Mago stepped toward them, but Hanno caught him by the arm. He nodded toward the mouth of the passageway. Five men had appeared in the space. They seemed to stand considering the corridor, looking one to another and sharing thoughts on it. One of them shook his head and spat on the ground. Another made as if to stride away. But yet another stayed them all with a calming gesture of his hand. He pulled the crested helmet from his head and tucked it under his arm, then stepped forward into the passageway. The others fell in a few paces behind him, five silhouettes against the daylight.
“You and I will take a position to the right of him,” Hanno whispered, “Hasdrubal and the translator to the left. This is a strange greeting, yes, but we want you to stand as one of us.”
The two of them slipped into position. Mago still could not see his eldest brother's face, but Hasdrubal nodded at Mago and whispered something that he did not catch. Then they all turned toward the Romans in silence, still-faced and as empty of expression as possible.
The leader of the embassy halted a few strides from the chair and stood with his legs planted wide. Though he wore no sword, he was otherwise dressed for war. His skin tone was only a shade lighter than the Carthaginians', yet there was no mistaking the differences in their origins. He was half a head shorter than most Carthaginians, bulky in the shoulders and thick down through the torso. One edge of his lips twisted, an old scar, perhaps, a wound slow in healing and left imperfect. His eyes jumped from one to the other of the brothers, studying each and finally settling on the figure enclosed by the chair.
“Hannibal Barca,” he said, “commander of the army of Carthage in Iberia: My name is Terentius Varro. I bring you a message from the Republic of Rome, by order of the Senate of that Republic.”
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. One of the men behind him cleared his throat and began to translate Varro's Latin into Carthaginian. He was cut short by a single, small motion that drew all their eyes. Hannibal had raised a finger from its grip on the armchair. His wrist twisted in a motion that was at first unclear, until the digit settled into place, a pointer directed toward one of the men standing behind him, his own translator, a young man dressed in a simple cloak that covered him entirely save for his head and hands. He conveyed the introduction.
“Welcome, Terentius Varro,” Hannibal said, via his translator. “Let us hear it, then.”
“You will have me speak here, in a stable?” Varro looked around. One of the men behind him exhaled an exasperated breath and checked the bottoms of his sandals for fouling. “Let me say again, Hannibal Barca—”
“It's just that I was told you were anxious to speak to me,” Hannibal said, breaking in with his Carthaginian. “I've just returned from the siege of Arbocala this very hour, you see. I am tired, unwashed. I still have blood under my fingernails. All this and yet I've paused here to listen to your urgent message. Once you've given it you can mount and take my answer back to Rome. And do not worry about your sandals. We can provide you new ones if you like.”
The commander pointed to a soldier in the far corner and motioned him out of the room. The young man seemed confused, but hurried out anyway. “You'll like our sandals,” Hannibal said. “There are none better for comfort.”
The Roman turned and shared a dour expression with his translator, as if asking him to make some official note of all of this. He turned back to the commander. “It's come to the Senate's attention that some of our allies here in Iberia are dismayed by Carthaginian actions.”
Hannibal made a sound low in his throat, a rumbling acknowledgment.
The Roman took no note of it. Saguntum, he reminded the commander, was a friend of Rome and would be protected as such. Rome had been generous with Carthage so far, not curtailing its ventures in Iberia since the time of Hamilcar, through Hasdrubal the Handsome. Now Rome was still acting with restraint in her dealings with Hannibal. But this should not suggest that Romans had forgotten the details of previous treaties. They still honored the agreement with Hasdrubal that limited the Carthaginian sphere of influence to south of the Ebro. They acknowledged that the familial and tribal ties of some of Carthage's Iberian allies approached that border, and for that reason they had so far looked the other way in the face of these minor violations. But Rome would not remain inactive if Saguntum were threatened. And she would allow no activity whatsoever beyond the Ebro. None. She wanted this understood by the young commander, in the event that his predecessor's untimely death had left him with any questions.
As the translator finished this, Varro glanced over his shoulder at his colleague, a knowing look that suggested he was just now getting to the crux of his speech. “Rome therefore demands that Hannibal limit his dealings around Saguntum to peaceful transactions among existing allies, establishing no settlements there and mediating no disputes in the region. Rome demands that no Carthaginian or Carthaginian ally cross the Ebro for any reason whatsoever. Furthermore, Rome demands—”
“Enough!” Hannibal said in Latin. He had not spoken loudly, but the word clipped the Roman to silence. He leaned forward, for the first time bringing his profile into Mago's view. His deep-set eyes remained in shadow, recessed beneath prominent eyebrows and beside a sharp blade of a nose. Like the men of the Sacred Band, he wore a trimmed bulb of hair on his chin. He touched it with his fingertips and seemed to pluck his words out like single strands. “I'll have no more furthermores. You have made your case. Will you have my response?”
Varro gathered his composure. More than startled by the interruption, he seemed ill at ease speaking directly to the Carthaginian in Latin. He had to clear his throat before responding. “As I have been interrupted, I would not say that I have made my case completely.”
“Be that as it may . . .”
Hannibal stood and stepped forward, a head taller than the Roman. His arms were bare from the shoulder. He flexed his triceps, rolled his shoulder joints, and tilted his chin in a way that audibly cracked his jaw. There was something in his appearance that surprised Mago, though it was not a difference in his actual physique. He had always been fit and disciplined beyond the norm, but now his movements had a new focus and deliberateness. Even as he appeared to be somewhat weary of the discourse, there was still a thoughtful tension behind his eyes. He paced the floor before the envoy, glancing at various objects around the stable: the dirt floor, the wood of the stalls, the insignia on the shield of one of the Sacred Band. He touched for a moment on Mago and registered his arrival with his eyes.
“Whence comes this history of kinship between Rome and Saguntum?” he asked, speaking once more in Carthaginian. His translator kept time just after him. “Where is the treaty written? It seems to me that this city is a new friend to Rome, perhaps a friend in name only, for a purpose only. Be true and speak to the source of your passions. Rome is troubled to see Carthage flourish. You thought us a defeated people but find instead that we blossom. We came to this wild place and tamed it and now manage the riches that flow out of it. This is what you covet. Rome has always hated the way silver coins appear between the fingers of Carthaginian hands as if by sorcery. Speak truthfully and admit that you stand here before me because of greed and envy, not for the protection of a single city. This matter of Saguntum is just an excuse for opening hostilities with us.”
Hannibal paused. When the translator halted a moment later, the Roman answered promptly. “A treaty of alliance between Saguntum and Rome is held by the record keepers of the Senate. It is a well-known friendship that is not in question here.”
“Fine, fine,” Hannibal said, breaking in before the translation was finished. “Let us move on, then.”
Instead of doing so he approached one of the stalls. As he neared it, a horse's head emerged from the shadows, a solid black muzzle, lean until it flared at the nostrils. Hannibal clicked his tongue in greeting and reached out to stroke the creature. He lost himself in examining the horse's mane and ears and brushing his hand across its eyelashes. When he spoke he almost seeme
d to do so absently.
“My second point of dispute is with your interference within our realm of influence,” he said. “Saguntum is surrounded on all sides by many who are loyal to Carthage. But the Saguntines have interfered in the well-being of our allies the Turdetani. Just this year past the headmen of three clans were put to death. And for what? How did these small tribal powers so threaten Saguntum—or Rome, for that matter? What did they do that they deserved crucifixion? I ask, but I do not pause to hear your answer because you do not have one, not a true one.”
He spun from the horse and set his eyes back on the Roman. “What did you say your name was?”
“Terentius Varro.”
“Let me tell you something, Terentius Varro, which you may not know of Carthage. We aid those who have been wronged. With our strength we defend our friends from tyrants. That is my only grievance against Saguntum. I ask that they make amends for the wrongs they have done. And yet you come here as though I had entered the city and taken their leaders by force and nailed them to crosses. This is rubbish and you know it. Go back to Rome and tell your masters so. Go back to Rome and tell them that I heard your message and give them this response . . .”
Hannibal inhaled deeply and let a moment of silence pass into another. Then he exhaled a long, petulant sigh through loose lips that blubbered as the air escaped. A similar sound came from one of the stalls in answer. One of the Sacred Band chuckled, then caught himself and went stone-faced.
“What was that?” the Roman asked.
“You can make that sound, can you not? Something like a stallion bored with chewing grass. Take that back to Rome and stand before the Senate and in your best and most distinguished voice, say . . .” Again he made the sound, longer this time and even more equestrian.
Varro stared at him. His official haughtiness slipped from his features. “Do you really want conflict with us?”
“What I want is not the important thing,” Hannibal said. “The important thing is what will be. In deciding this, Hannibal is only one of a million minds, only a single man among a host of gods. We've done nothing to violate our word. That is all the answer I need give you. I've spoken to you simply. Flippantly, yes, but my message is clear. I do have disputes with Saguntum. These may, Baal willing, be resolved peacefully, but do understand that they will be resolved one way or the other. Pray to your gods that there is no conflict in this. Good-bye, and fair journey to you.”
The meeting was concluded. Hannibal spun on his heel and fell into instant conversation with Hasdrubal and the others around him, speaking of the things yet to be done that afternoon, the care the returning animals would require, and the provisions he was ordering released for the men to celebrate their victorious return. The Romans looked uncomfortably at each other. They milled about briefly, exchanging glances and a few whispers. Varro seemed on the verge of calling out to the commander, but one of his advisers touched him on the elbow. The group reluctantly retired, five silhouettes again traversing the long stretch of the stable, out into the ashen gray of the winter day.
As soon as the Romans were gone Hasdrubal clapped his brother on the back. Hannibal shook his head and laughed. “Was it imprudent of me to snort so? Do you think he will take my message to the Senate?”
Hasdrubal said, “I would love to see their faces if he does. But Hannibal, look, the other young lion has returned.” He nodded toward Mago.
Hannibal followed his gesture and was in motion even before he had actually spotted him. “By the gods, he has! And he will now get a proper greeting.” He pushed through his advisers, reached Mago in a few steps, and clapped his arms around him. Mago recognized the smell of him, a scent that was stale and sharp and yet sweet all at once. He felt the curly locks of his brother's hair beside his face and the prickle of his chin hairs against his shoulder blades, and he almost gasped at the pressure of the embrace. It seemed to last for some time, but he realized this was because his brother was silently mouthing his thanks to Baal.
“Mago, you do not know how it fills my heart to see you,” Hannibal said, still continuing the embrace, his voice just above a whisper but full of emotion. “It has been too long. I pray that your education was worth these years of absence. I know Father wanted you to build upon the gifts of your intellect, but many times I've wished for you by my side.”
As Hannibal released him, Hasdrubal stepped forward, throwing a slow punch at his chin. The motion then became a quick jab toward his ribs and a moment later was an embrace. Speaking over his brother's shoulder, Mago said, “I came to serve you, brother, but I did not expect to find a Roman in the stables.”
“Neither did I,” Hannibal said, “but let us remember that all such occurrences are the will of Baal. There are great things whistling in the air around us, possibilities, the shouts of the gods to action. So unexpected happenings should be expected. But listen . . .” He spread his arms and spun in a gesture that encompassed them all. “Is this not an amazing moment? After years of separation, Hamilcar's sons are finally all together. Tomorrow will bring many great things for us and for Carthage, for Hamilcar's memory . . .”
Just then the soldier who had been sent away for sandals stepped into the room sheepishly, his burden pressed to his chest. Hannibal broke into laughter. “We let our guests leave without their footwear! The pity of it. Bring me a pair, then. My feet have been well abused in the north. And give one to my brother, the first of many welcome presents.”
He took a pair of the sandals and smacked them to Mago's chest. “I must attend to my returning army,” he said. “They've labored incredibly, so they deserve their rewards. But tonight . . . tonight we'll praise the gods. We'll let the people celebrate. And soon I'll reveal all the many things I have planned for us.”
By dusk all the work that was going to be done had been. An hour later, the officers and chieftains and dignitaries, the courtesans and entertainers began to turn up in the main banquet hall, an enormous, high-ceilinged affair with walls painted the rich red of an African sunset, across which roamed lions in black silhouette. The guests walked into air alive with the beating of hand drums, the tinkling of cymbals, and the dry rhythms of palm fiber rattles. Tables crouched low to the ground. Cushions functioned as backrests. Thick rugs were layered throughout for comfort. Wine was the drink of choice, and it was easy to come by. Boys younger than twelve moved among the guests with jugs of the ruby liquid. They had been told to fill all goblets whether asked to or not. This duty they fulfilled with youthful enthusiasm.
The chefs sent out the feast in waves. The servants all moved in unison, by some signal in the music, perhaps, though the onlookers could not follow it. On each table they set a great fish with a gaping mouth before the guests. They slit the fish open in one smooth slice the length of its belly. They slipped their fingers inside and helped the fish to birth yet another, a red-skinned creature, which likewise housed another fish, which contained a roasted eel, from which they drew a long, slim procession of miniature octopuses, infant creatures the size of large grapes that were likewise tossed into the mouth. In the space of a few moments the single fish had become a bouquet of the ocean's splendor, each with its own distinctive seasonings, each cooked in a different manner before being sewn inside the next one's belly.
Naked men carried boars in on spits balanced on their shoulders. The beasts, in their charred grandeur, were set above slow coals, massive, coarse-haired things that even in such a reduced state looked like beasts set upon the earth by a twisted god. The guests took chunks out of them with their knives and stood, greasy-lipped, awed by the taste of the meat, for it had somehow been infused with a smoky, sweet, succulent flavor that left the lingering taste of citrus on the palate. Amid all this, small dishes bloomed, fruit plates and grilled vegetables and bowls of various olives and vials of virgin oil.
Such was the banquet for the officers and allied chieftains and particular soldiers who had distinguished themselves during the campaign. It was well known that the
commander himself partook of few such delicacies. The excesses he did have were mainly those that the military world called virtues: a clear conscience in the face of pain, torture, death; an absurdity of discipline; a cool head though his command was of life and death over thousands. He exercised his body even while at leisure. He paced when he could have been still, stood while writing letters or reading them, walked with weights sewn into his sandals, held his breath for long intervals while training—this last a habit largely unnoticed, but it assured him endurance beyond all others. His brother Hasdrubal was a physical specimen of similar craftsmanship, but his exercises were done in public, and his love of mirth well known. The full length of Hannibal's exertions could only be guessed at. His temperance was better documented. He never drank more than a half-goblet of wine. He never ate till satiated, never slept beyond the first wakeful moments of any morn, and rose always to take in the dawn and measure the day ahead. He preferred lean meat to fat, simple clothing to elaborate, the hardness of the ground to the luxury of his palace bed. And he favored his wife over all other women, a true aberration in a man who ruled with complete power over slave girls and servants and prostitutes, the wives and daughters of the adoring, or ambitious. He might have had his pick of thousands of beauties captured from vanquished tribes. He did not. Instead he saved himself for the things he believed mattered.
As everyone knew this, few bothered to protest when the commander retired. He did so quietly, leaving his brothers to share among themselves his portion of pleasure, which took on a more carnal tone after his departure. Later that evening, Hannibal stood on the balcony of his bedroom overlooking the city, watching the play of light from the many fires, listening to the muffled shouts of revelry in the streets. He took it all in with a silent stillness at his center that was neither joy nor contentment nor pride but something for which he had no name. Though the night was chill, he was clothed only in a robe. The silken fabric draped over his shoulders and fell the entire length of him, brushing the polished stones beneath his feet.
Pride of Carthage Page 2