Watching the militiamen reel down the slope, away from the concealed insurrectionists who murdered them one after another, Consul Stafford groaned like a man under the lash. "My God!" he said. "We are ruined-ruined, I tell you, Newton!"

"This whole valley is a killing ground," Newton said, which only put the same thing another way.

"Damn his fumblefingered soul, Sinapis blundered right into it, too," Stafford groaned.

"If he did, you helped push him along," Newton said. "You were bragging that you lit a fire under him. You told me how clever you were, how you got him to move when he might not have wanted to, when you threatened to blame him if Atlantis fell apart because he didn't break the rebellion. Right this minute, the rebellion is breaking us."

Stafford didn't call him a liar. He didn't call him a feeble-minded twit, either. If that silence wasn't a telling measure of the other Consul's despair, Newton had no idea what would be.

Up a few hundred yards ahead of them, the regulars rushed the rampart again. If the white Atlanteans could break any part of the trap, they might be able to wreck the whole thing.

If. But muzzle flashes on the rampart spat toward the white men like tongues of fire shot from dragons' mouths. And bullets flew farther than dragonfire ever could. Again, the regulars had to sag back short of their goal.

An officer near Colonel Sinapis was trying to tell him something. The man's knees suddenly gave way. His hat fell off as he sagged to the ground. He wriggled for a little while, but not for long.

"They're murdering us! Murdering!" Stafford said.

"They are." Newton couldn't disagree. He did think the officer was liable to be lucky, as such things went. The poor fellow had died fast, and might not even have known he was hit. Not every man who stopped a bullet had such good fortune. Newton had seen too many ghastly wounds, and too many men suffering from them for too long, to hold any illusions on that score.

"If we can't stop them… Good Lord! What will become of the country after this?" Stafford choked out the words, but he did bring them forth. Newton had to respect him for that. Now the other Consul had found his bon mot in the face of death. How much good it would do him, and whether anyone hereabouts would survive to remember it tomorrow, were a couple of questions whose answers it seemed better not to contemplate.

Jeremiah Stafford had a bullet, a charge of gunpowder, and a percussion cap ready in each cylinder of his eight-shooter. How much good they'd do him against enemies armed with rifle muskets that far outranged his revolver, he didn't care to think about.

He and Consul Newton both went up to huddle close to the rear of the regular contingent. Maybe misery loved company. Maybe that was the safest place to be in these parts, not that any place in these parts counted as particularly safe, not if you were a white man.

Newton's accusation burned like vitriol inside Stafford's soul. Stafford had pushed Balthasar Sinapis as hard as he could. He had made the colonel go forward where Sinapis would have hesitated or even halted on his own. It had worked-up till now.

Up till now. Three of the most mournful and miserable words in the English language.

Then Stafford stopped thinking of mourning and misery in the abstract. A lieutenant about twenty feet away from him cried out, twisted an arm to try to clutch at the small of his back, and slowly crumpled to his knees and then to the ground.

A moment later, a private soldier went down, also shot in the back. Again, Newton realized what was going on before Stafford did. Newton didn't automatically assume the insurrectionists were stupid. "They've got men behind us, too," he said glumly.

And they did. The copperskins and blacks back there had done some quick, rough entrenching before they opened up on the white Atlanteans. No one had tried to stop them. No one had even noticed them till they started shooting. They could shoot at the whites with almost as much protection as the insurrectionists behind the ramparts had. And now they'd surrounded the whites.

A classical education came in handy all kinds of ways. Even in this moment of despair, Stafford knew just what he and his comrades were facing. It wasn't as if such things hadn't happened before, even if that disaster might have stayed unmatched for two thousand years and more.

"Cannae!" Stafford groaned. "This is another Cannae!"

Hannibal had surrounded and slaughtered several Roman legions at Cannae during the Second Punic War. The battle was the Carthaginian's masterpiece. It was about as good a job as any general could do. And here, on a smaller scale, Frederick Radcliff had just re-created it.

Of course, Carthage didn't win the Second Punic War. But right at the moment, Jeremiah Stafford had no idea how the United States of Atlantis could hope to put down this great servile insurrection.

By the way things looked, neither did Colonel Sinapis. He turned to stare at the rebels firing on his men from behind. He raised his hands in horror. They seemed to fall limply back to his sides all by themselves.

He doesn't know whether to shit or go blind, Stafford thought. He hadn't heard the vulgar phrase in years, but he'd never known a time when it fit so well.

"Pull yourself together!" he shouted to Sinapis. "We've got to do something!"

"Something, yes, your Excellency, but what?" the colonel answered. "They have us in a modern Cannae."

So his classical training still worked, too, did it? Nice that something did, even if his generalship had let him-and everyone else-down. "Pull yourself together!" Stafford repeated. "Don't despair of the republic!"

Sinapis didn't answer. Maybe he wasn't despairing of the republic, but of his career. Stafford didn't know how he'd save that. Stafford didn't know how to save his own career, either, assuming he could get his own life spared.

Even then, the non sequitur made him laugh. If you don't live through this, what happens in your career afterwards won't matter one whole hell of a lot, he thought.

Bullets from all directions were flying around him now. He didn't know which way to duck. He did notice that Consul Newton and even Colonel Sinapis (whose courage was irreproachable, whatever one might say about other aspects of his military persona) also ducked at near misses. A few people, maybe the ones born without nerves, lacked that reflex, but only a few.

As Newton straightened, he touched the brim of his cap to Stafford. "Well, Jeremiah, I don't suppose you expected things to end up this way. I'd be lying if I told you I expected them to."

"I daresay you're happier about it than I am," Stafford answered. "Here's nigger equality, all right, and it will be the death of both of us."

"I don't want to die. I have too many things I still want to do," the other Consul said. "Trouble is, what I want doesn't matter right this minute."

"I blame it on Victor Radcliff," Stafford said. "Even diluted, his blood is better than the vinegar and horse piss in Sinapis' veins."

"As far as I know, the insurrectionists' number-one soldier, that Lorenzo, is pure copperskin," Newton said. "Will you tell me his blood is better than Sinapis', too?"

"Damned right, I will," Stafford answered. "My parrot could have done a better job leading this campaign than that stupid foreigner did-and I haven't got a parrot."

"Heh," Newton said-about as much laughter as the joke deserved.

In front of them, the Atlantean soldiers milled like ants stirred by a stick. Every time they turned any one way, they got shot at from the flank and behind as well as from the front. They weren't dying like ants, though. They were dying like flies.

The Negroes and copperskins didn't try to close with them. Why should they? They were doing fine carving up the white Atlanteans at a distance. Even as Stafford watched, the back of a militiaman's head exploded, the way a melon might after a sledgehammer came down on it. The man's rifle musket fell from fingers that could hold it no more. His knees buckled. He went down, and wouldn't rise again till Judgment Day.