“They are leaving us!” one of the men shouted.
Belenus watched in horror as some of the men abandoned the line and made a mad dash for the beach. At the water’s edge, they leapt into the sea. But the ships were already out of reach. The men, still in their heavy armor, splashed madly in the surf for only a second before being taken under.
The Romans charged. The Celts broke and ran. Belenus could not watch while the Romans slaughtered them to a man on the beach. Screams and blood-curdling oaths rose into the night from the trapped Celts as the Romans savagely hacked at them while the ships beat heedlessly out to sea, their oars rising and falling in the black water.
Belenus looked back just in time to see Iliatos in his final moment of life, still clutching his wooden chest: the last man to fall.
Juba stepped out into the clearing. He had followed the Celts from the ditches through their final battle with the Romans. Once he had located Belenus among them, he had stayed close by but unseen in the rocks and trees. He had waited and watched while Belenus remained hidden until the Romans had gone. He had watched the ships leave and had watched as Belenus privately seethed and had listened as wafting in on the sea breeze he heard the ghostly chorus of the men on board the ships cheering their escape. While he had fully expected to be on one of those ships—planning to board with the Celts once he had finished with Belenus—he was not sorry to be left behind, for the object of his hatred was now before him. The Celtic chieftain, Iliatos, had paid for his stupidity with his life. This Belenus no doubt believed that he, of all the Celts in Acragas, still had a chance. Juba meant to see to it that this belief would prove to be folly.
“Looks like we both missed our ship,” Juba said.
“Who’s there?” Belenus stood with a start, straining to see in the darkness.
“Don’t you recognize me?” Juba asked. “Here, let me help you.” He cupped a hand to where his ear would have been had not Belenus sliced it off during their last meeting. Hidden by his hair, there was nothing left of his ear but a little ragged fringe of flesh. Under Masinissa’s care, it had healed nicely, if painfully. “You told me this would help me to remember the name of Belenus. I have to tell you, you were right. I remember it well. But do you remember the name Juba?”
Belenus drew his sword. “Ah, you are the Numidian. I should have killed you,” he said.
“I agree. You should have killed me,” Juba said. “It would mean that you could still live.”
“There is no living left for either of us,” Belenus said. He walked out into the center of the clearing. “For us it is now slavery or death. I choose death,” he said, suddenly dropping into a crouch, sword in hand. His eyes burned under his heavy, painted brow.
Juba assumed his own defensive crouch, and walked sideways in an arc, sizing up the Celt. Armed with the sword he had taken from one of Belenus’ dead companions, Juba felt both the exquisite balance and killing weight of the weapon in his hand. He was glad to have more than the flimsy javelin to fight with this time — and had even abandoned his own sword when given the opportunity of grabbing the Celtic blade — but he realized that he was still at a severe disadvantage in a straight-up sword fight with the skilled warrior. He well remembered the speed and ease with which Belenus had handled his weapon during their last meeting. Since then, Juba had imagined this fight many times. Playing to his own strength, he had determined that he would turn their fight into a wrestling match, where, he supposed, his speed and agility would overmatch the larger, slower man. Still, he realized that there was a good chance he would die tonight.
They approached each other across the clearing. Belenus struck first, his sword glancing off Juba’s with a force that sent shivers up his forearm. Again, Juba felt slow and clumsy with the blade. Belenus sensed his discomfort and grinned as he stalked him like a lion. Suddenly, the Celt lunged with a lightning quick disemboweling thrust. Instead of parrying, Juba ducked under the jab and, supporting his weight on his hands, rapidly kicked at Belenus’ legs, striking his knee. Belenus grimaced and cried out. His knee buckled and he fell to the ground in pain.
Juba rolled over and sprang to his feet, sword at the ready. He leapt toward Belenus to inflict a killing blow, but the Celt jerked back from the slashing blade and instantly regained his feet. He looked both shocked and dazed. He limped as he moved sideways, mirroring his opponent. This time it was Juba who grinned.
Belenus lunged and Juba caught the sword’s arc with his own blade, the clashing iron ringing out overloud in the silence of their clearing. Juba skipped away from an overhand blow. Grunting with renewed energy, Belenus immediately turned and unleashed a flurry of jabs and thrusts and slashing attacks, meaning to end their battle right then, each overhand slash powerful enough to knock Juba to the ground. He staggered, but he held his footing, blocking each blow. The fury of Belenus’ attack forced him backward, and Juba suddenly felt out of control and on the defensive. He staggered again under a hammering rain of blows, the blades clanging wildly. In a flash, Juba saw his own death. He knew he could not survive the onslaught much longer as he felt his sword arm weakening. Gervas, he thought. I tried, my friend. I tried…
Then the flurry ceased and Juba saw Belenus’ heaving chest as he gasped for air. Sweat streamed down his face. He took a step back to reform his balance and Juba, seeing an opening—perhaps his last chance—whirled toward him. He wedged his forearm under Belenus’ shoulder and flipped him over his hip. The large Celt landed with a breathless thud flat on his back. Belenus, breathing rapidly through his open mouth, sprang to his feet. But no sooner did he turn than Juba dove and kicked his legs out from under him. Again, he fell on his back, his own weight knocking the breath from him. He lost his grip on his sword, and he lay there on his back, defenseless. Kicking Belenus’ sword out of reach, Juba held the point of his own blade under the big man’s chin.
Belenus lay there, his chest heaving. The white skin of his face and naked torso was blue in the starlight and glistened with sweat. He stared straight up at the sky and not at Juba.
“You will kill me now,” he said, his voice deep and strained.
Juba pushed the blade sharply against Belenus’ throat. When he looked at him, the image that filled his mind was that of the tattooed, shirtless Celt pointing an accusatory finger at Gervas and all the rage and regret of those days came flooding back. He saw the accusing finger, and he saw Hannibal’s men unquestioningly taking Gervas away at spear point. It was an image tinged with red. He should have killed them all then. He should have scooped Gervas up from the field of battle; he should have fought Hannibal’s men; he should have killed the Celt on sight. Now he had the chance to redeem at least one of his mistakes. The others would have to wait. But this one was right here under his blade.
Belenus clutched Juba’s sword and tried to jam it into his own throat. Juba held tightly and the sword did not budge. Blood welled up between the fingers of the Celt’s clenched fist.
“All my people were slaughtered on the beach,” he said, in sudden despair.
“Mine was nailed to the door of the city, you bastard,” Juba said and plunged the blade through the Celt’s throat until the point stuck in the ground beneath.
“What’s one more dead Celt?” Juba asked.
He left the sword projecting from the ground like a grave marker and decided to make his way back to the city. He had nowhere else to go. The fight left him feeling drained and aimless. He had planned to board the ship. In the aftermath of Belenus’ death, the fact that he had not suddenly dawned on him and he did not know what else to do. He would go back to the city.
A terrifying orange glow hung over Acragas. Innumerable fires had sprung up throughout the city. None was large or uncontrollable, but enough of them had erupted that the entire area surrounding the city was illuminated as from a giant bonfire. Great ugly shadows danced on the city walls as Roman soldiers, having sated themselves on the spoils of the Carthaginian camp, rushed into and out of the open gates c
arrying armfuls and wagonloads of plunder. Through the western gate, an endless stream of Acragans marched into the fields where they were herded and bound under the eye of a massive armed guard — half a legion, at least — with the cries and shrieks of their fellows from inside the city ringing in their ears. The entire plain from city to hilltop camp was swarming with Romans. All but the guards herding the people were laughing as if on a festival outing or sitting in tight boisterous clusters, eating and drinking.
Unnoticed in the chaos, Juba slipped inside the city. The streets were a sea of humanity. Roman soldiers with wicked, drunken glee ransacked everything in sight. Cheap furniture flew out the windows of poorer dwellings, the broken pieces thrown on the fires that burned in the center of the square. Finer pieces were placed gently in wagons, along with sculpture and bolts of cloth, gold and metal objects of all types. Their owners clung to them stubbornly, crying out, until the soldiers struck them down. Other soldiers broke open doors to the screams of the occupants hiding inside. Scuffles erupted. Still others, with the bearing of authority, organized lines of the people in the streets, barking unintelligible orders that caused the people to cringe in fear. In an alcove in the street, Juba spied a woman and four or five children cowering in the shadows, their wide terrified eyes showing brightly in the dark. When the woman saw Juba, she began yammering at him in a language he did not understand. He looked at her for a moment, helpless. What could he do for her? Nothing. He moved on.
All through the streets, Juba saw dead soldiers of the Carthaginian garrison, killed by citizens for some offense or other during the occupation. Romans stripped them of armor and weapons, belts and boots, whatever they could find.
“Twenty-five thousand slaves is the number I heard,” one of the Romans was saying.
“Look at these Punic dogs,” the other said. “Killed by the townspeople. We should have stormed this place months ago. We could have taken it easily.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Twenty-five thousand slaves! It is all worthwhile now!”
Juba knew there was no escape. Romans in every street. Had he been thinking straight, he would not have come back to the city, but instead would have set out along the coast for Heraclea Minoa — unless it too was occupied by Romans now. In that case, he would have had to go all the way to Lilybaeum. There, he could have met up with his troop, with Gauda and Masinissa. But how long would that take? Would the troop even be there when he arrived? And how many Romans would he have to evade along the way — without food, without weapons, every person he met an agent of Rome? As of tonight, but for the narrow strip along the west coast, Sicily was a Roman island. The interior cities would jostle pathetically for Rome’s favor.
But such speculation was useless, for the opportunity to escape was now gone — gone when the ships had beat out to sea while Juba stayed to kill the worthless Celt. He was trapped in the city. One mistake heaped upon another: it had become the pattern of his life. He wondered how he would meet his fate. Perhaps he would cut his own throat as the Celt had tried to do. A part of him no longer cared.
He would walk out the western gate and join the herd of slaves. What else could he do?
Halfway down the street, he heard a commotion issuing from one of the houses. He looked through a window and saw three Roman soldiers inside. Two looked on, laughing drunkenly, while a third was having his way with a woman. The woman screamed at the top of her lungs. Juba could see her agonized face framed by a wild tussle of black hair. The legionary rose up and slapped her savagely with an open hand. The blow made a sickening sound, and the drunken men laughed contemptuously. Juba reacted instantly with horror and rage.
He bolted through the open door. He knocked down both of the drunken soldiers and, grabbing the third by the shoulder, ripped him from the woman and threw him onto the floor. He fell on top of the Roman and began pummeling him with his fists. After a couple of blows, he stopped and looked about him for a weapon — a sword or dagger, a chair even, anything to inflict a killing blow — but, finding none, he got in a couple more blows with his fists until he felt a sharp crack on the back of his head.
A shower of stars exploded behind his eyes and he fell forward on top of the bleeding Roman. He cursed the rising black tide that swirled around him. He would have liked to kill one more man. Just one more…
Gods! He would have liked to kill many more.
Part II
A Gathering of Crows
Chapter 16
“Acragas has fallen!”
Three hundred senators jumped to their feet. The ovation was thunderous, the cheers filling the Senate chamber in an ear-splitting cacophony. The new junior consul for the year, Gaius Duilius, stood and cheered along with the rest, his face jubilant. The entire body acted like boys on a playing field. Even the senior consul, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, was tempted to smile, but his face remained stern. He knew there was a long road ahead.
He raised his hand.
“Senators! Senators!” he called. When the cheering had died down, he continued. “This is indeed a great day for Rome. But let us not forget the great sacrifices that have been made. The dead of Rome should not be forgotten.”
“Hear! Hear!” The senate applauded dutifully.
Scipio raised a hand for silence.
“The dead we have left behind in Sicily burden the living with a great debt — a debt of honor.” There rose more polite applause. “It is a debt some of us here would propose to disregard, as if our obligations are voluntary. But this debt imposed on us by our dead is like any other — we are compelled to redeem it. We have no choice.” The Senate fell silent. Scipio turned his head slowly, gazing at the blank faces watching him warily. “I tell you, if we leave Sicily now, we welch on that debt.
“Senators! Senators!” Scipio resumed quickly amid a rising chorus of voices, both pro and con. “We pay that debt—the debt of honor that is our duty to respect—by now resolving to take the fight to our enemies.”
Scipio’s supporters erupted in applause. Detractors grumbled.
“I say we are too deeply invested to stop now, as some have suggested. To crawl back to Messana and leave Sicily to the Carthaginians?” Scipio asked incredulously. “All of our efforts, our conquest of Acragas for nothing?”
“Twenty-five thousand slaves have fattened the treasury of Rome, Consul.”
Scipio turned briskly toward the voice. “But what are twenty-five thousand slaves compared to all of Sicily?” he asked. “With Acragas we have altered the status quo. We are masters of all of eastern Sicily now, along with our ally Syracuse. Even cities in the heart of enemy territory — Segesta, Halikyae — now pledge allegiance to Rome. We should throw this all away?
“No!” a scattering of senators cried in response. Others began muttering in private arguments over the issue.
“That is exactly what we will do if we do not press on,” Scipio answered. “I propose we drive Carthage out of Sicily altogether!”
A great murmuring arose in the hall. Scipio, jaw set firmly, gazed around the three-tiered chamber, every seat full. The voices he heard were mostly of agreement, as he had expected.
“But we cannot defeat Carthage in Sicily,” a senator said authoritatively. “They will simply occupy their coastal strongholds — Lilybaeum, Drepana, Panormus — and retake the island when we are gone. Surely you are not proposing posting armies there permanently?”
The senator looked around for confirmation and was rewarded with nods of agreement and even some laughter.
“That is exactly what Carthage will do,” Scipio agreed, with a triumphant smile. “That is why we must fight this war to its logical conclusion. Retreating now will not deny the war but only postpone it — and I propose that we not fight for the same ground twice. As you so correctly point out, Senator,” Scipio said, turning toward the man who had spoken, “the only way to defeat the Carthaginians is to expel them from the island entirely.”
“But how? That is the question!” the senator asked
. His supporters laughed derisively at Scipio’s apparent density.
A deep, clear voice rose from the front of the chamber. “We build a fleet!” the voice said, the sound reverberating throughout the room.
All heads turned to see former consuls Appius Claudius Caudex and Valerius Maximus Messala. Scipio smiled. Both men had arrived at his request and he knew his plan was all but sealed by their presence. Messala was one of the most famous men in the Republic, his conquest of Messana and subsequent alliance with Syracuse the subject of the new fresco that adorned the exterior western wall of that very chamber. His triumphal parade three years ago was still fresh in everyone’s memory. His companion, Claudius, long a proponent of sea power, was the consul who came under attack as he had crossed the strait the year before Messala’s victory. His authority on the subject was unquestioned.
It was Messala who had spoken. The senate rose and cheered the men, but quickly quieted down. The body was stunned by Messala’s suggestion.
“But Rome has never had a fleet,” one of the senators called out.
Massala and Claudius stood next to Scipio, forming an impressive triumvirate of power.
“Since we fight for an island,” Messala began, his voice drowning out all mutterings, “final victory is not possible, unless we command the sea.”
“My own campaign was hampered by a lack of supply,” Claudius added, “due to the Carthaginians’ control of the strait. Who does not remember that my legions were nearly destroyed at sea? What I would not have given for a fleet of real fighting ships!”
“But we won Acragas with no fleet at all.”
“An inland city! What would a fleet have profited us at Acragas?” Messala asked with an amused expression. Many sympathetic senators laughed with him.
“We could have prevented the garrison from escaping. Our victory would have been complete!”
The War God's Men Page 21