The tall man looked around and the crowd began to murmur in agreement.
The tattooed Celt stepped forward and raised both of his hands for silence. “I have fought the Romans,” he cried. “While I am not so impressed by their ditches, I will tell you this: Once the Romans throw a ring around this city, there will be no breaking through it!”
Many in the crowd began shouting.
“Are we to die in here?” the handcart man asked, clearly grateful to have allies.
“No breaking through the Roman ring,” the Celt went on, shouting above the din. “And when they take this city, they will show the people no mercy!”
“This man is right,” the tall man said. “What happens to us when the Carthaginians surrender the walls? I say all who want to should leave this place!”
“This is a closed city!” the guard called, but he looked uncertain and afraid.
“You have no right to hold us here!”
With that, the tall man, who was large and well-built, grabbed for the guard’s spear and twisted it from his grasp. The guard himself fell flat on his back.
“You are opening that gate!” the man cried, standing over the prone figure. He held the spear as though he would run him through.
Shouting for the gates to be opened, the crowd suddenly surged forward. The guards, with their spears held across their chests, struggled to hold them back, but the people grabbed at their weapons, trying to wrest them away.
Juba pulled Gervas to his feet to dodge the onrushing mob. Gervas was dazed. All about him was in turmoil, the violence roiling up out of nothing. He could make no sense of it.
“We can’t stay here!” Juba shouted over the noise.
The guards were hopelessly outnumbered. They wrestled with the people for their own weapons. The weight of the crowd threatened to crush them. Unable to hold them back, the guards turned their spears around and began jabbing. People began screaming.
Across the sea of bodies, Gervas saw the tall man holding the spear above the fallen guard. He looked like he did not know what to do, torn between impaling the man and running away. Before the puzzled expression left his face, one of the other guards drove a spear point deep into his chest. With a look of utter surprise, he dropped the spear and lurched backward, landing in a heap on the ground, a crimson stain spreading across his white tunic.
“They’ve killed him!” someone cried.
The crowd began to disperse in panic as the guards drove into them.
“They’re killing all of us!”
In a panic, the townspeople began to scream as the guards thrust at them indiscriminately. At the same time, townspeople began arriving from all over the city, drawn by the commotion. When they saw what was happening, they stopped and stared in horror, and then they too turned and ran, leaving behind them a score of dead in the street.
Juba grabbed Gervas by the back of his tunic. “We can’t stay here,” he said, and together they joined the fleeing crowd away from the bloody gates.
Hannibal Gisgo was sitting in the makeshift conference room of the Governor’s palace when news came of the insurrection at the Gela gates. With him were his generals Hamilcar and Boodes, various lesser lieutenants, a detachment of guards and governor Pelitas himself. All sat around the table that dominated the windowless room. Several lamps sputtered on the walls, their dancing flames reflected in the rich luster of the polished mahogany. Even though the heat of the day could already be felt outside, the room remained cool. Tapestries on the marble walls mellowed their voices as they talked, muffling harsh echoes.
Hannibal sat back in his chair with a sigh. He stared at a distant spot, drumming his fingers on the table.
“General, with the Romans so close to the city, we cannot let this stand,” Boodes suggested after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “It is the one thing we feared most.”
“Yes, yes,” Hannibal said, still drumming. Then he stopped abruptly and, leaning back, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“Oh, but it is tiresome!” He leaned forward and turned his hawk-like gaze on the others who watched him solicitously from all sides of the table. The dim light made dark shadows on his face. His eyes glinted in the lamplight from under heavy brows and his beard made a sharp black point of his chin.
He leaned back in his chair again and took a deep breath.
“General Boodes,” he began, “take my guard and see if you cannot put an end to this uprising.”
“Yes, General,” Boodes said, standing. He was the oldest of Hannibal’s generals, a member of Carthage’s powerful inner Council, a body known as the One Hundred. An aging aristocrat, he had wrangled a field command from Hannibal and was eager to prove himself. Hannibal had come to trust him implicitly and had even begun to feel affection for the man. If anyone could put the insurrection down — and down thoroughly — it was Boodes. He scooped his helmet from the tabletop and started for the door.
“I want the perpetrators of the riot crucified,” Hannibal said.
“Sir?” Boodes asked.
“I want the leaders found and crucified—”
Pelitas bolted from his chair.
“You cannot do this, General,” he protested.
“Crucified in the marketplace,” Hannibal continued, raising his voice. “For all to see. I want an example made of them. Do what you must to find the leaders, but I want them found, Boodes.”
“Yes, sir,” Boodes said, and strode out of the room.
“I must protest!” Pelitas cried when he was gone. “You cannot do this!”
Pelitas was a lean, sinewy old man. Cords of muscle stood out in his neck as he strained to get his words out.
“I can do this, Governor, and I am,” Hannibal said.
With most men, Hannibal would have lost his temper. With Pelitas, he was more conciliatory. It was his city, after all, and he was popular with the people. In Carthage, Hannibal was well-loved by both the people and the Council — at least by those who did not hate him — but his charm apparently did not translate well to the people of Acragas. They saw him as an unwelcome oppressor. So he relied on Pelitas. To be on good terms with him was to have the support of the city. He was sure to include Pelitas in all of their meetings. It was his city, but it wouldn’t be when this was over. He wasn’t sure Pelitas understood that.
However, on the issue of discipline in the face of the coming Roman siege, Hannibal would not budge.
“But the people are merely afraid.” Pelitas pleaded. “Who is not fearful in these times? Surely you can understand this.”
“Fearful people are the most dangerous,” Hannibal observed. “It is, as General Boodes pointed out, the thing we feared most.”
“But you can’t punish them for a temporary irrationality. It is only because they are nervous at the approach of the enemy. Reason will return to them soon enough.”
“It’s not their reason alone that concerns me, Governor, but their loyalty.”
“Carthage and Acragas,” Pelitas said, “have been friends for decades. There is no need to question the people’s loyalty. No one wants the Romans here.”
“The one thing we cannot have is the betrayal of this city from within. Fear and irrationality are not to be waved off as trivial matters. Fear and irrationality will get us all killed. These are our enemies, Governor, even more than the Romans. I can’t be content to wait for your citizens’ reason to be restored to them.”
The two men stared at one another from opposite ends of the table. Then Pelitas sat down and slumped back in his chair. He was surrounded by Carthaginians all the time now — here in his palace, even in his home.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, Governor,” Hannibal said in a soothing tone. “But we can hold this place.” Then he looked up and addressed the room in general. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we have been sent here to hold this city — and hold it we shall.”
“Hear, hear,” Hamilcar assented. He began slapping the table with the palm of his hand. Hann
ibal’s other lieutenants joined in. “Hear, hear” they eagerly voiced their agreement.
Hannibal smiled at his men. Hamilcar was his most trusted lieutenant, a gifted young aristocratic leader from a powerful family. He was certain to be a prominent Council member himself one day. Handsome and charismatic, his path to the Council would be paved with military glory. Hannibal could provide that — once he was in a position to execute his own war plan fully, and not this hybrid, politically-motivated compromise.
Hannibal lifted his chin and nodded in satisfaction. When the table-slapping died down, he continued.
“This is the hand we’ve been dealt. I know it’s not easy. For many of you, I know this is not the duty you bargained for. But just be thankful we are here, at Acragas, and not Lilybaeum. There would be no relief coming to us there. Of course, had I been listened to, we would be in Messana and the Romans in Rhegium where they belong.”
There were some scornful chuckles around the table. General Hanno had advocated a passive strategy of holing up in Carthage’s impregnable Sicilian port cities in the western part of the island. These cities could be supplied endlessly by sea of which Carthage had uncontested mastery. Rome, Hanno’s thinking went, would soon tire of banging its head against the unassailable walls. Hannibal, on the other hand, had advocated a forward, aggressive strategy and now, by way of compromise, he found himself the commander of the advance guard of their mercenary army awaiting relief. He imagined Hanno sniffling with joy at his predicament.
“The final messengers have come and gone,” he said. “Carthage has been informed of our situation here and General Hanno is, even as we speak, preparing his army to relieve us.”
“General Hanno…” Hamilcar rolled his eyes.
“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, smiling. “I understand your concern. But this army is such that even an incompetent like Hanno cannot fail.”
“Will he fight this time?”
“In Hanno’s defense…” Hannibal paused, giving a comically befuddled look to his men, a gesture which elicited laughter all around. He allowed it to die down, and continued: “At Messana, we were still hoping to avoid war. War, now, obviously, is unavoidable.”
He paced a few more steps in thought.
“I will admit to being a little surprised by the extent of the Roman response to our presence here,” he said after a moment. “Two consular armies approach the city, according to the reports. But Hanno is preparing an army of sixty thousand men, of all arms. It will disembark at Lilybaeum. Whatever the outcome of battle, ships will be waiting at the mouth of the River Hypsas to evacuate us. We can easily hold out here for some months while we await relief.”
“Surely we shall sally when the time comes, so you can add to that army the strength of this garrison,” Hamilcar said. “Most of our men here are veterans of Messana.”
“Yes, for better or worse,” Hannibal added. “We have seen some poor traits in these soldiers — and they in their leadership, I’m afraid. It is not easy to counteract that experience.”
“Agreed. You speak of our Celtic warriors, obviously. Is there anything you wish me to do with these, sir?”
“Carthage curses me with them,” Hannibal said, reflectively. “Not by chance, I shouldn’t think,” he added, smiling, and there were some chuckles around the table. “No, just keep them busy as you see fit. In battle, we’ll make sure they are always in the middle of the line. Front rank. Maybe we can get them killed off,” he added, after a pause.
Again, there was laughter all around.
“The Celts are poorly served by their chieftains,” Hannibal said evenly, when the noise had died down. “I will deal with them.”
“I would not doubt that they are behind this insurrection,” Hamilcar said.
“Well, there will be no betrayal of this city, whether by Celt, Numidian, Iberian or Acragan. General, we shall double the guards at all the gates. I want Iberians and Libyans on all watches.” Hamilcar nodded. “No Celts, obviously.”
“Obviously, sir.”
“And what will our response be when the Romans arrive?” Hamilcar asked.
“They are bringing forty thousand men against us,” Hannibal said. “We have ten thousand fighting men inside the city. All we can do is keep this city out of their hands. But once they encircle us, I’m afraid they stay until Hanno arrives.”
Pelitas spoke up. “If Acragas falls much of western Sicily will fall with it out of fear of the Romans. The port cities are secure, though — out of fear of the Carthaginian fleet,” he added.
“Thank you, Governor,” Hannibal said. “Right now, we can do nothing but keep the Romans out of the city, and this is what we shall set our minds to.
“Well, then,” Hannibal said, slapping his hands together after a pause. “That is that, gentlemen. We have an insurrection to put down and an enemy to prepare for. Dismissed.”
Along with the rest of the men, governor Pelitas stood to leave. Hannibal walked over to him and wrapped his arm around the governor’s shoulders. Pelitas was enveloped by Hannibal’s hulking frame.
“I think it would be wise if we spoke to your people, Pelitas,” Hannibal said in a conciliatory tone. “Once General Boodes settles this uprising we’ll go down to the agora and talk to the people together.”
Juba and Gervas rushed into the street and the crowd carried them away. Women ran screaming and men fled in fear of the thrusting spears. “They’re killing people at the Gela gate!” the fleeing townspeople shouted to those running toward the scene. Soldiers streamed toward the gates in files while others had stopped in the middle of the street in confusion, the throngs passing them in every direction. Juba leapt out of the rushing stream into a narrow side street, pulling Gervas in behind him. He stood with his back pressed against a wall.
“I think we spoke too openly back there,” Juba said, taking deep gulps of air.
Gervas had spoken glowingly of the Romans. The people were already afraid of them and Gervas’ description of them made them seem relentless and cruel.
“It was the barbarian,” Gervas said. “The barbarian stirred the people up, not me.”
“The people are afraid now that they know the Romans are coming,” Juba said. “None of them have ever seen a Roman and have built them up into something fearsome.”
Breathing hard, Gervas bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees. When he did, the sealed message from Megellus fell to the ground.
“What is this?” Juba asked. He picked up the folded parchment and inspected it closely. “This is a Roman seal!” He looked up with panic in his eyes. “Gervas, what is this?”
“It is the reason I am still alive,” Gervas said, taking the parchment from Juba. Then he told Juba the story and showed him the coin.
When he had finished, Juba said, “You should not have come back here. This is a death sentence. You should destroy this.”
“Destroy it?” Gervas stuffed the parchment back in his tunic. He looked hurt and angry. “Since when are messengers given death sentences? It is important that I see the Carthaginian commander, Hannibal Gisgo. The consul of Rome—”
“Listen to you, Gervas! I met with the general yesterday when Masinissa and I gave our report. I tell you, the world of generals and suffetes and kings is madness to us, and we should want no part of it!”
“I met with the Roman consul,” Gervas countered. “And this is a message—”
“And consuls,” Juba interrupted. “It is all the same — a nest of vipers. Don’t you understand how this is going to look? You will be taken for a traitor — or a spy.”
“But three more denarii, Juba! We have had no plunder since the war started. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of this? With more coins, I can find Gaia—” he began, referring to his father, but Juba cut him off.
“Gervas, listen to me. Even if you find the Ba’al Hammon, the Carthaginians will laugh at your coins — or worse.”
“There he is!” The voice came from the mouth of the alley. J
uba looked up and saw three Carthaginian guards. With them was a Celt and he was pointing an accusing finger at Gervas. As they came rushing into the alley, Juba saw a look of horrified recognition in Gervas’ eyes as he turned to face the Celt. Juba recognized him too — he was the one from the massacre. Juba knew him from his drooping mustache and the swirling tattoo on his forehead that ended in a point between his eyes.
Juba dashed out from the wall to confront him. “You’ve got the wrong man!” he cried, but before he could continue, two of the guards had already grabbed Gervas and the third had leveled his pike at Juba’s chest. They wore mail and brightly plumed helmets, the Carthaginian general’s personal guard.
“That man is a traitor and a coward!” Juba shouted, straining against the guard’s spear to point an accusing finger back at the Celt. The Celt sneered at him and chuckled as Gervas was whisked past him and through the frantic multitude in the street. “I’ll kill you, you son of a whore!” Juba shouted against the restraining pike.
“Shut up or I’ll run you through!” the guard said, lunging forward.
Juba looked him in the eye for an instant and then ducked under the point of the guard’s weapon. Grabbing the shaft of the spear, he twisted it from the man’s grasp and at the same time flipped the man over sideways. It all happened in an instant, and the guard lay dazed on the pavement. Juba fell on top of him and he brought the spear shaft down across the man’s throat.
“Still want to run me through?” Juba asked from behind clenched teeth.
The guard shook his head, wide-eyed in terror, and then began to sputter.
Juba suddenly realized that he was crushing the man’s windpipe. He stopped and threw the spear away down the alley where it clattered harmlessly on the pavement. Leaving the guard gasping for breath, he stood and ran into the street.
But there was no sign of Gervas.
Gods help him, he thought. This was the second time in two days that he had lost him and he cursed himself under his breath. It was only the doubling of the levy that caused him to be here in the first place. Juba had vowed to look out for him, and now, he had lost him again.
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