"Well, let's not keep the great man waiting," Marcus said. "Let's go show him what real men look like." The rest followed him, chuckling a little before resuming their stone faces.
Chapter 8
They proceeded between the lines of courtiers toward the man who sat enthroned on a high dais. While not seeming to, the Romans assessed the men they were passing. Some were fat and scented and had the look of plutocrats. Others were graybearded, recognizable as counselors in any setting. Yet others were more ominous: hard, scar-faced men whose rich clothing could not disguise the fact that they were soldiers of long service.
The man on the throne was another pseudo-Greek, handsome and fit but without the marks of hard campaigning on him. Behind his throne were ranged a line of guards. To Marcus they looked like some sort of Celt, but of a breed he did not recognize. Most had dark hair dressed in triple plaits and they wore richly worked armbands and belts around their brief white tunics. Each carried a small iron-bossed wooden shield and a vicious, down-curving, slashing sword called a falcata. They wore no armor at all. From these and other signs Marcus guessed that they were Spanish Celts. Such men had served Carthage for generations.
Ten paces before the throne they stopped and Marcus inclined his head. "In the name of the Senate and people of Rome I greet you, Shofet of Carthage." A pair of guards strode forward, grasped his arms and tried to force him to his knees and looked disconcerted when they were unable to do so. "Tell these men to take their hands off me or face war with Rome."
With a laugh, the Shofet signaled for the men to desist. "They must be Romans in truth! The stories of their highhandedness were not exaggerated." His courtiers looked scandalized but none of them spoke. Hamilcar leaned forward. "Listen to me, Romans. My ancestor cursed your breed and I would only be doing my duty by my gods if I should choose to burn you alive on the altar of Baal-Hammon." He sat back, lounging against the white lion skin. "But that was generations ago, and times change. It pleases me to accept your suit. Show me your credentials."
He signaled for servants to bring chairs. The Romans did not change expression at these mercurial alterations of mood. They understood showmanship and knew how to respond to it. When folding chairs were brought, they sat, arranging their togas in the approved manner while Hamilcar read the documents Marcus presented. They were written on parchment bound within wooden covers. Each left-hand page was written in Latin with the facing page giving a translation in Greek. At the bottom was appended the leaden seal of the Senate.
"It is a bit old-fashioned," Hamilcar pronounced, "but everything seems to be in order." He handed the documents to a gray counselor, who proceeded to examine them closely. Hamilcar's Greek was impeccable, but there was something a bit irregular to his phrasing and vocabulary. Marcus guessed that the language, as used at court, had changed since the time of the Roman emigration. The merchants who sometimes came to Noricum spoke the simplified dialect used for trade.
"We have dealt with few republics," Hamilcar said. "They used to be common around the Middle Sea. Now they are a rarity. Nonetheless, we do not insist upon dealing with a fellow monarch. I am, after all, no more than spokesman for the Hundred, the true ruling body of Carthage."
His courtiers nodded solemnly, retaining their impassive demeanor in the face of this outrageous assertion. Hannibal had ruthlessly purged the ruling classes of Carthage. The Hundred, once a plutocracy of wealthy men holding office through property assessment, was now no more than an advisory council on matters concerning trade. All real power lay with the descendants of Hannibal.
"Our Senate," Marcus said, "desires to reopen trade with the lands of the Middle Sea."
"A laudable goal. And you have come to the right place to begin your mission. Carthage is preeminent on the Middle Sea in all matters involving the sea lanes, both for commercial and for military purposes."
While these preliminaries were carried out, the principals were under close observation. From a passage behind the throne, Princess Zarabel watched the proceedings through an aperture in an elaborate carving. The palace had many such passages and observation points, all of them unknown to her brother the Shofet. Zarabel knew them all intimately. This knowledge was passed down through the high priestesshood of Tanit. The high priestess was always a woman of the Barca family.
She had hurried her bearers through the streets from the great temple to the palace. If anyone had wondered at her abrupt return, they had kept silent about it. From the access in her own chambers she had reached this spy-hole just before the Romans entered. Now she made a study of the delegation, and her assessment was far shrewder than her brother's. He had the blindness of one who considered himself to be all-powerful. She, on the other hand, was revered by multitudes, but in the halls of power she was regarded with suspicion and barely veiled disdain. To keep her position, even to stay alive, she had to be able to read men and use them accordingly.
Like Hanno, she was struck by the kingly bearing of these men. She deduced that this was not a sign of innate superiority, but rather of long schooling in posture and deportment. The old Romans had been enamored of the Greek rhetorical arts, which emphasized stance and gesture as much as speech. This imperious stride and posture must be a development of those arts. Even knowing such a thing, it was still an impressive display.
The leader's arrogant refusal to prostrate himself was likewise impressive, if suicidal. For a moment she bit her lip, afraid that her brother would do something characteristically foolish in the family tradition, and order them all killed. Happily, he seemed more amused than offended. This was probably because he regarded these men as foreign bumpkins who simply knew no better. In this, she knew, he was seriously underestimating them.
The leader's ability to stand unshaken while two strong Spaniards tried to force him down was likewise impressive. Either these men had knees that would not bend, or they were just tough as old boots. She suspected the latter.
The leader, whose name, she learned, was Scipio, was a most impressive figure. He was a young man, but he showed the marks of long experience of warfare, and his overall presence gave the impression of a much older man. His straight, craggy features and coarse, close-cropped dark hair resembled those she had seen on old Roman portrait busts. She looked for the other man Hanno had mentioned in his letter.
She saw him at once. He was another man of distinguished appearance and she could read, by many tiny signs of face and body, that he chafed at his secondary position. This was an ambitious, jealous man. His hair and complexion were fairer than the leader's and she noticed that a number of these men were fairer than Italian natives should be. Either the Roman refugees had taken native wives or concubines, or else local families had risen to prominence. Either explanation was likely, considering what she knew of the old Romans. She was widely read in history, far more so than her brother.
It was interesting to hear their speech. Their pronunciation was a bit strange, and the grammar and syntax were those of a previous age, Greek rhetoric as it was spoken in the age of Demosthenes. The Romans had continued to study texts centuries old, and were unaware of the new speech and literature of Rhodes, Pergamum and the Greek cities of Asia. Somehow, it reinforced the forthrightness of their manner.
Satisfied with her first assessment, she returned to her chambers and called for her body slaves. The hairdresser, cosmetician, custodian of the jewels and mistress of the wardrobe appeared at once. Zarabel gave them her instructions and they set to work preparing her for her next task of the day, which was a delicate one. She needed to make a maximum impact on the visiting Romans, upstaging her brother without angering him so severely that he would order her execution. He had done this more than once. Thus far, he had always relented before the headsman bloodied his sword, but someday he might go through with it.
The hairdresser threaded gem-studded golden rings through her hair while the cosmetician powdered her milky flesh with gold dust. She opened a small box and with ivory tweezers lifted out dis
cs of gold pounded so thin that light shone through them. She applied one to each of the princess's nipples. The warmth of her flesh made them cling like paint.
The wardrobe mistress wrapped a long, narrow band of black silk around her hips, passed it between her legs and knotted it intricately so that it was secure while appearing ready to fall off at any moment. Its long tasseled ends fell before and behind to her ankles.
The eunuch who managed her jewelry inserted a huge ruby in her navel. From childhood her navel had been stretched by ever-larger stones until it would now hold a jewel two inches in diameter. He placed heavy serpent cuffs, bracelets and armlets from her wrists to her shoulders. Last of all, he draped a huge Egyptian collar around her neck. It was intricately made of beads of gold, carnelian, lapis lazuli and pearls. It covered her shoulders and the upper surface of her breasts nearly to the nipples.
"My princess," murmured the cosmetician, "are you certain that this is proper? You are now prepared for seduction, not diplomacy."
Zarabel studied her reflection in the polished silver mirror held by two Nubian slaves. "It is precisely what I need. I must seduce an entire diplomatic mission."
Preceded by guards and trailed by her attendants, Zarabel walked out into a main corridor and proceeded to the throne room. As she passed, soldiers and courtiers bowed deeply while slaves threw themselves onto their faces as if they were trying to blend with the floor. On her right hand and on her left stone titans held up the ceiling, fifty feet overhead. Light streamed in through tiny panes of a hundred colors set in a clerestory. Behind her she could hear a low murmur and she could easily guess its content: Where could the princess be going dressed in such a fashion?
At the door to the throne room she paused. With an effort of will she calmed her heart and put on her hieratical demeanor. Like the Romans, she understood the importance of bravura. She had attired herself like the most expensive whore in the empire. In bearing she would be what she was: a royal princess and the holiest priestess of the Punic race. At her nod, the guards opened the door and she strode within.
The first thing the Romans noticed was the expression on Hamilcar's face: a near-comical mixture of surprise and distress. They turned to see what had thus stunned the imperturbable Shofet. Then it was their turn to look dumbfounded. Even Roman gravitas was not sufficient to maintain their stone faces.
The woman who strode so superbly into the throne room was not tall, but she had the presence of a colossus. Her slow, measured steps, her erect bearing and the strange posture of her arms: spread to her sides, forearms inclined downward, palms facing forward, were so imposing that they did not notice at first that she was nearly naked. That impression, however, was not slow in coming.
She passed through them without looking left or right, until she halted a few paces before the Shofet. Then she brought her arms up and around gracefully to cross before her bosom and bowed, keeping her legs straight, bending from the hips until her hair brushed the floor. Then she straightened.
"I greet the avatar of Baal-Hammon on Earth, the most exalted Shofet of Carthage." Her voice was low and melodious. The Romans could not understand the Punic words save for the name of the god and "Shofet."
"And I greet the princess Zarabel, priestess of Tank," Hamilcar responded, having regained his composure. He went on in Greek. "Representatives of Noricum, I present my sister, the princess Zarabel. As you have seen, she is a mistress of the imposing entrance." It did not escape Marcus that the Shofet had said "Noricum," not "Rome."
"In the name of the Senate and the people of Rome," he said, standing and inclining his head toward the unearthly vision, "we greet the Princess Zarabel Barca of Carthage. Rome reveres all the gods and their sacerdotes."
She turned to face him, her delicate feet seeming scarcely to touch the floor. "The gods of Carthage love the strong," she said enigmatically. "Tank greets you."
"You may take your place, Sister," Hamilcar said. "Although you are scarcely dressed for the occasion. We are discussing trade relations with these honored envoys."
She looked the Romans over as if evaluating them for the first time. "Trade? I would rather say we should discuss military relations with these martial gentlemen."
"All in good time, Sister," Hamilcar said through gritted teeth. Her use of "we" enraged him, but he would not upbraid her before strangers.
Zarabel took her seat on the second throne. It was a pace behind and a step lower than the Shofet's. It was made of silver and covered with black leopard skins, a lesser beast than the albino lion. At least, she reflected, it was better than sitting on the bare metal. Gooseflesh was hardly regal.
For a while they discussed the possibilities of opening trade relations between north and south, of wine and oil, wool and blond-haired slaves. In time the Shofet grew tired of these things, which were better handled by the Hundred and the trade guilds. He decided it was time to broach the subject that truly interested him.
"In the past," Hamilcar said, "you were renowned for the valor of your legions. Do you still follow the martial practices of your ancestors?"
"The legions still march," Marcus told him. "The order of battle has changed in certain details since the emigration, but the legion remains the basis for our military organization."
"And you have a number of these legions?"
"Sufficient to guard our frontiers and extend our empire as necessary."
The Shofet smiled thinly. It seemed these rustics wanted to aggrandize their primitive state with the dignity of empire. If so, a little flattery cost nothing. "I see. It occurs to me that we might address the subject of military relations. You may have heard that even now I am making preparations for war. The unprovoked aggression of Egypt has grown intolerable. I am certain that your legions have maintained their ancestral standards of training and discipline."
"You are correct in that," said Marcus.
"Then it seems to me that a few of these legions might be a splendid addition to the forces I have already assembled. We have a standard contract for soldiers and I think you will find it more than generous." He saw the Romans stiffen.
"Roman soldiers are not mercenaries," Marcus said.
"I would hardly suggest that they are," said Hamilcar smoothly. "But a contract is a simple and effective means of laying out the terms of service."
"We know little of contracts, Your Majesty," Marcus said. "We do understand treaties. If you know your history, you know that Rome has always been most meticulous in observing the terms of military alliances. We have never failed an ally in time of need."
"Your reputation in these matters is common knowledge," Hamilcar said, making a mental note to ask Lord Hirham whether the Romans had in fact been reliable allies.
"If you wish," Marcus said, "I can negotiate a treaty of military alliance with Carthage. This, of course, must be submitted to the Senate for ratification."
Hamilcar did not fail to notice the way the eyes of the other Romans shot toward their leader. The one named Norbanus almost sneered. Clearly, Scipio was exceeding his authority. That did not bother him at all. An excuse to repudiate a treaty was always a useful weapon to hold in reserve.
"Perhaps," Zarabel said, "these gentlemen would like a tour of the walls of Carthage. I think they should find the inspection illuminating."
"An excellent idea," the Shofet said. "Men of martial heritage should not miss such an opportunity."
"Then I shall be their guide," Zarabel said, rising. "It has been too long since the people have seen me."
"I would never deny my subjects such a sight," Hamilcar said. Then, to the Romans: "We will continue our talks this evening. A house will be assigned for your use, one of the finest in the city. Tomorrow there will be a formal banquet in your honor."
"Your Majesty is most generous," Marcus said. "On behalf of the Senate and people of Rome, I thank you. I believe this presages a splendid future for relations between Rome and Carthage."
When the Romans and his sister we
re gone, Hamilcar beckoned to Lord Hirham. "Were the old Romans such desirable allies?"
"Decidedly," the old counselor said. "They became so expert in the arts of war and were so punctilious in observing the stipulations of their military alliances, that many nations sought treaties with them. They then commonly trumped up a war with their neighbors, knowing that having Rome on their side assured victory. There was, of course, an undesirable concomitant to such an alliance."
"And what was that?"
"Once the Romans were on their allies' soil in military force, they often stayed."
Hamilcar smiled. "Conquest through alliance, eh? Very clever. We have been known to play that game ourselves. Well, these people are not politically sophisticated. They appear to be even more unsophisticated than their barbarous ancestors, in fact. You saw how they gawked at my shameless sister."
Why did she dare to provoke him in such a fashion? Even as the thought struck him, he knew the answer. Theirs was a power struggle as ancient as Carthage itself. It was a contest between the secular authority of the Shofets and the religious authority of the priests. As he sought to make Baal-Hammon the symbol of the Shofet himself, she exalted the orgiastic cult of Tanit. As he identified Baal-Hammon with the Greek Zeus, she emphasized the traditional nature of Punic religion. She refused to wear a decent Greek peplos, preferring a barbarous display of flesh and jewelry. He was the new, Hellenistic world, she the embodiment of dark, mystical Carthage. And she overlooked no opportunity to advance her power to the detriment of his own.
Sometimes, he thought, it seems a pity that it is forbidden to crucify members of the royal family. The headsman is far too merciful.
Outside the palace, the Roman delegation stood waiting for the litters that would bear them down to the city walls.
"This is not necessary," Marcus protested. "Romans of military age get about on their own feet within a city. Litters are for the elderly."
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