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

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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.

[Ludens]

Welcome Marcus Cornelius. This is very good story telling.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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…..'

To be continued.....

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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.

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….

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.

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…..

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

[Ludens]

Again, excellent storytelling. Please continue.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

Is it a continuation of The RTR Forum story?

I think we got a war comming.

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!

‘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.

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!

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......

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…….

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…..

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.

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.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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]

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.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

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.....

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.

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!'

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.

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.

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.

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]

[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.

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]

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.

A 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.



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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.....

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.

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....

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...

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.

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...

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....

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.

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.

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!

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....

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....

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!'

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....

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.

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....

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.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.....

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.

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.

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.

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

[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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lilybaeum fell the next day. Sicily belonged to Rome.

[M.Cornelius Marcellus]

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.

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!!!

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.

*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.

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.
.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!