Zama

by Dan Armstrong

  The man closed one eye and studied me with the other. “How far you going?”

  “Rome.”

  He seemed to think about this, then said, “I’ve got a wooden cart. I’ll trade it to you for your carriage. The cart will make it to Rome, but the going will be slow.”

  He showed me a rough wooden cart that was being towed behind the third wagon. It was only big enough for one. Lucretia would have to walk. Even with a broken wheel, the carriage was worth ten times what the cart was. The difference was my mother riding on a horse or in a cart, and an extra three days on the road either way. “Unhook it,” I said. “Let’s see how it rolls.”

  He turned to his assistants and jerked his thumb. They untied the cart from the wagon and pulled it down the road about thirty feet. The solid wooden wheels appeared more oblong than round. Clearly the ride would be rough even on Via Latina, which would take us all the way to Rome. I looked at my mother.

  “I think it’s better than the horse, Timon.”

  Just as I accepted this dubious trade, I realized that the box containing my mother’s wealth was still strapped beneath the carriage. Removing it in front these men would likely lead to suspicions about what was in it. If they saw the number of gold coins we carried, they would surely kill us and take it all. I explained the situation to the women in Greek so as not to reveal our problem to the junkers, who were standing there gawking at us.

  My mother understood right away. Without any hesitation she reached for her lyre, which lay on the grass beside her. She placed it on her lap and ran her fingers over the strings, then deftly adjusted the tuning, drawing the attention and wonder of the three men. When she began to play and sing, they were immediately captivated and moved up close to listen. Even weak from the poisoning and the travel, my mother’s voice filled the air like the fragrance of spring. No one could resist the beauty of her songs. The three men stood spellbound before her watching her fingers on the strings, clearly transported by the Greek poems though they didn’t understand the words.

  I quickly took the opportunity to slip over to the carriage. Pretending to inspect the broken wheel, I reached beneath the frame and freed the small box of coins. The men didn’t even turn their heads as I slipped the box beneath our pile of blankets, and then sat on the ground to listen to my mother.

  My mother sang three songs. Not a word was said throughout her performance. When she stopped, she spoke to me in Greek. I translated for the three men awed by her talent. “My mother sang those songs as thanks to you for coming to our rescue.”

  Although clearly vagabonds of dubious character, they bowed to my mother to show their appreciation. With little else said, they disassembled the carriage and loaded it in pieces onto their wagons. We packed the cart and made it into a bed for my mother.

  What could have been a difficult confrontation was over. The team of oxen was prompted into motion with the crack of a whip, and the three wagons disappeared like a ship over the southern horizon. I harnessed Balius to the cart, and we went the other way to Rome.

  CHAPTER 21

  After what had been too long a trip, more than three weeks on the road, we reached Rome. I avoided the city proper and went west to the Claudian villa. Marcus had no advance knowledge that we were coming. He may or may not be at the farm when we arrived. At the very least, I expected Edeco and Meda to be there.

  I saw the carriage out front of the stable as we came down the dirt road to the house. I hoped it didn’t mean that Portia was there. The creak and clatter of the wooden cart brought Edeco out of the stable.

  “Edeco, this is my mother, Arathia, and her slave, Lucretia. We’ve come from Croton and hope to stay here for a while. My mother’s been sick. I’m concerned the long trip has been too hard on her. Can you help me get her and her things into the house?”

  My mother had regressed in the last week. Traveling in the cart hadn’t helped. Edeco lifted her from the cart without any questions.

  “Who’s here, Edeco?”

  “Portia and Meda. Marcus is in Rome. He should be back tomorrow.”

  “Does Portia stay here now?”

  “No, it’s rare that she’s here at all. She comes out occasionally to take things back to the house in Rome. That’s why she’s here now. I’ll be taking her to Rome in the morning.”

  With Edeco leading the way, I assisted my mother to the house. Lucretia followed behind.

  Portia met us as we came through the door. I introduced her to my mother and Lucretia. Portia, like Marcus, thought my mother had died several years earlier. Instead of asking questions, she assured me that all of us were welcome at the villa and that we could stay there as long as needed. She told Meda which bedroom to use, and Lucretia and Meda took my mother off to bed. I worried that I had taken her on the road too soon, but if anyone could nurse her back to health it would be cranky old Meda. She warmed up some soup, but when she took it to the bedroom my mother was asleep.

  Edeco and I carried the few things we had brought from Croton into the house. Afterward, Portia found me in the atrium. She was a lovely woman, and though I had many issues with her, I always found her beauty disarming.

  “I thought you found your mother’s urn in the Aemilii tomb?” she asked, sitting down beside me at the edge of the pool.

  “I spoke to Marcus Aemilius Lepidas at your party a year ago. I asked him about the urn in his family’s tomb, and it became clear that it was not my mother’s.”

  “But you didn’t say anything to me?”

  I bowed my head, then looked up at her. “I should have, but the discovery made me suspicious of Paculla, and I knew that you would resist anything negative I might say about her.”

  Portia sat up straight. “You think she’s making it all up? That’s she’s a fake?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what about the other reading? Didn’t that help you find your lenses?”

  “She sent me to the Community of Miracles, Portia. It’s a society of thieves and beggars at the top of the Aventine Hill. What I learned there was that she was a sham, and that she often came to the Community of Miracles for information.”

  Portia became indignant. “So what’s that make me?”

  “Portia, we all believe what we want to believe. I would say be careful. I’m worried that Paculla’s playing a game with you and the other wealthy women.”

  Portia stood up and took three strides away from me, then turned and came back. “There’s more to her than readings and rituals. She’s shown us the Greek tragedies and opened us up intellectually.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen that, and you’re right, that’s good, but at the same time, she used her so-called readings to manipulate me and, most likely, you also.”

  Portia glared at me. “So where was your mother?”

  “It’s a long story, but in the end, I found her in Croton. In our old home.”

  “Well, thankfully she wasn’t dead,” she said coolly. “I’m sorry if Paculla had it wrong. I was trying to help you.” She turned away, but I stopped her.

  “Portia, for the time being, don’t mention that my mother is here.”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t trust me.”

  “I never said that, Portia.”

  She just stared at me.

  “Do you still speak to Fulvia?” I asked.

  “Why would you care?”

  “I worry about Sempronia. How is she?”

  “Still unmarried,” she said, then turned abruptly and walked out of the atrium to the back of the house.

  CHAPTER 22

  Portia left the farm early the next morning. Marcus returned at noon. I went out to the stable as soon as I saw him arrive. He was clearly surprised to see me. He leapt from Euroclydon and embraced me like a brother.

  I told him I had returned from Croton with my mother and her slave, and that they were inside. I made him swear to secrecy, then recounted what had
happened in the months since I had last seen him, including the trip to Hannibal’s winter headquarters in Metapontum, and the message I had passed on to Claudius Nero.

  “You gave him that information? That may have won the war!”

  “My mother deserves the credit, but I’m concerned that Hannibal will learn that she was the source, and that the funeral we held was staged. I came here hoping we could hide her at the farm until we know something more. Will that be all right with you?”

  “Of course. You and your mother are welcome here as long as you like.”

  I looked around anxiously “It’s important that no one knows my mother is here, but Portia saw her yesterday when we arrived, and I—I...”

  “Don’t trust her?”

  I hung my head.

  “I don’t either, Timon. It’s all right. She has intrigues of her own going on. I rarely see her anymore.”

  “She knows that my mother is here, but not about her activities in Hannibal’s camp.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. Her friends won’t care about your mother or about you. She’s not likely to say anything because it’s not relevant to her position in society. It will be fine.”

  Marcus and I shared a few cups of mulsum with dinner that night. My mother didn’t join us. Lucretia ate with her in the bedroom. Marcus had been in the north with Marcus Livius during the summer. He was there at Sena when Nero arrived to help defeat Hasdrubal.

  “I saw Hasdrubal die.” Marcus took a swallow form his cup. “I give the man credit. Once the battle’s outcome became obvious, he waved his sword over his head and rode directly into a cohort of hastati, all of them eager to say they’d taken the Carthaginian general down. He made a few of them pay, but they cut him to pieces. I think a centurion had the idea of cutting his head off. Nero decided to make it a gift to Hannibal. I can’t say I agree with the sentiment.”

  “Neither can I. Hannibal gave your father a military funeral, and from what I’ve heard, Aemilius Paullus got the same after Cannae. Hasdrubal deserved better.”

  Marcus nodded. “Nero’s not my favorite. But his march was genius. We might have beaten Hasdrubal without him, but it was certainly easier with him.” Marcus grinned. “It was a tactic taken straight from Hannibal. You surely recall when Hannibal did that to us—secretly sending half his cavalry to Locri while we camped opposite him, waiting for him to accept battle.”

  “I spent a month with Nero last spring. He’s still as coarse as he always was, but I think his time with your father did him well. He did his share of chasing Hannibal around Apulia. He was all caution, and in the end, he made it work.” I lifted my cup over my head and drained it. Marcus refilled his and mine.

  “The elections are coming up. Who are the candidates for consul, Marcus? Have you thrown your hat into the ring?”

  Marcus smiled warmly. “In a few years perhaps, Timon, but not yet. I’m thinking about running for tribune of the plebs.” He took a studied sip from his cup. “Publius Scipio is making a push for a consulship. He’s still stationed in Spain, but I expect we’ll see him in Rome in the next week or two. He’s made no secret of his political ambitions. His clients have been out in number. And you know what they’ve been saying.”

  “Invade Africa.”

  PART II

  CARTHAGE

  “Six hundred years before Hannibal’s march through the Alps, the Phoenician princess Dido founded the colony of Carthage on the north coast of Africa. The colonists who joined her came from a long line of highly successful Semitic sea merchants, and following in that tradition, sent their ships all over the Mediterranean and beyond. Carthage quickly became the most important seaport in the western Mediterranean, and as wealthy a city-state as any in the world.”

  -Nicoledes of Croton, Letters.

  CHAPTER 23

  From the jubilation in Rome after Claudius Nero’s and Marcus Livius’ defeat of Hasdrubal and their ensuing triumphant march into the city, the first Roman triumph of the war, one would have thought that the war was over. In some ways it was over in Italy. Hannibal had settled into Metapontum for the winter for the third year in a row and showed no sign of coming north. The beast outside the walls was gone and Rome could finally breathe again. The farmers were told to go back to their land and to return to the business of growing food.

  Across the Mediterranean in Carthage the tables had turned. While the central motive of Roman life was war, the Carthaginian aristocracy focused on the accumulation of riches and a level of luxury only experienced by royalty elsewhere. In a system of government not unlike Rome’s, one hundred and four of these wealthy merchants made up Carthage’s Council of Elders. An assembly of the people annually elected two leaders, sufets, who presided over the Council of Elders and a special legislative body of thirty judges. From the colony’s inception, it had maintained a strongly mercantile society where wealth determined social standing and the primary goal of the government was to enable commerce. Now, following Hasdrubal’s defeat, many of the elders were growing tired of the war and wanted to get back to the business of making money, and it was causing a serious split in the Council of Elders.

  This war of incredible cost, human and fiscal, was the work of the Barcid faction of the Council—the war party. Their leader Hannibal, once praised as a hero, was now being characterized as a problem by the opposing faction, known as the peace party. This was not something new. Throughout the course of the war, the Council had been slow to respond to Hannibal’s needs in Italy. Reinforcements and warships came late or not at all. The war effort in Spain had gotten more support than Hannibal. In many ways, he had fought the war in Italy by himself. Now that the momentum of the war had swung to Rome and Scipio was threatening an invasion, many of the elders were ready to cut Hannibal off completely. His daring idea to invade Italy had become a dismal failure, and they wanted nothing more to do with him or his pursuit of the war.

  CHAPTER 24

  Hasdrubal Gisgo entered his plantation manor like an angry bull, shaking his shaggy head from to side to side as though looking for a target to ram. He was just back from a day of arguing in the Council of Elders and a rough ten-mile carriage ride to his country estate south of the city. He may have achieved what he wanted, but it had not come easily, and he was still seething from the opposition’s political tactics.

  Hasdrubal had returned to Carthage a month earlier after two years of disappointing military operations in Spain. Shortly after his return, he was elected to one of the sufet positions for the year. A member of the Barcid faction, Hasdrubal had spent his first week as a sufet in an ugly verbal sparring match with the other sufet, an older man by the name of Hanno, a capable orator from the peace party. The topic, of course, had been Scipio’s invasion and the direction of the war. Hanno argued for immediate withdrawal from Italy. In his opinion, the war had effectively ended with the death and defeat of Hasdrubal Barca. It was time to cut their losses and sue for peace. Hasdrubal Gisgo, and about half the Council, wanted none of this. Didn’t they still have Hannibal, the greatest military mind the world had ever known? The war was not over as long as he was alive and had soldiers to lead. There were sources of troops yet untapped. Carthage was wealthy enough to pay mercenaries for ten more years of war in Italy as well as protection from an invasion at home.

  After many tense days of debate, Hasdrubal had finally gathered enough votes to pass a resolution that empowered him to travel to west Numidia to seek a military alliance with Syphax, king of the Masaesyli tribe. The other choice, as he said to the Council prior to the vote, “was to sit inside our homes and wait for the Roman army to encamp outside the city’s walls.”

  Hasdrubal was a heavy-set man with a full beard except what was shaved off above his upper lip. At fifty-five, his hair was still black, and worn long in the Canaanite style of oiled ringlets. He crossed the house in long impatient strides, kicking at the fringed hem of his white linen robe. A bare-chested Ethiopian slave, wearing a red felt cap and a thigh-length skirt o
f striped silk, appeared like a shadow from the interior of the house and followed his master into the courtyard.

  “Vangue, bring me some raisin wine,” Hasdrubal ordered without any other acknowledgment of the man. “An amphora and a cup.”

  The slave vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Hasdrubal advanced to the colonnade that enclosed the south end of the courtyard. He stared out between the fluted columns at his vast plantation. All the land as far as he could see belonged to him. His farm produced wheat, barley, dry beans, oats, figs, flax, and olives. He ran a large oil press and a bagging plant in Carthage’s industrial region of Malqua to process his harvest. He managed a fifty-ship merchant fleet to send his products around the world. He owned a bank in Carthage with partners in Rhodes and Cyprus, and he had just built a second home in the city with all the most modern innovations in plumbing and heating. At this moment in time, he was arguably the wealthiest man in Carthage, and also someone who still believed in Hannibal. Now he had the task of raising an army to protect his property and his wealth.

  Hasdrubal drifted back to the center of the courtyard and settled down on his favorite couch. He put his feet up and stretched out, trying to push the past week out of his mind. Vangue appeared at his side with a silver tray, carrying a crystal goblet, an amphora of wine, and an amber bowl filled with dates and fried grasshoppers. Vangue put the goblet on the table beside the couch and filled it.

  Hasdrubal selected a grasshopper from the bowl and put it in his mouth. He crunched the insect into small pieces then washed it down with a long swallow of wine. “Baal,” he called out to the heavens, “why have you cursed me with the creation of this man Hanno?”