Pride of Carthage (50 page)

Mago's face lost none of its cool composure, although he was taken aback. He had expected some resentment in this chamber, but it amazed him that the first questions posed were so openly hostile. Hannibal was right again. They were responding just as he had assured him they would, almost as if his brother had put the words in their mouths. So many years distant, but still he knew his people perfectly.

Mago let his surprise take on the outward expression of humor. “Councillor,” he said, “I'm not sure that any amount of explaining could cure your particular confusion.”

“Do not insult me!” Gisgo shouted. He struggled to his feet, a difficult task for him as he was quite heavy and he bore the weakness of old injuries. “You are not a prince standing before us. Your brother is no king. Answer me with answers, not with wit. Or I will see your wit nailed to a cross!”

Other voices murmured vague approval, although few seemed pleased by the outright threat. Somebody said in a more reasonable voice that it did seem strange that a victorious general was constantly begging for assistance. Another voice, one of the younger Hannons', added, “Your brother did not ask our guidance when he began this war; why now seek our help to finish it? This war is not truly even Carthage's doing. This is Hannibal's fight, and the outcome rests on his head alone.”

“Does all the glory go to him in victory then?” Mago asked.

The answer came from another section of the chamber. Hadus did not rise. He spoke softly, but somehow his voice carried all the authority it needed. “Hannibal will get what's Hannibal's,” he said. “But let us not speak out of turn. You said you brought proof, young man. Show it to us.”

Mago seemed to debate this a moment, but then nodded that the time was right enough. He tilted his head and projected his words high. “Honorable sirs. You are quite right. I will show you what I've brought. I'll do just that. I bring you a present from my brother, Hannibal Barca, son of Hamilcar, pride of Carthage!”

His voice rose toward the end of the sentence so that he shouted these words. This was obviously a signal, for a moment later there was a commotion in the foyer just outside the Council courtyard. Several men, slaves naked from the waist up and each of them lean and well-formed, pushed and tugged a heavily laden cart into the center of the Council. It was covered in a thick cloth that hid the contents, hinting only that it was piled high with some sort of booty. Mago paced around the cart a moment, running a hand over the cloth.

“When we report to you the greatness of our victory at Cannae I hear many questions. Some doubt the facts as have been relayed to them. Some ask for numbers, for proof, for some way that you here in the safety of Carthage can understand what Hannibal's army has accomplished in your name. But how to bring the reality of our victories from the field to this chamber? And how to name with certainty the number of enemy dead? Who but Baal knows the exact number? I've yet to count them myself, but honorable men, if you would know the number, feel free to count these, taken each from the hand of a dead Roman citizen! A gift from Hannibal and the field of Cannae!”

With theatrical grandeur Mago yanked the sheet from the wagon. Almost simultaneously, the slaves tilted it from the back. The contents poured onto the stone slabs in a clattering avalanche. At first it was hard to tell what the objects were in the unsteady light. They shimmered and bounced on the stones, rolling, skipping, and sliding. Strangely enough, it was a single item out of all those thousands that made it clear. It rolled forward away from the others, an erratic path that took it near to the councillors' benches before it turned ever so slightly and arced back. Mago, with quick fingers, snatched it up and held it aloft. It was a gold ring. One of thousands. Roman rings, so many that the sight was unbelievable.

The councillors were silent. The hush was strangely pronounced after the clattering of the rings. Mago stood beaming, watching the surprise and awe and dawning understanding on the men's faces. He forgot the sense of reserve his brother so often exemplified. He could not help himself. He grinned from ear to ear.

Nor did he stop smiling for several days, not until the Council ordered him to return to the field with a new army. But, despite all that he had revealed to them, they refused to let him return to Hannibal in Italy. Instead, they sent him to Iberia, where he could build on his brothers' successes. Hannibal, they told him, would manage without him for a little longer.

The autumn after Cannae passed in a strange, gluttonous haze, as if the battle had been some enormous festival and each living participant was left spent and reeling. The Carthaginian forces floated on a tide of euphoria, fed each week by new bits of good news. The first major Latin municipality to declare for them was Capua. Long a rival to Rome, the Campanian city had chafed in its subordination. The city turned on Rome by popular consent, but not without a certain amount of subterfuge. Given a warning that the people were turning against them, Roman officials and their supporters were tricked into gathering in the baths for security. The doors were barred and the whole lot of them were steamed to a blistered and bloated death. Afterward, their families were dragged from their homes and stoned. Thus did the people of Capua seal their union with Carthage in blood.

The terms they set out for peace with Carthage declared them the preeminent city in Italy, no longer a subject of Rome, but also outside Carthaginian jurisdiction. These were strong terms, which perhaps overreached the reasonable, but Hannibal was not inclined to look unkindly on the gift.

Other cities followed. Calatia and Atelia came over to his side. The tribes of the south revolted: the Hirpini and Lucani and Bruttii. Ligurians from the northwest agreed to fight for pay. Unlike their Gallic neighbors, these men were slight of build, quick foot soldiers and fine skirmishers who fought without armor, in woolen tunics that they wore regardless of the season. In addition to this, news issued from the north, a strange tale that was a joy to hear.

Members of the Boii tribe of Gauls had flown north from the battlefield of Cannae on triumphant wings. They had finally seen clear proof that Hannibal would deliver on his promises. They took this news to their countrymen, along with trinkets from the Roman dead, jewelry and weapons, knucklebones and teeth. It was not hard to convince the populace to rise in earnest against the Romans, who still patrolled their territory, slapping them down at every opportunity. Though the Boii were a strong, proud, and warlike tribal people they were not known for tactical insight and coordination. But they had among them an enemy they now knew could be beaten. For once, they conceived a plan of organized attack that seemed to each man so inspired as to deserve his complete devotion.

They knew that a mass of the enemy was to march on a route through a stretch of forest they called Litana. The Gauls chose a thickly wooded section for their trap. Ancient pines lined the narrow route, trees of great girth and height. The Boii went to work with axes and toothed saws. Before the Romans reached the area, hundreds of trees had been left balancing on the barest remainder of uncut wood. They looked, to the passing eye, like a forest in full growth. The Gauls set their long swords down at their feet and crouched in the ferns beside the wounded trees and waited.

Lucius Postumius led his Roman force unknowingly into this wood. He had two legions under his control, and beyond that allied troops drawn from the coast. They numbered some twenty thousand of them, so they were a long time winding their way into the wood. Once they were all in, the Gauls rose from hiding and pushed over the trees farthest from the path. They had levers prepared for this purpose and ropes attached to some, while others they just sent over with a push. One tree fell against its neighbor. Both fell against their neighbors and so on, until the two forests of falling timber met in a crosshatched confusion, the Romans caught in the center of it. Columns of wood blocked out the sky. Beams cut down men and horses and shattered wagons. The air was a wild stir of sound and leaves and dust, through which birds tried frantically to rise.

Some men managed to elude that horror and flee, but not one of these escaped alive. The Boii stood waiting. The bewildered soldiers stumbled upon them and were cut down like stuffed figures set up for their amusement. The Gauls wielded their great swords in sweeping, grandiose arcs that sliced more than one Roman head clean from the shoulders that carried it. Postumius himself was stripped and humiliated. The Boii then severed his head and peeled away the skin. They liquefied the brain and drained it out. They gilded this shell and made a ghastly drinking cup to offer libations to their gods.

Hannibal sent the Boii messengers who told this story home with new gifts and praise. Soon after, he moved the army to Capua to winter in comfort none of the men had seen in years—with luxuries that some had never experienced in all their lives: rich food pulled from the sea, flowing wine, warm beds, and women happy to pleasure them in return for portions of their battle-won riches. He released his men to roam the alleys and dens of the city, and then he withdrew to his host's villa and tried to focus on the coming year.

It was there, surrounded by sprawling opulence, that he received the news of the Scipios' demise in Iberia. And, just days later, yet another welcome envoy arrived.

Lysenthus entered the room at a brisk walk. His hair hung long and dark and his features were all as Hannibal remembered, hawklike, strong. At seeing the commander, he stopped in his tracks and called out, “By the gods, Hannibal, you are a man of ages! Your name will not soon be forgotten. Let me not call you a man: You are a deity in the making! I bow to you and to your children and your children's children.”

The Macedonian bent from the waist, then touched one knee to the ground as if he would prostrate himself. Hannibal grabbed him, pulled him upright, and embraced him. He had not planned the gesture, but the man's enthusiasm infected him instantly. The sight of him brought back memories of their last meeting—so long ago, it seemed, in the innocent days when this whole venture was just a plan, when his brothers were all around him and Bostar still among the living.

“So you are impressed, then?” he asked, grinning.

“I am, but more important, my king is. Philip hangs on any phrase that begins or ends with the name Hannibal. He believes that any such utterance is guaranteed to sound the death knell of Rome. Someone could say to him, ‘Hannibal pricked his finger on a thorn,' and he would shout for joy! He would say, ‘Did you hear that? Hannibal pricked his finger on a thorn; Rome is doomed!' I will tell you all the many things my king has planned, but give me drink. Commander, you would not believe the trials I've been through to reach you. Water me, and I will tell the tale.”

By “water,” of course, the Macedonian meant wine. Hannibal rarely drank it, but Lysenthus' thirst seemed to inspire his own. He seemed to feel completely at home in the Greek's company and sat listening to his tale with a merry glimmer in his eye.

A storm had come upon them off the Picene coast, Lysenthus said. The vessel was near to sinking, the rim of the deck sometimes dipping beneath the surface, the whole craft waterlogged. They survived only to be boarded by a patrol off Salapia, and held in that city for five days as the local magistrate tried to figure out what to make of them. Fortunately, they carried with them papers expressing Philip's sympathy for Rome's plight and his desire to be of aid. Pure nonsense, of course, but the documents reassured the magistrate and he let them go. Shortly thereafter, their ship began to take on water. In trying to get to land they ripped the hull apart on a reef and were literally tossed to shore.

“That was truly a black night,” Lysenthus said. He paused to spill a bowl of wine into himself. Some of it trickled into his beard and splattered on his breastplate, but this seemed almost intentional, as if he considered a certain amount of disarray necessary to heighten enjoyment. He went on to tell of the land voyage they then embarked on, breaking up into smaller parties, wearing disguises, twice stealing horses, and once riding in the back of a merchant's wagon, often walking from sundown to dawn to get to where he now sat.

“All this to bring me here to you,” Lysenthus said. “As I've said, my king is impressed. You have placed yourself in the company of the great.”

“You honor me, Lysenthus of Macedon.”

Lysenthus waved this away. He was only speaking the truth, he indicated. He then grew somewhat more somber, looking from his own scarred hands up at the commander's face and down again. “I see the tale I heard was true,” he said. “This war has taken a piece of you. I understand such losses, friend. May Rome take nothing further . . .”

Hannibal nodded.

“To business now. I come with a proposal for a treaty between our nations. Philip wants the scourge of Roman domination removed from the Adriatic. Macedon will unite with you to defeat Rome. He will fight mostly in Greece, but he will bring the battle here also. In the spring of next year, he promises to appear on the Roman shore with two hundred ships, enough to make the Romans piss themselves.”

For a moment after he took this news in, Hannibal was too pleased to respond. He saw the warships clearly in his mind's eye, and the sight quickened his pulse. The pieces of his plan were truly coming together.

Ever since she had spied Imago Messano in the conspiratorial, bare-chested company of Hadus and several of the Hannons, Sapanibal had shunned him as a traitor. He, in turn, campaigned to convince her that he was true to her and to the Barca cause. By custom, Sapanibal had almost no choice but to receive him when he called on her, which he did often, making his case with all the passion of a man arguing before the Council. Of course he spent time in the company of those base creatures! he explained. How could he not? They were of the same class. Apart from war matters, he had to conduct a whole variety of business dealings with them. A man such as he was invited to functions. More than once, he had swayed entrenched opinions while returning from a hunt or overseeing some religious ceremony. He was often at his most convincing during the late hours of the night, with his tongue loose from wine and entertainment. Imago found leverage in being on close terms with Hadus, an access to information denied those he thought of as staunch enemies. None of this changed his heart. Nor did it sacrifice any of his dignity.