Ab urbe condita

Everything depended on prompt action; the consul showed equal courage and coolness; part of his troops reinforced the guards at the camp gates, the rest lined the entrenchments. As the Dictator's camp was not attacked, it was easier for him to see what had to be done. Supports were at once sent to the consul under Sp. Postumius Albus, lieutenant-general, and the Dictator in person with a portion of his force made for a place away from the actual fighting, from which to make an attack on the enemy's rear.

He left Q. Sulpicius, lieutenant-general, in charge of the camp, and gave the command of the cavalry to M. Fabius, lieutenant-general, with orders not to move their troops before daylight, as it was difficult to handle them in the confusion of a night attack.

Besides taking every measure which any other general of prudence and energy would have taken under the circumstances, the Dictator gave a striking instance of his courage and generalship, which deserves especial praise, for, on ascertaining that the enemy had left his camp with the greater part of his force, he sent M. Geganius with some picked cohorts to storm it.

The defenders were thinking more of the issue of their comrades' dangerous enterprise than of taking precautions for their own safety, even their outposts and picket-duty were neglected, and he stormed and captured the camp almost before the enemy realised that it was attacked.

When the Dictator saw the smoke —the agreed signal —he called out that the enemy's camp was taken, and ordered the news to be spread everywhere.

It was now growing light and everything lay open to view. Fabius had delivered his attack with the cavalry and the consul had made a sortie against the enemy, who were now wavering.

The Dictator from the other side had attacked the second line of reserves, and whilst the enemy faced about to meet the sudden charges and confused shouts, he had thrown his victorious horse and foot across their front.

They were now hemmed in, and would, to a man, have paid the penalty for renewing the war, had not a Volscian, Vettius Messius, a man more distinguished by his exploits than by his pedigree, remonstrated loudly with his comrades, who were being rolled up into a helpless mass. “Are you going,” he shouted, “to make yourselves a mark for the enemies' javelins, unresisting, defenceless?