“We will need them quickly,” Hamilcar observed. He gestured toward the Roman reinforcements who even at that moment took their positions on the overextended Roman flank, blunting the Carthaginian advantage. Hannibal could see Hamilcar clenching his teeth as he stared at his faltering line. The Roman reinforcements paused and loosed their javelins, then rushed the Carthaginian phalanx, slamming into it with a deafening shield-on-shield crash. Hamilcar stared at Hannibal, frustration contorting his features. “With five thousand more men, we could have inflicted a crippling blow, General,” he said with eyes like cold iron. The Roman reinforcements began spilling around the flank of the phalanx.
Muscles tensing, Hannibal held his gaze for a long moment.
“Boodes’ men will never hold,” he said finally. “Be prepared to retreat.” And he rode off toward Boodes’ embattled right wing.
Gauda saw the Romans near the burning farmhouse turn and flee. The three who had watched the unit the Numidians had lured to their deaths fled even before the survivors had reached them. The survivors themselves paused for only an instant upon the hilltop, then they too sped away, making no effort to retain any type of cohesion — they galloped away in wild flight. The rest of the Roman horse was scattered about the valley in penny packets.
“The way to the camp is open!” Gauda called to Juba who reined up beside him. The camp was only partially constructed. The ditch and rampart of earth were in place, but the palisade of wooden stakes extended only halfway along the length of the camp. Still, the only way in was through the narrow gate, but it was unguarded.
Juba paused for only a moment, raising his arm to signal the men of his troop as they began to gather round him at the top of the hill. Tabat and Hannon, who had never seen large-scale action before, rode up beside him, and the rest of the troop followed right behind them. Masinissa arrived an instant later, and soon the entire contingent of 200 horsemen lined the ridge. As a unit, they swept down on the Roman camp.
The Roman cavalry put up scant little resistance. Where they tried to come together for a charge, the Numidians swarmed them, loosing their javelins in a deadly barrage. It was better for the Romans to scatter, making of themselves smaller targets. Soon they realized it was better for them to flee the field altogether in the face of the Numidians’ superior numbers. Taken by surprise, they were simply not able to form any kind of coherent unit without being mown down by the plunging javelins.
Unprotected, the scattered remnants of the foraging parties ran for the safety of the camp. Individually or in teams, the Numidians rode these helpless soldiers down, sometimes not even throwing their javelins but using them as spears and piercing the flesh of the men as they ran. From hilltop to camp walls, bodies littered the ground. Aimless riderless horses galloped in every direction, adding to the chaos.
When Gauda neared the camp, he could see the infantry attack off to his right. He saw with satisfaction the Carthaginian phalanx cleave into the Roman line. But he also saw Roman infantry forming up outside of the camp, and he saw more Romans rush through the gate facing the Numidians. The legionaries forced their way out through unarmed foragers rushing in, in some instances slamming them to the ground with their long rectangular shields. These Romans were armed with long pikes, and they quickly formed a line two ranks deep, blocking the entrance to the camp. The pikes bristled from behind the shields, and when the Numidians loosed their javelins, the second line held their shields aloft over the heads of the first, making an impenetrable barrier.
“We must retreat!” Masinissa cried.
The way into the camp was blocked, and now the Numidians were taking javelin fire from the soldiers on the ramparts. A javelin struck Gauda, piercing his shield and unhorsing him. His arm still entangled in the leather straps of the shield, he fell with a breath-stealing thud, the heavy javelin pinning his shield to the ground. He lay for a moment, stunned, and then managed to pull himself free. He spent an instant trying to extricate the javelin from his shield, but it was stuck tight, the iron javelin head having bent upon impact with the ground. He tossed his now useless, impaled shield aside, grabbed up his own javelins, quickly remounted, and found Juba nearby.
“Masinissa is calling a retreat,” Juba said.
“Retreat?” Gauda was incredulous.
“The way into the camp is blocked,” Juba pointed out. As if to emphasize the fact, a Roman javelin pierced the ground between their horses.
Masinissa came riding past, behind the two, crying out to all the Numidians.
“Back to the city!” he shouted. “Retreat back to the city!”
Gauda turned to argue the point, but Masinissa was already long past. The idea of retreating now and having their attack mean nothing was repugnant to him.
“Will we have attacked for nothing?” he asked.
“Masinissa wanted to attack the camp,” Juba said. “But now it is impossible.”
Gauda looked off toward the infantry battle. He saw the Roman reinforcements slam into the Carthaginian line. The line shook as if by an earthquake and began to splinter as men turned and ran. The Romans thrust their swords into the unprotected backs of the fleeing men who began to fall as wheat under the scythe as panic spread. Gauda watched as a lone horsemen rode out of the chaos of the Carthaginian line, racing toward the Numidian swarm, only to be cut down by the lance of a Roman cavalryman. Gauda knew what he must do.
“No retreat!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “Numidians, to me!”
Nearby horsemen stopped and instinctively gathered round Gauda, who sat high on his mount giving the signal to reform. The men who came were not just from Juba’s troop, but from all units within the sound of his voice. As these horsemen gathered, others followed until Gauda had collected a unit of nearly a hundred Numidians.
“We cover the infantry’s retreat,” he cried.
Juba then saw what was happening and immediately picked up the call.
“Numidians! Let’s stop those Romans in their tracks!” he shouted.
The Numidians let fly a spontaneous cheer and as a unit, they raced off toward the crumbling Carthaginian line. Unopposed by any enemy force, the Numidians galloped toward the Roman line and flung their javelins at a range of forty feet. Now it was the Romans who fell where they stood. Immediately, the murderous Roman advance came to a halt, as men raised their shields in a protective tortoise shell. The rear ranks responded by hurling their own javelins, but the Numidians had already dashed out of range. The Carthaginian line was in full rout now. Men threw down their weapons and ran full speed back toward the gates of the city. Realizing the Numidians had scampered away, the Romans lowered their shields and resumed their pursuit, but the Numidians raced back into range and loosed another volley. The Romans were again halted, and this time for good, knowing the Numidians would again swarm them if they tried to advance. When the Carthaginian infantry was safe under the walls of Acragas, the Numidians retreated to the north and east, back toward the Gela gate from which they had emerged.
And as they rounded the corner of the wall, they could see Masinissa on the top of the hill in his colorful robe signaling the retreat.
Chapter 6
Gervas fell into and out of dreams. Sometimes his dreams followed his logical thoughts and he tagged along with them wherever they went. It was no different than if he were intentionally pondering the various paths and byways of his ruminations. Other times, however, his thoughts became fantastical and he knew then that he had descended into a dream. Waking himself up would bring back his pain, but at least he could order his thoughts and not allow them to drift uselessly into the wild landscape of dreams.
But even at his most cogent, it could be difficult to tell the difference. His left eye was swollen shut for one thing and even when he knew his good eye was wide open and staring and concentrating on sight, he could not see anything in the pitch-blackness of his cell. It was no different than if both eyes were closed in sleep or if they had both been pounded shut instead of just
the one.
So he was having a hard time telling the difference. But he knew he would rather think than dream. Still, it was not an easy decision to make. The gods sometimes spoke to people through dreams, so he was hesitant to shake them off completely. But he did not believe that the gods spoke in wild, fantastical ways. They spoke plainly, as far as he knew. Maybe they were mysterious about their exact meaning, but they spoke so you could understand them.
So he did not mind throwing off the wild dreams. He did not believe he was missing anything and the wild dreams marred the people of his thoughts. The dreams made them unrecognizable. When he found himself awake he wanted to remember them as exactly as possible. But he fell into dreams often. Sometimes he just fell into a blackness without dreams. So normally, he did not know if he was dreaming or sleeping, staring or thinking or down in the black hole. Sometimes when awake, he could feel his face tightening so that tears seeped from his eyes. He wanted to pound his fists, but there was pain if he moved, so he did not pound his fists.
Whether thinking or dreaming, there were times when he caught glimpses of his brother Mago. This was when he tried the hardest to follow along.
“I can throw just like Gervas!” Mago was saying. His javelin had flown straight and far for a short-limbed little kid. He was in the fields of Masinissa’s camp — not among the men where the competitions were held, but off to the side where the children played.
“Juba is the one you should be like, Mago,” Gervas advised.
Nobody threw further or with more accuracy than Juba. Juba was the best at just about everything, throwing and riding in particular. Juba was good at things he did not even need to be good at, like slinging and wrestling, and other things that hardly ever came up. Gauda was good at all the competitions too. But Gauda excelled mainly in the areas in which it was necessary for him to excel. Juba excelled for its own sake and he took great pleasure in accepting the awards. But even though Juba was the best and Gauda second, along with countless other young men from among all the tribes, Mago wanted to be like Gervas. When he threw, he tried to mimic the motion of Gervas’ throwing, even though it caused his javelins to land off-center.
“That’s a bad habit you’re learning, Mago. You should not throw like that. See how Juba throws.”
But Mago would not study Juba and Gervas would end up demonstrating his throwing anyway, while Mago happily took it all in.
There was much about Masinissa’s camp to think about. That was when Gervas concentrated the hardest. But he had to be careful, because when he screwed his eyes tight the pounding in his head caused the blackness to swell up around him and he felt himself falling back into it. At other times, the sheer number of people and activities made it easy for the dreams to take his thoughts and twist them into riots of color and faces. Sometimes he could fight them off, and after a while, he could see his brother…
…Gaia. He was only a year younger than Gervas and would hardly even speak to him. Not like Mago at all. Gaia was bitter because of the opportunities offered to Gervas by their father. Unlike Mago, Gaia did not want to throw like Gervas. In fact, when Gaia threw at the games, he would not throw in Gervas’ presence; and when he was given the task of breaking a horse, or slaughtering a sheep, he would intentionally say nothing to Gervas and would instead go off by himself to perform the task. Gervas thought long and hard about Gaia’s bitterness but had never been able to fully comprehend it.
If their father favored Gervas, it was only natural because Gervas was the oldest. For some reason, Gaia always failed to assign any importance to the fact that their father had given him his name and in Gervas’ opinion that should have counted for more than Gaia ever credited it. Gaia was Gaia, son of Gaia; and Gervas was Gervas, son of Gaia. In Gervas’ view, Gaia should have credited the honor more than he did and not been so bitter toward his older brother. Even a year younger, Gaia was better than Gervas in almost every regard. Gervas knew that and acknowledged it often. He was happy for Gaia’s skill and ambition, but it seemed to cause Gaia nothing but bitterness, even when Gervas pointed it out to him.
Next year, if the recruitment quotas remained the same, Gervas hoped they could serve together in the cavalry. Gaia was the next Juba…
Gaia, his father, did not serve in the cavalry but aboard a ship. “Can we find the Ba’al Hammon, Juba?”
That was when Gervas knew his thoughts had spun off into a dream. Even in his dreams, he knew Juba was not there. But he could not shake off this dream. He spun ever deeper into the dream, as into a maelstrom in the dark sea. The black sea where the Ba’al Hammon sailed was filled with myriad dangers, each more frightening and inescapable than the last. The most prominent was the maelstrom and he spun around inside it.
“They will laugh at your coins.”
Then Gervas realized that he did not have a coin. He had been offered several, but even the one he had had been taken from him. He lay in the straw in the black, spinning inside the maelstrom without even a single coin…
Gradually, he became aware that he was being handled roughly. Someone had grabbed him under the arms.
“Juba?” Gervas asked. He felt like he himself was made of straw. When he was lifted off his feet, his legs hung uselessly.
He had dreamed earlier that Juba had come back for him when he had fallen off the horse, that it had been Juba he had seen walking towards him when he had been stuck on the ground, in his mind running for safety but unable to move. Maybe he had come now. His heart quickened at the thought.
“Juba?” he asked again.
“Shut up!” the jailor replied, and another man just laughed.
Neither of them were Juba, and Gervas, knowing that the dream was gone, began to weep.
“Not a single man of the covering force fled,” Laberius said.
“It is death for a man to run,” Megellus said, without diverting his gaze. “Better for him to die fighting.”
“Yes. Of course, Consul.”
They stood at the gate of the camp, surveying the battlefield. Megellus had been wrong. He had carelessly entered the territory of the city and had paid a price, not only in blood but also in loss of confidence in his own judgment. He would certainly not underestimate the ferocity — or the irrationality — of the enemy again. The enemy had shown himself to be capable of foolish and rash acts and that was something he would not soon forget.
Roman ambulances were out gathering up the wounded. From all parts of the battlefield, Megellus could hear the cries of the enemy wounded. He could see them writhing in the grass among the still mounds of the dead, and it came as a relief to him when those cries were snuffed out by the teams walking among them with spears, collecting weapons and armor. One by one, the cries were mercifully silenced. The sun was sinking fast on the horizon and the air had become chill. To the east, a trail of dead, both men and horses, extended off into the spreading gloom.
“But I want a full accounting of the day’s heroics for the awards tonight,” Megellus said. He had been amazed by the performance of his troops. Outnumbered and virtually leaderless they had held fast, never wavering and never doubting their victory.
“By the time the list is compiled, there will be plenty,” Laberius said with enthusiasm. “I myself witnessed a legionary stand fast under the assault of three of the enemy when he had become separated from his fellows. It was a stirring sight that I won’t soon forget.”
“Well, I hope you got the soldier’s name so we can honor him.”
“Indeed I did,” Laberius said.
In the distance, the walls of Acragas were ablaze with the glow of the setting sun. After a while, Megellus noticed some activity at the gate. One of the doors had opened a crack and a handful of men had stepped out.
“Ah, it is just as I thought, after all,” he said. “Look, tribune. The Carthaginians are sending out emissaries.”
Megellus reached down and gave his tunic a good tug, smoothing it. He grabbed up his sword belt and strapped it over his bronze b
reastplate, buckling it over one shoulder. Then he began looking for his helmet.
“Where did I put my helmet?” he asked, searching this way and that.
“Here it is, Consul.” Laberius handed him the plumed helmet.
“Ah, thank you, tribune. We have a surrender to attend,” Megellus announced happily, giving his tunic a final tug. “We want to look our best. Like true soldiers — the conquerors of Acragas. Summon the scribes and interpreters!”
Laberius watched the men at the gate. “But they’ve gone back inside,” Laberius observed, gesturing toward the distant city.
“What?” Megellus asked. He looked up and stared at the gate. Indeed, where a group of men had been bustling just a moment before, now there was no sign of activity. But it looked as if they had left something on the door itself. He thought at first that it was some kind of dangling banner, perhaps a message of some sort. But it was impossible to tell.
“What is that on the gate?”
Laberius strained to see. “I cannot tell from this distance,” he said.
“They’ve left something on the doors for us,” Megellus concluded after a moment. “Gather up a guard. We shall investigate under a flag of truce.”
“But do you think it wise, Consul? This could be a trick of some sort — Punic perfidy.”
“The trick was their meager show of resistance. It is just as I thought. They have satisfied the dictates of honor—now they are surrendering the city. I was beginning to doubt my reading of this Hannibal. But now I see that he is acting true to form. My guard, Laberius!”
Moments later, mounted, Megellus, Laberius and a large well-armed escort rode across the battlefield toward the gates under a flag of truce. The legionaries working in the field watched in amazement when they saw the consul’s party ride past, then, catching themselves at the last instant, stiffened in salute. Megellus’ eyes remained fixed on the distant gate. He would be the first to admit that he did not understand the Carthaginian soul. But he was certain that whatever awaited him involved the surrender of the city. It could not be anything else. So it was with rising excitement and confidence that he drew ever closer to the gate.
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