Ally of Carthage

by Rob Edmunds

  For his part, Conon subscribed to a view that was broadly neutral and detached. He would not be part of any levy or military recruitment – due to his engineering and medical prowess – so he, perhaps naively, felt a little immune from the war. He could serve any master, and they were likely to be equally as bad as each other. He was ambivalent about both Rome and Carthage, and his understanding of the behaviour of both made him wary and distrustful. He could prosper in both cities, but he had chosen Carthage as he felt it more resembled the city states of Greece. He shared Aristotle’s view of his hosts in that they had constructed a state and a cluster of governing institutions that matched the best in the world; Sparta and Crete in particular.

  He looked at Masinissa a little more attentively as he came through the atrium, and the sharp light of the low morning sun highlighted the tensions in his friend. Masinissa’s shoulders, hands and eyes were rigid and strained, and it required little intuition to realise that this was more than a social call.

  “Relax Mas, you can drop your guard. We Greeks are known for our oaths and confidentialities, and maybe a few other things besides,”

  Masinissa released his hands a little, clutched them tightly together and then splayed them wide again with a cephalopodic thrust. It was as obvious an indicator that he had shifted his mental state as there could be. Conon had come to recognise and appreciate that Masinissa was as agile emotionally as he was physically. Anger, agitation and amusement all moved swiftly across him. Only sadness appeared to linger with his giant Numidian friend.

  “OK, Conon, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to meet you with a glower on my face; not all ground is as safe as your home for me, you know! Sometimes, I need a moment to switch down.”

  “Well, I hope it’s off now,” Conon replied in as reassuring a manner as he could manage. “I’m not going to run to Himilco or any of the Barcid faction to tell them of any views you may have. You are as free to talk with me as if you possessed the licence and authority to do so of a senator or suffete. I would listen to you as if you were Hanno himself, who, for me, may just be the only voice of reason we can count on at the moment.”

  Even though they were both broadly aware of each other’s opinions, Masinissa was a little surprised by Conon’s political reference. “Ah, you are in the appeaser camp then, Con?” he asked, more out of curiosity than to know whether he needed to realign his relationship a little. He knew he wouldn’t need to.

  Conon bridled slightly. “Hanno is no appeaser. He just sees weaknesses as well as strengths. He learnt the hard way during the mercenary war about the dangers of complacency. Carthage’s foundations are not as solid as Rome’s my friend.”

  The reference to the mercenary war interested Masinissa. The war had created a powerful legacy for Carthage. It had made the city wary of its paid legions being too close to itself. For an incipient general, it held other lessons too. Hanno’s actions were not to be emulated. He had taken his soldiers for granted, and they had mutinied and attacked their hosts. For Masinissa, it was a reminder that you should never undervalue your own soldiers and you should never lose their trust. In truth, most of the mercenary army had served under Hamilcar, who had assumed joint command of the army as the tensions worsened, and they surely would have shown him greater loyalty, but neither he nor Hanno sensed the mood very perceptively. Presenting yourself in person would also have reaffirmed the bond, and Hamilcar’s failure to do so was a final insult to a restive army.

  Masinissa was far closer to the military elite than Conon, and viewed the Carthaginian generals more in generational terms. He regarded the younger Hannibal, his brothers and Hasdrubal Gisco as the leaders of consequence, and the older figures as increasingly peripheral and irrelevant. He explained, “Hanno is old. His influence fades and his reputation is not as unblemished as his followers would make out. He has cost Carthage dearly, and his own failures make him cautious now.”

  Conon sensed a little exasperation in his friend’s tone and steered the conversation accordingly, “Maybe. Anyway, is it history you want to talk about or what?”

  It wasn’t. History had always interested Masinissa. He was an avid student in fact, and knew far more than even his tutors suspected, but he was looking for company and wanted impartial views and easy company. “Archimedes?” Masinissa ventured.

  Conon rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders simultaneously. “As the resident engineer and scientist in this part of town, you think I am an expert on him?”

  Masinissa knew the body language signalled resigned amusement and ploughed on. “How much will his inventions and strategies keep Rome from Syracuse? You must have an opinion.”

  “Don’t you mean how long? It’s a siege. The stronger party is preying on the weaker, and unless Carthage relieves them or the Roman forces are redirected then it should just be a matter of time.”

  Masinissa was surprised by his friend’s pessimism. “But Archimedes has created miraculous weapons that can pick ships out of the sea and overturn them. The Roman fleet is being dragged out of the sea by Archimedes cranes. Then there are his mirrors too, which harness the sun and burn the sails of the besiegers.”

  “I know they’re fascinating inventions. Syracuse has a genius at its disposal, but even a genius cannot make food out of air. The claws of Archimedes can smash the hulls of Roman ships, and the ballistas on the city walls can rain down rock and fire on their attackers, but their commanders learn quickly, and if the Syracusans cannot break out, then the pressure will just increase. Marcellus is in no hurry and has his own siege engines to counter Archimedes. Look at the Sambuca. They have engineers who have made their siege towers float.”

  None of this was new to Masinissa. Syracuse was a major theatre of the war, but not the most important one. If Hannibal were to regain his momentum, and the war in Iberia went favourably for Hasdrubal and Mago, then Syracuse, Sicily and all of Magna Gracia would be a sideshow. When the war was waged so widely, then it was inevitable that some places would be stalemates and reversals, and others frantic and devastating victories. Hannibal needed more of the latter. His lightning war through Northern Italy, and the blows delivered at Ticinus, Trebia and Cannae were spearheads right at the most vulnerable and complacent territories of Rome, which demoralised and dislocated their forces, but his momentum had slowed, and surprise and speed were no longer assets he brought to the battleground.

  Masinissa thought he would express some wonderment at Archimedes, and hoped some of his awe might rub off on Conon, who had a flair for similar devices. “You know, Con, surely you can see how all these contraptions – pulleys and levers, onagers and ballistas, and mirrors to concentrate the sun’s rays – can bewilder a cavalry officer? They impress me. Controlling the sun is a grander feat than controlling a horse!”

  “Not really, once you have the tool it is just a matter of pointing. A horse is much more capricious. You cannot plot its movements so precisely, however much mastery you have.”

  Masinissa raised his fingers and tapped his head, acknowledging his friend’s wisdom and kindness. Defending each other’s talents was a habit that they shared. Conon would praise Masinissa’s skills, and, in turn, Masinissa would do the same and applaud Conon’s intellectual achievements. Neither could aspire to the other’s gifts, and their mutual admiration made them even fonder of one another.

  “Come on, let me challenge this general-in-waiting. Do you fancy playing some petteia?” asked Conon.

  Masinissa clapped his hands in approval. “You are such a Greek! Let’s do it.” Petteia was a game that Masinissa enjoyed immensely. He realised that it was almost a vanity of his to take pride in the game, but it took strategic dexterity, logic and even sacrifice; all talents he nurtured and knew he needed.

  Regardless of one’s class or station in life, petteia was popular. It was often played in camps by idle soldiers, and bets were frequent. Everyone fancied themselves good at the game. The
square petteia board – composed usually of black and white pieces, most commonly in stone but sometimes in marble or even silver – was often seen dotted around campfires. It was ostensibly a simple game, but casual players would be routed quickly by an experienced opponent. The essence of the game was to move your pieces, or “dogs” as they were frequently referred to, in horizontal and vertical lines along a board divided into squares, eight by eight. Each player took their turn, and the object was to trap an opponent’s piece or pieces between two of your own. When this was achieved, the opponent’s piece would be removed.

  The Greeks took particular delight in the game, and some of their most eminent figures were known to have been aficionados. Aristotle had used a petteia metaphor of an isolated piece to describe a stateless person. If the tutor of Alexander the Great had been a fan, then it was almost incumbent on Masinissa to follow suit and become an expert in the game himself. Those were the kind of role models he could respect. Plato, in his Republic, had also elevated petteia onto a pedestal. He went as far as to refer to Socrates’s victims as poor players who had finally been trapped and isolated by more-accomplished opponents. He had also pointed out that it took long hours of training before someone could regard themselves as an expert. It was a pleasure to play, but it also required dedication to master, which was a combination that suited Masinissa’s temper well.

  Conon had set up the board or “city” as everyone called it, and placed out their respective dogs. He turned to Masinissa, in quite a canine way, and looked at him expectantly. “Do you want to go first?”

  Masinissa was never sure whether the game granted a particular advantage to the opening player; he was doubtful that it did, but there was always something about a virgin board that made him want to plot out an opening gambit. He was the same with coin tosses, although he was always predictable on those occasions. He would wait until the coin was in the air and always pick the side featuring the unbridled horse. He wondered if his continual snub of Tanit’s head would one day start to irritate the god. He thought it would probably be OK. “Of course, I have to make a few traps don’t I?”

  As Conon sat down and let his friend lead, Masinissa observed him and realised how much a man of science and scholarship he was. Despite Conon’s learning, or perhaps because of it, his innocence was easy to detect. His studies had absolved him of any military training or service, and – when regarded by someone who was familiar with the most Spartan forms of training – his softness was transparent. Masinissa wondered if it was too much of a leniency of the state to have granted him such immunity, especially in this time of worldwide conflict, when even the safest havens and strongest cities could be threatened. Pity Conon’s peer Archimedes in Syracuse, who was using all of his genius to keep the Roman swords from his throat.

  For all our shared amusements and fellowship, how different we are, thought Masinissa. In appearance, they couldn’t have been more different. Conon had narrow, slumped shoulders; little strength in either his arms or legs; a very flat chest; and even a slight paunch, which was almost criminal in someone of such relative youth. He also appeared to take only a passing interest in his appearance. His tunic was drab and ill-fitting, and he was otherwise unadorned. Even his hair seemed to reflect his disinterest in his physical appearance. It was lank and had grown to look more like one of the woollen hats that he had sometimes seen on some of the mercenary Gauls in the docks than a proper head of hair.

  Masinissa stood in quite imposing contrast. He stood several inches higher than his friend, and his shoulders and arms were twice the circumference of his friend’s. With his arms folded, the curves of his muscular upper body were apparent and would draw attention from his face if he held the pose for any time. They could no doubt indicate quite specific body language in other circumstances. They could offer a barrier, hostility or even authority, although on this occasion it was merely that he was clearing his mind before starting the game.

  His face was as impressive as his physique. He was a few shades darker than most Greeks or Carthaginians, but lighter than most Libyans and other Africans. He was evidently of Numidian stock. His eyes shone with a piercing inquisitiveness. Rarely did they cloud over with a daydream or a moment of absent mindedness. For the most part, to look at him directly would be to notice his alertness and attention. His eyes were as dark as he was, but seemed to draw you into his gaze, revealing a little of the openness of the man. His nose was straight and flat, in contrast to the aquiline features of many Greeks and certainly Romans. It resembled the nose of a man who had been in many fights and had endured his nose squashed down, but it had none of the detours of bone and cartilage that betrayed a brawler. His hair and beard were short to medium length, with the hint of a heavy curl, and his mouth was full and prone to wide articulation. Masinissa had a wide range of expressions and an inability to disguise his emotions very well. He also had the widest yawn when tired, which women tended to find quite endearing, and some men felt gave him a momentary and incongruous resemblance to an infant. His mouth also made some emotions even more pronounced, particularly disdain or sorrow. It was an unfortunate feature to possess in conversations with some senior Carthaginian figures, and he was painfully self-conscious of his efforts at concealment. He consoled himself with the fact that his expressions, for the most part, were benign, and showed his affable and personable nature.

  His clothing indicated a man of rank as well as action. Sometimes, he was happy to wear just a simple tunic, especially in the heat of the summer, but it was his habit to dress as he would with his men. Dressing casually in his position would show a slovenliness that could easily be viewed negatively. That day, he wore his tunic as his first layer. It ran to a little below his knee, and had a slit up to that point on either side to give him a better range of movement. It was sleeveless, being cut to just over his shoulder, and was light sand in colour. If ever he was in need of camouflage in the desert, then this would be the outfit to be in. Over this and to the point of his groin, he wore a chain-mail hauberk or lorica hamata as it was called by the Romans. As it probably had been worn originally by a Roman officer before his corpse had been plucked of any valuable items, it was in keeping for him to refer to it occasionally as his lorica. It was relatively light and comfortable for this type of armour, and he had grown accustomed to it as a second and largely unobtrusive skin.

  Unlike many Carthaginian nobles, he was barefooted and barelegged. He had no time for the leg greaves that had become fairly standard infantry equipment. The only time he would be willing to relent was on the eve of battle, where they would give him a degree of protection against the slashing blades of those who had the bravery to meet any charge he made.

  Across his shoulders and in the manner of a cloak, Masinissa wore a pallium. He had wrapped it around his throat and let the bulk of it trail behind his back. It was a practical item for him, but he liked the fact that it was a style of clothing most favoured by philosophers and teachers. He enjoyed the sensation of it when he was on horseback, as it lifted behind him giving the pace he generated a rising eddy and counterpoint. Its colour also drew the eye, especially in crowds, where the ordinary citizens usually wore quite uniform and drab hues. It was a bold Tyrian purple, which was a colour much coveted by many Carthaginians. Their Phoenician forebears had even been named after it. The literal translation of Phoenicia means “Land of Purple”. He had bought the garment several years ago, but, as the merchant had promised, it had retained all its original depth of colour, and age and the elements hadn’t faded any of the dye. It was a good thing that it hadn’t either. Purple-dyed textiles were expensive, costing many silver pieces for some of the finer cloth. He knew he was parading his wealth a little when he wore it, which was pretty much all the time, but he didn’t mind appearing a little dashing and flamboyant. He quite revelled in giving that impression, in truth.

  It was held by a clasp on his right shoulder, which he prized very highly, both for it
s ornamental value and its sentimental one. It had been given to him by his father, and there was an element of solemnity about the gift. It was a solid-gold circle and within it was depicted the silhouette of a horse in flight, with a tall palm behind it. The bar that affixed it to his cloak was hidden neatly behind it. Two such clasps had been made by the most capable artisan that Massylian Numidia could call upon. One was in his possession and one in his father’s. It was meant to represent the crown of Numidia and would instantaneously show his kinsman who he was. He could be a bloodied, starving mess, but he knew there would be countrymen who would brave any danger to save him so long as his clasp was still in his possession. To him, it was the most potent symbol of his succession and his nation. It was also poignant, as it was a constant indicator of his father’s love and regard for him. He remembered vividly the emotion and even the tremor in his father’s voice when he had given it to him and closed his hand around it. “Never forget who you are or the loyalties you command,” Gala had told him.

  Masinissa wore two belts, or, more precisely, a belt and a sash. His practical belt was narrow and made of leather, with some minor gold trim for decoration. This was buckled over a wide and bold cummerbund, which was perhaps the boldest and most idiosyncratic part of his attire. It was also the most expensive and rare. An advantage of living in Carthage was that it was the centre of so much trade in the world, and items found their way to the bazaars from the farthest corners of the world. His sash was one such item. It was the boldest and most azure shade of blue, with a luxury and lustre only to be found in the finest silk. It was always admired, and people often even stared at his waist, as so few of even the nobility had ever seen such a fabric.