Ally of Carthage

by Rob Edmunds

  He had come across some traders who had a small roll of silk, and he had bought the lot. The fabric would fade a little, unlike his cloak, and he rotated the sashes he had made out of the roll: a worn one was used for most days, and another was reserved for special occasions or days away from the horses and the sun. According to the traders, the silk had come to them via Parthians who, in turn, had bought it off some Bactrians, who had travelled from a market close to the great stone tower in the middle of their territory. Masinissa wondered somewhat if this was just a little fanciful sales talk on the part of the trader, as such vast distances made everything a little vague. Maybe this great tower was nothing more than a flag in the earth, or maybe even a fiction or totem meant to mark the midpoint between the Mediterranean civilisations and the lands of the Seres. He couldn’t really properly make sense of this mysterious land of Serica, with its peculiar people, but there had been several traders he had spoken to who had attested to coming across them, and their wares were as unique in appearance as they were. He had seen a ceramic pot in the parlour of one of the suffetes once, and had been mesmerised by its beauty. It shared a little of the colour of his cummerbund. There must be a great liking for blue amongst the Seres.

  Hooked into his belt was his sword. Masinissa never left home without it. The sword he usually preferred was a xiphos, a short, double-edged weapon much favoured by the Greeks. It was a secondary weapon for them, as it was for the Numidians, with both having the javelin as their main weapon of choice. That day, though, he had opted for an alternative weapon, which he was favouring increasingly. It was an Iberian falcata, which was gaining popularity amongst many of the infantrymen he came across. Even the sound of the word had a forceful ring to it. It was a heavy, curved blade, almost always made of the finest and strongest metal, and it was much feared on the battlefield as it could crush most armour with ease. The trade in them between the Iberians, Numidians and Carthaginians was widespread. Many Iberians had developed quite a lucrative arms trade in the weapon.

  “Snap out of it, Mas,” Conon said sharply.

  At rest, Masinissa could let his mind wander, and the ease of the company and the prospect of the game had given him a moment of reflection that had stretched to the point that it was starting to irritate his friend. He needed movement to jolt him sometimes. Horses and exercises always kept him focussed. Physical stillness often allowed his interior reflections to occupy him.

  “I’m sorry, it’s my go. I’m going to get you this time for sure.” Masinissa employed different tactics in petteia, according to the ability he detected in his opponent. For most people, he felt he had an edge and let the game take its natural course, but with Conon he knew he was overmatched when the board was full and more congested, and when the variables were more numerous. His chances were best served by making as many exchanges and sacrifices as he could, reducing the board to a few pieces and then trying to scratch an advantage. Even a slight advantage in petteia could be crucial, and he knew how to maintain it once he had it. He was more likely to slip up in the beginning, but he felt more confident with the board pared down to just a few pieces.

  He kept Conon as distracted as possible too, with jokes and anecdotes, especially at moments when Conon was concentrating hard, and his diversionary tactics did seem to unbalance his opponent. After a series of exchanges, he nipped in and took Conon’s fifth dog without sacrifice and gained himself the advantage he sought in the process. From there, he coasted to victory, thwarting Conon’s determined attempts to regain parity. It was a rare victory and one that didn’t sting Conon in the slightest.

  Conon knew he could get his revenge without too much trouble. He declared, “You’ve done me, my friend. I didn’t think you’d do it, but that was some good play. As a prize, I’ve got wine and a fable. Are you OK with that?”

  Masinissa replied, “A fable? I’ll take that, but wine first and some olives if you have some. If you’re going to get all smart on me, I want to get a little woolly. You never know, you might even sound even more profound after a few cups!”

  Conon agreed and fetched the wine. “Well, I’m going to test your knowledge of Latin now. You’re meant to be good at languages, and this is one of the main ones. ‘Licat volare si super tergum aquila volat.’ Translate that for me, Mas?”

  “That’s easy; do you think I waste my time with my language tutors? Speaking Latin is almost as second nature to me as speaking Numidian, or the Massylian version anyway. The Masaesylian version is a little more guttural, and I just can’t figure out what they’re saying sometimes. It means ‘A man can fly where he will, if he rides on the back of an eagle.’ Where are you going with this proverb, Con? It seems slightly cryptic. Are you saying that I can fly and need some kind of eagle to do so? There is an obvious association I can make. The Aquila is one of the main standards of the Roman legions. Each legion even has a specific eagle bearer, who carries and protects the standard. It’s a point of great pride for them.”

  “I know about the aquilifers, but don’t assume that the eagle is the exclusive symbol of the legions or of Rome. It is certainly favoured, but so is the wolf, the bear and even the Minotaur. The signum standard is less dramatic, but is far more commonly used by them when on the march. You have a point though. I’m trying to hint as subtly or perhaps as bluntly as I can that your destiny is as much determined by whom you associate with as by your own actions. Do you know the proverb anyway? It’s a very simple Greek one. Basically, the gods decided that they would elect the noblest bird of them all by having a race around Mount Olympus. All the birds agreed, and, after commencing, the race looked like it was being dominated by the eagle. The eagle, though, had not realised that a tiny sparrow had been resting on its back the whole time, and, when the finishing line was in sight, it popped off the eagle’s back and beat it to the finish line.”

  “So I’m the tiny sparrow, am I?” Masinissa scoffed, a little hurt by the derogatory comparison.

  “No, not at all; only in the sense of scale of the world around you. Rome could be an eagle, as could Carthage, and Syphax is maybe some kind of falcon, but knowing your relative strength, my little warrior sparrow, will aid you greatly. Sometimes, it’s expedient to be taken under another’s wings to preserve strength and gain advantage.”

  “Sometimes you use a cudgel to make a point you know,” Masinissa scolded, upset by his friend’s comments.

  Conon realised that he may have been a little condescending to his friend. Despite himself, he kept falling into the trap of assuming Masinissa was just a warrior with only a thin veneer of an education. His powerful appearance belied the sharpest intelligence. “I’m sorry, I just feel the need to guide you sometimes, and that may make me a little overprotective. I’m also getting far too used to having to make allusions rather than making a direct point. I am as mistrusted as you.”

  “For a smart guy, you can be pretty simple at times, but I appreciate you for all your lessons. I have few points where I can take my bearings and you are certainly one of those; you’re a beacon or a star for my soul! You keep me sane. I am kept at a safe distance by some and by necessity I have to keep myself at a distance from others so to be able to be properly sociable and at my ease is very important.”

  Conon was impressed by his friend’s openness and reflection. He was such an uncommon blend. Men were not meant to be blessed in all ways, but, clearly, through the gifts of the gods and his own endeavours, Masinissa had achieved mastery of most. He still felt the need for cautionary advice, however, or a guiding hand. There remained an aspect of the pedagogue about Conon, or perhaps the overzealous mother. I should carry a stick or a scroll, Conon thought. At least he recognised this flaw and it may even have been part of his appeal to Masinissa.

  Despite himself, Conon continued with his advice, hoping to avoid platitudes but recognising that he was getting pretty close to crossing that particular line. “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes or
look foolish, OK, as long as it doesn’t cost you your life. Confound people. So many of our leaders are remote and uncommunicative, probably out of their own fear and uncertainty. Be yourself as much as you can, and be your foolish self. Avoiding foolishness is a fault of youth. Do not take pride in it as a man. Be heedless in those areas where you can. Of course, be meticulous in your strategies, but be a little reckless with your habits. Give your spirit some room to sing. Here’s some more Latin for you, Mas: ‘Gratia dei sum quod sum.’ Meaning ‘thanks be to god that I am what I am’ – whichever god you’re most fond of, gratia Heracles or Melqart in your case, no doubt.”

  Masinissa paused for a moment. His friend was well-intentioned, but, for him, he was stating the obvious. He had a robust love of life, and a degree of self-awareness and self-deprecation that certainly included mischief and error. Sometimes his friend’s learning and care was exhausting and bordered on being patronising. “I am what I am, eh, Con? Life’s just not worth a damn until you can shout that, huh?”

  “Exactly, shout that out, at the empty sky or the empty ocean, to Baal Hammon, Tanit or Melqart. Sometimes you just have to affirm yourself, your own being.”

  “On that note, my merry songbird, I’d better get going. I have books to study, spears to fling and armies to subdue.”

  “Go then, my unconquerable hero. You know that’s a good nickname for you: unconquerable. I can’t see your spirit bending to any trial. You just look too tough. Maybe the Latin version is better; yeah, actually, that suits you. See you Invictus. Masinissa Invictus! See you knocking every challenger around in the next pankration tournament.”

  Masinissa gave a short but theatrical bow and followed it up with a comical growl, in deference to the pankration comment. It was a nice way to end a pleasant morning. Conon did help give a good balance to his emotions and a focus for his thoughts. He also knew his friend cared for him very deeply. The sensitive guy going to the trouble of parting with an invented pet name was typical of his nature. Conon admired him without envy or agenda, and that meant a lot to Masinissa. “That’s just between us, OK, Con? That name. I can’t let that be adopted into common usage. It would be pretty bad form to be known by a Latin nickname in a Carthaginian city. For us though, it’s nice. I appreciate the compliment. I’ll add it my secret names. You’re the first man to give me one! I’ll try to be worthy of it too. I will try to remain in possession of myself and my father’s kingdom, and remain master of my fate. Invictus. I’ll remember that, to be the master of my soul; you know what I mean.”

  “I do, brother,” replied Conon, who was thinking that he may have done his friend a small service with his flattery.

  The Art of Throwing

  Masinissa had agreed to meet Massiva at the stables. Both were keen horseman and felt most at home with their steeds. As he expected, Massiva was already there waiting for him.

  His nephew leant over the gate and threw him a fig. “Hey Mas, where we headed today?” he asked as he tossed the fruit.

  “Do you want to mix it up? Head into the mountains and then down to the beach to cool off—” Masinissa began.

  “And clean up! I get so dusty when I go into the mountains with you. If we’re going to do that kinda trek I’m going to need to thrash in the sea for a bit.”

  “Sounds good; maybe we can eat by the harbour too then, if that’s OK? I saw a big catch coming in earlier and there should be plenty of choice today. I fancy some squid, although a little bit of everything would do me fine.”

  “OK, I’m up for sharing a few plates of fish with you,” Massiva replied enthusiastically. “I’m sure they’ll have any fish you wish today,” he joked, with a comical, lisping accent on the “wish” and the “fish”.

  Masinissa was feeling in a really good mood. The morning was fresh, and he was well rested, which was a great combination for lifting his spirits and giving his mood an effervescence that was quite in tune with his younger nephew, who seemed as frisky as his mount. Neither of them looked as if they were in the mood for training, target practice or any of the military duties that they had been drilling relentlessly. They just wanted to enjoy themselves, and that’s what they were going to do. They would savour a rare day out of the grind. He didn’t really need the bonus inducement of a beach gallop, but he liked the idea, nonetheless. One of his earliest experiences on a horse was riding through the surf just east of Russicada on the smallest pony his father could find, and it was a playful thrill he always relished. It had to be kept till the end though, like the tastiest morsel in a banquet. Both men and horses would appreciate the refreshment of the ocean later.

  Unlike the Iberians and the Romans, Masinissa and Massiva concerned themselves only with grooming in their preparations. They, like most Numidian cavalrymen, had no need for saddle or bridle. Perhaps if one were injured or new to a horse one might take advantage of such tack, but, for most circumstances, all accessories – even down to stirrups, reins and bits – were discouraged. They encumbered the horse, making it more difficult for it to move in its most natural way and distanced the rider from it. To a Numidian, the horse was more than a possession or a beast of burden. It was almost like a woman in that it was to be treated with a degree of intimacy, and the better the rider could sense the mood and movement of his horse, the closer the tie he would have with it. “You don’t dress a woman when you mount her and nor should you a horse” was the bawdy motto that always raised a smile.

  Masinissa enjoyed watching the care that Massiva took with his horse. It was a task both easily could have entrusted to a slave, but they both knew the bond between horse and rider was important and not to be neglected, particularly in a horse that you regarded as a favourite and one you were going to take out regularly. These animals would go with you into battle, and face the darts, spears and blades of your enemies, so they deserved the pampering. If it helped them be braver and more loyal, so much the better.

  They both also took great pride in their horses. A glance at a horse could often tell you a lot about the rider. Just as you could often tell the state of a slave from their teeth or their eyes, you could tell much about a horse from its skin and its gait. Nothing repelled Masinissa more than a horse that had been neglected. You wouldn’t take blunted javelins into battle, so why let a horse succumb to wounds or diseases. When your life depended on it, you and your steed were one. Cavalrymen who forgot this were always the first to fall. The agility and power of your animal was the greatest protection a soldier could call on. Dressing your horse’s wounds was as important, probably even more important, than dressing your own. There was a symbiosis between man and beast; the one depended on the other, and it was right to pay attention to your animal when you were off it.

  There was a point where this care crossed the line into vanity and indulgence, and Massiva invariably crossed it. Masinissa considered it sufficient to brush his mount thoroughly. Massiva, in contrast, pampered his beast like a new lover. He even cut patterns on her rump. He was always talking and whispering to his horse, which he had called Lilybaion, after the Carthaginian city across the straits in Sicily. This was strictly for formal purposes, though, as he abbreviated it at all times and was forever cooing to Lily. She was a fine, black mare and quick as lightning but highly strung. She suited Massiva well, as he was much smaller and slighter than Masinissa, who would have worn out the animal’s racing frame on a long day.

  Masinissa also rode a mare. He’d had her for a few years by then, and she was entering her prime years. She was extremely compliant, and he had broken her easily as a wild pony. She was slightly heavier and slower than Massiva’s horse, but was agile, revelled in the mountains, and charged through thickets and over rough ground with ease. As far as horses go, she gave the impression of being indefatigable and was not skittish in the least. Massiva had ridden her on the longest daily rides, and she had always comported herself well. She was well made for journeys or for battle, and many Numidian
s who he had ridden alongside failed to disguise their envy in a few of their comments about her.

  He grabbed her mane, leapt onto her back in a smooth, effortless motion and goaded her with a bouncy thrust. He’d called her Napla after one of his elderly aunts, who had looked after him for chunks of his infancy, and who had told him fairy stories and legends to lull him to sleep. He cooed to his mount as his aunt had cooed to him in his cot, and Napla responded with a lusty snort.

  “Come on, Seev, get your act together,” he cajoled Massiva, and, for good measure, caused Napla to rear, who added a little flourish of her own with a slight kick of her airborne forelegs.

  “Take it easy, cuz; there’s no impatient widow waiting for you today. You’re not on a promise!” responded Massiva. He gave Masinissa a smirk, which suggested both a mild chide and a deeper masculine admiration.

  It was clear that Massiva was very conscious of Masinissa’s ease with women, and there was an element of helpless envy in his esteem. Masinissa had even started to note traces of mimicry in his manner when they were in the company of ladies or courtesans.

  “Yeah, yeah, some reputations can be a little inaccurate, you know,” Masinissa offered somewhat defensively. Massiva looked at him skeptically and gave him a plausibly equine snort. “Please, Mas, save that for the maidens you ain’t met yet and see if they buy it. I’m not!”

  Masinissa gave him a shrug, not wishing to add an acknowledgement or further details to his nephews’ presumption, but recognising that such a view of him only burnished his reputation for the boy. He put his hands together in a gesture of mock meekness and capture. “It was just a phase. I’m not like that anymore.”