David Durham - Pride of Carthage

The moon was thin and cast little light as the army left camp. They crept toward the base of the mountains and then up across their toes. For now, they went by the light of a few torches only. Fast behind them, herders drove the cattle forward. The rest of the army followed, awkward beneath their burdens, prodded by the feet nipping their ankles. Camp followers scampered in the rear, nervous about this whole venture but seeing no means to avoid it.

The route led some distance up toward two of the passes, the main way and a lower, narrower gap that was a plausible enough choice for Fabius to have positioned a small company there. When he could see the Roman fires in both camps, Hannibal whispered the agreed-upon command. The bearers of the few torches turned and offered them to those waiting near with unlighted wands. First one and then another and then many new flames sprang to life. In an instant they gave up all notion of stealth and watched each other's faces and bodies appear in wavering, warm yellow light. And then, before the beasts had time to panic, they were set on fire. The torch carriers moved among them, touching flame to the fuel carried on their horns. A moment later the herders shouted them into motion.

The cattle, unsure what was happening to them, sprang forward and ran upward, ducking their heads and weaving around trees and shrubs as if they might escape the flames through speed and footwork. The army trailed behind them. Though the beasts bellowed and snorted and filled the night with frantic sounds, the men moved as quietly as they could, coughing into their hands and shading their eyes against the smoke and trying to breathe through their mouths.

The Roman guards looking down upon this weaving herd of lights were mystified. They had seen nothing like this and could make no sense of the size of the fires, or of the way they moved, or of the eerie sounds carried by the night air. They woke the tribune in charge of the pass. He sent a messenger to Fabius, but he knew that he would not receive a reply in time to avert whatever mischief was afoot. He had to act. For lack of a better explanation, the tribune concluded that the Carthaginians were making a rush on the lower pass. Of course they were. That was the type of bold maneuver this African would attempt, to attack the weaker camp and push through with brute force. The tribune ordered the bulk of his men to speed across and down and reinforce the small contingent there. This maneuver would not be easy in the dark, but he had been warned of Hannibal's underhandedness and had no desire to be made a fool of.

Hannibal had, of course, counted on just this move. When he saw Roman torchlight leaving the high pass, he gave the order for the main body of the army to follow him. They moved away from the flaming cattle and proceeded, stealthily, toward the high pass, the one now being hastily deserted.

By the time the animals reached the Romans in the other pass, they were wailing like monsters under the torture of hide and flesh aflame. They came at the Roman infantrymen, a horde of beasts sent forth by the will of Baal himself, stepping from the dark frenzied, driven by smoke and flame. They shook their heads and raked them on the ground and bumped into one another and climbed in this chaos. A few Romans loosed their spears. One or two raised their swords as if to do combat. Most retreated, calling to each other, each asking the one beside him to explain this sight. None understood that at that moment Hannibal and the better part of his army were taking the high pass nearly unchallenged.

A few hours later the sky lightened just enough to reveal their gray forms. Fabius, watching through the eyes of the young Publius Scipio, saw the last of the Carthaginian army disappear over the pass. The remaining guards pulled up from their posts and bid the plains of Campania farewell. The whole army slipped out of sight, like the tail of a serpent into its den.

Sapanibal flew into a silent rage each time she heard of the Council's refusals to aid Hannibal. It was intolerable that so much time was passing without his receiving a single token of support from the country for which he fought. Even now, with the commander so close to victory, they had no vision. The mood of the Council bore no resemblance to the unwavering enthusiasm of the populace. The common people knew Hannibal for the hero that he was. They sang songs to praise him. Poets crafted verses that dramatized his deeds. Children playacted the parts of him and his brothers in the streets. Even slaves, it seemed, took some pride in his accomplishments. He belonged to the entire nation and exemplified the best of them. At least, this was true of all except a powerful group of councillors, centered around the elected leader of the council, the Shophet Hadus, and fueled by the Hannons' old hatred. No matter what Hannibal achieved, they found fault with him. Out of necessity, they praised his accomplishments briefly, but it was clear the words withered and turned bitter on their tongues.

Sapanibal was above all a reasoning woman, tempered by long years of sacrifice, not inclined to show her emotions in the public sphere or behave in ways unsuited to her sex. She had never before felt inclined to voice her thoughts outside her familial home, but the men of Carthage were on so misguided a course that they might end up losing everything. She decided her brother's enemies needed to be challenged. She had no faith that her allies in the Council were doing this with the necessary force. So she would have to see to it herself, and she knew just the setting in which to address the subject, to make a scandal of it, and through that to get tongues wagging. She attacked them where they spent most of their lives: the councillors' baths.

Sapanibal strode past the attendants at the entrance before they could think to stop her, before they had fully even comprehended her presence. The room was warm, pungent with stewed herbs and thick with the haze of incense and pipe smoke. Special torches on the wall and small fires attended by nude boys dimly lighted the chamber. The room's high ceilings gave no feeling of lightness but instead intensified the gloom. Every inch of the walls had been painted with murals of war scenes and illustrations of carnal stories and images of black-faced gods, masks that added to the sinister air.

She found the men she was looking for lounging at their leisure. Hadus saw her from a distance and rolled his eyes. He did not adjust his position at all, but sat with his weak chest exposed, his genitals just barely covered by a fold of his gown.

“What are you doing here?” a councillor behind the Shophet asked. “This is not a place for women.”

“Nor is it a place for cowards,” Sapanibal said. She looked at Hadus. “Shall we leave together?”

Hadus furrowed his brow. He was a thin man given to wrinkles and this expression made his face almost unrecognizable. “What is this?” he asked. “You enter our place of leisure to offend me? Barca women are just as arrogant as the men.”

“Why did you speak against Hannibal this afternoon? He would not request help unless he needed it, and unless he knew it would bring victory. Do you want him to fail so much that—”

“What do you know of these things, woman?”

“I know that my brothers are the greatest wealth our nation has. I know that Hannibal's brilliance has brought victory where none of you believed victory was possible. I know it was here in Carthage that this war was declared, but that you are too cowardly or envious to see it through. What do you fear that you tie my brother's hands?”

“Someone take this bitch away before I lose my head,” Hadus said, looking around as if he were addressing someone in particular but could not find him. “I've half a mind to smack her down and give her a good humping. She is no beauty, but rather that than hear her rattle on.”