Harry Turtledove (Editor) - Alternate Generals III

Hannibal leaned back in his chair and picked his teeth, content. "Boys, I never would've believed it if I hadn't a-tasted it with my own eyes," he declared. "That was the damn finest breakfast I've had in a donkey's age. I gotta give you credit, Maggot: You may be a chinless, gritless, dumbass Canaanite, but sometimes you're almost as bright as a real Carthaginian."

Mel and Mago exchanged a wink before the latter replied, "Sir, thank you, sir. And I do appreciate the fact that you did not object to my conscripting the aid of some of our Gaulish allies."

" 'Course not. You know the rules: Any warrior in this man's army who's acting under my direct order is not to be hindered in any way from the prompt and effective completion thereof." He sat up straight and ran one finger around the rim of his bowl, gathering up the last savory drops of gravy. "You can't beat breakfast for getting a man in the mood to fight a war. Like I was telling the Gauls, an army travels on its stomach. Hope they'll remember that. You know what them Roman sumbitches think makes a good breakfast? Bread and olives! Well, what can you expect from a bunch of spelt-heads who don't even know the value of war-elephants? Can't fight a war without war-elephants; never could and wouldn't want to. Like my daddy Hamilcar always used to say, just give me some war-elephants and stand back, because I'm about to go Mykenaean on someone's sorry ass!"

"Er, what exactly did he mean by that, sir?" Mago inquired timidly.

Hannibal shrugged. "Damned if I know. Daddy drank. But by Baal Hammon, that don't mean he didn't know how to get the most out of a war-elephant!"

"He's not the only one," Mel muttered.

A horrible wailing pierced the crystal air. An elderly man with a displaced gag hanging around his neck and assorted lengths of rope trailing from wrists and ankles came stumbling up to fling himself at Hannibal's feet. Mel shot Mag a look of intense alarm.

"I thought you said you knew how to tie a man up so he couldn't get loose for a whole day!" he hissed.

"Yes, well, I do, but old Danel, he- Oh, dash it all, he's old , isn't he? Rather why we call him 'old Danel, donchaknow. I didn't feel right tying him up too tightly. Wouldn't want to hurt the old boy."

"But you didn't have a problem with the old boy getting loose before we'd have the chance to get out of town? Way to go, Mag. You didn't hurt old Danel but you sure as Shem killed us ."

While the two Canaanites were exchanging these accusatory pleasantries, old Danel the elephant-keeper was unburdening himself of news from the pachydermal front. As he spoke on, Hannibal's brow grew darker and darker, his eyes more and more enflamed with steaming rage. A sound like boulders rubbing flanks in an avalanche arose from his slowly grinding teeth. He thrust himself out of his seat, leveled a finger at Mel and Mago, and at the top of his considerable lungs bellowed:

"You did what with my war-elephants?"

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into," Mago remarked to Mel.

The two of them lay spread-eagled in the snow in the middle of what once had been the Carthaginian war-elephant picket lines. The lone survivor of what the enlisted men were already calling Mago's Massacre stood some distance away, regarding them mournfully. (The Gauls assisting in the plan had deemed her too scrawny to be worth the slaughtering and besides, they'd run out of garlic.) By Hannibal's orders they were to be left there until dawn when, if the icy cold of an alpine night had not killed them, he'd vowed to finish the job himself.

"What are you talking about?" Mel shot back. "This is only the first mess I've ever gotten you into."

"Well, there's not going to be any more of them, are there? Because we're going to be executed for this one, aren't we?" Mago said bitterly. "So it'll have to do, won't it?"

"And whose fault is that? At least I was trying to help you save your lousy life at the risk of my own! Was there anyone else doing that for you, huh? I didn't think so. Hannibal gave you an impossible order because he wanted you dead but he also wanted you to squirm around a lot first. The only way you were ever going to get out of this man's army alive was if you escaped, but you didn't have half a hope of escaping while everyone knew you'd pissed off the general. Too many people were watching the trails, afraid that if they let you get away, Hannibal would nail their nuts to the tent pole. Ah, but if you somehow managed to fulfill that impossible command, the pressure would be off; you'd be just another Canaanite grunt like me. No one pays attention to our whereabouts unless we're in battle or in trouble. I told you, the plan was for you to tie old Danel up good and tight which was supposed to give us time to take a quick bow for scaring up breakfast, make our getaway before anyone stopped belching long enough to wonder where we got all that meat, slide down the mountains, head for the hills, and be halfway back to Canaan before anyone noticed we were gone! But would you follow through? Nooooooo. Goodie Two-Sandals has to take pity on an old man, has to tie him up easy . Baal Hammon almighty, Mag, you're as soft-hearted as a Hebrew!"

"Oh, shut up."

"No, you shut up."

"Yo. Howzabout the pair o' yuz shaddup?"

The unheralded irruption of that third, alien voice was so startling that Mel and Mag would have jumped clean out of their skins if not for the bonds holding them pinned to the ground. The twisted their heads this way and that, searching for the source of those rough words, until at last they spied him. He looked like any other Canaanite conscript, though he wore his uniform somewhat awkwardly, as if he weren't quite used to it. His accent was another thing that didn't fit him exactly right.

"That's better," he said, coming closer and squatting down between the prisoners. "So. You the guys that cooked up General Bigmouth's elephants, huh?" He smiled, revealing bad teeth and breath that reeked of olives.

"Actually, the Gauls did the hands-on cooking," Mag replied. "Apparently there's some silly prejudice goin' around against my dear Mamma's Tin Island-style of cuisine."

"Tin Island cooking?" The man shuddered for an instant, then threw off the sick feeling and resumed his affable smile. "Anyhow, I just stopped by here to say thanks. Latest word down from HQ is that Hannibal's gonna scrub the mission and head for home."

"What?" Mago could scarcely believe the evidence of his own ears. This was understandable, considering how badly clogged they were with snow and other substances not pleasant to mention. "You mean he's taking the troops back to Iberia? Oh, I say, but he was ever so can-do about invading Italia. Why did he change his mind?"

The strange soldier's grin got wider. "Why do you think? Yeah, it's rich. All day long he's been pacin' up an' down, carryin' on about how it ain't really a war unless ya got enough war-elephants, no can do, fahgeddaboudit. All his advisors, they've been tryin' to convince him to go ahead, finish crossin' the Alps, invade Italia, but all he does is give 'em this real sarcastic look an' ask, 'Oh, so you think I can still invade Italia without war-elephants, huh? But can I? Can I really? CanI ? By Jupiter, if I hear 'Can I' one more time, I'm gonna-"

"I say!" Mago exclaimed as the man's choice of divine vocative registered on his half-frozen brain. "You're a bally Roman spy!"

The man leaned forward and casually slapped Mago across the face. "Why'ncha say it a little louder, chump? I think there's maybe a coupla Carthaginian guards up the mountain who didn't hear ya."