Pride of Carthage (8 page)

Hannibal paused and tilted his head to listen to some shouts outside, and then continued. “But, some might ask, Is Hannibal propelled by the breeze or does he shape the breeze? To which I admit that the behavior of the Saguntines suits me perfectly. I knew how they would react, and how Rome will react. Though I might have thought we would capture them sooner, I am glad this is proving a challenge for my men.”

Mago nodded, though he found himself resisting Hannibal's logic. Questions popped to mind fully formed; facts occurred to him that he might have pointed out to undermine the general's assertions. It could not be denied that the Saguntines were fighting bravely for their very lives, to protect their women and keep their children from being sold into slavery. At night, when he heard them calling out curses from the walls, he could hear the brave desperation in the voices. The poet in him was struck by this. Perhaps it was the
Iliad
haunting him once more, recalling the fate of Priam and his Troy. He had always been disappointed by that aspect of the great tales. All that heroic grandeur resulted in rape and pillage and the utter destruction of a people. But Mago had never voiced such thoughts to anyone and he held his peace.

“In any event, the Council will know my mind and they will be swayed by it,” Hannibal continued. “Though I've been away from home too many years, I still know my people. My message will, by the gods' grace, fly past the Roman envoy and find a home in the hearts of our countrymen. That's my will. Let us see it fulfilled.” So saying, he placed his stamp upon the scroll. Mago rolled and wrapped it safely and passed it on to a messenger, who was waiting at the mouth of the tent.

It seemed that Hannibal was on the verge of dismissing Mago, but he delayed him a little longer. He ran a hand down the ridge of his nose, and opened his fingers across his lower face as if he would capture the heat of his breath. “Mago, write me another letter. As with everything that passes between us, this correspondence is not to be spoken of. Perhaps this woman is my weakness, brother, and if that is so I would have none but yourself know it.”

He hesitated for a moment after Mago was ready, and there was some reluctance in his voice when he spoke again. “Dearest Imilce . . .”

Sapanibal was as much a Barca as any of her brothers. She had Hannibal's deep-set eyes, Hanno's stature and wide forehead, Hasdrubal's shapely mouth, and Mago's sensitive mind. Like all her siblings, her younger sister Sophonisba included, she had been raised to serve the family's interests. Her marriage to Hasdrubal the Handsome had done just that, creating a bond stronger than mere pledges and promises. In this her sacrifice was as earnest as if she had dedicated her life to war; Sapanibal had endured her task with the same dedication expected of her brothers. Perhaps this was why she had been out of sorts of late. What was required of her was no longer certain. Her husband had been dead some years now and therefore no longer a tool through which to exert influence. None of the children he had planted in her had lived more than a few months inside her, so she could not focus herself on motherhood. Her brothers were always busy with warcraft, in which she could take no official role. And then there was Imilce, who now commanded Hannibal's attention in a way that Sapanibal felt was gradually, inevitably, replacing the influence she might once have exerted.

A late summer morning found her walking the meandering path into the woodland of New Carthage, a small square of dense trees, aged giants trapped within the city's granite walls. The same architecture that protected these chosen few had grown wealthy at the expense of the miles and miles of forest once thick outside the gates. With the price of fine lumber rising, the wood standing in New Carthage was a great luxury, which had been protected during the governance of her husband. It was rumored that his forbearance sprang not from an interest in nature, but to please a concubine of whom he was particularly enamored. For this it was called the Whore's Wood, a name Sapanibal was quite fond of. She had long ago ceased to take offense at Hasdrubal's infidelities. He had been a man, and men showed their prime weakness in giving in to the hungers of the groin. Anyway, the whore in question had been sharing Hasdrubal's bed on the night he was assassinated. She died in Sapanibal's place, her chest and abdomen speckled with stab wounds, just like her lover's. Baal had a sense of humor after all.

She found a certain peace and calm beneath the cloak of interwoven branches, inhaling the dampness of the place. Who could help but stand in awe of the towering columns of oak and spruce, with ferns thick around the legs and the leaves above stirred by breezes little felt upon the ground? Though she never spoke of it to anyone, she had occasionally slept in the woods. Stretching her body out on the mossy floor, eyes closed, she had listened as the natural world shifted around her. It was a rare, private pleasure, the only time she felt truly herself because it was the only time she truly forgot herself.

She spotted Imilce, her maid, and their guard before they were aware of her, waiting as had been arranged by messenger a few hours earlier. She slowed her pace and watched them a moment. Sitting on stools that servants must have placed for them, they were dwarfed by the trees, both the many standing and one great beast that had fallen two years before. It was thicker than either woman was tall. It ran behind them like a wall thrown down by the forest itself. Strange, Sapanibal thought, that a race of creatures who built such enormous structures could themselves look like insects before the mute girth of nature.

“Good Imilce,” she called as she walked into the clearing, “forgive me for asking to meet you here. It's just that I never begin a day without a walk in the forest, and I thought how pleasant it would be for you to share it with me. Come walk with me a little. I will be your guide to the Whore's Wood.”

Imilce rose and nodded to her maid; they fell in step with her sister-in-law. Imilce's body had a lithe, supple quality that contrasted sharply with Sapanibal's stride. Though Sapanibal was well dressed, her hair neatly woven into braids, and her ears adorned with silver loops, still she was a goose leading a swan and she knew it. She felt it keenly despite herself and hid it through banter. The wood was full of life and she told Imilce all about it as they walked.

The ear-piercing calls of tropical birds—flamboyant creatures of bright greens and reds, some of solid white, big-beaked and absurd by design—cut the air in cacophonic waves. They were not native to the forest but were replenished each year, kept in place by clipped wings and the barren stretch of treeless land around the city. The parrots were not the only foreigners. A troop of monkeys lived within the forest. They had been imported from Africa, tiny-faced and long-limbed and so agile as to defy possibility. They called to each other and threw insults down upon the intruders. Sapanibal pulled dates from a pouch attached to her waist chain and hurled them one by one into the trees. This brought more cries. The monkeys jumped from limb to limb and snatched the fruit out of midair. They shadowed the women until they reached the edge of the wood and stepped out onto the close-cropped field that ran away a short distance to the city's wall.

Sapanibal lowered herself and sat with her legs crossed before her, straight-backed. “We are a strange people,” she said, pointing to a small group of creatures near a crook in the wall. From a distance they looked like horses, but there was something different in their movements and colorings. Zebras. “There are some who would make New Carthage a pen for all things exotic, people or jewels or animals. In truth, it sometimes seems to me that my brother succeeds not because of Carthage but despite it. This extravagance will be our downfall if anything is. Did you know, Imilce, that once a merchant named Sastanu traveled from Carthage with two fully grown giraffes? He called them wedding presents for Hasdrubal and me. One died of fever; the other bit a guard in the backside and found the artery in her throat sliced by his sword.”

Imilce was still considering the prospect of settling down on the grass. Eventually, reluctantly, she did so. “I had not heard that before. I'd quite like to see a giraffe. Are they really so tall as they say?”

Sapanibal, though she had opened the topic, grew impatient with it. “Yes, you could walk upright beneath the belly of one with room to spare. But I've not come to talk of such things. I bring you a message, sister-in-law, from my brother.”

“My husband?”

Sapanibal reached inside the loose folds of her gown and produced a small, tightly rolled scroll. “It seems the siege goes on, slow as the summer and not nearly as pleasant.”

“You have read the letter?”

Sapanibal looked at her dryly. “I've not read it, sister. Much mail comes through me, and this I thought I'd deliver to you rather than hand it off to another.”

Imilce took the scroll and held it awkwardly. Her fingers caressed the string that bound it. A moment passed in silence until finally she thanked Sapanibal and seemed on the verge of taking her leave.

But Sapanibal said casually, “I'll read it for you, if you like.”

This stopped Imilce. She began by shaking her head, but turned the gesture into a one-shoulder shrug instead. “I would not want to trouble you,” she said.

Sapanibal opened her palm. “It's no trouble. A small thing that I am happy to do for you.”

Imilce handed back the scroll and waited as Sapanibal removed the string, unrolled it, and pressed it flat with her fingers. “‘Dearest Imilce,'” she read. “‘May this find you as when I last saw you, the model of health and beauty. I pray the summer has not been too oppressive in New Carthage. I heard early reports of a fever in the region, but later I was told this was not so. Please speak of this when you next write me. This business here is slow. Our adversary is a more tenacious one than I expected, as you warned me. You know these people better than I. Perhaps next time you will remind me of this occasion and force your counsel upon me. But the siege will be concluded before the warring season ends. I assure you of that, and then you will find me in your presence once more.'”

Sapanibal paused and cleared her throat and brushed away a fly that had settled on her arm.

“‘How is young Hamilcar? It is one of my sorest trials that I cannot see him daily growing. I hope you are whispering to him as we spoke of in the spring, speaking close so that his tiny ears might hear of his father and recognize me upon my return. I was told recently that since I departed you have daily offered sacrifice on my behalf. I thank you for this. May the gods smile on you and pass your wisdom on to our son. Imilce, you may also have heard that I've been injured. There is nothing in this rumor; I am in fine health, as ever. From your husband, who loves you. Hannibal.'”

Imilce was silent for a long moment, and then said, “He's lying, isn't he? He's been hurt. I should go to him.”

“You should not,” Sapanibal said. “If my brother says he's in fine health, then you must believe him. And if he was injured, then it's a matter for a surgeon, not a wife.”

“So you, too, think he is hurt?”

Sapanibal ignored this. “He must know that you are here and well and lovingly unconcerned. Even this letter is too much of an indulgence. He is the commander of an army, Imilce. His mind should be at ease and focused solely on his goal. The lives of many people and the fate of our nation depend on it. If you like, I can help you write a response, a cheery letter that reminds him his son is healthy and his wife loving. That is what he needs. Do you understand?”

Imilce lifted her gaze and watched the zebras in the distance. “You make it quite clear, sister.”

“Good,” Sapanibal said. “The best hope Hannibal has for recovery is full focus on it.”

Imilce snapped her head around and stared at Sapanibal, exasperated. “So you do believe he's been injured! Or do you know it from another source? Tell me, please. You have spies everywhere, don't you? Nothing passes Sapanibal. Only I am kept ignorant.”

“You slight us both and in neither case do you speak truly. Nobody would ever suggest Imilce is ignorant, or that I've any power whatsoever. I only offer you my counsel as one who has been a soldier's wife. You know as well as I that Hannibal has been provoking Rome. If he engages with the Romans fully it will be a war like none the world has yet seen. It'll be no summer campaign but a far longer struggle. You should consider how best to aid our cause in this.”

“Perhaps I will accompany him,” Imilce offered.

Sapanibal pursed her lips—at the world at large, for Imilce had lowered her gaze to her lap. “Some wives have done that, yes,” she said. “And there are always women among the camp followers. But you know as well as I that is a foolish notion for you, with the baby certainly. On the contrary, I believe you should return with me to Carthage and wait out the war there.”

“You would have me leave Iberia?”

“It would be for the best. You are married to Carthage, after all. You might as well see it, learn the language properly, meet my mother, Didobal, and my sister, Sophonisba.”

“I will ask my husband.”

“You can do that, but know that I've already spoken with him on this matter, and he agrees with me.”

Imilce looked askance at Sapanibal as she considered this news. “I will ask him myself.” She rose and patted bits of debris from her gown. “I will sacrifice to Baal this evening and I will have a letter composed, cheerful as you say. Thank you, sister, for your counsel.”

Sapanibal watched Imilce move away. Despite the young beauty's deferential words, Sapanibal did not trust her, was not yet confident that she would not somehow corrupt the course of events to come, intentionally or otherwise. She was, after all, the daughter of a conquered chieftain. Though others did not yet realize this, Sapanibal knew that Imilce formed her own opinions. This much, at least, she could see behind the elegant façade.

Just as Hannibal hoped, the Carthaginian Council had time to consider his letter before the Roman envoy called on them. They turned him away casually, citing the arguments elucidated to them in the letter. Unfortunately, the same messenger who brought this news back to Hannibal also brought word of a rebellion among the Carpetani, in central Iberia. The commander left Saguntum to deal with it personally. He might have delegated this task to a trusted general, but he deemed it grave enough to require his personal attention. If left unchecked, these unruly tribes might inspire more discontent with Carthaginian authority. This was impermissible.

In his absence he left Hanno at the helm, with instructions to bring the siege to a conclusion if it all possible. But almost before Hannibal's silhouette disappeared over the Saguntine hills, the men's enthusiasm drained from their weary bodies. Hanno saw this. Perhaps even more significantly, he felt it as well. He had no inspired speeches to energize his sweat-soaked, reeking, insect-plagued men, but he believed that no city could stand forever against dogged persistence. He had the men build ever larger siege engines, towers taller than the walls, that could be pushed forward on the level areas. From these they hurled volleys of arrows and spears and darts as cover for those working beneath them. In other areas, they built sheltered pathways so that workers could go forward in safety and chip away at the foundation of the city in relative safety. Adherbal, the chief engineer, reported that the blocks at the base of the walls were fitted and sealed with clay. These blocks he had pulled away in great numbers, weakening the fortress at its very base. Occasionally the massive walls shifted and adjusted to the intrusion, groaned against it as if calling out for help.

This was normal enough—to be expected as the battering rams shook the barriers deep down into their foundations—but Hanno woke one stiflingly hot late-summer morning, feeling something in the air, something amiss. When a messenger brought him news of a strange occurrence he almost felt like he had been expecting it. A corner section of the city's sloping northern bulwark had shifted suddenly, crushing the corps of workers undermining it, burying them in an instant mass grave, one great noise and then complete silence, no cries or moaning or calls for help. As the dust slowly cleared it revealed the strangest of architectural adjustments. The wall had not collapsed at all but simply sunk about ten feet, completely intact, no weaker for the change, no more easily breached.

Inspecting the sight, Hanno felt a sudden, gnawing doubt wrap around his gut. What force had lifted its massive boot and pressed it down upon those fifty men, blotting them from the earth without a trace? It was too odd an occurrence to go unconsidered. There might well be a portent in it of things to come. Perhaps the Saguntines had called upon the power of a god whose devotion to them outweighed Baal's commitment to the Carthaginians. If that were so, not even Hannibal's skills could hope to further their cause. Hanno ordered a halt to similar work and called upon the chief priest for guidance.

Mandarbal was a taciturn man with a disfigured face. His upper lip attached directly to the lower portion of his nose, leaving his mouth ever open, his large yellow foreteeth jutting out. It was rumored that he had been born with hands like the flippers of a sea creature, fingers all attached to each other with a webbing of skin that a clerical surgeon sliced away on the day they accepted the orphaned boy into their order. For this reason the priest always wore leather gloves, as he did that afternoon as he invoked the presence of the gods and their wisdom and guidance in the question before them. The animal to be offered was a she-goat that had spent some time in a blessed state, waiting to be called upon. Mandarbal's black-cloaked assistants led her into the dusty courtyard of the command tent, chanting sacred words, the meanings of which were known only to themselves. The goat eyed them warily, skittish and ornery, pulling against the rope that bound her. The priests had difficulty maintaining the appropriate solemnity while controlling her.

Mago, who stood beside his brother, nudged him in the ribs. “Seems she knows what's coming,” he said. “Our future written on the inside of her. Strange how the gods speak to us.”

The animal's struggles turned out to be short-lived. Mandarbal knew his work well and went to it without delay. With the help of his assistants, he straddled the goat across the shoulders and jabbed her in the neck with a long, thin spike. An artery spurted a few quick streams of blood and then eased into a steady flow that slowly blackened the goat's neck and dripped down to the parched earth. The priest stretched out his hand for the next tool, a knife with a convexly curved blade and a handle said to have been made from the backbone of a sea monster. The motion he used to cut the creature's throat was awkward, but so fast that the goat barely noticed it. She had dropped to her knees before she realized new damage had been done to her. This much of the ceremony was public, but as the priests bent to the surgery they closed in around the victim and worked silently.

Mago began to whisper something to his brother, but paused to watch a man stride up to the edge of the group. He was a short man, thin around the chest, with slender arms like those of an adolescent boy. His head seemed somewhat larger than the norm, squared across the back and covered in a mass of curly black hair. But for all his seeming frailty he was tanned a leathery brown and strode up with a massive pack balanced on his shoulders, the legs supporting him sinewy and nimble. He tossed his burden down in the dust and introduced himself, speaking first in Greek, then a little more in Latin, and finally, eloquently, in Carthaginian. He was Silenus, the Greek who was to take over as Hannibal's official historian and chronicler. He said that he had come from afar to immortalize this colossal undertaking in words that would make the ancient poets jealous. He needed little more than wine to wet his pen.

Mago warmed to him immediately, but Hanno said, “You have arrived at an inconvenient time. We expected you several weeks ago.”

“I know it, sir. I've been held up by too many things to recount in brief. I will bend your ear if you ask me to, but it is a tale better told at leisure.”

Hanno considered this prospect for a moment before answering. “It can wait,” he said. “Search out the camp quartermaster. He'll get you settled and show you the layout of the camp. You'll explain your lateness to me this evening.”

“At dinner,” Mago said. “Explain it to me as well. Tell the tale in leisure, as you suggest.”

Hanno looked at his brother but did not contradict him. He turned his attention back to the divination, although he was still aware that some moments passed before the Greek hefted his load and moved away.

Mandarbal finally rose, the bloody liver cradled in his gloved hands. The goat lay on its side, abdomen slit open and viscera strewn from the wound and freckled with pale dirt, already swarming with flies. The priest placed the sacred organ carefully upon the ceremonial table and bent close to it, his attendants on either side of him, shoulder to shoulder, head to head so that the two brothers saw nothing of the signs written on the liver itself. Mandarbal stood erect above the scene for a moment, then turned and walked toward the brothers. As he left the circle of priests, the space he vacated closed behind him. Hanno only caught a momentary glimpse of the mutilated flesh.

“The signs are uncertain,” Mandarbal said, his voice high and lisping. “The offshoot of the liver is abnormally large, which suggests a reversal of the natural order. The right compartment is healthy and fine, but the left bears a black mark shaped like a young frog.”

“How do you read that?” Hanno asked.

“It is uncertain. We are favored by the gods in some aspects, and yet there are divine forces aligned against us.”

“Is that all you can see?”

Mandarbal considered this. He looked back over his shoulders. An insect landed on his lip but flew away instantly. He said, “Perhaps you have offended a single deity and may yet suffer for it.”

Hanno pressed his tongue against his teeth for a moment. “I would look upon the organ myself,” he said. “Might I—”

The priest stopped him with his hand. His fingertips spotted Hanno's breastplate with blood. “You cannot see the sacred parts. This is forbidden to your eyes. You would profane the rites. I've told you more than enough. Trust when I tell you that the future is not certain. Sacrifice to Baal and to Anath. I will ask El for guidance. Perhaps the aged one will speak to us. And Moloch, also—give praise to death.”

Mandarbal made as if to return to his attendants, but noting the expression on Hanno's face, he paused. “Events will unfold by the will of the gods,” he said. “To know their desire is not always our fortune; to have a part in it, regardless, is the blessing and curse of our lives. Be at ease with it. A thrashing man will always drown; a passive one may sometimes float.”

With that, the priest turned and showed the Barcas his back.

Mago shrugged, pursed his lips, and patted his brother on the shoulder. “What did you expect?” he asked. “They are priests. It is against their creed to speak clearly.”

Hanno took the sacred ceremonies much more seriously than his brother, but he could not deny the simple truth Mago referred to. The priests always left one more ill at ease than before, more uncertain, more troubled by the numerous possibilities. It was a strange art, theirs, but one he could never turn his back on.

Had he had only his own inclinations to consider, he would not have joined his brother for the evening meal but would have retired early to privacy. But, as so often since Hannibal's departure, his presence seemed an official necessity. In honor of the Greek, the officers dined in a style he was familiar with, lounging on low couches in Mago's tent, sampling cheeses and fish, vegetables and goat meat with their fingers. The day was still stiflingly warm. One wall of the large tent was folded back to encourage the first stirrings of an evening breeze. Silenus spoke Carthaginian with a Syracusan accent. He entertained the weary soldiers with tales of his voyage from Carthage to Sicily, from there up to the Greek town of Emporiae in northeastern Iberia, from which he sailed along the coast aboard a trading vessel that dropped him at Saguntum. It was hard to know just where fact met fantasy in the man's story, for his odyssey seemed calculated to outdo the poem sung by Homer. He spoke of pirates off the Aegates, of sighting a leviathan longer than the quinquereme in which he sailed, and of a lightning bolt that darted down out of a clear sky and struck the surface of the water.

“It sounds as though we are lucky to lay our eyes on you,” Mago said. He motioned for a servant to refill the Greek's wine bowl, a task attended by a slim-shouldered Arbocalan.

“That you are,” the Greek agreed. “If I had known that I would miss the commander, I might not have rushed.”

“Better that you delayed no longer,” Hanno said. Without his meaning to reveal it, his voice bore an edge of threat. There was something about the scribe that annoyed him, more so because he chided himself for showing it in the face of a company that seemed kindly inclined toward the man. In a more controlled tone, he said, “There's a great deal you'll have to learn about what we require of you.”

“Of course that is so,” Silenus said. He bowed his head and left it at that.

One officer, Bomilcar, seemed particularly amused by Silenus. Though a giant of a man, perfectly proportioned but at a scale rarely witnessed, Bomilcar was neither a terribly disciplined nor especially intelligent officer. His muscular bulk made him a leader of men regardless. His family was an old one in Carthage, but they had maintained a remarkable purity of Phoenician blood, evidenced by the curved blade of his nose, his sharp chin, and the bushy prominence of his eyebrows.

“Greek,” he said, “let me ask you, how did your gimp god Hephaestus secure Aphrodite as a wife? Why not Ares instead? Why not Zeus himself? Or that one from the sea?”

“The blacksmith has got poor legs,” Silenus said, “but his other limbs function quite well. He spends his days pounding iron—”

“And his nights pounding something else!” Bomilcar was laughing at his own joke before he had even completed it.