The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  The actor bowed deeply, and when the applause had played itself out, he straightened and said, “I give you the playwright Philemon of Athens!”

  The cheers for Philemon were even greater than for Hiero. Archimedes helped the old man to his feet and stood by his side, grasping Philemon’s elbow to support him. Philemon held out an upraised hand to all parts of the amphitheatre. His flowing shoulder-length white hair and long beard merged gracefully with his elegant white robe. He looked to the entire world the ancient sage. Hiero saw with happiness that the man was beaming as the audience began chanting the name of Philemon.

  In a moment, a hush fell over the audience, and a masked actor, Pan, held center stage.

  “Think of this place as part of Attica…” the horned satyr began, its face frozen in a wicked scowl.

  Hiero settled back and prepared to immerse himself in the performance. Afterwards, he knew, he would be back out in the field drilling his troops for he was obligated by treaty to Rome for a legion-sized unit of men should the current war continue beyond Acragas and into the next year. He had been a general long before he had ever become king, so even in his leisure he found himself mulling the problems of these four-thousand soldiers. His cavalry was superb, having a long tradition of greatness to stimulate it. But his infantry was uninspired and indifferently motivated. At least half of this expeditionary force he was training for Rome was composed of mercenaries, and Hiero’s task was to try to mold them into a confident fighting force. But this was an issue for after the play and he was determined not to let it interfere with his enjoyment.

  But it was a futile hope, for halfway through the play Hiero found a messenger at his shoulder.

  “What are you gaping at, you thunderstruck fool?” an actor bellowed on stage to waves of laughter from the audience.

  “I hate to bother you, your highness,” the messenger whispered in Hiero’s ear. “But this just came in from Acragas.”

  “Acragas?”

  He handed a scroll to the king. Hiero opened it and began reading.

  “It is from the Roman consul, Postumius Megellus,” he told Philistis. “We must go at once.”

  Seeing what had transpired, Archimedes whispered up at the king over his shoulder, “Do you need me?”

  “No, no…You stay, Archimedes. Enjoy the play. Come,” Hiero said to Philistis, and together they stood and left the amphitheatre.

  “What is it?” Philistis asked.

  “The Romans at Acragas have lost their supply stockpile,” Hiero told her, striding quickly toward his waiting litter to take them back to the palace. “A Carthaginian army has arrived and now besieges the Romans. Their siege of Acragas is threatened unless I can supply them.”

  “But have you not been supplying them all along?” Philistis asked.

  “Not as this will require!” Hiero said. Already he was calculating the needs of the forty-thousand Romans. “The situation has grown critical.”

  “But why must you always work so hard for the Romans? Why can’t they fend for themselves? It is their war, not ours!”

  “We don’t have a choice, my dear. These are the terms of our treaty.” As he walked, he held the scroll up as if it were the signed treaty itself. “I must organize a convoy at once. Time is of the essence!”

  At the palace, a group of waiting councilors, scribes and messengers fell into lockstep beside him as Hiero rushed up the long marble steps shouting orders as he went.

  The first attack did not come until the fourth day of the journey, just outside Phintias. Up until this point, the supply convoy, despite its size, had all the feel of one of the usual “milk runs” to Acragas, so named because the four-day supply missions from Syracuse were no more challenging or adventurous than hauling milk from barn to kitchen.

  But the calm was too good to be true, as Gelon had well suspected. Despite the uneventful march, there was not a man among them who would have called this a “milk run” for they knew that the Carthaginians now owned the land they traversed. The Syracusan cavalryman had not expected to make it past Gela without being attacked. He had certainly not expected to arrive unbloodied at Phintias, site of their third night’s camp. From Phintias, it was a mere day’s ride to Acragas. So when the attack finally came, he was not surprised, even though there was little he could do to stop it.

  Gelon rode at the head of the massive supply column, the largest any of the Syracusans had ever seen. A multitude of mules and oxen-drawn wagons hauled thousands of pounds of grain and dried meat in a miles-long convoy escorted by hundreds of cavalry. When he looked back, he could see an unending line of giant-wheeled wagons each pulled by eight oxen and pack-laden mules led in pairs by the mule-handlers. To the south, the sea extended in crystal clarity over the edge of the world while to the north was the ascending land that rose to form the rugged hills of the interior of the island. Like all the cavalrymen, Gelon held a spear and carried a bronze-embossed leather shield strapped across his back. He wore his helmet pushed up over the top of his forehead and he was watching the cavalry escort who were dispersed along the entire length of the marching column when he saw the clouds of dust rise in the distant hills.

  He was not the only cavalryman who saw what was happening. The men of his troop started at the sight, pulling their shields off their backs and lowering their helmets, readying for action.

  “Hold your ground, soldiers!” he called to his men. “They are too far away for us to help. We stay with our wagons.”

  It was part of the pre-arranged plan, but that did not make it any easier to execute. The dust clouds presaged the enemy. As Gelon and his troop watched helplessly, they saw enemy horsemen — a couple dozen or so, at least — attack the cavalry escort, drawing them away from the mules and wagons. As the Syracusans pursued, more of the enemy swooped in from the hills, attacking the supply train itself. Gelon saw mules and oxen fall under the javelins and soon the dust clouds were replaced by black plumes of burning grain and wagons.

  The attack occurred miles from the head of the column. By the time Gelon’s men could arrive there, the enemy would have vanished.

  “We keep moving,” Gelon said, and his men reluctantly trudged on.

  The second attack came shortly after the first. The first attack had mainly been intended to pull the escort away from the supply train, leaving whole segments of the column vulnerable. This time the attack was closer and Gelon again had to warn his men to hold their ground. Once more the enemy sowed destruction — smaller wagons overturned, grain sacks slashed open and wasted on the ground, irreplaceable oxen and mules killed, wagons burned. Men frantically worked to put the flames out, smothering them with their cloaks, as dead mule-handlers, wagon-drivers and their animals littered the roadside.

  As the enemy horsemen streaked away, Gelon noted that the individual raid followed the same pattern as the overall plan of attack. Each raid came in two waves—the first drew off the escort, the second followed up with burning torches and thrusting javelins to hit the grain and animals.

  Gelon scarcely had time to contemplate the value of this insight when he felt a shiver run down his spine. In an instant, he recognized the source: the chest-thumping drum of thundering hoof beats. Lots of them.

  “Prepare for cavalry!” he cried.

  The Syracusans lowered their helmets and readied their shields just as the first of the enemy came galloping over the crest of a hill. The first of the javelins flew high as Gelon and his troop charged. But the more nimble enemy horse peeled away, out of reach of the Syracusan lances. Gelon knew the second wave was coming.

  “Follow me!” he shouted. Gelon noted with pride that his men responded immediately. He knew their blood was up. After helplessly watching two attacks, their impulse to charge home their own attacks was as overwhelming to them as it was to Gelon. Only their thorough training and discipline allowed them to break off their foolish pursuit.

  An idea flashed in Gelon’s mind. Instead of galloping straight back to the wagons, Ge
lon quickly led his men down-column in the opposite direction the first wave attackers had tried to compel them. After they had gone about thirty yards, they turned back. No sooner had they gotten their mounts’ heads around when the second wave of attackers sprang over the crest. The Syracusans were perfectly placed to take them in the flank. Gelon sounded the charge and the Syracusan horse flew into them, two of the charging spearmen scoring direct hits, piercing the astonished raiders with a strength that powerfully unhorsed them, the dead men falling with great thuds of cracking skulls on the rocky soil.

  The second wave attack was blown beyond recovery, as the enemy horsemen threw down their torches and dispersed to the four winds like a flock of birds. The raiders, mounted on fleet horses, were quickly beyond attacking. Gelon led his cavalry back toward the supply column. The hillside was as quiet now as it had been before the attack. Except for the bodies of two dead raiders and some scattered litter — helmets, wicker shields, several javelins — you would never know any attack had occurred there at all.

  “Those dead will hearten the rest of our troops as they pass,” Gelon said bitterly.

  The other troopers looked as though they might like to make a special trip back to the dead to spit on them. Not willing to leave the convoy, they spat in the road instead.

  The supply convoy suffered attack all that afternoon. The head of the column was not struck again, the enemy perhaps noting the results of the first attempt, so Gelon and his troop could only watch in helpless rage as the precious grain of their convoy went up in smoke.

  Gelon was in no better mood when they finally reached the Roman lines around Acragas. The soldiers on the walls cheered wildly when they saw the convoy, but the junior officer who greeted Gelon was less enthusiastic. He strode through the camp gate and stood looking up at the Syracusan, hands on his hips and a stern look on his face. Gelon thought he looked like a master of studies preparing to scold his pupil.

  “This is all you bring us?” the Roman officer asked. He was a tribune of one of Vitulus’ legions. “How long do you think this meager convoy will last? We have forty thousand starving men here — and this is all you bring us?” The officer spat out the last words, his face growing purple in barely suppressed fury.

  Gelon felt a surge of fire behind his eyes.

  While the officer took a breath to begin a new tirade, Gelon dismounted, took a step toward the man, and broke his nose with a single roundhouse blow of his clenched fist. A spray of blood showered both men as they each fell to the ground. The Roman lay in a dazed heap. Gelon landed on top of him, toppled by the momentum of his own swinging fist. The rest of the Syracusans leapt off their horses. They grabbed their commander, pulling with all their might. Gelon landed several more brutal blows to the Roman’s face before his men managed to pull him away.

  “I will have you flogged for this!” the officer said, spitting blood. Astonished Roman soldiers rushed to help. Roman guards leveled spears at Gelon.

  “Better than having to run through that damned gauntlet again!” Gelon shouted in rage. “Have you no cavalry of your own, you pig? We have suffered attacks right up to the base of your walls! You cannot even secure the ground around your own camp? Are you cowards?”

  The junior officer stood, wobbling slightly. An underling held a reddening cloth to his face. The officer ripped it away from the soldier.

  “Seize this man!” he shouted, his voice muffled under the dripping cloth. Then he groaned in pain and doubled over. Soldiers grasped his arms, supporting him. With help, he straightened again. “I’ll see you hang,” he said.

  Gelon gave the man a Roman salute. “Your supplies, as ordered, compliments of King Hiero of Syracuse,” he said coldly, staring the Roman in the eye. “Your broken nose compliments of Gelon, commander of the Sacred Band of Syracusan cavalry.”

  The Roman’s anger faded instantly, and Gelon smiled when he saw the fear in the man’s eyes.

  Chapter 13

  January 261 B.C.

  “Here is the day’s correspondence,” Yaroah said. He laid the stack of letters on the table and began sorting through them. He flipped the uninteresting ones carelessly to the side. Others he put in a neat stack.

  “Anything worthwhile?” Hanno asked from the bedchamber of the command tent. He came out from behind the canvas divider and paused while a servant filled his wine cup. He then sat down with a heavy sigh. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

  “The usual, General,” Yaroah said. “Locals requesting an audience… Ah, here’s one from Carthage.”

  Yaroah held it up in one hand as if it were a prized find.

  “Give me a summary,” Hanno said. Then, lifting his head without opening his eyes, he added, “And I do mean a summary.”

  “Yes, sir.” Yaroah broke the seal and began to read. After a minute, he grunted a sigh of his own.

  “What?” Hanno asked.

  “We’ve heard this before, General. Really, what is the point?”

  “Read it.”

  Yaroah quickly scanned the text, reading pertinent lines aloud. “… ‘Discussion in the Council ‘… ‘Haven’t had a report’ … Ah, here it is! I quote: ‘When will you attack?’”

  Hanno bolted upright in his chair. “Gods rescue me!” he cried. “Let me guess… Adonibaal?”

  “The same.”

  “Oh, put it with the rest of them.” Hanno waved his hand dismissively toward a stack of letters on his writing table, some unopened. “The Council thinks attacking the Romans is simply a matter of my inclination.”

  “Adonibaal is a fool!”

  “Indeed he is,” Hanno said. “But, alas, he is our fool, Yaroah. Like it or not, he is one of our most important supporters in the Council. He commands many votes — mainly of councilmen even more foolish than he. But I still cannot stand the man!”

  Yaroah laughed. “Gods, preserve us from our friends! Perhaps we should send him a report.”

  “My reports may as well be written in hieroglyphs for as much as the Council understands them. Their ignorance exceeds my capacity to reason with them.”

  Hanno’s last report explained the process by which the Romans must be compelled to give battle. They would stay behind their walls and trenches as long as it was in their interest to do so. What could be clearer?

  “Here’s a dispatch from the field, General.” Yaroah shoved the letters aside and began reading the dispatch. “Supplies are still getting through from Syracuse. But our cavalry is tightening the noose daily, if these estimates are to be believed.”

  “Let me see that.” Hanno took the dispatch and scanned the message, his eyes eagerly shifting left and right as he read. A smile spread across his face. “The Romans grow weaker by the day,” he said.

  “They will have to come out and offer battle soon,” Yaroah said.

  “Yes they will indeed.” Hanno whirled around. “And this is the point the honorable Adonibaal and his gang don’t grasp,” he said, with an upraised finger to make his point. “If the Romans come out to fight, it only means that I should wait. It means the Romans know that they grow weaker every day. They cannot attack me in my fortified camp and I cannot attack them behind their trenches. So any battle is by mutual consent — and time is on my side. I should wait for starvation to weaken them further still. And the Council wants me to throw this advantage away!”

  Hanno flung the dispatch onto the table. He could not hold the Council off much longer. As much as he disdained them, sooner or later he would have to comply with their wishes.

  “And now there are the smoke signals coming out of Acragas, too,” Yaroah said.

  Hanno had seen them, the prearranged signal to attack. Hannibal would sally from inside the city, while Hanno attacked from without. He had tried to laugh them off at first, as the panic-stricken wailings of a leader out of his depth. But their persistence and frequency had become unsettling.

  “I will admit it,” Hanno said with a sly smile, “I don’t mind seeing Hannibal suff
er, either. Even if my waiting didn’t weaken the Romans, it hurts him even more.”

  “Well, the signals grow more frequent every day. If one can read panic in clouds of smoke, I would say the man is becoming desperate.”

  “Every instinct I possess tells me to wait,” Hanno said. “As I look down on the Roman lines, I see a starving army that soon might even break off their siege and go home. I would be happy to let them walk away from here — and I know that is what they will be forced to do eventually. But even I have limits to the nagging that can be endured.”

  “So you will attack?”

  “For Adonibaal and Hannibal Gisgo, I will attack. But let the outcome be on their heads. Not mine.”

  When Hannibal Gisgo arrived in the agora Boodes was supervising the filling of large, man-sized wicker baskets with straw. He was attracting some attention. Most Acragans had become indifferent to the doings of the soldiers in their city, but when they saw the group of one-hundred filling the baskets and then tightly binding them with lengths of heavy cord, they stopped to watch, for it was an activity whose purpose they could not begin to fathom. Hannibal saw that Boodes had the group working with admirable efficiency. One group forked the straw from three separate heaps to the team who filled the baskets and who then handed them off to the men who bound them tightly. The end results were large rigid balls of straw, small enough, however, for a single man to carry. A final group of men hauled them away and stored them by the city’s southern gate. Boodes threw himself into this task as he did any other, with his full force of concentration and effort. Even though he was not a military man, Hannibal could see that he was comfortable issuing orders and expecting full obeisance.