The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  Gelon stood atop a rise, his officers huddled around him. On the reverse slope, his engineers lashed the final rungs to the ladders, and the soldiers squatted with their weapons in the rain, gazing up at their commanders with anxious eyes.

  “We must defeat the Romans!” Gelon cried, having to shout nearly at the top of his lungs to make himself heard over the hissing downpour. His officers’ armor glistened wetly and their stern, dark faces streamed with rain.

  “Sir?” one of them asked, thinking he must have misunderstood. “The Romans? You mean the Macellans?”

  “To Hades with the Macellans!” Gelon cried. Water collected in his beard and fell from it in long, heavy drops. “It is the Romans we humiliate tonight!”

  They had ten ladders and five hundred men with which to subdue the tower. At last check, the tower was empty. Gelon was not concerned with the guardians of Macella. By his reckoning, they were dead already.

  “We must beat the Romans to the doors,” he continued. “When Macella is taken, it will be by the hand of Syracusans — and the Romans be damned!”

  The officers’ eyes narrowed in determination as they rushed off to ready their troops. Through years of drill and campaigning, Gelon had instilled a spirit of unity and purpose among his men. His hatred of the Romans had rubbed off on all under his command, as to a man, the Syracusans detested the Romans. But even they could be shocked by Gelon’s often blunt declarations of his hatred.

  By the time the men were ready, all knew the purpose of the mission: to capture or kill the guards in the tower and reach the front gates before the Romans — and they all knew perfectly well that the latter half of that mission was the most important.

  Gelon raised his hand and dropped it again decisively, the signal for the attack to begin. Soldiers carrying the ladders crested the ridge first, each ladder shouldered by five men. They sprinted across the sodden ground, their pounding feet raising billows of splashing water. Files of shield-bearing soldiers followed closely on their heels, their swords sheathed. No one made a sound; even the splashing of the feet was drowned in the driving rain.

  The ladder-bearers heaved their burdens upright against the wall, all five men straining to lift them. No sooner had the ladders come to their full height than the soldiers began scurrying up as quickly as their feet could carry them. Gelon himself was first to the rung, and he climbed quickly. The necessity of carrying a shield made his progress uncertain, as he was not able to fully grasp the ladder with both hands. In the black night, with the driving rain further obscuring vision, he could scarcely see the men climbing to his left and right. With each step, all the climbers focused with rising anxiety on the top of the wall. Each man expected his ladder to come crashing down, either by the hands of alert defenders or due to the employment of some arcane anti-scaling device whose imagined fearsomeness grew with each step. These were Syracusans, after all. They had all seen Archimedes’ machines in action.

  Gelon, like Pyrrhus at Eryx, was first over the wall; only here there was no Carthaginian giant to greet him. In fact, there was no one at all. The guard tower was empty.

  He turned quickly and steadied the ladder while more of his picked men, mostly of his Sacred Band, mounted the battlements at the top of the wall. Soon fifty men were fanning out atop the tower, swords at the ready. The rain struck the stone floor in a multitude of heavy splashes, as if countless handfuls of gravel were being flung across the surface of a still lake.

  In the shadows of an archway stood a trio of guards. With rising astonishment, they saw the Syracusans appear impossibly out of the blackness of the night. One after another, they seemed to materialize out of nothing. Not knowing what else to do, they rushed out towards them.

  “Who goes there?” one of them cried stupidly, and he was cut down at once. The next dropped his weapon and fell to his knees: “Spare me!” he wailed; while the third turned and sprinted for the stairs into the city.

  “Stop that man!” Gelon cried, and a half-dozen Syracusans ran after him. A muffled cry from below told Gelon all he needed to know of the outcome of that race.

  The guard tower was theirs. In the distance, Gelon heard a bell ringing.

  Now the real race began.

  Gaius Caecilius watched in disbelief as his first ladder fell back from the wall. Three men clung to it, the highest near the top rung. Supported by nothing, the ladder wavered in mid-air for an overlong moment, as in a nightmare. Then, with rapidly increasing speed, it began falling backward in a wide arc towards the earth. The two lowest men jumped safely to the ground, but the man on the top rung clung to the ladder in fearful helplessness and rode it all the way to the ground, falling with a crushing thud.

  Caecilius heard the clanging of a bell as the Macellans on the tower raised the alarm. Soon his ladder-men climbed under a hail of missile fire, javelins and stones falling upon their heads. The Romans rushed up the ladders, trying to cover themselves with their shields, but time and again, the ladders came falling back as more and more Macellan defenders lined the battlements. But the Romans persisted, attempting to overwhelm them by sheer numbers. Their ladders rose on all sides of the tower.

  Finally, one of Caecilius’ soldiers reached the top. Scrambling over the parapet, he was immediately set upon by a horde of defenders. He went into a defensive crouch to await his comrades climbing up after him. Behind his shield, he resisted the push of his assailants for only an instant before he felt himself falling backwards. He landed helplessly against the wall. He felt a glimmer of hope as he looked up and saw a Roman struggling over the battlements. Then he watched in horror as the defenders slashed at him, causing him to fall screaming into the blackness below. They pushed the ladder over, and he himself was now trapped alone on the tower with the blood-crazed Macellans. They slaughtered him in the next instant.

  Nevertheless, the Romans kept raising the ladders, even as they fell. Even with men still on them, they pushed them back against the walls and continued to climb. The Macellans could not defend every point on every wall and soon Roman soldiers began streaming over the parapet, with blood-curdling cries of vengeance for their fellows they had watched plummet to their deaths.

  Once their feet touched solid ground, the Romans in the tower organized instinctively and locked shields. When they started moving against the mass of defenders, there was nothing for the Macellans to do but die. Many of them dropped their weapons and begged for mercy, their pitiful cries cut short by the thrusting Roman blades. Many more ran for their lives. The clanging of the bell stopped, the bellman dead or absconded.

  When the defenders had been cleared, Caecilius himself made the climb. He stood among his troops, a mixture of blood and rainwater washing around his hobnailed sandals. He was pleased to see that there was no look of triumph or satisfaction on any man’s face. His troops continued to stream over the wall and onto the guard tower, adding to the Romans’ numbers, but there was no time to wait for them to assemble.

  “To the gates!” Caecilius cried, waving his sword over his head. “Onward, men! To the gates! Hurry!”

  With their chests still heaving from the exertions of battle, the men instantly bolted for the stairs into the city.

  Gelon led his men down the stairs and into the muddy street. They ran as fast as they could. Some of the men’s feet slid out from under them and they fell backwards in the sopping muck. Gelon did not slow. Nor did he pause when his column came upon knots of astonished Macellans who rushed away fearfully at the Syracusans’ approach.

  They passed underneath a guard tower, one of the targets of assault. It was under attack by Rome’s Italian allies. Gelon could hear shouts and cries and clanging iron from above. Still, the Syracusans pressed on.

  Turning a corner, the street opened into a muddy plaza and they saw the massive doors of Macella’s main gate. Gelon knew that a mass of Roman troops by now waited outside. Oh, he relished the look on the Romans’ faces! Out of all of the hundreds of troops fighting their way up the walls a
nd into the city, they would soon see that it was the Syracusans, after all, who opened the doors for them. Even grander would be the sour glare of tribune Caecilius as his troops raced through the streets only to find the legions already occupying the city, by the leave of Gelon and his Sacred Band. At the head of his troops, Gelon felt himself grinning ear to ear, his moment of triumph at hand.

  But no sooner had they launched into their final sprint for the doors than the first of Caecilius’ Romans rounded the opposite corner. The Syracusans paused for an instant in confusion. They gazed across the plaza as the Romans, with their heavy shields, raced for the doors.

  Gelon raged at his men. “Keep moving!” he cried. “To the doors! It is the Sacred Band who will take this city!”

  Instantly, the Syracusans resumed their sprint. The gap between the two sides narrowed as the rushing columns converged on the doors.

  “Stop that man!” Gelon cried, pointing. His entire arm and extended finger trembled violently with the strain of his hunger to outrace the Romans.

  As the columns converged, the first of the Syracusans lunged at the man who had attracted Gelon’s attention, dropping him in the mud. The two rolled and splashed in the darkness.

  Now, it was the Romans who paused in confusion, not believing their eyes. Was that the … the Syracusans attacking them?

  Caecilius witnessed the incident.

  “This will not stand!” he cried. “To the doors, men! None but Rome touches those doors!”

  Their faces grim, the Romans rushed forward in a mob. But the first of them who made it to the door was struck in the face by a Syracusan fist. More and more of each side rushed to the head of the column. The Roman and Syracusan masses crashed together. Soon the muddy plaza was alive with the squirming bodies of men as they wrestled and pounded one another with fists, the soldiers of each side now indistinguishable from one another in the mud.

  In a few moments, the second group of Romans, having secured their own tower, rounded the corner, and looked on in astonishment at the sight that greeted them. Their own tribune immediately ordered them to draw swords and untangle the disgraceful mess.

  These new men separated the groups at the point of the sword. They ordered the men to their feet and shoved them harshly out of the plaza, not able to distinguish friend from foe. The fighting men submitted in exhaustion, and Gelon encouraged no more. Perhaps making a fight of it at all was victory enough. Several men lay unconscious in the mud and had to be dragged by the ankles.

  The Romans worked quickly. As soon as the way was clear, they opened the doors. Gelon and his mud-drenched Sacred Band stood in a line to one side of the plaza, dripping and miserable, as a great column of the Roman legion stormed into the city, shields and helmets and drawn swords glistening in the rain. Gelon felt like a spectator at a parade, only there was no cheering. Overcome by the martial splendor of the Roman column, one of the Syracusans raised a triumphant fist and uttered a cry. A single look of Gelon’s baleful eye silenced him. He dropped his hand and looked down at his feet, chastened, for there would be no cheering this day — not from the Syracusans.

  Chapter 22

  In addition to provisioning the 50,000 men that would soon disembark from the new Roman fleet at Messana, Scipio now found himself with the added burden of contracting the work crews necessary to install the corvi on each of the one-hundred-twenty ships. Rufinus had brought him the news of Archimedes’ “wonder weapon,” as Scipio derisively referred to it. He had little use for such gimmickry. In fact, his first reaction upon hearing of the device was to laugh. His second was to take offense at the insult to the honor of Rome. At best, the scheme simply created a completely new set of unnecessary headaches for him, in addition to potentially pushing back the date that he would lead his fleet into battle.

  But Rufinus had been insistent as to the weapon’s effectiveness.

  “It is a boarding bridge,” Rufinus had said finally in exasperation as he tried to describe the corvus. Scipio had raised objections to every one of the points he had highlighted as to its function.

  “But my men are already adept at boarding,” Scipio had said.

  It was not until the prototype had arrived from Syracuse and Scipio saw it in action for himself that he had relented.

  Still, from a strictly practical standpoint, he felt that the gadget was unnecessary. But after speaking with the captain and crew of the prototype vessel, the confidence it instilled in them was plain to see. It was an effect of the weapon that was not to be dismissed, whatever its actual usefulness.

  But now Scipio had an ever-expanding multitude of preparations to make. Word had been sent to Ostia that the fleet should be manned by the maximum number of marines, a further change of plan that ballooned the amount of supplies Scipio must round up. This, in addition to contracting the work crews…

  And then there were the constant interruptions…

  Scipio looked up from his desk. It was Rufinus again. But this time it was no mere trifle of logistics he brought to the consul’s attention—if Scipio had heard correctly. He put his pen down, and turned on his stool.

  “He what?” Scipio asked, incredulous.

  “The man says he wishes to betray the city of Lipara to Rome,” Rufinus repeated.

  Scipio was amused at the simplicity of the statement.

  “Oh, he does, does he? Just like that? And who is this fellow?”

  “He calls himself Erastos,” Rufinus said. “He claims to speak for his master, Kyros of Lipara.”

  “Ah, Kyros,” Scipio said thoughtfully. He remembered the man. Kyros had once addressed the Senate in Rome regarding some trade negotiations years ago. Since the Carthaginians had taken the place, Scipio had long regarded Lipara with resentment. It was perfectly placed between Sicily and the mainland of Italy and the Carthaginians used it as a naval base to good advantage. Without a fleet, there was little Rome could do about Lipara. Lately, however, Scipio found his thoughts turning to it with greater frequency. He suddenly realized that in retrospect he should not have been surprised to be approached by an agent of Kyros. In fact, it was, perhaps, entirely predictable that the man should seek to circumvent the inevitable.

  “Send him in,” Scipio said at last, with a curious expression.

  Erastos was escorted into the room under armed guard. Scipio signaled and the guard halted the man and closed ranks around him. Anyone could claim to be an agent of Kyros and in these times, Scipio was ever aware of the possibility of assassination, especially in Messana. Erastos gazed out irritably from behind the guards.

  “I am Erastos,” he began, “and I speak for Kyros, the magistrate of Lipara.” He extended a sealed parchment between the shoulders of the guards who enclosed him. Rufinus grabbed the letter from his fingers and delivered it to Scipio. “You can see that it is authentic,” Erastos said, raising his chin to make his face visible above the guards’ shoulders.

  Scipio examined the seal and read a few lines of the note. Then he handed it absently back to Rufinus.

  “But is the offer authentic?” he asked. “Lipara is a Carthaginian possession, is it not?”

  “You know it is,” Erastos said crossly.

  “They have been using it as a base for their raids upon Italian soil.”

  “Against our will, Consul, as you well know.”

  “I know no such thing,” Scipio said quickly. “I only know where the Carthaginian ships are based for their raids.”

  “But what choice do we have? On our island, we are alone against Carthage. Now that Rome builds its own fleet, Kyros sees his chance to be free from the Carthaginian yoke.”

  “And to save his own skin,” Scipio added.

  Erastos looked hopelessly at the guards that surrounded him.

  “Let me out from here, so I can speak to you face to face,” he said.

  Scipio nodded, almost imperceptibly, and the guards parted. Erastos approached him.

  “That’s close enough!” Rufinus said.

&nbs
p; Erastos stopped. “Lipara wants to be free of the Carthaginians, and that is all, Consul. Kyros submits to Rome’s protection. It is laid out in the note I have handed you.”

  “And what does Kyros want in return?”

  “What does he want?” Erastos asked, puzzled.

  “He offers me his city. Surely, he wants something.”

  “You have already said it,” Erastos said, with a sneer. “He wants his life.”

  “He is a wise man,” Scipio said with a smile, “for I can grant him that.”

  A funny thought suddenly occurred to him, that while the bulk of the fleet was still under construction, he would have already led it to its first victory. He smiled inwardly at the notion as the idea coalesced in his mind and took on a feeling of finality. Lipara would be his fleet’s maiden victory, achieved even without the use of the Syracusan lad’s wonder weapon. The glory would be his — and his alone. His capture of Lipara would put an end to the raids on Bruttium and make Carthage’s hold on northern Sicily tenuous at best. Oh, the possibilities for Scipio’s fleet boggled his mind. And this was only the beginning. Sardinia, Corsica…Africa itself was not out of the question!

  “I accept,” Scipio said suddenly, trying to mask his excitement. He called for one of his scribes to draft a reply to Kyros’ offer. Applying his seal to it, he moved to hand it to Erastos when he noticed the man’s sour expression.

  “It appears to me that you do not entirely approve,” Scipio said.

  “It is not for me to have opinions.”

  “You are a faithful servant, Erastos, for carrying out what you obviously find so distasteful. But do not judge your master harshly,” Scipio said, holding out the letter. “Kyros is absolutely correct in his assumptions. When I hand you this letter, Kyros will indeed have saved his own skin.” Impatiently, Erastos moved to take the sealed parchment, but Scipio snatched it away quickly, adding, “And, I daresay, yours as well, in all probability.” Only then did he relinquish the letter to Erastos.