Hannibal's Children (16 page)

At one point their progress was delayed while a religious procession passed by. Disheveled, bare-breasted women whirled, swinging their snaky hair wildly, beating on tambourines. Men trilled loudly on shrill double pipes while others carried strange objects and images: a basket of pinecones, an elephant tusk yellow with age, painted all over with mysterious symbols, an enormously fat dog. What deity was being honored, invoked or placated they could not guess. Last of all came a group of naked children whirling earthenware censers at the end of long cords, filling the air with fragrant smoke. When they were gone the Romans proceeded amid a sweet-smelling haze.

Teams of slaves kept the well-paved streets swept and cleaned. The buildings sparkled and in general the standard of cleanliness was higher than the Romans had seen since leaving Noricum. Only the images of the gods, it seemed, were never cleaned. They remained caked with soot, blood and rancid fat. This seemed a startling omission, but they were accustomed to the vagaries of ritual law, of which they themselves had no few.

As they climbed the hill toward the Byrsa, the public and commercial buildings thinned out and gave way to luxurious residences. These multistory mansions, veritable palaces, were almost uniformly of a traditional Punic design, set amid lush gardens, high-walled to keep out intruders, their featureless sides painted red, their roofs of bronze or colorful tile. Fountains jetted high in the gardens, splashing into broad pools. Children played on the grounds watched closely by nurses while the women of the households lounged about in various states of undress.

"I was under the impression," Flaccus commented, "that these eastern people kept their women locked away somewhere and never let them out unless they were covered in layers of clothing."

"It would seem," Marcus said, "that they lost that habit here in Africa. I've never seen such immodest dress."

"It looks as if the higher they are placed, the less they wear," Flaccus said. "The market women were decently covered. The women up here wear little more than jewels. Look, there's one wearing nothing at all except jewelry."

"Don't stare," Marcus chided. "People will think we're undignified."

Near the crest of the hill, beneath the walls of the Byrsa, they paused and surveyed the immense city, its spectacular temples, the immense, oppressive images of the gods, the mind-numbing scale of its walls.

"How can we take back Italy," Norbanus said, "if these people don't want to give it up?"

"There is more to power than mere display," Marcus said, trying to sound unimpressed. "Since we left the harbor, we haven't seen a single armed man."

"That may be a ritual law," Flaccus said, "like Rome used to have."

"You don't build something like this and keep it without plenty of military force," Norbanus pressed on.

"That's what we are here to learn about," Marcus answered. "Let's proceed."

The documents furnished them by Hanno got them past the guard posts of the Byrsa. Here for the first time they met with soldiers: men dressed in ornate armor bearing weapons that looked more ornamental than useful.

The first gate admitted them to a grand courtyard between the fortified wall and the palace. The gate itself was double-leaved, thirty feet high and covered with reliefs describing the exploits of Melkarth, a god-hero who, as nearly as they could decipher the images, was a sort of Punic Hercules. The courtyard formed a sloping garden with many beautiful paths ascending to the palace. Everywhere stood beautiful Greek sculpture, Egyptian sphinxes and obelisks, Assyrian winged lions, exotic trees native to the farthest reaches of the Middle Sea, the Euxine and the Red Sea. Tame deer and peacocks ambled placidly among the plantings while monkeys frolicked among the trees.

"What sort of place is this?" Marcus asked. "What do they use it for?"

"I don't think they use it for anything," Flaccus said. "A garden like this is just to be . . ."—he searched for the right word—"to be enjoyed. The Greeks had groves like this, where people came just to walk and converse and relax."

"Greeks," somebody snorted. "That explains a lot."

To reach the palace they climbed a stair so broad, so high, and so awkwardly proportioned that it had to be a setting for the palace above rather than a practical access. It seemed intended to give the impression that giants, not ordinary mortals, dwelled within the sacred precincts.

At the top of the arduous stair was an open porch the size of a small forum. The few persons upon it were rendered tiny by the scale of the place. They were all splendidly dressed men who had the look of highborn Carthaginians. They looked upon the newcomers with curiosity. The Romans strode across the polished marble pavement as if this were something they did every day.

It seemed to take an incredible amount of time to cross the plaza. They were not accustomed to man-made structures of such size. The monumental door of the palace was flanked by colossi of a seated man. On the red facade were a pair of dragons facing the doorway, executed in relief, their wings and scales and talons executed in multicolored tile, each fabulous beast thirty feet high, striding stiffly on legs that did not bend.

The guards who stood at each side of the doorway were of a scale with the rest. They were the tallest men any of them had ever seen, a pair of seven-foot giants, one white, one black. They wore billowy knee-length trousers and twisted head-cloths that covered the lower part of their faces. Their arms were crossed before their bare chests, resting atop the pommels of swords as tall as an ordinary man.

"Are these for use or are they just for show?" Flaccus muttered.

"Let's walk past them and find out," Marcus said.

When they were within ten paces, the giants moved, crossing their two-handed swords to block the doorway. It was a move they executed like a dance, as if it were more symbolic than warlike. Moments later a man dressed in the most ornate armor they had yet seen emerged from an opening just within the doorway. The swords uncrossed to let him pass, then re-crossed behind him.

"Who are you and what is your business?" he demanded in Greek.

"We are a delegation from Roma Noricum," Marcus said. "We have come to meet with your Shofet. By now he has received a letter from Governor Hanno of Tarentum informing him of our arrival. We bear credentials from our government for his examination."

"Yes, the messenger has arrived. You may come inside to await the Shofet's pleasure." At his signal the swords were raised and they passed within.

"Roman officials should not await anyone's pleasure," Norbanus said.

"These barbarians will learn that soon enough," Marcus answered. "Until then, we will abide by their customs." The anteroom they entered was larger than most temples, its walls decorated with engaged pilasters carved in the form of Titans holding up the ceiling with their brawny arms. At the base of each pilaster was a bronze brazier full of flaming hardwood, rendering the interior smoky.

"These people have a fondness for great size," Flaccus noted.

"Unlike the true Greeks," sniffed Metrobius, "the successors of Alexander sought to magnify themselves through grandiose public works: the Colossus at Rhodes, the tomb of King Mausolus at Halicarnassus, the temple of Ephesian Diana and so forth. They set the style for such tasteless gigantism. It seems the Carthaginians have fallen into this pointless exhibitionism."

"It isn't pointless," Marcus said. "It leaves no doubt in anyone's mind how rich and powerful they are. The point is to make resistance seem absurd."

"There was nothing pointless about those walls we passed through to get into the city," said Norbanus. "Those were fortifications as practical as any we've ever seen, just ten times bigger."

While they conversed in Latin another pair of sword-wielding guards strode through the room to relieve the two at the door. This time they were a pair of matched Ethiopians. As the first pair marched by them in lockstep, Flaccus eyed them.

"That pale one is a Gaul, I'd swear it. Chatti from the look of him."

"He must have been a slave," Marcus commented. "No tattoos, no mark of the tore on his neck. The Shofet must have agents scouring the world to buy seven-footers to man that door."

They were interrupted when the glittering guard captain returned. "It seems you are to enjoy a signal honor. The Shofet deigns to receive you now."

"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.

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.