“So you will allow them to leave the city?”
“I want only Acragas,” Megellus said. “Not some poor mercenaries the Carthaginians throw in front of our swords.”
“It will no doubt be just as it was for Valerius,” Laberius said. “All of western Sicily will crumble.”
“The capture of the city will be felt throughout Sicily.”
“Worthy of a triumph, Consul?” Laberius asked with a shrewd look.
“Glory enough for all of us,” Megellus said with a laugh, clapping the young tribune on the back.
They stood for a while, watching the progress of the construction. Megellus was filled with admiration for his soldiers and officers, hard men who knew their business. Among them, he felt unnecessary and without purpose
“Shall we go and have a look at what our Sicilian friends have brought us?” he asked, remembering the caravan. He looked down at the group and saw the Roman escort sitting their horses idly on either side of the long wagon train. Fronting the wagons stood the extravagantly attired headman and his party, milling restlessly. “I understand they have brought us a herd,” Megellus added, rediscovering his good humor.
“Indeed they have,” Laberius said.
The consul and the tribune started toward the group, but the delegation held little real interest for Megellus. He peered past them to the marching columns of his legions and he realized that, by coming here, the Sicilians had predicted the conqueror of Acragas; they had chosen sides.
To Megellus, the choice seemed an easy one, for who could stop these Romans?
“There is a fine line between boldness and lunacy,” Juba told the boys. “Pyrrhus was a great man — and bold! — but he was also a lunatic. You see? That was his downfall.”
Gauda, Hannon and Tabat said nothing. Gervas shrugged. He did not see; in fact, he was scarcely even listening. But when Juba looked at him, he nodded sagely. Wide-eyed, Hannon and Tabat nodded too. Gauda did not even pretend to be interested and just kept walking.
The Numidians were half a day’s ride east of Acragas. Juba led the four horsemen, on foot, up a sharply rising slope. The rest of the ten-man troop remained at the base of the hill. They had all dismounted and sat amid their horses. Some sucked at long stems of grass plucked from the ground; others lay back, looking up at the sky. Juba led the other four up the ridge to spy the surrounding countryside from the commanding height.
“Pyrrhus meant to conquer the world,” Juba went on. “But he flitted about as untethered as you Numidian boys’ attention on a warm summer day.” He looked at his troop appraisingly, but got no reaction. “Italy, then Sicily … In the end, he also wanted Africa!”
Juba liked having the boys with him. He delighted in instructing the younger cavalrymen in the finer points of combat and history. His knowledge of combat was indisputable. His knowledge of history, as far as any of the boys could tell, was derived from the fact that his father had fought with Pyrrhus … Or, perhaps, against Pyrrhus … Or something.
He brought Gauda with him because he trusted him and always wanted him to see with his own eyes whatever Juba saw. Gauda, a few summers older than Juba, always knew what to do.
“Conquering the world! What do you know about conquering the world?” Gervas asked. “You only command us — and we are not about to conquer anything. Look at us!”
Gervas extended his arms, exposing his simple dun-colored tunic and sandals as evidence of Juba’s pretensions. On his left arm, he wore a hide-covered wicker shield and in his fist, he clutched three javelins. A dagger hung from his rope cord of a belt. Tied to it also were a sling and leather pouch containing stone pellets. His dark eyes were alight with humor. A baffled smile spread across his smooth, beardless face.
“We conquered that patch of grass down there where our horses are shitting,” Hannon said, jerking his head toward the base of the hill they were climbing. “And that is only because nobody else wanted it.”
Gervas and Tabat laughed.
“Who said anything about us conquering the world?” Juba asked. “We are no more likely to conquer the world than was Pyrrhus, madly rushing about from one unconquered place to the next. You must be more methodical. That is my point.
“Not that I confuse any of you with Alexander or Pyrrhus,” Juba went on. “Especially you, Tabat, being the least like Alexander of anyone I have ever known!”
Both Gervas and Hannon roughed Tabat up a bit, smacking him on the back of the head. The blows were playful but Gervas could plainly hear a sharp slap when Hannon’s open palm landed.
“Damn you!” Tabat cried, lashing out. The boys jumped away, laughing.
“Still, you must have some idea how to go about conquering the world.” Juba looked uselessly from face to face. “Now, in wartime, it is an important issue,” he scolded them, when no one responded.
The boys shrugged.
“How should we know?” Gervas asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you, then. You do not conquer the world. That is the answer. You do what the Romans do: you conquer Sicily.”
The boys laughed despite themselves.
“Sicily? Sicily is the world now? I know for a fact that there is more to the world than just Sicily!” Hannon said. Gervas grinned at Juba, thinking he must have misspoken. It was by far the most ridiculous thing he had said all afternoon. Even Gauda looked up.
“What about Numidia?” Gervas asked.
“Carthage!” another added.
Juba shook his head. He paused in his walking and faced his comrades, holding up his hands.
“Greece!” came another. The boys laughed even harder.
Juba scowled at them until there was silence. Then he continued. “You conquer the world one piece at a time! That is what I’m saying, you fools. You do not set out to conquer the world today by rushing about madly. Pyrrhus proved that. You conquer Sicily. Then you conquer Sardinia. And so on. One at a time.”
“What? In that order?”
That set the boys off again in paroxysms of laughter. Juba stewed, but Gervas could see him hiding a smile. Even though his instruction in the art of throwing the javelin from horseback and occasional slinging practice were invaluable and the troop participated earnestly and respectfully, Juba knew the boys cared nothing for history. They used his lectures mainly as an excuse for levity, to break up the tedium of long marches and often pointless scouts.
Regardless of the ribbing he sometimes dished out, Gervas felt a deep affection for Juba and knew him as both a serious military man and indispensable mentor. He looked up to him as he might a blood relative and he felt the same about the rest of the troop. Over the past months, they had indeed become his family and shipping off from Africa to Sicily had only strengthened their bond.
Carthage had always called on Numidia to provide her with troops. Because of the war with Rome, Carthage had doubled the conscription of Numidians by expanding the age limits of those who must serve. This alone had made Gervas eligible for conscription and he was the youngest of the Numidians in Acragas. His father, who would normally have been too old, served at sea. This was controversial, for no Numidian, as far as anyone in his tribe could remember, had ever been called upon to serve aboard a ship. They had always been cavalrymen and the new policy of taking Numidians to crew the ships caused bitterness among the tribesmen, even beyond the doubling of the conscription. In Gervas’ mind, as well as in most other Numidians, service aboard a ship was akin to a death sentence.
“Now, shut up,” Juba said. Gervas could see that he was serious now, so the boys fell silent.
Juba and Gauda jogged the remainder of the short distance to the top of the hill and lay down on their bellies. Gervas and the other two young troopers followed. Juba let out a low whistle as he peered over the ridge.
Gervas flopped down into position beside him.
“Be quiet!” Juba snapped. “Those are Romans.”
Gervas had never beheld such a sight. He would have risen to his feet and fled had
not Juba clamped an iron hand down on his shoulder to keep him still.
“Pyrrhus found out the hard way,” Juba whispered as if to himself. “The Romans are anything but lunatics. Look at that!”
From their vantage point on the ridge, the cavalrymen could see the entire plain below them. Thick columns of Roman infantry made long wavering lines as they marched through the fields below. The clouds of dust thrown up by their marching feet obscured the Numidians’ view of the trailing columns. Their armor and weapons gleamed in the sun and squadrons of red-cloaked cavalry rode along the flanks. There seemed to be no end to the marching columns. In the foreground, perhaps a half-day’s ride away, they saw the men building their camp, digging trenches and erecting a wooden palisade.
Several miles to the north, they could see another army on the march. But it was so distant they could make out few details but the rising columns of dust. In a nearby field were several wagons full of cut grain and a group of soldiers toiling in the wheat, their armor and weapons set aside while they worked. These were close enough that Gervas could make out their faces and see the sweat glistening on their skin. He ducked back down beneath the ridge, surprised to find the enemy so near. Indeed, if he had spoken in a normal voice, they might have heard him.
“Gods!” Gervas said in a low tone. “We don’t stand a chance! Juba, what do we do?”
He had never seen a Roman army. None of the men had. Their own polyglot force inside Acragas was nothing like it. Gervas had never even seen the Carthaginian army in one place at the same time, as they rarely even drilled together. To think that these Romans were coming to fight them was terrifying to him.
“Hold on,” Juba whispered, ducking his head back down under the ridge. He looked at the three boys crossly. “What have I just been telling you? You think I speak as carelessly as you fellows break wind? We are not going to fight this whole army. Let them march where they will. What do we care? We are concerned only with the army we will fight.”
“Fight? We are fighting? But there are only ten of us!” Gervas protested. He knew Juba and he knew Juba would fight. Gervas had never fought anyone. “Let us just take this information back to Acragas. This is why we are out here, to gather information. We have seen two armies heading for the city. We need to report this.”
Gauda eyed Gervas fiercely. Gervas had always been slightly afraid of Gauda and he fell silent.
“Yes, forty-thousand of the enemy a day’s march away,” Juba said. “It is crucial information. But let me tell you this: there will be fewer of them by the time we report it.”
Gervas caught the gleam in Juba’s eye as he spoke. He felt a pang in his stomach as he realized they would be in combat today. It would be their first time since coming to Acragas. Until now, it had not even seemed like a war.
“Who do we fight with ten men?” Gervas protested.
“See those men in the field?” Juba peeked over the crest again. “That is the army we fight today.”
“The foragers?” Gervas had not considered that they would attack the foragers. It was, he had to admit, a less daunting prospect.
Juba nodded confidently.
“They are unprotected,” Gauda said. As Gauda peeked over the ridge, Gervas could see his eyes darting back and forth, committing to memory the positions of men, weapons, wagons and horses.
“But what good will it do?” Gervas asked. “What are a dozen men in a field compared to the thousands marching behind them?”
“These Romans are a long way from home, Gervas,” Juba said. “Do you think they should be allowed to just march into the territory of Acragas and start cutting their fields?”
Gervas shook his head.
“If we can make it difficult for the Romans to eat, we can make it difficult for the Romans to fight. We are only ten now, but perhaps we will come back with a hundred next time. But today, our ten will make a good start of it.”
Ducking back down under the ridge, Juba rolled over onto his back and skidded a few yards down the hill. Then he stood and raised his arm straight up from his shoulder, palm out. The troop at the base of the hill, noticing the signal, stood to attention. Juba closed his fist and brought his arm back down, signaling the men to mount. Juba, Gervas, Gauda, Hannon, and Tabat gathered up their weapons and made their way back to the base of the hill. They mounted their horses and Juba gathered the entire troop around him.
He told them first about the Roman armies, and then about the foragers.
“We are going to attack them,” Juba said. The men watched him in grave silence. As Numidians, they were all natural horsemen and Juba had trained all of them in the use of their weapons, drilling them endlessly, but only he and Gauda had ever been in actual combat before. “The foragers are unarmed, but their weapons are nearby, so we are going to kill as many as we can — quickly! — and then rush back to Acragas. Leave their wagons alone. No plunder. We do not have time for that. Killing only.
“We will split into two groups, five men in each. I will take the first group. Gervas, you stay with me. Gauda will lead the second. We will attack around each side of this hill, as two groups of horsemen will maximize the confusion. Any questions?”
Juba paused, waiting. Gervas looked around and saw mostly uncertainty on the faces of the troop. He saw some determination too, and he was heartened.
“No? Very good then. Javelins at the ready, men.”
Juba dug his heels into his mount and the groups split and made for each side of the hill. When they had reached the edge of the hill, Juba kicked his heels hard into his horse’s ribs. The horse leapt over the slight rise and galloped down the incline toward the Roman foragers. The rest of his group followed close on his heels.
Gervas’ heart beat wildly as they raced at top speed toward the Romans. Juba held a javelin aloft in his right hand as he rode and Gervas noted the very instant when the first of the foragers looked up and saw that something was awry. His eyes went wide and his mouth made a perfect round circle. It was the look of a man who suddenly sees his death galloping toward him. He froze for an instant, an instant that would cost him dearly, for Juba brought his horse up short with a tug on the neck cord and let fly his javelin. It flew without an arc and struck the startled man full in the chest, knocking him off his feet and flinging him back into the wheat where he was lost to sight.
A cry of alarm went up from the other foragers, as men frantically scrambled about, trying to remember where they had left their weapons. It was at that moment that Gervas felt as though a veil had been lifted and he saw clearly at last, without the panic-induced haze of the approach. Juba already held his second javelin aloft when Gervas loosed his first, piercing a fleeing Roman between the shoulder blades. More Numidian javelins flew and as Gervas guided his horse around to line up another shot, he saw Gauda’s group gallop across his path through the field of grain. Romans fell before them as they dashed for their weapons.
“Pull back!” Juba yelled, struggling to make himself heard over the din of chaos. The Romans had begun to collect themselves from the shock of attack. “Pull back!” His horse reared, and he held his hand up, signaling to Gauda.
Gervas heard the order, and turned. The Roman nearest to him had found his sword, grabbed it and stood ready at the edge of the field. Other Romans had reached their weapons now, also. As the troop raced back toward Juba, Gervas saw horses galloping toward them from behind. In the confusion of the fight, he was not sure what to make of it. Then he saw the glint of metal on the riders — armor and flashing weapons — and realized that it was enemy heavy cavalry.
“Juba!” he shouted, pointing.
Juba’s eyes went wide when he saw the on-charging horse. A full turma of thirty men. Gervas could tell that Juba had not expected to see them. They had appeared out of a fold in the terrain, hidden from their initial view of the foraging party. They wore breastplates and helmets and carried long lances. Their heavy horses’ hooves pounded the earth like thunder.
“Roman hor
se!” he cried. “They are almost upon us! Follow me!”
Juba turned and dug his heels sharply into his horse’s ribs and galloped off. The other Numidians had scattered as they had been trained to do. Their fleeter mounts quickly outdistanced the heavier Romans. Juba swerved back and forth, as he rode and Gervas followed closely. Despite the speed of his horse, he could feel the enemy hot on his tail. He looked back and saw that two of the cavalrymen who had targeted him were receding, but a third had a favorable angle on him and continued to gain ground. Gervas concentrated on this enemy and held his javelin at the ready. But just as he was preparing to throw, the Roman lunged at him with his spear and Gervas nearly fell as he felt his horse shudder violently. He turned and saw the tip of the cavalryman’s spear buried in his horse’s flank. The soldier held tightly to the lance as the horse darted and bucked. The shaft of the spear fixed Gervas and the Roman together. Finally, the wooden handle snapped with a sharp crack. Stunned, the Roman nearly toppled. His horse whirled about in a circle.
Freed from his pursuer, Gervas kicked his mount to ever-greater speed, the lance tip bobbing in the horse’s flank.
He bent low over his horse’s neck, concentrating solely now on acquiring speed. Already in the distance, Juba was just about to the hill they had started from and Gervas bore down to try to catch up to him. Once again, he felt his horse shudder. Blood streaming from the protruding lance in the horse’s flank, its back leg stiffened suddenly and the horse collapsed, tumbling forward. Gervas plunged over the side of his mount. His last sensation before hitting the ground was of flying through the air, helplessly airborne. Then his world exploded in a shower of stars. He awoke in a daze, lying on the ground.
“Run! Get up and run!” his voice yelled inside his head, certain that such a thing was possible. “Run! Run!” But he felt himself not running, not even rising from the ground.
After a moment, he resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to be able to get up anytime soon. His head was swirling and he felt as if he were floating. So he simply laid on his side staring straight ahead, and the last thing he remembered before all went black was a pair of horses’ hooves filling his vision.
The War God's Men Page 3