Pride of Carthage Read Online Free PDF Page A

fell upon him and the stone and even the glimmering sea with the same pale tint. How strange it was that at moments of celebration he was struck with bouts of melancholy. Part of his mind glowed with the knowledge of another success and looked forward to the quiet moments he would soon be able to share with his brothers. But another part of him already viewed the conquest of Arbocala as a distant event, lackluster, a mediocre episode from the past. Some men would have taken such a victory and spent the rest of their lives reminding others of it, accomplishing only the exercise of their tongues in their own praise. Perhaps he was a battleground upon which two gods contested an issue he had no inkling of. Why else would he strive and strive and then feel empty . . . ?
    A voice broke through his thoughts. “Hannibal? Come and welcome your beloved.”
    He turned to see his wife approaching, arms cradled around a sleeping infant. “You have made us wait long enough,” she said. Her Carthaginian was smooth and measured, though her pronunciation had a rough edge to it, an indelicacy of her native tongue that made her voice somewhat masculine as compared with the fine artistry of her features. She was, after all, a native of Iberia, daughter of Ilapan, a chieftain of the Baetis people. Her marriage had thrown her completely into the arms of a foreign culture, and yet she had adapted quickly, gracefully. Hannibal had even come to believe the apparent affection between them to be real. At times, this gave him great joy; at others, it concerned him more than indifference would have.
    Imilce stopped some distance from the balcony. “Come out of the cold. Your son is here, inside, where you should be as well.”
    Hannibal did as requested. He moved slowly, taking the woman in with his eyes, a wary look as if he was studying her for signs that she was not who she claimed. Hers was a thin-lined beauty, eyebrows of faint brown that seemed drawn each with the single stroke of a quill, lips with no pout at all but rather a wavering, serpentine elegance. Her features were held together with a brittle energy, as if she were a vessel that contained within it the spirit of a petulant, well-loved child, a glimmering intelligence that had been, in fact, the first thing that drew his eyes to her. He slid a hand to the small of her back, pulled her close, and touched his lips to the smooth olive skin of her forehead. He inhaled her hair. The scent was as he remembered, faintly flowered, faintly peppered. She was just the same.
    Though she was the same as before, his son most certainly was not. Five months seemed to have doubled his size. No longer was he a seed of child that Hannibal could hold completely within his upheld palms. No longer was he pale and wrinkled and bald. His complexion had ripened. He was thick around the wrists, and his clenched fists already seemed mallets to be contended with. The father saw himself in the child's full lips and this pleased him. He took the boy awkwardly from his mother. The child's head lolled back. Hannibal righted it and cautiously lowered himself to a stool.
    “You're just like your older sister,” Imilce said. “Kind as she has been to me, Sapanibal, too, tries to wake him through clumsiness. Always wants to see his gray eyes, she says. But it will not work this time. He's full of his mother's milk and content, drunk with all the food he asks of all the world.”
    Hannibal raised his eyes to study her. “Enjoy it, Mother, for soon this one will look up and see a world beyond your breasts. Then he'll be all mine.”
    “Never,” Imilce said. She made as if to take the child, but did not. “So how do you feel in victory, husband?”
    “As ever, Imilce. I feel the nagging of neglect.”
    “Hungry already?”
    “There is always some portion of me left unfilled.”
    “What can you tell me of the campaign?”
    The commander shrugged and sighed and cleared his throat. He said there was little to tell.