had been difficult to maintain even during the height of Hannibal's power. The Iberians around him seemed to buck against African domination. Hasdrubal had tried throughout the summer to make it clear that his authority was as real as his brother's, but the Iberians were ever restless, always inclined to see only the faults of their present situation, only the benefits of a change.
So, much sooner than he would have liked, Hasdrubal found himself hosting a wedding banquet. Andobales arrived in a swarm of confusion. His people were loud, inclined to laughter and consumption, to anger and deadly pride just as quickly. Andobales himself was a large man, a warrior all his life. He had fought with neighboring tribes—or with Carthaginians or with Romans—each year since his tenth birthday. He wore his strength as sheer, massed bulk that increased throughout his torso and up to his hunched shoulders. He was a massive boar of a man, with a face that seemed to have been pressed between two stones and elongated through the jaw and nose. Looking upon him, Hasdrubal could not help but wonder what sort of daughter he might have produced. He had never seen or spoken to the girl and had no idea by what reasoning she was chosen as his bride, for he knew Andobales had several unwed daughters.
In keeping with her people's customs, the bride entered surrounded by her female relatives and went veiled throughout the ceremony. Try as he might, Hasdrubal could get no idea of either her features or the shape of her body. The women around her varied in appearance, from young to old, dark-haired mostly and no less attractive than normal, but he took no comfort in this. Just what did that veil hide? It might conceal any manner of disease or disfigurement. For all he knew his new wife had the face of a hairless dog, of a cow, or of her father. She could be pockmarked, pimply, toothless. She might have ringworm or diarrhea, a body rash or—as he had discovered once in a prospective partner—she could well have insect larvae growing in her gums. The possibilities were endlessly gruesome.
The bride and groom sat on opposite sides of the room. They did not share a word, but instead listened as one man and then another rose to give the union their blessing. The Celtiberians spoke with bellicosity. They stressed the significance of the bond between the two peoples. Some suggested that with this union Andobales' people should find themselves favored above other tribes and should have some measure of autonomy in subjugating their neighbors. One man mentioned an aged dispute with the Betisians that Hasdrubal had been trying to ignore, having no wish to open debate about such matters.
Andobales, who sat just beside Hasdrubal, stood to make a toast of his own. First he praised the hereditary line of the Barcas, naming, randomly and with little attention to chronology, their accomplishments and virtues. He lingered somewhat longer than appropriate on Hannibal himself, as if he were actually the prospective son-in-law. Following fast on all of this, however, he detailed his own lineage, which he claimed went directly back to a union between an Iberian princess and the Greek god of war, Mars. He recounted the deeds of his grandfather, and of his father after him. Nor did he fail to mention his own exploits, everything from feats of warcraft to abundance in the distribution of his seed through many wives and more beyond that.
This last point drew Hasdrubal's attention, but then the chieftain surprised him by barking out, “Bayala! Bayala! Come over here, girl.”
The veiled form rose and wove toward them through the crowded banquet hall. She knelt before them, close enough to touch. Still the fabric of her veil revealed nothing. Hasdrubal barely heard the transaction that followed but understood enough of such moments to know that the Iberian was giving him the girl formally. Andobales grasped each of them by the hand. Serving as a connection between them, he named them wed, declared the two families and the two nations joined for eternity.
And that was all there was to it. The shawled form nodded and withdrew to the nuptial chambers, Hasdrubal's eyes following until she had exited the room. The chieftain crashed down onto the cushion beside him. He lost his balance for a moment, and strained to pull himself upright, clenching his massive fingers around Hasdrubal's arm to do so. As he was so near him, Andobales took advantage of the moment to whisper to his new son-in-law. His breath was like liquid wine itself, mixed with the fouler scent that marked some decay in his teeth. “My daughter has been kept pure. Pure! She is yours to pierce for the first time. Enjoy her, my new son, and fill her with many young. Make her the womb of a new army. The mother of men to slay Romans!”
Hasdrubal did not hear the news of his wife's purity with eagerness: He preferred his women soiled and debauched. But he kept this information to himself. Nor did the notion of merging sex with his wife and Roman conquest sit right with him either. He was sure he would never rid himself of the image of tiny, fully formed, armored soldiers stepping out from between the girl's legs, swords in hand, evil expressions on their faces. He tried to follow Andobales' example and drink himself toward oblivion.
Later that evening Hasdrubal stood in the hall beside the curtain that hung between him and his wife, leaning hard against the wall. The wine had been savage to his body, but seemed to have had little impact upon the clarity of his thoughts. He stared at the thick purple fabric, utterly powerless to push it out of the way and stride through. It was silly, childish, shameful even, but he was terrified to enter his bedchamber. He imagined turning and slipping away to the company of familiar women, of the young officers he was so comfortable with. He might say he had fulfilled his husbandly duties already and was out for further leisure. But he did not welcome the questions his comrades would pose, the jokes they would make, the way his lovers would sniff his groin for a scent of his wife. No, he could not bear that. Strange that he had ultimate power over so many, and yet now he felt suspended from a spider's web, stuck fast, afraid to flinch for awareness that his movement would be translated out through a hundred invisible threads, bringing untold horrors . . .
He paused in mid-thought. A feminine hand pushed through the curtain and drew it slowly to one side. There stood his wife, still hooded, though she had changed her garments to a thinner gown, a weave so loose it was nearly transparent. She had, he was pleased to note, breasts, a flat belly, hips with something of a curve. But still he could see nothing of her face, and something in this felt ominous indeed.
“Come, husband,” she said in a quiet voice, soft and young. She grasped the fabric of his tunic and drew him into the room, letting the curtain fall closed behind him. Then, to his surprise, she dropped to her knees, slipped her hand up under his tunic, and grasped his flaccid sex.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I've heard such tales. I must see this tool for myself.”
So saying, she lifted his tunic up and tucked it out of the way. She leaned close and adjusted her veil. After a moment of silent examination, she said, “The gods have blessed you. And me as well.”
Hasdrubal had as yet found nothing exciting in this examination, but that changed quickly enough. Bayala began to knead his soft member, pulling on it and drawing it out, squeezing it between her fingers. She dipped her hands in a fragrant oil and the warm moisture of this did much to stiffen him. Hasdrubal looked down on her, amazed. There was a skill in her fingers that surpassed any former lover's. She worked him to full length, moving one hand and then the other in a choreographed, twisting, sliding dance.
Pinned as he was to the new center of his being, Hasdrubal was at a loss for what to do with the rest of his body. He reached out to either side as if to grab hold of something, but his hands just hung there, twitching. Even his toes flexed and strained and seemed to cry out. His breaths came sporadically, in gasps that corresponded with the touch of the young woman's hand. It seemed that she had taken complete control of him, even of his capacity to inhale and exhale. He could not deny that the fact that he had yet to see her face added to his excitement, but neither could he resist the need to set eyes on her. With great effort he lowered one arm and got a fold of the veil in his fingers. After waiting for a spasm to pass, he yanked the fabric back.
The subtle hands paused in their work. Bayala looked up. Her face was not beautiful. Her nose drew a thin line, just off-center. Her lips, likewise, were not as full as he usually favored. The bones of her cheeks sat high, giving a gaunt aspect to her face. But she was young, her eyes were gray and devious, her teeth reasonably straight, and her gums, presumably, larvae-free. Inadvertently, Hasdrubal raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
“Hello, wife,” he said.
Bayala grinned wider, seeming to find the greeting perfectly appropriate to the situation. “Greetings, husband. Forgive my boldness, but I've never seen a monument like this one,” she said, squeezing the feature in question. “I have heard tales, but now I know them to be true. I could hang on this pole and exercise my arms by lifting my weight.”
Hasdrubal, unnerved by the suggestion and the seeming possibility that she might just attempt it, said, “True enough. But do not try that just now.”
