Anyway, here's Gaius getting a little peeved...
Kirtha
As Masinissa and his Numidian lancers charged into the fray, soon to be joined by his militia cavalry squadrons, I watched with no small amount of anxiety as Syphax’s infantry started to move into positions. I growled to myself, waiting and hoping the albeit legitimate pretender would have the wit to extricate himself and his outnumbered companions from the field.
“We cannot wait any long, Gaius,” Blasio appealed as I grew agitated, my knee twitching to match my increasing frustrations.
“I can’t make any manoeuvres when horses are littering the middle of my battlefield!” I suddenly shouted, much to Gnaeus’ surprise, “Assemble three-line chequer, triarii to the flanks and the cavalry on me!” I roared.
The trumpeters sounded the orders, flagbearers signalled down the line and the tribunes and priores moved their commands into position. Within minutes our preparations were complete, but my irritation and anger remained.
“And don’t bother with skirmishers!” I barked at Brutus, who had given the initial order for our velites to advance, “Get them to the rear where they’ll be less of a nuisance!”
Without waiting for anyone to retort, I kicked my horse to a canter and lead the six hundred equites present off to the left while the two legions stood at the ready. Not pausing for a rest, I waved for the advance and the ten thousand legionaries tramped forwards. Looking to the enemy, I could not see the same discipline in the African ‘maniples’. Even from this distance of almost twelve hundred paces, I discerned the bedraggled line of their shield front. Their steps showed no uniformity and the officers struggled to keep their charges in good order. A few minutes later and we were within a hundred yards of the struggling thousands of horsemen, and no few carcasses of man and beast lay at their feet. Shouts went up along the Roman line and the maniples all stopped with a single almost deafening stamp. Blasio rode along the line signalling to well-placed tribunes and ten maniples of hastati from the centre of our formation surged forwards into the fight. Not waiting for any outcome to make itself clear, the principes behind them stepped forward to fill the gap and the line recommenced its advance, drawing itself closer to the enemy infantry. At thirty yards, they stopped yet again, and the true discipline of the Romans showed. The front rank hefted their heavy pila and cast them at the enemy foot soldiers opposite, before kneeling as the second, third and fourth ranks did likewise. Shrill whistles resounded and the centuries of the first line quickly exchanged places, only for hundreds and thousands more darts to find their mark if not on enemy shields, then in enemy bodies. And with an almighty shriek of metal, thousands of gladii were drawn, the hastati broke into a run and with a unified roar, charged into the enemy. Those lucky enough not to be confronted by the shields of the hastati could hardly move as the principes cast their javelins as well, into the gaps left by their younger comrades, before they too charged. For almost an hour, I watched and marvelled at Roman discipline, that my fury with the Massylian was quelled.
“Our turn, gentlemen,” I announced and I lead my cavalry beyond the enemy line, before turning and breaking them.
“Hold!” I raised my hand to prevent the pursuit.
Syphax’s cavalry fled the field and their fellows on foot threatened to do likewise. However, the king rode up and down his line, exhorting his men and they managed to form some semblance of a formation. But we were but a few hundred paces from them and the ominous march became too much for many. Here and there, Africans dropped their shields and fled, hoping to find sanctuary in Kirtha, and the others wavered to breaking point. Then, just as it seemed they would disintegrate, Syphax gathered what horsemen remained and charged headlong towards us. The king himself rode on ahead and was several lengths ahead of his guards who took too long to form the offensive wedge and lower their lances. Time enough for Blasio to consider. Accepting this ‘challenge’, he emerged from the maniples of hastati in the centre and gingerly held his shield, slowly edging towards the charging Masaesylian. Just as it seemed that the horse would barrel straight into him, he knelt and quickly surged to his feet, swung his shield out. The impact threw him back, but he succeeded in unhorsing the king, also. Recovering quickly, Blasio darted to his feet, as the maniples around him countercharged the approaching horsemen, seconds later they were dead, dying or making good their flight.
Suddenly weary, I looked at the first prior of the triarii, who was sitting on the ground, much as he was at the beginning of the battle.
“Get yourself some exercise,” I said shortly.
At that, he got to his feet as did the eighteen hundred spearmen present. In short order, they filtered through the first two lines of infantry, ignoring Blasio and Syphax’s duel, and charged the enemy infantry. Barely a couple minutes away and the king had no army to speak of except himself. Satisfied that the threat was ended, I looked to the ‘champions’ combat’. Gnaeus was standing with bloodied fists and his iron studded sandal on Syphax’s chest. He gestured to a pair of legionaries, who rushed forward and hauled the now former king to his feet. He tried wresting himself from their grip as they dragged him towards me. Dismounting, I waited. Sighing with a little exasperation, Blasio unhooked his sheathed gladius and struck Syphax behind his knees forcing him down whereupon the legionaries threw him at my feet. Beside me, I read murder in Masinissa’s expression and I knew that I needed to play the part of politician and diplomat all the more.
“Why do you throw him at my feet?” I asked.
The legionaries looked at each other, looked at Blasio, whose expression remained blank, and returned their gazes to me, almost apologetic.
“What will you do with him, Laelius?” the prince asked.
“I cannot do anything,” I replied.
“What?!” he shouted, suddenly enraged, “What mean you that you cannot do anything with him?!”
“He is your prisoner, Masinissa,” I said loudly enough to sound over his rage, but not so loud to be indignant.
The prince was silent for just a moment, so I took this opportunity to continue.
“Is this man before you your king? Is this man before you even a king at all? What favour does he enjoy with the gods when his face bleeds like a mortal’s, when his soldiers fight like children and escape to the desert dunes after seeing Roman steel, and when he can be brought to his knees by foreign hands. I see no Numidian king before me who is not standing.”
He quickly understood the inference of my words and calmed himself.
“However, you cannot kill him yet, not while he has supporters still in your capital.”
“Then there is where I will go.”
“When you go, be in no doubt who is king and who is not king.”
“Even though we both know that he cannot call upon any to sustain his reign?”
“No, there, I do not mean those with whom he holds alliance, for it is the people who will fear for the weakness of their kingdom and may not believe the rumours that are soon to spread. You must ride triumphantly into your capital with your prize for all to see. Equally Syphax must look humbled and humiliated, and you must look as a statesman and born to rule your nation.”
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