Carthage Read online

  ‘Often. As far as I know, Mastanabal never goes without me.’

  ‘That seems strange.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘This relationship between you, a potter’s son and a––’

  ‘Go on. Say it. A hunchback.’

  I felt myself blush, saw the anger in his eyes.

  ‘Between you and the High Sufet of Carthage,’ I went on softly.

  ‘It isn’t strange at all,’ Halax replied, brightening. ‘He’s my friend.’

  ‘How did that come to be?’

  ‘Simple. Elephants, of course. Well, one in particular,’ he said with a smile. ‘That one,’ and he pointed to the bull bearing Bostar and Mastanabal ahead of us.

  ‘Really? Tell me.’

  ‘I love elephants. You know that. But you don’t know why. When I was born, Hanno, they put me in the bull elephants’ stable, you know the one in the wall, to be trampled to death. That’s what we do with children born deformed.’

  ‘But that’s murder!’

  ‘Perhaps. But that’s the way here. Anyway, when my mother came back the next morning – illegally, I might add – to collect my corpse, I was alive. The elephants hadn’t hurt me in any way. On the contrary, my mother said, she found me being licked by one of them. She took it as a sign from Eschmoun and reared me secretly, hiding me from the mehashebim. That’s why she works at the front of our house, not in the backyard––’

  ‘I see. So no one would walk through your house.’

  ‘Exactly. Are you thirsty, by the way? There should be a water skin under the seat.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m fine. Carry on with your story, please.’

  ‘As early as I can remember, I dreamed of elephants. As I grew, I used to visit them in the walls.’

  ‘Wasn’t that dangerous? Someone might have seen you.’

  ‘I suppose so. But I was very careful. I used to go at night, and slip in.’

  ‘That’s how you learned to talk to them?’

  ‘Yes. Well, they talked to me. I copied their sounds.’

  ‘But how did you become a friend of the Sufet?’

  ‘I was coming to that. It was ten years ago. He was being carried in a litter along the street that passes our house. The other side of the street to ours had been cleared to build new houses – it had been a timber yard. There were elephants working on the site, moving rubble and stone. I used to sit all day and watch them through our kitchen window. There were three cows, and a bull, and the smallest cow was going lame. I think she had torn a nail. They have three nails on their hind feet, you know, and five on the front. But their keeper didn’t notice the lame cow, or if he did, he didn’t care. They have incredibly sensitive feet, elephants, you know. I have seen them stand on a turtle, but feel it and lift the foot away, leaving the turtle unharmed.’

  I squeezed Halax’s arm, and smiled. ‘Halax, Halax!’ I laughed gently. ‘The Sufet!’

  Halax chuckled. ‘Oh, yes. It’s simple. The bull went berserk.’ ‘Berserk? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means they go mad. They lose control.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Who knows? What makes people lose their temper? I should think the keeper had been mistreating him. He had welts on his ears. Anyway, this bull – that’s him, by the way, Xasa, up ahead, just went berserk and came charging down the street. I thought he was going to run straight into our wall.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘No. He caught sight of the Sufet’s litter, I suppose it was the bright colours. I saw him hit it with his head, and it soared up into the air. The bearers ran for their lives. The litter landed, and Xasa was bashing it with his trunk and rearing for the trample when I got there.’

  ‘You showed yourself?’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t think.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Oh, I just called out to Xasa. Told him to stop, and then got between him and the litter and reached up and tugged his ears.’

  In front of us, Xasa stopped suddenly. His mahout lowered the ladder, and Bostar began climbing down. ‘Sorry,’ he called out to us. ‘Too much of that lime cordial!’ I waved at him, and turned back to Halax.

  ‘And that was that?’

  ‘Almost. The Sufet emerged from his litter, bruised but unharmed. He told me he was very grateful, and I introduced him to my mother. He offered her a reward for my saving his life. She said we lacked for nothing. What about your husband, he asked. He died at Zama, she replied. By this time surrounded by fussing mehashebim and retainers, I am sorry, the Sufet answered, and I knew he meant it. There is something you could do for me, Lord Sufet, I said. And what is that, he asked. Make me keeper of the city’s elephants. They are my friends. He agreed.

  By this time Bostar had regained his seat. ‘And that, Hanno,’ Halax concluded, ‘is what I have been to this day. For saving the life of the Sufet, I have been Carthage’s only hunchback, and its elephants’ keeper and friend.’

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Labienus to Theogenes in Vicenza. My dear friend, I know you are away on business, but I would be grateful for your advice. In the months Scipio has been here, he has grown in confidence, assuredness, culture and prowess at arms. It may well be that he becomes the man strong enough to withstand Cato and his party, and ensure peace with Carthage, not war. Already people flock to him in the Forum, reminding him of his father’s fame.

  But there are traits in him I do not like at all. Yesterday I caught him at it again, rutting with a slave girl in the kitchen of all places, indeed on the floor. He cannot, it seems, see a woman but he must have her. I doubt there is a female in your house here under forty and over twelve he has not slept with. I am fearful of pregnancies and scandal, yes, but of something more.

  This morning the housekeeper Ayla asked to see me. The girl whose ravishing I interrupted had complained to her – about force. It seems that Scipio does not use his charm alone. The girl told Ayla that he had been pestering her for weeks, and she resisting his advances. Yesterday the other slaves were in the baths for delousing and he followed her into the kitchen, drew a knife on her and told her to lie down there and then. Having sent her away to the slave market immediately, of course, I cannot question the girl myself. Anyway Scipio would deny her charge, and call her a lying cow.

  Men’s libido, and women’s too, is I know as different as their faces. But Scipio must learn some self-control. He must also learn respect for people. Are we not, whatever our station, equal before the gods and the law? I will not endure his treating women, whether slave or free, as mere objects for his gratification.

  So, advise me on this old friend, as you would have advised the father of the son. Secondly, Scipio has proposed that, being now of age, he moves into his father’s villa as of the festival of the Saturnalia. He will then be free, as you know, to spend his wealth as he pleases. I fear the worst. What, if anything, can or should we do?

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Cato the Censor to Spurius Lingustus. Your reports have been excellent. Well done. They have served to confirm what I already knew, namely the allies, friends, clients and confederates of this new Scipio. Like father, like son. But that is as well. At least I know where I stand, and I would say the parties as represented in the Senate are evenly drawn.

  You may now pay off your men. Abandon your watch on the villa of Curtius. Come and see me as soon as you can.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  I am terrified, and risk my life by setting this down. But, my dear wife Silvia, I must tell someone – not that there is anything I can do – and I know the next courier on the list. He is a halfwit, who can neither read nor write, but he is faithful and I know that this will reach you. There is someone called Spurius Lingustus, an ‘associate’ of Cato’s. At least that is what he calls them. He was a centurion. He is a big man, and has always frightened me. He came to Cato’s rooms this morning, here in the Senate. I
know I should not have, but I listened at the door. I caught most of it. There is an important fleet leaving Ostia just after the next full moon. I know. Cato himself arranged it. Three merchantmen, protected by one galley of war, will be taking gold and papers and essential supplies to our new colony at Dyrrhacium. This Lingustus is to travel at all speed to Rhodes. You will know of that den of vipers. There he is to employ three pirate ships, who are to attack and sink all but one of our four vessels – the survivor, of course, to bear the news to Rome that their attackers were Carthaginian. Yes, the pirates are to fly Carthaginian flags and speak only in Punic, which should not be hard since half of those scoundrels are Carthaginian anyway.

  [I omit what follows: maudlin self-pity, and fears. Still, Speusippus’ position cannot have been an easy one.]

  From Hanno’s memoir

  Half the Sufet’s Guard were now in front, and half behind. Having climbed for miles, now the track wound down, so twisting that, time after time, we moved on back into our own dust. I saw movement in the trees. Heads. Legs. Horses?

  ‘Look, Halax,’ I said, pointing, ‘what are those?’

  He followed my arm. ‘Oh, onagers – wild asses. And very tasty they are too. Mastanabal usually has one while he is here. But over there! Can you see it? There is a muntjac, a small deer. They are very shy – and rare.’

  We rounded another bend. Through the trees I saw a sinuous, green river winding through a verdant valley. Our elephant raised its trunk, trumpeted and quickened its pace. Halax chirped some strange noises, and it slowed. ‘It is the river,’ he said.

  ‘Can they see that far?’ I asked.

  ‘No. But they can smell.’

  I was hungry. I looked at Halax, who smiled at me. ‘You hungry too? Don’t worry, we’ll soon be there.’

  The Sufet’s lodge was one huge, single storey by the river, everything, even the roof tiles, made of wood. We were expected. As the elephants bathed and sprayed and wallowed in the river, on the house’s terrace we had lunch of golden pheasant, cooked over seasoned cherry wood and sprinkled with marjoram. We had not quite finished when it began.

  Breaking the deep silence, drowning the river’s tintinabulation, from the forested hilltops ringing us a searing ululation came. My jaw dropped. I looked around, and back at Mastanabal, who smiled.

  ‘No need to be alarmed, young man. That will be Massinissa, and his men.’

  ‘Massinissa?’ Bostar interjected. ‘That is a Numidian name.’

  ‘Close,’ Mastanabal replied. ‘Well done. But it is a Libyic name. Numidians have no “m”, but use “vh” instead. Massinissa has a cousin called Vhassinissa, for example.’

  The sound above us stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The Sufet stretched out his arms, and yawned. ‘Let Astylax explain.’

  Sitting opposite me, next to Mastanabal, Astylax did as he was bidden. ‘This is Libyican land.’

  ‘Not Carthaginian?’ I asked.

  Astylax laughed. ‘Patience, patience, please!’ Beside me, Bostar placed a gentle hand on my left knee. ‘The Libyicans are our allies, and Massinissa is their king. His rule extends into the desert west and south of here. They safeguard our caravans––’

  ‘For, of course, a fee,’ Mastanabal chipped in. ‘They are also the best hunters in the world, as you will see. Why, here they are!’

  I could see horsemen, perhaps two hundred, most wearing white and all in strange headgear, emerge from the trees. They kicked their mounts on as the land levelled towards the river. They bunched towards the ford that we had crossed and raced towards us. By the time we had stood up, it seemed, they were there on the grass below us, their horses snorting and jostling as the men dismounted with a practised ease.

  They were all black. Well, almost. Some were nearer to charcoal, but all had low foreheads and wide, splayed noses and lips that were full and red. One of them – he had the finest teeth that I have ever seen – stepped forward.

  ‘So, Lord Sufet, welcome!’ he exclaimed. The words were Punic, but the accent quite its own.

  ‘Thank you, Massinissa. As always, it is a great pleasure to be here,’ Mastanabal replied. ‘Now, you know Astylax of course.’ The King of the Libyicans nodded. The Sufet went on. ‘But you do not know our two guests, Bostar of Chalcedon, and Hanno – Barca,’ he said evenly, gesturing at us in turn. What was going on? Was Mastanabal acknowledging me? If so, why?

  The king stepped forward. Only the rail of the terrace was between us. He had large, round, black and penetrating eyes. ‘Barca?’ he asked me, ‘Barca?’ in his deep and rumbling voice. ‘Who was your father?’

  I squared round to face him. ‘My father, King Massinissa,’ I said clearly, ‘was Hannibal.’

  The men behind him ceased to fidget. I felt their interest as a wave. In one movement, Massinissa vaulted onto the terrace and stood, a head taller than me, shutting out the sun. I smelled his sweat. I felt his hand, strong on my right arm. I did not know what was going on. But I was not afraid.

  Massinissa stepped back, reached out his arms to hold me by my shoulders. I looked up at him. He had a boil on his chin. His breath was foul. ‘Hanno,’ he said. ‘Your father, and his father, were my friends.’ With that, he embraced me, and behind us his men cheered.

  As Massinissa released me, Mastanabal moved back from the table and spoke out. ‘Now then, Massinissa, shall we see if these hills hold any boar? Hanno, can you use a bow and arrow, or a spear?’

  ‘No, Lord Sufet,’ I replied. ‘I have never learned.’

  ‘Well, it’s time you did,’ he gave me back, ‘and that time is now.’

  Letter preserved in the archives of Neapolis

  It was a dramatic entrance, my old friend. Regulus himself, Admiral of the Eastern Fleet, bursting into the Curia. I do not know what is going on, Curtius, but I do not like it. In short, our ships bound for Dyrrhacium have been attacked, and most of them sunk, by Carthaginians. Regulus was in no doubt. On behalf of the Senate Pulcher has just written to Mastanabal in Carthage for an explanation. Whatever he says, it had better be good. I need you. Now that Scipio has left your villa for his father’s, now his own, would you not return to Rome? For a time at least, until we see which way the wind blows? At the moment, I fear it is ill. Give me your answer, by return. Flaccus.

  From Bostar’s journal

  We returned this afternoon from the country and the boar hunt. Hanno acquitted himself well. But the most fruitful parts of the experience were the rides there and back on an elephant which Mastanabal and I shared. He fenced with me, he explored. And then he plunged. He gave, he took away.

  Hanno is now to be recognised by the Council of Carthage as his father’s heir. But he must first survive something known as the Passage of Ordeal. I do not know what that means, but it gives me fear. I am to speak to one Gulussa, High Priest, about it. All Mastanabal would tell me is that I must get Hanno fit for it: ‘very, very fit’, he urged, ‘his body, I mean. His mind you cannot prepare.’ Well, I will find a trainer tomorrow morning. Apparently there is a Spartan, a mercenary soldier, who excels at such things. He runs some kind of school.

  So I am progressing towards my first objective. It has cost a great deal, but that is what the money is for. I am to finance a trading expedition in Mastanabal’s name. It seems his family, as is the way in Carthage, have held for generations the monopoly on trading topaz. The Barcas’ right, incidentally, is to murex. They own all the coastal fisheries for it, but these were ruined in the last war and will need much, Mastanabal told me, to restore. I will go and see for myself. It seems I am to become a merchant once again.

  First, though, there is the Sufet’s topaz. The mines are in Senegalia, a three-month caravan from here. I am to buy Mastanabal two hundred camels, equipment and provisions, and have drivers hired. Africanus would be amused.

  My second objective, if I can trust Mastanabal, is achieved. He will order the secret construction – with my money – of three hundred new galleys of war. They will be built in
four separate, secluded shipyards down the coast near Clupea and Leptis. Mastanabal assures me that under the treaty, and I think I can detect Africanus’ hand here, the Romans have rights of inspection only in the shipyards of Carthage. They will remain still.

  Finally, peace, a peace of equals. The house of Scipio, the staff of Rome, has a representative again. But how is he developing? He is young enough, as Cato and the other warmongers age, to assume dominance; he is unformed enough to absorb what Labienus and others teach him. But which way will he turn? He could be, like his uncle, a nonentity. He could be, like many, something much worse. [Perhaps I have misjudged Bostar. Perhaps he is an optimist, rather than naïve.] I wish I could go and judge for myself. But somehow, I do not think I would be allowed to return. Perhaps it was seeing boars speared, caught in a circle of men, but I am conscious of my own mortality; I sense my certitude failing, as in this month of November – Yerach, they call it here – the light lessens, and we feel the coming of cold.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Neapolis

  Lucius Valerius Flaccus to Rufus Curtius Flaminius. It did not turn out, I am afraid, as we might have hoped. The Senate was packed, a full House, and he had as many friends there as Cato. But Scipio, I am concluding with reluctance, is not half the man his father was. This first visit to the Curia by a young patrician is a time for solemnity and respect. I am sure you remember yours. The speech you are invited to give has one, simple locus: the memoria of your family, what they gave to Rome and the contribution you would like to make were the honour of a seat on these benches ever yours.

  I am sure Scipio had been instructed well by Labienus and others. Indeed, in that I played some small part. But as he stood before the House there was an arrogance, a certain insouciance about him that does not augur well. For a start, he had not tied his hair back. He has a great deal of fine hair, a wavy brown. He kept his hands behind his back when, as you know, from respect and in humility they should have been by his sides. And so on.