A confused murmur ran through the group, until one man held his spear aloft and shouted that he answered to that name and that deed.
Hannibal stood for a moment on the balls of his feet to seek out the hero, then proceeded with his walk. “When pressed hard by the barbarians in the Pyrenees, did not a man named Trasis save his whole company by mounting a riderless stallion and singing them to re-form? Among us, is there not a young soldier named Vaca who was first over the wall of Arbocala? I believe that these are men to be praised, honors draped around them that they can carry all their days. But honors are nothing unless a man sees them through with further action. Would men still sing of Alexander the Great if he had retired from war and lived to be a hundred, fat and rich and fearful of the glories of his youth? No! The truth is that here in our company we have heroes awaiting a poet to immortalize them. But there are no poets to be found at the foot of the Alps. Nor in retreat across the Rhône. Not even in New Carthage itself. If you would have someone write your tale, you must first seat yourself in a Roman palace. From there call forth the best writers of the world. Call forth Greeks, who weave words so well. Dictate to them the deeds that will make you immortal. This is all within your power if you are men enough. If you are men enough . . .”
The commander repeated the last phrase slowly, questioning it, prodding them with it and with his gaze, which moved around, pausing on individuals and probing each as if he asked the question of him in particular. As the murmurs of the translators faded away Hannibal looked up and caught Bostar's eye; Bostar in turn motioned for a young squire. The boy ran forward, leading Hannibal's most recent mount, a stallion with a rusty brown coat so dark it neared black. Hannibal clucked his tongue in greeting. He took the reins from the squire, but instead of mounting he set the reins back over the horse's head and walked on, continuing his discourse. The horse followed of its own accord.
“As for those among you who care little for words to be spoken in later ages: Think, then, of riches. Think of bloody joy. The booty of conquest. Do you see the men of this mountain country? Even Gauls such as these once sacked Rome. They came home laden with all the riches their new slaves could carry, lingering joy written on their faces, dicks exhausted, hanging beneath them, dripping. . . . Why should they pleasure so and not us? Think about it. Are there any riders in the world equal to the Massylii? Any soldiers who can stand face-to-face with Libyans? Any race as determined as the Iberians? Any people as wildly brave as our Gallic allies? What do you think the Alps are, anyway? Are they anything more than rock and snow? Higher than the Pyrenees, yes, but what of it? The fact is this: No part of the earth reaches the roof of the sky; no height is insurmountable by determined men. We do not need to soar on wings to cross these mountains. We have our feet and our courage. That is all we need.”
Hannibal, without waiting for a response, snapped around and strode toward his horse. He mounted and let the horse kick up into a short gallop. He paused a moment after the translations had straggled to a halt, then spread his arms. “Perhaps, my friends, you have forgotten whose army you fight in. Am I not Hannibal Barca? The child of a thunderbolt. Blessed of Baal and the seed of Hamilcar. If you forget your own courage, study mine. If you forget honor, look to me for its definition. If you doubt your destiny, know that I've never doubted mine. Imagine, my men, the view from the heights down upon the rich land of Italy. Let us end this story in a way that pleases the gods, on Mars Field, between the Tiber and the walls of Rome.”
There followed the pause during which his words were passed from one dialect to another and absorbed. Hannibal knew that during the mumbling, multilingual hush thousands of eyes would stay fixed on him. He kept his arms aloft, fingers loose and open. With the pressure of his legs he directed his horse to move him before the troops. It was in that swaying, wings-spread posture that he heard his army's response.
The shouts of approval came first from the Carthaginians, as he had known they would: Bomilcar's booming voice; a call that he recognized as Mago's even though it had a strangely falsetto quality; Monomachus yelling the names of the gods best invoked in combat preparation. This was as he expected, but he knew the true reception of his speech when the Libyans answered him. From the central, African heart of the army came the deep-chested chorus of the heavy infantry. After that came a volley of shouts from the Balearic troops, their voices projected in bursts just as their missiles were in battle. Next the Numidians' voices rose in jackal-like ululations. And then the entire army bloomed into a ruckus of echoing, reverberating proportions. If there was doubt in any man's mind it was pummeled to silence by the cacophony of an army remembering itself, declaring its rebirth in a theater framed by granite.
Hannibal lowered his arms. He moved away, past the bewildered Allobroges and toward his quarters. This discourse completed successfully, he put it out of his mind and thought about the things to come, the dying that this alpine crossing was to be.
Carthage sprawled atop a craggy landscape that looked out onto curving stretches of pale beach. Many of its buildings were bleached as white as eggshells. Between them thronged such a variety of shapes and objects as to make a puzzle of urbanity, a confusion on the eye, a maze punctuated by obelisks and stout-columned temples. Here and there plumes of palms and spires of pines sprouted above the skyline, suggesting cool springs beneath, bubbling waters, a lushness Imilce had not expected. A city of almost a million people, all secured behind battlements that dwarfed those of New Carthage, higher by twice the measure, visibly stout, as if the architects wished to advertise the thickness of the walls. And beyond this throng of humanity, a cultivated landscape stretched farther than the eye could see, field upon field of wheat and barley, vineyards, orchards of dates and plums and olives.
Standing on the docks, Imilce could barely keep her balance. Nausea swelled in her and she had to fight back the urge to double over and grasp her abdomen. The world was supposed to be steady, her feet back on firm ground, but instead the dead stillness of the stone beneath her was a misery worse than the rocking of the boat. And worse still was the fact that only she seemed to notice this. People surged past her on all sides, men hefting urns, pulling sledges, loading packs atop mules. An elephant—far too near at hand for her comfort—dragged behind it a massive piece of furniture, exactly what she was not even sure. She was aware simultaneously of wealth and of poverty, of fragrant perfumes in one breath and the sweating stench of labor in the next. Though she looked from one thing to the next the sights cluttered her mind instead of resulting in order. She touched on forms without registering the meaning behind them. She had to reach out to steady herself and was surprised to realize she had grasped Sapanibal's arm. The older woman looked askance at her, not sharply but with her usual air of silent criticism.
“Come,” she said, “there will be a carriage waiting.”
Imilce swallowed down the taste from her belly and walked. She realized that many of those moving around her were attending them and the stores of gifts and personal items they had brought with them. Her maid was at her other elbow, and Little Hammer clung to her, his eyes wide and hungry for this new world. Inside the small carriage, Imilce sat stiff as her maid placed Hamilcar on her lap. She placed a hand over his knees, hoping that the boy would hold still and let her think. But he would not. Even this cramped enclosure offered many things of interest: the polished wood frame around them, the gold buttons sewn into the padded fabric abutting the women's knees, the view of the passing world through the carriage door. Imilce reached up and tugged a curtain across the opening. A moment later Hamilcar grabbed the material in two fists and buried his face in it, finding in this act an unreasoned joy that translated throughout his body. The mother had a sudden desire to squeeze him tightly, two-handed across his belly. But instead she pulled him back and pinned him to her chest. She kept her eyes lowered for the rest of the jolting ride, taking no comfort in it, enjoying no luxury despite the soft fabric and the cushion beneath her.
Sa
panibal glanced at her several times throughout the ride but said nothing.
By the time she entered the Chamber of the Palms at her mother-in-law's palace, Imilce walked on unsteady legs. Her insides moved and shifted of their own accord, threatening to spill up and out of her in waves that came without rhythm but often. It was good, at least, to be out of the sun, away from the heat and bustle of the streets. She listened to the wooden door as it swung shut behind them, heard the bolt driven into place. She moved forward behind Sapanibal into a reception area as cool as an ancient forest. Granite pillars grew up from the stone slabs like the trunks of giant trees. The ceiling must have been wooden, but it was planed smooth and painted a dark crimson. The walls were not really so far away, the room not really that large, but the rows of pillars several deep gave the space a feeling of cramped grandeur. Something about it even stilled young Hamilcar. He went limp in his nurse's arms, tilted his head back, and stared, openmouthed, at the ceiling.
Sapanibal halted in the central area of the room, a greater space as one pillar was missing. There were chairs and low sofas nearby, but they did not sit down. Sapanibal stood with her hands clasped before her and was silent for a time. Then she said, “We'll wait here.”
A few moments later, a door at the far end of the chamber swung open, pushed on its wooden hinges by two adolescent boys, each bent to the task. Behind the swinging barricade came Didobal, widow of Hamilcar Barca, mother of the pride of lions now at war with Rome. Attendants framed her on either side and from behind, young and old women in colorful dress. A boy walked at her side, his head a platform on which she rested her left hand.
Imilce had conjured absolutely no image of this woman ahead of time and therefore her appearance was always to have been a revelation. And indeed it was that. Imilce knew that Didobal's mother was of native stock, from the Theveste people who lived south of Carthage, but she was still surprised at the richness of Didobal's skin, darker than any of her sons'. Her eyes sat widely spaced and her cheekbones were high, rounded, and regal. Her hair, woven into an intricate crosshatching of tight braids, was black, thick. From her first glimpse of the Barca matriarch, Imilce knew that she was not a woman easily deceived. Though she did not exactly know why, this realization troubled her.
Sapanibal greeted her mother with a formality Imilce had never seen in her. She touched one knee to the floor, bowed her head, and pressed her hands to her forehead, ready to receive her mother's blessing. Didobal stepped up close to her, studying her as if she might not positively recognize her. Sapanibal whispered a prayer of greeting, speaking reverently, admitting her debt to this woman for her very creation and invoking the blessings of Tanit, the mother goddess of Carthage.
Didobal heard all this indifferently. “Rise, dear,” she said. “I know what you owe, and I know that you know it as well.”
Sapanibal released the woman's hand and straightened. She stood with her arms stiff at her sides, chin upraised in a posture wholly out of character.
“You have not aged well,” Didobal said. “There was always too much of your father's mother in you, too much of the East. But I have made peace with that long ago. You are distinguished in your own way, and you are welcome here. It will give your sister joy to see you. Tell me of this other one now, daughter.”
Released from scrutiny by that simple sentence, Sapanibal resumed herself. She half turned toward Imilce and said, “Mother, this is Hannibal's beloved, Imilce, daughter of a chief of the Baetis named Ilapan. She is known as a beauty and is fertile as well, for she has borne us a son, the first male of his generation.”
Didobal would have known all of this already, but she rested her gaze on Imilce and nodded as her daughter spoke. Imilce knew something of how to greet Carthaginian women, but still she felt completely unprepared for this encounter and wondered how she had ever gotten to this point without thinking more of this moment. When Sapanibal paused, Imilce imitated her formal greeting, her hands outstretched from her forehead, head parallel to the ground, one knee against the cool stone beneath her. It seemed to take forever for the woman to acknowledge her with a touch. Fleeting and brief though it was, Didobal's fingers left a scent on hers, a perfume carried in an oily lotion that Imilce was to smell for days after. She heard the woman bid her rise.
“You have a delicate face,” Didobal said.
“Thank you,” Imilce murmured. She tried to look at Didobal directly but this was no easy thing. The woman's eyes were not hers alone but were also those of her son, deep-set, of a similar color, and with the same simmering intelligence. Strange that the quality of the mind behind the eyes can be conveyed through them. Imilce knew she would never be able to look at Didobal without seeing her husband. What she did not know yet was whether this was going to be a blessing or a curse.
“If my son married for beauty alone, then he chose well,” Didobal said, “but old ones such as me know that counts for little. There is more to a woman than her face and bosom. More even than her abundance in childbearing. I told my son this in writing and he assured me more substance was to be found within you. He asked of me the patience to see you slowly. I will grant him that. But, daughter, I have no love for your country. It's a mistress that has kept my men from me for too many years. This is hard to forgive. . . . But now, before we take our leisure, let me see my son's child.”
Imilce motioned to her maid, who offered her Little Hammer. She held him awkwardly on her hip. The child was surprisingly still, his fists clamped tight around folds of his mother's gown.
Didobal frowned: The view was not sufficient. She slipped her dark hands around the boy and pried him away from his mother. Hamilcar seemed ready to protest, but he paused before doing so, unsure how such an action would be dealt with. Didobal took a few steps away and studied him in a shaft of light that cut down diagonally from a window high on the wall.
Imilce wished she had answered more strongly. She should have said that Carthage was her country now and it was war that was their men's mistress, not any particular nation. She should have said that she too regretted that her husband was always away, always in danger. She should have said many things, she thought, but they were already dead inside her. Silent, she glanced up at the ceiling. Her eyes were first attracted by the flight of a tiny bird, but then lingered up there because of the sudden suspicion that the ceiling was not solid at all but was a dark liquid threatening to drop down on them in a sudden deluge. It was hard to pull her eyes away from it.
Didobal turned around. Her façade was composed and calm as before, but her eyes tinged a watery red. She handed the boy back, not to Imilce but to the maid. She half turned away, but paused long enough to say, “Come. You are welcome in my house.”
Imilce searched the woman's profile for any sign of the emotions behind it. But there was nothing to betray her thoughts. Viewed from the side and heavy-lidded, her eye was flat and without perspective, a single dimension and therefore harder to read.
The interview over, Didobal withdrew. The two women waited a moment as the matriarch's servants escorted her out, like insects buzzing protectively around their queen.
Though Didobal did not speak directly to Imilce again that day, she formally introduced her to the aristocracy of Carthage. The women greeted her as if modeling themselves on the matriarch: aloof, distant, grandiose, indicating in their words and gestures that she had yet to prove herself to them. The men were a little kinder, but clearly, however, this was not a measure of true respect but of an irreverent flirtation. They commented upon Hannibal's good fortune in winning her, upon his epicurean eye. They alluded to the women the commander could have chosen from, the others he must have sampled prior to her, the attentions she could, in turn, wring from the besotted hearts of other men.
Despite even these flatteries, the essence conveyed throughout the afternoon was that she was not very important. Her presence was of note for two reasons: her link to her long-absent husband, and the role she filled as mother to another generation of B
arcas. They asked again and again about her son, and told her again and again about her husband, as if she did not actually know the man but was in need of education by these Carthaginians, people who, despite their distance from him in space and time, seemed to believe they knew him better than she. She felt increasingly ill at ease throughout the afternoon. Her stomach still churned and protested within her. Cramps racked her from low in the pelvis, radiating up.
In a lull before the evening's activities, Imilce excused herself to go to her bath chambers. There, as she squatted to relieve herself, she discovered the reason for her physical symptoms. They were not borne of the day's stresses alone, but were the long forgotten symptoms of her monthly bleeding, which she had not had since the blessed month she became pregnant with Little Hammer. How many moons had passed since last this flow issued from her? How many years? She had hoped that Hannibal's seed would somehow take hold in her again—even before she knew that her cycle had resumed—but clearly this had not happened.
Still squatting, she let herself lean back against the stone wall. She grasped her head in her hands and squeezed; she did not know why. She thought of Hannibal—wherever he might be at that moment—and she silently chastised him for leaving her alone with all of this.
Sophonisba appeared like an answer to prayers Imilce had not even uttered. Hannibal's youngest sibling approached Imilce in the garden of the palace in the early evening light. She carried two small goblets, one of which she offered up. They had met earlier in the afternoon but had exchanged only nods and the routines of greeting.
“Have you tried this?” Sophonisba asked. “It's a wine made from the fruit of palm trees. It's a poor person's drink, but Mother is fond of it and always has a little on hand. We should drink discreetly, though. Come, talk with me by the fish ponds.”
Pride of Carthage Page 17
