Authors: David Anthony Durham
At a meeting of his generals, Hannibal asked, “What does this mean, this dictatorship?”
They had gathered in a long-abandoned cottage that served as a makeshift headquarters. The door stood open, casting a square of the brilliant daylight across the room. It was stiflingly hot beneath the sun, so that the stools had been positioned to make the best use of the shade. Above them, lizards slid through the roof, rattling the sun-parched thatch of hay.
“It means they are afraid,” Bomilcar said.
“As they should be. But how does a dictator change the struggle before us?”
“We should strike soon and hard,” Maharbal said.
Monomachus sucked his cheeks and spoke through the dry pucker that was his mouth. “I care not for delay,” he said. “Our men are rested. Let us strike at the Roman heart now, while our men still remember how easy it is to split Roman flesh.”
Bostar listened to this with a pained expression. He had formed the habit of stroking the ice-scarred tissue of his cheeks while he thought. He did this now, rhythmically, and said, “To the commander's question . . . The Senate approves the call for a dictator only after a great disaster. In this way, we know they acknowledge the carnage we've inflicted on them. Instead of their usual two consuls, each of whom controls two legions, they put in place a single, ultimate commander. This dictator controls four legions at once, for a term of six months. His power is total. Last year, as you will recall, the Romans put six legions in the field, but they never fought as a combined force. They still won't, but with a dictator we can reasonably assume we'll meet a larger single force than we have thus far.”
“So they have adopted a king?” Mago asked. “This means they are changing everything.”
“Not so,” Bostar said. “Romans fear monarchs more even than Athenians do. They will bear this dictator only so long as he is useful. Then they demand that he step down. The Senate chose Fabius because they believe him a prudent, humble man. They would not give this power to anyone but. If you will recall Cincinnatus—”
“Do not start repeating the Greek's tales!” Bomilcar said. “We all know this Cincinnatus. Picked his plow out of the field and struck the enemy about the head with it, then returned the plow to the ground and carried on. Are we to fight farmers, then?”
“One might say that, yes. Romans like to think of themselves as humble people of the land. My point in mentioning Cincinnatus is that he is the model of a Roman dictator. He was a man they could turn to in crisis, one who could be trusted completely to act with the greatest wisdom, a different sort of man than Sempronius or Flaminius.”
“Fabius will be no fool, then?” Hannibal asked.
Bostar nodded in such a way as to indicate that the commander had stated the matter succinctly. “He will be no fool, which leaves you with this question: How will a wiser leader confront you?”
Bomilcar snorted. “If he were truly wise, he would not confront us at all!”
A few of the others laughed, but Monomachus considered the statement as if it had been offered in seriousness. “There are ways that we can assure that they fight us,” he said. He leaned toward the commander and pitched his words low enough so that the others had to be still to hear him. “Let us order the men to kill everyone in our path. Not just men, but women and children, too. How could the dictator answer that except by battle? They would rush to fight us faster even than Flaminius. Anyway, I do not see the good in leaving children to grow into men, women to push out new soldiers. This is not sound strategy. We should slay them all until they beg us on their knees to stop.”
“Monomachus, I sometimes wonder if you would halt even at that point,” Hannibal said. “As ever, there is potent logic in your suggestion. As ever, I take your words seriously. But it need not come to that. I've not changed my opinion in the slightest. The only way to defeat Rome is to alienate her from her allies. The people of Italy must see that we are strong, but I would not have them think us monsters. We cannot win this war if all of Italy abhors us.”
“But if we kill them they will be dead!” Monomachus said, spitting the last word out with the weight and resonance of a shout. “I fear not the anger of dead men. Ghosts are vapors. Never has one wielded a sword against living flesh.”
An uneasy silence followed this. Eventually, Mago said, “I second my brother on this.” He spoke forcefully, but having done so he seemed at a loss for anything more to say. Monomachus turned his gaze on him slowly, the lower lids of his eyes rimmed with condescension bordering on malice. Mago did not meet the older general's eyes, and he was visibly relieved when Hannibal spoke again.
“We know nothing of what Fabius will do just yet,” he said. “Let us be direct. We will offer battle whenever we can. Perhaps Fabius will accept. One more victory should loosen Rome from her allies. This is how we will proceed. But we do not yet need to kill women and children.”
The frivolity with which small-minded people spent money always amazed Silenus. Diodorus' chambers were lavish in the style of one new to affluence—in the manner, actually, of a public servant spending the wealth of others on trinkets: ostrich feathers, vases modeled on Eastern designs, cushions encrusted with glass bits meant to pass as precious stones, a few pieces of gold-inlaid furniture. It had been some time since the Greek had witnessed such an attempt at urban splendor. He did not miss it, and, despite the show of luxury, Silenus noted just enough signs of imperfect workmanship and garish design to indicate that the magistrate was not quite as prosperous as he wished to pretend.
Fresh from disembarking at Emporiae and on land for the first time in a week, Silenus had yet to accustom himself to the immobility of life on solid ground. His head swayed on his shoulders, still keeping the rhythm of the waves. Dried seawater crusted his face. He had formed the habit of absently drawing his fingers across his cheeks and down to the tip of his tongue, where he tasted the tang of salt. He was doing this when Diodorus finally appeared.
Silenus had only met the magistrate once, and that was years ago in Syracuse—when Diodorus became engaged to his sister—but he recognized in an instant that he had put on weight, around the torso and in the thighs, as a woman might in her mature years. His mouth was as wide as Silenus remembered and his eyes, conversely, as close together. The least appealing aspect of his appearance was that he wore a garment resembling a toga, not quite the genuine article but close enough to betray his aspirations.
“Silenus,” he said, “my brother, I did not believe my ears when they told me you were here. By the favor of the gods, you look in good health! If I did not know better I would think you a warrior.”
The two men embraced, quickly, and then drew apart. “And if I did not know better I would think you a Roman,” Silenus said.
“Oh, not yet, but who knows how the gods will order things in the future? Sit. Sit and drink with me.”
Silenus did so, and for a few minutes the two shared pleasantries. Silenus asked after his sister. Diodorus admitted that she made an adequate wife. Although, he explained, he much preferred the pleasures to be had from virgins. It was unfortunate that they were so hard to come by and expensive to purchase. Such pleasures were a constant strain on his resources. Silenus nodded at this, smiling despite himself.
Diodorus was also willing to speak at length of the tumultuous path of his political life. Through the luck of others' misfortunes—a few fevers, a tribal war, and a rapidly advancing dementia had cleared a path for his ascent—he had moved up from a petty official of the city to one of its leading magistrates in just a few years. Unfortunately, just as quickly he had seen his stature reduced by the machinations of his peers. The only difficulty was that he was never sure which god favored or despised him. To be safe he offered tribute to them all—a time-consuming task.
Eventually, when Diodorus seemed to have talked himself out, Silenus addressed his true purpose directly, thinking to be most forceful thus. “I come with a message from Hannibal Barca,” he said, “the commander of the Carthaginian army of Iberia and Italy.”
Diodorus nearly choked on his wine. He spat a portion of it back into his goblet, rose from the couch, and through his coughing managed to say, “You what? Hannibal, did you say?”
Silenus fought a smile. “He bade me speak with you of a prisoner you hold here. You will know of whom I speak: his brother, Hanno Barca. Emporiae was not wise to let the Romans keep him here. Hannibal never called you an enemy and begs that you not name yourself as one.”
“Wait one moment,” Diodorus said. “You come to me as a representative of Carthage? You, a Syracusan? When did you throw in with the Africans? And now you come here into my home to demand—”
“Please,” Silenus said. “This is a serious business; speak calmly with me, as my kinsman.”
Diodorus cast his eyes about the room, checking that nobody was lingering to hear. “The truth is I've no quarrel with Hannibal,” he said. “I want him neither as an enemy nor as a friend. This business of keeping his brother is no pleasure to me, but some things are unavoidable.”
“Nothing is unavoidable except death, Diodorus. Is Hanno in good health?”
One corner of the magistrate's lips twitched nervously at the question. “You could say that,” he said. “I mean . . . I believe so, but I've only seen him a few times.”
“Have you considered your fate when Hannibal wins this war?”
“When? Has it been ordained by the gods already?”
Silenus did not dignify this with anything except a smirk. He leaned forward and set his hand on the other's hairy wrist for a moment. “Diodorus, I did not join Hannibal's campaign because I believed he would win, nor because I cared either way. It was a form of employment, an adventure, a tale I could spend the rest of my life telling. And it has been all of these things. But I cannot deny what my own eyes have witnessed. I've never seen a man better suited to command. Everything Hannibal wants, he achieves; everyone he opposes, he defeats. That is the simple truth. I pray you will not make an enemy of him.”
Diodorus pulled his arm away. He sat back, somewhat smugly, and studied Silenus as if noticing him for the first time. “Has he so won you over? Tell me, does he share your bed as well? They say that Hasdrubal Barca has a stallion's shaft. Is the same true of the eldest?”
Silenus did not dignify this with a response. He reached down into his traveling satchel, fished out a small leather pouch, and tilted it onto the table. Gold coins.
“What?” Diodorus asked. “Do you think me poor? Perhaps you have not looked around . . .”
“You are not poor, I know, but nor are you as rich as you would like. This gift is just a token. The riches he promises you for this favor will exceed your wildest dreams. This is why I know it is safe to show this to you. Accept it, and much more will come to you. Deny it, and you deny much more than you can imagine.”
Diodorus, for the first time, forgot his look of haughty refusal. His eyes lingered on the coins. “But the reach of Rome . . .”
“By next year, Rome's reach will be no longer than the space from your shoulder to your fingertips.”
“Do you really believe that? That this African . . .”
“If you knew him you would not doubt him,” Silenus said. “Think with all of your wisdom on this. When the war is concluded, Hannibal will control the Mediterranean. He will not forget those who aided him. How would you, Diodorus, like to rule Emporiae as your own domain? Hannibal will call you his governor; you, of course, may think yourself more like a king, with access to as many virgins as your penis can service, among other pleasures. This is what Hannibal offers you.”
“But what you wish I cannot deliver. I am only one magistrate among many, and the Romans do not bow to our wishes, anyway. Their guards answer only to their leaders—”
Silenus interrupted. “My mind is devious, brother. Say yes to this in principle and together we will think of a way to achieve it.”
Diodorus thought for a long time. “How can it be,” he finally said, “that you sit before me speaking of these things? It's madness, and my answer is no. I cannot do what you ask.”
Imco had hardly thought about the Saguntine girl for months before the dreams started, but once they began they were a constant torment. He saw her as she had been on the day Saguntum fell. He would relive the few moments after he had found her wedged up into a fireplace. Again and again he agonized over her fate, wishing he could turn away and flee but never able to do so. Before long, she began to appear in camp, in his tent, at his feet as he slept, becoming more solid with each encounter until she seemed to be flesh and blood and she began to speak to him. She had walked this far, she said, to ask him what right he had had. Was he a god? Who had given him dominion over her?
He tried to explain that he had slit her throat not as a punishment, not out of cruelty or malice, but just the opposite. A gift, considering the circumstances in which he had found her. He had saved her from greater suffering. At this, the girl just rolled her eyes, rolled them and then set her gaze back on him again and pinned him. Then she would show him the scar and ask him whether it looked like a present she should be grateful for. She became bolder with the passage of time, grew to know him better and despise him more—which seemed a twisted progression to him, for surely the opposite should be true. He had killed her out of mercy, but the thanks he got was ghostly torment. Just his luck.
Perhaps because of her presence, the respite by the coast passed almost unnoticed, certainly unappreciated. When the word came that the army would be marching to intercept the new dictator, Imco groaned. He had just thrown down his burdens! Barely caught his breath. His vision had only recently returned to normal. His teeth had settled down in their gums once more, and his arms and belly were fleshed out a little better each day, but he was still a wisp of his former self and he told his squadron leader as much. He also noted that he still carried a chest full of phlegm, that his genital lice tortured him incessantly, and that his feet were tender with a rot from the marshes that had yet to heal. He also mentioned that his vision was impaired and that he was not sure he would be able to tell friend from foe on the battlefield—a small lie in the scheme of things. It might have been the one that saved him.