Pride of Carthage (63 page)

In the hours to come he found himself in a stranger situation then he could have imagined. At the main meal, where he was to meet Syphax for the first time, he found himself introduced to a man whose face he had many times tried to imagine, a nebulous visage ever changing in his mind, that he had found a thousand ways to hate. Now before him was the real face: thin-lipped, with a crooked nose, and eyes that were intelligent if slightly uneven. Dark hair framed the features in a manner that made the whole more handsome than the parts might have indicated separately. Hanno stared at the man until he opened his mouth and spoke, in Latin.

“Believe me, General,” Publius Scipio said, “I am as surprised by this as you. My mission here is diplomatic, as I'm sure yours is. Let us be statesmen just now, warriors later.”

Hanno looked around the room. Syphax was nowhere to be seen. Cats roamed the chamber at their ease. They were large specimens, well fed and not too far removed from their feral ancestors. They wore bells on their necks, which tinkled as they moved or preened themselves or snapped bits of meat from the table. There were other guests, but these hung off at a distance, propping up the walls, speaking in whispers and with shifting eyes. Hanno ignored them and spoke, knowing that his voice would carry around the room.

“Fine,” he said.

He sat down on the other side of the low table and studied the bowls of dates and grapes set there. His mind reeled from one thought to the next, one question to another. He knew Publius had returned to Rome and been elected consul, but what, what, what was the consul doing in Africa? Had something happened to Hannibal, so that he was no longer a threat? Had Syphax already struck a deal with Rome? Was he dining in the enemy's lair? Would he ever get out of it? Did Rome now have designs on Africa?

“You have affection for Greek things, don't you?” Publius said, his tone familiar and conversational. “I recognize this in your eyes.”

As if seeking to refute this, Hanno lifted his gaze and stared straight at him. “I might have once, but no longer. Now I take little joy from life except that which comes from slaying my people's enemies.”

The consul laughed. “Then you must be an unhappy—” But even before finishing the sentence, Publius raised a hand in apology.

Syphax entered then, flanked by attendants, men of various ages, some armed and some cloaked as civilian advisers. Hanno turned and solemnly faced the king. He was not a tall man, but his shoulders were wide and the thin fabric of his gown highlighted the strength of his chest. His skin and eyes were of the same grainy brown as the walls of the city, as if he were made of the same stuff. Knobs of curled locks reached up out of the tight weave of his hair. He wore a beard of sorts, made up of tiny balls of hair tied with string, running down his jawline to under his chin.

“Please, sit,” he said, grinning and speaking his native tongue. Over his shoulders he wore a necklace of beads, cheetah fur, and gold, an indicator of his rank. He touched this as he said, “We are all equals here. We should speak as such. Perhaps Syphax will one day be famed for mediating the peace between Carthage and Rome.”

Neither visitor smiled at this, as Syphax obviously wished them to do. Publius, after hearing a translation, cordially managed to say that the differences he had with Carthage were not such as could be talked through on this occasion. Hanno did not dispute this, and Syphax, clearly amused by the position he found himself in, sat them down and commenced the banquet.

Throughout the meal Publius managed to keep the conversation lively, always complimentary to the host, but amusing also, quick to find humor, tactful in steering clear of the matter of war. Amazingly—despite everything—Hanno found himself enjoying the man's company for the brief moments during which he forgot just who he was and what suffering he had caused.

The king, on the other hand, was somewhat less engaging. As he drank more of the thick malt he favored, he grew loquacious, self-congratulatory, almost maudlin. He had tattoos on the backs of his hands. They were stylized drawings that looked familiar, but Hanno could not quite place them. He rubbed each with the fingers of the other hand, changing hands occasionally, with something feline in his gestures. Though neither guest spoke openly about seeking his alliance, he seemed to believe himself on the verge of a great advance in fortune and spoke as if his past were fading into history.

“Do you know that I was always ambitious?” he asked. “Even as a boy, I tested myself against other boys. There was one in particular who always bested me and my peers at games. He was the fastest afoot, the nimblest with a staff. He had a man's hand and feet even before he sprouted hair on his groin. You know the pure hate one boy can feel for another?”

The two guests nodded.

“Such was the hate I felt for him. One day I had an idea, yes? A small cruelty. I could've been no more than six, seven years of age. I saw Marcor walking toward me across a courtyard. It was crowded with men, and I saw a chance to embarrass him greatly. As our paths crossed I stuck out my foot to trip him. I thought to catch him unawares and spill him flat on the stones. But his foot was better rooted than mine. It was as if I'd kicked a tree stump. I went tumbling instead, landed like a fool, sprawled out and ashamed. Marcor turned and stared at me as if he thought me mad. He knew my intentions and yet was amazed that I was foolish enough to believe I could upset him. He stuck out his hand and helped me rise.”

When the king paused, Publius asked, “And what became of this Marcor? Did he grow into as strong a man as he was a boy? I sense some moral soon to be revealed.”

Syphax studied on the question. He twirled a massive ring around his thumb, tugged on it, and twirled it again. “Yes. He was my superior in many ways. In most things, really, all but one very important thing. He wasn't my father's son. So on the day that I stepped in to rule my people I had Marcor beheaded. I impaled his body on a stake and set it to rot outside the city. Vultures pecked at him and then hyenas and jackals, and within a few days there was not even flesh left for maggots to eat. So I would say that in the end I tripped him after all.”

“I'm sure there is a lesson in this,” the consul said.

“Moral?” Syphax asked. “Lesson? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's just something that happened. Many things happen, don't they?” He dropped the subject and turned to Hanno. “How's that sister of yours? I trust she grows in health?”

“Sapanibal?”

The king laughed through his nose. “No, not that one. The beauty, Sophonisba. Why am I asking you, though? You've not been home in years.” The king leaned forward. He motioned Hanno closer with his fingers, his hand like a cat's paw. “I caught a glimpse of her the last time I visited your homeland. Several years ago, this was. She was just a girl, really, but she wore a woman's gown. Her breasts were firm like fruit just about to ripen. Her face . . . Her face was like . . . It was something you could stare at and stare at. I mean no offense to your family, but had I the chance I'd fuck that one till her legs bowed. A mystery of beauty like that should be possessed.”

Syphax broke off and flopped back against his cushions. He seemed drunker now than he had just a moment before. Without a thought to his guests he scratched his groin, lingered a moment on the stirring there. He looked up and fixed his gaze on Hanno, the first time that evening that he had looked at him with particular import. “Truly, Sophonisba could drive a sane man crazy. Remember that I mean no disrespect, friend. But she's been in my dreams, waking and sleeping. I've seen bits and pieces of her in other women, but never the whole. Never has a bitch stirred me like she does. I'd even marry her if that's what it took.”

Out of the corner of his eye Hanno could tell that Publius, just having gotten the translation of the king's words, was shifting his gaze between the two of them. He knew that the artery on his forehead was beating visibly. There flashed before him the sudden image of him clamping one hand around Syphax' neck and bashing his face in with the other. He wanted to look away, but he held the man's bloodshot gaze for as long as he had to.

Syphax broke away. He moved his chin to the side, toward Publius. The rest of his face seemed to follow a moment after. “But he wouldn't know about this, would he?” he asked the Roman. “She is his sister. He's not an Egyptian, after all. . . .”

Syphax cupped his large hands over his knees. At the gesture, Hanno realized that the tattoos were a stylized rendering of lion's claws, the pattern they made on wet soil. The king rose, saying he needed a woman. They would talk more on the morrow, he promised. They would talk much more.

But in his three days in Cirta, Hanno never had more than a few moments alone with the king. They met briefly in the mornings and in passing in the afternoons; both he and Publius shared the man's table for the main meal, required to sit across from each other, to speak politely, neither one wanting to show his hand or to flare up in frustration. He was not sure whether the consul managed any more genuine discussion himself, but still he could barely contain the simmering anger this kindled in him. Syphax, a petty king, was exploiting the situation to feed his own pride. He seemed to have forgotten the strength of Carthage and to be ignoring the old history of Roman treachery, living in the short glow of his own self-importance. He was a fool, Hanno thought, but he kept this opinion decidedly to himself.

By the time Syphax escorted the two guests out toward the harbor to depart, Hanno still was not sure where his nation stood in relation to Libya. Were they allies or not? It seemed that both sides had tacitly agreed not to press the issue while in each other's company, and as far as he could tell, neither had either of them gained anything certain. Syphax seemed as he had when they arrived—an amused, neutral party. Not wanting to discourage the Roman's departure, Hanno decided to pretend to leave, and then to circle back as soon as he could. He hoped the consul would not attempt the same.

“We have concluded our business, then?” Syphax asked.

Hanno nodded. “As ever, you have the best wishes of Carthage,” he said. “May we always be brothers.”

Syphax smirked at this. “Fine. Fine. Take my blessings to your countrymen, and to the women of your family.”

Hanno half-turned, one arm vaguely pointing toward the docks. It was an invitation for Scipio to precede him, but the other did not do so. The consul scanned his face quickly, and then stepped close to Syphax. He spoke softly, but with no real attempt at secrecy.

“Good king,” he said in the Libyan tongue, “since your business with Carthage is now concluded, I would speak to you of a few more matters. Just a few moments of your time in private. You will find interest in what I have to say.”

Hanno, fuming, watched the men ascend toward the palace, the Roman close beside the Libyan, their heads bent in toward each other. He almost set out after them, but he had already been beaten, in diplomacy as in the field. Before he sailed, though, he composed a letter to the king. He stated his wishes in the clearest of terms and alluded to all manner of grand rewards for his friendship. He admitted that he had no power to agree to anything on his own, but he assured Syphax that his nation valued his friendship above all others. Staying true to it could only serve Syphax' people, and make the king rich beyond his present imaginings, and as powerful as he had the capacity to become. Carthage would give him anything he asked. Anything it was within the city's power to give. He wrote that he would dock near Hippo Regius.

Only a few days later, a messenger brought word of the possibility that—despite the generous overtures Rome had made to him—Syphax would become an ally to Carthage once more. Little was needed to secure the bond, because they were two nations with roots deep in the same land. Theirs was a partnership to be nurtured, to be enlarged, to be sanctified. They were old friends, but they could be more. There were just two things he must have in return. First, he wanted a guarantee that Carthage would recognize his dominion over the Massylii. King Gaia was ill and sure to die soon. Syphax wanted his nation as his own, and Carthage must acknowledge him over Masinissa.

This was bad enough, but as he read the second demand Hanno felt his pulse through the fingers that touched the parchment. There was one sure way to unite them, Syphax wrote. One way that they could truly merge their two peoples forever.

Each morning, Imco awoke with a start. As soon as his eyes fluttered the world into existence and his conscious mind recalled the dream of a life he had been living for some weeks now, he flung himself upright. He cast around, searching for the woman to confirm that she was real. If she lay nearby he would stare at her in awe. He would move closer, trying not to wake her, his gaze roaming over her long, muscular legs, over the gentle curve described by her hip; he would imagine the weight of her breast so innocently resting on the soft skin of her inner arm. He would study the fall of her dark hair over her golden skin, the intake and exhalation of her breathing, the flecks of sunburned skin on her nose, the tiny ridges of her lips. Then, as her stillness always made him nervous, he would jab her with a finger until her eyes opened, slowly, clear in their opal grandeur from the first moment, as if she had never truly slept but had simply rested in imitation of slumber. If—as on several occasions already—she was not inside his tent, he was on his feet in an instant. He charged outside—clothed or naked, it did not matter—calling the name she had mouthed for him with her own precious lips. Aradna. Aradna!

The simple truth was that he did not fully believe in her. Did not trust that he had actually found her or that she was anything other than a phantom created in his own wandering mind. It had all come from his walk behind the donkey. The creature took him up onto a ridge of wooded hills, down along a lentil field. For a time they walked one each in the two ruts of a wagon road, and then they crossed a flat, fallow field. At times it seemed the donkey stood just near him; at other moments he realized the creature was far away, hurrying him on. He lost sight of it several times, only to find it again. When he stopped at the edge of a settlement and could not see the donkey he had the feeling that he had reached whatever it was the creature was leading him to.