Carthage

by Ross Leckie

  As for what he said, it was rote learning, like the parrot at Macro’s, the barber that I use. And his Latin is still far from good. At this rate, perhaps it never will be. Anyway, there were titters from Cato’s party at several of his solecisms. The whole thing was not a success. I judge Scipio to have made no new enemies, certainly. But then nor has he won new friends, while his shameless wooing of the common people is not something for which we had planned.

  Do you remember our old friend Gallus Celer, and that tiger he brought back to Rome from the Syrian war? He tried to civilise it, but it maimed one keeper after another. The city Guard had to kill it in the end.

  Meanwhile, old friend, my head is full of numbers. Our siege of Corinth is not going well. Marcellus, our commander there, has asked us for more men and munitions. I am seeing the Treasury tomorrow to see what can be done. Fortunately, Cato is coming with me. He has his uses, you know.

  From Bostar’s journal

  ‘So, Tancinus, you are going to live,’ I said.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he grunted back from his bed.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘Oh, really? For where?’

  His face fell. He raised his head and, wincing, looked at me. ‘You don’t have to rub it in, Bostar,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a wife back in Rome, and a child.’

  ‘Then go back to them.’

  ‘Sure. I wouldn’t get as far as the end of the docks. You know that.’ He fell back.

  I felt pity for him. ‘I don’t know it, but I think it highly unlikely that Cato would let you live.’

  He closed his eyes. I sat down on a chair beside his bed. In the next bed, a young child called out in fever. A nurse came.

  ‘Cato? You knew?’ Tancinus said quietly, opening his eyes and looking at the ceiling where flies buzzed.

  ‘Of course. Who else?’

  He turned to look at me. ‘You were a friend of Africanus’, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘A great man. Saved us from Hannibal, almost on his own. My brother fought under him. Said he was a genius, not a general. Never did understand why Cato hated him.’ Pushing a trolley, the water boy approached. Tancinus waved him away. ‘So what do you want, then?’ he continued after a pause.

  ‘I have an offer for you.’

  ‘Oh yes. What’s that then? A duel?’

  ‘No, Tancinus. Save your sarcasm. I am not a fighting man. I want to offer you a job.’

  This time, he sat right up, throwing back his blanket. I saw the dressing on his side. ‘When, that is,’ I went on, ‘you’re fully recovered.’

  He stared at me. ‘Look, I tried to kill you.’

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘Not me. What you were told I was. An enemy of Rome. Which, I might add, is one thing I am not. So, will you work for me?’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  ‘This and that. But no killing. At least not any I have planned.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘You were a soldier, yes?’

  ‘I was, for sixteen years. A primus pilus, then a centurion by the end,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Where did you serve?’

  ‘All over. But Sicily, mostly.’

  ‘And you took part in the siege of Syracuse?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just hoped you had.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Tancinus, do you think you could help me prepare Carthage for a siege?’

  He laughed. ‘A siege, of Carthage! Anyone who tried would have to be mad. You’ve seen the walls, the harbour––’

  ‘Mad, yes,’ I replied. ‘Or very, very determined. But answer me: could you help?’

  He scratched his growing beard. ‘First time I shaved, you know. Just before our final attack on Syracuse, once we’d breached the walls. Metellus, he was our general, and a fine soldier, said it would be fierce in there, fighting hand to hand. So he ordered all beards off, so the enemy would have less to grab.’

  ‘Interesting. But my question?’

  ‘What about my wife and daughter? They’ll starve. I have to get back to them, somehow.’

  ‘Or––’ I began.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or, easier, we could bring them to you here.’

  After a moment, he began to laugh and then, pressing a hand to his wound, he doubled over in pain. He slowed his panting, and held up his head. ‘Don’t make me laugh, please.’

  ‘Is that a “no”?’

  ‘Come back tomorrow. I’ll give you my answer then.’

  I did. He agreed.

  Letter preserved in the citadel of Carthage

  Claudius Metellus Pulcher, Senator and Consul of Rome, to Mastanabal, High Sufet, and the Council of Carthage. My colleagues have elected me to speak for them on this issue. Your recent attack on our shipping is a flagrant violation of the treaty between us. We lost three merchantmen at your pirates’ hands. We want: (1) compensation for this, to the amount of ten thousand gold denarii or its equivalent and five hundred heminae of wheat; (2) your personal assurance that this act was one of your pirates’, and not condoned by the state; (3) a member of your nobility to come here to Rome, hostage as surety that such a thing will not occur again. Give your reply to him who brings this. If we do not have that, and a satisfactory one, within seven days of writing, we will begin to sink all Carthaginian shipping we find. Any retaliation to that, we will proclaim as casus belli.

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Cato to Flaccus. I suspect that I might as well save the Treasury the cost of this parchment. But I wish to protest formally about the advancement of Scipio. He is not advancing up the cursus honorum. He simply treats it as his own. And he breaks, flagrantly, all our sumptuary laws. Will you allow this to go on?

  Letter preserved among Cato’s papers

  Flaccus to Cato. I am using, as you can see, only the very smallest piece of parchment. That is because my answer to you is short: yes.

  [Scipio told me only late last night. We leave Rome at dusk. We are going away, to Corinth. Lucius Mummius Achaicus, who is Scipio’s cousin and proconsul of the Roman legions there, has asked specifically for Scipio as an expert on sieges, and me as an adviser. So, another city, another sack.

  I must hurry. Much of the material that ends my mosaic is already in order. But editing what covers the events in between will take a great deal of time, and that I do not have. After Corinth, I am to accompany the Roman fleet in search of the Cassiterides, those misty islands to the west from which Carthage long drew its tin and silver, and much of its wealth, whatever treaties said. The route to them is one thing Cato was never able to ascertain, and I discovered among the papers I found after Carthage’s extirpation. I look forward to the Atlantic. They say that, beyond the Pillars of Herakles (yes, I insist on the Greek form of his name), the sea is no longer blue, but black. We shall see.

  When I come back, I have my own history to finish. So I must deal with this dalliance today. That is a pity, but one which I cannot gainsay. And, who knows? It may suit the tenor of these times when little is finished, but much begun. So, with the aid of two scribes – both Greek of course, for Roman letters are still but rude, whatever Ennius might argue – I will abbreviate my selection of documents, and accelerate the passage of time. Then I will dictate a synopsis of what remains of this telling tale I hoped would tell its own. I will leave the scribes to bind the whole together. That is fitting. Life too is the work of many hands. Like the chorus, one man may lead. But many play.]

  Letter preserved in the archives of Rome

  Theogenes in Vicenza to Labienus in Rome. Forgive my delayed response to yours. I have been travelling in the hills around here. The silver filigree is very good, and I have purchased several fine screens. Your news of Scipio concerns me – although it would not, were he of any other name. Unlike you Romans, we Greeks have never had any form of inheritance tax. We know from long expe
rience that families always tax themselves in the end. The lineage of the Scipios is long and, for the most part, illustrious. It was time they had a wastrel to disgrace them, and empty their coffers so that, with someone else, somewhere else, the cycle could begin again.

  But on this occasion, if we can we must subvert the natural order. I see matters as a game of chess. One side has Cato. We too need a king, even if his knights and castles direct him, and Scipio is our man. With his name behind us, the People would never let Cato and the Senate enact measures of which we do not approve. Let me be clear, especially given the rumours I have heard, even here. I do not want war with Carthage. It is damn bad for my business, and my pleasure. In the last war, it was impossible to procure Falernian wine, and who wanted to buy art when they were riding to kill or be killed?

  Scipio is young for a start. And think of your beloved garden in Capua – which, I might add, you must be missing. As you know, transplants often take time to root and thrive. So, I have a solution. Put it to Curtius. It should ensure that Scipio calms down, and will allow you time to return home. Send Scipio off to an army somewhere. You know I do not follow these things, but there is always trouble somewhere on our frontiers. Gaul, for example. There is always some tribe no one has heard of chopping off an obscure procurator’s head, or raping his wife, and all that sort of thing. Find out. Then, as a tribune perhaps, nothing too fancy, a praetor would be going too far, send Scipio there. If he fornicates with Gauls, you know what will happen. Let us let it. There’s nothing like a good dose of the pox to calm a young stud down.

  Letter preserved in the citadel of Carthage

  Bodmelqart to Mastanabal, High Sufet of Carthage. I have done as you bid me. Hugging first our coast, we came to the Pillars of Hirqalexh and crossed to Spain. By day we moored in creeks and sheltered bays. We sailed only by night, keeping closely to the coast, and I am sure neither Roman nor any man that breathes has seen us. I write this moored off the town the Romans now call Emporiae, that was Qatash when it was a Punic place. May it be so again. Because of what I have seen I am sending one of our two ships back with this letter, so that you may give me word.

  As you ordered, alone I journeyed inland. I found Fanar, the place we first discovered just before the last war. Your misgivings are sound. The Roman insistence that the veins of silver we had found there were shallow and worthless is, as you suspected, false. The Romans have dug great mines. I saw four. Though I did not go close, I marked many slaves go down. So something we ceded for nothing under the treaty is worth an incalculable amount.

  Might the same be true of the claims that we forewent, under the selfsame shaming treaty, north-north-west of Narabo? The journey would be perilous. The western Roman fleet has a station hard by, and Narabo itself is a lee shore. I would like to go, but await your instructions. Shall I seek more proof of the duplicity of Rome?

  From Bostar’s journal

  I am exhausted. It is barely dawn, and I am writing this by candlelight. I was with the Council until nearly midnight, but could not sleep when I returned. Borage. I must get the cook to prepare tea of borage. And ask her to find a fuller. Now it is spring, our latrine smells and harbours flies. It must be full.

  I would ask Hanno to go and find a fuller now. This is the time of day they clean the city’s drains. But I am sure that he is still sleeping. He should be, given the rigours of his training school.

  I was summoned without warning. Hanno and I were eating, but I left without delay. I found myself in a full meeting of the Council. The hall was huge, the members sitting in carved, high-backed chairs around its walls, but the acoustic was good. I could not understand the proto-Punic of the prayers and imprecations. What I do understand is the letter which a fat sweating steward, a eunuch, I would guess, gave me to read as that was going on.

  Then I was escorted to the middle of the room, and a stool brought. It was made of shittim wood, and its seat was worn with use. I sat there as the priests went on. From the far end of the hall, Mastanabal’s voice broke the silence that seeped at last across the room. I could barely see him. The torchlight was not strong, and the smoke of cloying incense thick. Am I a superstitious man? I think not. But I bent down to adjust the twisted strap of one of my sandals. The mosaic on the floor was of pairs of opposing sacred fylfots. I saw my foot precisely in the middle of the unhallowed, unlucky one.

  ‘Bostar of Chalcedon,’ Mastanabal called out. ‘We have turned to you for counsel in this hour. You have read the letter from the Roman Consul?’

  ‘I have, Lord Sufet.’

  ‘And your opinion is?’

  ‘I know, or rather knew, Claudius Metellus Pulcher. He is equanimous, and true.’

  ‘Not one of Cato’s party?’

  ‘No. He is his own man – although he thought the treaty after the last war was not fair to Rome. But before we turn to the Romans’ three demands, may I ask, Elders of Carthage, something of you?’

  I could see Mastanabal’s shape lean forwards, and confer with those sitting next to him. He sat back in his chair. ‘By all means.’

  I stood up, and looked round me at the hundred Elders in the smoke and scented gloom. ‘Is the Roman allegation true?’ There was a buzz of voices round the room.

  One of them to my left stood up. ‘Stranger, I am Qart, Sufet of the harbour and our fleets – or, I should say, fleet, for as you know we have only trading ships, and none of war.’ There was a murmur of assent round the room, and the stamping of feet. ‘I swear by Moloch and by all the gods. We authorised no such attack.’

  ‘But there are Carthaginian pirates to the east,’ I replied, ‘in Caria and Mysia, out of Rhodes and Crete.’

  ‘That is true, but theirs is an ancient way of life, born not of Carthage but of Tyre. They glean their small pickings around Cyprus or off the coast of Cilicia, as they have always done,’ Qart replied. ‘In hundreds of years, they have never ventured west before. Why should they have done so now?’

  ‘I see, I see,’ I said. I sensed perfidy, but not here. ‘Then you must reply in the strongest terms to Pulcher’s second point. Insist that you know nothing of this at all. Suggest, in answer to your question, Qart––’

  ‘Suggest what?’ Mastanabal intervened.

  ‘The truth. That these pirates may have been paid to attack, and by a Roman, to provoke war.’

  ‘By Cato, you mean,’ another Elder called.

  ‘I would not go so far as to name him,’ I said.

  ‘Bostar of Chalcedon!’ This was a new voice, deep and low. ‘I am Abdoniba, and I lived in Rome for three years before the last war. The High Sufet speaks well of you. But surely the Romans will dismiss any such claim out of hand!’

  ‘Cato’s party will, yes,’ I granted. ‘But there are others.’

  ‘Like who?’ Abdoniba spat back.

  ‘Like those who follow Lucius Valerius Flaccus, the Father of the Senate. He is one, I believe, trustworthy in that lair. So make your suggestion. If nothing else, that will divide the Romans. They will debate the question. You know how, if they have nothing else to discuss, they debate the existence of air.’

  That brought some chuckles. I continued. ‘And as they debate, we will win time to prepare.’

  ‘Prepare, Bostar?’ It was Mastanabal. ‘Prepare? For what?’

  ‘Prepare, Elders of Carthage,’ I said, raising my voice, pushing from my plexus, ‘for war.’

  There was consternation in the room. Qart called out across the din. ‘You are suggesting war?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I want only peace. But I do not think we will have that unless the Romans know we are prepared for war.’ I looked slowly round the Council chamber, and resumed my seat.

  Discussion drifted back and forth across the room, until Mastanabal called matters to order. ‘Next, Elders,’ he declared, ‘there is the question of the ten thousand gold denarii. Bostar, what’s your view?’

  ‘Simple. Pay it. Why, don’t you have such a sum?’

  ‘We do
,’ came a different voice from the corner to my right, an old one that quavered as it soared, ‘but we don’t. That is, the annual indemnity after the last war was fixed as a percentage of the reserves we declared.’

  I understood. Why is little ever as it seems? A suckling child can trust the breast that feeds it, whilst it can. Is there nothing more? If Carthage paid the ten thousand gold denarii, a huge amount, it would be tantamount to admitting that the level of indemnity was based falsely, and should be raised. I sighed, and rubbed my eyes. ‘Elders, how you extricate yourselves from this predicament is up to you. But pay you must, and straight away. What about the wheat?’

  ‘That is not an issue. We have had record harvests this year, and our silos are bursting. But the third demand?’ Mastanabal asked. ‘Who, Elders, will go as a hostage to the lions’ den?’

  I heard feet shuffle, saw heads shake. The silence was long, dismal and profound. Then from the shadows behind Mastanabal’s chair, a man walked forward. He entered the circle of torchlight. ‘Elders of Carthage,’ the man said quietly, ‘with your permission, I will go.’ It was Astylax I saw.

  Deposition preserved in the archives of Rome

  Marcus Favonius Maximus, Aedile, to Gnaeus Flavius Sabinus, Praetor Urbanus. This follows our conversation yesterday in the Forum, and constitutes an official complaint against my neighbour, Publius Cornelius Scipio, whose father Africanus I served. Because you say this is not a criminal matter, let this serve as intimation that on the next dies faustus I will be raising a civil action against Scipio. Since he moved into his father’s villa, next to mine, my household and I have had barely a single night’s sleep. His parties are wild and unseemly for someone of his station. People come that one would expect to meet in the Quirinal, but not here. Each night there is drinking, feasting and music, until well after dawn. Last night, for example, Scipio had a great bonfire in his garden. I smelled the smoke, of course, and roused my servants to fetch buckets of water and stand ready lest the fire should set light to my roof. But the noise grew so great I had a ladder brought and climbed up the wall between our properties. I saw masked men and women dancing round the bonfire as if in some Dionysiac orgy. This will not do. I cannot endure such a neighbour. Think of the influence on my children! Scipio must change his ways. Since my requests have not moved him, I will ensure that the law does.