Ally of Carthage

by Rob Edmunds

  Nosejob

  Prior to major engagements, allied militias and stray units often coalesced with the main contingents, and the impending assault around Castulo was quite typical of those preparations and amalgamations. A vetting process was obligatory, primarily to identify any spies or hostile agents but also to make rudimentary assessments of character; the enquiries looking in particular for any taint of cowardice, mental collapse or impairment. It was almost inevitable that most of the troops were neurotic in some respects, and those foibles were largely ignored. You couldn’t be in the conflict without picking up a little of that baggage, but, in terms of battlefield discipline, it was important to root out the most damaged individuals who had succumbed to a deep psychotic reality. Of course, both cowards and psychos had their uses, but they were best utilised in certain ways.

  The recreants would find their places reserved in the front of the advancing columns. There would be no retreat or opportunity to take flight. There were spears in both directions, and neither ally nor enemy would demonstrate any compunction in using them.

  The psychotic were an altogether different proposition. In certain cases, they were deemed as much a danger to friend as to foe, and then were cut loose or redeployed to the rear, out of harm’s way. In other cases, where individuals had garnered a certain reputation, perhaps for ferocity or for being steadfast on the battlefield, then their aberrant aspects were overlooked.

  One such was Nosejob, a notorious figure who had linked up with Masinissa’s force from a small contingent that had fought in the north of the peninsula. A number of men, over a period of a few years, had escaped from Roman enslavement and bonded together into a vengeful fighting unit, and Nosejob was perhaps the most vicious amongst them, which was quite an accolade given the company. As his sobriquet suggested and his appearance manifested, he had suffered more than most. His Roman captors had cut the lower part of his nose off. They had a habit of mutilation, particularly for those who had a haughty or defiant streak. In Nosejob’s case, the remedy had proved ineffective. His vanity was cut from him, but he retained an arrogance and a defiant streak. He was pretty much out of control, but retained a usefulness as he extracted full and eager revenge for the loss of his beak.

  His notoriety had even extended into the Roman ranks, as observers had seen prisoners become, by turns, hysterical, and ostentatiously craven and cowed as he passed by or showed them any attention. This was understandable. Firstly, his identity was impossible to mistake. The mutilation that had been performed on him was just the first of his idiosyncratic features. He was almost equal parts theatrical and reserved. His coyness was reserved for the big gap in the front of his face, which he concealed with a bandanna that ran to a triangular point at his throat. He would have exhibited the appearance of a bandit if the flat hollowness where the bulge of his nose should have been hadn’t revealed that he was concealing deformity and not identity.

  The rest of him was gaudy, to say the least. Perhaps in an attempt to restore some symmetry to his face, he had drawn a thick, black line on his forehead, running from the point of his eyebrows to the peak of his hairline. His style of hair extended this symmetry and peculiarity further. He had shaved the sides of his head down to the skull, but left a line of hair at the top to grow long. Sometimes he tied it into a tail and other times, usually in combat, he greased it into spikes and made it into rooster’s comb. On such occasions, he also tried to dye his hair with some Tyrian purple dye, with mixed results. It ran on his face a little but he seemed to find that appealing. It gave him another nickname for those who tired of calling him Nosejob; it was equally unflattering. They called him Blood Clot. It was almost a backhanded compliment, as this particular shade of the dye was known to be the most expensive, and piling it onto your cockerel peaks was regarded as obscenely extravagant. He might as well be putting gold in his hair, as some aristocratic Romans were known to do. Where he sourced it from was a mystery, but there were plenty of productive sites where the sea snails and their murex shells were harvested and crushed into dye. He claimed it was sourced from Meninx, but that might have just an idle boast. Meninx was renowned for the superior colour of its dye, which was of far better in quality than that produced in Kerkouane, Zouchis or even Carthage itself.

  The gold he did wear, though, was in his ears. He had made holes in them and had loops adorning both lobes. It was a risky thing to do for a soldier, but his reasoning was probably that a man with no nose shouldn’t worry too much about someone chopping off parts of one of his other senses. When that happened, he’d likely be a corpse anyway.

  As his identity was easy to establish, the reputation associated with it was equally well known. His fondness for savagery was notorious and egregious, even for a war that was already many years old, and had seen its fair share of brutality and criminal abuses. He was brave in the heat of the battle, but sadistic after it, revelling in inflicting maximum pain and humiliation. The main Carthaginian and Numidian units had little time or stomach for him, and only in the larger battles did they consider enlisting him and calling him away from the rampages he tore into the edges of the Roman lines.

  His most repugnant retribution, and one that often caused his own comrades to intervene and commit mercy killings, was his predilection to set fire to his captives, either individually or bound together in little bonfires. As others were recovering from the daze of the fighting, he was pulling out unfortunates, lashing them together and pouring oil over them. Before the others knew what he was doing, there was a pyre of dancing flesh, which the more humane would show enough compassion for to throw a few spears into. Of course, some of those who did so had no sympathy for the immolated, but merely wanted to see the appalling dance jerk a little to a different beat. Most wanted to end the cruelty, though, and it was a common practice to see strong and true arms taking men out of their agonies with a final throw. Unsupervised, Nosejob could even add another layer of savagery to his depredations. He was known to douse his own fires early, only to resume them as a means of prolonging the torments and screams of his victims.

  It was, in all probability, just savagery, but a myth surrounded him that he was favoured by the gods and his evil actions were intended to gain favour with a tutelary spirit in some way. The accounts of his survival against the odds in several encounters fed that myth. There was even some speculation as to who amongst the celestial pantheon approved of him. Mention was even made of the high gods Melqart and Tanit, although not Baal Hammon himself. This revolted Masinissa and almost put a taint on the reputation of the gods, which he couldn’t abide. The sullying of Melqart by association with such a degenerate was unforgivable, and he derided the spreading rumour whenever he heard it. There was also a sense amongst the ranks that he and Nosejob were antithetical figures, specifically in the ways they conducted themselves in respect of warfare. Masinissa, whilst a ferocious warrior and astute tactician, retained qualities of honour and morality, whilst Nosejob was consumed with the most putrid hatred. Naturally, most saw Masinissa as the heroic example to follow, as a true adherent of the legacy of Melqart. However, some – and it was a growing, if small, proportion – succumbed to Nosejob’s viewpoint.

  On the eve of battle, Nosejob’s presence in the Numidian ranks, on his team or even as an auxiliary was beginning to really trouble Masinissa. He’d sought out the views of the wiser ones of his non-commissioned birds – Pun and Juba Tunic, in particular – and both winced a little at Nosejob’s name.

  Juba Tunic was laconic and simply dismissed him with, “He’s a wrong ’un,” without offering any remedy or tactic in terms of bringing some discipline – let alone morality – to Nosejob. Presumably, he felt that the odds of survival for someone with that degree of disregard for himself and with the reputation he had already garnered would lead to a reasonably swift and appropriately savage despatch.

  From the Roman point of view, Nosejob must have some kind of bounty on him. Maybe if someone co
uld chop his ears off, they could get the reward from that as well as from cashing in on the jewellery. It was surely just a matter of time.

  Pun was more circumspect in his views, feeling that such a character needed a tight rein. He felt that Nosejob was an infection who had the potential to contaminate others. There were plenty of sadistic individuals around. They just needed the people with control to look the other way. In this instance, it was clear to Masinissa that he was the person with control, and it was not his intention to look the other way at all. Pun approved. He had seen Nosejob in action previously and had even done his best to end the suffering of his victims. He had considered some kind of discipline, but there were risks attached to cornering a psychotic, and he had taken the prudent action, about which it was clear he was now somewhat abashed.

  Masinissa duly summoned Nosejob, and ensured that Pun, Juba Tunic and Capuca remained in his tent with him to project an additional authority, as well as to ensure they had the muscle to restrain Nosejob should the need arise. As the guardsman announced him, Pun – as the one amongst them who was most familiar with his conduct – said a few sober and damning remarks before he came within earshot. He said it in the tone of a man fatigued by violence and evil. Ordinarily, he managed to retain quite a sanguine disposition, but, clearly, the thought of Nosejob put a bleaker aspect on him.

  Pun declared, “Trust me on this one; with this madman, there’s no trace of decency. Nothing nourishes his soul other than hatred. There is no love, music, laughter, mercy, reflection or sorrow. You only see hatred and the tendrils of that emotion: vengeance, malice, violence. There is no depth to him; don’t even bother looking for it. You’ll only find this bloody, swollen, surface rage; everything else has been excised.”

  “Thanks Pun, I trust your judgement, but I need to see this guy for myself, you know. To try to put some kinda cuff on him,” responded Masinissa.

  The flap of the tent ruffled slightly as Nosejob made his entrance. He had a certain poise and grace in his movements, which Masinissa was sure most would not have noted, as the impact of his physical appearance would no doubt obliterate any wider consideration of his bearing. The first impressions of the man lay squarely in the appraisal of his face. Curiously, though perhaps not that unexpectedly, it was the man’s eyes – not the kerchief below them – that formed the basis of the verdict. His look was intent and raw; it was a gaze that betrayed him for the man his reputation had suggested, who was apparently on the brink of rage constantly. They were red rimmed and dark; crescents that were almost jet cupped them. It was clear that the man knew little rest and relief. His demons no doubt took their revenge on him when he sought any underserved peace. Maybe someone like him entered a different level of consciousness? As the fires he set consumed his victims, maybe their screams and their ghosts goaded him similarly? Some stains don’t wash off, and to live with them is to be devoured by them. Masinissa, to his surprise, thought suddenly of rainbows, or, more accurately, drew a metaphor in his mind between a man’s normal range of emotions and the colours of the spectrum. He knew he had retained his whole range of emotions, and all the colours he imagined fancifully that they might be represented by. In contrast, he credited Nosejob with only red at best or else completely achromatic. He was dead of light and colour, other than the sizzling anger that poured out of him.

  Nosejob spoke first with a simple, “Sire,” accompanied by a short bow. The tone was set, brusque and formal, even perhaps a little truculent, as an audience with his senior commander was not really something a renegade such as he had much time for, apparently.

  Let’s get this over with, Masinissa thought to himself. I don’t have time for vicious bushwackers like you either. At that point in the audience, he realised a little oversight on his part: he didn’t know Nosejob’s real name. He was so associated with his nom de guerre that any other name by which he had been known had long ceased to be in use. There was nothing to it but to bluff it out. “What’s your name, soldier?”

  There was a pause. Nosejob tapped his fingers together in a crab like motion as if weighing up his response, which no doubt he was.

  Masinissa wondered if the bluff would be called.

  “I am Candamius, sire,” came the reply, which took Masinissa a little bit unawares.

  He had thought that perhaps Nosejob would have found the question sufficiently irritating to have stalled on the answer or otherwise given some kind of recalcitrant mutter. Moreover, the name itself was a surprise. Masinissa took a little pride in knowing the pantheons of many tribes and nations, and knew that Candamius was the name of a much revered sky god for the Iberian people, often conflated with the Roman god Jupiter. Masinissa wondered if the Roman wretches whom this man had immolated had any knowledge that they were being torched by a man equated with a son of Saturn.

  Masinissa was not confounded for long. “OK, Candamius. I have only summoned you for one reason, and it’s not about the deployment or equipping of forces, or anything of that kind. Your reputation precedes you, and it is one I do not intend you burnishing under my command. Clearly, you have value to this army and you have shown yourself capable. However, your conduct towards captives, and your lack of any battlefield discipline or – let’s face it – any remnant of morality is unacceptable. I recognise that the boundaries of propriety are far wider and looser for a soldier than a civilian, but your actions are contemptible and will be punished should you persist in them.”

  Nosejob was passive throughout his castigation, in both his body and expression. He neither bridled nor protested his innocence. If anything, a trace of a smirk touched the creases of his mouth. He seemed to accept and perhaps even revel in his guilt, a perception only deepened by his response, which was framed entirely pragmatically rather than defensively. “What would be the nature of any punishment?” he asked.

  Masinissa had given some consideration to how he would respond to any further violations, and he had concluded that, even given the heinous nature of his offences, he should be disciplined in exactly the same manner as his transgressions. It turned his stomach to think of it, but to deter these kind of breaches required the firmest resolution. Baal Hammon would pardon him he was sure.

  He was blunt in his sentencing. “Once you have crossed the line – and, before you start, you know where it’s drawn – what you do to others will be done to you. I’ll do to you what you’ve done to them. Even in the chaos, I will have eyes on you, so don’t think you can slink away and indulge your repugnant vices out of my sight.”

  Nosejob, Candamius, exhaled slightly; seemed to unstiffen his shoulder blades a little as if he were about to dive into the sea from some rocks; and nodded his acceptance of the terms. “I understand, sire. Will that be all?”

  Masinissa, a little nonplussed by the succinctness of the interview, mirrored it with some terseness of his own. “Yes,” was his final word, and he flicked the back of his hand towards the man to dismiss him, wondering to himself whether his probation or pardon might be short lived. The son of a bitch looked too much of a habitual offender. He doubted there were ladders to climb out of that type of depravity.

  Nosejob left the tent.

  When he was gone, Juba Tunic stepped forwards and put a hand on Masinissa’s shoulder. “He may not have horns or talons, but that is a pure demon there, Mas. You may have to honour that vow some time, or I’ll do it for you.”

  Masinissa grimaced at the prospect, but gave his friend a wan smile.

  *

  There was little time to dwell on the encounter as the various armies were manoeuvring and skirmishing, and the dance between them was about to get a little more intimate. Masinissa was satisfied that his horses and cavalry were rested and prepared. Their numbers were substantial, and they were combat ready enough to cause havoc for whichever flank they charged into. They had swelled to 3,000 in number, but there were few, if any, that he suspected of cowardice, or who might show si
gns of fear or apprehension when the critical moments came. Those had already been weeded out, in truth. They had either fallen or been dismissed. He had faith that those who remained would be steadfast, or at least be able to throw a javelin or swing a sword with some firmness and accuracy. How they coped with their wounds and the terror was their own business.

  They rode out of their encampment to an area where their scouts had indicated was roughly the midpoint between the two armies of Gnaeus and Publius. There was a little pomp and ceremony to the departure. As they realised it might be their final day, many intended to leave the mortal realm in style. For many, going to war was not stripping down to your roughest garments but dressing in your finest. Under the armour that was worn were robes of the finest quality and in the most extravagant dyes. Jewellery was abundant and of all kinds, and the shimmer of gold, silver, pearl and lapis lazuli caught his eye everywhere. Many of the country boys had even tied fetish animals on themselves that had been blessed by shamans or priests. Horses were popular, of course – they were Numidians after all – but he recognised the shapes of wolves, bears and eagles as well. The more urbane or Phoenician amongst the troops preferred the symbols of Tanit, Melqart and Baal Hammon, and many hedged their bets, and turquoise bears and golden ankhs jangled around necks, or were lashed and entwined together around biceps, wrists or thighs. The Romans would have a colourful bounty to loot if it turned out it was their lucky day. There was plenty of earned luck being worn in Masinissa’s ranks, so the Romans would have to have propitiated their gods lavishly to match the Numidians heavenly credit.

  Their departure and much of the early ride had a tranquil feel, which Masinissa found quite incongruous given the deadly mission on which they had embarked. “Tranquilo, tranquilo” was a favourite expression of the Iberians, and – on looking at his troops nodding their heads like donkeys with soft, often peaceful expressions on their faces – he thought they were due a siesta rather than a Roman javelin through their eye socket.