Malchus knelt before the small altar in his campaign tent, head bowed. In front of him, vapors from incense burners snaked around a golden idol of Rasap, the lord of war.
His meditations were interrupted as a soldier entered his tent.
"Sir, the enemy approaches,” was all the trooper said.
Immediately, Malchus rose and turned towards the open flap. Rasap would understand. It was time to fight.
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As he entered the city square, Malchus surveyed the area. To his left, a detachment of Gallic allies moved up alongside his troops. Damn, but they smelled, he thought, as the breeze brought their scent to him. Never mind, though, because they fought like the very wild beasts whose odor they carried.
He could see their leader, Teutomatus, he remembered, whipping his warriors into a killing frenzy.
Across the square, he made out the tips of pikes as the opposing force, they appeared to be Greeks, matched his own advance. His orders were to slow them down, allowing the rest of the Carthaginian force to escape the city as the Romans and their degenerate Greek allies took control.
Damn the Greeks, damn them to the lowest hell. This was their fault. If they had been able to control their Mamertine mercenaries, he and his men would be raiding in North Africa, taking slaves and plunder from the tribesmen there, instead of on this miserable island.
But that no longer mattered, all that mattered was the fighting.
He ordered his javelin men to rush forward on the left, in support of the Gallic tribesmen’s advance into the market proper. Meanwhile, his steady, solid spearmen formations moved ahead in the center.
Soon, the blood would flow…
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Malchus was confused by the Greeks' tactics.
On his left, in the face of the Gauls, the Greeks advanced headlong, attempting to control the central market area. The fighting there was fierce and deadly, with no quarter asked or given. Already the ranks of tribesmen were being seriously depleted. In fact, he had sent his javelin men to that flank in support of the barbarians.
On the right, the Greek leader seemed much more cautious, or maybe lacking in fortitude. The formed ranks of Greek hoplites matched that of Malchus' own troops, slow and steady. He would not commit them until he saw what the damned Greek was up to...
He left Bostar, his junior officer, in charge of the right. So far the younger man was doing well, or at least, he had not yet committed any major errors of command.
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Damn, these Greeks! On the left, they fought like wild animals. The situation had degenerated into a full brawl, with bodies piling up on both sides.
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Through the tumult and confusion of battle, Malchus could see that he had left it too late to commit his spearmen. On the left, his javelin men had been routed, as had most of the Gallic warriors. And on the right, the disciplined ranks of Greeks had taken apart his Libyans. For today, at least, it seemed their gods had prevailed.
He turned to his left as he heard a wild, ululating scream, like that of a wild animal about to devour its prey. His mouth wide open in a primal yell, one of the Gaul chieftains, the younger he thought, lost all sense of restraint and charged a squad of Greek javelin men. His fury led him to his death, and Malchus watched as he was cut down. By the gods, these barbarians knew how to die!
The day was lost, that was clear. But Malchus could not let the Gallic chief outshine him in his battle fervor. That would not do for an acolyte of Rasap. And if he were to die today, it would be surrounded by the bodies of his foes, not with his sword unblooded. The Greek javelin men would pay, or they would celebrate victory over two leaders.
Malchus' charge was as different from his Gallic counterpart's as the raging rapids are from an unstoppable tide. Where the Gaul attacked with fire, fury, and abandonment to the joy of battle, Malchus advanced coldly, calculatingly, considering each sword strike, parry, and counterstrike. The javelin men were skilled, but Malchus was more skilled. And the javelin men were tired from their exertions, while Malchus was fresh. They could not stop him, and he cut them down, like wheat before the scythe, one after another until the few remaining soldiers fled.
Malchus stood among the bodies, covered in blood, some of it his own, and surveyed the field. The outcome was evident, and he gave the order for the few remaining men to abandon the market area and make their way out of the city to regroup.
Yes, the taste of defeat was bitter on his tongue, but it was tinged with sweetness. He had tested himself in battle and had received Rasap's blessing. Though the day was lost, he lived. And by the bloody fury of Rasap, he would learn from this and make the Greeks pay the next time they met. Oh yes, they would pay...
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The above narrative comes from the opening games of the Clash of Spears Fall/Winter 2022/23 Campaign that we are running. It is a beta test of new campaign rules for Clash, that allow players to craft their own character's story while competing with others for glory and renown.
The kick-off event was a huge 2400-point 4v4 game pitting the Romans and their allies against the Carthaginians and their allies. For ease of play, the game was broken down into two 2v2 battles.
Bryan, Marcos, Simeon, and Brett showed up to defend the glory of Rome...
while I joined Noah, Cody, and Chris in a vain attempt to uphold Carthage's honor.
Great fun was had, dice were rolled, blood (figuratively) was shed, etc. In the end, the Roman side scored a resounding victory over the forces of Carthage.
No worries, though, as this will be a long campaign (5 or 6 months) and there will be plenty of time for revenge this winter. And as we all know, revenge is a dish best served cold...
'Til next time.
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