Hiro eyes the Romans. “Now, if you would let us mount an army and let Hannibal take them over to Italia, we could do something about him!”
Amid scattered laughter, Scipio’s neck flushes. Diplomacy can go to Hades—I will not tolerate this insolent shit!
He steps toward Hiro and stares into his onyx eyes. “Have a care, lest I come back here with my veterans.” He turns and eyes the others. “You know what happened the last time I did, don’t you?”
Hiro looks past him, toward the Elders. “I am only saying we cannot do anything about it,” he replies loudly. “We have confiscated Hamilcar’s property and threatened him with exile,[xliv] but all to no avail. Isn’t that right?”
Scipio hears the murmurs of assent. “So you propose to make your problem Rome’s problem, eh? Well, that bird will not fly. You had best offer me a solution, immediately.”
Hannibal steps to Scipio’s side. “What about food? Our wheat crop was good this year. We can send wheat to Rome. Say, two hundred measures?”
“Two hundred measures, to Rome,” Scipio replies. He sees the Elders start to smile. No you don’t. “And another two hundred measures to Galba’s army, which is currently at Epirus.”[xlv]
“I am not sure we have that much to—“ Hiro begins. Hannibal steps in front of Scipio. He fixes Hiro with a warning look. “It is done! I will personally oversee its transport!”
Scipio nods. “Good. That is all I want from Carthage—for now.” He marches out the entryway, still seething, followed by the other three envoys. A tall, gaunt man appears outside the doorway, his hands tucked into his floor length white robe.
“That was an unsavory little event, was it not?” the man says.
Scipio eyes him. “I remember you. You are Durro, chief emissary of Carthage’s council of judges, the all-powerful Council of 104.”
“They were all powerful,” comes a voice behind Durro.
Hannibal steps into the doorway. “They were too powerful. I roused the people against them. Instead of lifetime appointments, they have a one-year appointment and a two-year term limit.[xlvi] Now we can get rid of them if they misbehave.” He laughs. “The citizens love it. And me.”
“Many of the Elders would cheerfully gut you with a dull knife,” Durro replies dryly.
“Psh! They hate me no more than before,” Hannibal says. “The Gisgons and Magonids, they’ve always resented the Barcas’ success. I’ve just given them a few new friends to join them!”
“I think it is more than a few, General,” Durro says. “I would watch out for treachery, especially from those who claim to be on your side.”
“Let them watch out for me!” Hannibal retorts. “I will follow my father’s dream. We will make Carthage a true democracy. I have the people on my side.”
That’s often not enough, my friend, Scipio thinks.
“I think I have the people of Rome’s hearts,” Scipio says. “But the Latins fight me every step of the way.” He grins tiredly. “It looks like we are still at war, General. Just not with each other!”
Hannibal nods. “We’ve only shifted the theatres. Now we’re at war within our own cities.” He laughs heartily. “Ah, Fate! What will you bring us next!”
“Fate may have more surprises awaiting me in the next few days,” Scipio replies. “I must ride to Numidia and visit King Masinissa. We did not part on the best of terms.” He shrugs. “I may get a crown on my head or my head on a spike.”
Hannibal winks at Durro. “Well, then, Commander Scipio. If your head ends up on a spike, I may have to come out of retirement!”
Scipio laughs. “Just do me a favor, and get those twenty elephants you promised me. I have to take them to our new consul, Galba.” Scipio bows his head slightly. “I’ll also give him a few tactical tricks, some of which I learned from you!”
”I am honored. You’ll get your wheat and elephants, and the ships to take them wherever you are going.” He shakes his head. “New tricks, eh? Gods help the Macedonians if you are scheming against them!”
AVENTINE HILL, ROME. Thank Hera I finally get to kill someone again, Spider thinks, smiling to herself. I was going to have to kill myself just to keep in practice!
The elfin young woman skips through the dark streets of Rome’s toughest neighborhood, eyes alight with anticipation. This contract will bring me a fat purse full of denarii. I don’t know who is paying for this, but he surely pays well! He should marry me. I’d kill for free, and he’d save himself a lot of money!
Dozens of Aventine toughs pass the raven-haired girl, but they give her a wide berth. Spider’s skill with sword and dagger is well known among the Aventine mobs from whence she sprang. After killing several of the Hill’s most prominent thugs, the sicaria has earned peace from the rest of them.
She glowers at several who walk past her, just to see them avert their eyes. You’re fucking right to stay away. I’m not a child any more. I’ll kill any of you pukes who try to rape me now.
Spider turns into a dark alley and arrives at the front of a rundown stable. She sees one of the stable’s eight torches is not burning. She walks over and stands under it, waiting.
“I am here,” comes a muffled voice in the shadows, behind a swaybacked horse standing next to its fence.
“Scipio has landed in Carthage,” Spider declares. "I came to you as soon as I found out, as ordered.”
A well-manicured hand extends a bulging goatskin purse. She takes the purse and stares into the shadows, a question in her eyes.
“In the purse,” the voice says. “It’s in the purse.”
Spider pulls open the purse and extracts a slip of papyrus. She walks over to a stable torch and holds it up to the light. She glances back into the shadows and nods. “I know who she is,” Spider says. She grins. “She’s made life miserable for the Latins, eh? Is that why it’s her?”
“You won’t know why. Just make her die.”
Spider holds the scrap up to the torch until it catches fire, then drops it at her feet and watches it turn to ashes.
“When?” she asks.
“Soon, before Scipio Africanus returns from Africa,” replies the voice.
“Don’t worry, it will be done within days,” she says. She extends the purse toward the shadows and jingles it. “As you know, I will not spend a coin of this until the task is done. And I am eager to buy some wine and men.”
“There will be another purse if you make it extremely painful,” the voice says. “Now go.”
Spider stalks down one of the narrow, crooked side streets, weaving her way between the tatty mud brick apartment houses. A lot of money to kill a woman, she thinks. Maybe we are coming up in the world!
EASTERN NUMIDIA. “Come on, get out of here! Masinissa’s men are coming!”
Vermina races through the burning Massylii village, slowing only to shove his lance through the back an escaping villager. As the man falls, the Masaesyli king shouts out his orders again. A hundred Masaesyli riders quickly gather around him.
“Out onto the plain,” he shouts. “Back north toward the mountains!”
The west Numidia warriors gallop away on their swift little ponies, heading for the sheltering heights of the coastal Atlas Mountains. They race from the screams and wails of the smoldering village, their grisly task completed. The riders enter the wide, windswept plains in front of the mountains, riding through a scrubland of scattered shrubs and grasses.
Minutes later, the Masaesyli close in upon the mountains’ pine-forested foothills. We’ll go to the caves for a couple of days, Vermina decides. Then we will hit another of Masinissa’s villages. If their people don’t come over to me, they get the same.
The deposed king pulls back the leopard’s head cap that covers his domed helmet, and unbuckles the side strap. He cradles his helmet in his sword arm, letting the breeze dry the sweat from his tightly curled black hair. I hate hiding like a rat in a manger. But that will change soon. I’ll get my father’s kingdom back. I’ll put Masinissa o
n a cross in front of my palace. Watch him rot until he is nothing but stinking bones.
Vermina’s reverie is interrupted by a scream from the rear of his horsemen. “They’re coming!” one of his riders yells. Vermina looks to his right. A large dust cloud billows toward him from the foothills, with hundreds of galloping riders shadowed within it.
He knew we’d head back here. He’s going to cut us off! The rebel king turns to a dusky-skinned rooster of a man riding next to him, his tan wool tunic spattered with the villagers’ blood.
“Eshmun, I need to get into those trees or I am dead. My father Syphax’s kingdom will be gone forever. The Massylii will rule us.”
Eshmun bows, resigned to his fate. “I’ll take half the men, my King. We will detain them.”
“May Ammon bless you,” Vermina says, raising his hand over Eshmun’s head. “I’ll see you back at the caves.”
Eshmun laughs bitterly. “Of course you will.” The wiry little commander barks several orders to his nearby riders. The rear half of Vermina’s force veers off to the right, heading for the men closing in upon them.
Vermina sees that a tall, rangy warrior leads the Massylii cavalry, a lion’s head topping his helmet. Masinissa! Probably came to kill me himself. Vermina kicks his heels into his mount. It surges toward the hills. Vermina peers over his shoulder as he rides.
Eshmun’s fifty riders gallop into Masinissa’s cavalry. Horses thump into each other, whinnying in terror and pain. Riders of both tribes tumble from their steeds, to be speared by a passing enemy before they can rise.
Eshmun spies Masinissa in the center of the whirling horse duels, his back to him. Eshmun’s heart quickens. Kill him and they’ll retreat. We’ll live to fight another day. He races at the Numidian king, his six foot spear aimed at Masinissa’s spine.
“King! Your back!” shouts a Massylii rider. Masinissa whirls to face Eshmun, and kicks his horse into a gallop.
The two Numidians ride straight at each other, spears leveled. Eshmun crouches alongside his horse’s neck, knowing his diminutive size makes him a difficult target. Masinissa rides bolt upright, his lance cradled under his elbow. He watches Eshmun’s eyes. He’s looking at my chest.
The Masaesyli captain shoves his spear forward, aiming it at Masinissa’s bare breast. In a flash, Masinissa drops to the side of his galloping stallion, his left hand gripping his horses’ mane. Eshmun’s spear passes through the space he had been sat in, gashing a cut in the stallion’s haunch.
Slippery bastard, Eshmun thinks. He whirls his horse about for another charge, but he is already too late. Masinissa’s flying lance skewers him from breast to back. Yelling in pain, Eshmun arcs his head back. His neck becomes an easy target for the king’s flashing blade.
Seconds later, Eshmun’s head rolls to the ground. It is quickly squashed to a pulp by the hooves of the stampeding riders.
The outnumbered Masaesyli are slowly encircled. Two dozen survivors stand in the center of a wide ring of Massylii cavalry, a hundred spears pointed at them.
“Halt!” Masinissa bellows. He trots through the circle and faces his enemies. “Swear loyalty to me and I will let you live,” he states.
The Masaesyli glower at him, knowing they will live as slaves. They shake their heads, readying themselves for a final charge.
It’s not worth losing more of my men, Masinissa decides. “I promise you will live as free men,” Masinissa adds. “But you must swear never to draw sword against me.”
The warriors look at one another. An older rider throws his javelin into the dirt, then his sword and shield. The others follow.
Masinissa looks back toward the snow-capped Atlas Mountains. He sees a dust cloud settling at the base of the foothills, marking the place where Vermina’s men passed. They are into the trees—we won’t find them now.
The victorious Massylii trot back toward Cirta. Three hours later, Masinissa passes through the iron-studded gates of his fortress city. He finds a handful of town dignitaries waiting for him in the city square, their faces anxious.
“The Romans are here!” blurts one of them. “They are some kind of politicians!” declares another, as if he were describing fearful animals.
“All will be well,” Masinissa replies. “We are amici, legal friends of Rome. Remember, they helped to restore our kingdom.” He turns to the lead elder. “Tell them to come to my throne room in half an hour.”
The king gallops up to his palace and quickly trots up the steps, his heart hammering. He cannot have come all the way over here, he thinks. Ammon, please, do not let it be him. I don’t know what I’ll do.
Masinissa hurries into his upper bedroom. He stands in the middle of his spacious chambers, arms and legs spread wide. “Bathe me,” he says to his Masaesyli slaves. “And be quick about it.”
The attendants strip off Masinissa’s dusty loincloth and sandals. They lave his lean body with eucalyptus-scented water, drying him with a thick, soft, camelskin robe. Masinissa stretches his nude body onto a padded platform. The slaves rub grapeseed oil into his limbs, lightly pounding his muscles before they towel him off with squares of fine linen. His toilet complete, the king drapes himself in a lush lionskin robe and strides from his chambers.
Masinissa marches down a statue-lined corridor to his throne room. He takes his seat on his high-backed throne. It adjoins the one he keeps empty for Sophonisba, his dead queen—the one in which her poisoned corpse once sat, grinning at the legionnaires who came to drag her to Scipio.
Masinissa reaches into his robe’s sleeve. His sinewy fingers caress the wavy-bladed dagger he hides there, its razored edges carefully wrapped. He strokes the blade and thinks of Scipio, imagining him gushing blood from the second mouth that gapes in his throat.
The king stares at Sophonisba’s empty throne. He studies the spots of blood that bear testament to her final minutes of anguish. Remember what she told you after she passed, he reflects, her smiling face in his head. She said your destiny is to unite Numidia. To fulfill your father’s dream. You cannot accomplish that from a Roman cross.
The lead courtier opens the throne room doors. The heavily muscled giant stamps his bronze staff upon the floor. “A delegation from Rome,” he announces in his deep bass voice.
“Send them in,” Masinissa orders. He feels his pulse throb in his neck. Control yourself. He is only a man.
Outside the chamber, Scipio and another envoy recline on a settee that faces the other two dignitaries, the four of them clad in purple-bordered white tunics. Scipio feels his right hand twitch nervously; he presses it against his side. Wonder what he’ll say when he sees me? Is he still angry about Sophonisba? It wasn’t my fault—our laws demanded I bring her back to Rome!
His eyes roam across the twenty-foot high chamber, at the mounted elephant heads and the tall marble statues of war gods. His eyes fix on a carved triptych of three Numidian infants riding horses bareback, their fathers holding them upright. No wonder they are the finest horsemen in the world—they ride before they can walk! We need his men in our army. Our cavalry will never learn to ride like them.
The courtier enters the chamber waiting room. He points his staff at the seated Romans. “You are summoned,” he intones, and walks back through the chamber doors. The four envoys walk into the house-sized throne room. They march quickly toward Masinissa. Six armored guards appear in front of them, bared swords at the ready. The delegates halt.
Masinissa sees Scipio standing in front of him. Gods, he’s here! He rises from his throne and walks down from the dais to meet them.
He’s still muscled like a leopard, Scipio thinks. But he has the early gray hair of a ruler. He laughs to himself. As do we all.
“Masinissa, my heart sings to see you,” Scipio says, walking forward with his right arm extended.
The Numidian’s face is a mask. He briefly shakes Scipio’s forearm. “Welcome to Numidia, Imperator,” he says tonelessly.
Masinissa returns to his throne. He rests his chin on h
is hand and studies the envoys. “How may I be of service to Rome?”
Scipio’s stomach wrenches. He still hates me. He forces a smile. “It is good to hear you that you are still a friend to Rome, because we have need of your assistance. King Philip is on the move again, and Antiochus gathers his men to oppose us. Can you provide some men and food for our armies?”
Masinissa glances at the other three envoys. They nod mutely. “Rome helped me regain my throne,” he says to them, looking past Scipio. “I have not forgotten it.”
His looks back at Scipio. His eyes bore into him. “I am still a friend—to Rome.”
“And we to you, my King,” Scipio replies stiffly. “I do remember how valuable your riders were to me at Zama.” He manages a tight smile. “Back when you and I fought together.”
“Those days were long ago. I try not to dwell on them,” Masinissa replies. “Times of love and friendship, now lost forever.”
Scipio feels a great sadness descend upon him. “Ah, well. The poets say that what is lost can oft be regained, in time.” Scipio hears no response. I am dead to him. “How much can you give us,” he says curtly.
“I can give you two thousand of my best cavalry,” Masinissa states. He looks away, his eyes distant. “In honor of what we once were.”
“A thousand will suffice,”[xlvii] Scipio replies. “That will provide us with three turma of riders for Macedonia. He laughs softly. “Besides, one of your riders is worth ten of someone else’s.”
“As you wish, Imperator,” Masinissa replies. “I will send you enough grain to provide for them.”
“Carthage is sending two hundred measures of wheat,” an envoy says.
Masinissa sniffs disdainfully. “Carthage! Since their defeat, they have become a nation of small-minded businessmen. How can you expect honor from such as these? I will send you 200,000 measures of wheat, and as many of barley.”[xlviii]
The envoys gasp. “You are most generous, my King,” a young senator replies.
“I merely repay the debt I owe,” says Masinissa. He stares over their heads, as if they were no longer there. “And I now consider that debt repaid.”
Scipio Rules Page 11
