Ticinus
When news came that Hannibal and his armies were moving north through the Pyrenees, Publius pater was in the planning frame of mind. As it happened, like father like son, or more accurately the other way round, since he had the same idea as Publius filius: the Rhone River. So, he was sent by sea to one of our smaller holdings in southern Gaul, at the river’s mouth, Massilia, though it was actually a Greek colony loyal to us. He, as the consul of that year, 293, commanded a fairly considerable force, some two legions along with allied Latins and cavalry support. He took the rather odd decision of taking both me and his son with him. Anyway, regardless of this, he was fairly content in the camp for a few days north of Massilia for a few days until we received news of the retreat of the Volcae who failed to delay the Carthaginian advance a few leagues north of our camp. Being ever the enterprising man, Publius pater instantly sent all of one of the legion’s cavalry to reconnoitre the enemy disposition. They returned some house later, reporting of a brief albeit victorious skirmish.
“Thank you, you may go now, but be ready to break camp shortly,” Publius pater said bluntly, and looked down at the map which was slowly accumulating scrawls in various places.
The rather harassed cavalry officer scurried out after a haphazard salute that he ignored. A man of higher intellect, he had better things to do than scold a tired officer.
“Seems as though our esteemed enemy had much the same line of thought as your father,” I muttered to Publius filius.
He nodded to me, but he was deep in thought. He took a breath, but stopped himself. The two of us stood in the council, in the corner and out of the way. Publius was tolerated almost purely because he was his father’s son, while I was barely tolerated purely because I was his father’s son’s companion. He looked at his father and narrowed his eyes.
“Come, we’re leaving, but I think we may be late, but not by much,” he whispered to me.
“What? Why?”
“Prepare to depart, we’re going on a chase,” Publius pater announced.
An hour and a half later and the tribunes were gathered around the consul, who was astride his horse, scowling. The officers were tight-lipped, and Publius filius was smiling to himself, shaking his head.
“I knew it,” he muttered as I neared him.
“It looks as though the Carthaginians have managed to slip us by,” his father growled as the other commander neared him, “There’s nothing between them and the Alps, now. However, there doesn’t seem to be much distance between us, a half day’s march at most, but I don’t want to risk following him into the mountains, but I’ll be damned by Rome and the Gods if they make it to the Po unmolested,” he looked at the other commander, his brother,” Gnaeus, take the army, and whatever allied legions you find on the way, to Iberia and start causing trouble. I’d suggest stopping off at Massilia first, those Greeks will accommodate you with some phalanx-men. Your presence in Spain will keep reinforcements there long enough for me to defeat those in Italy before we make for Africa.”
The former consul turned to his little brother and raised an eyebrow.
“Any particular advice you wish to extend to me, lord Consul?!” he grinned.
They both smiled before Gnaeus turned his horse and headed towards the main column of the army, along with most of the tribunes.
“As for us,” Publius pater turned to his personal staff, and those remaining, “We’ll head back to the fleet as well. We’ll have to advantage of being better rested when we receive our guests. We make for Pisa, and I’ll acquire myself Manlius’ and Atilius’ legions if I can, that’ll give us enough to give Hannibal pause for thought.
“Let’s return to the camp.”
Publius filius and I quickly made ourselves scarce as the troops started on their march back to the castra. Regardless of our position in his father’s camp, Publius commanded a group of some thirty horsemen (an eleventh turma as it were) with whom he tried to get on with. Their commander, a middle-aged decuriones Marcus Vitellus (I never knew what gens he was part of), was impressed by the young Scipio, in both his intelligence and just the right amount of vigour, but was, at first, none too enamoured of being sidelined to merely acting as his bodyguard, because that was effectively what it was. However, if anything, Vitellus was mildly surprised at being under the command of a boywho acted far from the pampered nobleman’s son. Publius was here for war experience, and he took it quite seriously, though he indulged in his fair share of gallows humour. And so, by the time we had raced back to Pisa and slogged it through Etruria to a crossing off the Ticinus with two newly raised legions, the earlier recalcitrance had disappeared from the turma. The army made its castra just by the river, which we could not ford, so an impromptu bridge was constructed, with heavy fortifications around the camp to keep the construction uninterrupted. For a few days, we constructed our bridge, the two of us youngsters occasionally mucking it out with the hastate who did much of the mule-work. Barely a few days after our entrenchment was complete, scouts reported the location of the Carthaginian camp, just up-river.
“Manlius,” Publius pater called the praetor, “Assemble every horseman, time for some aggressive reconnaissance, I believe.”
“Yes, Consul,” he replied, quickly vaulting onto a waiting horse and galloping off to where our allies were camped.
“Our lack of native cavalry will be the death of us, I’m sure,” I heard Publius say next to me.
His father strode over to us and Vitellus and I smartly saluted.
“Son, you’re with us, as I said every horseman,” he said, waving our salutes aside, “I’ll give you command of the reserve cavalry, my legion’s ten turmae, along with your own. Use them wisely.”
“Yes, sir,” my friend nodded.
A quarter of an hour later, and the four thousand horse attached to the army were ready, along with some six hundred velites that Atilius recommended we take for support. I wondered at the wisdom of this, since it was obvious that they would slow us down, both in battle and in movement. Publius was of much the same thought, but he kept it to himself, though he nodded his agreement to me. We sallied out from the castra and made a brisk pace across the bridge, and very soon made contact with the enemy, and it appeared as though that yet again, Hannibal shared the same thoughts as Publius’ father.
“Stay behind us on this ridge, and use your common sense,” sound advice if ever I heard any, before he turned to me, “I leave him in your hands, young Gaius.”
“Yes, sir!” I replied, unwilling to disappoint my benefactor.
“Form a line!” he roared, riding ahead, the tribunes quickly marshalling the Gallic cavalry into a screening line in front of the decuriones and the equites and velites.
The javilneers were making their way forwards when I noticed something about the Carthaginian line.
“Oh Gods,” I whispered.
Publius saw what I had and he turned sharply to the two tribunes waiting behind him.
“Take five turmae each and make for the flanks or those Numidians will envelope us,” he commanded, showing early signs of his authority, “Move!”
Looking back to our cavalry’s formation, the velites had no time to set themselves as the Carthaginians just saw us and charged, their Numidian light horse veering off to the flanks while the Libyan cavalry crashed into the Gallic line. The legion and remaining allied horsemen tried to fend off the Numidians, but found themselves trapped as the Libyans quickly sent the Gauls to rout. Next to me, Publius was getting more and more agitated as the flow of the battle rapidly went against us. His gaze darted about, looking for his father. The two tribunes he had sent to support were swallowed up in the fight, hampered by the enemy’s greater numbers. The wings of our force were slowly forced back into the centre while the infantry were running away to escape the stamping hooves of African horses. And yet here we were, in sight of all, but powerless to act, for what were thirty men to do against two thousand?
“Gaius,” he looked at me, despair written in his features, “My father needs help.”
I looked at him, and then Vitellus, who reluctantly shook his head.
“We cannot charge that and live, brother,” I replied.
“But I will not stand by and watch my father die, cut down as a piece of game, this is no hunt,” he cried in frustration.
“And I will not stand by to watch you die such a death as well. I swore that you would live so long as I could make it so,” I grabbed his horse’s reins.
“I’m sorry, my brother, but please do not stop me, for I am but my father’s son,” he said, hefting his lance, despite the forlorn gaze in his eyes.
My grip loosened and before I could react, he kicked his horse into a gallop and he sped down the slope, towards the left flank where he saw his father, shouting in desperation. Growling I turned to his turma behind me.
“The Scipio of the Cornelii will NOT lose togenerations on this field,” I cried, tears coming to my eyes, for I feared for three lives that day, “Roma Victoria!”
I gave Vitellus a sad grin, and with that, in retrospect, nonsensical battlecry, I charged down the ridge after my friend, gradually catching up with him. The sound of the wind past my ears muffled the pounding of hooves as vitellus exhorted his command to follow. As the mass of African horses and horsemen loomed large in front of me, I desperately tried to level my lance, watching Publius trying to do the same thing. Seconds later, a Numidian was thrown from his horse as he was struck a glancing blow by his arrival. I was almost thrown from my own mount as it tried to stop itself from smashing bodily into whoever was in my way. Thrusting my spear forwards, it killed a Libyan lancer. The first time I took a man’s life, and it never left my memory, residing within me still. He had a look of surprise on his bearded face as he found a spear tip buried in his side below his armpit. He regarded me with a look of mild resignation before he dropped in his saddle and fell to the ground, dead, that unnerving, empty look in his eyes. It was cramped in close quarters with the enemy, especially now that Publius’ entire command had joined battle as well. Finding insufficient room around me to bring my lance to bear, I dropped it in favour of my cavalry gladius. I hacked and battered my way through to my brother in arms and found him. I even picked up a falcata on the way, though I cannot remember how. When I reached him, he was frantically fending off half a dozen swords and spears from his father, who sported a bloody splinter in his leg.
Surprised more than anything else by our attack, the Numidian cavalry quickly withdrew shortly after our arrival, and so too did the other Africans, though to this day, I thank the gods that they chose not to stay and finish what they started. We Romans made good a hasty retreat as well. Only our legion and allied Latin cavalry remained, and even then only about two thirds of them at that. The velites had long since fled the field. However, despite the loss, especially of more than half our horses for one reason or another, my purpose was fulfilled. Publius was still alive, as was his father. Whether he would remain that way was yet to be seen. On the ride back to the camp, he floated between lucidity and unconsciousness. When we arrived, Publius helped the physicians carry his father from his horse to his tent. But no-one was allowed in as they treated his wounds.
The sun was two hours set when they finally allowed his son and me to enter. The consul was propped up on an impromptu couth, with one of the physicians prodding at his injured leg, which was wrapped thickly in bandages that covered his entire thigh. However, what troubled me was the bandage that was around his torso, stained red at his side. As we approached, I heard the flap of the fabric, signalling the entrance of the tribunes and praetors. When he saw us, he pushed himself up to a reclining position and tried to slap the physician away. He quickly shooed the others from him as well, despite their quiet protests.
“You... acquitted yourself admirably, today, son,” he said slowly, voice still strong despite his infirm state, “Even through my errors of judgement.”
He glared at Atilius, who bowed his head.
“Forgive me, consul,” the praetor started, “Had I seen...?”
“But you did not. What has passed has passed... learn from it, Atilius,” he snapped, and managed to prevent himself from coughing as he turned to address his son again, “You showed much intelligence to help protect our flanks as you did, for what it was worth, as well as bravery to come to my aid when all was almost lost, and skill to fight so great a number of enemies. When we return to Rome, I will petition for a civic crown to be awarded to you for your courage.” – a ripple of chatter went around the tent – “Silence! I challenge any man here to...”
“Father,” Publius interrupted, “I thank the gods that you are alive still after such a struggle, but I believe that, for all my motivations and actions, such a reward of the preservation of your life is sufficient for me, for that is all I strived to achieve this day.”
The consul blinked and looked at his son. He smiled for several moments.
“You will become a fine soldier of Rome, son, finer than your father, I hope.” – he narrowed his eyes a faint chuckle went around – “Though, I do believe that you would merely sell the crown to finance your library!”
And now a laugh went up and I clapped a hand on his shoulder. However, Publius pater started to look decidedly pale, and the physicians had already started to shepherd the officers out.
“Now, get out to leave this aging man to recover. I’ve just had a piece of bronze tipped wood removed from my leg and I fear the wine is about to wear off.”
And as if to stress that point, while the tribunes and praetors left, Publius and I saw his eyes drop shut, his body sagging from the sheer effort it took to keep himself looking strong. The young Scipio gestured the physician over.
“Prognosis?”
“It is just as well that his body is strong. The stab wound would have killed any lesser man given time. As for his leg, he will walk, certainly, but we must keep him in our care for at least three months, or he may severely aggravate one or even both of his injuries. I’m afraid that is the best I can tell you at present.”
“As I said, that he is alive is enough for me. I will take heart from his impending recovery, thank you.”
Publius nodded to the physician and he was about his business. My friend sighed with relief and dropped himself in a chair close by. I poured him a cup of watered wine, which he took and drank it quickly, wiping his still bloodstained face with a sweaty hand. Aware of our current appearances, I dipped a cloth in one of the cleaner basins of water and gave it to him, and he accepted it with a sad smile.
“What goes through your mind, brother?” I asked.
“Uncle Gnaeus is already in Spain, and Father is in no fit state to lead. And with this loss, our fickle colonies will be easily swayed to Hannibal’s cause.”
“Do you think they will?”
“After Saguntum, an obvious display of Roman fallibility and the barbarian sense of freedom and individuality: of course. If he plays it correctly, he will come as the mighty liberator, freeing them from Roman heels.”
“Do you not trust Longus?”
“Ah, that’s not for me to say, but, no, I do not trust our second Consul. So, Gaius, what do you know about this Tiberius Sempronius Longus.”
I paused before replying, “Young for a consul, and quite a headstrong character if I remember his oration. And he’s been spending the last four months preparing to invade Africa.”
“And that is exactly why he cannot lead us to victory.”
“And your father can?”
“Ah, now that would be arrogance if I said yes, but he has a better chance, definitely.”
How right he would be, since we all know what happened at Trebbia.
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