Hamilcar placed a hand on his son's shoulder. There was gentleness in the touch, though the hand was callused and misshapen by years of violence. “Don't speak with that tone when you speak of your mother. You believe you have all the answers, I know. But this is a sickness of youth. We get other illnesses in old age, but in youth, when our bodies are strong, we suffer from one thing only—certainty. When I was younger I too had few doubts about my purpose.”

“Do you now?”

“No. You know my goal. I've never wavered from it. I still don't. Despite all my old man's dithering, few know their calling as clearly as I do. I don't truly question the rightness of my deeds in the world. Your mother is a creator; I am a destroyer. There is balance in this.”

The old warrior stepped away and tested the fit of his breastplate again. Resigning himself to the armor, he dropped his arms and looked again at his son. He said, “I do, however, question the rightness of the world itself.”

Hannibal, lying on his cot in his tent of grief, realized he was just now learning to understand the man. How was it possible that conversations of years before could speak to him now in such a different way? He wished he could ask his father what wisdom the intervening years had provided him for his own old questions. But one cannot make new queries of the dead. If there were answers to be found, they must be in the scripts already written. “The rightness of the world itself,” the old man had said. That was what he doubted. Ten years on, Hannibal was beginning to understand Hamilcar. In some ways, he was becoming him.

But the next morning, when he spoke to his assembled generals, he focused on one portion of his father's words and pushed aside this last proclamation. It might have been true, but what use was doubt to those who still breathed air and lived? Doubt undermined; it offered no help to those still slaves to life. When he issued his decision on their opening move of the season, the entire council looked at him in disbelief. Gemel asked him to repeat himself. Hannibal did. There was one way to tie all of these disparate problems together in a single action. They were to strike camp by the end of the week and march north.

“But not to Capua,” he said. “Our target is Rome.”

Word of Hasdrubal's death preceded Hanno's arrival by a scant few days. The Barca family was still in mourning, though they did so in a strange way that angered Sapanibal. The priests, with their fickle wisdom, deemed that Hasdrubal's death should not be marked in the normal manner. They decreed that he had done something to invoke the ill will of Moloch. His failures in Iberia, his flight toward Italy, and his defeat proved it. Because of this the family could show no grief. They could not wail or cut their hair. They could not go veiled. They could not utter his name without speaking it down toward the ground. They could not prick their fingers with pins or cut their veins at the wrist to bleed until they were weak and faint. Instead, the priest forbade them to eat meat for the month. They could make their own offerings to the gods throughout the day, but in the evening all the Barca women were made to bow their heads as the priests offered sacrifices to cleanse the nation of Hasdrubal's sins.

This galled Sapanibal. They should be praising the man and easing his way into the afterworld. In typical Carthaginian fashion, they betrayed him instead. Hers were a petty people, she thought, who neither reward a man for his successes in life nor honor him in death. Sapanibal raged against this in her private chambers, with only her servants to hear her. In public, she kept her thoughts to herself. Neither Sophonisba nor Imilce showed anything on her face but the fear she expected from them. Even Didobal seemed to accept the advice of the priests. She swore to herself that if one of them looked at her with an inkling of rebellion in her eyes she would rise up and decry the priests' orders. But they did not. Not that she could see, at least.

She wondered if any of them would rouse from stupor if the city one day disrespected Hannibal in a similar manner. She could not imagine that they would not, although this should be no different. A brother was a brother. A husband a husband. Why did only she understand this? She felt, as she often did before, that the male energy inside her was rendered futile by her female body. If she had been born a son instead of a daughter she would have wrung those priests by their necks.

Thinking these things, she rejoiced to hear that Hanno had returned. Wonderful enough that he was alive, but better yet if he arrived in holy anger and cut out the corrupt heart that beat at the center of the city's institutions. He was a warrior, after all. How the soft men of the Council would wither before him!

But in this, too, she was disappointed. Before he had even returned to the family compound, he stopped at the Temple of Baal and there made offerings and underwent a cleansing, to remove the stains of war. The next day he still did not come home but met with the Council instead. From what Sapanibal could gather through her sources, the magistrates grilled him on every aspect of the Iberian wars. Hannon railed against all the Barcas: against Hannibal for starting the war with Rome, against Hasdrubal for abandoning the peninsula without permission, against Hanno and Mago for losing it all through their military ineptitude. Equally reprehensible, they had left alive this Publius Scipio, who reportedly had found killing Carthaginian soldiers so pleasurable that he was now planning to attack Carthage itself. Hadus proposed crucifixion as a just punishment for Hanno's being foolish enough to return. Another peace party member suggested offering Hanno's head as a present to the Romans, along with entreaties to end the conflict. Perhaps Carthage should add his entire family as slaves, Hannibal included.

But even in their foul mood, most councillors balked at this. Many of them had lost fortunes in Iberia and knew that giving in to Rome ruled out ever regaining this source of wealth. And they knew Rome had already been too terrified for too long to settle for an amicable peace. With the exception of the staunchest peace advocates, the others—after chastising Hanno in every manner, over the space of three full days—asked him what he proposed to do next. And he answered, although he gave this portion of his testimony exclusively to the Council of One Hundred Elders. His proposals were best made in secret, so he met with the elders deep in the Temple of Moloch, in a chamber protected by the god himself. There were, therefore, a few aspects of his dealings with the councillors that Sapanibal had yet to learn.

When she did lay eyes upon him, she stood beside the other women of the household in the Chamber of the Palms. He paused just inside the reed outer door, blinking in the dim light, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His face was ashen from his ordeal. He seemed to walk in a daze. The thick scent of incense clung to him still, Moloch's powerful aroma. It seemed he brought something of the hungry god into the room with him. He gazed at his family, behind whom towered the pillars meant to look like an ancient forest. Among these clustered the house servants, officials, eunuch guards: all seeking their first glimpse of the returning son.

Hanno bent his knee and lowered his head and explained that his safe arrival was not his doing alone. It was allowed by the gods, and so he acknowledged the power of Baal, who blew the wind across the sea that bore him home; the kindness of Tanit, who protected Carthage and blessed her crops; the blood rage of Moloch, which took lives other than his own; Astarte, from whose fertility he issued, without whom his homeland would be a barren wound; Eshmun, by whose power his many injuries were healed; Ares, who had filled him with fury in battle. . . . He had always been devout, and he did not forget any of the Carthaginian pantheon for the role they had played in any good fortune he had experienced. His prayers took some time but he completed them without rushing. Only then did he bridge the few steps between them and fall into the women's embraces. Up close, Sapanibal could smell more than the initial aroma of the incense. With her nose close to his ear she smelled the essence shared by all Barca men. It nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Finally, late that night when the household was quiet and the fires burned low and the lyre player in the garden had stopped her plucking and lain down beside the instrument, Hanno came to Sapanibal in her room. She embraced him again, hanging from his neck like a lover. They sat on the terrace overlooking the olive groves. Hanno sipped a heavy red wine, so thick it tinted his teeth a brownish color in the torchlight. And he told her everything. He spoke with a voice both dull and honest, describing the life that he had seen these few years. He spoke with the complete honesty he saved for her among all people. He even described the tortures the Romans had inflicted upon him, the things they promised him if he would turn on his brothers. It was not that he had ever been close to Sapanibal or loved her overly. But he had never been able to lie to her. She had been an older sister who had always seen through him. She judged him, yes, but he ever sought her for confession. Their relationship was no different now. At first, it warmed Sapanibal to fill this role again.

But at the first mention of Syphax she felt a tightness in her throat. She realized that the sensation mirrored a constriction that had gripped Hanno's own voice. He spoke more slowly and kept his eyes pointed out toward the darkness beyond the orchards. He explained that the Roman consul, as part of his plan for attacking Carthage, had made overtures to the Libyan king. This could not be allowed. It would have spelled their death in and of itself. King Gaia was ill and powerless; some said he was already dead but that it was being kept secret until word could reach

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