David Durham - Pride of Carthage

It was not that the march had been any worse than he had anticipated. He looked around at scenes he might have imagined beforehand. The death rate did not surprise him. The losses were at the extreme edge of what he thought possible, but Hannibal was rarely mistaken in his understanding of mortality. It was the fact that he had been personally struck that troubled him. He recalled that only a few years ago he had stood almost unblemished before Imilce, and he remembered once joking with Sapanibal that no simple cold, nothing so mundane, could ever harm him. Now the tissue of his leg bore the scars of that Saguntine spear; his body had failed to fight off the ill spirits transmitted through cold; his very eyes no longer perceived the world completely. He felt the bite of his own arrogance. Some, viewing his accomplishments from a distance, might think that he drove Fortune before him like a mule before the lash. It suited him that they thought this, of course, but he knew the dance between him and the Fates was more precarious than that.

The afternoon after emerging from the marshes he held a council. Throughout it, Mago stared at him in sullen amazement. He hardly uttered a word throughout the meeting, but as it closed he indicated that he would speak to his brother in private. Alone, he wasted no time in voicing his mind.

“How could this happen to you?” he asked. “You are nearly blinded! I can see even now that you only half perceive me. This is all the fault of that Numidian. We should take his eyes for the evil he has done you. Hannibal, surely we can reverse this. You must fight it more forcefully. Have you not heard Mandarbal's proposal? He believes a human sacrifice might appease the god who's afflicted you.”

Noting the fear in his brother's face, Hannibal found his answer coming automatically. He knew how he should respond, and realizing it he also understood that he had been too long wrestling with the same doubts himself. He smiled. Unwittingly, Mago had prompted Hannibal to remember himself.

He said, “Our soldiers kill in our names daily. If a human sacrifice were the cure for this, then I would be immortal by now. No, it would seem that Hannibal cannot take his wounds as a commander should.”

“But this is no wound! No spear did this to you! It is a curse brought down from—”

Hannibal shook his head. “Listen. You have heard of the general Bagora, yes? There is a tale Father told me about him. I've never heard it repeated, but Father believed it to be true. One of Bagora's captains, a brave fighter, was skilled with the spear and famous for his overhand thrust. He was a hero of the early wars with the Libyans, gifted in violence even before he'd taken a woman. But one day, while he worked his damage, he stepped over a man he believed to be dead. The man was not dead, though. He reached up and sliced the hero's spear hand clean off. The captain healed quickly enough, but without that hand he was no longer himself. He refused to resume his post, refused even to aid in training recruits. When summoned to explain himself to his general the young man complained that he was useless. He could not hold his spear! The gods had betrayed him, he who had only strived to honor them. Without another word, Bagora drew his sword and sliced off the soldier's other hand. The hero dropped to his knees and begged to understand. Do you know how Bagora answered?”

Mago shook his head.

“He said, ‘You are useless to me now. But not because you lack one hand, nor because you lack two. You became useless the moment you called yourself useless, when you failed to realize that the gods despise self-pity.”

Hannibal cleared his throat and raised his chin. After a moment of silence, he said, “Mago, I will not be despised by the gods. Let this be the last time I hear you bemoan damage to the body—mine or yours. There should be no such weakness in either of us. Thank you for reminding me of this.”

The second morning in the dry lands of Etruria, scouts returned with word that the Roman forces under Flaminius were encamped near the city of Arretium. This meant that time was short. Word of the Carthaginian presence would reach the consul in days, if it had not already. As he pondered their next move, Hannibal thought of Tusselo. The Numidian had ridden beside him through the marshes. They had exchanged few words, for the route was as Tusselo had described and Hannibal's mind had been otherwise occupied, but now he felt a need to speak to him.

When Tusselo stepped through the open door of the tent, Hannibal acknowledged him by clearing his throat. He had just dabbed at the fluid oozing from his eye; his fingers were dripping with a pungent yellow liquid. He had seen all sorts of fluids emanate from men's bodies over the years. This substance, he knew, had no place issuing from the eyes. He wiped his fingers clean on his tunic.

“You have lost me half my vision,” Hannibal said.

Tusselo did not dispute this. “If I could carve out my eye and give it you, I would.”

“My surgeon is skilled, but not gifted enough for such a transaction. You make a tempting offer, though. My brother thinks I should have your eye as a tribute. I could wear it around my neck as a reminder that my powers of retribution are equal to whatever force did this to me.”

Hannibal let the threat sit for a long time.

Tusselo finally said, “You may have my eye for that as well, if you choose.”

“Hannibal does not inflict damage simply to sate his own vanity. The truth is, I thank you for the path you showed us. I am now where I wanted to be. Italy is before us, her armies behind—just as you said. Come, sit here and look on this map.”

He motioned the Numidian to a stool on the other side of the small table before him. As directed, Tusselo gazed at the chart of Italy. His light brown eyes drifted over the lines and pictures for some time, but when he looked up his face showed little comprehension. “This is different from the land that lives in my mind,” he said.

“Then shape the map in your mind into words and lay it before me. I wish to find a trap hidden in the land. Help me with this and you will make your life one I value.”

The Numidian barely hesitated. He opened his mouth and began speaking. The words came out smooth and even, as if he had actually rehearsed them for this moment. Hannibal sat back and closed his eyes and realized that the view of the world thrown against the back of his eyelids was not dimmed by the infection. It was still possible to see clearly. He listened to the African speak for some time, learning the land in a way that all of his previous chart study had not approached.

That evening his physician came to him and after a long examination confirmed what Hannibal already knew: His eye was dead. Forever after, he would see the world through a single lens only. So be it, he thought. Knowing this, he felt there was no need to delay. Starting the next day, the army moved in a herd of flaming destruction. He turned them away from the Roman legions at Arretium and marched upon Faesulae, a fortified town which they took by the sword. They ravished it: the men killed, the women brutalized, the children kicked fleeing into the hills. They took what they could carry, torched the rest, and marched southward, repeating the pattern as they went. Their wake was a blackened wasteland of despair. On this march, Hannibal showed no mercy. It would take a hundred thousand deaths to end this war, so he might as well up the count daily. It was therefore up to the Romans to acknowledge his supremacy and call the bloodshed to a halt.

Passing Cortona, Hannibal's scouts brought him the news he had hoped for. Flaminius was behind him. His army pursued them at a headlong run, heedless that they were not chasing a quarry at all. They were being baited.