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Back to the Prelude | Sections ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, viii, ix of this chapter Samples: I. Hannibal, Spain, 221 - 218 B.C. i Hasdrubal
the Handsome lay half off his couch, awash in wine. He slopped down another
cupful and belched. His eyelids drooped. Hannibal
aimed a contemptuous glance at his drunken host. If he stopped the wheels
turning now, he could go on as one of Hasdrubal the Handsome’s
officers—perhaps for the rest of his career. But Rome would rule the world,
for Hasdrubal the Handsome would do nothing. No,
Hasdrubal’s way was unacceptable. Hannibal
knew he might be dead in the next few minutes. But wasn’t that preferable to
Hasdrubal’s nothing? Gods, yes, far better dead. So— Hannibal
nodded to Hasdrubal Barca, who grimaced but returned the nod. Darkness had
slipped into the Handsome One’s palace long since. Slaves had lit torches, so
that shadows fled over faces in the room, obscuring expressions, hiding eyes. “What
about Rome?” Hasdrubal Barca said to their host. Who
seemed not to notice. Hasdrubal
the Handsome had outlived his name as far as Hannibal was concerned. The wine
with which he methodically poisoned himself had eroded his once handsome face,
leaving deep runnels in the hollow cheeks, perpetually bloodshot eyes sitting in
great bags of loose skin, a sallow complexion, general emaciation of arms, legs,
hands. Three
nude Iberian girls, barely nubile, and two equally nude prepubescent boys
undulated to the music of a plaintive flute, eyes like slate, all but unnoticed
now by their audience on the lavish couches. Hannibal eyed them briefly with
distaste. Purple brocaded hangings muffled the rattle of kitchen slaves still
refilling cups and offering pears and cheeses. “Don’t
you love spitted pig?” Hannibal asked Safat, his couchmate on the right.
Hasdrubal the Handsome’s chamberlain, known for his epicurean tastes (and less
well as the chief supplier of toothsome children to feed his master’s other
addiction). Safat looked sated, far gone in drink and rich food, eyes glazed. “Eh?
Oh, yes—yes, pig,” Safat said. He licked his fleshy lips and looked absently
to his empty plate. “Mmm.
But it’s more than taste, I think,” Hannibal said. “I love to see the spit
penetrate the meat, don’t you?” Safat
gave Hannibal a peculiar look. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he
collapsed into the plushy pillows, snoring. Hannibal grinned. A risky little
game, but he couldn’t help himself. At
Hannibal’s left, Mago stirred on the couch, beginning to pay attention. None
of the other dozen guests dozing or picking at leftovers from the low cedar
tables within the ring of long purple couches seemed to notice anything
happening. He
nodded again to Hasdrubal Barca. Now,
Handsome, cooperate. Tell me what I want to hear. “Rome,”
Hasdrubal Barca said again. “Rome?”
Hasdrubal the Handsome said finally, tongue so thick the word was barely
intelligible, eyelids again drifting downward like heavy wooden shutters. Hannibal
gave another nod. “Rome!”
Hasdrubal Barca cried, causing Handsome’s eyes to fly open again. “What
of Rome? Have a treaty with ’m.” Perfect. Wrong
answer, Handsome. Hannibal
and Hasdrubal Barca still had full wine cups, both men muscular and fit.
Hannibal lay propped on his elbow still, while many of Hasdrubal the
Handsome’s pet toadstools had slumped onto their cheeks, some snoring.
Hannibal’s dark eyes were active; the hatchet nose sliced the room. A
servant sidled up to Hasdrubal the Handsome with a tray of fragrant sweets. Hasdrubal
the Handsome farted, a gust so long and loud he failed to hear the tray of
sweets crash upon the marble floor behind him. He failed to see the young
servant beside him produce a long-bladed kitchen knife from beneath his tunic. Two
guards came alert and moved to intercept the boy with the knife. But both kept
their eyes more on Hannibal than on the assassin. The
assassin took a hesitant step towards Hasdrubal the Handsome. Hannibal
shook his head almost imperceptibly. The guards slowed. Hasdrubal
the Handsome merely blinked and waved a hand cluttered with gold rings to
dissipate the fumes of his emission. His bleary eyes began to close. Hannibal
flicked a finger. The guards sprang into motion again, swords rising high. Both
struck the assassin. He screamed and slumped to the floor, a down-faced Iberian
youth, dead, the kitchen knife still clutched in his slender hand. But
the guards had been just too slow. The knife spattered red strings and drops
across the marble floor to mingle with its veiny pink pattern. Perfection. Hasdrubal
the Handsome clutched his gaunt neck, sunken eyes startled wide. The slashed
artery pumped jets of red through his bony fingers, spraying all over defenders
and killer alike, before Hasdrubal subsided, lewdly asprawl on his couch in his
own pooling blood, wine-slopped tunic yanked upward to expose emaciated thighs
and soiled loincloth, face wide with surprise before darkness closed over eyes
so recently greedy of light. The
room burst into a chaos of darting shadows from the flickering torches. The
little dancers reanimated and shrieked, scurrying for the servants’ entrance.
Guards shouted for reinforcements and surveyed the room for other dangers. Some
of the guests staggered upright, pointing. On
Hannibal’s left, young Mago leapt to his feet atop the couch, tunic askew,
dagger in hand. He scanned the room with large eyes. Screams.
Curses. Dishes clattered to the floor. Oysters, melons, bits of succulent lamb
and asparagus spilled everywhere. Wine cups toppled, flooding their purple fluid
into the pools of blood. Hannibal
did not rise from his couch nor bother to suppress a quiet smile. “There
may be more assassins,” Mago cried. “No,
there aren’t,” Hannibal said. “How
do you know?” Think,
Mago. “What
do you mean, Hannibal?” Hannibal
smiled the faintest of smiles. So did Hasdrubal Barca, lying at ease on his
couch now it was done, despite the deep misgivings with which he’d plagued
Hannibal until bullied into the project. Think. A
strange look passed across Mago’s face. The hubbub continued around them. “Oh,”
he said. Then again, “Oh.” “Let’s
see to Hasdrubal,” Hannibal said, turning his gaze to the bloody wreck on the
opposite couch. Many of the guests had fled into the night. Two fat court
physicians arrived at a wobbling run, panting, shouting instructions to one
another even before they flailed to a stop in the blood that encircled the
Handsome One. Mago
stepped down, walked around the couches, careless of the bloody pool, and stared
over a physician’s shoulder into the wide, depthless dogfish eyes. Hannibal
came behind him. Hasdrubal the Handsome’s face was already gray. “He’s
dead,” Mago said. “Ah.
So he is.”
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