Pride of Carthage

by David Anthony Durham

  Publius likewise emerged as a single figure before the mass of men. His translator walked beside him. For a time he seemed very small, but as they neared the stools set up for them in the middle of the barren field, the man's proportions came into order. Lately, Hannibal had felt the vision of his good eye played tricks with him, especially in bright light. Because of this he opened their discourse abruptly, before either man had even sat down.

  “We cannot speak sensibly in such a glare,” he said in Latin. “Would you mind if I called for shade? A single slave. On my word, he'd bear no weapon.”

  Publius had clearly not expected this, neither the tone of it, its content or language. It took him a moment to recover. Call whomever you wish.”

  Hannibal dispatched his translator to fetch a slave, and the two men sat on the stools, facing at slight angles away from each other. No more than three strides separated them. Publius bore the uniform of his office well. The bronze of his muscled breastplate glinted with fresh polishing, almost to the hue of gold. His empty sheath was attached to his body by a crimson band tight across his torso, and from his helmet rose a great horsehair plume dyed the same color. Hannibal could not help but notice his opponent's youth. By the gods, he was only a boy! His eyes set widely on his face, a sharp nose cutting between them, with thin lips closed and waiting. Not exactly a handsome face, not fierce as Marcellus' had been even in death, not spiteful like the faces of so many Roman prisoners, but even silently and in stillness he conveyed his intelligence.

  Hannibal knew it was upon him to open the discourse. And so he did. He simply opened his mouth and let the thoughts within him out. He spoke in Latin.

  “It is strange to finally look upon you,” he said. “I fought your father and knew much of your uncle, but never sat as close to them as I now do to you. Nor had I as much to fear from them. Publius Scipio, the conqueror of Iberia . . . the victor of the plains . . . I've heard so much of your exploits that in meeting you I expected to see either a man kissed by the gods or some demon, with the touch of death in his eyes. You are neither of these. You are younger-looking than I expected.”

  Hannibal turned to watch the interpreter returning, beside him a slave with two large palm-leaf shades. The slave was clearly an Umbrian, naturally pale, although tanned by the African sun. He stood near them, completely naked, and perched the bases of the two palm fronds between the crooks of his arms and his back. Somehow he managed to cast shadows on both the men. Hannibal regretted that they had sent a Latin, both because of the unnecessary insult it suggested and because the man would have to be killed afterward for being able to understand them.

  Shade in place, Hannibal continued. “Fortune has been my fickle mistress for several years now,” he said. “When I raged down into your land, winning battle after battle, Fortune always asked for pieces of me in return. She took my eye. She took first friends and comrades, and then my brothers one by one. I lost never a single open battle, but still she held ultimate victory just beyond my arm's reach. Now, when Fortune has decreed that I must come to meet a Roman consul and sue for peace, she does me the kindness that it be you to whom I come. At least by that I am honored. Strange, isn't it? The first battle I fought was with the father; now the last may be with the son.”

  The commander paused a moment. Publius—intentionally or not—nodded: Yes, this was indeed a strange way for events to play out. He waited passively, but with a set of his jaw that showed his formal reserve undiminished. Hannibal smiled. Publius could speak of his own losses, but he rejected the invitation to admit common ground between them. Hannibal noted this and silently commended it.

  “I'll speak honestly to you. And I'd have you do the same to me. Nobody listens to us now. The rabble of rich men who rule our countries are not now in attendance. This matter is for us to decide. Let us discard pride and instead rely on reason. This is not hard for me to do. I have little pride left, but I fear from the eyes you set upon me that you have yet to learn many of the things war has taught me. You are like me after the Trebia, after Trasimene and Cannae. Young men often long for victory instead of peace. I know this well. Such is the difference between the old and the young. But if we clash tomorrow neither you nor I will decide the victor. We are the twin sons of Fortune. Who can say which of us will prevail? You might even lose your own life. At this point—when you've come so far—that would be tragic. Hear this wisdom and let us end this today, without the loss of many thousands more. Far too many have died already, and the brave men who stand behind us desire life—not death on this field tomorrow.

  “Here is the peace that I propose. It's a way to end the war this very day, and I'm sure I can persuade my city's Council to honor it. You may keep everything for which I began this war. Sicily is yours. Sardinia. All the islands between our two nations. In addition, I release all claims to our possessions in Iberia. That rich country, which we tamed, is ours no longer. My people will remain on African soil. We will not rebuild our navy. We will not attack any Roman possession. Nor will we challenge what I now believe is inevitable—that Rome will reach into new provinces and grow stronger yet. Carthage is chastened, Publius. Leave us to live simply, as we were, looking only away from you and no longer causing Rome grief. That is what I can offer you.”

  The Roman consul received all this without giving the slightest outward sign as to his thoughts. When Hannibal concluded, Publius studied him a little longer. Beads of moisture had swelled to fullness on his forehead. A few trickled into others and slipped along his hairline and down under his jaw.

  “You are mistaken about my character,” Publius said. “I don't think I'm unbeatable. If ever a man was unbeatable, you were; and here as I look at you I see defeat draped over you like a shawl. You are a lesson to me. But I cannot accept these terms. I am not a king standing before you, but a representative of my people. And I know they would not accept the peace you offer. Before you arrived in Africa, I began talks with your Council. Then, perhaps, I could've accepted the terms you propose. But not now, not after your Council backed out and sent you to do their work for them.”

  “If the terms were fair then, they are so now,” Hannibal said. “The world has not changed so much in these few weeks.”

  Publius cocked his head questioningly. “You asked me to speak plainly. Hannibal, I believe that if our armies meet I will defeat you.”

  “Others have thought that also,” Hannibal said.

  “Nevertheless, this is what I believe. I also believe that your people cannot be trusted to honor any terms. If Carthage kept control of Africa, she would grow rich again by the morrow, war-hungry again the day after that. I'm in allegiance with Masinissa of the Massylii. It was with his help that I fought Syphax and came to know this country. He is now the king of all of Numidia and a friend of Rome. So you see, the very forces that brought me here demand that I present you with these terms: You are allowed to remain Carthage, with your customs and laws. But you will abandon all possessions outside of the immediate surroundings of your capitol. To Masinissa, you return all territories that once belonged to him or to his ancestors. You may never make war—either inside or outside Africa—without Rome's permission. We will have all your warships, military transports, and elephants, and you are forbidden to train more. There will be a fine as well. I don't know the amount, but it will be considerable, paid out, perhaps, over fifty years or so. You must return all prisoners, slaves, and deserters—”

  “Are you making this up as you go along?” Hannibal asked.

  “And I will personally pick one hundred hostages from your people's children. From any group, councillors, generals, even from among the Barcas.”

  The Umbrian slave adjusted his position slightly, whether from fatigue or as an inadvertent comment on what he had just heard, it was hard to tell. Beads of sweat dotted the man's entire chest now. Occasionally—set loose by his minute movements in steadying the parasols—droplets ran freely down his form, some falling from him to splat on the sand. Hanni
bal watched the spot where they landed for a few moments, stilling himself. Although he gave no outward sign of it, the import of the last demand froze the air in his lungs. He had to consciously draw a fresh breath and blow it out before he could answer.

  “What you propose is not acceptable. The Council would kill me for bearing them such terms, and it wouldn't accomplish your wish. Their hatred for Rome would burn undiminished. That would not be a peace at all, just a pretext for . . .” Hannibal let whatever he was going to say drop. He blinked it away and resumed: “But this isn't about terms. Don't be so foolish as to take personal revenge. Revenge doesn't bring back those who've been lost; it only taints their memories. Must we risk everything in a clash of arms?”

  Publius grinned, not a joyful expression but one that suggested somber humor. “Can it be that Hannibal now disdains war? None in my country would believe this. Of course this is personal! It was personal from the moment you set foot on Roman lands. You should know by now that no Roman fights alone. Be an enemy to one and you are an enemy to all of us. I would happily die tomorrow in battle with you; as I fell, another would step into my place. Can you say the same?”

  Hannibal did not answer.

  “We are all the walking dead,” Publius said. “It's illusion to think otherwise. If I did not know better, I'd think that you've misjudged the situation you find yourself in. The outcome of this war has already been decided. No wind can blow Rome back from victory. You know that. We fight tomorrow only to determine the terms of your surrender: fair or less than. But either way, Rome has won.”

  The commander brought a hand to his face and gripped his chin. He let his fingers slide up far enough to press against the closed lid of his bad eye. “Then we have failed the men behind us.”

  The consul rose to his feet. “One of us has,” he said.

  Hannibal did not address the army collectively the next morning. He could not conjure any words to encourage them that he had not already used and that did not sound hollow to his ears. If he could have spoken honestly to them, he would have told them to fight with all their courage for no other reward than the continuation of their own lives. Fight so that they might stop fighting. Fight so that they could throw down their arms and trudge back to wherever their homes were. Fight so that Hannibal would not see his family made prisoner to Rome. This seemed as important a factor as any. Publius was right. This was all personal. But he had no desire to admit as much to his army.

  Indeed, as Hannibal set up his command on the slope behind and above the field of battle, he was not sure that the army he commanded was, in fact, his. His mind stuck on the unfortunate thought that he had few trusted comrades left. A man named Hasdrubal led his first line of Gauls and Balearics and Ligurians, but this was an imposter bearing his brother's name. In the second line—the Libyans, Moors, and Balearics of Mago's army, along with other newly recruited Africans—he recognized the color and feel of the men, but he barely recalled their officers' names. And the third line, his veterans, composed of Carthaginians and Libyans who had been with him all up and down Italy . . . well, they were fewer than he would have liked. True, Monomachus commanded there, as did Isalca and Imco Vaca; he was thankful for them, but even more aware of those not present. He could not look to one of his brothers and know that their fates were bound by blood, that they had shared a womb, entered the world the same way, and suckled first from the same breast. There was no Bomilcar among them, no model of unwavering strength. No Bostar, with his nimble mind for details. On his right there mustered a contingent of Carthaginian cavalry, but the man who led it was not Carthalo. And where was Silenus, the Greek who had so often murmured mischief in his ear? He could not even call upon Mandarbal's dark arts, for the priest had left him at Hadrumetum to conduct holy rites in Carthage. He felt almost completely alone, set apart from the many brave soldiers readying themselves to fight under his direction, privy to a vision of what might come that was very different from theirs.

  But fading into melancholy served no one on this day. He wrested his focus back and studied the enemy deployment, searching in it for anything that required a change in his own tactics. The Roman formation was plain enough: a wide front line of infantry, three maniples deep, with a further line of veteran triarii held in reserve. On his western wing was the Italian cavalry, led, he knew, by Laelius, the consul's trusted friend. An even stronger contingent of Numidians composed the eastern wing, directed by Masinissa. There was something strange about the quincunx, the checkerboard pattern of their infantry, but Hannibal registered this without addressing it.

  Surveying the enemy helped straighten his spine. As the skirmishers began to exchange missile fire, there was a comforting familiarity with the scene before him. He had watched such mass movements before, and every time he had pulled strings and moved men at his will. Perhaps he could do so one more time. The two forces were of nearly equal number, about forty thousand troops each. Many of his men were raw, some only marginally loyal, but they all knew what was at stake. And it was not as if he had no strategy in his deployment. The lines were spaced with distance between them for a reason, each with a role he had secretly assigned. And the elephants, all of which he had placed along the front line—with a small breath of Fortune they would open the battle marvelously.

  Motion caught the corner of his eye and drew his complete attention. Into the general skirmishing, the cavalry on the right flank, under Maharbal, streamed forward at a full gallop. Hannibal, surprised, yelled for them to halt. He snapped around and shouted for the confused signaler to raise his horn and stop them. But even as he spoke, he knew it would not work. He changed his order to one that would steady the rest of the army, just tell them that nothing had changed, not to break ranks or move. Looking back again he still could not understand. He thought the flamboyant general might have a plan in mind, but could not imagine what it was, why they had not discussed it.

  From the Roman side, Masinissa's Numidians rode out to meet them. They flew toward each other as if they would collide at a full gallop and rip each other to shreds. But at the last moment—just before the crash of men and horses, teeth and hooves and spears—the two sides turned. They carried their speed into a coordinated movement that brought them together, riding side by side, not engaging at all but merging like two rivers mixing currents. Even from the distance at which he watched, Hannibal heard their trilling flying up from tilted chins. And then he understood completely. Maharbal and the bulk of his men had just deserted to Masinissa, their tribal king. Of course they had! They were Massylii.

  Hannibal issued new orders. He pulled a portion of the left-flank Carthaginian cavalry out, had them traverse behind the army and position themselves in the vacated position. It was the correct response, but even as he oversaw it he breathed hard to recover from the shock. The fact that he had not seen this coming stunned him. He had fought so long with Maharbal at his side that he had not paused to consider whether the arrival in Africa would change his sympathies. It was a shocking oversight, one that he never would have made before. But he had no time to ponder it. The Romans had begun their forward march.

  To answer them, Hannibal ordered the pachyderms to advance. As they shuffled forward, he gave the order for the front line to ready their spears. These soldiers were hard to direct from a distance, but he hoped to get them to launch at least one unified volley of missiles to further fracture whatever the elephants did not break of the Roman ranks. But just after he spoke, Hannibal received his second shock of the morning.

  Halfway across the field a number of the elephants stopped dead in their tracks. A few others trembled and tossed their heads and changed direction. The sound reached him later than the sight, so it took him a moment to hear the blast of noise that had met the elephants. The Romans, all at once, had unleashed a barrage of sound. Nearly all the men of the front line carried war horns. These they blew on. Behind them the others shouted in unison, on signals given to various cohorts, so that the sound pulsed, first f
rom one place and the another. All the men banged their swords or spears on their shields, on their breastplates, on their helmets. The elephants, especially the young ones, had never heard anything like it. They must have wondered what sort of beast they were approaching and why.

  As soon as the first of the elephants neared pilum range, hundreds of missiles flew at them, piercing the creatures between the eyes or in the ears, catching them in their open mouths, dangling from their chests as they ran. For many of them, this was too much. They turned and retreated, adding their maddened trumpeting to the tumult. The thirty or so that did manage to enter the enemy ranks found the troops drawn into an alternating pattern of tightly wedged men or wide, open avenues. This was what had been strange about the quincunx. They had been positioned in such a way that the troops could step out of the elephants' path and slot into each other. Faced with the path of least resistance, the elephants, no matter what their mahouts tried to convince them, hurtled down through the open stretches as if racing to exit the far end. Few of them made it, however, for the Romans turned and pelted them in passing. Pila and stones, javelins and smaller missiles: all so great in number that the creatures stumbled and fell beneath them, roaring, crying, tears dripping from their long lashes, their hides stuck like pincushions. Some soldiers even began to approach them, stick a foot up, and yank out the missiles to see if they could be used again.

  As all this took place on the Roman side, the Carthaginian side suffered conversely. Several of the elephants stampeded straight back and through the infantry, cutting a path through the men like four-legged boulders. To the left, four elephants in close formation drove a wedge through the cavalry, sending them into complete chaos, a situation which Masinissa soon exploited, appearing among them out of the elephants' dusty wake. He drove the confused horsemen from the field. Before long Maharbal and Laelius set the right wing to flight as well. They rushed up the slope at an angle off to the north, and for the next hour the horsemen were to play no part in the main conflict.