Looking good!

Anticipating awesome pwnage from a certain Publius Cornelius Scipio...

I like it. Not much else to say.

I'm lazy, Edorix, and will not type away unless begged to do so This was supposed to be purely "expeditionary" anyway...I fully welcome criticism and detailed feedback, so feel free to give me a piece of your mind.

I


Gaius Stolo, legionary of the Fourth Legion of Rome, was staring through the smoke at the distant hills, where he knew the enemy was camped. His unit, a century of sixty men, was dispersed all over the small patch of grassland that was given to them, to rest, to sleep, to make ready for the great battle that the general had said to be inevitable.

They had fought nonstop during the last few months, from one shore to another, all the way through the once lovely landscape of Spain. The Carthaginians had outnumbered them by three and a half times to one when Stolo and the army first landed at Emporion, and on this special day, three years or so after their landing, the army of Rome would confront Hasdrubal Gisgo - Supreme Commander of Carthage’s forces in Spain - in battle one last time. After that? Kick the bastards all the way back to Carthage, of course, the ancestral shit-hole they came from, Stolo thought.

Though nothing much was happening now. In truth nothing had happened in the last few days at all, nothing except waking up and getting ready - full armour, weapons and scutum - at dawn, to line up with the whole army, and stare at the enemy a mile away for a whole day, before marching back to camp at sundown. Nothing had changed in the last three days, and the routine was only carried out if the Carthaginians marched out first. It put the entire army in a passive stance, Stolo thought, rushing out to face the enemy after they were already waiting on the other side of the plain.

The opposing armies were camped on two plateaus on either end of the plain, not far north of the small town of Ilipa, which sat upon the River Baetis. It was a town bordering the lands of the Betisians and the Oretani. The Oretani were an ally of Rome, and so were the Carpetani. In fact, most of the tribes north of the River Baetis were now allies of Rome, and interestingly enough, two years ago all these friends of Rome had still been friends of Carthage, but General Public Scipio landed in Spain at the head of thirty-thousand men and after one brilliant campaign, took all its friends away.

Stolo looked down at his gladius, and swept a finger down the blade, feeling the places where the steel was dented, scratched or perhaps rusting. She rarely had even a tiny rust, which was testimony to its master’s lavish care; after all, the blade was his most important tool on the battlefield. He saw a particularly serious dent in the blade, almost as big as a fingernail, yes… It came from that fight near Baecula - or whatever the name was - an uphill business for the whole army, and they were peppered by javelins, rocks and arrows all the way. At the end of it they had killed all the javelineers, slingers and archers, along with a lot more unlucky men. Stolo had hacked at a man in a good helmet, his blade ringing off the steel, then going clean through the man’s gullet. Later the helmet was sold for fifty denarii, enough for plenty of wine and a woman or two, which certainly felt good.

Stolo heard someone barking out orders some distance away, then saw and heard cavalrymen cantering through the tents, out of the camp and disappearing into the trees. The lightly equipped velites jogged into the woods too, wolf-heads covering their heads and shoulders. What just happened did not do so in the last three days, so today was special.

‘Get up.’ a voice ordered. ‘Formation.’ called Centurion Marcus Petronius. Stolo rose as fast as he could, and joined his comrades who were forming a square. ‘Ten ranks deep, six a rank.’ the centurion reminded his unit, as if they needed reminding. After thousands of drills, forming a column was a process of mere seconds. Practice made perfect.

Stolo stood in the third rank, close to the middle, next to him was a man whose name he recalled as Rubius. Stolo did not know the man very well - they rarely spoke to each other - but fighting together in a sixty-men unit for three long and difficult years made sure that he knew every name in the Second Century. He saw Rubius staring ahead, at nothing in particular, which was the correct way to use one’s eyes when standing at attention - fix them at whatever that was at eye level, and shut up.

So Stolo stared ahead. ‘What’s going on?’ he failed to resist and breathed out. ‘A battle.’ Rubius mumbled back, ‘The centurion said so, yesterday night. Were you sleeping?’

‘Yes, and missed my breakfast too just then.’ Stolo scowled.

‘Congratulations. I hope I’ll see you again tonight.’

‘Cut the chatter over there,’ barked Centurion Petronius, ‘this ain’t chatting time. Whoever even as utters a single word again gets no share of the plunder tonight, and if we get taken as prisoners then I’ll offer up the most chatty guy here for them to play with, and I heard that Carthaginians love human sacrifices, so if anyone feel like being shoved into a bottomless pit...’ he looked at his men’s faces, in a way not unlike a wolf would look at cornered sheep - wolfishly.

‘You all have food in your stomachs? All awake and ready?… Stolo!’ he pointed at Stolo, ‘You lazy arse! Had breakfast yet?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Stolo replied without hesitation.

‘Then you should have no problem fighting those frogs over there.’ he gestured at the woods behind him, which was the only thing blocking their view of the Carthaginian army, led by Hasdrubal Gisgo, Supreme Commander of Carthage’s army in Spain, the army of frogs, as Centurion Petronius liked to call them.

A single horseman rode through the avenues between the assembled units of legionaries, calling for the advance through the woods. No bucina would be blown, for this attack was meant to surprise. Petronius waved them forward, ‘Alright, forward now, men, let’s go to our bloody business.’

Forty-five thousand soldiers marched through the trees, to the Carthaginians, to battle, to kill all the frogs.

To war.

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 11-26-2010 @ 08:20 PM).]

"Beg" you? KickAss, I will pay you to see this through!*

the correct way to use one’s eyes when standing at attention - fix them at whatever that was at eye level, and shut up.

My favourite line.

Genius, KickAss, simply genius. I can see you have a flare for narrative, and I love your humour. Feel sufficiently begged?

*Terms and conditions apply. Details of offer here.

*Takes a deep, flamboyant bow* Well thank you Edorix that was very flattering indeed.

Thing is I'm in Form 7 right now - Advanced Level exams. Will try my best to write more...

Exams in September?

Please...

I didn't see that, I didn't see that... Oh alright, working on more, but don't expect anything any time soon

EDIT: Alright. Chapter 2 (part of), in honour of Edorix. Cheer up mate!

II


It was an hour later when they reached the edge of the plain. Stolo marched in silence as the Second Century moved into position next to the First. Together they formed the First Hastati Maniple of the Fourth Legion, the maniple tasked with holding the right flank of the entire legion. With a start he realized that something was very different today - where were the Spaniards on their right, and what was the Fourth Legion doing on the extreme right flank, instead of the middle?

‘Change of tactics,’ Rubius put in quietly, ‘we are to be the tip of the pincer today.’

Stolo did not know what that meant, but decided against questioning further lest he drew the attention of Petronius again.

‘And...halt!’, at which the Second Century halted after two finishing paces. Centurion Petronius turned his unit right to face the enemy army, and with his orders completed, went to stand next to the leftmost man in the first rank. ‘At ease!’, he called when he finished inspecting his unit, and men began to relax, some shrugged and kicked their feet, silently enjoying the small break while they could.

Stolo now stood in the second rank, close to the right, behind Rubius. He could feel the ground shaking; forty-five thousand men were thumping their sandals, boots or in some cases, bare feet, into the earth, after all. He looked about - around him were other comrades - some he knew from almost the start, others were more recent reinforcements from Italy - all looked more alert and ready than he did. Anger began to well up inside him: a three-year hastatus veteranus ought to be better than this. He shook his head and flexed his muscles, working himself into a battle-calm - for this was how he preferred to fight - efficient and organized. He had fought men who relied on sheer anger to carry themselves through the chaos of battle - howling Spaniards who screamed their battlecries as they threw themselves onto him, to be knocked off-balance by his scutum, and to have their throats sliced open by his gladius - often in that order. Stolo understood the importance of a man’s inner calm in battle. Training, equipment, weapons and armour were merely a soldier’s tools. To survive he must keep his wits about him and make full use of the tools and opportunites at his disposal, including the foolishness of his foes.

The ground shook even more as behind them, the First Principes Maniple moved into position, which Stolo knew to mean that the first line of hastati was all set. Ahead of them, about a half-mile away, were the skirmishing cavalry and light infantry from both armies. The sounds of skirmishing traveled faintly back, carried by the morning winds. With a quiver his thoughts went to dwell on the dangers in the fighting he himself would soon be committed in. A battle was never an easy thing to face, especially with an empty stomach. He looked around at his comrades, making guesses at random on who would still live the day’s end, as he liked to do before every action, large and small. It helped put his mind off the actual approaching battle. Some of the fresh reinforcements from Italy would likely perish by the day’s end. Next to him stood Kaeso, the legion’s dueling-ring champion, who would probably slaughter every Iberian levy he came across - it was hard to imagine even a seasoned warrior keep up with Kaeso’s sequence of feints and tricks. Rubius before him was supposedly in for a hard time, for he was in the first rank - first ones into a fight, and easily the most vulnerable targets to counter-charges and the like.

Stolo himself would not, however, be much better off in the second rank: he would have less than a glimpse of incoming missiles, for his span of vision was partly obstructed by Rubius and his jiggling red plume. Stolo once stood in the first rank himself at Baecula - where they were greeted by storms of arrows and missiles - and he still recalled vividly how he had spotted an airborne javelin hurled from above, and instinctively ducked under his scutum, to hear an abrupt expletive behind as the javelin landed on another scutum. Stolo should have stopped the spear on his own scutum, rather than let it fly on unchecked into those behind who had no prior warning at all. Stolo had been a coward that moment, and his cowardice had almost costed a fellow legionary’s life. Fate saved the man, and Stolo’s conscience.

‘You look thoughtful.’ Kaeso muttered next to him.

Stolo did not reply. Discipline demanded as much. Optio Lucius some ranks behind would have butted them with his staff had Stolo continued the exchange. Three years of standing in formation taught him the value and sensibility of silence, even if it had not taught Kaeso the same. Three years of endless campaigning and training and fighting for his life had led Stolo to where he stood that day, amid forty-five thousand men on the plains within a few miles from the small Betisian town of Ilipa. At least the hardest fights were supposedly past him now, the fights like Carthago Nova or Baecula. Even now, more than two years later, he remembered the fear in his heart as he readied to join the assault on the formidable walls of New Carthage, or when he prepared to walk into a hail of steely and pointy death at Baecula. The fear of a grisly death, fear of plunging down from the high walls, fear of receiving an arrow or a sling-stone in the eye, fear of dying in a strange and foreign land, fear of leaving his family heirless and unsupported - it was all those countless troubled thoughts that threatened to almost make him shit himself. Yet somehow he managed to withhold the overpowering tide, and went on to meet the enemy head-on, and survived. This day he would conquer his fear, as he had done every time in the last three years. He would see it die away into nothingness, to be replaced by a cold, hard sense of purpose and efficiency. The sense of the battle-calm.

The Fourth was almost in position, judging from the abating sounds of marching sandals. The sun rose higher - mid-morning was near. Stolo watched a fly land on Rubius’ left shoulder, clambering here and there on the red cloth, rubbing its insectile arms as it sized up the moistened surface, then lifting off after deciding it was a meager spot for forage. Such was his idleness Stolo was reduced to observing petty insects - no orders were forthcoming and he had no answer to that but to wait. Today was special, yet all that had transpired so far were the early departures of the light infantry and cavalry, and the early army deployment. Perhaps he was wrong, and perhaps both sides would spend the rest of the day staring at each other again.

Over the dust clouds thrown up by the whirling cavalry clashes and constant regroupments and the flying volleys of missiles, a mile or so away, Stolo vaguely discerned thousands of gleaming helmets and spear-points as the Punic army at last made its way down the hill out of its camp. Finally, he thought to himself. His legs felt stiff from standing still for so long, so he kicked and flexed them, readying for the order to march.

None was forthcoming. The initial fear he had felt now began to turn into boredom and lethargy, the same feelings as in the previous three days. How long had it been since he had stood there? Two hours? Even the hails of rocks and javelins of Baecula now seemed enticing compared to this endless waiting, of which he was not certain how much longer he could endure.

Quit griping, Gaius Stolo, and start acting like a real hastatus veteranus.

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 11-22-2010 @ 09:33 AM).]

Chapter 2 (part of), in honour of Edorix. Cheer up mate!

I am honoured, and more than cheered up. I shall pretend that I would never have forgiven for you for not voting for me in the Sepia Joust without this...

Short, but again beautifully and wittily written, and reassuring to know this potential masterpiece is going on.

You write well, and the viewpoint of the common soldier is often overlooked in favor of the viewpoint of an officer- who would know more about the coming battle than the common soldier. But it is the common soldier who bears the brunt of the fighting- his thoughts and motivations are crucial to whether he stands and fights, or runs away, or dies. So congratulations on taking this viewpoint!

The tale itself is well-written (as stated above) and enthralling. Maybe a part of that is in its brevity- only a few paragraphs at a shot- let's read it all now. A larger part is definitely the interesting way you tell the tale.

Keep it up.

Wow thank you both for the compliments!

Believe me, if I could I would rather sit down and do nothing else until I've finished the whole story, but RL's been very busy lately. I shall continue to strive for excellence and speed in my writing. and Thanks again!

the viewpoint of the common soldier is often overlooked in favor of the viewpoint of an officer- ...... So congratulations on taking this viewpoint!

True. I get tired of reading about generals/ politicians/ captains/ commanding officers' stories, so I figured a story told by a common (but talented) soldier, overshadowed by a crazy centurion above him, seemed like a good basis for a great tale. Promoting the soldier after his first battle also seem like an essential ritual for most writers these days...

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 10-04-2010 @ 08:09 AM).]

Well the Roman leaders weren't exactly known for their mental stability...
Amazing write so far General

Thanks for reading, Nickel, and glad you like it.

Next update around this Saturday folks!

As promised, everyone. Since the response's been pretty positive so far I've decided to write this tale properly, as deserved by a battle of this epicness.

I'm telling it from two or perhaps three perspectives rather than only Stolo. Terikel, you will find that I've also extended the chapter's length a bit (because I had more time today) and hopefully you'll like it.

I hereby present to you, signore e signori, Chapter Three!

If you're reading this Punic, I would recommend you read on. After all, this tale concerns your people's asses being kicked by Scipio Africanus.

III


Dawn. Gantho, proud warrior of the Lusitani, hefted his javelin as he sat waiting on his stallion. The animal was shy, so he patted his muscular neck to soothe him. Fear was universal, it seemed, but now was the time to conquer it, or die screaming for one’s mother. A great battle was at hand: he could feel it in the air. Today, something different from the last three days would happen. He had roused his men from their usual drowsiness and readied them for battle just before dawn, because he had felt a prickling on the back of his ears - usually a sign that danger was not as far away as he would like.

He took his customary place in the front rank of his warband of one hundred Lusitanian horsemen, all of whom had left their homes four years ago to fight at the behest of messengers from New Carthage, the great fortress built upon the Mediterranean shore by Hannibal, who had left twelve years ago for Italy. Out of the original two hundred or so clansmen, only half remained. The survivors grew into formidable veterans hardened by a hundred fights, enriched with all the plunder they had won with blood and sweat, most of which spent on cheap wine, games of dice and pleasurable camp followers, of course.

Though the last few months of action had not been all that rewarding. The Romans were gaining ground every day, pushing deeper and deeper into Iberia with every victory they secured. Gantho was present at Baecula, fighting dismounted against the Roman legionaries trying to climb up the hill and overrun their fortified position. He had helped keep the barrage of missiles and rocks raining down on the attackers, but in the end their efforts proved inadequate. He was falling back with the throng when he saw Ortzi, his captain and friend since childhood, being hacked down by a legionary, whose sword kept ringing off Ortzi’s well-made helmet, but soon found an exposed gullet to pierce. There were too many damn Romans over the earthern walls and he could not even go back to retrieve his oldest friend’s body for a proper burial. Gantho swore an oath to Esus that night, never to rest until he and his countrymen had driven every Roman from their homeland, and avenged Ortzi.

After Baecula he was promoted by his fellow comrades to assume command, which was not surprising seeing that he had been second-in-command from almost the beginning. Naturally there were one or two challengers, both of whom he had silenced by overpowering them in single combat. Being a war chief is a rare opportunity, one that he would do well to exploit. If all went well, in a few years he could return home at the head of his men, as a victorious hero of the Lusitani, rich and powerful enough to draw other warriors to his side and challenge Lucco, that blustering moron who called himself their king and hoarded gold extorted from the people in his grand hall, instead of using it to buy men, horses and weapons and lead the Lusitani to prominence amongst the tribes.

Gantho planned to do just that, but first he must survive the oncoming battle and ensure a Carthaginian victory today, for he believed that it was Carthage who deserved their allegience. While they might be using Gantho’s services for their own gain, they at least left him and his men alone off the battlefield - unlike the Romans who tried to turn every Iberian under them into Romans as well.

His warband of one hundred horsemen was positioned about a mile out from the main camp as one of the many pickets set up by Hasdrubal Gisgo. Their task was to alert the main camp should any surprise attack take place during the night. Gantho looked around the plain. He could see other similar pickets of men stationed around them at roughly two-hundred-pace intervals, so that all of them formed a rough crescent which shielded the main camp. Some were skirmishers on foot equipped with slings, bows and spears while others were mounted like Gantho’s band. Most of the cavalry squadrons were undermanned, he observed, an unfortunate result of their failed attack four days ago on the Roman camp. Mago Barca, commander of the army’s cavalry, had in his brilliance considered it a good idea to attack the Romans swiftly with cavalry as they set up camp, a move not unanticipated by the Roman commander, who hid his own horsemen behind a hill as we attacked. Mago led his forces straight into the trap. The surprise was complete. Sheer good fortune allowed Gantho to have pre-positioned his men on the right flank, thus avoiding the downhill Roman charge from the left, or he would likely have had a lot of good men’s deaths on his conscience, something Mago was certainly suffering from at the moment.

It was past dawn now, yet the sky was still dull. The prickling behind his ears grew more acute. He turned his gaze southwards to the direction of the Roman camp, willing the attack he was preparing his men for to materialize. Then came the sound of hooves, which grew louder as something drew closer, but instead of a whole squadron of enemy horsemen, a lone rider cantered out of the mist. It was one of his own men, one of the younger ones called Audax, a scout he had sent out across the plain during the last hour. Gantho waited with his men in silence as the scout rode up to them.

‘They’re all quiet, chief.’ Audax was panting slightly as he dismounted before Gantho. ‘Nothing happening at all over there. It’s quiet - almost too quiet, even for Romans.’

‘Haven’t seen Roman scouts now, have you?’ Gantho questioned, ‘I’d hate letting them know we are alert already at this time of the day.’

‘No, chief. I am sure of it. No other scouts of our own out there, though.’

‘To be expected. Well done. Now go get some food in your stomach and some rest.’ with that he dismissed the man and brooded on his report. The Romans were planning something, something surprising, like that fearsome downhill charge days ago. Gantho, however, did not want to look too fretful in front of his men. ‘At ease, all. We move back to camp in an hour.’ at which most of his men started swinging off their horses and fell onto the ground.

That moment, all hell broke loose.

A volley of arrows and rocks fell upon them, followed by another volley of pila, one of which whipped past Gantho’s left ear and thudded harmlessly into his shield on the ground. Men were screaming and writhing in agony as some of the less lucky ones received missiles to the thigh or torso. Others were scrambling for their weapons and trying to mount their steeds, who were in turn panicking under the sudden chaos that was escalating all around them. Gantho had only a few moments to restore order before certain death befell them all. He did the only thing he could.

‘Mount up! We’re falling back!’ To his utter pride, his men reacted as true professionals would, each still standing picked up their shield, falcata, spears and javelins, and swung back on their mounts. He tried and failed to lift his shield with the pilum stuck on it. There was no time to carry off the wounded, for the Romans - now he could see they were mostly light infantry - were loosing another volley of pila that landed at a vertical angle, finishing off most of those still dismounted. He could see Audax the scout howling in the mud, with hands clutching his stomach that was threatening to spill his intestines out. Gantho spit in his way. He had no time for blundering fools.

‘On me, to the high ground.’ He needed to see the ground better. There were sounds of fighting everywhere: metal clashing against metal, swords ringing off each other, the dull thuds of iron shield bosses on wood and the sound of cold steel entering exposed flesh, then yanked back out. ‘Ditalcus!’ he shouted for his second-in-command, who - thank the gods - had indeed survived.

‘Chief?’

‘I want a head count, fast!’

‘Seventy-three men still standing, lord.’ the answer was almost instantaneous: Dital knew what he wanted before he himself even knew it.

‘Gods.’ he would have to spend more time recruiting men to his cause against Lucco. ‘Everyone ready for a fight?’ His men roared their agreement, eager for Roman blood.

‘Then a fight we shall have.’ the velites were near the foot of the hill now, trying to close in and finish off the wounded left behind by Gantho’s men: big mistake.

‘On me. Let’s kill these bastards.’ Gantho bellowed in his battle voice, and galloped down the hill. He could hear the ground rumbling under their horses’ hooves, and feel the morning breeze in his unbound hair. Exhilaration filled his heart - he was doing what he loved again, all the waiting, organizing and scouting were important no more. The best part had come and he was more than ready for it. He saw the velites starting to back away, realizing at last that they had overextended themselves. Too late, he thought, as he launched his first javelin at a lion-headed man. Seventy-two vengeful javelins followed the first to bury their heads into the loving embrace of their targets’ flesh, tearing through sinew and tissue and raising agonized screams. Gantho had launched his second javelin by the time the first one had hit its target straight through an eye, then drew his falcata for the up-close work. Now the bastards shall feel some genuine Lusitanian wrath. ‘For our brothers, men!’ and the Spaniards gave a great and incoherent battlecry as they levelled spears and pulled falcatas out and scythed them through the air.

‘No mercy!’ Gantho thundered as he sliced his falcata into a wolf’s head, spraying blood in the red dawn.

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 10-10-2010 @ 11:26 AM).]

I love your style, KickAss. The settings and characters leap off the screen despite minimum description.

Perhaps you would be interested in the Guild of the Skalds...

A very interesting offer... I am deeply honoured, Edorix. Sign me up! (when I've finished this one, of course - the basic req. for the apprentice does say completed 1 or 2 tales.)

EDIT: Seriously, I'm that good?

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 10-09-2010 @ 11:29 PM).]

Congrats General. Now I have to get in on the guild...
Amazing story so far. I personally can not wait until the final confrentation. Keep it up.

I certainly think you meet the quality requirements, although I don't technically have the right to offer you a place. It's Terikel's thing, he's the Grand Master Skald/admin guy. I'm pretty sure he will agree with me, so... we'll see. I'll point him over here if he doesn't notice it.

See post 9 in this thread.

I've noticed. Even commented.

The quality of writing meets the criteria. Now we have to see if plot, length, and completeness meet them as well.

So far I am content to read this and see how it is going, while reserving judgment. At the end of the tale, it is up to the writer to decide if they wish to apply to the Guild.

[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 10-10-2010 @ 05:27 AM).]

It's actually pretty good. I was going to do a story on the Punic Wars but other war story commitments got me sidetracked.

But you write really well. The narrative is flowing and you set the stall out. You should apply for the Guild Of The Skalds.

EDIT- Wait, did I apply to be in the Guild?

[This message has been edited by Legion Of Hell (edited 10-10-2010 @ 06:33 AM).]

Now we have to see if plot, length, and completeness meet them as well.

You'll see (freaking out underneath)

Thank you, LoH. Don't worry, I'll try to save some of it for you, e.g. Siege of New Carthage? That's epic.

EDIT: I've decided to make this a weekly feature. Expect a new chapter every Saturday at 10 a.m. East Coast time - 10 p.m. here - folks.

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 10-10-2010 @ 09:58 PM).]

If you're reading this Punic, I would recommend you read on. After all, this tale concerns your people's asses being kicked by Scipio Africanus.

As soon as my time machine is built he won't be a problem anymore... And Rome won't be either. Its walls shall fall before the might of modern devices

Punic, surely you know the dangers of meddling with the past... what is might never be...

A world ruled by Carthage perhaps?
Either way, depending on how you look at it, the fact we're like we are means my plans don't happen.


One a few days till an update

It depends; the past, and our memories, could be changing every instant without our ever knowing. Perhaps in a minute there will never have been a Rome to fall...

Ahem yes. This spam will continue until you relieve our nervousness with another update KickAss.

I'm so very sorry about making you guys wait a full extra hour and I'm punishing myself by not sleeping til 11pm to finish this. Regardless, here it is, Chapter Four. Enjoy!

IV


It took two hours for all of them to get into position, but Stolo reckoned they still have a morale advantage in initiating the challenge today, unlike the previous three days where it was the Carthaginians who marched out first. Across the plain he could see dust clouds being thrown up by thousands of marching feet. He considered Rubius’ words, but could not quite work out their meaning. To Hades with that, he thought. He was a soldier, and his job was to fight. Leave the thinking to the commanders behind.

Bucinas sounded the advance and brought him out of his musing. He raised his scutum and held it to the left at chest-level, both pila strapped onto his back, and started forward with a slight lurch. Even after three long years of hard campaigning and over a dozen major actions, his human legs still become rather stiff after hours of standing under the merciless stare of the sun, with full armor and gear on, though a dozen or so paces would usually return the feeling to them.

They were nearing the mid-plain skirmishes now, as the sounds of fighting became clearer and more intense. Ahead of them, Stolo could make out velites darting forward to launch their pila, after which they swiftly withdrew beyond enemy javelin range, gathered their courage, then went in to repeat the process. A few turmae of cavalrymen on the right were returning from the fray to regroup before going in for another charge. Stolo marched with his head up and fixed, but his gaze was sweeping left and right to see the fighting better. He surveyed the unfolding carnage with professional interest.

On the right flank, groups of Numidian horsemen were going about their business with speed and skill, sending volley after volley of javelins into their Roman counterparts, who could neither match their accuracy with a spear nor their effortless grace on horseback. Many cavalry squadrons had to withdraw frequently and reform behind the cover of the approaching legions to catch their breath. Closer to the middle, where light infantrymen skirmished, the velites fared better against Spanish levies, who lacked the training and equipment to keep up an effective barrage going. Many Spaniards grew tired of the process and tried getting in close for hand-to-hand combat, but their lack of cohesion meant that each of their assaults only ended in more pila-ridden bodies on the ground. Stolo wondered where the formidable slingers from Balearis were, for their presence would have made the velites’ jobs much harder. The skirmish went on, regardless, with the advantage going to neither side, at least where Stolo could see on the right flank.

The First Hastati Maniple was a mere fifty paces from the fighting now, as were the rest of the line. Stolo heard a few short blasts of bucinas, recalling the skirmishing horsemen and velites, who withdrew through the gaps between the maniples. The Carthaginian skirmishers were now faced with a solid wall of scuta, behind which hastati began raising their first pilum over their shoulders, waiting for the command to let fly. Naturally the enemy started to fall back rather than face the pila storm, raising jeers and taunts with their hasty departure. The jeering was shortlived, however, as furious optios went through the ranks brandishing their hastilis and restored discipline back to their centuries.

With the enemy line of cavalry and light infantry gone now, and the dust clouds beginning to settle, Stolo could see much further ahead, and swore before he could stop himself.

‘Quiet down, Stolo, this your first battle or what?’ Centurion Petronius glared at him, ‘Now start acting like a veteran and keep your thoughts to your frigging self.’

Though he appeared outwardly calm, Petronius too was uneasy. It was not because of the materialization of the entire battleline of seventy thousand men before him - he had done nothing but stare at them from midday to dusk for the last three days, and even from this distance they looked none the more impressive than they did before. He was quite certain that Stolo did not swear at the sight of them either, but instead at the sight of the gigantic grey beasts being brought forth on the enemy flank. He had heard tales of those monsters back in Italy, years ago when Hannibal first brought his army over the Alps with elephants, but he was not expecting to see them in Spain. Something else appeared to him: his century was almost the rightmost unit in the first line, and if the Punic mahouts received the order to charge, the terrible great beasts would practically come smashing straight through them before anyone else. He could hear men begin to mutter and understood the need to restore their confidence quickly and firmly.

‘Shut up. These things are easier to kill than some of you might think.’

‘And how in Hades are we going to do that, sir?’ asked one of the younger men recently arrived from Italy. Apparently the man was from some sort of equestrian order and thought himself a wise-ass for that. Why he did not serve with the equites instead was a mystery to all.

‘Pila, lots of pila.’ Petronius replied, with not a little irritation. ‘Be prepared to spend one or maybe both of your spears on these. They may look indestructible, but like everything Carthage has thrown at us so far, they only look so.’

Everyone quieted down after that. Some, including Stolo, decided to hold their two pila in their left hand, instead of keeping them strapped on their backs. Insurance was never a bad idea, even with both sides still a half-mile apart.

They were no longer marching forward now. No bucinas were sounded to resume the advance after the Punic skirmishers withdrew, and Stolo once again began to stare at the enemy lines five hundred paces away. There they were again, he thought, seventy thousand whoresons, Spaniards and Africans alike, waving their spears and swords around, yelling their insults and taunts, which carried across better now due to the shortened distance. All that was different today, was that he was staring at them from a different angle, a different position in the battleline…That was it! A sudden realization came to him and he almost let out another expletive. The plan was suddenly so very crystal clear.

Horsemen went forward to fill in the lull and engaged their African and Spanish counterparts in a whirling melee without clear advantage to either side, sometimes withdrawing behind infantry lines to regroup before another charge. Eventually all retired back through the maniple gaps to form up on both flanks. Stolo heard the bucinas sound the advance again, only this time it was a far more complex signal.

‘Second Century, turn right to form marching column!’ Petronius barked. At that moment a cheer suddenly went up and grew louder and nearer as a score of cavalrymen rode up between the first and second line. At their head was a young man clad in full chainmail and wargear, with an unhelmeted face that spoke of both resolution and innocence at the same time, which was misleading to many because underneath that face was the wisdom and cunning that outsmarted every Punic commander from the Ebro to the Guadalquivir during the last three years. General Publius Cornelius Scipio, it seemed, was personally taking command of the Fourth Legion. He led his retinue to the head of the three newly-formed columns, and turned his stallion around to face the entire legion.

‘Proud citizens of Rome! Today we fight to add another victory to the glory of the Republic. What I am about to attempt on them here is harder than perhaps all the maneuvers you have executed so far. To ensure a Roman victory today, I need every single one of you to listen very closely to every order your superiors give you. Do this right, and victory shall be within our grasp. There will be no one else left in Spain to fight after we destroy the bastards over there, so fight hard and we shall finally all go home. Now let’s give these amateurs a taste of Roman steel!’

Stolo roared his approval with everyone else, caught up in the exhilaration brought about by the trained oratory designed to inspire less-educated men’s hearts.

‘You heard the general, now forward!’ Petronius bellowed above the cheering. Bucinas sounded once again, and Scipio rode off ahead of the principes column, with ten thousand men behind him.

The battle had begun.

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 10-16-2010 @ 11:07 AM).]