The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  “As you say, Consul. It is not my place to discuss such issues.”

  “Oh, but, please! Discuss, discuss…”

  “Very well,” Erastos began. “We Liparians fear the Carthaginian fleet. But…”

  “Go on. But what?”

  “But it seems to me that we simply trade one master for another.”

  Scipio contemplated Erastos evenly. He had a sullen, angry look. “But in time of war, one must choose sides, my friend. You tell your countrymen that they no longer have anything to fear from the Carthaginian fleet. Now, you take my reply to Kyros, for Kyros has chosen sides for all of you. But there isn’t much time.”

  “It is done!” called Kyros as Thales entered the room. He held the parchment up like a prize.

  “This is the Roman response?” Thales asked, as Kyros handed him the letter.

  “Indeed it is,” Kyros said. “The time has been set.”

  “Four days!” Thales said with a start, as he scanned the text of the letter. “It is too soon!”

  “It is not soon enough for me, Thales,” said Kyros. “In four days the Roman fleet will be here. Imagine that! It sounds strange to my ears.” Kyros was as buoyant as Thales had ever seen him. “Your preparations have been made? Is this correct, Thales?”

  “Of course, sir,” Thales said. “But…” He faltered for a moment. Kyros regarded him impatiently, his buoyancy changing to annoyance in an instant. “But it is difficult,” Thales concluded, regaining himself.

  “Of course it is difficult,” Kyros snapped. “But it must be done. It is our plan.”

  “But must they be killed?” Thales asked. Kyros had decided that the Carthaginian garrison should be massacred by Thales’ militia. It was indeed possible, given the garrison’s reduced numbers. But Thales contemplated the plan with dread.

  “Have you become a coward?” Kyros asked. “Is your spine weakening in the final moments? Have we become so crushed under the Carthaginian heel that we have lost our will to resist them?”

  Thales clenched his jaw against the insults. It was the heel of Kyros that crushed him. The little man’s faith in the fledgling Roman fleet was exasperating, and bordered on madness. Did he really suppose that Rome could challenge Carthage at sea merely because she willed it?

  “The retribution will be great, Kyros, for our murder of the Carthaginians.”

  “But there will be no retribution, you fool!” Kyros snapped again. “It is the retribution from the Romans that we must fear. In four days’ time, when Scipio enters our harbor with his fleet and the Carthaginian garrison lies dead, we will be under the protection of Rome. Until then, we are an enemy of Rome. Which would you prefer, Thales?”

  “I would prefer not murdering the troops of the very people who can most easily destroy us!” Thales snapped back.

  Kyros threw up his hands and paced in exasperation. He stopped and strode back toward Thales.

  “Why can you not see the precariousness of our position here? Your mind is dense and your eyes blind.”

  Thales stiffened. “You gamble all on this Roman fleet, Kyros. Your hatred of the Carthaginians has you grasping at this thinnest of reeds. You may wish for the Romans to control Lipara and leave you in peace, but the Carthaginians will have the final say in the matter, believe me. When they destroy this upstart Roman fleet, where does that leave us, as the murderers of the Carthaginian garrison and the betrayers of the city?”

  “But the wagers have already been placed, Thales,” Kyros said. “And the wheel spins in four days.”

  Kyros gazed with narrowed worm-eyes up at the tall man and Thales realized in that instant that he hated Kyros, the petulant tyrant of their little island. He would see them all dead if it would save his own miserable skin.

  “I will not murder the Carthaginians,” Thales said, all at once. Kyros’ face began to redden like an expanding wine bladder. “I will instead imprison the garrison,” he added quickly, before the little man’s inevitable rage began to spew. “This I can accomplish as easily as their massacre. It will give us some leeway; perhaps even a bargaining chip should Roman promises disappoint us.”

  Finally, Kyros agreed and Thales, satisfied to win this small victory, went down to discuss the matter with his captain of the guard, Philippos. He found him in the garrison headquarters that fronted the harbor, busy with trading vessels, the sky full of wheeling gulls. The headquarters was crowded with soldiers and officers, both Liparian and Carthaginian. Thales caught Philippos’ eye and, with a nod, led him to a nearby wine house where they sat at a rough table in a dim corner over a flagon of watered wine.

  “There will be no massacre of the garrison,” Thales said in a low voice.

  “So we will imprison them, as discussed?” Philippos asked.

  “Yes, this will satisfy Kyros,” Thales said. “We must set this up with the Carthaginians. It is important that it seems authentic. Have you spoken to the garrison commander?”

  Philippos nodded.

  “Good. Now, finalize the preparations. We have four days. I will not be crucified for Kyros’ sake.”

  “Nor I,” Philippos agreed. “We do the right thing, Thales.”

  Thales lifted a cup to his lips.

  “We must notify the Carthaginians at once,” he said, wiping the wine from his mustache with the back of his scarred hand. “Where is the trader Calepios?”

  “He is here,” Philippos said, nodding his head toward the harbor. “He sails for Panormus today.”

  “Ah!” Thales exclaimed excitedly. “Bring him to me, Philippos. The Carthaginian fleet is based at Panormus these days, you know. Yes, bring me Calepios. Tell him I have a bag of coin with his name on it.”

  Hannibal Gisgo felt as if the world had fallen into the palm of his hand like a ripe pomegranate. In Carthage, in defense of Hannibal’s record in Sicily, Boodes had been masterful against an unexpectedly vigorous assault, and Hannibal’s own picked man, the well-connected Hamilcar, was proving himself to be a well-chosen, capable leader, despite his unnecessarily heavy losses at Thermae. Even though the Romans had taken the unimportant city of Macella, Hamilcar had reduced Segesta to the brink of capitulation and, after Halikyae had once again declared for Carthage, he had at last staunched the bleeding after the debacle of Acragas. Hannibal had never felt so satisfied. For the first time in years, he felt as though he could pause for a breath and finally appreciate all he had achieved.

  From the outside, perhaps his success did resemble the random falling of fruit into his fortuitously open palm. But Hannibal knew better. His luck had fallen to him as a result of years of tireless effort and preparation.

  Now, he had 130 ships in the harbor at Panormus just awaiting his word to sail into action. The entire power of the Carthaginian empire was at his fingertips and he yearned to use it. As soon as Segesta fell, Hannibal would begin the culminating campaign of the war. With his fleet supported by Hamilcar’s army, they would strip Rome of all of her possessions in northern Sicily. The campaign would culminate with the Carthaginian conquest of Messana, causing Hiero to abandon the Roman cause and making Rome’s position in Sicily untenable.

  They would not cower in the port cities as had been Hanno’s plan. Oh, no! As the most high Baal-Hammon himself had decreed it, there was a new commander in Sicily now, for Hanno sat in destitute humiliation back in Carthage. With fists clenched, Hannibal swore he would take the fight to the Romans and show them the folly of their pretensions.

  The news of the construction of a Roman fleet, however, had the potential to disrupt these plans. He still did not know the size of the new fleet. But his spymaster had reported a massive stockpiling of supplies at Messana, a report that gave him pause, for it was raw data without any solid meaning. He could only assume that the twenty ships already in Messana would soon be followed by many more — perhaps a hundred or even more, judging from the size of the camp being built.

  But now he could add into his planning this newest development, brought to him by th
e trader from Lipara, Calepios: that the magistrate Kyros was attempting to hand the city to the Romans.

  So, Kyros, the surly little man who had always caused Hannibal such grief, was a traitor as well as a quarrelsome pain in the ass. He supposed he should not be so surprised. At first, Hannibal chuckled softly to himself.

  But after Calepios left, he burst out laughing, a full-throated roar.

  “Pretensions, indeed!” he cried, his voice reverberating off the marble walls. “Boodes, what do you make of the trader’s report?”

  “I think the Romans think too highly of their little fleet,” Boodes said.

  “The rest of their fleet must be nearing completion for the Romans to be this aggressive with their twenty ships. For not even the stupid Romans could believe they would hold Lipara for long with such a modest force.”

  “What do you propose, General?” Boodes asked, a stern, purposeful expression on his face.

  Hannibal gazed at him, quizzically at first. Then, matching his severity, said, “This means we go into action, Boodes. We shall engage this new Roman fleet.”

  Boodes nodded solemnly. “Their twenty ships will be in the harbor at Lipara in three days, according to the trader,” Boodes said. “Perhaps I should meet them with twenty of my own.”

  “You want a crack at them, Boodes?” Hannibal asked.

  “Indeed I do,” Boodes said, his jaw set firmly.

  “Then you shall lead the expedition to free Lipara from Rome, my friend,” Hannibal said.

  He stood and strode over to a table strewn with documents, and he began sorting through them, looking for his maps. “Come then, let us plan this venture.” He found the map he was looking for, and cleared off a space on the conference table and spread it out. On one side of the soft parchment was Panormus, on the other, Lipara and the coast of Sicily to Messana. Supporting himself with both hands on the table, Hannibal leaned over the map. Boodes joined him. Distances were already marked: one full day at sea from Panormus to Lipara.

  “Eighteen hours with a favorable wind,” Boodes said, tracing a path with his finger. “To arrive after dark—”

  “I want Kyros alive,” Hannibal said, interrupting Boodes’ calculations.

  Boodes regarded Hannibal in silence, and then nodded. “I will give you Kyros,” he said. “And twenty Roman ships and all who man them,” he added after a pause.

  Hannibal smiled and looked back down at the map.

  “Good. Now, you were saying…”

  Chapter 23

  By the time Scipio climbed the steps to the palace, Lipara was a Roman possession. For the first time since entering the harbor in his flagship, Victory, his solemn expression had been shattered and he grinned broadly. Now, with his entourage of scribes and messengers and guards as well as Kyros and his people following him, he could no longer contain his triumph.

  His joy only increased as he turned and saw his seventeen magnificent ships in the harbor below. Dockhands tussled with mooring lines, and deckhands with sails, while his crews filed happily ashore. His only disappointment came when he realized that he had neglected to commission an artist to capture the moment. He could see the Curia wall opposite Messala’s fresco depicting Scipio’s momentous first naval triumph, the conquest of Lipara. He gazed down at his fleet and took it all in, committing to memory each detail so he could indeed describe the scene to an artist back in Rome. The Roman people would demand a depiction for posterity. He would not disappoint them.

  “You were as good as your word, Kyros,” Scipio said, with a feeling of genuine gratitude.

  “Welcome to Lipara, Consul.” Kyros beamed, bowing his head and revealing the growing bald spot amid his graying curls. He stood upright and clapped his hands. “Wine!” he called. In a moment, a servant appeared with brimming goblets.

  “To Lipara!” Scipio cried, making a toast.

  “To Rome!” Kyros said in response, raising his goblet. Thales raised his as well and they all drank.

  “The Carthaginian garrison has been disarmed and is now under guard, Consul. The city is yours.”

  “For the glory of Rome,” Scipio said, grinning anew. He set his goblet down on a table and began looking around for his scribe. “I must prepare a proclamation at once to be sent to Rome,” he said.

  His scribe set out his supplies on the table and began scribbling rapidly as Scipio dictated.

  “Let it be known that on this date, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, in command of Rome’s first fleet—”

  Thales listened to the pompous Roman prattle on with a sense of rising horror. He felt he was on the verge of panic. He had not expected to react this way, and he began pacing nervously, trying to walk off his fear. He glanced at the empty horizon beyond the Roman ships and he was filled with the certainty of his doom. Where were the Carthaginians? The city was rapidly filling with Roman soldiers.

  Every syllable uttered by Scipio seemed to cement his fate further. If he could stop the pronouncement, he felt, he could prevent its being true.

  He turned and spoke rapidly. “But, Consul, surely your proclamation can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “It is going nowhere tonight, and you should enjoy the evening. Lipara has many pleasures—”

  “The man interrupts my proclamation!” Scipio said with a whimsical expression as he turned to regard Thales.

  Thales could feel Kyros’ eyes on him. Was he suspicious? Could he know? He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Phillipos who stood dumbly gazing out to sea. His face began to feel hot. Despite his best efforts to remain calm, he caught himself continuously glancing at the horizon, hoping for Carthaginian sails. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and he licked at it with a thick, dry tongue.

  Scipio’s expression changed to curiosity. “Are you troubled, young man?” he asked.

  “Thales—” Kyros began crossly.

  “No, not troubled. Not at all,” Thales felt himself stammering. “It’s just—” He did not know what to say. He felt all eyes on him. It is just what? Think, man. Then he had it. “It’s just…that it is unusual to see the Roman banners flying from the mastheads in our harbor. It will take some getting used to, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes!” Scipio laughed, clapping his hands together. Thales had never seen a man in better humor. “But you will get used to it, my friend. Indeed, you will. As I told Kyros’ man in Messana,” Scipio said, turning to Kyros, “in time of war, everyone must choose sides.”

  Kyros smiled and closed his eyes, nodding. Scipio turned to Thales once again and Thales smiled weakly in reply. He could feel Kyros looking at him.

  “Now, back to my proclamation. Liparian pleasures can wait.” Scipio laughed again.

  As he continued with his self-laudatory dictation, and Kyros engaged with his own people, Thales stole within whispering range of Phillipos’ ear.

  “The garrison?” he asked.

  “All is ready,” Phillipos said.

  “There are more soldiers than we thought.”

  Phillipos nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “The Carthaginians must not be late, or this thing could blow up on us,” Thales said.

  Phillipos merely closed his eyes in reply.

  Boodes had been following the red lights all through the night. Three red-paned lanterns hung from poles on the aft deck of Hannibal’s flagship to distinguish it from the rest of his squadron which bore but one — tiny but distinct pinpricks in the darkness, swaying hypnotically. Boodes could hear nothing but the gentle plash of oars; and he could see nothing but the seemingly unsupported red lanterns, each indicating the position of one of Hannibal’s fifty ships. Boodes’ own squadron of twenty bore white lights and he knew that the nineteen ships behind him navigated by the lights alone. The crews rowed and the helmsmen steered blindly where the dangling lights led them.

  At the first flowering of dawn, fog muted the lights and they winked in and out of sight. Now, in the diminishing darkness, Boodes could see Hannibal’s flagship, the giant septireme, the King of
Epirus, gliding soundlessly in the drifting fog like a ship of ghosts. One of the hazy lanterns began to swing vigorously, the signal for the two squadrons to part. Indeed, to his left, Boodes could see the island of Vulcano, the first of the Lipari group. From this point, Boodes would swing north to Lipara, while Hannibal continued east to Italy to scour the coast for any sign of the main Roman fleet.

  Boodes indicated the change of course and the helmsman responded immediately. They had gotten a late start. Assuming the information from the Liparian trader had been correct, the harbor should be full of Roman ships. Boodes experienced his fleet’s slow progress with mounting frustration. His blockade should already be in place. The plan was to catch the Romans at rest. Now, with his late arrival, he braced for a fight, but he knew that the Carthaginian ships were more than a match for anything the Romans could throw at them.

  He ordered full oars and 270 men heaved to in perfect unison towards Lipara.

  The cries from his guards awoke Scipio from a sound sleep. He rose irritably and threw on his slippers. He heard the sound of pounding feet and more shouts and cries in the distance. Sighing and running a hand through his hair, he strode out onto the terrace from where the racket emanated.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked angrily as he stormed across the floor towards the marble rail.

  “Consul! In the harbor. Look! Carthaginians!”

  “No!” Scipio cried, pushing the guard aside with the sweep of his arm. “It cannot be!”

  He leaned over the rail and peered into the fog. The sun could not yet be seen, but the brightening horizon indicated a dawn just moment’s away. Scipio saw frenetic activity on the docks among the ships of his fleet. In some places, crewmen unfurled sails. Others raised them again. Men scrambled aboard the ships at the same time others rushed past them going the other way. He saw officers mutely bellowing orders. Two of his ships pulled away from the docks, one under full sails, one with sails furled, each with oars splashing erratically.