The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  Behind him, the guard was getting to his feet and scrambling after the spear Juba had flung away. Amid the churning masses in the street, Juba ran off in the direction the Celt had gone, trying hard to remember his face, for he was quite certain that he would take great pleasure in killing the man if he ever saw him again.

  The jailors dragged the dead man down the stairs and heaved him headlong into the cell. The body landed face down on the straw-covered floor. The man in the cell next to him was yelling incomprehensibly. Only the iron bars separated the two, and the living prisoner glanced only briefly at the dead one before he started yelling again. The rest of the cells down the hallway were empty and the man’s shouting echoed hollowly off the rough stone walls. The dead man was large and heavy. Even working together, the two jailors had strained to move him.

  “That would have been easier if you’d helped,” the first jailor said to the captain of the guard, Myttones, who stood nearby, watching.

  “But I didn’t help,” Myttones said. “What is this man’s name?”

  “The dead man?”

  “Yes, what is his name?”

  “What was his name, you mean. His name is nothing now. Worm food,” the first jailor said. The second jailor laughed, and the first shot him a look, grinning.

  “What’s his name?” Myttones asked, beginning to lose his temper.

  “Who cares?”

  “General Boodes wants the names, you fool! He’s preparing some kind of legal document and he needs the names.”

  “Boodes…” the jailor said. Even in the dim light of a single flickering torch, Myttones could see the jailor rolling his eyes. The second jailor started laughing again. “Legal documents…” he began to chuckle, but then the prisoner yelling behind him became unbearable. He turned quickly. “Shut up!” he yelled and jabbed his spear through the bars. The prisoner fell backward onto the thin layer of straw. The jailor had meant to kill him. The prisoner sat in the straw without yelling.

  “Don’t know his name,” the jailor said, satisfied that the prisoner would remain quiet now. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Why don’t you go find out what his name was?” Myttones said.

  “Oh, I just remembered: his name was Alexander the Great.”

  The second jailor laughed, and Myttones said: “Don’t be funny.”

  “Just Alexander, then,” the jailor said. “Nothing great about this one.”

  Just then, a man’s voice called down the stairs.

  “Here’s another one for you,” the voice called.

  “Bring him down!”

  “I’m not coming down into your filthy hole! You come up and get him. I’ve done my duty.”

  The jailors went up the stairs and came back dragging a bound man between them.

  “Here’s another for Boodes’ crucifixion party!” the jailor said.

  The prisoner wore a frightened expression. The jailors, each grasping an elbow, half-dragged, half-escorted the prisoner past Myttones towards the empty cell next to the dead man. Myttones noticed how young the prisoner looked.

  “Ah, a foreigner,” Myttones said. “And a live one, at that. Name?”

  The jailor shoved a torn bit of parchment toward Myttones.

  “Gervas,” he read, and made note of it in his ledger.

  “Wait a minute,” one of the jailors said suddenly. “Hello! What have we here?”

  The jailors, with Gervas between them, stopped in front of the open door of the cell. The first jailor reached into Gervas’ tunic and pulled out the folded and sealed parchment.

  “What’s this?” He began to inspect it when Myttones snatched it out of his hands.

  “Give me that!” he said. “You found this on the prisoner?”

  “He was carrying it inside his tunic,” the jailor said. “Must be important, I’d say.”

  Myttones held it up to the torchlight. The jailor craned his neck to see while Myttones examined it.

  “Oh, the general’s going to want to see this,” Myttones said.

  “What is it?” the jailor asked.

  The living prisoner was up on his feet again and began yelling something. “Shut up!” the jailor shouted and jabbed him in the ribs with the butt of his spear.

  “This is a Roman seal, boys,” Myttones said. “What sort of fellow do we have here?” he asked, taking a step towards Gervas. He looked like a boy, but Myttones’ suspected that he must be a spy of some sort.

  “Search him,” he told the jailors. In a moment they had produced the Roman coin.

  “It’s mine!” the jailor said. “I found it!”

  He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, trying to make it catch the dim light. Myttones snatched that away also.

  “Hey! Give that back!”

  Myttones looked at the coin, front and back, but didn’t recognize it. Roman, he supposed, like the seal. He had no idea what such a coin was worth, but he made immediate plans to see how much wine he could buy with it that evening.

  “When you’re captain of the guard, you can keep the coins,” he told the jailor, dropping the coin into a pouch he wore at his belt. “But for now you live on your pay alone, as everyone else.”

  The jailors dumped Gervas in the cell and locked the door. They had lost all interest in the prisoner.

  “Why do you deserve it more than anybody else?” the jailor asked, hurt.

  “I deserve it more than either of you, that’s for sure,” Myttones said defiantly. “Look at you! You throw a dead man into a cell, and then you’re off to fornicate all day — or whatever it is you do. Meanwhile—”

  The first jailor started to protest; the second started laughing. Myttones cut them both off.

  “Meanwhile,” he went on more loudly until they quieted down. “Meanwhile, I have to take this Roman document — whatever it is — to the general. Would either of you like to trade places with me? You think that’s not worth a lousy coin now and then?”

  “Just throw the thing away then. Who will know?”

  “Throw it away?” Myttones understood now why these two were mere jailors working in a stinking hole. “If it became known that this prisoner had a Roman document —especially if it turns out to be important — and I threw it away… I’d be hanging from a cross right along with him!”

  “An invitation to Boodes’ crucifixion party!” the jailor said in a lilting tone, and the second jailor laughed again.

  “Well, this document just saved our Gervas from that party — at least for now. He’s got an invitation to meet the general now. I don’t know which will be worse for him.”

  “Crucifixion is worse,” the jailor said. “Hey! Open up that parchment. Let’s see what’s in it.”

  “Shut up! I’ve got work to do,” Myttones said. He strode past the cells and up the stairs. At the top, he could hear that the prisoner had begun yelling again.

  Chapter 4

  Boodes sat over his document at the table he had set up in the marketplace, carefully spelling out the name of the first condemned man: ‘Alexander’. It did not matter to him that Alexander was already dead. He only needed to make an example.

  He looked at Myttones’ ledger. ‘Cleitus’ was the name of the other. The witnesses had only agreed on these two.

  “Instigating a riot…” Boodes wrote.

  One of the Celtic soldiers had pointed out the third, a man named Gervas. Boodes had included the circumstances of this one’s arrest in a separate report. He now held him under lock and key awaiting a meeting with Hannibal, too valuable for crucifixion.

  “Have mercy on my husband!” a woman’s voice shrieked at Boodes’ ear. He looked up and saw two women, a mother and daughter. Tears streamed down both their faces. The older woman tore at her hair. “Spare his life!” she wailed, dropping to her knees.

  Boodes motioned to a guard. He whisked the women away to the back of the crowd out of earshot.

  Boodes returned to his document, feeling the eyes of the multitude on him. The
crowd was dead silent, and the wailing of the woman was replaced by the lonely hammering of the workmen constructing the crosses.

  Boodes felt more comfortable working with pen and parchment than with shield and sword and he let the work absorb him. It was all he had known for forty years. At twenty-three, he had assumed his father’s seat in the Council. Now in his sixties, he was known as “the Grand Old Man” not so much for his age — for he was far from the oldest man in that body — but for his long tenure. No one was more familiar with the intricate workings of Carthage’s political machine than Boodes. He had invented much of it. But he was all too aware that while his peers had been out learning the military arts under seasoned commanders in Libya and Iberia, Boodes had debated fiduciary matters in the Council. Whenever he gazed upon the assembly, he saw men who had commanded soldiers in the field. Their skin had become dark and leathery from years of campaigning in the sun while his remained translucent, purple-veined and soft from summers spent sipping cool drinks in the shade.

  He had achieved all that was possible in Carthage, ascending even to the One Hundred. This nearly dictatorial body jealously scrutinized military commanders in the field, often sending members to accompany their armies on campaign. Generals who failed in their duties or otherwise failed to satisfy the One Hundred were severely disciplined. Punishments included fines, loss of citizenship and even crucifixion. It was the most powerful and feared body in Carthage, and Boodes was well aware of its value.

  In Boodes’ opinion, Hannibal Gisgo was the most capable general the city had produced in his lifetime. So when war broke out with Rome, he immediately volunteered to accompany him in the field.

  “You, Boodes?” a member of the One Hundred had sneered, only half in jest. “The Grand Old Man of the Council to leave the comforts of Carthage for the hard dirt floor of a campaign tent?”

  “It has never been more important for the Council to see that its mandate is not being exceeded. Hannibal Gisgo is the one general who most bears watching, as you well know.”

  To Hannibal himself, Boodes offered a different proposal.

  “I can see to it that the One Hundred approves of all your campaigns,” he told the general. “I can guarantee your reappointment.”

  Next to Hannibal, Boodes felt small. He was tangibly aware of his own physical shortcomings, his soft corpulence and his bald head ringed by gray wisps of hair. In contrast, the bulky, vigorous Hannibal seemed to tower over him.

  “And you do this out of charity, I suppose,” Hannibal said with a sly smile.

  “I do this in exchange for a field command,” Boodes said forthrightly.

  Hannibal was taken aback. “A field command? You mean you would like to be my quartermaster? That sort of thing?”

  “No, a real command. I want to lead men in battle.”

  Despite his obvious skepticism, Hannibal had agreed. How could he not? What Boodes had offered him was nothing less than the power of the One Hundred itself in exchange for what Hannibal had surely thought was just the temporary indulgence of some meddling rich hobbyist.

  But Boodes had proved him wrong, and continued to do so.

  After he had finished writing out the charges against the condemned men, Boodes continued to scrutinize the document, trying to lose himself in it. Even when the crucified man started screaming, Boodes continued working, forming the letters just so. He wanted no one to see his horror. He heard the hammering of the spikes, and the screaming of the man.

  “The other prisoner is already dead,” Myttones told him.

  Boodes did not look up from his parchment, but continued writing. He could sense the crowd of onlookers watching the proceedings in the square. He did not look up at them either. Hammering and screaming, but not a sound from the crowd.

  “Execute him anyway,” Boodes said.

  The man paused in disbelief. “You want us to execute the dead man?”

  “Yes, yes, nail him to the timbers. Just as the other.”

  “Yes sir,” the guard said. Boodes felt him walk away.

  Boodes waited for the hammering to fall silent. When he looked up, he saw the executioners hoisting the wooden crosses. Spikes had been driven through each man’s forearms just above the wrist and also through their heels which were placed on either side of the uprights. The dying man had his face raised to the sky, muttering miserably in an unknown tongue as the guards tamped and packed the earth at the base of the crosses.

  Boodes ignored the condemned and commenced reading the charges to the gathered masses. They watched him silently, too stunned to make a sound or utter an objection.

  “…instigating a riot and inciting others to violence against the people of Acragas…”

  Boodes read his own words in an even, forceful tone. When he was finished, he walked under escort toward the condemned men. He felt the crowd watching him in stunned silence. The dying man whimpered and cried out by turns as he tried to raise himself on his impaled heels to relieve the pressure his outstretched arms placed on his throat.

  “Put this man out of his misery,” Boodes told one of the guards.

  “Already?” the guard asked. “But he has only just gone up—”

  “We have made our point. The general is coming here to speak and I want this poor wretch silenced by the time he arrives.”

  “Yes sir. How should we do it, sir?” the guard asked.

  Boodes had not expected such a question. “However you normally do it,” he said. “Spear him, I guess,” he decided, after a moment’s reflection.

  “That’s not how we normally do it—”

  “Spear him!” Boodes snapped.

  The guard reached for a spear and jabbed it into the dying man’s side. Then he jabbed again. The spear point disappeared soundlessly into the flesh. Watching from a distance, it seemed curiously painless to Boodes, as if the spear had been jabbed into a slab of soft meat and not a man.

  It was only what must be done, Boodes thought. The maintaining of order inside an occupied city was as important as maintaining discipline inside the army itself. As with all of his duties, Boodes was determined to do the job well.

  When Hannibal arrived he would find order where just hours before there had been chaos. And he would have General Boodes to thank for that.

  By the time Hannibal and Governor Pelitas made their way to the third floor balcony, a crowd had already assembled in the agora below. Most had come to watch the executions. Word of the morning’s tumult had spread quickly and the impending executions had filled the market square. Boodes’ executioners had gone about their work with silent efficiency, an audible hush filling the square despite the assembled throng. The only sound had been the pounding of nails through flesh and into the thick timbers of the T-shaped crosses. Boodes read to the crowd the charges against the two men and when the crosses were erected to their full height, the people watched in detached and stunned silence. When informed that the Carthaginian general and their governor were to speak, most stayed, for whatever was to be said must be of vital importance to the fate of their city, given the grimness of the morning’s events. But even as Hannibal stepped out onto the platform, the people continued to gaze upon the two crucified men with a mixture of fascination, fear, horror and despair.

  Hannibal held up a hand and the murmuring crowd fell silent. No sign remained of the morning’s turbulence. The city was serene, almost picturesque, Hannibal thought. The Temple of Hercules, whose imposing edifice rose above the city wall against a crisp blue sky, dominated the far side of the square. As Hannibal gazed out over the crowd, he caught sight of Boodes and his staff of officers and guards, a formidable group in their gleaming armor and weapons. To emphasize his own military nature, Hannibal wore his full panoply of armor — breastplate and greaves, white cloak and sword and he held his helmet with the long horsehair crest under one arm.

  “As you know,” he began, his clear voice booming across the square, “two Roman armies approach the city.”

  A sudden
cry went up from the crowd and the people pushed closer together, moving en masse toward the balcony.

  “But we have nothing to fear,” he continued quickly, forcefully. “Nothing!” He looked over the crowd, calming them with his demeanor.

  “It is true the Romans today march on the city,” he continued mildly. “It is true the Romans come to destroy the city and to enslave its people. But I tell you truly that this cannot happen while Carthage stands fast against the barbarians. These men,” Hannibal now gestured fiercely toward the crucified men, “these men would have opened the gates to the barbarians.”

  The people began murmuring vigorously, and someone in the crowd shouted “No!”

  Hannibal raised his voice over the din. “These men would have opened the gates to the barbarians,” he shouted. “Why would they do this? Out of some rational idea for the safety of their people? Could they possibly have believed that such an act would bring about some happy result? How could it?” He paused and made a show of looking directly from one face to the next. “I tell you truly, Carthage and Acragas are natural allies, as you can see by our presence here. Like you, we wish only to trade in the Mediterranean, not to conquer it. You have seen us among you for generations, trading peacefully. We come and go and leave Acragans to live freely as they wish.

  “But this is not true for Rome. Where Rome goes, Rome conquers, and what Rome conquers becomes Rome. As soon as those gates open, Acragas ceases to be Acragas and becomes Rome, and free Acragans become Romans. Carthage comes here as the liberator, as the guarantor of your freedom and the enemy of tyrants!”

  There was a stirring in the crowd and Hannibal was encouraged to hear some applause and to see some fists in the air.

  “But what can we do?” a man in the crowd asked, pleading.

  “Hiero will help us!” another cried, to which there seemed to be some agreement.

  Hannibal gazed fiercely at the man who spoke. “Hiero is in league with Rome now,” he said. “For not even Hiero can stand alone against them. Carthage, not Syracuse, is the guarantor of Acragan freedom. Look around you. Who do you see in your streets, the army of Hiero to protect you? No, it is the army of Carthage — and no Roman will set foot through these gates as long as a soldier of Carthage still stands.”