By this time poor Mago was seriously debating the advisability of breaking away from Hannibal's foam-flecked tirade and flinging himself over the edge of the nearest cliff, but he was so ringed around by avid onlookers that all his exit options were blocked. Silently he prayed to his Baal-in-a-Box for an end to Hannibal's diatribe.
He got it.
"And all that-" Hannibal was breathing hard now, and there was a dangerous look in his eye. "-every single last little bit of that assorted grief, duress, and top-level misery is what you, in your wisdom, call a fucking pickle?! Well, I'll give you a pickle you won't forget, Maggot! Now hear this: You're the new alimentation officer! Congratulations!"
"S- sir?" Mago's limbs began to tremble, and not from the cold. "I'm very conscious of the honor, sir, but, ah, wh- what exactly is an alimentation officer supposed to do, sir? Specifically?"
"Do?" Hannibal echoed, his steely eyes glittering with gleeful malice. "Not too much. Just be in charge of chow for this whole damned army, that's what. On pain of death. Got that, soldier, or do you need me to demonstrate the pain-of-death part? Well? What are you standing around like that for? It's almost breakfast time. You'd better get started." He turned smartly and took a few strides through the snow, then looked back to add: "Oh, and by the way, Maggot-"
"Sir?" the miserable new-made officer whimpered.
"— I really don't like pickles."
Melqartpilles of Tyre heard the sound of wild weeping coming from the lee of one of the larger piles of elephant dung festooning the Carthaginian camp. He had a kindly heart and an inquisitive mind, did Melqartpilles of Tyre, both of which had conspired to contribute to his enforced midnight escape from that very city after the time he'd idly wondered whether a certain nobleman's beautiful daughter were still a virgin and, on discovering that she was, immediately decided it would be unkind not to do something about it.
He was the sort of man who couldn't help being kind, especially to the ladies. He was also the sort of man whose kindness extended to befriending the otherwise friendless, be they man, woman, or beast. He simply had a good, if indiscriminate, heart. Thus, while a sensible man would have heard the crying and promptly walked off at speed in the opposite direction, Melqartpilles (Mel to his friends) headed straight for the source.
I'll bet it's old Danel the elephant-keeper, he thought as snow crunched under his sandals. There's been a real scarcity of fodder for 'em lately, and when they suffer, he suffers. That man cares more about those unwieldy beasts of his than he does about his own family! Of course, I've seen his family and the elephants are more attractive. And smarter. And a damned sight more fragrant.
It was not old Danel crying, as Mel discovered when he rounded the dung heap: It was Mago.
"Mag?" Like most folk who knew Mago, Melqartpilles considered the man to be a cartouche-carrying twit, but he liked him anyway. And twit or not, when the elephant chips were down, Mago always acquitted himself heroically in battle. When the Allobroges had sprung their aforementioned ambush on Hannibal's men, it was Mago who'd thrust his shield over Melqartpilles's head just in time to deflect a chunk of rock that had meant business. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, hullo, Mel." Mago wiped his nose on the back of his hand and snuffled sorrowfully. "Nothing much. I'm just a dead man, that's all. Dead before lunch, if I know good old General Hannibal. I expect him to call for my execution within the hour. Not the sort to let the work pile up, that one."
"Unlike Danel." Mel toed the pile of elephant poo distastefully. "We're occupying turf where you can't swing a cat without having it fall into a crevasse: Why can't he just commandeer a few of the Insubres or the Boiis or even our own men and have them shove this stuff over the side of the mountain?"
"Oh, you know Danel." Mago managed a wobbly grin. "He's that fond of the elephants. Can't bear to part with anything connected with 'em."
"In case you haven't noticed, this stuff is no longer connected. It's a wholly independent stench."
"Well, we do need to keep some of it on hand, donchaknow. For fueling the cookfires and all that rot."
Mel laughed. "I think we could spare some of it for landfill. Just walking here from my tent I saw enough of this stuff lying around the camp to cook a fifty-course banquet! You know what the men say about this campaign? 'Same day, different shi- »
Mago was crying again.
Mel frowned. "This is still about that whole being executed before lunch business, isn't it? Weird timing. Why's Hannibal want to do it then?"
"Because he can't bloody well have me executed before breakfast! Or after it, for that matter, because there's not going to be any bloody breakfast and that's the reason why he's going to have me executed before lunch!" Mago buried his head in his hands and sobbed.
"Uhhhh." Mel scratched his head, well and truly perplexed. "I don't suppose you'd like to run that by me again? Slowly?"
Mago did so, between sniffles and sobs and the occasional ululation of grief. When he was done, Mel understood the situation but was no less confounded by it.
"That son-of-a-Roman-she-wolf! He's got no right doing this to you, Mag, old buddy. Can't say I'm surprised, though. He never treats the native Carthaginian troops this way."
"Really?" Mago had given up on wiping his nose and let the drips freeze where they would. "I heard something like that, but I thought it was just a nasty old rumor. One hates to believe one's supreme commander plays favorites."
"Plays favorites? He wrote the damn rulebook! Look, I know your mom's a foreigner, but both of our daddies hailed from Tyre so that ought to count for something with the old man. Without Tyre, there never would have been a Carthage, but do you think Hannibal thinks of that? Noooooo. You want to know where we stand in his estimation? Canaan-fodder!"
"Oh, I say." Mago clicked his tongue in a disapproving manner.
"It's true! We're a disposable quantity in Hannibal's army. The only favor he ever threw our way was giving us these snappy-looking red shirts to wear as part of our uniforms, and lately I'm not so sure it was a favor. Red shows up awfully clear against all this snow; might as well hand us over to the Allobroges wholesale for target practice. We're lower than the Carthaginians, we're even lower than the suburban Carthaginians from the Iberian settlements. Sure, we might outrank the Boiis and the Insubres, but they're real foreigners, bloody Gauls. The only consolation I've got is that as far as Hannibal sees it, all of us rank under the fucking elephants! And trust me, that's not a good place to be."
"All I wanted was a spot of breakfast." Mago was starting to crumple again.
"Oh, stop that," Mel snapped, out of patience. "It's not going to solve anything or save your hide. You look more pathetic than a puppy with a sore paw. Too bad you're not: Them's good eatin'."