Carthage Page 7

  As for Mastanabal, I do not know. He is almost inscrutable. The eyelids close, the smile stays and the thought remains hidden. But in one sense at least I was wrong about him. His ears may be small. But he knows why he has two of them, and only one mouth. Anyway, as I was leaving in the cock-crow and the stealing light, he asked me if there was anything I wanted, anything he could arrange. ‘Yes, there is, Sufet,’ I answered. ‘I wonder if I could meet the city engineer?’

  It was for a fleeting moment only, but the arched eyebrows betrayed his surprise. What had he been expecting? Women? Wine? Boys? Chalcedon has a reputation for that. ‘The city engineer?’ he said, as close to laughing as I had seen him that long night. The smile faded. He stroked his chin and stared at me, hard. ‘Who are you, Bostar of Chalcedon, who are you?’

  I know a rhetorical question when I hear one. I know the answer. He did not – then. I remember looking at my hands, at my fingernails in particular, and thinking they needed cutting. ‘The city engineer,’ he continued prosaically. ‘Sphylax. My sister’s boy. Of course you can. Astylax, arrange it, please.’

  His sister’s son? Are all these Carthaginians related? If so, this is stronger cement than Rome knows is here.

  ‘Now then, Bostar of Chalcedon,’ Mastanabal went on, stifling a yawn. ‘You have given me much food for thought. Before you go, are there any other questions you want to ask?’

  ‘As it happens, there is one,’ I said, standing up to go.

  The Sufet opened his hands in invitation.

  ‘In Rome, in Syracuse, in Chalcedon, in Sinope, in every city I have seen there have been beggars, usually men and women born deformed, or limbless from war. Yet I have seen none here in Carthage. Why is that?’

  Mastanabal’s eyes narrowed. Tiredness had left him, and he stared at me intently before saying: ‘Because, how shall I put it, we encourage the deformed to go elsewhere. You will see no mutants in Carthage.’

  ‘Apart from Halax, my Lord,’ Astylax interjected.

  ‘Yes, there is Halax,’ Mastanabal replied. ‘But he proved himself a very special child.’

  The next morning, while Hanno was still sleeping, I called two porters to our house and gave them each two silver pieces. They were amazed. I entrusted them with one of the chests we had brought to Carthage, and told them to take it to the High Sufet’s office. They asked if I wanted any message delivered as well. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just say that this is from Bostar of Chalcedon, and Hanno Barca. The Sufet will understand.’ But there are many shades of understanding. Now I must wait to see which one Mastanabal prefers.

  Wax tablet preserved among Cato’s papers

  [The Latin was diabolical. I have corrected the grammar.

  The sense always was clear.]

  To Marcus Porcius Cato, Censor of Rome, Astylax of Carthage writes this. You may trust the man who brings this. He will bring me your reply. I have news for you of great significance, news that could change the world. I imagine you would want to hear it. Such news does not come cheap. So I ask for four times my usual fee, in gold. Send it by my man.

  Letter found among papers in the citadel of Carthage

  Cato Censorius to Astylax in Carthage. You people always were greedy. Here is half of what you asked for. I will send the rest if your news is as you claim.

  Letter preserved among Cato’s papers

  Astylax to Cato, greetings. I have what you sent, and know that what I will now tell you merits the balance. I must be brief. There is danger here. A man called Bostar of Chalcedon has come to Carthage. He was first Hannibal’s mapmaker, then Scipio Africanus’ friend. He asked for, and received eventually, an audience with Mastanabal. I was there. This Bostar has brought a young man called Hanno with him. Hanno is, Bostar claims, Hannibal’s bastard son. He can prove that, it seems. Secondly, this Bostar has or has access to enormous sums of money. He sent the Sufet a chest after their meeting. I was not in the chamber when Mastanabal opened it, but I must have gasped at what was there. Anyway, Bostar has made four proposals, which the Sufet is considering. He has put them to the Council as well:

  That our Council of Elders recognise this Hanno as Hannibal’s heir, and that Hanno assumes all the Barca lands, rights and titles that you Romans expropriated after the last war.

  That Carthage repudiates certain of the terms of the treaty drawn up after the last war: namely it should cease to pay indemnity to Rome; it should build a new war fleet; and it should resume its traditional trade to the west, not just the south.

  That Bostar himself funds the building of three hundred new galleys of war.

  That, in return for funding Carthage’s entire expenditure for three years, Bostar be made an adjunct of the Council and put in command in time of war.

  The High Sufet pressed Bostar closely on his motives. They seem simple. He wishes the Mediterranean to be shared by two equals. He argues that, unless Carthage regains some of her lost power, Rome will squeeze her, as he put it, ‘like a press does olives’. He maintained that Carthage was a great and noble civilisation, and that his interest is in justice; not for himself, but for Hanno and for the memory of the two great men he served. He wants, he told the Sufet, peace. [So, Bostar’s plan unfolds. It is, I have to say, a curious one, at best naïve. What are his motives? Perhaps as they seem to be. But although he has the means to influence Carthage, what of Rome?]

  I know what you want; the plenipotence of Rome. I look forward to that, and to the rewards you have promised me. You will know what to do with my news. In the meantime, send me the balance of what was agreed.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Speusippus, secretary to Cato the Censor, to his loyal wife Silvia in Bruttium. When I wrote last, I said I would be home with you for the festival of the Saturnalia next month. Now I cannot come. Cato has forbidden me expressly. There is much afoot. He has an important motion to move in the Senate tomorrow, and yesterday he was rehearsing his speech. A courier came. Cato read the despatch. He erupted like a summer storm. He threw his desk over, and hurled a chair against the wall. ‘Speusippus, Speusippus!’ he screamed. I was at my desk in the antechamber, as usual. I entered his room. Red-faced and trembling, ‘Get me Tancinus!’ he shouted as soon as I came in. ‘What, Quintus Vitellius Tancinus?’ I replied. ‘Yes, you fool!’ ‘But where is he?’ I asked. ‘By all the gods, how should I know? Find him. Bring him here! Now!’ ‘But I––’ I saw him reach for an urn. He threw it at me, as I ran from the room.

  Well, I found Tancinus, in his cups, in a tavern over by the Flaminia Gate. They were cock-fighting in the backyard. He came back to the Curia with me, reluctantly. Still, he walked straight in. I overheard the conversation. Cato was calmer, but his voice had that quiet edge I have grown to fear. ‘You are an idiot, Tancinus, an incompetent fool. Bostar and the bastard Hanno are alive, in Carthage. Go there. Kill them. Do not come back unless you succeed.’

  So you see, my wife, how it is here. I wish I could leave. But Cato would ensure no one else would ever employ me. Anyway, I am sending money with this letter. I cannot come to Bruttium, so you must come to Rome. Bring with you some of that unguent your mother makes. I have developed some strange lesions on my stomach and chest. I think it is the strain.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Titus Licinius Labienus to Rufus Curtius Flaminius. There can be no doubt. From the nose, the eyes and forehead alone, I know that the young man I have with me is the son of Scipio Africanus. His mother, the slave-girl Hispala, died some years ago of the plague. But her relatives, most of whom speak Latin of a sort, have confirmed the circumstantial evidence. When I see you, I will tell you the whole story. It is a curious one. But for now, I am overjoyed. We have an heir with whom we can restore the name of Scipio and achieve the other things we have discussed for so long. The youngster has been known as Nemon among the Gauls. He has very little Latin, but I am teaching him and he is proving a quick learner. He already answers to the name Scipio. I have told hi
m that in time he will be, like his father, the staff of Rome from which he takes his illustrious name.

  For now, I must spend some more days here in Massilia. There are certain payments still to be made, and Africanus’ former banker Josephus says he needs more time. I will sail as soon as I can and bring Scipio to your villa in Rome. Meet me there if you can, or send word to me. If you know where Bostar is, tell him this news.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Rufus Curtius Flaminius to Theogenes in Rome. My old friend, I have excellent news. Labienus has found the boy, young man I should say, and within the week will be bringing him to my villa in Rome. Alas, I cannot come. You will know of the action Cato is bringing against me in the Senate. I do not intend to gratify him with my presence. I will trust the judgement of my peers. Flaccus will see no injustice is done. But I regard the end of my position as a senator to be imminent. So act, and act quickly, in my name. Have my lawyers draw up the necessary papers. As principal executor to Africanus, I want all his former assets transferred from Bostar to Africanus’ son. As you know, I have Bostar’s prior consent. Have the forms of registration completed for this Scipio to be recorded as of equestrian rank, and one who has joined the cursus honorum as of right. Let Publius Cornelius Scipio be, as his father’s, his names. Use my name, and the signet I enclose. Preserve the utmost secrecy. Cato will hear of this, for sure, but only in my good time. He will find that the dying scorpion can still sting. Finally, keep watch. Be ready to welcome Labienus and the latest Scipio when they arrive. And be vigilant. Cato’s spies are everywhere.

  Letter from Cato’s papers, preserved in the archives

  of Rome

  To Marcus Porcius Cato, Censor, Sempronia sends greetings. Another moon has waxed and waned, and still you do not come. Faustus is well, despite having trouble with his gums. They bleed, and are inflamed. I am treating them with the juice of ragwort, although it is hard to stop Faustus spitting it out. Otherwise we have a new maid, Julia. She has a good voice, and is teaching Faustus to sing.

  I have been much taken up with events in the village. Do you remember that veteran of the war against Hannibal, Rufus? He was a centurion in the eighth legion, and survived not only Trasimenus but Cannae. He came to call on us when he was granted his land here. I am sure you will remember. You discussed with him how he had lost his left arm from the elbow, thanks to a wound he received at Cannae, and whether or not our surgeons are always too quick to amputate. Not long after Cannae, of course, Fabius Cunctator prohibited the amputation of wounded limbs. He ordered our surgeons to put away their trepans, knives and saws. We needed, he argued, every single man that might recover, whole. Most did not, but died of gangrene. Enough, you argued, did survive to justify the dictator’s decision. But I am only a woman. I do not understand these things. I think only that a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend would rather have a man they love alive, even without a leg or arm or hand, than not at all.

  Anyway, Rufus’ grant was of good land, as you know. He has eighteen good olive trees, and the south-facing slope grows fine vines and millet. So he makes an easy living, even with one arm. That leaves him time. Apparently the village has been divided about the cost of sinking a new well. Rufus feels the water from the old one is brackish–– [I break off this letter here. Amid matters of much moment, the attention of great Cato the Censor is taken up by a well. But I include some of these letters to Cato, or parts of them, because they show that his wife, a kind and good woman, clearly loved him – in spite of himself. So do some see things in us that others do not and we cannot see ourselves. Love, like history, is ineluctable but obscure.]

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Lucius Valerius Flaccus to Rufus Curtius Flaminius at his villa near Neapolis, greetings. Well, old friend, it was an interesting day. I have just returned from a leisurely stint in the baths. I needed it. Now the cook you gave me when you left Rome, Fulvio, is preparing capons from my Sabine farm. I like them as you do, roasted, not broiled. Broiled capon gives me bad dreams.

  Like those Cato will be having tonight, I would imagine. You will soon hear the news officially from the Senate’s secretariat. But since we have a courier going south post-haste tonight anyway – just some damn tax collection thing – I thought I would let you have the news. As of the Ides of next month, the Nones being inauspicious, you are a senator no more. I do not imagine this news will surprise or depress you. Do you remember how, as we fled together from the killing fields of Cannae, we realised what matters in life, and what does not? I wonder when Cato will learn.

  Anyway, he moved his motion of impeachment. He did so well, I admit. His speeches are always honed. And he had done his homework, or at least someone had. His secretary, Speusippus, I would think. Precedents, prerogatives, all that sort of thing. No one else spoke, for you or against. I didn’t even ask the House to divide. Your demise as a senator was carried nemine – or should I, in the fashion of Ennius say nullo? – contra dicente.

  But Cato didn’t stop to smirk. Next we heard his motion on Africanus’ will. The debate was long and heated. Fabius in particular was outraged by Cato’s getting his hands on Scipio’s will. Antonius disagreed, and gave his ‘unusual circumstances demand unusual measures’ speech. You know the one. Anyway, I let them have their heads. I rather think I dozed as the debate droned on and the chamber grew hot.

  I ordered a brief break for the midday meal. We reconvened. ‘So, Reverend Fathers,’ I said, ‘we come now to a vote on the Censor’s latest motion. Marcus Porcius Cato, the House is yours.’

  He stood up in his usual place, three rows from the front. He was sweating heavily. He seemed less assured than he had been in the morning. I know he barely drinks, but I would have sworn he had enjoyed a skin of wine too many the night before. ‘Patres et conscripti,’ he began, ‘as we have heard, the late Publius Cornelius Scipio that some know’ – oh, that familiar jibe, Curtius, you know, drawing out the ‘some’ – ‘as Africanus left his entire fortune to one Bostar of Chalcedon. I set aside the question of how such great sums came to be in Scipio’s hands. Our debate on that was inconclusive. I pass it by.’ Ever the pragmatist, Curtius, is our Cato. I do not like him, but he is hard not to admire.

  Anyway, ‘This Bostar,’ he went on, raising his voice, ‘is now, is now, I can assure the House––’ here, Curtius, he stumbled. I thought it very strange. ‘This Bostar is now dead. An accident. A fire,’ he managed weakly, looking down. But he regained his stride. ‘I move we confiscate everything that remains of Scipio’s estate, even those sums outwith Italy if we can; I move we place this money in the hands of the Senate and People of Rome.’

  ‘With you as trustee, I presume,’ Fabius interjected. There were some sniggers round the chamber. I held up my hand for silence. ‘Thank you, Censor. Please resume your seat.’ I cleared my throat, adjusted my toga. You know, old friend, how I love the stage. ‘Fathers, it should be time to move to a vote. But on this occasion’ – I allowed myself a long pause that Thespis himself would have been proud of – ‘on this occasion, we will not.’ I saw and heard Cato gasp, half rise to his feet. The Senate stirred like a disturbed antheap. Again I motioned for silence, and went on. ‘We will not, because I have two documents here’ – I pulled them from my sleeve, and held them up – ‘which make the Censor’s motion redundant.’ Well, Curtius, I really am sorry you weren’t there. You could have heard the proverbial feather fall.

  Eventually, Antonius spoke up. ‘And, Father of the House? What are they?’

  I stood up. ‘Both are properly registered, witnessed and notarised. Both carry the appropriate seals. I will of course lodge them after these proceedings with the consistory, where you may inspect them. One attests the late Scipio’s son and new heir––’

  ‘Son, son! He had no son!’ Pulcher called out – you can readily imagine the scene. My eyes were on Cato. His mouth hung open. His eyes were wide, and his gaze bovine. His shoulders drooped – and then he
buried his face in his hands. How readily, I imagined, would he have forfeited your dismissal in exchange for never hearing those two words, ‘Scipio’s son’.

  By then, everyone bar Cato was on their feet, squabbling, expostulating, waving arms. I sat down. Slowly the storm subsided. I let it die. Seats were resumed. I wondered who would make the next move.

  It was Cato. He has courage, that I own. He stood up. He was pale; his cheeks were pinched and drawn. His voice was flat and neutral, restrained and controlled. Again the House fell completely silent, all its eyes on him. ‘And the second document, Father of the House? The second one?’

  There is an atavistic power about Cato. He has Scipio’s gift, if in obverse. Do you remember how, from the Senate’s steps, we watched the Guard march across the Forum to arrest Scipio after his trial? He simply turned and faced them, one man, alone. All around, the merchants’ stalls fell silent. Even the beggars were still. It was as if the sun had ceased to turn, and Atlas had put his burden down.

  Scipio stared slowly, one by one, at the soldiers. And, one by one, their heads fell. He nodded, held out his arms to them as if in token of his helplessness, and his head sank as well. It seemed an aeon later when, as one man, the soldiers, those elite and hardened veterans, looked up, saluted Scipio in silence, turned, and melted away. Scipio looked up, round, nodded again, turned and walked from the Forum, free, the vessel of his power broken, but still strong.

  From Cato’s voice and visage I felt, I must admit, a similar command – if, with it, a certain chill.