by C C Taylor
“But why did you want me to come?”
“You are not a soldier.”
“Nor are you.”
“Do you have your flute?”
“I always have my flute.”
“Not lost or broken?”
“No.”
“Do you want a tune?”
“No. I do not want to make noise. That would be senseless. I only want to know you have it. You are hungry, eat this,” and he throws a small chunk of something towards Skip, who catches it, examines it, then puts it in his mouth and munches.
They lie in silence, listening to the occasional victory songs and chants drifting over through the desert air, scanning the horizon formed of coast castle and coast, sitting up, leaning on elbows in the manner of a banquet, and then lying down again.
“What have we eaten?” Skip asks.
“Most call it bangue, some say dagga, there are other names for it. You can also suck in its smoke through pipe. Like flute but blow the other way…” (He laughs and falls back to the ground looking up at the sky)
“Juba is late.”
“This is what was on the fire, yes?”
“Yes. Fire is wasteful. Better to eat. Are you enjoying?”
“Everything is marvellous.”
And in fact, all things considered, for the first time in a while, it was. He at least seemed to be safe from danger, the ‘enemy’ at least seemed to be friendly and it at least seemed to be a better idea to jump ship to the winning side in the light of what he had just learned. I mean, it’s not as if he owed any loyalty to the Roman Eagle…if you’d asked him, he’d probably said he didn’t give a melon-seller’s bollock.
“And as for the bangue that your great-grand uncle got to like so much…the way he waxed lyrical. What does it do to you?” I asked him.
“It makes you empty in your head, free of care, floating,” he said. And even there in the middle of the marsh, he felt somehow removed from life, as if the battle that had been and the battles that were to come were some kind of spectacle put on for him on a grand stage. And sounds were sharper. And colours brighter.
Now the sun began to set, as he told it, throwing off shafts of gold and lances of silver in among the colours of fire, purples, and colours of the sea scarring the whole western vault of the sky.
“Time to walk,” Hanno interrupts his enjoyment – “Soon, we will see elephants on the horizon. Sixty. Better trained, better ridden.”
Up gets Scipio and they walk on at a leisurely pace.
“Why do they bring elephants?”
In most men’s mouths this would be a question over tactics of war, but the African read the note of sadness and choke of despair in Skip’s voice.
“I know what you mean, Skiponius. I like elephants, too. They are friendly, they mourn their dead for days and they never forget you. I like elephants. But I also like men and they sometimes have to go to war too.”
By now it’s getting dark and sure enough, Hanno has found the strip of firmer ground. The effects of the potion are wearing off and hunger is beginning to bite. Surely, there must be some edible shrubs around for the local boy to show off with…
“How far is it to this mysterious camp, anyhow?”
“We would see the elephants now if it was not dark,” Hanno assures him, but there’s a look about him and something about the tone of voice…
As you do in these situations, you continue to believe even as the evidence vanishes and on they ploughed. Skip begged for food.
“Soon at the camp…”
No, my friend. They walk on for about another hour before Hanno stands, hands on hips as the dawn gradually spills her light over the plain and the coastline spreads in front of them and says, incredulously,
“There is nothing here. Juba has fled!”
“Now what do we do?”
Hanno thinks for a moment then strides off to his left.
“We go to the coast, ‘Marked One’… Seaweed. Fish.”
Scipio follows him (what else can he do) thinking, one day, I’ll make a right decision. And what does he mean by ‘marked one’ all of a sudden?
They rested. They set off south. They met Berbers along the way. The Berbers gave them food and pieces of news from which they stitched together the story. Juba had been forced to go back to protect his borders, which were under attack from the Mauretanians, which was kind of a normal situation, but now bolstered by another of JC’s ex-companions, a bloke called Sittius. Now, with this traitor’s help, Cirta, the Numidian capital, had been captured.
Another day’s marching, another nomad tribe, more fireside tales and the story had changed. Juba had been at Thapsus. He’d sent Numidian troops in to back up Scipio, but they’d all fled at the first sign of trouble, as had most of the elephants we’d seen. Now the story was that he only had thirty for himself.
However, seeing how the battle was going, and knowing that Sittius was chasing him around and about the place, he’d thought better of joining in and headed back to face his pursuers, who led him all the way back home, which, in allegiance with Caesar, was exactly what they had hoped to do.
All of which left Scipio and his new chum with no particular plan of action. And quite a way into the desert interior, as far as he could tell. Hanno, being a local, however, soon hooked into the languid pace of life of the Berbers…after a brief introduction everybody seemed to know who he was…often he produced an amulet and showed it, at which the onlookers would nod their heads or begin to mumble amongst themselves. And after two days of being hospitably received in tents, they arrive at a gathering where some of Hanno’s family and a few other runaways from both sides of the army, Scipio noted, are present. Hugs and shrieks, and exaggerated stories are exchanged.
At one camp, where they arrive after sundown, Hanno’s unexpected arrival out of the dark calls for a celebration. Milk is brought and from somewhere a kind of herb and seed stew, which is warmed over a fire. When the pot is taken off, the crowd shuffle along to sit downwind of the fire. Skip sees how a bag of dry grass is brought out and thrown into the flames
Oh good, he thinks, and hurries to take his place windward side.
So, to sum up the story thus far, young lad, our Scipio is now a deserter, a well-known deserter, who may have to change sides and live in this strange land forever. Let’s face it. How exactly would he get home? Maybe…ma-a-aybe…the Numidians overpower Caesar, build up forces, after all, Cato’s waiting not far away and the Pompeians finally take the whole of Africa. That would be a threat to Caesar or whoever was on their throne. And maybe…ma-a-ybe, they might fancy invading Rome one day.
All very improbable, of course, but these were the thoughts going ’round his head at this time. It was winter, remember, so no more troops would be coming over the sea for six months or so. The best chance seemed to be to keep in with these locals, who were feeding and sheltering him, and seemed entranced and fascinated every time he took out his plagiaulos to play. They clicked their fingers and moved their heads from side to side, invented songs (it seemed to him) and entered into the music completely.
“After the battles, we will take you to Juba’s court,” says Hanno. “He will hear you play.”
“Have you not heard flutes before?”
“Oh yes, but not this style of flute and this manner of playing.”
(What? Thinks Scipio…old army marching tunes and scraps of threnodies wailed by distant long-haired Gauls? Well, maybe so. Who knows?)
“Who is Juba, then? Tell me about him.”
“I tell you why he will come back. He lived in Rome before. He was a lawyer. This land was to be part of their Empire and Juba, their submissive king. But there was one case, in the forum, where they accused another African there, Masintha, of trying to kill Hiempsal, Juba’s father. And who should be defending the assassin? Young Gaius Julius, of course. But Juba argued the case so well (and who knows? Maybe he really was guilty, but in law the truth is the least of it, as you may know) that
he won, despite the young Gaius coming up to him at one point, red in the face, and spitting and pulling his beard, in front of all the judges and the senators. So Juba’s revenge was just. Masintha was to be killed. They tried to take him prisoner but the Romans weren’t having it and a mob battle broke out in the streets of Rome. How old are you? You may remember this.”
“I was young, but I remember hiding from the mobs under stairs with my mother. What happened to Masintha?”
“They protected him and now he is off away in Hispania somewhere, being a scribe, I think.”
“And how do you know of this?” Skip asks suspiciously.
“I have been in the Roman army for many years as you know,” Hanno retorts with false innocence.
“What happened to Juba?”
“He became King of Numidia, as he is today.”
“And he will come to protect us from Caesar?”
“Not only does he hate Caesar personally, but there is one Scriponius Curio who Caesar has bought. And he has brought a law to say that now this land will be under Roman power. That is why we fight this war. Caesar must know that Africa will not belong to him. Over there…” (Once again Hanno points to a place long distant over the horizon, as if it means something to the man from Europe), “over there is where Carthage once stood.”
Carthage must be destroyed, Skip repeats the familiar phrase…do they still say that among the lads? When I was younger, playing in the streets, any time a street battle was on that was what we used to shout out as we charged at each other…doesn’t make any sense now that I think of it, both gangs of boys accusing the other of being Carthage…anyhow…
“And Carthage was destroyed,” Hanno continues. “Your people, they came here and they tore down every stone. They erased every written word except for the knowledge of harvests and grain, which they had translated before they burned. And our ships, which you stole, together with the knowledge of how to build them. And you live off that knowledge today. And not one Carthaginian remains. Of course, that is not possible. Some Carthaginians have sons, who were away in other parts when this happens. Who returned many years later to see the terrifying legionnaires patrolling, to see the rubble where a city once was, to vow that their sons will return one day to seek vengeance.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“They thought they had erased everything…but I tell you as you see me now, Roman, Hanno will one day trample your greatest generals beneath his feet (then, snapping out of it as if from some oracular trance.) There is no point waiting to see what happens. We should go to the south to meet Juba and Afraius as they return with their armies.”
“I’ve let you convince me that your Juba’s going to come and save us, Numidian. I’m beginning to think you have no idea of what you’re up against. Do you know how far Caesar’s empire stretches? How many troops he has?”
“He can have all the troops he wants. But not in Africa. Did you hear the soldiers’ tales of four years ago?”
“What happened four years ago?”
“Yes, they don’t like to talk about it. They blow their trumpets everywhere when they burn some houses and kill some old men, but we don’t hear so much about Curio.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Yes, he came to ‘conquer us’ then. He marched on Utica and after kicking Varus’ arse for a while, managed to push Pompey’s commander back into the city with his two legions. So things were on edge, just as they are now. And who should come along (just as he will now)? Juba, of course. But when he gets there, he sees that Curio has borrowed your ancestor, Scipio’s example and holed up on the promontory we call Castra Cornelia. There it is possible to winter and to receive supplies from Hispania, Sicilia, wherever.”
“From what I’ve seen, a lot of this ‘warfare’ business involves sitting around on one’s arse in the cold for months on end.”
“It does, Skiporus. Or being pitched around in ships, or slapped by drunken officers on the parade ground. I look at slaves and think they’re better off sometimes.”
“They are. If they get to live in a big house. They eat better food than us.”
“That’s for sure.”
“So…what happened?”
“Well, Juba didn’t want to sit on his arse in the cold for months either, so he pretended there was a rebellion in Zama and he had to go back there, leaving only a few guards here with General Saburra, and he put this rumour around so it would be reach Curio’s ear. Sure enough, the arrogant Roman comes prancing out, thinking he’s pursuing the small forces left to Saburra, but when they reach the River Bagradas, they realise Juba hasn’t left at all. And they eat the Roman armies alive, pound them under hooves, Curio is killed, the survivors beg for mercy and are denied. That’s what happened four years ago. One of the many stories they don’t brag about. And that is what is happening now. Juba is luring Caesar south.”
“They could have spared the survivors,” Skip says still reflecting on the story.
“Like at Carthage?”
“Hmmm,” he shrugs his shoulders.
“Let’s sleep. Tomorrow we can go towards Zama with these people. They will continue and we will enter the city to be with Juba. Don’t worry. We will find him.”
And so they travelled on, young Marcus, and it’s hard to know which of the two had their head more stuffed full of fantasies. Zama was some ninety Roman miles away still. They reached it in three days to learn that Juba had been denied entry.
Hanno could not believe it. What? Why? How?
And even Scipio, with no idea of the languages they used, through voice and gesture and the odd syllable, he realised that Juba wasn’t regrouping. The Mauretanians really had attacked his kingdom and he had been intercepted by the forces of Sittius. He was RUNNING AWAY, when he arrived at the gates of Zama. Before he left, he had had the city prepared for a possible siege. When he returned, he found the people of Zama ready to believe that his was a lost cause. They had heard what had happened at Thapsus. Sittius’ armies were replenished and ready to come to attack the city again. They preferred to sit tight and see what happened. Hanno was open mouthed.
“So what had Juba done then?”
And Skip stood on, as a crowd gathered round him and his Guide in the market place to tell him the story. This part Hanno listened to with open eyes and then translated it all to Scipio. Juba had gone to one of his private houses with his leading general, Petreius, a Roman, where they had fought each other to death, giving orders to their slaves to finish off the last one breathing.
There was more… Cato had killed himself too. Waiting and waiting with his men, just up the coast for the call that never arrived. He also learned what had happened at Thapsus and taking himself off to bed with a copy of Plato’s Phaedo, lay down and cut his stomach open, as you probably would if you ever read that rubbish. As so often is the case, however, the thing can’t just go off simply, no. A maidservant discovers him with his innards hanging out, they push them back in, have a doctor sew him back up, and he has to wait till they’ve all gone and left him alone, and then do it all a second time.
Meanwhile, Scipio the great, Scipio the reason why Scipio’s got this gig in the first place, Scipio the great talisman African general, well he shat himself, ran away, hopped in a boat and was making for Hispania when a kraken rose up out of the waters, and destroyed it and everyone in it. That was the story we heard many months later.
“You know,” said Scipio, on the night when he told me all this, “if those oracles were any good at all, they might actually see how the future is going to pan out once in a while and save us all a lot of trouble.”
Because Scipio is, at this moment, once again, in a lot of trouble. As a Roman deserter, he can’t reappear in their ranks for fear of being flayed and pulled apart. As a stranger wandering round a desert in Roman tunic (though now with added Berber-wear on top), he’s at the mercy of anyone who takes a dislike to him, and as an urbanite who’d never been out of the city bef
ore, he doesn’t see himself navigating a course home by the stars, or even knowing which way is north.
“Now you will never meet Juba,” Hanno says to your uncle at last, and hangs his head.
“Was that why you dragged me with you? So I could play Big King Jubberman, a threnody?”
“You were a missing piece of a jigsaw. Because you Romans think you are the omphaloskepsos of the world, you don’t believe that culture exists outside of Rome. Juba’s court is way in advance of anything you have in that fleapit. Can I ask you why you are celebrating your harvest festivals almost at the time, you should be sowing the grain?”
This question stops Skip in his tracks, as it would have done me, and he furrows his brow.
“We had been wondering that.”
“Our calendars come from the east and are accurate. You Romans are the stupid ones. You Romans are the ones who build theatres just to watch the destruction of people and animals for sport.”
Skip listens on, having learned the lesson (finally!), that it is wiser not to rise to the bait. After a few seconds the African continues…
“Juba delights in music. I thought if I could bring him a Roman flute-player for the instruction of his son, then I would win great favour. This. To return to my land. To serve my people. To grind Caesar into the dust. All these are my dreams. You are a part of my dreams, Northerner. Or you were. You and your music. And you have the mark, of course.” He points to Skip’s birthmark
“The mark,” Skip repeats.
“This is a sound in our alphabet. It is the sound ‘d’. We use it to stand for a word.”
“What word?”
“A dangerous word, stranger,” he laughs.
So basically I got lured into the desert to play my pipes like a trained monkey because of this cursed birthmark, he thinks.
Maybe, all things considered, that campfire singsong that had all seemed so jolly at the time – in fact, hadn’t he said he thought it was his best ever gig – had in some strange way been his worst ever gig.
