David Durham - Pride of Carthage

When he finally presented himself to the Council, the clamor of their questions rang through the dark, smoky chamber, which was lit by the rippling, orange glow of torches. Mago did his best to quiet the men with his upraised hands. He said he had come to them bearing proof of the greatness of Hannibal's exploits, proof that he would lay before them in just a moment. First, though, he wished to recite his brother's accomplishments to make sure that all understood their magnitude. He described the geographic obstacles they had overcome. He named the battles they had fought and numbered the enemy dead from each. He said that so far Hannibal had been responsible for the death of nearly two hundred thousand Roman soldiers. He had captured and ransomed over forty thousand more, and sent countless Roman allies home to their people to sing the praises of a just Carthage. He spoke at length, saying nothing openly disparaging to the Council but letting them know that all these things had been accomplished with the most limited of resources.

He went on to outline Hannibal's plan for the continuation of the war. Let it be a multi-pronged strategy. Send reinforcements to Italy, yes, but also redouble efforts to hold Iberia, attack Sicily and win back the old allies, and send aid and support to Philip as he strove to end Roman influence in Illyria. If Carthage could keep Rome stretched thin and struggling in the outer circle, Hannibal would drive home his attack in the inner circle. He would strip the Romans of her allies one by one until she stood alone and naked among enemies. Carthage, in a year's time, would be the first nation of the world, the single greatest power, with no impediment to expanding beyond all far horizons.

When he concluded his address, one councillor, Gisgo, shouted above the others who had started to question him. Mago could not help looking to the ceiling with mild annoyance. Gisgo had been his father's enemy of old, and by the look on his thick face he was still an enemy to all things Barca.

“You talk grandly of your brother's victories,” Gisgo said, “but you speak with a double tongue. If Hannibal has won such great victories, why has he not sacked Rome already? If you are to be believed, not a single man of fighting age is left in all of Italy. Does Hannibal need help in fighting women and children, then? Is it old men he's afraid of? You name victories, and then you ask for more, more, more. Explain this to me, for I am confused.”

Mago's face lost none of its cool composure, although he was taken aback. He had expected some resentment in this chamber, but it amazed him that the first questions posed were so openly hostile. Hannibal was right again. They were responding just as he had assured him they would, almost as if his brother had put the words in their mouths. So many years distant, but still he knew his people perfectly.

Mago let his surprise take on the outward expression of humor. “Councillor,” he said, “I'm not sure that any amount of explaining could cure your particular confusion.”

“Do not insult me!” Gisgo shouted. He struggled to his feet, a difficult task for him as he was quite heavy and he bore the weakness of old injuries. “You are not a prince standing before us. Your brother is no king. Answer me with answers, not with wit. Or I will see your wit nailed to a cross!”

Other voices murmured vague approval, although few seemed pleased by the outright threat. Somebody said in a more reasonable voice that it did seem strange that a victorious general was constantly begging for assistance. Another voice, one of the younger Hannons', added, “Your brother did not ask our guidance when he began this war; why now seek our help to finish it? This war is not truly even Carthage's doing. This is Hannibal's fight, and the outcome rests on his head alone.”

“Does all the glory go to him in victory then?” Mago asked.

The answer came from another section of the chamber. Hadus did not rise. He spoke softly, but somehow his voice carried all the authority it needed. “Hannibal will get what's Hannibal's,” he said. “But let us not speak out of turn. You said you brought proof, young man. Show it to us.”

Mago seemed to debate this a moment, but then nodded that the time was right enough. He tilted his head and projected his words high. “Honorable sirs. You are quite right. I will show you what I've brought. I'll do just that. I bring you a present from my brother, Hannibal Barca, son of Hamilcar, pride of Carthage!”

His voice rose toward the end of the sentence so that he shouted these words. This was obviously a signal, for a moment later there was a commotion in the foyer just outside the Council courtyard. Several men, slaves naked from the waist up and each of them lean and well-formed, pushed and tugged a heavily laden cart into the center of the Council. It was covered in a thick cloth that hid the contents, hinting only that it was piled high with some sort of booty. Mago paced around the cart a moment, running a hand over the cloth.

“When we report to you the greatness of our victory at Cannae I hear many questions. Some doubt the facts as have been relayed to them. Some ask for numbers, for proof, for some way that you here in the safety of Carthage can understand what Hannibal's army has accomplished in your name. But how to bring the reality of our victories from the field to this chamber? And how to name with certainty the number of enemy dead? Who but Baal knows the exact number? I've yet to count them myself, but honorable men, if you would know the number, feel free to count these, taken each from the hand of a dead Roman citizen! A gift from Hannibal and the field of Cannae!”

With theatrical grandeur Mago yanked the sheet from the wagon. Almost simultaneously, the slaves tilted it from the back. The contents poured onto the stone slabs in a clattering avalanche. At first it was hard to tell what the objects were in the unsteady light. They shimmered and bounced on the stones, rolling, skipping, and sliding. Strangely enough, it was a single item out of all those thousands that made it clear. It rolled forward away from the others, an erratic path that took it near to the councillors' benches before it turned ever so slightly and arced back. Mago, with quick fingers, snatched it up and held it aloft. It was a gold ring. One of thousands. Roman rings, so many that the sight was unbelievable.

The councillors were silent. The hush was strangely pronounced after the clattering of the rings. Mago stood beaming, watching the surprise and awe and dawning understanding on the men's faces. He forgot the sense of reserve his brother so often exemplified. He could not help himself. He grinned from ear to ear.

Nor did he stop smiling for several days, not until the Council ordered him to return to the field with a new army. But, despite all that he had revealed to them, they refused to let him return to Hannibal in Italy. Instead, they sent him to Iberia, where he could build on his brothers' successes. Hannibal, they told him, would manage without him for a little longer.

The autumn after Cannae passed in a strange, gluttonous haze, as if the battle had been some enormous festival and each living participant was left spent and reeling. The Carthaginian forces floated on a tide of euphoria, fed each week by new bits of good news. The first major Latin municipality to declare for them was Capua. Long a rival to Rome, the Campanian city had chafed in its subordination. The city turned on Rome by popular consent, but not without a certain amount of subterfuge. Given a warning that the people were turning against them, Roman officials and their supporters were tricked into gathering in the baths for security. The doors were barred and the whole lot of them were steamed to a blistered and bloated death. Afterward, their families were dragged from their homes and stoned. Thus did the people of Capua seal their union with Carthage in blood.