Ally of Carthage

by Rob Edmunds

  The name he had acquired was even more apt than his superior’s. He was known as Tigerman, being so called for the stripes he would cut in a man’s back. He had no shame in displaying his own either, and it was almost a sign of empathy when he stripped to his waist and showed the weals he had picked up in his years in Hannibal’s forces. He had even developed a little song that he would sing in drills, in combat and, occasionally, when thrashing a misfortunate who he had taken a particular dislike to. “I’m the king of the jungle, and they call me Tigerman. If you cross my path, you take your own life in your hands” was a little ditty that one would be best advised not to be too close to overhear.

  Oddly, after he had subjected Masinissa to the full rigours of Numidian military training and discipline, he had developed a sort of confessional relationship with him and would occasionally confide some of his troubles and woes in Masinissa. Perhaps it was because of the distance that existed between him and the lower ranks that he was only able to unburden himself with his superiors. Masinissa, in turn, felt a little protective of him, as someone who represented the psychological trauma and damage of the war, which so many of the veterans were forced to try to bury silently, in the same way as they had buried their comrades conscientiously and reverently.

  Masinissa remembered one evening at the beach as the dusk gathered around them, after a little wine and barbecued fish, which was a time when the true natures and feelings of many men started to come out with the bats, Tigerman had turned to him and confessed quietly, “You know, sire, there’s this box I have in my head that I’m scared to open, because I’m afraid of what will come out. I’ve sealed it so tightly that I don’t even know what’s in there anymore, but every once in a while the cover opens, and my dreams are terrifying.”

  Masinissa remembered looking at him then, and seeing a mist and distance in his eyes that he had never seen before. His heart had swelled with pity and admiration, some of which was reflected back on him, for Tigerman was talking of a place where he was destined to go too. It was one of those rare feelings and moments where you get a hint at your fate through another. The closest thing he could compare it to was the tears that he had shed at the funeral of his grandfather. The tears were for an intolerable loss, but some of them were for himself, for the recognition of his own ultimate destiny and mortality.

  As they approached him just then – across the quarry where he and Massiva were waiting, with the latter clearly a little apprehensive – some of that medley of emotions rose up inside him. These were his guys. He could count on them. He greeted them using the titles they had imitated from their enemies. In many ways, the Romans were innovators and their ranking titles held a strange appeal to many of the Numidians. “Hail Optio,” he greeted Big Pun, giving him the honorific the legions would give to their senior lieutenant.

  “Good morning, Mas,” Pun replied, pointedly less formal, almost reversing the figure of authority by his tone and form of address.

  “Tesserarius.” Masinissa nodded more brusquely to Tigerman, needing to retain a little of the formality for the ceremony of the situation. They would be Tigerman and Pun at the next ride, but just then, for Massiva’s sake, he laid it on thick. Massiva knew the terms as well as he did, and Masinissa knew that his use of the Roman term for guard commander had been to let him know that this was an exercise or possibly even a disciplinary matter.

  The two men, after the customary and warm handshakes, stood aside, and assumed impassive and stolid expressions.

  It was for Masinissa to break the news to his nephew. He turned to Massiva, looking at him intently for signs of his resolve or desperation. He saw a slightly bowed figure, whom he hoped was girding himself for the impending ordeal. He nodded towards the waiting men and spoke solemnly. “This is not a punishment, Seev; this is a rite of passage, and I’m going to take it with you. Today, these men are going to break you. One is going to scream at you, push you and punch you, and the other is going to lash you. You are fortunate that the tesserarius has brought his cane today and not his bullwhip. Be thankful for the mercy.” He paused to allow Massiva to absorb the nature of his torment.

  Massiva was breathing deeply, gulping and exhaling in little whistles, which were not especially bad signs given the circumstances.

  Masinissa placed a consolatory hand on his nephew’s shoulder and continued, “I won’t let you do this alone. What you do, I will do also, and I have asked the officers not to spare me either. See those rocks over there? We are going to pick them up and carry them over there, and, when we have carried them all, we will turn around and carry them back, and we’ll do that until we drop. We will not pause and we will not take water, and these men will not let us slack. Go on as long as you can, and we will decide if you stay with us after that. If you do, you will see plenty more of these fine gentleman. Don’t take their behaviour today personally, OK?”

  Massiva looked at him earnestly, and there seemed to be something imploring in his body language, not for him to be spared the task, but as if he needed some more resolve that Masinissa might be able to offer.

  “Give yourself a rhythm,” suggested Masinissa. “You know, when you see slave gangs, galley men or captives after long marches, they always sway a little as if they have a drummer in their heads, and sometimes they’ve worked out little tunes or sayings that they mutter away to themselves repetitively. When you suffer, hold on to a little something that you can work over in your mind. I know you love to run. I always used to see you in the fancy streets of Carthage ducking in between the merchants and idle classes. I’m sure that, when you’re at your last ebb, you roll into some kind of a rhythm to keep your stride pattern going.”

  Massiva gave him a small, winsome smile.

  There is so much of the boy left in him, Masinissa thought. I hope he can hold on to some of that freshness.

  “I do love to run, uncle,” Massiva replied. “I think I’m going to have to adapt it a little to these rocks, but I know what you’re saying. I hope you don’t get bored of my litany. Let me lead.”

  Massiva turned and walked briskly towards the pile of stones. The game had started, and the waiting men took their cue and took position along the line between the rocks and their destination. Massiva swept down on the first boulder, one of the larger ones Masinissa noted, and he heard the first part of Massiva’s chant.

  “Roadrunner once!” Massiva exhaled. As he rose and took the full weight of the stone, he said, “Roadrunner twice.” And then, as he started to move towards his first beating and berating, he completed the rest, “I’m in love with rocks and rubble, and I can go all night; roadrunner” A few pauses followed in his head as he set up his internal drum beat, and the mantra concluded with a steadfast, “That’s right!” as he walked into his first blow from Tigerman, and Big Pun’s vitriol left the first line of spittle dribbling down his cheek.

  Masinissa hauled his first rock as the chant ended its first recital, and he felt a little pride in his nephew. Let’s hope there’s a little magic in that incantation, Seev. Something to soothe you a little through this, he thought hopefully.

  He could do worse than imitate his nephew, and often, as they passed each other between the two stations, one would cry, “Roadrunner once,” and the other would return with the corresponding, “Roadrunner twice,” and both would be buoyed by the solidarity of the act.

  Masinissa knew that his capacity to endure eclipsed his nephew’s, but as the day’s beasting wore on, the pain and the thirst magnified. His legs were even starting to drag. The rocks were sapping his vitality. His head throbbed, his back ached, his calves were wobbling and his hamstrings were tightening harder at every pause his complicit overseers overlooked. They didn’t miss much, though, and certainly trucked no dissent. A few hours in, Masinissa had been hit at the same point repeatedly for a few turns – Tigerman was unerring in his floggings – and Masinissa could take no more, and winced out a fatigued and
irrepressible, “Aah! My back!” He knew his folly instantly.

  Tigerman tore into the same spot mercilessly.

  Masinissa let out no more yelps, but his muscles could not absorb the force and insistence of the strikes for long, and he dropped his boulder and fell to his knees. Tigerman kicked him in his midriff, a prime and easy target as Masinissa, on all fours, struggled for recovery. Big Pun then did the same from the other side and leant in, and for the only point in the day removed his shepherd’s beret and smashed his forehead into Masinissa’s exposed temple as, foolishly, he had turned to look at his burly lieutenant. Masinissa’s bracing right arm gave way, and he fell briefly on his side. He wobbled to his left as well, and both his tormentors turned from him a little triumphantly, realising that they would get no more change from their half-concussed commander.

  Pun left a final barb that reverberating in Masinissa’s dizzy brain. “Quit faking it as an old person, little prince!” he snorted.

  Masinissa hadn’t been called that in a while, but he remembered it as being in quite a similar context and by the same persecutor he reflected grimly. For all his woes, as he spat in the dirt and forced himself upright, Massiva was in considerably worse condition and had hit the ground many times already. Even as Masinissa was losing focus on his nephew’s fortunes as he concentrated on his own equilibrium, he realised dimly that his companion was taking a pretty severe and callous beating. As he was temporarily spared, he was able to spectate a little as the fog from the headbutt started to lift. It was clear that the ruthlessness of the assault was far from abating and its intensity was rising as the wolves sensed they could not shake the rabbit in their maw for much longer. Massiva was almost foetal at that moment, his forehead was in the dirt, and his hands and arms were trying to summon up some dregs of energy to pull himself up or at least get one of his feet planted.

  Masinissa could see that no more could be wrung out of the exercise, and that his nephew would gain no more by being driven unconscious or insensible. He hailed the men and barked, “Enough!”

  It was a signal they must have been waiting for, as both men switched their demeanours immediately. They both took big gulps of air themselves as if they had been at the sharp end of the ordeal. It is a telling moment, thought Masinissa, one which has exposed the true decency of my men. They took to their roles professionally, but without relish, and he could see that the final act had taken its toll on them too. As he rolled on his back and grimaced as he did so, as the hard ground revealed to him the extent of his lumbar pain, he saw Tigerman and Pun tenderly cup Massiva under his armpits and carry him into the shade. They had left blankets and pillows there, and no doubt a few ointments and bottles of wine. Once there, they ministered to him as if they were his mother and aunt, soothing his brow and treating his wounds. His sides were turning a vivid purple with almost a blackness in the epicentres of the bruises. Massiva was relatively fair complexioned too, so the awfulness of his injuries appeared even more appalling than the more camouflaged marks on Masinissa’s own body.

  Massiva’s body barely flickered once it had found the snuggest posture in the furs and cushions, but his jaw and throat moved as he took the bread and wine his erstwhile tormentors were cajoling into him gently. He would sleep soon, no doubt once he had taken enough to knock him out, and his labours would have exhausted him sufficiently to mask the many pains he must be braving, but Masinissa wanted to salute him before he submitted to the temporary oblivion of unconsciousness.

  Masinissa gathered himself and traipsed towards the three men with as blasé a gait as he could manage. I’m going to make those old lags believe I took that in my stride, he tried optimistically to convince himself. In the recesses of his ego, though, he knew that they realised he was suffering, but they would show him the consideration of allowing him to walk towards them with a little pride intact.

  When he reached them, the shade of the awning that was cooling the men underneath it revived him instantly, with the shelter from the sun being an unexpected boon. He made a grasping gesture to Tigerman and pointed to the nearest bottle. “Pass me some of that,” he asked.

  Tigerman grinned and tossed the bottle over readily. Masinissa uncorked it, slaked his ferocious thirst with two deep glugs, and then sat himself and the bottle down stiffly next to his nephew, whose eyes flickered at the solid presence that had parked itself next to him, but would otherwise have been closed seeking sleep and relief. It was not really the moment for a lengthy encomium. They both wanted out of their present consciousness, and, besides, the whole day had been spartan and brutal, with gestures being usually far more meaningful than words.

  It’s better to keep it brief, he thought as he nudged Massiva in the shoulder enough to have him draw his face upwards towards Masinissa with the last moment of alertness and responsiveness he knew he was going to get that day, and said laconically, “I’m proud of you boy.”

  A little moistness appeared in the corner of his nephew’s eye. “Me too,” he replied with a soft smile, which Masinissa felt held notes of gratitude and pride. “Wake me late and gently OK?” he added with a little humour, and rolled his head away from Masinissa and deeper into his furs.

  Masinissa turned to Pun and Tigerman, nodded quietly and whispered to them, “We’ll find our proper beds in a few hours. Leave us now and come back in a while. We might need litters, so come back with a few bearers, just in case.”

  They nodded, and the eyes of both showed a little of their admiration and dedication.

  I’m one tough son of a bitch, Masinissa thought to himself as he waved farewell to the two others of similar caste. It amused Masinissa a little to see the departing figures ease back seamlessly into their roles as adjutants after hours as brutal abusers.

  “What actors we can be,” he murmured and returned his gaze to the already slumbering Massiva, whose body was heaving peacefully, and his snores showed that he had found his dreams quickly and peacefully. He watched his nephew for a while and let his feelings of guilt fade until his body eased itself into its usual sleeping form, with a few adjustments for his fresh injuries. He tipped the rest of the wine into himself with a few slower draughts, and let the combination of exhaustion, agony and alcohol take him away.

  A Father’s Love

  The old man sat in his chair. He felt his bones ease as his posture settled. He thought about how, as he had grown older, he found he was increasingly particular regarding the furniture he preferred and his discomfort in those items that his body could no longer adapt to much harder to tolerate. The stools and benches he had spent hours or even days on, during the festivals and banquets of his younger days, were removed from his rooms and chambers, and if they were present in places he visited, he always chose to stand. He felt an antipathy towards these rigid seats in the same way as an infant immediately grows irritable at the prospect of being handed to a person who has treated them roughly or with whom their inchoate awareness had established a negative association.

  However, it was not simply a dislike of the austere that prompted his choice of seat. Gala was far from an ascetic in most of his inclinations, but his aches and pains had made him equally as reluctant to recline in the luxurious loungers he had once so enjoyed. He had no need for them any longer. Who would he seduce in them and who would be willing to be prey to his ardour, if he could muster any? How ridiculous he would look draped over the edge of one, trying to look as vital and alluring as his years and back would allow. He preferred to be horizontal only in his bed when he could stretch out and pad himself with as many cushions and pillows as he could, and take his wife as softly and familiarly as he could. In public, lounging had become difficult for him, as it aggravated his pains and reminded him quickly of his age, as he struggled to regain his feet and his dignity. It was not good for a king, whose vigour was meant to represent the virility of the land, to be seen struggling to get up and hobbling around on a dead leg for a few minutes when
he did so.

  In truth – for matters of state, or anything that required any degree of solemnity or ceremony – he didn’t have much choice of throne. It was fortuitous that it offered the merciful compromise of lumbar support and cushioning, and didn’t compel him to emulate the postures of youth or even middle age. He could sink his elderly bones into it, and if what was around him was insignificant, he could even let his mind wander and his eyes close into a few moments of sleep, or at least shut down his mind and body sufficiently to feel mildly refreshed.

  Needless to say, such dozing was always noticed, but rarely commented upon. For his part, Gala didn’t care much. He had been the centre of attention in his own court for most of his life enough to know that, however discreet he may be, he couldn’t escape being noticed, even more so when sat at the head of a room or table with all the men around him waiting for instructions. Increasingly, with age, his habits became as calcified as his body, and his retinue became increasingly irrelevant and invisible. He could be amongst a squad of his finest soldiers, hearing the news of war from emissaries, or leaving orders to faithful and brisk retainers, and he might still find his senses and thoughts wandering. He would sometimes even reminisce and think of the men in front of him as the blithe boys of decades earlier. It was disconcerting to look on older men and accept that you had known those adults as infants. Age was always relative, he knew, and he found himself envying the sprightliness of men even only a few years his junior.

  As a younger man, perhaps a little younger than his son Masinissa was now, he had yearned for a little privacy and was impatient for it when it wasn’t forthcoming. It wasn’t exclusively a craving for seclusion, rather it was, for him, more of an urge to not have to pay any attention to others, to be able to sit and think alone, and to explore his own being in silence and solitude. Sometimes, being with others can reveal aspects of yourself to you or even make you chart new territories of your being that you hadn’t explored before; naturally, these were most common with women, but these discoveries were often revealed to Gala when he was alone, and could stop the buzzing background of people and noise from keeping his mind and soul from working things out amongst themselves.