The altar is slick with the blood of a freshly sacrificed bull.

The nine-year-old boy stands before it trying to stand up to his full measure, trying to look like a man.

His father puts his hand on his shoulder, prompting him to say the words.

He invokes the gods, most importantly the chief god, Bail.

He goes through all the ritual pronouncements. This is a solemn oath. Before the gods, most importantly the chief god, Bail. He goes through all the ritual pronouncements.

This is a solemn oath, before the gods, before his father, before the soldiers and priests, who look at him curiously, hopefully.

He swears loyalty to his city and his people.

He invokes the memory of his noble ancestors.

And then he comes to the most important part of today's ritual.

I swear, the boy intones, in the deepest baritone he can manage, eternal hatred to Rome.

The boy is named Hannibal, meaning favored by bail.

His people certainly hope that is true.

The adults around him nod gravely.

It was well done.

He's only nine, but Hannibal already shows promise.

The son of Hamilcar, Carthage's greatest general,

the boy has shown alertness, skill, and intelligence in his short life.

Could this really be the boy to restore their fortunes?

Hannibal had been born to be a soldier.

He had been educated to it with the best tutor that money could buy,

a grizzled old veteran from that paragon of martial virtue Sparta. Hamilcar was being assigned to takeover military

command in Spain. His oldest son badly wanted to accompany him. And this was the price. If he was to come,

...