Pride of Carthage (34 page)

“It is Sophonisba's mind that truly surprised me, however. She is a young woman of strong opinions. She is well informed and readily capable of discoursing on all manner of subject. She knows the details of the campaign, and she wishes she might herself take part. She looked at me with all seriousness and said, ‘Had I been born a man I would avenge the wrongs done us by Rome.' She asked, ‘Do you not think that our women have bravery beyond that even of our men?'

“I answered her that if she was anything to go by, then that was undoubtedly true. But she would not be so easily flattered. She was looking for something more, but she was unsure of how to say it at first. I referred to her mother, and her mother's mother, and to all those who have bravely sent their men off to war and waited long years for their return. I did not mention myself, of course, but in listening to myself speak I did feel a certain pride at being as composed as I am in your long absence. Sophonisba did not dispute any of this, but she seemed saddened by it. She wished there were other ways to demonstrate her valor. She said, ‘Imilce, I am not like most girls. I do not pray for childish things. I pray that I will somehow serve Carthage in a way that would honor the Barcas.'

“Can you imagine this? From a girl who should be dreaming simply of some foreign prince to wed . . .”

Imilce, for the first since beginning her letter, sat down on the intricate reclining chair in her sitting room. It was a piece of furniture she still did not care for. Despite its elegant shape and its tiny zebra-skinned cushion, it was an instrument of discomfort. If she had been confident of her position she would have replaced it by now. She sat silent for a moment, pressing her back into the perfectly straight length of mahogany, listening to the scribe's pen upon the papyrus.

She had reminded herself of Sophonisba's suitor, Masinissa, and considered mentioning him. She had first laid eyes on him a few days before as he returned from a lion hunt, an elite event in which he was participating for the first time. At Sophonisba's side, Imilce had stood on the wall near the city gates and watched the chariots thunder up the road. The afternoon was pleasantly cool, the surface of the road darkened by an early, light rain. Masinissa, being a Massylii, spurned the wheeled vehicles. Instead, he rode in the swarming confusion of horsemen. Sophonisba had no difficulty picking him out from the crowd.

“There he is,” she had said. “The handsome one.”

This was not, actually, a distinguishing feature among the throng of youthful warriors. Imilce nearly said as much. But then, to her surprise, she did spot a young man of more than usual grace. His dress was no different from the others', and his tack was simple. Yet as he circled and wheeled and trilled with his companions his face shone with a regal joy that separated him from the rest. Here was a boy at play with his friends; but here, too, was a monarch who knew his place among them and wore it comfortably. Word soon spread that the young prince had slain his first lion. He had made the kill from horseback, dancing around the beast, sinking three spears before it went down. That a young man so slender could slay a lion was difficult for Imilce to accept. She wondered whether the tale had not been exaggerated to feed the prince's pride. Though a woman, she knew as well as any man that a servant's deeds are often claimed by his master. But when she met Masinissa, saw his face and bearing from up close, felt his unusually calm confidence, the deferential smile and humility with which he received praise: considering all this, she believed the story.

She would have liked to share this and more with her husband, but she already felt she was rattling on too much, speaking of matters that were not particularly important and that Hannibal might find trivial when compared with the struggles in which he was engaged. And anyway, she never managed to convey her true heart in letters. Writing them made her doubt whether she knew her true heart.

“Perhaps your family shall have female heroes in the future,” she dictated, “should your sisters be given a chance to shine like their brothers.

“All the love Baal permits between us, Your wife, Imilce.”

When the scribe finished writing, she dismissed him, pointedly slipping the document from under his gaze so that he might not reread it to her, as he usually did. Alone a moment later, she studied the letter. She haltingly began to read it over, but then decided not to attempt the task. Though she could make some sense of the letters, she was never confident in her reading. Too many words escaped her, so that she always found her feelings incompletely rendered. The scribes never wrote one's exact words anyway; they abbreviated; they made intricate thoughts into simple, blocky sentiments. If she let herself, she would call the scribe back and have him rewrite the thing several times. She had done this with previous letters, but this time she disciplined the urge. Instead she did something else.

Once sure the ink was dry, she parted the fabric of her gown. She lifted the papyrus and pressed it against her naked flesh. She worked each section of it with her fingertips, feeling the damp of her sweat absorbed by the dry paper. She pressed from the skin of her belly up into the hollow that fused her ribs together, out over the soft give of her breasts. She held the papyrus there for several long breaths, imagining Hannibal receiving the document, believing that he might sense her on it, might think the paper was her very flesh, might feel the longing behind the words and understand more things than she could say.

The massacre beside Lake Trasimene was unprecedented in Roman history. It was not a repeat of the Trebia disaster; it was worse. This time, fifteen thousand men were killed in the initial slaughter. Among them, the consul who had led them went down, run through by the spear of an Insubrian Gaul. Six thousand managed to escape the defile and flee to a nearby town, but they held out no longer than a day, giving up along with thousands of others. In addition, Geminus' cavalry had been met by Maharbal's superior force. The Numidians killed or captured all four thousand of them. If the last defeat had struck each Roman a blow to the chest, this one hit the collective soul of the people like a blacksmith's hammer. It left the citizens breathless, shocked, unsure what the limits of Hannibal's powers were, taking nothing for granted.

Soon, word came that some of the soldiers were straggling home. The people flocked to the gates of Rome, crowding the walls, wailing at the sight before them. Women ran forth, gripping the grimy, blood-caked soldiers, gazing into their faces, calling out the names of husbands, sons, brothers, beseeching the gods to bring their loved ones home. But the gods had turned away. Rome faced the possibility that Hannibal could not be beaten. Perhaps he had trapped Fortune and kept her caged and twisted her always to his advantage. Perhaps this man was more than just a man.

Great as the panic was, as lurid as the stories were, the Republic's leaders did not waste much time in hand-wringing. In the Senate, the faction dominated by the Fabian family and their allies called for the immediate naming of a dictator. It was a stunning proposal, one that nobody wished to believe was needed. With absolute power came grave danger, but if ever extreme measures were called for, this was such a moment. And somehow it was clear to all that the leader of the Fabians' own party was the only clear choice for the position. The gray-haired Fabius Maximus: former censor, twice consul, twice interrex, and once already named dictator, the very man who had declared war on Carthage by throwing out a fold of his toga. He was the embodiment of Roman virtue, steadfast, dogged, single-minded to a fault. He was neither fiery in speech nor quick to action, but he was vigorous once roused. He did have an affliction—his poor vision—but it was not one for which his peers thought less of him, as it came upon many men with age. He arranged for a pair of eyes to accompany him during his tenure as dictator, a young officer with eyesight rivaling the keen stare of a hawk: the former consul's son, Publius Scipio.

As his first act in office, Fabius pronounced that the Trasimene disaster had been the result of Flaminius' impiety and disregard for religious formality. Had nobody around him paused to notice that he began his pursuit of Hannibal on a
dies nefastus,
an inauspicious day, when no work should take place, during an hour when the gods looked askance at those who commenced new projects? Fabius ordered study of the Sibylline Books, hoping that the prophetic sayings of the Cumaean Sibyl would provide some direction, as they had in times past. He consulted priests and called for the immediate commencement of the rites, games, dedications, and vows that they said the gods demanded. Next, he issued an edict that all country people should destroy their crops, their houses, and even their tools at the first sign of Hannibal's approach. He ordered the call-up of two new legions to protect Rome. He sent Lucius Postumius to Cisalpine Gaul with two full legions, with the responsibility of keeping the Boii and Insubres under pressure. At best, he hoped, their armies might desert Hannibal to protect their own. At worse, Postumius could prevent them from sending new reinforcements to join the Carthaginian.

And then, just before leaving to take over Geminus' legions, Fabius addressed the Senate and conveyed to them the surprising strategy he had developed to defeat the enemy. He said that his grand plan was actually marked by its simplicity. He would simply not fight the barbarian. An army that does not engage in battle cannot be beaten in battle, he said. When asked if he would then let the invaders ravish the countryside, Fabius answered that yes, he would.

“Let them crisscross the land as they wish,” he said. “Let the land not be burned only in their wake but also let the fires precede them. Let weeks and months pass without a decisive battle. Let them die one by one from the various hazards of life: illness and injury, or even age if they hang on long enough. By these various measures we will reduce the enemy's limited number.”

He explained that he would not be inactive meanwhile. His army would shadow Hannibal's, harassing them and making life difficult for them. He would make it hard for the Carthaginians to feed themselves or to replenish their arms. He would let fatigue and time wear the invaders down. Rome's strength was that she could replenish her losses, recruit new soldiers, plant new crops. Hannibal could do none of these things—not easily, at least. This would be his undoing.

Fabius' strategy troubled many in the Senate. One man, Terentuis Varro, rose in the silent chamber and asked, “What madness is this, Fabius? Are you so full of despair? Have we elected you only to learn that you believe us doomed?”

“Hannibal cannot be beaten on the field,” Fabius said, “but he can be beaten. Think wisely on this and deeply, not with vanity but with reason. Was Cornelius a lesser general than any man in here? Was Sempronius? Flaminius? And has the Roman army a history of defeat? Has any nation stood against us and prevailed? No. What we face now is the greatest challenge to our Republic since its founding. I do not know what god breathes genius into the young Barca, but we must admit that for the moment he is our superior in the open clash of arms. Friends, you did not elect me for my wit. You did not bestow this responsibility on me because my mind is so nimble as to dance around this Carthaginian. You elected me because you believed in my judgment. That is what I offer you today. By my policies we will defeat this invader. Carthage will have its day of sorrow. Be patient and trust in me. I am your dictator. Rome will be saved.”

He walked from the hushed chamber, his attendants all around him, Publius at his elbow. “How do you think they received that?” he asked, once out on the streets.

“Sir,” Publius said, “birds could have built nests in their mouths and raised young, such was their shock.”

Fabius smiled and said, “Let us hope it strikes Hannibal the same.”

After Trasimene, Hannibal turned the army east and marched through Umbria. It was not a campaign at all but a moving feast, the whole country one great market from which they plucked goods at will. In each precinct Hannibal kept his ears open for encouraging words, for any people or city wise enough to desert Rome and join the winning cause. But people of Latin blood were a stubborn, recalcitrant lot. Several towns rejected the Carthaginian offer of goodwill and paid for it. The city of Spoletium was somewhat more formidable. It repulsed the Carthaginian attack with disdain. Foolish, that. Had Hannibal the equipment and time to besiege the city properly he would have done so, but there were other matters to see to.

In the first week of July, he settled the army in along the Picene coast and had them lay down their burdens, rest their bodies, and assess the booty they had amassed thus far. Despite their triumphs the men were in pitiable shape, wounded from battle, malnourished from the winter, tired from the march, and plagued by bouts of diarrhea. The animals were no better off. So Hannibal gave them time to recover beside the ocean. They bathed in the warm waters, baked in the sun, and put well behind them the hardships of the winter. They slaughtered the locals' fat lambs and cattle, ate fresh bread, and munched fruit pulled ripe from the trees.

The weeks of recovery were not spent in idle pleasure alone. Hannibal had the Libyans rearmed with the best of the captured Roman weapons. They drilled with them and soon came to favor them and to better understand the Roman technique and how to counter it. He sent the Numidians out on far-ranging raids that brought back new horses, the best of which were put into training in their style. Hannibal also sent messengers to Carthage, carrying word of his victories and asking for reinforcements. He knew even as he composed these words that some within the Council would argue against acceding to his requests. But he had to make them.

The defiance on the faces of the peasants they had despoiled had surprised him. Why had they not dropped to their knees and praised him? Why had they not even lied for the moment and claimed to support him? He knew well the manner in which most people behave in the hour of their defeat; these Italians had not followed any model he had previously encountered. And Rome, it seemed, had yet to whisper a word about coming to terms. Through Bostar, he managed to keep a steady flow of spies back and forth to the capital. None reported any mention of appeasement within the city. None even suggested that this thought occupied the senators' private minds, much less played a hand in public policy. Instead, it seemed that Rome gave thought only to the next stage of the war.