David Durham - Pride of Carthage

For a moment after he took this news in, Hannibal was too pleased to respond. He saw the warships clearly in his mind's eye, and the sight quickened his pulse. The pieces of his plan were truly coming together.

Ever since she had spied Imago Messano in the conspiratorial, bare-chested company of Hadus and several of the Hannons, Sapanibal had shunned him as a traitor. He, in turn, campaigned to convince her that he was true to her and to the Barca cause. By custom, Sapanibal had almost no choice but to receive him when he called on her, which he did often, making his case with all the passion of a man arguing before the Council. Of course he spent time in the company of those base creatures! he explained. How could he not? They were of the same class. Apart from war matters, he had to conduct a whole variety of business dealings with them. A man such as he was invited to functions. More than once, he had swayed entrenched opinions while returning from a hunt or overseeing some religious ceremony. He was often at his most convincing during the late hours of the night, with his tongue loose from wine and entertainment. Imago found leverage in being on close terms with Hadus, an access to information denied those he thought of as staunch enemies. None of this changed his heart. Nor did it sacrifice any of his dignity.

Sapanibal listened to all this with narrowed eyes. He could do what he liked with whomever he liked, she responded, but he could no longer expect to receive her full trust. She could tell this indifference hurt him more than her anger. He recoiled as if from a red-hot poker. This she liked, for through such romantic torture she might just gain valued information. This was exactly what happened in the summer after the year of Cannae. Imago confided in Sapanibal a piece of clandestine news: something not yet public, and sensitive, for it undermined the newfound enthusiasm for Hannibal at home. And also, he saved the family from what she believed could have been a grave error of judgment.

They met as they had ever since Imago's alleged betrayal, not in the inner garden but on the couches in the exterior welcoming chamber, a dim, solemn place. The room had a stifling heaviness. The tall pillars stood like so many silent soldiers, the play of torchlight shifting over them, creating shadows that were ever in motion. Imago chafed at the formality with which they now met, but he accepted it with a resigned expression that yet seemed to say he would not put up with it indefinitely.

“I heard some troubling news this morning,” he said. “News from Rome . . . It seems that your brother sent the cavalry officer Carthalo to the city, along with representatives of the Roman prisoners from Cannae. He was to set a price for their ransom and organize the transfer. The Senate barely deigned to receive him. When they did, they rejected all payment outright. They even forbade the men's families from buying them free themselves.”

Sapanibal thought about this. She wore her hair pulled back from her face so tightly that the skin of her forehead was a smooth, taut sheet. It made her features more rigid than usual. “Clever,” she finally said. “And foolish at the same time.”

Imago nodded his agreement, although he seemed unsure just what she meant. “But no disgrace marks those soldiers except that they had a foolish leader who took them to slaughter. In Carthaginian tradition it's the generals who are nailed to a cross for failure, not their men. But Rome doesn't see it that way. So they deny themselves thousands of soldiers out of pure spite. They are a strange people. When Hadus hears of this he'll claim it proves Hannibal has not been very successful.”

“What does he know of anything?” Sapanibal snapped. “He says black is white one moment, and white is black the next. It's his doing that Mago must go to Iberia instead of returning to Hannibal. If I were to write my brother, I'd tell him to ask the Council for the opposite of what he desires; only then might they, in their spite, be tricked into acting reasonably.”

Imago absently bit a hanging flare of fingernail and ripped it free. It was a rough gesture for a normally gentle man. He seemed to notice this. He flicked the bit of nail away and covered the offending hand with the other. “Strange that you don't pile rage on the Romans as you do upon your own.”

“There's nothing I can do to affect the Roman Senate; I save my spite for targets closer to home. Is there anything else, or are we finished?”

“There's another matter, also. Perhaps more urgent . . .”

Imago inched forward until his bottom rested on the edge of the couch, his heels bouncing as if he were a boy anxious to be somewhere else. He stretched his arms out, palms upward, as if indicating that the matter in question was best transferred to a woman's hands. “It concerns your family. Your sister, to be precise . . .”

Imago hesitated, but Sapanibal said, “Proceed.”

As he did, she listened from behind her tense façade, showing no sign that the story affected her except perhaps in her eyes, which seemed to want to recede into her skull. It was hard to believe what he said, but—despite her show of indifference—she knew that he would not lie to her about things that mattered.

A short time later the two moved toward the front door. Imago stepped slowly, speaking in faster time. “Sapanibal, one day I will call you my dear Sapanibal. I want that very badly, and I know you are too wise for me to disguise my longing. I do wish that you were not so cold to me. I am a mature man with many choices. If I choose you, it is because I find in our conversations a depth of life I've never experienced with a woman. Don't shun me forever, Sapanibal.”

The two stopped walking at the edge of the courtyard. A servant stepped out of the wall—not actually, but with such a complete appearance of this as to make it a fact—and stood waiting to let the guest out. Sapanibal gave no indication that she had heard his speech. She only said, “Thank you for the news you've brought me. I'll act on it in a manner that aids the nation. Farewell.”

Imago said his parting words, rehearsed phrases spoken with emotion befitting a poet. Sapanibal's face did not crack. Nothing about her suggested the least concession to his ardor. And yet, as he moved away, she brushed her fingers across his upper arm. He turned as if to question this, but she had already begun to walk away, cursing herself for the gesture.

It was no easy work verifying Imago's story. State law and custom provided no excuse for an aristocratic woman to traffic with merchants and seamen. But she had no choice. She was not willing to allow Imago any further role in this. Nor could she entrust the task to a servant. And yet still it had to be done. She went hooded, with a bare-chested guard trailing behind her, a eunuch naked from the waist up and burdened by heavy muscles that hung loosely from his frame. She made her way down to the docks, through the crush of naked slaves, around beasts of burden hauling crates. Woven sacks sat on the stone, swelled to bursting with their burden of fish, the smell of them thick in the air.

Imago had given the time scheduled for the voyage to Capua. He named the vessel, and the captain who had accepted the unusual passengers. She asked several freedmen about the captain and finally found him. He was not an altogether unsavory sort; in fact, he had a councillor's confident bearing, a strong jaw, and a smile set off by several missing teeth. Sapanibal met him before a steaming warehouse. She did not disclose her identity, but she was confident her stature would speak for itself. She told him that the journey would not be going forward with the special passengers. She would double the price he had already received, so that his troubles would not go without reward. But for this she demanded one thing.