David Durham - Pride of Carthage

When all this was reported to Hasdrubal he had the bound man brought to him. He studied the pox-scarred olive skin, the squat build, the wide forehead, and the simple garments that marked him as a legionary. He turned and waved Silenus nearer, as a translator. One of the guards standing at the man's side said that was not necessary: The man spoke their tongue. Hasdrubal's forehead creased at this, four jagged lines that did not relax until he asked, simply, “What have you to say?”

The man bowed his head and kissed his fingertips in the way of the Theveste people. He spoke perfect Carthaginian, laced with rich tones that matched his greeting. He offered himself as a servant of Baal and praised all those who were likewise. He said that though he was of Roman blood and could speak Latin he had been loyal to Carthage since his father had been captured in the first great war. He was born of an African mother in the same region as Didobal, wife of Hamilcar. He had trained from birth in the ways of his father's people so that he might eventually be of some service to his adopted nation. In the second year of this war he had found his way into the Roman ranks, having received instructions that issued from Bostar himself. But since that man's tragic death, he had been orphaned inside the enemy host with no connection to Hannibal and no one to report to. He bided his time and stayed true to the gods they shared and waited for the right moment to break free. He had found that now, and the news he brought was grave beyond any he had held before.

“And what is that?”

The man bowed his head again, kissed his fingertips. Then he pushed his hand out to either side in a gesture that meant he pushed away deceit and now spoke pure truth. “You are sitting in a trap,” he said. “The messengers you sent did not reach Hannibal. Nero captured them near Tarentum and found the correspondence meant for your brother. He knows everything. I am a soldier in his army, one of the six thousand he selected. He left the south seven days ago, claiming to march on Lucania, but he turned north once out of your brother's sight. He marched us like a madman and two days ago joined our forces with those of Livius Salinator.”

“Six thousand men?” Hasdrubal asked.

The man nodded. “And a thousand cavalry.”

“I saw no such thing,” Noba said.

“We arrived at night. Not all of us have mustered on the field. Many stay among the camp followers. We sleep cramped in the other men's tents or on the open ground. We await only Lucius Licinius. He's shadowed you down from Placentia and now blocks the Via Flaminia. When he arrives with his ten thousand, all will be in place.”

“They'll outnumber us by fifteen thousand,” Hasdrubal said quietly, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“What Nero is this?” Silenus asked. “If you speak of Claudius Nero, I don't believe you. He has a long record and none of it as bold as what you describe.”

The man regarded the scribe, then turned back to Hasdrubal to answer. “The Greek speaks the truth. But so do I. I cannot explain it, but please believe me, my lord.”

“And Hannibal knows nothing of this?” Noba asked.

The man shook his head. “Not from the mouths of the men you sent. They talk no more.”

Hasdrubal received this last statement with the slightest shake of his head. He looked up at Noba, at which sign the Ethiopian stepped close to interrogate the man further. To each question the man had a reasonable answer. And each answer boomed like a mighty drum struck in the distance, moving closer with each blow. If he spoke truly, they found themselves in an even graver situation than Baecula. For now they were in the enemy's land, Hannibal still far away, unaware of them. . . . But only if the spy spoke truly.

“We don't know him,” Noba said, after the man had been taken away. “He says he reported to Bostar, but I've never heard of him before. Perhaps this is a ploy.”

“To what purpose?” Hasdrubal asked.

“To confuse us. To make us flee. To lead us into some error.”

The creases of Hasdrubal's brow fixed in a way that Silenus found uncomfortable just to look at. He bit one corner of his lips, chewed on it, gnawed like a mongrel at a scrap of sinew. “He knew of my message,” he said. “He knew the number of men and where I sent them. His speech was accented with the tongue of the Theveste.”

“There are numberless means of deceit,” Noba said. “Can he not be made to prove himself? What thing could we ask him—”

“No,” Hasdrubal snapped. “If he's been coached in how to lie to us, how can we prove it for sure? Do we torture him? If he tells the truth, then he can only tell the truth. If he lies, he can only keep on lying, because he'll know the worth of his life if he confesses. I cannot see my way clear of this. Why is nothing straightforward? Not one thing happens as it should. Not one thing . . .”

He bit off his words, bit his lip again, turned, and fixed the scribe in his glare. “Silenus, what does your heart tell you?”

The Greek raised his hands, palm upward, and groaned at being brought into the discussion. He looked between the frame created by his hands and shook his head. “These things are not for me—”

“What does your heart tell you? Just say it!”

“I believe the man,” Silenus said.

“Noba?”

The Ethiopian said, “We must be cautious. Send scouts—”

“The same question I asked the Greek! Answer it.”

“If I must . . . The spy is true. I believe him.”

“I do, as well,” Hasdrubal said. “So we withdraw. Noba, send your scouts to prove or deny the man's story, but unless they do so conclusively we withdraw this very night. That's my decision.”

At the first call to march, the guides slunk away into the dimness, never to be heard from again. Hasdrubal damned them, but then said it did not matter. They would follow the Metaurus River through the night, then chart a better course in the light of the next day and ascend into the Apennines to find cover in the rougher terrain. But from its first moments the retreat went foul. Even in the full light of day the river's course would have been difficult to follow. The channel cut a deep meandering confusion of a trench through the plain; the ground was thickly wooded, with sloping banks, with stones tilted at strange angles and roots that looped up from the earth and grabbed men's feet. In the pitch dark the forest came alive with malicious intent. Men could barely take a step without stumbling under the packs, spilling food and weapons around them, cursing. The river became a giant serpent, flexing and squirming, never where it should be. Groups lost their way and shouted to one another, but the uneven landscape played tricks with their voices and led them into greater confusion.

The Gauls did not fear the woods as much as the Africans did, but they grew frustrated and lit torches to see by. Others yelled for them to douse the lights, complaining that the patches of wavering brilliance just made the dark more frightening, distorting the land even more, casting shapes about so that some yelled that the Romans were upon them. Then someone dropped a torch and failed to pick it up fast enough. The flame scorched through the pine needles, to the dry bark of several trees, and up them as quickly as a squirrel fleeing. Within moments the forest was afire above their heads. Horses went wild with fear beneath them. Cattle yanked free of the tenders and searched out dark places and then grew frightened there and ran back toward the light.

For much of the night, Silenus walked slowly, paused often, held his hands either out in front of him to ward off branches or to his temples to calm himself. This was all wrong. They should have kept to the open ground, away from the river. Even if they had marched without direction they would have made better time than they were now. He knew this, and he knew that Hasdrubal must know it. That was why the general worked so hard. His voice rang through the trees, pulling lost men in, redirecting their course. Several times he rode splashing through the river itself, urging men on, keeping sanity with the power of his voice alone.