Ally of Carthage

by Rob Edmunds

  The jokes and the taunts started rolling, but the bonhomie, as ever, was interspersed with more maudlin preoccupations, and complaints about the costly delays of savouring victory over pursuit.

  Indibilis was first to articulate his frustration. “You know, Mago is screwing up completely the opportunity we had. We had the advantage, Mas. The Romans were in complete disarray, and we could have routed them all the way back to Hannibal’s lines. Instead, that remnant of 8,000 or so who managed to cross the Ebro have been reinforced by another 10,000. OK, so their commander – Claudius Nero, right – looks quite inept and lacking in ambition, but that’s not the point. He’s just holding the fort, so to speak. I’ve heard that the Roman military have reassigned many of their veteran units to the scion of Publius – you’ll have heard of him, as he’s also called Publius or Publius Cornelius – with the instruction to come for us, and come for us hard. These crazy Roman patricians are too proud to give their sons a different name from their own. He already has some of the best men Rome has under his command, mostly vengeful survivors of Cannae; the kid has balls and he has respect too. He’s not in your league, Mas, but there are stories, and, from the other side of the game, he’s got clout.”

  Masinissa confirmed, “I’ve heard some of those stories. He’s like their great big hope: young, courageous, and easy to hype up and rally around. He’s a hero already. From the stories I’ve heard, I almost like him. I imagine he’s cut a little from the same cloth as us. There was a battle or a skirmish – let’s call it that – at Ticinus, where he rescued his father by charging at the encircling Carthaginians, and he got him out of there. The other one was right after Cannae. The consul Lucius Aemilius Paullus was dead, so Publius Cornelius and Appius Claudius Pulcher became tribunes and took charge of their survivors. There was a lot of talk of mutiny, desertion and looking to turn the best of what was left into a foreign mercenary force. He went straight into the heart of the mutineers, Lucius Caecilius Metellus amongst them, and literally compelled them, with sword drawn, to swear fealty to Rome. For a young guy, that’s plenty ballsy.”

  “Yeah, it’s a funny one, isn’t it? Admiring your enemies more than your allies. It’s like the longer the war goes on, the only ones left – at the top, anyway – are the arseholes. The good ones are either killed, repatriated or removed, and you know how that can go down. The officer cadre of the Romans looks much more decent and competent than our guys, from this distant vantage point, anyway.”

  “Well, they have their share of cowards, Indy. We heard from our infiltrators that when they elected the new proconsul for a new Iberian campaign against us, Publius Cornelius was the only one, literally the only one, to put his name forward. Everyone else must have thought the mission was doomed to failure. He’s not scared of us, and he wants to extract his vengeance. We have the blood of his father on our hands, and he wants to dip his hands in ours.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t, or if he does, that he confines the repayment of the debt to Gisco and the Barcid brothers. I think we’re in a ‘waiting and seeing’ lull in all this, Mas. I am, anyway. My loyalties are coerced and pretty stuck right now, but you know how it goes. The world keeps moving, but, sometimes, you have to change horses to keep up with it, if you know what I mean.”

  Masinissa understood the crude analogy and the less-than-subtle inference that Indibilis was open to Roman persuasion if the offer was forthcoming and his people were out of harm’s way. Maybe Mago and the others were pushing too hard internally and too feebly externally, and had squandered and lost their strong hand. “Well, I probably need something more challenging that these cookouts. I haven’t read so much since I was living in Carthage and pestering the Greeks there for all they could give me. I’m becoming more of a scholar than a soldier.”

  Mandonius scoffed, “I don’t see too many of the learned classes with quite your physique, Mas. Your muscles and scars kinda betray you. I’m not knocking your cultural tendencies or aspirations now, OK? Anyway, if you want to blend in with that lot, there are other things beside writings to help you. For instance, your body shows no sign of overindulgence or dissipation… and, on that point, are you full?”

  “Ah!” Masinissa replied quickly. “You really worked that angle around, didn’t you? You could have just offered me a fresh morsel, and, no, I’m not full. What have you got? I need to work on my tummy!”

  Mandonius laughed, reached behind him and brought out a very large, round cake, whose aroma on the air hinted at a delicious end to the feast.

  “You made that on the sly!” Masinissa exclaimed delightedly.

  “You know me, Mas; some guys find a quiet spot for their standard business, but me, I like to have the odd surprise for meal times. There’s a house close to the main square. It’s got a nice kitchen and a hot widow. Two birds there.” He gave Masinissa a suggestive wink.

  What Mandonius had put together when he wasn’t kneading elsewhere in the building was one of Masinissa’s favourite desserts: a spelt cake. All the guys knew of his fondness for them, and it felt almost like a birthday surprise that Mandonius had made it for the meal. He hadn’t spared on the ingredients either. Aside from the triticum spelta, as the Romans called it, there were plenty of almonds decorating the top of it, and strong hints of the base flavours of rosemary, cinnamon, honey, wine, milk and pepper.

  Masinissa took his knife and sliced a big triangle of the cake for himself. Unable to resist displaying a little of his knowledge, Masinissa questioned the others on the origins of the cake. “Do you know what the Greeks call this cake?”

  “Cake, smart boy!” Pun replied from the far side of the fire, his words muffled by a little bit of the food lodged in his mouth.

  “Big cake!” Soldier Boy added.

  “Big, yummy cake,” Ari clarified further, and he threw a morsel of it in Masinissa’s direction, continuing the ridicule of his culinary erudition.

  “I’m sure they call it all of those things, you cheeky bastards!” Masinissa retorted amiably, “But if you’re ever hanging out with a Greek woman – ideally a foxy, pliable one – you might want to have a few words to impress them at hand. For instance, ‘Oh darling, that’s so sweet; you baked a cake for me,” she may have heard before. However, what might go down a little better is “Oh darling, you made me some zeia. (That’s their name for it.) May I thank you and Demeter for the lovely, sweet gift,’ as their god of harvest apparently came up with the recipe.”

  “You know what, Mas?” Tigerman broke in, “If I’m ever in such an appealing situation and the said ravishing Hellenic beauty has gone to the trouble of baking me one of these, I think I can probably ease off on the flattery. She’s cooked the deal in, and my part of the bargain is about to rise as well.”

  Masinissa laughed hard, “Nice one, Tigerman, maybe you’re at the wrong party, you know. You might be better off catching up with my rake of a nephew to see what he’s nibbling on.”

  “Well, you know what, big guy? I think a few of us may wobble along towards town soon with those kinda intentions. We’ve got to build bridges and mend broken hearts; it’s all part of the job, right?”

  “Yeah, for sure; I’m going to stay here, if that’s OK with you? And maybe grab some more of the wine and cake till my senses have taken enough. Maybe Indy and I have a few stories or songs left in us to share before we pass out. Take Soldier Boy with you. Look at him, he’s the perfect wing man. Put him under there…” He tapped his armpit. “And then later make sure you put something frothy and willing under him.” He gave Soldier Boy a wink and the label of being the most callow at the same time, which was a characterisation that he was far from certain he was being fair to ascribe to him.

  The beaming grin Soldier Boy gave him and his complete lack of abashment suggested the association probably had little substance to it.

  Tigerman took his cue and sprang up with some elan. “Come on then, troopers, let’s hit th
e flesh pots, and leave the husbands and drunks to themselves. There’s more fun to be had in town than a little singing and sighing at the beach. Sorry, Mando, there’s not much left in the pot, but there’s plenty left in the sack if you know what I mean. You guys stretch out, take it easy and make merry, but the wine gets me in a different mood, you know? I’m going to peel off with the younger guys and see what I can get into.”

  “Adieu, adieu, as the northerners say,” Masinissa replied, ushering Tigerman and the other gallants, who had taken the same cue, away as fulsomely as his creeping ease would allow. He added a little waved flourish; somehow, the Gallic farewell always merited a little physical embellishment.

  The guys offered a few farewells of their own, and a few sandy sprays were kicked up at them, a few grains of which added a little salt to Masinissa’s lips.

  “Don’t let any of those damsels put shackles on you, now. You need to be back in camp by mid-morning at the latest; we’ve got to work this off,” responded Masinissa, and he jiggled his non-existent tummy to clarify his point.

  There came various distracted replies along the lines of, “Sure, sure,” but none of them were looking back; all their young men’s focus was now fixed on seduction and the unwary ladies of the town.

  Masinissa watched them as they swayed up the beach, exhorting and teasing each other, with the tough, hard men they’d become abandoned momentarily to reveal a little of a more playful, juvenile aspect. Thank Baal Hammon that he leaves a little of the boy in us, however far apart from him we stray, Masinissa thought to himself.

  He turned back to the small group remaining, each of whom had either a few too many years or a few too many cups, and met Indibilis’s gaze. His friend must have been watching him, as there was a soft affection playing around his mouth and eyes, as if he had been caught in a reflective moment. The two men smiled, both a little ruefully and both for more than one reason. Each of them had reached a point in their own personal evolution when they had acquired a little insight and wisdom, and they’d both had enough to drink to let it show without embarrassment or self-consciousness – not that either of them had much of a reservoir left of either of those qualities.

  A song broke out, and, inevitably, it was of home. Juba Tunic let his sonorous bellows soothe them, and the shoreline cooperated with its rhythmic, gentle lapping of waves. They all joined in or hummed along, and the Numidians all felt a tug of yearning for the far, far shore of their other lives. It was the sort of song that made you smile and cry at the same time, and many of them did. It didn’t lead into any others, though. It was the sort of sentimental ode that finishes a show rather than serves as an overture for one. They turned slowly into themselves, tucking themselves in, or staring at the heavens or the sparkles on the ocean. Some found their most natural comrades for their final moments of consciousness. For the most part, they were at peace with each other and themselves, and they knew better than to squander the feeling.

  Indibilis shuffled closer to Masinissa, moving a little like a turtle by not raising himself too much off the ground but putting in more effort than he would have if he’d just stood up and walked over. Masinissa thought it was a little comical to witness. A little short of breath from his minor exertion, Indibilis rolled onto his back and wrapped his blanket around him, up to his throat. Masinissa gave his profile a glance and noticed his reflective expression. Looking at the dots of the cosmos can turn a man’s thoughts to more profound contemplations. It was often that way for Masinissa, and Indibilis did the same. They were two men staring at the heavens, one gulp of wine away from losing their lucidity but right at the point where they had a temporary tighter grip of it, or at least it always seemed that way.

  After a few moments, perhaps after trying to trace the lines of the constellations or maybe just letting the right thoughts bubble into the right words, Indibilis said softly, as if speaking to the gods above him as much as Masinissa, “Do you ever wonder how much of everything’s already been spent? How much is left? Where are you in your life? Not many of us live to be old. It’s easy to kid yourself that you’re in the morning of your life, and that your life is an eternity –refreshing and invigorating itself continually – when, at best, you decay and, at worst, you get chopped up in the morning like the guy you rode out with the previous day. You could even say the same for your liberties. How much of those are left? How many days do you have as a free man? How much more would you savour them if you knew that, the following morning, you might have your wrists and ankles bound, and your tongue and balls cut?”

  “I wonder about it,” Masinissa replied. “I submerge it most of the time. We all do, right? When we lose guys or when they get messed up so badly that they’re useless, then I turn their suffering or their demise on to me. I put my head on their shoulders, so to speak. You mourn them and then you mourn yourself for the time when the same thing will happen to you.”

  Indibilis put his palms over his eyes and traced his fingers down from his forehead to the corners of his mouth, making a little pout that eased out a sigh full of wobbly uncertainty as he pinched his lower lip. “Yeah, you’re right. You can’t help wondering when your luck is going end, and you’re that guy who made plans and thought about tomorrow and is now staring vacantly straight at the sun, waiting for someone to have the time and care to close his eyes and make a bed for him under the earth. I need more of this…” He sploshed his wine in the air and took a big slug from his skin. “When my mind isn’t too tired or dazed to think, it can take me down paths I don’t want to travel, and make me look at futures I don’t want to see, or worst of all, futures without me at all.”

  “Ah, my friend, I can’t offer you comfort for your worries or your fears,” Masinissa commiserated. “Savour what you can, find peace where you can, and find comfort and meaning wherever it may be. Take every moment as a blessing. Loss and pain will happen when it will. Don’t let it shroud your present. It’s funny; we all climb up and down our emotional hills and mountains, fighting internal battles no one else has any knowledge about. Finding friends, and sharing our worries, good times, warm fires and warmer smiles. I’ve had a good night, I’ll remember it, and it’ll cause its own little glow in me when I recall it, I’ll try to bring the memory out in a bleak moment.” He gave his friend a little fraternal pat.

  “I know I’m drifting a little now and that can make me a little maudlin. You’re a wise bird these days, Mas, and a mate.” This was a point he reaffirmed with a reciprocal touch to his friends bicep, before going on, “You know, we should make a thing of this. Good times aren’t supposed to last, especially these days, but if we have ones to look forward to, it helps the bits in between to be endured more easily. The days I laughed without a reason are long gone.”

  Masinissa sparked a little at the vague proposal. “That’s sounds good. A regular get-together at the beach. We’ll work it into our busy schedules, shall we? We earn our little furloughs, and we can come here from time to time, or a little bit further down towards Mons Calpe or even round the southern coast, but it’s a bit windy down that way.”

  “Oh, yeah, it is for sure; there have been quite a few journeys down that way where I’ve swallowed a little more sand than is healthy. It stings, especially if you’re riding right into the teeth of it.”

  “OK, Indy, I know this makes us sound like schoolchildren, but let’s make this a thing every couple of months. I know it’s likely to drift, but at least let’s do it this time next year, OK? And definitely bring your head chef.”

  “I never go anywhere without Mando; you know that, Mas.” Indibilis laughed. “We’re a double act. I see more of him than my wife.” The thought of the painful truth of that struck him as soon as he said it, although it only checked him momentarily, as if it was a fact he was becoming more reconciled to.

  “Hopefully, that’ll switch around soon enough,” Masinissa consoled. His chest heaved deeply, but he managed to stifle a yawn
.

  Those two were the only ones of the group who were not obviously attempting or finding sleep by then.

  Masinissa grabbed a small, disc-shaped pebble, raised himself and skimmed it over the ebbing tide, counting the bounces. The stone eluded immersion till its fourth drop. “Three months, buddy; trust me, you’ll be back in her arms by then.”

  “I’m not sure I have much faith in a stone-skimming shaman, but I’ll keep you informed.” With that, Indibilis gave Masinissa’s shoulder a double tap; turned on his side, showing his back to Masinissa; and let the drink and the food swirl him into a temporary, satiated oblivion. Masinissa looked at his friend and then out to sea, letting his own thoughts and the tide rise together, waiting for anything to fall into his consciousness, and focussing just on the motions of the sea and the breathing of his buddy. It was an empty and serene moment; his overriding thought as sleep claimed him was that of spending more such pleasant days.

  *

  Little did Masinissa realise that the knot that held this band of brothers together was about to be untied by the younger Scipio, whose arrival on the peninsula would detonate the status quo of skirmishing and haphazard raiding that had grown to define the conflict, as a result of Carthaginian hesitation and inaction. With Scipio’s additional 10,000 men bolstering the forces already in place, he quickly recognised the fractious relationship between the three senior Carthaginian commanders, as well as, crucially, the significant physical distances between their respective armies. He made a lunge at the most vulnerable and tactically significant target: Carthago Nova, as the Romans referred to it, or Qart Hadasht as it was called by the Carthaginians.