by Rob Edmunds
For openers, after the rage of the battle, such a reference to his scholarship jarred with Masinissa a little, but he understood Capuca’s good intentions. It was not levity he was searching for, but only an alternative to the horror they had prosecuted and were turning their backs on at that point. He responded, “Definitely. I would happily conjugate verbs for hours rather than have to reflect for a moment on what I have just been part of. We can’t, though, can we? Look at our swords and our hands.”
Capuca made a motion to do just that and turned his hands over before his eyes. They were as dirt flecked and bloody as Masinissa’s. “We’ll wash off what we can and live with what we can’t.” He shrugged. “What you don’t want to remember will fade and you’ll be left with the lessons and the wisdom.”
Masinissa stroked his beard in a gesture of thoughtfulness and acceptance. “I don’t think killing is quite the same as retaining my Latin or Greek somehow, but you’re right, I guess. I don’t remember the bruises and bumps of my childhood too well, only the best ways to avoid them. Maybe this battlefield, the next one and the ones after that will give me the same skills of evasion or attack, perhaps. I’m getting as good at spearing a man or a horse as you are at ducking by me when we play harpastum.” Masinissa felt that a moment of flattery, even one with a grizzly comparison, was in order to reciprocate Capuca’s solicitude. Capuca excelled at harpastum, and always seemed to be able to duck out of any tackles or trips Masinissa attempted on him. He hoped he would be as elusive of his enemies swords and javelins in the future as he had been against the futile lunges of his friends on the beaches and fields of North Africa.
“Do you see any angels over there?” Capuca asked in a manner that Masinissa thought was a little ambiguous.
Is he being literal? Masinissa wondered, Or solemn or frivolous? The battle had thrown his ordinary sensibilities a little off course. “I think that if I stare hard enough or concentrate, I can see them rescuing those who have pleased the gods. I don’t like to stare too long at such a view, though, and I’m not convinced too many of the dead have garnered much favour with the gods. Maybe all the ferrying to the heavens has already happened by now, and the boatmen of Tanit have collected the passengers who have lived worthy lives.”
“There will still be a few out there waiting for their end. If you stick around, maybe you’ll catch some mysterious zephyrs carrying away a few souls.”
Masinissa liked the idea that this rocky, worthless ground wasn’t the last sentient moment for so many men. He knew that if he found himself lying in a similar position one day, choking up his own blood and fearing for his next moment, he would clutch onto the thought of an impending angel with everything he had. He smiled a thank you to Capuca for the reinforcement, unsure whether his cousin would recognise the deeper gratitude. He doubted it.
“Who stayed, Cap?” he asked, wondering who of his guard hadn’t chased after the fleeing Syphax. He knew his troops showed little restraint with a wounded and beaten foe to pursue. They knew the caprices of battle could put the swords quickly in the opposite hand. The military logic was the fewer hands and the fewer swords, the better.
“Well, there are plenty of Iberians and Carthaginians, but not too many of us lot,” Capuca confirmed. “Of the ranking guys, there’s just me, Soldier Boy and Juba Tunic. The rest are still flinging their arrows at Syphax. There’s a bounty on him, after all.”
Masinissa looked skywards, amused by the avarice of his men and the nicknames they gave each other. There were two things you could always rely on amongst soldiers: they would always sniff and chase profit, and would always look to find alternatives to real names. There was something a little childlike, if not necessarily innocent, about both. He wondered about the names his men reserved for him. He was sure a few were only whispered, but he knew he was held in high regard and so he was probably spared the more disparaging ones. He knew a common name for him was Baby Melqart or Baby Hercules, and he didn’t think any comment or praise could reassure him of his standing in the army as much as that. So long as his men still made that kind of association, his reputation was intact.
He looked beyond Capuca to Soldier Boy and Juba Tunic, who had found a couple of rocks and had planted themselves against them. They each reclined, leaning slightly forwards, resting the inside of their elbows on their raised knees, and sagging a little but poised to jump at any moment. They were reliable men, who had been part of his entourage and bodyguard as he criss-crossed between Numidia and Carthage, and who had found their ways out of adolescence with him. They were bound together in ways that only really young men who had laughed together, learnt to trust each other, and confided their worries and desires over cups of wine could be. The ties of fresh adulthood bound one tighter than those strung in later, wearier years. Perhaps it was their exposure to one another at a formative age, that lack of guard, their understanding of each other’s similarity and the forging of bonds when the fires of kinship burns fiercest that had meant that their fellowship was unbreakable. Many hours joking on their ponies helped a little too.
Some of the fondness related to the men – or boys, in truth – that they used to be, and a sadness that those people were disappearing slowly or retreating. Wisdom and experience were giving all of them plenty, but they took away plenty too. Looking at Soldier Boy, Masinissa remembered the keen young man who had always done exactly what he was told, and acted in ways that he perceived would be correct and exemplary for a soldier. He would always run, ride and train the hardest, and always listened attentively and responded promptly. He wanted to be part of Masinissa’s brigade, and everyone could see it. Naturally, he was teased relentlessly for it, but in ways that could be taken as compliments and that, inevitably, led to even greater enthusiasm from the young man. It confirmed his identity to himself, and he readily took to the nickname they gave him. As soon as that happened, his given name was jettisoned completely, and probably no one other than his mother or whichever women he took along with him on the campaigns would call him by his true name. He was remade and his name forgotten, even by his friends.
The two men looked up at Masinissa almost simultaneously. Their exhaustion was plain to see, but so was their affection and triumph. They were not far enough away that their expressions could not be detected either. Juba Tunic sent him a soft smile and a short clenched punch, a bit like a “we did it” gesture for someone who didn’t have the energy to exclaim it.
Soldier Boy did something similar. It was always his way to stay in step, and he did so automatically. He scratched through his hair and gave Masinissa a little thumbs up. It was clearly more forced than usual, however, although Masinissa couldn’t quite see the cause. There was a coldness and a lack of expression in Soldier Boy’s eyes, and he couldn’t quite figure out whether that was the result of fatigue, trauma or something breaking at Soldier Boy’s core. In any case, the spark had left his eyes, at least for the moment. Juba Tunic was a little older than Soldier Boy, and, as much as Soldier Boy revered Masinissa, he idolised Juba Tunic and took his cues – often almost telepathically – from his senior. This time, it took a little more to muster a reaction from him. Juba Tunic nudged Soldier Boy lightly in the ribs, and the two men rose, although without any eagerness or energy. They both knew they needed to escort their leader off the battlefield and towards the Carthaginian encampment, where the reviews – and, hopefully, the celebrations – would begin. They had just defeated the largest opposing army in Africa, after all. The Roman foothold in the southern Mediterranean coast had been obliterated, and it would take Syphax time to recover, even if he could rally an army of sorts in the west.
The two men separated slightly, nodding at Masinissa and giving him the opportunity to start a conversation if he wanted to. They realised intuitively that it might not be a moment for pleasantries. Words, after what they’d been through, may turn out hollow, pathetic or contrived. It was too much to explain and too hard to express. They were not orators,
philosophers or generals, and words often just did not convey thoughts very well at times like this. Fear, relief, exhaustion, satisfying themselves with emotions and conditions, and letting their bodies do the rest was where they were at that moment.
Masinissa caught their mood and responded to the surge in his own being towards his confederates. In battle, your lieutenants are extensions of yourself, and he treated them as such, emotionally and intellectually. He opened his arms, and, in turn, wrapped each of the men in his arms, kissed both and thumped them in the back hard as he let them go. Neither were surprised and each responded in the same way to him. Rank was a category best suited to banquets and ceremonies in Masinissa’s view. They had just ridden, wrestled and killed in the same dirt, which were actions that consolidated the egalitarian instincts in all of them.
He had always been impressed with Juba Tunic. Some men lead by their example rather than words or authority, and Juba Tunic exemplified that type of man. His men did not need to rally to the standards like the Romans did. All they needed to do was look for Juba Tunic and be buoyed that the fight was still being carried. Juba Tunic had dignity, kindness and wisdom too, all of which were qualities he had retained even after years of campaigning. He had his stories, and they were better than most, but it was his advice and example that the men played closest attention to. He had become a role model and a leader, and those were qualities that Masinissa attached the highest premium to. Juba Tunic had told everyone of the nickname the Gauls had given him, which he had become fond of. They had called him the Vitesse Africain and it was a pretty fair description. Anyone who observed Juba Tunic on horseback or on foot realised that he was fast. He drove himself and his horses at top speed, and even the Numidians, who were faster than riders from other lands, conceded his superiority.
Even his nickname had a little tradition and solidity about it. Juba was about the most common name for Numidians, and saying “Juba” rarely identified the person you were looking for. “Juba who?” was the most common response to anyone looking for a Juba amongst the Numidian forces. Any Juba who had a distinguishing characteristic invariably had that attached to their names. Of those most familiar to Masinissa there were three. The eldest and the one with the most comical, and perhaps cruel, suffix was Juba Bump. He had served with Hannibal in Italy at the battles of Trebia, Lake Trasimene and Cannae. With that kind of record, he certainly could be regarded as a lucky charm, and most of the men did so. He had taken a few blows for the cause, and his biggest scar had split his skull pretty well. How he had survived was a miracle, but the blow had made him pretty forgetful and unpredictable. He retained his skills in the field, though, and he provided plenty of good morale around the campfires. Originally, the soldiers had started to call him Juba Bump on the Head, and a few still did, but most had settled for the far simpler Juba Bump, and some of his closest friends had even dispensed with the “Juba” part completely and settled for Bump, which somehow seemed oddly affectionate.
The other Juba had also served in the north and east, and had a legacy from it in his name. However, for him, it was a sartorial association rather than a physical scar. This Juba had gone quite native, and cold, in Gaul, and had adopted the local dress a little, especially below the waist. The Gauls were notorious for their trousers or braccae as the Romans called them, a little dismissively. He’d brought examples of them back south with him and kept wearing them, even when they were crossing desert areas, or wading through rivers or the ocean. Some of his company wondered whether it was an affectation, but most realised it was a genuine preference. Nevertheless, they began to call him Juba Pants whenever a specific Juba was requested. By default, and simply by way of contrast, Juba Tunic became Juba Tunic because he was the one in the more orthodox form of clothing.
As he returned to walking up the hill towards the main Carthaginian position, Masinissa felt a further surge in his soul. They’d all survived. A battlefield that had swallowed, by the looks of it, 30,000 that day had left them unscathed. “Thank you, Melqart,” he murmured to himself. Halfway up the hill, he looked back. The men had not quite become dots, but their identities as dead and dying men had become a little blurred. In the same way that you don’t really notice the insects you step on beneath your feet, the distant carnage detached itself a little from his senses. That much was a relief to Masinissa. The worst was over. Soon the dead would be picked clean, and then buried or burnt, and the traces of them would only be left in his soul and memory, and then only sketchily.
Juba Tunic had noticed the movement and the pause it had given in Masinissa’s expression if not exactly his stride and offered him a consolatory pat. He said quietly, “You know, Mas, the world I know has taught me that holding on – whether it be to a horse’s mane, to a cause, to an angry woman or to whatever it might be – has made me stronger. The act of resilience itself has forged something stronger in me. Sometimes, though, it takes a stronger will just to let go. Looking down there now, the stronger ones are letting go, offering their necks. Let it go. The friends we lost, no one can harm them anymore, and as for the enemies… well, it looks like there will always be more of those, so turn to the new ones and leave the vanquished to the judgement of their gods.”
Masinissa nodded and pursed his lips. His friend had found the words he needed but had struggled for and was afraid to experiment with aloud. He had received them purely, and without distortion or any hint of foolishness. “OK,” he replied just as softly, “Just be there to counsel me when I’m not sure, all right? My grip can be tight sometimes.”
“I will,” Juba Tunic assented, thinking it enough to seal the commitment.
The four men walked on, glancing at the Carthaginian sentries, whose dress clearly indicated that their role in the battle had been towards the rear. Their inability to fully meet the eyes of the cavalrymen as they passed confirmed the fact amply.
Operation Iberia Freedom
As a counterpoint to the acuity of battle, the senses can dull in its aftermath. Whilst often self-induced and transient, it is also a necessary means of self-preservation of the soul and the mind, as well as the body. Every mournful and healing part of one’s being is helped by a little numbness. In dealing with pain and loss, and a reassertion of drudgery, soldiers often embrace more of it.
The next weeks for Masinissa, after the hiatus of a feast day to the warrior aspect of Tanit – she was also a goddess of war, after all – was spent traipsing along the coastal routes heading west, and then crossing the sea at its narrowest, if not calmest point, close to Tingi and the pillars of Melqart. The next phase of the war was about to begin, for him at least, in a new, somewhat alien land, if not a completely alien landscape. It was marginally colder and marginally more verdant, at least close to the rivers, but the people were certainly different. There seemed more diversity in their physical characteristics, and their tribal affiliations seemed looser. The people seemed happier and freer too, if such advantages can be deduced from fleeting impressions and presumptions. The torpidness of long hours on horseback, and days of transit with the senses trying to devour what they could as a distraction were now over.
The cavalry of Masinissa – which numbered over 3,000 at that time, having gathered recruits and a not inconsiderable number of deserters from Syphax’s ranks – had camped with the infantry forces of Hasdrubal Gisco, and awaited the arrival of Mago and the other senior figures, including apparently a few of the more notorious local chieftains. However, the prospect of a conference with allies didn’t hold a great deal of interest for Masinissa. Quite the contrary, he reserved his keenest antipathy for the usually lengthy dissection of battle plans and strategies. He had a much more intuitive approach to warfare: assess what opposes you, and either retreat or devise a counter to the threat in that moment.
He had grizzled a little with Ari and Capuca about the onerous duty, but there was nothing to be done. There was no way you could elude such things and venture out as a r
enegade division, however much such a notion might hold quite an appeal. Unfortunately, he was obliged to attend the conference and receive his orders for the coming campaign with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. The fact that most of the major Carthaginian commanders in Iberia were likely to be present would inevitably make the charade more difficult.
The scouts and spies had indicated that the Roman armies were looking to move and intercept one or more of the Carthaginian armies that were then present on the Iberian mainland, and strategies were to be devised and plans drawn up to meet this challenge. In outline, there appeared to be a rough draft of a response whereby the three armies of Hasdrubal Barca, Mago Barca and Hasdrubal Gisco would drift apart from one another and invite an attack by one of the opposing armies. Masinissa and other-local tribal brigades would act as mobile units that could muster quickly and attack the rear of the threatening enemy force.
There were many tiers and layers to his revulsion for this type of congregation, but the most overt was his distaste for the strategising patricians, who blithely moved their little wooden facsimiles of brigades and legions on the tactics table, with not a care that the reality of those movements would be a catastrophic loss of life. The ordinary soldier was held in scant regard and was no better than a numerical unit. They could have been money or coins for all the attention that was paid to their status as living beings. All that mattered was that more of the enemies little pieces were destroyed than your own, and that, preferably, you were left with your army perched on a higher piece of land once the bloodbath had abated.
The most saurian of these – the most cold-blooded, reptilian bastard of the lot – was Mago. All he cared about was conquest, wealth and domination. He had seen plenty of it too, and his marches with Hannibal into Italy had only fed his conceit and sense of invincibility. Masinissa quickly got the impression that Mago viewed his destiny and his campaigns as being divinely sanctioned and protected. If he had wanted to boast of his achievements, he had a long list of successful campaigns and engagements, despite his youth: the crossing of the Arno Marshes, the Battle of Lake Trasimene, and the devastating Battle of Cannae. He had been conspicuous and spectacularly successful at them all.
