Ally of Rome Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Rob Edmunds

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Whilst some of the characters in this story were real and influential, and some of the events described are documented, this is a work of fiction drawn from historical sources.

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  For the A’s

  Contents

  Historical Context

  If This is a Man

  Hercules! Hercules!

  Returning to Sophonisba

  Our Elderly Children

  Teenage Wasteland

  When an Itch Becomes a Bitch

  Washed Away

  Firestarter

  Finding Their Way Home

  Pardon and Punish

  Zama Time

  The Lies we Tell Ourselves

  Historical Context

  Masinissa, the heir to the Numidian kingdom of Massyli, has been fighting as a cavalry commander on the Iberian Peninsula in the service of the Carthaginian Empire for several years. His love for the Carthaginian aristocrat Sophonisba, which had blossomed during his period of exile in Carthage, has remained strong during his absence from North Africa. He is due a period of leave in that city shortly to formalise his engagement to her, as well as to further consolidate his alliance with that empire.

  In terms of the present state of the war between Rome and Carthage, the initial Carthaginian successes against the Roman legions have been largely reversed with the arrival in Iberia of the Roman proconsul Publius Cornelius Scipio who has deployed his legions innovatively and successfully. In one of the recent battles, Scipio captured Masinissa’s nephew Massiva but the two commanders arranged a clandestine meeting to exchange prisoners, including Massiva. During the exchange, Masinissa and Scipio formed an extremely favourable impression of one another, leading Masinissa to begin to reconsider his present alliance which was already starting to fray with the demoralising strategic picture for the Carthaginian armies.

  At this moment in the war, the Carthaginian forces are attempting to reform their military strength in North Africa and in the strategically important and historically allied southern Iberian city of Gades (present day Cadiz.) Hasdrubal Gisco, one of the senior Carthaginian generals and father of Sophonisba, has assigned Masinissa the diversionary task of roaming the hinterland of Iberia with a guerrilla force, mostly composed of Numidian cavalry. During one such action against the Roman occupied fortress of Xativa, a small band led by Masinissa had infiltrated the fortress and retrieved one of the sacred cups of Melqart (Hercules) which had been hidden there. The recovery of the cup is regarded as a significant boost for the morale of the Carthaginian forces, who revere Melqart as one of the senior Phoenician gods. It is also considered to be an appeasement of the god, which may help solicit some form of celestial intervention to reverse the Carthaginian’s current battlefield predicament. Masinissa is presently taking a small contingent of his most loyal troops to the temple dedicated to Melqart which is located close to the city of Gades to return the cup to its proper religious location.

  If This is a Man

  Ari looked at Masinissa, a question starting to take shape in his gaze. His tongue was also conspicuously pushing upwards into and around one of his upper canines, giving Masinissa a clear indication that an inquiry of some kind was imminent. The detachment of Numidian cavalry they were leading had been riding for most of the morning and planned to go a little longer before they found a shady glade somewhere in which to pass the hottest part of the day. Maybe they’d take a splash in the Baetis River, which was weaving its serene way nearby for large sections of their journey and whose next intersection wouldn’t be too far ahead.

  Masinissa, in the novel and temporary position of being the senior commander of the regiments allied to Carthage in Iberia, had made the decision to suspend his guerrilla harassments of the Roman legions and take almost a hundred of his men with him south to Gades and thence to the nearby Temple of Melqart. It was a journey many, if not all, in the party regarded as a sacred obligation as they had in their possession an ancient chalice with depictions of several of the labours of Melqart represented on it. They had recently retrieved the relic from a raid on the Roman occupied citadel of Xativa, which once, years earlier in the war, had been the residence of Hannibal and his wife. It had been consecrated to the Phoenician god and it was imperative that they returned the relic to its place of origin, to both appease the great lord of Tyre as well as propitiate both Him and his priests who were waiting eagerly for its return home. He had entrusted his senior military deputies, his optio and tesserarius with the bulk of the cavalry in the knowledge that their control of the forces remaining in the Iberian hinterland would be absolute.

  He had indulged a little personal preference in the choice of the men he took with him. Naturally, Capuca and Ari, who had both played important roles in their clandestine infiltration of the fortress to rescue the cup, had earned the right to come and would not be rebuffed. His occasionally errant nephew Massiva had to be in the cohort too, as Masinissa would rarely any longer let the impetuous boy leave his side for too long. His other most trusted compatriots Juba Tunic, Soldier Boy and Micipsa also accompanied them. The seven of them formed the vanguard of the group. The Carthaginian officer Hanno, who had been with them on their earlier attack of the Roman fortress, had been recalled by the senior Carthaginian general Hasdrubal Gisco, and he had headed towards Mons Calpe, presumably from there to take a trireme or other galley across the straits back to North Africa.

  Of Masinissa’s companions, Ari had proven much the most curious and conversational during the journey. It was quite apparent that he keenly felt the honour in the mission in the erectness and solemnity of his bearing whenever he was near to or carrying the cup himself. He was also quite inquisitive to know Masinissa’s views and intentions and the question that had been percolating in his head for the last few moments finally bubbled its way into the still fresh morning air. “This is no mundane errand we’re making here, is it, sire? Returning the cup to the temple will bring us great favour and blessings from Melqart, more than 1,000 sacrifices and 1 million prayers would achieve, but there is more, isn’t there?” He paused and looked at Masinissa with a more questioning gaze, “Do you seek a vision like Hannibal did when he made a pilgrimage there?”

  Masinissa was a little surprised by the directness of the enquiry, but he knew Ari had a quiet insight into his nature that others – except for some of the wise, old lags he’d left behind – lacked, and he readily had made Ari his confidant on horseback and in the inn, although discussions in the latter tended to unravel as they both surrendered their lucidity to the wine.

  “I’m not sure, I do to an extent, everyone probably would I suppose, we all want something or someone to point us towards the right way to go, but I’m hoping for something more restorative and spiritual I think” Masinissa responded. “This war has stripped me of many of my convictions. My certainties are not as certain as they were. It’s like my soul has slipped its anchor. I’m drifting, Ari.” He looked at his Libyan adjutant a little imploringly as if the boy had spiritual and moral certitudes to offer and console him with. When none were forthcoming, he added with a forlorn shrug “I, we, just seem to be dancing to the tune of the Carthaginian war machine, day after day, battle after battle. I feel numb. All this killing is stupefying me. I feel like a revenant between the worlds of the living and dead.”

  Ari merely nodded, perhaps at a loss about how to respond to his commander’s despair. Masinissa was grateful for the mute discretion, sensing that Ari, perhaps subconsciously, was offering him a sounding board. The young Libyan was a good listener, and had often allowed Masinissa to nourish and shape his own thoughts into words and sometimes actions.

  Shaping them again, Masinissa continued. “I’m getting far too much of this senseless, violent world. Before I started campaigning, when I had time for learning and leisure, I used to be able to project out from myself and understand the world from my own perspective, fit it all in place in ways that conformed with my perception of everything. These days, I can’t make any sense of things. I really need a break from it all to try to fix myself a little, and this visit to the temple of Melqart might help. I really hope it will.” He paused, thinking a little of his time with his tutors during his adolescent exile in Carthage. He recalled a dusty, ontological conversation he’d had with one of the eastern scholars who he had occasionall
y been instructed by and shared it with the attentive Ari. “A lot of the Greeks, and other philosophers, will tell you that there’s no reality except the one contained within you, and it’s a notion that I’m trying to hold onto to keep me sane. I’m still sane, right?” Masinissa quizzed Ari, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation a little.

  “Of course, sire,” Ari reassured him. “You don’t realise how much of an example for us you are. We all have to block this out the best we can, and you have a strength, a moral and spiritual strength, which we all can see. You cope with everything that’s thrown at you and that helps us do the same.”

  “Thanks!” Masinissa replied, with genuine and effusive gratitude. “You know, I was thinking of Metellus earlier, you know that depraved and dissolute Roman legionnaire we encountered at the citadel, and how easy it is to become degraded. So many of the people who have to live the way we do start to degenerate and become corrupted by what they are compelled to see and do. You can forget the man you are, the people you knew and your family. All this violence and destruction stains you. The blood on your hands can also get into your inner being, and your soul can drown in it.”

  “You know the trick I have,” Ari interjected, as he sensed Masinissa was struggling in his explanation, “is to sort of follow that scholarly Greek advice you mentioned but work that inner world like an artist might. I revisit and recreate my memories of better times, often when we’re riding like now, patch them up as they fade to keep them close and real. I always remind myself that these things that I am forced to do to survive and keep my brothers alive is not my reality. My reality is the world I have made inside myself, out of the better parts of me: the guidance I had as a child from my precious mother and father, the affections I was shown and the beliefs I have in the gods, in Tanit and Melqart especially. They are not outside me – well, not in ways that I can see – but they are there in my soul.”

  Masinissa nodded; adversity can be a natural consort to wisdom, and his young friend was an example of that truth. He acknowledged his young confederate’s wisdom with a bow and his own condensation of the sentiment. “Yeah, always keep listening to that inner voice, or voices perhaps. Your people are still talking to you. Always find that stillness to hear and remember yourself.” He pumped his fist with the renewed strength and conviction his companion’s advice had given him.

  “Come to terms with destruction too, accept it,” Ari digressed. “That’s important as well I think. Not destruction in the wanton, evil sense, if you do that you’re damned, but in the sense that there may be a something worthwhile to come at the end of all this. Something grander can emerge. Wars do salvage some things, and people can learn. Have some faith in that too. Think of an egg, sire. For the bird to be born, it must destroy its own world. Life is full of those transitions and rebirths.”

  “I’m not sure about the necessity for destruction, but transitions – yeah, I get that. Maybe that’s what I’m looking for.” Masinissa pondered, “Rebirth, peace and strength. Let’s see what the house of Melqart gives to us.”

  Ari exhaled dramatically and gave a theatrical nod of agreement.

  The riders close by who had heard the conversation were quiet. Soldier Boy, Juba Tunic and Capuca had though been noticeably paying attention, letting the other two express thoughts they, no doubt, broadly shared. They were all strung out and exhausted, and perhaps felt a little less helpless on hearing others articulate similar feelings.

  Only Juba Tunic made a comment as he rode up briefly. As his horse nuzzled into Masinissa’s mare, Juba leant too, offered a soft pat to Masinissa’s broad back and pointed to the sky. “Clouds part,” was all he said.

  Masinissa gave him a gentle, appreciative smile and returned the pat. Their foray into emotional and intangible territory had made him a little reflective, and he, following Ari’s counsel, rode over the remaining gentle slopes towards the river quietly and thought of his other life, contemplating Sophonisba the Carthaginian noblewoman he loved, most of all.

  The sun rose higher in the firmament and began to roast them. Both Masinissa and his horse began to sweat, and his thirst grew keener. The others were frequently getting their rags out and drying their necks. Masinissa’s wineskin still showed a modest bulge, but his water was all but gone. He’d been a little profligate with it and had showered himself a little liberally earlier. The river was close, though, so there was no harm in it. He saw its first inviting and slightly dazzling shimmer as he reached the summit of the last hill and cried out to the other riders to indicate its proximity.

  Relief showed all the way down the column of riders. Even though most of them were North Africans of various clans, the heat of an Iberian midday was best avoided. The men had become accustomed to raids at dawn or even in the darkest part of the night, as had been the case with the recent rescue of Melqart’s chalice, and a shady hour by some cool water was a welcome prospect. There was a closer tributary, but it was ignored. As they descended the incline and drew close to the wide, serene river, Masinissa felt a sense of calm at the gently moving water.

  His sense of tranquillity was ended however when he saw the state of some of the occupants of a small galley tethered to the shoreline, the only sign of humanity evident along the river’s broad banks. A liburna of that type was quite a rare sight to Masinissa. He had become used to the desiccated mountains, and the sporadic times he’d spend on ships had mostly been on larger triremes or quinqueremes, most notably crossing between the pillars of Melqart from Mauretania to the Iberian Peninsula. The presence of a Carthaginian naval vessel at this point along the river should have heartened him, and, at first glance, it did present a reassuring picture. However, as he began to gain a clearer impression of the deck of the vessel, a sense of revulsion rose in his throat.

  He had heard a lot of stories of the conduct of certain elements within the Carthaginian army. His renown as someone who had a high regard for humane treatment of prisoners meant that he saw abuses of prisoners rarely. His own soldiers knew that any infraction would mean their punishments would be greater. To Masinissa, there was a distinction to be drawn between killing or enslaving an enemy, and degrading and maltreating them for sport or vengeance. There were ambiguous areas – not least below decks on galleys such as this one, where enslaved enemies would be worked ferociously, and the war only stretched the boundaries further – but there was a point at which the treatment of the enemy became vile and without any shred of humanity.

  Cramped quarters were inevitable for a captured enemy, but the contorted, emaciated forms he saw on the deck of the liburna chilled his being. There were cages in which could be seen angles of flesh and bone that seemed to leave no room for air or breath. The bodies were so closely packed that he couldn’t even begin to assess the number of wretches that were confined. If they had been poultry, they would have been treated more kindly. On surveying his own men, their furrowed brows and open mouths suggested that, for all their experiences that had inured them to the most extreme forms of violence, seeing men in such degrading conditions was still upsetting. Masinissa felt a tide of pity and anger rise in him.

  “What evil is this?” he asked the air, almost beseeching the negligent heavens for some kind of explanation or, even better, some swift and merciful intercession from one of the gods who must surely share his revulsion at the scene before them.

  In reply, and after a short pause for the rumbling echoes of Masinissa’s outrage to subside, the quite mortal but reasonably well informed figure of Capuca said quietly, “I think I know what that is. I’ve heard about something the Carthaginians do that fits with what this looks like.”

  “Who within their command is authorising treating human beings in this grotesque way?” Masinissa asked, finding it difficult to conceal his rising indignation.

  “It’s their vengeance, Mas,” Capuca replied. There was sorrow and reluctance in his voice, as if sharing his knowledge would be more painful than concealing it. “I don’t know for sure how it came about, but most people whom I’ve heard talk about it say it was started by the Carthaginian general Mago, who was enraged at our losses and some of the actions that he heard the victorious Romans had done, especially to the middle ranks. You know how it goes; it’s like the old sense of justice, with an eye for an eye – all that hateful stuff.”