David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“Nor would I,” Imilce whispered.

“Then hold on to your ignorance. Men's follies are better left as mysteries to us.”

“Do you think it is all for nothing?”

“All for nothing?” Didobal pursed her lips. “No, I wouldn't say that. The world thrives on the strife of those living in it. As food nourishes the body, so does turmoil feed the gods. One creature must prevail over another. I would not wish our country to be used like a slave woman, so I pray daily for our victory. What else can we do? On the day this war ends, a new one will begin. It's dreadful, but so it always has been. There is no reason to believe it will change.”

“So we can never live at peace?”

Didobal answered flatly, “Not until the gods are dead. And as we both know, they are immortal. The gods will ever make us dance for them. That is what it means to be born of flesh. In truth, Imilce, I feel the gods are restless with this war. I do not know what will happen, but it's coming quickly, like a storm from the north. Like a tempest blown down from the heavens. Let us keep all of my sons in our prayers.”

Didobal lifted her arm and held her hand out to her daughter-in-law. Imilce took it and felt the woman squeeze her fingers, her regal hand heavy with rings. Something in the pressure made her feel like a child holding a giant's hand. “Forgive my earlier deception,” Didobal said. “I like you very much, daughter.”

Publius sailed from Ostia at the head of a fleet, carrying ten thousand infantrymen and another thousand cavalry, the full measure that Rome allowed him for the year. Barely had his men's feet touched solid ground at Emporiae when he had them exercising to regain the strength the journey had sapped from them. He gathered the battered remnants of the existing army and with them left behind the distractions of the Greek city. They marched to Tarraco, where Publius set up his headquarters and began interviewing anyone and everyone with knowledge he considered useful. He had never been busier. He had never directed so many men, faced such challenges, held such complete responsibility. He knew Rome was too far away to rely on for any guidance, so Iberia was his to win or lose. Only the constant motion kept him from pausing long enough to weigh the staggering gravity of this.

Within seven days, he had sent out invitations to all the tribes aligned with Rome already, and even to a few still with Carthage. The delegations came to him with varying degrees of enthusiasm, with more complaints than promises, with wary eyes that took in this youthful new leader skeptically. Was this truly the best Rome could do, to send a boy with barely a hair on his chest? What could he hope to achieve that his father and uncle had not, especially now that the situation was even worse? Cornelius and Gnaeus had been skilled commanders with years of experience, two armies, and a force of allies it had taken years to win. But they had been destroyed. Now, with Mago Barca having arrived over the winter, the Carthaginians had three armies in Iberia. They roiled across the land, storm clouds hurling down bolts of retribution for earlier betrayals. Hanno had hammered the chieftain of the Vaccaei to a cross and sent five hundred of his people's daughters to New Carthage as prisoners. Hasdrubal burned a scorched path along the river Tagus all the way to the Great Sea, enslaving whole tribes, burning villages, twisting their leaders on the burning spit of fright as only Carthaginians knew how to do. Mago laid new levies on the southern tribes and daily built his army into a great horde clamoring to become the second wave to march for Rome. Considering all this, more than one envoy asked, what assurance could Publius give that Rome's cause was not dead and rotten like the corpses of his predecessors?

Strangely, Publius found something calming about staring into these belligerent eyes. As the translators conveyed their messages he took in their foreign features, their varying dress and demeanor. The more disrespect the Iberians showed him, the stronger the set of his jaw, the more steady his gaze, the more fluid the motions of his hands. He promised nothing in exact detail, he said, for no one individual ever decided such complex matters. But he did pledge to fight the Carthaginians as they had never been fought before. He reminded them that never yet had Rome uttered one conciliatory word to the Africans; such was their certainty that the long war would eventually swing their way. They had made mistakes. They had been hasty when they should have been patient, honest when they should have been devious, restrained when they should have exploded with fury. In many ways, they had fought the war unwisely up to this point. Yes, he admitted, even his father had made errors of judgment, but none of these need be repeated.

These speeches met with mixed receptions, but each time he spoke them Publius believed his words a little more. He was discovering traits in himself that he had not known before, but he had little time to pause and consider these things. Laelius, like a twin beside him, did not speak a thought not directly related to the war, so he did not do so either. He trusted no other officer as completely as he did his companion. With him alone, he laid out all the charts and information he had about Iberia. On their hands and knees, they crawled across the marble floor, talking through each piece of information, from the obvious to the most complex. They both believed that they must strike, and soon. They could rely on no reinforcements from Italy and, for all they knew, Hannibal might soon strike another great blow there that would further complicate matters for them. They could win the confidence of old allies and secure new ones only through a victory. A winner always had company.

Such was Publius' thinking on an afternoon two months after his arrival, well into the dry heat of early summer. His period of grace with his men was short. Already he felt them murmuring their doubts. Each passing day suggested hesitation. Had this new commander any plan at all? The truth was that he did not, but he woke and slept and ate and shat with the belief that he was at the verge of revelation, that the key to unlocking Iberia was within his grasp if he just knew how to reach for it.

He entered his war room to find Laelius stretched out atop the charts, writing notes directly onto the parchment. His body covered the circles that marked the three Carthaginian armies. His left ankle hid Hasdrubal's base at the mouth of the Tagus; his right foot lay flat across the Pillars of Hercules, where Mago resided; his torso entirely covered the center of the peninsula, where Hanno based his operations. The single marked spot of importance that was visible fell in another area entirely, one that suddenly appeared to Publius as what it was: completely isolated, lightly protected, vulnerable.

“We've been thinking only of the hounds, but not of the sheep they guard,” Publius said. “Laelius, what do you see when you look at this from on high?”

Laelius stood and peered about. He began by restating his earlier argument that they should seek out Hanno's force first, as he was reportedly having trouble managing his Celtiberian troops. “We could gather at—”

Publius touched him at the wrist. “Friend, think. Remember when you saved me at Cannae? You raised my outlook so that I saw with my enemy's eyes. I learned from you that day, and I'm alive because of it. Now you must use such foresight as a matter of course, each day that passes, each moment until this is concluded. The Barcas don't fight like normal men, and neither will we. Look at these charts and answer me. What is the weak point? What holds all of this together and yet lies exposed?”

It took Laelius only a moment to grasp Publius' meaning. His face shifted from perplexity to mute understanding, and then the left corner of his lips lifted.