by Rob Edmunds
“Sure, sure!” came the quick, sceptical reply. Massiva was clearly dubious of the claim that a man such as Masinissa could switch off his charms so easily.
“No it’s true. I’ve only got eyes for Sophonisba now. And you can help me out a little by keeping your scurrilous mouth shut, OK? Gisco would ban me from his villa if he heard any of your out-of-date banter.” The truth – or the relatively recently expired truth at any rate, which Massiva was largely aware of and a little too careless in discussing – was the fact that, for the last few years, ever since the calamitous Battle of Dertosa had compelled far more forces to head to Iberia both from Carthage and Numidia, Masinissa had found himself at greater liberty. This was a freedom that he had enjoyed considerably.
All the brothers of the Barcid clan – Hannibal, Hasdrubal and Mago – were now gone from Carthage and campaigning elsewhere, and, whilst Masinissa lacked a little of their cachet within Carthaginian circles, he was the heir to its key ally and the guarantor of its western border, which was contributing huge numbers of skilled cavalry troops to the Punic forces. This gave him a certain status in the parlours and banquets he often frequented. Moreover, he more than compensated for his perceived junior position by his appearance. He was well aware of the admiring glances directed towards him when he arrived at an event. There was a palpable frisson of excitement, as if he were a dancer or performer, particularly amongst the younger women and girls.
War was known to sharpen passions, of course, and there were numerous widows or women who hadn’t cared to wait for news of their widowhood before finding some form of solace in Masinissa’s arms. He often found himself inadequate as a romantic analgesic however as many of these despondent ladies found their passions turning to sorrows and their heartbreak would often overtake them in paroxysms of guilt and despair. It was at those moments when he revealed his consolatory qualities both to himself and to his companion. He knew he allowed these ladies to forget and then to remember, and they were grateful for both. He was also grateful to them. He thought wisdom and judgement were best nourished at a woman’s breast. He needed to see beyond the perspective of the scheming warlord or mercenary soldier, who could be preoccupied with their own survival and the subjugation of their enemies. He needed to focus more widely on further ways of being, and develop a wider emotional range than ones dominated by fear, hatred, greed and lust.
His experiences, the example of his father, and the philosophical and ethical guidance of his Greek teachers had taught him much. For him, the closed mind was an ending, even a death. He promised himself that he would keep his heart open and his mind curious. He liked to compare his outlook to the cavalry units he commanded or allied with. He believed his actions should echo the movements of a horse in battle; well, one ridden by a Numidian at any rate. They could whirl and change direction with ease, attacking, retreating, probing and ready to change according to the shifting fortunes on the battlefield. The alternative would be to attack like an elephant. These creatures were formidable but capable only of crashing charges. They had none of the deftness that a horse possessed. The Romans had learnt, to their cost, how these beasts could scythe through their massed ranks and trample anything in their path. They were also, by the accounts of convalescing soldiers, starting to learn about their deficiencies and weaknesses too. They simply charged, and these charges were indiscriminate. If one allowed them channels to blunder through, they could be easily attacked from the rear. A wounded or terrified elephant was as much a danger to its own forces as to its enemies. The horse, in contrast, offered loyalty and agility. That is how he would be. He would reward any faith and manoeuvre according to circumstances.
He shook himself. How did a compliment about his sexual prowess end up with thoughts about charging elephants? Well, there were times when the similarities might not have been too out of place! He blamed Massiva for his distraction. The obsessive kid needed to hurry up with his grooming. He’d have to bring something to read next time whilst he waited, to stop himself from daydreaming. He’d been reading a Socratic dialogue, the Apology of Socrates to the Jury by Xenophon, and he could have finished it in the time he took to wait for Massiva. He was at the point where Socrates was making the case for dying before the onset of senility. You take the crumbs of comfort you can, he thought. Masinissa did wonder a little about the relationship between the author and Socrates. Xenophon was clearly a devoted acolyte. He even owed Socrates his life. It was well known that, during the Battle of Delium, Socrates had showed his courage and rescued Xenophon when he had fallen from his horse. According to Diogenes Laertius, Socrates had saved Xenophon’s life. Masinissa wondered whether someone might do the same for him one day, perhaps even his fussy cousin. The image of someone riding back into battle to rescue a fallen comrade who was at the mercy of enemy spears seemed the noblest act to Masinissa. Stories from battles, and even songs, commemorated these sorts of acts of heroism. One of the most emotive was about two brothers, one of whom had ridden right into the teeth of the enemy’s assault to haul his brother onto his pony. It never failed to touch Masinissa.
With a final flourish of the brush to Lily’s rump, Massiva finished his equine ablutions, threw his brush casually towards the nearest attendant, swigged some water, tossed the empty water skin just as casually in the same direction and mounted Lily even more smoothly than Masinissa had Napla. “Let’s go, bro,” he called out as he spurred the horse out of the stables. He waved at Masinissa, sweeping his arm in front of him, in effect asking for directions.
Masinissa gave him a bearing, and he directed his mount accordingly. Massiva kicked Lily into a gallop, which Masinissa knew from previous form would last a while, and he settled into keeping within reasonable touch without frothing Napla too much.
They rode roughly south-west, in the general direction of Sicca, which was the highest settlement in the region, and a formidable stronghold, well placed between Cirta and Carthage. Gala had always instructed Masinissa to be particularly considerate of the elders and chieftains there. With the volatile forces that vied for Numidian tribal loyalties, it was crucial to have such an important citadel supporting you. No doubt Syphax would love to undermine the Massyli by gaining the favour of the Siccans. Fortunately, the people were kinsman, and their loyalties were fierce and unwavering.
“Mountain people see things in more binary ways than coastal folk” was a dictum that had been inculcated into Masinissa from an early age. The deeper one went into the mountain ranges of the High-Tell, the more rigid, and usually more conservative, the views became. “Party by the sea, pray in the hills” was another credo his father was quite fond of.
As they rode, the landscape unravelled and altered, sometimes subtly and sometimes dramatically. It kept one’s attention with its abundant natural contrasts. The rock formations, in particular, went from soft, weather-worn undulations to jagged ridges, and then back again. This was far from a uniform landscape, until you reached the desert fringes, of course, where the colour and textures fizzled into myriad shifting grains.
The hues of brown and green, and the limited shades between, dominated the landscape. There were few flowers or flora, which might have infused some more vivid splashes of colour into the landscape, other than the resilient shrubs and trees that had anchored themselves where the earth’s waters allowed. He wondered if the interiors of Iberia would be similar. Would the scrub be the same? Would the lands be more cultivated? There would be fewer date palms that was for sure.
Napla finally made up the distance that Lily had put between them with her early spurt, and the two horses broke into a more relaxed stride. Masinissa could see signs of the terrain on both her and Massiva. So much for all that pampering, he thought to himself. Clearly, his nephew had been meditating a little whilst on horseback, as Massiva looked at him quite thoughtfully when he drew alongside.
Masinissa knew there were moments in their relationship when he had to play the wise, nurturin
g mentor, and Massiva became the hesitant-but-willing pupil. Sometimes, finding the right theme or tone wasn’t easy, but there was a touch of apprehension in his nephew’s look and his concerns were pretty transparent.
“You know, Massiva, we are such privileged men,” stated Masinissa.
Massiva’s uncertainty deepened. “We have our freedoms and our luxuries, but how does that make us more privileged than others of our class?”
“War,” Masinissa replied. “It gives no opportunities to the common soldier, but it gives us opportunities for heroism and change. Look at Hannibal. He is barely much older than us, and yet his name is on the lips of every man alive, and he is changing the world.”
Massiva’s mouth pursed and his eyebrows furrowed, a little comically. “Well, let us see how much he changes the world. He is killing a lot of Romans, that is for sure, but he yet may lead Carthage to disaster. His boldness has stalled with his supplies, it appears.”
Untypically, Masinissa rushed to Hannibal’s defence, choosing the divine as his support, “He is fulfilling the prophecy he received at the Temple of Melqart. The snake is leaving destruction in its wake. The countryside of Etruria and Apulia must be barely able to sustain his rampage.”
The reference failed to blunt his nephew’s criticism. “It needs to, though, doesn’t it? We have so many men there. There are the Samnites and Gauls too. If they start to grow hungry or disillusioned, Rome may turn the chase around on Hannibal’s armies. They must be growing tired of the attritional tactics of Fabius Maximus.”
This was a possibility that Masinissa had certainly entertained, but he still admired the tactical acumen of Hannibal. “I’m not so exalted or deluded as to compare myself to the finest general on earth. I’m merely suggesting that our lives have opportunities others lack, and our guile, bravery and good fortune can create glorious fates for us, and for Numidia, of course. You see, Massiva, the vast majority of people just man the oars; only the most fortunate can rest his hand on the rudder. So many people – be they Carthaginians, Numidians, Romans, Libyans, Iberians or whoever – live to satisfy their immediate needs. They are always, especially our soldiers, living on the edge of the void and living lives without real substance. Their aspirations are no better than hallucinations that will never be realised. To wake the next morning, and to be free of pain and hunger is the best they can hope for. Can they plan more than a few days ahead? Even if they do, it is only the smallest and most trivial matters they can influence. They cannot even gain control over which direction they march in. That is a decision for you or me, or whichever legate or tribune they are assigned to. We may as well attach strings to them and animate them like the fools of the puppet theatres.”
“Free will is it, Mas? Don’t waste your time pondering that. It will get you nowhere. I would be more practical. A general should always be mindful of the views and feelings of his troops. Look at the forces of Carthage. How many of the men who fight for her do so with steadfast loyalty? No doubt the citizens of the Sacred Band will never break, but how many of those men march on foreign soil? They are a privileged militia who do not hold the centre in any battles Hannibal or Hasdrubal are going to wage. The forces of Carthage are dominated by mercenaries and opportunists, and if the tide turns and flows against them, they will be as reliable as sand running through your fingers.” For dramatic effect, Massiva waved his fingers together as if passing a handful of dust through them.
Masinissa’s eyes rolled. “You are as crude in your analysis as you are in your symbolism, nephew. Gold and promises. Dangle those in front of the average soldier and lubricate him with a modest amount of wine, and he will hold. What is his alternative? Slavery? Death? Is not Hannibal still in a good position? Whose army marches closer to their enemies’ city? Maybe he could have pressed his momentum. Should he have listened to Maharbal and seized the moment when he had it and pitted his forces straight at the Roman heart?”
This was the debate that raged throughout the Numidian and Carthaginian ranks, and it always seemed to follow a circular route back on itself. Preservation, glory or destruction? So tantalisingly close had Hannibal been, so should he have thrown his dice and his elephants at the gates of Rome?
Massiva saw the futility of this line. “Let us save that one for the comfort and idleness of a banquet. I will lie on the most comfortable couch, perhaps in the most opulent triclinium we can find on our conquests, and bat about the wisdom or folly of Carthaginian hesitation with you till my goblet falls from my hands.”
“You know Seev, Maharbal did make an excellent observation, and it is a criticism that you can lay at the feet of even the most triumphant generals. Hannibal knows how to conquer. That much is obvious, but does he know how to make use of his victory? Time will tell. For me, I think reinforcements are critical. This is a long war. A direct assault with depleted forces would have brought ruin to his army. The upper hand remains with Carthage as it is.”
Massiva sighed. “We are too distant to know for sure the morale or predicament of the advance forces. They have fought many battles and now seem to be trotting around the Italian countryside, as far as we are told in the news of the campaign that reaches us, anyway.”
“Yeah, it’s funny how war can be just a story for those not engaged in it. I’m sure the reality is more tedium than adventure for those troops at the moment.”
“Well, let’s not let the monotony of the northern camps intrude on our day. Race you to that hill!”
“Give me a start then, you boy racer!” Masinissa entreated, knowing that he would be chewing on dust if Massiva didn’t give him a sporting lead.
“OK, I’ll give you a minute, but that’s all.”
Masinissa agreed and stirred Napla into a sprint. There was no way Massiva would give him that amount of time. He probably was weighing up a spot from which he could comfortably reel him in whilst making it look like a reasonably well-handicapped race. Still, he might misjudge the terrain as the hill kicked up sharply, which would suit Masinissa’s animal and his style of riding a little better, and might give him a chance. He could hold him off on the plain, and trust to Napla’s strength and his horsemanship to do the rest.
Massiva’s whoops and taunts were in his ears from the beginning, and they offered Masinissa a good estimate as to how well his nephew was closing in on him. It also gave him the spur to reach the steeper incline with a lead, which he managed. He zigzagged up the slope expertly, with Napla’s shoulders and crest punching forwards on the harsher gradients. Massiva’s taunts lost a little conviction when he realised he would be eating them shortly.
As Masinissa reached the ridge line, he turned back to see how close Massiva was and let his imagination race to find the funniest riposte. His pursuer was only a little further down the slope and cantering briskly, and he had only a moment or two to get his phrase just right. The quip got as far as, “So much for…” before the alarm on the braking Massiva’s face checked him. His eyes were wide with shock and darting at whatever activity Masinissa had his back to.
Masinissa spun Napla like a top and surveyed the scene in the valley below, which his triumphant victory had excluded. There was much to take in, although a fair number of the protagonists in the tableau lay motionless, so their arrival clearly coincided with the last struggles of the fight. A caravan of heavily burdened camels and horses had been ambushed and, for the most part, cut to pieces by marauders. They could be bandits, Libyans or Masaesylians; it was difficult to determine. Naturally, the camels had been spared, but were bolting in all directions. The raiders, for their part, were not too bothered that their booty was absconding, being fairly safe in the knowledge that they wouldn’t go far and would be retrieved easily. They were, like vultures, more preoccupied with their static prey. About eight men lay dead or motionless, two of whom – from where they were lying and what they were wearing – could have been with the assailants. Another nine riders were scattered a
round the lone surviving defender, who was wedged against the belly of a camel, with what appeared to be two others of uncertain mortality. Protruding from the camel and the ground around the defender were a number of javelins; there was at least one for each of the attackers, suggesting that either the riders had poor aim, for which there was ample contradictory evidence, or the last man had a rare agility and skill at evasion.
The two men watched mesmerised as the figure gestured to the riders and shouted something, which was only a sound of rage and defiance by the time it reached them. Encircling their putative victim, two of the riders, who were at opposite ends of the wide circle, broke and charged. Both held javelins ready to fling and falcatas twinkled in their robes, ready to finish the job. They were quick, but the boy – and Masinissa could by then see that was what he was – was quicker.
The boy looked like he had some kind of short sword or dagger in his robe, but it was not to that he reached in his defence. He was holding a sling by his side and he quickly put a stone bullet in its leather cradle. The presumption of the onlookers up to that point was that the bandits would pierce their victim with ease or lop chunks off him as he tried piteously to fend them away. They knew better than to discount his chances, though, once they knew he had a range weapon. Some of these shepherd boys were deadly. The trouble was that the horsemen were a bit quicker and deadlier than a hungry jackal.
Masinissa realised that his view of the scene beneath him was becoming far from detached, and that, for all the fact that the shepherd boy’s demise appeared imminent and the odds of him surviving an attempt at rescue far from assured, he was picking out his own targets and plotting how his own ambush might unfold.
His resolve was confirmed by two things. The first was the fact that the boy’s odds improved quickly as his first projectile found the forehead of one of the charging riders, whose head recoiled and his body slumped off his mount, either unconscious or dead. The slinger’s skill was clear from the accuracy of the throw, but Masinissa had observed much more in the poise and balance of the boy prior to unleashing it. He was very familiar with slingers – both mercenary Balearics, and his own and Carthage’s auxiliaries – and none had looked as fluid and easy in their action as this young herder. His target had been small, moving rapidly and was still about a hundred yards away, but he had looked as if he could not miss as he made one slow rotation to seat the projectile and then a rapid overhand whip, which exploded the stone into his attacker’s face. There is training, and then there is instinct and natural ability, and the boy’s calmly coordinated motion was a special talent. A special talent that Masinissa suddenly was keen to harness. The boy had even managed to put a little leap into his swing to give it greater elevation and velocity.