They were certain that their siege of Medion was soon to prove victorious. So much so, that as they neared the date for their annual elections the retiring leaders argued that they should have a say in distributing the spoils and receive credit for the victory by having their names engraved on commemorative shields. The soon-to-be-elected objected. If the siege succeeded on the first day they were in office, well, so be it. Must be the will of the gods! And so only their names should go on the shields. Of course, neither party could accede to an agreement that gave the other the honor, so they resolved that whoever was leading them when the siege succeeded they would all share the spoils with their predecessors. Very high-minded of them, don't you think? Very egalitarian, to use a word you may not be familiar with. They even worked out the inscription they were to engrave on their shields to commemorate the victory.”
“And your point?” Bostar asked.
“I am just now reaching it. Demetrius of Macedon had hired himself to help the Medionians. His contingent of five thousand Illyrians landed on the very evening after this resolution was passed. They met the surprised Aetolians the next morning, dislodged them from their positions, and trounced them. So much for their sure victory. On the day following, the Medionians and Illyrians met to discuss the issue of the shields and how they should be inscribed. They chose to use the same structure the Aetolians had decided upon, inscribing both the names of the present Aetolian commanders and those of the favored candidates for the following year. They made one change, however. Instead of writing that the city was won by the Aetolian commander, they wrote that it had been won
Silenus leaned back and hefted his goblet. “Do not count your cause prematurely victorious. That is my point. And do not put your hubris in writing, for some quick mind will surely find fault with it.”
The Carthaginians answered this with the usual guffaws and good-humored jesting. All except for Hanno. He had never been fond of Silenus, but of late it seemed that the Greek irritated him every time he parted his lips. His mouth even had an insolent shape. It was too narrow, too full toward the middle, pursed slightly, as if Silenus were always on the verge of blowing a kiss. The others did not seem to notice it, but the Greek's smugness was unbearable.
Later, when he found himself walking toward his tent with the verbose Greek beside him, he listened just to see how long Silenus would rattle on before he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears. When Silenus stepped inside Hanno's tent unbidden Hanno still believed he was on the verge of strangling him. And yet that is not exactly what transpired.
Seating himself on a low couch that had recently belonged to a tribal leader, Silenus unplugged another vase of wine. He kicked his wiry legs up beside him and tugged his short tunic into place with his free hand. As he poured, he said, “You're a hard nut to crack, Hanno. Do not take that amiss. What I mean is that I've been watching you. Watching you watch others, myself included. An interesting study, I promise you. But it is the way you look at your brother that I've yet to figure out. You sometimes look upon Hannibal with . . . What's the word I mean?”
“Like all men who know him,” Hanno said, “I trust my brother's wisdom.”
“But you are not ‘all men.' He is your brother, for one thing.”
“Yes, we are fingers of a hand,” Hanno said.
Silenus smiled at this, pursed his lips, and then smiled again. He seemed to have a response, which at first he waved away, but then could not help but speak. “Who is the long pointer of this hand, then? Who is the thumb, and who the little runt on the end? Tell me truthfully, Hannibal wears heavy on you at times, yes? His eyes are ever judging. He sees weaknesses less observant men miss.”
Hanno formed a casual rebuttal to all of this, words expressing nothing but disdain for the topic. About to deliver it, he caught the spark of amusement in the Greek's eyes and knew that his rehearsed words would sound dead even as they left his tongue. Instead, he snapped, “It is not my fault that my brother disapproves of my inclinations.”
“Of course it isn't. Who meets Hannibal's standards but Hannibal himself?”
Hanno took the wooden cup Silenus proferred and brought it to his mouth immediately, feeling the bite of the wine against his chapped lips. He found, without either realizing it or being surprised by it, that he was inclined to speak, to fill the Greek's unusual silence with confessions.
“Do I feel his eyes always upon me?” he asked. “Yes. Even when his back is turned toward me. If I take one moment of luxury, one pleasure, he looks askance at me. This from a man richer than most who have ever lived, from a family and a people who love wealth and fine things. He seems to think I am weak just for being true to my people.”
“Does he see the same weakness in Hasdrubal? That one certainly takes his pleasure unsparingly.”
Hanno realized his palms were sweaty and his chest tingled as if he were approaching an enemy to do battle. Just a few moments had passed, but he had no idea why he had spoken as he just had. “This is no business of yours,” he said. “As usual, you forget yourself.”
“I apologize,” Silenus said, “but, Barca, you are a difficult script to read. Have you ever wondered what your life would have been if you'd been the firstborn of your mother?”
“The same as it is now.”
“How do you mean? Would you have been the leader of the army then? Hanno, the Supreme Commander of the Army of Carthage . . . Or would that title have gone to your brother, as it does now, but somehow skipping over the eldest? I mean, in which way would it have been the same?”
“It is a foolish question,” Hanno said. “A philosopher's trick. You may speak circles around me, but the world is as it is. No other way. This talk bores me, Silenus. You bore me.”
“Are you sure of that?” Silenus asked. He dropped a leg down from the couch, exposing his inner thigh for a moment. “Sometimes it seems to me that what you feel for me is not boredom, not distaste at all, but rather a certain hunger. We Greeks understand this hunger better than any. I possess the tools for this training in abundance, my friend. In abundance. Perhaps you should have me school you in it.”
“Perhaps,” Hanno finally said.
Silenus, his face quite near the other man's, grumbled an affirmative, a sound from low in his throat, stretched out. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps . . .”
The Greek let the word and the possibilities presented by it linger in the air between them. Again, Hanno felt the overwhelming desire to lash out. But he knew the feeling was not simple anger at all. It was, as Silenus said, a certain hunger. He wanted to press his mouth to the Greek's and silence him with the force of his lips and tongue. He wanted to lift him bodily and throw him down and teach him that they were equal in body if not in wit. He had never considered that he harbored such passion for this one, with his thin frame and bowed legs and his too-large head and the arrogance that bound it all together. He was no warrior. No specimen of manly beauty. And yet Hanno wanted him with an urgency that punched him low in the abdomen. He wanted brutal, intimate violence, and he had never understood this fully until that moment.
A call from outside his tent interrupted his revelation. Hanno answered hoarsely, and a messenger said that Hannibal wished to see him. “The commander apologizes for the late council,” the voice said, “but he would speak to you presently in his tent.”
Silenus raised a single eyebrow and finished the sentence he had started ages ago: “. . . and perhaps not,” he said. “In any event, not just now.” He drew himself up and looked around as if to gather his things.
Hanno did not move anything except his eyes, which followed as Silenus rose and made his way toward the tent flap.
The Greek glanced back briefly before departing. “Give my best to your brother.”
A few moments later, Hanno wove his way through camp. Somewhere a lone musician worked out a melody on a bone whistle. Campfires illumed various quadrants with a low glow, as if a thick, moisture-laden blanket hovered somewhere just above the height of a man's head and allowed no light to rise above it. As he passed a tethered horse the creature let flow with a stream of urine. The splash was so loud and abrupt that Hanno started. He slid half a step to the side, steadied himself, and glanced around. Nobody was in sight. He cursed the horse under his breath.
Hannibal's tent flap was open to the night. The commander sat on his three-legged stool, studying a scroll on the table before him. He did not rise to greet Hanno, but took in his attire with a long look. Having seen enough, he bent his head back to the tablet. “I've called you from leisure, have I?”
