David Durham - Pride of Carthage

The terms they set out for peace with Carthage declared them the preeminent city in Italy, no longer a subject of Rome, but also outside Carthaginian jurisdiction. These were strong terms, which perhaps overreached the reasonable, but Hannibal was not inclined to look unkindly on the gift.

Other cities followed. Calatia and Atelia came over to his side. The tribes of the south revolted: the Hirpini and Lucani and Bruttii. Ligurians from the northwest agreed to fight for pay. Unlike their Gallic neighbors, these men were slight of build, quick foot soldiers and fine skirmishers who fought without armor, in woolen tunics that they wore regardless of the season. In addition to this, news issued from the north, a strange tale that was a joy to hear.

Members of the Boii tribe of Gauls had flown north from the battlefield of Cannae on triumphant wings. They had finally seen clear proof that Hannibal would deliver on his promises. They took this news to their countrymen, along with trinkets from the Roman dead, jewelry and weapons, knucklebones and teeth. It was not hard to convince the populace to rise in earnest against the Romans, who still patrolled their territory, slapping them down at every opportunity. Though the Boii were a strong, proud, and warlike tribal people they were not known for tactical insight and coordination. But they had among them an enemy they now knew could be beaten. For once, they conceived a plan of organized attack that seemed to each man so inspired as to deserve his complete devotion.

They knew that a mass of the enemy was to march on a route through a stretch of forest they called Litana. The Gauls chose a thickly wooded section for their trap. Ancient pines lined the narrow route, trees of great girth and height. The Boii went to work with axes and toothed saws. Before the Romans reached the area, hundreds of trees had been left balancing on the barest remainder of uncut wood. They looked, to the passing eye, like a forest in full growth. The Gauls set their long swords down at their feet and crouched in the ferns beside the wounded trees and waited.

Lucius Postumius led his Roman force unknowingly into this wood. He had two legions under his control, and beyond that allied troops drawn from the coast. They numbered some twenty thousand of them, so they were a long time winding their way into the wood. Once they were all in, the Gauls rose from hiding and pushed over the trees farthest from the path. They had levers prepared for this purpose and ropes attached to some, while others they just sent over with a push. One tree fell against its neighbor. Both fell against their neighbors and so on, until the two forests of falling timber met in a crosshatched confusion, the Romans caught in the center of it. Columns of wood blocked out the sky. Beams cut down men and horses and shattered wagons. The air was a wild stir of sound and leaves and dust, through which birds tried frantically to rise.

Some men managed to elude that horror and flee, but not one of these escaped alive. The Boii stood waiting. The bewildered soldiers stumbled upon them and were cut down like stuffed figures set up for their amusement. The Gauls wielded their great swords in sweeping, grandiose arcs that sliced more than one Roman head clean from the shoulders that carried it. Postumius himself was stripped and humiliated. The Boii then severed his head and peeled away the skin. They liquefied the brain and drained it out. They gilded this shell and made a ghastly drinking cup to offer libations to their gods.

Hannibal sent the Boii messengers who told this story home with new gifts and praise. Soon after, he moved the army to Capua to winter in comfort none of the men had seen in years—with luxuries that some had never experienced in all their lives: rich food pulled from the sea, flowing wine, warm beds, and women happy to pleasure them in return for portions of their battle-won riches. He released his men to roam the alleys and dens of the city, and then he withdrew to his host's villa and tried to focus on the coming year.

It was there, surrounded by sprawling opulence, that he received the news of the Scipios' demise in Iberia. And, just days later, yet another welcome envoy arrived.

Lysenthus entered the room at a brisk walk. His hair hung long and dark and his features were all as Hannibal remembered, hawklike, strong. At seeing the commander, he stopped in his tracks and called out, “By the gods, Hannibal, you are a man of ages! Your name will not soon be forgotten. Let me not call you a man: You are a deity in the making! I bow to you and to your children and your children's children.”

The Macedonian bent from the waist, then touched one knee to the ground as if he would prostrate himself. Hannibal grabbed him, pulled him upright, and embraced him. He had not planned the gesture, but the man's enthusiasm infected him instantly. The sight of him brought back memories of their last meeting—so long ago, it seemed, in the innocent days when this whole venture was just a plan, when his brothers were all around him and Bostar still among the living.

“So you are impressed, then?” he asked, grinning.

“I am, but more important, my king is. Philip hangs on any phrase that begins or ends with the name Hannibal. He believes that any such utterance is guaranteed to sound the death knell of Rome. Someone could say to him, ‘Hannibal pricked his finger on a thorn,' and he would shout for joy! He would say, ‘Did you hear that? Hannibal pricked his finger on a thorn; Rome is doomed!' I will tell you all the many things my king has planned, but give me drink. Commander, you would not believe the trials I've been through to reach you. Water me, and I will tell the tale.”

By “water,” of course, the Macedonian meant wine. Hannibal rarely drank it, but Lysenthus' thirst seemed to inspire his own. He seemed to feel completely at home in the Greek's company and sat listening to his tale with a merry glimmer in his eye.

A storm had come upon them off the Picene coast, Lysenthus said. The vessel was near to sinking, the rim of the deck sometimes dipping beneath the surface, the whole craft waterlogged. They survived only to be boarded by a patrol off Salapia, and held in that city for five days as the local magistrate tried to figure out what to make of them. Fortunately, they carried with them papers expressing Philip's sympathy for Rome's plight and his desire to be of aid. Pure nonsense, of course, but the documents reassured the magistrate and he let them go. Shortly thereafter, their ship began to take on water. In trying to get to land they ripped the hull apart on a reef and were literally tossed to shore.

“That was truly a black night,” Lysenthus said. He paused to spill a bowl of wine into himself. Some of it trickled into his beard and splattered on his breastplate, but this seemed almost intentional, as if he considered a certain amount of disarray necessary to heighten enjoyment. He went on to tell of the land voyage they then embarked on, breaking up into smaller parties, wearing disguises, twice stealing horses, and once riding in the back of a merchant's wagon, often walking from sundown to dawn to get to where he now sat.

“All this to bring me here to you,” Lysenthus said. “As I've said, my king is impressed. You have placed yourself in the company of the great.”

“You honor me, Lysenthus of Macedon.”

Lysenthus waved this away. He was only speaking the truth, he indicated. He then grew somewhat more somber, looking from his own scarred hands up at the commander's face and down again. “I see the tale I heard was true,” he said. “This war has taken a piece of you. I understand such losses, friend. May Rome take nothing further . . .”

Hannibal nodded.

“To business now. I come with a proposal for a treaty between our nations. Philip wants the scourge of Roman domination removed from the Adriatic. Macedon will unite with you to defeat Rome. He will fight mostly in Greece, but he will bring the battle here also. In the spring of next year, he promises to appear on the Roman shore with two hundred ships, enough to make the Romans piss themselves.”