David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“No,” Imilce answered.

A ripple of disappointment passed over the girl's face. “Well . . . You will in years to come. I might have him as a husband, but not without knowing something of real men, men of action. Masinissa is handsome, but he is as yet a boy. So, tell me. Talk. I will hold my tongue while you do.”

Though the girl did hold her tongue, Imilce began slowly. She wanted to convey how much Sophonisba had just done for her, how she was awash in relief and affection. How only this girl among all those whom Imilce had so far met had spoken to her with an open face. But she had not been asked this, so instead she cleared her throat, sipped the palm wine, and answered all of Sophonisba's questions as completely as she could. Though she carried on bleeding, silently, secretly, she knew she could bear this world a little longer.

When he first heard about the Roman legions' arrival in northern Iberia, Hanno desperately wished that he possessed his eldest brother's brilliance, or Mago's intelligence, or Hasdrubal's boldness. But he also remembered that he had left them all months before, with farewells given through gritted teeth. The last time he spoke with Hannibal, the words between them had boiled almost to violence. It was the nearest Hanno had come since they were adolescents to lashing out physically at his brother. There had been a time when they often fought each other to the ground and came away bruised and bloody. But as they both became more adept at warcraft they seemed to recognize a tendril of threat that they dared not touch. Still, when Hannibal ordered him to stay south of the Pyrenees Hanno suffered through a few moments of wanting to swing for his brother's head with something heavy and sharp. It was not just the order. It was the timing as well, the evening he received it, and the host of things it suggested his brother knew of and thought about him.

He had begun the night drinking the local wine with Mago, Bostar, Adherbal, and Silenus. Adherbal spoke of a correspondence he had received from Archimedes, the Syracusan mathematician, detailing theories he thought applicable to military defenses. Silenus remarked that he had once dined with Archimedes—raw oysters, if he remembered correctly, eaten on a patio abutting the sea rocks, from which they watched boys pull their meal directly out of the water. A short while later, Silenus interrupted Bostar mid-sentence. The secretary had just mentioned the suggestion that new coins be struck bearing Hannibal's likeness on one side, with words naming him conqueror of Italy on the obverse. Silenus found this premature.

“One cannot count a victory accomplished in advance,” he said. “Consider the Aetolians just a few years ago. They were certain that their siege of Medion was soon to prove victorious. So much so, that as they neared the date for their annual elections the retiring leaders argued that they should have a say in distributing the spoils and receive credit for the victory by having their names engraved on commemorative shields. The soon-to-be-elected objected. If the siege succeeded on the first day they were in office, well, so be it. Must be the will of the gods! And so only their names should go on the shields. Of course, neither party could accede to an agreement that gave the other the honor, so they resolved that whoever was leading them when the siege succeeded they would all share the spoils with their predecessors. Very high-minded of them, don't you think? Very egalitarian, to use a word you may not be familiar with. They even worked out the inscription they were to engrave on their shields to commemorate the victory.”

“And your point?” Bostar asked.

“I am just now reaching it. Demetrius of Macedon had hired himself to help the Medionians. His contingent of five thousand Illyrians landed on the very evening after this resolution was passed. They met the surprised Aetolians the next morning, dislodged them from their positions, and trounced them. So much for their sure victory. On the day following, the Medionians and Illyrians met to discuss the issue of the shields and how they should be inscribed. They chose to use the same structure the Aetolians had decided upon, inscribing both the names of the present Aetolian commanders and those of the favored candidates for the following year. They made one change, however. Instead of writing that the city was won by the Aetolian commander, they wrote that it had been won from the same commander. Clever, yes? A single word altered and yet with such significance.”

Silenus leaned back and hefted his goblet. “Do not count your cause prematurely victorious. That is my point. And do not put your hubris in writing, for some quick mind will surely find fault with it.”

The Carthaginians answered this with the usual guffaws and good-humored jesting. All except for Hanno. He had never been fond of Silenus, but of late it seemed that the Greek irritated him every time he parted his lips. His mouth even had an insolent shape. It was too narrow, too full toward the middle, pursed slightly, as if Silenus were always on the verge of blowing a kiss. The others did not seem to notice it, but the Greek's smugness was unbearable.

Later, when he found himself walking toward his tent with the verbose Greek beside him, he listened just to see how long Silenus would rattle on before he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears. When Silenus stepped inside Hanno's tent unbidden Hanno still believed he was on the verge of strangling him. And yet that is not exactly what transpired.

Seating himself on a low couch that had recently belonged to a tribal leader, Silenus unplugged another vase of wine. He kicked his wiry legs up beside him and tugged his short tunic into place with his free hand. As he poured, he said, “You're a hard nut to crack, Hanno. Do not take that amiss. What I mean is that I've been watching you. Watching you watch others, myself included. An interesting study, I promise you. But it is the way you look at your brother that I've yet to figure out. You sometimes look upon Hannibal with . . . What's the word I mean?”

“Like all men who know him,” Hanno said, “I trust my brother's wisdom.”

“But you are not ‘all men.' He is your brother, for one thing.”

“Yes, we are fingers of a hand,” Hanno said.

Silenus smiled at this, pursed his lips, and then smiled again. He seemed to have a response, which at first he waved away, but then could not help but speak. “Who is the long pointer of this hand, then? Who is the thumb, and who the little runt on the end? Tell me truthfully, Hannibal wears heavy on you at times, yes? His eyes are ever judging. He sees weaknesses less observant men miss.”

Hanno formed a casual rebuttal to all of this, words expressing nothing but disdain for the topic. About to deliver it, he caught the spark of amusement in the Greek's eyes and knew that his rehearsed words would sound dead even as they left his tongue. Instead, he snapped, “It is not my fault that my brother disapproves of my inclinations.”

“Of course it isn't. Who meets Hannibal's standards but Hannibal himself?”

Hanno took the wooden cup Silenus proferred and brought it to his mouth immediately, feeling the bite of the wine against his chapped lips. He found, without either realizing it or being surprised by it, that he was inclined to speak, to fill the Greek's unusual silence with confessions.

“Do I feel his eyes always upon me?” he asked. “Yes. Even when his back is turned toward me. If I take one moment of luxury, one pleasure, he looks askance at me. This from a man richer than most who have ever lived, from a family and a people who love wealth and fine things. He seems to think I am weak just for being true to my people.”

“Does he see the same weakness in Hasdrubal? That one certainly takes his pleasure unsparingly.”