The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  “Oh, Rome will always find another politician to throw at us, Boodes,” Hannibal said, wrapping his arm around his lieutenant’s shoulders. “And they put them in command of slow, leaking ships. We will make short work of them here,” Hannibal gestured out to sea.

  “You have confidence that the Romans will bring their fleet to us?”

  “I am without doubt,” Hannibal said. “When they hear what is happening to their Mylaeian allies, they will come. And we will be waiting.”

  By midday, the entire city knew of the rider who had appeared at the gate. He had reported a huge Carthaginian army sweeping through the territory of Mylae, destroying everything in its path. Many more reports followed and Messana was thrown into an uproar.

  “It is a raiding party and not an army,” Rufinus reported to Duilius after some hours had past. “The initial reports had been exaggerated. The Carthaginian army is still in western Sicily where you last saw it, not marching on Messana. But their fleet is in Mylae, ravaging the territory.”

  Duilius rose from his rest and sat up on the couch, instantly alert. “In Mylae!” Duilius exclaimed, stunned. “How many ships?”

  “Over 100. It must be their entire fleet.”

  “How soon can we sail?” Duilius asked.

  Chapter 25

  The guard saw Gelon approaching and extended his arm so that his spear blocked the entrance to Caecilius’ tent. Gelon angrily swiped the spear aside and entered without pausing. The guard rushed in after him.

  “I tried to stop him, sir,” the guard said in a mincing, unmanly tone. Gelon stood with a deep frown on his face, his chest heaving.

  Caecilius held up a hand to the guard and dismissed him.

  “What is this about an advance on Segesta?” Gelon demanded before the guard had even scurried out.

  “I am taking the offensive,” Caecilius said. He reached down, picked up a goblet from the table, and took a drink. “Would you like a drink, Gelon?” he asked, as if the two were merely whiling away a pleasant afternoon.

  Gelon ignored his offer. “We do not have the strength to advance directly on the Carthaginians, and you know it.”

  “The strength? Or the courage?”

  Gelon would not allow himself to be baited. “Consul Duilius would not approve,” he said.

  “Consul Duilius is no longer in command here, Gelon. I am.” Caecilius took a sip. When his face reemerged from the goblet, he gazed bemusedly at the Syracusan.

  Gelon gritted his teeth. Duilius was a fool for leaving this pretender in command. Worst of all, he could see that Caecilius was enjoying every minute of it.

  “Besides,” Caecilius went on, “it was Duilius’ intent to raise the siege of Segesta. I am only fulfilling his wishes.”

  “Not by marching directly at it,” Gelon objected. The fool would get them all killed.

  Caecilius uttered a little laugh. “How else do you engage the enemy but by marching at him?” He twittered his little laugh again, looking around the empty tent as if some phantom comrades shared his amusement. Any more amusement and Gelon would knock his teeth out. But he restrained himself, as he probably would be flogged this time.

  “The Carthaginians outnumber us two-to-one, Tribune. We must use guile to defeat them this time.”

  “But the Carthaginians do not know that, thanks to your chief of scouts, and his… his…”

  “Eagles.”

  “Yes, whatever he calls them. I can see now that they are a well-trained unit, Gelon. I will give you credit for that. But, I daresay, the Carthaginians are still skittish. When I march boldly toward them, they will leave Segesta before they will risk another disaster like Acragas. It is boldness, my friend — aggression! — that will carry the day. Not guile.”

  Gelon firmed his jaw. “I tell you, sir, we should not march directly at Segesta. We should make a demonstration toward Panormus, raising Hades as we go. A Roman army at Panormus will bring Hamilcar from Segesta, and we will fight him on our terms.”

  “The decision has been made, Gelon,” Caecilius said. “There will be no demonstration toward Panormus, but a bold march on the enemy. I will be in the vanguard with the extraordinarii, clearing the way. And I want your Syracusans right behind me.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d prefer the rear of the marching order. I would recommend that you have a Roman legion at your immediate disposal, and not my Syracusans.”

  “I see. So you are declining the lead position. As you wish. I only offered it to you as a conciliatory gesture, but I see my graciousness is wasted on you.” Caecilius set down his drink and snapped his fingers. He motioned his servants toward his armor. They removed it from a peg on a pole and began strapping his breastplate over his chest. Ignoring the servants as if they were no more than furniture, he went on, “I realize that you are a famous man, Gelon. Famous throughout the world, you and your Sacred Band. But while you are here, in my camp at Macella, or in my marching columns, or in my battle line, or wherever you are with me,” his voice rose in a barely contained rage, “you are under my command!”

  Gelon stared unblinkingly at the young tribune. “You will get us all killed.”

  “Do we understand each other?” Caecilius said between clenched teeth. His eyes had narrowed menacingly. “Do we?”

  “I understand,” Gelon said. “I understand all too well.”

  “Good,” Caecilius said. “Have your men ready to march at first light.”

  Gauda gazed down at the marching column. It had been absurdly easy to evade the Roman pickets. He had sent Hannon with half of his troop to raise a ruckus in plain view of the Roman cavalrymen. They had predictably followed where Hannon led them and now Gauda could examine the Romans at his leisure. He did not even bother to dismount. He knew that from the valley below, his figure would be nothing more than an unidentifiable black speck on the ridgeline, indistinguishable from the numerous boulders and shrubs that surrounded him.

  Masinissa rode up alongside him.

  “How many would you say there are?” Gauda asked the old man.

  Masinissa scrutinized the column carefully. The ridge cast a deep shadow across the valley floor. The column yet marched through the bright sunshine toward it, the men and horses throwing up plumes of dust.

  “Infantry? Perhaps one-and-a-half thousand,” the chieftain said. “One-third that number of horse.”

  Gauda nodded. “And that ostentatious fellow at the head of the column? Their general?”

  “Yes,” Masinissa cooed with pleasure. “Perhaps the consul himself. Look at the fellow! He thinks he is leading a triumph in Rome!”

  “I have never been to Rome,” Gauda said. “But here outside Segesta he leads them into danger. See how the nearest legion is too distant to support him should he get cut off?” Gauda lowered his arm as if closing a gate behind the unsupported column, and he saw a twinkling in Masinissa’s eye.

  They turned and rode back to the Carthaginian camp.

  “The Romans march at us,” Gauda reported to Hamilcar, an hour later.

  The general started in alarm. His lieutenant, Philosir, shuffling through a stack of curled parchments, stopped and looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

  “How many?” Hamilcar asked.

  “I saw the head of the column only — an advance guard followed by a legion. After that, I don’t know.”

  “So, the Romans come to attack us! What do you make of this, Philosir?”

  “After Macella, they are full of confidence.”

  “Too full of confidence,” Gauda interjected. All eyes turned toward him. “Their route of march will take them through a defile before they reach our position. If we act quickly, we can arrive there before them.”

  Hamilcar stood and rubbed his chin. “I don’t want a full-scale battle,” he said.

  “No, not a battle — an ambush. The Roman advance guard is unsupported,” Gauda said. “I saw how it could be easily sliced off from the rest of the column. Cut off and dest
royed by just a few men.”

  “How do you know they will march through this defile?”

  “Because it is the fastest route to Segesta. Their confidence demands it.”

  Hamilcar began pacing. “How many in this advance guard?”

  Gauda told him.

  “We could take 5,000 men and destroy them utterly,” Philosir said.

  “I don’t know,” Hamilcar said. He was clearly struggling with doubts. Gauda frowned. An easy victory was there for the taking. He did not understand the hesitation. “We cannot fight them and we do not know their numbers. They must be many to approach us so boldly.”

  “You think they have both armies on the island now?” Philosir asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Hamilcar said. “They must. 40,000 men. Maybe more.”

  “Can’t fight them?” Gauda burst out. “But they will soon march through the defile. I could take my own men and destroy them if you will not take yours.” Gauda felt his face redden. He had scouted the Roman approach at great risk to his men and he had found the Romans unprepared and vulnerable, a great prize. How could this just be thrown away?

  Hamilcar stared at him with a stern look, and then exhaled deeply, his expression softening. “Draw me a picture of this defile,” he said quickly. He grabbed a parchment, a letter, and turned it over to its blank side, for Gauda to make his sketch.

  Working quickly, Gauda drew a map from memory.

  “And this area here…” Hamilcar indicated a point parallel to the Roman line of march behind the defile. “It is open to view from the Roman column?”

  Gauda had to think, mentally retracing his path from the marching column. “Yes,” he said, finally, the image coming to him. “Yes, it is flat there.”

  Hunched over the sketch, Hamilcar looked up from under his brow. “We will take 5,000 men,” he said, “and put 4,000 of them on either side of the defile. Philosir, I need infantry and cavalry. Once this Roman advance guard enters the defile, we will close off the back side” — he drew arcing lines that swept down from the hills behind the rear of the column— “and kill the head of the column in detail.” He looked appraisingly at both Philosir and Gauda. Philosir nodded appreciatively. Gauda could tell that the man’s mind was already at work putting together the 5,000. “The other thousand will demonstrate. Here.” He indicated the open area on the flank of the march. “We will draw the attention of the trailing legions while we attack the advance guard. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Philosir said, emphatically.

  “We must be quick, though,” Hamilcar warned. “They outnumber us. We destroy the advance guard only. Then we retreat at once. I will not be the next Hanno,” he said. The last thing the Council would tolerate was a major defeat so quickly on the heels of Acragas. Even his contacts in Carthage would not save him, just as they had not saved Hanno.

  “Yes, sir,” Philosir said again. He saluted and strode quickly from the tent. They could hear him shouting orders the moment he was outside.

  “Your men will lead us to this defile,” Hamilcar said, when he and Gauda were alone.

  Gauda nodded. “It is done.”

  Juba and his 500 Eagles fanned out across the hills on either side of the Syracusan legion marching at the rear of the Roman column. They rode in troops of ten. Juba accompanied the group with the least experience. These were youngest of the Sacred Band recruits who had been targeted by the bully Alexandros. Juba had a soft spot for the boys, in particular a lad named Dion who, Juba found, reminded him of Gervas. When it came to learning the arts of warfare, the boy was a sponge. As Juba demonstrated the techniques of riding and javelin work, Dion studied his every move and gesture with a look of intense concentration. Similarly, when Juba discussed strategy and tactics, Dion was always the first to grasp the concepts. He had become a good soldier — the soldier Gervas would have become — and Juba was close to putting him in command of the troop and letting him strike out on his own.

  “You ride like a Numidian,” Juba would tell him during drills, and Dion beamed. To him, there was no higher compliment. After a while, he even removed his horse’s saddle and bridle and rode as Juba rode. After a month of campaigning, no bullies in the Sacred Band would dare confront him.

  It was when he was out scouting with this troop that Juba realized he missed his old Numidian companions — Gauda and Hannon, Masinissa and the rest of them. The Syracusan lads knew the stories of Pyrrhus better than he did himself, so he was left without a ready subject for his light-hearted lectures and he often rode in silence. One issue always nagged his conscience. Since the beginning of the campaign, he wondered what he would do if he ever met his old troop on the battlefield. Of course, he knew what he would do: he would not fight them. He knew instinctively that Gelon understood this, but they had never discussed it openly.

  Now, he and this troop of Eagles rode along a tree line halfway up a slope that shielded the marching column. From this position, Juba knew they would not be readily seen in the shadows while still maintaining a panoramic view of the plain. They were watching for the approach of enemy troops, scouts in particular. He told the Eagles, “This is our hill. This is our slope. No one forces us from it.” As long as the hill shielded the Syracusan legion from view, the Eagles would protect it.

  Other troops of Eagles were out scouting the enemy aggressively. But, according to Gelon’s orders, they did not stray far from the Syracusan legion. “We’re not doing the Romans’ work for them anymore,” he had said. Juba had advocated a more aggressive campaign, but he had finally relented. Gelon’s hatred of the Romans had begun to trouble him.

  “The Carthaginians are entrenched around Segesta,” one of the troop said, a lad named Heron, as they rode in single file among scrub trees and boulders. “We will not see them today.”

  “The day is young,” Dion said. “You keep your eyes out there.” He gestured toward the empty plain.

  “Oh, what do you know about it?” Heron scoffed. “When is the last time we’ve even seen a Carthaginian?”

  “We’ll see plenty today,” Juba called, looking over his shoulder at the two horsemen. He knew well the rigors of scouting. Boredom presented the most serious challenge. Almost all failings could be attributed to its resultant inattention. “The Carthaginians may be at Segesta, but their scouts will be all over this country — looking for us.”

  Juba saw Heron blanch at the prospect.

  “Don’t worry,” Juba said. “You’ll lose your fear of the enemy. One well-placed javelin and you will see that they are men, just like us.”

  “Only not as skilled,” Dion said cheerfully.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Heron said.

  “Good,” Juba said. “Because I see the enemy now. Look!”

  Around the base of a distant hill, an undetermined number of horsemen emerged, kicking up clouds of dust. Others followed on their heels.

  Juba held up his hand, and the file of Eagles came to a halt. He scrutinized the enemy.

  “There are about a dozen of them,” he said. He could see the sun glint off their bronze embossed shields. He knew they were not Numidian. Iberian, probably. “Heron,” Juba called after a moment. “Fetch me some more Eagles.”

  Heron galloped off to the tail of the column where he knew another troop of Eagles patrolled. While they waited for him to return, Juba and Dion watched the Iberians. They trotted along the base of the hill for a while. Then several of them split off from the group and started up the hill, their mounts leaping up the steep slope over the rough terrain. Almost at once, a group of horsemen emerged from the trees on the ridge, and the Iberians turned and fled.

  “Eagles!” Juba exclaimed. “Our boys are at work! Look at them!”

  The group of twelve scattered across the plain. When they realized the Eagles did not give chase, they regrouped and continued in a mass along the line of hills toward Juba’s position.

  “Well done, boys!” he said under his breath.

  Heron returned w
ith ten more Eagles. Juba gathered them around him. They sat their horses in a circle in the shade of the trees. He told fifteen of his men to secret themselves along the ridgeline — behind boulders, in the lee of ridges and shadows of trees. Five of them, he and Dion included, would bring the Iberians to them. It was the classic Numidian attack and all the Eagles understood their roles implicitly.

  Juba had noticed how easily the Eagles had driven the enemy from the hillside. The Iberians were clearly not afraid of them, for they remained on the plain. But they avoided engagement. They were probing for an unprotected spot where they could gain the hilltop cheaply. Juba scanned the horizon. The Iberians acted like a group that had support nearby. But Juba saw no further enemy.

  “Iberian horsemen are very skillful and swift. Do not take them lightly,” he warned the assembled Eagles before they split up. “They are confident but wary of combat. We will entice them — and we’ll send them back to Segesta with a tale to tell,” he added. The Eagles adopted brave, determined faces, and trotted off to their positions.

  Juba, Dion and three others of the troop waited at the base of the tree line for the Iberians to approach. Juba did not care if they were seen now. The Iberians carried heavier shields and javelins than the Eagles, but were unarmored. Juba watched them mass at the bottom of the hill. Their leader held his arm out, barring their progress, and the group halted. He strained his eyes toward the trees where the five waited in the shadow. The man pointed. They were spotted.

  “Now!” Juba cried.

  The five crashed out of the shadows and galloped down the hill toward the twelve startled horsemen. The Eagles cried out at the top of their lungs, their javelins held high. The Iberians dashed away at first. But seeing that it was only the five who came at them, they quickly wheeled to the attack. Their own javelins poised, their small round shields on their left arms, they came at the Eagles in a rush. Juba knew the Iberians. They were vain about the swiftness of their horses, and of their skill in traversing rough ground and steep slopes. He would use this to his advantage, as the Iberians would not give up a chase to an inferior foe.