David Durham - Pride of Carthage

When the opportunity came to surprise the Scipios, at an unremarkable spot near Dertosa, Hasdrubal snatched at it. At least, he thought he was surprising them. They drew up into their orderly ranks with amazing efficiency, and with the first volley thrown from the Roman velites his Carpetani troops broke ranks. Many of them grumbled against being pressed into the fight, and they all found the sight of Rome's ordered butchers too much to bear. They shifted in confusion, one line inching nervously back into the next and that pushing still further ranks into disorder. A tumult of confusion passed from man to man. The African troops held solid, briefly. They watched as the Roman front flowed in on the Iberians like a river pressing against an untried dam. They might have fallen upon the enemy's side to great effect, but such was not the mood of the day. Instead they turned and executed a quick retreat. Just like that the battle was decided.

Hasdrubal shouted orders that his signalers conveyed to the troops as well as they could. But fear can drench men faster than a downpour of rain. Hasdrubal had heard of such things but never witnessed them. The Romans that day did not so much fight as slaughter. The Africans, though retreating, had not actually panicked, so most of the Roman fury focused on the Iberians. They dashed forward, hacking and stabbing at the backs of the panicked conscripts, slicing at the tendons in their calves, stabbing into the soft tissue at the back of their knees.

More than ten thousand Iberians died at Dertosa. Only a few hundred Africans perished, but this small good fortune was as nothing compared to the ill will it inspired throughout Iberia. The Ilergetes of northern Iberia shrugged off any pretense of impartiality. They went over to Rome completely, sealing the alliance with the severed heads of the Carthaginian delegates in their midst. The Vaccaei—distant though they were, to the northwest—announced their defection to Rome. Even the Turdetani, for whom Hannibal had attacked Saguntum, were known to be corresponding with the Scipios. Andobales pledged that the agreements between Carthage and the Oretani still held, but Hasdrubal heard Bayala's cautioning words behind everything the man said, and did not trust him. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to go on as if he did.

Word came of another rebellion too symbolically important to ignore. The Carpetani, hearing of their losses at Dertosa, rose again, declaring their independence from both Carthage and Rome. Hasdrubal remembered the conversations he had with Hannibal as they marched toward these same people just a few years earlier. The memory was almost painful to him: the two of them mounted and conversing, a whole army behind them. At that time, Hasdrubal had not yet fully imagined the burdens of leadership. Even considering the bloody violence of the work, it was a memory of innocence.

But remembrances are of no use unless they inform the present. With that in mind, Hasdrubal acted—not in passion this time, but with cold determination. His southern troops had just returned from their duties. He stirred them from their short rest, met them at a double-time march, and in consultation with Noba planned to meet the Iberians' treachery with an even greater one.

The Carpetani greeted the approaching army in their usual form: as a raucous swarm propelled more by courage than by strategy. Hasdrubal timed the approach of his army in such a way that they came within sight of the horde toward the close of the day. They made camp, apparently to await the next day's coming battle. As Hannibal had done during their last encounter, Hasdrubal put his men into motion in the dead of night. But this time he had the bulk of his infantry back several miles, far enough to ensure that the Iberians would not be able to press battle the next day. At the same time he sent the full force of his cavalry on a mission under Noba's direction. He knew a good deal about this area, and he put that knowledge to use in navigating through the night.

At dawn, the cavalry swept down not upon the Carpetani horde but upon their unprotected wives and children some miles away. They breached the main town's defenses with ease and poured through the humble streets, slaughtering men of dangerous age. Hasdrubal had ordered the capture of all females of childbearing age. Quite a number this made. They were bound and sent on their own feet toward New Carthage, captives to seal the Carpetani to a new loyalty.

All this was a day's work. The men on the battlefield did not learn of the situation until the close of the day, at which point they could not vent their fury. Instead they spent the night in anguished confusion. Many, desperate to learn of their families' fates, slipped away during the night, hoping to find their wives and daughters safe. Meanwhile, Hasdrubal moved his infantry forward into position again. With the next dawn he fell on the disheartened remnants of the Carpetani. The butchery was fast and easy. That evening he accepted an invitation to parley with the Carpetani chieftain, Gamboles. In fact there was little parleying. Hasdrubal's diatribe was made more vicious by his fatigue and resentment and distaste for his own tactics. The women, he said, would not be harmed so long as the two peoples were friends. But should Carthage find itself betrayed, then each and every one of them would be pumped full of Carthaginian seed, to bear a half-breed army of the future.

“Do you understand me?” he asked. “The Carpetani must never rise again. You have been beaten beyond hope of future victory. Do not be a fool. Do not harbor plans for vengeance in your hearts. Do not walk from here with malice. Instead, understand that I've been more generous than you deserve. Tell this to your people. Speak plainly so that they may understand and hear your voice one last time before you come with me to be my guest in New Carthage. Do exactly as I say, because I promise you, Gamboles, if I hear one whisper of stirring, your women will suffer for it. As will you. I'll sever your head from your shoulders and shove it nose-first up your ass. Thereafter, your people will each and every one of them eat a diet of shit.”

Hasdrubal rode away with all the promises he asked for. Not terribly satisfying, but certainly the best he could manage under the circumstances. He had never thought of cruelty like this before. He had no wish to see any of these punishments come to pass, but neither could he allow his father's empire to crumble on his watch. All things considered it was one of his more successful ventures, though he felt little pride in it and had no true faith that Fortune had joined his cause.

With the work done, he headed for New Carthage. The ten days it took to reach the capital passed in a blur, a tumult of motion and fretting and gut-deep longing to see his wife again and to feel her legs straddled around his hips. On arriving, he attended no business but went straight to his private chambers. Entering the outer room he called out, “Wife, come to me now! I need to pierce you!”

He dropped his sword unceremoniously on the stone floor, cast his cloak over a chair, and snatched up a waiting pitcher of wine. He did all this at a brisk walk and was therefore well into the room before he saw the two figures lounging on his couches. He stared at them for a long moment, openmouthed, with all the mystification he would have shown upon seeing ghosts. He held the pitcher halfway to his mouth, dripping wine upon the floor.

Silenus glanced at Hanno and said, “That's a strange greeting.”

It was almost too much to bear thinking about, but Imilce could not help but do so again and again each day. She was ever being reminded that young Hamilcar was approaching his fourth birthday and that it had been three long years since his father had last seen him. She remembered how the two of them had looked the day before he departed. Hannibal had stood holding the boy in his muscled arms, looking down on him and whispering close to his face, telling him things he said were for the child's ears only. The boy's legs dangled beneath his father's grip, plump and lovely; his features were still rounded, his fingers chubby. The boy had listened to the man patiently, for a few moments at least. Then he squirmed free and ran off to play. Hannibal looked up at her, shrugged and smiled and said something she could not now remember, though she always imagined him with his mouth moving and wished that she could move closer to the recollection and place her ear against his lips and feel them brush against her.