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Only a Matter of Time
237 BCE - Carthage
The sky was almost completely dark as General Hamilcar Barca stood before the altar. Lifting the shallow libation dish carefully so as not to slop any liquid over the sides, he poured its contents onto the rough stones before him. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as the wine darkened the masonry like a spreading bloodstain.
May the blood of my enemies soon flow as freely.
It wasn't just that the Romans had humiliated him on the battlefield, though that was bad enough. After the war, many of his troops had revolted. He'd been forced to go into battle once more, against his own men. The Carthaginian Senate had been no help, so he'd been forced to turn to Rome for assistance. To add insult to injury, they'd seized a king's ransom in land and silver as their price for helping him quell the mutiny.
Though he couldn't retaliate directly, Hamilcar had a plan. Soon he would sail to Iberia, where he'd rebuild his wealth and also his armies. Though it might not be during his lifetime, his losses would be avenged.
As he began to prepare the sacrificial goat, a jagged flash of blinding white light split the bruised heavens. Until now, the evening had been clear, with no sign of an impending storm. This could only be an omen of favorable things to come. After all, what better response could the god of the skies send to a man named for lightning itself?
"Hannibal!" he called out, his voice echoing across the plain.
"Yes, Father?" His eldest son's voice, as yet clear and unchanged, rang out from somewhere in the blackness. A moment later, the pale oval of his face swam into view. Then he stepped into the light, a slim figure in simple robes, dark curls spilling over his broad shoulders. Though he was only a boy, he carried himself like a man.
It was time he learned to fight like one.
"Son, do you wish to accompany me to Iberia?"
The boy's eyes shone, and for a moment he was speechless.
"Of course, if you're not ready, I understand," his father gently teased.
"Not ready?" Hannibal all but squealed with delight, for once seeming precisely his age. "Of course I am ready. I've spent my entire life preparing for this!"
The elder Barca smiled inwardly. "Well, if you are certain..."
Reaching out, he clasped his son's hands firmly within his own. "If you are to join me in battle, there is one thing I must ask of you."
"Anything, Father," came the breathless response.
Guiding the boy's hand to the carcass that laid on the altar before them, the general spoke gravely. "Swear to me, son, that as long as you live, you will never be a friend to the Romans."
The flames of the torch painted shadows across the boy's cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with fire.
"I swear it on my life!"
The spreading warmth of pride suffused the older man's heart. All three of his sons showed great promise, but this one was special. Quiet and thoughtful, he had a quick mind and was eager to learn the ways of combat. It was this boy who would someday restore Carthage to its former glory.
It was only a matter of time.
*****
216 BCE - Capua
The luxurious comfort of the city was anything but relaxing to Maharbal. During the treacherous march through the Alps, he would have given anything for a warm bed and a full belly. Now, however, he yearned to be anywhere but here.
As his father's wine had once spilled across the altar stones, so had the blood of Hannibal's foes flowed over the plains of Cannae. The earth had become slick with it; the river had run red. As the cavalry commander, Maharbal was no stranger to killing. Still, even he had been disquieted by the sight of the corpses piled over the killing field on the morning after the battle.
His uneasiness had quickly been replaced with a certainty that they needed to keep moving at all costs. He had begged Hannibal to let him bring the cavalry to Rome immediately, but the commander had refused.
Always a bit impulsive, Maharbal had lost his temper. He had shouted, "So the gods haven't given everything to one man; you know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use one!" Then he had stormed off, too exasperated to discuss the issue any further.
Perhaps it was imprudent to speak so disrespectfully to the most deadly military commander that Carthage had ever known. This hadn't been the first time Maharbal had done so, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His sharp tongue and fiery disposition often got the better of him.
Having served under his father, most of the inner circle had known Hannibal since he was little more than a boy. It was a close-knit group comprised of both blood relatives and chosen family. Crossing the frozen Alps, though it had nearly killed them, had only strengthened their bond.
One might expect that a journey into near-death from exposure and starvation would breed distrust of the man responsible. Indeed, many thousands of the mercenary troops who had begun the journey with them had defected along the way. Hannibal had let them go, saying that the last thing he needed was a contingent of men whose loyalty was questionable.
In the inner circle, there had been no defectors. While they'd respected his father, they were completely devoted to Hannibal. It wasn't just that they admired his brilliant tactical mind and his ability to do whatever the enemy least expected, though of course they did. He was brilliant (and sometimes knew it all too well), but beneath that he was also a compassionate and approachable leader with a wicked sense of humor.
He valued fealty and honesty above all else, and provided the same in return. Fearless in combat, he fought and slept on the hard ground beside them. Unafraid of criticism, he would never penalize an adviser for speaking to him as Maharbal had done. He welcomed their insight and trusted them implicitly.
However, that didn't mean he always listened to their advice.
Hannibal had argued that even now, the Roman armies still far outnumbered his. They had been dogged by fatigue and hunger since they'd left Iberia. The five-day march to Rome would deplete their resources even further. Little would be left for a siege against the seat of the mighty empire.
Instead, the commander had sent his youngest brother Mago home to Carthage. Loaded down with baskets of golden rings from the fingers of slain Roman nobles, he would plead their case to the Senate. Faced with this display, Hannibal was sure they'd send additional resources. Renewed, they would continue their advance on Rome.
He had a point. Each new victory saw another mass defection of Gallic warriors once loyal to the empire. Already the wealthy and beautiful city of Capua had literally burned its bridges with Rome in favor of an alliance with them. It stood to reason that others in Italy would soon follow suit.
Despite these positive omens, Maharbal was certain that this hesitation would be his beloved leader's undoing. Older by more than a decade, he hadn't forgotten how the Senate had failed to come through for his company in the first war against Rome. It could be years before they sent reinforcements. It could be an eternity.
The Romans' numbers would always be greater than theirs. No fresh troops, no new allies, could change that fact. The bloodbath at Cannae had shaken the empire to its core, and their only chance was to strike before that shock had subsided.
There was nothing to be done, though. Maharbal had said his piece and it had gotten him nowhere. Even now, the window of opportunity was closing. If they left today, it might already be too late. It was better not to focus on things he could not change.
Instead, he'd make the most of his time in this beautiful city. Unlike most of his countrymen, he was not burdened with overly developed moral sensibilities. There were many pleasures he could enjoy here. He had a warm bed for the first time in ages and he might as well find someone to share it with him.
It was out of his hands, and there was no sense troubling himself with the matter any longer. He prayed that he was wrong and Hannibal was right. One way or the other, they'd find out soon enough.
It was only a matter of time.
*****
206 BCE - Croton
Hannibal stared moodily across the lush grounds of Hera's temple. Ten years had spilled away like wine from a cracked vessel, and he was no longer a young man. Nor did the gods, if they had ever existed, smile upon him as they once had.
The temple grounds, hectic with blooms that could take a man's breath away, were home to some of the most lovely women imaginable. Though they hung within his grasp like figs, supple and ripe for the picking, he was unmoved by their beauty. He'd had little taste for such conquests even in his youth, and his capacity for pleasure was in short supply these days.
Maharbal had been right - he knew that now. More than a decade in Italy and a host of battles won had brought him no closer to winning the war. Instead, he'd been pinned in place as he watched it all slowly slip from his grasp.
His armies were outnumbered more than ever by their foes. The Romans' supply of conscripts was virtually inexhaustible, and his own dwindled by the day. Though his alliance with Capua had afforded him food and shelter, it had come at a cost. His obligation to protect the people of the city was at odds with his goal of driving further into the heart of Italy.
The Gallic lands to the North were too far to stray, and he could no longer venture there to enlist more troops. The elders of Carthage had been no help. Unimpressed with Mago's theatrics, they had been loath to send money or fresh soldiers.
Capua was gone now, the earth around it scorched and the city itself fallen to the Romans. They'd paid dearly for their allegiance to him. When the empire had overtaken the city, its people had been beaten to death with rods. The survivors had been sold into slavery.
It had been hard to find new allies since then. Instead, his army struggled to keep the footholds they had left.
Since the day he'd sailed for Iberia on his father's ship, he'd been a soldier at heart. Tearing across the countryside, striking fear into the hearts and minds of his enemies - it was what he lived for. The Romans had long since learned not to engage him, and battles now were few and far between. This waiting was a slow and painful death.
In Iberia, the Barca lands were now lost, and he supposed his wife Imilce had gone with them. Though their marriage had been largely political, he'd been fond of her in his way. There had been no time to mourn her loss, though, before he'd received news of his middle brother Hasdrubal's death, in the form of his severed head.
Never had he felt so alone. Though he had a reputation for bloodlust, he'd always been blessed with the love of friends and family. Now most of them were gone, lives burnt up like sacrifices to gods he'd never been sure he believed in. He'd never realized how much he relied upon them all.
Arrogance had been his undoing. Maharbal had tried to warn him and he, basking in the foolish glow of his latest victory, had not deigned to listen. Now, like so many others who'd loved and helped him, his old friend was dead. Their blood was on his hands.
So many lives lost, and for what?
He had never been an emotional man, but he'd wept upon seeing his brother's face for the last time. In Hasdrubal's wide, unseeing eyes, he'd seen the fate of Carthage. Like all the others who'd stood with him, the people of his homeland would soon be lost.
It was only a matter of time.
*****
183 BCE - Bithynia
The Romans were coming for him.
Hannibal was no stranger to escaping under cover of darkness. It was a tactic he'd used countless times when he was still a brash young commander. Though he was an old man now, he was still always prepared to leave in a hurry. It was a necessity in his line of work.
Exiled from his homeland, he'd reinvented himself as a consultant of sorts. Currently, he worked in the court of King Prusias of Bithynia. His official title was "city planner", but he provided assistance with many other sorts of planning as well. Sometimes that planning involved catapulting pots of snakes onto the ships of the King's enemies.
It was a living, but it didn't make him any friends. As always, he kept his ear to the ground. Tonight, he'd heard that the owner of the snake-plagued ships had asked the Roman empire to intervene in his dispute with King Prusias. This sort of intervention was never good news for him.
Gathering a few possessions, he slipped into an underground passage just down the hall from his quarters. Creeping through the tunnel, he made as little noise as possible. Subterfuge was harder with an aging body that didn't work the way it once had.
All of a sudden, he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. The King's guards were almost upon him before he knew it. Pulling a flask of wine from his pocket, he drank deeply. The poison would kick in any minute, and he'd escape once more.
It was only a matter of time.
When I was 12 years old, I took a summer course about the ancient Roman empire and became obsessed with Hannibal Barca and the Second Punic War. I was supposed to write a paper for the end of the class, but got so sidetracked by researching Hannibal's conquest that I never actually finished the paper. The same thing almost happened to me when I went to write this entry.
Because history is generally written by the victors, most of what we know about Hannibal and his people is written from a Roman perspective. I used this book and this website for the majority of my research. When in doubt, I made things up.
The sky was almost completely dark as General Hamilcar Barca stood before the altar. Lifting the shallow libation dish carefully so as not to slop any liquid over the sides, he poured its contents onto the rough stones before him. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as the wine darkened the masonry like a spreading bloodstain.
May the blood of my enemies soon flow as freely.
It wasn't just that the Romans had humiliated him on the battlefield, though that was bad enough. After the war, many of his troops had revolted. He'd been forced to go into battle once more, against his own men. The Carthaginian Senate had been no help, so he'd been forced to turn to Rome for assistance. To add insult to injury, they'd seized a king's ransom in land and silver as their price for helping him quell the mutiny.
Though he couldn't retaliate directly, Hamilcar had a plan. Soon he would sail to Iberia, where he'd rebuild his wealth and also his armies. Though it might not be during his lifetime, his losses would be avenged.
As he began to prepare the sacrificial goat, a jagged flash of blinding white light split the bruised heavens. Until now, the evening had been clear, with no sign of an impending storm. This could only be an omen of favorable things to come. After all, what better response could the god of the skies send to a man named for lightning itself?
"Hannibal!" he called out, his voice echoing across the plain.
"Yes, Father?" His eldest son's voice, as yet clear and unchanged, rang out from somewhere in the blackness. A moment later, the pale oval of his face swam into view. Then he stepped into the light, a slim figure in simple robes, dark curls spilling over his broad shoulders. Though he was only a boy, he carried himself like a man.
It was time he learned to fight like one.
"Son, do you wish to accompany me to Iberia?"
The boy's eyes shone, and for a moment he was speechless.
"Of course, if you're not ready, I understand," his father gently teased.
"Not ready?" Hannibal all but squealed with delight, for once seeming precisely his age. "Of course I am ready. I've spent my entire life preparing for this!"
The elder Barca smiled inwardly. "Well, if you are certain..."
Reaching out, he clasped his son's hands firmly within his own. "If you are to join me in battle, there is one thing I must ask of you."
"Anything, Father," came the breathless response.
Guiding the boy's hand to the carcass that laid on the altar before them, the general spoke gravely. "Swear to me, son, that as long as you live, you will never be a friend to the Romans."
The flames of the torch painted shadows across the boy's cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with fire.
"I swear it on my life!"
The spreading warmth of pride suffused the older man's heart. All three of his sons showed great promise, but this one was special. Quiet and thoughtful, he had a quick mind and was eager to learn the ways of combat. It was this boy who would someday restore Carthage to its former glory.
It was only a matter of time.
216 BCE - Capua
The luxurious comfort of the city was anything but relaxing to Maharbal. During the treacherous march through the Alps, he would have given anything for a warm bed and a full belly. Now, however, he yearned to be anywhere but here.
As his father's wine had once spilled across the altar stones, so had the blood of Hannibal's foes flowed over the plains of Cannae. The earth had become slick with it; the river had run red. As the cavalry commander, Maharbal was no stranger to killing. Still, even he had been disquieted by the sight of the corpses piled over the killing field on the morning after the battle.
His uneasiness had quickly been replaced with a certainty that they needed to keep moving at all costs. He had begged Hannibal to let him bring the cavalry to Rome immediately, but the commander had refused.
Always a bit impulsive, Maharbal had lost his temper. He had shouted, "So the gods haven't given everything to one man; you know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use one!" Then he had stormed off, too exasperated to discuss the issue any further.
Perhaps it was imprudent to speak so disrespectfully to the most deadly military commander that Carthage had ever known. This hadn't been the first time Maharbal had done so, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His sharp tongue and fiery disposition often got the better of him.
Having served under his father, most of the inner circle had known Hannibal since he was little more than a boy. It was a close-knit group comprised of both blood relatives and chosen family. Crossing the frozen Alps, though it had nearly killed them, had only strengthened their bond.
One might expect that a journey into near-death from exposure and starvation would breed distrust of the man responsible. Indeed, many thousands of the mercenary troops who had begun the journey with them had defected along the way. Hannibal had let them go, saying that the last thing he needed was a contingent of men whose loyalty was questionable.
In the inner circle, there had been no defectors. While they'd respected his father, they were completely devoted to Hannibal. It wasn't just that they admired his brilliant tactical mind and his ability to do whatever the enemy least expected, though of course they did. He was brilliant (and sometimes knew it all too well), but beneath that he was also a compassionate and approachable leader with a wicked sense of humor.
He valued fealty and honesty above all else, and provided the same in return. Fearless in combat, he fought and slept on the hard ground beside them. Unafraid of criticism, he would never penalize an adviser for speaking to him as Maharbal had done. He welcomed their insight and trusted them implicitly.
However, that didn't mean he always listened to their advice.
Hannibal had argued that even now, the Roman armies still far outnumbered his. They had been dogged by fatigue and hunger since they'd left Iberia. The five-day march to Rome would deplete their resources even further. Little would be left for a siege against the seat of the mighty empire.
Instead, the commander had sent his youngest brother Mago home to Carthage. Loaded down with baskets of golden rings from the fingers of slain Roman nobles, he would plead their case to the Senate. Faced with this display, Hannibal was sure they'd send additional resources. Renewed, they would continue their advance on Rome.
He had a point. Each new victory saw another mass defection of Gallic warriors once loyal to the empire. Already the wealthy and beautiful city of Capua had literally burned its bridges with Rome in favor of an alliance with them. It stood to reason that others in Italy would soon follow suit.
Despite these positive omens, Maharbal was certain that this hesitation would be his beloved leader's undoing. Older by more than a decade, he hadn't forgotten how the Senate had failed to come through for his company in the first war against Rome. It could be years before they sent reinforcements. It could be an eternity.
The Romans' numbers would always be greater than theirs. No fresh troops, no new allies, could change that fact. The bloodbath at Cannae had shaken the empire to its core, and their only chance was to strike before that shock had subsided.
There was nothing to be done, though. Maharbal had said his piece and it had gotten him nowhere. Even now, the window of opportunity was closing. If they left today, it might already be too late. It was better not to focus on things he could not change.
Instead, he'd make the most of his time in this beautiful city. Unlike most of his countrymen, he was not burdened with overly developed moral sensibilities. There were many pleasures he could enjoy here. He had a warm bed for the first time in ages and he might as well find someone to share it with him.
It was out of his hands, and there was no sense troubling himself with the matter any longer. He prayed that he was wrong and Hannibal was right. One way or the other, they'd find out soon enough.
It was only a matter of time.
206 BCE - Croton
Hannibal stared moodily across the lush grounds of Hera's temple. Ten years had spilled away like wine from a cracked vessel, and he was no longer a young man. Nor did the gods, if they had ever existed, smile upon him as they once had.
The temple grounds, hectic with blooms that could take a man's breath away, were home to some of the most lovely women imaginable. Though they hung within his grasp like figs, supple and ripe for the picking, he was unmoved by their beauty. He'd had little taste for such conquests even in his youth, and his capacity for pleasure was in short supply these days.
Maharbal had been right - he knew that now. More than a decade in Italy and a host of battles won had brought him no closer to winning the war. Instead, he'd been pinned in place as he watched it all slowly slip from his grasp.
His armies were outnumbered more than ever by their foes. The Romans' supply of conscripts was virtually inexhaustible, and his own dwindled by the day. Though his alliance with Capua had afforded him food and shelter, it had come at a cost. His obligation to protect the people of the city was at odds with his goal of driving further into the heart of Italy.
The Gallic lands to the North were too far to stray, and he could no longer venture there to enlist more troops. The elders of Carthage had been no help. Unimpressed with Mago's theatrics, they had been loath to send money or fresh soldiers.
Capua was gone now, the earth around it scorched and the city itself fallen to the Romans. They'd paid dearly for their allegiance to him. When the empire had overtaken the city, its people had been beaten to death with rods. The survivors had been sold into slavery.
It had been hard to find new allies since then. Instead, his army struggled to keep the footholds they had left.
Since the day he'd sailed for Iberia on his father's ship, he'd been a soldier at heart. Tearing across the countryside, striking fear into the hearts and minds of his enemies - it was what he lived for. The Romans had long since learned not to engage him, and battles now were few and far between. This waiting was a slow and painful death.
In Iberia, the Barca lands were now lost, and he supposed his wife Imilce had gone with them. Though their marriage had been largely political, he'd been fond of her in his way. There had been no time to mourn her loss, though, before he'd received news of his middle brother Hasdrubal's death, in the form of his severed head.
Never had he felt so alone. Though he had a reputation for bloodlust, he'd always been blessed with the love of friends and family. Now most of them were gone, lives burnt up like sacrifices to gods he'd never been sure he believed in. He'd never realized how much he relied upon them all.
Arrogance had been his undoing. Maharbal had tried to warn him and he, basking in the foolish glow of his latest victory, had not deigned to listen. Now, like so many others who'd loved and helped him, his old friend was dead. Their blood was on his hands.
So many lives lost, and for what?
He had never been an emotional man, but he'd wept upon seeing his brother's face for the last time. In Hasdrubal's wide, unseeing eyes, he'd seen the fate of Carthage. Like all the others who'd stood with him, the people of his homeland would soon be lost.
It was only a matter of time.
183 BCE - Bithynia
The Romans were coming for him.
Hannibal was no stranger to escaping under cover of darkness. It was a tactic he'd used countless times when he was still a brash young commander. Though he was an old man now, he was still always prepared to leave in a hurry. It was a necessity in his line of work.
Exiled from his homeland, he'd reinvented himself as a consultant of sorts. Currently, he worked in the court of King Prusias of Bithynia. His official title was "city planner", but he provided assistance with many other sorts of planning as well. Sometimes that planning involved catapulting pots of snakes onto the ships of the King's enemies.
It was a living, but it didn't make him any friends. As always, he kept his ear to the ground. Tonight, he'd heard that the owner of the snake-plagued ships had asked the Roman empire to intervene in his dispute with King Prusias. This sort of intervention was never good news for him.
Gathering a few possessions, he slipped into an underground passage just down the hall from his quarters. Creeping through the tunnel, he made as little noise as possible. Subterfuge was harder with an aging body that didn't work the way it once had.
All of a sudden, he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. The King's guards were almost upon him before he knew it. Pulling a flask of wine from his pocket, he drank deeply. The poison would kick in any minute, and he'd escape once more.
It was only a matter of time.
Because history is generally written by the victors, most of what we know about Hannibal and his people is written from a Roman perspective. I used this book and this website for the majority of my research. When in doubt, I made things up.