Pride of Carthage

by David Anthony Durham

  The next day Hannibal marshaled the army in the wide field east of the city. The sky was heavy with cloud, the light dim beneath it, the ground moist enough that the men's feet stirred no dust. To the commander's joy, Fulvius and the consuls did not shy from meeting him. They emerged from the Esquiline gate to great fanfare, rank after rank of men stepping in unison, bearing tall shields of yellow or red, emblazoned with boars or wolves. People lined the walls, jostling for views, shouting their support like spectators at the Circus. The troops moved with synchronicity, answering the calls of the lituus and tuba promptly, despite the combined clamor of the spectators and Hannibal's soldiers. The velites—wolf, lion, bear-head—prowled forward of the others, creating the usual distractions. Many of them howled or roared like the beasts that adorned them. A few came forward far enough to launch their missiles, and their taunts.

  Hannibal waited patiently throughout. He did not orate to the troops—his voice was hoarse from the previous day—but he did make casual comments that passed from one man to the next. He checked the sky as much as he did the enemy army and remarked, “The heavens promise a bath for the first man to draw blood.” Counting the various standards of the consul, the former consuls, and the former dictators, he turned to Gemel and asked, “How many heads does this beast have? They should be careful one doesn't bite the other in the ass.” A little later, having watched a velite stumble and sprawl on top of his shield: “There goes a cub in bear's clothing.”

  The sky had grown even darker by the time the Romans were assembled. Both sides seemed anxious to ignore it, but this became impossible. The clouds dropped their load just as the skirmishers stepped forward to start the contest in earnest. But it was not the cleansing shower Hannibal joked about. Rain fell steady for a few moments, and then dropped down in a series of buffeting blankets. A sudden wind whipped the water sideways and snapped and twisted the points of the nearby trees. Scarcely had the men covered their eyes before they looked up again to an entirely different scene. The very air before them had turned to water. Water fell from the sky and jumped up from the turf in a great confusion, so thick that the line of soldiers in the distance faded out of view. As if this were not enough, pellets of ice dashed them, pinging off helmets and shoulders and snapping punishments on bare knuckles, driving the horses to run in circles, looking for escape. Hannibal gave no orders for the men to break ranks, but in the confusion and noise many believed he had. Some units turned and withdrew, others dropped to their knees in the sudden muck and whispered prayers, grasping idols draped around their chests: Divine forces were at work here. There would be no battle that day.

  For that matter, it took all of the commander's persuasiveness to convince the men to resume the field the following day. He walked through camp that night, speaking with groups of soldiers privately, joking with them, and belittling the timorous quavers in their eyes. Had they not seen greater storms than that throughout this war? Had they not traversed ice and mountain snow and pushed through tempests? As a child he used to laugh at such storms and run out into them, tilt his face up, and catch the ice stones in his jaws. Let the Romans fear the heavens! For Hannibal's men, it was a blessing. They must remember that Baal was a god of storm. In the downpour he was just announcing his presence.

  But his efforts proved to be in vain. His troops drew up in battle formation again, but the enemy did not. They stayed secure behind their walls and, over three consecutive days, would not be baited out. Perhaps their priest deemed the storm a sign. In any event, Rome shut its gates, held its soldiers in its bosom, and watched.

  At council, Hannibal listened to his generals' opinions. Isalca, the Gaetulian who had of late risen to prominence, still thought they could lure the enemy out. He proposed starting a rumor that Hannibal was sick. Or they could concoct an ill omen that the Romans would read favorably. Perhaps the commander could fall from his horse near the temple of Hercules and sprain his ankle. . . . Monomachus heard this with disdain. They should crucify some of the prisoners captured as they marched—on open ground for the entire city to see. They would have to answer that. Maharbal and Tusselo proposed a ploy to lure them into opening one of the gates. Imco Vaca was of another mind. They could settle down and proceed with building siege engines. The land around them provided all the necessary supplies. Adherbal had done little more these past years than exercise his legs. Why not call upon the engineer at last? They could build structures such as Rome had never seen and bash their way in. Even if it took eight months, the way Saguntum had, still it would be worth the effort. So argued Imco. Gemel seemed to agree. Hannibal listened to even more voices as he sat there. He heard snatches of earlier opinions uttered by Hasdrubal, by Bostar and Bomilcar. He wondered what Mago would say and what insight Silenus would have shared.

  Eventually, Hannibal heard the engineer's report. He sat with his head cradled in his hands and listened as Adherbal rattled off the details in his monotone. The walls were at least as formidable as they looked: nine feet thick at the thinnest points, with a core of packed earth lined on either side by stones connected with metal clamps. Such a construction was not easily knocked down. The inner portion of the wall rose high enough to make firing into the city difficult, especially as the troops could not get very close without coming under attack from above. Nor would tunneling be an easy feat, as the outer wall was sunk down some distance under the soil. There were few weaknesses, and any method that required concentrated work on the outside could be countered with efforts from inside. Adherbal concluded that perhaps the best attack would be one using great towers, built to the height of the wall, that could be wheeled forward to a chosen point. The lumber would need to be gathered from quite a distance, and the construction—

  “Enough,” Hannibal said. “Why not just throw a rope around the moon and swing in?”

  Adherbal considered this, but Hannibal waved him away and ended the council. His mood had blackened suddenly, and he did not want his men to see it. They would not win Rome by siege. He had always known it; now it was clearer than ever. Certainly he could not lay siege to her with the army he had now. Not without siege engines. Not without reinforcements. Not when Rome had thousands upon thousands of soldiers to flow toward him. Their numbers were such that if he built siege walls around the entire city they might do the same around him. His army would be trapped with walls of Romans on both sides. Perhaps, he thought, after Cannae we might have . . . The situation was different then. Perhaps Maharbal was right. . . . But he did not say this aloud, and fought himself just for thinking it. He spent the rest of the evening in the monumental effort of pushing bleak thoughts from his mind. Nothing was lost yet. He had only to await the news that Capua was free, or that Publius had landed. Either of these things would mean a success of sorts.

  Barely had he awoken with this fresh mind-set when a Capuan arrived to reverse it. When Fulvius left Capua he did so with only about fifteen thousand men; at least fifty thousand surrounded the city, showing no intention of going anywhere and stating their demands more forcefully. Capua was still in peril. And a spy who had managed to get out of Rome confirmed that there was no word yet from Publius, nothing to confirm that he had received his summons or had any intention of responding to it. The spy also said that the mood of the capital had changed. The panic had eased. People murmured that they had nothing to fear. Each passing day convinced more of them that Hannibal was powerless against them. Someone had even sold the land on which the Carthaginians were encamped. It had been on the market before their arrival and sold at the asking price. The new owner planned to erect a monument to their victory against Hannibal, surrounded by housing for the city's expanding population.

  Ten days after he arrived before the capital, Hannibal sat atop the rise on a small stool, Sacred Band nearby. The evening sky was clearing. Patches of turquoise and crimson peeked from behind the thinning clouds. Rome sprawled before him. Studying it beneath the changing light, he confirmed to himself that he was not in awe of this
city. This comforted him in a small way. Some portion of him had always feared that he would look upon this city and know himself inferior to it. He would realize too late that his father's dream had been mistaken and both their lives pursuits of tragic folly. But this was not how he felt. The city was not enormous. It did not look vastly wealthy. It did not, like Carthage, perch majestically above a great port. It was not a diamond embedded in the landscape, like New Carthage. Its leaders were men like other men, but no better. He had almost defeated them. He was sure of it. One more misstep, and they would have been his. Why—with all the effort he had put into it—was that single misstep denied him?

  He spotted the Numidian approaching him and tried to wipe any melancholy off his face. But as the man reached him and he saw the strong weight of his features and the long locks that gave him a head like a lion, he forgot pretense. He motioned for the man to sit beside him and take in the view. He spoke to him in Massylii, pronouncing the words slowly, with the slight hesitation that marks internal translation.

  “Tusselo, you lived in the city for a long time. This is so?”

  “Too many years, my lord,” the Numidian said. He did not actually sit, but squatted in the Massylii way, on one heel, with the other leg straight out to the side. When Hannibal did not follow up on the question he added, “I've been a prisoner here my whole lifetime.”

  “Is it so memorable to you as that? You were born in Africa. You became a man there. And you've been free some years now. So how can you have spent a lifetime here?”

  “You are a free man, my lord, freer than anyone alive in this age. You have tomorrow.” Tusselo seemed content to leave it at that, but Hannibal prodded him, thinking that he had missed a double meaning. Tusselo explained, “The sunrise that Tusselo sees tomorrow is already claimed by Rome. As my eyes open, I think first of Rome, never first of Tusselo. I feel sometimes that they've tattooed their words inside my skull.”

  “Why not take a chisel and destroy their words? Their words don't belong in you. Expel them.”

  Tusselo nodded, but the set of his face indicated that he did so out of respect. He did not accept that such an action was possible, but he did not choose to refute it. “You have the promise of immortality. Hannibal may not live forever, but the force inside him may yet walk this earth in a thousand years. In two thousand . . . This is not true for Tusselo. Believe me, I am still their prisoner.”

  “Does it trouble you to look upon this place again?”

  “No. I look upon it every time I close my eyes.”

  “Perhaps you joined me solely to return here,” Hannibal said. “Anyway, you know the city well. I want you to speak truly to me. Will the people give in to a siege, as Imco hopes?”

  “No, they will not give in,” Tusselo said.

  Hannibal sighed at this, casually, as if he had heard an unfortunate report of the coming weather. “Of course they won't,” he said, turning and gazing back over the seven hills. “Do you realize that I've never once been beaten in a major battle? Not in Iberia. Not here in Italy. Never once has an enemy army slain men under my command with abandon and celebrated it afterward.”

  “I know that, Commander.”

  “Tusselo, I fear Rome will win this war out of pure stubbornness. How do you defeat a people who won't admit defeat? It's as if you stab a corpse a thousand times and then step back and, to your horror, the body rises to fight on. You slice off its arm and it picks its sword up with the other arm. You slice that one off, only to discover that the first has grown back. You cut off its head, but then the thing rises and slashes blindly at you. . . . How do you defeat a creature like that?”

  The Numidian cocked his head and then straightened it.

  Hannibal looked at him for some time, as if he had forgotten something and expected it to soon appear on the man's features. “I've killed them by the tens of thousands, scoured their countryside at will, pried their allies away, and humiliated them day after day. I have burned their crops and looted their wealth. I've sent a whole generation of their generals into the afterworld. All the grief and rage . . . Have I changed nothing? They are stronger now than before. They are more than before. They fight more sensibly than before. They win when they used to lose . . .”

  “If that's so,” Tusselo said, “you have changed them very greatly.”

  The following morning the troops heard Hannibal's order to withdraw with a hushed silence that included both relief and shock. In the coming weeks they were to make haste along the Via Valeria, around Lake Fucinus, and then down through Samnium and into Apulia. When he reached Tarentum a few weeks later, he would learn that Capua had surrendered, from hunger and in fear that Hannibal had abandoned them. And only two days after this, an envoy from Carthage found him, bearing clear orders supported by the full membership of the Council and sealed with the mark of the One Hundred.

  Watching him, Tusselo realized that his commander, who excelled in all things, carried also a burden of sorrows such as most other men could only ever imagine. He was sharing a simple meal with Hannibal on the evening when he revealed his recall to Carthage. On a sign from the commander, Gemel reluctantly read the letter aloud to the small company of remaining generals. Sparely worded, it described the situation, named the participants, and concluded that Carthage was under threat. Just as his father had been summoned home years before to quell the mercenaries, Hannibal was called upon to save the city of his birth from invaders both foreign and African. No, he was commanded to do so. He could delay not at all, but must journey home at once, with all the soldiers he could muster. They would send boats to meet him at Metapontum, but only to speed his return. The same demand had, apparently, been sent to Mago, who was either on the Balearic Islands or in northern Italy.

  Isalca used the silence after this announcement to spit vitriol on the Council. As a Gaetulian fighting for Carthage by choice, he owed them no blood allegiance. In this order he found an opportunity to condemn all of the Council's earlier failures, the broken promises, the troops not sent, the support not given. If they had not been petty fools, the war would have been won; instead, it was ruined. He was not sure that he would obey. He would have to speak to his men, but he knew that many would feel as he did: that the best battles of this war had already been fought, and that it had been won or lost at some point that was now behind them.

  “There are not so many of us left, anyway,” he added, glancing at the commander.

  Hannibal heard all this with his eyes closed, just breathing. Nor did he comment when Maharbal asked to have the messenger brought in and interviewed. The Numidian was particularly interested in the power struggle between the Massylii and the Libyans. What, exactly, had happened? The messenger explained. The blood drained from Maharbal's face. He asked no more. Imco Vaca was in attendance as well. But, like Tusselo, he kept his thoughts hidden.

  For some time, the men sat in silence, none touching their food; the only noises were Isalca clearing his throat, Gemel rubbing his fingers over his chin beard, Imco shifting uncomfortably and then settling again. Tusselo realized that at some point the commander had opened his eyes.

  When Hannibal spoke, it was a comfort just to hear his voice, for that was the same as ever it had been, only gentler, softer, there being no need to project his words in this small chamber. “The One Hundred,” he said, “did not even mention sadness at my brother's death. They tell me Hanno Barca is dead, but they spare not a word to admit that I might be grieved by this. He's only another failed general, best forgotten. I've always loathed this about my nation. If dead generals are all failed generals, then what is the Carthaginian legacy except a catalog of failures? We are all dust eventually. Nations should have memories. Even if people forget, a nation should not.”

  Isalca asked, “Will you obey them?”

  Hannibal fixed him with his gaze and stared, just stared until the Gaetulian lowered his eyes. “First I'll pray for my brother. And then, yes, I will go home to save my country. What kind of man woul
d I be if I did not?”

  Later that night, Tusselo packed his few things and rode out of camp, thinking parting words and wishing them out to the sleeping men, asking the commander for forgiveness and offering thanks for the gift of time they had spent together. It had not been easy to decide to leave, but neither was the decision a sudden one. He had suspected for some time that his journey might not end the way he had imagined when he first joined Hannibal's army, years before, still fresh from winning his freedom and trying to find his place in the world. He had seen so much. He had watched genius at work and witnessed a mighty, hated nation being humbled. He had had some joy. But none of this had changed who he was, or healed the scars, or returned to him the most precious things that had been stripped from him. So he framed a new vision of the statement he might make, and now he determined to see it made real.

  Not far out of camp, he sat his horse atop a shallow hill and looked north across the heaving knots pushed up in the landscape. The month had just passed the Nones by the Roman calendar. The moon hung in a cloudless sky, so clear that he could see the weathered skin of it, cracked and pitted and pale like an old Gaul. It would flesh to fullness in a handful of days, on the day called the Ides in the Roman tongue. It was already bright enough that he could make out fields and huts and the ruts of roads. He could even distinguish a few thin streams of smoke that rose from fires. The signs of man were all across the land. It would be no easy task to map his way through it, alone over much the same territory he had just traversed as one among a great host. But so be it. This was his journey. He aimed to reach Campania under the full moon and work his way steadily north through the rest of the month. By the Kalends he would be at the heart of his goal. He would announce the new month in his own special way. The Kalends, the Nones, the Ides . . . he knew too many of their words. They came too often to his head. He had tried to expel them, but this was not as easy as Hannibal believed. No matter. It would all be undone soon enough. He touched his mount on the neck. She stepped forward and the two of them began the slow descent, toward the north, back toward Rome.