Shade in place, Hannibal continued. “Fortune has been my fickle mistress for several years now,” he said. “When I raged down into your land, winning battle after battle, Fortune always asked for pieces of me in return. She took my eye. She took first friends and comrades, and then my brothers one by one. I lost never a single open battle, but still she held ultimate victory just beyond my arm's reach. Now, when Fortune has decreed that I must come to meet a Roman consul and sue for peace, she does me the kindness that it be you to whom I come. At least by that I am honored. Strange, isn't it? The first battle I fought was with the father; now the last may be with the son.”
The commander paused a moment. Publius—intentionally or not—nodded: Yes, this was indeed a strange way for events to play out. He waited passively, but with a set of his jaw that showed his formal reserve undiminished. Hannibal smiled. Publius could speak of his own losses, but he rejected the invitation to admit common ground between them. Hannibal noted this and silently commended it.
“I'll speak honestly to you. And I'd have you do the same to me. Nobody listens to us now. The rabble of rich men who rule our countries are not now in attendance. This matter is for us to decide. Let us discard pride and instead rely on reason. This is not hard for me to do. I have little pride left, but I fear from the eyes you set upon me that you have yet to learn many of the things war has taught me. You are like me after the Trebia, after Trasimene and Cannae. Young men often long for victory instead of peace. I know this well. Such is the difference between the old and the young. But if we clash tomorrow neither you nor I will decide the victor. We are the twin sons of Fortune. Who can say which of us will prevail? You might even lose your own life. At this point—when you've come so far—that would be tragic. Hear this wisdom and let us end this today, without the loss of many thousands more. Far too many have died already, and the brave men who stand behind us desire life—not death on this field tomorrow.
“Here is the peace that I propose. It's a way to end the war this very day, and I'm sure I can persuade my city's Council to honor it. You may keep everything for which I began this war. Sicily is yours. Sardinia. All the islands between our two nations. In addition, I release all claims to our possessions in Iberia. That rich country, which we tamed, is ours no longer. My people will remain on African soil. We will not rebuild our navy. We will not attack any Roman possession. Nor will we challenge what I now believe is inevitable—that Rome will reach into new provinces and grow stronger yet. Carthage is chastened, Publius. Leave us to live simply, as we were, looking only away from you and no longer causing Rome grief. That is what I can offer you.”
The Roman consul received all this without giving the slightest outward sign as to his thoughts. When Hannibal concluded, Publius studied him a little longer. Beads of moisture had swelled to fullness on his forehead. A few trickled into others and slipped along his hairline and down under his jaw.
“You are mistaken about my character,” Publius said. “I don't think I'm unbeatable. If ever a man was unbeatable, you were; and here as I look at you I see defeat draped over you like a shawl. You are a lesson to me. But I cannot accept these terms. I am not a king standing before you, but a representative of my people. And I know they would not accept the peace you offer. Before you arrived in Africa, I began talks with your Council. Then, perhaps, I could've accepted the terms you propose. But not now, not after your Council backed out and sent you to do their work for them.”
“If the terms were fair then, they are so now,” Hannibal said. “The world has not changed so much in these few weeks.”
Publius cocked his head questioningly. “You asked me to speak plainly. Hannibal, I believe that if our armies meet I will defeat you.”
“Others have thought that also,” Hannibal said.
“Nevertheless, this is what I believe. I also believe that your people cannot be trusted to honor any terms. If Carthage kept control of Africa, she would grow rich again by the morrow, war-hungry again the day after that. I'm in allegiance with Masinissa of the Massylii. It was with his help that I fought Syphax and came to know this country. He is now the king of all of Numidia and a friend of Rome. So you see, the very forces that brought me here demand that I present you with these terms: You are allowed to remain Carthage, with your customs and laws. But you will abandon all possessions outside of the immediate surroundings of your capitol. To Masinissa, you return all territories that once belonged to him or to his ancestors. You may never make war—either inside or outside Africa—without Rome's permission. We will have all your warships, military transports, and elephants, and you are forbidden to train more. There will be a fine as well. I don't know the amount, but it will be considerable, paid out, perhaps, over fifty years or so. You must return all prisoners, slaves, and deserters—”
“Are you making this up as you go along?” Hannibal asked.
“And I will personally pick one hundred hostages from your people's children. From any group, councillors, generals, even from among the Barcas.”
The Umbrian slave adjusted his position slightly, whether from fatigue or as an inadvertent comment on what he had just heard, it was hard to tell. Beads of sweat dotted the man's entire chest now. Occasionally—set loose by his minute movements in steadying the parasols—droplets ran freely down his form, some falling from him to splat on the sand. Hannibal watched the spot where they landed for a few moments, stilling himself. Although he gave no outward sign of it, the import of the last demand froze the air in his lungs. He had to consciously draw a fresh breath and blow it out before he could answer.
“What you propose is not acceptable. The Council would kill me for bearing them such terms, and it wouldn't accomplish your wish. Their hatred for Rome would burn undiminished. That would not be a peace at all, just a pretext for . . .” Hannibal let whatever he was going to say drop. He blinked it away and resumed: “But this isn't about terms. Don't be so foolish as to take personal revenge. Revenge doesn't bring back those who've been lost; it only taints their memories. Must we risk everything in a clash of arms?”
Publius grinned, not a joyful expression but one that suggested somber humor. “Can it be that Hannibal now disdains war? None in my country would believe this. Of course this is personal! It was personal from the moment you set foot on Roman lands. You should know by now that no Roman fights alone. Be an enemy to one and you are an enemy to all of us. I would happily die tomorrow in battle with you; as I fell, another would step into my place. Can you say the same?”
Hannibal did not answer.
“We are all the walking dead,” Publius said. “It's illusion to think otherwise. If I did not know better, I'd think that you've misjudged the situation you find yourself in. The outcome of this war has already been decided. No wind can blow Rome back from victory. You know that. We fight tomorrow only to determine the terms of your surrender: fair or less than. But either way, Rome has won.”
The commander brought a hand to his face and gripped his chin. He let his fingers slide up far enough to press against the closed lid of his bad eye. “Then we have failed the men behind us.”
The consul rose to his feet. “One of us has,” he said.
Hannibal did not address the army collectively the next morning. He could not conjure any words to encourage them that he had not already used and that did not sound hollow to his ears. If he could have spoken honestly to them, he would have told them to fight with all their courage for no other reward than the continuation of their own lives. Fight so that they might stop fighting. Fight so that they could throw down their arms and trudge back to wherever their homes were. Fight so that Hannibal would not see his family made prisoner to Rome. This seemed as important a factor as any. Publius was right. This was all personal. But he had no desire to admit as much to his army.