The Great Carthaginian General Hannibal Barca

 

By Charles Shea LeMone

 

In the year 173 B.C., on the outskirts of Alexandria, there stood a magnificent estate that was the envy of many. Most people knew that an old man owned it and had lived there for the last twenty-five years in seclusion, behind the massive walls and well-guarded gates. However the man’s identity was unknown. Even his most trusted servants did not know his nationality or how he’d attained his wealth. Only his son, Marcellus, a man in his late-twenties, knew that his father, Selinius, had been the chief scribe for the great Carthaginian General Hannibal Barca.

 

Marcellus had been sworn to secrecy when he was 10-years-old, and his father had regaled him with tales--of heroic battles and intricate details of allegiances, betrayals and political intrigues. He told him of the fierce debates held in the Roman and Carthaginian Senates over fighting in the Second Punic War. Marcellus had taken the oath to protect the secret of his father’s identity as he knelt on the grave of his mother, who had died giving birth to him. Over the years, he’d heard the stories so many times that he could have repeated them--as though he’d lived through the events himself--had it not been for the oath he’d sworn.

 

He knew that the war began in 218, when young Hannibal laid siege to and sacked the city of Saguntum in Spain to provoke Rome, and his father became the general’s trusted scribe. Shortly after that, Selinius was by the great commander’s side that following winter when they crossed the Alps with twelve elephants and an international army of 110,000 fighting men. He’d faithfully served in that position until he was released of his responsibilities on the eve of Hannibal’s defeat at the Battle of Zama, in the year 202. 

 

Nevertheless, it was the Battle of Cannae that his father most often recounted in privacy. With each retelling he’d draw a map to show the lay of the land and to illustrate the supremacy of the Roman forces on that day when more than 65,000 Italian soldiers were slain. Once again, Hannibal had outfoxed them with what came to be known in the Roman Senate’s parlance as his Punic treachery. For the general from North Africa had strategically stationed his inferior forces on a hilltop with the rising sun and a strong wind at their backs.

 

Selinius’ eyes always sparkled with a devious glint as he described to his son one of the moments before the battle, exactly as Hannibal had related it to him. Surrounded by his staff officers, one of them, Gisgo, gazed down at the Romans massed below in battle formation and said, “‘It’s amazing to see so many men.’”

 

“‘You’re right,’” Hannibal responded calmly from his magnificent steed. “‘But there is one thing you failed to notice.’”

 

“‘What’s that, sir?’” the officer asked, puzzled.

 

“‘As great as their numbers are, there is not one man among them named Gisgo.’”

 

“‘The small group of officers broke into laughter,’” Selinius told his attentive son. “Not only did that give the soldiers confidence, can you imagine how it must have baffled and unnerved the Roman soldiers, hearing their mirth floating on the summer air that historic day?”

 

In 183, however, Marcellus noticed a drastic change in his father upon hearing of Hannibal’s death by suicide.  Rather than be captured by the Romans on the remote island of Bithynia where he’d lived for years in secrecy, Hannibal had opted to end his life with a strong dose of poison. Shortly after, Selinius turned into a sullen shell of his former self. Then he even disappeared for seven years, leaving Marcellus to be raised by servants. When he returned, he was a sickly man, mostly confined to his bed by a physician’s orders. Then one day, more animated than he’d been in some time, Selinius mapped out a plan to his son.

 

“We must tell his story,” he said, sitting straight up in bed for the first time in months. “You will become my scribe. History is always written by the victors, who slant events to make themselves appear just and honorable. That’s why we must record what I know from Hannibal’s point of view. When we are done, there is a rich merchant in Egypt, who will be awaiting the scrolls. And, my son, he will pay you royally.”

 

So began the long process that Marcellus soon began to dread. More than a year had passed since he’d begun writing down his father’s words, spoken slowly enough for him to translate as he sat by the old man’s bedside. Although he kept his promise to painstakingly record the life of Hannibal as witnessed by his father, he was leery of turning the work over to the merchant in Egypt. And the more he thought about the way his father had kept his association with the Carthaginian general veiled in secrecy for so many years, the more he feared taking the completed scrolls to Egypt to hand over to a wealthy stranger. 

 

Furthermore, before he learned who his father really was, like many of the small kids his age, he’d often taunt other children by calling them, “Hannibal the cannibal! Hannibal the cannibal!” He also speculated that Hannibal committed suicide rather than be taken back to Rome in chains to be paraded on exhibit and subjected to crowds of angry Romans who would never forget the nearly twenty years of terror he and his armies had reigned over their country; or the countless lives that were cut short during the many battles fought during the Second Punic War; or how close he’d come to overthrowing the state which ruled the known world. 

 

As Marcellus climbed the steep stairs, passing a servant returning with what was left of his father’s breakfast, he knew time was running out. They were nearing the end of the document. In fact, Marcellus was worried that one more session of transcribing his father’s words might be all it took. They had already covered the Carthaginian Senate recalling Hannibal and his forces back to Africa preceding the Battle of Zama; and how the prided Numidian horsemen had switched allegiances and sided themselves with the Romans, which deeply concerned Hannibal.  

 

Stepping into the master bedroom, Marcellus was surprised to see all of the curtains were drawn wide as a flock of flamingoes darkened the sunrise and cast a flickering magenta glow on the room warmed by a roaring fireplace.

 

“Good morning, son,” his father spoke in a raspy yet strong voice, using the same greeting Marcellus had become accustomed to hearing each day. “Shall we begin by you reading where we left off yesterday?”

 

Despite his father’s cheerful greeting, the young man could see Selinius’ skin was more yellowish in hue than ever. He sat at the teakwood desk and scanned the words he’d transcribed the previous day, asking, “Shall I start with your description of the camp site?”

 

His father nodded, and Marcellus began reading, “Twilight fell over the camp. From the top of the hillside where Hannibal and I sat, we could see the various armies gathered according to their nationalities. Smoke spiraled up from the fires the cooks had built and the air was redolent with the aroma of roasting meat. To the north, a host of drummers were entertaining the Iberian slingers. Next to them, the Gauls had arranged themselves in a vast circle and were raucously engaged in watching two of their soldiers, naked and painted blue, competing in a wrestling match. Behind them near a cool running stream, the Carthaginian cavalry were watering their horses.”

 

“You can stop there,” Selinius interrupted. “I’m ready to continue.”

 

Marcellus dipped an ostrich quill pen into an inkwell and poised it above a fresh length of scroll, ready for Selinius to continue his narrative.

 

“The two of us sat across from a burning fire on the hillside. As Hannibal used a stick to stir the logs, I studied him closely. I’d never seen him look the way he did that last evening I spent with him. He wore a new and larger eye patch; his dark-skin appeared to glow like burning bronze and his naturally thick nostrils and lips seemed swollen, as though the resentment inside of him was threatening to explode. Nevertheless, when he spoke his voice was controlled and evenly tempered. 

 

“‘Selinius,’” he said, ‘“I never told you this, but I was only nine-years-old when my father, Hasdrubal, baptized me in the blood of a sacrifice--shortly before we sailed off to Spain to build the city of New Carthage. He knew that our senate was too passive when it came to dealing with the Romans and their proclivity for breaking treaties whenever it suited their fancy. He knew, though, as a military man, that he would be forever shackled by their decisions as long as he remained on our homeland soil. They were merchants and thought like merchants.”

 

Hannibal went on to recount how Hasdrubal had been the top commander during the First Punic War until the Carthaginian Senate accepted terms with Rome for peace. Then he was called back from that war to put down the mercenary army camped outside the city of Carthage, demanding their back pay. It took years to finally squash that rebellion and get back to the business of taking care of business.

 

“‘That is why my father made me swear to always have enmity for the Romans and everything their government stands for. That’s why I marched my men north of the Ebro River, breaking that treaty with them to shack Saguntum. That’s why I fought against everything they could mass against me for the last 16 years. It was with one purpose, Selinius, to bring them to their knees. Now I fear that has all been for naught, and the world will be forever controlled by militaristic force and the impending strength of armies--not justice or the rights of man. Fear of might will be the one true rule of law.’”

 

Selinius ended his last sentence with venom in his tone. And though the room had taken on an uncomfortable chill, there was perspiration on his forehead. Marcellus wiped it away and placed another log on the fire. When Selinius was composed enough to continue, he did so in a subdued voice that Marcellus had to strain to hear.

 

“That next morning, Hannibal sent me off with a large chest-full of gold and an escort of fifty of his best men. The last words he spoke to me were, “‘When the time is right, tell my story.’”

 

There was another long silence filled only by the crackling logs in the fireplace. “Ten days later, I was on a ship that set sail for here, Alexandria, a city I’ve always loved. And that, my son, is all that’s necessary for you to transcribe. You know the rest of the story.”

 

During the middle of the night, as he occasionally did, Marcellus went to check on his father. Even in the dim light of the candle lit room, upon entering the master bedroom he could see the ghostly white of his father’s skin and knew his time on earth had elapsed. Still, he placed a hand on his forehead to be certain. It was cold a waxen.

 

“Rest in peace, my sweet and noble father,” he whispered in a quivering voice.

 

He then went to the locked chest where all the scrolls he’d so meticulously transcribed were kept. One armload at a time, he carried them across the room and dumped them onto the blazing logs in the fireplace.  Before closing the door behind him, he paused for a long time to gaze back. From his vantage point, he could see his father lying dead in his brass bed, as the embers of the fire grew faint. Turning his back on the room that he’d never again enter, the words, from dust to dust, from ash to ash, came to him.

 

 

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