“You are no Numidian,” the man said from behind clenched teeth. His voice was a harsh whisper.
Juba plunged the dagger to the hilt into the man’s throat. He gurgled and sputtered. Juba flung him to the ground where he lay writhing. Moving to the next man, Juba thrust his dagger under his chin. The man began talking at once.
“The Carthaginians are going to attack your camp,” the man said.
“When?” Juba asked. The Numidian did not respond. Juba shoved the blade upward, stopping just short of piercing the man’s flesh. He asked again, “When are they attacking?”
“Now.”
“How many?” Juba turned the knife so the man could feel the cold blade.
“The whole army,” the man said. To Juba’s astonishment, the man began to laugh. “The whole damned army,” he said, chortling with glee. “Surely, you will die today…”
Flinging the man aside, Juba stood at once, searching the ridgeline.
Dion peered down at the man with revulsion. To Dion, his chuckling sounded tinged with madness. “What did he say?” he asked.
“Have these men killed and mount up,” Juba said. “The enemy is upon us.” He leapt onto his horse and turned to the hundred. “Prepare to attack!” he called to the group. Then, closer, to one of Dion’s men, he said, “Sound the alarm! Go!” The cavalryman galloped off instantly.
Even as he spoke, the first of the Carthaginian infantry appeared on the ridgeline above the camp. The first man was quickly joined by others and soon, just as the Numidian had reported, an entire army lined the ridge. In the darkness, the figures seemed to materialize out of the ground from nothing, like an army of spirits. Instantaneously, the ridgeline was full of men. Soundlessly as ghosts, they began marching down the shallow slope. As one rank descended into the gloom, the next rose over the crest of the hill.
At that moment, the sun finally peeked over the horizon and the massive phalanx came into view. Juba swallowed hard as he turned to the Eagles. He saw fear in their eyes.
No sooner had he opened his mouth to speak than the alarm rose from the slumbering camp: horns blew and sentries cried out. In the next instant, the Carthaginians roared and broke into a sprint. Their war cry rent the air like thunder. A shiver of terror ran down Juba’s spine; his skin prickled. There was no time for speeches and orders. He shouted, but his voice was lost in the din, even to his own ears. Without waiting, he turned and galloped for the enemy, and the one hundred followed on his heels.
As the phalanx crossed the dead space between ridge and camp, the Eagles made for its flank. Juba had no plan, for he had never contemplated confronting an army with one hundred men, and he knew of no such plan in existence. His only hope was that they could delay the army — or at least part of it — until the Syracusans could form a defense.
Just at that moment, enemy cavalry streamed over the hill, threatening the Eagles’ own flank. Juba could tell from their red-trimmed tunics that they were Iberians, carrying their swords and little round shields. Juba turned away from the phalanx and led his men in a wide circle, rounding on the Iberians as they surged across the ridge, filling the hillside. He held his javelin aloft and just then caught sight of Dion at his side. The other hundred Eagles followed their arching path.
Dion caught his eye. It seemed to occur to both men at the same time that they had unintentionally repeated yesterday’s training exercise, using Iberians instead of hay bales. The enemy swarmed toward them. Woe to Sicilian hillsides! Juba thought — and for one strange moment, he felt himself smiling.
Any sentries who did not flee were cut down in an instant. Inside the camp, cavalrymen fell trying to mount their horses, and their riderless animals galloped among the tents in terror and confusion. Infantrymen gathered up weapons and shields. Set upon by charging gangs of shrieking madmen, most died before they could even raise a sword. Others, gathering with handfuls of their fellows, managed to form shield walls only to be decimated by hails of Iberian javelins, as fearsome as any in the Roman arsenal.
Those who did not fight ran. A tide of refugees streamed from the rear of the camp. Carthaginian cavalry swept around the perimeter and cut them down in the open fields beyond. It was like a sport to the Carthaginians. They grinned with bloodlust, and hooted and hollered as they rode the deserters into oblivion.
Gelon heard the horns blaring and rushed out of his tent, fully armed. By the gods, it was a full-scale assault! He looked around as men and horses streaked past him in every direction. Noting the positions of the dead — the scattered individuals, the isolated clumps — he sought to give some form to the defense. He spied a group of soldiers valiantly holding their own against a growing onslaught of the enemy. They shouldered their shields against the press of men, stabbing.
“There!” he shouted. This would be the center of his defense, these men. He scrutinized them for an instant, a swelling of admiration in his breast. Men of his Sacred Band! He felt his eyes grow wide.
An unarmed soldier fled toward him, heading for the rear. Gelon jumped in front of him, grabbed him by the arm and would not let go. The man struggled in fear, his eyes uncomprehending, senseless as a beast.
“Coward!” Gelon cried. “Look at those men over there. Those are men!”
Grasping his arm like a child, Gelon led the soldier to a cluster of dead and scooped up a sword and shield, both smeared with blood. He thrust them into the terrified man’s hands, and pushed him toward the fight. The man stumbled forward in confusion, dropping both shield and sword. He then seemed to wake from his panic. Gathering up his weapons, he rushed to join his comrades on the fighting line.
Gelon found others. Fleeing to the rear, he redirected them. Skulking, he kicked them into action. As the Carthaginian wave swept around the flanks of the growing defensive line, men rushed into the breach to staunch the flow. The numbers of Gelon’s Sacred Band began to swell.
He looked around frantically. He needed a symbol, something to rally around. There! The banner in front of his tent. He rushed to it and yanked the flagpole from the ground. He waved the purple banner over his head, the eagle flying proudly.
“Sacred Band to me!” he shouted, his voice booming.
Men rushed to him from all parts of the camp. The Carthaginians had already begun plundering the tents and supplies, giving the Syracusans time to coalesce their defense. Soon a defensive crescent had formed around Gelon. With shields and swords, some with just shields, some with bare feet, un-helmeted, shirtless, the men fought with the fury of the doomed.
“You are the Sacred Band of Syracuse!” Gelon cried, waving his flag, while men continued to stream into the bloody crescent. “You fight under the banner of the eagle!”
A rider sped into the arc and came to a stop next to Gelon. He was the first mounted man he had seen. His eyes were wide with terror. Gelon knew he would not last long on that horse.
“Shall I make a dash for the Romans?” the man asked.
Gelon felt the blood rush to his face. “The Romans?” he sputtered. His hands shook with rage as he held the flag in one and unsheathed his sword with the other. He lifted it to the man’s face. “I will kill you where you sit if you do not get down off that horse and fight.”
The man looked confused and hurt. He had been ready to gallop off with great urgency. When he hesitated to dismount, Gelon pushed at him with his hands, his fists clenched around flag and sword. The man fell. As he scrambled to his feet, Gelon whacked the horse with the flat of his blade and it galloped away and was lost in the swirling dust and smoke of the attack. The unarmed man followed as fast as his legs would take him. Gelon snorted in disgust and hoped that the Carthaginians killed him, as he surely would himself if he ever saw the man again.
The crescent around Gelon continued to grow. It became a semi-circle, the perimeter expanding rapidly. Each time the Carthaginians threatened to spill around the flanks, more Syracusans rushed to thwart them. Soon, a full circle had formed and the defenders could only rush from one
point in the line to another. No more men could enter and none could leave.
On the Carthaginian side, the circle thickened. When a Syracusan fell, there was no replacing him and one man would have to do the work of two. In places, the line became dangerously thin. After a few moments, Gelon noticed riders circling behind the increasingly frenzied attackers. As they galloped along the perimeter, they flung javelins into the circle. Gelon could see their smiling faces and he realized that they were aiming for him. Heavy iron javelins plunged to the ground at his feet. He yanked them from the dirt and blindly hurled them back. He could see that the riders were making a game of it, and he knew what it meant: no resistance remained outside of the circle.
He yelled encouragement to his men, but his voice was lost in the din. A man fell, and then another. A breach opened in the line and Carthaginian madmen poured through the opening.
Gelon skewered the first with a javelin thrust, but the second grabbed the spear and tore it from his hands. Javelins continued to rain down around him. Gelon refused to give the riders the satisfaction of dodging their missiles. He braved them stoically, trusting to chance to preserve him. He grabbed another from the ground to defend himself in his final moments. His men saw the breach and rushed to fill it only to create another at the spot they had just left. The circle was collapsing.
“Syracusans!” Gelon cried out, but his voice was cut short. Before any of the thrusting swords could reach him, he saw a dozen javelins falling from the sky toward him.
He saw the one coming all the way. Even from a distance, even amid all the other javelins that seemed to blacken the sky, he knew which one would strike him; he knew which one was his javelin, the one the gods had inscribed with the name of Gelon, the one that would kill him. He could not take his eyes off it.
It grew larger and larger as it fell until there was nothing but a plunging spear point filling his vision.
The Eagles rode in a great circle and loosed their javelins at the Iberian horse, but it did not slow them. Juba could not tell if their salvoes had any effect. The enemy just kept coming. They were too many, probably a thousand of them — maybe more.
Before the Eagles could disperse, the Iberians slammed into them, hacking with their swords. Juba saw the first of his Eagles fall.
He rode toward the camp. He saw rising dust and smoke and flames; he saw men looting and burning; he saw a field of the dead. Enemy horsemen picked through the bodies while others raced toward the Eagles from behind.
What Juba did not see was a sign of resistance. Anywhere. The killing had become indiscriminate and pursued for sport. And the Eagles were about to be surrounded.
Juba did not know if anyone followed him. He turned and saw Dion close on his heels. A mass of Eagles followed him, perhaps fifty of them, or more. He veered from the camp and charged the horse coming at them from the field of the dead. This seemed to confuse them. For an instant, the lead riders reined up. Both Juba and Dion loosed at that moment, and unhorsed a man apiece. Other javelins arced over their heads toward the enemy. Horses fell in heaps and their riders toppled head over heels from their backs.
Having won a respite, Juba quickly heeled his horse back around again, charging the Iberians. Again, the Eagles loosed their javelins, causing some hesitation in the enemy, if not much execution.
Juba turned again. He jerked his head in every direction. He could launch another attack, but the space between the two charging enemies was growing ever smaller. Soon it would all be over.
“Run, Dion!” he cried, motioning to the now-empty ridgeline where they had found the Numidians. “Before it is too late. Go, and do not look back!”
Juba saw no run in Dion’s eyes.
“I will not leave you,” he said.
“Damn you!” Juba was about to strike Dion’s horse to make it turn away when half-a-dozen javelins fell to earth where they sat. Both of their horses were hit. Dion’s went down first, throwing the boy in the dirt. Juba grabbed for him but grasped at air when his own mount collapsed in a wild-eyed heap.
An instant later, Juba scrambled to his feet just in time to see the mounted Eagles fall under the Iberians’ swords. Their horses panicked and bucked as the Iberian cavalry fell on them.
Dion rolled and sprang to his feet. Immediately, a javelin found his gut. He stood for only an instant, clutching at the spear. Blood spurted through his fingers and he collapsed.
Juba yanked the bloody javelin from the corpse, turned and hurled it with all his might. It struck Dion’s killer in the center of his chest, sending the man into oblivion over the back of his galloping charger. Juba turned to grab another javelin from the ground, when he saw an Iberian horseman charging up behind him, holding his falcata high. Before Juba could react, the wickedly curved blade struck him on the forehead and sliced his face, spattering man and horse alike with Juba’s blood.
Chapter 28
When Juba opened his eyes, he saw nothing but a shapeless black shadow against a blinding white background. He blinked and peered upward, feeling the strain in his sightless eyes.
Gradually the black mass began to come into focus, gaining distinction and detail: a face, staring down at him. Long stiff hair like sheaves of wheat…Dark markings, swirling patterns…coming to a point between the phantom’s malevolent eyes…
The demon-Celt!
The sudden recognition jolted Juba out of his stupor. In terror, he scrabbled backward, scratching and digging his heels into the earth. He did not know where he was. Did he dream? Or had he died, his eternal torment staring him in the face? He must escape the terrible gaze; get out from under the thing. Digging and scratching in the dust, he cried out.
“Juba! Juba!” he heard from a seemingly long distance. The thing knew his name. He tried to escape, but he suddenly felt his arms and legs restrained, and the black shape reappeared before him.
“Juba!” This time the sound was close to his ear. He opened his eyes and saw not the demon-Celt but the face of Gauda.
“Juba, it is me, Gauda. I have found you.”
“Gauda…” Juba felt as if he were waking from a dream. The world came into focus. All of it: the rising smoke of the burned-out camp, the wagon teams picking through the bodies for the wounded, gathering weapons.
Gauda turned and motioned to someone behind him. Juba, lying on his back, turned and saw the body of Dion. His face looked like it was made of wax and was almost unrecognizable. The body did not look like the living Dion. The other Eagles and their horses lay scattered throughout the field. In a few moments, Gauda began pouring water from a skin over Juba’s face, gently washing it with wads of clean linen.
“Our physician will tend your wound,” Gauda said. He put a clean, dry cloth over half of Juba’s face, covering one eye, and lifted his head to secure it with narrow strips, making a bandage. When Gauda lifted his head, Juba thought he would faint from the pain.
“They would have followed me anywhere,” Juba said.
“Who would?” Gauda asked, putting his head down gently.
“The Eagles,” Juba said.
“Who are the Eagles?”
“These men in the field all around you are Eagles. They are my men. They would have followed me anywhere — and I led them to their deaths.”
“We are your men, Juba,” Gauda said. Juba sensed that there were others with him, but he could not see them. “The Numidians will follow you. You should lead them, not me.”
“You lead the Numidians now?”
“Masinissa went home with the fleet,” Gauda said. “It is where he belongs. He gave me his robe. I took it to make him happy, but I won’t wear it.”
Juba tried to smile. The movement set half his face aflame with pain. He remembered that Masinissa had dressed his wound when he had lost his ear. Masinissa was one of the great men.
“The ambulances are coming,” Gauda said. “We’ll put you in one. We have to get back to Panormus. The Romans will be here soon.”
“The gods will n
ot let me die,” Juba said.
“It is because they wanted to see you back with your people.”
“These are my people,” Juba said. “Here in this field.”
“You are one of us.”
Another man knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. It was one of the boys: Hannon, Gervas’ friend. There was a darker look about him now, not the boy Juba remembered.
“Where is the general, Hannibal Gisgo?” Juba asked.
The question seemed to take Gauda by surprise. A dark cloud passed over his face.
“He commands the fleet now. He makes his headquarters at Panormus.”
“And we’re going to Panormus?” Juba asked.
“That is where our camp is,” Gauda said. “I remember what you said about the general. That was a long time ago. You can’t change what has happened.” He looked up over his shoulder. “The wagon is coming.”
Juba could hear the wagon clatter to a halt nearby. Men began shouting and Gauda shouted back, but Juba could not tell what anyone said.
“Can you stand?” Gauda’s face appeared again.
“Help me,” Juba said.
Gauda put an arm around the back of his neck and lifted, trying to keep his head steady. Hannon grasped his other arm. Together, they got Juba to his feet. His legs gave out almost at once and they caught him. His face burned. Out of his one eye, Juba could see the camp and the dead in the fields. As far as he could tell he was the only survivor, but he did not believe it. The Carthaginians must have hauled their prisoners away.
Dead or captured, the Syracusan legion was gone. In the distance, between ribbons of drifting smoke, he caught sight of Gelon’s purple standard with the eagle emblazoned on it. It stood forlorn in the center of mounds of dead, a circle of carnage. Near the flag was a single body Juba knew could be none other than Gelon himself. He could see what had happened by the positions of the dead. Who else would die so?
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