about his plans and sent back his reply. It was agreed. They would meet in person in two days' time, on the neutral ground between their camps, just after first light. Hanno and Syphax should both be present. And they, like Publius himself, should have spent the preceding evening in prayer and purification, so that all they said the following day would be kindly looked upon by the gods.
Only on the morning before the arranged meeting did Publius call his generals together and lay before them the complete situation as he saw it, answering all their questions in a single meeting. Of course he was not considering the terms of the enemy's offer. He had never intended to. He had put Carthage to their backs deliberately, not to avoid the issue but to win it more conclusively. The simple fact was that Carthage had no army inside its walls. There were riches in there, fat men and beautiful women and slaves enough for a city twice as large, but there were few fighting men. Carthage had never been a nation of citizen soldiers, and this was their great weakness. They preferred to elevate men of genius to military leadership and then buy temporary armies as required. Hannibal had changed this, to some extent, but Hannibal was not in Africa. The people of Carthage believed themselves safe inside their city's massive fortifications. They could easily hold out for months; they had done so in the past. As they could all see, Hanno Barca and King Syphax had gathered for themselves a sizable force here beside Cirta. Why so?
“Is it not clear that the Carthaginians had hoped that we would attack Carthage?” Publius asked. “Once we had done that and were entrenched, committed, limited to the grounds that the enemy had for generations shaped for its defenses, then and only then would their massive army attack us, not from the city itself but from behind our backs. They would have chosen the spot, the time, the circumstances. They'd have marched in with one unified force under their best commanders, numbering the exact maximum they could muster. This, at least, is what they wished. But something very different will take place.
“This war began with deceit and trickery,” Publius said. “Now it will end by the same.”
There was some debate about what Publius then proposed, but it was halfhearted. The generals all saw its deadly efficiency and knew that any other course might mean their doom. Accordingly, the evening before the scheduled meeting, the various generals led their men out and into positions near the Libyan camp. They waited until dark and, letting their men's eyes adjust, marched with no torchlight to give them away. Each corps carried a red-hot ember in an earthenware jar, wrapped in leather to insulate it and pierced with air holes to feed the coal.
When Publius judged the hour right, he took a reed whistle and played a wistful melody. Others picked it up and passed it on, as had been arranged. With this, the keepers of the coals in four different areas tipped them onto the dry timbers they had prepared. Men huddled close around each of these, protecting the infant flame from the wind that had begun to blow. As soon as the red glow flared into gold tongues, men came forward with torch after torch.
Publius, from where he stood at a distance to take in the whole scene, saw the lights multiply from a few small points into many moving flames. He watched as four fires became hundreds, carried by men in sweeping movements that fanned out all around the camp. He knew the moment the first torches touched the thorny perimeter wall. And he saw how moments later the torches leaped in somersaulting arcs, landing among the reed- and-wood structures. With the evening wind buffeting across it all, it was a matter of a few breaths before the whole place was aflame. The dry wood and reeds went up as quickly as lamp oil.
The Africans woke and at first none understood the horror that was afoot. A few guards shouted alarms, but they were unheeded. Men ran out of the camp's few exits in disarray, bleary-eyed, often weaponless. They stumbled, pushing each other, in a frenzy, some of them swatting at their burning garments. Then they were cut down by what to them seemed to be soldiers the shape and color and consistency of flame, who stepped out of the gloom with sword and spear. Within moments there were so many bodies piled by the entrances that the Romans had trouble planting their feet. Or perhaps it was fear that made them clumsy, for the scene before them soon became a vision of hellish agony. By the time the third and fourth contingents of soldiers had replaced those stationed at the exits, they were not soldiers but angels of mercy, cutting down the flaming, maddened, humanlike figures that ran howling out into their last escape.
In the full light of the following day the army took in the scene with hushed amazement. The camp was a blackened wasteland. Demons of smoke drifted through the charred remains, bodies in every imaginable contortion, man and beast likewise reduced to black, shriveled versions of their former selves. The charred poles and skins that had been shelters could have been carcasses too. Syphax had, of course, been in the camp to perform the purification rites. Publius had required these especially for this purpose—to keep him out of the city and away from his new bride. He had been captured during the night and now sat bound by the arms and legs. He stared with unreasoning eyes at the scene around him and yelled curses at Publius, at Rome and the gods of Rome. He called them all liars and scoundrels and said that history would know their perfidy. A day would come when all of their sins returned to plague them manyfold.
So he harangued them for some time, but Publius soon got the gist and stopped having his diatribes translated. Later, the king hung his head and blubbered into his chest, looking as dejected as a mutilated veteran of some forgotten war. Thus was Fortune fickle, even for kings of men. Hanno had not been found, but nothing in the world suggested that he had done anything except ascend toward the heavens in ash and flame. He had gone the way of the army of Africa, leaving Carthage undefended and, finally, conquerable.
Still looking upon the scene and thinking thoughts such as this, Publius saw the approaching messenger and the banner under which he rode. The message had been five days in transit, not such a short space, really, but short enough for Publius to feel some urgency. He thought he saw Fabius' trembling hand in the document, but even that did not lessen its impact. Hannibal was marching on Rome, the dispatch said. The Carthaginian made no secret of this but instead rolled across the land announcing his movements with drums and horns like some traveling entertainment. He was sweeping in new allies along the way and had also unleashed a hitherto unseen degree of barbarity directed by his general Monomachus, who worshipped the Child Eater and was at that very moment devouring Italy's young. The Senate chastised Publius for the grave danger he had placed them in, saying that he had promised Hannibal would quit Italy on word of his arrival in Africa. Instead, the invader had used the consul's absence to strike his final blow. Rome now found herself in the greatest peril she had ever faced. The burden of this rested upon Publius' young shoulders. He was, therefore, recalled to protect Rome. Immediately. There must be no delay.
Looking south from the terrace adjacent to her rooms at Cirta, Imilce thought it ominous how little of consequence happened in the whole great swath of country she could see. It was true that laborers worked the fields; a flock of birds rose, swooped, and landed, flying from one field to the next and on again, dodging stones thrown by children employed for the purpose; a breeze stirred the palms lining the river and set them rattling; a cart trundled along beneath her, two men talking in Libyan atop it; the dry hint of smoke drifted in from the continent, a scent mixed with the smell of the vast stretches of farmland. Yes, much was happening as she stood there, but all of it seemed false, an imitation of life in denial of the larger movements afoot. She was sure of this and found it most disconcerting that the world was such a resourceful deceiver. From the moment she placed her fingers on the smooth mud of the wall she felt that she must not move until the mystery hanging in the air had been revealed. As it turned out, she did not have to wait past mid-morning.
She first saw them as a ripple on the horizon, a dark line that for some time appeared and disappeared. She thought it might be a trick of the light, the play of heat demons out on the plains. And then the strange thought came to her that a mighty flock of ostriches was rushing toward them. But this impression vanished almost as quickly as it came and she knew what it was that she looked upon: an approaching horde of mounted men.
“Is it my husband returning?” a voice asked, flat and emotionless.
Imilce did not turn to meet Sophonisba. She smelled her sister's perfume, and that was enough to increase her melancholy. The fragrance was just slightly musky, masculine in its richness of tone. It struck the back of the nose, so that by the time one scented her she was already deep inside. Imilce felt the younger woman's hand slip over hers. She reached up with her thumb and acknowledged her by clasping her little finger for a moment. They had been together every day now for weeks, ever since both she and Sapanibal had insisted on traveling with Sophonisba to Cirta. Such an escort was customary when a young woman journeyed to wed in a foreign nation, and the two older women would accept none of Sophonisba's protests. Indeed, Imilce found the resolution with which the girl accepted her fate almost unnatural. She kept reminding herself that Sophonisba was a Barca. That was
