The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  Juba struggled just to remain upright. The knot on the back of his head throbbed unceasingly. He was certain that the blow that put it there had been intended to kill him — and he wished that it had. The demon-Celt, who mocked him in his dreams at night, had chosen death over slavery. He wished he had lost that duel, as now it seemed to him that the Celt had gotten the better of the bargain, for he had won peace. Juba, in victory, was doomed to a lifetime of despair.

  The column paused twice a day, once at midday — when the slaves were given water and hard biscuit — and again at nightfall. All were grateful for the midday pause and slumped down on the ground for a few moments’ rest. After a while, the pug-faced Roman came around with a bucket. He ladled out some water. Juba grabbed the wooden ladle with both hands and buried his face in it. The Roman whisked it away.

  “Give me that, you dog!” he snapped. “You’re not the only slave who needs a drink.”

  He dipped and offered the ladle to Juba’s cluster-mates, and they grabbed it just as greedily as he had.

  The Roman moved on and as Juba sat staring at the ground, feeling almost alive again for the water and rest, he began to sense a commotion in the column. He looked up and saw that, instead of settling into the motionless exhaustion of the usual midday pause, the column had begun to ripple with activity. Slaves stood and Romans rode along the line while others milled about among the prisoners. Juba watched as riders approached along the column, shouting orders. He then saw that the other Romans were cutting the slaves loose. Freed from their bonds, the slaves stood in silent amazement. Juba stood, afraid to hope that what he was seeing was real.

  “Cut the prisoners loose,” Juba heard the mounted Roman call when he had approached to within earshot. “You there,” he called to Pug-face. “Cut them loose.”

  “Cut them loose?” Pug-face protested. “What on earth for?”

  “By decree of the Consul.” The mounted man then raised his voice so all could hear. “These slaves have been purchased by King Hiero of Syracuse, and he has freed them. Do you hear that? You are all free!”

  The mounted man rode on. “By decree of the Consul…” he was shouting when his voice trailed off into the distance.

  Juba could not believe it. All of the prisoners looked stunned, and then afraid, knowing that the news could not be true. Juba held out his bound wrists when Pug-face arrived with a knife. He reluctantly cut the leather thongs from all the men and then removed the rope that bound them together.

  “We are free?” Juba asked, his voice a mere whispering croak.

  “You heard the centurion.”

  “We belong to Syracuse now?”

  “You are free, damn you!” the Roman said. “Are you deaf?” Then, with a laugh, he lifted Juba’s hair with his knife. “The lack of an ear has affected your hearing!”

  Rubbing his wrists, Juba jerked his head back from the Roman’s knife. Immediate bolts of pain shot down into his neck and shoulders. He held the back of his head and felt that his hair was matted with dried blood. He doubled over and screwed his eyes shut tightly until the pain subsided. Dizzy with his eyes closed, he staggered slightly.

  “But where do we go?” one of his cluster-mates asked. The four men had gathered round Juba and the Roman.

  “What do I care?” the Roman said. “Go where you will.”

  “But we have no food and no water. We have no weapons.”

  “Shut up!” the Roman said. He pushed the man away and was about to move on when he paused. He stood and pointed to the southeast. “Syracuse,” he said. Then he pointed to the south. “Gela.” To the west. “Acragas.” To the northeast. “Messana.” Then he stalked off towards the other clusters of slaves.

  “Where will we go?” the man asked.

  The other three men looked forlornly in the direction the Roman had gone. Up-column the people had begun to wander off in all directions, the column dissipating like a wisp of smoke in the wind. The men stood together to confer. One of them laid a hand on Juba’s lash-scarred back as he stood doubled over, staring at the ground. Juba felt the hand — to his mind, an insistent prodding hand that recalled the constant tugging on the ropes — and his rage welled up in him. He screamed and lunged at the man. He meant to tell the man to get his hands off him, but his words came out an unintelligible guttural snarl. He swung his fist and all four men scattered in fear. Juba fell facedown in the dirt. When he looked up again, he was alone. He got to his feet and set off in the direction of Syracuse, knowing only that it was in the direction the Roman had pointed.

  He did not know anyone in Syracuse and he had no money and was only vaguely aware of where Syracuse was, but because he had been bought by Hiero, King of Syracuse, he supposed he would have to be admitted to the city. He thought it ironic that upon learning that they were going to Sicily, Gervas had been most excited about seeing Syracuse. To him it represented some kind of gleaming wonder world, as did most of the world outside Numidia. They had never made it to Syracuse, going first to Messana and then to Acragas. Now, Juba alone would enter the city, not as a valorous, swaggering soldier, but as a dispossessed vagabond. But he had to go somewhere. Since Hiero had restored his freedom, he would surely be admitted into the city, whatever his state.

  At first, he could scarcely lift his feet to walk. He realized that during the days he had traveled in the slave column he had actually come to depend on the yanking rope to propel him forward. His attack upon his fellows had cost him what little reserve of energy he had left. He was tempted to simply lie down and sleep, but he was afraid he might die if he stopped walking.

  His head continued to throb; even his vision was affected as the landscape shimmered occasionally as from rising waves of heat. He soon found that if he exercised his jaw, his head did not hurt so much. So he flexed his jaw often, opening his mouth to its fullest extent to lessen the pain. Then he realized that speaking helped, so he talked to himself while he walked. He talked to Gervas, and Masinissa; he talked to the Celt and the Roman who had delivered the potentially killing blow to his head. He laughed at the latter two, both having failed to kill him. Then he began to sing songs, for not only did it relieve his aching head but caused him to forget his suffering for long minutes at a time.

  Soon he sang at the top of his lungs in his own tongue. When he tired of singing, he talked, and when he tired of talking, he exercised his jaw with gaping yawns.

  After a while, he began to realize that he was not alone. He was being followed at a distance. Whenever he turned to look, the distant figures would duck under a ridge or dive behind a tree or rock. Finally, he realized that he was being followed by a man and boy, and had been for hours. He stopped and they stood looking at him, frozen. Supposing them to be released slaves as himself, he contemplated them sadly.

  “Do I give the impression that I know where I’m going?” he asked.

  When he spoke, they gave a start. Then, when he did not move or speak further, they approached haltingly to within hailing distance.

  “Why do you follow me?” Juba asked.

  The boy looked up at the man with a worried expression.

  “We are released slaves,” the man said. “And we are lost.”

  “I am lost,” Juba said.

  “You are touched by the gods,” the man said apologetically. “The gods guide you, so we follow.”

  They thought him mad. Juba stared at them for a moment, then turned and continued on his way.

  By midday, he came upon a track of wagon ruts and he followed it. That night, he slept beside the road, but he was so cold that in the morning he decided he would walk straight through without sleeping from now on. The man and boy followed at a safe distance, never letting him out of their sight.

  After a while, the wagon ruts became a solid dirt path and Juba was encouraged, even though his tongue was parched and he was starting to get sharp pains in his stomach due to lack of food. But he was discouraged again when he reached the summit only to see in the valley below, not
Syracuse, but a tiny cluster of an impoverished village.

  His feet dragging, he had gone no more than a couple of steps down the steep decline when his knees buckled. He fell and rolled down the hill. The dust of the path roiled around him, and when he came to rest, he found he was covered in dust from head to toe. He patted himself, raising clouds as he slapped his tunic and brushed his hair. He reached the village just before nightfall and stopped at one of the houses, occupied by an old man and his wife.

  They too thought he was touched by the gods, or something far worse, for they regarded him with fear and horror and the man held a knife while they spoke. Eager for the stranger to move on, they told Juba that Syracuse was but a day’s journey distant and that if he continued along the track he would find it. They also gave him some water and half a loaf of bread. The woman handed him the bread and jerked her hands back when he took it, as if she were feeding a wild dog. Juba tried to explain that he was being followed by a man and boy. But neither would listen once they had relinquished the bread.

  “The track,” the man said, pointing away from the house into the darkening distance. “Syracuse.”

  The old man shut the door and Juba tore his loaf and threw half of it into the grass at the side of the track for the man and boy. He took a bite of his own bread and decided to save the rest for the next day and he set off once again for Syracuse.

  Several miles from the house, the track passed over a ridge bounded on each side by rocky spurs.

  “What do you have there, friend?”

  Juba looked up with a start and saw four men step into the road from behind the rocks. One of the men carried a torch, the other three held knives. They looked like anything but friends.

  Juba had little time to react. He instinctively jumped to one side, holding his hands up.

  “I have nothing,” he cried.

  One of the men snatched the bread from his hand and another grabbed him by the breast of his tunic and turned him this way and that, appraising his worth.

  “Not even worth robbing,” the man said.

  “Gods! What a mess,” another added right before a third struck him with great force in the stomach.

  Juba fell to the ground, hugging his gut. He spit the dust of the wagon ruts out of his mouth and rose to his knees, whereupon he immediately fell to all fours and vomited a thin stream of yellow bile. Groaning, he rolled to the side of the road and went to sleep.

  He awoke to bright sunlight. The sun shone unfocused in his eyes and he blinked trying to regain his vision. He was in the track between the rocks where the bandits had been hiding. He had nothing but the tunic on his back — and even that was tattered from the Roman lash. He saw no sign of the man and boy. He had actually hoped to find them there, following him still, for that would have meant that the gods had not forsaken him, as he now knew they had.

  He struggled to his feet and trudged on. The nights were cold and the mornings cool, but the afternoons were hot as the sun beat down mercilessly upon his unprotected flesh. He had vomited up the meager contents of his stomach and his tongue was a dry lump in his mouth. He did not know how much longer he could go on without water and by the time he began to see signs of civilization he was beyond the point of encouragement. He fell into the road and stayed there this time, until he felt a prodding in the middle of his back.

  He looked up, blinking in the too-bright light of day. The prodding continued, harder and more persistent, and as his eyes focused, he saw a horseman. Two horsemen, in fact, had ridden up alongside his prone form. Both men were armored and one of them prodded him with the blunt end of a spear. Juba heard shouts and the sound of clashing arms. He saw troops drilling in a field. Beyond them were the walls of a city.

  What city? Juba meant to ask, but words failed him.

  “Get up,” one of the mounted soldiers ordered. “Who are you? On your feet.”

  “I am in the army,” Juba said.

  Both horsemen burst out laughing. Juba struggled to his feet.

  “I am in that army,” he said, indicating the troops in the field.

  “You’re a filthy beggar is what you are,” the horseman said. “We don’t need any more of your kind in the city. Get out of here!”

  With that, he placed the sole of his foot squarely on Juba’s chest and pushed. Juba fell over onto his back. He was too weak to brace himself in any way, and he toppled over in freefall, once again cracking the back of his head on the hard ground. He winced in pain, seeing flashing bright lights in the darkness. Another horseman galloped over.

  “What is this?” the newcomer asked. “Who is this man?”

  “Commander Gelon,” the soldier said. Both saluted the newcomer. “A beggar, sir. He claims to be in the army.” The two soldiers chuckled at the notion.

  Gelon dismounted. He removed a skin from his saddle and knelt beside Juba, wetting his lips. Juba opened his eyes, and Gelon’s face came into focus above him.

  “I am not a beggar,” Juba said. “I am Juba … son of Nestas … of the tribe of Masinissa … leader of Numidian light cavalry … from Acragas.”

  “What did you say? You’re a Numidian?”

  “Of the tribe of Masinissa … leader of light cavalry—”

  “Numidian!” Gelon exclaimed. “By the gods! You horse’s ass, get down here and help me with this man! We must get him inside at once!”

  Juba awoke with the dawn in an upstairs bedroom of a strange house. A slave girl dressed in a simple gray tunic daubed cool water on his forehead. When he opened his eyes, she rose excitedly and scampered from the room. She returned a few moments later with a plate of food: roast quail, sweet peas and figs.

  Juba ate quickly, with his fingers. He was ravenously hungry. It was the best food he had ever tasted. The juice of the bird rolled down his chin and before he had sucked down the last of the figs, the girl had brought him another plate.

  “Where am I?” he asked between mouthfuls of quail. He dimly remembered a field of soldiers. Some men on horseback. Syracuse! He looked up at the window but from his position below on the bed, he could see nothing but blue sky. Then he realized that he was naked under the blanket. Embarrassed, he quickly brought his elbows in close to his sides, pinning the blanket to his body.

  “You are in Gelon’s house,” the girl said.

  Gelon’s house? Yes, he remembered: one of the riders. “In Syracuse?” Juba asked aloud.

  “Yes,” the girl said. “Gelon of Syracuse.”

  Syracuse! By the gods, he had made it! Despite his grogginess, he felt better than he had in a long time. Gently, he fingered the back of his head and found that his wound had been dressed and cleaned. The spot was sensitive to the touch, but it did not throb as he remembered. The rest of his body was sore, but not unbearably so.

  The girl took his empty plate and pointed out a tunic folded over the back of a chair. She left the room while he got dressed and when she came back, she led him down a simple wooden staircase to a bath. The bath was a rectangular recess in the floor full of steaming water. He waited for the girl to leave, then undressed and stepped in. He lay back against the lip of the recess, feeling the water envelop him, soothing his muscles. The room was dim, the entire house silent and cool. He had never bathed in anything but a natural body of water before and the feeling was almost indescribably delightful.

  But he was even more amazed at the house. After the bath, he was led through an inner courtyard, open to the sky above. The floor of the courtyard was a mosaic of yellow, blue and white stones: soaring eagles. Around the perimeter, marble columns supported the walkways above. He had seen places like this in Carthage, and even in Acragas, but he had never lived in one. He had certainly never bathed, slept and ate in one as if it were his own. Perhaps he was meant to be a slave, after all. The thought struck him like a bolt out of the blue. Why else would he be brought to such a place, except to serve the master of the house, the one called Gelon of Syracuse?

  The girl opened a door and he follo
wed her into a bright room filled with colorful couches. A cool breeze blew in through a window. A man stood when he entered.

  “I am Gelon of Syracuse,” he said. Juba gazed at the smiling face and saw the same man who had rescued him — one day, two days ago? He suddenly found that he could not remember.

  “How long have I slept?” Juba asked. He felt suddenly disoriented. The awkwardness of the question was secondary.

  “Please, sit.” Gelon said. He gestured toward one of the couches. Juba sat and the girl appeared at his side with a large black shallow cup — more like a dish — filled with wine. Juba looked at each of them uncertainly, and then took a sip. When he lifted it to his face, he saw that inside it was decorated with the drawing of a man slaying a lion. Juba stared at it for a moment, tilting it this way and that so the wine would recede to the side and he could get a better look at the design. It was a strange object to drink out of.

  “This is the third day since your arrival,” Gelon told him.

  “I feel much better now,” Juba said. He struggled to hide his shock. Three days! He put the cup down on a short little table nearby.

  “My doctor arrived yesterday and bled you. Your fever broke last night.” Gelon said. “I thank the gods for bringing you to me, Juba of Numidia, if you are who you say you are.”

  Juba contemplated the man for a moment and noticed for the first time that Gelon had not come fresh from the bath as had Juba, but from the fields, if the dust in the hair and beard was any indication. He wore a thin strip of white cloth around his head and his skin was brown from the sun. Though he appeared amiable, there was a hardness to him, a look of weathered struggle — the look of a soldier. He wore a kilt of leather straps around his waist and sandals laced up his shins almost to the knee.

  “Am I to be a slave?” Juba asked. The man puzzled him. Gelon knew him by name and seemed to value his presence.

  “A slave!” Gelon’s head snapped back in shock. “Gods, no, man! You are going to create my light cavalry corps, patterned after that of your own people. Do you think you can do this?”