waves. Dried seawater crusted his face. He had formed the habit of absently drawing his fingers across his cheeks and down to the tip of his tongue, where he tasted the tang of salt. He was doing this when Diodorus finally appeared.
Silenus had only met the magistrate once, and that was years ago in Syracuse—when Diodorus became engaged to his sister—but he recognized in an instant that he had put on weight, around the torso and in the thighs, as a woman might in her mature years. His mouth was as wide as Silenus remembered and his eyes, conversely, as close together. The least appealing aspect of his appearance was that he wore a garment resembling a toga, not quite the genuine article but close enough to betray his aspirations.
“Silenus,” he said, “my brother, I did not believe my ears when they told me you were here. By the favor of the gods, you look in good health! If I did not know better I would think you a warrior.”
The two men embraced, quickly, and then drew apart. “And if I did not know better I would think you a Roman,” Silenus said.
“Oh, not yet, but who knows how the gods will order things in the future? Sit. Sit and drink with me.”
Silenus did so, and for a few minutes the two shared pleasantries. Silenus asked after his sister. Diodorus admitted that she made an adequate wife. Although, he explained, he much preferred the pleasures to be had from virgins. It was unfortunate that they were so hard to come by and expensive to purchase. Such pleasures were a constant strain on his resources. Silenus nodded at this, smiling despite himself.
Diodorus was also willing to speak at length of the tumultuous path of his political life. Through the luck of others' misfortunes—a few fevers, a tribal war, and a rapidly advancing dementia had cleared a path for his ascent—he had moved up from a petty official of the city to one of its leading magistrates in just a few years. Unfortunately, just as quickly he had seen his stature reduced by the machinations of his peers. The only difficulty was that he was never sure which god favored or despised him. To be safe he offered tribute to them all—a time- consuming task.
Eventually, when Diodorus seemed to have talked himself out, Silenus addressed his true purpose directly, thinking to be most forceful thus. “I come with a message from Hannibal Barca,” he said, “the commander of the Carthaginian army of Iberia and Italy.”
Diodorus nearly choked on his wine. He spat a portion of it back into his goblet, rose from the couch, and through his coughing managed to say, “You what? Hannibal, did you say?”
Silenus fought a smile. “He bade me speak with you of a prisoner you hold here. You will know of whom I speak: his brother, Hanno Barca. Emporiae was not wise to let the Romans keep him here. Hannibal never called you an enemy and begs that you not name yourself as one.”
“Wait one moment,” Diodorus said. “You come to me as a representative of Carthage? You, a Syracusan? When did you throw in with the Africans? And now you come here into my home to demand—”
“Please,” Silenus said. “This is a serious business; speak calmly with me, as my kinsman.”
Diodorus cast his eyes about the room, checking that nobody was lingering to hear. “The truth is I've no quarrel with Hannibal,” he said. “I want him neither as an enemy nor as a friend. This business of keeping his brother is no pleasure to me, but some things are unavoidable.”
“Nothing is unavoidable except death, Diodorus. Is Hanno in good health?”
One corner of the magistrate's lips twitched nervously at the question. “You could say that,” he said. “I mean . . . I believe so, but I've only seen him a few times.”
“Have you considered your fate when Hannibal wins this war?”
“When? Has it been ordained by the gods already?”
Silenus did not dignify this with anything except a smirk. He leaned forward and set his hand on the other's hairy wrist for a moment. “Diodorus, I did not join Hannibal's campaign because I believed he would win, nor because I cared either way. It was a form of employment, an adventure, a tale I could spend the rest of my life telling. And it has been all of these things. But I cannot deny what my own eyes have witnessed. I've never seen a man better suited to command. Everything Hannibal wants, he achieves; everyone he opposes, he defeats. That is the simple truth. I pray you will not make an enemy of him.”
Diodorus pulled his arm away. He sat back, somewhat smugly, and studied Silenus as if noticing him for the first time. “Has he so won you over? Tell me, does he share your bed as well? They say that Hasdrubal Barca has a stallion's shaft. Is the same true of the eldest?”
Silenus did not dignify this with a response. He reached down into his traveling satchel, fished out a small leather pouch, and tilted it onto the table. Gold coins.
“What?” Diodorus asked. “Do you think me poor? Perhaps you have not looked around . . .”
“You are not poor, I know, but nor are you as rich as you would like. This gift is just a token. The riches he promises you for this favor will exceed your wildest dreams. This is why I know it is safe to show this to you. Accept it, and much more will come to you. Deny it, and you deny much more than you can imagine.”
Diodorus, for the first time, forgot his look of haughty refusal. His eyes lingered on the coins. “But the reach of Rome . . .”
“By next year, Rome's reach will be no longer than the space from your shoulder to your fingertips.”
“Do you really believe that? That this African . . .”
“If you knew him you would not doubt him,” Silenus said. “Think with all of your wisdom on this. When the war is concluded, Hannibal will control the Mediterranean. He will not forget those who aided him. How would you, Diodorus, like to rule Emporiae as your own domain? Hannibal will call you his governor; you, of course, may think yourself more like a king, with access to as many virgins as your penis can service, among other pleasures. This is what Hannibal offers you.”
“But what you wish I cannot deliver. I am only one magistrate among many, and the Romans do not bow to our wishes, anyway. Their guards answer only to their leaders—”
Silenus interrupted. “My mind is devious, brother. Say yes to this in principle and together we will think of a way to achieve it.”
Diodorus thought for a long time. “How can it be,” he finally said, “that you sit before me speaking of these things? It's madness, and my answer is no. I cannot do what you ask.”
Imco had hardly thought about the Saguntine girl for months before the dreams started, but once they began they were a constant torment. He saw her as she had been on the day Saguntum fell. He would relive the few moments after he had found her wedged up into a fireplace. Again and again he agonized over her fate, wishing he could turn away and flee but never able to do so. Before long, she began to appear in camp, in his tent, at his feet as he slept, becoming more solid with each encounter until she seemed to be flesh and blood and she began to speak to him. She had walked this far, she said, to ask him what right he had had. Was he a god? Who had given him dominion over her?
He tried to explain that he had slit her throat not as a punishment, not out of cruelty or malice, but just the opposite. A gift, considering the circumstances in which he had found her. He had saved her from greater suffering. At this, the girl just rolled her eyes, rolled them and then set her gaze back on him again and pinned him. Then she would show him the scar and ask him whether it looked like a present she should be grateful for. She became bolder with the passage of time, grew to know him better and despise him more—which seemed a twisted progression to him, for surely the opposite should be true. He had killed her out of mercy, but the thanks he got was ghostly torment. Just his luck.
Perhaps because of her presence, the respite by the coast passed almost unnoticed, certainly unappreciated. When the word came that the army would be marching to intercept the new dictator, Imco groaned. He had just thrown down his burdens! Barely caught his breath. His vision had only recently returned to normal. His teeth had settled down in their gums once more, and his arms and belly were fleshed out a little better each day, but he was still a wisp of his former self and he told his squadron leader as much. He also noted that he still carried a chest full of phlegm, that his genital lice tortured him incessantly, and that his feet were tender with a rot from the marshes that had yet to heal. He also mentioned that his vision was impaired and that he was not sure he would be able to tell friend from foe on the battlefield—a small lie in the scheme of things. It might have been the one that saved him.
Much to his surprise, his squadron leader waved him away, telling him to stay, then, and join the guards watching over the occupied town and the stores of booty. After he had watched the tail of the army disappear over the horizon a few days later, it occurred to Imco that he was actually one of a relatively small company, made up partly of camp followers and slaves, charged with protecting a rather large treasure, surrounded by countless
