Hamilax watched as the stone block crept up the ramp. In his younger days he would have helped push, or at least joined in moving the smoothly rounded wooden rollers that fell behind the block back in front of it. Age had finally brought such stiffness to his joints that he left those tasks to stronger and more nimble men. Not participating chafed at his patience though. The same aging that had reduced his supervision of the project to watching threatened to take him before he saw it completed.
He was the latest in a long line of supervisors, appointed by Hannibal himself, twelfth of that name, to manage the construction. Hannibal XII seemed to care little one way or the other about the library that his great-grandfather had commissioned, but he had grudgingly supplied Hamilax with the manpower and resources required over the years. Hamilcar VIII was probably going to be far more difficult to work with than his father had been, and Hamilax hoped to see the work completed rather than pass on the task to another.
The crew pushing the block stopped. They braced it in place, perched precariously three quarters of the way up the ramp. Nothing further would be accomplished this day. They scrambled down the scaffolding and followed Hamilax to their appointed place along the western road. The funeral procession of Hannibal XII passed in silent dignity some hours later. As required, they remained at the roadside until sunset in quiet contemplation of the magnificence of the fallen leader. Hamilax roused those who were too obvious in their dozing off, but any who managed to maintain a posture of alertness he allowed to sleep.
...
The old man was asleep. Nodded off in his chair. Hannibal Marca shook his shoulder gently. "Scholar, the final shipment of tiles has arrived. You will need to sign for them." Hamilax lifted the staff which had been lying across his knees and levered himself painfully to his feet. Hannibal helped him; an embarrassing kindness that neither man acknowledged.
The wagons were unhitched and left, rather than being unloaded. The drayman hitched his teams to empty wagons and set off to the source of his next load. Hamilax the Scholar, leaning heavily on his staff, returned to his chair. He had directed the drayman with all the appropriate haughtiness of his position, but the task of getting the tiles hoisted onto the almost completed roof he left to young Hannibal. He might live to see the library completed, but the construction crews knew that Hamilax was no longer their supervisor in anything but name.
The workers, to a man, would have said that Hannibal Marca was in charge. The students who had already begun to accumulate around the nearly completed library would undoubtedly provide a successor for the aged scholar, but it was Hannibal who would get the construction completed.
...
The bed chamber was ornate, but sloppy with rolled manuscripts. Though his body sometimes confined him to bed for days at a time, Hamilax's mind still thirsted for knowledge and he read prodigiously. He sipped at the mulled wine that eased the aches in his joints.
"I will be up tomorrow, for the dedication," he declared firmly.
"Of course." Hannibal was much less certain than his voice indicated.
"Not without your help. I count on you to get me to the platform, and propped up in place, but I can make the presentation to our esteemed ruler."
"As you should."
"As he expects, more like. Completing this building is more your accomplishment than mine."
"It is you who have seen it through. I may have done my small part at the end, but you and all the scholars before you deserve the honors more than I do."
Hamilax took another sip of the wine. "In any event, it shall be my final task."
...
Two men stood in the street, gazing up at the grand facade of the library. Nearby, the platform erected for the dedication was rapidly breaking down into pieces. Unlike similar platforms in the past, these pieces were being disassembled rather than just torn away. They would be stored for future use.
Carthage had no problem wasting materials, but being able to have a platform erected in half the time appealed to Hamilcar VIII. Over the years of his reign he had developed a taste for ceremony.
Merbal turned to the cart, on which the parts were being stacked. "Clever," he said. "I've seen many things razed, but none to good end or future use." He turned back to the library. "And I've never built anything."
Hannibal shook his head. "It isn't as if I built it myself, brother."
"You did your part, and as I hear it you did more than most. Old Hamilax doesn't want to name you as his successor for your good looks."
"Hamilax may be losing his wits."
"Hamilax is feeble, but sharp as a swordpoint."
"There are many students. Some have been studying for years. The library is just completed, but it's seen long use already. There are others he could choose."
"Students. Bah. What have they accomplished? What will they ever accomplish?" Merbal waved at the carts laden with the platform. "You made something." He pointed up at the library. "You not only know how to build things, you've made it happen." He turned towards the broad stair, where the men of the crews who had finished the library had stood. Those men had scattered after the ceremony, some returning to family farms, some being sent to distant cities to work on other buildings. "You've led men, as no student has. You're the best man in Carthage."
Hannibal laughed. "Twenty years a reaver. Heir to our father's farm. You've led men, and not just construction workers. No one would call me the best man in this conversation, much less in Carthage."
Merbal struck him. The fist snapped like lightning, and landed behind his arm in the ribs of his back, taking his wind completely. "Don't argue with me, brother. Yes, twenty years a reaver makes me something, but that something isn't a good man to argue with, or a good man at all. You think that being the youngest son, having to stay home, has kept you from glory. The reavers have no glory. We are nothing better than barbarians; living in tents, leaving nothing but ashes in our wake. The world fears Carthage because of us, but we bring her no honor and no respect."
Hannibal gaped like a fish, struggling to draw a breath.
"You stayed in case none of your brothers made it back," Merbal continued. "Three dead. I have made it home, so I will inherit from our father. I'm barely fit to be a farmer, but it's something I can learn, hopefully. You think with me returned you can run off and join the reavers. I've lost three brothers already, and you are a damned fool."
"You've already done more to be remembered for than me, our brothers, and all our ancestors put together. Being a reaver isn't beyond you, it's beneath you. Same with taking the family farm. You take Hamilax's challenge, be a scholar, and do it well...or I'll slit your throat." Merbal put an arm around his brother, guiding and pushing him towards the entry of the library. "As my brother I would expect you to do no less for me if I were trying to be so monumentally stupid."
...
Mathos stood on the threshold after knocking on the frame of the doorway. The master of the library was his uncle, but Mathos would no more enter the room uninvited than any other student would. The master finished with the notes he was making on the drawing he had spread on the table, then turned. "Enter, Mathos. I have a task for you," said Hannibal. "Ten years is long enough to enjoy the comforts of these halls. It's time you produced something."
Following the completion of the building twelve years before, Hamilcar VIII had mostly ignored the library. He had accepted Hannibal as heir to Hamilax the Scholar, and had enjoyed some of the things developed in what the citizens of the city called 'the box of books', but Carthage remained a city dedicated to pursuits more martial than mental. Hannibal had convinced the ruler to commission a history of Carthage only with the aid of his brother, whose position on the farming council and service as a reaver gave him far more status than Hannibal the Scholar would ever have.
There was danger, to a degree. When he signed the commission Hamilcar VIII certainly thought 'history of Carthage' was an educated way of saying 'listing of the accomplishments of her august rulers, particularly me'. That was far from what Hannibal and Merbal had in mind. The next day Mathos found himself astride a sturdy horse, his letter of commission tucked in his pack, and the shadows of Carthage stretching out of the sunrise behind him.
-
