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hands over their coarse hairs and wrinkled flesh. He liked talking to the mahouts, appreciated the way they had only one job but knew it so well. But he was stayed by other thoughts, memories that he had no use for but that seemed intent on troubling him. They pushed into the central portion of his mind, that place separate from sight or hearing or bodily movements, the part that takes a person over even as he continues to occupy the physical world.
    He thought of the child he had once been and the brother he was blessed, or cursed, to be second to. Hannibal's never-ending campaigns were tests that always ended in his success. What pained Hanno even now was that their father had known that only Hannibal among them had this gift. Hamilcar had told him as much in a thousand ways, on a thousand different occasions. Hanno had watched throughout his adolescence as Hannibal excelled first at youthful games, then into a physicality that bloomed like a weed into manhood. He had watched as his brother, just two years his senior, went from the verge of the council circle to the circle itself, and soon to the center. He was a young upstart in some ways, but all the men seemed to see the great commander perpetuated in his firstborn. It was not that Hanno showed any obvious lack: he was tall, strong limbed, and skilled enough with all the weapons of combat. He had studied the same manuals, trained with the same veterans, learned the history of warfare from the same tutors. But there was room for only a single star in their father's eyes, and Hanno had never been it. Hamilcar had rarely given him command of any force larger than a unit of a hundred soldiers. The first time he did proved tragic.
    He was to lead a patrol from a conquered capital of the Betisians, up the Betis River toward Castulo, branching off before he reached that town and following a tributary south to New Carthage. His orders were to march the troops home by a prominent route, feeding the Iberians' sense that they were inevitably surrounded by a more organized foe. It was a routine procedure, usually done in pacified territory, meant mostly as a show of force to natives of ever-doubtful allegiance. Hamilcar gave him a company of two thousand Oretani soldiers, Iberians who, though not completely loyal, were believed to be tamed at least.
    The mission started unremarkably, but three days into the march a scout brought his guide information that changed their course: The Betisians were planning an offensive to retake the recently captured city. Their troops had not all surrendered. In fact, many had been held in reserve and were hidden in a valley stronghold in the Silver Mountains, waiting for the Carthaginian force to diminish. With Hanno's group on the march via a northerly route and Hasdrubal on the southerly, they saw their opportunity to attack Hamilcar's dispersed forces.
    Hanno heard this information with a calm façade, though his heart hammered out a more frantic reception. He began to give orders to turn back, but the scout suggested something different. Why not send a warning to Hamilcar? Hanno's was still a strong enough force to contend with the rebellion, so long as they were forewarned. With a messenger dispatched, Hanno himself could march on the Betisians and rout their unprotected stronghold. Their camp, not marked on any map that the Carthaginians held, was hidden away in a narrow defile easily accessible only from either end. The scout assured him that it was a valuable settlement and that taking it would do much to disrupt the tribe. The Betisians would have nothing to return to and would thus truly be ready to come to terms with the Carthaginians.
    Hanno tried to imagine what his father would have him do, or what Hannibal would have done faced with the same circumstances. His information was reliable, he believed, for the messenger was of Castulo blood and they had been faithful allies for almost two years now. Should he not seize the opportunity? He