“Prepare a camp outside the city for the men,” he told him. “I think we may stay here a few days.”
“A few days, General?” Yaroah asked, with a start. “But what about Acragas?”
“Acragas is not going anywhere,” Hanno said, and turned his beaming face back to the adoring crowd — who thought he looked like a god.
Three days later, General Hanno, dressed only in his tunic, strode quickly into the reception room adjoining his private apartments in the palace at Lilybaeum. Yaroah rose and followed him solicitously as he passed.
“So where is this Euphemus?” Hanno asked impatiently as he made his way to the throne in the center of the room.
“Yes, sorry to disturb you, General,” Yaroah began. “But Euphemus has some information you need to hear.”
Hanno sat and, running a palm over his eyes, yawned deeply. That was all he needed, yet another supplicant. Perhaps another land dispute in which the vying nobles accuse one another of harboring Roman sympathies. To call it merely tiresome would be to elevate tedium. If it had been anyone other than Yaroah fetching him from his repose, the man would have been flogged.
“Very well,” Hanno said, coming out of the yawn and smacking his lips. “Where is he?”
“Here, my lord,” the little man called Euphemus said. He ambled forward. Before he could get more than a couple of steps, Hanno’s guard rushed out and halted him. Their faces fixed with stern expressions, they crossed spears over Euphemus’ chest, twenty feet from the general. Euphemus looked nervously from one guard to the other, both of whom were a head taller than he was.
“Speak,” Hanno commanded, his voice echoing hollowly throughout the spacious, largely empty chamber.
Euphemus, sensing Hanno’s impatience, began speaking quickly, repeating his name and telling him he was the ruler of Herbesos and how honored he was—
“Get to your point!” Hanno snapped.
“Ah, yes! Of course, my lord,” Euphemus stammered, peering over the crossed spears. “My point…”
“Just tell him what you told me,” Yaroah coaxed.
“Yes, of course.” Euphemus bowed, first to Yaroah, and then to Hanno. “Of course… of course…”
Hanno sighed deeply.
“By the gods, spit it out, man!” Yaroah shouted.
Euphemus started, and glanced nervously at each man. “It is about the Roman supply stockpile, my lord,” he said finally. “I have news about the Roman supply stockpile in my city.”
Hanno sat up, suddenly interested. “The Roman supply stockpile in your city?”
“Yes,” the man said, smiling broadly when he saw Hanno’s impatience melt away. He put his hands together and gave a shallow bow. “In my city, as I said, Herbesos. My city is supplying the Roman armies besieging Acragas.”
Hanno nodded approvingly to the smiling Yaroah. Then he looked back at Euphemus. This was far better than expected. Far better. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s take this one item at a time.”
“Yes, my lord,” Euphemus said, bowing.
“Your city is called Herbesos.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And where is this Herbesos?”
“It is a day’s march north of the besieged city. North of Acragas.”
“Ah!” Hanno said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. And you are supplying the Roman army out of your city?”
“Yes! The Roman allies in Sicily bring all their supplies to my city — their wheat, their livestock — all of it! And they draw on this to feed the Roman army.”
“And why are you telling me this? Just to let me know that you are in league with our enemies? That you have been working against the interests of Carthage?”
Euphemus’ eyes widened in terror. “No, no, my lord! Oh, no, of course not…of course not…” He bowed at least three times. For a moment, he resembled a child’s toy rocking horse. “No, I come here to offer you Herbesos. I have traveled far to give it to you. The city, Roman supplies, everything!” Euphemus swallowed hard.
“Yaroah,” Hanno called. “Bring this man some water, would you?”
Yaroah motioned and one of the servants left the room and came back with a tray holding a pitcher and cup. He gave Euphemus the cup and filled it.
“Thank you, my lord,” Euphemus said, and drank deeply. He smiled up at Yaroah and Hanno when he had finished.
“Now tell me, Euphemus,” Hanno began, leaning forward. “Why shouldn’t I just have you arrested and then take this Herbesos myself?”
Euphemus waved his hands, his eyes growing wide again. “Oh, no, no… This is much easier. There will be no fighting, no laying siege. There is only a small Roman garrison. My soldiers will easily subdue them and open the gates to your men. You just walk in and have it. I’m giving you the city, the whole thing. Without Herbesos, the Romans will be without supplies. You see?”
Hanno sat back and smiled. “How can I trust a man who has been supplying the Romans?”
“But I had no choice,” Euphemus pleaded. “I had no army to oppose them. There was no Carthaginian army in Sicily — except the little one in Acragas. I had to do what the Romans said, or they would have razed Herbesos.”
“And now there is a great Carthaginian army,” Hanno smiled.
“Yes, exactly, my lord. My city cannot stand up to this army any more than it could the Roman. And the Romans cannot either! So I give you Herbesos, my lord. I offer you great loyalty. I am not an enemy of Carthage. I hate the Romans, my lord.”
“Great loyalty,” Hanno repeated, laughing. “Yaroah, how far is it to Heraclea Minoa?”
“Three days’ march, General.”
“Excellent. Euphemus, you will accompany us to Heraclea, and we shall make a triumphant entry into Herbesos from there. How does that sound?”
“Excellent, my lord!” Euphemus lifted his empty cup to his lips. He tried to drink, but finding the cup empty, bowed instead, first to Hanno and then to Yaroah.
“Get the men ready, Yaroah. We march in the morning.”
It was only a shallow ridge, but it was enough to conceal one thousand armed men. Yaroah and his lieutenant crept forward and lay on their bellies, gazing at the walled city of Herbesos from the lip of the rising ground.
“Wait for the smoke,” Yaroah said. “That is our signal to move. Euphemus will have the gates opened at the last instant.”
“But why all the secrecy?” the lieutenant asked. “Why can’t we just march into the city?”
“Some elements within may still be loyal to the Romans, and Euphemus wants to avoid bloodshed.”
Behind a screen of cavalry, they had marched over twenty miles from Heraclea Minoa to arrive at the city, careful to avoid the Romans at Acragas. Once, they had come within sight of the rising smoke of the campfires of the Roman siege lines, but they had then veered off to the north again. Their mission was to take possession of Herbesos, not to engage the Romans. The cavalry, as it turned out, was an unnecessary precaution. They had encountered no roving Roman pickets or scouts.
The one thousand spear-wielding infantrymen stood waiting, tired but ready. Yaroah could hear the sporadic clattering and clanking of weapons and armor behind him as he watched the city. Night was quickly descending. If they were going to enter the city yet this day, Euphemus was going to have to hurry. Yaroah did not have great faith in the man’s abilities, although he did not question his sincerity. Hanno had made it clear to him that if he failed to deliver the city, the Carthaginians would raze it — the exact thing with which the Romans had threatened him.
“There it is!” Yaroah said when he saw the puffs of smoke. They rose one after another over the high wall of Herbesos. He and his lieutenant stood and the one thousand marched forward onto the crest of the rise in a six-deep line.
“Forward!” Yaroah cried, raising his hand and urging the line towards the city. “To the gates!”
Yaroah and his lieutenant stayed on the ridge and watched the soldiers advance in good order. They had
gone only a few steps when their officers broke out into a jog. The soldiers followed closely behind, their line contracting and deepening as they approached the closed gates. Then the pace quickened until the soldiers were nearly sprinting. When they had approached to within twenty yards the immense wooden doors began to creak inward. The Carthaginians did not wait. Letting out a howl of a war cry, they struck the opening with the full weight of their now massively deep column, forcing the doors apart. The men inside were immediately thrown to the ground, their eyes wide with shock at the unexpected onslaught.
Once inside, the infantry fanned out to the left and right, running down any man that stood in their way, and a powerful column plunged straight ahead into the heart of the courtyard inside the doors. Spears bristling, the soldiers leveled the men of Herbesos with their shield wall, plowing them under, the rear ranks spearing the fallen men as they passed. Overcoming the shock of the attack, some of the defenders instinctively drew swords to resist, but these were immediately cut down. The men who remained threw down their weapons, even those who had never been inclined to use them.
Almost as soon as it had begun, the assault was over. Dead bodies littered the courtyard. Men on their knees begged for their lives. The Carthaginians ordered the defenders down off the walls and disarmed them. Even as the panicked cries of citizens began to fade down the alleys and streets away from the courtyard, Yaroah and his lieutenant, both mounted, came riding slowly through the gates, their horses leaving bloody hoof prints on the pavement as they tracked through the rivers of flowing blood. The soldiers raised their clenched fists and cheered when they saw him.
“It is our first victory in Sicily,” Yaroah said proudly to his lieutenant. “Remember this day!” Then he turned to the men, and exclaimed, “Tonight we feast on Roman spoils!”
A cheer went up from the soldiers.
“The Romans are in for a little surprise the next time they try to draw from this stockpile,” he said, with a smile.
Yaroah’s lieutenant scanned the bloody courtyard.
“All these men were Roman sympathizers?” he asked.
Yaroah pursed his lips and shrugged. “They’re not anymore,” he said, noticing at that moment Euphemus among the dead.
Chapter 11
November 262 B.C.
“What?” Megellus started in his seat. “But that is double the amount we had agreed upon!”
“The Roman soldiers did not have the shitting sickness then,” Belenus explained calmly. “In your words, your army had everything it needed, even entertainment. My price was low because the need was low. Things have changed.”
The muscles of Megellus’ neck stood out like cords of rope and his face had turned a deep shade of red. He looked to be holding in an expanding mouthful of words about to burst. “You stinking Gaul! I won’t pay it! I’ll have you flogged instead!”
Belenus did not flinch, although he knew every man in the tent was just itching to receive the order from the consul. But he knew the consul would not give it.
“The last time I was here, the Carthaginian army was in Africa,” Belenus said. “Now it is in Sicily. Roman supply convoys from Herbesos arrived daily. Now, Carthaginians gorge themselves on your stores while your soldiers starve. Any food your soldiers eat just produces more shit anyway.”
Megellus stared at him with rage in his eyes, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say, as Belenus knew, for he had only told the truth.
“The last time I was here, there was no hurry,” he went on, encouraged. “Now, time is critical. Tomorrow night is when we must open the gates — or it will be too late.”
“It was you who frittered away our time!” Megellus spat. “We could have done this a week ago.”
“Your soldiers did not have the shitting sickness then,” Belenus said. “You merely would have had me flogged, as seems to be your inclination. Besides, it is not so easy getting in and out of the city.”
Megellus tensed. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair. Throughout the tent, Megellus’ guard remained on alert, standing on the balls of their feet. For an instant, Belenus believed that Megellus would finally carry out his threat and have him arrested, although he was careful not to betray his fear. His face remained calm. Finally, Megellus took a deep breath and sat back. His fingers relaxed and the tension in the air dissipated.
“You say that after tomorrow night, it will be too late,” Megellus began, in a new airy tone. “And why would this be? Why after frittering away our time do we now have to act in such haste?”
“You know what I say is true,” Belenus said. “You yourself can see the condition of your army, and the Carthaginians have not even yet arrived. They have taken your supply base and that means that their army is nearby. They may come here tomorrow. The first thing they will do will be to throw their cavalry around you. Then it is the Roman army under siege. Then it is too late. You know this to be true.”
“How do you know about our supply base?”
“I have eyes,” Belenus said. “From up there,” he motioned towards the unseen hilltop acropolis beyond the tent walls, “I have watched your wagon trains. I don’t see them anymore. I wondered why at first. But now I see the condition of your troops, and it becomes clear that we don’t have much time.”
Megellus considered for a moment.
“Laberius!” he called, and an officer came over to him. “Can we get this man what he asks?”
“Yes, of course, Consul,” Laberius said.
“I’m going to give you half of what you ask—”
“Half!” Belenus started.
“If you will allow me to finish,” Megellus said, soothingly. “I’ll give you half of what you ask tonight. The rest will be paid after we have taken the city.”
“Half now,” Belenus repeated, thoughtfully.
“Yes. Tomorrow night at sunset, I want those gates opened. The gates on the Heraclea road. Are we clear?”
“For half now,” Belenus agreed, “you get the gates on the Heraclea road opened at sunset. I will come see you afterwards for the rest.”
In the evenings, many men inside Acragas came out to watch the Roman deployments. None had been as flamboyant as the first but all had merited a certain amount of interest, if not entertainment. As a precaution, extra men had been assigned to the walls opposite the Romans, and towards dusk of each day, men from the city would join them to watch the enemy march out from their lines. But no one was fooled anymore into thinking they were going to attack. There was no tension as there had been early on, no grasping tightly onto weapons, no rushing to weak-points and reaching for stones. Juba began to suspect that they were trying to goad the Carthaginians out to fight them, but he did not know what the change in strategy signified. All he knew was that the troops inside the city were in no condition for battle and could probably not hold out much longer in any case.
Juba had watched that evening’s deployment with only mild interest. Tonight he was serving his watch up on the acropolis, light duty that more and more had been assigned to Masinissa’s Numidians. But for the dagger in his belt, he was armed only with a single javelin that he used as a walking stick as he paced under the shadow of the Temple of Athena and along the lip of the precipice. He felt no sense of urgency in guarding against any attack from that quarter of the city. He supposed some skilled unit of mountaineering Romans could scale the rocks and rush the gates from the inside. But this seemed such a remote possibility that he told himself he was watching for deserters, if he was watching for anything at all.
Despite its seeming pointlessness, he was glad for the duty. The alternatives were the largely sleepless nights he had suffered since Gervas’ death. The same images troubled his mind night after night. As the months passed, he constantly mulled over the circumstances of Gervas’ capture. That was what had started the trouble. If Juba had been able to prevent his capture, Gervas would still be alive. It seemed to Juba that he should have gone back for him when he realized that Gervas
had been unhorsed. The more time passed, the more reasonable this regret appeared, until, in his mind, it seemed a simple matter to have simply ridden back and scooped the boy up.
“But you would yourself have been captured,” Gauda reminded him. “Or killed. We were vastly outnumbered — and lightly armed for battle. You forget how many of the enemy there were.”
“I could have fought my way back to him.” Juba remembered fewer and fewer of the enemy. Soon, there was nothing between him and the unconscious Gervas but an expanse of empty ground.
“You killed many Romans in our battle with them,” Gauda assured him.
“I wish Gervas had been killed in that field that day, instead of captured by the Romans,” Juba said.
“You cannot change an event once it has happened,” Gauda replied. “You can wish it, but not even the gods can change it.”
He knew it was true; but he did not always believe it.
He gritted his teeth in anger when his thoughts turned away from the capture and to the image burned in his mind of Gervas nailed to the doors. He thought of the Celt, the tattooed one. “The Celt will die,” Gauda had said. And he thought of Hannibal Gisgo. “I will kill him myself, if I have to.” He was starting to fear he would never have the opportunity. But his thirst to avenge Gervas burned as strongly as ever.
The night was quiet, and there was little to divert his thoughts but the stars and the innumerable campfires of the Roman encirclement below. He approached the precipice and looked over. It was not unscalable, by any means. But he could not believe the report of the Numidian who had deserted from the same post Juba now walked. No Numidian had been killed in the battle with the Romans and none had died due to disease or want during the siege — but one had vanished, presumably through desertion. This Juba had never believed, although he could see now that it was at least physically possible. It was just inconceivable to him that any of Masinissa’s Numidians would choose to sit out the war in chains, for there was certainly no place in the Roman army for a Numidian horseman. It was a puzzling mystery. Perhaps the fellow had simply fallen over the edge in the night, Juba thought, suddenly encouraged by the notion. It was, now that he thought of it, the most likely scenario.
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