Authors: David Anthony Durham
That evening Hannibal lay staring up at the fabric of the tent above him. He had to quash the whispered fears eating at his army's morale, and he had to do so in a single speech. He would offer encouragement to his men every step of the way, but he could not be seen to be fighting a losing battle, like a mother imploring her children to behave. He tried to compose in his mind the words he would say on the morrow, but each time he began, his thoughts ordered themselves differently and looped off in varying directions. He pushed all such thoughts from his head toward the middle hours of the night. He knew what his men needed to hear, what his father would have said. Best simply to stand before them and speak the truth as it came from his heart.
Having dismissed the subject, he worked his way through a catalog of other difficulties. He searched in his short conversation with Visotrex for signs of deception. He reviewed his knowledge of the names and histories of Gallic tribes, but could retrieve no memory of having heard of Visotrex. He did believe, however, that the young man he called his son was indeed his offspring. Fatherly pride is easy to spot and hard to hide. Hannibal knew the threat implicit in his securing the young man as hostage, but whether Visotrex would eschew any treachery to preserve his son's life he could not measure. He put the issue in its place and moved on.
He would press Visotrex for extra supplies as soon as he could: skins and furs, dried meats that were easily carried, footwear suited to ice and snow, grease for the men to cover their bare skin with. He would demand more than they could spare and therefore get somewhat more than they would like to give. He wondered if he should paint the elephants with a mixture of animal fat and herbs, as some had suggested. Vandicar was against it, but even he could not say what would become of the beasts. Hannibal needed them alive and impressive, especially for the descent into the Padus valley. His men would be weakened, half-starved, frostbitten, feverish by the time they emerged. The army he would speak to tomorrow bore little resemblance to the one that would stumble into Italy in several weeks' time, even as the current army was diminished from the one he had left Iberia with months ago. But if the elephants still walked upright they might distract the Carthaginians' enemies from their army's other weaknesses. Yes, they should be covered in animal fat, he decided. It could do them no harm, and he could not afford to neglect them.
He went once more through the mental map he had of the distribution of the Gallic tribes in the Padus valley, deciding on the best entry point, the preferred route by which to reach the Insubres and the Boii, the two tribes who were already in revolt against Rome. And he decided to issue a new warning to the camp followers: if they chose to follow farther, they would be tolerated only so long as they were not a burden. The first sign of delay or weakness and they would be dispatched and left unburied, unburned, unmourned, food for wolves. They should abandon this journey and make their way home as well as they could. He would say this, but he already knew it was too late. Cut off from the army, the camp followers would be pounced upon by marauding Gauls before an hour had passed. This issue decided, he went through others yet waiting for his attention. This list was long. Only when he felt sleep truly weighing heavy on his lids did he let his mind wander to Imilce, and that only for a few moments. More was hard to bear.
The next morning Hannibal stood on a rise before the gathering army. The ground was nowhere truly flat, but on the rolling, tree-dotted landscape the ranks of soldiers before him seemed to blanket all the habitable earth. Behind him, a slab of gray granite jutted up from the trees and stretched toward the sky—impressive, yes, but also a sign to his men that he would not be cowed by the scale of the mountains awaiting them. The Gallic envoy stood beside him. Together they watched the men march into position, first one contingent and then another, the various nationalities, differing in race and custom, in armor and preferred weaponry and artistry of shield and helmet. It might have looked like a conglomeration of brutes. It
was
a conglomeration of brutes. But there was order in it. The various parts made an unlikely whole.
Hannibal waited until the hush had settled and grown into an energy of its own. Sixty thousand men in silence, horses and elephants quiet as well, beyond them along the outskirts the camp followers, silent wraiths, seldom seen but always seeing. The commander held the silence still longer, listened to it build. Then, motioning so that the translators knew to begin, he turned and addressed Visotrex.
“What have our visitors to say to this?” he asked. “Does my army offend the eye, or is it a thing of wonder?”
Visotrex consulted with the others in his party. He answered that before him was the greatest army he had ever seen. “Truly,” he said, “the world is Hannibal's to shape as he sees fit.”
After waiting for the Gaul's response to reach the masses in their different tongues Hannibal asked, “Do you hear that? The elders of the Allobroges look upon you in fear. These old men who themselves live in this country you find so harsh . . . They see you as a mighty army, engaged in a quest like none the world has ever known. They see the greatness in you and have come to offer us safe passage through their lands. They wish to escort us through, just like the Cavares who led us this far. But what am I to say to them, when among you there is talk of fear? Talk of these mountains ahead of us. Of the Romans waiting to meet us on the other side. What do I say to these men who see before them an undefeatable army? Would you have me tell them of your doubts?”
He paused and let the various translations flow through the army. Visotrex said something to the Gallic translator, an Iberian trader Hannibal had employed since the Pyrenees. The man did not speak. He would not look Visotrex in the face but stared only at the ground below him. The Gaul nudged him angrily. Without meeting his gaze, the translator trudged away a short distance, turned, and set his gaze on the commander, completely ignoring the Allobroges.
Hannibal did not acknowledge the exchange. These words were meant for his army, not for Visotrex. When he began again, he spoke while on the move, slowly, with natural pauses so that the translations never lagged too far behind him. He walked close to the troops, strolling the various lines of them in easy appraisal, something humorous indicated in his gait. “Tell me truthfully, what's this I hear of fear in your hearts? I believed myself to be in the company of the heroes who carved up Iberia, who strode across the Pyrenees and hacked a path through tribe after tribe of barbarians. Is there not a man among your number named Harpolon, who slew the champion of the Volcae with one swing that loosed his head from the body that supported it?”
A confused murmur ran through the group, until one man held his spear aloft and shouted that he answered to that name and that deed.
Hannibal stood for a moment on the balls of his feet to seek out the hero, then proceeded with his walk. “When pressed hard by the barbarians in the Pyrenees, did not a man named Trasis save his whole company by mounting a riderless stallion and singing them to re-form? Among us, is there not a young soldier named Vaca who was first over the wall of Arbocala? I believe that these are men to be praised, honors draped around them that they can carry all their days. But honors are nothing unless a man sees them through with further action. Would men still sing of Alexander the Great if he had retired from war and lived to be a hundred, fat and rich and fearful of the glories of his youth? No! The truth is that here in our company we have heroes awaiting a poet to immortalize them. But there are no poets to be found at the foot of the Alps. Nor in retreat across the Rhône. Not even in New Carthage itself. If you would have someone write your tale, you must first seat yourself in a Roman palace. From there call forth the best writers of the world. Call forth Greeks, who weave words so well. Dictate to them the deeds that will make you immortal. This is all within your power if you are men enough. If you are men enough . . .”
The commander repeated the last phrase slowly, questioning it, prodding them with it and with his gaze, which moved around, pausing on individuals and probing each as if he asked the question of him in particular. As the murmurs of the translators faded away Hannibal looked up and caught Bostar's eye; Bostar in turn motioned for a young squire. The boy ran forward, leading Hannibal's most recent mount, a stallion with a rusty brown coat so dark it neared black. Hannibal clucked his tongue in greeting. He took the reins from the squire, but instead of mounting he set the reins back over the horse's head and walked on, continuing his discourse. The horse followed of its own accord.
“As for those among you who care little for words to be spoken in later ages: Think, then, of riches. Think of bloody joy. The booty of conquest. Do you see the men of this mountain country? Even Gauls such as these once sacked Rome. They came home laden with all the riches their new slaves could carry, lingering joy written on their faces, dicks exhausted, hanging beneath them, dripping. . . . Why should they pleasure so and not us? Think about it. Are there any riders in the world equal to the Massylii? Any soldiers who can stand face-to-face with Libyans? Any race as determined as the Iberians? Any people as wildly brave as our Gallic allies? What do you think the Alps are, anyway? Are they anything more than rock and snow? Higher than the Pyrenees, yes, but what of it? The fact is this: No part of the earth reaches the roof of the sky; no height is insurmountable by determined men. We do not need to soar on wings to cross these mountains. We have our feet and our courage. That is all we need.”
Hannibal, without waiting for a response, snapped around and strode toward his horse. He mounted and let the horse kick up into a short gallop. He paused a moment after the translations had straggled to a halt, then spread his arms. “Perhaps, my friends, you have forgotten whose army you fight in. Am I not Hannibal Barca? The child of a thunderbolt. Blessed of Baal and the seed of Hamilcar. If you forget your own courage, study mine. If you forget honor, look to me for its definition. If you doubt your destiny, know that I've never doubted mine. Imagine, my men, the view from the heights down upon the rich land of Italy. Let us end this story in a way that pleases the gods, on Mars Field, between the Tiber and the walls of Rome.”
There followed the pause during which his words were passed from one dialect to another and absorbed. Hannibal knew that during the mumbling, multilingual hush thousands of eyes would stay fixed on him. He kept his arms aloft, fingers loose and open. With the pressure of his legs he directed his horse to move him before the troops. It was in that swaying, wings-spread posture that he heard his army's response.
The shouts of approval came first from the Carthaginians, as he had known they would: Bomilcar's booming voice; a call that he recognized as Mago's even though it had a strangely falsetto quality; Monomachus yelling the names of the gods best invoked in combat preparation. This was as he expected, but he knew the true reception of his speech when the Libyans answered him. From the central, African heart of the army came the deep-chested chorus of the heavy infantry. After that came a volley of shouts from the Balearic troops, their voices projected in bursts just as their missiles were in battle. Next the Numidians' voices rose in jackal-like ululations. And then the entire army bloomed into a ruckus of echoing, reverberating proportions. If there was doubt in any man's mind it was pummeled to silence by the cacophony of an army remembering itself, declaring its rebirth in a theater framed by granite.
Hannibal lowered his arms. He moved away, past the bewildered Allobroges and toward his quarters. This discourse completed successfully, he put it out of his mind and thought about the things to come, the dying that this alpine crossing was to be.
Carthage sprawled atop a craggy landscape that looked out onto curving stretches of pale beach. Many of its buildings were bleached as white as eggshells. Between them thronged such a variety of shapes and objects as to make a puzzle of urbanity, a confusion on the eye, a maze punctuated by obelisks and stout-columned temples. Here and there plumes of palms and spires of pines sprouted above the skyline, suggesting cool springs beneath, bubbling waters, a lushness Imilce had not expected. A city of almost a million people, all secured behind battlements that dwarfed those of New Carthage, higher by twice the measure, visibly stout, as if the architects wished to advertise the thickness of the walls. And beyond this throng of humanity, a cultivated landscape stretched farther than the eye could see, field upon field of wheat and barley, vineyards, orchards of dates and plums and olives.
Standing on the docks, Imilce could barely keep her balance. Nausea swelled in her and she had to fight back the urge to double over and grasp her abdomen. The world was supposed to be steady, her feet back on firm ground, but instead the dead stillness of the stone beneath her was a misery worse than the rocking of the boat. And worse still was the fact that only she seemed to notice this. People surged past her on all sides, men hefting urns, pulling sledges, loading packs atop mules. An elephant—far too near at hand for her comfort—dragged behind it a massive piece of furniture, exactly what she was not even sure. She was aware simultaneously of wealth and of poverty, of fragrant perfumes in one breath and the sweating stench of labor in the next. Though she looked from one thing to the next the sights cluttered her mind instead of resulting in order. She touched on forms without registering the meaning behind them. She had to reach out to steady herself and was surprised to realize she had grasped Sapanibal's arm. The older woman looked askance at her, not sharply but with her usual air of silent criticism.
“Come,” she said, “there will be a carriage waiting.”
Imilce swallowed down the taste from her belly and walked. She realized that many of those moving around her were attending them and the stores of gifts and personal items they had brought with them. Her maid was at her other elbow, and Little Hammer clung to her, his eyes wide and hungry for this new world. Inside the small carriage, Imilce sat stiff as her maid placed Hamilcar on her lap. She placed a hand over his knees, hoping that the boy would hold still and let her think. But he would not. Even this cramped enclosure offered many things of interest: the polished wood frame around them, the gold buttons sewn into the padded fabric abutting the women's knees, the view of the passing world through the carriage door. Imilce reached up and tugged a curtain across the opening. A moment later Hamilcar grabbed the material in two fists and buried his face in it, finding in this act an unreasoned joy that translated throughout his body. The mother had a sudden desire to squeeze him tightly, two-handed across his belly. But instead she pulled him back and pinned him to her chest. She kept her eyes lowered for the rest of the jolting ride, taking no comfort in it, enjoying no luxury despite the soft fabric and the cushion beneath her.