David Durham - Pride of Carthage

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.”