David Durham: Pride of Carthage

As Hannibal released him, Hasdrubal stepped forward, throwing a slow punch at his chin. The motion then became a quick jab toward his ribs and a moment later was an embrace. Speaking over his brother's shoulder, Mago said, “I came to serve you, brother, but I did not expect to find a Roman in the stables.”

“Neither did I,” Hannibal said, “but let us remember that all such occurrences are the will of Baal. There are great things whistling in the air around us, possibilities, the shouts of the gods to action. So unexpected happenings should be expected. But listen . . .” He spread his arms and spun in a gesture that encompassed them all. “Is this not an amazing moment? After years of separation, Hamilcar's sons are finally all together. Tomorrow will bring many great things for us and for Carthage, for Hamilcar's memory . . .”

Just then the soldier who had been sent away for sandals stepped into the room sheepishly, his burden pressed to his chest. Hannibal broke into laughter. “We let our guests leave without their footwear! The pity of it. Bring me a pair, then. My feet have been well abused in the north. And give one to my brother, the first of many welcome presents.”

He took a pair of the sandals and smacked them to Mago's chest. “I must attend to my returning army,” he said. “They've labored incredibly, so they deserve their rewards. But tonight . . . tonight we'll praise the gods. We'll let the people celebrate. And soon I'll reveal all the many things I have planned for us.”

By dusk all the work that was going to be done had been. An hour later, the officers and chieftains and dignitaries, the courtesans and entertainers began to turn up in the main banquet hall, an enormous, high-ceilinged affair with walls painted the rich red of an African sunset, across which roamed lions in black silhouette. The guests walked into air alive with the beating of hand drums, the tinkling of cymbals, and the dry rhythms of palm fiber rattles. Tables crouched low to the ground. Cushions functioned as backrests. Thick rugs were layered throughout for comfort. Wine was the drink of choice, and it was easy to come by. Boys younger than twelve moved among the guests with jugs of the ruby liquid. They had been told to fill all goblets whether asked to or not. This duty they fulfilled with youthful enthusiasm.

The chefs sent out the feast in waves. The servants all moved in unison, by some signal in the music, perhaps, though the onlookers could not follow it. On each table they set a great fish with a gaping mouth before the guests. They slit the fish open in one smooth slice the length of its belly. They slipped their fingers inside and helped the fish to birth yet another, a red-skinned creature, which likewise housed another fish, which contained a roasted eel, from which they drew a long, slim procession of miniature octopuses, infant creatures the size of large grapes that were likewise tossed into the mouth. In the space of a few moments the single fish had become a bouquet of the ocean's splendor, each with its own distinctive seasonings, each cooked in a different manner before being sewn inside the next one's belly.

Naked men carried boars in on spits balanced on their shoulders. The beasts, in their charred grandeur, were set above slow coals, massive, coarse-haired things that even in such a reduced state looked like beasts set upon the earth by a twisted god. The guests took chunks out of them with their knives and stood, greasy-lipped, awed by the taste of the meat, for it had somehow been infused with a smoky, sweet, succulent flavor that left the lingering taste of citrus on the palate. Amid all this, small dishes bloomed, fruit plates and grilled vegetables and bowls of various olives and vials of virgin oil.

Such was the banquet for the officers and allied chieftains and particular soldiers who had distinguished themselves during the campaign. It was well known that the commander himself partook of few such delicacies. The excesses he did have were mainly those that the military world called virtues: a clear conscience in the face of pain, torture, death; an absurdity of discipline; a cool head though his command was of life and death over thousands. He exercised his body even while at leisure. He paced when he could have been still, stood while writing letters or reading them, walked with weights sewn into his sandals, held his breath for long intervals while training—this last a habit largely unnoticed, but it assured him endurance beyond all others. His brother Hasdrubal was a physical specimen of similar craftsmanship, but his exercises were done in public, and his love of mirth well known. The full length of Hannibal's exertions could only be guessed at. His temperance was better documented. He never drank more than a half-goblet of wine. He never ate till satiated, never slept beyond the first wakeful moments of any morn, and rose always to take in the dawn and measure the day ahead. He preferred lean meat to fat, simple clothing to elaborate, the hardness of the ground to the luxury of his palace bed. And he favored his wife over all other women, a true aberration in a man who ruled with complete power over slave girls and servants and prostitutes, the wives and daughters of the adoring, or ambitious. He might have had his pick of thousands of beauties captured from vanquished tribes. He did not. Instead he saved himself for the things he believed mattered.

As everyone knew this, few bothered to protest when the commander retired. He did so quietly, leaving his brothers to share among themselves his portion of pleasure, which took on a more carnal tone after his departure. Later that evening, Hannibal stood on the balcony of his bedroom overlooking the city, watching the play of light from the many fires, listening to the muffled shouts of revelry in the streets. He took it all in with a silent stillness at his center that was neither joy nor contentment nor pride but something for which he had no name. Though the night was chill, he was clothed only in a robe. The silken fabric draped over his shoulders and fell the entire length of him, brushing the polished stones beneath his feet.

Behind him, his chamber glowed brightly. It was a luxurious museum of carved mahogany and eastern fabrics, low couches and narrow-legged tables that seemed to produce fruit and drink of their own accord, never empty, never wilting. The architects of this deception hid in the shadows and corners of the room. These slim servants were ever present, but so vacant of face and so secretive in their work that one could stand rimmed by them and feel completely alone. A single fireplace heated the room, so large that a stallion could have walked upright into the flames. Like that of the banquet he had so recently escaped, none of the opulence behind him was of his own design, none of it close to his heart. It corresponded to a role he must fill. And it was a gift to her who had granted him immortality.

Though his robe was too luxurious for his tastes, he was thankful for the thinness of it. With his eyes closed, he concentrated on the heat at his back and the chill night air on his face and the sensation of movement as heat rushed from the room and fled into the sky above. There was something intoxicating about it, as if he might himself fly up with the warmth, overcome the night, and look down upon his city from the sky, might for a moment glimpse the world from a god's perspective. He even saw this in his mind's eye, a strange swirling view that no man had ever had. He looked down upon the curve of creation from a distance so great that the creatures below moved without sound or identity, without the passions and petty desires so apparent from up close.

He opened his eyes and all was as before, the city around him, his marble balcony open to the night sky. The blue light of the moon fell upon him and the stone and even the glimmering sea with the same pale tint. How strange it was that at moments of celebration he was struck with bouts of melancholy. Part of his mind glowed with the knowledge of another success and looked forward to the quiet moments he would soon be able to share with his brothers. But another part of him already viewed the conquest of Arbocala as a distant event, lackluster, a mediocre episode from the past. Some men would have taken such a victory and spent the rest of their lives reminding others of it, accomplishing only the exercise of their tongues in their own praise. Perhaps he was a battleground upon which two gods contested an issue he had no inkling of. Why else would he strive and strive and then feel empty . . . ?