The republic at war, p.14
The Republic at War, page 14
part #5 of Soldier of the Republic Series
“They have given up,” Bostar shouted in sudden triumph. “Look. They don’t dare to enter the lake. We’re going to get away.”
As the distance between the two parties started to grow and the boat drifted across to the opposite shore of the lake, Gisgo closed his eyes muttering a silent prayer of gratitude to Astarte for having heard his plea. Gently coming to a stop amongst the tall reeds that lined the bank, Mpande called out and then hastily splashed into the water still clutching his bow. Forcing himself over the side once more, Gisgo groaned as he and the others began to haul the dugout onto the land. The wisdom of retaining the boat in these wetlands was now clear. Snatching a look across the lake, he saw that the group of men had still not moved. Bostar was right. Their pursuers appeared to have given up. Turning to Arishat who was still standing in the lake, Gisgo was just about to reach out to give her a hand, when to his horror he suddenly noticed movement nearby in the brackish water. A split second later something caught Arishat and with a terrified scream she abruptly lost her footing and went crashing into the water. Recoiling in terror, Gisgo caught sight of a huge, green scaly monster with a long mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. Then Arishat screamed again before she vanished from view and the tranquil lake was abruptly transformed into a violent thrashing pot of boiling water. Crying out, Gisgo heard Hanna scream as Arishat’s head briefly resurfaced. But there was nothing he could do. The crocodile had caught her and was already getting her into a death roll.
Chapter Twelve – In the Great Market of Djenne
Standing gathered around Mpande, no one wanted to be the first to speak and an awkward silence had fallen on the group. It was afternoon and across the fertile looking plain, farmers and their families were working the irrigated rice paddies, their voices raised in song. Half a mile away, across the fields, Gisgo could see the low mudbrick wall that surrounded Djenne. The city, founded on a series of small hills, looked far bigger than the native villages he’d seen, the mass of pointy straw roofs an indication of Djenne’s size and importance. They had made it, he thought, as he lowered his eyes, his stoic, bearded face carefully hiding his emotions. At least most of them had made it.
Hanna was the first to make a move. Quietly stepping towards Mpande she smiled at him and without saying a word, she gave him a kiss on his cheek. Next up was Metzul who, encouraged by Hanna, proffered his hand which Mpande shook with a huge white teethed grin. Then Xenocles stepped forwards, one hand holding the sack filled with gold, whilst with the other he playfully slapped the African guide across his shoulder.
“Farewell friend,” the Greek mercenary exclaimed in a jovial voice.
“Tell him that he is a good man,” Bostar muttered, as he stood beside Asha. “Tell him that without him we would not have made it to Djenne.”
As Asha translated, Mpande turned to the doctor and grinned, raising his hand to his cheek before saying something in his own language.
“He thanks you,” Asha translated, “for relieving him of the pain in his mouth. He says he will keep the tooth you extracted as a memory of you and your wonderful healing skills.”
“Here, this is for you,” Gisgo said, taking a step towards the guide. In his hands he was holding one of the Spanish short swords that Xenocles had liberated from the pirates on Kerne. “Tell him that the steel in these weapons is of the finest quality. He will not find a better weapon anywhere in the world. Tell him, Asha, that we are grateful. For he saved our lives in those wetlands. I will not forget what he did for us.”
As Mpande took the sword, for a moment he gazed at the gleaming steel whilst he reverently ran his fingers over the weapon. Then abruptly he looked up at Gisgo with a pleased expression.
“He says that you honour him with this gift,” Asha translated. “He says that one day when his father dies, he will become the king of his people.”
“Yeah right,” Xenocles muttered, “him and his twenty-two brothers will need to sort that one out first.”
“Goodbye my friends,” Mpande suddenly said in awkward and heavily accented Punic, as with a huge grin he turned to look at the group standing around him. “I go home now.”
With that Mpande turned and walked off, and as he did Gisgo noticed the little bemused smile that had crept onto Asha’s lips. Had she taught him how to say those words? Sensing his eyes on her, Asha’s smile slowly faded and when she turned to look at Gisgo it was with sudden sadness. For a moment she said nothing. Then she extended her gaze towards the African city.
“I guess this is where we must part ways,” Asha said. “I am going home to find my family. They cannot be far from this place. I will find them. The time has come for me and Bostar to say goodbye.”
“Yes,” Gisgo nodded solemnly. Stepping forwards he quickly embraced Asha running his fingers fondly across her cheek. Then as Xenocles and Hanna silently embraced Asha and Bostar, Gisgo took a step back and abruptly raised his voice in song. As the others quickly joined in, singing the African tribal songs they had learned on their long and arduous journey from Yutpan’s island, smiles broke out as they turned to look at each other.
“It’s been the honour of my life,” Bostar said, at last turning to Gisgo as a tear threatened to escape from his eye. “Thank you. Sir. Thank you for keeping faith with me. May Astarte guide you on your journey across the desert. I will not forget you Gisgo, nor you Xenocles.”
“Goodbye Gisgo,” Asha said, as she gave him a radiant smile. Then she and Bostar turned and began to walk away. For a while Gisgo said nothing as he watched them go. At last, turning to Xenocles, Hanna and little Metzul, he sighed.
“Come on,” he muttered in a subdued voice. “Let’s go and find our way back home.”
***
As the four of them entered Djenne, Xenocles carrying the gold slung over his shoulder, Hanna holding little Metzul’s hand and Gisgo leading the way, he could see that the city was crammed with native round huts. The buildings had stone foundations and mudbrick walls and their pointy roofs were covered in straw tied together with grass rope. Dugout boats, like the one they had used to descend the Niger, were leaning against the walls, a reminder that the dry season would not last forever. As he gazed about, Gisgo could see that there appeared to be no city plan, no system of streets. Djenne was large but the place could not be compared to the carefully laid out boulevards and stone terraces of Carthage. The difference in technology between the two cities was too great. Inside the native huts, through the open doorways, Gisgo could see that the dung-covered floors were smooth and hard. Proudly sitting out in front of their homes on small stools, the elderly inhabitants were silently watching the chaotic activity around them. Attached to the houses were a mass of small workshops and animal pens, containing cackling chickens, goats and braying donkeys.
A multitude of people were out - going about their business and the noise was tremendous, but few except for the children paid them any attention. The sight of fair skinned people did not appear to excite the same reaction as they had encountered in the remote villages along the Bambotus and Niger rivers, Gisgo thought. Maybe it was because Djenne was used to the sight of Carthaginian merchants from the north. Pushing on through the crowded, unpaved streets Gisgo soon became aware of the stench of human excrement. The powerful smell pervaded everywhere. It was to be expected in a huge city of twenty thousand souls.
At last catching sight of the great market that occupied the centre of Djenne, Gisgo paused and turned to look around. The market appeared to live up to its name for it looked huge – a maze of hundreds of covered stalls, thronging with people. With thousands of voices calling out, chatting and haggling, the place was noisy too. Around the edges groups of children were scampering about, moving about in gangs and being berated by the stall owners.
“This is it,” Gisgo said turning to his companions. “This must be the great market that Asha and Mpande were talking about. When we go in, keep an eye on your possessions. Where there is wealth, there are thieves. When we find the people we are looking for, let me do the talking. If you are asked where you have come from, just tell them we have come from the coast and leave it that. Stay together and don’t get separated. All right, let’s go.”
“Yes Sir,” Xenocles murmured, as he tightened his grip on the sack of gold that was slung over his shoulder. In response Hanna lifted Metzul up from the ground and the little boy affectionately placed an arm around her neck.
Entering the great market of Djenne, Gisgo was assailed by noise and the scent of perfume, exotic spices, foods, fish, body odour and urine. Dried animal skins and heads were hanging up on wooden racks and the variety of different foods was astonishing. Amongst the stalls were metal-working craftsmen, potters and jewellery manufacturers, all proudly displaying their wares and trying to sell them in loud brash voices. Ignoring the traders who were calling out to him, trying to get his attention, he pushed on deeper into the maze of alleys and stalls. Then at last he came to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of the three fair-skinned men standing about beside one of the food stalls, enjoying a lunchtime bowl of rice and dried fish. The men were dressed in Carthaginian clothing, their fingers and arms adorned with rings and Punic bracelets. Around their necks they were wearing glass beads – flaunting their wealth and status. For a moment, Gisgo did not move as he carefully observed them. They were the first white-skinned people he had seen in nearly three months, since he had said goodbye to Donis and his sons.
“They look like Carthaginians,” Xenocles said as he cautiously edged up to Gisgo, gazing at the three men. “Merchants? Slavers?”
Without replying, Gisgo started out towards the men, and as they noticed him in the crowd, the three Carthaginians stopped eating. Turning to the older of the three, Gisgo stared at him in sudden surprise. The man appeared to be in his late forties with a black beard and a harsh, unsmiling face. A coiled whip hung from his belt. But that was not what had caught Gisgo’s interest. The man looked like he was a fellow Numidian.
“Show up in a native African city, far from home and what do I find – fellow Carthaginians,” Gisgo said, flashing a quick smile.
For a long moment, the three unsmiling men stared at Gisgo in silence, as they sized him up. The two younger men were clearly surprised by this unexpected encounter but the older man’s expression had not changed. He was studying Gisgo with harsh unfriendly eyes.
“Djenne is always full of surprises,” the Numidian replied at last speaking in perfect Punic and eyeing Gisgo with suspicion. “If you have been coming here as often as I have you would know. There is always something new out of Africa. My name is Tabnit,” the man said raising his chin. “I am master of the desert trade for the banking house of Hanno the Great. I do hope you are not here working for one of our commercial rivals. If you are - then we have a problem. There are not many pale faces like yours in this city and I know every one of them. So, who are you and what are you doing in my town?”
“No,” Gisgo replied calmly shaking his head. “We are not merchants. We do not work for anyone except ourselves. We have come from the coast.”
“From the coast?” Tabnit growled, looking displeased. “I ask once again. What the fuck are you doing here in Djenne? We are over two thousand miles from Carthaginian territory.”
“Our business is our own,” Gisgo replied as he stood his ground. “But now that we are here, we are looking to join one of the trade caravans heading north across the desert to Carthage. Can you help us find such a caravan? We are trying to find our way back home.”
Staring at Gisgo, Tabnit frowned, as he appeared to be trying to work out who these strangers were. Then he turned to gaze at Xenocles, Hanna and little Metzul, studying them with his harsh, merciless eyes.
“I am leading such an expedition across the desert,” Tabnit replied at last, in a non-committal voice. “We leave for Carthage within the week.”
“You are of Numidian ancestry,” Gisgo exclaimed changing tack as he took a step towards Tabnit. “I thought I recognised that about you.”
“Yes,” Tabnit replied with a flicker of surprise. “So, what if I am?”
“I am a prince of the Massylii, Lord of Theveste,” Gisgo said, proudly raising his head. “My family have long served the kings of Numidia. The blood that flows through your veins also flows in mine, brother. Will you help us?”
“Massylii,” Tabnit muttered gazing back at Gisgo, his expression unchanged. “Lord of Theveste. Then you belong to the eastern Numidian clans. I am familiar with the name of your house but I do not recognise you.” For a moment Tabnit paused, shrewdly eyeing Gisgo as if he had just remembered something. “But you are wrong,” Tabnit continued. “I am no brother of yours. King Gaia in the east is not my sovereign. I belong to the Masaesyli, the western Numidians clans. I do not know if you have heard but we westerners have a new king. Syphax now rules all the Numidian clans in the west and he has no love for your king Gaia.”
“Syphax is king in the west?” Gisgo exclaimed in surprise. “No, I didn’t know. That is news.”
“It happened some time ago, just before I set out for Djenne,” Tabnit responded, his black eyes gleaming. “I am pleased. Syphax will be a good king. He will bring much wealth and prestige to our people. It is about time that we recovered what is rightfully ours. Syphax is an ally of my employer Hanno the Great.”
For a moment Gisgo hesitated as he took in what had just been said. Tabnit was a westerner. That complicated matters. He should have expected it would not be so easy. It was well known that there was no love lost between the eastern and western Numidian kingdoms. Only the all-powerful presence of Carthage had prevented the two sides from going to war with each other.
“Catch you by surprise, did I?” Tabnit said, as a dirty grin appeared on his lips. “Maybe you just don’t like us westerners.”
Shaking off his doubts, Gisgo slowly shook his head.
“We are all Numidians, brother,” he said, trying to sound magnanimous. “Like I said, we are looking for passage across the desert to Carthage. If you are travelling north, will you permit us to accompany you?”
“You want to come with me prince?” Tabnit snapped, smirking quickly at his two companions. “There are four of you. That means four more mouths to feed. The journey across the desert to Carthage is going to take us around one hundred and forty days. That is - if we don’t run into any problems. That’s a lot of supplies that you are going to be consuming. Say I agree. What’s in it for me?”
“Myself and my friend here,” Gisgo replied, gesturing at Xenocles. “We fought with Hannibal in Italy. We are soldiers. We can help protect your caravan from Bedouin raiders.”
“Hannibal,” Tabnit said spitting out the name. “Overrated. But say I believe you. It’s still doesn’t justify the expense and the trouble. Maybe you should find yourself another guide who is willing to take you across the desert.”
Gisgo was about to reply when to his surprise Hanna stepped forwards, calmly and fearlessly turning to face Tabnit.
“Master of the desert trade,” Hanna said, and as she spoke Gisgo was conscious of the sudden strength, dignity and resolve in her voice. “I am Hanna. I am a priestess of Baal Hamon and I and my companions are most eager to get home. But we need your help good Sir. Aid us now in our time of need, return me to my place in the temple and our immortal lord and protector will reward you handsomely.” Then Hanna’s voice became icy and her eyes hardened. “But abandon us now, and you do so at your own peril master of the desert. For you will feel our lord’s wrath - for it is not his will that we should die here.”
“Baal Hamon. You are one of those who belong to him?” Tabnit said as doubt and concern crept into his voice and suddenly the merchant no longer looked so sure of himself. For a moment he stared at Hanna warily.
“Our lord will guide us across the desert,” Hanna continued without flinching, sounding completely sure of herself. “He will protect us. He wants us to succeed. You will be honouring him by returning one of his priestesses to her rightful home. The temple will not forget such an act of kindness and you know the power and influence that the temple has in Carthage.”
Chapter Thirteen – The Master of the Desert
The Niger river was getting wider the further downstream they went Gisgo thought, as he sat on the raft observing the desert that came right up to the water’s edge. It was a sunny, hot morning on the fourth day since they had left Djenne. On the summit of a low arid hill, overlooking the placid river, a perfect circle of standing stones, an ancient burial ground, was casting shadows onto the ground. Stacked upon the raft and the eleven other rafts and boats, that were slowly moving downstream in convoy, was a mass of trade goods and supplies. Ivory tusks tied together in bundles and sacks filled with gold bullion and wire, and carefully stamped with the name of their owner – Hanno the Great. The trade caravan was large, with over a hundred porters, attendants and armed guards in addition to the slaves. It was too big and well defended for any river pirates to attack, Gisgo thought. Idly he turned to gaze at the raft containing the seventeen African slaves, who also formed part of the trade caravan. The slaves, their ankles cast into clanking leg irons, were nearly all fit young men and women. They looked bewildered and frightened, not knowing what was going to happen to them or where they were going. Their fate – Tabnit had told him - was to be sold in the great slave markets of Carthage for a huge profit.
For a while Gisgo gazed at the miserable looking human cargo. He did not particularly like Tabnit and it was not just because he-was a westerner or that he worked for Hanno the Great. Tabnit had proved himself a harsh, merciless and violent master. Quick to use his whip on the poor men and women who displeased him. No one was questioning his authority. Everyone seemed afraid of the man, even his fellow Carthaginians, yet Tabnit appeared to take a perverse delight in exercising his power. He wanted people to know who was in charge. There was no doubt that the master of the desert trade for the banking house of Hanno the Great was a hard, ruthless man who loved his job. But if he and his companions wanted to get back home, Gisgo thought, they had little choice but to tolerate him.
As the distance between the two parties started to grow and the boat drifted across to the opposite shore of the lake, Gisgo closed his eyes muttering a silent prayer of gratitude to Astarte for having heard his plea. Gently coming to a stop amongst the tall reeds that lined the bank, Mpande called out and then hastily splashed into the water still clutching his bow. Forcing himself over the side once more, Gisgo groaned as he and the others began to haul the dugout onto the land. The wisdom of retaining the boat in these wetlands was now clear. Snatching a look across the lake, he saw that the group of men had still not moved. Bostar was right. Their pursuers appeared to have given up. Turning to Arishat who was still standing in the lake, Gisgo was just about to reach out to give her a hand, when to his horror he suddenly noticed movement nearby in the brackish water. A split second later something caught Arishat and with a terrified scream she abruptly lost her footing and went crashing into the water. Recoiling in terror, Gisgo caught sight of a huge, green scaly monster with a long mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. Then Arishat screamed again before she vanished from view and the tranquil lake was abruptly transformed into a violent thrashing pot of boiling water. Crying out, Gisgo heard Hanna scream as Arishat’s head briefly resurfaced. But there was nothing he could do. The crocodile had caught her and was already getting her into a death roll.
Chapter Twelve – In the Great Market of Djenne
Standing gathered around Mpande, no one wanted to be the first to speak and an awkward silence had fallen on the group. It was afternoon and across the fertile looking plain, farmers and their families were working the irrigated rice paddies, their voices raised in song. Half a mile away, across the fields, Gisgo could see the low mudbrick wall that surrounded Djenne. The city, founded on a series of small hills, looked far bigger than the native villages he’d seen, the mass of pointy straw roofs an indication of Djenne’s size and importance. They had made it, he thought, as he lowered his eyes, his stoic, bearded face carefully hiding his emotions. At least most of them had made it.
Hanna was the first to make a move. Quietly stepping towards Mpande she smiled at him and without saying a word, she gave him a kiss on his cheek. Next up was Metzul who, encouraged by Hanna, proffered his hand which Mpande shook with a huge white teethed grin. Then Xenocles stepped forwards, one hand holding the sack filled with gold, whilst with the other he playfully slapped the African guide across his shoulder.
“Farewell friend,” the Greek mercenary exclaimed in a jovial voice.
“Tell him that he is a good man,” Bostar muttered, as he stood beside Asha. “Tell him that without him we would not have made it to Djenne.”
As Asha translated, Mpande turned to the doctor and grinned, raising his hand to his cheek before saying something in his own language.
“He thanks you,” Asha translated, “for relieving him of the pain in his mouth. He says he will keep the tooth you extracted as a memory of you and your wonderful healing skills.”
“Here, this is for you,” Gisgo said, taking a step towards the guide. In his hands he was holding one of the Spanish short swords that Xenocles had liberated from the pirates on Kerne. “Tell him that the steel in these weapons is of the finest quality. He will not find a better weapon anywhere in the world. Tell him, Asha, that we are grateful. For he saved our lives in those wetlands. I will not forget what he did for us.”
As Mpande took the sword, for a moment he gazed at the gleaming steel whilst he reverently ran his fingers over the weapon. Then abruptly he looked up at Gisgo with a pleased expression.
“He says that you honour him with this gift,” Asha translated. “He says that one day when his father dies, he will become the king of his people.”
“Yeah right,” Xenocles muttered, “him and his twenty-two brothers will need to sort that one out first.”
“Goodbye my friends,” Mpande suddenly said in awkward and heavily accented Punic, as with a huge grin he turned to look at the group standing around him. “I go home now.”
With that Mpande turned and walked off, and as he did Gisgo noticed the little bemused smile that had crept onto Asha’s lips. Had she taught him how to say those words? Sensing his eyes on her, Asha’s smile slowly faded and when she turned to look at Gisgo it was with sudden sadness. For a moment she said nothing. Then she extended her gaze towards the African city.
“I guess this is where we must part ways,” Asha said. “I am going home to find my family. They cannot be far from this place. I will find them. The time has come for me and Bostar to say goodbye.”
“Yes,” Gisgo nodded solemnly. Stepping forwards he quickly embraced Asha running his fingers fondly across her cheek. Then as Xenocles and Hanna silently embraced Asha and Bostar, Gisgo took a step back and abruptly raised his voice in song. As the others quickly joined in, singing the African tribal songs they had learned on their long and arduous journey from Yutpan’s island, smiles broke out as they turned to look at each other.
“It’s been the honour of my life,” Bostar said, at last turning to Gisgo as a tear threatened to escape from his eye. “Thank you. Sir. Thank you for keeping faith with me. May Astarte guide you on your journey across the desert. I will not forget you Gisgo, nor you Xenocles.”
“Goodbye Gisgo,” Asha said, as she gave him a radiant smile. Then she and Bostar turned and began to walk away. For a while Gisgo said nothing as he watched them go. At last, turning to Xenocles, Hanna and little Metzul, he sighed.
“Come on,” he muttered in a subdued voice. “Let’s go and find our way back home.”
***
As the four of them entered Djenne, Xenocles carrying the gold slung over his shoulder, Hanna holding little Metzul’s hand and Gisgo leading the way, he could see that the city was crammed with native round huts. The buildings had stone foundations and mudbrick walls and their pointy roofs were covered in straw tied together with grass rope. Dugout boats, like the one they had used to descend the Niger, were leaning against the walls, a reminder that the dry season would not last forever. As he gazed about, Gisgo could see that there appeared to be no city plan, no system of streets. Djenne was large but the place could not be compared to the carefully laid out boulevards and stone terraces of Carthage. The difference in technology between the two cities was too great. Inside the native huts, through the open doorways, Gisgo could see that the dung-covered floors were smooth and hard. Proudly sitting out in front of their homes on small stools, the elderly inhabitants were silently watching the chaotic activity around them. Attached to the houses were a mass of small workshops and animal pens, containing cackling chickens, goats and braying donkeys.
A multitude of people were out - going about their business and the noise was tremendous, but few except for the children paid them any attention. The sight of fair skinned people did not appear to excite the same reaction as they had encountered in the remote villages along the Bambotus and Niger rivers, Gisgo thought. Maybe it was because Djenne was used to the sight of Carthaginian merchants from the north. Pushing on through the crowded, unpaved streets Gisgo soon became aware of the stench of human excrement. The powerful smell pervaded everywhere. It was to be expected in a huge city of twenty thousand souls.
At last catching sight of the great market that occupied the centre of Djenne, Gisgo paused and turned to look around. The market appeared to live up to its name for it looked huge – a maze of hundreds of covered stalls, thronging with people. With thousands of voices calling out, chatting and haggling, the place was noisy too. Around the edges groups of children were scampering about, moving about in gangs and being berated by the stall owners.
“This is it,” Gisgo said turning to his companions. “This must be the great market that Asha and Mpande were talking about. When we go in, keep an eye on your possessions. Where there is wealth, there are thieves. When we find the people we are looking for, let me do the talking. If you are asked where you have come from, just tell them we have come from the coast and leave it that. Stay together and don’t get separated. All right, let’s go.”
“Yes Sir,” Xenocles murmured, as he tightened his grip on the sack of gold that was slung over his shoulder. In response Hanna lifted Metzul up from the ground and the little boy affectionately placed an arm around her neck.
Entering the great market of Djenne, Gisgo was assailed by noise and the scent of perfume, exotic spices, foods, fish, body odour and urine. Dried animal skins and heads were hanging up on wooden racks and the variety of different foods was astonishing. Amongst the stalls were metal-working craftsmen, potters and jewellery manufacturers, all proudly displaying their wares and trying to sell them in loud brash voices. Ignoring the traders who were calling out to him, trying to get his attention, he pushed on deeper into the maze of alleys and stalls. Then at last he came to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of the three fair-skinned men standing about beside one of the food stalls, enjoying a lunchtime bowl of rice and dried fish. The men were dressed in Carthaginian clothing, their fingers and arms adorned with rings and Punic bracelets. Around their necks they were wearing glass beads – flaunting their wealth and status. For a moment, Gisgo did not move as he carefully observed them. They were the first white-skinned people he had seen in nearly three months, since he had said goodbye to Donis and his sons.
“They look like Carthaginians,” Xenocles said as he cautiously edged up to Gisgo, gazing at the three men. “Merchants? Slavers?”
Without replying, Gisgo started out towards the men, and as they noticed him in the crowd, the three Carthaginians stopped eating. Turning to the older of the three, Gisgo stared at him in sudden surprise. The man appeared to be in his late forties with a black beard and a harsh, unsmiling face. A coiled whip hung from his belt. But that was not what had caught Gisgo’s interest. The man looked like he was a fellow Numidian.
“Show up in a native African city, far from home and what do I find – fellow Carthaginians,” Gisgo said, flashing a quick smile.
For a long moment, the three unsmiling men stared at Gisgo in silence, as they sized him up. The two younger men were clearly surprised by this unexpected encounter but the older man’s expression had not changed. He was studying Gisgo with harsh unfriendly eyes.
“Djenne is always full of surprises,” the Numidian replied at last speaking in perfect Punic and eyeing Gisgo with suspicion. “If you have been coming here as often as I have you would know. There is always something new out of Africa. My name is Tabnit,” the man said raising his chin. “I am master of the desert trade for the banking house of Hanno the Great. I do hope you are not here working for one of our commercial rivals. If you are - then we have a problem. There are not many pale faces like yours in this city and I know every one of them. So, who are you and what are you doing in my town?”
“No,” Gisgo replied calmly shaking his head. “We are not merchants. We do not work for anyone except ourselves. We have come from the coast.”
“From the coast?” Tabnit growled, looking displeased. “I ask once again. What the fuck are you doing here in Djenne? We are over two thousand miles from Carthaginian territory.”
“Our business is our own,” Gisgo replied as he stood his ground. “But now that we are here, we are looking to join one of the trade caravans heading north across the desert to Carthage. Can you help us find such a caravan? We are trying to find our way back home.”
Staring at Gisgo, Tabnit frowned, as he appeared to be trying to work out who these strangers were. Then he turned to gaze at Xenocles, Hanna and little Metzul, studying them with his harsh, merciless eyes.
“I am leading such an expedition across the desert,” Tabnit replied at last, in a non-committal voice. “We leave for Carthage within the week.”
“You are of Numidian ancestry,” Gisgo exclaimed changing tack as he took a step towards Tabnit. “I thought I recognised that about you.”
“Yes,” Tabnit replied with a flicker of surprise. “So, what if I am?”
“I am a prince of the Massylii, Lord of Theveste,” Gisgo said, proudly raising his head. “My family have long served the kings of Numidia. The blood that flows through your veins also flows in mine, brother. Will you help us?”
“Massylii,” Tabnit muttered gazing back at Gisgo, his expression unchanged. “Lord of Theveste. Then you belong to the eastern Numidian clans. I am familiar with the name of your house but I do not recognise you.” For a moment Tabnit paused, shrewdly eyeing Gisgo as if he had just remembered something. “But you are wrong,” Tabnit continued. “I am no brother of yours. King Gaia in the east is not my sovereign. I belong to the Masaesyli, the western Numidians clans. I do not know if you have heard but we westerners have a new king. Syphax now rules all the Numidian clans in the west and he has no love for your king Gaia.”
“Syphax is king in the west?” Gisgo exclaimed in surprise. “No, I didn’t know. That is news.”
“It happened some time ago, just before I set out for Djenne,” Tabnit responded, his black eyes gleaming. “I am pleased. Syphax will be a good king. He will bring much wealth and prestige to our people. It is about time that we recovered what is rightfully ours. Syphax is an ally of my employer Hanno the Great.”
For a moment Gisgo hesitated as he took in what had just been said. Tabnit was a westerner. That complicated matters. He should have expected it would not be so easy. It was well known that there was no love lost between the eastern and western Numidian kingdoms. Only the all-powerful presence of Carthage had prevented the two sides from going to war with each other.
“Catch you by surprise, did I?” Tabnit said, as a dirty grin appeared on his lips. “Maybe you just don’t like us westerners.”
Shaking off his doubts, Gisgo slowly shook his head.
“We are all Numidians, brother,” he said, trying to sound magnanimous. “Like I said, we are looking for passage across the desert to Carthage. If you are travelling north, will you permit us to accompany you?”
“You want to come with me prince?” Tabnit snapped, smirking quickly at his two companions. “There are four of you. That means four more mouths to feed. The journey across the desert to Carthage is going to take us around one hundred and forty days. That is - if we don’t run into any problems. That’s a lot of supplies that you are going to be consuming. Say I agree. What’s in it for me?”
“Myself and my friend here,” Gisgo replied, gesturing at Xenocles. “We fought with Hannibal in Italy. We are soldiers. We can help protect your caravan from Bedouin raiders.”
“Hannibal,” Tabnit said spitting out the name. “Overrated. But say I believe you. It’s still doesn’t justify the expense and the trouble. Maybe you should find yourself another guide who is willing to take you across the desert.”
Gisgo was about to reply when to his surprise Hanna stepped forwards, calmly and fearlessly turning to face Tabnit.
“Master of the desert trade,” Hanna said, and as she spoke Gisgo was conscious of the sudden strength, dignity and resolve in her voice. “I am Hanna. I am a priestess of Baal Hamon and I and my companions are most eager to get home. But we need your help good Sir. Aid us now in our time of need, return me to my place in the temple and our immortal lord and protector will reward you handsomely.” Then Hanna’s voice became icy and her eyes hardened. “But abandon us now, and you do so at your own peril master of the desert. For you will feel our lord’s wrath - for it is not his will that we should die here.”
“Baal Hamon. You are one of those who belong to him?” Tabnit said as doubt and concern crept into his voice and suddenly the merchant no longer looked so sure of himself. For a moment he stared at Hanna warily.
“Our lord will guide us across the desert,” Hanna continued without flinching, sounding completely sure of herself. “He will protect us. He wants us to succeed. You will be honouring him by returning one of his priestesses to her rightful home. The temple will not forget such an act of kindness and you know the power and influence that the temple has in Carthage.”
Chapter Thirteen – The Master of the Desert
The Niger river was getting wider the further downstream they went Gisgo thought, as he sat on the raft observing the desert that came right up to the water’s edge. It was a sunny, hot morning on the fourth day since they had left Djenne. On the summit of a low arid hill, overlooking the placid river, a perfect circle of standing stones, an ancient burial ground, was casting shadows onto the ground. Stacked upon the raft and the eleven other rafts and boats, that were slowly moving downstream in convoy, was a mass of trade goods and supplies. Ivory tusks tied together in bundles and sacks filled with gold bullion and wire, and carefully stamped with the name of their owner – Hanno the Great. The trade caravan was large, with over a hundred porters, attendants and armed guards in addition to the slaves. It was too big and well defended for any river pirates to attack, Gisgo thought. Idly he turned to gaze at the raft containing the seventeen African slaves, who also formed part of the trade caravan. The slaves, their ankles cast into clanking leg irons, were nearly all fit young men and women. They looked bewildered and frightened, not knowing what was going to happen to them or where they were going. Their fate – Tabnit had told him - was to be sold in the great slave markets of Carthage for a huge profit.
For a while Gisgo gazed at the miserable looking human cargo. He did not particularly like Tabnit and it was not just because he-was a westerner or that he worked for Hanno the Great. Tabnit had proved himself a harsh, merciless and violent master. Quick to use his whip on the poor men and women who displeased him. No one was questioning his authority. Everyone seemed afraid of the man, even his fellow Carthaginians, yet Tabnit appeared to take a perverse delight in exercising his power. He wanted people to know who was in charge. There was no doubt that the master of the desert trade for the banking house of Hanno the Great was a hard, ruthless man who loved his job. But if he and his companions wanted to get back home, Gisgo thought, they had little choice but to tolerate him.
