by Rob Edmunds
In turn, Masinissa relented his sternness and clasped Massiva by the back of the neck with rough affection and kissed him on the top of the head. “Yeah, I did,” Masinissa admitted, sparing the rescued boy the additional thought that it was best to excuse him further discipline at the hands of Pun and Tigerman. They’d been down that route before. He was going to gain no more from going through the same ordeals, and, besides, a period of uncertain captivity, however gilded it may have been, was a salutary lesson in itself.
Guerrilla
The morning was fresh, and the crisp mountain air revived Masinissa quickly. The icy peaks of Iberia were a far quicker means of restoring alertness, if not affability, than the parched desert terrains back home, where Masinissa’s instincts were always to linger for a little while in the warmth of his blankets; that is, if blankets were even necessary. The luxury of a tent in a desert where your safety was assured by the empty horizons and you were shielded from the harsh light of the dawn by the canvas felt like a distant memory at that moment. The brisk chill of the Iberian interior forced you out of your languor far too quickly. It was impossible to spread yourself idly once the lids of consciousness were raised even slightly. Lassitude was a treat reserved for warmer climes and lower altitudes.
Masinissa sipped at his bowl of milk and looked covetously down the mountain passes towards the coast and beaches where he had enjoyed barbecuing goats and fresh catches with his men so recently. Pulpo, which the Iberians insisted on calling octopus, was a particular recent favourite. He missed drifting away, sated and peaceful, to the gentle murmurs of the Mediterranean. The defeats at Carthago Nova and Baecula, and the losses of the wealth of the silver mines and a large portion of the military stores of the Carthaginian forces had altered the military and strategic landscape completely. The entire eastern coastline of Iberia had been surrendered temporarily, and was crawling with Scipio’s forces and Iberians who had peeled off from the Carthaginian alliance, either spooked by the defeats or no longer in receipt of the silver Hasdrubal had lost access to. Scipio was proving quite a diplomat with some of the Iberian tribes, and their loyalties were becoming questionable. Mons Calpe was still a redoubt of Mago, and all the lands west to Gades were firmly in Carthaginian hands, but Mago and Gisco had gone south to procure fresh forces, and Hasdrubal Barca had broken north with the remnant of his forces to try to reunite with Hannibal in Italy.
The hinterland of Iberia was, for the moment, Masinissa’s dominion. He had been ordered by the Barcids to take charge of the Carthaginian forces in Iberia. Gades and Ilipa were still garrisoned with Carthaginian infantry, but the Numidian, Iberian and Carthaginian cavalry forces were ceded entirely to Masinissa’s command, with instructions to prosecute a guerrilla campaign against the Romans until fortunes turned and fresh levies were brought up from the south. This was the sort of warfare Numidians relished and were suited to. Lightning raids on Roman encampments were the tactics to be deployed for the time being, and Masinissa had become adept at harassing Scipio’s forces whenever they strayed too far into the mountains.
That day, though, he had a bolder and more symbolic assault in mind. Over the last few days, he and his forces had crossed north and east through the Sierra Nevada, his intention being to mount a raid of some kind against the citadel at Xativa. The fortress there had become quite a source of bitterness for the Carthaginian forces. It had become emblematic of the changing tides of the war. It had been a Carthaginian possession prior to Scipio’s invasion. Hannibal himself had rested and watered his elephants there on his way north, and the gateway into the outer bastion had become known as the door of Hannibal. Scipio was probably well aware of this description when he targeted, occupied and garrisoned the town on his own march south.
There was also a little mystery attached to the target as well. Masinissa had word from Gades that he would be met by a young Carthaginian noble, Hanno, who was particularly keen to attack Xativa. Masinissa knew very well, merely from the name, that he had little choice in the matter. Although not someone he had known from his long exile in Carthage, Hanno was the direct descendant of his namesake, Hanno the Navigator, and was from as eminent a lineage as the Barcids.
During his studies, Masinissa had always enjoyed reading and hearing about the travels of the original Hanno. Accounts differed, but the view was that he had embarked from Carthage, with at least sixty ships and about 5,000 men, on a mission to secure the gold trade with the wild peoples and establish what, at the time, were referred to as Libyo-Phoenician colonies along the coast south of Tingi. He had travelled far, collected a lot of gold, and even the skins of wild men or beasts that he referred to as gorillai, three hides of which were exhibited in the Temple of Tanit.
As he thought about those colossal hides and the beasts they once dressed, he spied dust trails in the valley below, and suspected immediately that it might be Hanno’s detachment. Who else could it be at that time? They were due at this hour, and Carthaginians had a reputation for punctuality, even if it was a quality often derided by Numidians and Iberians. He cast his bowl aside and mounted Napla, admiring how the frosty air made her great flanks and curves shimmer. He knew he must be an impressive sight on her back; two better specimens of man and horse would be hard to find, and ones in such perfect harmony were sure to mesmerise any onlooker. He smirked a little at the reputation the Numidian riders, which he, especially, had garnered since the Battle of Castulo. The Iberians, the women not the men, would tell the cavalry – and, occasionally, the more brazen ones even told Masinissa himself – that his forces had the whole of the country running, but in different directions. The women would flock towards them like moths to a flame, and the men would flee in the other direction, either fleeing conscription or attack.
Napla snorted as they wheeled together to face the approaching riders, and feathers of steam shot briskly from her nostrils. They fell into a trot, neither horse nor rider warm or eager enough to break into anything swifter. They both needed to put some warmth into their extremities before they could muster a gallop.
There were no more than a dozen riders making their way up the pass, zigzagging a little here and there as the inclines and natural obstacles dictated. All appeared to lunge eagerly, almost appearing to fight with their mounts, which was a sure sign that they couldn’t have been on horseback all that long. They may have only been riding for a few hours. They were probably unfamiliar with the terrain, and had used the stars and the light of a fullish moon to guide them closer. The dying fires of Masinissa’s camp may have stood out a little for them too, as they got nearer. As their shapes gained definition, Masinissa could see that they were a mix of Numidians, Libyans and Carthaginians, as four of the riders had no bridles or saddles, and gripped their horses’ manes in rough fists. Masinissa always liked seeing a smattering of his own people in a party, be they emissaries or reinforcements, and his mood was enlivened by the presence of his compatriots in Hanno’s ranks.
Their riding style identified them as Numidian as much as the absence of any bridles. They were far more at ease on their mounts than the other riders, particularly when compared with the two burlier riders who were flanking Hanno. They held, both rather awkwardly and vertically, the long spears associated with the Libyan heavy infantry, with their round shields bouncing against their thighs with the rhythm of their steeds. It all looked quite cumbersome and formal, if an approach of allied riders could be deemed as such.
At least get suitable personnel for any errand, Masinissa thought, unless Hanno has anticipated a need for foot soldiers for the errand or mission he has in mind.
As Hanno approached, it seemed clear that he had no desire to dismount and would exchange initial pleasantries from on horseback. Masinissa was accustomed to this from senior Carthaginians. Dismounting and staring upwards at the imposing Herculean physique of the Numidian commander could leave most, regardless of their status or rank, feeling somewhat physically diminished. As Masinissa s
urveyed his Carthaginian guest, he considered that such an abrupt inadequacy would likely have been even more probable. Hanno was rather pale for a Phoenician, and quite slight, to the point of appearing effete. His clothing was layered and suited to the climate, so Masinissa could not quite determine at first glance whether his robes concealed a wiry athleticism or a decadent softness.
It won’t do to make such premature assessments, Masinissa thought, and, even though it looks like Hanno would be better suited to a temple than a battlefield, I feel I ought to give him the benefit of the doubt. Masinissa tugged Napla’s mane, who pulled up alongside Hanno with a slight snort and shake of her muzzle.
“Good morning, commander,” the youth greeted him. “I am Hanno. I hope our messenger informed you of our arrival.”
The comment struck Masinissa as superfluous and suggested somewhat that Hanno may have been a rather banal conversationalist. Maybe he was a little intimidated? “He did, and I guess you know my name, kid, so let’s get down to business,” replied Masinissa, dispensing with formalities a little cockily.
It was apparent that Hanno knew exactly who Masinissa was without requiring any confirmation. His initial comportment suggested his normal manner was a little compromised by the encounter, and Masinissa realised that it may take a little while for him to take the paralysis out of his throat and the stiffness out of his limbs.
Masinissa glanced around at his escort, and caught the eye of the Numidians in the group as he did so, and their slouched manner and contained smiles showed plainly that the boy lacked the experience and authority to command them adequately. There was a little condescension in their expressions, which faded quickly when their eyes met Masinissa’s, and they regained some of their composure and alertness. He smiled back at them slightly complicitly, half-expecting a wink that wasn’t forthcoming.
Masinissa thought the moment demanded he be a little more avuncular and reassuring than normal. The war often brought fresh faces to lead weary and cynical ones, and he remembered the times when he himself was in a similar position as an inexperienced commander. It was not entirely comparable, as his schooling had been tougher, but he remembered the slight uncertainties and hesitations he felt when barking orders to veteran cavalrymen. He had only to look at the deep scars many bore to realise they had more knowledge of how to survive on the battlefield than he did.
“Do you and your men need to freshen up, or are you ready to ride to Xativa? I’ll leave most of the troops here and take a small company to ride with you,” explained Masinissa.
Ari, Capuca, Juba Tunic and Soldier Boy were already mounted behind him, with another dozen riders anticipating that Hanno’s response would be to ride into the morning.
“Let’s ride. Our journey here has been quick, and our horses are still fresh. Let’s take advantage of the coolness of the morning to make good time to the castle our enemies occupy,” confirmed Hanno.
“Spoken like a man too used to riding in the heat of midday. Wise. Come on then, let’s go.” With that, Masinissa kicked hard into Napla’s flanks, and they set forth for Xativa.
*
For the Romans, such a journey would have been fraught with danger. The landscape was beautiful, and the mountains eased the spirits, but it was perfect ambush country, and the Carthaginian forces and local tribes pounced regularly on unwary Roman detachments. Both sides did, in truth, but the better marauders were those who knew the country best and who held the advantage of mobility.
Hanno rode alongside Masinissa, and, quickly, his ingenuous ways and surprising exuberance, rather than proving an irritation, began to endear him to the Numidian, who had seen little of either quality for some time. Besides, it was easy to notice that he was, at heart, a simple and decent boy. Hanno’s anxiety slipped from him quickly, and it seemed to Masinissa, without conceit, that the earlier tension in the lad was simply due to him meeting someone he held in high esteem. The questions that poured out of him once he had lost his apprehension resembled the fervid chatter that young boys pester winning athletes with at games or the idiotic questions adolescents pose to drowsy philosophers.
Hanno was clearly an avid consumer of military tactics and history, and pressed Masinissa several times about his views on Alexander of Macedon. He was on relatively secure ground responding to those, but when Hanno veered into mathematics and astronomy, which the boy appeared equally as enthusiastic about, he caught himself glazing over a little. Hanno appeared to have a particular fondness for Eratosthenes. Regrettably, or perhaps mercifully, Masinissa had to concede that he had never read any of his works, especially Hermes, which it was clear Hanno loved. The fundamentals of astronomy were of limited interest to Masinissa. Obviously, he needed sufficient knowledge of the constellations to get about in the dark, but, beyond that, he was indifferent. The fact that, apparently, Eratosthenes, by comparing the shadow of the sun at noon on the summer solstice at both Alexandria and Syene, had been able to calculate the circumference of the earth as 250,000 stadia was of interest, but really only as a casual remark that Masinissa could share around a campfire when he had exhausted more interesting themes. He felt himself biting back irreverent remarks that he knew would offend Hanno, as he wittered on about geometry, mathematics and astronomy.
“You know, sometimes, it is as important to look down as well as up,” Masinissa chided his companion mildly. “I admire scholars highly, but they don’t charge with me into enemy lines, and the war is not a place to get too distracted by higher-minded things. Pay attention to your weapons, your horses, your soldiers and yourself. For instance, looking at your horse’s hooves now, it would seem they are due a trim and a sturdier wrap of hide. This is hard country we’re going through.”
“You’re right. We have to keep all our equipment in order in the field. I’ll take more care,” responded Hanno.
Masinissa nodded approvingly and allowed the young rider to continue his prattle if he wished to, or to take the hint and either be quiet or take a detour in his topic of conversation.
Hanno had the insight to notice Masinissa’s boredom and rode silently for a while. As they drew closer to the castle he asked, “Do you know the importance of Xativa?”
“Only vaguely,” Masinissa replied. “I’m aware that Hannibal passed through there.”
“His association is a little more personal. His wife Imelce is from this area, and when he left for the Cisalpine regions and beyond, he left her and his son here. They even, quite sentimentally, left the top room – Hannibal’s bedroom – empty. They have since crossed to Africa from Gades.”
“Ah OK; I see now why you might take a particular interest. You know I was going to attack it anyway, or at least raid any parties or camps in its vicinity. Horses don’t scale ramparts all that well, after all!”
“I’m sure we’ll notice a few plumes of Roman smoke pretty soon. Their sentries will be easy pickings for you.”
*
As they rode over the crest of the next hill, their destination loomed before them. A small village appeared at the foot of the hill, and the fortification stood above it as the land rose. There was an outer gatehouse and curtain wall, and the inner battlements traced a line up to the higher keep, which was perched at the apex of a neat pyramid hillock. There were some scrubby trees to one side, but on the others was bare rock. Another interior wall ringed this hill, about halfway up the slope. Appraising the fortifications with a military eye, Masinissa thought that it would be quite a tough task to attack it, but that it was an easy place to besiege. He couldn’t see where any wells may have been situated, but he doubted that the higher fort had any water supply of its own, and sustenance amounted to a gnarled, bare olive tree digging obstinately into the dirt fractures of the rock.
Regarding Hanno, Masinissa noticed that some of the boy’s earlier unease had returned, that his jaw and shoulders had become more set and rigid, and the grip with which he held his horse was
tighter. Masinissa asked him quietly, “What’s the matter? The way you are squeezing that leather bridle has got me worried.”
“I’m that easy to read, huh?” Hanno admitted. “I should explain my interest to you. I can do it simply enough, but it’s painful for me, so my apologies if I have not chosen to allude to it already. If you’re going to support my attack on this castle, then you should know the full extent of my motivation. It has dual origins: one personal and one spiritual. My family name is Brega, and my father, Kanmi Brega, was one of the few senior members of the Sacred Band to campaign with Hannibal. When Hannibal continued north with his army, he left my father here to garrison Xativa. It was an important assignment and not the sinecure you may suppose, certainly not in hindsight. Part of his obligation was to ensure the safety of Imelce, which he did at the cost of his life, as he fought the Roman legionnaires sufficiently long to allow her small party to escape south. He was also the custodian of a most important artefact that Hannibal had entrusted to him.”
Masinissa leant forwards a little and was clearly intrigued.
“This artefact,” Hanno continued, “was one of a pair of chalices that had been kept at the Temple of Melqart, and were the last cups used by Melqart before he died. They were, fittingly, both decorated ornately and cast in gold. When Hannibal received his vision of conquest there, the priests entrusted him with one of them as a means to show the tribes that he had Melqart’s blessing. The Turdetani are practically Phoenician themselves and are our brothers, and the Llergetes further north, commanded by Indibilis and Mandonius, fight with us, but the Oretani, Bastetani and Contestani were felt to be more ambivalent. Being in possession of one of the cups, it was supposed, would rally these tribes decisively to our banner, and this is what transpired. However, whilst Imelce eluded capture, the cup of Melqart was left at Xativa, and I must retrieve it, and return it to the lands of the Turdetani and to its sacred home. Besides that, I intend to kill the Roman centurion, Atilius Metellus, who killed my father and who still commands this outpost. I have heard word of the nature of my father’s death, and I wish I had not, for the circumstances are as brutal and savage as you could imagine. They captured him alive, and, after brutalising him for their amusement, Metellus hurled him to the camp dogs, who tore him limb from limb. Furthermore, the animal proceeded to boil alive the captives he had taken. The Numidian detachment escorted Imelce and escaped, but many Carthaginians, Libyans and Contestani perished horribly.”
