“Because he wants to save his own skin — such as it is.” Megellus rolled his eyes at the memory of the self-inflicted disfigurement of Belenus’ tattoos. “If there is one thing I have learned in my years in Rome it is the behavior of men motivated by saving their own skin. This Belenus will be afraid that we are going to assault the city without him, with not very good results for him personally. Forget the reward I will offer him. Death…slavery, at best. These are in the forefront of his mind. I would not doubt that we see him again tonight, after our troops stand down.”
Megellus looked at his vast formation of heavy infantry. In a way, he wished he were making an assault. To have this much power at his disposal, and then not use it seemed such a waste. Of course, the Gaul had insisted that a Carthaginian army was on its way to relieve the city. But how much trust could you put in the word of a Gaul, especially one who was in the process of betraying his own people?
Still, the Gaul had been correct about one thing: if Megellus was going to enter the city it would have to be before the Carthaginian army arrived. Without reliable intelligence, there was no telling how much time he had. The only thing Megellus knew was that the enemy was assembling an army in Carthage, but he had assumed that by this late date they had no plans to deploy it until after the fate of Acragas had been determined.
“He clearly has no faith that this Carthaginian army will relieve the city,” Laberius said.
“If the army is coming to relieve the city,” Megellus said. “All we know is that they have been recruiting troops from all over the Mediterranean. So it will certainly be a large army. But how and when they plan to use it is another question. It will soon be too late for Acragas. My feeling is that since they have not brought it here yet, they have some other use in mind for it. Perhaps a counter-offensive after Acragas falls.”
“Or holds,” Laberius said, “as they might still consider that a possibility. They have been raiding the coast of Italy with their fleet, too. You have obviously seen the reports.”
“Yes. The Senate demands action. We are on the brink of conquering the heart of Sicily, and the Senate is mainly concerned with Punic mischief-making along the coast!”
“Obviously, to them it is a matter of honor.”
Megellus gave Laberius a look out of the corner of his eye. “I will not comment on Senatorial honor,” he said, with the hint of a smile. “Our main concern now is to lull this Hannibal Gisgo to sleep with our nightly deployments. I am sure tonight we have caused quite a stir.”
“Quite,” said Laberius.
“But on the day we deploy as usual and then rush the gates that have been unlocked from the inside by our unhappy Gaul, the Carthaginians won’t know what hit them.”
“Indeed, Consul. But we need our Gaul to return to us. And soon.”
“He will, rest assured. Our deployments will only hasten his return.” Megellus looked over his shoulder to the western sky and saw that the sun had not yet set. He had the soldiers march forward a hundred yards or so, banging their shields. He waited until the distant hills were black as night before recalling them. “Let’s get these soldiers back to camp,” he said. “We have caused enough commotion for one night.”
With a salute, Laberius reined his horse and rode off in the direction of the troops. After a moment, Megellus heard the cornicens sounding their trumpets and centurions snapping orders. He sat on his white horse and held his head high as the soldiers passed, thousands of legionaries tramping, stone-faced, back into the Roman lines.
General Boodes directed the rushing files of javelineers and slingers up the stairs to the guard towers on either side of the Heraclea gate. Another block of several hundred spearmen filled the courtyard behind the bolted doors, ready to thwart any breakthrough.
“Hurry, men!” Boodes was calling. “To your posts!”
Hannibal rushed to the towers as soon as he heard the commotion. He strode rapidly towards Boodes, calling out as he approached.
“What is it, Boodes?” he asked, watching the men stream into the towers.
“The Romans are preparing to storm the walls, General!” Boodes called. “They have deployed to our west and south. General Hamilcar is directing the defense at the southern gate.”
“It is not possible,” Hannibal said. He ran for the stairs leading to the gate tower. “Boodes, show me!”
Together they rushed up the stairs and onto the guard tower platform. They were greeted by the distant peal of trumpets and the riotous cries of the Roman soldiers who had deployed in front of their entrenchments and now marched toward the city. Behind them, smoke from their abandoned campfires rose into the air and the wooden guard posts of the siege-works, still fully manned, stood starkly against the setting sun. Wispy clouds on the horizon had turned black in the purpling sky. Hannibal could not believe his eyes, for he had not foreseen this. Even so, he squinted intently toward the Roman infantry, still distant enough to pose no immediate threat, wondering what to make of it. While he watched, the Romans stopped marching and stood in their lines facing the city.
Ever since their fight back in June, he had been fascinated by the novel Roman military system, trying to understand it. The Romans had cleaved into every opening in the Carthaginian line, however slight.
“See how they move without losing their formation,” Hannibal said. He saw that their deployment posed no threat and he was glad to have an opportunity to observe them, though he saw that Boodes was shocked by his demeanor. “It is their big advantage over us.”
“Perhaps we should discuss Roman tactics some other time, General,” Boodes said. “When we are not in the midst of fighting them.”
“We are not fighting anybody now, Boodes,” Hannibal said. “See how they intentionally leave gaps in their line?” He pointed out the gaps, one at a time, all along the Roman line. Each gap, however, was backed by troops in the second line. “They can withdraw and reinforce troops at will, they can fall upon flanks…They are made for mobility.”
“They are not so dependent on maintaining order as is our phalanx, I will agree,” Boodes said, with a tinge of indulgent impatience. “I admit I had difficulty keeping my line intact against them. But I would think that we would have the advantage on the defensive.”
“Perhaps,” Hannibal said. “But you saw they had no answer for our cavalry. This is something I will exploit if I get another crack at them.”
Along the base of the crenellated wall of the towers, the men had stacked stones of various sizes for use against an assault. Most were about the size of a man’s head. They would have a devastating impact on any mass of troops trying to scale the walls or batter down the gates. Beside the stacks of stones, the javelineers and slingers stood at the ready. The Romans stood silently in their serried ranks.
Hannibal straightened suddenly. “You don’t believe we are fighting tonight, do you, Boodes?”
“Well, I—” Boodes began.
“Relax, gentlemen!” Hannibal called out to the troops. “The enemy is just putting on a little show.” He walked along the wall, slapping his soldiers affably on the back. He saw the men visibly exhale, and he realized that they feared the Roman assault. In their weakened condition, this was understandable. The siege had taken a fearful toll on his army. Through desertions and sickness and death in battle, Hannibal reckoned his force had been whittled in half. Morale was poor. It was only fear of the Romans breaking into the city that kept the remaining men up on the walls ready to repel any attacker.
He had not calculated on a siege lasting this long. The last word he had of Hanno’s army was now five months old. He expected to see it marching over the horizon every day, but was daily disappointed. This new behavior of the Roman army, however, provided a glimmer of hope. Perhaps circumstances were indeed changing out there beyond the siege lines. He took this as a possible good sign. But there was another possibility…
Boodes strode over to Hannibal. “You don’t think the Romans will attack?” he asked.
/> “No, these walls are impregnable to a Roman attack,” Hannibal said. “We have little to fear from a direct assault. Anyway, I see no scaling ladders carried by any of the Roman troops. Do you? Where is their battering ram?”
Boodes strained over the battlements, squinting toward the Roman lines. “By the gods, you are right!” he exclaimed.
“No,” Hannibal continued. “I think something far worse may be happening here. But I hesitate to express it.”
“Far worse than storming the walls?”
“I think someone may be planning to betray the city,” Hannibal said. “This deployment is an obvious deception. Look!” Roman trumpets sounded in the distance, and Hannibal gestured towards the enemy line, which had begun to retreat back toward the siege works.
“By the gods!” Boodes said again.
“Rather transparent, really. We will double the guards on these gates, Boodes. Our most loyal troops.”
“Yes, sir, General.”
“I may not have fared so well in our battle with these Romans, my friend Boodes, but I can still deliver a crippling blow. Perhaps we should inform General Hamilcar.”
Chapter 10
For months, the people of Lilybaeum had been waiting for the armada. When it was finally spotted rising upon the curving horizon of the sea, the city shut down and a festival atmosphere erupted in the streets. People lined the thoroughfares, hung out of windows and crowded on balconies. Girls threw flowers at the feet of the soldiers as they marched past. At first merely relieved to be off the stinking ships, the soldiers grew more and more buoyant as they gradually became aware of the enthusiasm of the crowd. Some of them began leaping out of their marching columns to catch the flowers of the pretty girls and the girls cupped their hands over their mouths in surprise and looked away, blushing. Wine vendors did a brisk business in the plazas, shouting out to the townsmen who rushed past on their way to glimpse the procession as it snaked its way up from the harbor. The soldiers’ eyes grew wide and their lips spread into grins as they began to contemplate the opportunities offered by the great Sicilian port city.
The people had never seen anything like it. Prior to the army’s arrival, they had been concerned only with the rumors of Roman armies ravaging the countryside. But once they saw the magnificent army of Carthage, they forgot their fear and gazed upon the exotic procession in wonder. There were spear-wielding Iberians in scarlet-trimmed tunics, carrying colorful shields full of incomprehensible symbols; there were bodies of savage-looking Celts, of tawny-faced Libyans and African horsemen, troops carrying swords, lances, javelins and some armed only with slings draped over their belts. It was as if the entire world had converged on this one spot in a little corner of western Sicily. But what inspired the greatest awe were the elephants, sixty of them in all, bringing up the rear of the parade. Marching two abreast, each of the awesome beasts was mounted by a single rider and led with ropes by black-skinned handlers. The people watched in astonished silence as the elephants lumbered by, taking their long careful strides, and when they had passed, the people, open-mouthed, suddenly turned and tried to run along beside them. What a show! It was the greatest spectacle Lilybaeum had ever seen.
Leading it all, on his white stallion, was the great General Hanno. Flanked on either side by Yaroah and his other lieutenants, Hanno acknowledged the crowd with stately square-chinned nods — first to his right, then the left — as he rode along between the thick lines of cheering spectators.
“Lilybaeum loves you!” Yaroah said, leaning across his mount close to Hanno’s ear. Even so, he had to shout to make himself heard over the roaring crowd.
Hanno saw Yaroah’s wide grin. “It is a fitting end to the rigors of our training,” he said. The pretty girls were not lost on Hanno either. While he felt their fawning attention, he tried to maintain as regal a demeanor as possible. But Yaroah’s comment caused a smile to spread across his face. When his eyes fell on the faces of a couple of beauties who had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, he thought for a moment that they might faint.
His status throughout the empire had achieved near mythic proportions. General Hanno was the embodiment of martial virtue and courage, a symbol more than a man. He was careful to cultivate that image wherever he went, whether riding through the streets of Carthage or in a dusty field somewhere in a far-flung corner of the empire. He knew the fear that had existed in this city over the Roman presence on the island. For five months, the governor had been deluging the Council with his anxious missives — as annoyingly persistent as those from Hannibal Gisgo himself. As unnecessary as they were, if the general’s presence could iron the man’s resolve, then he was happy to show his face conspicuously in the streets.
But it was unnecessary. The first thing he did after they had disembarked was to point out to Yaroah the massive walls of the city. To do so from the vantage point of the quayside of the great harbor was perhaps even more fitting because together — impregnable walls and grand harbor — they made Lilybaeum unassailable. The city had nothing to fear from the Romans.
But this was a fact that was lost on the decision-makers back in Carthage. He had tried to convince them that a small garrison here — as well as in Panormus and other strong port cities of western Sicily — could hold out indefinitely against a Roman siege. Unable to blockade the harbor, the Romans would soon lose heart and go home, he had told them. It was this fact that made Acragas expendable. As it was, it now represented a very expensive mistake — Hannibal Gisgo’s expensive mistake. It did not break Hanno’s heart that Hannibal was the one paying for it now. Hanno was happy to let the man stew in his own pot.
He smiled when he remembered how he had tricked Hannibal into putting his garrison into Acragas. Hannibal’s constant haranguing of the Council for an army to carry out some harebrained venture — to attack Messana, Hanno thought it was, which he had deemed impossible to hold in any case — had grown so annoying that Hanno had finally pretended to acquiesce, if only to end the squabbling. Donning the garb of reasonable compromiser before the entire Council, he had offered Hannibal the advance guard of the army he was in the process of raising to save Acragas, since Hannibal had often pointed to the potential loss of that city as some kind of catastrophe. He had stated his case so eloquently, forcefully and graciously that it was not long before every member of the Council — even those most firmly opposed to him — was insisting this course of action be followed.
Oh, it was delicious! Even after all these months, the memory of Hannibal’s open-mouthed horror never failed to bring a smile to his face. In a life of already countless blessings, it was one of life’s special gifts to him.
The pretty girls threw flowers onto the pavement before him so Hanno’s horse high-stepped upon a field of rose petals as the general led the procession toward the palace. He knew full well that there were councilmen, perhaps many councilmen, who would blanch to see this kind of adulation heaped on the general. But Hanno also knew that all he had to do was to pull back the curtains to let the Council hear the roar of the crowd to keep them in their place. But if the adoring crowds caused them discomfort, it was the love for him by his army that caused them fear. He could sense the marching columns behind him growing unruly in their mirth, but they had worked for long months in the hot sun of the brown hills of Carthage. He would not withhold a little amusement for them now. He knew they would follow him anywhere. The Council absolutely knew it.
“We will loot the treasury of Syracuse before we are through!” he had assured them before boarding the ships to a chorus of cheers.
Hyperbole? Perhaps. But by the time Hanno led a similar procession through the streets of Messana, he would not only be the savior of Carthage’s ill-starred second-tier general Hannibal Gisgo, but restorer of all that Hannibal had bungled away, including the alliance with King Hiero. And the plunder along the way, he had assured the troops, would make them all rich.
The palace loomed just ahead now. It stood high atop a wide set of marb
le steps, flanked on either side by a series of soaring pillars, their polished surfaces carved full of gods and warriors and their pinnacles festooned with intricately-fashioned images of power. At the top of the steps stood the white-robed Carthaginian governor of Lilybaeum and his wife, accompanied by a myriad of attendants arrayed in rows behind them.
Hanno dismounted, while officers arranged an advance guard of soldiers into formation at the base of the steps. Then Yaroah and Hanno’s lieutenants dismounted and followed their general up the broad steps, a small flock of pigeons suddenly taking wing at their approach. A hush fell over the expansive plaza, and the call to attention by the Carthaginian officers echoed hollowly throughout the square. Hanno carried his plumed helmet under one arm. His white cloak flapped in the breeze behind him and his bronze muscled breastplate gleamed in the sun as he made his straight-backed ascent to the governor above.
“General Hanno,” the governor began, his strong voice ringing out into the silence of the crowded plaza. He produced a laurel crown and held it high over Hanno’s bare head. “Rome trembles at your approach!”
With those words, Hanno bowed, and the governor placed the crown on the general’s head. Hanno turned to face the masses and raised a hand in salute. Immediately, the crowd erupted. The soldiers began pounding their spears against their shields and gave out a deep-throated roar that Hanno could feel reverberate inside his chest. A wave of exaltation soon spread out of the plaza and sped down the streets in which the soldiers of the procession stood. They held their weapons high and cheered.
The governor leaned in close and uttered a word of congratulations to Hanno and Hanno nodded to him over his shoulder. He felt a soft hand alight on his other shoulder. When he turned to look, he saw the governor’s beautiful wife smiling at him. She wore a floor-length soft linen chiton, belted under her breasts. Her hair, glistening black like raven feathers, was intricately braided and piled high on her head in the fashion of a lady of means. Hanno returned her smile. For an instant, he thought it would not be such a poor outcome to wind up one of these governors, living like a prince out on the frontiers of the empire. He looked away discreetly and, still waving to the crowd, turned to Yaroah.
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