woman next to her grabbed her arm and the two of them waited it out together, both wondering if even that was something orchestrated by Hannibal, hearts beating faster for the possibility that he truly had some divine power working with him. When patches of the mist cleared, a wide stretch of the lake emerged, materializing with a sudden, disconcerting solidity. There was a disturbance in the water. It seemed that a great school of fish churned the surface at many places. As strange as the whole morning had been, Aradna half-believed that some creatures from the marine world were rising to comment on the battle, whether in praise or anger she knew not.
It took only a moment to understand the reality. It was the splash of soldiers rushing into the water, the slash of their arms and frantic kick of their legs. The Romans were fleeing. In their haste they threw off their helmets and flung away weapons and even tried to yank off armor that impeded them. Numidian and Celtiberian horsemen churned through the water behind them, slashing at the backs of men's heads, splitting them open like hard-shelled fruit, spearing them like fishermen. Eventually, even the most distant swimmers had to turn back. The far shore was beyond their reach, and few found the courage to drown themselves. As they neared the shore they were cut down one and all by the cavalry, creating a red stain so dark it blackened the whole shoreline of the lake. When the mist peeled away further, revealing the plain, Aradna caught her first full sight of the carnage. It was worse even than she had imagined.
Though she was no longer squeamish about violent death, Aradna turned her back on the scene and lowered herself to the turf. She had long ago learned something of the art of war, but of late she had found Hannibal a teacher of an altogether different sort. Sitting there, slowly taking in what she had seen, Aradna had a thought she had not previously considered. Hannibal just might do it. He just might win this war. Rome could not produce new soldiers for slaughter forever. They could not raise new generations of leaders overnight. They could not feed a thronging, hostile army on their own soil indefinitely. Through all her travels she had thought mostly of herself and her path back to her homeland. She had not really cared about or given much thought to the success of the war. Now, for the first time, she realized its outcome might well affect the course of her life, no matter in what quiet corner she searched for solace. This man, with his genius for death, just might change the world.
Events in Iberia had brought Hasdrubal little joy: neither the satisfaction of a single victory nor the hopes of any discernible change in the near future. All around him he felt whispers of discontent, vengeful scheming tended by the Romans like attentive men blowing on a kindling blaze. This Gnaeus Scipio, brother to the former consul, proved a surprising foe. Early in the spring, he ambushed Hasdrubal's entire navy while it was beached at the mouth of the Ebro. The Romans—surely with the advantage of some traitor's information—bore down on the sailors as they rose from slumber, driving in with the rising sun at their backs. It was no battle at all but a wild scramble, vessels rammed and stormed before they had even pushed out through the breakers. Boats not even afloat yet were grappled with hooks and towed into the water and set aflame.
On learning of the disaster, Hasdrubal imagined the far-off day when his brother would also get word of it. He beat his head with the flats of his hands so forcefully that his officers grabbed his arms to stop him. He wanted foremost to attack Emporiae and free Hanno, but Gnaeus kept him otherwise occupied. The Roman sailed south, stormed and sacked the allied town of Onusa, near New Carthage, then burned a village within sight of the city itself and destroyed crops meant for Carthaginian consumption. Hasdrubal had no choice but to retreat and protect the capital. And—as if the damage done by this single man had not been enough—the early autumn saw the arrival of his elder brother, Cornelius Scipio. Hasdrubal would have both of them to contend with from now on.
Despite these misfortunes, he did manage to hold most of the country together. He kept a firm grip on most of his Iberian allies, sending warnings sometimes veiled and sometimes graphically detailed. In many ways, he achieved the focus and breadth of vision that his brother asked of him, but he burned with the desire to be freed of this post and to carry out the next phase of Hannibal's plan. Not even the insatiable sexual appetite of his young bride distracted him from this for long. He felt that he was not truly helping to win the war and, increasingly, he considered pressing Carthage for leave to march for Italy. He had made this desire known to the Council, but had received no response.
So he greeted the news of the arrival of a delegation of Carthaginian ships with eagerness. Perhaps he was finally to receive the leave he wished for. He stood on the balcony of his chambers, watching the vessels drop their sails and row between the guard rocks at the mouth of the harbor. The fleet was an impressive sight, some thirty ships of varying sizes. Oars struck the water in unison, stirring foam with each stroke, shifting the ships forward in a motion that Hasdrubal always found odd to behold. The strange, buoyant agreement between the vessel and the water never ceased to amaze him. What made that surface both solid and fluid? Supportive to some objects, deadly to others, always threatening to consume at any moment, each swell in the surf like a hunger pain rippling across the belly of a beast. He could never have been a sea captain. Better death during a raging battle on land than from the bottomless suck of the sea.
Noba walked in swiftly, several loose scrolls clipped between his fingers. “They bring reinforcements,” he said. “Four thousand of them. Scant, really, but at least they are Libyans.”
Hasdrubal dipped one corner of his lip, and then righted it again. He sat on a short stool, with his legs wide, hands resting on his knees. The shadow of a new beard added an unkempt aspect to his face. “And what else?”
“Ten elephants. Two hundred Massylii. And they have sent you a new general, Gisgo, son of Hannon. He is to serve as lieutenant governor. He is under your direction, but he will handle civil matters while you are on campaign and will be the main contact between Iberia and Carthage. This last is not good news, I think.”
“No Hannon ever brings good news. Is there no further message for me from the Shophet or the Council?”
The squire shook his head.
“I must take them to task for that some day. How many have they sent to Italy?”
Noba stared at him for a moment. He cleared his throat and held up one of the scrolls and contemplated it for a moment. “They have not sent Hannibal reinforcements yet,” he said.
Hasdrubal jerked his head upright, rose, and strode forward, hand out to snatch away the document. “Are you joking with me?”
“You know I have no sense of humor.”
After a brief glance Hasdrubal tossed the scroll away. “Make me understand, Noba, because I see no reason in this.”
“Perhaps their resources are not quite as great as we imagine,” Noba offered.
“I can imagine much,” Hasdrubal said, “but the wealth of Carthage is beyond even me. No, that is not the problem. They want him to fail, yes?”
“Think not of how those old men conspire. What matters is what we do here. Four thousand men is more than we had yesterday.”
Hasdrubal caught sight of Bayala, who had entered at the far corner of the room. Seeing Noba, she lingered at a distance, running her hands over the fabric of a wall tapestry. Hasdrubal cut his jibe short and lowered his voice. “So why not give this Gisgo full control of New Carthage? He can have it. Write a dispatch to Carthage for me. Tell them I am going to my brother. I will take only a few thousand men—a portion of the number they should have sent Hannibal themselves.”
Noba locked his arms across his chest. “The Council will not let you go. We both know that. Some would use the very fact that you made the request against you. One minute they'd say you are indispensable to Iberia; the next, they'd question your loyalty. They will reach their fingers into our business and strip away first this portion of your authority and then the next.”
“Has Noba become all-knowing in the last few months? There was a time when you were loyal to me.”
“Those loyal to you tell you when you are mistaken,” Noba said. “This is a greater loyalty than feeding your moments of folly. You would see this if the gods had granted you wisdom as vast as your—”
Hasdrubal shot his hand out and snapped his fist closed before his squire's face, near enough that a simple thrust of his arm would have made the threat into a punch. “Finish that sentence and you will never know joy again.”
Noba rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Then he seemed to reconsider and said, “Forgive me. I misspoke. Make whatever decision you must. I will go now and greet Gisgo for you. We should dine with him tonight.”