Pride of Carthage by David Anthony Durham

above the scene for a moment, then turned and walked toward the brothers. As he left the circle of priests, the space he vacated closed behind him. Hanno only caught a momentary glimpse of the mutilated flesh.
    “The signs are uncertain,” Mandarbal said, his voice high and lisping. “The offshoot of the liver is abnormally large, which suggests a reversal of the natural order. The right compartment is healthy and fine, but the left bears a black mark shaped like a young frog.”
    “How do you read that?” Hanno asked.
    “It is uncertain. We are favored by the gods in some aspects, and yet there are divine forces aligned against us.”
    “Is that all you can see?”
    Mandarbal considered this. He looked back over his shoulders. An insect landed on his lip but flew away instantly. He said, “Perhaps you have offended a single deity and may yet suffer for it.”
    Hanno pressed his tongue against his teeth for a moment. “I would look upon the organ myself,” he said. “Might I—”
    The priest stopped him with his hand. His fingertips spotted Hanno's breastplate with blood. “You cannot see the sacred parts. This is forbidden to your eyes. You would profane the rites. I've told you more than enough. Trust when I tell you that the future is not certain. Sacrifice to Baal and to Anath. I will ask El for guidance. Perhaps the aged one will speak to us. And Moloch, also—give praise to death.”
    Mandarbal made as if to return to his attendants, but noting the expression on Hanno's face, he paused. “Events will unfold by the will of the gods,” he said. “To know their desire is not always our fortune; to have a part in it, regardless, is the blessing and curse of our lives. Be at ease with it. A thrashing man will always drown; a passive one may sometimes float.”
    With that, the priest turned and showed the Barcas his back.
    Mago shrugged, pursed his lips, and patted his brother on the shoulder. “What did you expect?” he asked. “They are priests. It is against their creed to speak clearly.”
    Hanno took the sacred ceremonies much more seriously than his brother, but he could not deny the simple truth Mago referred to. The priests always left one more ill at ease than before, more uncertain, more troubled by the numerous possibilities. It was a strange art, theirs, but one he could never turn his back on.
    Had he had only his own inclinations to consider, he would not have joined his brother for the evening meal but would have retired early to privacy. But, as so often since Hannibal's departure, his presence seemed an official necessity. In honor of the Greek, the officers dined in a style he was familiar with, lounging on low couches in Mago's tent, sampling cheeses and fish, vegetables and goat meat with their fingers. The day was still stiflingly warm. One wall of the large tent was folded back to encourage the first stirrings of an evening breeze. Silenus spoke Carthaginian with a Syracusan accent. He entertained the weary soldiers with tales of his voyage from Carthage to Sicily, from there up to the Greek town of Emporiae in northeastern Iberia, from which he sailed along the coast aboard a trading vessel that dropped him at Saguntum. It was hard to know just where fact met fantasy in the man's story, for his odyssey seemed calculated to outdo the poem sung by Homer. He spoke of pirates off the Aegates, of sighting a leviathan longer than the quinquereme in which he sailed, and of a lightning bolt that darted down out of a clear sky and struck the surface of the water.
    “It sounds as though we are lucky to lay our eyes on you,” Mago said. He motioned for a servant to refill the Greek's wine bowl, a task attended by a slim-shouldered Arbocalan.
    “That you are,” the Greek agreed. “If I had known that I would miss the commander, I might not have rushed.”
    “Better that you delayed no longer,” Hanno said. Without his meaning to reveal it, his voice bore an edge of threat. There was