David Durham - Pride of Carthage

Eventually, Hannibal heard the engineer's report. He sat with his head cradled in his hands and listened as Adherbal rattled off the details in his monotone. The walls were at least as formidable as they looked: nine feet thick at the thinnest points, with a core of packed earth lined on either side by stones connected with metal clamps. Such a construction was not easily knocked down. The inner portion of the wall rose high enough to make firing into the city difficult, especially as the troops could not get very close without coming under attack from above. Nor would tunneling be an easy feat, as the outer wall was sunk down some distance under the soil. There were few weaknesses, and any method that required concentrated work on the outside could be countered with efforts from inside. Adherbal concluded that perhaps the best attack would be one using great towers, built to the height of the wall, that could be wheeled forward to a chosen point. The lumber would need to be gathered from quite a distance, and the construction—

“Enough,” Hannibal said. “Why not just throw a rope around the moon and swing in?”

Adherbal considered this, but Hannibal waved him away and ended the council. His mood had blackened suddenly, and he did not want his men to see it. They would not win Rome by siege. He had always known it; now it was clearer than ever. Certainly he could not lay siege to her with the army he had now. Not without siege engines. Not without reinforcements. Not when Rome had thousands upon thousands of soldiers to flow toward him. Their numbers were such that if he built siege walls around the entire city they might do the same around him. His army would be trapped with walls of Romans on both sides. Perhaps, he thought, after Cannae we might have . . . The situation was different then. Perhaps Maharbal was right. . . . But he did not say this aloud, and fought himself just for thinking it. He spent the rest of the evening in the monumental effort of pushing bleak thoughts from his mind. Nothing was lost yet. He had only to await the news that Capua was free, or that Publius had landed. Either of these things would mean a success of sorts.

Barely had he awoken with this fresh mind-set when a Capuan arrived to reverse it. When Fulvius left Capua he did so with only about fifteen thousand men; at least fifty thousand surrounded the city, showing no intention of going anywhere and stating their demands more forcefully. Capua was still in peril. And a spy who had managed to get out of Rome confirmed that there was no word yet from Publius, nothing to confirm that he had received his summons or had any intention of responding to it. The spy also said that the mood of the capital had changed. The panic had eased. People murmured that they had nothing to fear. Each passing day convinced more of them that Hannibal was powerless against them. Someone had even sold the land on which the Carthaginians were encamped. It had been on the market before their arrival and sold at the asking price. The new owner planned to erect a monument to their victory against Hannibal, surrounded by housing for the city's expanding population.

Ten days after he arrived before the capital, Hannibal sat atop the rise on a small stool, Sacred Band nearby. The evening sky was clearing. Patches of turquoise and crimson peeked from behind the thinning clouds. Rome sprawled before him. Studying it beneath the changing light, he confirmed to himself that he was not in awe of this city. This comforted him in a small way. Some portion of him had always feared that he would look upon this city and know himself inferior to it. He would realize too late that his father's dream had been mistaken and both their lives pursuits of tragic folly. But this was not how he felt. The city was not enormous. It did not look vastly wealthy. It did not, like Carthage, perch majestically above a great port. It was not a diamond embedded in the landscape, like New Carthage. Its leaders were men like other men, but no better. He had almost defeated them. He was sure of it. One more misstep, and they would have been his. Why—with all the effort he had put into it—was that single misstep denied him?

He spotted the Numidian approaching him and tried to wipe any melancholy off his face. But as the man reached him and he saw the strong weight of his features and the long locks that gave him a head like a lion, he forgot pretense. He motioned for the man to sit beside him and take in the view. He spoke to him in Massylii, pronouncing the words slowly, with the slight hesitation that marks internal translation.

“Tusselo, you lived in the city for a long time. This is so?”

“Too many years, my lord,” the Numidian said. He did not actually sit, but squatted in the Massylii way, on one heel, with the other leg straight out to the side. When Hannibal did not follow up on the question he added, “I've been a prisoner here my whole lifetime.”

“Is it so memorable to you as that? You were born in Africa. You became a man there. And you've been free some years now. So how can you have spent a lifetime here?”

“You are a free man, my lord, freer than anyone alive in this age. You have tomorrow.” Tusselo seemed content to leave it at that, but Hannibal prodded him, thinking that he had missed a double meaning. Tusselo explained, “The sunrise that Tusselo sees tomorrow is already claimed by Rome. As my eyes open, I think first of Rome, never first of Tusselo. I feel sometimes that they've tattooed their words inside my skull.”

“Why not take a chisel and destroy their words? Their words don't belong in you. Expel them.”

Tusselo nodded, but the set of his face indicated that he did so out of respect. He did not accept that such an action was possible, but he did not choose to refute it. “You have the promise of immortality. Hannibal may not live forever, but the force inside him may yet walk this earth in a thousand years. In two thousand . . . This is not true for Tusselo. Believe me, I am still their prisoner.”

“Does it trouble you to look upon this place again?”

“No. I look upon it every time I close my eyes.”

“Perhaps you joined me solely to return here,” Hannibal said. “Anyway, you know the city well. I want you to speak truly to me. Will the people give in to a siege, as Imco hopes?”

“No, they will not give in,” Tusselo said.

Hannibal sighed at this, casually, as if he had heard an unfortunate report of the coming weather. “Of course they won't,” he said, turning and gazing back over the seven hills. “Do you realize that I've never once been beaten in a major battle? Not in Iberia. Not here in Italy. Never once has an enemy army slain men under my command with abandon and celebrated it afterward.”

“I know that, Commander.”

“Tusselo, I fear Rome will win this war out of pure stubbornness. How do you defeat a people who won't admit defeat? It's as if you stab a corpse a thousand times and then step back and, to your horror, the body rises to fight on. You slice off its arm and it picks its sword up with the other arm. You slice that one off, only to discover that the first has grown back. You cut off its head, but then the thing rises and slashes blindly at you. . . . How do you defeat a creature like that?”

The Numidian cocked his head and then straightened it.

Hannibal looked at him for some time, as if he had forgotten something and expected it to soon appear on the man's features. “I've killed them by the tens of thousands, scoured their countryside at will, pried their allies away, and humiliated them day after day. I have burned their crops and looted their wealth. I've sent a whole generation of their generals into the afterworld. All the grief and rage . . . Have I changed nothing? They are stronger now than before. They are more than before. They fight more sensibly than before. They win when they used to lose . . .”