forehead, topped with a mass of wavy black hair. Though his face was grim, the man flashed a smile upon seeing the newcomers. It was Hasdrubal, the third of the Barca sons. As Mago had known from the start, the seated man was his eldest brother, Hannibal.
Mago stepped toward them, but Hanno caught him by the arm. He nodded toward the mouth of the passageway. Five men had appeared in the space. They seemed to stand considering the corridor, looking one to another and sharing thoughts on it. One of them shook his head and spat on the ground. Another made as if to stride away. But yet another stayed them all with a calming gesture of his hand. He pulled the crested helmet from his head and tucked it under his arm, then stepped forward into the passageway. The others fell in a few paces behind him, five silhouettes against the daylight.
“You and I will take a position to the right of him,” Hanno whispered, “Hasdrubal and the translator to the left. This is a strange greeting, yes, but we want you to stand as one of us.”
The two of them slipped into position. Mago still could not see his eldest brother's face, but Hasdrubal nodded at Mago and whispered something that he did not catch. Then they all turned toward the Romans in silence, still-faced and as empty of expression as possible.
The leader of the embassy halted a few strides from the chair and stood with his legs planted wide. Though he wore no sword, he was otherwise dressed for war. His skin tone was only a shade lighter than the Carthaginians', yet there was no mistaking the differences in their origins. He was half a head shorter than most Carthaginians, bulky in the shoulders and thick down through the torso. One edge of his lips twisted, an old scar, perhaps, a wound slow in healing and left imperfect. His eyes jumped from one to the other of the brothers, studying each and finally settling on the figure enclosed by the chair.
“Hannibal Barca,” he said, “commander of the army of Carthage in Iberia: My name is Terentius Varro. I bring you a message from the Republic of Rome, by order of the Senate of that Republic.”
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. One of the men behind him cleared his throat and began to translate Varro's Latin into Carthaginian. He was cut short by a single, small motion that drew all their eyes. Hannibal had raised a finger from its grip on the armchair. His wrist twisted in a motion that was at first unclear, until the digit settled into place, a pointer directed toward one of the men standing behind him, his own translator, a young man dressed in a simple cloak that covered him entirely save for his head and hands. He conveyed the introduction.
“Welcome, Terentius Varro,” Hannibal said, via his translator. “Let us hear it, then.”
“You will have me speak here, in a stable?” Varro looked around. One of the men behind him exhaled an exasperated breath and checked the bottoms of his sandals for fouling. “Let me say again, Hannibal Barca—”
“It's just that I was told you were anxious to speak to me,” Hannibal said, breaking in with his Carthaginian. “I've just returned from the siege of Arbocala this very hour, you see. I am tired, unwashed. I still have blood under my fingernails. All this and yet I've paused here to listen to your urgent message. Once you've given it you can mount and take my answer back to Rome. And do not worry about your sandals. We can provide you new ones if you like.”
The commander pointed to a soldier in the far corner and motioned him out of the room. The young man seemed confused, but hurried out anyway. “You'll like our sandals,” Hannibal said. “There are none better for comfort.”
The Roman turned and shared a dour expression with his translator, as if asking him to make some official note of all of this. He turned back to the commander. “It's come to the Senate's attention that some of our allies here in Iberia are dismayed by Carthaginian actions.”
Hannibal made a sound low in his throat, a rumbling acknowledgment.
The Roman took no note of it. Saguntum, he reminded the commander, was a friend of Rome and would be protected as such. Rome had been generous with Carthage so far, not curtailing its ventures in Iberia since the time of Hamilcar, through Hasdrubal the Handsome. Now Rome was still acting with restraint in her dealings with Hannibal. But this should not suggest that Romans had forgotten the details of previous treaties. They still honored the agreement with Hasdrubal that limited the Carthaginian sphere of influence to south of the Ebro. They acknowledged that the familial and tribal ties of some of Carthage's Iberian allies approached that border, and for that reason they had so far looked the other way in the face of these minor violations. But Rome would not remain inactive if Saguntum were threatened. And she would allow no activity whatsoever beyond the Ebro. None. She wanted this understood by the young commander, in the event that his predecessor's untimely death had left him with any questions.
As the translator finished this, Varro glanced over his shoulder at his colleague, a knowing look that suggested he was just now getting to the crux of his speech. “Rome therefore demands that Hannibal limit his dealings around Saguntum to peaceful transactions among existing allies, establishing no settlements there and mediating no disputes in the region. Rome demands that no Carthaginian or Carthaginian ally cross the Ebro for any reason whatsoever. Furthermore, Rome demands—”
“Enough!” Hannibal said in Latin. He had not spoken loudly, but the word clipped the Roman to silence. He leaned forward, for the first time bringing his profile into Mago's view. His deep-set eyes remained in shadow, recessed beneath prominent eyebrows and beside a sharp blade of a nose. Like the men of the Sacred Band, he wore a trimmed bulb of hair on his chin. He touched it with his fingertips and seemed to pluck his words out like single strands. “I'll have no more furthermores. You have made your case. Will you have my response?”
Varro gathered his composure. More than startled by the interruption, he seemed ill at ease speaking directly to the Carthaginian in Latin. He had to clear his throat before responding. “As I have been interrupted, I would not say that I have made my case completely.”
“Be that as it may . . .”
Hannibal stood and stepped forward, a head taller than the Roman. His arms were bare from the shoulder. He flexed his triceps, rolled his shoulder joints, and tilted his chin in a way that audibly cracked his jaw. There was something in his appearance that surprised Mago, though it was not a difference in his actual physique. He had always been fit and disciplined beyond the norm, but now his movements had a new focus and deliberateness. Even as he appeared to be somewhat weary of the discourse, there was still a thoughtful tension behind his eyes. He paced the floor before the envoy, glancing at various objects around the stable: the dirt floor, the wood of the stalls, the insignia on the shield of one of the Sacred Band. He touched for a moment on Mago and registered his arrival with his eyes.
“Whence comes this history of kinship between Rome and Saguntum?” he asked, speaking once more in Carthaginian. His translator kept time just after him. “Where is the treaty written? It seems to me that this city is a new friend to Rome, perhaps a friend in name only, for a purpose only. Be true and speak to the source of your passions. Rome is troubled to see Carthage flourish. You thought us a defeated people but find instead that we blossom. We came to this wild place and tamed it and now manage the riches that flow out of it. This is what you covet. Rome has always hated the way silver coins appear between the fingers of Carthaginian hands as if by sorcery. Speak truthfully and admit that you stand here before me because of greed and envy, not for the protection of a single city. This matter of Saguntum is just an excuse for opening hostilities with us.”
Hannibal paused. When the translator halted a moment later, the Roman answered promptly. “A treaty of alliance between Saguntum and Rome is held by the record keepers of the Senate. It is a well-known friendship that is not in question here.”
“Fine, fine,” Hannibal said, breaking in before the translation was finished. “Let us move on, then.”
Instead of doing so he approached one of the stalls. As he neared it, a horse's head emerged from the shadows, a solid black muzzle, lean until it flared at the nostrils. Hannibal clicked his tongue in greeting and reached out to stroke the creature. He lost himself in examining the horse's mane and ears and brushing his hand across its eyelashes. When he spoke he almost seemed to do so absently.
“My second point of dispute is with your interference within our realm of influence,” he said. “Saguntum is surrounded on all sides by many who are loyal to Carthage. But the Saguntines have interfered in the well-being of our allies the Turdetani. Just this year past the headmen of three clans were put to death. And for what? How did these small tribal powers so threaten Saguntum—or Rome, for that matter? What did they do that they deserved crucifixion? I ask, but I do not pause to hear your answer because you do not have one, not a true one.”
He spun from the horse and set his eyes back on the Roman. “What did you say your name was?”
“Terentius Varro.”
“Let me tell you something, Terentius Varro, which you may not know of Carthage. We aid those who have
