been wronged. With our strength we defend our friends from tyrants. That is my only grievance against Saguntum. I ask that they make amends for the wrongs they have done. And yet you come here as though I had entered the city and taken their leaders by force and nailed them to crosses. This is rubbish and you know it. Go back to Rome and tell your masters so. Go back to Rome and tell them that I heard your message and give them this response . . .”
Hannibal inhaled deeply and let a moment of silence pass into another. Then he exhaled a long, petulant sigh through loose lips that blubbered as the air escaped. A similar sound came from one of the stalls in answer. One of the Sacred Band chuckled, then caught himself and went stone-faced.
“What was that?” the Roman asked.
“You can make that sound, can you not? Something like a stallion bored with chewing grass. Take that back to Rome and stand before the Senate and in your best and most distinguished voice, say . . .” Again he made the sound, longer this time and even more equestrian.
Varro stared at him. His official haughtiness slipped from his features. “Do you really want conflict with us?”
“What I want is not the important thing,” Hannibal said. “The important thing is what will be. In deciding this, Hannibal is only one of a million minds, only a single man among a host of gods. We've done nothing to violate our word. That is all the answer I need give you. I've spoken to you simply. Flippantly, yes, but my message is clear. I do have disputes with Saguntum. These may, Baal willing, be resolved peacefully, but do understand that they will be resolved one way or the other. Pray to your gods that there is no conflict in this. Good-bye, and fair journey to you.”
The meeting was concluded. Hannibal spun on his heel and fell into instant conversation with Hasdrubal and the others around him, speaking of the things yet to be done that afternoon, the care the returning animals would require, and the provisions he was ordering released for the men to celebrate their victorious return. The Romans looked uncomfortably at each other. They milled about briefly, exchanging glances and a few whispers. Varro seemed on the verge of calling out to the commander, but one of his advisers touched him on the elbow. The group reluctantly retired, five silhouettes again traversing the long stretch of the stable, out into the ashen gray of the winter day.
As soon as the Romans were gone Hasdrubal clapped his brother on the back. Hannibal shook his head and laughed. “Was it imprudent of me to snort so? Do you think he will take my message to the Senate?”
Hasdrubal said, “I would love to see their faces if he does. But Hannibal, look, the other young lion has returned.” He nodded toward Mago.
Hannibal followed his gesture and was in motion even before he had actually spotted him. “By the gods, he has! And he will now get a proper greeting.” He pushed through his advisers, reached Mago in a few steps, and clapped his arms around him. Mago recognized the smell of him, a scent that was stale and sharp and yet sweet all at once. He felt the curly locks of his brother's hair beside his face and the prickle of his chin hairs against his shoulder blades, and he almost gasped at the pressure of the embrace. It seemed to last for some time, but he realized this was because his brother was silently mouthing his thanks to Baal.
“Mago, you do not know how it fills my heart to see you,” Hannibal said, still continuing the embrace, his voice just above a whisper but full of emotion. “It has been too long. I pray that your education was worth these years of absence. I know Father wanted you to build upon the gifts of your intellect, but many times I've wished for you by my side.”
As Hannibal released him, Hasdrubal stepped forward, throwing a slow punch at his chin. The motion then became a quick jab toward his ribs and a moment later was an embrace. Speaking over his brother's shoulder, Mago said, “I came to serve you, brother, but I did not expect to find a Roman in the stables.”
“Neither did I,” Hannibal said, “but let us remember that all such occurrences are the will of Baal. There are great things whistling in the air around us, possibilities, the shouts of the gods to action. So unexpected happenings should be expected. But listen . . .” He spread his arms and spun in a gesture that encompassed them all. “Is this not an amazing moment? After years of separation, Hamilcar's sons are finally all together. Tomorrow will bring many great things for us and for Carthage, for Hamilcar's memory . . .”
Just then the soldier who had been sent away for sandals stepped into the room sheepishly, his burden pressed to his chest. Hannibal broke into laughter. “We let our guests leave without their footwear! The pity of it. Bring me a pair, then. My feet have been well abused in the north. And give one to my brother, the first of many welcome presents.”
He took a pair of the sandals and smacked them to Mago's chest. “I must attend to my returning army,” he said. “They've labored incredibly, so they deserve their rewards. But tonight . . . tonight we'll praise the gods. We'll let the people celebrate. And soon I'll reveal all the many things I have planned for us.”
By dusk all the work that was going to be done had been. An hour later, the officers and chieftains and dignitaries, the courtesans and entertainers began to turn up in the main banquet hall, an enormous, high-ceilinged affair with walls painted the rich red of an African sunset, across which roamed lions in black silhouette. The guests walked into air alive with the beating of hand drums, the tinkling of cymbals, and the dry rhythms of palm fiber rattles. Tables crouched low to the ground. Cushions functioned as backrests. Thick rugs were layered throughout for comfort. Wine was the drink of choice, and it was easy to come by. Boys younger than twelve moved among the guests with jugs of the ruby liquid. They had been told to fill all goblets whether asked to or not. This duty they fulfilled with youthful enthusiasm.
The chefs sent out the feast in waves. The servants all moved in unison, by some signal in the music, perhaps, though the onlookers could not follow it. On each table they set a great fish with a gaping mouth before the guests. They slit the fish open in one smooth slice the length of its belly. They slipped their fingers inside and helped the fish to birth yet another, a red-skinned creature, which likewise housed another fish, which contained a roasted eel, from which they drew a long, slim procession of miniature octopuses, infant creatures the size of large grapes that were likewise tossed into the mouth. In the space of a few moments the single fish had become a bouquet of the ocean's splendor, each with its own distinctive seasonings, each cooked in a different manner before being sewn inside the next one's belly.
Naked men carried boars in on spits balanced on their shoulders. The beasts, in their charred grandeur, were set above slow coals, massive, coarse-haired things that even in such a reduced state looked like beasts set upon the earth by a twisted god. The guests took chunks out of them with their knives and stood, greasy-lipped, awed by the taste of the meat, for it had somehow been infused with a smoky, sweet, succulent flavor that left the lingering taste of citrus on the palate. Amid all this, small dishes bloomed, fruit plates and grilled vegetables and bowls of various olives and vials of virgin oil.
Such was the banquet for the officers and allied chieftains and particular soldiers who had distinguished themselves during the campaign. It was well known that the commander himself partook of few such delicacies. The excesses he did have were mainly those that the military world called virtues: a clear conscience in the face of pain, torture, death; an absurdity of discipline; a cool head though his command was of life and death over thousands. He exercised his body even while at leisure. He paced when he could have been still, stood while writing letters or reading them, walked with weights sewn into his sandals, held his breath for long intervals while training—this last a habit largely unnoticed, but it assured him endurance beyond all others. His brother Hasdrubal was a physical specimen of similar craftsmanship, but his exercises were done in public, and his love of mirth well known. The full length of Hannibal's exertions could only be guessed at. His temperance was better documented. He never drank more than a half-goblet of wine. He never ate till satiated, never slept beyond the first wakeful moments of any morn, and rose always to take in the dawn and measure the day ahead. He preferred lean meat to fat, simple clothing to elaborate, the hardness of the ground to the luxury of his palace bed. And he favored his wife over all other women, a true aberration in a man who ruled with complete power over slave girls and servants and prostitutes, the wives and daughters of the adoring, or ambitious. He might have had his pick of thousands of beauties captured from vanquished tribes. He did not. Instead he saved himself for the things he believed mattered.
As everyone knew this, few bothered to protest when the commander retired. He did so quietly, leaving his brothers to share among themselves his portion of pleasure, which took on a more carnal tone after his departure. Later that evening, Hannibal stood on the balcony of his bedroom overlooking the city, watching the play of light from the many fires, listening to the muffled shouts of revelry in the streets. He took it all in with a silent stillness at his center that was neither joy nor contentment nor pride but something for which he had no name. Though the
