed their commands forwards, the maniples pressing forwards, smaller and smaller, pausing only to launch what was left of their missiles, then starting forwards again, like the waves of a fierce storm against the shore.


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Flushed out into the open, the Gauls broke for the cover of the next nearest forest, a scant mile away but still far too distant to provide the relief they so dearly hoped for. Fulfius could see them as his horsemen moved closer and closer, the cloud of dust and noise of the battle swelling louder in his ears as the Equites approached.


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The Hastati were at the forefront of the action, not weighed down by the heavier armament of the Principes, who were by this point in the action utterly exhausted and running forwards on legs that shook with exhaustion, yet still caught up in the exhileration of seeing a much larger force flee before them.

The Equites broke out of the forest like a pack of ravenous lions and fell on the flank of the most forward Gauls, cutting off their retreat and smiteing their quest for escape.

Cut off, encirlced, without anyone to turn to for leadership, the Gauls succumbed to the gruesome reality of battle.


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Such a cruel fate for the remaining Gauls was met with a sigh of satisfaction from the Consul, who watched on impassive as the troops went about their bloody business, engrossed as he was in the minutiea of the endless reports that came flooding in from the tribunes, eager to please their commander...So many killed in this area, such and such leader captured and under guard, such and such section put to flight He nodded in thanks, never a man to be lavish in his praise, but the movement of his head and eyes made each man feel as if his work had been completed to satisfaction.

The end result was a forest and plain festooned with corpses and the dead and dying, the Romans who were too tired to pursue put to work by their commander issuing the coup de grace on those that begged an end to their suffering, only too willingly meted out by the still blood thirsty Legionaries.


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This war in the north was a savage one, and it would only end with the absolute subjection of those that had once freely roamed across the northern foothills. But that day for the tribal warriors was long gone. Goaded into action by the greed of Bolgios, the Gauls had awakened a Roman war machine that had been honed to perfection by years of fighting the Carthaginians, and it rolled over anything that stood in its path.

Rome, hungry for more land and more minions to encompass, was pressing ever northwards......



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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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This Epic song was taught to Roman children in the early 200's BC, along with tales of Alexander, Leonidas, Ulysses and other such noble characters, to build the martial spirit of Roman children. But it was also a warning.....



The Song of Casticos, from Samarabriva.




They stirred like beasts upon the northern slopes,
Barely clad, and fearsome in both name and creed,
The men of Gaul that haunted Rome since time immemorial,
The fight between us often struck for pride.

Of brave, the Gauls are many; the fearsome too
Do run amongst their numbers
The feeble minded oft crushed beneath a shield
But others, even still, do rise above and into legend
Screaming out the call of war, an axe in hand.

228, the year that is recounted,
The sun was hot, the lands ripe and full a’plenty
It was their time, both rise and fall, they tubled on towards us
For fame and riches, wealth they did come calling
Slaying each and every Roman they could find.

Casticos, he was their king, their hope
Of noble blood and courage unsurpassed
Fought in a duel, he gained a crown and kingdom
A solid pledge he gave to free his kind

Samarabriva! It was a tribe like no other
Such was the fame that spread in tale and song
Their warriors brave, their people quailed at no-one
Their lodges full of tribute from all and kind.


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They stood that day, the bravest left
Unconquered by all and feared in whisper,
Did took the field when all other tribes had fled.....
Such was their martial valour and skill

They saw the other tribes did fall beneath the Romans
They heeded not the fears and calls to leave.
Samarabrivii stood their ground, and waited in a meadow
Casting shame and guilt aside, they moved no more.

The Consul* came, his Legions strong and hardy
Their drums did beat the tempo for their march
And Casticos, bare shirted, skin tinted shades of brown
Stood valiantly in their path to bar their way

Oh what I sight he was, hair long and fine
His many scars told stories of his deeds
His people cheered him, they loved him like no other
For him and him alone that day would stand.

He spoke:

‘O Romans, step no further
For we are young, proud and mighty
The finest of all the Gauls you see before you.
We will not move, so go back whence you came from
The Samabrivii will not this day let you pass.’

The Consul too, came forwards at one breath
To parley, his cuirass glittered in the Sun
And shouting out brave words to Casticos, the mighty
Too, stood his ground and ventured this reply:

‘Brave Noble foe, King Casticos!
Your name does go before you
I come to treat today to spare your life
Oh noble foe, think long and hard or your people
For this day portents woe for those that stand

We come for peace, this land is ours,
‘tis you who need to leave,
By right and thanks to war we warn this day.
For if you stand, today will be your last one
The Gods will greet you, sure as sun means day.’


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Brave Casticos did laugh out loud, with such bravado
Cast back his head and shook in bold reply
‘This sword and I have come to escort you dear Roman,
‘tis you will greet the gods this very hour.’

Both armies drew their lines at midday,
The sun the back of Casticos was high,
With fearsome cry, they charged ahead, vainglorious and fearsome
To greet the Roman lines with sword and spear.


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Three times they charged, three times repulsed,
these mighty Gauls came on,
Each time, though pressed, the Romans stood
And slowly bled these valiant peoples dry.


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Try as they might, the Gauls were spent,
their shields and spear grew heavy,
Of best intentions and noble valour, they pressed ahead
each time to fall in number.


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The Sun did start to fall,
And the mighty on the field did join,
As one by one their number too did fell.
Thrown back by strength, they could not break
Roman sword and pilum killing one by one.


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At last, brave Casticos did speak,
Summoned what was left of his once noble tribe.
'Our time has come, prepare to meet our Gods!
Forefathers past, watch now how bravely we die.!'

In one last chance they came onwards,
By now the ranks were thin, the men all spent
But threw themselves into the battle, they did come on
To crash like waves against a stormy jagged coast.


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The Bravest of the Brave, young Castigos,
Came on, surrounded by his vassals,
The Consul raced head to join the fray,
Two men, no greater warriors did meet
Decide the battle they did, casting one aside.

Wounded, his arm now lost, Castigos did charge,
The sword once held so mightily now lost.
Called to the Consul, one last time he shouted
as those that were the last all they did fall.


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With Gasping breath, King Castigos spoke:

'Brave Roman, you stand victor,
The fight was fair and truly you have won,
But of you I beg this one last and desperate favour,
Please take this life that has no use for breath.!'

He raised his sword, Great Consul, understood
this noble Gallic clansman,
Saluting as he did, he brought it down,
In one fell swoop he took the head, Brave Castigos was no more


With that, that last and noblest Samarabrivii thus did fall.


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Of what was left, they tried to run,
To fight again some better day, they fled.
The Consul ordered on his minions, Pursue! fulfill this task! The hour is at hand!
Stop this war and the next, here and now this very day!


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Of what were left...we cannot say
For nothing heard of them was told since then.
But Gaul and Noble Roman child are taught remembrance
Of noble Castigo and his fearsome tribe.


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Such men as these are not to be spoke of lightly,
For such noble character is often lacking in our own,
And once beset upon, brave tribal warriors
The foolish often perish in their wake.


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Ne'er forget the lesson in this story,
For as we grow, such as this kind will come.
So train for war, become strong and mighty,
As noble as young Castigos who is no more.


*Gnaeus Scribonius Libo.


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Salve all,

and seasons greetings to you all.

For those of you who have enjoyed my story so far,
thank you for the support. There is still plenty of story left to go, and I hope you continue with me on this epic journey.

Sincerely,

Marcus Cornelius

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The Gods could not have wished such misfortune upon us.....

Prologue: All of a sudden, the world has turned, but this time intentionally against Rome. The Macedonians have taken all of Illyria and Thrace, these countries being sucked into a vortex from which there was no escape. The Gauls too continue to raid and pillage in Cisalpine Gaul, unwilling to submit to the power and might of Rome and her peoples.
In Iberia, the Roman embassage was shockingly turned away from their Tribal council, even as Rome extended her hand and friendship, taking that long and perilous journey to offer trade and wealth for both nations. Finally, a new leader now controls the strength and armies of Carthage, as Hannibal summons tribal warriors and mercenaries under his banner, to lead them in a grand adventure against the people of our burgeoning nation. Aa a boy, he swore never to extend the hand of friendship to the Romans, and to see to their ultimate demise.....

Then, suddenly, its seems as if the Gods have foresaken us...........The unthinkable has happened. Iberia, our ally and trading partner, has sent a large force of 40 to 50,000 men against us, landing by ship near Jenuensis and threatening our new aquisitions there.


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The augurs were consulted to confirm whether our actions had been in breach of our favour with the Gods, but the answer had come back:

Beware of a storm from the west...

The ever loyal and brave Pro-Consul Scribonius Libo was sent north to deal with the insurgents, crushing the first force under his hobnailed Caligae, and heading further west to root out the other. Possessed of a mind and talent that far surpasses his peers, he brushed aside their feeble attempts at entrance to the peninsula, catching the first army of 25,000 as it entered Etruria and ambushing them in a forest. In a terse but decisive battle, the army under the command of the tribal leader Gabirel was caught as in manouvered the narrow defile that gave entrance to the northern plains, and was barely given time to collect itself before it was crushed.


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As Libo marches west to deal with the other army, news came from Iberia that sent shivers down the spine of every Roman...Hannibal had ammassed an army of some 50,000 warriors and had begun moves to ship them east....

Meanwhile, the last Illyrian settlement has fallen to the might of Macedon.....

The year is 221BC.

Hemmed in from every direction by enemies, Rome and its people brace themselves for war......



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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Cobos ran, as fast as his tired and shaking legs could carry him, ignoring the huge gash that ran down the side of his leg, bleeding profusely at every step. Still holding the banner, he ran back to the rallying point in the folorn hope that someone had survived the gruelling ordeal that very same morning.

He made his way as swiftly as he could to the trees that bordered the plain, hearing the other men that ran with him be cut down one by one by the relentless Roman cavalry. Playing dead more than once, he thanked the gods for sparing him from an even worse death, being crushed beneath the flying hooves of the roman steeds.

Cobos made it to the trees' welcome cover, and dove for a thick clump of bushes that provided him with both a hiding place and an impenetrable barrier from the horsemen, who were still rounding up what was left of the Iberian army, and slaughtering them where they stood. E Gods! why did we march so far to come to this end? These romans did not even consider surrender....

Ripping a strip from his blood spattered shirt, he bound his leg as best he could, and waited till the horsemen moved on, where he made his way deeper into the forest and back towards the old camp, where the captains of their ships were waiting. Having lost far too much blood, rested against the trees as often as he could, and limped on steadily, through the thick canopy and over towards where he knew the river and the old camp lay. All he could think of as he moved painfully along was the number of his kinsmen that would never get to see their home again.....

Morning

Libo had awoke, the smell of the fresh bread permeating the camp and reminding him that he and his men had not had a really decent meal in weeks, subsisting on loaves baked from meal kindly donated by the local inhabitants, who knew the lesser of two evils when they saw them, and had secreted their grain away from the path of the invading Iberians.

He grabbed the clean tunic that had been laid out for him by his attendant, Fiscus, and made his way to the icy cold buckets of water that had greeted him every morning since they had marched north. He preferred it cold, and his attendants and other officers winced at the though of such frugal ablutions, but the word had spread around the camp, adding only to his already lofty appraisal in the eyes of the troops.

Ex-Consul, now Proconsular in office, he had acquired quite a following of scribes, priests and other such hangers on in his long years of command, and a few months back he had cleared the deck, sending them all off packing except for for Silo, the old Greek, who he just could not part with, regardless of the old man's age and frailty.

Dressed, he quickly ate one of the fresh buns and gruel that had been laid out for him, and waited for the reports that would tell him what he basically already knew: that the Iberians were larger than his own force, that they stayed close to the foot of the valley, and that they waited uphill from his line of march in the hopes of outmanouvering his force in the field.


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The army worked well, and the Consul was smart enough to let his junior officers do their work in peace without his interference, for the very reason that his trust in their actions belayed a confidence in their ability, and endless cycle that made veterans even more potent in the field. And so the army was on its way after about an hours lull, the gates to the camp swinging open and letting the men march out, section by section, in their order that had basically been the same when they fought together in North Africa, not so many moons ago. And so he marched out last of all, to see the army drawn up as usual, sitting on top of a small rise aptly chosen by Fulfius, awaiting the arrival of the Iberian army, which scouts said was already on its way.....


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The Iberians marched down from the higher slope, hugging the heights and trying to circle around the drawn up Roman lines, which remained unmoving. They came on down, off the heights and into the morning sun, the mist that had gripped the base of the mountain revealing their bizzarre earth brown tones against the backdrop of verdant green, an odd mix and another reason why they should not be left to roam the countryside freely: they were aliens to this land. More than that, they had invaded Roman sovereign territory, albeit new territory at that. But once Rome had claimed a land for herself, she would stake life and limb on that very same earth......

He saw his opposite number swing his cavalry left, away from the main body of foot, and Libo sheperded his own that way in response, and the two bodies of horse stood dangerously close to one another, trying to size up their opponents. Sure in the safety of numbers, the Iberian General ordered their withdrawal, so as to take up a position where he could protect both flanks, placing his sizeable force of 3000 horsemen behind his main line. The fearsome number swung around to their left, and moved in one huge and unwieldy mass back towards the rear.

Libo struck.

Driving his feet into the sides of his steed, he was already a good thirty feet in front of the other horsemen before they knew what had happened, and the entire force of Equites surged forwards, chasing the rear of their General's horse as he raced on ahead, sword in the air. The drawn up army watched on as their commander made a bee-line for the withdrawing enemy, some of whom had glanced back over their shoulders to see what the Roman army was roaring about.

Was it bravery, foolhardiness, or sheer martial spirit?

The obviously unprotected commander raced onwards, to the hearty cheers of the troops that new him so well, now too chasing him forwards as one, their feet thundering on the hard packed earth as they ran......

Libo and the Roman horsemen slammed into the side of the Iberian horse, and sliced into them like an angry storm..........


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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Cobos made his way as best he could towards the camp, stopping only briefly at one of the larger river crossings that was now guarded by the Roman patrols, and choosing instead to cross further downstream where the river was narrow but the banks were steep.

Exhausted by now, he waited long enough for the dry meat that had been wrapped inside his leather satchel to soak from its exposure in the water, and crawled up the bank, where he hid under a large overhang, providing him again with a hiding spot and refuge.
Chewing the meat well, he waited till nightfall, using the hours to rest, albeit alertly, and giving the rough sustenance time enough to bring back some of his sapped strength. His leg ached, the wound now congealed, but not relenting in its throbbing pain.
He heard no other movement that evening and saw no other Iberians come that way, but Cobos felt for sure that some others must have survived, and would rally at the camp, if for no other reason than to organize the long journey home. Waiting till the moon was at its zenith, he made the last few miles under its bright light, and came upon the camp just as the night started to pale towards morning…. And saw that it was in the hands of the Romans……..


Noon, the day before.


The front line had already moved up to engage the enemy, as the mass and tangle of the two cavalry forces struggled to gain purchase upon one another. Libo and the horsemen were literally cutting the Iberian horse into two, causing them to ignore all the frantic commands that the Iberian commander could breathlessly demand.

The army was following the pre-conceived battle plans, the two rear lines of Principes and Triarii branching left, and slowly wrapping themselves around the outermost edge of the Iberian right, which was pinned into place by their action.


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Horsemen fell on both sides, the heavily outnumbered Romans putting paid to an Iberian advantage of numbers by continuing to press through and separate the larger Devotio into smaller and more easily attacked numbers. Used to fighting as one massive body, and separate from blood kin, the fight went out of the horsemen, who chose instead to flee the scene in order to gain time to regroup.
But the Goddess Fortuna was not amongst the Iberians that day…….


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Reinforcements arrived for the Devotio horsemen, but moments too late, as the larger part of their number had already given up the fight, and were streaming raggedly towards the old camp, some seven miles off. The army was stuck, with the now free Roman horse threatening their left, and the rear lines of Principes and Triarii now threatening their right and rear. Sending a small squadron of horse out to give chase to the Iberian commander, Libo swung the rest of the Equites around and rested, surveying the scene…..

The Centurion Scribonius was leading an attack on the right flank of the Iberian foot, who were being steadily pushed back under weight of pilum and shield. The sheer ferocity of the Roman advance and counter attack caught the Iberians by surprise, and they were unable to take advantage of both their superior numbers and swiftness of manoeuvrability.


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Scribonius walked ominously behind his Hastati, who ran ahead and cut their way diagonally into the enemy formation, each legionary cutting his way step by step into the formation, and stepping into the enemy’s place, disrupting the enemy line and causing the rear ranks to start to waver…….


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The Proconsul called the attack, and the Equites swung back into action, right into the rear of the enemy line at full tilt…...

The Iberian force lost all sense of cohesion, and broke down into individual units fighting for their very survival.....


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The only symbol of organization was the commander's banner, and regardless of the fact that he had already fled the field, his troops rallied to its standard, whose bearer was anxiously to find any opportunity to escape. Libo signalled to Fulfius- cut that man down. The man fell, impaled on a Roman lance and transfixed into the ground, kneeling, still holding the banner tightly in his hands.....


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The entire mass of the Roman army pressed forwards from every direction, ruuning over the bodies of the already fallen Iberians as if they were mere rocks in a field, so numerous were the bodies. And as the sun broke through the mist, driving it from the sky for good, all that could be seen were the organized colums of Romans running down what was left of the great invasion force......


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Libo eventually called a stop to the pursuit, sending on the horse instead, half to find the enemy camp and secure all provisions, the other to round up what was left of the enemy. The exhausted army pulled up back at their original position, and waited for their commander to address them, many troops being awarded on the spot for bravery........


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The Accursed.

Cobos did his best to head for the coast, but was spotted by some roman farmers as he crossed a large plain. Doing his best to run and make it to the rendevue, he ran as fast as he could, knowing that if the romans caught him, he was as good as dead. All the cavalry did was catch him, tie him to the back of one of the horses, and drag him to the nearest settlement, whose citizens were none too please to see his sorry state. Fulfius leaned over to the town headman, and gave them custody of the Iberian, saying over his shoulder as he rode away that they could deal with him as they wished. Tied to a pole in the middle of a town square, the women of the city were given the task of punishment, an order they relished having suffered the barbarous acts of the invading army as it had passed through......

Fulfius, some miles distant, fancied he could hear the piercing screams of the tortured prisoner as he crossed the pass into the next valley, but looking up above him he saw it was in fact the cry of a single Eagle, that soared above and shadowed the Roman horsemen as they returned to camp.


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[Paxdax]

This is the king of ALL AAR's, really. Took me an nice 7-8 hours to read it all, beginning late yesterday. And I must say that you have potencial (spelling plx) to become an writer.

Now to the rant =P

You should cut back on the screenies that took very big space in the last parts, and you should focus more on character development and stuff like that, instead of the actual battles. More interesting to read than battle tactic ^^.

Just my 0.02 cents

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Ave Paxdax,

Thanks for your comments. The writing idea is one that I am seriously considering at the moment, and I take your point regarding screenies. Actually, these chapters were written some time ago, and I have since changed my style somewhat. I hope you will be pleasantly surprised in the later chapters.

Writing things as a book requires much more character development, and a lot more time too!

Salve,
MCM

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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The year is 218, and Hannibal has done the impossible, by marching overland fron Iberia and crossing the Alps into Italia. Sacking every Roman town that crosses his path, he crushes every Roman force in his way, inexorably heading south towards Rome.

Scribonius Libo and a brave young General called Decimus Porcius Cato hastily assemble a Roman army and head north to intercept......

The Second Punic War has begun.

The time has come to test Rome's power against the army of a master.

Prepare for battle.........

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.




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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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…..


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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….


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.





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[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.


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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]

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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.


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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.....







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[Paxdax]

Very good! ~:thumb:

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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.


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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!’


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

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.


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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.


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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.


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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....


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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.


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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....


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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.


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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....


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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.....


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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....


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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.


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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]

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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]

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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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...


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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.....


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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.


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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......


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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.


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


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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.


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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.




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[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]

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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]

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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.



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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

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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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....





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[Ludens]

Still reading :book: .

Please carry on! ~:thumb:

[455trt43trg]

Really nice work, I like this.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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….


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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………..


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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.

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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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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!


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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.



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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.



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[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…..




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[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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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.


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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.........


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