Free Pride of Carthage by David Anthony Durham Page A

faces and opinions they did not mind spouting at the least provocation. But each evening as he completed his work he catalogued the day's interactions and noted where he had been lacking.
    One morning Mago yanked the young cavalry general, Carthalo, from his horse and held him pinned beneath his foot. The horseman's infraction had come the day before, a matter concerning his disregard for an order he saw as beneath his men, but Mago had needed the evening to devise his response. It came as a surprise to many—Carthalo included—but went unnoticed by few. The youngest Barca was growing to fill the promise of his family name quite quickly.
    Mago nodded to the guards posted outside Hannibal's tent. He slipped quietly past them and into a gloomy haze of incense, the close, moist smell of sweat and exhaustion, of blood and vinegar. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light the room came slowly into relief, its sparse furnishings ordering themselves before his eyes. A single wooden table stood at the center, cluttered with maps and other papers and surrounded by stools pushed back a little distance. Just beyond the table, lining the far wall, Hannibal lay on a small bed. He was propped up on one elbow and from that position watched his physician, Synhalus, who worked beneath the lamp glow provided by his assistant.
    “Welcome, brother,” Hannibal said, his tone surprisingly light. “Sorry to call you away, but I need your services as scribe. The sickly creature who last had the post died most unpleasantly. My surgeon here says it was the cost of his sexual habits, consumed from the loins up into his abdomen. I would prefer a death in battle, to be sure.”
    The Egyptian physician glanced over his shoulder and seemed to consider the interruption for a moment. He exhaled and pushed himself to his feet and spoke a few words to the commander. As he did so, Mago was provided a view of his work. His brother's leg was bare, punctured at mid-thigh in a circle of jagged flesh that cut deep into the muscle. The surgeon draped a wet cloth over the wound. The white material flushed on contact and then, gradually, deepened to a red and on toward brown.
    “Don't think me too infirm,” Hannibal said. “They pierced the skin and muscle of me, Mago, but not the bone, not even the main artery, and certainly not my heart or resolve. I don't doubt I am the victim of some stable boy who snatched up a javelin when he saw his chance for glory. It does vex me, mostly because my foolishness broke our momentum and the siege carries on. Come in and sit. Synhalus is leaving me now but he will soon return. He has all manner of tortures planned for me this afternoon, but he thinks he can keep this leg from becoming the death of me.”
    Hannibal grasped the surgeon by the wrist in a parting gesture. Synhalus nodded and left the room without making eye contact with Mago. His assistant took the lamp with him and for a moment after their departure the room dropped into shadow.
    Mago navigated through the stools and sat as instructed. He found it hard to look directly at his brother, for his eyes wanted only to stare at the wound. “I would take your place if I could,” he said. “I'd accept the foul weapon into my own flesh to see you whole again.”
    The smile on the commander's face dropped away. Though the air in the tent was a comfortable temperature, beads of sweat dotted his nose and temples. These were the only indication of the pain his leg must have been causing him. He shifted position and said, “You would never have been as foolish as I. There are many reasons for me to risk my life for our goals; impatience isn't one of them. Are the men greatly disturbed?”
    “None can remember seeing you injured,” Mago said. “It has been a shock. Rumors spread faster than fever in times like this.”
    Hannibal shifted as if he were about to rise, but understanding his thoughts Mago stayed him with a hand. “We're dealing with it, brother. I made sure