Pride of Carthage

by David Anthony Durham

  Fine, Hannibal thought. Let them pray themselves into a frenzy.

  The early spring brought the news that Servilius Geminus and Gaius Flaminius had been elected consuls. They were both charged to prosecute the war by extreme measures. They were to take control of all the routes through the Apennines and bar Hannibal's southward progress. There were now to be two legions with each consul, another two for Rome itself, two more for Sicily, and a further legion to protect Sardinia. The two legions in Iberia were to continue their efforts there. Flaminius—a new man in the Senate and the first in his family to attain consulship—especially burned for action. He announced his plans to leave the city and commence the campaign immediately, eschewing the traditional ceremonies that would have delayed him well into the spring.

  This was equally pleasant news to Hannibal. Religious fervor on one hand, arrogant impatience on the other: What more could he ask for?

  In the days just preceding the first tentative signs of spring, the commander met in council after council, studying charts and interviewing scouts and debating the course ahead of them. His goal lay to the south, toward Rome and her prominent allies, but just which route to take was not easy to decide. They could march toward the east coast, take or bypass Ariminum, and roar down the Via Flaminia directly toward Rome. Another way lay across the Apennines toward the Etruscan town of Faesulae, from where they could weave their way south through several different channels, not as direct as the Flaminia, but a reasonable course that might provide them just enough forage and geographic protection to fight their way to the peninsula's heart. Or they could attempt a crossing of the Ligurian range, difficult terrain that merited consideration only because of the possibility of resupply from the Carthaginian fleet along the Tyrrhenian coast.

  As usual, the commander's generals came to him with differing opinions and expressed them freely. Bomilcar and Mago argued for a march on Ariminum, for direct engagement with Servilius, the consul in command there: All of Italy would be open to them if they defeated him. Maharbal and Carthalo preferred some variation on the central route, a way that would suit their swift and far-ranging riders and let them fight the skirmishes they excelled at. Only Bostar favored the difficult march toward the western coast and the benefits of meeting up with the fleet. Monomachus did not seem to think the route mattered that much; each of them led to Roman blood and that was sufficient for him.

  None of the routes suited Hannibal perfectly. He wanted something more devious, more disconcerting, a way forward that would again throw the Romans into confusion. When he heard that among Maharbal's horsemen was a man who claimed to know of just such a course, he had him brought forward at once.

  The man in question joined Hannibal, Mago, and Silenus in Hannibal's tent late on a pleasantly mild morning. He entered humbly behind Maharbal, head down, eyes fixed upon the earthen floor. He was gaunt in a way that indicated he had suffered from months of poor diet. He stood like a stick figure dressed to scare birds from a field. His clothes hung off him, a collection of skins and furs piled upon each other against the cold. His hair was wild, grown long and matted. It did not flow down his back but stood out around him like a lion's mane.

  “He is called Tusselo,” Maharbal said. “He has been with us since Saguntum. He is a good rider, though I cannot say how he comes to know this land.”

  “You are Massylii?” Hannibal asked.

  Tusselo nodded.

  “Why do you know Roman geography?”

  Tusselo did not raise his eyes, but his voice was steady and calm when he spoke. “I was a slave to the Romans. I lived twelve years in this land. My master was a merchant. We traveled much. I learned the land through walking it. Many places and the ways between them are still clear in my mind.”

  “Do you find the land different when looked upon with free eyes?”

  “Different, yes. And the same.”

  “It cannot be easy to return to the land that enslaved you, especially not for a Massylii. Your people were not put on the earth to be slaves. Do you return to seek revenge?”

  The Numidian did not answer immediately. He cleared his throat and waited and made no sign that he would respond. But Hannibal let the silence linger.

  “I cannot answer you with certainty,” Tusselo eventually said. “I have much anger, yes. I was robbed of many things, but not physical things that I can reclaim as such. I do want revenge, Commander, but I also want things I do not have words to explain.”

  “I will not press you to find those words,” Hannibal said, “so long as there is always conviction in your actions. What is this route south that you know of?”

  Tusselo explained that there was a neglected and difficult road to the north of Arretium. He pointed it out on the chart the generals had been using in their debates. It ran just south of the Arno River, through a marshy, swampy land. There was little forage on this route, the ground being so constantly soaked that only water plants flourished there. Trees had been drowned long ago and stood bare and rotting. Grass would be difficult to find. This time of the year it would be a chilly wasteland, a wide swath of country knee deep in water. The route had a single thing to recommend it, and that was that nobody would imagine they would choose it. They could emerge well into the center of Italy, behind the armies sent to bar their passage.

  “My master once took this route to avoid the debt collectors who were hunting him,” Tusselo said. “It proved a good choice. But even in the height of summer it was a wetland. It will be wetter in the spring.”

  “You still call him your master?” Silenus asked.

  Tusselo turned his gaze on him, took him in, and then looked back in Hannibal's general direction. “It is just a word, the easiest for me to use. The truth is something different.”

  Mago placed his fingers on the papyrus and turned it toward himself. “If these marshlands are as you describe they'll be as deadly as the mountain crossing.”

  “It is the least favorable route imaginable,” Tusselo said, “but if we managed it the army might pass both consuls undiscovered. We'd appear to vanish from the world in one place—”

  “—and later appear in another,” Hannibal concluded.

  Tusselo nodded. For the first time he looked directly into the commander's eyes. “Like witchcraft,” he said.

  There was a silence. After a moment, Hannibal dismissed the Numidian. To Maharbal he said, “Do you trust this man?”

  “I don't know how he came to us,” Maharbal said, “but he has never given me reason to doubt him. I believe he knows this land. And I believe he is no friend to the Romans.”

  “I see as much in his eyes,” Hannibal said. “Sometimes I wonder at the workings of the gods. I would not have found this route without this man, and yet I feel a drum beating inside me. This is part of our destiny. I must believe the gods placed him among us to make us see that which we would not have seen.”

  “Or to lead us astray,” Mago said. “Not all gods look kindly on us. Brother, I do not favor defeating our cause by a march. We cannot survive another victory like the mountain crossing. I fear this will cost us too heavily.”

  “At times our fate is presented to us through unlikely vessels,” Hannibal said. “I believe this Numidian is such a vessel. Why else would he return to the land that enslaved him? Even he cannot answer that question. This route is like an arrow loosed in the dark. The Romans will neither hear nor see the missile's flight. They will simply feel the shaft as it runs deep into their chest.”

  To Maharbal he said, “Tell this Tusselo that he rides at my side on this march. If we succeed I will be the first to credit him. If anything goes awry . . . he will learn the wrath of a new master.”

  When the meeting concluded a little later, Hannibal asked Silenus to remain. Once they were alone, the commander stood and paced the room. He cleared his throat, then touched his neck with his fingers, took a fold of flesh between them, and tugged. “You are loyal to me, are you not?”

  Silenus, uncomforta
ble with the tone of the question, rose and said, “I've no notion of what has been said against me, but my loyalty is complete. Has someone spoken ill of me?”

  Hannibal stopped pacing. He lifted his head and turned it just enough to focus on the scribe. “No, no one has spoken ill of you. The truth is, I have something to ask of you. It is a mission far beyond our agreement, but I have need of your help. It regards my brother, Hanno. I've just learned that his troops were badly defeated by Gnaeus Scipio. He was captured and is being held at Emporiae. You know this place, don't you?”

  Silenus lowered himself back onto his stool. Clearly, this news struck him with a heavy significance.

  “He's been there for too long already,” Hannibal said. “The news was slow in reaching me. When I imagine my brother a captive to them . . . at their mercy . . . it boils my blood as few things ever have. He must be freed. I curse myself for not learning of his capture earlier. I would offer to ransom him, but I've no faith the Romans would oblige me this. Do you?”

  The Greek cleared his throat. “It would give them great pleasure to receive that request,” he said. “But no, they would not free him. I'm surprised they haven't transported him to Rome already.”

  “He's more use to them in Iberia. They've been parading him before the various tribes, degrading him, winning my allies from me by showing them a captured, powerless Barca. Someone over there understands that the unified might of Iberia—if ever harnessed—could push New Carthage into the sea, and with it everything I've striven for. Even so, I must assume they will send him to Rome soon, to display him yet again, but to the people of Italy. That cannot happen. Do you know a magistrate in Emporiae named Diodorus?”

  The Greek nodded. “He's my sister's husband.” After a long moment, as the two of them contemplated this, Silenus asked, “What would you have me do?”

  Sapanibal waited for Imago Messano in her private garden, a secluded spot at the far end of the familial palace. Her chambers were less lavish than they had been at the height of her marriage to Hasdrubal the Handsome, but they suited her tastes well enough. Her sitting room extended from inside to out with hardly a boundary between the two. She sat on a stone stool beneath the shade of several massive palm trees. Water trickled down from a high, hidden cistern and ran in a tiny stream to feed the pond just behind her, rich with reeds and water lilies, home to several species of fish and a water snake that had grown fat and lazy in such bounty.

  She had requested a meeting with the councillor for three reasons. One, because she knew he would be fresh from the Council and he was her best source for the things discussed there. Two, because she knew him to be utterly loyal to her family. This was something not to be taken for granted among the Carthaginian aristocracy. And thirdly, because she found the widower's obvious reverence of her appealing. She had not had many suitors before the politically important marriage to her late husband. Nor had she seen much interest in the years since his death. She attributed this to her strength of character, to the peculiar position of her family, to the unmatchable reputation of her brothers. And, beyond all that, she was no beauty. In light of all these things, Imago's interest in her was interesting to her as well.

  Sapanibal did not rise when Imago appeared. For a moment—watching him walk toward her across the polished granite, his garments loose about him, flowing, his face aged just enough so that the awkwardness of his youth had been transformed into a more suitable composure—Sapanibal felt her pulse quicken. Though she promised herself she would never show it to him, this man appealed to her as few others had. She had first admired him in her girlhood, and some spark of that early devotion lingered. He was not a warrior, but he had ridden out with her father to put down the mercenary rebellion. This was no small act. That war had been one of incredible brutality. He would have known that capture by that rabble would have meant a horrible death. He had been a young man, with a considerable future ahead of him. That he put his life in danger confirmed his valor, even if his inclinations since had been of a tamer nature. He had also proved himself more recently by answering Fabius Maximus with Carthage's acceptance of war.

  “Imago Messano,” she said, “welcome. Thank you for favoring me with your presence.”

  “It is nothing,” he said, taking a seat on the stool she indicated. “I am always happy to answer the call of a Barca.”

  Sapanibal offered him food and refreshments. She made small talk for a few moments, asking after his health and that of his children, avoiding any mention of his late wife. But it was not long before she asked him for a report on the debate in the Council. Before he answered, Imago sipped the lime-flavored drink a servant offered him. He closed his eyes in enjoyment of it.

  “I've a fondness for bitter things,” he said. Opening his eyes, he met Sapanibal's gaze. “You know, of course, what befell your brother Hanno. The Council received the news of his defeat and capture gravely. It's no small thing to lose ten thousand men. It was quite a resounding failure, really, and it puts our hold on Iberia in grave jeopardy.”

  Sapanibal felt the hair at the back of her neck lift to attention. “My brother had no choice, as I understand it. The Romans had landed and were welcomed at Emporiae. What would you have had him do? He fought for our interests. If the Council cared for justice they'd be negotiating for his release. Why aren't they?”

  Imago considered his answer carefully. His hands were heavily jeweled. Thrumming his fingers in thought, the rings seemed almost some sort of armor. “It's unlikely that the Romans would release a general just so that he could turn around and fight them on the morrow. That's the only reason we've not pursued it. Time will provide another way.”

  “No, Hannibal will provide another way. Once he's reinforced and sent new troops, he will once more be unconquerable. I've no doubt he'll free Hanno himself.”

  Imago inhaled in a way that suggested deep import. “Let us hope that proves so. I should tell you, though, that the Council has decided to continue sending reinforcements to Iberia, but not to Italy.”

  “Not to Hannibal?”

  “When the situation in Iberia is stabilized, Hasdrubal will be released to join your eldest brother.”

  Sapanibal flicked her fingers up and showed Imago her palm. Like some snake charmer's trick, this single motion silenced him. “But surely our councillors are more farsighted than that. Our strength still lies in Hannibal! His success means the safety of Iberia. But he needs reinforcements. You will not deny him this.”

  “It is complicated, my dear,” Imago said, smiling an invitation to leave the discussion at that.

  “As am I. Tell me what you know and I will explain what you do not understand.”

  Imago considered this a moment, turned it over, finally deciding that such wit was just the thing he liked about this woman. “Many in the Council do not support your brother with their whole hearts,” he said. “They fear that this war has put our interests in danger. Iberia was barely contained under your brother's firm hand. With him gone, the Iberians may yet rise against us. Or—as Hanno has demonstrated—the Romans may manage to replace us there. And also they fear for Carthage itself. No one wants to find the Romans knocking at the gates, should your brother fail.”

  “And yet Hannibal did not declare this war, did he? That oath was sworn here in Carthage, by the same tongue that speaks to me now.”

  “Well, yes, but . . . Ours are a conservative people, Sapanibal. We do not want the world. We are not like Hannibal in that. What the Council wants most is to regain the possessions that have been lost. Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica. To hold Iberia—”

  “Which my family alone conquered,” Sapanibal snapped.

  Imago pursed his lips. “Just so. And in this lies the further problem. Few could stomach the return of a victorious Hannibal. Jealousy is stronger than reason at times. The Hannons plead peace, now as ever, but what they really fear is that your brother will achieve his goals. That result would make them rich beyond all reason—but it would make Hann
ibal's fame immortal. Greatness always makes enemies, Sapanibal. The Hannons, like Hadus, hate and fear Hannibal as much as they hated and feared Hamilcar before him. I say this so that you understand that those who love your family—as I do—must move carefully in such circles.”

  “I pray you are wrong,” Sapanibal replied. “My brother is the pride of Carthage. Perhaps the councillors don't truly know him. He has been nothing but a name here for so many years. Remind them of his virtues; make them proud of him, not envious.”

  “I think that you and I have a different understanding of men's natures.”

  “Then speak directly to the Council of Elders, the One Hundred. Invoke the memory of Hamilcar—”

  This time it was Imago's turn to silence Sapanibal with a gesture. “Your brother has few friends among the One Hundred,” he said. “He too closely represents the glory of youth, and this is troubling to old men. Councillors are not like foot soldiers. They do not risk their lives for those they adore, nor must they put true faith in the men they elect leaders. They would rather have a hero-less victory, so that no glory shines on another. Believe me, no councillor wants to see Hannibal worshipped in such a great triumph. This they just cannot accept.”

  “And you, Imago? What can you accept?”

  “I would happily adorn your brother's shoulders with flower petals. I would be the first to bow before him. I've always been a friend to your family. I was loyal to your father and supported him even when his success made him enemies.”