David Durham - Pride of Carthage

It pained her to think how changed they both were now, how days and months and years had pushed in between that moment and this one. She knew her husband had suffered injuries that would mark him for life. She knew he had lost the sight in one eye and endured hardships she could barely imagine. He might be a different man entirely the next time she saw him. Likewise, Little Hammer would be almost unrecognizable to Hannibal. He had sprouted like a vine reaching for the sky. He no longer teetered on wobbly legs, but darted through their chambers like a cheetah. She realized her son thought of Carthage as his first home. He reached for Sapanibal and Sophonisba with complete comfort and unquestioning love. They luxuriated in this, even as they joked that they must treasure the few years the boy had left to spend in the company of women. Even Didobal softened in the boy's company.

Imilce had spoken to him over the years of his father, as had many others. The child was constantly reminded whose son he was and how much was expected of him. But lately she had begun to fear that her words found no purchase in his memory. As she spoke he stared absently into the distance. When she concluded, he moved away from her, always polite enough, always nodding when he was supposed to, speaking when asked to—but she knew the boy had a blank space in his center. Hannibal had actually been present just one year of the boy's four: no time at all. In the child's mind, his father could only be a creature built of words, a fancy like a character from old stories. Not so removed from the gods: like them, a part of every day, unseen and believed in mostly without evidence.

She was pondering these things one afternoon when Sophonisba called on her. Imilce reclined on the sofa at the edge of her chamber, looking out over the gardens. As usual she had nothing to occupy her, no responsibilities. Hamilcar was engaged in some activity that did not require her supervision. Sophonisba came in behind the maid who escorted her. She did not wait as the servant announced her with the usual formality of Carthaginian households, but pushed past the woman and plopped down on the sofa beside her sister-in-law. The maid tried a moment to continue the introduction, but then gave up. She withdrew, annoyance flashing on her face. Seeing this Imilce nearly chastised her on the spot. No servant should ever comment upon the actions of her masters. But Sophonisba was too eager to talk.

“If you are good to me,” she said, “I will tell you a secret. You must promise to keep it, though. If you betray me, I'll never forgive you. You'll have an undying enemy for the rest of your life. Do you promise?”

Imilce looked at her with more seriousness than she intended. The proposition struck her with an unreasonable amount of fear. She could not survive in this place with Sophonisba as an enemy. The introduction of secrets brought with it both camaraderie and the awareness that somebody else was being excluded. Her heart beat a little faster, even though she knew it was silly to find anything ominous in this. The young woman's face was all mirth and welcome. Her threat was nothing but banter between two friends.

Imilce said, “Of course. Tell me.”

“I spent the night in the wilds with Masinissa,” the young woman said. She paused for dramatic effect, her lips pursed, eyes mischievous and painfully beautiful. She explained that she and her fiancé had stolen away from the city the previous evening, with her sitting before the prince on the bare back of his stallion. They rode out through a side gate, cut through the peasants' town, out past the fields, and on into the rolling orchards. The sky was clear from horizon to horizon. It was a screen of the darkest blue, alive with numberless stars. The land itself seemed endless, thrown out in ripples stretching deep into the heart of the continent. They sometimes passed campfires of field workers, or saw the signal fires of soldiers, but mostly the night was theirs alone.

Imilce chided her for the rash danger—not to mention the damage she might have done to her reputation and to the very union. They had only just become engaged, after all, and it was meant to be some time before they were wed. But Sophonisba laughed at both these points. As for the danger, when she said she rode alone with Masinissa, she meant “alone” in princely terms. A guard of fifty horsemen shadowed them.

As for reputation, nothing mattered to her mother more than the power of her familial connections; and nothing mattered to Gaia, Masinissa's father, more than the security of his kingdom. Everyone wanted them wed. So, she was sure, anything could be overlooked. And, anyway, there were stories that Didobal herself had been as mischievous as a jackal in her youth. She had a few secrets to pressure her with, things she had not even divulged to Imilce, sister though she was.

“Should I tell you what happened then?” Sophonisba asked. “Or need I find a different confidante?”

Imilce shut her lips in a tight line, keeping up the look of reproach for as long as she could. But her façade masked very different feelings. She was always amazed at how Sophonisba occupied and acted in the world. It was not just that she flouted tradition and decorum on occasion; it was the casual confidence with which she accomplished this. Imilce, staring at her, wished for a portion of this young woman's strength; with it perhaps she, too, would find a way to act boldly to answer the things that troubled her.

Eventually Sophonisba overcame the unanswered question and proceeded. Though he rode fast to impress her, and seemed to dash from feature to feature on the landscape at whim, he did have a destination in mind. They stopped at a strange structure set at the top of a gentle crest, with views of the country to either side. They dismounted and walked past a crumbling wall that squared a courtyard, no larger than a pen for a few horses. A tower rose from one corner, although it too was damaged at what must have been its midpoint. Blocks littered the ground.

“This is Balatur's watchtower,” Masinissa had said. “Many times I've come here and thought about my future, about the world I will shape and the woman who will stand beside me as I do.”

Sophonisba could tell she was supposed to be impressed, curious. So she showed neither sentiment. “Where is this Balatur?” she asked. “He should be chided for the state of this place.”

Masinissa said that Balatur no longer was. He had died many years ago. The tale went that he had been an officer of much repute. While on a campaign against a tribe to the south, he had met a princess of the dark people there. He fell in love with her so completely that his life as a mercenary for Carthage seemed of little value anymore. He believed that she loved him as well, and yet he would not desert the army. He returned to Carthage after the campaign, but he never forgot her. He thought of her always, day and night, and with such hunger that he felt a portion of flesh had been ripped from him. He came to believe that she had bewitched him and that his failure to forget her meant she wanted him just as much. Eventually, he had himself assigned to this watchtower. He sent word to her that if she would come and meet him here, they could be together. If she, too, pledged her love they could flee together and find a life elsewhere. He swore that he would be mercenary or beggar, fisherman or a carpenter: anything and anywhere, so long as he could be with her. From the tower he looked day and night to the south, waiting for a messenger from his princess. He did this for a full forty years. She never came; he died in waiting.

“Such is the tale of Balatur,” Masinissa had said, finishing his story with somber theatricality.

Sophonisba burst into laughter and admonished him to speak no more nonsense. “Of course she did not come to him,” she said. “What princess would abandon her people to join a man who wished to be a beggar? Such devotion is not at all attractive. Anyway, never was there born a Massylii that loved one single woman.”