David Durham - Pride of Carthage

Hannibal lifted his head. “Just give me numbers, Gemel, a simple tally.”

“The best figure I can give this morning comes from the Romans themselves. They say they were ninety thousand strong. Twenty thousand of these we captured. Perhaps another ten thousand escaped us. So . . . This field may well be the death of sixty thousand of them.”

Maharbal could not help but speak up. “Do you hear that, Hannibal? Think of it—sixty thousand! And the figure may be higher than that! Let me do what I proposed earlier. My men could ride before the dawn. Do not consider me injured—”

“I've already answered you, Maharbal,” Hannibal said. He touched on the horseman with his one-eyed gaze, briefly. “I rejoice that you are so hungry to sack Rome. But he is a fool who does not place himself within a framework of other men's actions. We are not the first to conquer Roman legions on their own land. The Gauls sacked the city of Rome and had their way with her as if she were a whore. They left loaded with plunder and stories of their own greatness. But what did it come to? Rome went on. The Romans crept back into their city and built it again and spread their power and now have little to fear from the Gauls except annoyance.”

“We are not barbarians,” Maharbal said. “Their story is not the same as ours.”

“Pyrrhus of Epirus did battle here—”

“Nor are you Pyrrhus!” Maharbal cut in. “He knew how to win a victory, but not how to use one. Do not make a different form of the same mistake.”

Hannibal glanced up at him again, studying him as he might a stranger who had spoken out of turn. But after a moment he seemed to find the man he recognized and spoke to him with tired patience. “Pyrrhus defeated Rome on the battlefield,” he said, “a deed that earns him my respect. Again and again he emerged victorious, but still he gained no foothold. Though he won, he lost. Rome replaced its soldiers like the Hydra replacing heads. That's what Pyrrhus never understood. Rome always has more men. Not because their women push them out of the womb any faster, but because they use the wombs of others. If they run low, they call upon their municipal cities, upon the colonies, and, beyond that, upon the allied states. It is that that gives them power. Sever those heads, and the picture is much different. That is something Pyrrhus never succeeded at. He never isolated the Romans. That is the key, to cut them off from the outside world, hack at her bonds with her neighbors. This done, Rome is just a city like any other. And then any city—not only Carthage—may deal with her as she deserves. Rome will find herself the most hated creature the world has known. This, Maharbal, is as true today as when I first explained it to you. I know my mind on this. I will strike Rome not with the greatest force, but with just the right blows to find vulnerable flesh.”

He indicated this with the edge of his hand, cutting the air before him. Then, remembering the body of his friend, he pulled his hand back. “This talk is pounding my head to pain. Gemel, have they found the slain consul yet?”

“No. He may've been stripped by camp followers already.”

“Keep looking for him. He deserves an honorable burial, even if he was a fool. And see to it that the allied prisoners aren't mistreated tonight. I'll speak to them tomorrow morning. I want to send them home to their people friends instead of enemies. Have special presents sent to the Gauls, along with wine and heaps of praise and the cuts of meat they most favor. And Gemel, have careful counts for me before the dawn.”

As the secretary withdrew, Monomachus said, “The gods, too, deserve praise for our victory. We should offer sacrifice. With your permission, I'll select a hundred Romans from the prisoners. We should torture them in the old ways, and offer sacrifices—”

“No. We offered enough sacrifices yesterday. And what is this man lying before me if not a sacrifice?”

This did not move Monomachus. “You know I'm sworn to Moloch. I can feel his hunger. This battle did not sate him.”

“Don't talk to me of this.”

“In your father's time, we—”

“Stop!” Hannibal snapped to his feet. “Have all my generals gone mad? There will be no sacrifice! We will not march on Rome and this is not my father's time! You are my councillor only as long as I tolerate you and that may not be much longer. Leave me now. All of you. Go!”

Monomachus turned away without comment and filed out with the others. Mago started to leave also, but Hannibal stayed him with a glance.

Alone with his brother, the commander asked, “Why is my heart so troubled? I should rejoice, but instead I feel a new weight draped over my shoulders. I should honor my generals with praise; instead, I only find fault with them. I craved Roman blood for so many years; yet I do not want another victory like this. Mago, when I looked upon Bostar's face it was as if I were looking at yours, or at my own.”

“I know,” Mago said, “or I upon yours.”

“This victory was not worth his life. I would undo it all to have him back. How strange, my brother, that a man like me, who wants only to defeat his enemy . . . How strange that in mourning I would trade everything that this companion might live.”

“No good can come from talking so,” Mago said. “You will not have to look upon a field like Cannae again. You will not have to bury your brothers. Surely, this is the end of war. Never will the world see another day like this. That is what you have accomplished. Bostar would reverse nothing that happened here.”

Hannibal placed his fingers on the wood of the funeral table and pressed till his fingertips went white. “I know nothing of what Bostar thinks now. By the gods, I want to win this! It is all the work of my own hands, but at moments I look down and realize that I'm seated on a monster fouler than anything I could have conceived. Sixty thousand of them dead? Sometimes I wonder who is more bound to Moloch—Monomachus, or myself.”

Hannibal dismissed the thought with a tic that upset and then released the muscles of one side of his face. Mago had noticed this tic several times in the past few weeks. He did not care for it, for during it Hannibal's face was briefly not his own. It was an ugly mask, similar to his, but different in disturbing ways. One of the torches began sputtering, a few loud bursts of oil combusting. Mago turned and watched it, wary lest an accidental blaze disturb the solemnity of the chamber. “You surprise me, brother,” he said. “Do you pity yourself now, at the moment of your greatest glory?”

“I do not pity myself,” the commander said. “I know no pity. Neither do I yet have the word for what I feel. Even the gods in whose names we fight remind us not to think of war always. Think of Anath. After the defeat of Yam she hosted a feast in Baal's honor. When the gods were all assembled, she slammed the doors closed and began to slay everyone. She would have killed them all, for they had all betrayed Baal in the earlier war. You remember who stopped her?”

“Baal himself. He convinced her that the bloodshed had gone on long enough and that a time of peace and forgiveness was needed.”

“Just so . . .” The tic disfigured Hannibal's face again. He closed his eyes and for some time seemed to focus only on his breathing. Watching his visage grow calm, Mago was reminded of the clay masks street players wore during the winter months. They were vague, almost featureless faces that hinted at human attributes without rendering the details. They betrayed no emotion, and one could tell the tenor of the play only by listening and watching that much more carefully. Even as a child he had found it strange that the same mask could at one moment indicate mirth, and in the very next embody sorrow. He was, then, both surprised and not surprised by what his brother said next.