‘They have placed their mark upon you. It is right that you should be dedicated to their service. When we reach the city I will perform the ceremony in the temple of great Baal. I have chosen a god-name for you - you will no longer use the old style.’
‘As you wish, high-born.’
‘From henceforth you will be called Timon.’
‘Timon,’ the slave king tested the sound of it.
‘He was the priest-warrior in the reign of the fifth Gry-Lion. A great man.’
Timon nodded, not understanding but content to watch and wait and learn.
‘High-born,’ he asked softly, ‘the marks you scratch upon the yellow metal - what are they?’
Huy jumped up and fetched the golden scroll to the couch.
‘This is how we store words and stories and ideas.’ He plunged into an explanation of the writing process, and was rewarded by Timon’s quick grasp of the principle of the phonetic alphabet.
On a scrap of leather he wrote Timon’s name in sooty black ink, and in unison they spelled it out aloud, Timon laughing delightedly at his first achievement.
‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘there is much to learn here - and so little time.’
Across the clay box Caius Terentius Varro, Consul of Rome, fought once more, pressing his legions into Hannibal’s soft centre. The centre gave, with the sucky reluctance of dough, the Spaniards and Gauls there withdrew at Hannibal’s design.
‘Do you see it, Timon? The beauty of it, the sheer genius of it!’ Huy called excitedly, speaking in Punic now, manipulating the counters.
‘And where was Marhabal now?’ Timon demanded as excitedly in the same language. After two years his Punic was fluent, with only the dragging vowels marring its perfection.
‘He was here,’ Huy touched the cavalry counters, ‘holding his horse on a short rein.’ Timon understood a horse to be a swift animal like a zebra on whose back armed men rode.
‘Varro is entangled now?’ Timon asked.
‘Yes! Yes! Hannibal has crumpled his front and enveloped him - then what does he do, Timon?’
‘The reserves?’ Timon guessed.
‘Yes! You have it! The Numidians and African reserves.’ Huy was hopping up and down in his agitation. ‘With the timing of the great master, he unleashes them. Taking Varro in the flanks, squeezing him in a vice, packing his ranks so they cannot manoeuvre nor wield their weapons. Then what, Timon, what then?’
‘The cavalry?’
‘Ah! The cavalry - Marhabal! The faithful brother. The master of horse, who has waited all that long day. Go! cries Hannibal.’ Huy threw his arm in a wide gesture. ‘Go! My brother, ride with your wild Iberians! They crash into them, Timon. It is the moment, the exact moment. Five minutes earlier it is too soon - five minutes later and it is too late. Timing! Timing! The talent of the great military commander, timing! Of the statesman, the lover, the businessman, the merchant. The right action, at the right time.’
‘And the result, high-born, what was the result?’ Timon pleaded, in an agony of suspense. ‘Was it victory?’
‘Victory?’ Huy asked. ‘Yes, Timon. It was victory. Victory and massacre. Eight legions of vaunting Rome wiped out to the man, two entire consular armies.’
‘Eight legions, high-born.’ Timon marvelled. ‘Forty-eight thousand men in a single battle?’
‘More than that, Timon. The auxiliaries were lost also. Sixty thousand men!’ Huy swept his hand across the board, exterminating the Roman legions. ‘We won the battles, Timon, but they won the wars. Three of them. Three bloody wars, that crushed us—’ Huy broke off. His voice choking. He turned away quickly and went to the water jug. Timon hurried across and held the basin for him while Huy washed his hands and combed his beard. ‘That brings us to the end of our study of Hannibal’s campaigns, Timon. I kept the battle of Cannae for the last.’
‘Who will we study next, high-born?’
‘The one who Hannibal himself rated the most skilful general of all history.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Alexander III,’ Huy said, ‘King of Macedonia, who smashed the Persian Empire - whom the oracle at Delphi proclaimed invincible, and men called the Great.’
Timon held Huy’s cloak for him, and Huy fastened the clasp as he left the precincts of the temple college through the small gate in the inner wall. Timon followed a pace behind him, wearing the short blue tunic of Huy’s household with a light gold chain, dagger and purse belting his waist, the mark of high trust as a body slave. He walked a pace behind Huy’s left shoulder, so as not to mask his master’s sword arm, and he kept his hand on the dagger.
‘High-born, the manner in which Hannibal invested Varro?’
‘Yes?’ Huy encouraged him.
‘Could he not have advanced his flanks, and held his centre firm?’
‘It is the difference between defence and offence,’ Huy explained, and they plunged into the discussion of battle tactics and strategy until they left the main gate in the outer wall of the temple area. From here any conversation was impossible, for the crowds spotted this strange couple. Giant black slave and diminutive gnomelike master. They cheered Huy, crowding around him to touch his arm in greeting, to listen to his banter and perhaps receive an alms coin from the purse on Timon’s belt.
Huy loved his popularity. He smiled and joked and pushed his way gently through the press. A successful general - there had been two other campaigns since the great slave-taking - a well-beloved priest, a noted wit and songwriter, and a rich philanthropist (Huy’s investments had prospered exceedingly in the last two years), he was
