out at a distance beyond missile range. They progressed largely unhindered. There were few horsemen left to confront them, and the legions ignored them, so focused were they on their advance. When he saw open space behind the army, Tusselo turned toward the Romans. Once he was sure the Numidians had been sighted, he spoke the first order loudly. His comrades obeyed. They slung their shields behind their backs. A little farther on he shouted again. They each tossed their spears out upon the ground, swords and daggers also, small darts. They advanced as unarmed men, with arms held out to either side, professing harmlessness.
Alarmed by their approach, a company of soldiers held in reserve fanned out to meet them. Tusselo took his position and ran over the words he would soon utter in the language he had not used in years now. He rode at the vanguard of the group and was therefore the first to be unhorsed. A legionary reached up for his outstretched hand, grabbed it, and nearly yanked his shoulder from its socket. He hit the ground on his back, hard enough to knock the air out of him. The soldier stood him up and punched him square in the mouth. He unsheathed his sword and made as if to run him through, but a nearby officer strode in, took the weapon from him, and pressed the point up under Tusselo's chin with enough pressure that the iron pierced his flesh and released a thin stream of blood that ran down the blade.
“Why do you come to us?” he demanded. “Give me reason not to kill you all right now!”
Poised atop the sword, Tusselo did not know if he could speak. He bit back the pain of the iron point grinding into his jawbone and managed to say, “You will win this day. Our gods . . . gave us signs of this. Hannibal ignored them. He walks toward death. We want no part of it anymore. You are the greater power.”
The officer stared at him a moment in surprise. He had not expected an African to speak perfect Latin. Judging by his face this seemed to unnerve him. “How do you come to speak Latin?”
“I am an educated man,” Tusselo said.
The Roman seemed unsure what to make of this. His face held firm, but the point of the sword drooped. Tusselo, feeling an opening, carried on. “Spare us,” he said. “We are not cowards. I am a prince among our people. By my word, the Massylii will desert Carthage in your favor. You, master, can bring Rome the Numidian people. And we can bring all of Africa.”
“You do not look royal to me,” the Roman said, his eyes on Tusselo's knotted mass of hair.
“Our people are different from yours, but I am as I've said. Ask any of the men who follow me.”
For the first time the Roman wavered visibly. He looked up and found in the solemn faces of the mounted warriors enough to stay his death threat. He released Tusselo and stepped back. “You are wise to realize our superiority,” he said. “Perhaps cowardly as well, but you will live at least a little longer for it.” The legionary who had hit Tusselo began to object, but the officer spoke over him. “The Roman army still takes prisoners! We are not barbarians who kill men who come to us in defeat. Captured is just as good as dead, in some ways even better. Think what good slaves these will make.”
Though he spoke this forcefully he seemed to doubt it a moment later. He muttered, “I would not want to act mistakenly here, would you? Find a tribune, at least. But in the meantime get them off their horses and keep them under guard.”
They forced the Numidians to dismount and march between a company of armored guards who smacked them with the flats of swords, poked them with the butts of spears, taunted and threatened them, insulted the bitch creatures that had birthed them, and ridiculed the commander who had led them to their enslavement. Finally—collected in a tight group on a flat stretch of barren, sun-baked ground—they were told to sit on their black asses and not to move.
Few of them spoke. They looked at each other with their somber eyes, and this sufficed as communication. The man in front of Tusselo looked over his shoulder and offered him a strip of dried meat. Tusselo nodded in affirmation of the man's calm, but refused the food. He still tasted the Roman legionary's sweat on his sore lips. This reminded him of things he wished to forget, and yet something in him wanted to
Tusselo alone among his countrymen spoke the enemy's language. He listened as reports came in, each more optimistic than the last. Word passed from man to man that Varro believed victory was theirs. Apparently, they were punching right through the Gallic center. They were a moving point of iron that Hannibal was powerless to stop. The plan was progressing so perfectly that Varro ordered men pulled from the wings to the center, to make them narrower yet and to drive the wedge further into the Carthaginians.
The man beside Tusselo nudged him, ribbed him, and then hissed in his ear, asking what the Romans were saying. Tusselo slammed him with his elbow and spoke from the side of his mouth. “They say the hour of their death approaches,” he said.
This was spoken with cold force and fully convincing, but in truth the Roman news filled him with dread. Yes, he knew Hannibal had said as much would happen, but what if he was wrong? Despite all his faith in the commander, it did seem impossible that they could combat the Roman numbers. If only a quarter of the enemy managed to kill or wound an opponent, Hannibal's cause was lost. He realized that—strange as it seemed—he alone among the army at that moment was balanced between allegiances. To betray Hannibal, he need do nothing but sit where he was. He gazed out at the distant rear of the Roman army, all those many backs turned toward him. Nearer, before and behind them, swarmed the noncombatants, camp followers, horse boys, and slaves, all engaged in various tasks in support of the army. So many slaves. What people on the earth had ever so thrived, or ever would, on the suffering of others?
Tusselo chose his moment at random. Deserting was no real possibility. His loyalty was not simply to Hannibal, not even simply to his people. His loyalty was first to himself, and he knew his enemy better than anyone. He rose to his feet. He dusted himself off and stretched his neck from side to side. One of the guards shouted something at him and walked toward him, hand on the hilt of his gladius in threat. Tusselo uttered a single word, a clipped syllable that let loose a flurry of motion.
An African seated near the passing Roman pulled a sword from beneath his tunic. He struck the man with a swinging blow to the back of his knees. By the time the Roman fell to the dust the whole four hundred were on their feet: first a commotion of brown skin and tribal garments; then a bristling flurry of cloth-covered blades. They cut down all the guards, hacking them to death with the advantage of surprise and pure numbers. They then stood staring at the various noncombatants, some of whom just gawked, most of whom turned and fled in all directions.
Tusselo, knowing he needed to keep the men focused on combat instead of plunder, clucked his tongue and began walking. The others followed him. As they walked they stripped the remaining stray bits of material from their weapons and dropped them to flap and skitter across the ground, propelled by a dry wind. A little ways on they came to their shields and picked them up, and most of them managed to regain their horses, which had been hastily abandoned by the boys handling them.
So it was that, four hundred strong, they fell upon the Romans' rear. Not one of the Romans turned to look at them. Not one expected the attack about to come. Tusselo was only a few feet away from his target when that Roman soldier turned his young face around in sudden, short-lived terror.
Before the battle commenced, the commander had sent out a message, in every possible language and to each quadrant of his army, to all the men of his army's many nations. He said, “We are the enemies of Rome, all of us from races beleaguered by the men of the Tiber. Today Hannibal asks you to honor your ancestors with offerings of Roman blood. Follow his call and you cannot help but prevail. When the Gallic horns blast, know that in them is the voice of your commander shouting to you. When you hear cries of anger from any tongue, recognize Hannibal's roar within them. Know that the clamor of arms clashing is Hannibal's will transmitted through iron. Even when an enemy opens his mouth, it is our commander who you will hear. If he yells at you in threat, he is reminding you of your duty. If you twist an enemy on the point of your sword, it is Hannibal's praise that spurts from his mouth. It is his joy at your deed and his order that you step over the corpse and carry on. Hear the Lion of Carthage in everything, and this day will be ours. Whenever men speak of war in the future, they will speak of today. Let it be your names they utter in awe.”
Fine words, Imco thought, but bravery is more easily spoken of than demonstrated. Perhaps Hannibal contained within himself such brutal confidence, but Imco cared more that morning about saving a life—his own, that is. The years in the army had shaped him into a skilled warrior, often against his will and without his consent. His hands and body and mind moved nimbly during combat, faster than his thinking mind, with instincts of their own. His eyes found weaknesses to press home attacks. Only he knew that he fought simply for self-preservation,
