David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“Enough!” Hannibal said in Latin. He had not spoken loudly, but the word clipped the Roman to silence. He leaned forward, for the first time bringing his profile into Mago's view. His deep-set eyes remained in shadow, recessed beneath prominent eyebrows and beside a sharp blade of a nose. Like the men of the Sacred Band, he wore a trimmed bulb of hair on his chin. He touched it with his fingertips and seemed to pluck his words out like single strands. “I'll have no more furthermores. You have made your case. Will you have my response?”

Varro gathered his composure. More than startled by the interruption, he seemed ill at ease speaking directly to the Carthaginian in Latin. He had to clear his throat before responding. “As I have been interrupted, I would not say that I have made my case completely.”

“Be that as it may . . .”

Hannibal stood and stepped forward, a head taller than the Roman. His arms were bare from the shoulder. He flexed his triceps, rolled his shoulder joints, and tilted his chin in a way that audibly cracked his jaw. There was something in his appearance that surprised Mago, though it was not a difference in his actual physique. He had always been fit and disciplined beyond the norm, but now his movements had a new focus and deliberateness. Even as he appeared to be somewhat weary of the discourse, there was still a thoughtful tension behind his eyes. He paced the floor before the envoy, glancing at various objects around the stable: the dirt floor, the wood of the stalls, the insignia on the shield of one of the Sacred Band. He touched for a moment on Mago and registered his arrival with his eyes.

“Whence comes this history of kinship between Rome and Saguntum?” he asked, speaking once more in Carthaginian. His translator kept time just after him. “Where is the treaty written? It seems to me that this city is a new friend to Rome, perhaps a friend in name only, for a purpose only. Be true and speak to the source of your passions. Rome is troubled to see Carthage flourish. You thought us a defeated people but find instead that we blossom. We came to this wild place and tamed it and now manage the riches that flow out of it. This is what you covet. Rome has always hated the way silver coins appear between the fingers of Carthaginian hands as if by sorcery. Speak truthfully and admit that you stand here before me because of greed and envy, not for the protection of a single city. This matter of Saguntum is just an excuse for opening hostilities with us.”

Hannibal paused. When the translator halted a moment later, the Roman answered promptly. “A treaty of alliance between Saguntum and Rome is held by the record keepers of the Senate. It is a well-known friendship that is not in question here.”

“Fine, fine,” Hannibal said, breaking in before the translation was finished. “Let us move on, then.”

Instead of doing so he approached one of the stalls. As he neared it, a horse's head emerged from the shadows, a solid black muzzle, lean until it flared at the nostrils. Hannibal clicked his tongue in greeting and reached out to stroke the creature. He lost himself in examining the horse's mane and ears and brushing his hand across its eyelashes. When he spoke he almost seemed to do so absently.

“My second point of dispute is with your interference within our realm of influence,” he said. “Saguntum is surrounded on all sides by many who are loyal to Carthage. But the Saguntines have interfered in the well-being of our allies the Turdetani. Just this year past the headmen of three clans were put to death. And for what? How did these small tribal powers so threaten Saguntum—or Rome, for that matter? What did they do that they deserved crucifixion? I ask, but I do not pause to hear your answer because you do not have one, not a true one.”

He spun from the horse and set his eyes back on the Roman. “What did you say your name was?”

“Terentius Varro.”

“Let me tell you something, Terentius Varro, which you may not know of Carthage. We aid those who have been wronged. With our strength we defend our friends from tyrants. That is my only grievance against Saguntum. I ask that they make amends for the wrongs they have done. And yet you come here as though I had entered the city and taken their leaders by force and nailed them to crosses. This is rubbish and you know it. Go back to Rome and tell your masters so. Go back to Rome and tell them that I heard your message and give them this response . . .”

Hannibal inhaled deeply and let a moment of silence pass into another. Then he exhaled a long, petulant sigh through loose lips that blubbered as the air escaped. A similar sound came from one of the stalls in answer. One of the Sacred Band chuckled, then caught himself and went stone-faced.

“What was that?” the Roman asked.

“You can make that sound, can you not? Something like a stallion bored with chewing grass. Take that back to Rome and stand before the Senate and in your best and most distinguished voice, say . . .” Again he made the sound, longer this time and even more equestrian.

Varro stared at him. His official haughtiness slipped from his features. “Do you really want conflict with us?”

“What I want is not the important thing,” Hannibal said. “The important thing is what will be. In deciding this, Hannibal is only one of a million minds, only a single man among a host of gods. We've done nothing to violate our word. That is all the answer I need give you. I've spoken to you simply. Flippantly, yes, but my message is clear. I do have disputes with Saguntum. These may, Baal willing, be resolved peacefully, but do understand that they will be resolved one way or the other. Pray to your gods that there is no conflict in this. Good-bye, and fair journey to you.”

The meeting was concluded. Hannibal spun on his heel and fell into instant conversation with Hasdrubal and the others around him, speaking of the things yet to be done that afternoon, the care the returning animals would require, and the provisions he was ordering released for the men to celebrate their victorious return. The Romans looked uncomfortably at each other. They milled about briefly, exchanging glances and a few whispers. Varro seemed on the verge of calling out to the commander, but one of his advisers touched him on the elbow. The group reluctantly retired, five silhouettes again traversing the long stretch of the stable, out into the ashen gray of the winter day.

As soon as the Romans were gone Hasdrubal clapped his brother on the back. Hannibal shook his head and laughed. “Was it imprudent of me to snort so? Do you think he will take my message to the Senate?”

Hasdrubal said, “I would love to see their faces if he does. But Hannibal, look, the other young lion has returned.” He nodded toward Mago.

Hannibal followed his gesture and was in motion even before he had actually spotted him. “By the gods, he has! And he will now get a proper greeting.” He pushed through his advisers, reached Mago in a few steps, and clapped his arms around him. Mago recognized the smell of him, a scent that was stale and sharp and yet sweet all at once. He felt the curly locks of his brother's hair beside his face and the prickle of his chin hairs against his shoulder blades, and he almost gasped at the pressure of the embrace. It seemed to last for some time, but he realized this was because his brother was silently mouthing his thanks to Baal.

“Mago, you do not know how it fills my heart to see you,” Hannibal said, still continuing the embrace, his voice just above a whisper but full of emotion. “It has been too long. I pray that your education was worth these years of absence. I know Father wanted you to build upon the gifts of your intellect, but many times I've wished for you by my side.”