The gentle pitching of the deck was replaced by the smoothly rolling wheels of the gleaming chariot. He could see his red-painted face. He saw himself ascending the Capitoline Hill, the streets thronged with cheering masses. And he could hear the slave whispering constantly in his ear: “Remember that you are mortal…”
Perhaps he would remember it then. It was hard to imagine now.
Consul Gaius Duilius: Victor of Mylae… Victor of Segesta… Duilius’ fleet… Duilius’ army… Duilius’ glory!
“Gentlemen,” Hamilcar announced solemnly to his assembled officers, “our fleet has been defeated.”
“No!” the men cried, aghast, half-rising to their feet. The officers murmured in astonishment.
Hamilcar held up a hand and they fell silent.
“Hannibal Gisgo has returned to Carthage with the remainder of the fleet. General Boodes is dead. For the time being, we are alone, gentlemen.”
The men stared gravely at Hamilcar, none of them fully grasping the implications of what they had just heard.
After leaving Segesta, Hamilcar had marched his army to a new camp outside Panormus. The camp had a permanent feeling to it. For now, he was strictly on the defensive.
Hamilcar shook his head derisively. “Not that any of it surprises me,” he said, as if to himself.
“How could our fleet have been defeated?” Philosir asked, gazing around the tent. This opened a floodgate of queries from the astonished officers.
“Defeated by the Romans? The Romans alone?”
“I refuse to believe it!”
“How could this have happened?”
“Incompetence!” Hamilcar cried, the outburst silencing the men. He sighed, contemplating his officers’ incredulous faces. “Hannibal has been recalled to Carthage while the Council delves into the matter,” he said after a pause. “Believe me, they will find out how this happened. Until then, we must hold here.”
“You think the Romans will attack?”
“I would be astonished if they did not,” Hamilcar said. “Their fleet is victorious. This would be the time for a general offensive, if ever there was one.”
“Do you believe they will march on Panormus, sir?”
Outside the tent, a horse skidded noisily to a halt. Hamilcar and his men heard raised voices and then a guard appeared an instant later with the panting rider. He handed Hamilcar a message and the officers watched him read it in grim silence. After the news of Mylae, a sense of looming catastrophe had swept the gathering. Now, the men felt that any calamity was possible, and they seemed to hold their breaths, awaiting the news.
“Duilius has landed in the Gulf of Thermae with 10,000 men,” Hamilcar announced, frowning in thought.
The officers murmured in consternation.
“But what of their fleet?” Philosir raised his voice above the din. The officers fell silent, watching Hamilcar.
“Sailed away,” Hamilcar said, reading, a quizzical lilt to his voice. The move puzzled him. “Sailed away…” he repeated thoughtfully.
“So the fleet does not attack!” Philosir said with obvious relief.
“No…” Hamilcar said. “No, it does not. Not here.”
“That means they still fear us,” Philosir said. The feeling of relief was palpable. The officers all began speaking at once. Hamilcar had feared a siege of Panormus. Without the Roman fleet in support, such a move was doubtful.
“This raises possibilities then, does it not?” one of them asked.
“It does indeed!” Hamilcar said, suddenly pleased. “Duilius abandons his fleet, detaches his marines, and reinforces his army… and the fleet goes home.” He raised his eyebrows in wonder.
“These are the Romans we know!” one of the officers cried happily.
A smattering of laughter rose from the men, dispelling the gloom once and for all. Hamilcar felt uplifted. He still would not engage the Romans in open combat. He had fought them personally outside Acragas and he had witnessed the mauling they had dealt Hanno. However, the ambush of their marching column had opened his eyes to a different sort of fighting. With Gauda and his men gathering intelligence, it was a mode of warfare that appealed to him.
“We will see to it that they reap no benefit from their victory,” Hamilcar said. “Philosir, tell us what we have learned from their deserters.”
“Certainly, sir,” Philosir said, standing and taking Hamilcar’s place at the head of the group. Hamilcar sat down to listen.
“We now know that the Romans have only one army on the island, 20,000 men,” Philosir began. “Not forty, as we had believed. You can now add to that Duilius’ 10,000.”
Hamilcar noticed some of his officers shifting uncomfortably at this news. He did not have to be told that he had overestimated the strength of the Romans. He knew it well. He glanced at the squirming officers, knowing that their impulse was to speak, but they fell silent under his eye.
Philosir continued. “Our Roman deserters tell interesting tales of discord among the allies.” Philosir smiled. “There is little communication between the Romans and the Syracusan legion. Bitterness has arisen between them over some trivial matter — something only a Roman or Sicilian would understand.” The officers laughed again. “In fact, the Syracusans now camp by themselves, well away from the Romans.”
The officers leaned forward with intense interest. Hamilcar smiled and nodded.
“Outside of supporting range of the legions?” one of the officers asked.
“The Syracusans are quite alone, gentlemen,” Philosir said in a triumphant tone when it became obvious that all the officers entertained the same notion.
“How many?”
“Syracusans? Fewer than 5,000.”
“And their camp has been scouted?”
“Oh, yes,” Philosir said. “The Syracusans do not build the fortified camps of the Romans. It is weakly constructed and indifferently guarded.”
The officers began muttering excitedly among themselves. “We must attack it!” one of them cried.
Hamilcar stood and raised a hand for silence.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, as Philosir sat down. Then Hamilcar gazed fiercely at the officer who had just spoken. “In case any of you had any doubts, we will attack them!” he said. Then he paused to appraise his officers’ expressions. “We will attack with our entire force,” he told them. “With our entire army. Do you understand? I mean to be thorough, gentlemen. We will destroy these Sicilians.”
A hush fell over the room and the officers steeled their jaws and matched Hamilcar’s fiery gaze.
“I mean to tell you,” Hamilcar went on, “we will crush them!”
His teeth clenched in utter concentration, Heron galloped in a wide circle toward the target and flung his javelin. It struck home in the center of the tightly packed hay bale. He had thrown with such force that he had driven the point all the way through to the opposite side. Dion rode in the center of the great circle of mounted warriors. He shouted encouragement as they raced past him. Heron came out of his sweep grinning with satisfaction.
“That’s a boy, Heron!” Dion called. “Well done! Next time, that will be an Iberian!”
He had little time to dwell on Heron’s success, for right on his heels the next Eagle came sweeping toward the target. At the apex of his circuit, he hurled his missile. It arced well above the bale and embedded itself in the hillside beyond. The mound bristled with errant throws.
“You have not struck the target all day!” Dion scolded. “Around again with you!”
Juba smiled. He was reminded of the training fields of Syracuse. At times, a playful atmosphere arose among the men that belied the seriousness of their training. Juba let them enjoy themselves as they could. He felt there were hard days ahead. He had put Dion in charge and he did not want to undermine his authority. He was conducting the training session in his way, and Juba was pleased with his efforts. The men followed him without question.
In a distant part of the field, he saw Ge
lon’s Sacred Band charging in formation and infantrymen engaging in one-on-one swordplay. The cavalrymen were resplendent in their armor. The air rang out with clashing iron and thundering hooves. Yes, it was much like Syracuse—a fact that increasingly troubled Juba, for it too much resembled peaceful Syracuse when it should have resembled a fortified camp in enemy territory.
Juba scanned the vast city of tents. Even though they had been laid out with precision and the men and officers conducted themselves with as much competence as any Roman, the camp itself was weak. In stark contrast to a Roman encampment, this one would not present much of an obstacle to a determined enemy. The Roman camps, it seemed to Juba, were invulnerable to attack. The Syracusans had dug a shallow ditch, fronting a shallow embankment. A horse could leap over both with a single bound, and infantry would not need great baskets of straw to cross them.
As he looked on, he saw an impressive delegation of scarlet-cloaked Romans. They entered the camp and approached Gelon’s command tent. A contingent of guards halted them and did not allow them to dismount. They waited. Juba was about to look away when Gelon finally appeared with his own splendid party. The Romans dismounted and the Syracusans greeted them coldly.
Juba shook his head. He knew that in Gelon’s mind the enemy camp was not thirty miles away at Panormus, occupied by Carthaginians, but near the Gulf of Thermae, occupied by Romans, a fact that troubled him greatly. Gelon’s hatred for the Romans had only intensified as the campaign had progressed. Now, he seemed to hate them with a passion that approached lunacy. Without question, Gelon was a great man, and Juba hesitated to think that the one to whom he owed his life was also a lunatic. But that was where his thoughts had lately begun to lead him — and he hated it. He shook the thought away and turned his attention back to his beloved Eagles.
He motioned for Dion. Dion saw him and told his men to carry on without him. Then he rode over to Juba.
“How goes the training?” Juba asked when Dion had ridden to within earshot.
“Very well!” Dion replied, smiling broadly. Juba was always impressed by how easy all of this was for the young man. He was a born light cavalryman. “Some of the men still think it enough to ride hard at a target. Look at that hillside! Javelins sprout from it like wheat!”
“Not everyone is Dion!” Juba laughed.
“Then woe to Sicilian hillsides!” Dion exclaimed.
Laughing, Juba clapped him on the back. “And to bales of hay,” he added. “But what of Carthaginians?”
Dion eyed him gravely. “What of them?” he asked.
“How would you like to take a look at that Carthaginian camp tomorrow?”
“At Panormus?”
“Yes. I want you to lead the troop.” Juba saw a hint of doubt flash in the young man’s eye. But it passed quickly, and a smile began to spread over his face.
“Me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Juba said. “It is your troop now. I have been watching. The men follow you, Dion. Even the coward, Heron. They are your people.”
Dion frowned. “Heron is no coward,” he said with a puzzled expression. “He may complain, but—but he fights! He fought the Iberians, just as we did!”
“You are ready, Dion,” Juba said with a widening smile. As his puzzlement faded, Dion matched it. “To a man, your troop is indeed brave—as it must be. The Carthaginians will have their own riders out—”
“They will never see us!” Dion burst out. “We will ride all the way around their camp!”
“Have the troop ready by sunup,” Juba said.
Dion beamed excitedly. He wheeled and trotted a few steps toward his troop, but then halted and turned.
“And I will bring you the names of the sentries!” he cried.
With that, he heeled his horse and galloped back to the Eagles — his Eagles. Juba watched from a distance as he gathered the troop around him. He must have told them the news, for the men began cheering lustily. Even from where Juba sat, he could see Dion cut them short with a stern look. He lobbed a javelin to one of the fellows and began issuing orders.
“For distance and accuracy this time!” Juba heard him shouting, and he smiled inwardly.
Tomorrow would be a big day for the Eagles.
Before the sun had risen, Juba and the ten men of Dion’s troop led their horses out of the southern gate of the encampment. The gate was but an opening in the perimeter embankment. The opening itself was protected by a crescent-shaped mound outside the camp. Half a dozen javelin men sat atop the mound. Though still dark, the air was already thick and oppressive, and as Juba passed he could hear the guards preemptively complaining about the heat of the day to come.
“This is a foul country,” one of them said in summing up his wretchedness.
“I cannot believe we fight for it.”
“Where do you think you boys are going?”
Juba looked up and saw the speaker staring at him. The man sat with his legs sprawled over the mound. He held his single javelin upright in the dirt and he leaned heavily on it with both hands, looking half-asleep. In the dim light, his dirty face glistened with sweat. His voice was angry. The other sentinels fell silent and stared at the troop as well.
“We have work to do,” Juba said, without pausing.
“Oh, you’re more of those,” the sentinel said, scrutinizing the men. “Your buddies are out there.” He cocked his head toward the field where a hundred more Eagles had gathered. The other four hundred would remain behind today to continue their training.
Juba, Dion and the ten troopers moved past the sentinels.
“Why don’t you keep your horses from shitting in the path for a change?” one of the javelin men said as the troopers passed below. The others laughed — a bitter, joyless sound. “I’m tired of having to clean off my sandals.”
“Shut up,” Dion snapped, “or we’ll march our horses up there and shit on your heads!”
“You?” the sentinel shot back. “Or the horses?” The men burst out laughing.
“Braying donkeys…” Dion said out of the corner of his mouth.
The sentinels’ laughter followed them all the way out to the field where it was lost in the distance and replaced with the snuffling and shifting of one hundred horses. The Eagles had congregated by troop and sat discussing their orders in ten-man clusters. When they saw Juba pass, they fell silent, awaiting his instructions. They all knew they would be fanning out to the northwest, all the way to Panormus, covering a lot of ground. The potential for action was all but guaranteed, so the men were easily brought to silence.
Juba took his position in front of them, but before he could take his first breath to speak, Dion was at his side. Juba held up a hand while he leaned to hear what Dion had to tell him.
“There are some men on the ridgeline behind us,” he whispered.
Stealthily, Juba turned and looked. To his eye, the ridge was empty. In the east, the sky had just begun to lighten with the first hint of dawn, but the ridge to the west remained in gloom. A clump of black trees stood starkly against the night sky. Men could easily hide there.
“I saw them moving,” Dion said.
“Our men?” Juba asked, although he knew better.
“Not up there,” Dion answered.
“Very good,” Juba said. “Do you want to get them?”
Dion smiled. “I will take the troop behind this spur—” he indicated a spot where the ridge hooked around toward them before diminishing into the ground— “and approach them from behind.”
“I will speak to the rest of the men,” Juba said. “Take the troop now.”
Dion casually gathered his men and they loped off around the spur. Juba could see that from the vantage point of the ridge, their destination could not be known. Juba rode in the opposite direction, and began speaking to the men in a loud voice. Action, it looked like, on this day, would come sooner than any of them had thought.
A few moments later, Dion’s troop came thundering back, without regard to stealth.
The hundred Eagles, who had not noticed them leave, started as a body. Juba held up a hand, ordering them to stay put. He saw Dion at the head of the returning column. With satisfaction, Juba noted that while only ten had gone, more than ten came back.
“Here they are,” Dion said. “There were three of them, watching us from that ridge.”
The Eagles parted to reveal three riders on bareback ponies. Dion dismounted and ordered the three down to the ground. Juba dismounted also and approached the group.
“What were you doing up there?” Dion asked them. The three crouched together in a bunch. Their faces were angry and unafraid. One of them spoke in his own tongue and the other two smiled.
Dion struck the man who had spoken. He fell over onto the ground and lay there in a curled up ball.
“Speak so I can understand you!” he snapped.
“He says we are doomed,” Juba said. He understood the language well. It was Numidian. He felt a stab at his heart. But he thought the men’s snickering was repulsive, and he did not mind Dion striking the man. “It is you who are doomed,” he told the three in their own language.
They looked up at him, eyes wide, and mouths hanging open.
“You are Numidian?” one of them asked.
“But this is the camp of the enemy!” a second exclaimed.
Juba motioned to Dion, and Dion struck the man with his fist.
“I ask the questions here,” Juba said. The fact that they had found three Numidians above their camp filled him with dread. He knew there were more out there, but what lurked behind them was what bothered him. “What did you mean ‘you are doomed’?” Juba asked.
The three men said nothing. The man Dion had struck raised himself sluggishly from the dirt and the other two stared at the ground. Clenching his teeth, Juba pulled his dagger and rushed over to them. He knelt and thrust the blade under the nearest man’s chin.
“What did you mean ‘you are doomed’?” he asked again closely into the terrified man’s ear. Terrified, the man opened his mouth to speak, but no sound issued from it. Juba thrust the knife so hard against the man’s neck that he began to bleed. “Tell me now. You are three. I will kill one at a time, and I will start with you.”
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