Pride of Carthage (30 page)

When the meeting concluded a little later, Hannibal asked Silenus to remain. Once they were alone, the commander stood and paced the room. He cleared his throat, then touched his neck with his fingers, took a fold of flesh between them, and tugged. “You are loyal to me, are you not?”

Silenus, uncomfortable with the tone of the question, rose and said, “I've no notion of what has been said against me, but my loyalty is complete. Has someone spoken ill of me?”

Hannibal stopped pacing. He lifted his head and turned it just enough to focus on the scribe. “No, no one has spoken ill of you. The truth is, I have something to ask of you. It is a mission far beyond our agreement, but I have need of your help. It regards my brother, Hanno. I've just learned that his troops were badly defeated by Gnaeus Scipio. He was captured and is being held at Emporiae. You know this place, don't you?”

Silenus lowered himself back onto his stool. Clearly, this news struck him with a heavy significance.

“He's been there for too long already,” Hannibal said. “The news was slow in reaching me. When I imagine my brother a captive to them . . . at their mercy . . . it boils my blood as few things ever have. He must be freed. I curse myself for not learning of his capture earlier. I would offer to ransom him, but I've no faith the Romans would oblige me this. Do you?”

The Greek cleared his throat. “It would give them great pleasure to receive that request,” he said. “But no, they would not free him. I'm surprised they haven't transported him to Rome already.”

“He's more use to them in Iberia. They've been parading him before the various tribes, degrading him, winning my allies from me by showing them a captured, powerless Barca. Someone over there understands that the unified might of Iberia—if ever harnessed—could push New Carthage into the sea, and with it everything I've striven for. Even so, I must assume they will send him to Rome soon, to display him yet again, but to the people of Italy. That cannot happen. Do you know a magistrate in Emporiae named Diodorus?”

The Greek nodded. “He's my sister's husband.” After a long moment, as the two of them contemplated this, Silenus asked, “What would you have me do?”

Sapanibal waited for Imago Messano in her private garden, a secluded spot at the far end of the familial palace. Her chambers were less lavish than they had been at the height of her marriage to Hasdrubal the Handsome, but they suited her tastes well enough. Her sitting room extended from inside to out with hardly a boundary between the two. She sat on a stone stool beneath the shade of several massive palm trees. Water trickled down from a high, hidden cistern and ran in a tiny stream to feed the pond just behind her, rich with reeds and water lilies, home to several species of fish and a water snake that had grown fat and lazy in such bounty.

She had requested a meeting with the councillor for three reasons. One, because she knew he would be fresh from the Council and he was her best source for the things discussed there. Two, because she knew him to be utterly loyal to her family. This was something not to be taken for granted among the Carthaginian aristocracy. And thirdly, because she found the widower's obvious reverence of her appealing. She had not had many suitors before the politically important marriage to her late husband. Nor had she seen much interest in the years since his death. She attributed this to her strength of character, to the peculiar position of her family, to the unmatchable reputation of her brothers. And, beyond all that, she was no beauty. In light of all these things, Imago's interest in her was interesting to her as well.

Sapanibal did not rise when Imago appeared. For a moment—watching him walk toward her across the polished granite, his garments loose about him, flowing, his face aged just enough so that the awkwardness of his youth had been transformed into a more suitable composure—Sapanibal felt her pulse quicken. Though she promised herself she would never show it to him, this man appealed to her as few others had. She had first admired him in her girlhood, and some spark of that early devotion lingered. He was not a warrior, but he had ridden out with her father to put down the mercenary rebellion. This was no small act. That war had been one of incredible brutality. He would have known that capture by that rabble would have meant a horrible death. He had been a young man, with a considerable future ahead of him. That he put his life in danger confirmed his valor, even if his inclinations since had been of a tamer nature. He had also proved himself more recently by answering Fabius Maximus with Carthage's acceptance of war.

“Imago Messano,” she said, “welcome. Thank you for favoring me with your presence.”

“It is nothing,” he said, taking a seat on the stool she indicated. “I am always happy to answer the call of a Barca.”

Sapanibal offered him food and refreshments. She made small talk for a few moments, asking after his health and that of his children, avoiding any mention of his late wife. But it was not long before she asked him for a report on the debate in the Council. Before he answered, Imago sipped the lime-flavored drink a servant offered him. He closed his eyes in enjoyment of it.

“I've a fondness for bitter things,” he said. Opening his eyes, he met Sapanibal's gaze. “You know, of course, what befell your brother Hanno. The Council received the news of his defeat and capture gravely. It's no small thing to lose ten thousand men. It was quite a resounding failure, really, and it puts our hold on Iberia in grave jeopardy.”

Sapanibal felt the hair at the back of her neck lift to attention. “My brother had no choice, as I understand it. The Romans had landed and were welcomed at Emporiae. What would you have had him do? He fought for our interests. If the Council cared for justice they'd be negotiating for his release. Why aren't they?”

Imago considered his answer carefully. His hands were heavily jeweled. Thrumming his fingers in thought, the rings seemed almost some sort of armor. “It's unlikely that the Romans would release a general just so that he could turn around and fight them on the morrow. That's the only reason we've not pursued it. Time will provide another way.”

“No, Hannibal will provide another way. Once he's reinforced and sent new troops, he will once more be unconquerable. I've no doubt he'll free Hanno himself.”

Imago inhaled in a way that suggested deep import. “Let us hope that proves so. I should tell you, though, that the Council has decided to continue sending reinforcements to Iberia, but not to Italy.”

“Not to Hannibal?”

“When the situation in Iberia is stabilized, Hasdrubal will be released to join your eldest brother.”

Sapanibal flicked her fingers up and showed Imago her palm. Like some snake charmer's trick, this single motion silenced him. “But surely our councillors are more farsighted than that. Our strength still lies in Hannibal! His success means the safety of Iberia. But he needs reinforcements. You will not deny him this.”

“It is complicated, my dear,” Imago said, smiling an invitation to leave the discussion at that.

“As am I. Tell me what you know and I will explain what you do not understand.”

Imago considered this a moment, turned it over, finally deciding that such wit was just the thing he liked about this woman. “Many in the Council do not support your brother with their whole hearts,” he said. “They fear that this war has put our interests in danger. Iberia was barely contained under your brother's firm hand. With him gone, the Iberians may yet rise against us. Or—as Hanno has demonstrated—the Romans may manage to replace us there. And also they fear for Carthage itself. No one wants to find the Romans knocking at the gates, should your brother fail.”

“And yet Hannibal did not declare this war, did he? That oath was sworn here in Carthage, by the same tongue that speaks to me now.”

“Well, yes, but . . . Ours are a conservative people, Sapanibal. We do not want the world. We are not like Hannibal in that. What the Council wants most is to regain the possessions that have been lost. Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica. To hold Iberia—”

“Which my family alone conquered,” Sapanibal snapped.

Imago pursed his lips. “Just so. And in this lies the further problem. Few could stomach the return of a victorious Hannibal. Jealousy is stronger than reason at times. The Hannons plead peace, now as ever, but what they really fear is that your brother will achieve his goals. That result would make them rich beyond all reason—but it would make Hannibal's fame immortal. Greatness always makes enemies, Sapanibal. The Hannons, like Hadus, hate and fear Hannibal as much as they hated and feared Hamilcar before him. I say this so that you understand that those who love your family—as I do—must move carefully in such circles.”

“I pray you are wrong,” Sapanibal replied. “My brother is the pride of Carthage. Perhaps the councillors don't truly know him. He has been nothing but a name here for so many years. Remind them of his virtues; make them proud of him, not envious.”

“I think that you and I have a different understanding of men's natures.”

“Then speak directly to the Council of Elders, the One Hundred. Invoke the memory of Hamilcar—”

This time it was Imago's turn to silence Sapanibal with a gesture. “Your brother has few friends among the One Hundred,” he said. “He too closely represents the glory of youth, and this is troubling to old men. Councillors are not like foot soldiers. They do not risk their lives for those they adore, nor must they put true faith in the men they elect leaders. They would rather have a hero-less victory, so that no glory shines on another. Believe me, no councillor wants to see Hannibal worshipped in such a great triumph. This they just cannot accept.”

“And you, Imago? What can you accept?”

“I would happily adorn your brother's shoulders with flower petals. I would be the first to bow before him. I've always been a friend to your family. I was loyal to your father and supported him even when his success made him enemies.”

Sapanibal lifted her fruit drink for the first time, sipped it, and then put it down, a slight tremor in her hands. “I know, Imago. My father told me of your friendship. I do not doubt you, but what you report troubles me. If our councillors are already prepared to abandon my brother—when he has had nothing but hard-fought success—what will they do should he really falter?”

“Pray that he does not falter,” Imago said. He averted his eyes to signal a change of the subject. He asked after Didobal's health. Sapanibal was reluctant to let the conversation drift, but she had learned much and they were both aware of it. She answered that her mother was well, as ever. Asked about her younger sister, she said the same. At first she was surprised that he would ask after a girl, but then he betrayed his real interest.

“I understand she is fond of King Gaia's son, Masinissa,” Imago said. “But your mother has not confirmed their engagement, has she?”

Sapanibal had, in fact, spoken to her mother on this subject just the day previous, but the whole discussion had made her uneasy. It reminded her too much of the machinations that had led to her own ill-fated marriage. True enough, a union with the Massylii would bring them that much further under Carthage's sway, ensuring that the king would always supply them with his gifted horsemen, but she did not wish to think of her sister being delivered to a man who could use or abuse her as he saw fit. Who can know what lies behind a man's smile? She responded that Didobal thought the two in question were still quite young. There was time yet, and Didobal hoped that her eldest son would be able to bless the union in person, when he returned.

Imago smiled through all of this but responded with some gravity edging his voice. “I pray she does not wait too long. Hannibal may not return soon enough for this matter. Masinissa is a fine young man. He's destined for great things. Many in the Council believe so. But there are many others who vie to wed their daughters to a son of the Massylii. Either to Masinissa, or to some other who might usurp his power. For this reason, your mother should concede promptly. We need stability along the seacoast, now more than ever. If Rome were ever to attack us here, we'd need our allies more than we like to admit. Certainly Sophonisba should stay away from the Libyan, Syphax.”

“What has he to do with it?”

“Did you not hear about the banquet during his last visit? Your sister danced. Hers was a brief appearance, yes, but it left the king salivating. He spent the rest of the night trying to learn all he could about her. He's a lecher, but we can't pretend he's not important. I fear he'll be the cause of trouble soon. He is eyeing King Gaia's domain as we speak. It's hard to see how it will all unravel, but I'm sure there is no better union for Carthage than one between Masinissa and a Barca. The prophets say the boy has a role to play in Carthage's future. They are never wrong. Consider what I say and sound out your mother.”

Imago lifted his stool and scooted it closer. He changed his tone yet again: business was concluded. “You are looking well, Sapanibal. I believe the sun agrees with you. Truly it is a blessing to have you so near . . .”

Never in his whole miserable life had Imco Vaca seen anything like the marshes of the Arno. He thought the mountains had been a hell of ice and rock, a horrible place worse than any other in creation. He had dreamed of those heights throughout the long winter, nightmares in which he had yet to complete the crossing. He would awake knowing that thousands of souls were trapped in the ice and might be there forever. He thanked the gods daily that he had lived through the ordeal, and he had no plans to ever relive it in his waking hours.

That is why it seemed particularly cruel—almost a personal affront—that Hannibal chose to drive them through such sopping desolation. Imco had emerged into the spring as a sickly, paltry version of his former beauty. His body was not accustomed to months of snowy cold. He had watched in horror as a surgeon hacked off his frost-damaged finger with a serrated knife. The surgery, miraculously, did not lead to infection, but Imco believed the wound allowed malignant spirits easy entry to his body. How else did the fever creep into him? And what about the cough? Try as he might, he could not expel whatever was growing inside his chest. Nor could he stop the flow of green mucus that clogged his nasal passages. Some men managed to scavenge decent food, but Imco barely had the energy to search for sustenance. Though he ate meat cut from pack animals, he had not had a piece of fruit or a serving of anything remotely like a vegetable since the stores grabbed from Taurin.