Pride of Carthage (61 page)

When asked to explain himself, Laelius said, “They alone may save us from Hannibal. If they'd once given Hannibal the support he needed, we'd be finished. He's won and won again for them, but they send supplies and men everywhere but to him. Hannibal fights like a lion, never realizing that behind him a pack of hyenas salivates to bite him in the ass. He sheds his blood for them, but what do they—”

Laelius froze mid-sentence. “What?” he asked. “What's wrong with you? You've gone white as a barbarian.”

And so he had. Publius had just heard in his companion's words the key to the war. In fact, he must have known the answer for some time. It was not even a completely new idea, but now Laelius had banged him on the forehead with it. Hannibal's weakness, his Achilles' heel, the force that drained him month after month but never offered him a thing . . . It had been right there before them all the time. Carthage itself. Carthage. Carthage. Publius had said the word a thousand times that first day and was still uttering it inside his head, a prayer composed of a single word.

Though he tried to keep the idea quiet until the right moment, rumors of it spread, as if bits of his own thoughts were slipping out of his skull and whispered in the ears of his enemies. Success and ambition—he was fast learning—change everything. No thought is truly secret, no conversation truly safe from someone's keen ears. And rivals spring up in the most unlikely of places. Fabius Maximus—the same man to whom Publius had loaned his eyes only a few years ago—brought the issue up in the Senate before Publius had yet done so himself. The venerable senator rose with care and indicated that he would speak on a grave matter. He could not see the other side of the chamber, but he spoke with his gaze moving from place to place, as if he were making eye contact with the entire room. He was stooped with age and seemed to have deteriorated disproportionately fast since his dictatorship, yet this frail look and his graying hair gave him an air of wise authority that had come to serve as a weapon in a world populated by younger men.

“Considering the points I am about to make,” Fabius began, “I might need to preface my remarks by making it clear that I hold no ill will toward young Scipio. Some will say I am jealous of his accomplishments, but this is nonsense. What rivalry can there be between one of my age and history, and another younger even than my sons? Perhaps I would have some of his youthful vigor to please my wife, but such things fade in accordance with the will of the gods. Consider, if you will, that I was called upon to serve as dictator in Rome's hour of greatest need . . .”

Publius exhaled loudly and impatiently, enough so that all near him heard the slight. Fabius may have heard it himself, but it was hard to be certain as the old man's hearing was fading just as his vision already had. Laelius guffawed. A few others chuckled behind their hands. Some turned stern gazes on the young men. But all present knew, as Laelius and Publius did, that they were in for a long ramble. Fabius had often recounted his past deeds on even slimmer pretexts. This time he spoke at length, trying to erase any notion that his record could possibly be matched by anyone, assuring all that any criticisms he had to make of Publius' plans were offered only for the good of Rome and in a spirit of sober, mature thought. Publius thought that with each extra phrase and qualification the aged senator undermined himself, but he was content to let the speech run its course.

“Let me point out,” Fabius said, after having spun out the full measure of his own accomplishments, “that neither the Senate nor the people have yet decreed that Africa be the young Scipio's province, much less a target of campaign. If the consul is to be understood to have usurped the Senate's authority, then I, for one, take offense at this. Do not my fellow senators agree?”

Some obviously did, judging by the murmurs of affirmation. Fabius, heartened, went on to ask why the consul did not apply himself to a straightforward conduct of war. Why not attack Hannibal where he lay, on Italian soil? Why go to a distant nation of which he knew little, to fight on land with which he was not familiar, with no harbors open to him, no foothold prepared for him, opposed by a numberless army? Would all this truly force Hannibal to return? Not likely, Fabius suggested. If anything, the enemy might march on Rome itself. That was the true threat. And if Hannibal were somehow convinced to leave his entrenched second home, how could the young consul possibly hope to defeat him on his own soil when none of his predecessors had yet done so in Italy?

“Consider how fickle the inclinations of our children are,” Fabius said. “Cornelius Scipio, that venerated personage, turned back from his quest to Iberia in order to save his homeland. Now we've before us his son, who wants to leave his homeland in order to win glory for himself. Countrymen, regard this plan for what it is—the scheme of a youth misled by early success, a boy on the verge of a great mistake. Be wiser than this, friends, and do not make the child's error the death knell of the nation.”

Fabius sat down to considerable applause. Not enough, however, to convince Publius that his cause was lost. He rose to answer the old man. He stood firm and straight, letting his gaze move around the room just as the aged senator's had, except that Publius made it clear that he truly saw each face he looked upon.

“I extend my heartfelt appreciation to Fabius,” he said. “What an introduction he's given me! He's been kind enough to argue against my proposal before I've even offered it. Also, I had no idea he cared so much for my well-being. It is surprising, in fact, because I do not recall him protesting when only I among all this company volunteered to take upon myself the war in Iberia. Back then, when my father and uncle were slain, when three Carthaginian armies roamed that land unvanquished . . . well, back then it seems no one deemed me unfit to lead a military venture. Was my age then more advanced than it is now? Did I know more of the conduct of war then? Are the armies of Africa larger than those I met in Iberia? Did Carthage keep all of her finest generals home?”

Fabius muttered that the young one was right to have so many questions. “He asks them in jest, but perhaps they should be considered—”

“Fabius, the floor is mine!” Publius snapped. Having spoken harshly, the consul inhaled, measured a few breaths, let calm ease through the stilled chamber. “The choice you have before you, Senators, has thus far been written in the blood of our nation. You might continue on the path that has seen us suffer year after year of war and that has led to defeats whose names I will not even utter here. You may choose to carry on like that until Hannibal is truly at the gates, or you may choose to boldly finish the matter. Do not be misled by the doubts spawned in timid minds. Ignore the fears of the fearful, the protestations of hand-wringers. Hear my words now and understand what I promise. Granted your permission, I will speed at once to Africa. You will almost immediately hear that the country is aflame with war. And, as soon as you hear that, prepare for the next news: that Hannibal has been recalled to protect his homeland. This is the one and only strategy that can achieve success. The one thing Hannibal will not expect but will most fear. There is no more to my proposal than this. Judge it and weigh it by merit, and merit alone.”

Debate raged for some time after this, until someone remembered that the two consuls had still not drawn their provinces. Nothing could be decided until it was determined whether Publius would be limited to the European or the African theater. This was only a temporary obstacle, however. Publius drew Africa, and a good many senators saw the hand of Fortune in this. It was decided that Publius could plan his attack on Carthage, if he must. But, the senators said, as such a venture was outside the more pressing protection of Rome the consul could not levy new troops for this purpose. He could go, but not with his normal count of two legions. Instead, he could make his war with the disgraced veterans of Cannae who had been banished to Sicily and with whatever volunteers chose to follow him.

As they left the meeting, Laelius rolled his eyes. “So much for gratitude.”

I
t was a harsh country they wintered in, cold beyond reason. The Cavares welcomed them in their simple manner, but the rough customs by which they lived provided little in the way of comforts. When it was not snowing it was sleeting; when it was not sleeting, a chill rain fell, perhaps worse than the frozen stuff. It seemed to seep deeper into the skin and settle in the bones, in the chest cavity, under the eyes. Days of clear brilliance occasionally scattered the clouds, but the nights after such days were colder still, all the heat rushing up into the heavens.

Silenus caught a cough while crossing the higher reaches of the Pyrenees. He nursed it throughout the long season along the Rhône. He spat up bile that changed color from one day to the next. For a time his body burned with fever. He lay sweating, head spinning; at the mercy of a Cavaris mystic who draped his naked body with shreds of animal fur drenched in various unguents. At first Silenus tried to swat the hooded creature away, especially when he saw the sores festering on his hands and caught a glimpse of the conglomeration of features from behind which he viewed the world, a face as wrinkled and bulbous as if it had been baked of lumpy dough. Later, he grew too weak to move. He closed his eyes and cursed the man in long Greek diatribes that went wholly ignored. Nor did he thank the mystic when he regained his health. Of course he was going to recover, he said. He would have done so sooner if that ogre had not harassed him so.

From then on Silenus ventured out only rarely. When he did, he found the frozen world a strange place indeed. He spent a portion of each day writing down his observations. The bare branches of trees that dipped down into the frigid stream currents fascinated him. The water flowed by in its liquid form, but it clung to knuckles of wood in knobs of ice. He had noticed that men sent to reconnoiter the mountains during clear spells came back with faces and hands as sunburned as they would have been in Africa. And he found certain fishes frozen in chunks of ice. Testing an assertion of the local children, he set them to thaw in a bowl beside his cot and found they returned to life as they warmed, flapping a tail or fin as each came free, rolling their eyes. These northern lands made no sense. He would have rather stayed with Hanno, whom he thought of often. But such a decision was not his to make, and the priority was for him to get back to Hannibal.

The state of Hasdrubal's health began to worry him. He suffered no physical infirmity, but his spirits sank so low that he sometimes received no visitors at all for a day or two at a time. When Silenus did gain the man's tent, he invariably found him in the same position, hunched at the edge of his cot, a black bear fur draped over his shoulders. The upper skull and jaw of the beast rested on Hasdrubal's head. The creature's teeth pressed against his forehead. He had even gone so far as to run the bear's legs down his arms and secure the paws to the back of his hands. He spent the day scratching figures into the dry dirt of the floor, wiping them clean, and then drawing again on some other inspiration. Silenus never figured out just what he was doing. He thought the pictures might be charts, battle plans, a map of the territory they were entering. Sometimes he caught suggestions in the lines that reminded him of parts of the human form—an eye, a lock of hair draped over a forehead, contours that could have etched a chin. But Hasdrubal always scratched through the images before he could really make sense of them.

When asked about his health, his thoughts on the situation they found themselves in, the coming year, the state of the men's morale, the best way to communicate with Hannibal, the prospect of negotiating the Alps in early spring—when asked anything—Hasdrubal, if he responded at all, answered with the same phrase.

“Bears sleep in winter,” he said.

Silenus found no comfort at all in this answer, even apart from the wild smile that accompanied it, the great bulbous swell of his eyes, and the way he chewed on one corner of his lips with teeth that—in the dim light—seemed inordinately large. Asked to explain the statement, Hasdrubal merely repeated it. Then he grunted a few times, as the creature might. Silenus stopped asking questions. Instead, he reminisced about the things he had seen with Hannibal and conjectured with willed optimism about what the future held for them all. He tried to remind Hasdrubal that a world of possibility lay beyond this Gallic hell: people and places and joys yet to be discovered.

He was not sure whether he succeeded in these attempts, but with the first thawings of spring the bear stirred into motion. Hasdrubal gathered together the ragged remainder of the troops he had escaped Baecula with. All told, just over eleven thousand of them had survived the winter, far fewer than Hannibal had at his command at the same geographical point. None of them looked eager to fight, but all wanted out of that cold place and they knew they had mountains to cross no matter what. So they accepted their general's lead.

Hasdrubal pushed the army across the upper Rhône, where the river was narrow and posed only a moderate obstacle. He moved ready for trouble, his lookouts vigilant and his soldiers marching with spears at hand. Silenus had sworn that he could be of no aid in negotiating the Alps, but this was mostly because he wanted no responsibility for errors. In actuality, he managed to have an opinion every step of the way. For some time Hasdrubal joked with him that his only aim was to avoid any route that even remotely resembled the one he had taken with Hannibal. Silenus did not dispute it. Actually, he was happy to see the Barca find humor again. Perhaps his winter-long concern had been unnecessary.

The Gauls, remembering the first passing horde, greeted this new one with curiosity instead of fear. And perhaps with a measure of pity, for Hasdrubal's men looked none too impressive. Even the wild people who perched on the crags offered little trouble: stolen livestock, a camp follower snatched here and there, an occasional trap set more for amusement than to do real damage. The Allobroges would undoubtedly have proved more menacing, but the Carthaginians avoided them.

And they had chosen their route well. The crossing was—by Silenus' reckoning—blissfully uneventful. Much happened, certainly. Avalanches; days spent trekking into dead-end valleys. A blizzard howled over them for three days straight, then vanished. Stores of grain were ruined by damp; a pack of wolves that had a taste for human flesh attacked stragglers. But there was nothing to match the epic struggles he remembered from Hannibal's venture. They just progressed. Up and up. And then, at some point subtle enough that Silenus failed to notice it, they began their descent, at a moderate incline, via a different pass altogether. Before he dared to believed it they were out of the mountains and onto blessedly even terrain.

On arriving in the region of the Padus River, Hasdrubal sought to correspond with Hannibal. He did not know exactly where his brother was, or in what condition, but above all he wanted to unite their forces. He dictated a longer letter than Silenus would have expected. It seemed, actually, that he had more to discuss than just the logistics of war. He had been so long without his brother that he wished to explain everything that had passed in the years that separated them. So he did. Silenus transcribed it faithfully for him.

This completed, Hasdrubal gave orders for the dispatch of a group of skilled riders. They were to ride south at all haste, to weave their way secretly through the long stretch of Italy, through Apulia, and on into the region of Tarentum, where they hoped to find Hannibal. As soon as the riders thundered out of camp—their horses throwing up divots of soil—Hasdrubal ordered the march commenced.

They approached Placentia as if to lay siege to the place, but as they had no siege equipment the display was really for show. Instead they sat outside the city, taunting the Romans, who refused to climb down from the battlements and fight them. The greater show he made of spoiling for a fight, the more the local Gauls felt the call of war in their blood. Representatives trickled in at first, testing the possibilities for new alliances with the Carthaginians, new promises. Hasdrubal made grand projections about the coming year. He had left Iberia, he said, to join his brother and finish this war. In the ports to the south, he would be joined by tens of thousands of reinforcements from Carthage. He would unite with Hannibal to crush Rome itself. He would drench the streets in blood, a hundred killed for each wrong he could recall: each soldier unjustly killed, each woman raped, each treaty disregarded, every pompous Latin word. He would see the city in flames, loot the place, and drag Roman women through the streets by fistfuls of their hair.

By the time he left, fifteen days after he had arrived, a horde of thirty thousand Cisalpine Gauls trailed behind him. Apparently, they liked what they heard. Outside Mutina, they picked up guides who claimed to know all the best routes south and how to connect one to another for maximum devious effect. With them in the fore, they marched south. At first, the guides hardly seemed worth their pay: The army simply trotted down the Via Flaminia, a road like none any of them had ever beheld. So wide and flat, the stones set with such precision. Initially, they made almost double their normal time, so enthused were the men by their progress, by the fact that the enemy's own handiwork was helping them on. They passed Ariminum undisturbed. The townspeople gathered on the fortifications and watched their progress. The soldiers of the garrison held their positions, pikes jutting up into the sky. But they stayed shut behind the town's gates, so Hasdrubal carried on toward his goal. They followed the coastal road past Fanum Fortunae. The guides had them cross the Metaurus River and proceed along the relatively open ground toward Sena Gallica.

It was here, finally, that they discovered the Romans were not going to let them stroll on indefinitely. An army under Livius Salinator waited for them, encamped in a wide valley mostly cultivated with grain. For four days the two armies sat assessing each other. Cavalry units skirmished on a couple of occasions. The Romans shifted the position of their camp, although it was unclear what advantage this offered them. By his assessment, Hasdrubal's forces slightly outnumbered the enemy's. With so much of his force composed of unruly Gauls, however, he hesitated to engage on such open terrain. He tried to find traps hidden in the land, but the position was not one suited to wily tactics. It favored open battle. Noba volunteered to lead the Libyans on a night march to circumnavigate the Romans and surprise them from the rear at an agreed-upon moment. But as they debated this an individual arrived who changed everything with the news he bore.

This spy had barely escaped the Roman camp with his life. Indeed, a sentry had noted his solitary departure. Before he had made contact with Carthaginian forces he had found himself running from a band of Roman cavalry. He was bashed about his helmeted head with a sword, cut on the shoulder. He swatted away a flying javelin with one hand, gashing his palm in the process. He escaped by plunging down a ravine too steep for his mounted pursuers. The fall was nearly vertical. He bounced from rock to rock, ricocheted off the trunks of trees, and ended his flight suspended in a clump of shrubs so thick that he only broke free of them with some difficulty. For all this, the Roman cavalry was still chasing him when he sprinted into sight of the Carthaginian outposts. The Romans drew up at the last moment, considered the view of the amused Carthaginians and of the Numidians riding out from the main camp. And then they bolted, suddenly recalling that there was a more substantial threat to their safety than anything that lone man might represent.

When all this was reported to Hasdrubal he had the bound man brought to him. He studied the pox-scarred olive skin, the squat build, the wide forehead, and the simple garments that marked him as a legionary. He turned and waved Silenus nearer, as a translator. One of the guards standing at the man's side said that was not necessary: The man spoke their tongue. Hasdrubal's forehead creased at this, four jagged lines that did not relax until he asked, simply, “What have you to say?”

The man bowed his head and kissed his fingertips in the way of the Theveste people. He spoke perfect Carthaginian, laced with rich tones that matched his greeting. He offered himself as a servant of Baal and praised all those who were likewise. He said that though he was of Roman blood and could speak Latin he had been loyal to Carthage since his father had been captured in the first great war. He was born of an African mother in the same region as Didobal, wife of Hamilcar. He had trained from birth in the ways of his father's people so that he might eventually be of some service to his adopted nation. In the second year of this war he had found his way into the Roman ranks, having received instructions that issued from Bostar himself. But since that man's tragic death, he had been orphaned inside the enemy host with no connection to Hannibal and no one to report to. He bided his time and stayed true to the gods they shared and waited for the right moment to break free. He had found that now, and the news he brought was grave beyond any he had held before.