by Rob Edmunds
Gala realised how sullen his mood had become. It is a failure of character to mourn yourself, he chided himself. Do not look too closely at your decrepitude, king, else you strip yourself back to your wasted nakedness. He reminded himself that his people still admired him and followed him. They didn’t see the stooped frame of the man who struggled to undress himself, and who looked at his body and found tracks of blood and veins pop out across limbs where there had only been sleek flesh before. Is this what happens when the body’s blood cools? he wondered. Does it look to show itself to its host more and more, as if begging to be warmed again?
An aide made the announcement he had been expecting. His son had arrived. His heart gave a little sharp kick. His paternal feelings had much in common with the turmoil of an infatuated adolescent, but with the greater intensity of a man who understood his affections well. He loved his son dearly and took immense pride in him. Masinissa had always honoured him, and done everything he was asked to do and much that he hadn’t. He was a boy who rarely had to be told. He knew the next step he should take without direction or prompting.
Gala became nostalgic for a moment and remembered his son in his infancy and how he had refused almost completely to crawl. He had loved nothing better in his early months than to be propped up on the floor holding on to a chair or on his father’s knees, being held upright, and surveying the world with his wobbly body and bobbing head. On his tummy, he would cry and refuse to settle. He remembered that they had even fashioned a sling for him which they took from place to place that allowed them to leave him happily upright. It was sweetest when they were able to have picnics in local woodland or olive groves. They would find a limb of a tree, hang Masinissa’s sling on it, and then pop him into it whilst they ate. The little baby was a cooing delight, and Gala would talk with him of his many plans and hopes. The first thing he would always tell the boy was that he loved him. The words must have meant nothing to the baby, but it was a soothing sensation for them both. He looked at the man who approached him through the door, and wondered how easily he could say those words now.
The man before him was an imposing sight. Gala had never seen his son exude such self-assurance. He could see the resolve in him. The boy he had played with and chased remained in the smile Masinissa gave him and the warmth of his embrace, but the man he had become filled the room. There was something magnetic about him, which was a bittersweet acknowledgement for the man who had nurtured him and whom he clearly had eclipsed. One glance at his son reassured him that Masinissa would be able to command and that the rigours of campaigns would not break him. Combat could be sudden or attritional, and he could see that his son had the power and resolve to handle both. There was an aspect to him too that hinted at unseen powers: strength, wisdom, charisma and intuition. The prodigious potential of the man he had sired was not merely the false pride of a doting father but the manifest reality before him.
“It’s good to see you,” Gala said and there was relief and concern in the tone he used. To be reunited was always a blessing and a moment to savour, but the joy was tempered by the reality that this was a council of war rather than a family gathering.
“You too, Father,” Masinissa replied. He held the shoulders of Gala as he did so, stretching out the moment of intimacy a little further. It was punctuated by a brief cupping of the back of his father’s head, a gesture Gala understood to be as full of devotion as a dagger to an enemy’s heart was full of rage. Then the men had to resume their roles as men, and sideline their love and mutual helplessness, as the tides of their lives and the world had to be discussed.
“Come, sit down with me. I don’t see you enough and it’s with sadness I see you now, as you know I have to send you to war this time.”
Masinissa settled himself in the chair adjacent to Gala’s and replied with all the resolution of his character and upbringing. “This war was never going to spare me, Dad. I’m ready and I accept what will come, knowing that I have some mastery of the fates, and that my mind, body, horse and sword are as quick as any I will encounter.”
Gala smiled at the informality of his son’s address. To be simply called “Dad” by a man whom he had rarely seen as an adult was reassuring. It demonstrated that the boy he had guided and loved was still a part of this rugged figure before him, whom he knew had been tutored by the most agile minds, and scolded by the harshest and most disciplined soldiers after he had, with trepidation and reluctance, allowed him to leave with his Carthaginian allies as a guarantee of his fealty to them. His son was a seal on a convenient-but-ambivalent pact that only the marches of Hannibal had given substance to. The tribes and nations of the world were no longer able to enjoy the luxuries of independence. Sides needed to be taken and alliances forged. Relationships – once loose, and marked by occasional gatherings, tributes or marriages had now become almost symbiotic. The choice was uncomfortable alliances or to be easy prey. It was an easy compromise to make.
“OK, we’ll talk about women and sports later, and maybe we’ll be able to toast our enthusiasms and exploits a little bit, but now we need to talk about the world, as we are the ones that must act in it.” Gala confirmed.
Masinissa interjected, “We, Father? Am I in that group now? The active members of the world?”
“Naturally,” Gala replied. “You have enough knowledge and insight, and you have always been marked by great curiosity about the things around you. Believe me, it’s not such a common virtue as you may suppose. The average man is usually quite content to exert the least effort to maintain his existence. That is why the whip was invented, I’m sure. In contrast, what scholars, generals and leaders do – or are meant to do – is maintain their curiosity, and apply themselves to their own learning and improvement. It is a constant, consuming labour. It gives acuity to your whole being. I know you, my son; you are always mindful of yourself and the moment you inhabit. You’ve always been a sharp kid. Compare yourself sometimes to the people you meet, especially when they have not been dulled by their toils or their cups. Value them in part by how much of their senses they are directing towards you and how much is simply a basic awareness necessary to avoid offence. Ask yourself how many of your compatriots see you when they look at you, hear the meaning of your words when they are listening to you, or are merely preoccupied with their survival and inner beings.”
Masinissa nodded. “I know what you mean. I’m fortunate, though. I believe most of the men I know, and the women I love or associate with have inquisitive and mostly caring natures. I value those qualities as highly as you.”
“We’ll get to some of that later, I promise,” Gala stated, “although use that mindfulness to censor yourself a little if the need arises. There is only so much a man wants to know about his son’s bedroom.” Clearly, he was a little annoyed by his son’s slightly trite agreement. He understands my meaning, he assured himself, but he’s exhibiting some of the opacity that I’m counselling him against. He continued, “Forgive me, Mas, I’m never really going to lose my impulse to guide you and pass on what knowledge of the world I can. It’s a father’s duty. It’s the last muscle he develops, and the strongest one that age leaves him. That is especially so now when whatever sanctuary or immunity my name has provided you will disappear. The javelins that are flung at you or the swords raised against you will pay no account to your rank or name. I’m sure you see this as a time of change, and, hopefully, a beginning and not an end. Carry with you everything you’ve learnt, though. Remember that any journey, and your journey now may be long and exhausting, doesn’t really begin at the moment we start it. Your journey, in the truest sense, started when you opened your eyes or understood my words for the first time, when your senses started to inform you of the world. It won’t end when you come home either. The world is a mess, and the victories you may be lucky enough to achieve will only be succeeded by more challenges, be they of arms, men or both! We Numidians are horseman. Stay on the horse and don’t le
t the beast stay still for long. It’s the best advice I can give you.”
Masinissa smiled, enjoying his father’s obliqueness and concern. He cherished it as something precious. Theirs was a unique relationship. Gala was being the father he had always wanted to be, but could not manage through Masinissa’s adolescence and young manhood. You cannot entrust messengers with your own feelings after all.
Gala went on, “I have a legacy to preserve and enhance, son, and you are the means for me to progress it and consolidate the country the Numidian and Massylian people deserve. We are not meant to be constantly in the vanguard of the Carthaginian army, or a proxy force for whoever dazzles or bullies us enough. The edges of our world are changing remarkably, but, in reality, it is us who are on the edge of the world. We need to modernise our ways, and take the learning and curiosity of the Greeks and the Romans as our own. Philosophy, science, art, architecture, and, yes, weaponry too: these are occupations that we need to aspire to. We must explore our minds and engage our hands in matters beyond horsehair and knives.
“I see this country as four countries right now. It is divided, firstly, between our forces and those of Syphax. We have our tribal and regional fissure. The Massyli and Masaesyli are enemies, but we are all Numidians. A leader strong enough or charismatic enough can wrest loyalty from both. It will not be me now, and it certainly won’t be Syphax, but…” He looked at Masinissa encouragingly. “It could be you.”
Masinissa had not heard his father speak so ambitiously of his hopes for him before, and it was daunting as well as flattering to hear Gala speak of him as a unifying force for a notional North African state that, it seemed, could aspire to all the accoutrements of civilisation that the great states of Rome and Greece possessed. To aspire to just the level of the Iberians, Gauls or Phoenicians seemed an enormous leap, and to go further still would take enormous resolve and dedication, from thousands of people with a unified purpose. To see the towns of Cirta, Tebessa and Thugga begin to resemble Gades, Massalia, Capua or Syracuse, let alone Carthage or Rome itself, seemed a quite fanciful idea to Masinissa.
Gala took his son’s thoughtfulness to be favourable, and he continued dissecting his theme. “The other division is more north and south, or roughly so. You know how, as you travel, attitudes and behaviour can change with the terrain. The Numidians of the southern desert are very different from the coastal people, and their ways blur with those of the Libyans the further south and east you travel. As this war has demonstrated, and the mercenary war and earlier war with Rome proved too, it is those riders and warriors who are the most fierce and able. Maybe it’s the harsher terrain and their struggle for daily survival within it that makes them so. I can’t think of a more hostile environment in which to live, and, undoubtedly, this breeds hard men. They are also, in my experience, loyal and honourable to the leaders they trust and believe in. They have been so for me, and are the reason why this kingdom still prevails intact. Fill your ranks with these men, and cultivate them as long as your enemies threaten you. Always be aware of their simplicity, which is a virtue for their leader. They deal with absolutes, for the most part, not conditional things, compromises or expediencies. Whatever their cause, they will hold to it. Their faith in their lands and their tribe is not a transient thing. It is a bond forged by years digging in the same unyielding earth as their brothers for a few grains or roots. Always remember that if a man can teach you a thing or two about survival, he is worth knowing. If you, our cause and our nation survive, then the northern people will become more important. Maybe the number of our sailors will grow and merchant fleets will expand, and we will start plying the trade routes of the world and bring back wealth and knowledge in all its forms. Maybe our merchants and the many different tradesmen in the bazaar will build our cities into enviable destinations, but – for now, though – even though you are venturing north and west, remember that your power and support lie in the south and east.”
Masinissa realised that his father was attempting to pass as much of his wisdom as he could to him, ceding to his son some of his own place in the world. He was frail now, and the warrior mantle had to be passed. Gala was offering him his insight into how to preserve his inheritance. He was the king of the Massyli, and he had a paternal understanding and love of it. It was clear to Masinissa that his father’s words were shrewd and that he expected him to heed them. In reality, he was experienced and perceptive enough to have adopted much of his advice already. Most of his cavalry and auxiliaries were desert men originally, and he had consolidated strong tribal and family links with the southern Massyli, as well as a significant group of Libyans. As his father had said, the differences between them in any case were quite slight and vague.
“I won’t forget, Dad,” he replied. “I know how valuable the desert riders are. All the men who trained me or who hold rank under me have been from the nomadic tribes. They even tease me that I am a soft northerner sometimes.”
Gala grinned and nodded approvingly. “Good, try to keep it that way as far as possible. You’re going to lose many soon, I fear, so send word for others to be prepared to join you. It’s always difficult to quantify the numbers of available men in the deeper desert, and those who may cross it from further south in Africa, but our bonds are strong and our family respected by the Libyans, so any calls we make will be answered in time.”
With the hint about losses, a glance was exchanged between father and son, and Gala’s body language altered imperceptibly. He stuck his thumbnail into his index finger, looked at the indent momentarily, and then brushed it and his middle finger pensively over the bristles of his moustache. It was a gesture almost subconsciously intended to close the mouth or one that suggested the topic on the tip of his tongue was an onerous one.
“We have to do this,” he said.
Masinissa took the comment to refer to both the direction of the conversation as well as the imminent battle they were about to discuss.
Gala continued, “Syphax is targeting us. He has no immediate interest in Carthaginian territory, although I suspect Rome views us and them – right now, anyway – as inextricable. They are pouring so many military advisors into his territories.”
“How many?” queried Masinissa. “There have been a lot of rumours, and you know this sort of thing can get inflated as it gets spread around.”
Gala worked his tongue under his incisors, and appeared to ruminate a little on the question, suggesting to Masinissa that his answer may be a little vague or uncertain. “Troop movements into Masaesyli and Mauretania are hard to ascertain fully. I think most, if not all, of the Roman deployments have come by sea, over possibly at least a year. We believe at least one legion is training and bolstering Syphax’s forces, and there may be elements of a second, so, from their point of view, there are over 5,000 men, for sure. When you ally that with the 20,000 Numidians and mercenaries that are mustering for Syphax, it is very substantial force. Most of the Masaesyli, though, are conscripted, and his cavalry is much weaker than ours, and I don’t think there is much of an elephant brigade amongst them. He is trying to compensate by utilising the expertise of the Roman contingent to improve the quality of his infantry units. I don’t think that, even with the disciplines fostered by the legionaries, they will pose any great threat, and if the terrain is favourable, your men will pick them off and cut them down with the same proficiency that our riders have become renowned for.”
“I hope so,” Masinissa replied. “There are plenty of veterans in the cavalry, and they are well used to spearing Romans. We need infantry of our own, though. We are badly outnumbered otherwise.”
Gala gave his son a slightly feline grin. The sly old man had a little more to offer. “Of course, we will have both the Hasdrubal’s as our jaws. Gisco will march with us and direct the eastern forces, and a large cohort of the Iberian army will advance towards us from the west, commanded by Hasdrubal Barca himself. Messengers are informing us that many of h
is forces are disembarking at Tingi at the moment. They will march east, and we will look to meet them. There may be elements of heavy Gallic cavalry with him, and if so, all the better. We could integrate them into our flanks, and, when we have weakened and softened their sides enough, they can plough through them with impunity.”
Gala was painting a very auspicious picture of the battle ahead, and Masinissa knew his positivity was very much intended to allay the concerns of his son. It was likely that, even with the presence of the illustrious Barcid general, the heavy cavalry his father was describing would be meagre at best. Nevertheless, he had heard and read quite a lot about the heavily armoured lancers used in the eastern Asian armies, and been impressed by how effective they appeared to be. The splintered factions of the Macedonian empire were especially fond of this type of warfare. The Seleucid Empire, in particular, had a reputation for utilising lancers in thundering charges that often dealt decisive and devastating blows against the opposing infantry. It was quite antithetical to the Numidian style of speed and skirmish. Even Masinissa wore only the lightest armour. However, it was a notion that intrigued him, and he could see how potentially complementary a joint light and heavy cavalry might be.
“The war has really come home hasn’t it? When our forces engage, this could look like a smaller version of Cannae,” offered Masinissa.
“Let’s hope so,” Gala interjected cheerfully. “The Romans were completely routed there.”
“Weren’t they! Hannibal, Maharbal and Mago killed about 75,000 that day, as well as taking the surrender of the equivalent of two whole legions. If we could do the same to Syphax’s crew, we could march right back up through Iberia. I’ll advise Gisco shortly, when he brings his forces to us, that we should lure Syphax onto the plains; keep the ground as unfavourable as we can; try to disrupt their supplies, especially their water; and if Gisco can station enough soldiers in the rear, cut off any secure line of retreat.”