She closed her eyes. "You Romans make my head hurt. You shall have the navy, too. And before you ask, you shall have all the material support of Egypt, which you know to be incomparable, for your use during the campaign. What allies I have in Libya will be yours as well. I'll even send along my best beasts for your sacrifices. Is that satisfactory?"
"Eminently, Majesty."
Hamilcar studied the head of his late general, Mastanabal. It had arrived that morning by courier, under a flag of truce, packed neatly in a cedar box and preserved in aromatic oils. It was disfigured by the general's method of suicide, but was quite recognizable.
"If we had marched faster," Queen Teuta said, "this need not have happened."
"What need not have happened?" he said, still musing upon the ruined features, the faintly reproachful expression.
"The disaster, of course!" she said impatiently. "We have lost a fine army and many capable officers because we were too slow."
Her use of the word "we" did not escape his notice. "Disaster? The man was not worthy and his army consisted of nothing but hired scum. Where is the disaster in this? The naval battle was more costly. Ships are more expensive to replace than men. But it was a small affair." His scouts had rounded up a number of the surviving sailors and marines. They had spoken of the Roman innovations: the taller ships with their heavy timbers and their castles and corvi. Hamilcar had attended their interrogation closely before ordering that all of them be crucified.
"Now your army will be weaker when you confront Norbanus," she insisted. "It is weaker by several thousand men." The shofet astonished her. He seemed to be absolutely impervious to his folly. She began to doubt the wisdom of allying herself with him. His previous setbacks had been the workings of chance or bad luck, but this was a disaster of his own making. From the moment they crossed the Strait of Hercules, she had urged him to march with all possible speed, so that they could link up with Mastanabal and fall upon the Romans with their combined forces. Instead, he had dawdled, making one excuse after another. Now she could see that it was deliberate. He did not want to share the glory with a possible rival. Arrogance and willfulness she could forgive in a king, but not stupidity.
"Norbanus," he mused, seeming only to halfhear her. "That man needs to be humbled."
A letter had accompanied the general's head from the Roman.
From Titus Norbanus, proconsul of Rome, to Hamilcar, shofet of Carthage, greeting.
Shofet, I rejoice that you and I will meet again so soon. I have found a splendid battleground, well watered and with plenty of room for both armies to camp. The ground is level, not too stony and with plenty of grass. Personally, I cannot think of a finer spot to add you and your army to my battle honors.
Of course, certain formalities must be honored. I am charged by the Senate of Rome to order you to turn around and march your army back to Africa. Should you choose that course, I will follow you, but not too closely. I will not hinder your crossing of the Strait of Hercules.
However, I know that you are a soldier and a man of spirit, so I fully expect you to choose honorable battle rather than ignominious retreat. I await your pleasure, here on this excellent field near the aptly named town of Cartago Nova.
"He actually tells you that he has picked his ground for battle. Does he seriously expect that you will comply?"
"It would keep matters simple. A fight on level ground to decide the contest in a day. And to avoid battle might be taken for cowardice."
"You cannot mean it! Your ancestor Hannibal never let the Romans choose their own ground for fighting. On some occasions he retreated before them for days, until he found the ground that suited him, and then he fought, on ground and terms of his own choosing. Did anyone ever accuse Hannibal of cowardice for this?"
"My ancestor was glorious, but he never had numerical superiority. Always, his numbers were inferior. I have here a far larger army than Norbanus commands. And doubtless he lost many men in the fight with this fool." He waved contemptuously toward the oil-gleaming head.
"I think he lost very few," she said.
"No matter. Many or few, I will crush his contemptible legions and march on, destroying any Roman force that dares to defy me. Then I will destroy Rome, and I will not be as merciful as my ancestor was. I will pulverize every last stone of the city and I will kill or enslave every Roman in Italy. Then, when I am ready, I will march north, to their capital of Noricum, and destroy that and every other vestige of those misbegotten people."
"Excellent words," she said. "I think there are better ways to put them into effect."
"That will be enough. I will not have men saying that the shofet of Carthage is following the advice of a woman, even a queen and distinguished ally."
With an effort, she restrained herself from answering. She knew now that she had done her work too well. She had set out to convince him that he was the new Alexander and greater than Hannibal, and that his destiny and hers were linked. Now it seemed that he accepted the first part, but thought that she was somehow his inferior, a mere woman rather than a queen of more than mortal status. She would have to correct this.
Titus Norbanus rode over the battlefield he had chosen, and it was not for the first time. It looked level and consistent throughout, but this was not quite so. A narrow stream ran through it, and certain pieces of ground near the stream were boglike. He had had horses graze upon these patches, to crop the longer grasses down to the length of the rest. There were stony bits of ground, too. The stream itself was deceptively deep in spots. He had had it sounded along the whole length of the field, and knew exactly where all the deep spots were. When the time came for the battle, he would know the field intimately, and his enemy would not.
He looked southward along the stream. He could just make out the fine city of Cartago Nova. He had not bothered to besiege the city, nor had he even sent envoys to demand its surrender. He had an immediate use for that city, and it was not as mere loot. His officers were mystified by his actions, and he had not enlightened them. He had ordered his admiral to stand his fleet well up the coast, out of sight of the city with its fine harbor. This, too, puzzled everyone, and that was exactly how he wanted it.
Satisfied that he knew precisely the nature of the ground, he rode back to the Roman camp. He had ordered its rampart to be raised higher than usual, and had denuded a nearby hill of trees to construct its palisade. He wanted to give the appearance of a defensive posture.
He rode through the gate and along the via principalis to the praetorium, where he dismounted and passed inside. A slave took his helmet and others stripped off his armor so efficiently that he did not have to pause as he strode through the huge tent. He pushed aside a leopard skin hanging and went within his women's quarters. Within, the two Judean princesses sat at a table, poring over their everlasting astrological charts. At his entrance they knelt and pressed their foreheads to the carpeted ground, an unusual thing to see from the proud sisters. He grasped a shoulder of each and raised them to their feet.
"Little princesses, what have the stars in store for me?"
"Master, we are sorely puzzled," Glaphyra said, her eyes downcast. "Until now, all our forecasts were favorable. Now something is wrong."
"Wrong? How? Do the stars say I will be defeated?"
"Not exactly," Roxana said. "But you must not fight tomorrow. The signs say that you will not win glory tomorrow."
"Is that all? Do not trouble yourselves. I expect Hamilcar to arrive this afternoon, and I will fight him tomorrow, and all will go as I have planned."