have done that, yes,” she said. “And there are always women among the camp followers. But you know as well as I that is a foolish notion for you, with the baby certainly. On the contrary, I believe you should return with me to Carthage and wait out the war there.”
“You would have me leave Iberia?”
“It would be for the best. You are married to Carthage, after all. You might as well see it, learn the language properly, meet my mother, Didobal, and my sister, Sophonisba.”
“I will ask my husband.”
“You can do that, but know that I've already spoken with him on this matter, and he agrees with me.”
Imilce looked askance at Sapanibal as she considered this news. “I will ask him myself.” She rose and patted bits of debris from her gown. “I will sacrifice to Baal this evening and I will have a letter composed, cheerful as you say. Thank you, sister, for your counsel.”
Sapanibal watched Imilce move away. Despite the young beauty's deferential words, Sapanibal did not trust her, was not yet confident that she would not somehow corrupt the course of events to come, intentionally or otherwise. She was, after all, the daughter of a conquered chieftain. Though others did not yet realize this, Sapanibal knew that Imilce formed her own opinions. This much, at least, she could see behind the elegant facade.
Just as Hannibal hoped, the Carthaginian Council had time to consider his letter before the Roman envoy called on them. They turned him away casually, citing the arguments elucidated to them in the letter. Unfortunately, the same messenger who brought this news back to Hannibal also brought word of a rebellion among the Carpetani, in central Iberia. The commander left Saguntum to deal with it personally. He might have delegated this task to a trusted general, but he deemed it grave enough to require his personal attention. If left unchecked, these unruly tribes might inspire more discontent with Carthaginian authority. This was impermissible.
In his absence he left Hanno at the helm, with instructions to bring the siege to a conclusion if it all possible. But almost before Hannibal's silhouette disappeared over the Saguntine hills, the men's enthusiasm drained from their weary bodies. Hanno saw this. Perhaps even more significantly, he felt it as well. He had no inspired speeches to energize his sweat-soaked, reeking, insect-plagued men, but he believed that no city could stand forever against dogged persistence. He had the men build ever larger siege engines, towers taller than the walls, that could be pushed forward on the level areas. From these they hurled volleys of arrows and spears and darts as cover for those working beneath them. In other areas, they built sheltered pathways so that workers could go forward in safety and chip away at the foundation of the city in relative safety. Adherbal, the chief engineer, reported that the blocks at the base of the walls were fitted and sealed with clay. These blocks he had pulled away in great numbers, weakening the fortress at its very base. Occasionally the massive walls shifted and adjusted to the intrusion, groaned against it as if calling out for help.
This was normal enough—to be expected as the battering rams shook the barriers deep down into their foundations—but Hanno woke one stiflingly hot late-summer morning, feeling something in the air, something amiss. When a messenger brought him news of a strange occurrence he almost felt like he had been expecting it. A corner section of the city's sloping northern bulwark had shifted suddenly, crushing the corps of workers undermining it, burying them in an instant mass grave, one great noise and then complete silence, no cries or moaning or calls for help. As the dust slowly cleared it revealed the strangest of architectural adjustments. The wall had not collapsed at all but simply sunk about ten feet, completely intact, no weaker for the change, no more easily breached.
Inspecting the sight, Hanno felt a sudden, gnawing doubt wrap around his gut. What force had lifted its massive boot and pressed it down upon those fifty men, blotting them from the earth without a trace? It was too odd an occurrence to go unconsidered. There might well be a portent in it of things to come. Perhaps the Saguntines had called upon the power of a god whose devotion to them outweighed Baal's commitment to the Carthaginians. If that were so, not even Hannibal's skills could hope to further their cause. Hanno ordered a halt to similar work and called upon the chief priest for guidance.
Mandarbal was a taciturn man with a disfigured face. His upper lip attached directly to the lower portion of his nose, leaving his mouth ever open, his large yellow foreteeth jutting out. It was rumored that he had been born with hands like the flippers of a sea creature, fingers all attached to each other with a webbing of skin that a clerical surgeon sliced away on the day they accepted the orphaned boy into their order. For this reason the priest always wore leather gloves, as he did that afternoon as he invoked the presence of the gods and their wisdom and guidance in the question before them. The animal to be offered was a she-goat that had spent some time in a blessed state, waiting to be called upon. Mandarbal's black-cloaked assistants led her into the dusty courtyard of the command tent, chanting sacred words, the meanings of which were known only to themselves. The goat eyed them warily, skittish and ornery, pulling against the rope that bound her. The priests had difficulty maintaining the appropriate solemnity while controlling her.
Mago, who stood beside his brother, nudged him in the ribs. “Seems she knows what's coming,” he said. “Our future written on the inside of her. Strange how the gods speak to us.”
The animal's struggles turned out to be short-lived. Mandarbal knew his work well and went to it without delay. With the help of his assistants, he straddled the goat across the shoulders and jabbed her in the neck with a long, thin spike. An artery spurted a few quick streams of blood and then eased into a steady flow that slowly blackened the goat's neck and dripped down to the parched earth. The priest stretched out his hand for the next tool, a knife with a convexly curved blade and a handle said to have been made from the backbone of a sea monster. The motion he used to cut the creature's throat was awkward, but so fast that the goat barely noticed it. She had dropped to her knees before she realized new damage had been done to her. This much of the ceremony was public, but as the priests bent to the surgery they closed in around the victim and worked silently.
Mago began to whisper something to his brother, but paused to watch a man stride up to the edge of the group. He was a short man, thin around the chest, with slender arms like those of an adolescent boy. His head seemed somewhat larger than the norm, squared across the back and covered in a mass of curly black hair. But for all his seeming frailty he was tanned a leathery brown and strode up with a massive pack balanced on his shoulders, the legs supporting him sinewy and nimble. He tossed his burden down in the dust and introduced himself, speaking first in Greek, then a little more in Latin, and finally, eloquently, in Carthaginian. He was Silenus, the Greek who was to take over as Hannibal's official historian and chronicler. He said that he had come from afar to immortalize this colossal undertaking in words that would make the ancient poets jealous. He needed little more than wine to wet his pen.
Mago warmed to him immediately, but Hanno said, “You have arrived at an inconvenient time. We expected you several weeks ago.”
“I know it, sir. I've been held up by too many things to recount in brief. I will bend your ear if you ask me to, but it is a tale better told at leisure.”
Hanno considered this prospect for a moment before answering. “It can wait,” he said. “Search out the camp quartermaster. He'll get you settled and show you the layout of the camp. You'll explain your lateness to me this evening.”
“At dinner,” Mago said. “Explain it to me as well. Tell the tale in leisure, as you suggest.”
Hanno looked at his brother but did not contradict him. He turned his attention back to the divination, although he was still aware that some moments passed before the Greek hefted his load and moved away.
Mandarbal finally rose, the bloody liver cradled in his gloved hands. The goat lay on its side, abdomen slit open and viscera strewn from the wound and freckled with pale dirt, already swarming with flies. The priest placed the sacred organ carefully upon the ceremonial table and bent close to it, his attendants on either side of him, shoulder to shoulder, head to head so that the two brothers saw nothing of the signs written on the liver itself. Mandarbal stood erect above the scene for a moment, then turned and walked toward the brothers. As he left the circle of priests, the space he vacated closed behind him. Hanno only caught a momentary glimpse of the mutilated flesh.
“The signs are uncertain,” Mandarbal said, his voice high and lisping. “The offshoot of the liver is abnormally large, which suggests a reversal of the natural order. The right compartment is healthy and fine, but the left bears a black mark shaped like a young frog.”
“How do you read that?” Hanno asked.
“It is uncertain. We are favored by the gods in some aspects, and yet there are divine forces aligned against us.”
