David Durham - Pride of Carthage

He addressed his question to the room rather than to anyone in particular and it might have passed unnoticed, except that Bomilcar threw up his hands. “He speaks! Our resident historian and Roman expert! Silenus, if you were as productive in bed as you are in producing tales you would have created your own nation by now.”

“You may have something there,” Silenus said, “but for better or worse the gods have not so endowed me. I pleasure in bed like any man, but of issue . . . As yet I am the father only of tales. This one I am assured is true, however. You might find it instructive of the Roman character.”

Before Hanno could find the words to discourage him, Mago did the opposite.

“We await patiently,” he said.

“The consul Titus Manlius,” Silenus began, “once gave orders to his entire legion that they were not that day to engage the enemy.”

“What enemy?” Hasdrubal asked.

“Not relevant to the story,” Silenus said. “It was a clear enough order and easily obeyed, one would think. But Titus had an impetuous son with other—”

Silenus cut off his words at the entry of the commander. All rose to greet him, but Hannibal squelched any formality with a gesture. He must have had his hair trimmed that very afternoon, for it was shorter than it had been the day before, cut close around the ears and with a straight line across the base of the neck. His face was fresh, and clean-shaven save for his chin beard, which had only been snipped for shape, not shortened. He sat down heavily and took the scrolls handed to him by an assistant. While he stretched them out across the low table, he nodded that the Greek could carry on.

“Titus Manlius had a son,” Silenus resumed, “a brave youth who that very day had an encounter with the enemy. The latter had called the young Titus out to single combat and Titus could not restrain himself. The two did battle and young Titus came away the victor. He slew a distinguished opponent,” Silenus said, “robbed the enemy of a leader, and . . .”

“Disobeyed his father,” Bostar said.

“Exactly. Manlius summoned the young man and called for an assembly to be sounded. Once all were in attendance he gave a speech, the words of which escape me in exact—”

“No!” Bomilcar said. “Surely you were there and can quote him word for word.”

Silenus let this sit and looked sadly around at the company, his eyes alone conveying a humorous disdain for the large Carthaginian. “As I understand it, he spoke of the need for discipline. His son's actions were in contradiction to his order, and his order was a stitch in the fabric that held Roman arms together. If the young Titus was allowed to snap this thread, then the cloak of Roman arms might well fray and come apart at the seams.”

“Sounds like a quote to me,” Hasdrubal said. Bomilcar seconded the notion.

“The consul summoned a lictor,” Silenus continued, “and had his son grappled and bound to a stake and beheaded before the view of all the company, without any further debate. Such is the nature of Roman discipline and the lengths they'll go to in ensuring it, whether justly or not.”

Monomachus said that whether the punishment was just was not the issue. He was sure, on the other hand, that it had proved effective in keeping discipline thereafter. “That, surely, is the point Silenus is making.”

Bostar said, “You all assume too much of the fatherly bond. Perhaps the old man had no love for his issue. Perhaps he was glad to be rid of him.”

“No father can help but love his son,” Hannibal said, absently, only through his words showing that he was listening at all.

“So you would not have acted as Manlius did?” Silenus asked.

“My son wouldn't have disobeyed me. Just as I never disobeyed my father.”

“But if by chance . . .”

Hannibal finally looked up from his charts. “That's not a decision I would have to face. If it's impossible for me, it deserves no comment from me. Silenus, you are needed here as a scribe and chronicler, not as a storyteller. Keep notes of what passes now. The things we will speak of today are known in part to all of you. But I will state the order of things again so that none misunderstand.

“This spring the army of Carthaginian Iberia marches for Rome. Hasdrubal, to you goes command here in Iberia, with all the duties that entails. It will be no easy task to fend off Roman parties while also keeping a tight grasp upon the Celtiberian tribes. It will require all of your skills, and Noba's as well. Vandicar, you and your elephants will sail as far up the coast as possible in transport ships, but by the Pyrenees the creatures will need to be afoot. The rest of us will all march from here in a month's time. We will suffer considerable losses before ever touching down in Italy. No one can say how many, for no one has attempted this before. But we can minimize our losses by carefully managing the march. We must find the best guides for each portion: one pass could lead to death, the next to Rome. We must choose correctly. And we must be stern with the mountain Gauls. We'll send an advance guard two days ahead of the column. They can welcome us as friends and see us provisioned, and they can even join our cause if it is close to their hearts' desires. If they oppose us we'll leave their houses aflame, their men dead, and their women weeping. It's as simple as that.”

Though Hannibal seemed to be ready to move on to the next point, Monomachus signaled with an upraised finger that he would like to speak. “These Gauls will be a thorn in our side each day of our journey,” he said. “I've no doubt that we will kill many of them. But why waste the dead? From the early days of the march, the army should be fed a daily ration of enemy flesh.”

Cries of disgust went up from Hasdrubal and Bostar. Bomilcar slapped his hand down upon the tabletop. Mago blurted, “Is he mad?”

Monomachus spoke calmly over the din. “This way we'll put their very flesh to use. We'll harden the men to the practice and later, should we need to fall back on it in times of famine, the men will find it easier to bear. And also, there are some people who believe one grows stronger by eating the flesh of conquered warriors. Perhaps some essence lives on in the tissue.”

“Hannibal, must we discuss this?” Mago asked.

The commander considered for a moment before answering. “Monomachus, I pray we never become enemies,” he said. “I understand that there is a measure of dark logic in your proposal. An army that not only kills but that dines on its enemies would be an awesome force, preying on the minds and courage of their opponents. But, to be truthful, the idea turns my stomach. And I would not force my men to a practice I will not take part in myself. We will make do as we always have.”

“There are tales of—”

“Let us not think too much on tales. The answer is no. We will make our way through the Alps and smoke the Romans from their den. I will not fail to lead us there through lack of willpower. But we will not become eaters of flesh. Let us move on.”

It was clear that Monomachus had more to say, but Hannibal's voice was firm. Monomachus sucked his cheeks in and stared at a space on the far wall of the chamber.

“Hanno, you will stay with a company guarding the mountain passes. This is our only road to Italy and, once secured, it must be kept open for reinforcements. This is a most important post, for without an artery connecting our army to Iberia we will be cut off within the belly of our enemy.”

Hannibal carried on with his speech, but for a moment Hanno heard nothing save a repetition of the words previously uttered, his fate. What did this mean? A company guarding mountain passes? Was it an insult, to be left on some rocky outcrop among barbarians, a banishment to a snowy wasteland? Or was there some importance to the role and the command—small though it might be—that he would exercise? It was too much to think over quickly, not while he sat among this company, wanting to present an expressionless face, to act as if he had known all along his post and even had some hand in planning it. He felt again the pulsing in his palms. He slid his hands from his thighs, down and out of view.