In 225 BC, a young Roman marches to war for his first campaign
Valerius at Telamon (Historical fiction, short story)
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Short Story
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Author's Preface: I wrote this piece as a result of a suggestion. I have written several essays before about historical warfare, in particular focusing on revisionist theories for the tactics and behaviours of the Roman army in its Republican heyday. A friend of mine suggested that I do a short story or vignette, to illustrate my theories about the nature of Roman warfare in a narrative format. The intent of this short story was primarily to illustrate through a narrative what Roman warfare may have looked like, from the perspective of a man serving in a Roman maniple in the War of 225 BC against the Gauls. In this sense, it's primary purpose is to educate. That being said, I felt that its educational purpose was best served by trying to build a little bit of character into the narrative as well, and I hoped that having my perspective be from a normal Roman young man of the hastati, with a family and friends and emotions, would make this piece less dry and more compelling. In any case, I hope that it entertains you, the reader, and teaches you a little, and best of all inspires in you an interest in the history of Rome and the ancient Mediterranean world.
Northern Italy
225 BC
In Rome, a man who has won a single combat in war with the enemy is entitled to decorate his house with the armours of his slain foes. My grandfather slew ten men in his days as a warrior, and I remember as a boy staring at the ten sets of old, rusted armours which decorated my grandfather's house. The black, empty holes of their helmets stared down on me, silent and challenging.
I still remember my first battle too.
My feet ached. My legs ached. My arm ached from carrying that bloody scutum, my fingers ached from clasping two pila in the other hand, and my back ached from carrying the weight of armour and weapons for days. My father told me that most of war was marching and boredom and being young and childish I had thought he was foolish. War, I had imagined, would be glorious and exciting.
I was enrolled as a hastatus of the legions, just in time to meet the invasion of our old enemies the Gauls of the north. How grand! My grandfather taught me that Gauls had sacked Rome once in the ancient days of the City. What glorious deeds would await me against the ancestral enemies of Rome? Would I slay a great chieftain of the Gauls and take his arm ring as a trophy, like the great Torquatus did? Or perhaps would I fall holding back the great swarms of the Celts and have my name be made forever famous, like Horatius at the bridge?
The sun beating down on my bronze helmet had burned all the youthful enthusiasm out of me. I had been marching for days, everything hurt, and I did not terribly want to go to war that day. My father was right: War is marching and boredom. And sore feet.
"Fuck, I can feel this bloody blister coming in," I could hear my friend Gaius muttering to himself behind me, swearing as his left foot hit the ground with every step of the march.
"Quiet in the ranks!" snapped our centurion, Quintus Lucilius. He was an older man than was the norm for a maniple of hastati. By rights he should have been with the principes or even a triarius, but a maniple of hastati needed a steady hand of experience.
We were in an Etruscan valley, following the main Gallic body. Off to our left, there was the distant glimmer of the sea. To our right marched a line of rolling hills, and the main road north was in front of us. For days, we had been pursuing the Gauls, their dust clouds and savage banners just visible in the distance, their camp-fires lighting up the night as we made camp. When we woke up to the sounds of our trumpets, in the distance we could hear the Gallic horns, and when we sat around our own cooking-fires in the evening we could hear their songs.
The campaign had been opened in fine dramatic fashion while the legions were being enrolled in Rome. All the City was afire with rumours about the great coalition of Gauls that were invading once again. Some said all Gaul was unified against Rome, and even savage heathens from half the world away were hungry for the overthrow of the City. What could be more exciting for a young man in his first campaign?
Then, of course, you wait for the assembly day of your legion after you have been enrolled, and your father takes you to the market to buy you a sturdy shield and a good coat of maille, and a pair of javelins, and a strong sword. It all seems to take so agonizingly long to wait. You start to worry: What if the Gauls are defeated before you get out to the field? What if you get no chance to prove your valour?
The Gauls were crossing the Alps and Rome filled up with the rumour of their coming carried by the refugees fleeing south. The Etruscans said that the Gauls were in numbers like the stars, that the furor Celtica could not be stemmed or resisted.
"Evil days," said my grandfather, the last night before my legion, III Legio, was to assemble. Grandfather was too old to march away for war, though his shoulders were still unbowed. Father and I were both bound for the front. My father was to be a triarius in II Legio. We both were to serve under the Consul Aemilius, here in Italy. I counted myself lucky, for it seemed that the greater glory was to be had in Italy, and not with the Consul Atilius bound for Sardinia.
"Evil days need strong men, they said" said Father, quoting an old proverb. We were sitting in the triclinium. My father did not hold with reclining in the fashionable Greek manner, he preferred to sit upright like Romans of old, but he did greatly enjoy an evening of wine and conversation in the Greek manner. So the three of us had gathered, that last night before our legions were to march away. My mother was there too, and her face was pale. We had seen my father march away many times, and always her face was pale when he did, though she never spoke of any fear or doubt. This was to be the first campaign in which I marched away as well.
"I will kill every Gaul I can get under my sword, they shall not enter Rome while I live!" I declared, in that way that impetuous youth do.
"I would rather a living son who had slain no Gauls, than a dead one who had died gloriously," my mother said. It is astounding how a Roman matron can deflate her son's vainglories.
"A sacrifice to the ancestors for that," my grandfather said, and poured a little of his wine in libation upon the ground. My mother gave him one of her disappointed looks, for she was far more formal and tradition in religious matters than her father-in-law was and also hated wine stains on her floor.
"Oh worry yourself not Drusilla," My grandfather said "I will go to the temple of Mars tomorrow and sacrifice properly, but every little bit helps, no?"
"I thank you for that generosity, Triarius," my mother said, gracefully but showing a little exasperation with her father-in-law in her voice.
My grandfather's name was Marcus, and my father's name was also Marcus, and my name too was Marcus. Marcus Valerius, though we were distant plebeian cousins of the great patrician Valerii clan. When every male in your family is born to the same name, nicknames become a necessity. My grandfather was Valerius Triarius, for he had been a soldier of great renown in his younger days and his body was covered with honourable scars. My father was Valerius Pius, for he had always been admired as a pious man, who honoured his family, his ancestors, and the gods. They called me Valerius Laevinus, for I wrote more deftly with my left hand than with my right.
My father and grandfather's talk turned back to military affairs, and I listened eagerly. I was, in truth, hoping for a chance to say something wise beyond my years, and greatly eager to participate in these fine and manly conversations about serious matters. Were I truly wise beyond my years back then, I would have tried learning more and looking for a chance to say something clever less.
"My patron told me this morning that it was reported to the Senate that the Insubres and the Boii have made league against us," said my father. "And the kings of the Gaesatae have joined them,"
"Carthage is behind it, stirring up these tribesmen against us," my grandfather responded, and took another sip of wine.
"Perhaps I am only a feeble-minded woman," said my mother "But I understood that Carthage is bound to us by treaty, and we have been at peace with them for many years,"
"Any treaty with Carthage is not worth the paper its written on!" Grandfather snarled, and his eyes glittered fiercely. "Fides punica!"
Grandfather had served on Sicily in the Punic War. He had never forgotten his hatred for Carthage.
"They are far away, occupied in Iberia. I doubt they would be behind a movement in Gaul," my father replied.
"They're behind it, mark my words, the purse of every Gaul coming down to Italy will be paid by Punic silver," Grandfather said. "Or promises of silver, more likely, for Punic cruelty is only exceeded by Punic greed,"
"Well, grandfather," I said, finally speaking up in this conversation of my elders "Would you prefer that Punic mercenaries be well-paid? I think I would rather fight a man who is disgruntled because his pay is many months late, than one in fine spirits with a full purse,"
Grandfather paused, and he seemed to be working out a retort, then he burst into laughter.
"Well said Laevinus. Aye, it is for the best for Rome that Carthage pay her mercenaries poorly, is it not?"
In the morning, my mother saw us off with an embrace and a kiss. She fastened the military cloak round my shoulders, and her eyes were worried but she said nothing but hopeful words.
"Serve honourably, and see this business done quickly, eh?" she said, raising a hand to my face. I smiled, and assured her it would all be done in a month.
We could afford good arms, but we could not afford to bring slaves as our shield-carriers as some of the richer families could, and so Father and I marched away to the Campus Martius sweating under the weight of our equipment. At least I was sweating, my father seemed tireless and to bear the weight of his gear as if it were a trivial load.
"The rich men will sneer at you," my father told me on that first stage from our house in the City to the Campus for the muster "But on the day of battle, the endurance you build from carrying your kit will be far more valuable than the comfort of a body-slave on campaign. You will see,"
The Campus Martius was filled with people, men in the thousands, and the air was filled with thousands of voices talking, and here and there a tribune or centurion shouting commands and trying to create order. It was there that I had to bid my Father farewell, for in the legions you are divided from kin and clan and you serve alongside strangers. The veterans, I noticed, got organized much more quickly, for they knew the routine well. I was assigned to the IV Hastati Maniple of III Legio, under the Centurion Quintus Lucilius, and the Optio Flavius Tullius.
Then, the marching began.
During the day, you marched and sweated, and swore at the pain in your feet and knees. At the end of the day's march, you build the camp, fortified with a ditch and rampart and organized with the precision of a town grid plan. We hastati were tutored by our elders in this labour, though tutelage often meant doing the grunt work of digging while the old timers leaned on their shovels and taunted you with calls that the faster you dig, the faster you can eat.
The tribunes of our legion believed in training, and so although every one of us had been taught to wrestle and box and fight by our fathers in youth, after dinner it was to training before you could retire. We practised casting our javelins, advancing and retreating as groups, assembling and orienting around the standards of our maniples, and sparring with wooden swords like paired gladiators. Or we wrestled, lifted stones, chopped firewood. Anything to keep us active and moving, building our bodies instead of wasting our time in dice and drink like some of our men dearly wanted to.
Then you threw your exhausted body onto your bedroll at the end of the day and prayed for long and uninterrupted sleep. This prayer always went unanswered, for at dawn the trumpets would be sounding the assembly, and you would be breaking camp for another day of marching.
March, make camp, eat, train, sleep, march. That is the cycle of life on campaign.
The romance of the military life quickly disappears.
Our consular army was to be stationed outside the city of Ariminum, hoping to intercept the main body of the Gauls there. But after weeks of tiring marching to get there, we discovered that they had slipped past our forces on the frontier and descended into Etruria, burning and plundering as they went. The army of the Praetor Galbus was in pursuit, so the messengers said, and our Consul made the decision to turn back south and join the pursuit, for the Gauls being south of us let them threaten Rome herself.
I thought of my mother, and my friends and kin in Rome, and forced my body to a faster step.
It is a grim business marching in the wake of a plundering army. Etruria had been rich on our march north, full of prosperous little towns and villages and farms. Now there were columns of smoke on the horizon, and the towns were barren and lifeless and burnt. We found bodies too: Men who had died defending their homes and lay hacked and hewn and unburied where they fell. Women and children shot full of arrows or left impaled upon spears. All the horrors of war. It sickened me to the stomach. We all thirsted to avenge ourselves upon the Gauls.
The Praetor Galbus was a brave man, but not a very wise one in the ways of war. He walked into an ugly ambush at Faesula and got a large portion of his men slaughtered. The survivors had dug themselves in on a hill, about three days march from Rome, and there the Gallic army had lain siege to them. We finally arrived on the scene and made camp ourselves, and I think I stayed awake that whole night, partly excited by the notion of a pitched battle on the morrow and partly terrified that my throat would be slit in the night without glory or honour if the Gauls launched a night attack. Of course, it is for exactly that reason that we Romans dig a fortified camp every night, but the fear was still there.
A pitched battle was not to be, however, for the Gallic kings counted our fires in the night, and decided that it was time to pick up their plunder and head home, so they broke off contact in the early morning and made a run north. Our Consul Aemilius, more cautious perhaps after Galbus's humiliating defeat, elected to pursue but not force a general action too soon. He had many inexperienced soldiers like myself in his legions, our allied troops were fearful for their own cities and safety, and the Gauls were a fierce and warlike enemy. So, again, we were marching north. It was a season of hard marching, always, always marching.
Gradually we closed the gap on the Gallic main body, and we chased them north towards and then past Telamon. Always the distant shapes of their columns remained just frustratingly out of reach, always their dust remained on our horizon before our eyes. They did not turn and offer battle, not yet anyways. Our equites and velites were out daily, hunting and harrying and skirmishers with their foragers and patrols. Tales began to trickle down to the infantry of glorious single combats, and I confess envied the equites greatly.
I listened to our centurions' talk in the evenings in the camp, when I could. Some of them expressed the opinion that the Gauls would keep running until they could get their plunder home, and then would invade again. Others hoped that we might be able to shadow and harass their march until they were compelled to turn and fight. In all cases, the consensus of the centurions was: Battle, and better sooner than later.
"Why does Aemilius delay? We need only get within a javelin's throw of them and they will break at the first shock of battle," said one younger centurion.
"Aye, they defeated Galbus only by cowardly ambush. In a fight, we would easily take them," another opined.
"The Gauls are warlike, it is said, but they won't fight because they fear to lose their plunder," said a third.
The distance was close enough after several days of pursuit that we were marching in battle order now, our belongings left in the wagons of the baggage train behind us. The triplex acies, as it is called, is three lines of infantry in battle array, the hastati and principes in loose line of battle and the triarii drawn up in a dense, silent mass behind us, the velites advancing in a great cloud before us. III Legio was in the centre-right of the line of battle, between our Italian allies on the right flank, and II Legio in the centre to our left.
I didn't think anything was different that day. I thought I only had another long weary day of marching ahead of me. But by chance, the great Consul Aemilius was near the forward line of III Legio, indeed within my own line of sight, his sharp eyes gazing forward, when a messenger came riding hard on a snorting horse up to him. I couldn't hear what was said, but I saw a change come upon the Consul's expression. A wolfish, savage grin grew across his face. He barked some command I did not hear, and one of the officers of his retinue galloped off to the right flank towards our cavalry.
Then the trumpeters were sounding the halt.
I was confused. The consul was riding up and down the line, his hand held high for silence. The tramping of our marching stopped, and for a moment there was not a sound as we strained to hear our general.
"My friends! My comrades!" he roared to us, voice high and clear. "The Consul Gaius has landed, and his army cuts off the line of the enemy's retreat. We have them, as iron between the anvil and the hammer. Our friends will be the anvil, and you my comrades, you shall be the hammer!"
Like a single mighty beast, the army roared our approval. I felt powerful then, like never before in my life, roaring together with my comrades to left and right.
"The cavalry of Gaius is seizing yonder hill as we speak to cut off the enemy's retreat!" the Consul yelled, and gestured to a distant hill on our right. Already, in the distance, there was trumpeting, and the sounds of weapons, and of men and horses screaming. Dust was being raised on the crest of the hill, and I could make out horsemen riding to and for.
"Our cavalry shall ride to support, and you my good infantry, you my friends shall march to the destruction of the Gauls! We go forward to battle! They will fight savagely, friends, for they have no retreat from this place and they are men of great courage and strength. Throw your javelins! Strike them with your shields! Finish them on the ground with your swords! Fight with Roman courage, and they cannot withstand you!"
We roared again, and then the signal for battle was given: The red standard of the consul was raised, and the trumpeters were sounding the advance to battle.
Now my heart rate was quickening, and I could feel the sweat crawling down my back. Ahead of us, the Velites were swarming forward eagerly, and the Gallic battle line was coming closer now after many days of distant pursuit.
Behind our maniple, I could hear our optio Flavius growling out directions.
"Don't bunch together now! Watch the spacing! Trust your shield, your friend's shield isn't any better than yours! Don't look at the fucking ground, eyes forward!"
A maniple, one hundred and twenty strong, is arrayed four deep but loose enough for each legionary to move freely on the battlefield. It is not an easy battle line to keep. It gets ragged, some men move forward eagerly and others lag behind. It is good for the bravest to move to the front, where they can prove themselves braver than other men, but too much is foolish. Torquatus once executed his son for too much aggression against orders, after all. As we advanced at the Gauls, we paused to straighten out our line, the optio pushed laggards up from behind with the staff of his javelin, and our centurion standing with the standard planted to keep us from moving forward too quickly.
"Hold! Hold!" he snapped. "Wait!"
Our maniple was an eager one, and although the acies will allow for much movement and bending of the line we had gotten too far forward. The legion had to dress its line, a process of agonizing minutes, while before our eyes the velites were already fighting the Gallic skirmishers. The air was filled with flung javelins, and with hissing arrows, and men screaming and shouting. My hands and arms were trembling, I was terrified and eager all at once. As I watched, a veles was exchanging blows with sword and shield against a Gaul whom he had charged after exhausting his javelins. He lopped off the enemy's hand, then buried his gladius into the man's throat, shouting his triumph. Then he started to pull his dead foeman's rings and jewelry off.
"I want a duel," I said to Gaius, still standing behind me.
"Fuck your duels Laevinus, I just want to get this over with already," he muttered. Gaius was a good hand in a fight, but unlike most of us he cared nothing for gloria. "We've got these fuckers dead to rights, can't they just surrender?"
"Silence in the ranks!" the optio shouted from behind.
Finally we got the acies together, and the signal to advance was given again. We moved forward, rhythmically beating pila shafts against the iron-shod edges of our scuta. The scutum has a boss grip, no arm strap for you, so you hold your light pilum in your right hand and the heavy one in your left, pinched between thumb and hand.
Now the velites were flowing backwards through our lines, filing the gaps between the maniples to our left and right like rainwater flowing into a riverbed. The Gallic skirmishers had disappeared too into their main force, and their battle line presented a fierce aspect: Tall men, muscled, many of them bare chested, others clad in rich coats of maille and cloaks, and tall helmets, and a forest of spears waving above their head. They were packed in tight, shield to shield, forming a wall of wood and oxhide.
The great Gallic war horns began to blow, and together forty thousand Gallic voices shouted their war cry at us. The wave of sound struck us like a physical blow, indeed I swear to you I felt it in my stomach, and it echoed and boomed like the earth itself was crying out. Then our Roman trumpets blew out the signal to attack, and we shouted our own war cry in response, and then we were moving forward and everything became one rush of movement, and action, and reaction, and fear.
We had practised the maniple's attack in camp, such that our Centurion did not need to order it. He planted our standard to place our front line, and the maniple flowed forward past it. I was in the second rank, and the man, Lucius was his name, in front of me rushed forward to throw his first javelin. A hail of enemy missiles, stones and javelins, flew at us from their ranks. A heavy stone took Lucius in the head, and he crumpled with his own javelin unthrown. I thought he was just stunned, but a trickle of blood was seeping out of his helmet.
I stopped, shield stretched out before me, and I felt shocks of impact up my arm as stones clattered against it, and a javelin struck the boss and deflected off. I couldn't take my eyes off the dead Lucius in front of me. I did not know him well, but I had shared food and laughter with him, and now he was dead.
"Fuck's sake Laevinus! Fucking move!" Gaius was yelling behind me. I breathed in deeply, once, twice, and then the hail of missiles on my shield slackened a little and I was rushing forward.
Three steps into no man's land, and I threw my light pilum. My hands were sweating, and I was terrified, and my throw was not very good. It struck a shield boss and shattered. I cursed and swore and backpedaled towards the standard, shield raised against more flung missiles. An arrow hissed by and buried itself near my feet.
"Cursing helps nothing lad, make the next one count eh? Get closer!" Optio Flavius was shouting over the din of battle, his voice already hoarse, and I could feel his pilum shaft against my back, steadying me from moving too far backwards.
"That's it lads!" The centurion was shouting at us, standing up near the front, his crest marking him out. "Let them have it! Pour it into them!"
I grabbed my heavy pilum, and moved up to the front of the battle line again. I waited until a comrade took his throw and opened up a space in front of me, and then I was charging. I grit my teeth and charged closer, and missiles were whizzing by either side of me. This time my aim was sure, and I flung my pilum close, and flat, at the nearest Gaul to me.
The iron head of the pilum took his shield in the upper half, and punched straight through the wood. It carried straight through the thin shield and lodged in the man's face. I still remember his face, a youthful face with long blond moustaches, pale and surprised, shocked at what had happened to him. He crumpled, and his blood stained the ground.
I didn't have time to reflect, I was moving back again to the standard. Suddenly I felt a surge of excitement, elation. I had slain a Gaul! I had seen my javelin pierce him, shield and neck both. I felt empowered, invincible. I grabbed the hilt of my gladius and made to charge again.
"Wait!" snapped the optio, this time grabbing me by the collar of my maille. "Wait for the centurion's order lad!"
"But-" I started.
"Wait!"
Some of our men had fallen, killed or wounded, while we exchanged missiles with the Gauls, but Gaius was still alive and he moved back to the standard with me. We watched the Centurion, who was staring at the Gallic line with an eagle's watchful eyes, evaluating, judging his moment. His maniple was running low on javelins now. Now the choice was before us: Retreat and rearm, or we charge.
Then it happened: Amidst the roaring, and amidst the hail of javelins and stones thrown back and forward, almost imperceptibly, I saw the Gallic line take a step backwards. One step backwards, that was all.
"DRAW SWORDS!" the centurion commanded, and his gladius caught the sun as he drew it forth.
We were moving forward, our loose order allows a maniple to flow forward or backward easily. The standard was moving forward, and we moved with it. Our centurion was at the forefront of our charge.
"Follow me!" he called to us "At them now!"
The Gauls are a hardy and martial race. They may have taken a step backward, but they dug in their heels at our charge and they met us face to face and hand to hand.
Nothing is more terrifying than hand to hand. Not the uncertainty of a night march, not the long agonizing wait before battle, not the anticipation of battle, not even skirmishing with javelins at close range. Nothing is more terrifying than hand to hand combat.
A Gallic spear lashed forward for my face as I charged. Just in time I perceived it, and flung my shield upwards to parry it, edge against shaft. Being inexperienced and still fairly stupid, I blinded myself with that motion. My opponent was better, he used the chance to disengage and thrust for my legs. The bronze greave on my lead foot saved me from a crippling thrust through the shin. I stepped backwards to gain a little space, lowering my shield and focusing on my enemy for the first time.
This was it: To my left and right, there were sounds of slaying and hacking and screaming, but here was my single duel I had so craved.
He was taller than me, shirtless and rippling with lean muscle, his hair a blond mane like a lion, a tall bronze helmet on his head, a long wooden shield clad in oxhide in one hand and a spear in the other. We stared into each other's eyes: Gallic blue meeting Roman brown. He snarled something at me, probably a curse in his language, and then lunged with the spear again.
I tried to cut the head away with my sword, and he turned the thrust into a blow against my arm which almost made me lose my grip, then I was backpedaling again as another spear thrust clattered against the boss of my scutum.
He feinted a thrust at my leg, and as I lowered the shield trying to catch his spear another thrust was flung at my face. Instinct turned my head away from the blow, and instinct saved me, for his aim was not quite true and his thrust glanced against my cheek guard. I lashed out blindly with my sword, and caught nothing.
Going back just left him space to use that spear. I had no time to think but going forward was all I could do.
I hefted my shield and punched the lower edge at him, aiming at his spear side. It is the cruellest strike with the scutum. He took the force of the blow against his shield, and I felt his counter-thrust skid off my shield towards my left. I was lunging in under the cover of the scutum, and an unarmoured leg came within my reach. I hacked at it with my gladius: An artless, unsophisticated blow, but it did its job and the man fell, leg hewn to the bone.
He was screaming in pain, a sound to chill your blood, and I silenced him by burying the point of my blade through his mouth.
I was panting, sweating, terrified and thrilled and guilty and exuberant all in one confused moment. Looking up I saw that the Gauls had fallen back, and they were reforming just out of missile distance, and our boys were rallying round the standard again. My hands would not stop shaking and my sword arm was aching from the blow the Gaul had given me with his spear haft.
"Well fought," said the Centurion. There was blood on his blade, and not a mark on him. I nodded, eyes wide and wild, and fell back into the maniple.
"You fought your heroic duel while we put the rest running. I thought about killing your man from behind, but you said you wanted a duel," Gaius said as I rejoined him. I laughed. It wasn't very funny, but a laugh felt good just then.
"Gather missiles! Pick up from the wounded, from the dead, arm yourselves!" the optio was behind us again, yelling direction. We sheathed our swords for the moment, and quickly picked up what we could find on the ground we had just captured. Some pila were unbroken, there were Gallic spears and javelins intact, and some heavy stones will suffice for a missile.
There was a rumble of hooves. The senior tribune of our legion was riding up and down the battle line, surrounded by his bodyguard of equites, all in maille and spears in hand. Looking behind us, I saw the line of the principes was moving forward, filling in gaps wherever they opened, stabling those maniples which wavered, shoring up the line like strong timbers against a wall. Far to the rear, the triarii waited, kneeling and patient.
"Centurion!" the tribune called out.
"Here, tribune!" our centurion answered, raising a hand to be recognized.
"A hot fight, will your maniple hold?" the tribune asked.
Quintus answered. "Sir, nothing's stopping my lads today!"
We grinned, for the praise of our centurion was high praise indeed. The shaking in my limbs was lessening a little, and despite the ongoing din of battle and the unbroken Gallic line still in front of us I felt a little stronger, a little steadier than I had that morning. I sucked in breath, and wiped the sweat from my eyes.
Then it was forward to the next fight.
Northern Italy
225 BC
In Rome, a man who has won a single combat in war with the enemy is entitled to decorate his house with the armours of his slain foes. My grandfather slew ten men in his days as a warrior, and I remember as a boy staring at the ten sets of old, rusted armours which decorated my grandfather's house. The black, empty holes of their helmets stared down on me, silent and challenging.
I still remember my first battle too.
My feet ached. My legs ached. My arm ached from carrying that bloody scutum, my fingers ached from clasping two pila in the other hand, and my back ached from carrying the weight of armour and weapons for days. My father told me that most of war was marching and boredom and being young and childish I had thought he was foolish. War, I had imagined, would be glorious and exciting.
I was enrolled as a hastatus of the legions, just in time to meet the invasion of our old enemies the Gauls of the north. How grand! My grandfather taught me that Gauls had sacked Rome once in the ancient days of the City. What glorious deeds would await me against the ancestral enemies of Rome? Would I slay a great chieftain of the Gauls and take his arm ring as a trophy, like the great Torquatus did? Or perhaps would I fall holding back the great swarms of the Celts and have my name be made forever famous, like Horatius at the bridge?
The sun beating down on my bronze helmet had burned all the youthful enthusiasm out of me. I had been marching for days, everything hurt, and I did not terribly want to go to war that day. My father was right: War is marching and boredom. And sore feet.
"Fuck, I can feel this bloody blister coming in," I could hear my friend Gaius muttering to himself behind me, swearing as his left foot hit the ground with every step of the march.
"Quiet in the ranks!" snapped our centurion, Quintus Lucilius. He was an older man than was the norm for a maniple of hastati. By rights he should have been with the principes or even a triarius, but a maniple of hastati needed a steady hand of experience.
We were in an Etruscan valley, following the main Gallic body. Off to our left, there was the distant glimmer of the sea. To our right marched a line of rolling hills, and the main road north was in front of us. For days, we had been pursuing the Gauls, their dust clouds and savage banners just visible in the distance, their camp-fires lighting up the night as we made camp. When we woke up to the sounds of our trumpets, in the distance we could hear the Gallic horns, and when we sat around our own cooking-fires in the evening we could hear their songs.
The campaign had been opened in fine dramatic fashion while the legions were being enrolled in Rome. All the City was afire with rumours about the great coalition of Gauls that were invading once again. Some said all Gaul was unified against Rome, and even savage heathens from half the world away were hungry for the overthrow of the City. What could be more exciting for a young man in his first campaign?
Then, of course, you wait for the assembly day of your legion after you have been enrolled, and your father takes you to the market to buy you a sturdy shield and a good coat of maille, and a pair of javelins, and a strong sword. It all seems to take so agonizingly long to wait. You start to worry: What if the Gauls are defeated before you get out to the field? What if you get no chance to prove your valour?
The Gauls were crossing the Alps and Rome filled up with the rumour of their coming carried by the refugees fleeing south. The Etruscans said that the Gauls were in numbers like the stars, that the furor Celtica could not be stemmed or resisted.
"Evil days," said my grandfather, the last night before my legion, III Legio, was to assemble. Grandfather was too old to march away for war, though his shoulders were still unbowed. Father and I were both bound for the front. My father was to be a triarius in II Legio. We both were to serve under the Consul Aemilius, here in Italy. I counted myself lucky, for it seemed that the greater glory was to be had in Italy, and not with the Consul Atilius bound for Sardinia.
"Evil days need strong men, they said" said Father, quoting an old proverb. We were sitting in the triclinium. My father did not hold with reclining in the fashionable Greek manner, he preferred to sit upright like Romans of old, but he did greatly enjoy an evening of wine and conversation in the Greek manner. So the three of us had gathered, that last night before our legions were to march away. My mother was there too, and her face was pale. We had seen my father march away many times, and always her face was pale when he did, though she never spoke of any fear or doubt. This was to be the first campaign in which I marched away as well.
"I will kill every Gaul I can get under my sword, they shall not enter Rome while I live!" I declared, in that way that impetuous youth do.
"I would rather a living son who had slain no Gauls, than a dead one who had died gloriously," my mother said. It is astounding how a Roman matron can deflate her son's vainglories.
"A sacrifice to the ancestors for that," my grandfather said, and poured a little of his wine in libation upon the ground. My mother gave him one of her disappointed looks, for she was far more formal and tradition in religious matters than her father-in-law was and also hated wine stains on her floor.
"Oh worry yourself not Drusilla," My grandfather said "I will go to the temple of Mars tomorrow and sacrifice properly, but every little bit helps, no?"
"I thank you for that generosity, Triarius," my mother said, gracefully but showing a little exasperation with her father-in-law in her voice.
My grandfather's name was Marcus, and my father's name was also Marcus, and my name too was Marcus. Marcus Valerius, though we were distant plebeian cousins of the great patrician Valerii clan. When every male in your family is born to the same name, nicknames become a necessity. My grandfather was Valerius Triarius, for he had been a soldier of great renown in his younger days and his body was covered with honourable scars. My father was Valerius Pius, for he had always been admired as a pious man, who honoured his family, his ancestors, and the gods. They called me Valerius Laevinus, for I wrote more deftly with my left hand than with my right.
My father and grandfather's talk turned back to military affairs, and I listened eagerly. I was, in truth, hoping for a chance to say something wise beyond my years, and greatly eager to participate in these fine and manly conversations about serious matters. Were I truly wise beyond my years back then, I would have tried learning more and looking for a chance to say something clever less.
"My patron told me this morning that it was reported to the Senate that the Insubres and the Boii have made league against us," said my father. "And the kings of the Gaesatae have joined them,"
"Carthage is behind it, stirring up these tribesmen against us," my grandfather responded, and took another sip of wine.
"Perhaps I am only a feeble-minded woman," said my mother "But I understood that Carthage is bound to us by treaty, and we have been at peace with them for many years,"
"Any treaty with Carthage is not worth the paper its written on!" Grandfather snarled, and his eyes glittered fiercely. "Fides punica!"
Grandfather had served on Sicily in the Punic War. He had never forgotten his hatred for Carthage.
"They are far away, occupied in Iberia. I doubt they would be behind a movement in Gaul," my father replied.
"They're behind it, mark my words, the purse of every Gaul coming down to Italy will be paid by Punic silver," Grandfather said. "Or promises of silver, more likely, for Punic cruelty is only exceeded by Punic greed,"
"Well, grandfather," I said, finally speaking up in this conversation of my elders "Would you prefer that Punic mercenaries be well-paid? I think I would rather fight a man who is disgruntled because his pay is many months late, than one in fine spirits with a full purse,"
Grandfather paused, and he seemed to be working out a retort, then he burst into laughter.
"Well said Laevinus. Aye, it is for the best for Rome that Carthage pay her mercenaries poorly, is it not?"
In the morning, my mother saw us off with an embrace and a kiss. She fastened the military cloak round my shoulders, and her eyes were worried but she said nothing but hopeful words.
"Serve honourably, and see this business done quickly, eh?" she said, raising a hand to my face. I smiled, and assured her it would all be done in a month.
We could afford good arms, but we could not afford to bring slaves as our shield-carriers as some of the richer families could, and so Father and I marched away to the Campus Martius sweating under the weight of our equipment. At least I was sweating, my father seemed tireless and to bear the weight of his gear as if it were a trivial load.
"The rich men will sneer at you," my father told me on that first stage from our house in the City to the Campus for the muster "But on the day of battle, the endurance you build from carrying your kit will be far more valuable than the comfort of a body-slave on campaign. You will see,"
The Campus Martius was filled with people, men in the thousands, and the air was filled with thousands of voices talking, and here and there a tribune or centurion shouting commands and trying to create order. It was there that I had to bid my Father farewell, for in the legions you are divided from kin and clan and you serve alongside strangers. The veterans, I noticed, got organized much more quickly, for they knew the routine well. I was assigned to the IV Hastati Maniple of III Legio, under the Centurion Quintus Lucilius, and the Optio Flavius Tullius.
Then, the marching began.
During the day, you marched and sweated, and swore at the pain in your feet and knees. At the end of the day's march, you build the camp, fortified with a ditch and rampart and organized with the precision of a town grid plan. We hastati were tutored by our elders in this labour, though tutelage often meant doing the grunt work of digging while the old timers leaned on their shovels and taunted you with calls that the faster you dig, the faster you can eat.
The tribunes of our legion believed in training, and so although every one of us had been taught to wrestle and box and fight by our fathers in youth, after dinner it was to training before you could retire. We practised casting our javelins, advancing and retreating as groups, assembling and orienting around the standards of our maniples, and sparring with wooden swords like paired gladiators. Or we wrestled, lifted stones, chopped firewood. Anything to keep us active and moving, building our bodies instead of wasting our time in dice and drink like some of our men dearly wanted to.
Then you threw your exhausted body onto your bedroll at the end of the day and prayed for long and uninterrupted sleep. This prayer always went unanswered, for at dawn the trumpets would be sounding the assembly, and you would be breaking camp for another day of marching.
March, make camp, eat, train, sleep, march. That is the cycle of life on campaign.
The romance of the military life quickly disappears.
Our consular army was to be stationed outside the city of Ariminum, hoping to intercept the main body of the Gauls there. But after weeks of tiring marching to get there, we discovered that they had slipped past our forces on the frontier and descended into Etruria, burning and plundering as they went. The army of the Praetor Galbus was in pursuit, so the messengers said, and our Consul made the decision to turn back south and join the pursuit, for the Gauls being south of us let them threaten Rome herself.
I thought of my mother, and my friends and kin in Rome, and forced my body to a faster step.
It is a grim business marching in the wake of a plundering army. Etruria had been rich on our march north, full of prosperous little towns and villages and farms. Now there were columns of smoke on the horizon, and the towns were barren and lifeless and burnt. We found bodies too: Men who had died defending their homes and lay hacked and hewn and unburied where they fell. Women and children shot full of arrows or left impaled upon spears. All the horrors of war. It sickened me to the stomach. We all thirsted to avenge ourselves upon the Gauls.
The Praetor Galbus was a brave man, but not a very wise one in the ways of war. He walked into an ugly ambush at Faesula and got a large portion of his men slaughtered. The survivors had dug themselves in on a hill, about three days march from Rome, and there the Gallic army had lain siege to them. We finally arrived on the scene and made camp ourselves, and I think I stayed awake that whole night, partly excited by the notion of a pitched battle on the morrow and partly terrified that my throat would be slit in the night without glory or honour if the Gauls launched a night attack. Of course, it is for exactly that reason that we Romans dig a fortified camp every night, but the fear was still there.
A pitched battle was not to be, however, for the Gallic kings counted our fires in the night, and decided that it was time to pick up their plunder and head home, so they broke off contact in the early morning and made a run north. Our Consul Aemilius, more cautious perhaps after Galbus's humiliating defeat, elected to pursue but not force a general action too soon. He had many inexperienced soldiers like myself in his legions, our allied troops were fearful for their own cities and safety, and the Gauls were a fierce and warlike enemy. So, again, we were marching north. It was a season of hard marching, always, always marching.
Gradually we closed the gap on the Gallic main body, and we chased them north towards and then past Telamon. Always the distant shapes of their columns remained just frustratingly out of reach, always their dust remained on our horizon before our eyes. They did not turn and offer battle, not yet anyways. Our equites and velites were out daily, hunting and harrying and skirmishers with their foragers and patrols. Tales began to trickle down to the infantry of glorious single combats, and I confess envied the equites greatly.
I listened to our centurions' talk in the evenings in the camp, when I could. Some of them expressed the opinion that the Gauls would keep running until they could get their plunder home, and then would invade again. Others hoped that we might be able to shadow and harass their march until they were compelled to turn and fight. In all cases, the consensus of the centurions was: Battle, and better sooner than later.
"Why does Aemilius delay? We need only get within a javelin's throw of them and they will break at the first shock of battle," said one younger centurion.
"Aye, they defeated Galbus only by cowardly ambush. In a fight, we would easily take them," another opined.
"The Gauls are warlike, it is said, but they won't fight because they fear to lose their plunder," said a third.
The distance was close enough after several days of pursuit that we were marching in battle order now, our belongings left in the wagons of the baggage train behind us. The triplex acies, as it is called, is three lines of infantry in battle array, the hastati and principes in loose line of battle and the triarii drawn up in a dense, silent mass behind us, the velites advancing in a great cloud before us. III Legio was in the centre-right of the line of battle, between our Italian allies on the right flank, and II Legio in the centre to our left.
I didn't think anything was different that day. I thought I only had another long weary day of marching ahead of me. But by chance, the great Consul Aemilius was near the forward line of III Legio, indeed within my own line of sight, his sharp eyes gazing forward, when a messenger came riding hard on a snorting horse up to him. I couldn't hear what was said, but I saw a change come upon the Consul's expression. A wolfish, savage grin grew across his face. He barked some command I did not hear, and one of the officers of his retinue galloped off to the right flank towards our cavalry.
Then the trumpeters were sounding the halt.
I was confused. The consul was riding up and down the line, his hand held high for silence. The tramping of our marching stopped, and for a moment there was not a sound as we strained to hear our general.
"My friends! My comrades!" he roared to us, voice high and clear. "The Consul Gaius has landed, and his army cuts off the line of the enemy's retreat. We have them, as iron between the anvil and the hammer. Our friends will be the anvil, and you my comrades, you shall be the hammer!"
Like a single mighty beast, the army roared our approval. I felt powerful then, like never before in my life, roaring together with my comrades to left and right.
"The cavalry of Gaius is seizing yonder hill as we speak to cut off the enemy's retreat!" the Consul yelled, and gestured to a distant hill on our right. Already, in the distance, there was trumpeting, and the sounds of weapons, and of men and horses screaming. Dust was being raised on the crest of the hill, and I could make out horsemen riding to and for.
"Our cavalry shall ride to support, and you my good infantry, you my friends shall march to the destruction of the Gauls! We go forward to battle! They will fight savagely, friends, for they have no retreat from this place and they are men of great courage and strength. Throw your javelins! Strike them with your shields! Finish them on the ground with your swords! Fight with Roman courage, and they cannot withstand you!"
We roared again, and then the signal for battle was given: The red standard of the consul was raised, and the trumpeters were sounding the advance to battle.
Now my heart rate was quickening, and I could feel the sweat crawling down my back. Ahead of us, the Velites were swarming forward eagerly, and the Gallic battle line was coming closer now after many days of distant pursuit.
Behind our maniple, I could hear our optio Flavius growling out directions.
"Don't bunch together now! Watch the spacing! Trust your shield, your friend's shield isn't any better than yours! Don't look at the fucking ground, eyes forward!"
A maniple, one hundred and twenty strong, is arrayed four deep but loose enough for each legionary to move freely on the battlefield. It is not an easy battle line to keep. It gets ragged, some men move forward eagerly and others lag behind. It is good for the bravest to move to the front, where they can prove themselves braver than other men, but too much is foolish. Torquatus once executed his son for too much aggression against orders, after all. As we advanced at the Gauls, we paused to straighten out our line, the optio pushed laggards up from behind with the staff of his javelin, and our centurion standing with the standard planted to keep us from moving forward too quickly.
"Hold! Hold!" he snapped. "Wait!"
Our maniple was an eager one, and although the acies will allow for much movement and bending of the line we had gotten too far forward. The legion had to dress its line, a process of agonizing minutes, while before our eyes the velites were already fighting the Gallic skirmishers. The air was filled with flung javelins, and with hissing arrows, and men screaming and shouting. My hands and arms were trembling, I was terrified and eager all at once. As I watched, a veles was exchanging blows with sword and shield against a Gaul whom he had charged after exhausting his javelins. He lopped off the enemy's hand, then buried his gladius into the man's throat, shouting his triumph. Then he started to pull his dead foeman's rings and jewelry off.
"I want a duel," I said to Gaius, still standing behind me.
"Fuck your duels Laevinus, I just want to get this over with already," he muttered. Gaius was a good hand in a fight, but unlike most of us he cared nothing for gloria. "We've got these fuckers dead to rights, can't they just surrender?"
"Silence in the ranks!" the optio shouted from behind.
Finally we got the acies together, and the signal to advance was given again. We moved forward, rhythmically beating pila shafts against the iron-shod edges of our scuta. The scutum has a boss grip, no arm strap for you, so you hold your light pilum in your right hand and the heavy one in your left, pinched between thumb and hand.
Now the velites were flowing backwards through our lines, filing the gaps between the maniples to our left and right like rainwater flowing into a riverbed. The Gallic skirmishers had disappeared too into their main force, and their battle line presented a fierce aspect: Tall men, muscled, many of them bare chested, others clad in rich coats of maille and cloaks, and tall helmets, and a forest of spears waving above their head. They were packed in tight, shield to shield, forming a wall of wood and oxhide.
The great Gallic war horns began to blow, and together forty thousand Gallic voices shouted their war cry at us. The wave of sound struck us like a physical blow, indeed I swear to you I felt it in my stomach, and it echoed and boomed like the earth itself was crying out. Then our Roman trumpets blew out the signal to attack, and we shouted our own war cry in response, and then we were moving forward and everything became one rush of movement, and action, and reaction, and fear.
We had practised the maniple's attack in camp, such that our Centurion did not need to order it. He planted our standard to place our front line, and the maniple flowed forward past it. I was in the second rank, and the man, Lucius was his name, in front of me rushed forward to throw his first javelin. A hail of enemy missiles, stones and javelins, flew at us from their ranks. A heavy stone took Lucius in the head, and he crumpled with his own javelin unthrown. I thought he was just stunned, but a trickle of blood was seeping out of his helmet.
I stopped, shield stretched out before me, and I felt shocks of impact up my arm as stones clattered against it, and a javelin struck the boss and deflected off. I couldn't take my eyes off the dead Lucius in front of me. I did not know him well, but I had shared food and laughter with him, and now he was dead.
"Fuck's sake Laevinus! Fucking move!" Gaius was yelling behind me. I breathed in deeply, once, twice, and then the hail of missiles on my shield slackened a little and I was rushing forward.
Three steps into no man's land, and I threw my light pilum. My hands were sweating, and I was terrified, and my throw was not very good. It struck a shield boss and shattered. I cursed and swore and backpedaled towards the standard, shield raised against more flung missiles. An arrow hissed by and buried itself near my feet.
"Cursing helps nothing lad, make the next one count eh? Get closer!" Optio Flavius was shouting over the din of battle, his voice already hoarse, and I could feel his pilum shaft against my back, steadying me from moving too far backwards.
"That's it lads!" The centurion was shouting at us, standing up near the front, his crest marking him out. "Let them have it! Pour it into them!"
I grabbed my heavy pilum, and moved up to the front of the battle line again. I waited until a comrade took his throw and opened up a space in front of me, and then I was charging. I grit my teeth and charged closer, and missiles were whizzing by either side of me. This time my aim was sure, and I flung my pilum close, and flat, at the nearest Gaul to me.
The iron head of the pilum took his shield in the upper half, and punched straight through the wood. It carried straight through the thin shield and lodged in the man's face. I still remember his face, a youthful face with long blond moustaches, pale and surprised, shocked at what had happened to him. He crumpled, and his blood stained the ground.
I didn't have time to reflect, I was moving back again to the standard. Suddenly I felt a surge of excitement, elation. I had slain a Gaul! I had seen my javelin pierce him, shield and neck both. I felt empowered, invincible. I grabbed the hilt of my gladius and made to charge again.
"Wait!" snapped the optio, this time grabbing me by the collar of my maille. "Wait for the centurion's order lad!"
"But-" I started.
"Wait!"
Some of our men had fallen, killed or wounded, while we exchanged missiles with the Gauls, but Gaius was still alive and he moved back to the standard with me. We watched the Centurion, who was staring at the Gallic line with an eagle's watchful eyes, evaluating, judging his moment. His maniple was running low on javelins now. Now the choice was before us: Retreat and rearm, or we charge.
Then it happened: Amidst the roaring, and amidst the hail of javelins and stones thrown back and forward, almost imperceptibly, I saw the Gallic line take a step backwards. One step backwards, that was all.
"DRAW SWORDS!" the centurion commanded, and his gladius caught the sun as he drew it forth.
We were moving forward, our loose order allows a maniple to flow forward or backward easily. The standard was moving forward, and we moved with it. Our centurion was at the forefront of our charge.
"Follow me!" he called to us "At them now!"
The Gauls are a hardy and martial race. They may have taken a step backward, but they dug in their heels at our charge and they met us face to face and hand to hand.
Nothing is more terrifying than hand to hand. Not the uncertainty of a night march, not the long agonizing wait before battle, not the anticipation of battle, not even skirmishing with javelins at close range. Nothing is more terrifying than hand to hand combat.
A Gallic spear lashed forward for my face as I charged. Just in time I perceived it, and flung my shield upwards to parry it, edge against shaft. Being inexperienced and still fairly stupid, I blinded myself with that motion. My opponent was better, he used the chance to disengage and thrust for my legs. The bronze greave on my lead foot saved me from a crippling thrust through the shin. I stepped backwards to gain a little space, lowering my shield and focusing on my enemy for the first time.
This was it: To my left and right, there were sounds of slaying and hacking and screaming, but here was my single duel I had so craved.
He was taller than me, shirtless and rippling with lean muscle, his hair a blond mane like a lion, a tall bronze helmet on his head, a long wooden shield clad in oxhide in one hand and a spear in the other. We stared into each other's eyes: Gallic blue meeting Roman brown. He snarled something at me, probably a curse in his language, and then lunged with the spear again.
I tried to cut the head away with my sword, and he turned the thrust into a blow against my arm which almost made me lose my grip, then I was backpedaling again as another spear thrust clattered against the boss of my scutum.
He feinted a thrust at my leg, and as I lowered the shield trying to catch his spear another thrust was flung at my face. Instinct turned my head away from the blow, and instinct saved me, for his aim was not quite true and his thrust glanced against my cheek guard. I lashed out blindly with my sword, and caught nothing.
Going back just left him space to use that spear. I had no time to think but going forward was all I could do.
I hefted my shield and punched the lower edge at him, aiming at his spear side. It is the cruellest strike with the scutum. He took the force of the blow against his shield, and I felt his counter-thrust skid off my shield towards my left. I was lunging in under the cover of the scutum, and an unarmoured leg came within my reach. I hacked at it with my gladius: An artless, unsophisticated blow, but it did its job and the man fell, leg hewn to the bone.
He was screaming in pain, a sound to chill your blood, and I silenced him by burying the point of my blade through his mouth.
I was panting, sweating, terrified and thrilled and guilty and exuberant all in one confused moment. Looking up I saw that the Gauls had fallen back, and they were reforming just out of missile distance, and our boys were rallying round the standard again. My hands would not stop shaking and my sword arm was aching from the blow the Gaul had given me with his spear haft.
"Well fought," said the Centurion. There was blood on his blade, and not a mark on him. I nodded, eyes wide and wild, and fell back into the maniple.
"You fought your heroic duel while we put the rest running. I thought about killing your man from behind, but you said you wanted a duel," Gaius said as I rejoined him. I laughed. It wasn't very funny, but a laugh felt good just then.
"Gather missiles! Pick up from the wounded, from the dead, arm yourselves!" the optio was behind us again, yelling direction. We sheathed our swords for the moment, and quickly picked up what we could find on the ground we had just captured. Some pila were unbroken, there were Gallic spears and javelins intact, and some heavy stones will suffice for a missile.
There was a rumble of hooves. The senior tribune of our legion was riding up and down the battle line, surrounded by his bodyguard of equites, all in maille and spears in hand. Looking behind us, I saw the line of the principes was moving forward, filling in gaps wherever they opened, stabling those maniples which wavered, shoring up the line like strong timbers against a wall. Far to the rear, the triarii waited, kneeling and patient.
"Centurion!" the tribune called out.
"Here, tribune!" our centurion answered, raising a hand to be recognized.
"A hot fight, will your maniple hold?" the tribune asked.
Quintus answered. "Sir, nothing's stopping my lads today!"
We grinned, for the praise of our centurion was high praise indeed. The shaking in my limbs was lessening a little, and despite the ongoing din of battle and the unbroken Gallic line still in front of us I felt a little stronger, a little steadier than I had that morning. I sucked in breath, and wiped the sweat from my eyes.
Then it was forward to the next fight.
Very nice chapter, I really enjoyed seeing the concept you have written of previously in action! Beyond that Laevinus was a simple yet enjoyable character who did his job in the narrative very well.
All in all this is a solid four out of five. Eagerly looking forward to more.
All in all this is a solid four out of five. Eagerly looking forward to more.
- Location
- United States
Really goes to show how valuable giving armor to your soldiers - or warriors, I suppose - can be, as the gaul had our dear protagonist dead to rights, what, three times? Meanwhile, he only needed to get one clumsy swing in to have his opponent screaming in agony on the ground, and after that, it was all over but for the coup de grace.
The whole 'macro-situation' was difficult for me to visualize, but from my rough understanding, the maniple wasn't forming a shield wall like the hoplites, but instead used a much looser formation and rely on dispersed veterans and extensive training to maintain discipline in the stark chaos of battle. You'd have multiple ranks folding in and around each other to let men recover and then run back to the front when ready for another fight.
The whole 'macro-situation' was difficult for me to visualize, but from my rough understanding, the maniple wasn't forming a shield wall like the hoplites, but instead used a much looser formation and rely on dispersed veterans and extensive training to maintain discipline in the stark chaos of battle. You'd have multiple ranks folding in and around each other to let men recover and then run back to the front when ready for another fight.
- Location
- Brisbane
Some Romans were incredibly and creatively foul mouthed(like Catullus). Like us Moderns they relied heavily on sexual terms for insults.