The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  “Ah, you prove my point! Our victory would have indeed been complete! But the city fell nonetheless,” Messala countered. Frowning suddenly, he paced a few steps, deep in thought. He stopped and held his arms out to his sides, his toga draped. “As our senior consul wisely points out,” he went on, “our next conquests will not be inland cities — Segesta and others — for these are already lining up to join with us. But the port cities! The Carthaginian strongholds: Lilybaeum, Drepana, Panormus. For these are the intended targets of our fleet. Without a fleet, they are all — every one! — impregnable, and our legions should be brought home at once!”

  “No!” roared the supporting senators. Scipio noticed with satisfaction that the number had grown.

  “Who does not wish to take the war to the Carthaginians?” Scipio asked forcefully. All eyes turned to him. “When the Carthaginians conduct their raids on our soil — on Italy! — who does not want to return the favor? Who does not want to destroy their farms? Murder their citizens? Burn their fields?”

  Applause and cheers rose from the body.

  “But where will this fleet come from?” one of the senators asked. “What do we know of modern fleets and seamanship? Who will build this for us? The Syracusans?”

  “We shall build our own fleet!” Claudius interjected. The body fell silent, stunned.

  “From what? Dreams and visions?”

  “We don’t need to rely on dreams and visions, Senator,” Claudius said, patiently acknowledging the laughter that accompanied the remark. “For stowed away in a boathouse in Ostia we have a ready model — a Carthaginian quinquereme. A captured five.”

  From the beach at Messana where the damaged ship had washed up following the Carthaginians abortive attack in the strait, Claudius had had the ship first towed to Rhegium, where it was quickly repaired, and then to Ostia where it was studied and then stored for the last four years. Claudius had carried out the operation in the utmost secrecy, and to his knowledge, the Carthaginians still did not know that the Romans had possession of one of their newest ships; not even many senators knew of it.

  Since then, Claudius had lobbied strenuously for the building of a fleet of their own, using the Carthaginian quinquereme as a model. But who needed a fleet? There had always been an excuse — until now.

  “A Carthaginian ship in our possession?”

  “Oh, yes. A quinquereme of the latest design. My little borrowed fleet captured it in the strait four years ago.”

  The senate burst out in a flurry of conversation

  Claudius raised his voice over the din. “Our engineers have studied it thoroughly, and now we merely await the opportunity of building our own.”

  “How long will it take to build such a fleet?”

  “Messala?” Claudius ceded the floor.

  Messala was about to answer when Scipio burst out, “Sixty days!”

  Messala eyed him suspiciously.

  “Impossible!” a senator cried. He looked around at others who nodded in agreement. Even those who supported Scipio had a hard time believing it.

  “The Carthaginians learned at Acragas not to underestimate Romans, gentlemen,” Scipio said. “A lesson some of you in this body apparently still have not learned.”

  Amid complaints and guffaws, Scipio paused to gauge the effect of his comments. He would shame them if he had to. The fact was that a sixty-day turnaround was entirely within their reach. So sure of his ability to convince the senate of his fleet-building program that he had already begun investigations into the plausibility of his plan — the potential for raising crews and rowers, the harvesting of timber, the organization of workers and craftsmen … He had begun the preparations for all of it and he knew sixty days was well within his grasp.

  “In sixty days we take the fight to the enemy!” Scipio shouted.

  Scipio’s supporters erupted. Gaius Duilius stood.

  “We shall build a fleet!” he said. Stepping down onto the floor, he turned toward the body and began speaking on the profits to be made in Sicily.

  Scipio congratulated Messala and Claudius, and then sat down while Duilius held the floor. He had never seen the chamber so animated. Even in the face of numerous petty disagreements, he had never felt so sure of a thing in his life, as one by one the Senators rose to debate the issue. He had no doubt. Rome would have its fleet.

  At last.

  The entire 104 members of the inner Council sat in the semi-circle of the Council chamber staring skeptically at one of their own: Boodes. Boodes knew the Council was in a murderous mood. He measured his words carefully.

  “I stand before you due to the efforts of one man,” Boodes said. “Hannibal Gisgo.”

  A number of Councilmen looked skyward in disgust.

  “The general was charged with holding the city,” a member of the council argued, “not serving it up on a platter to the Romans.”

  “Serving it up?” Boodes was astonished at the smallness of these men. There was not a man among them who would have lasted a week in Acragas. “Are you mad? Hannibal held that city together by force of will alone.” Boodes turned and looked the man in the eye. “And as you know, sir,” he said, “Hannibal was not charged with holding the city indefinitely, as you suggest, but of holding it until relieved. However, he was never relieved. Perhaps this is news to you.”

  “General Hanno has already been sentenced,” the councilman said evenly. “He is not the subject of this inquest.”

  “Hannibal held a city with five thousand men for seven months against an army of forty thousand,” Boodes said, with a burst of pride. It had been a tough slog. Every day brought new miseries.

  “Five thousand? He had an army of ten thousand, did he not?”

  “Sir,” Boodes began, “we in Acragas did not have all the comforts enjoyed by this Council here in Carthage. Our ten thousand was made five by disease, starvation, desertion and loss in battle.” He paused and gazed around at the seated councilmen. “I see the number of this body remains a constant 104,” he said.

  Several Councilmen chuckled at this remark. Others’ eyes bulged in anger. Which were which was predictable, but this did not lessen Boodes’ disgust with them.

  “Your impertinence will be your undoing, Boodes,” said one. “The general’s as well.”

  Boodes was unmoved. He was one of the longest-standing men in the Council, from one of the wealthiest families. As he gazed upon the faces scrutinizing him, he saw some whose families were linked to his by marriage. Many more he had known and formed ever-changing alliances and counter-alliances with for decades. Still, he was not comfortable enough to believe that there were not a few who enjoyed seeing him in the crucible.

  “My duty,” said Boodes, “was to accompany the general to see to it that he looked after the business of this Council, and not his own. I am here to tell you that it was the general alone who held that city together when any other man would have buckled under the strain. I would wager that none of you have ever been inside a besieged city.”

  “That is quite beside the point—”

  “I tell you that it is amazing that we escaped at all after Hanno’s failed relief. Hannibal brought every surviving man out of that city while it was still surrounded by a victorious Roman army. This is not a matter for censure, honorable councilmen. But for celebration!”

  The chamber erupted in cheering and dissension. The leader of the Council, Bodashtart, an old man with a long white beard, banged his gavel repeatedly, his frail arms deceptively strong. “The councilman will cease—”

  “Could I have brought us out of that city?” Boodes went on over the hammering gavel, his voice rising. “No! Do you think you could have brought us out safely, Adonibaal?” Boodes pointed an accusing finger at the councilman he knew was the leader of the opposition. Adonibaal’s expression remained infuriatingly inscrutable under Boodes’ fiery glare. “Do you? Or you, Shafat! You want to decry the loss of a few men when it is a miracle any survived at all!”

  �
��The Council will come to order!” Bodashtart continued banging his gavel. But Boodes had stirred up the opposition now. Adonibaal, Shafat and their faction were on their feet, shouting and waving their hands at Boodes, as if stoning him. Boodes knew that, at this moment, they lacked only the stones, not the will.

  “Why then did the general fail to sally in conjunction with Hanno’s attack?” one of them shouted at him.

  “Because by the time Hanno deigned to arrive, Hannibal had no army left,” Boodes shot back. “This Council — of anyone — should understand that, at least!”

  Bodashtart slammed his gavel down. It slipped from his fingers and rattled across the marble floor. Finally, the chamber quieted. A servant dashed out from the shadows and retrieved the gavel.

  “Enough of this!” the old man cried, snatching his gavel from the servant. “Boodes is correct. Hannibal Gisgo saved a doomed army. There is no denying that!” He pointed his gavel up at Adonibaal’s faction. “The question before this body is not one of condemnation or celebration, no matter how much any of you wish it otherwise. We request only the honorable Boodes’ recommendation for the general, Hannibal Gisgo. This, after all, was our man’s mission — which he accomplished at great personal risk to himself.” Bodashtart turned to Boodes. “Your recommendation, Councilman?”

  “I enthusiastically recommend that the general not only be reinstated to his command,” Boodes said, “but that he be granted command of all forces in Sicily.”

  “Thank you, Councilman Boodes,” Bodashtart said. “The Council will now consider your recommendation.”

  The chamber broke out in myriad conversations and arguments, as the councilmen all vied to be the first to speak. Boodes bowed and strode out of the chamber, his footsteps echoing after him amid the pounding of Bodashtart’s gavel.

  “Boodes is his lackey,” Hamilcar said when the councilman’s name came up. He waved off the servant and poured his own wine. The sweet smells of his father’s garden wafted on the breeze through the window. The young general could see the terraced hillsides of his family estate, figs and olives. “He follows at the general’s heels like a puppy. I feel embarrassed for the man.”

  “You would do well to hold your tongue,” Hamilcar’s father, who was also called Hamilcar, said. “Boodes is dangerous.”

  Hamilcar turned, and with a burst of laughter, said, “Boodes! Dangerous? The man I knew was anything but dangerous!”

  Hamilcar the Elder sat up on the couch, his fine white robe spilling over the fabric and pooling around his sandaled feet. “He has the ear of dangerous men, my boy. Don’t be fooled by his appearance and demeanor.”

  “He is Hannibal’s hand-maiden.”

  “You might think so. But remember this: You don’t survive long in the Council of Carthage without a great deal of ruthlessness — and no one has survived longer than Boodes. A member of the One Hundred as well. Not a man to be trifled with, son. You need to exercise great caution in your dealings with him.”

  “Of course, father,” Hamilcar said. “I am always careful.”

  “These men have plans for you,” the Elder cautioned. “You have profited greatly by your association with them.”

  “And they by me,” Hamilcar shot back. “I am not foolish enough to believe that it is my personal charm alone that draws Hannibal to me.”

  The Elder laughed. Deep creases around his eyes and mouth gave his deeply tanned face an air of ruggedness and strength. With his chiseled, square features, Hamilcar the younger was his spitting image, the very picture of Carthaginian manhood.

  “He needs men in the greater Council as well as the One Hundred,” the Elder said. “Do not dismiss that. It is how business is conducted in Carthage. It is how careers are made. Remember, it was through me that Boodes was able to secure many of the ships your army used to escape. That is not worth nothing.”

  “Of course, father. But it is also not worth nothing that I am the only capable military leader in Hannibal’s army. He allows Boodes to play at general — and he flounders around shamefully and gets men killed. It is my opinion that Hannibal was too passive in Acragas. He sallied but once — and even then attacked with only half of his men!” Hamilcar could barely suppress his rage at the memory. “By the gods, with ten thousand fresh men, the Romans completely unprepared for battle, I could have—”

  “You will have your opportunity,” the Elder interrupted. “The war in Sicily will continue.”

  “And then on the day of battle, he failed to attack at all! I could have put five thousand men on the Roman flank—”

  A slave approached and whispered in the Elder’s ear.

  The elder Hamilcar held up a silencing hand to his son. “Show them in,” he said, and the slave scurried from the room. “Enough of this talk, Hamilcar,” the father said, rising. “You will have your opportunity, trust me! Ah, Adonibaal! Shafat! Come in! Welcome!”

  The Elder strode over to the door from which the two councilmen had emerged from the dim, cool hallway beyond. The men were a common sight in the Hamilcar home. Hamilcar had always thought they had a vaguely Eastern look. They bowed to the Elder with their hands tucked in the sleeves of their robes, great smiles on their faces. The Elder motioned for wine to be brought.

  “Hanno has been removed from command,” Adonibaal said.

  “I am not surprised,” the Elder said. “Sit down, gentlemen. Please…”

  “We can stay for but a short time,” Adonibaal said, bowing now to the younger Hamilcar.

  “The general has suffered loss of rights and fined six thousand gold pieces,” Shafat added.

  “He is ruined!” the Elder exclaimed. “What of the general’s staff?”

  “Yaroah’s family has had their seat in the Council revoked.” The Elder Hamilcar raised his eyebrows. “The boy has simply been removed.”

  “The seat has been given to the Barcid clan,” Shafat said.

  “The Barcids! Well, It was only a matter of time,” the Elder said. “Their seat revoked! It could have been worse, I suppose. The Barcids will bear watching.”

  “Indeed! Indeed!” Adonibaal said eagerly. “We, of course, voted against it.” He and Shafat nodded to one another. “The Yaroah clan were good allies. But the Barcids … I don’t know …”

  “General Hanno had alienated too many in the Council,” Shafat said.

  “Regretfully, he had made too many enemies,” Adonibaal added. “His failure on the battlefield was the opening many were waiting for. There was nothing we could do.”

  “And Hannibal Gisgo?”

  “Reinstated,” Adonibaal said. “Made commander of all forces in Sicily.”

  Hamilcar shifted his weight uneasily, biting his tongue.

  “Ah …” Hamilcar the elder said, noncommittally.

  “But the best news for last!” Adonibaal turned to the young Hamilcar, smiling broadly. “Hannibal has appointed Hamilcar commander of all land forces in Sicily! The Council readily agreed. Easily passed.”

  “Hannibal has overall command,” Shafat said. “But he wants the fleet for himself. All his arrangements have been agreed to. Boodes spoke for him.”

  “This is cause for celebration!” The Elder Hamilcar declared. He strode across the room and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You’ll now have a free hand in Sicily, my boy! Just as you had hoped.”

  Hamilcar felt a thrill of excitement well up in his breast. He thought of what he could have accomplished in Acragas if he had had the army instead of Hannibal, and he thought of what he would now have the opportunity to accomplish with Hanno’s army in Sicily. It had been dispersed to various garrisons along the coast, and was no doubt demoralized. There was much to do. He must confer with Hannibal and leave for Lilybaeum at once. But, for now, his father was correct. Now was the time to celebrate.

  Hamilcar embraced his father.

  “Wine for all!” Hamilcar declared, pulling back from the embrace. “Adonibaal, Shafat!”

  “Ah, yes,” Adonibaal
said, still grinning. “Perhaps a strong cup of wine is in order!”

  “A toast!” Hamilcar the Elder said, raising his cup. “To General Hamilcar!”

  “General Hamilcar!” they all repeated, and everyone drank, none more deeply than the young Hamilcar himself.

  Chapter 17

  If a man could sleep while walking, then Juba was certain he had slept. He had no knowledge of walking. His head lolled from side to side with the movement of his legs and it was the jolt of his own head bobbing that had awakened him. He was surprised to find himself on his feet, although his awareness extended little past his pain, hunger and thirst.

  He felt a tug on his wrists. The other men of his cluster dragged him along. They shot him angry looks from time to time, and, losing their temper, shouted oaths at him, if only to wake him up. After one of his spells of unconsciousness, he would look down in surprise and amazement to see the leather thong digging into the flesh of his wrists. Then the men would swear an oath and tug on the rope that bound them all and he would fall into despair.

  “Keep moving, you!” a pug-faced Roman guard said as he rode past. For the first couple of days, Juba hated the sight of him. When he fell, the Roman would dismount and whip him until he got up. Now, he lashed him whenever the men shouted whether he had fallen or not. He did not even bother to dismount anymore, and Juba ignored him, stiffening under the lash but hardly even feeling it. His cluster-mates were pleased to see the Roman come by because it meant that they would not have to drag Juba along, at least for a while. Juba hated them as much as he hated the Roman, but he did not pay much attention to any of them anymore.

  Other Romans rode all along the miles-long column as the bound prisoners — men, women and children — marched in four-, five- and six-man clusters through the countryside of Sicily. After the seven-month siege, most of the citizens of Acragas had grown accustomed to torment and death and accepted their fate stoically. Still, for the first day or two, the doomed column of slaves had been accompanied by the constant wailing of women and the cries of children, as prevalent as birdsong, and the march was one of communal anguish. Now it was a solitary and silent misery for all, as the ravishes of hunger and exhaustion focused the slaves’ minds on mere survival.