Hannibal rides again

The historical novel genre seems to have a his-and-hers split personality. On the one side you have the sweeping epics of James Michener and Clavell, taking in battles in graphic detail, abounding in tales of fraternal loyalty and political intrigue. Then you have the tales of sweeping skirts, coy smiles and rippling muscles scantily covered by flowing muslin shirts tucked into snug riding trousers outlining the rock hard contours of manly thighs.

On occasion, I have been known to succumb to the muslin shirt, coy smiles brigade. I feel though, that my completion of Hannibal – Pride of Carthage, by David Anthony Durham, a 635 page epic about the Cathaginian commander who nearly conquered Rome, has mitigated any flaky dalliances (past or future) with less rigorous works of historical fiction.

Besides being weighty and as such quite good toning work for the forearm, the book is gripping. I’m not saying it’s a literary masterpiece. It isn’t, but nowhere do you baulk at poor writing, a shaky plot or sentimentalism. Perhaps the story is a bit protracted and the pace not exactly racy, but that said, if you’re a fan of ancient history, it’s good fun.

I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Hannibal. Perhaps it was the elephants and the sheer arrogance of his venture, challenging Rome, crossing the Pyrenees and the Alps. It’s such an unlikely story and Durham tells it with evocative skill. If you’re a history buff, it will be compelling – that most loathsome and lazy word to describe a rollicking read.

For the last week or so I have been moving through the ancient theatres of war – Iberia, Umbria, North Africa – and discovering a wealth of engaging characters, cultures and facts that will prove invaluable when playing trivial pursuit. Empty spaces in my understanding of ancient history and geography have been coloured in and detailed by something other than blockbuster movies featuring digitally enhanced torsos.

I’m going to miss Hannibal, his muscly brothers, their scheming, pouting wives and perhaps even the young Roman consul desperate to make good. It’s been a crazy ride. I know my legion from my phalanx, my short stabbing spear from my scimitar, in spite of being a pacifist. Fortunately, the novel is not an unreflective endorsement of war and violence. The futility of armed struggle, the quest for glory and hatred of others is constantly highlighted. I suppose, in short, it’s a modern retelling of an ancient story, sympathetically and reflectively told.

So, who gets to replace Hannibal Barca (not Barker – wouldn’t that be great!) in my literary affections? It’ll have to be that Kurt Vonnegut in the bookshelf I haven’t read yet. It somehow feels right to mark Kurt’s sad passing by reading Breakfast of Champions. Rest in peace Kurt.