Ally of Carthage

by Rob Edmunds

  As Masinissa was about to make a formal address to the supposed senior figure of the escort, a figure, whom he hadn’t previously noticed, rode up from behind him. The man was helmetless, revealing a very round and bald dome. Aside from his striking and quite shiny pate, Masinissa’s eyes were drawn to the cuirass he wore across his chest and torso, which was gold and embossed with a wolf at the cleavage of his pectoral muscles, and sported heavily accentuated abdominals lower down.

  Golden rectus abdominis to die for, Masinissa thought to himself a little wryly. The Roman nobility, and the Greeks for that matter, and their obsession with their auric abs struck Masinissa as a little suggestive of inadequacy. Maybe underneath, most of them were concealing torsos that were a little less sharply defined. The nobility really liked to fetishise their midriffs in their armour.

  Underneath the cuirass, the man was wearing a typical Roman tunic of deep burgundy, although the matching scarf around his throat had a few filigrees of gold embroidered into it. The rest of his attire was indistinguishable from the rest of the troop, although the gladius at his side appeared, at first glance, to be richly detailed with a highly ornate hilt.

  The palpable deference, even awe, shown to him by the entourage as he emerged put Masinissa on edge and made him uncertain of his next move. This figure clearly held some seniority and purpose. Masinissa was rarely intimidated, but the man’s bearing made him hesitate. He gave him a deferential bow, but made no other motion or comment. In turn, the man bestowed him with a barely discernible smile. For the next few moments, the man was clearly making judgements. He had allowed himself an interval in which he could weigh up his subject and establish a first impression with a little leisure. Masinissa got the distinct impression that this man, roughly his own age, was missing nothing about him, and not the tiniest stain, fray or scar was slipping by him.

  The impression was made more acute by Masinissa’s own inability to read the man in turn. In a quite random association, in his mind, he suddenly conflated the Roman commander with a young woman who dresses too immodestly or revealingly. With such types, it was almost impossible to decipher if they know lots about men or absolutely nothing. That mystery was resolved quickly on closer inspection, but that avenue of clarification was not open to Masinissa just then.

  In terms of the man’s features, the most distinctive to Masinissa appeared to be his mouth. His lips were full, and he almost had the zigzag pout of a woman, accented by a very broad and deep philtrum. It was so noticeable that Masinissa wondered whether or not his appearance might benefit from a short moustache to conceal his medial cleft. Masinissa’s drifting thoughts were abruptly broken as those lips parted and the man spoke.

  “I’ve heard much about you, Prince, and you are even more impressive than how you were described. It is good that we meet with our hands empty and our minds clear. I only tend to meet my enemies when they are dead or grovelling at my feet. I’m not used to a dignified meeting of equals,” the man explained.

  “Nor am I,” Masinissa concurred. “May I ask who you are? Forgive me for my ignorance.”

  “Not at all,” the man responded genially. “I shouldn’t make any presumptions of familiarity. You are easy to identify from your physique, and, besides, I was expecting you. You, on the other hand, were expecting an anonymous party. I was too curious about you to let the opportunity pass. Your nephew is an impressive person, and certainly one too beautiful to be degraded, so how much more so would you be in the flesh? I am, by that criteria, not disappointed. I have seen some impressive specimens – Spartans and Thracians mostly – but you look as if you would be the champion over them. The gladiator schools would pay a sackful of denarii or, more likely, a sackful of denarius aureus for you if you showed up in their auctions. I am Publius, Publius Cornelius Scipio, proconsul of Rome and commander of the republican armies west of the Cisalpine passes.”

  He extended his hand to Masinissa, and they gripped one another close to the crook of their arms, after the fashion of veterans who enjoyed greeting each other with a clap on each other’s bracers; it was a spontaneous gesture that surprised them both.

  “I am honoured. You’re the first proconsul I’ve met; who knows, you may be the only one I ever will,” Masinissa stated.

  “There’s a strong possibility that will be the case, certainly if you stay true to your present course,” Scipio declared.

  The hint at betrayal was clear, but Masinissa felt it would be prudent to not pass comment on the inference.

  “You’re not taking the hook on that one, huh?” Scipio asked as the pause became a little awkward. “You know, one of the only things I’ve learnt is to value strength where I find it. The weak don’t survive or are preyed on. The weak slaves, the weak gladiators and the weak soldiers don’t last; they don’t survive, but those who do get stronger and stronger, are forged harder and harder, and then you have to watch them. That’s you, Numidian. You are stronger than even you realise, and this conflict – on these lands, anyway – would be resolved far more quickly without you and yours. The Carthaginians do not value you but I know what you bring. My soldiers fear your riders, not the Phoenicians or their mercenaries.”

  Masinissa tried to be impassive in the face of the flattery, but gave at least a hint of gratitude, couched in a quip. “Thank you. It’s not always such a great thing to be feared, but, in the way you mean it, I recognise the compliment and perhaps the offer.”

  Scipio jumped at the admission. “I’m not making formal treaties or proposals here, you know. I’m figuring things out as I go and weighing things up. If I can be a little crude with you, you’re one of the fruits I’m sticking my thumb into to see how ripe you are.”

  “Well, how ripe am I then, in your opinion? I’ve got a few bruises, so maybe you’d be better off casting your eyes around other stalls in the market.”

  Scipio looked at him a little flintily and let his gaze become close to a stare. “You’re ripe, I’d say; not perfect, not yet, but ready for the bowl.” He looked away towards his own men, perhaps as a persuasive nudge, and then turned back and changed tack. “I hear you’re a bit of a scholar on the quiet.”

  “Not a scholar, just a reader,” Masinissa qualified.

  “Well, you start with the latter and end up as the former; that’s my understanding of it, anyway.” Scipio replied. “As long as you read then, I take it you’ve managed to get around to Herodotus. He’s a pretty famous guy. If you read enough of his writing, I’m sure you’ll start to question your affiliations. He had a very scornful view of your allies.”

  “I must have missed that one in class. I skipped a few, you know, or maybe my teachers were a little circumspect with my exposure to certain views. I wasn’t the only one who could get caned after all.”

  “No doubt.” Scipio winced for comic effect. “Well, it was Herodotus’s view that all the conflicts in the world could be traced back to the Phoenicians, and he justified the accusation very simply. They could be blamed as they were the first people to start kidnapping women when they sailed into Argos and took the king’s daughter back to Egypt. Soon, everybody followed suit, and Homer’s having a fine time writing about Helen’s abduction in the Iliad.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little unlikely?” Masinissa replied a little sceptically. “I’m sure hostage taking has a much longer history than that. You can’t just pin it on the guys with the best boats. Besides, I’m not basing my view of international relations – nor what flag I ride under, for that matter – on who raided what shore back in the day. I’m sure you Romans have done your fair share of trawling around foreign shores for women in your time and infuriating the locals when you’ve sailed away with the hottest mamas.”

  Scipio smiled at the remark and scratched his jawline. “Well, you have a point there. There are a lot of hot mamas in Rome, and I would attribute a lot of that to…” He paused. “Various forms of immigration; let�
�s call it that.”

  “I’m sure they are as dazzling as your arguments,” Masinissa countered; this was a witticism that seemed to please Scipio, to the point where it brought him back to his purpose.

  “They are dazzling; well, the women are, anyway. I recommend you pay us a visit sometime; just stay away from being part of one of the tributes or games is my advice. Anyway, taking the tangent, as I like shiny things and I’m sure you do too, I’ve brought a few with me. Call it a fee for the loan of your nephew. We took the silver mines from the Carthaginians, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a little of their ore.”

  He ushered a couple of bearers forwards with a chest, which they, rather extravagantly, opened to reveal a pretty substantial pile of silver and lapis lazuli; this was a combination of precious stones and metal that couldn’t be more complimentary.

  Masinissa loved the purity of silver and the intense blue, somewhere between cobalt and indigo, of lapis lazuli. He even had a few bangles of his own that featured both, and he regarded them as having beneficial properties for his mind, body and fortunes. Some of the wilder mystics even claimed that lapis lazuli made you a better orator or blessed you with greater insight, which was a claim that Masinissa considered dubious but did not discount completely.

  Whether Scipio was aware of this fondness was highly unlikely, but the gift was very well received, and the Roman proconsul couldn’t help but notice the delight on Masinissa’s face, to the point where he added a little further information about the stone’s provenance. “I hope you like the lapis lazuli. I came across it fairly easily, but the men from whom I obtained it – or from whom my intermediaries obtained it, I should say – went to much effort to acquire it. I’m assured it comes from the finest known source of it, deep in the mountains of Badakshan. Those mountains are as large as those in the Alpis range, and some are even higher I believe than Mons Albus. I’ve been over the Alpis passes, and it made me appreciate how tough it must have been to retrieve this stuff. Can you imagine digging it out at such an altitude and then transporting it down what must be some pretty treacherous ravines?”

  Masinissa whistled. “It must have been some task. The pursuit of treasure, though, will put a man in some pretty inhospitable places. For something this valuable, I’m sure many prospectors would traverse the most forbidding wastelands. I’ve heard a few stories about the men who come from that region – the Kamboja, that’s their name, isn’t it? Pretty tough customers and pretty merciless too, I’ve been told.”

  Scipio nodded quite vigorously at the reputation such a distant tribe had garnered. “I think I must have heard the same stories. I’ve come across a few of the Kamboja myself. They have quite fluid loyalties, and if they stray west, then they can be recruited. We must have a hundred or so in our legions in various pockets, and they have acquired a mostly impressive reputation. I doubt you’ll find any around here, though.”

  “You’re right; I doubt it. I’ve not come across anyone who lays claim to that ethnicity. There must be plenty of clients for able swordsmen like them, including Rome by the sounds of it, between the Badakshan and here. I’m sure it would be even closer for them to go find a patron amongst the Seres in the far east than come this far in the other direction.”

  “You may have a point there. The situation in Serica is always a little mysterious, but the few traders who bring news from the distant lands talk of a new dynasty and a unification of power. The old rulers have been replaced by a new one who has called himself emperor. An emperor! Such an anathema to a staunch republican like me. It’s probably of no interest to you, but they call him Shi Huang Qin. I don’t even know how to pronounce such a peculiar name properly. The latest news I’ve heard mentions another name, another Qin: Qin Ershi. It’s a little easier to say. Maybe we’ll hear more about him, but such news is rare and really only of idle interest. These lands might as well be as distant as Elysium or Tartarus. Anyway, I digress. Your boy must be itching to get back to his gang.”

  “Well, he might have more of a yearning for a reunion than his gang. Their itch may not be quite so urgent,” Masinissa wisecracked. “I do really need to thank you. Not only have you shown me such a kindness as to return my nephew, you even seem to be paying me his ransom. I owe you. I’m not sure how I can square this debt, but I will try.”

  “You know the obvious way. Switch. Think about it. The door is open… for now,” Scipio added ominously, but without too much theatrical menace.

  “I will think about it. If it were just me, I would this second. I’ve seen enough of the Carthaginians to turn on them. They’ve detained me as a youngster. They dismiss me as a commander. They use me as they would their beasts or elephants, as if I am somehow less than them. I am not enlisted in a meritocratic army, that’s for sure. These pompous sons of bitches will wring every last drop out of me and then cast me aside without a trace of gratitude. It’s not me who I need to consider when making a move like that, though. My lands and my tribe form a contiguous border with Carthage. Massyli is a buffer state and vulnerable to reprisals if weak. My sovereignty is tenuous. Most of the fighting-age men are enlisted and on foreign soil. Even worse, if Carthage attacked from the east, no doubt Syphax would start encroaching from the west, and we’d be trapped and, most likely, massacred from both sides. Right now, they have me by the balls. I can’t defend Massyli from any direction if I’m many, many days ride and a chunk of ocean away. Cirta and Russicada could be overrun in a day. It’s gratifying and a great compliment to me that you believe in me and desire my allegiance, but, ultimately, I have to believe in you. I have to believe in your victory, and one on the most hostile and furthest shores. You are strong, but can you march your men all the way down to Carthage and put your foot on the Barcid throat down there?”

  “I understand that,” Scipios replied, fully apprehending the predicament. “You are a bit like the man who dances before the bull. The animal is stronger, but you are smarter. I’ll take away his horns and then you can show the knife behind your cape.”

  Masinissa snorted, a little like the metaphorical steer. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. It’s a double game, then, for me. It’s doesn’t feel so honourable to have treachery in the forefront of my mind, but having options is comforting.”

  Scipio gave him another of his lingering, penetrating gazes, as if he could tell that the fissure he was looking to tease open between Masinissa and Carthage had just split, and it was for him to tear it wider with his military offensive. “It’s a matter of time. I can endow you with far more than silver and stones, you know. Right now, I have nothing to be grateful for. Be assured that my gratitude would be far more lavish than my appeal.” His eyes seemed to hold an extra gleam in them when he spoke, holding sparks that seemed to Masinissa something more than simply a play of light. “We understand each other now. It’s good that men like us meet, and it’s even better if we can ally with each other. Our causes could correlate very well.” To emphasise the point, he linked his hands and fingers together in a clutch. He then offered his sword arm to Masinissa again in a gesture of farewell, and perhaps of a mutual understanding or tentative complicity. “Goodbye. One day I hope we will ride in the same direction.”

  “So do I,” Masinissa replied quietly and with a little solemn fellowship. “Thank you,” he concluded, not knowing what else to add and opting for simplicity as the safest indication of sincerity.

  He waited, self-consciously deferential, for Scipio and his party to ride past, and there were a few random cries and salutations as they did so, as if the pact were already sealed and the enemy soldiers moving away had become, in all but name, their allies and confederates.

  Masinissa himself could not resist a final wave as Scipio turned at a distance before kicking his stallion out of a trot and into a gallop. He looked at the receding patrician with a degree of affection that he recognised as improper and potentially even dangerous. You’re not mean
t to be so beguiled by your mortal enemy, he thought to himself sardonically.

  His reflections on the charms of Scipio were abruptly suspended, however, as Massiva rode up to him and Masinissa almost fell off his horse in the embrace Massiva gave him. Massiva roared and whooped as they broke apart, and his youthful yelps brought cheers all round of relief, liberation and reunion.

  “You’re a lucky, lucky boy,” Masinissa admonished him when his gusto had receded enough for him to get a meaningful reprimand in.

  “Yeah, I know,” Massiva replied in a manner that blended a bashful shame with a callow cockiness in an odd-but-quite-appealing way. It struck the right tone, anyway, in terms of appealing to the more lenient tendencies of Masinissa. His nephew, still quite euphoric about his emancipation, continued impishly, “Did you miss me? Or get lonely?”

  Masinissa did all he could to restrain a grin and looked at his nephew with as grave an expression as he could manage. “I knew you were gone,” he conceded with a little dose of reproof.

  “Then you missed me!” Massiva concluded victoriously, taking Masinissa’s taciturn neutrality as an admission.