David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“Hannibal?”

The commander opened his eyes. He did not start or jerk, or give any sign that he had been surprised. He simply straightened his head and turned his gaze on the officer and studied him for a quiet moment. “I was just thinking,” he said, “of how I used to kiss the drool away from my son's chin. There's nothing so soft as a baby's cheek, just there at the corner of their lips. I would like to do this again, but if I ever see young Hamilcar I probably won't even recognize him.”

“Of course you will,” Gemel said. “He is your son. My first son had a Turdetani mother, but still he came out my double.”

Hannibal frowned. “You have young?”

Gemel nodded. “I have three, Hannibal. Two by that Turdetani woman. I do not know their fate, but she was resourceful. They may yet live in Iberia. My youngest is by a Bruttian woman who still travels with me. This child is a girl. Unfortunately for her, she looks like me as well.”

Hannibal's gaze drifted away, moving from one thing to the next but obviously seeing only the thoughts inside him. “I did not know,” he said. “How can it be that I never spoke to you of this before?”

“When we speak it's of other things, Commander. More important things. That's why I'm here now. Scipio has agreed to speak with you. Tomorrow, on the field between the two armies.”

“So he agrees that we may end this with words?”

Gemel looked uncomfortable. “That I cannot say. Commander, are you well? If you wish I will propose a delay.”

Hannibal stood and stepped closer to his secretary. He placed a hand on his shoulder and rocked him gently back and forth, humor on his fatigued features. “You ask whether I am well. . . . You have come very far with me, Gemel, and you have become as dear to me as Bostar was. I remember the morning after Cannae, when you stepped in to fill his position. You had nervous eyes then. You stood very erect and spoke clipped words, such as would make any drill officer proud.”

“Some people have said that I still speak that way.”

“Yes, yes, you do. But I've grown so accustomed to it. I am sorry that we haven't spoken more as friends. This was a mistake on my part. Do you accept my apology?”

Gemel, embarrassed suddenly, nodded crookedly, in a way that both affirmed his acceptance and denied that any slight had been done.

“Good. Send Scipio my word; we will meet on the morrow. There is no need for delay.”

Hannibal slept like the dead that night. He woke in the predawn and automatically began to go over the speech he had to make. But he soon found that the words he meant to use did not need practicing. He felt like speaking the truth, and the truth is never rehearsed. Deciding so, he stilled his mind, stepped out of his tent, and watched the dawn.

Hannibal's forces marched down the slope from the northern boundary of the field of Zama and paused halfway, before them a great stretch of land as flat as a rough-cut paving stone. The Roman army occupied the southern area of this great space. They had drawn up in battle formation, in the checkerboard pattern of cohorts. Behind them rose the dim shapes of hills galloping off into the continent. Hannibal stepped forward before his army and walked toward the enemy without a weapon on his person. No guards—not even the Sacred Band—accompanied him. Only a translator trailed behind, also unarmed, a man of Egyptian blood and fluent in all tongues of consequence. Hannibal had no intention of using him, but it was the arrangement he had agreed to.

Publius likewise emerged as a single figure before the mass of men. His translator walked beside him. For a time he seemed very small, but as they neared the stools set up for them in the middle of the barren field, the man's proportions came into order. Lately, Hannibal had felt the vision of his good eye played tricks with him, especially in bright light. Because of this he opened their discourse abruptly, before either man had even sat down.

“We cannot speak sensibly in such a glare,” he said in Latin. “Would you mind if I called for shade? A single slave. On my word, he'd bear no weapon.”

Publius had clearly not expected this, neither the tone of it, its content or language. It took him a moment to recover. Call whomever you wish.”

Hannibal dispatched his translator to fetch a slave, and the two men sat on the stools, facing at slight angles away from each other. No more than three strides separated them. Publius bore the uniform of his office well. The bronze of his muscled breastplate glinted with fresh polishing, almost to the hue of gold. His empty sheath was attached to his body by a crimson band tight across his torso, and from his helmet rose a great horsehair plume dyed the same color. Hannibal could not help but notice his opponent's youth. By the gods, he was only a boy! His eyes set widely on his face, a sharp nose cutting between them, with thin lips closed and waiting. Not exactly a handsome face, not fierce as Marcellus' had been even in death, not spiteful like the faces of so many Roman prisoners, but even silently and in stillness he conveyed his intelligence.

Hannibal knew it was upon him to open the discourse. And so he did. He simply opened his mouth and let the thoughts within him out. He spoke in Latin.

“It is strange to finally look upon you,” he said. “I fought your father and knew much of your uncle, but never sat as close to them as I now do to you. Nor had I as much to fear from them. Publius Scipio, the conqueror of Iberia . . . the victor of the plains . . . I've heard so much of your exploits that in meeting you I expected to see either a man kissed by the gods or some demon, with the touch of death in his eyes. You are neither of these. You are younger-looking than I expected.”

Hannibal turned to watch the interpreter returning, beside him a slave with two large palm-leaf shades. The slave was clearly an Umbrian, naturally pale, although tanned by the African sun. He stood near them, completely naked, and perched the bases of the two palm fronds between the crooks of his arms and his back. Somehow he managed to cast shadows on both the men. Hannibal regretted that they had sent a Latin, both because of the unnecessary insult it suggested and because the man would have to be killed afterward for being able to understand them.

Shade in place, Hannibal continued. “Fortune has been my fickle mistress for several years now,” he said. “When I raged down into your land, winning battle after battle, Fortune always asked for pieces of me in return. She took my eye. She took first friends and comrades, and then my brothers one by one. I lost never a single open battle, but still she held ultimate victory just beyond my arm's reach. Now, when Fortune has decreed that I must come to meet a Roman consul and sue for peace, she does me the kindness that it be you to whom I come. At least by that I am honored. Strange, isn't it? The first battle I fought was with the father; now the last may be with the son.”

The commander paused a moment. Publius—intentionally or not—nodded: Yes, this was indeed a strange way for events to play out. He waited passively, but with a set of his jaw that showed his formal reserve undiminished. Hannibal smiled. Publius could speak of his own losses, but he rejected the invitation to admit common ground between them. Hannibal noted this and silently commended it.

“I'll speak honestly to you. And I'd have you do the same to me. Nobody listens to us now. The rabble of rich men who rule our countries are not now in attendance. This matter is for us to decide. Let us discard pride and instead rely on reason. This is not hard for me to do. I have little pride left, but I fear from the eyes you set upon me that you have yet to learn many of the things war has taught me. You are like me after the Trebia, after Trasimene and Cannae. Young men often long for victory instead of peace. I know this well. Such is the difference between the old and the young. But if we clash tomorrow neither you nor I will decide the victor. We are the twin sons of Fortune. Who can say which of us will prevail? You might even lose your own life. At this point—when you've come so far—that would be tragic. Hear this wisdom and let us end this today, without the loss of many thousands more. Far too many have died already, and the brave men who stand behind us desire life—not death on this field tomorrow.