David Durham - Pride of Carthage

“Ten elephants. Two hundred Massylii. And they have sent you a new general, Gisgo, son of Hannon. He is to serve as lieutenant governor. He is under your direction, but he will handle civil matters while you are on campaign and will be the main contact between Iberia and Carthage. This last is not good news, I think.”

“No Hannon ever brings good news. Is there no further message for me from the Shophet or the Council?”

The squire shook his head.

“I must take them to task for that some day. How many have they sent to Italy?”

Noba stared at him for a moment. He cleared his throat and held up one of the scrolls and contemplated it for a moment. “They have not sent Hannibal reinforcements yet,” he said.

Hasdrubal jerked his head upright, rose, and strode forward, hand out to snatch away the document. “Are you joking with me?”

“You know I have no sense of humor.”

After a brief glance Hasdrubal tossed the scroll away. “Make me understand, Noba, because I see no reason in this.”

“Perhaps their resources are not quite as great as we imagine,” Noba offered.

“I can imagine much,” Hasdrubal said, “but the wealth of Carthage is beyond even me. No, that is not the problem. They want him to fail, yes?”

“Think not of how those old men conspire. What matters is what we do here. Four thousand men is more than we had yesterday.”

Hasdrubal caught sight of Bayala, who had entered at the far corner of the room. Seeing Noba, she lingered at a distance, running her hands over the fabric of a wall tapestry. Hasdrubal cut his jibe short and lowered his voice. “So why not give this Gisgo full control of New Carthage? He can have it. Write a dispatch to Carthage for me. Tell them I am going to my brother. I will take only a few thousand men—a portion of the number they should have sent Hannibal themselves.”

Noba locked his arms across his chest. “The Council will not let you go. We both know that. Some would use the very fact that you made the request against you. One minute they'd say you are indispensable to Iberia; the next, they'd question your loyalty. They will reach their fingers into our business and strip away first this portion of your authority and then the next.”

“Has Noba become all-knowing in the last few months? There was a time when you were loyal to me.”

“Those loyal to you tell you when you are mistaken,” Noba said. “This is a greater loyalty than feeding your moments of folly. You would see this if the gods had granted you wisdom as vast as your—”

Hasdrubal shot his hand out and snapped his fist closed before his squire's face, near enough that a simple thrust of his arm would have made the threat into a punch. “Finish that sentence and you will never know joy again.”

Noba rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Then he seemed to reconsider and said, “Forgive me. I misspoke. Make whatever decision you must. I will go now and greet Gisgo for you. We should dine with him tonight.”

As the sounds of the man's steps faded in the hallway Hasdrubal closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath. He heard Bayala approaching him. He opened his eyes. She circled him for a moment, looking at him coyly, the tip of her tongue peeking out from the grip of her front teeth. Her gray eyes squinted with the mischievous look she always fixed on him as an amorous invitation. Even though he felt his sex stir, he fixed his gaze on the far side of the room. He was in no humor for such distractions. She must have sensed this, for she surprised him when she spoke.

“Noba is right.”

“He may be,” Hasdrubal said, “but I did not ask your opinion.”

“No, you did not. If you tell me to hold my tongue, I will, but there is no reason you should not speak with me about such things. He is a good man. You and your brothers are fortunate. You instill loyalty in those close to you. Few men achieve this as easily as Barcas.”

Hasdrubal would not look at her. “What do you know of it? A woman's mind is poison to reasoned thought.”

“In some countries women rule over men.”

“This is not such a country.”

Bayala creased her thin lips as if pressing this reality between them. Then she released it without comment. “Anyway, you are needed here in Iberia. I hear things, too, husband. Women talk as much as men and often of the same matters. Many tribes await the smallest excuse to leave you. Even my father may prove fickle. He would abandon you without a thought if Fortune deserts you. To get his power he killed his older brother, you know. Some say he had a stew made of his innards and had all the family eat of him, so that they all shared in his crime. I was not yet born, but I do not doubt this story.”

A visual image of Andobales' bulk appeared in Hasdrubal's mind, the boarlike shape of his body, the jutting stretch of his jaw and nose. Hasdrubal did not like thinking about him, nor remembering that the object of so much of his desire sprang from him. But neither did it seem right for a daughter to tell disparaging tales of her creator.

“So you are now a woman who speaks against her father?” he asked. “I wonder what you will say of me behind my back?”

“Nothing that I would not say on my knees before you, husband.”

Bayala slid a hand across his abdomen. Her fingers found a crease in the material and slipped through to caress his flesh. “You must stay here and protect your empire,” she said. “You must protect your wife. I never feel safe out of your sight. Anyway, do you want so badly to leave me? Do I fail to give you pleasure?”

He almost said that there was more to life than the pursuit of pleasure, but the words died in him: first, because he wondered why she should feel endangered, and second, because he felt filled to overflowing with desire and doubted his assertion. Bayala did not seem to mind his silence. She pressed her body against his. He felt the soft weight of her breast held against his bicep. As she slid around toward his chest her breast swayed free. Something in the momentary, passing sensation of this sucked the air out of him.

“Do you like me, husband?” she asked.

Finally looking down at her—at the confident mirth in her eyes, the imperfect lines of her face, and the thin stretch of her lips—Hasdrubal knew that he liked her very much. More than he wished to tell her. He wondered whether any other Barca had ever felt such a weakness for a woman. A voice within him whispered that if he were not careful such emotion would be the death of him.

Imilce disliked sending Hannibal a letter written in another's hand, but she could not yet write with the grace she wished for. She had no choice but to speak her love aloud and watch it made manifest by the subtle fingers of a scribe a few years her junior. He never looked up at her, but kept his head inches above his work. She was thankful for this and spoke slowly so that he would have no need to interrupt her.

She began, “Hannibal, husband, beloved both of Baal and Imilce . . . I write you in longing and pride. I do not know where this will find you or what hardship you may be suffering at the moment you read this. I do not know, husband, if you will ever read this. But still I write in hope. The news here is that you have struck several blows at Rome, just as you said you would. This was met with great excitement, although not everyone in Carthage wishes you success. I will not put names in writing, but I now understand that beside each councillor singing your praises is another who grumbles that you are leading the nation to ruin. I would not have thought it possible for any to feel this way, but the people of Carthage surprise me in many ways.

“This city of your birth is beautiful, rich beyond my imaginings. And—for me, at least—it is stifling, confining, like a tomb. I do not wish you to think me ungrateful. Your mother and sisters have been very kind to me, but I am nothing here without you. None here save Sapanibal have seen me at your side. None see me as I would be seen. They are kind enough, but they make me feel like a jeweled necklace sitting in a box, without the neck for which it was crafted. Are you still convinced that I should not come to you in Italy? I would happily do so, especially now as you are winning fame for us \ all. . . .