was pummeled to silence by the cacophony of an army remembering itself, declaring its rebirth in a theater framed by granite.
Hannibal lowered his arms. He moved away, past the bewildered Allobroges and toward his quarters. This discourse completed successfully, he put it out of his mind and thought about the things to come, the dying that this alpine crossing was to be.
Carthage sprawled atop a craggy landscape that looked out onto curving stretches of pale beach. Many of its buildings were bleached as white as eggshells. Between them thronged such a variety of shapes and objects as to make a puzzle of urbanity, a confusion on the eye, a maze punctuated by obelisks and stout-columned temples. Here and there plumes of palms and spires of pines sprouted above the skyline, suggesting cool springs beneath, bubbling waters, a lushness Imilce had not expected. A city of almost a million people, all secured behind battlements that dwarfed those of New Carthage, higher by twice the measure, visibly stout, as if the architects wished to advertise the thickness of the walls. And beyond this throng of humanity, a cultivated landscape stretched farther than the eye could see, field upon field of wheat and barley, vineyards, orchards of dates and plums and olives.
Standing on the docks, Imilce could barely keep her balance. Nausea swelled in her and she had to fight back the urge to double over and grasp her abdomen. The world was supposed to be steady, her feet back on firm ground, but instead the dead stillness of the stone beneath her was a misery worse than the rocking of the boat. And worse still was the fact that only she seemed to notice this. People surged past her on all sides, men hefting urns, pulling sledges, loading packs atop mules. An elephant—far too near at hand for her comfort—dragged behind it a massive piece of furniture, exactly what she was not even sure. She was aware simultaneously of wealth and of poverty, of fragrant perfumes in one breath and the sweating stench of labor in the next. Though she looked from one thing to the next the sights cluttered her mind instead of resulting in order. She touched on forms without registering the meaning behind them. She had to reach out to steady herself and was surprised to realize she had grasped Sapanibal's arm. The older woman looked askance at her, not sharply but with her usual air of silent criticism.
“Come,” she said, “there will be a carriage waiting.”
Imilce swallowed down the taste from her belly and walked. She realized that many of those moving around her were attending them and the stores of gifts and personal items they had brought with them. Her maid was at her other elbow, and Little Hammer clung to her, his eyes wide and hungry for this new world. Inside the small carriage, Imilce sat stiff as her maid placed Hamilcar on her lap. She placed a hand over his knees, hoping that the boy would hold still and let her think. But he would not. Even this cramped enclosure offered many things of interest: the polished wood frame around them, the gold buttons sewn into the padded fabric abutting the women's knees, the view of the passing world through the carriage door. Imilce reached up and tugged a curtain across the opening. A moment later Hamilcar grabbed the material in two fists and buried his face in it, finding in this act an unreasoned joy that translated throughout his body. The mother had a sudden desire to squeeze him tightly, two- handed across his belly. But instead she pulled him back and pinned him to her chest. She kept her eyes lowered for the rest of the jolting ride, taking no comfort in it, enjoying no luxury despite the soft fabric and the cushion beneath her.
Sapanibal glanced at her several times throughout the ride but said nothing.
By the time she entered the Chamber of the Palms at her mother-in-law's palace, Imilce walked on unsteady legs. Her insides moved and shifted of their own accord, threatening to spill up and out of her in waves that came without rhythm but often. It was good, at least, to be out of the sun, away from the heat and bustle of the streets. She listened to the wooden door as it swung shut behind them, heard the bolt driven into place. She moved forward behind Sapanibal into a reception area as cool as an ancient forest. Granite pillars grew up from the stone slabs like the trunks of giant trees. The ceiling must have been wooden, but it was planed smooth and painted a dark crimson. The walls were not really so far away, the room not really that large, but the rows of pillars several deep gave the space a feeling of cramped grandeur. Something about it even stilled young Hamilcar. He went limp in his nurse's arms, tilted his head back, and stared, openmouthed, at the ceiling.
Sapanibal halted in the central area of the room, a greater space as one pillar was missing. There were chairs and low sofas nearby, but they did not sit down. Sapanibal stood with her hands clasped before her and was silent for a time. Then she said, “We'll wait here.”
A few moments later, a door at the far end of the chamber swung open, pushed on its wooden hinges by two adolescent boys, each bent to the task. Behind the swinging barricade came Didobal, widow of Hamilcar Barca, mother of the pride of lions now at war with Rome. Attendants framed her on either side and from behind, young and old women in colorful dress. A boy walked at her side, his head a platform on which she rested her left hand.
Imilce had conjured absolutely no image of this woman ahead of time and therefore her appearance was always to have been a revelation. And indeed it was that. Imilce knew that Didobal's mother was of native stock, from the Theveste people who lived south of Carthage, but she was still surprised at the richness of Didobal's skin, darker than any of her sons'. Her eyes sat widely spaced and her cheekbones were high, rounded, and regal. Her hair, woven into an intricate crosshatching of tight braids, was black, thick. From her first glimpse of the Barca matriarch, Imilce knew that she was not a woman easily deceived. Though she did not exactly know why, this realization troubled her.
Sapanibal greeted her mother with a formality Imilce had never seen in her. She touched one knee to the floor, bowed her head, and pressed her hands to her forehead, ready to receive her mother's blessing. Didobal stepped up close to her, studying her as if she might not positively recognize her. Sapanibal whispered a prayer of greeting, speaking reverently, admitting her debt to this woman for her very creation and invoking the blessings of Tanit, the mother goddess of Carthage.
Didobal heard all this indifferently. “Rise, dear,” she said. “I know what you owe, and I know that you know it as well.”
Sapanibal released the woman's hand and straightened. She stood with her arms stiff at her sides, chin upraised in a posture wholly out of character.
“You have not aged well,” Didobal said. “There was always too much of your father's mother in you, too much of the East. But I have made peace with that long ago. You are distinguished in your own way, and you are welcome here. It will give your sister joy to see you. Tell me of this other one now, daughter.”
Released from scrutiny by that simple sentence, Sapanibal resumed herself. She half turned toward Imilce and said, “Mother, this is Hannibal's beloved, Imilce, daughter of a chief of the Baetis named Ilapan. She is known as a beauty and is fertile as well, for she has borne us a son, the first male of his generation.”
Didobal would have known all of this already, but she rested her gaze on Imilce and nodded as her daughter spoke. Imilce knew something of how to greet Carthaginian women, but still she felt completely unprepared for this encounter and wondered how she had ever gotten to this point without thinking more of this moment. When Sapanibal paused, Imilce imitated her formal greeting, her hands outstretched from her forehead, head parallel to the ground, one knee against the cool stone beneath her. It seemed to take forever for the woman to acknowledge her with a touch. Fleeting and brief though it was, Didobal's fingers left a scent on hers, a perfume carried in an oily lotion that Imilce was to smell for days after. She heard the woman bid her rise.
“You have a delicate face,” Didobal said.
“Thank you,” Imilce murmured. She tried to look at Didobal directly but this was no easy thing. The woman's eyes were not hers alone but were also those of her son, deep-set, of a similar color, and with the same simmering intelligence. Strange that the quality of the mind behind the eyes can be conveyed through them. Imilce knew she would never be able to look at Didobal without seeing her husband. What she did not know yet was whether this was going to be a blessing or a curse.
“If my son married for beauty alone, then he chose well,” Didobal said, “but old ones such as me know that counts for little. There is more to a woman than her face and bosom. More even than her abundance in childbearing. I told my son this in writing and he assured me more substance was to be found within you. He asked of me the patience to see you slowly. I will grant him that. But, daughter, I have no love for your country. It's a mistress that has kept my men from me for too many years. This is hard to forgive. . . . But now, before we take our leisure, let me see my son's child.”
Imilce motioned to her maid, who offered her Little Hammer. She held him awkwardly on her hip. The child was surprisingly still, his fists clamped tight around folds of his mother's gown.
