The soldiers working beneath the walls of Syracuse did not glitter. They toiled in full armor, again according to regulation, but their mail was dusty and dingy from the long campaign, greased against the salt sea air. Most of them wore the new iron helmets turned out by the Gallic armorers for the unprecedented expansion of legions demanded by the war of reconquest. These helmets.with their deep, flaring neckguards and broad cheekplates, completely unadorned, still looked strange and ugly to Roman eyes, but they had proved their battle-fitness repeatedly.
The battlements of Syracuse were lined with expert slingers from the Balearic Islands; They hurled lead sling-bullets the size of a boy's fist, with enough power to dent a bronze helmet deeply, often fracturing the skull beneath. The bullets merely glanced from the harder iron. Men from the older legions frequently tried to trade their beautiful old bronze helmets for the new ones, but they found few takers.
The trumpets sounded and the noise lessened for a few
minutes as one legion retired to the camp on the island and
another went out to take its place. By working each legion
four hours at a time, the Romans were able to keep the work
going day and night. The impressed labor worked in gangs
for twelve hours at a stretch. Attrition among them was
high, but plenty of prisoners arrived every day to replace the
fallen. -
"Here comes old Cyclops," Fabius said.
"He can observe, it's his duty," Scaeva said. "But don't let him try to give orders. You know he'll try. The old bugger's been giving orders all his life."
Moments later they were joined by Publius Cornelius Scipio, only living grandson of the hero of Cannae and second oldest man in the Senate. Wearing some forty-five pounds of old-fashioned armor, he climbed the steps of the command tower with the springy step of a man one-third his years. A broad eyepatch covered one side of his face.
"Proconsul," he said, nodding to Scaeva. "Praefect." Another nod, toward Fabius. "Any progress?" The old man wasted few words. He had been sent out by the Senate as special observer, with no command authority but with the right to see every aspect of operations and report in regular dispatches. He had already made forays inland to see the progress of Roman forces on the island and had been stunned by the beauty of the landscape and the richness of its farm and pasture land. The Romans were soldiers from birth, but they were agriculturalists to their bones and loved fine farmland above all else. They fought to protect their farms and they conquered to gain more land. It was that simple.
"The sappers are undermining the base of the big tower over there," Scaeva said, gesturing with his cup. "They'll have it down in a few days."
Cyclops squinted with his remaining eye at the activity opposite. "What about the rams? Are they doing any damage?"
"They're a feint," Scaeva said, "to distract the enemy from the mines. By afternoon we'll have the catapults in action; then there'll be a little relief from those damned slingers and archers. They've been the real danger in this fight, not the Carthaginians."
Cyclops nodded. "That being the case," he said, "the men will probably massacre them when the city is taken." He chose his next words carefully so that he was making a suggestion, not giving an order. "You might consider passing the word to spare them, much as it might grieve the men to let them live. We'll need every missile soldier we can get when we assault Carthage."
"Already done," Scaeva told him. "I've promised ten silver denarii a head for every archer or slinger brought in alive."
"Very well," Cyclops said, far from satisfied and showing it.
Scaeva knew what rankled the old man: Roman soldiers should obey orders. They should not be bribed. But Cyclops was an old-fashioned man, filled with antique, old family tradition. Scaeva knew that the world had changed irrevocably when the Romans crossed south of the Alps. It was a new world, a new age and a new army. The disciplines of the old legions campaigning in the savage, austere North would not prevail in the unbelievably rich and luxurious kingdoms surrounding what the Romans had gone back to calling Our Sea.
"Senator," Fabius said, wanting to change the subject and ease the tension, "has a timetable yet been set for the assault against the African mainland?"
Cyclops shook his head. "First Sicily must be secured. The new navy must be tested. We've moved so fast, accomplished so much already. There are many who want to slow down and consolidate."
"Fools!" Scaeva spat. "We've accomplished so much precisely because we've moved so fast. Because the gods have told us that now is our time!"
"You'll hear no argument from me," Cyclops assured him. "We must seize the favor of the gods when it is offered. The gods can always change their minds. But I am not a majority. Some want the new legions blooded gradually, not thrown into immense battles before they've even seen a skirmish. Others want to wait until young Norbanus returns with his four legions."
"They'll wait a long time, then," Scaeva said. "Where, is he now, or does anyone know?"
"In Judea at last report, mixed up in a civil war between brothers."
"Judea," Scaeva mused. It was a name from old books: an obscure place, but much fought over. At least Norbanus was making progress, not least because he had cut himself loose from the authority of the Senate. Scaeva could sympathize. Senatorial meddling was the curse of commanders in the field. If the boy finished his epic march with his legions intact, he would win unprecedented glory, perhaps eclipsing that of Titus Scaeva. He pushed the thought aside as unworthy. Opportunities for winning glory would be boundless in the coming years.
"Any idea who will get the command in the African campaign?" Fabius asked.
"That depends upon who pleases the Senate and the Assemblies in the months preceding," Cyclops said.
A great shout and a roaring of masonry distracted them. A section of the wall opposite was toppling, raising a huge cloud of dust as men scrambled to get away, running for their lives, soldiers and laborers alike.
"Has it fallen?" Cyclops cried eagerly. "Are the men ready for an assault?"
Scaeva shook his head, his face worried. "This is too soon. This was not supposed to happen yet."
"There may have been a weak spot," Fabius said hopefully. "We'd better signal an assembly to take advantage instantly if there's a breach."
But already the dust was clearing and Scaeva cursed loudly. A ragged section of cut-stone facing had broken away from the wall, leaving the concrete-rubble core exposed but solid. The wall was very little weakened.
"Mars curse them!" Scaeva cried. "Now they know where the danger lies and they'll countermine, if they haven't begun already! I'll have some heads for this."
Cyclops said nothing, but he was not greatly surprised. The Romans had read all the old military books and knew the theory, but reducing large, stone fortifications was | something with which they had no practical experience. The Gauls and Germans they had been fighting for generations built earthwork and timber forts at best.
"Get the awnings up!" Scaeva called to the slaves attending the command tower. Then, to the others: "It looks like we have a long day ahead of us up here."
Beneath the battlements of Syracuse, the soldiers were already driving the work gangs back before them. Work had already resumed, repairing the shelters and now clearing away the rubble of fallen stone, all under the hot sun and the merciless pelting of missiles from above.