Northeast Hispania; Mediterranean Sea coast; June 218 BC

"The Council won't like this," Hannibal muttered.

"They don't scare me," Madrea replied.

"The Goddess Tanit might not like it either."

"She scares me."

"I hope for your sake that Gisgo is not just some toy you fancy. For a foreigner like him, citizenship of Carthage is a privilege that must be earned, and as good a scribe and secretary as he is, he has not met that standard."

"Trust me."

"You are the gateway to the goddess. If you are wrong, you will face her wrath."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then good luck. My Lady Madrea." Hannibal bowed.

"My Lord Hannibal." Madrea nodded.

Hannibal left the priestess alone in her tent.

#

Madrea, wearing nothing but a flimsy gown, peeked through a window in Gisgo's tent. The scribe sat at a makeshift table, on an old wooden stool, writing on a parchment. His cot was off to one side. He appeared to be unaware of her presence. Sheets of parchment and papyrus, quills and jars of ink were piled on other tables. She prayed to Tanit for her blessing if she was right, and her mercy if she was not, and entered the tent.

"My Lady Madrea," Gisgo exclaimed, standing up. "How can I be of service?"

"My Lord Hannibal commands that you write the following."

Gisgo took a fresh sheet of papyrus. "Yes?"

"'I Hannibal Barca, commander of the armies of the City of Carthage, do hereby confer citizenship of the City on my loyal scribe, Gisgo, son of Kardas of Gadir, with all of the attendant obligations and rights. Done in northeast Hispania, add today's date and the city year.'"

Gisgo wrote as Madrea dictated and looked up when he was done, astonished.

"Congratulations."

"My Lord Hannibal honors me beyond words."

"Now that you are one of her subjects," Madrea said, walking around to Gisgo's side of the table, "the Goddess Tanit wishes to welcome you. She bids you commune with her." She kissed him on the neck and let her gown fall open.

"I must work," Gisgo protested feebly, looking at Madrea's high round breasts, smooth tummy and tuft of black hair over her sex. "My Lord Hannibal has a great deal of correspondence."

"Mmm, but the goddess outranks him," Madrea replied, kissing him and pulling off his chalmys. "You are hers."

"But I…" Gisgo kissed her breasts, grabbed her ass and pulled her to him.

Madrea reached under his chiton and stroked his erect cock.

Gisgo groaned.

"Will you serve Tanit and her priesthood?"

"Yes, yes…"

"You must say the words." Madrea held his cock to her sex, brushing it as lightly as she could over her lips.

"Yes, I will serve Tanit and her priesthood," the scribe gasped.

"Swear." She slipped the tip of his cock inside her.

"I swear that I will serve Tanit and her priesthood!" Gisgo shouted.

"Of that I have no doubt." Madrea backed away from him, closed her gown and shouted: "Enter!"

Hannibal and Maharbal, his cavalry commander, entered the tent followed by four of the latter's men, two of which carried a bound and gagged prisoner whom they threw on the ground, and two of which stood on either side of the scribe and held his arms.

"My men found him lurking on the beach north of here," Maharbal said, indicating the man on the floor. "We figured he couldn't be working alone."

"And now we know that he wasn't," Hannibal added. "What's your name?"

"Gis…"

The Carthaginian general held up a hand. "Please do not treat us like fools."

The scribe looked at Madrea.

"Your accent slips when you're, um, aroused."

The scribe snarled.

"Your name?" Maharbal asked.

"Galba Vitellius Pertinax."

Maharbal motioned for his men to pick up the prisoner. "Make sure he gets a hoofs-eye-view when you run the horses later," the cavalry commander said. "The dogs can lap up whatever's left."

The two men took the prisoner and left.

"You can avoid a similar fate," Hannibal said, "if you do exactly what we say."

"Rot in Tartarus."

"That may yet happen but…"

"Give me a knife," Galba interrupted, "and I'll show you true Roman courage. I'll kill myself while you watch. You'll like that."

Hannibal threw the table out of the way and grabbed the Roman spy by the throat. "I'll like it," he roared, "when Maharbal's horses shit all over the Forum while his men gang rape the Vestal Virgins, in­ the Temple of Vesta, when I've sold the last of your senators as catamites, and when I personally set fire to what's left of Rome. That is what I'll like.” He motioned to one of Maharbal's men, who clubbed Galba to the ground, knocking him unconscious.

"Break him," the Carthaginian general growled.

"It'll be a pleasure," Maharbal replied.

"Not you," Hannibal said, "You." He pointed at Madrea.

The priestess nodded.

#

When Galba came to, he found himself in a tent standing up, his arms extended upward, his hands bound by ropes that were tied to a crossbeam overhead. His legs were slightly parted; his feet were tied to iron stakes on either side. He wore only his chiton.

Madrea, wearing the same flimsy gown, sat in a chair facing him. Behind her was a table with five small jars on it.

"Ah, there you are."

Galba looked around. "I suppose this is the part where you torture me for information?"

"Yes and no," Madrea replied, rising and letting her gown fall open, smiling as Galba eyed her breasts. "We actually don't want any information from you and whether or not you deem our time together to be torturous depends entirely on you." She reached under his chiton and stroked Galba until he was hard. "Tell me the truth," she whispered, "and our time together could be quite pleasant." The priestess lightly trailed a finger up the underside of his cock and stroked the tip until it twitched. "Lie to me…" She withdrew her hand, backed away.

When he started to soften, she approached him again, pulled up his chiton, knelt and took him in her mouth, tonguing him until he was hard again and started to writhe in his restraints. "Tell me," she asked, without releasing him, "How many jars are on the table?"

"Five."

Madrea released him and backed away, still kneeling. "Didn't I warn you about lying? Please," she leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock, "tell the truth." She kissed it again.

"But I see five jars."

Madrea stood up and backed further away. "Why are you lying?" she snapped. "I say there are four jars on the table."

"But…there are five."

Madrea rolled her eyes. "Are all Romans as dense as you?" She turned around and backed into him, caressing his cock with her ass until she felt it twitch again, and stepped slightly way from him until his cock barely touched her and she heard him gasping. "Try again. How many jars are on the table?"

"Four!" Galba shouted. "There are four jars on the table!"

Madrea stepped away from him and turned around.

Galba writhed in his restraints, jabbing his cock into the air.

"You're just saying that," Madrea declared, just beyond his reach, "because you're desperate to come and you think it's what I want to hear."

"Yes," he moaned. "Isn't it?"

"Galba, we have grey-colored birds back in Carthage, which we bring from beyond the Great Desert, that can mimic human speech and will repeat whatever they hear." Madrea licked her fingers and spread open her sex. She stepped up to him, grabbed his cock and held it as close to her as she could without touching it. "If that is what I wanted, I would have sent back to Carthage for one." She flicked his cock over her lips. "I expect more from you."

"What?" he cried, jabbing his cock at her.

"Convince me that you truly believe and see that there are only four jars on the table, or else we will continue."

"Please!"

"Do not beg; it is unbecoming. Now, I ask you again: How many jars are on the table?" She brushed his cock against her as lightly as she could and held it to her open sex.

"FOUR! THERE ARE FOUR JARS ON THE TABLE! I SEE FOUR JARS!"

Madrea thrust down on him.

Galba convulsed, shouting uncontrollably as he climaxed and erupted inside her, pumping her all the while, until he slumped against his restraints, twitching spasmodically.

Madrea backed away from him, closed her gown, and entered an adjoining tent, where Hannibal and Maharbal were waiting.

"Well?" the former inquired.

"Take him down and shackle him to a cot. He should rest, a little, before we start again."

Maharbal called for two of his men and instructed them accordingly. They bowed and left.

"What exactly do you want from him? Madrea asked,

Hannibal pointed to a quill, jar of ink and a piece of parchment on a table. "Tell him to write the following…"

Site of the Battle of the Rhone Crossing; September 218 BC

Roman Consul Publius Scipio, holding a parchment, and his younger brother Gnaeus waited impatiently for their interpreter to finish speaking with the Ligurian tribal chief.

After a few minutes, the interpreter reported back to them.

"What did he say?" Gnaeus asked.

"I have bad news and worse news."

"The bad news?" Publius inquired.

"The Carthaginians, elephants and all, moving at a very brisk pace, forced a crossing here five days ago."

"Five days ago?" the younger Scipio exclaimed. "Brother, we've been fed bullshit." He pointed at the parchment. "Hannibal must be circling around to attack Massalia from the east. Our forces are badly out of position; the city is completely exposed. We must…"

Publius silenced his brother. "And the worse news?"

"Hannibal isn't heading for Massalia."

"Where then?" Gnaeus asked.

The interpreter pointed at the Alps looming in the distance.

"Shit," Publius cursed, tearing up the parchment.