Authors: David Anthony Durham
Nor were the soldiers without a model of bravery. Hannibal was among them. Later all the men would claim to have labored beside him at some point during the day. He dragged back the battering ram and ran forward yelling his fury into the base of the wall. He scaled the lower portion of a ladder and only just jumped to safety when a log was set rolling from the wall above, peeling off the men before and below him and leaving them shattered and broken. He landed awkwardly from his leap and limped so markedly that Mago convinced him to mount again. He did so, and rode exhorting the men. It was atop that churning mass of muscle that the hand of another's fate touched him in a way it had never before.
In all the movement and action, his mouth open and yelling, horse swirling beneath him, men rushing about him, he did not notice the falarica let loose from a tower high on the wall. He did not see the fingers that released it or hear the prayer on the lips of that person. The spearhead itself was four feet long, followed by a compartment smeared with pitch and set aflame, behind which stretched ten feet of shaft that gave the weapon a deadly weight in falling. It cut a fiery, indirect path toward its target, first up into the air, then arching, arching, losing upward speed, but gaining from gravity's pull as it returned to the earth. In the time this missile was in the air Hannibal and his mount circled and pranced and galloped a short distance and pulled up. He and the horse might easily have been yards from the spear when it struck the earth. This fact would haunt him afterward though he would never voice his questions about what this meant for the will of the gods or the intentions of the fates.
A guard next to him shouted a warning, too late and unheard anyway. The point of the falarica slammed into Hannibal's leg and through his flesh and muscle and past him into the leather of his saddle and farther still into the back of the horse. It broke two of the mount's ribs and lodged so deeply inside it that the wound was mortal. The horse was dead on its feet. Hannibal batted at the flaming pitch along the shaft as if he might right the matter with the fury of his palms. Then he felt the horse start to buckle and knew that he might be crushed beneath it. So he did what he had to.
As the horse fell to one side, he wrenched himself the other way. The sharp prongs of the spearhead ripped sideways through his leg, pausing for a moment against a thin ribbon of reluctant flesh, then tearing free. Hannibal landed on top of the horse. He tried to spring away, but as one leg was useless, he ended up with his chest on the horse's rump. In one of its last acts on this earth the creature kicked, and Hannibal was made aware of three things. The air was knocked completely out of his chest so that his lungs were momentarily flat and useless. He realized in midair that the force of the blow had sent him over the heads and beyond the first few who had come to aid him. And as he rolled and scraped across the ground and settled in an undignified jumble, he understood that he would never be able to stand before Imilce as he had in the past. He was no longer perfect. This thought stunned him even more than the pain, even more than the proximity of death, the few inches that placed the spearhead in one portion of his body and not another.
When the messenger found him, Mago was at the far edge of the camp, surveying the quantity and abundance of lumber recently hewn for siege engines. He left directly. He cut through sections of the camp he had never explored before: the tent neighborhoods of the various tribes, wherein each people kept to its way and lived by its customs. He passed the hovels of camp followers—squat dwellings of animal skins, others woven of plant matter, and some built of bricks of mud and feces; he passed through open-air markets, carcasses hanging to air, fly-spotted, the ground below them splattered with offal, the air rife with the scent of slaughtered flesh, with the stench of fish guts. Beyond the confusion created by the mass of nationalities there were women in abundance, cooks and prostitutes and maids, wives and sisters and even daughters, especially from the Celtiberian tribes who were not so far from home. There were children among them, the same urchins who made their lives in the alleys of cities, quick and nimble and somehow thriving beneath the feet of warriors. The lanes were even patrolled by the requisite stray dogs, thin-limbed and shorthaired and none of them of any particular breed. Like the children, they managed to eke out an existence in and around the machinery of war. There was little order to it, except for the knowledge that each and every soul within miles knew the name Hannibal Barca.
But few of them recognized the Barca striding past them behind the messenger, which suited him well as yet. Mago had been face-to-face with his responsibilities as never before. He kept a daily record of all notable developments, organized the notes and engineering reports from Adherbal, kept track of morale in the various contingents, settled disputes in Hannibal's name when the weary soldiers turned their frustrations against each other. He was even left in charge of requisitioning supplies for Vandicar, the chief mahout, whose elephants were as sorely taxed as any soldier by the siege work.
In his attempt to fulfill all the tasks set for him, Mago found himself down among the soldiers, examining the machines and learning about strategy from those who would answer his questions. At first he was hesitant in dealing with men older than he, more experienced than he, with scowling faces and opinions they did not mind spouting at the least provocation. But each evening as he completed his work he catalogued the day's interactions and noted where he had been lacking.
One morning Mago yanked the young cavalry general, Carthalo, from his horse and held him pinned beneath his foot. The horseman's infraction had come the day before, a matter concerning his disregard for an order he saw as beneath his men, but Mago had needed the evening to devise his response. It came as a surprise to many—Carthalo included—but went unnoticed by few. The youngest Barca was growing to fill the promise of his family name quite quickly.
Mago nodded to the guards posted outside Hannibal's tent. He slipped quietly past them and into a gloomy haze of incense, the close, moist smell of sweat and exhaustion, of blood and vinegar. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light the room came slowly into relief, its sparse furnishings ordering themselves before his eyes. A single wooden table stood at the center, cluttered with maps and other papers and surrounded by stools pushed back a little distance. Just beyond the table, lining the far wall, Hannibal lay on a small bed. He was propped up on one elbow and from that position watched his physician, Synhalus, who worked beneath the lamp glow provided by his assistant.
“Welcome, brother,” Hannibal said, his tone surprisingly light. “Sorry to call you away, but I need your services as scribe. The sickly creature who last had the post died most unpleasantly. My surgeon here says it was the cost of his sexual habits, consumed from the loins up into his abdomen. I would prefer a death in battle, to be sure.”
The Egyptian physician glanced over his shoulder and seemed to consider the interruption for a moment. He exhaled and pushed himself to his feet and spoke a few words to the commander. As he did so, Mago was provided a view of his work. His brother's leg was bare, punctured at mid-thigh in a circle of jagged flesh that cut deep into the muscle. The surgeon draped a wet cloth over the wound. The white material flushed on contact and then, gradually, deepened to a red and on toward brown.
“Don't think me too infirm,” Hannibal said. “They pierced the skin and muscle of me, Mago, but not the bone, not even the main artery, and certainly not my heart or resolve. I don't doubt I am the victim of some stable boy who snatched up a javelin when he saw his chance for glory. It does vex me, mostly because my foolishness broke our momentum and the siege carries on. Come in and sit. Synhalus is leaving me now but he will soon return. He has all manner of tortures planned for me this afternoon, but he thinks he can keep this leg from becoming the death of me.”
Hannibal grasped the surgeon by the wrist in a parting gesture. Synhalus nodded and left the room without making eye contact with Mago. His assistant took the lamp with him and for a moment after their departure the room dropped into shadow.
Mago navigated through the stools and sat as instructed. He found it hard to look directly at his brother, for his eyes wanted only to stare at the wound. “I would take your place if I could,” he said. “I'd accept the foul weapon into my own flesh to see you whole again.”
The smile on the commander's face dropped away. Though the air in the tent was a comfortable temperature, beads of sweat dotted his nose and temples. These were the only indication of the pain his leg must have been causing him. He shifted position and said, “You would never have been as foolish as I. There are many reasons for me to risk my life for our goals; impatience isn't one of them. Are the men greatly disturbed?”
“None can remember seeing you injured,” Mago said. “It has been a shock. Rumors spread faster than fever in times like this.”
Hannibal shifted as if he were about to rise, but understanding his thoughts Mago stayed him with a hand. “We're dealing with it, brother. I made sure that the priest who sacrificed this morning found the signs positive. Also, I instructed the generals to speak not of your frailty but of your courage, to remind all men that you have as much to lose in this battle as they and yet you do not shrink from it. I tell them that, but be more careful in future, brother. It's not true that you have as much to lose as they; you have very much more.”
“Wise counsel,” Hannibal said. “Sometimes I think you are more like me than any of our father's children.”
“You speak too highly of me.”
Hannibal did not smile, but there was something ironic in his expression. “I don't think so. You are the most like what I would be if I could be other than I am. Hasdrubal takes joy from life in a light way that I never could. Hanno lives well, but carries a weight around his neck that hinders him. Some doubt was planted in him young, and he's never grown beyond it. You, Mago, have a balance that I envy. One day I will show you the depths of my admiration, but let us first take care of what we must. I called you here because again the Romans have sent envoys to chastise us. I've kept them waiting along the shore, stewing, I hope, and blistering under the sun. I might have received them previously, but not in this state. I am sure that in a day or two they'll sail from here directly to Carthage. But let us forewarn the Council. Better they hear from me first. You'll find writing materials there behind you.”
He waited as Mago got his supplies ready. He started to adjust his position, but his leg stopped him. He gave up on the effort. Instead he swiped at the flies that had settled on his bandage. They scattered, only to circle and return a moment later. When his brother looked up at him, he began.
“Transcribe my words exactly. Have you any question, stop me and ask it. We can have no errors in such a correspondence. Write this . . . Honored and venerated Council of Carthage, beloved of Baal, descendants of Elissa, Hannibal hails you. I write to you on a matter of grave importance, which I ask you to consider the very day you receive this. As you know, I serve you humbly in Iberia. I carry on the work of my father, Hamilcar, who through sheer force of will wrested Iberia from the waste of tribal bickering. He built of it a fine holding, rich in silver and timber and other resources. My father filled your coffers, aiding as no other could in the rebuilding of Carthage's depleted fortunes. He died in these efforts, sacrificing even his life to the country he loved.”
Hannibal paused to allow Mago to catch up. He was surprised to find that his brother stopped writing only a moment later. “So fast as that? They have taught you well. Perhaps I need not have sent for that Greek to keep a record of events for me.” He proceeded, speaking a little more rapidly.
“In the time after my father's death, my brother-in-law, Hasdrubal the Handsome, ably managed Iberia. On his death I took his burdens upon myself, not solely of my own wish but at the request of all who cared for Carthage's glory. Since then I've all but completed the conquest of Iberia. I did not call on Carthage for resources then, but at my own expense gained domination over the tribes of the Tagus, and captured Salmantica and Arbocala. Carthage favors generals who win and generals who enrich the city of their birth. This being so, you can have no complaint about Hannibal or the legacy of the Barcas.
“I remind you of all this so that it will be fresh in your mind when you receive the embassy of the Romans. They will come to you condemning me, spinning truths into lies and lies into truths, as is their way. You know the mission that I am on, so remember two things, that Saguntum is south of the Ebro, and that we've no obligation to honor Roman commands concerning a city within our realm of influence. I believe that my actions in taking Saguntum do not violate existing agreements. Even if they did, you have the authority to reject those agreements, as they did not come directly from yourselves. What I ask of you is simple. Send those Romans home like the disobedient dogs they are. I will complete this business soon, and I assure you Carthage will benefit handsomely from it. And know also that, should Rome challenge us with force, Carthage can count on Hannibal and his army to meet any threat before it reaches African soil.”
Hannibal motioned for his brother to hold the scroll up for him to see. “You have a fine hand,” he said, his tone conversational. “They are indeed precious, these Romans. They call me barbaric, when they are the masters of treachery and the breakers of treaties. They present themselves here like children shocked at the harsh world all around them. But even these Saguntines shall one day attest that Hannibal is both just and strong.”
“Shall they?” Mago asked. “That would surprise me. I mean, that they would admit as much.”
“They cannot say I failed to offer them a choice. Think of it like this: When you come upon a great tree that blocks your path, do you stand against it and challenge it to battle? When you are out walking in the night and hear behind you the growls of a lion, do you turn and fight it lest it inconvenience you? No. You walk around the tree. You quicken your pace away from the lion and find shelter. I present the Saguntines with a force beyond their capacity to defeat. They must adapt to it. If they had the wisdom to acknowledge this, we would not be fighting now. When they rejected me, they asked for my wrath instead of my friendship. So their fate has been decided by their own actions. This is no perversity of my own. The world is cruel. One must take on a portion of that cruelty to live in it. That is all I've done.”