Chapter One

The Roman Delegation

The late summer sun of 150 still warmed the limbs of the Roman sailors. It was evening, and the Gulf of Carthage shimmered blood-red in the light of the slowly setting sun. To the southwest, the heights and rocky cliffs of the peninsula could now be seen more clearly. The commission, which looked intently towards the coast from the Roman sailor, was happy to have reached its destination before nightfall and had gathered on deck so as not to miss the reception in the outer harbour by the city’s representatives. The ship had reached the cliffs and now turned sharply south past bare, high rock faces that cast their black shadows far beyond the ship into the sea. The commission shuddered in awe at the thought that the ancient, prosperous city of the Phoenicians was hidden behind this natural fortress.  The steep mountain slopes now curved more gently to the west and soon the view of the magnificently landscaped trading port, which pushed itself in front of the mighty city wall, became clear. On both quays, the crowds thronged in a colourful mix of dresses and skirts.  The Romans had not expected such a reception and now looked in amazement at the men, women and children crowded together. They were about 20 steps away from them, and the helmsman was already preparing to steer his vehicle into the narrow entrance. The inspectors and the accompanying security team felt as if they were floating through the middle of the colourful crowd. People were so densely packed on both sides of the docks.

Publius had leaned far over the railing and looked into the tanned faces of the Africans. In some he saw suspicion and fear, but in many also hope and trust. Some waved at him, he waved back. But the reprimanding look of Naso, his superior, made his arm freeze. He was surprised and asked himself why Naso had banned this friendly gesture and found no answer. 

Publius was only 19 years old, and his blue eyes still looked uncertainly into the world. He had come to Carthage partly by chance and partly by a word of authority from the new tribune of the people. He had demonstrated his tribunician power by appointing a commoner to accompany the commissioners as security staff. Otherwise, this honour was exclusively a privilege of the Roman aristocracy. Far from the political turmoil, he learned how to make clay vases from his father. Publius had few but good friends. Most people wanted nothing to do with this dreamy, withdrawn person. In addition, two strange blue eyes glowed from his head, which has often caused discomfort among his comrades. His father had been reluctant to let him go because he knew that his semi-military existence in the security force and his stay in the depraved city, which had become dissolute due to wealth and opulence, could ruin him. After all, he had raised his son with old-fashioned strictness and kept him away from the immoral activities of his peers! But he was not so stubborn as to insist on his refusal and reject the high honour bestowed upon him.

Harso Asking for Rom’s Help

On the right side of the sailor a small speaker’s stand had been set up, to which an elderly man walked up and slowly climbed the wooden steps. After a short bow, he immediately addressed his speech to the inspectors, who had been watching the unexpected activity with a rigid expression and were now casually leaning over the railing.

“Venerable emissaries of the mighty city of Rome. Once again the great task has brought you to our city to settle a dispute between the predatory Massinissa and us. About two months ago this insolent Numidian prince had raided and pillaged one of our fertile grain provinces, the fields of Bagradas. After this night of murder, none of the many owners lived to see the next morning. When everything was destroyed, the farms were burnt, the cornfields were trampled by wild horses, the prince’s envoy appeared, probably to provoke us to the extreme and thus to breaking the contract with you, demanding that they be compensated. When our council asked them what on earth we should compensate them for, since our own territory had been so ignominiously invaded by them, they rose from their seats, grinning scornfully, and remarked. Exactly the opposite was the case, we invaded their fertile plains and bulldozed the fields, no matter how valuable their grain, with our elephants. But since they did not want our destruction at the hands of the Roman state, they refrained from filing a complaint in Rome and only demanded the modest compensation amount of 200 talents. May the gentlemen forgive us that this rabble of ambassadors did not leave the city alive and fell victim to righteous indignation. Roman law and order are praised all over the world. Our city hopes that this time we will be served justice and that the unholy Massinissa will be put in his place. The city will not show itself to be ungrateful and will support Rome with even larger deliveries of grain.”

The commissioners discussed briefly and sent their leader Naso forward. He just proudly and briefly said that they should wait for their decision after the investigation and not prematurely mess with it. First and foremost, he needs a safe anchorage and accommodation for himself and the guards. 

The old man replied, “A noble, spacious villa in the suburb of Magalia has been cleared for you. The security guard is also looked after. In my opinion it is unnecessary. In Carthage, hospitality is respected just as much as in Rome. Anyone who comes to us as a friend and helper will be treated as such. There’s still room for a soldier in my house out in the suburbs. As for the ship, it is well taken care of. There is no safer anchorage in this world than the naval port of Kothon,” the Carthaginian proudly concluded his speech and pointed with his index finger towards the mighty city walls.

The Walk to Harso’s Villa

The guards, however, wanted to keep to themselves, but since the commissaries didn’t want to offend the speaker, they couldn’t refuse his invitation. Everyone looked encouragingly at Publius, who had been watching the floodgates slowly open. He had not yet gotten used to the rough manners of his comrades, and so it was only right for him to accompany the elderly spokesperson to his home. 

Mocking himself, he simply remarked, “There you’ve found yourself a dummy.”

He checked out with Naso and climbed down the iron stairs that had been set up at the ship. While the Roman sailor was still waiting to be moored, Publius walked alongside his host through the gate, which was reinforced with iron braces. The young Roman was quite astonished when he saw a large expanse of water behind the mighty wall. A torchlight illuminated the Admiral’s residence in the middle. Their shine was reflected in the water.

“A lake, an island, I have never seen anything like it,” said Publius

 “This is not a lake, young friend,” his companion explained to him. “This is our naval port of Kothon.”

A thrill of awe at this mysterious city briefly gripped Publius. Warships, barely visible in their outlines, lay anchored along the ring-shaped road that surrounded the harbour. Narrow streets radiate out from here towards the city centre. The two crossed the vegetable market, which adjoined the naval port on the left. Although it was already quite dark, Harso – that was the name of the elderly host – soon found the alley that led past a six-story apartment block to the right and along the city wall to the north. As with all unknown things, Publius was a little afraid here and, anxious not to lose sight of his companion, moved closer to him. Nothing could be heard except their clattering footsteps. No one lived in this gloomy area facing the sea. The huge stone blocks of the city wall were dripping with moisture, and when the moon occasionally peeked through the tall houses behind them, the stones lit up like silver. To their left, under the low cellars, there must have been enormous warehouses that seemed to be filled with elephant food or something similar, because there was a sweet, bitter scent in the air. Suddenly they were spoken to. A guard armed with a long lance demanded the password.

“Evening sun,” Harso replied. Then the two of them walked through the half-open city gate. 

“You live outside the city?” Publius asked incredulously. 

“I live in the suburb of Magalia. In the past, controls between the two parts of the city were not common, but since the situation is so tense and we have to be prepared for any impudence on the part of Massenissa, the intermediate wall that separates Magalia from Carthage is also guarded.

“Then the defensive walls here haven’t ended yet?”

“Exactly. They extend far to the north. For the most part they are even natural. The steep rocky cliffs offer the best protection against attackers from the sea.”

They had left the gate behind them. If Publius hadn’t seen the stone blocks of the wall on the right, he would actually have been convinced that he was in an open landscape. They passed olive and orange groves, all of which made it clear to him that the city could sustain itself for a long time under siege. Then he found himself with all his thoughts contemplating war with Carthage. Had he thus fallen prey to the demagogues whom he had often seen speaking to the crowds in Rome? Were things so bad for proud Carthage? Pity seized his tender heart. Had Rome ever found a more humble city? Had Carthage not conscientiously fulfilled without exception wevery one of the harsh peace conditions? Publius asked himself all this as they walked past the fertile fields. Then they reached Harso’s country house, which was separated from the path by a well-kept park.

Publius meets Bersika

A black and white spotted desert dog burst out of the darkness, barking loudly, and immediately fell silent when it recognized its master. The entrance hall of the country house was soon a hive of activity. Slaves lit torches, others opened the large portal. And when Harso and Publius climbed the stairs, the housewife and Bersika, the 19-year-old daughter, were already ready to welcome the returning master and guest. A magnificent carpet, woven with wonderful colours, shone in the light of the torches. This led into the interior of the house.

“So this is our Roman guest,” began the housewife. “We hope you feel comfortable with us. You must have brought a good appetite back from the sea. Dinner is already laid out.” Overwhelmed by the unexpected cordiality and warmth with which he was received, Publius just remained silent and nodded. The dining room they now entered was richly and yet simply furnished, as he was used to in his father’s workshop apartment. However, the walls were panelled with rare, precious wood. Slow-burning torches were attached to the variously decorated wooden pillars, which provided the room with even light. At the other end there was another entrance, which the servants obviously used to bring in the food. From there came a tempting smell of roasting, which increased Publius’s hunger and made his mouth water. The middle was filled with a large oak table with a polished marble slab set into it. They sat down on leather couches around it, so that Publius was sitting opposite Bersika. What drew the young Roman’s attention to her was not so much her lovely figure as her straw-blonde hair and her blue eyes, which *fought inscrutably against him. How did the girl get her Nordic appearance, he asked himself secretly. She sat silently opposite him, her eyes fixed on him. Meanwhile, he had to tell about his sea voyage, which distracted him a little. He was glad to be allowed to break his silence. After they had drunk a cup of Spanish wine, the meal was served. A wonderfully prepared roasted antelope, enriched with unknown fruits, was steaming in a large silver bowl. Harso told Publius to eat generously. He didn’t need to be told twice and reached for a cut piece of meat that was wrapped in a lettuce leaf so that he didn’t have to get his fingers dirty. The girl ate little. Every time Publius looked up, her eyes looked at him spellbound, causing a wave of hot blood to shoot into his head.

“Bersika, you haven’t said anything this evening. You’re not usually so quiet,” the mother said to her daughter in surprise.

“Oh, nothing, Mata, nothing. I’m just so terribly tired,” the silent one said. And to make what she had said more credible, she got up from her leather seat. “Thank you for the food and good night to everyone. Tanith protect you.” Everyone was given a short nod, first the father, then the mother. A profound look seemed to hit Publius’ heart and tear the young Roman out of reality for a moment. It was as if he were deep in a golden, warm stream of bliss. For a while, he stared at the curtain behind which Bersika had disappeared.

“Well, how do you like it here?” Harso tore him out of his reverie. “Heavenly!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, then as if coming to his senses. “You are so kind to me, Harso! Thank you, I like it very much. Thank you!” After they had chatted for a while, Harso asked his wife to show the guest his bedroom. They had all become tired from the conversation and the heavy wine. Publius walked out of the room at Mata’s side, while Harso looked after them thoughtfully. They climbed a narrow staircase and entered a narrow corridor, at the end of which a colourful curtain hung down. That was where he was supposed to rest.

“Sleep well and dream sweetly, my dear Publius,” the housewife said goodbye motherly. “Let’s hope that we will soon experience more peaceful times. Strife and discord eat away at the heart and make you sick. Believe me,” she concluded her speech, “the Carthaginians only want their peace and quiet. Their desire for conquest has completely disappeared since Hannibal.” She had spoken to him as if Publius, as a person with Roman citizenship, influenced political events. At least that’s how it seemed to him. Embarrassed, he searched for a suitable answer, then said, “It will turn out well for all of us. Good night!”

Publius Yearning for Peace

He parted the curtain and went into his small room. Soft moonlight filtered through a large window and only slightly illuminated the room. Publius found his bed excellent and lounged happily on the soft silk pillows. However, sleep was a long time coming. He thought again about what Mata had said to him. How could he understand her wishes so well! Why did the Senate make life so difficult for them! Couldn’t the two cities join hands like brothers after feuding for so long? If only all people were like this noble Harso, who always sounded the voice of reconciliation and moderation in the Punic Council! How blessedly the human spirit and strength would unfold! Fertile areas of land give people their rich fruits under the diligent hand of the farmer. 

His imagination pictured the state of eternal peace in ever more enticing colours. And soon he was swept away from his own ideas into a colourful dream state. Thoughts no longer raced through his head, fragments of emotions quickly passed the horizon of his mind. Then a whirlpool of new images hit him, all promising a bit of bliss. Blooming meadows, silent mountain lakes, sweet-smelling quinces, venerable temples. Fairy tale castles, happy people, lovely, mild sunshine, rushing waters. The images would not stop renewing and repeating themselves. Now they began to mix, move together and turn. 

Suddenly, Publius found himself in the gold-warm stream again, dissolving and being swept up. And far, far above, two blue eyes were shining. 

“Damn,” said Publius to himself, “I am in love with her.” He bit his thumb and tried to finally drive away the remnants of the dream images. 

“I’m a stupid ass, what am I imagining?  As if a noble Punic girl were spending time with me, a ridiculous soldier.” 

But all the murmurs of protest didn’t last long. The memory of what he had just experienced renewed his feelings. And then the lovely play of colours began and soon ended with Bersika’s still shining eyes. Only this time they weren’t quite as far away. Again groves, foaming sea waves, happy people lined up one after the other, only much faster and not so clearly, pushed into the background by the blue eyes that now outshone everything. As Publius fell into a deep slumber, morning was already dawning on the eastern horizon.

A Rude Awakening

A bright little bell, which could be rung from outside, tinkled above his bed. The sun filled the room with its bright light. Publius rubbed his eyes. He felt as if he had dreamed of Bersika that night and was pondering in his memory. Yes, he couldn’t even decide whether it was a dream or reality. While he was still thinking, harsh Roman words of command reached his ears. He was startled. What did that mean? 

The voices faded into the lobby, and he heard Harso say, “If the delegation leader wants it that way, I will send him to the camp straight after breakfast.”

Then footsteps approach his chamber. Harso stepped through the curtain, his facial features betraying the disappointment he had just experienced. 

“You already know, Publius. You have to go! Naso just let me know that considering so many people, he couldn’t refuse my request last night and only gave you for one night. Because you belong in the camp of the comrades ,and you would have your job there. And when I objected, someone haughtily hurled in my face that it was disgraceful enough to have to sleep one night at a Carthaginian’s.”

The excitement and righteous indignation caused the merchant to take a short break. Then he spoke calmly and seriously, “The Romans have changed in the past 50 years. They once valued custom and law more than honour and power. When Pyrrhus ruled the Italian lands and threatened finally to put an end to the Romans, you yourself did not accept his personal physician’s request to free yourself from the Macedonian hostage through assassination. Or in the great Hannibal war, when our envoys gladly and fearlessly went to Roman negotiations, knowing that they had no fear of mistreatment. But nobility and a sense of justice have disappeared from the Romans.”

His excitement had gotten the better of him again, and he had spoken more to himself than to Publius. When he had regained his composure, he said in an almost melancholy voice, “The commission will bring disaster to our city. The men looked so dark. But now go and get dressed so that we can at least have breakfast together again in the morning.” 

The rumbling of the soldiers and now Harso’s speech had taken Publius out of his dreamy mood. His keen sense of obedience, which he had already learned in the semi-military group on the ship, warned him to leave immediately. 

“When should I be in the quarters?”

“When the shadow of the battlements wanders out into the city!” 

“So lunchtime. Then I’m sorry to have to decline your offer, Harso. I’ll leave immediately. I don’t have any more time to waste.”

“I see you have to. I would rather not pressure you any further,” the merchant replied, without any anger taking hold of him. A little while later, the time had come. He had already said goodbye to Harso and Mata, who were sitting in the dining room having a small snack. He walked out of the porch into the magnificent garden, at the end of which the road led to the naval port. Harso’s dark male voice sounded again from the window, “Don’t forget the password, Publius. It’s palm leaf, palm leaf.”

Bersika

As he passed the garden gate, he saw a shadow in one of the garden’s side paths. It was Bersika, bending over a quince bush, reaching for the fragrant fruit and carefully placing it in a brown leather bag. The young Roman stopped and looked around longingly for her. She seemed to have been waiting for him. Because when he stopped, she had dropped her bag and jumped up and walked straight towards him. Joyful surprise lit up his eyes. But embarrassment and terrible shyness immediately spread through him. How he would have loved to ask if she liked him despite his foreign origin, if she had thought of him that night. But his throat was as if it were tied up. He just silently squeezed her hand and said, “We’ll see each other again, Bersika, we’ll see each other again.” 

“Yes, gladly, really gladly,” she exclaimed happily. Publius was caught by her gaze again. And now he noticed what was so fascinating about her. A small, barely visible scar covered her eyes and always drew his gaze there. Even though she was not particularly pretty according to Roman taste, this scar had a peculiar charm. Publius was suddenly seized by the desire to snatch her away and confess his love to her. But his shyness was greater than his desire, and so he broke away from her, stepped out onto the street and walked briskly towards the inner-city wall. He did not turn around again, fearing that his feelings would overwhelm him. But he felt her eyes on him, and his embarrassment only ended when he reached the first bend in the street.

Overjoyed, he began to race the street to let the joyful mood run wild. Completely out of breath, he fell back to a walking pace. Now other thoughts came to him. Why had he not gone on? Would she have understood him? The encounter seemed to him like a victory in a battle that the general did not know how to exploit properly. He thought again of her father, and bitter feelings rose within him. He was too much of a Roman to accept his accusations so easily, but also too just to dismiss them out of hand. Publius could not agree with this and was angry.

Rough Reception at the Roman Camp

Whistles and roars greeted him as he entered the massive corner house on Kothon, not far from the rock wall. Publius was dismayed. His comrades drank the heavy African wine in front of the building like common people in broad daylight. Some rolled dice for money. After each throw, cries of anger and joy mixed together to form a terrible roar.  Others shared their recent experiences dealing with easy girls. 

Publius hurried to get through the rough fellows to report back to the small guard room. His steps became unsteady. He couldn’t feel comfortable in this company. He gradually became aware of why he had to go back to the guards. He was supposed to do duty, clean weapons and the like. But here he saw nothing that reminded him of such an activity. Shouldn’t he have been granted his stay there? Or was it even hatred against the Carthaginians that prevented a peaceful get-together? Now the first ones had recognized him and pointed loudly to the Carthaginian friend. A sneer of laughter broke out and Publius was happy to report back to his superior in the small guard room. He just made an annoying gesture with his hand, indicating that he was supposed to return to his comrades. However, he had hoped to receive an order so that he could at least keep himself busy. And so to be able to withdraw, if not physically, then at least mentally. 

He had barely entered the sunny forecourt when he saw all eyes turned towards him. In them he read only mockery and contempt. Half jokingly, half maliciously, the most daring ones shot the poisoned arrows of their spiteful mouths at him.

“You turkey, how is the Roman-Carthaginian alliance doing?”

“He probably drank to Rome’s downfall with Harso!” 

“Look at his bedroom look, he must have slept with Harso’s daughter that night!”

“What, Harso has a daughter?”

“Of course, a real looker in fact. I even think Harso is not her father. Because of the blue eyes and stuff!”

A shrill, lecherous laugh made Publius tremble within. He had sat down silently on a stone staircase. He didn’t want his comrades to see him seething with rage and utter helplessness. Publius was ruled only by feeling. He felt everything beautiful, but also the abysmal ugly, much more deeply than the others. However, he suffered from an inability to quickly and accurately express his feeling, whether it was genuine joy or holy anger. So, like the hidden sun, he shined only upon himself and was a shadow to the world around him.

In Search of a Mountain Lake

There was a night’s leave until the next morning. Day after day, Publius’ comrades had idly hung around in front of their quarters’ building. Now the soldiers had finally gotten their way to being allowed to have fun in the big city. The sun was still high in the sky when no one was at the accommodation anymore. Only Publius was still lying on the withered lawn of the forecourt, pondering what he should do with himself and the time. 

Then a good thought came to him. That evening, Harso had spoken of a small lake that was supposed to be in the very north of the peninsula. A hike there promised him relief from the daily monotony of semi-military life. He got the password from the person on duty. This time it was apple tree. Soon he had crossed the suburb of Magalia and was approaching the outer city wall. The guards looked at the newcomer suspiciously. 

“What do you want in our city cemetery?”

“City of graves, I don’t want to go there. I want to go to the lake that is supposed to be in the mountains.”

The guard shook his head in surprise at such an unusual request, and after hearing the password, he let him pass. Behind the massive city wall, he was met with a strange sight. The sunset illuminated the graves of the Carthaginian ancestors in a ghostly way. Everywhere he looked, marble slabs lay on the clayey, stony ground. Most of them were surrounded by pine trees, which were now casting deep shadows over the grey earth. Particularly distinguished and rich, mainly aristocratic merchants, had built their tombs in advance, large temple-like structures. He now walked past them, always heading north. The gravestones were now more numerous and less richly decorated. Weeds and thorn bushes made access to them impassable. Only the narrow path allowed the hiker to continue unhindered. A small iron gate closed off the necropolis to the north. The stone wall that surrounded it was low and easy to jump over. It was not built to protect against enemies, but was only meant to indicate belonging to the city.

When the young Roman had gone through the gate, he found himself at a fork in the road. The narrow path to the right led along the cemetery wall directly to the sea cliffs, which he had already seen from the ship. The left path wound in long serpentines into the interior of the peninsula. A third path climbed straight ahead, northwards, into the mountains. This was so little used and so covered with stones that it was barely visible in the rapidly approaching darkness. The young Roman had to take this path if he wanted to find the lake. The friendly residents had been able to tell him up to this point. Now he had to find his way himself. He stormed up the gently rising mountain at a run. Because when the last glimmer of day had faded, he could easily get off the path and perhaps fall into a ravine or the sea, he thought to himself, but his strength soon ran out, especially as the path became increasingly steep. He sat down on a granite block to rest for a while. He looked up to the top of the mountain and realized, to his great horror, that he had strayed from the rocky path. Or was it just too dark, that the path and the ground looked grey? He did not know.

Narrow Escape from certain Death

He didn’t dare climb any further for fear of falling off the mountain. He then sat on his hard seat for an hour and looked at the stars. Then suddenly it became brighter. The moon had risen, and its silver glitter seemed to stretch eastward into infinity, mocking the sun’s extinguished splendour. A long shadow outlined Publius’ crouching body on the rocky ground. Only the head, yes, only the head, was missing from his dark companion. Hot and cold ran down his spine. About five double steps away from him, the rock face dropped almost vertically. Only after a long while did Publius dare to get up and approach the cliff. He looked into the depths and immediately turned around. The abyss seemed infinitely deep, as the darkness did not reveal its true depth. 

Inland and up the mountain, he recognized every bush and every stone. He also found the path again, which wound in tight loops to a narrow mountain gap. He quickly completed the last half mile to get there and in good spirits he set about descending into the valley.

He was no longer afraid. Because he had discovered mountainous land again on the other side. So the sea couldn’t be below him, but only the mountain lake he was looking for. In his mind he imagined that if he had climbed all the way to the top of the mountain, the sea would be shimmering towards him from three sides. But he didn’t want to deviate from the goal he had once decided on and now slowly climbed down the rocky path. Luckily everything was illuminated by moonlight and he no longer had to be as careful as before. The deeper he went, the higher the moon rose. So nature was helpful to him and still hid her last secret from him in this silent world until the end. 

Then the path suddenly ended at a lush green mountain meadow where a few wild date and plum trees stretched their branches into the silent night. And further down the lake rested majestically, greenish blue. Nothing moved here in the relaxing solitude. For a moment Publius stood there as if enchanted, then he hurried across the grass. He had almost reached the bank when he tripped over a tree root and fell lengthways. The water splashed on his face, but he didn’t seem to mind. For he only bent his head back into the grass and remained motionless as he was. The damp ground cooled his heated cheeks. Here he was happy and undisturbed. The waves of resentment and strife of the past few days calmed down in that one minute and peace reigned in his soul.

The Mountain Lake

He slowly recovered, the moon now shining unhindered by mountain and tree on the magical world of the night. Further to the right, a meadow retreated a little and made way for a rocky beach. In front of the outlines of an old, abandoned hut, a boat lay tipped on its side. As Publius came closer, he found that the hut offered an excellent place for his night’s rest. Through the opening he saw an oak table and behind it a bench that groaned when you tried to sit on it and threatened to collapse soon if you put your wish into action.

“Not bad,” said Publius to himself, throwing off his light cloak and spreading it over the bench.

Now he remembered the boat on the beach. A trip in the moonlight, which turned the lake into a silver mirror, would make his sleep even sweeter. Besides, he was wide awake and had no intention of stretching out on his creaking bed. He quickly reached the boat, which, despite its shabby, even rotten state, made a fairly usable impression. However, when he had pulled it into the water, he noticed that the water was gushing into it through a hole the size of a fist. He did not let this discourage him, jumped boldly into the boat and quickly stuffed his bread rag into the hole. The water was only seeping in slowly, but it was probably enough for an hour. Now he grabbed the oars, which were actually still inside the boat, and dipped them in the water, and immediately put all his strength into it. It did not take long before he reached the middle, whereupon he pulled the oars in again. The waves quickly disappeared into the distance and the moon gave the lake its old silver shine.

The lake, a shining eye, was protected in this mountain range. It was embedded, searchingly directed towards the immeasurable depths of space. How wonderful it was here! And how little he liked the senseless goings-on out there! The planks of the world groaned rotten on fragile foundations. It was dangerous to move across them. How could he hold himself together when everything around him was swaying? He leaned over the edge of the boat and looked thoughtfully down into the clear depths. Suddenly he felt the urge to speak out what was troubling and moving him. And since he had no one who could listen to him, he pulled a small papyrus roll and a pen, which he always carried with him as a soldier, from the side pocket of his cloak. Slowly but steadily flowing, line after line, verse after verse followed.

A Young Man’s Poem

The Mountain Lake

Glittering, illuminated by the moon, it lies there in silence,

willingly obeys the rower’s gentle stroke of the paddle.

The waves ripple gently in the ever-changing game,

and get lost in the distance as if they had no destination.

Man is lonely, but infinitely happy,

when he longingly compares himself with nature.

She shows him in a thousand colours how important, oh how important,

that you are like her in essence.

Tired and exhausted from the arduous journey into the night,

he stops. He pulls the oars gently into the rocking boat.

A final murmur of the gliding silver waves

gets lost in an ever-widening arc.

The delicate person, in his distress, seeks peace and security,

he needs it to fathom himself and also to find himself.

Far from all noise, shouting and annoying chatter,

which, while disturbing, do not loosen him, but rather bind him.

The lake now shimmers dark blue,

covered with thin silver skin, he now shows banned by unknown power,

its greenish-blue interior to the forebodingly bowed man,

which can only take hold of people in such quiet hours.

So you too can look into yourself from time to time!

And then after having grasped your inner self so clearly,

then throw down your great anchor of life,

You will then find peace and rest within yourself throughout your life.

Heading Back to Camp

The African midday sun still shone quite warmly down on the people, even though autumn had already set in. Publius walked lightly and cheerfully along the spacious plantation paths of the suburb. The slaves had their lunch break and snored in the shade of the olive trees. Carthage’s main streets were all arched to allow rainwater to drain to either side. This meant that puddles didn’t form, and the carts that rumbled up and down in large numbers during rush hour didn’t splash people when it rained. Very progressive, Publius thought to himself. If he came across an oxcart, he would quickly jump to the side and then walk straight back to the middle of the road. However, he rarely encountered people on foot; they were mostly slaves who had to carry out messenger services. 

That’s why he immediately noticed the girl in the colourful dress and with a basket under her arm who was slowly strolling up the street. However, it was only at the last moment that he recognized Bersika. She was halfway past him when he stopped and turned to look at her. She stopped now, as if she had just been waiting, and smiled at him. Then he took courage and shook her both hands in the Roman style. After they had greeted each other and assured each other of their well-being, Publius chatted without haste and without shyness about his night’s stay at the mountain lake and its incredible beauty in the moonlight. A charming smile played around her mouth.

“You must have experienced something wonderful last night. You look so different. You radiate a wonderful calm, Publius. Yes, indeed, you have changed a lot for the better!”

That was too much of a good thing coming from such a mouth, and the calm was over. The joy at her words had overwhelmed him. He was glad that she continued.

“You know next to nothing about me. That’s why I want to tell you briefly about my work in the Tamith Temple. Oh, no, I am not a priestess. My father is a wholesale merchant, as you know, and among other things he imports precious raw ointment from Alexandria for our priesthood. I bring these ointments to the temple myself so that they are not contaminated by slave hands, and I help to prepare them there. I enjoy working with the priestesses and have already learned a lot. Medicine in particular is no longer foreign to me, because in the temple they often work with healing powers to make sick people healthy again with Tamith and the help of the healing god.” Publius had listened to her in amazement. How he would have liked to chat with her for longer. But he had to get back to her. “I have to go now, Bersika, I have my work!” She nodded understandingly.

“May I invite you for a walk sometime, when my job allows me? But, only, I will need your address so that I can write to you.”

“Oh, don’t write to Magalia. The messengers would charge you too much money. Write to Temple T., Almond Blossom Section, Private Entrance, Bersika.”

“Thank you,” said Publius and took her right hand in farewell. Then he hurried towards the inner city wall, repeating the address over and over.

Publius in the Sickbed

Drenched in sweat, he arrived at the Kothon and saw his comrades lying drunk on the forecourt. Each one snored louder than the other. Publius reported back to his guard. The guard smiled a little at his zeal for duty. Publius immediately asked when the next day off would be.

“Well, we’re leaving in 14 days!”

“So early?” asked Publius, alarmed.

“Well, do you think we’ll spend an eternity on these trivialities? The Carthaginians are in the wrong anyway. That was already clear in Rome. So, my dear Publius, in eight days there will be another afternoon for the troops.” He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or happy. He had become so used to the peaceful life in Carthage that any hostile intention against the city hurt him like a personal attack. But what did the little guard know about what the commissioners were discussing, Publius said to himself disdainfully. 

He went out into the sun and at the same time happily began to write a letter to Bersika on the stone steps over which he had spread his coat. Strange shivers gripped his whole body and he got goose bumps. With all the openness and sincerity of his heart, he wrote to her what she meant to him and how happy she had made him with their last conversation. The folly of being in love brought ever hotter, more exuberant words to paper. He paused. Had he gone too far? Again he felt himself shaken, a cold sweat broke out on him. He felt his forehead, it was warmer than usual. He hastily wrote the last lines, saying that he was very much looking forward to seeing her again and that he would expect her at the pepper market in eight days at two o’clock. Then he rolled up the sheet, put a silk ring over it and gave it to a slave who was working for the city as a postman in the city centre. 

Tired and shivering, he lay down in his coat with his comrades in the warm sun. But he was still cold and was dozing. When he could no longer stand it, he went to the guard room and reported sick. In a single room, he wrapped himself up thickly in woollen blankets and, after someone brought him a hot tea, he felt a little better. The cold turned into a pleasant heat. While his fever rose from hour to hour, he tossed and turned restlessly on his bed. When he finally fell asleep, he still couldn’t rest. During the night, the wildest dreams gripped him. A glimmer of hope, of love in the deep abyss of illness, drew Bersika, as if by a vortex, into the witches’ dance of dream images. As the fever took hold of the body in all its heat, so the body wanted to pass it on to gain cooling and satisfaction: a strange mixture of fever and the intoxication of love. The images of bliss that he had once seen so clearly appeared again, only now painfully distorted, heightened by his sick, dirty imagination. A tremendous disgust with himself brought him back to reality. He rushed out into the cool night and vomited.

The Glass Palace

Then he threw himself back on his bed, and utter exhaustion led him to the calmer realms of sleep. In the morning, however, he got up. He had to apologize to Bersika. He threw his coat over his shoulders and jumped out into the cold dawn. His beard was now two days old, and there was a grim, determined gleam in his eyes.

“Bersika, Bersika, what have I done to you!” he called out loudly in the deserted streets. He had the impression that he himself was no longer running, no, that the houses were racing past him at a mad speed. The massive city wall rushed towards him. He raised his brow defiantly, and it shattered against it with a roar of thunder, as if 20 catapults had hit the wall at once. Everything around him was suddenly quiet again, and green mats refreshed his soul.

But above all, a glass palace rose in fairy tale splendour. It was round and laid out like a labyrinth. Publius had never heard or seen anything about this palace. He had approached the first glass door in two steps and was already wondering how he was going to get in when the door opened as if by itself. He entered a corridor and looked around in increasing amazement. The glass walls were such that he could always see outside, but never inside the palace. 

Again he called out, “Bersika, Bersika, I must speak to you!” No answer. Now he began to run into the middle of the glass maze. A large glass double door opened with a deafening clatter, revealing a gigantic hall of mirrors. Publius fell to his knees, but could not utter a word. In the middle, Bersika stood tall, dressed entirely in white. An ice-cold gaze pierced the young Roman.

The Nightmare

A white cap that completely covered her blonde hair further hardened her facial features. And behind her and beside her stood a whole army of Bersikas, all of them with hostile eyes on him. Then Bersika’s voice rose like a choir, and the thousands behind and beside me all joined in. The voices were unimaginably cruel simply because of their monotony and lifelessness. 

“Go, Roman. Go! You destroyer of our city, you destroyer of our earthly happiness, leave our grave. We want to rest!” 

Haunted by panic, he ran back down the corridor until he reached the last enclosing glass wall. He had chased around the palace three or four times and found that the exit had disappeared. He looked around exhausted. Wild fright made him make a great leap against the outermost glass wall. A pile of charred corpses lay buried under rubble and burning rafters. Above it lay in a dense cloud the acrid odour of total destruction. His tormented soul could no longer bear this. The glass shattered with a loud clatter. Bleeding from a thousand wounds, Publius lay on the grass. He had come to her as a human being, she had received him as a Roman. The blood flowed steadily and without rhythm. The heart stopped beating. The palace began to dissolve in all the impenetrable fog. The lawn disappeared. And he felt as if he were being carried away by a light cloud.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” said the slave in her barbaric-sounding Celtic Latin. 

“When I went to bring breakfast, you were still asleep. But a strong chicken broth will increase the miracle that sleep has done on you. You really look healthy again.”

With that she placed a roughly carved spruce tray at his bedside, but made no move to leave the sickroom.

Bersika’s Letter

“Well?” asked Publius, who was actually feeling better.

“I’m supposed to give you something,” she said mysteriously to him, pulling a greenish sheet of paper from one of the pocket-like folds in her skirt. He hastily grabbed it and tore the folded paper apart, while the maid silently withdrew with a mischievous smile on her lips. He had barely read the first few lines when disappointment began to spread within him.

“Dear Publius! Thank you very much for your letter, which I was very pleased to receive (the letter as such)…”

What was the point of this letter as such? Why this mysterious restriction? He did not understand it. Then she wrote briefly about what she had done last. The fact that she was interested in continuing the pen pal relationship sounded indifferent. Then came the closing words, without any context and apparently without any emotion.

“The next three weeks are all booked. Kind regards! Bersika.”

“When she knows full well that I am leaving soon.” protested Publius. The whole letter may sound sweet to others. But he painfully felt the sting of being dumped. He was now annoyed that he had confessed his thoughts and, above all, his affection for her so openly. He called himself a fool, a dreamer. Wasn’t it always the same with him. Every time he thought he had reached his goal, his joy was spoiled by a setback. Only after another deep healing sleep did his anger against Bersika gradually fade, and he wrote back to her in a friendly but also somewhat reserved manner, telling her his address in Rome.

Despite all this, his mood was not the best. He had been lying on his sickbed for three days now, and still none of his few friends among the soldiers had visited him. Loneliness gnawed at his heart, dark thoughts rose in him, and he could hardly defend himself against them. Then he remembered that he had let his friend Marcus down similarly in Rome. He was eager to learn a lesson from that and decided to improve. In the afternoon, his comrades finally arrived. He did not blame them, as the joy of seeing them again was greater than his anger. They had important things to tell him.

The Massacre

“Today was the final session of the Senate of Carthage,” Decimus began.

“Naso had given a brilliant speech, weighed the reports of the Numidian envoys and the Carthaginian statements against each other, and had given Massinissa the right to collect the compensation demanded and to occupy and manage the disputed territory. In addition, the Carthaginians were to pay the full costs of the negotiations to the commission in Rome.

We were standing outside the town hall, Publius, and could hear everything. You would not believe the storm of indignation that arose in the Elders’ Council. The tumult was such that the inhabitants of the immediate vicinity ran together and only increased the shouting. Then Harso rose from his seat. You know, the one with whom you stayed the night on the first day. He spoke words of moderation and reflection, but no one listened to him. Then Naso’s commanding voice rang out and brought instant calm. “We await your answer,” he called out imperiously. Another murmur arose in the ranks of the senators. Then Harso, who was still standing, spoke again, “For the sake of peace, we accept.” Then the Numidian envoys stood up, bowed gratefully to our commission leader and left the town hall, still looking around haughtily. I have never encountered anything so pompous before. You should have seen them strutting past us. The town hall square was densely packed with people who had all abandoned their work and rushed there to hear the terrible news. Icy silence greeted the envoys. Hate-filled eyes stared at them. But hesitantly, a narrow alley formed in front of the Numidians who wanted to reach their horses in the nearby stables.

They had taken about 50 double steps when the crowd refused to open up any further. Wherever they looked, they were hemmed in by the mass. The Numidians demanded passage loudly and unimpressed. One even raised his ambassador’s staff threateningly at the people standing next to them.

Suddenly, a cry rang out from behind. “Kill them, the desert pigs.”

“Yes, kill them,” rang out from all sides, and then a terrible commotion began. Those at the back pushed forward, whether the first wanted it or not. They were pushed against the ambassadors. When the latter defended themselves with their weapons, the people had to stop the ambassadors if they would rather not be killed. They snatched the weapons from them, threw them to the ground, and then we saw nothing more. The unleashed mass trampled over them, and the roar of hatred was so loud that we could not hear any of the cries of pain and death. The news had spread quickly in the Senate, and the Carthaginians turned as white as a sheet. Almost as if our commission leader had foreseen this, he spoke his words so calmly and carefully. “It is fortunate that we are still alive. Arrange this with the Roman consul. As for us, we will leave this very night to report to the Senate on the Carthaginians’ love of peace. The guards should make room for us outside.” We had little to do. The people, probably shocked by their bloody deed, retreated silently into their houses,” Decimus concluded his report.

Sad Farewell

Publius couldn’t believe it. That couldn’t be the final decision. The mob’s bloody deed was certainly terrible, but the hatred of those who threatened it was also understandable. But he had little time to think. His things had to be packed and loaded onto the ship. His two friends helped him. 

As the Roman sailor navigated out of the trading port, there were only a few people on the quay. Nobody waved. Publius watched you go sadly. What a terrible turn the negotiation had taken. He thought of the friendly welcome the residents had given them. Now everything was over. There will be war, war! Everything still seemed so peaceful. The murder of the ambassadors was so unimaginable for Publius, so unreal, as if it had never happened. 

A whistle interrupted his worried thoughts. They had to gather; because Naso had something to say. 

“The following soldiers must remain on board upon arrival in Ostia. Soldier, Cornelius Aper, Soldier Quintus Poccus, Soldier Publius Fabricius… These soldiers are still needed in the Capua area for 10 to 14 days. Runaway slaves worry farmers. I draw your attention to the fact that it is an honour and distinction…”

So Publius had not yet been released. The evening sun dipped into the Carthaginian mountains, whose shining peaks gradually sank into the sea.

Chapter II

The Fate of the Roman Traders and Farmers

The more millionaires grew out of the financial and commercial city of Rome, the worse the situation was for factories, workshops and all the facilities that provide work and bread for the people of a healthy state. The cheap imported goods, mostly expensive ointments, hair dyes, wines, silver and gold utensils and clay vases, displaced every domestic industry. The situation was even worse for the Latin, once free farmers. African and especially Sicilian grain was offered to the Roman mob at knockdown prices.

Thus, the local farmers soon found themselves in a devastating interest situation with the Roman bankers. They held out until they could no longer pay the interest rates due, and then moved to the capital impoverished so that they could at least live off foreign grain, but this increased the number of people without property even further. The money merchants who took over the indebted farms combined them into large, expansive areas and handed them over to a manager who managed them with a constantly growing slave population. An enormous number of cattle ready for slaughter flowed from these estates to Rome every year and helped to fill the coffers of the moneyed aristocracy.

Whereas previously the eye of the law watched closely on the way in which slaves were treated, they were now outside the city, in a sense removed from the law and at the mercy of the slave owner. So they lived miserably and were often treated worse than cattle. Although they were threatened with severe punishment, many dared to leave their masters in secret, band together and cause mischief in gangs. Their former masters often paid for their excessive cruelty with their lives. Since the Roman state could not get to the root of the evil, it had no choice but to take military action against them.

Lost in the Rain

Storm and rain lashed the two legionnaires’ faces. Suddenly it was autumn. Under the heavy rain, the meadows became waterlogged, making it difficult for the two soldiers to walk.

“Holy shit! What a mess!” Lucius complained. 

“I thought you wanted to be a general one day,” Publius remarked ironically. “You must still be able to dream in such weather. For my part, I just think it’s great to be able to run against the storm like that and struggle with it.”

 Lucius grumbled a bit, but his companion didn’t understand what he said. They had lost contact with the troops for about four hours and were now looking for the camp in the rapidly falling darkness. They had long since ceased to be interested in the runaway slaves who still loitered around in this area and attacked honest people. But nothing could be seen in this dull grey weather. Sometimes they came across herds of cattle huddled together in the meadows.

“What a surprise!” Publius suddenly exclaimed enthusiastically. “I see light there on the right behind the row of birch trees. Hopefully there aren’t any slaves. They won’t give us a very friendly welcome!”

“Nonsense, it’s an estate. A blind man without a cane can see that!” replied Lucius.

They rushed towards it. It turned out he was right. A large farmstead appeared in its dark outlines. Publius hit the gate with the butt of his short sword. He had to repeat the knock several times until a slurping gait of sandals came from inside and the door finally opened. A warm stream of air blew towards the completely soaked soldiers. 

“Who are you and what do you want?” a youthful voice called out to them. 

“Lost legionnaires looking for shelter.” When the boy found out their plight, he immediately invited them to come in and warm up by the fireplace. This was the so-called parlour into which they entered. A large fire flickered and crackled merrily in the brick fireplace.

At the Roman Estate

In the middle stood a heavy oak table, immovable, with six chairs arranged in strict order. At the fireplace, where the legionnaires were now changing their clothes, a loom-like structure looked silently into the blazing flames. Apart from an ancestral picture and the usual Penates corner, nothing adorned the oversized manor room. Antonius, who had just brought the soldiers fresh woollen clothes from the clothing room, was sitting on the table and seemed to be amused by the still shivering night hikers. Because he smiled mischievously and made a mischievous, boyish face. Two slaves served the food and signalled with their hands that the master of the house would come immediately to greet the guests. 

It didn’t take too long before a somewhat stout man with a benevolent look around him entered the room, followed by his wife and daughter, who went by the name Claudia. 

“Aha! The gentlemen legionnaires! How many have you caught so far?”

“None yet, manager.”

“You see, there aren’t any here either. I haven’t missed any yet. You should have stayed further south. So welcome, slave hunters, you!”

Everyone laughed heartily at his words. Publius and Lucius also looked too strange in their borrowed wool trousers. They sat down around the table where a steaming soup, a feast for the eyes of frozen souls, was presented to the two of them.  The warmth that now penetrated their bodies from the inside was good for them. The steward asked about the latest developments in Rome as he sipped the hot liquid. 

“What a development,” Publius asked, not fully understanding the meaning of the question. 

“He can’t know that either!” Lucius intervened in the conversation in his critical and ironic way. 

“He was in Carthage for several weeks.”

“In Carthage?” Antonius shouted eagerly. “Oh, Father, he has to tell us about it. What’s the mood there like?”

“Mood?” Publius replied in surprise. 

“Well, don’t be so obtuse,” criticized Lucius. “Antonius means whether they want war.”

“No, they don’t want war.” 

The steward cleared his throat and waited until tempers had calmed down a little, then turned to Publius. “Is it not true that the Carthaginian mob tore the Numidian envoys to pieces in front of our commissioners? Isn’t that true? You were there, Publius.”

“But already. But anyone would have done that. The Carthaginians have …” He searched for words of explanation, but did not find them at the same time and remained silent. 

After a short pause, the manager began. “That’s how I see the situation. The Carthaginians want war and deserve it. I was recently in Rome to present a few fattening cattle to the state inspection authorities and have them valued. Of course, I didn’t miss the pithy speech of the brave Cato. I also learned about the last events in Carthage. Although the old moral preacher ended his sermon for the umpteenth time with the words ‘Ceterum censeo Cartaginem esse delendam’, this time it clearly made an impression on the outraged listeners. Here and there, people were loudly demanding that the Senate declare war.”

About War and Peace

“But what does Rome gain from destroying the city,” interrupted Publius. ‘Carthage is completely insignificant militarily; she has her hands full dealing with the daring Massinissa. We pretend to be afraid of the power of Carthage, as if a new Hannibal could besiege Rome with elephants. We’re just pretending. The money aristocracy’s mouths are already watering at the mere thought of getting the riches of the hard-working merchants down their ever-hungry throats. And foremost, the landowners, who are no longer farmers but speculators who spend most of their time in their Roman pleasure palaces. They look with envy and malicious concern at the cheap quantities of grain flowing from blessed Africa to Italy. In the past, when war was waged, it was about the existence and security of the fatherland. Today it’s all about money! I have spoken to men from the Peace Party over there who officially want to renounce their political independence and live a free commercial life under the patronage of Rome. But we don’t want subjugation, we want total annihilation!”

“You don’t speak like a Roman, Publius,” the father of the house intervened.

Publius’ eyes flickered with anger. “Our success once rested entirely on the principle, ‘Ius facere Romanum est’. (To do justice is Roman.) Since I still try to live according to this principle today, I am no longer a Roman.”

His words had left an impression. The manager lowered his head thoughtfully, his comrade refrained from making ironic remarks, and Claudia nodded to him in agreement and encouragement. 

“Your view is new to me, Publius. However, I want you not to misinterpret the legitimate fears of many as envy. Cato himself was over there and looked into the full armouries. He counted over 200,000 full armour and 300 heavy assault machines. Are you saying that the Punians use these devices to collect their grain every year?”

Publius reluctantly agreed to this objection. But he was convinced that there was a stronger counterargument, but he couldn’t think of it. And there was a pause, after which they decided to go to rest. Since there was no bedroom for the legionnaires, the two slept in the straw of the adjacent barn.

The Dice Game

“Have you noticed what a pretty girl Claudia is?”

“No,” Publius answered in surprise. “I didn’t take a closer look at her…”

What do I care, I have Bersika. He didn’t say the last sentence out loud because he was afraid of his comrade’s spiteful comments. Soon they fell asleep. The storm wind that broke furiously against the sturdy barn could not harm them. 

The bright morning sun with all its splendour seemed to mock last night’s rainstorm. Immediately after breakfast, which was served to them by a contented-looking slave, they set about repairing their things. The short swords had to be cleaned of dirt and rust and then lightly oiled. Then they brushed out their combat jackets, which had dried in the meantime. By midday they were finished and passed the time by throwing pebbles into the small lake where the manager bred his carp. They watched with brisk eyes as the thrown stones fell down to the water with increasing speed. 

“There must be a law of nature that makes them fall faster and faster,” grumbled Lucius. 

“The earth’s gravitational pull certainly plays no insignificant role in such a law,” added Publius after a moment’s thought. “And then the time also is a factor.”

“There she is again!”

“What, the time?” 

“Well man, Claudia, of course. She goes to the well to fetch water. How pretty she looks in her simple dress.”

“You’re right, she looks really nice. When I think of the painted figures in Rome, I feel like throwing up the food from the last Mars festival. She looks at us in a friendly manner!” The legionnaires smiled back. Bersika was forgotten. “You know what? We invite her to play a game tonight!” 

“How are you going to do that?” Lucius asked, puzzled by his comrade’s sudden enthusiasm. 

“You have your dice with you and you know the rules to many games! We approach Brother Antonius and invite him to a game of Syracuse. You’ll see, the dear little sister will certainly come along, as long as she hasn’t fallen on her head.” 

They had so much time, the two soldiers. Since they didn’t know where their unit was camped, they had no choice but to wait. No sooner said than done. After dinner, which was again excellent, Lucius, who was more fluent in speech, presented his request to Antonius. As they expected, he happily agreed. There they were sitting outside in the mild evening light on the large stone slab that served as a terrace. Indeed, along with Antonius came Claudia, whose cheeks looked even more beautiful and natural in the red glow of the sun. 

“Since there are four of us now,” and Publius smiled mischievously at his successful ruse. “Let’s play Messina instead. You know the rules, Lucius. Please explain it to both of them.”

“So, it’s always two against two. Whichever party gets the most dice rounds, wins. The first two partners start and each roll the dice individually, then compare the results. Dice that complement each other, i.e. one and six, two and five, three and four, can be rolled again. The others are eliminated. The first party ends when they no longer have any dice. The number of rounds achieved is noted. Then it’s the other party’s turn.”

Publius and Claudia Win the Dice Game

While Lucius was still explaining the rules, Claudia and Publius had already come to an agreement. The two of them would form a team. So the other one made a stupid face when he saw that he had to play with Antonius. It was a fun game. Antonius’ team lost every game, but since he was able to laugh so heartily about his bad luck, the dice rolling never stopped.

It was Publius’ team’s turn. Claudia took the face off and threw two, four and five.

“Five, three and two,” Publius summoned the dice. One, six, four. A malicious laugh arose from the other side. 

“Lost, lost! New game!”

“Four and four still make doubles,” Publius asserted his right to repeat the throw. He proudly placed a die in Claudia’s delicate hand. This time a six appeared on the smooth stone slab, and Publius added a second. One die was recovered. The two of them managed fifteen laps and were beaming about their great success. The wax tablet recorded the result and the game began again. When the sun had sunk behind the Capuan mountains, they stopped playing the fun game because they could no longer read the score on the dice. 

But they chatted for a while about their experiences. Antonius knew how to imitate his Greek tutor so convincingly that a bright laugh often rang out in the mild autumn air, and finally the father of the household came out and told the young company to go to bed. After they had shaken hands for a long time, Antonius called out, “And tomorrow we will take the boats out on the lake,” which was greeted with great shouts of joy. A new friendship was formed.

About Gods and Atoms

The two legionnaires slept long and soundly, so it was only the knocking at the barn door that woke them up. It was the manager. 

“Wake up you old sleepyheads, I have good news for you! A servant of mine has found your camp. There must be strange conditions there. The poor guy would have almost been beaten if I hadn’t given him a cover letter to be on the safe side. So the camp is about three or four miles from here, beyond the small town of Parvilla. You haven’t even been missed yet. If you set off at the ninth hour this afternoon, you’ll make it before sunset. Do you even hear me, you sloths?”

“Yes, yes!” the two of them grumbled. They didn’t like the fact that they had to give up their lovely, lazy life again. Everyone also thought about Claudia, whom they had grown to love. They would have to leave her too. How far was this Capua from Rome! They would never see her again…

This time Publius was unlucky because when he did not get to the lake at the appointed time, Lucius was already sitting in the boat with Claudia and showed the late-comer a gloating face. Luckily, Antonius had already invited him into the boat, so he didn’t even have the opportunity to be annoyed and envy Lucius for his luck. In fact, this supposed bad luck turned out to be his advantage. Antonius suggested paddling halfway along the left bank of the forest, then crossing the lake and returning on the other side. The proposal was accepted. With powerful paddle strokes, Publius and Antonius took the lead. If they wanted to be back by the afternoon, they had to hurry up a bit. When they had rounded a small headland, there was no sign of the other two, who had tried so hard to keep up. 

“I noticed yesterday,” Publius began to say hesitantly, “that you have all sorts of things going on with technology. Where did you get all your knowledge from?”

“Actually, my knowledge is quite limited. When I consider the opportunities you have in Rome, I almost dare not mention that I have only read a few writings by Archimedes, Democritus and Epicurus. I got the rest of my meagre knowledge from my Greek tutor,” he concluded in his humble way.

“Democritus, Epicurus, fabulous! Do you share their long-refuted views?” Publius asked, slightly challenging. In his spare time he had spent a lot of time studying these Greek scientists and philosophers and could hardly believe that there was still someone who studied the long-forgotten sages.

“Not all of them,” Antonius replied, drawing in his paddles. “But I think Democritus’ atomic theory is very plausible, even though Aristotle refuted it ten times. According to Democritus and also Epicurus, a body is made up of tiny, indivisible atoms. The connections between atoms are constantly changing, i.e. a body can decay and something new can emerge. However, the atoms always remain and cannot disappear from our world without a trace.”

“Watch out, Antonius, now I have a question!” Publius interrupted him. The boat rocked quietly up and down. “Epicurus makes a bold claim somewhere in his writings. Our body is also made up of atoms, which is still clear to me. But then Epicurus went on to say that our soul also consists of atoms that are embedded and closely attached to the atoms of the body. If our body disintegrates when we die, our soul must inevitably disintegrate as well. And now my question. Doesn’t this completely destroy our entire idea of ​​the gods and their world?” 

“Not necessarily. We just have to see their world more deeply and shed the simple popular belief that imagines the gods as angry monsters who intervene in people’s fates with fire and sword. Of course, I can’t help you with that either. I do not reject the gods. But I don’t know where in our world to place them. Maybe you’ll meet a philosopher of this kind in Rome who can give you an answer.”

Publius Criticizes Rome’s Cultural Decline

Was it a little trick, or was it true helpfulness? Publius offered to write to Antony when he had learned enough about it. 

“Really?” he asked in surprise. 

“No, unreal!” joked Publius. 

“Oh dear! So, I would be truly grateful to you. Do you think you could also get me some of Epicurus’ writings? I’m thinking particularly of the letter to Pythocles, which is said to be very interesting. Capua is a backwater compared to Rome in every respect. Such writings cannot be found anywhere in the city. In literature, you will only find modern translations of Greek novels. And when is my father coming to Rome? You won’t believe how much I envy you!”

“Pah, you don’t have to envy me. The city is degenerate”, replied Publius, “not a spark of that old spirit that inspired the ancient Greeks is alive in it. Everyone is in the pursuit of pleasure. You fume with anger if you have seen one of those clumsy spectacles offered in Rome.”

“Well, you’re probably exaggerating a little. The old tragedies in fairly good translations still come into play.”

“So far, yes, but they won’t last much longer!” Publius noticed the boat with Claudia and Lucius slowly catching up with them. He didn’t regret going with Antonius at all. On the contrary. Because once he had a connection with him, he could also connect with Claudia in some way.

“Hello, where have you been hanging around for so long? We thought you had gone to the fish, didn’t you, Antonius.”

“We just gave ourselves more time and talked a little.” 

“Lucius could tell me a lot about Rome,” the bright girl’s voice rang out across the calm water. They decided to paddle next to each other all the way home so the four of them could chat a little. The midday sun sent its dazzling light into the happy company. Claudia looked lovely in her colourful dress. Again, Publius was delighted by the beauty that radiated from her simple and modest nature. In her easygoing happiness, which knew no worries or problems, she radiated a calmness that attracted Publius like a magnet. With her, he found everything he was looking for and everything he was missing. Of course, this wasn’t the place to tell her that. He would also have liked to be alone with her to tell her all this. So she didn’t know anything about his thoughts and feelings for now.

Publius, the Introvert

A person is nothing for his fellow human beings, if he is unable to communicate his thoughts. While Claudia, Lucius and Antonius began a lively conversation, Publius withdrew into himself and only answered methodically, as he had become accustomed to doing when he wanted to be alone to his own detriment. Then, at a later time, he was annoyed again that he had not taken advantage of the happiness of the moment, the present. He knew very well that he could only act confidently if he had both feet firmly planted in reality. He had no idea how close and understanding Claudia could be to him. 

The tips of the boats crunched into the sand. It was quite difficult to get from the shaky boards to solid land. Lucius and Publius, in their complete inexperience, got their feet wet, causing a gleeful laugh. Lucius would have almost fallen lengthways into the water if Publius hadn’t quickly given him a hand to pull himself ashore.

The manager had been waiting impatiently for the four ‘escapees’ because it was already well past midday. However, he didn’t even get to swearing because the two soldiers immediately came up to him and thanked him warmly for the hospitality they had enjoyed from him. 

“I’m glad that you enjoyed your stay with me and that my children got a little variety from their daily routines. But don’t you want to have lunch with us so that you can say thank you afterwards!” said the manager half reproachfully, but he had probably seen through the two’s ruse. 

“Yes, yes, we really want to have lunch with you,” they insisted. They walked up the small hill together. The deliciously prepared roast pork was already steaming temptingly on the table when they entered the living room, which the legionnaires knew from the day they arrived.

Farewell and Departure

The hour of farewell was approaching. The young people had spread out blankets on the lawn near the lake and were warming themselves in the mild autumn sun. However, a conversation no longer really took place. Everyone was lost in their thoughts and regretted that their meeting would soon end. 

“How old are you, Claudia?” Lucius finally broke the silence. Publius was silently outraged by the crude question, and he gave him a reproachful look, which he seemed to ignore. 

But Claudia answered the question and asked, “Well, take a guess!”  Publius looked her full in the face and guessed she was about 16 years old, but didn’t say it. Lucius, on the other hand, in his callous manner, already had a suitable answer ready. 

“So at most 15!” His comrade bit his lip in anger. Claudia, however, showed an unshakeable face, although there was a hint of reproach in her counter question. 

“How come?” Lucius now felt like a watered poodle, and he didn’t know how to answer that. There was a pause that put a lot of pressure on all four of them.

As if to free himself from this, Publius stood up and said, “It is time for us to change. Otherwise, we will be late. Come on, Lucius, we have to get back into our cage!” And to the two siblings who were still lying on the blanket, “I’ll see you soon?”

“Of course, let’s see how quickly you get back here. I’ll throw stones into the water, and Claudia will count them.” Then they laughed again, and the two legionnaires rushed to the barn, where their armour was neatly stored. In the full glare of their shining equipment, they hurried into the manor house, where they thanked the friendly couple again for the hospitality. Then they were back down by the water. 

“One hundred and twenty-six, one hundred and twenty-seven, …”, Claudia counted. 

“Let us not shed tears,” cried Antonius. “We’ll make it short and painless. So, my dear Publius,” placing his hand in his, “think of the Epicurus writing.” 

“I won’t forget it,” he said, and then handed his right hand to Claudia. Two happy eyes looked at him. Yes, I won’t forget her, thought Publius, but said nothing. He hoped she would understandhis look. What’s a look! Everything, and yet nothing. They waved after the legionnaires for a longtime until they disappeared into the shady olive grove that stretched towards Parvilla.

Eternal Beauty of Nature

It was a nice walk. Even though the armour was a little tight, they still kept their eyes open for the autumn colours that were shining brightly everywhere. Nature had its own law of beauty and did not need to conform to the numerous styles of the time to be able to impress again and again. There was something absolute in her that needed no change, and yet wore a new dress every day. To their left, a clearing afforded a view of the lake. The legionnaires stood there, delighted, for a brief moment. It seemed to them as if the water added a hue to the deep blue of the cloudless sky, making it appear even brighter and clearer in the autumn landscape than the eternal world of Sol above. Gray-brown withered reeds framed the all-too-glaring area like a soothing frame, while the bloody red that surrounded the beech forest did not tolerate the reeds, which were creating a gloomy mood.

A cushion of moss and grass ensured that the green from nature’s immense pot of colour was not neglected. Sometimes a dark fir tree broke up the uniform brightness. It knew how to draw attention to herself with her jagged outlines. The splendour didn’t end there. A rock face, rising above everything, appeared brilliantly white in the sun. It stood out sharply and clearly, like a finger stretched out in warning, against the sky. 

Publius thought he knew what fascinated him so much about the natural painting. All of a sudden, he had grasped the seemingly incomprehensible thing and would have said it out loud if he had been alone. The unique beauty cannot be found in any particular style of an art era, but only out in nature, which proves its perfection to the serious viewer every day. Perfection is beauty! This is obvious to anyone who remembers that only nature can achieve the ingenious masterpiece of allowing each part of itself to be seen as the opposite of the other, and yet combining everything into a harmonious whole. Stark contrasts, complete differences and yet perfect harmony are the golden keys to beauty. 

“Claudia is a pretty girl, isn’t she, Publius?” Lucius interrupted his thoughts. 

“Yes, she’s pretty,” he said simply. They continued their way to the camp in silence.

Arrival at the Roman Camp

The detachment of 500 men had set up camp in a forest clearing not far from Parvilla. Publius and Lucius didn’t need to ask anyone in the village. The wind carried fragments of singing and lute playing to their ears and quickened their pace. They probably wouldn’t have found anyone in the village either, as young and old alike surrounded the camp curiously. Many may also have come with the idea of ​​getting a juicy bite of roast pigs sizzling on long spits over the fire. 

“They’re celebrating like after a big victorious field battle!” Publius exclaimed in astonishment. 

“You know what, Publius, we won’t even report back to the superior! Why should we disturb his good mood. Maybe they haven’t even noticed that we’re missing.”

Publius hesitantly agreed. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of ​​disobeying military order. He also feared that his comrades would make fun of him, if he reported back while the leaders and enlisted men were sitting together happily drinking and feasting. Publius quickly lost sight of Lucius and sat shyly by a fire. He hoped that his comrade was right and that they hadn’t been missed yet.

Thoughts at the Campfire

Publius stared into the warming flames, as if they could answer the questions that were troubling him. Why couldn’t he behave like his comrades? Why not be as happy and relaxed, not laugh as heartily and carefree as they did? When he tried, an inner voice soon advised him: Stop, stop, give up this senseless undertaking. You can’t be happy like this! Then he gave up and withdrew. 

His comrades then thought he was a spoilsport. In fact, he found laughter for the sake of laughter and happiness at any price repugnant. Such joy had no object, and if there was one, it was stale and empty. 

But Publius also failed in obeying his inner voice and extending its strict law to all areas of life. His inadequacy and again the fear of making a fool of himself were only rarely crushed by its power. 

So Publius suffered from the cruel idea that he was good for nothing and of no use in the world. For he could neither be like his comrades nor what his inner voice commanded him to be. He did not lack the determination to choose one or the other. He had already made up his mind long ago. But his will was too weak and his mind too slow to clear away the rubbish of old ideas that had piled up almost to the point of confusion and obscured the good foundations that his father had laid.

Philosophical Reflections around the Campfire

The military discipline in the camp and in the field, which was created to regulate the lives of many in the community, was of little help to him either. At first he had thought that he would get closer to his comrades by strictly adhering to it. But the opposite was the case. The soldiers did not obey the military order out of understanding, but out of fear of punishment. If they felt they were not being supervised, it no longer applied. Publius soon had to realise that if good will and proper morality are not the driving force behind all actions, then even the best law is fruitless. He once told his comrades, and their embarrassed silence proved to him sufficiently that he was right. But he had not come any closer to them because of it. So he was convinced that his thinking was correct and continued to think like that, but stopped acting accordingly, like an orator who feels that no one is listening to him. But since his tormented heart did not allow him to be alone with his questions, and at the same time shut himself off from those people who did not take them seriously, he buried himself more and more in books and writings.

Because of his great zeal, he was the subject of much discussion at first, as is the case with everyone who consciously sets himself apart from the crowd. Some called him professor, others called him little doctor. Strangely enough, Publius didn’t mind and smiled friendly when addressed that way. Without even noticing it, after he had occupied himself with philosophy and science for a while, he adopted an inner attitude that influenced not only his thinking but also his actions. Even though he often lacked the courage to say or do the right thing at the decisive moment, the foundations that were to determine his later life were nevertheless laid in him. But a work needs love and confirmation, and Publius was still looking for someone who understood him or at least tried to understand him. 

The night was already well advanced when the camp slowly became quieter and the singing around many of the fires died down. Only rarely did Publius hear a murmur or a short, muffled laugh. They had hunted the rebellious slaves for almost a month. Now the last of them were sleeping under their masters’ roofs again. Only the ringleaders had been bound and sent to Rome for punishment. After roll call the next morning they would be released. The thought that he could be with his parents the next day made him very happy. Wrapped only in a coat, sufficiently warmed by the fire, he fell asleep contentedly and dreamed of the colourful clay vases that his father had made and that he had been allowed to paint.

Chapter III

Roman Funeral Procession

Publius was the last to pass through the Porta Capena, where he had to leave his military equipment. The Via Appia was carefully paved here, and walking on it was a relief for tired feet. He crossed several canals that supplied this part of the city with water. But he encountered no one on this otherwise lively street. When he asked an old man who was leaning against a house wall, basking in the dull afternoon sun, he simply replied that Senator Marcellus Pius had died. The town crier had called on all the citizens of his district to accompany the deceased. Publius hurried to move quickly to the eleventh district, where his light clothing would make him less conspicuous.

But it was already too late. When he had approached within 50 paces of the border road, the head of the funeral procession had just reached the intersection. Publius didn’t dare to cross the street now. He quickly stepped into a side street where he could quietly observe the strange-looking column of people.

Leading the way were the flute players, playing dirges with their instruments in a swirling rhythm and with abruptly fluctuating volume. They were followed by the mourners, whose hoarse cries and wild convulsions instilled fear in every onlooker and conveyed a sense of the horror of death. Then came the ancestors of the deceased in a long line. Noble men had to play them. And they wore the wax masks of the dead with pride and dignity. An ancient family, Publius thought to himself, their lineage surely stretching back to the time of the kings. They all wore the garments they had worn in their time; merchants, senators, censors, lectors, even consuls were among them. But an equally honourable place in the ancestral chain was occupied by several men in peasant dress. Each had contributed to increasing the family’s honour, and in this funeral procession they testified to their immortality. They were all on chariots. Yes, four magnificent horses pulled the team. One could almost forget the recently deceased when one contemplated the rich adornments of the ancestors: the gold-embroidered cloak of the triumphator, the purple of the censor, and the purple-embroidered cloak of the once-ruling consul.

Behind them followed the magnificent carriage of the dead senator, who lay in state on a purple blanket in all the finery of his official attire. To his left and right, clearly visible to every observer, lay his decorations and the weapons of his slain enemies. The deceased’s son led the following procession of mourning family members. Publius knew that he had the difficult task of evoking the memory of his ancestors before the assembled crowd and allowing them to speak through himself. They were all dressed entirely in black, and Publius withdrew even further into the corner of the house so as not to disturb the scene of mourning and solemnity with his white toga. Half an hour had passed when the last mourner had moved past him. He waited a little longer, then bounded across the street without looking back.

Finally Home

After leaving the Circus Maximus behind him, he could already see the blue curve of the Tiber shimmering through the gaps between the houses. He reached the river at a brisk run and walked more slowly along the bank to catch his breath and calm his pounding heart. He still had to cross two Tiber bridges to his left before he saw the Porta Flumentana, near which his parents’ workplace and home were located. Beautiful memories of a happy childhood awoke in his mind. He stood thoughtfully for a moment on the threshold, listening to the hum of the potter’s wheels, then quickly entered his father’s workshop.

Two Letters

By a strange coincidence, Publius received two letters today. A pink papyrus scroll from Carthage and a carefully folded sheet of stationery with a violet-embossed seal from Capua. This wouldn’t have been so significant if both letters hadn’t included a medallion bearing the image of the two girls. Publius had conducted a skilful correspondence with Antonius. Despite the refreshing scholarly exchange, Publius had aimed to shift the correspondence to Claudia. That delicate, natural-looking girl in her fragrant autumn dress was still before his eyes. A loving friendship developed between the two. From one letter to the next, he sensed what Claudia had to offer him, a young man who had not yet established himself in his inner self and who needed loving, understanding compassion. His whole heart had been able to open up after the first or second letter. All the problems that confronted him seemed to resolve themselves, simply by writing them down. If Claudia hadn’t agreed to this, he would have soon felt alone again. He wouldn’t have confided in her as much, and fear and distress would have returned.

He could still see that delicate, natural-looking girl in her fragrant autumn dress. A loving friendship developed between the two. With each letter, he sensed what Claudia had to offer him, a young man who was still unstable inside and needed loving, understanding compassion. His whole heart had been able to open up after the first or second letter. All the problems that confronted him resolved themselves, simply by writing them down. If Claudia hadn’t responded, he would soon have been overcome by a renewed feeling of loneliness. He wouldn’t have confided in her so much, and fear and distress would have returned. 

But no, she didn’t. She answered all his questions and gave him good advice here and there, even though he had often thought of it himself. But this way, he still had the awareness that someone shared his feelings. The more he owed her, the more connected he felt to her. From then on, as paradoxical as it may sound, he began to become independent and limited himself to making it clearer in each letter that he really loved her.

The Heart Must Decide

On the other side stood Bersika, the unapproachably distant one, not only in terms of distance but also in terms of heart. Although his love had diminished considerably when he read the dry and impersonal content of her first letter, nothing had changed in the following period. They wrote to each other often and regularly. But Publius could not shake the bitter feeling that they had nothing to say to each other. And although he initially tried to get closer to her personally by revealing his most secret thoughts, if not directly, then between the lines, the Carthaginian girl constantly remained in the same, grueling coldness and apparent indifference. She talked a lot about her work as an assistant at the Tamith Temple and about her father’s commercial activities. She never wrote about herself, how she thought or felt. In this relationship, the connecting links, the feeling of togetherness, or so it seemed to Publius, were missing.

His love for her faded, the more Claudia drew him closer. There he sat, the two medals in his hands, which he immediately placed back on the oak tabletop and silently looked at each one in turn, with a pain in his chest. Neither letter would have shaken him. He had read Bersika’s letter briefly. She usually managed no more than 20 lines. Then he would have eagerly bent over Claudia’s loving lines, absorbing them sentence by sentence. He had often read such letters several times and then happily stored them carefully in a drawer specially set up for that purpose. He sat in his room, and the cool air, which still dominated the living room despite the strengthening spring sun, did him good.

Publius in a Dilemma

The finely crafted copper medallions gazed at him challengingly, as if he had to make a decision. Fine pinpricks clearly highlighted the girlish contours against the gleaming metal. In Bersika’s eyes, Publius thought he recognized the same mysterious glow that had so enchanted him in Carthage. And Claudia revealed herself to him in all the grace of youthful beauty. He knew full well, as he looked down at Bersika again, that she had shown him her true affection for the first time with the small gift. He now realized that the Carthaginian woman would have spoken more clearly earlier if she had had a better command of Latin. Her reticence was nothing other than an inability to express herself. Not wanting to make a fool of herself by using the wrong language, she had preferred to remain silent.

Claudia lay on the right side of the table. She seemed to emanate greater strength. He was despairing that all this had to happen on the same day, and he cursed fate. Didn’t the two letters have to travel entirely different routes? Mail from overseas territories often languished for days in the port of Ostia, while domestic traffic usually moved smoothly. He brooded to himself, dark thoughts rising within him. And when he cast his eyes on Bersika for a brief moment, the sweet memories of Carthage seized him with all their might, and he snatched the copper medallion to himself, but at the same time let it clink back on the table. Then he turned his head to the side: words, loving, kind words, awoke within him.

An Understanding Father

Father had loudly rung the gong from the workshop to alert his son that lunch was over. Angry with himself, Publius gathered the letters and the two pictures and quickly put them in his mailbox. Then, lost in thought, he descended the stairs to the workshop, where the potter’s wheels, constantly turning by industrious slave hands, hummed their same-sounding song.

Today, the monotonous turning irritated him, and Father was not satisfied with his work. Publius felt his father’s critical gaze resting on him. Whereas he had once been proud that his skilful hand movements were being observed, now he felt paralyzed and, for the second time, deformed the soft clay into an ugly lump. It had always given him great pleasure to pound the clay with his clenched fist, letting it glide past with his right hand, and repeatedly moisten it until the desired vase shape emerged. Now he was on his third attempt, and this time, too, he couldn’t manage. He groaned deeply; never before had his father’s gaze had such a profound effect on him as it did today. With a clumsy movement of his hand, he ruined the curve he had just pressed out of the clay.

“Father, I can’t go on, not today!” he forced out with difficulty. “Please excuse me, and may I go?”

Father slowly approached him and looked worriedly into his face. For he had noticed from the very first minute that something was wrong with Publius.

“You’re not sick, are you?”

“No, Father, that’s not it. I’m just having a bad day,” he answered in a forced, indifferent tone.

“Go on, I understand,” he said, holding up two fingers meaningfully, “but don’t do anything stupid!”

“No, no, I won’t.” and he disappeared from the buzzing workshop at the same time. He was a little surprised that his usually strict father had dismissed him so quickly. But he had probably placed the two letters on his desk himself and could perhaps imagine how he felt. Father had never mistreated him, and today was no different.

The Battle of the Heart

Thankfully, Publius stepped out and hurried straight to the Tiber, where he chose a shady spot. He sat down with a heavy heart. For he knew in advance that he would not achieve any result. Both were too closely intertwined with him for him to be able to detach himself from either of them. His heart, to which Bersika and Claudia laid equal claim, seemed to him to become the battlefield where the two would fight their first and last battle mercilessly, cruelly, and tenaciously.

From Carthage, sweet memories, armoured with a fantasy imbued with love, rushed straight toward the rival from Capua. The latter, several times her size, dominated a large portion of the battlefield. The attack was repulsed by her beauty and the still-fresh memories. The mighty unity of the opponent was shattered into mere, insignificant fragments of thoughts of a long-gone good time.

Then, in firm, unified lines, the hard facts of the Punic army advanced, dully echoed by the ground in step with the advancing troops. Just as the quills protect the hedgehog, so also the infantry, the first, and therefore deeply felt love for Bersika and the promising conversations in Carthage, offered protection. Weapons clashed terribly as the enemies met, and soon the battlefield was covered with dead and wounded. Every death, a loss for the ground, which had previously found ample space for both.

After the first cavalry engagement, Capua had already triumphed and had not expected such a second onslaught. Beauty and grace, weak forces both psychologically and in man-to-man combat, were already beginning to falter. The beautiful mouth with its encouraging smile, the magnificent hair, the eyes faded. The victory fanfares of the Carthaginian army were already sounding, causing the hopeful forces to advance more courageously against the enemy. Without pity, each one in his place struck at the hated enemy from Capua. In their bloodlust, no one noticed that, already tightly packed together, they dominated the centre of the battlefield.

The Battle in Publius’s Heart

A colourful autumn dress, playful words, and hours of cheerful dice games fled in utter confusion in all directions, so quickly that the Punic forces, exhausted in their heavy armour, gave up the pursuit and laid down their weapons. Confident of their victory, they loosened their ranks and stretched out on the ground to rest a little from the heated battle.

A tired smile played around Publius’s lips. The shout of a Tiber boatman made the young Roman’s head jerk up. A boat, heavily laden with heavy blocks of marble, floated lazily in the shimmering water. A twitch stifled the smile, and Publius bent over his drawn-up knees in agony.

Capua had recovered from its confusion and realized with astonishment that the enemy had failed to destroy it. Valuable auxiliaries brought the army back to a respectable strength. And since Carthage still remained impassive, a carefully planned encirclement was cautiously begun. Behind the Punic army, loving sympathy for everything that concerned Publius grew. On the flanks, compassion and understanding for all his worries and needs remained, patiently awaiting the order to attack, and finally, the contingent of encouraging advice and professed love closed the deadly ring around the army in the centre. Almost simultaneously, the armed forces set out to finish off the enemy in a swift attack. In panic, the enemy seized arms and tried in vain to restore the old order. With certain death before their eyes, the poor men defended themselves like wolves driven to the extreme, hoping to at least save their honour since the battle was lost. On both sides, corpses littered the blood-stained battlefield. Only thanks to the superiority of her troops did Claudia claim victory. #

The decision had been made! But did it make Publius happy? Wasn’t it, rather, a Pyrrhic victory that Claudia had won in him? He wept, and it took a long time for him to get up. Inwardly rigid and numb, he walked toward his father’s workshop.

The Farewell Letter

Publius sends greeting to Bersika! All striving must have a goal, and where there can be none, one must cease striving. I don’t know where to begin! You are too far away from me, Carthage is too distant. If I lived there, things would be different. We would certainly have seen each other more often and certainly gotten to know each other better.

I’ve thought long and hard about how this should continue. I barely know you! We’re living past each other, and mere pen pal friendship, what’s that? Where will it lead? Dear Bersika, please don’t be angry with me if, instead of not answering you, I tell you such things. But I really don’t see any point in us continuing to write to each other! Take it easy, just as I’m trying to take it easy.

So let’s break up. For what interest can a girl have in the life of a craftsman and a soldier if not the soldier himself? And what interest can a young man have in the life of the temple if not the girl himself? What’s unattainable shouldn’t have a place in dreams. I thought the letter-writing would stop on its own, like a stream gradually dries up in the desert. Many do it that way to avoid hurting themselves. But I feel I’d be dishonest to you if I continued this endless back and forth.

That’s why I’m writing you the truth now. I’m sorry at the moment, but I hope that, like you, I’ll have forgotten all this in a week or two. Once again, please don’t be angry with me. 

Warm and forever greetings, your Publius. 

Shame and bitterness rose within him as he penned the last lines. Hadn’t he spoken of the necessity of sincere honesty and yet lacked the courage to admit the true reason? He felt that he would always carry this silence with him as a guilt. Nevertheless, lost in thought, he rolled up the paper and pressed the red seal on it.

Chapter IV

The Palatine Hill

He quickly withdrew from the screaming crowd. A few streets further on, the cheering had subsided to a distant hum. And when Publius finally found the Via Appia, he once again enjoyed the silence, which refreshed him like a cool drink. When the city gates were closed in the evening and the hustle and bustle of the merchants on the streets slowly died down, one could not find a quieter street than the Via Appia. And to whom did that mean more than to Publius, who, despite the approaching darkness, walked leisurely up the street.

The moon peeped furtively through the clouds that had gathered around it like in  a dance. Its light cast a ghostly glow over the new town, unable to penetrate the darkness of the densely overgrown Palatine Hill.

Publius had actually planned to go to bed early that evening. He feared the fatigue that overcame him in the hot midday hours. But the sacred mountain to his left beckoned. For if one climbed it high enough, one had a magnificent view of the city and the Temple of Venus, which, with its sublime grandeur, inspired awe even from this distance. Publius remembered a path that wound its way up the mountain in long curves from the Via Appia, and he now peered more intently into the bushes so as not to miss the path.

Friend Marcus

He had just discovered the path when he heard the light clatter of sandals coming from the direction he had come. He hesitated, but finally turned around. A moment later, a young man shook his hand. It was his old friend Marcus, whom he recognized immediately. Marcus flooded him with such a torrent of words that Publius couldn’t get a word in edgewise and couldn’t ask his friend where he was suddenly coming from.

“Publius, Publius, what have you been doing so long abroad? Will you stay in Rome for good now? I hope so! I’ve missed you terribly. I saw you leaving earlier when the shouting was at its loudest. I noticed that the new Greek plays hadn’t appealed to you either, and I slowly followed you in the crush. Unfortunately, I lost you at first, assuming you were heading straight home toward the Tiber. But now I’ve met you. However, how are you?” he interrupted himself when he realized that his friend hadn’t said anything yet.

Marcus sensed that he must have disturbed Publius and was distressed about it. The two stood silently facing each other on the path to the Palatine Hill. Publius was confused. He owed Marcus an explanation, but he resisted it. In Carthage, he had gotten into the habit of keeping his thoughts to himself among his comrades. So he only said this to break the annoying silence. “It’s good to see you again. The shouting of the mob had upset me, and I chose this unusual way of going home to calm myself down a little.” He paused, then suggested to his friend that they climb the Palatine Hill together at this late hour. Although Marcus found such a suggestion rather odd, he agreed.

The Walk

The broad, well-trodden path led up the mountain in wide loops. When they had covered a good part of the way, and the pines were no longer so dense, they didn’t need to pay any attention to the rocky climb because the moon illuminated the surrounding landscape.

“A lot has changed since I was last here. I think even you’ve become a little strange to me, or I to you. I don’t know,” Publius said incoherently and almost melancholy.

“You shouldn’t say that, I know you too well. You think I can’t understand you. But I know exactly what’s troubling you. Back then, it was troubling us both. Only I understand it’s easier to bear. It’s the bleak world that loses its golden shimmer the more we get older.”

Markus had spoken exactly from his friend’s heart. The wall that Publius had involuntarily built to defend himself against everything that came from outside had been torn down by Markus’s skillful, friendly speech.

Publius eases his heart.

“Oh, how right you are!” Publius spoke more fluently than ever when someone was actually listening. The flood of thoughts, fears, hopes, and needs that had been building up inside him for months flowed out with his speech and eased his heart.

“My father taught me to honour the ancestors and fear the gods. Honour and virtue were possessed by some, and by their example, they inspired me to follow their example. Power and justice were in the hands of the gods, and I became accustomed to obeying their commands.” Since Markus didn’t interrupt him, he continued after a brief pause.

“That’s how I grew up at home. But then the day came when I would no longer have my father’s guiding hand at my side, and I would have to sail my young ship of life alone through the storms of life. I felt everything turned against me and felt too weak to continue running against the raging forces of malice, hatred, and envy, and I was breaking. Everything my father had painstakingly pieced together within me was shattered. Fleeing from this world was my only salvation, and so I repeatedly fled from the noise into silence and solitude, to seek what I had lost and piece it together again. I already feel stronger again and venture more often into the raging stream of life that threatens to engulf us all, all of us. Oh, friend, there was a time when I would have cast you out myself, for fear that you, as a friend, might destroy even more than my enemies. Forgive me, then, for initially receiving you so unkindly.”

“All right,” Markus grumbled good-naturedly, and pointed to his friend the magnificent view of Rome in the moonlight.

The Decline of Old Customs and Traditions

They had now almost climbed the mountain and, somewhat exhausted, sat down on a stone staircase that led to a dilapidated summer palace belonging to one of the last kings. It was said that the ghost of this king still lived in the ruins, suspiciously guarding his meagre possessions.

It was a mild night. In the distance, the fires of the wall guards blazed, while from there to the city it grew darker and darker. Here and there, oil lamps flickered through the windows of the town houses. But what caught the two’s attention was not the fire on the wall, nor the peaceful city lying there, but the Temple of Venus at their feet. The marble columns stood out bizarrely against the midnight blue sky. They could not see the eternal fire, guarded with pious zeal by the Vestal Virgins. But for Publius and Mark, it was as if they were standing by the sacred fire, their spirits being warmed by its power.

Publius sighed, “How long will people continue to gather there and maintain the old customs? What are we, young people, supposed to cling to when our fathers despise popular belief and throw it overboard! Oh, those Greeks with their pernicious influence! I’m beginning to believe that we have been more thoroughly defeated by the spirit of the Hellenes than they were in the great battle of Pydna. See, the Greek actors are corrupting the people, keeping them equally away from work and from the gods. Their sects teach that the power of the gods is small; others even deny their existence. Greedily, the people seize the teachings and absorb them. And even the police cannot prevent their followers from growing ever larger and fewer people from participating in the votive offering.”

The Old Wise Man

Markus had let his friend finish speaking and said nothing now, realizing that something important was yet to come that his friend hadn’t yet spoken of.

“Markus, I must confess to you that I am beginning to doubt the power of the gods. If they could truly intervene directly in our lives, shouldn’t they intervene with a rain of fire and destroy the wicked?”

Someone behind the two young Romans cleared his throat. Alarmed, the two turned around. Five steps up the crumbling stone staircase, in the shade of an olive tree, sat an old man they hadn’t noticed before, who had unwittingly listened to their entire conversation. The old man wore a snow-white beard and was wrapped tightly in a brown cloak. He cleared his throat once more and came down the steps toward them. He apologized for overhearing their conversation and asked them, if they valued the advice of an old man, to listen to him for a while. Only now did the two realize that the old man must have been at least 80 years old. In the moonlight, which was slowly darkening behind gathering clouds, they saw his grey hair gleaming silver, and the many wrinkles on his face were so hard they seemed to have been carved into stone.

The old sage introduces himself.

“As a 17-year-old youth, I saw Hannibal’s mercenary army at the gates of Rome. I fought in the Macedonian Wars and am now ending my retirement in the ruins of a Tarquinian pleasure palace, where I have made myself a makeshift hut to sleep in. During the day, I gather berries so that I don’t have to swallow the bread the Republic gives us so dryly. In the past, the state had provided for its war veterans more honourably. 

The spoils of war were certainly distributed more generously among the soldiers than in the past. But our company lost its entire allotted pay and booty in a storm on the crossing to Brundisium, saving nothing but its life. For you, however, everything I have told you so far is of no importance. But what I experienced after Paullus’s victory over King Perseus, when I was quartered with a Greek sage in Athens, should be of interest to you who are searching for truth will be of the greatest interest.

This man was one of the few in Greece who had read and understood the ancient sages. He waged a futile struggle against his country’s shallow, enlightened aspirations. He tried just as vainly to instill in his countrymen their ancient, genuine national spirit. And it was he who, one evening, revealed to me his understanding of the world and its origins. What I learned there seemed to stem less from his immense wisdom than from a divine inspiration of which he had every right to be proud.”

He paused briefly, as if to once again organize his thoughts, which he wanted to explain to the young men. The moon had now completely disappeared behind a dark bank of clouds. The sacred fire far below in the temple flickered in a dark red reflection on the snow-white marble steps.

The Greek Sage’s Creation Story

As if inspired by the moving sight of the eternal fire, which the sudden darkness revealed to the distant observer, the old man began to speak again, and Mark and Publius listened attentively.

“Thus began the wise man. Initially, there was nothing that we can imagine as tangible. Only the eternal God filled the infinite void with his spirit. For at the beginning of the world, we can only speak of one God. In this all-encompassing spirit lay tremendous power and the will to form and create. Today, we cannot yet imagine that something material can arise from a mere accumulation of energy. But believe me, the time will come when scientists will prove that this is possible. The wise Greek repeatedly spoke of the importance of light and its supposed speed, which, however, I did not understand.

The divine energy thus gathered, intending to create a world. For, as the sage expressed it, God was tired of being alone. Enormous clouds of nebula arose, which gradually condensed into solid matter and began to rotate around their axes. The resulting matter split into many small worlds, which in turn splintered into many thousands of solar systems. All this happened through the unimaginable force of rotation, while the glowing breath of God still breathed through all the universes. Then, in many places, cooling began. Our Earth, too, transformed from a glowing sphere into our home many millions of years ago. The process was far from over. The mass particles condensed again, slowly and incessantly, while others remained behind. This is why we humans have such various rock, earth, and metal that we would need entire libraries to list and describe them individually.”

The Crown of Creation

The old man sat on the stone steps. After a brief pause, he continued.

“God had thus bound himself in inert matter and sought to free himself from it. We must not assume that God has the power to create something from nothing. He thus sacrificed himself for his own creation. He preserved his pure essence even at unimaginably great distances, where worlds are still in the process of being created today. Furthermore, he thus converted into matter, but was dissatisfied with his dwelling place and sought new ways to make the world more beautiful for himself.”

The old man paused again briefly to collect himself, and then continued his account to the young Romans, who had followed his words with breathless excitement.

“Mysterious forces, slumbering everywhere in inert matter, combined substances that proved capable of life. These were the first plants and animals, small and simple in structure, but great and inexplicable in their desire to reproduce and, even more significantly, to evolve. Since then, this development has never ceased, and the world has looked more diverse and beautiful from epoch to epoch. One day, the first human being appeared, the crowning achievement of divine creation, the first living being to sense the divine workings and rule within himself and to be aware of his own existence. Therefore, man cannot help but create, build, develop, think, and feel, something no living being had been able to do before. We want to thank God that he created us, and in the awareness of a small part of his power within us, which fills and drives us, we wish to create, we wish to work. For in fulfilling the divine will, we find our highest satisfaction.”

Faith in the Future

The wise man pulled a piece of linen cloth from his coat pocket and wiped his mouth dry. Then he continued. 

“Unfortunately, most people today no longer feel the mysterious forces at work within them. And what drives people to action is mistaken for their own will. In their pernicious delusion, people have given themselves over to selfishness, greed, and idle well-being. It seems as if sacred development suddenly came to a halt. Nevertheless, my Greek host was hopeful and said that these were only temporary lows, always offset by periods of progress. We are currently close to such a low. You just lamented it, young friends. But we humans, who recognize the predicament of our time, should not hang our heads and, trusting in the eternally active, good forces in the world, hope for a better future and at the same time preserve the good into the new era.”

A cool wind swept up the mountain, making the three shiver. The old man carefully wrapped his coat around his bare legs, coughed a few times, and then continued.

“My young friends, I hope you’ve understood what I’ve said so far. Don’t let yourselves be troubled by the absurd goings-on in our environment, and even less by our imperfections! We are all bound to the body with our spirit and soul. We must get along with it, for we dwell within it. Perhaps one day we will be liberated from it and merge into a higher unity, floating, godlike, at peace, united and content in infinite space. We will not despair, I said, and we will maintain our faith in the divine within us, in the earth, in the sun, in the stars, in the cosmos—more simply put: we will not give up our faith in the gods.”

Thoughtful Descent of the Palatine

A fine drizzle began to fall, which Publius and Marcus barely noticed. They were so captivated by the elderly warrior’s speech. The two sat silently on the stone steps, watching the watch fires flicker in the distance and the silent temple below them. After a while, Marcus, who had recovered the quickest, rose.

“Publius, where has he gone? He’s not here anymore!”

“How? What? You say he’s disappeared?”

“Yes, I can’t see him anywhere.”

“He must have returned to his ruins. Let’s leave him alone! He’ll want to be alone. Come, Marcus, let’s go home.”

“But we must thank him.”

“Our rapt attention will have been thanks enough for him. Come, Marcus, come.”

Publius suddenly felt the need to be alone again. He needed to process what he had just heard, and no conversation should cloud his memory. Marcus felt the same way.

In silence, they descended the northern slope of the Palatine Hill. The rain, which had begun to fall harder, quickened their pace even further. No light from the friendly sky lantern shone beneath the heavy rain clouds. They parted ways at a fork in the road, after briefly agreeing to meet more often from now on. While Marcus took the right path toward the Capitoline Hill, Publius made sure he reached the familiar Tiber as quickly as possible. He slept deeply and dreamlessly that night. Before falling asleep, he had resolved to throw himself into work the next morning with more joy than usual.

Chapter V

Storm Clouds on the Horizon

Rumours of imminent war with the mighty city of Carthage were spreading like wildfires in Rome and gripping with fear, those, who still remembered Hannibal’s army at the city gates. Claudia had an exciting vacation with her family in the Apennines Mountains, often went paddling on Matese Lake with her parents’ boat. She and her brother Lucius almost drowned, when their boat capsized in a violent storm. On horseback, the two explored the trails around this picturesque mountain lake. There was so much to tell, but the flow of letters began to ebb. The intervals between them began to widen into four-week gaps. Something must have happened that made Publius worry. Had his letters lost its fervour? Were the thoughts expressed too philosophical, self-centred, out of touch with reality? He could not tell.

Publius was still reeling under the blow of the news of Rome’s declaration of war on his beloved city in Africa, when another one hit him like a bolt out of the blue. Claudia wrote that she had met a young man by the name of Julius, to whom she was now engaged. They were dreaming about their home at the edge of a forest near the city of Lucera and were planning to get married. The news nearly tore the young man apart, all the more as Claudia described their relationship as merely a nice correspondence between friends. Had he not broken up with Bersika with similar excuses? Although his emotions were running high, he immediately responded to her letter and thanked her for being honest. It was a miracle of sort that he agreed to keep writing her. That promise was so terribly out of character, so contrary to what his pride and sense of honour would have allowed him to do, that there was only one explanation. He was still in love with her.

Publius in Turmoil

Sleepless nights followed. Publius held endless conversations with himself. At times, he would place the entire blame on his shoulders. Marcus was perhaps right, when he said that a kiss is more powerful than words, passion stronger than tender sentiments expressed merely in letters. Then the popular folk song ‘Nimis lente amare’ was going through his mind during those agonizing hours of wakefulness. The apparent truth of the line ‘I lost my true lover for courting too slow’ hit him especially hard. 

Suddenly, the pendulum swung into the opposite direction. For a short while, he found relief by putting the blame on Claudia. ‘Surely, one does not get engaged overnight’, he argued. ‘Why didn’t she write me sooner? Why did she allow the correspondence to drag on so long? What about her other pen pals, the young man from Corinth, for example? Does she want to keep all her options open? Is she like a bee, flying in a kind of romantic dance from one flower to another to see where she would find the sweetest nectar?’ Having experienced both ends of the emotional spectrum, Publius finally settled for a more balanced view. The wildly swinging pendulum was coming to rest in the middle. Concern for Claudia pushed anger and jealousy aside; she might have responded to the lure of marital bliss too quickly. 

These internal monologues went on and on through several nights, at the end of which Publius was completely exhausted. But he had calmed down enough to finish his letter to Claudia with the words, “Just one thing you must promise me. If you perceive a danger for your happiness in that you cannot distinguish between true friendship and love between a man and a woman, or if your future husband does not like our correspondence. Then have the courage to say goodbye. For I would rather not destroy your happiness.”

A Fateful Decision

After a long time of suffering the agony and distress of losing two loves within one year, the compass needle of his inner life was no longer spinning out of control. More than three weeks had passed by now. Claudia had not yet responded to his letter, and he thought that if their correspondence was to end, it should at least end on a good note. So he wrote,  “A relationship, no matter how you look at it, which had so beautifully and lovingly developed, is not the kind that we just break off. Something of that, which we shared, will remain open and will eat forever at our hearts. Therefore, I would like to amiably end, what we have so amiably started. Let us if not in reality then at least symbolically embrace each other and part without any bitter feelings. I am thankful for all the dear letters, and I tell you once more that you have given me much during the time of inner trouble and distress. Please do not turn down my last request, dear Claudia, and write to me just one more time. One last sign from you, and I will be content. Salve, Publius”

But there was no sign, and Publius was not content.

The next morning, Publius decided, despite his father’s disapproval, to join the auxiliary forces of the Roman navy. He hoped the monotony of scrubbing the deck and similar meaningless drudgeries would offer an escape from the pain of having lost two loves within less than a year. He imagined being on a vessel anchored at a remote island of the empire, his captain leisurely waiting for the command to pursue and hunt down pirate ships. Little did he know that fate had decided on a different, far more perilous course in his life’s journey. 

Chapter VI

Carthage’s Complacency

Since Hannibal’s final battle at Zama, the Romans had been meticulous in ensuring that the balance between the desert tribes and Carthage was not disturbed. In it, they found an order that maintained peace on African soil. Fifty years of truce and undisturbed development in loyal devotion to the Roman Senate had also helped the old Phoenician city achieve the prosperity and wealth it had enjoyed before the great Hannibalic War. Grateful for the gift of peace, the Peace Party ruled the city and, in addition to the annual tribute, supplied the Roman people with vast quantities of free grain. While Rome in the East plunged from one war to another, repeatedly demanding money from the state treasury and severely burdening the taxpayer, the wealthy merchant of Carthage basked contentedly in the African sun.

Did those well-fed citizens so completely lack political sense that they failed to recognize how precarious the gift of peace was? Hadn’t a people lost its right to exist once it had been deprived of the opportunity to defend itself? The Roman treaty contained all those pitfalls, which foreshadowed the city’s future ruin: ‘From now on, the Carthaginian people are forbidden to wage war without Rome’s consent, even in a state of defence.’ Anyone with even a hint of political acumen would have noticed that even the smallest desert sheikh could plunder the lands with impunity. And if they considered the unfortunate document to its utter conclusion, they would have already found within it the veiled formulation that implied utter humiliation, loss of freedom, and annihilation. For if Rome, driven one day unexpectedly by greed or blind hatred, were to become the aggressor, the Carthaginians would have no choice but to seek permission from the aggressor to defend themselves.

But satiated and thoughtless, the citizens slumbered on, clinging to the all-too-popular opinion: Because things are going well for them, they must stay that way. Wasn’t it time to tear up the shameful treaty and turn the sham peace into a real one?

Missed Opportunities

But too foolish to seize the opportunity presented three times, they persisted in the soporific climate of prosperity. Rome began the war against King Philip of Macedon. The war against Antiochus of Syria followed, and once again the arms stirred in Greek territory, without the Carthaginians making the slightest effort to extract reasonable concessions from the Senate. Then, with each grain delivery, they further demonstrated their dependence and helplessness. Surely, the Roman state’s eye had to fall greedily on the juicy apple that the old, sickly tree of Carthage had last ripened? Who wouldn’t feel the desire and give the tree an effortless kick so that the apple fell into their lap?

The few who had reservations consoled themselves with phrases like this: that Roman honour would never permit the desecration of their city. While there were still border disputes between Carthage and Massinissa, the Roman commissioners had so far endeavoured to administer proper justice. Since the Kingdom of Numidia became independent, under Massinissa’s prudent rule, it had managed to consolidate, civilize, and expand the empire internally. Naturally, the latter could only be achieved at the expense of its rival. First, the ever-enterprising king seized the fertile land of Emporia, whereupon the Carthaginians, in the time-honoured manner, submitted to Roman arbitration.

Warmonger Senator Cato

How disappointed they were when Numidia was granted the right to take possession of the grain-producing lands and their wealthy communities! And that wasn’t enough shame: The Carthaginians had to pay compensation of 500 talents for unlawful use. Not long afterward, the king, in his audacity, fuelled by Rome, seized the city of Toska and the fields of Bagradas.

A commission from Rome again set out to settle the new case. Unfortunately, the delegation was led by the greatest enemy of the Carthaginians: Cato. This man, who gained attention and admiration in the morally declining metropolis through his upright conduct and who in his speeches consistently cited famous role models of the Republic who hadn’t shied away from driving the plow themselves, despite their high official position, or perhaps precisely because of it. This man, in his completely narrow-minded way, was hostile to everything non-Roman. With fear and suspicion, he gazed at the lush fields, the streets pulsing with the spirit of commerce, the armouries, and the imposing moorings. Dark thoughts took hold of him, and his timid imagination heard the cry of terror for the second time: Punii ante portas!

The Patriot Party takes over the government.

When the Carthaginians lost this case as well, they refused to recognize the arbitration award and insisted on a further, more thorough review of the legal situation. The Romans, grateful for this turn of events, returned to Rome and left the dispute to Carthage in the devilish hope that Massinissa would force the city to break the treaty. From that time on, Cato’s war cry resounded almost daily: Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam. Moreover, I am of the opinion that Carthage must be destroyed.

Meanwhile, the reign of the Peace Party also ended in Carthage, and the Patriot Party, under the leadership of Hasdrubal and Carthalo, ruled the city. While they did not want war, they did want to defend their rights by force if necessary. A combative army was quickly assembled, recruited largely from free Numidians. Massinissa wisely avoided revealing his own armament plans and only reported the enormous innovations from Carthage to Rome.

This allowed the Romans to claim, with some pretense, that the Carthaginian armaments were directed against them. In a secret Senate session, despite several dissenting voices, war was declared unless Hasdrubal and Carthalo immediately agreed to dismiss the army and destroy all naval equipment. Meanwhile, fighting was in full swing in Africa, and the military tribune Scipio Aemilianus, who had rushed from Spain, watched the two African rivals clash with complete indifference. But only Hannibal could have made a better decision. For although they fought with twice the strength, the Carthaginians, under the miserable leadership of Hasdrubal, suffered defeat at the hands of the Numidian king.

Carthage Offers Total Submission

Already shaken by the numerous losses of troops and armour, they now received a second, more powerful blow from Rome: the declaration of war. They had finally given the Romans the long-awaited excuse and broken the treaty that forbade them from any armed action.

Large troop units were already gathering in southern Italy and Sicily and preparing for the crossing. Then the terror-stricken city made a final attempt to avert the inevitable. They condemned Hasdrubal and Carthalo to death and, when that still wasn’t enough for the Romans, offered their total submission. Grateful, as if they had persuaded the gods, the Carthaginians accepted the diabolical decree. Their urban freedom and their private and communal wealth would be guaranteed, provided they only sent 300 children from the noblest families as hostages to Lilybaon and accepted the further orders of the consul in Africa.

Like a drowning man grasping at a straw, the desperate city grasped at this offer. For no one wanted to believe that the final hour had truly struck for their beloved old hometown. In utter humility, they fulfilled the conditions to the letter and appeared at the camp of the consular army, which, despite all the efforts of Punic diplomats, had crossed over to Africa. There, they were ordered to hand over all weapons and naval equipment and to supply the Roman army from the city.

Delivery of all Weapons

Before the eyes of Consul Lucius Marius Censorinus, Carthaginian war material piled up in enormous mountains: 30,000 artillery pieces and 200,000 suits of full armour. In response to the Carthaginians’ further questions about what they should do, the consul let the cat out of the bag. It was necessary for the security of the empire that their city be destroyed. However, the inhabitants were free to take their belongings and settle wherever they chose, but in no case closer than two miles from the sea.

Uproar raged in Carthage when the terrible news became known. While people had previously consumed themselves with self-sacrificing tolerance, they were now determined to take extreme measures. Only a few voices still advised restraint, but they faded away like the lonely cry of a seagull in the roaring surf. The harbingers of misfortune were killed on the spot by the mad mob, and here and there, even the officials who had arranged the delivery of the weapons were attacked. All the Italians, mostly merchants and members of the delegation, who had daringly pursued their business until the very end, died amid gruesome torture and the insane cries of blood from the crowd, who thus sought to take revenge for their impending fate.

The people pleaded for the emigrant Hasdrubal and his army, who had nothing in common with the condemned city commander except their name. In response to the call not to abandon the fatherland in its dire need, Hasdrubal and his troops triumphantly entered the city, thus giving it the appearance of a certain defensive capability.

Delivery of all Weapons

Before the eyes of Consul Lucius Marius Censorinus, Carthaginian war material piled up in enormous mountains: 30,000 artillery pieces and 200,000 suits of full armour. In response to the Carthaginians’ further questions about what they should do, the consul let the cat out of the bag. It was necessary for the security of the empire that their city be destroyed. However, the inhabitants were free to take their belongings and settle wherever they chose, but in no case closer than two miles from the sea.

Uproar raged in Carthage when the terrible news became known. While people had previously consumed themselves with self-sacrificing tolerance, they were now determined to take extreme measures. Only a few voices still advised restraint, but they faded away like the lonely cry of a seagull in the roaring surf. The harbingers of misfortune were killed on the spot by the mad mob, and here and there, even the officials who had arranged the delivery of the weapons were attacked. All the Italians, mostly merchants and members of the delegation, who had daringly pursued their business until the very end, died amid gruesome torture and the insane cries of blood from the crowd, who thus sought to take revenge for their impending fate.

The people pleaded for the emigrant Hasdrubal and his army, who had nothing in common with the condemned city commander except their name. In response to the call not to abandon the fatherland in its dire need, Hasdrubal and his troops triumphantly entered the city, thus giving it the appearance of a certain defensive capability.

A Nasty Surprise

Although hatred against the Romans had grown immeasurably, the Carthaginians were wise enough not to reveal their feelings to their enemies. On the contrary, under the cloak of humility, they once again turned to Consul Censorinus and asked him to grant a 30-day truce. During this time, the Punic envoys slyly noted, they intended to submit another peace petition to the Senate. Of course, the consul could not accept this due to the Senate’s decree. But it lulled him and the army into a false sense of security.
,The legionaries took their time, wasting precious days. Meanwhile, Hasdrubal prepared everything for the all-out war, which he was determined to fight to the bitter end. He enlisted the entire population in his plan to save the city from the worst: from total annihilation. Tirelessly, all able-bodied men practiced hand-to-hand combat on the parade grounds, defending on the remains of the walls, offensive thrusts, and the quick, precise operation of catapults. Wherever the otherwise strong city walls had damaged or weak spots, children and the elderly worked day and night to repair them or build ramparts. The women had their hair cut and wove it into the supple tensioning ropes for the machines that once again covered the city walls in a long line. Daring sailors brought provisions for the city’s garrison, for despite all the dangers, Punic money was tempting. If, despite this tremendous change within the city, not a single thing reached the ears of the consul, it was thanks to the unanimous determination that the nation stuck together like glue in the hour of greatest danger.
When the legionaries approached the city after 14 days, believing they were only just climbing the ladders to plunder the coveted riches, they were filled with fear and terror when they saw the walls garrisoned by soldiers and armed with assault weapons. Hadn’t they confiscated all their war equipment? The Romans could not have imagined that the Punic spirit of self-sacrifice would go so far as to part with their treasures and tear down their finest buildings to gain beams for their catapults and iron for their swords. Not effortless plunder, but brutal warfare, awaited the pampered legionaries. What they hoped to accomplish in a month would take four long years.

Chapter VII

Carthage’s walls must fall.

Publius served under Consul Censorinus, who had taken command of the fleet, while the ponderous and intellectually sluggish Consul Manlius led the army. Publius was annoyed by the inactivity to which he was initially condemned on the ship.

“Every day, the same old story!” he muttered to himself.

They had nothing to do but escort timber shipments travelling across the Punic Gulf. With unbridled rage, he often watched from the ship on the other side of the gulf as his comrades were fired upon by Hasdrubal’s rear-echelon units while felling timber, and some were killed. But the young, inexperienced soldier couldn’t possibly know the purpose of all these sacrifices. For on the long, narrow peninsula jutting out into Carthage’s outer harbour, the valuable building material was piled high.

As the month of May dawned, the frames of two assault machines stood menacingly pointed towards the city walls. Now the fleet’s crew sprang to life. At dawn, all ready-to-deploy crews received orders to land. With the first ray of the rising sun, the first machine was already cocked and loaded with a massive granite boulder. Three hundred soldiers manoeuvred the behemoth, made mobile by wooden rollers, in the firing direction. Publius and his comrades were already twisting the cocking cable of the second machine when the order to fire rang out. Under the mighty blows of two battle-axes, the wooden beam shattered, and the cocking board transferred its stored force to the boulder, which flew in a high arc towards the city.

The soldiers watched the parabolic trajectory with rapt attention. With a dull thud, the stone landed on the beach and rolled with undiminished force against the city wall.

“Too short!” came the commanding voice. “Raise the front of the machines by half a foot.”

The second shot was better. Deep cracks ran from top to bottom through the damaged wall. This went on all day: cock, load, fire, cock, load, fire. As darkness fell, they could already see some houses through the gap.

A Morning of Terror

The next day, the order to storm the ships would undoubtedly come. Tired and exhausted after the long hours of physical labour, the soldiers retired to their ships after the consul had assigned the guards.

“Alarm! Alarm!” came the cry from the bridge in the middle of the night.

Disturbed, the soldiers crawled out from under their blankets and gazed at the horrific scene before them. Nimble, crouching figures had set the catapults ablaze in a matter of moments and vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Before the soldiers could reach shore and begin extinguishing the fire, the ravenous flames had already consumed so much wood that the assault machines were unusable. The heads of the guards lay scattered in the sand, their bodies still seeming to be warming themselves under the blankets.

“They wouldn’t have suffered this fate if they hadn’t been asleep,” an old centurion said bitterly.

The daylight filled them with further terror. The breach they had so painstakingly struck into the wall the day before had been half-filled by the enemy under cover of darkness. Nevertheless, the consul wanted to test their mettle. They were ferried from the headland toward the city in small assault boats. An eerie silence lurked beyond the filled-in breach. Now the Romans had reached the short stretch of beach, and with wild cries of “Uah! Uah!” stormed up the crumbling wall. No sooner had they reached the breach than a hail of arrows forced them to take cover. They had fallen into a trap, for on both sides of the wall’s remains, athletically built men rose, hurling heavy stones at them. Against this flanking assault, even the best cover was useless. Many were crushed by the masses of stone or struck by arrows when they left their cover to evade it.

The Battle on the Wall

The valiant consul, who had participated in the assault, noticed that the arrows were no longer flying across in such numbers. The only chance of extricating himself honourably and effectively from this predicament was to defend forward, cut down as many of the archers as possible, clear the walls of the stone throwers, and retreat to the boats without suffering heavy losses. Firmly and decisively, he gave the signal to attack. He had not miscalculated. The enemy had exhausted their arrows and were only firing few well-aimed shots. They possessed only light, thin short swords, which were not supposed to hinder their shooting. On the first impact, the blades bent and became unusable in combat.

Publius had never killed a man in battle before and feared he would not be able to bring himself to do it, even though duty demanded it. He would rather have himself killed. Now he had already pierced the third enemy. He felt an emptiness inside, telling him that he didn’t mind killing ten more in this way. What other choice did he have but to kill?

Once humanity has crossed the absolute limit of human decency, only one law governs it: ruthless brutality. Brutal because, like a wild animal or a ‘Brutus’, humans tear each other apart; ruthless because, after a war, they return to their hearth and family, are loving fathers, and continue their lives as if nothing had happened. This is what makes war so frequent, so reprehensible, that people forget to consider that, under the guise of nation, race, and religion, they are elevating their bloodlust to a law of war. But Publius had no time to ponder this now. The enemy’s resistance intensified with the arrival of reinforcements. Meanwhile, the city walls had been cleared, and retreat could be considered.

Before the enemy even realized what was happening, the Romans had broken away and, in a matter of moments, scaled the ruins, where they seized the wounded and carried them to the boats. Militarily, Consul Censorinus had made no progress. But through his clever, level-headed behaviour, he had saved many of his soldiers from certain death.

Change of Command

The next morning, the wall stood as high and as strong as on the first day. The gap in the wall had been closed again. Consul Manlius and his army made no progress with their operations. He tried in vain to take the citadel wall from the west. The enemy successfully repelled him every time. The summer heat, with its associated swamp diseases, did the rest and did little to improve the morale of the soldiers. Thus, the war dragged on, and the Carthaginians regained their courage. The following year brought no change. On the contrary, even less was done. The new consuls limited themselves to cutting off the city’s supply lines from the sea and launching mostly unsuccessful attacks on smaller sea fortresses.

In Rome, Cato died, and in Numidia, the elderly Massinissa passed away. Sheikh Bythyas, weary of Roman rule, defected to the Carthaginians with his cavalry. The Patriotic Party forged connections with the now-divided Numidia, and even with the royal house of Mauretania. The false Philip of Macedon also promised the tormented citizens relief from the burdensome siege through rebellion and murder throughout Greece.

As the year 147 dawned, Carthage stood more magnificent and powerful than the proud would-be conqueror. And the entire non-Roman world secretly began to wish the valiant city, which bravely defended its freedom, good fortune and blessings. An uneasy mood hung over Rome. One rumor chased another. The consuls were prolonging the war to line their own pockets. Others claimed that Hasdrubal was assembling a large army in Mauritania, intending to cross the Alps a second time and exact devastating revenge. The people cried out for the famous saviour, whose name sounded so reassuring to everyone: Scipio Aemilianus. Indeed, Scipio was on everyone’s lips. Although he had not followed the career path prescribed by law, the Senate sent him to Africa in the spring as commander-in-chief of the fleet and army with extraordinary powers to put an end to the troops’ sluggish activity.

Total War: The Battle for Carthage

Indeed, the war intensified from then on. At the beginning of June, Scipio had seized the suburb of Magalia, confining the Carthaginians to the city proper. Their last source of food and meat had been taken from them. The enemy army formed a deadly ring around the city, and every attempt to bring in supplies across the isthmus was thwarted by Roman weapons.

To make matters worse, Hasdrubal now held absolute power, which he initially demonstrated by ordering the slaughter of all Italians on the city walls in full view of the besiegers.

When voices were raised against this senseless act, the vain tyrant even began to rage among his own people. Many respected citizens died by the executioner’s axe in the large town square. Amidst the frenzied cheers of the densely assembled mob, he proclaimed his ideas of total war.

“We are at a great historical turning point,” he shouted in a hysterical voice to the roaring crowd. The Roman capitalists and moneyed aristocrats are expending their last strength to destroy our free state, which is many hundreds of years older.”

The demon raged in the hearts of the citizens, and no one grasped the cruel meaning of his words. Eagerly, they waited for a pause in the tyrant’s mad speech, so they could then release all their anguish over hunger, disease, and worry in a cacophony of unbridled emotion.

Thoughtlessly, his pronouncements were confirmed with wild enthusiasm.

“We are at a great historical turning point,” he shouted in a hysterical voice to the roaring crowd. “The Romans are expending their last strength to destroy our free state. But I promise you, the last pillar will sooner lie in ruins, spattering our precious Punic blood upon it, than we will humbly throw ourselves at the feet of the war wolves.”

His pronouncements were met with wild enthusiasm, without a second thought.

“At this very moment, as I speak to you, the knife is already drawn against the senile republic. It will collapse like a poorly built house.”

“Do you have the courage to deliver the final, devastating blow to this house? Yes, I see you all have courage, but are you willing to give everything for it? Give up everything so that our Carthage, even after more than a thousand years, shines as gloriously over all peoples as it did on this day?”

Carthage was a close-knit community. But with the rumbling stomach came disillusionment.

Chapter VIII