emerged from his ailment with a quiet conviction in his own destiny. The illness had been a test; he had passed.
He was not tall, but his father had always told him that the best men were compact, hard as close-grained wood. There were so many possible substances from which a man could be made, but quality was hard to come by. His line, King Gaia had told him, was of unblemished mahogany. Looking at his reflection in polished iron, Masinissa found the comparison apt enough. His body was such that each muscled portion of it clung to his frame in just the right place. There was no fat; a lean coating of skin wrapped him like wet leather dried to form by the sun.
He had been a horseman since before his memory began, and he could do everything as well mounted as on foot. He smoked his pipe on horseback, ate many a meal, even pissed off to the side occasionally, joking with his companions about the strength of his hose. He sometimes dreamed of mounted sexual conquests, although this art did not come as easily in the waking hours. As for combat, he could hurl missiles at full gallop, pierce birds in flight, squirrels at dead runs. Larger creatures just made easier targets, none more so than the wide breasts of men.
When he sailed for Iberia, he promised Sophonisba he would return to her a hero. He meant it, and it pained him that she looked at him with such amusement, as if his words were no more than bluster. He hungered for her. It was not so much pleasure that she gave him as it was the awareness of the richness of pleasure denied him. She was exquisite and cruel: the combination was irresistible. After his father's death, he would make her the queen of his empire, and then he would extend his domain in new directions. Even as Carthage ruled the Mediterranean, the Massylii would extend their dominion to the west and bring the Gaetulians and the Moors into submission, not to mention the Libyans. He would squash Syphax beneath the heel of his right foot, and then he would turn southward. He would forge new bonds with Audagost and Kumbi, cities he knew little of except that they belonged to rich and prosperous, ancient cultures. With them as partners, he would control the flow of trade between inland Africa and the Mediterranean. What a world he would create then! He would heap treasures of gold and ivory, beads and cloth and dyes upon his bride. She would see in the years to come that he was no boy to be laughed at, but a man to be remembered by the ages. Of all this, he was certain. He had only to make it happen.
With the first few months on the ground in Iberia he proved himself the warrior he claimed to be. He knew that the best way to wage war changed with circumstance. Romans were slow to understand this, but Numidians were at their best when their minds and strategies shifted and darted as quickly as their mounts. His men once surprised a Roman reconnaissance mission as it was returning northward. He knew not what they had learned, but whatever it was died within their throats, each and every one of the fifty of them. He led raiding parties far up into Catalonia, blazing into villages with torches in hand, leaving them flaming pyres of despair.
He had no personal ill will toward these people, but they were traitors to Carthage, friends to his enemies. He tried to make the Scipios feel that they had no control over their territory, could offer no protection to their allies. He could strike at will, wherever he pleased. As far as he was concerned, he could keep this up indefinitely. He was new to war, yes, but he already felt a mastery of it pumping in his veins. With his aid, the Barca brothers must prevail. He reminded them of his skills often. They laughed to hear his boasting, but clearly it pleased them. They clapped him on the back and hugged him roughly and pulled on his hair and called him younger brother. Hasdrubal once shot back, “True enough, prince, may you never be an enemy. May Fortune never betray us so completely!” Even Hanno, who he knew had suffered at Roman hands and who was generally a taciturn man, warmed to him.
Late in the summer of his first season in Iberia, both of the Carthaginian armies were in the field. It so happened that Hasdrubal's movements brought him near to the Scipio brothers at Amtorgis. Hanno, who had resumed command of an army, was nearby but separated by miles of hilly terrain. The Romans had apparently tired of skirmishing and wished for a real battle before the season's end. They were on the offensive, just as they believed their countrymen were in Italy. For a moment the situation looked dire for Hasdrubal's army, separated as he was from his brother. But instead of attacking him with their full force, the Romans split into two armies. Gnaeus marched north to hedge off Hanno, while Cornelius set himself right next to Hasdrubal, separated from him by little more than a river.
At first glance, both of the Roman forces were considerable, each numbering some thirty thousand. But from his wide-ranging scouts, Masinissa learned that Cornelius' numbers were made up predominately of Celtiberians. Only a third were Romans. In answering this news he spoke a gibe against the Celtiberians, but a moment later he stopped in his tracks, stunned by what he had uttered. It was a simple idea, but it had a certain sublime beauty. When the generals met at the midpoint between their armies for a hastily called council Masinissa could not help but begin the meeting with his idea.
“Listen to me,” he said, speaking with his customary rapidity, starting before the group was completely settled. “Those Iberians have no joy in their hearts. They don't look forward to this battle, nor do they love Rome. We have silver. Why don't we just pay them?”
Hasdrubal dropped onto his stool, shaking his head. “They won't fight against Rome. They're too bound to them; and they've been too foul to us to expect our friendship.”
“I didn't say they should fight against Rome,” Masinissa said. “There need be no question of that. Pay them, but not to fight for us. Just pay them
Masinissa searched for the words to explain himself further, but then realized he had stated his position well. He just nodded.
Gnaeus Scipio had had more than enough of Masinissa. From the moment he started his northerly march, the whelp plagued his every move, barking at his heels, darting in again and again with attacks so rapid his men had barely time to muster into formations to face them. Masinissa's force would appear just long enough to hurl their spears, to slice a few baggage handlers in the neck or upraised forearm, to drop a flaming torch into a wagon, or to spook horses into revolt. Then they would vanish, crouched low, galloping at breakneck speed beneath the branches of the pine trees. These were a coward's tactics, but each raid cost him dearly in lives, supplies, and pride.
That was why Gnaeus ordered the silent march to commence at midnight. He knew that Indibilis and his Tartesians—Carthaginian allies—were afoot only a few miles to the east. Masinissa's harassment might be a ruse to keep him distracted as the Iberians marched to join forces with Hanno. He decided on an action to stir the matter, praying that when the dust settled he would find himself to have gained advantage. He left a lagging corps of men to man the campfires and sound the passing of the night's quarters and generally make themselves out to be more numerous than they were; then he and the bulk of his force slipped away unmolested, no mean feat for an army of twenty-five thousand. If this went as he envisioned, he would make quick work of the Tartesians and then turn back to face the greater threat. He was quite sure that Indibilis would pull up his red-fringed tunic and crap stones when he realized the numbers marshaled against him.
The march commenced perfectly, the men keeping good order, making almost the time they would have in the daylight. Dawn found them within sight of the Iberians, just as his scouts had foretold. He forced them into battle, a loose affair spread throughout the rolling, wooded hills. His men had to fight singly, like so many gladiators in a great contest. This would have proved difficult for most legions, but Gnaeus had trained them for just such a possibility. From the start, he gained the upper hand. The Iberians stepped backward with each thrust or parry.
But when he heard the first shrill, stammering Numidian calls, his blood went cold. A moment later Masinissa's horsemen carved into them from both sides, African furies let loose like an army one of the Numidian gods might have spat out of its great, rotten mouth. But even this did not decide the matter. The blood that was icy one moment burned red hot the next. Gnaeus shouted for his men to tighten up their formations. The horn beside him bellowed out instructions, turning the men at either flank out to the side to meet the marauders, halting the advance into the Tartesians and alerting each man to take a managed defensive position. Once some amount of order had been achieved, the Roman forces began to retreat.
All this was skillfully done, but other powers conspired against him that day. A horseman churned up to him with the last ill blow of Fortune: Hanno fast approached. The Romans had been so distracted that they had not noticed their advance until they saw them walking in great columns through the dappled light beneath the pines. The general's gaze flew out toward the tree-lined ridges the scout indicated. It might only have been an illusion caused by the wind up there, but the spires of the pines trembled and swayed as if buffeted by the soldiers shouldering through them. He told the horseman to gather a small band and ride for Cornelius' camp to beg whatever aid he could provide. As his messenger spurred his horse away, Gnaeus knew the effort was in vain.
Message dispatched, he issued new orders. The Roman soldiers stopped in their tracks and set about
