It was at that moment that Juba spied a shadow rise up over the precipice some distance away. An absurd fear gripped him. For an instant, he imagined that it was the ghost of the lost guard, summoned by his thoughts. Then he realized that what he saw was a flesh and blood human being. He only moved like a ghost as he soundlessly clambered over the rocks cresting the precipice.
Ghost or man, Juba ducked down and crouched in the shadows to watch the lone figure. Outlined against the sky, he saw the obvious long hair, like a drooping mop of straw atop the man’s head, and the glistening of sweat on the man’s shirtless torso. He felt certain that it was one of the Celts. He was not surprised, but when he thought he glimpsed the faint tracings of tattoos all up and down the man’s arms and on his forehead, a sudden flash of nervous excitement burst inside his gut. It was his Celt! Juba resisted an impulse to rush the man and cut him down where he stood. That was not how he wanted this to happen. He had imagined this moment many times. An anonymous death was not what he had in mind for the Celt. He wanted him to know why he died.
But why was he climbing up the precipice? Into the city?
Juba tightened his grip on his javelin. It was not his weapon of choice for this encounter. Made for long distance killing, he would have liked something heavier for a face-to-face duel — a long blade would have been ideal, a blade such as he now saw the Celt himself carried. No matter. The length of the javelin would make up for its frailty.
“Halt!” Juba called as he came out from the shadows. He saw that the Celt was still breathing hard from his climb. Juba approached him cautiously, his javelin leveled at the height of the man’s gut. “What business have you here?” Juba asked.
The Celt started and instinctively reached for the sword at his belt, but stopped short of drawing it. He stood with his hand on the hilt, his muscles tensed. Large and strongly built, the Celt stared at Juba from under a heavy brow, sweat glistening on his face. His tattoos gave him a dark and cruel look. Juba saw that mistaking the man for a ghost was all wrong — he looked more like a demon who had just climbed up out of the pit. Juba was surprised to feel a twinge of fear in facing him.
“What is it to you?” the Celt asked.
“I am on guard duty here,” Juba said. “It is my responsibility as to who comes and goes. What were you doing down there?” he asked, indicating the precipice with the tip of his javelin.
“Climbing,” the Celt said. “Now stand aside.”
“In the middle of the night?” Juba asked.
The Celt drew his sword and pointed it at Juba. “I’m not asking you, Numidian. Stand aside.”
“I’ll not stand aside,” Juba said. He pointed the javelin at the Celt and crouched, ready to strike. He was glad to see that even though the Celt was bigger and his blade strong, the javelin had a longer reach. The Celt stood poised on the balls of his feet.
“We have met before,” Juba said.
The Celt squinted at Juba and tried to remember.
“The day of the riot,” Juba reminded him. “You unjustly accused one of my troop and had him arrested.”
The Celt smiled. “There was nothing unjust about it. The Numidian was a spy,” he said. “Yes, I remember it well, although I do not remember you.”
“Because of you, he is now dead.”
“He received the punishment given spies. Now stand aside. I have no quarrel with you, friend.”
“I vowed vengeance, and I will have it.”
Juba lunged at the Celt with the javelin, but the Celt easily slapped it aside with the flat of his sword. Juba was surprised and dismayed at the speed and ease with which the Celt handled the blade. His own thrust, he felt, had been clumsily made and too easily repulsed. The Celt now went over to the attack. He swung the blade swiftly toward Juba’s face. Juba was just able to raise the shaft of his javelin in time to block the blow. But the sharp edge of the sword cracked the javelin in half, and Juba was left with just a spear-pointed stub with which to fight.
The Celt lunged again, this time a thrust to Juba’s midsection. He danced out of the way and made a swipe with his spear-stub. The attack missed, and in the next instant Juba saw stars when the Celt delivered a backhanded blow with the hilt of his sword, which struck the Numidian’s temple. Juba fell to one knee, the world spinning. Then his legs collapsed and he landed on his back, where he laid feeling as though he were on a ship rising and falling in the deep troughs of a rough sea.
The Celt stood above his prostrate form and kicked the javelin stub away. Juba heard it clatter uselessly out of his reach. Opening his eyes, he saw the demon-Celt towering over him against a swirling black sky.
The Celt pressed the point of the sword against Juba’s throat. Juba was certain that he was going to die. But instead of carving his throat open, the Celt raised the sword and with a flick of his wrist brought it down close along the side of Juba’s head. Juba felt a sting of pain where the razor sharp blade sliced into the flesh of his ear.
“The next time you cup your hand to the hole where your ear used to be, you will remember Belenus,” the Celt said. He stepped placidly over Juba’s motionless body as if he were nothing more than a sleeping dog and ambled away into the night.
Juba reached for his ear and felt the blood pool warmly between his fingers.
“The land where my sheep graze overlooks the Roman lines,” the shepherd from Acragas told Hanno. When the Romans arrived, the man had taken refuge in Heraclea Minoa, he had said. He was thrilled that the Carthaginians had come, for he wanted his land back. “From the hilltop called ‘Toros’ you can see all the Romans. They will never attack you on this hill, but you can easily sweep down upon them. I can guide you there. I will show you the way.”
“Indeed you shall, old man,” Hanno said gravely, trying to match the shepherd’s earnestness.
The look on the shepherd’s face was a mixture of glee and deep bitterness. He was obviously pleased to be accepted as the army’s guide. It was just as obvious that he hated and wanted to punish the Romans. Apparently, he felt that Hanno’s Carthaginian army was just the instrument he needed to carry out his revenge. He was as pleased as if he was going to lead it himself.
The sun had fully set by the time Hanno had traveled down from the city to the camp to confer with his generals. In addition, Yaroah had brought him both the shepherd and the captain of the scouts. Even though Yaroah had already briefed him on what the men had to say, the general was eager to march in the morning and wanted to hear from the men himself.
“The Romans have suffered greatly from our seizure of Herbesos,” the captain of the scouts told him. “Disease is beginning to thin their ranks. It is only the efforts of Hiero of Syracuse that keeps them supplied at all.”
“Hiero,” Hanno repeated, thoughtfully. “We will have to cut the roads leading east then. You’ve encountered no resistance, you say? No Roman cavalry?”
“There is very little Roman activity outside their siege lines, General. We should have little trouble cutting their supply lines, even in the east. Very little trouble.”
“Very good, then,” Hanno said, rising. “Tomorrow we confront the enemy, gentlemen. Cavalry!” he called to his cavalry commander, who immediately stood to attention. “Rest well tonight. Tomorrow we reclaim our friend’s grazing land!”
Hanno threw an arm around the shoulders of the old shepherd, while everyone in the tent laughed and the shepherd beamed.
Once they had cleared the doors, the two guards flung Iliatos into Hannibal’s reception room. The aging Celtic chieftain, stumbled forward on shaky legs, but caught himself at the last moment before falling prostrate at the feet of the general. He straightened slowly to his full height and glared at the guards over his shoulder.
“Guards!” Hannibal snapped. “Chieftain Iliatos is not our prisoner. He is our guest and must be treated with respect.” He rushed forward and put a hand on Iliatos’ shoulder. “My humble apologies, Iliatos,” he said. “My orders were clearly misunderstood.”
Frowning, Iliatos straightened his tunic. “I am not used to such treatment,” he said. “I am the chieftain of all the Celts in Acragas, and not some street criminal to be summoned before the magistrate.”
“Again, I apologize, my friend,” Hannibal said, smiling broadly. He stood eye to eye with Iliatos, one of the few Carthaginians who matched the Celts’ size. He reflected that Iliatos probably looked older than he actually was. His face was lined and leathery. Deep creases radiated from the corners of his blue eyes, which seemed stuck in a permanent squint from long seasons in the sun. But the eyes themselves reflected a youth and strength that was contradicted by his weatherworn features. “My orders were for a friendly meeting only,” he went on.
Iliatos, satisfied, allowed the faint traces of a smile to play upon his lips. But his eyes continued to burn with pride and cunning, Hannibal thought. Hannibal allowed himself a smile when he saw Iliatos look around for a seat and found none. Hannibal turned and sat on Pelitas’ throne in the middle of the room while Iliatos remained standing. Pelitas, Hamilcar and Boodes looked on from their place around a table at the side of the room where they had been conferring.
“I wanted to talk to you, Iliatos, about these Roman deployments. I’m concerned about them, about what they might mean.”
“They are clearly inviting us to attack them, my lord,” Iliatos said. “If that is what you wanted to discuss, then you must know that my Celts are ready to fight them at any time. Most of my men would welcome it.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Hannibal said. “But I am more skeptical of Roman intentions. I agree that they want us to come out, if only because we must open our doors to do so. I don’t know how interested they are in fighting, though.”
Iliatos glanced toward the window. It opened to the west towards the Roman camp, just barely visible past the rooftops of the city and towering walls beyond. The sun was beginning to set. Iliatos licked his dry lips.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Of course you do,” Hannibal said. “I think the Romans are expecting us to open our doors to them. One of these nights, their little mock deployments will turn into a dash for our open gates. Doesn’t it seem that way to you?”
“But who would do such a thing? Surely you’re not considering a surrender?”
“I don’t know who would do such a thing, Iliatos. But it is my job to see that no one does. Do you understand now?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Well, I’m sure you do. But I must be certain, so I will tell you this. Your men have been undisciplined troublemakers since we first came to Acragas. Their grievances seem to center on a lack of money. Your men’s grievances are obviously your concern. My concern is what such unhappy men might be capable of during this time of trial. I fear some of your men might be willing to collude with our enemies—”
“No!” Iliatos shouted.
Hannibal held up a hand, and continued. “I personally don’t understand these grievances. You have been paid in advance for your troops’ service in the city, per our agreement with you. Yet still they complain. Perhaps you would like me to talk to your men—”
“Oh, no, General,” Iliatos said. “No, no, that is not necessary. I will speak to my men. They are indeed greedy, I admit.”
“In addition, I have decreed that from this moment forward possession of Roman coin is a capital crime, punishable by…by what, Boodes?”
“Crucifixion, General,” Boodes said from the side of the room.
“Punishable by crucifixion,” Hannibal repeated. “Not only for the men found to be in possession of the coins, but for their leaders as well.”
Iliatos said nothing. Hannibal saw the chieftain swallow, although his expression remained impassive.
“Do you understand me, Iliatos?”
“Yes, of course. My men have no Roman coins.”
“I could have your men searched,” Hannibal said. He paused, studying Iliatos’ face, which remained stony. “But I won’t, because I don’t think it will be necessary. You will talk to your men.
“This goes for the citizens of Acragas as well, Pelitas,” Hannibal then called to the governor. “It is up to you to enforce this among the citizenry.” Pelitas bowed, and then Hannibal said to the room, “Any Roman coins found in the hands of citizen or soldier is a death sentence.” Then to Iliatos in particular: “Leaders face the same punishment as their men, Iliatos. Remember that.”
“I have no fear of this decree, General,” Iliatos said.
“Good,” Hannibal said. He climbed down off the throne and walked over and stood close to Iliatos.
“However, there is a chance that our original agreement was unfair to you and your men,” Hannibal said. “Otherwise, there would be no need for them to complain so. I agree that it is unnecessary for me to speak to your men directly, at least for now. However, I am willing to offer you an additional five hundred gold pieces to rectify the shortfalls in our original agreement.”
“Five hundred gold pieces,” Iliatos repeated. His expression remained inscrutable, but Hannibal thought he detected a gleam in his eye.
“Payable upon our, ah, rescue from this city. Do you understand me?”
“I will need this in writing,” Iliatos said.
“Of course. Boodes,” Hannibal called. “Work something up in writing for the chieftain, would you?”
“Yes, sir.” Boodes found a parchment and at once began writing. When he finished, he delivered the parchment to Hannibal.
From outside came the distant clamor of trumpets and war cries.
“There they go again!” Hamilcar called.
Outside they could see the Romans begin their deployment. Iliatos glanced toward the window. Gauzy white curtains rustled gently in the evening breeze. A sheen of sweat stood out on Iliatos’ forehead. Hannibal scrutinized him closely and handed him the parchment. Iliatos took it and, after being dismissed, strode quickly from the room
Shaking their heads, Boodes and Hamilcar watched him go.
“There goes the most corrupt man in Acragas,” Hannibal said.
Iliatos snatched Belenus’ little leather bag of Roman coins from the table and flung it to the hard-packed earth floor of their barracks. “It is worthless!” he cried.
He had run all the way from the palace and found his Celts sitting around the table grimly preparing their weapons for their imminent betrayal of the city.
“Worthless!” he repeated.
Belenus sprang from his chair. The sword he had been sharpening fell to the floor. “What are you doing?”
“I am calling off the operation!” Iliatos said. “Has anyone made their way to the gates yet?” He strode to the door and looked up and down the street, and then rushed back inside. “If so, we must stop them at once.”
“Calling it off? Are you mad?” Belenus scooped up the bag and held it tightly to his chest.
“The Carthaginians have outlawed the possession of Roman coins.”
“So what?” Belenus said.
“So what? It is too dangerous now, that’s what! The Carthaginians wanted to come here and search us. They know what you have planned, Belenus. You have to get rid of those coins and we must call off this operation.”
“You have become a timid old man, Iliatos,” Belenus said. “You want to throw this away? For what?” Belenus waved the bag of coins in front of the chieftain’s face. “What do the Carthaginians have to offer? So far nothing but death and disease. And this that I hold here is only half of what the Romans have offered!” He waved the bag again.
“Here!” Iliatos rushed out of the room and came back moments later carrying a small wooden chest. “The Carthaginians have paid us now.” He opened the chest and brought out handfuls of Carthaginian coins. He began stacking them on the table. “Here is what the Carthaginians have given us, as a show of good faith.”
“It is only what they owed us,” Belenus said.
“And a promise of three-hundred m
ore,” Iliatos said quickly. The other men gathered around the table with interest. Iliatos was encouraged. “Three-hundred more coins,” he said. “Not those worthless Roman coins that will merely get us all killed.”
“Promises…” Belenus sneered.
“Give us our cut,” Caratacus said. He sheathed his sword as Iliatos began counting out a single share. He pushed the little pile of coins to Caratacus.
“Of course,” Iliatos said. “Here it is. Everyone gets a cut.” He began counting out more coins as the other Celts pressed tightly around the table.
Belenus looked at the Celts in amazement. “You’re giving up our plan for a handful of coins and Carthaginian promises?”
“You heard Iliatos,” Caratacus said, moving toward Belenus. “It is by luck alone that your plan has not gotten us all killed already.”
“It is Iliatos who will get us killed!” Belenus said, suddenly lunging toward the chieftain. Caratacus stepped between them and held Belenus at arm’s length by the shoulders.
Iliatos stood. “Let him go, Caratacus.” He put a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He had grown tired of always trying to placate Belenus. He wished the man had just deserted instead of embroiling them all in his treasonous plan. He had just about led all the Celts to ruin, and Iliatos was ready now to put an end to Belenus’ scheming once and for all.
“I won’t,” Caratacus said. “There is no sense in us fighting each other.”
Belenus glared at Iliatos, but he did not struggle against Caratacus’ grasp. “The Romans will surely kill us all now,” Belenus said.
“They would have killed us anyway,” Iliatos said. He sat back down and continued counting out shares into little stacks. “The first thing they will do after taking the city is to find you and kill you, Belenus. They wouldn’t pay you the other half. In fact, they would then take back what they had already given you, over your dead body.”
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