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Against Rome |
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Back to section iv of this chapter I. Hannibal, Spain, 221 - 218 B.C. v The
next spring, Hannibal and Mago went out again, this time against the Vaccaei,
and captured their chief town of Hermandica. Unfortunately, Hannibal and Mago
were now far afield, and their enemy of the previous summer and fall, the
Olcadi, stirred up revolt among the Carpetani, who owned the lands to which
Hannibal had withdrawn after Hermandica. Hannibal was forced to break off and
retreat. Typical
treachery. Subdue one of these tribes he might, but as soon as he turned his
back, there they were again, challenging him, challenging him, until he could
finally snap their spines and take the rebellion out of them. It took so much
time. Temporarily
thwarted, he withdrew only a little way across the Tagus River, where he set up
a fortified camp a few miles from the stream, behind a low range of thickly
wooded hills. These came to within a few hundred feet of the river at the ford. Walking
with Mago near the river, just inside the screen of broad, leafy oaks, Hannibal
said, “Position your cavalry behind that hill.” He pointed. “And
wait quietly for them to start crossing,” Mago said, obviously pleased with
the nod he received. Sure
enough, the Carpetani and the Olcadi took the bait. They began crossing the
river at the same ford Hannibal had used. At which point Mago’s cavalry burst
out of the woods, catching the Iberians in mid-stream. He cut them down like
stalks of Iberian wheat. Those
Iberians who did straggle ashore on Hannibal’s side had it even worse.
Hannibal loosed forty elephants storming along parallel to the river, an
avalanche of behemoths rushing at the terrified Iberians, many so stunned that
they did not even run, while those who did run fell over one another. The
elephants crushed the river’s survivors beneath their enormous feet. Hannibal
then recrossed the river and scattered all the Iberians in the vicinity. “Well
done, Mago!” Hannibal told his youngest brother. Only
one thorn still pricked at Hannibal south of the River Ebro: Saguntum. *
* * At
twenty-seven, to better his relations with the tribes, Hannibal, like Hasdrubal
the Handsome before him, married an Iberian princess. For Hasdrubal, it had
meant shedding his Carthaginian wife, Hannibal’s sister Tanitha. Not that
Tanitha had objected, for Hasdrubal was a cruel husband. Nor, for that matter,
had Hannibal or his brothers raised any objections. Hannibal made sure that Mago
and Hasdrubal Barca understood that they had careers to think of and that
Hamilcar was no longer around to disapprove. Tanitha was only a sister. Despite
all, he liked his Imilce immensely, fascinated by her feminine softnesses and
her thunderstorms of emotion. When next he was face to face with Maharbal and
some of the others, they met him with grins at the deep scratches on his face
and neck. From that day, the troops often saw their leader sporting scratches or
teeth marks from some connubial altercation—she frequently looked the same. And
soon she presented him with— “Your
daughter,” Imilce said, holding out the squalling, red-faced little thing. “Humph.”
Hannibal turned and walked away. A girl. *
* * When
Hannibal returned to winter quarters in New Carthage after defeating the
Carpetani and the Olcadi and capturing Salmantica, he found his lieutenants
ready to report their progress. But he also found a pair of huffy senators from
Rome. And a courier bearing a letter from his brother Hasdrubal in Carthage. First
the letter. Hannibal
waved away the courier with an impatient back of the hand and ripped away the
seal on Hasdrubal’s letter, unrolling the scroll and immediately recognizing
his brother’s scrawled hand. He sat down in a leather folding chair. Here it
comes, whatever it may be. You
must be dying to hear how things have gone here. I went to work as soon as I
arrived, but you must know that it was all I could do to concentrate on the
business I came for. Like you, I had been so long away from Carthage—since I
was ten—that she dazzled me at once. My
sessions with the members of our faction went well, as I outlined your ideas and
plans for them, but by the time I arrived at each of the meetings I nearly had
to slap myself to stop gawking. The
first thing—Carthage is so old! Spain has nothing to compare: the Iberian
towns are full of hovels, and New Carthage is just that—new. Unlike the fresh
paving stones in New Carthage, the stones here (where there is pavement) are
worn deep with ages of use. Walls that would sparkle with fresh stucco in New
Carthage are covered here with grime and graffiti, some of it hundreds of years
old, I swear. The Tophet here looks like a hook-nosed spinster compared to the
Greek courtesan we have in New Carthage. The place is all age and decay,
centuries’ worth of grudging, half-hearted repair. The stains rubbed by
generations run just over head-high on the walls of the winding alleyways they
call streets. You can feel the soul of Mother Phoenicia in the walls here, Sidon
and Tyre at every turn. All as old as time itself. New Carthage is a mere babe. Yet
there are the sumptuous palaces, the imposing temples, the palms and tamarisks
beside fountains full of cool spray, tall stairways climbing the hills in
graceful curves, the briskness and clamor of the commercial harbor—all
intermingled with that hoary age. But
something is broken here since the war with Rome. People go about with their
faces down about their shoes, hope hardly stirring in them. They’re prosperous
as ever, but they’ve lost too much, especially their pride. They need us,
Hannibal, they need your quest. Ah,
but back to work. Because of my age, I was barred from the Senate, of course.
But Himilco spoke with exceeding skill in our cause, so we were well represented
there. Not that it mattered so much: Old Hanno stood up to orate about
‘Africa! Africa! Africa! Carthage must turn away from the Mediterranean and
live in peace with Rome.’ Live in peace! The
old bastard is the same pain in the backside for us that he was in Father’s
day. The old pile! He’s big as the statue of Melqart in the central square.
Strides the streets in a kind of rolling waddle, his loose robes oscillating
back and forth over that massive belly. He uses his bulk like a battering ram.
They tell me no one has ever seen an expression other than anger on his great
apoplectic moon of a face. He badgers. He hammers. He exhorts. He
squeaks. “Ye
gods, Hasdrubal!” Hannibal said, balling his fist in frustration. How
do I know he squeaks? I met him once—just once, and that by accident, as I was
making my way along between the Tophet and the commercial harbor. Knew him on
sight, of course, even before he said: “Hasdrubal Barca, what an unexpected
pleasure.” Pleasure, my boot. And
I swear, he squeaked! Highest voice I ever heard from a man so large. All the
while we exchanged nothings, the old coot barely met my eyes once—he was
always looking sidewise, as if he were deeply interested in the commercial
harbor but trying to be just courteous enough to me without losing his
concentration on it. Finally,
I found a way to extricate myself and he lumbered off like a freight wagon. I
made a prompt retreat myself, heading for the Byrsa to visit our relatives
there. “Oh,
Hasdrubal! Now a tour of the Byrsa, for Tanit’s sake?” The
old hill is more populated than I recall, but then I was just a boy. Lots of
swank new Greek-style villas. Still prosperous here, but not much sense of
owning the world. I suppose we no longer do. My
way to the Byrsa led me through the military harbor, by the way. I’d seen it
on arrival, of course, but now it struck me that the big circular pool seemed
almost deserted—so few warships these days, thanks to damnable Rome. The
harbor is still locked up behind her high stone walls, secure as you please, but
she’s hardly a military harbor these days, no thanks to Rome. Romans
are a gaggle of damned lawyers, or so I think. Hairsplitters. Stingy and mean
spirited, the best of them—and the worst! A ravening pack of jackals. I’ve
made arrangements for shipping you the Punic troops you want—
“Hasdrubal!
Get to the point.” —and
for replacing them here with some of our Iberians. That was smart, brother—one
of your better ideas. Keeps everybody an inch more honest. Should also stiffen
up the Iberians we take with us on the march, knowing their brothers are in
Carthage. But
enough. You will want to know whether I have succeeded or not. “Oh,
yes, Hasdrubal, and do get on with it!” In
short, yes. The Hundred and the Senate were predictably against us, though not
by much, but the People’s Assembly came through. Your plan is approved. Here
Hannibal paused to whoop, startling the aides and clerks in the outer room of
his command tent. As predicted, the Hundred, those 104 judges who scrutinized
the acts of Carthage’s magistrates, the Shofets, along with her generals and
other officials, had been too conservative to vote for war. But the Barca family
had a strong following in the Senate. He resumed reading: My
work is finished here, so I’m returning on the next good wind. May the gods
blow favorably. I’m ready to start! *
* * With
the letter read, and after a suitably tedious interval during which he caught up
on a little paperwork, Hannibal turned to his postponed task. He had the Roman
ambassadors cooling their heels brought before him. All right, bring them on. He
had a bad taste in his mouth already, but the wait should have done them good. The
senior man, a consul a few years earlier, was Publius Valerius Flaccus. “We
come,” Flaccus said immediately in Greek, “to urge that you refrain from any
action against Saguntum. You must know that the Saguntines enjoy an alliance
with Rome.” He eyed Hannibal, stern lips pursed and a flush playing over his
jowly face. Hannibal,
up to now remaining seated before his guests, rose and stepped directly before
Flaccus, who gave back a half step before he remembered himself. “Your
urging rings hollow, Publius Valerius, given the Ebro Treaty your Senate made
with my predecessor, Hasdrubal the Handsome.” Hannibal disliked Flaccus
instantly, and the man’s mission angered him. “You worry that I may
intervene in Saguntum—which, I remind you, is within the Carthaginian sphere
by that treaty. But Rome not long ago did the very same, when it hadn’t the
right to interfere in the town at all, let alone execute her leading
citizens.” “We
helped them settle an internal dispute,” said the other ambassador, Quintus
Baebius Tamphilus, a lean, sallow man. “Whereas you propose to sack their
town!” “Absurd!”
Hannibal said, frowning. “Absurd. If we go to Saguntum, which we have not yet
done, I remind you, it will be to aid the Saguntines against meddling from Rome.
It is our policy to assist those in need.” He
stopped, stared hard from one Roman to the other. A lie, for he had other
intentions for Saguntum. But now was not the time to reveal them. “Now
go—I have no further need of talk with you.” Flaccus
started to respond anyway, but Hannibal turned his back, though he could still
see them reflected in his cuirass, hung on a pole behind his desk. Red-faced,
gathering their remaining dignity about them with their togas, the Roman
ambassadors did depart—and took ship immediately for Carthage. By
the time they got there, let alone managed to obtain an audience with the
leaders in the Senate, Hannibal knew, he would already have begun his siege of
Saguntum. Next section of I. Hannibal, Spain, 221 - 218 B.C. Back to Top
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