around this Carthaginian. You elected me because you believed in my judgment. That is what I offer you today. By my policies we will defeat this invader. Carthage will have its day of sorrow. Be patient and trust in me. I am your dictator. Rome will be saved.”
He walked from the hushed chamber, his attendants all around him, Publius at his elbow. “How do you think they received that?” he asked, once out on the streets.
“Sir,” Publius said, “birds could have built nests in their mouths and raised young, such was their shock.”
Fabius smiled and said, “Let us hope it strikes Hannibal the same.”
After Trasimene, Hannibal turned the army east and marched through Umbria. It was not a campaign at all but a moving feast, the whole country one great market from which they plucked goods at will. In each precinct Hannibal kept his ears open for encouraging words, for any people or city wise enough to desert Rome and join the winning cause. But people of Latin blood were a stubborn, recalcitrant lot. Several towns rejected the Carthaginian offer of goodwill and paid for it. The city of Spoletium was somewhat more formidable. It repulsed the Carthaginian attack with disdain. Foolish, that. Had Hannibal the equipment and time to besiege the city properly he would have done so, but there were other matters to see to.
In the first week of July, he settled the army in along the Picene coast and had them lay down their burdens, rest their bodies, and assess the booty they had amassed thus far. Despite their triumphs the men were in pitiable shape, wounded from battle, malnourished from the winter, tired from the march, and plagued by bouts of diarrhea. The animals were no better off. So Hannibal gave them time to recover beside the ocean. They bathed in the warm waters, baked in the sun, and put well behind them the hardships of the winter. They slaughtered the locals' fat lambs and cattle, ate fresh bread, and munched fruit pulled ripe from the trees.
The weeks of recovery were not spent in idle pleasure alone. Hannibal had the Libyans rearmed with the best of the captured Roman weapons. They drilled with them and soon came to favor them and to better understand the Roman technique and how to counter it. He sent the Numidians out on far-ranging raids that brought back new horses, the best of which were put into training in their style. Hannibal also sent messengers to Carthage, carrying word of his victories and asking for reinforcements. He knew even as he composed these words that some within the Council would argue against acceding to his requests. But he had to make them.
The defiance on the faces of the peasants they had despoiled had surprised him. Why had they not dropped to their knees and praised him? Why had they not even lied for the moment and claimed to support him? He knew well the manner in which most people behave in the hour of their defeat; these Italians had not followed any model he had previously encountered. And Rome, it seemed, had yet to whisper a word about coming to terms. Through Bostar, he managed to keep a steady flow of spies back and forth to the capital. None reported any mention of appeasement within the city. None even suggested that this thought occupied the senators' private minds, much less played a hand in public policy. Instead, it seemed that Rome gave thought only to the next stage of the war.
At a meeting of his generals, Hannibal asked, “What does this mean, this dictatorship?”
They had gathered in a long-abandoned cottage that served as a makeshift headquarters. The door stood open, casting a square of the brilliant daylight across the room. It was stiflingly hot beneath the sun, so that the stools had been positioned to make the best use of the shade. Above them, lizards slid through the roof, rattling the sun-parched thatch of hay.
“It means they are afraid,” Bomilcar said.
“As they should be. But how does a dictator change the struggle before us?”
“We should strike soon and hard,” Maharbal said.
Monomachus sucked his cheeks and spoke through the dry pucker that was his mouth. “I care not for delay,” he said. “Our men are rested. Let us strike at the Roman heart now, while our men still remember how easy it is to split Roman flesh.”
Bostar listened to this with a pained expression. He had formed the habit of stroking the ice-scarred tissue of his cheeks while he thought. He did this now, rhythmically, and said, “To the commander's question . . . The Senate approves the call for a dictator only after a great disaster. In this way, we know they acknowledge the carnage we've inflicted on them. Instead of their usual two consuls, each of whom controls two legions, they put in place a single, ultimate commander. This dictator controls four legions at once, for a term of six months. His power is total. Last year, as you will recall, the Romans put six legions in the field, but they never fought as a combined force. They still won't, but with a dictator we can reasonably assume we'll meet a larger single force than we have thus far.”
“So they have adopted a king?” Mago asked. “This means they are changing everything.”
“Not so,” Bostar said. “Romans fear monarchs more even than Athenians do. They will bear this dictator only so long as he is useful. Then they demand that he step down. The Senate chose Fabius because they believe him a prudent, humble man. They would not give this power to anyone but. If you will recall Cincinnatus—”
“Do not start repeating the Greek's tales!” Bomilcar said. “We all know this Cincinnatus. Picked his plow out of the field and struck the enemy about the head with it, then returned the plow to the ground and carried on. Are we to fight farmers, then?”
“One might say that, yes. Romans like to think of themselves as humble people of the land. My point in mentioning Cincinnatus is that he is the model of a Roman dictator. He was a man they could turn to in crisis, one who could be trusted completely to act with the greatest wisdom, a different sort of man than Sempronius or Flaminius.”
“Fabius will be no fool, then?” Hannibal asked.
Bostar nodded in such a way as to indicate that the commander had stated the matter succinctly. “He will be no fool, which leaves you with this question: How will a wiser leader confront you?”
Bomilcar snorted. “If he were truly wise, he would not confront us at all!”
A few of the others laughed, but Monomachus considered the statement as if it had been offered in seriousness. “There are ways that we can assure that they fight us,” he said. He leaned toward the commander and pitched his words low enough so that the others had to be still to hear him. “Let us order the men to kill everyone in our path. Not just men, but women and children, too. How could the dictator answer that except by battle? They would rush to fight us faster even than Flaminius. Anyway, I do not see the good in leaving children to grow into men, women to push out new soldiers. This is not sound strategy. We should slay them all until they beg us on their knees to stop.”
“Monomachus, I sometimes wonder if you would halt even at that point,” Hannibal said. “As ever, there is potent logic in your suggestion. As ever, I take your words seriously. But it need not come to that. I've not changed my opinion in the slightest. The only way to defeat Rome is to alienate her from her allies. The people of Italy must see that we are strong, but I would not have them think us monsters. We cannot win this war if all of Italy abhors us.”
“But if we kill them they will be dead!” Monomachus said, spitting the last word out with the weight and resonance of a shout. “I fear not the anger of dead men. Ghosts are vapors. Never has one wielded a sword against living flesh.”
An uneasy silence followed this. Eventually, Mago said, “I second my brother on this.” He spoke forcefully, but having done so he seemed at a loss for anything more to say. Monomachus turned his gaze on him slowly, the lower lids of his eyes rimmed with condescension bordering on malice. Mago did not meet the older general's eyes, and he was visibly relieved when Hannibal spoke again.
“We know nothing of what Fabius will do just yet,” he said. “Let us be direct. We will offer battle whenever we can. Perhaps Fabius will accept. One more victory should loosen Rome from her allies. This is how we will proceed. But we do not yet need to kill women and children.”
The frivolity with which small-minded people spent money always amazed Silenus. Diodorus' chambers were lavish in the style of one new to affluence—in the manner, actually, of a public servant spending the wealth of others on trinkets: ostrich feathers, vases modeled on Eastern designs, cushions encrusted with glass bits meant to pass as precious stones, a few pieces of gold-inlaid furniture. It had been some time since the Greek had witnessed such an attempt at urban splendor. He did not miss it, and, despite the show of luxury, Silenus noted just enough signs of imperfect workmanship and garish design to indicate that the magistrate was not quite as prosperous as he wished to pretend.
Fresh from disembarking at Emporiae and on land for the first time in a week, Silenus had yet to accustom himself to the immobility of life on solid ground. His head swayed on his shoulders, still keeping the rhythm of the
