Over the Alps

No matter how far they travelled, the elephant Surus was always hungry. Even now, he was nosing Hannibal with his trunk, convinced the general was hiding some secret treat from him. The leader of the Carthaginians, normally indulgent with his great war beast, pushed the trunk to the side absently. He preferred to take these councils of war outside, where he at least could feel the cool Iberian breeze.

“How come anytime a Roman speaks it sounds as though they are rattling a spear at me?” He asked, turning back to the small circle of warriors.

“You know them, brother,” Hasdrubal remarked, “Father always said they were the most ill tempered and unpleasant of men.” 

Several grunt of agreement from around the circle. There was no one here who favored the Romans, and many sour glances back at their embassy, the three men in togas who glared at them with equal malevolence. Only the banner of truce had prevented a fight from breaking out between the two sides, and Hannibal was still concerned that one of his people would take it into their head to stab one of these senators in the ribs. 

“Well it’s not as though we can think of accepting,” grunted Magalos, the Gallic chieftain. The tallest of his warlords, he towered over the proceedings, his chest bare despite the cold, a heavy gold torc hanging from his neck, “We’ll have war with Rome no matter what after all.”

“My people don’t want to die on some Italian field,” Grunted Viriathos, chief of the Iberians. He was a rangy man with dark hair, a gnarly curved sword forever at his side. 

“Well some of us are made of sterner stuff,” Magalos responded, tugging at his mustaches with a sour smile. Viriathos glared at him, but kept his head.

“You said you needed three more years,” Hasdrubal said, pinching his nose, “We’ve barely got half the Iberian tribes under control, and Carthage hasn’t sent us new recruits since the spring.”

And if I go to war without the permission of the Suftemes, they’ll nail me to a cross. He glared again at the Romans, their togas whipping in the wind, almost causing the men to stumble. Hannibal allowed himself a snort of laughter.

“What’s our alternative?” He said, “I will not be meekly turning myself over to their senate. If I am to die, it will not be at their hands.”

There was silence for a moment, and the commander of the Libyans, Shoshenq, coughed. The most senior and capable of his captains, the commander of the phalanxes had a license that the other allies did not enjoy. Hannibal glanced at him, before giving Shoshenq a nod.

            “You know if your elders in Carthage are allowed to make this decision, the only choice that you will make is whether you hang from a Punic or Roman cross.”

            Magalos bit back a sharp bite of laughter, and Viriathos looked scandalized. Even Hasdrubal raised an eyebrow. Even old Surus seemed to sense the tension, leaving Hannibal alone for the moment, making soft noises as he stepped back.

            “You’re right,” Hannibal sighed, “You’re an impudent bastard, but of course you’re right.”

            “I command the Phalanx,” Shoshenq said with a wry smile, “defending a hopeless position is my job.”

Hannibal offered him a smile in return, before turning back to his brother. Hasdrubal looked skeptical, still glancing back at the Romans.

“Let’s bring our friends from the Senate.” Hannibal said, circling the whole group of commanders.

The Senators could have been brothers, which with the great Roman clans would hardly have been surprising. They were short, powerfully built men, their hair iron grey, and their beards short. The togas that from a distance had seemed so foolish, now reminded Hannibal of the images of Greek statues. They glared at him resentfully, the older of the two standing with his thick arms crossed.

“Do they not even offer us a translator?” The old senator grunted.

“None will be necessary,” Hannibal replied smoothly in Latin, “I speak your tongue well enough.”

The old senator remained unimpressed, before tilting his head back towards the city of Saguntum.

“The Sagutines are our ally,” He said without preamble, “And under our protection. You withdraw your armies at once.”

“I don’t see any legions here,” Magalos said, before being rewarded by a rough shove in the ribs from Shoshenq.

“What my Gallic friend is pointing out,” Hannibal replied, using his body to block the chieftain from any more pithy interjections, “Is that this is Carthaginian land. Saguntum has attacked people under my protection, and refused to punish the perpetrators.”

“Rome has no interest in Iberian shepherds,” The old senator snapped, “But if you break down those walls, you are at war with Rome.”

Viriathos snarled at the Roman’s words, but thankfully had more restraint than Magalos. Hannibal suddenly felt weary, the prospect of climbing the uphill battle of this debate weighing heavily on his shoulders. Could we not just finish this charade? Even the expressions on their boorish faces exhausted him.

“Just as you must defend your allies,” Hannibal said, “I must defend mine.”

The old Senator’s face quirked into a smile, and Hannibal felt the twinge of anger he had so often felt whenever dealing with Romans.

“Well, Carthaginian,” The Roman said somewhat grandly, “Choose peace or war, for it matters not to Rome.”

The man seemed to pause, as though waiting for an ovation, but Hannibal was done with him, turning away.

“It will be war then, Senator,” He replied.

Somehow the foothills of the Alps were even colder. Hannibal was deeply bundled in his cloak that he no doubt looked like a pile of furs. It would have bothered him if it were not the same for everyone else. The only one who seemed unaffected was Magalos, who was insisting on being bare to the chest, even as the winds blew at them. Surus was miserable, huddling alongside the other elephants, all of whom were being difficult and stubborn for their mahouts

“Well, brother,” Hasdrubal said, “Should I wish you a fair journey?”

“I think that might be too much to hope for in this weather,” Hannibal responded, looking up at the windswept peaks. 

“And you’re sure this is the best way,” The other man said skeptically.

“We need to surprise Rome, catch them unawares,” The older Barca looked at his brother, “And I need you here, protecting my back.”

“Well they certainly won’t expect this,” Hasdrubal responded with a small smile. After a moment, he clasped Hannibal’s shoulder, “Travel safe.”

No words came to him, and with a stiff nod, he turned away, making his ways up the peaks. To Italy, to war. To his future.