“This Hannibal Gisgo is a greater coward than I thought,” Megellus said. “An honorable soldier would deliver his arms to my camp, and not engage in some eccentric foolishness.”
“He may not be surrendering,” Laberius said.
Megellus shot his tribune a look. “Of course he is! For it is exactly what I would do. Why starve for months inside a disease-infested city when the only result is the doom of your people? I have offered him every incentive to surrender. To resist further is madness.”
“But look, Consul,” Laberius said.
As they neared the gate, the thing on the door resolved itself into the figure of a man. His arms were spread wide, perpendicular to his body, his head drooping down to one side. He seemed to be hovering there above the ground, stuck to the middle of the massive wooden door.
When they had approached close enough to make out details, Megellus called a halt. He felt the blood drain out of his face. For an instant, he felt light-headed, as if he might faint. The man had been crucified to the wooden door. Spikes had been driven through his wrists and forearms, and a heavy timber had been secured to the door and the man’s feet nailed to it. The man’s throat had been cut. The front of his tunic was drenched in blood, and a dagger, impaling a square of parchment, protruded from his chest.
Laberius dismounted.
“It is your messenger,” he said. “The Numidian. Your message to the Carthaginian general is pinned to his chest.”
“My message? You are sure?”
“It is your seal, Consul.”
Examining the face of the dead man, Megellus clenched his fists. He recognized the Numidian. Gervas, his name was. Hardly a man, the youngest cavalryman Megellus had ever seen — younger than any in Roman service, to be sure — a more fitting courier than warrior, he had thought. And Megellus had merely tasked him with delivering a message — in exchange for a few coins.
“Barbarian,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He reined his horse around and gave it his heels. “Surely this Carthaginian must be destroyed!” he shouted, and with a cry, whipped his horse into a full gallop.
Chapter 7
Belenus sat in front of the little house in the narrow street chipping away at the underside of a severed Roman head with his dagger. He jabbed the knife up through the ragged, bloody stump of the neck, trying to dig out the short length of spinal cord. Once that was completed, he had only to expand the hole to begin scooping out the brain. A torch burned on the wall and provided enough light for him to work. The firelight made flickering shadows on his forearms, the muscles flexing underneath the swirling pattern of tattoos that extended all the way down to his wrists.
“You had time to take a head?” Caratacus mused.
Caratacus was tall, even taller than the average Celt. He towered over the squatting Belenus. Like all the Celts, he had a drooping mustache that covered his mouth and long braided hair. Over his bicep, he wore an arm ring in the shape of a coiled snake. The torchlight danced over his features.
Belenus did not look up from his work. “I did not run from the Romans, so I had plenty of time.”
“Everyone ran from the Romans today,” Caratacus insisted. “Those who did not died.”
“I didn’t run, and I’m still alive,” Belenus said.
With a dull cracking sound, he managed to break off enough of the skull to reach his fingers inside. He started scooping out the brain. He threw it by small handfuls into the street.
“You are going to attract rats if you throw that shit in the street,” Caratacus said. “They will come from all over for the feast you have prepared for them.”
“Rats are everywhere in this city,” Belenus said, tossing another handful. “It will be nothing new to have them in this street. Better they feast on the brains of a Roman than on my toes while I sleep.”
“I’m glad someone will be feasting,” Caratacus said.
Belenus, finished with the brain, stood and went into the house. He came back with a deep bowl full of cedar oil. He placed the head in the oil and held it down until it sank. He put the bowl aside and wiped his hands on his trousers.
“Belenus took a head,” Caratacus announced when Iliatos, the chieftain, came outside.
Iliatos strode over and looked inside Belenus’ deep bowl. The smell of the heavy oil burnt his nostrils.
“Enjoy it, Belenus,” Iliatos said. “We’ll have little opportunity for more now.”
“It is my only enjoyment,” Belenus said bitterly, “as I have no money.”
“We haven’t been paid yet,” Iliatos said. “I’ve already told you.”
“When we were with Hanno in Iberia, we got paid,” Belenus said.
“And we fought,” Caratacus added.
“We fought today,” Belenus pointed out, “but, instead of fighting, you ran.”
“Shut your mouth, Belenus,” Caratacus said, putting a hand on his sword.
“You ran so fast you didn’t even take any heads,” Belenus said, unmoved.
Caratacus looked away from Belenus. “We should have run in the opposite direction,” he said to Iliatos. “Not back into this rotten city.”
“Hanno is bringing an army,” Iliatos said. “When he arrives, we will fight our way out.”
“We enlisted in the wrong army,” Caratacus said.
“I agree,” Belenus said. “I don’t like this city and I don’t like this Hannibal who does not fight—and who does not pay.”
“You should have gotten your money from the other general,” Caratacus said. “From Boodes.”
Belenus just stared at Caratacus.
“Boodes took your word when he nailed up the men in the market. You should have held out for your pay then.”
“Boodes was looking for someone to crucify,” Belenus said. “It is the great Carthaginian amusement. I was happy to oblige.”
“What about the young Numidian?”
“What about the Numidian? He was a spy,” Belenus said. “Do you know what the Romans will do to us when they take this city?”
“Enough!” Iliatos said in annoyance. He came over and stood between Caratacus and Belenus. “The Romans are not taking this city,” he said, facing Belenus.
“I don’t care,” Belenus said, “because I won’t be here when they do.”
“You should have gotten your money from Boodes,” Caratacus insisted. “Then you’d be happy.”
“I’ll get my money from somebody,” Belenus said, glaring at Iliatos.
“We haven’t been paid yet,” Iliatos said.
Outside their warehouse-barracks, the Numidians had built a small fire. All around them was pitch black. The firelight made their faces glow as they sat around the shuddering flames. All the Numidians sat cross-legged except Juba who sat on his haunches. He bent low, his face close to the fire, and gazed grimly and intently at each member of his troop in turn.
“We will have vengeance,” he told them in a low tone. He stared each man in the eye again, one at a time, gauging his reaction. There were nine of them now, and every man was keenly aware of the missing tenth. No one dared speak. They had never seen Juba like this before. They did not know how he would react to anything they said, so no one said a word.
“The men who killed Gervas will die.”
All of the men nodded slowly, but Gauda was the first to speak.
“How do we know who killed Gervas?” he asked.
Word had spread quickly of the Carthaginian response to the Roman delegation. Gauda had been with Juba when they climbed onto the south wall and saw Gervas hanging on the door.
“The Celt,” Juba told Gauda. He looked at each of the troop again, making sure the information sunk in. “The tattooed one. I will know him when I see him again.” Then he explained to Gauda the circumstances of Gervas’ arrest.
“The Celt will die,” Gauda agreed, nodding, when Juba had finished.
“The man who ordered Gervas nailed to the door will also die,” Juba said.
Gauda
stared at him without speaking. Then he stood and stepped into the darkness outside the firelight as Masinissa approached.
“You did the right thing today, Gauda,” Masinissa said. Juba could see that Masinissa looked nervous and sad. It was hard for him to admit his failing to Gauda. Juba felt annoyed that he had interrupted them.
“Sometimes I think perhaps I should not have come here,” Masinissa continued.
“You didn’t have my vantage point,” Gauda assured him. “It was easy for me to see the infantry withdrawal from where I was. You would have done the same thing if you had been there.”
“Yes,” Masinissa said sadly, letting the matter drop. He wedged himself between two of the troop and sat down cross-legged. He was wearing his usual clothes, and not the colorful robe.
“They killed Gervas,” Juba told him when he had settled in.
Nodding, Masinissa pursed his lips, and sighed.
“You will have to avenge him,” he said simply.
“That is what we are discussing.”
“I can’t know of your plans.” Waving his hands, Masinissa stood quickly and walked back out into the darkness toward his house.
When Masinissa was gone, Juba said, “I have thought it over, and decided. The Carthaginian general will die.”
Juba gazed at his troop, all eight of them. Tabat and Hannon, sitting side by side, looked fearful. Gauda stared at him. No one would oppose Juba, but neither was there any enthusiasm.
“I will kill him myself if I have to,” Juba said. “But Hannibal Gisgo will die.”
Chapter 8
August 262 B.C.
Bright sunlight already flooded the council chamber when the distant trumpets sounded, marking midday. Half the inner Council had been waiting since mid-morning and still there was no sign of the general — not the man himself, not an emissary, aide, messenger, runner, nor rumor.
“Oh, the man is insufferable!” one of the councilmen stood and declared, throwing his hands up.
“Did we not send for General Hanno in the morning? And here the midday has sounded. Do we convene at his pleasure? Or he at ours?”
“If you remember after Messana some of us wanted to censure the man. Maybe now this body will reconsider the issue.”
Adonibaal stood. “Impossible!” he shouted.
“Some of us wanted much more!” yet another councilman declared, a comment that caused much murmuring.
Adonibaal raised his voice. “Impossible!” he said again. The faces of the congregation turn toward him this time. “It was impossible then and it is impossible now. General Hanno is adored by the people.”
“Is this our concern? The popularity of generals?”
Shafat stood alongside Adonibaal. “Our concern is the popularity of councilmen,” he said, and a ripple of reluctant laughter swept the gathering.
“Perhaps more importantly,” Adonibaal went on, “Hanno is adored by his army. Truly, we move against him at our peril.”
He saw that the Council found his logic unassailable, as indeed it was.
“But it is an army without a purpose! It sits in a field outside the city. Carthage provides it with food, and pay for the troops — but to what end?”
“We need to know when Hanno will move!”
There arose a grumbling of assent from the entire Council. Clearly, the body’s patience was nearing an end.
“Hannibal Gisgo’s messages out of Acragas grow more strident with each passing day. The Romans have brought forty-thousand men against him.”
“Councilman Boodes has been very complimentary of Hannibal Gisgo’s preparations, including a nearly successful sally against them.”
“Yes, the defenders of Acragas are indeed heroic as their assault on the Romans proves. But how long can the city hold out against such odds?”
“And what happens to our holdings in Sicily if Acragas falls? Already we have lost important allies throughout the interior of the island.”
“We have Hanno to thank for that! Along with the loss of Messana! And the loss of our ally, Hiero of Syracuse!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Adonibaal held up his hands to quiet his colleagues. “The honorable Shafat and I will go to the general now and bring him back here.”
“Are we to spend the entire day here waiting?”
“We will have a look at this army of his,” Adonibaal said. “Then we will bring him back here to answer your questions.’
“Shall we provide him with pillows for his ass to rest on?”
Adonibaal and Shafat strode out of the chamber amid a chorus of angry laughter.
“The Council’s patience will not hold much longer,” Shafat said, as they entered the blinding, hot courtyard. Their sedan chairs were waiting in the street for them, each carried by a pair of slaves.
“They are full of bluff and bluster now,” Adonibaal said. “But I fear for General Hanno. He has little margin for error.”
“But he appears invulnerable. Even after Messana, he was untouchable.”
“The war with Rome exposes us all to danger,” Adonibaal said.
As they were carried through the streets of Carthage, they passed along the high road that overlooked the great circular war harbor below. The harbor was full of ships and a long, thick line of soldiers marched up from the docks and into the city. For the past months, Carthage had been bustling with an exotic mix of armed men from all over the Mediterranean world. Adonibaal reflected that it would be good to see Hanno’s army ship out, to not only relieve the siege of Acragas and recover Carthage’s holdings in Sicily, but to rid the city of the rabble that came to fight for her.
When they had passed through the main gate at the southern end of the city and came to a ridgeline overlooking the fields below, Adonibaal called for a halt. He and Shafat both got out and took their place among the crowd that thronged the hilltop to watch the army far below. The people hooted and hollered, laughed and cried out as if they were at a sporting event.
“This is what the Council is up against,” Adonibaal said, indicating the crowd. “They come to see Hanno as they would their favorite charioteer. There is no other general in my memory who has commanded this kind of adulation.”
The army was amassed on the plain below. Some of the soldiers stood in dense ranks, as if preparing for battle. Others stood in loose confederation, awaiting their turn in whatever training they were engaged in. Weapons and armor gleamed in the hot sun. Beyond the soldiers were row upon row of neat white tents filling the plain beyond, like a field of clover. Just in terms of sheer scale, it was an impressive sight.
“There must be fifty thousand men down there,” Adonibaal said.
Then they saw the great man himself. He was leading a dense column of soldiers. The soldiers marched forward a few steps and then made a left turn, at which point the neat column became a jumbled up mess. Adonibaal watched in fascination as Hanno boldly demonstrated the short quick steps required of the men on the inside of the turn and then the longer, rapid gait of those on the outside. They tried again and the result was much better. The column marched, made a left turn, and then stopped when the column became a straight line again. Then, on Hanno’s order, every man pivoted to the right. With a deep, throaty grunt, the men then leveled their spears and raised their shields, forming a phalanx that faced an imaginary foe. The column must have consisted of five thousand men or more, and when Hanno raised his arm and strode away, the entire phalanx gave out a loud cheer, the sound filling the valley. In response, the spectators along the ridgeline erupted in cheers of their own, enthralled by the marital bearing of their general and the spectacle of his parading army below.
A short time later, Adonibaal and Shafat watched him confer with a group of foreign leaders. Even from the distance, it was plain that Hanno soon had the whole group laughing and clapping one another on the back.
“I’ve seen enough,” Adonibaal said. “Let us go down and pay the general a visit.”
They rode down the slope and t
he guards picketing the perimeter of the field led them to the general’s command tent. It was cooler inside the tent than in the hot, dusty field, and as soon as they entered, a slave rushed to their side, offering them cups of cool water. The multi-roomed tent was spacious, despite the number of people in it — armed guards, scribes and several slaves. The councilmen sat down, sipping their water. The general would be with them shortly.
The councilmen waited. The slave refilled their cups as they drained them. Adonibaal waved him off when he started to refill his cup for the third time.
“I am quite sated now,” he said. He sat back with a sigh.
Finally, a young man entered the tent with half a dozen armed escorts. He approached the councilmen with a broad smile.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am Yaroah, personal aide to General Hanno.” He shook hands with both men and sat down opposite them. “Regrettably, the general has been delayed with army business. I am here in the meantime to answer your questions.”
“The general has been delayed?” Adonibaal asked. He glanced at Shafat, who looked toward the ceiling in exasperation.
“Yes, he is meeting with foreign dignitaries. It is a big job pulling this mercenary army together. All sorts of details need to be ironed out to form these disparate elements into a cohesive army. I am sure you can appreciate that.”
“No doubt,” Adonibaal said. “The general seems to have achieved a high degree of personal regard from these foreigners.”
“Oh, yes,” Yaroah said. “Most of the men you see here have fought with the general before, in Libya or Iberia where the general has successfully campaigned, resulting in great profit to the city.”
“Yes, I am familiar with Hanno’s campaigns,” Adonibaal said.
“Of course. Then you must know that all have profited greatly from the general’s efforts. When these men hear that Hanno is raising an army, whether in Africa or Iberia or Gallia or wherever he goes, there is no shortage of volunteers.”
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