Carthage Page 10

  I was twelve. I had run away from home, if that is what it can be called, from a so-called farm, a back-lying patch of stone and whin and milkthistle three miles from Tusculum. It was my father’s compensation for losing his left arm in the first Punic War. But he knew how to use his right one. The brute beat me, often, daily, and my first memories are of pain and being scared. When I was cowed and cowering in a corner, he would beat my mother instead, and she bore her bruises as a badge of shame. I had two siblings, but their lives ended. My beatings did not.

  So I went away. Hiding by day, walking by night, living on berries and stolen scraps I made my way to Ostia. Ship after ship refused the pleas of a bedraggled, malnourished, would-be cabin boy. I lived like a rat among the wharves and stays and tenders until, one autumn afternoon, a ship’s master answered my prayers. The ship was called the Tyrian. That meant nothing to me. Nor did it that first evening when the captain told me in his broken Latin that they were Carthaginians, running iron ore to Sicily. Nothing but names. That has changed.

  I was glad of the gruel they fed me that first night, and the tiny space up in the fo’c’sle among the spare sails that they said was my own. That first night only. The second night the captain came for me, ordered me to come down. Groggy, feeling seasick, I did as I was told. Suddenly, he pushed me down onto some old nets lying at the bottom of the hold. Pulling off his outer smock he lay down beside me, and began stroking my hair. Only when he moved his hands lower, tugging up my tattered tunic, did I begin to recognise the wrong. He sucked his right index finger, with its filthy, splintered nail and before I could think or move away it was in my anus and he groaned.

  It was the pain, I think. My father had not hurt me there, but this Carthaginian was a man, causing me pain and I exploded, writhing, wriggling, flailing at him with my elbows and arms.

  Panting, he rolled away from me, stood up, and smiled. ‘What a little tiger we have here, then,’ he said in Latin. Then he called out something in a language I couldn’t understand and there were two more men beside him, winking, nodding at his words.

  I crept back, back towards the ship’s side. I smelt the salt, the oak, the caulk on pine. The two men, not the captain, pulled me by my legs towards them. There was only a little moonlight shining through the hatch of the hold. It was enough. I saw the mucus on the knob of the captain’s swollen penis glistening in the light. I screamed, and screamed. They laughed, and laughed, and turned and held me, spreading out my legs, making me bend down. And then the captain buggered me, driving in and pulling out and driving in again, his calloused hands rasping at the cheeks of my bum.

  I must have fainted. Then I was aware of lying on my belly on the net again. A different smell beside me, a different penis breaking in. Then I was flipped over, and I felt something in my mouth. I bit it, and felt only gladness for the darkness when the blow fell.

  They left me in Sicily, in the harbour of Syracuse, a spent and broken shell. The captain had tired of me after two days; or was it four? Thereafter the whole crew of sixteen had taken their turn.

  In Syracuse, I was lucky. A fisherman’s widow, a toothless crone called Xanthippa, took pity on me and gave me room. The bleeding did not stop for days. From my early twenties, as soon as I could afford it, I sent Xanthippa money every year until I heard that she had died. Time has healed the wounds to my body, or almost: one of the reasons I have not been a soldier is that since that rape I have been unable to control my bowels. Defecation comes on me unannounced, and I can do nothing to hold it in. Before I enter the Senate, for example, first I always sit long on the latrine. But nothing, I think, will ever heal the wounds to my mind, or salve the hatred that burns in me for Carthage, and anyone of that blood.

  I have never told anyone of this, not even Sempronia, my wife. I think I would disgust her if she knew. I think she would ask herself why I did not kill myself. Why didn’t I? Writing this has helped me understand. I lived for revenge.

  There is a strong and rational case for a third and final war against Carthage. But as in all these things, there are points for, and points against. On the one hand we could, for example, let Carthage be and seek instead to expand the Republic east, even beyond the Euxine Sea. On the other hand, there would be the danger that Carthage tried the same. The Senate would debate such things for days. I can save them the trouble. There is an objective case against Carthage anyway; and there is mine. My mind is set and clear. Carthage must be destroyed.

  [I do not know whether to feel mirth or pity at this strange apology, which I have reproduced here in full. So buggery begat the final Punic War? I suppose there are stranger truths.

  Anyway I do think it worth drawing attention to the last phrase of this document: ‘Delenda est Carthago.’ This is of interest to a mind like mine, because it is as far as I can ascertain Cato’s earliest use of what became a famous phrase. He was to use it in innumerable speeches to the Senate, through most of which in the course of my researches I have read. Whatever the subject, be that the corn supply, or the coinage, or citizenship, Cato always managed to relate it to Carthage and end his speech with the phrase – in indirect speech, of course – ‘Censeo etiam Delendam esse Carthaginem.’ ‘It is my firm opinion that Carthage must be destroyed.’ I should not be surprised were this to become a commonplace of the grammarians and pedagogues.]

  As for Scipio, I will watch and wait. He is miscegenated, whatever his name, whoever his father, however they nurture him, and so may be his nature. His father was corrupt. The son may be too. It is too early to tell, but this Scipio may not prove the threat that he seems. Meantime, there are certain things I can do – and will.

  From Bostar’s journal

  I did a strange thing yesterday. A Roman called Quintus Vitellius Tancinus tried to kill me the day before. I have not asked him, but I do not need to. Cato sent him here. How did he find us? I have been foolhardy. Perhaps I have been eating too many dates. They lighten the mind. I must accelerate my plans. Anyway, as is my right under Carthaginian law I had Tancinus set free. He is in the city hospital, hovering between life and death from the wound Hanno gave him in my defence. Tomorrow we leave for Mastanabal’s boar hunt, though I imagine we will be hunting more than boar. I should think we will be gone for three or four days. If he is still alive when we get back, I will make Tancinus an offer. I think he might find it an interesting one.

  From Cato’s papers

  The widow Apurnia in Capua, to Hanno her son. We have heard from Labienus in Rome. He tells us that you are in Carthage, and safe. I pray that is not wrong. I thank the gods, but still I do not hear from you. Let me have news of you, my son. Artixes is writing this down for me, but the words strain. I only want to hold you in my arms. Are you eating well? I hope you have a warm cloak, now that winter has come.

  Here the even temper of my life goes on. I see to my lodgers. I shop and cook and clean and think but rarely of what might have been. But I am ill at ease. Yesterday I witnessed an ugly scene in the market. Some Carthaginian jewellers had set up a stall – as they have every right to do. At least I assume they had paid their dues, or the police would not have let them trade. Anyway, as I was walking past their stall I heard a swarthy Capuan swear at them. ‘Bloody Poeni,’ he said. ‘You’re not welcome here!’ Soon, others joined him and they began chanting ‘Poeni, home! Poeni home!’ It turned quite nasty. I felt violence in the air.

  Why is it always thus with men? I hope you will be one of peace, not war. I often think of the many souls your father is responsible for, and hope that he is not tormented but knows the peace I felt him crave when he was with me, when he was in me, when we made you – Artixes has raised an eyebrow. Yes, the market. Well, the police came, and quietened things down. But I have a strange sense the incident was orchestrated. I saw two men, strangers, standing at the top of the lane, watching. As soon as the police came, they were gone. Tell me if you do not think that odd. Or perhaps it is mere imagining. Write to me, Hanno. Write. Your loving mother.


  From Bostar’s journal

  I had never seen such fine silk before. I touched the curtains of the litter that called for us at daybreak. It felt softer than young skin. I wonder where the Carthaginians find such stuff as this? Preceded by a steward on foot, six slaves carried Hanno and me, rolling and richly caparisoned, Hanno still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Where we were going, I did not know. But towards breakfast, I hoped. I remembered I had forgotten to bring gum.

  The litter stopped, was lowered down, the curtain opened. I stepped out first, into a strengthening sun that slanted across the sand and stuccoed walls of a wide courtyard I knew: that of the temple of Eschmoun. In a corner of the yard, I saw a fine pavilion of embroidered cotton cloth, and emerging from that towards us walked Astylax.

  ‘Good morning, Bostar of Chalcedon,’ he called.

  ‘And the same to you,’ I replied. As he came close, he bowed. Unlike Romans, Carthaginians do not touch to greet. Fear of disease, perhaps, or dirt prevents them, or ancient memory of some old taboo. I returned the compliment, and said: ‘Astylax, this is Hanno, my charge.’

  This time he did not bow, but peered intently at Hanno. ‘Indeed,’ he said after a pause. ‘Hanno Barca, we are led to believe. Well, the High Sufet awaits you. Follow me. You must be hungry.’

  In a tunic and trousers, with boots of brushed kidskin up to his knees, we found Mastanabal in the pavilion, standing plate in hand beside a sheeted trestle table which groaned with food. At one end of it were dishes of hot fare, kept warm by little oil burners, then silver salvers of bread and rolls, golden ones with cheeses, and bowls and bowls of fruit – quinces, pomegranates, bergamots, apples, figs and, I was pleased to see despite myself, delicious-looking dates.

  The Sufet turned. ‘Welcome, Bostar,’ he piped. ‘And this,’ his voice slowing, ‘must be Hanno.’

  To his credit, Hanno stepped forward. ‘I am, Lord Sufet,’ he said. ‘Hanno – Barca.’

  The pause was almost imperceptible, but it was there. My senses sharpened. I saw that I must pick my way with care. Mastanabal, I thought, stiffened. But all he said, looking Hanno up and down, was: ‘Indeed, indeed.’ Then, changing tone, he went on: ‘Now, come and join me in these small trifles. The kitchen steward says the quails’ eggs are particularly good. Eat well. A long journey awaits us. Oh, Astylax,’ the Sufet said, looking round for him, ‘before we begin I presume that you have tasted all these dishes?’

  Astylax stepped forwards, bowed and raised his head. ‘I have, my Lord – except for the eggs. As you see, they are unshelled.’

  ‘Good, Astylax, good,’ Mastanabal replied.

  ‘“Tasted”, my Lord Sufet?’ I enquired, surprised.

  ‘Against poison, Bostar of Chalcedon,’ he said mildly. ‘You see Astylax is more than my secretary. He is my bulwark and my shield.’

  ‘But who would––’ Hanno interjected.

  Astylax cut him off. ‘Rome’s assassins are everywhere,’ he said with what I thought was a strange smile. ‘You of all people should know that, Hanno.’

  Letter found among papers in the citadel of Carthage

  Cato the Censor to Astylax in Carthage. Never write to me directly of these matters. Inform me immediately, but obliquely, if the third of Bostar’s proposals you told me of comes to be. That would be a straightforward violation of the treaty. That would be, alone, casus belli.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Neapolis

  Titus Licinius Labienus to Rufus Curtius Flaminius. I have returned safely to Rome. Your man Demodocus’ horses were as sound on the way back as they were when I came. One filly bucked and threw me when a sudden storm of lightning struck and scared her, but I escaped with only a bad bruise to my left knee. Thank you for your hospitality. Your gardens are a particular delight. You work miracles with that thin, volcanic soil. And now you are no longer a senator, as you said you will have even more time to devote to that pursuit. I will as promised write today to Artixes in Capua and have him send you some cuttings from my jacaranda tree.

  I find Scipio well. His Latin has improved a great deal in the ten days I have been away. I have yet to meet Ennius, but your recommendation was clearly a good one. Even so, I think it is too early for me to begin telling him what we agreed. As for his two other tutors, I have yet to receive a report. But Theogenes is joining me for dinner tonight, and I will no doubt learn more then. Oh, we are being watched here. They must be Cato’s men. But that will come as no surprise.

  From Bostar’s journal

  Hanno and I sat on a bench opposite Mastanabal at a long table of cedarwood. In what I felt to be a strained silence we ate our breakfast, washed down with a delicious cordial of lime. I resisted the dates after all. When we had finished, the Sufet clapped his hands. Four servant girls in bright green robes came from behind a silken screen and cleared our plates away. Hanno kept darting glances at one of them, a pretty, lithe girl with dancing eyes and lustrous, curling hair but with a long scar right across her left cheek.

  Mastanabal, of course, noticed. He notices everything through those often half-shut eyes. ‘Do you two know each other?’ he asked Hanno, before staring at the girl. She blushed. Hanno looked confused.

  ‘No. Well, yes – in a manner of speaking that is. I mean that I have seen her before,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, and where might that have been?’ the Sufet enquired, clearly amused.

  ‘In the market, just after they arrived,’ the girl gave back with I thought considerable pluck for someone in her station.

  ‘Quiet, girl!’ Astylax barked. ‘You know you are not to speak unless––’

  ‘That’s all right, Astylax,’ Mastanabal interrupted, turning on him a winning smile. ‘You are right to uphold the proprieties. But tell me, girl,’ he went on, his attention changing to her, ‘what is your name?’

  ‘Fetopa, my Lord Sufet,’ eyes averted, she replied.

  ‘And a very fine––’

  Just then, the trumpeting of an elephant filled the air [this is a deus ex machina worthy of Euripides] and then another, then a third. I closed my eyes, remembering the last time I had heard that noise in a different place, a different world. I shook the memory away. I opened my eyes.

  Mastanabal was wiping his thin lips, so small for the rest of him, with a napkin. As the noise subsided, he stood up, saying: ‘Good. Perfect timing. Gentlemen, are you ready? As you may have gathered, our elephants are here.’

  Outside, in the courtyard, ears flapping, trunks swaying, tails swishing, ten of them stood in a row. Each had a howdah on its back, covered with velvets and silks secured by a wide girth. As one, the elephants moved towards us, and stopped four strides away. I glanced at Hanno. Licking his lips and playing with his hair, he was looking nervous until his face brightened. ‘Look, Bostar!’ he blurted. ‘It’s Halax!’

  From behind the line of elephants, a boy, a man, I could not tell, walked or rather scuttled towards us, bearing the biggest hunchback I have ever seen. He ignored us, and stopped in front of Mastanabal. ‘Good morning, Sufet,’ he said with easy familiarity in a strange, high-pitched voice that sang as he craned his eyes up. ‘I thought you could ride Asta today.’

  ‘Thank you, Halax,’ Mastanabal replied. ‘But I will ride with our friend Bostar here. I believe you have a double howdah fitted on one of your charges?’

  ‘I do, my Lord. On Xasa, the old bull over there.’ He pointed, and I noticed his strangely fine fingers, to the last elephant in the line.

  ‘Yes, yes. Xasa. We meet again.’ The Sufet and Halax exchanged a strange glance. ‘Good. Bostar, you will ride with me. Hanno, with Halax. You know each other, I believe.’

  ‘We do, my Lord, we do,’ Hanno replied confidently.

  Mahouts appeared. Slaves brought ladders. I followed Mastanabal’s ponderous buttocks up, adjusted my cushions, sat down and we were on our way.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Cato to Ennius. I understand you are acting as tutor to Scipio. I wri
te to express my disappointment, and discontent. Did I not bring you to Rome, support and encourage you, secure you the commission to write a history of our Republic to this day? I ask you, resign from this post, at once.

  Letter found among Cato’s papers [written, I might add,

  in a most elegant hand]

  Ennius to Marcus Porcius Cato, Censor of Rome. I have yours of this morning. I shall of course be always in your debt. But I have been faithful all my life to the cause of learning. This young man drinks in what I have to teach him like parched ground. I care nothing for his name. He is a student, I a teacher. So even at the risk of incurring your displeasure, I will continue what I have begun. When Scipio ceases to want to learn, I will cease to teach.

  From Hanno’s memoir

  I had never been in the countryside before. Yes, I had seen the fields outside Capua, and the forests of Macedonia. But the land outside Carthage stretched as far as the eye could see. The Sufet’s guard marching behind us, we swayed in single file through the salt marshes landward of the city, through the clamour of cranes, of jabirus and jacanas jostling to move out of our way. It was a halcyon autumn day, the air crisp and clear, the sky cloudless and cerulean blue, the wind warm from the west.

  We entered grassland, where cattle and sheep grazed, tended by boys and girls who stared impassively at us as we passed. ‘Where are we going, Halax?’ I asked him, squeezed on the single seat beside me.

  ‘To the Sufet’s lodge, a morning’s ride away in the forests south-west of here.’

  ‘Have you been there before?’