Carthago Delendum Est
The scent of mustard seed drew the old man toward a garishly painted tent thick in the city's now sleeping bazaar. Even in a night lit by little more than the celestial eyes of gods and monsters, he noted the script upon the canvas advertising one of Libyssa's few Corinthian doctors. At least he hoped the lettering noted such. A mild curse escaped the man’s lips for spending so much time in the East without learning the Hellenic print. Yet, a hesitant glance into the dark tent confirmed his destination.
"Come, come," invited the voice of a pudgy little Greek. The Corinthian’s head was bent over a table loaded with burning incense so that the blonde crescent moon of hair atop his head frowned at the tent's entry flap. "Just a moment while I finish my preparations, but you may take a seat."
The Corinthian pointed at a plain wooden stool resting in the center of the tent's earthen floor. A thin layer of straw and loose soil covered the compacted dirt beneath.
A fresh layer of straw and soil, the elderly visitor realized. "You cleaned for me?"
"I did," the Corinthian said with a nod. "The process can cause quite a mess. Thus, I prefer to start in a place of more perfect form."
"How Aristotelian," he mused before resting upon the stool. With a smile, the old man quickly added, "I have not read any of Aristotle’s work, before you prattle on. But I am old and prefer to die without this pain in my tooth."
The little Corinthian returned his smile and nodded. From under the table, the doctor brought out a brown blanket. He lifted the large hide cloth, revealing straps of dried sheep gut along the edges of the coat. "You should wear this jacket—to ease the daimonos within you, those little spirits of unease that can grip the inner coil. It wraps around and I tie these ends to keep you calm and settled. It also keeps one clean."
The old man noted that the brown discoloration covering the coat appeared to be caked blood.
"Do you know me?" he asked the Corinthian.
"Yes, Son of Tunisia, I know you. Hecate whispers to her faithful at all crossroads to avoid the paths you travel. Word of your arrival fills any city you visit, ignites with each army you raise to shake at the Great Senate and its Empire of the West. Does hearing such make you feel more able to rest easy in my chair?"
"No, not much. But you cannot expect me to wear this coat." While he ignored the reference to Rome, it burned within him to respond. The world had changed so much during his lifetime to see a Greek piling praise upon their Western colonial spawn. "A little more blood on this old body will not matter."
"Very well, Great General." He tossed the splattered piece of hide back under the table. "Please, sit. And open wide."
Mouth agape, the general had little choice but to look up at the tent’s roof. An urn of oil burned at the end of a small chain. The links looked brass in the light, but that might only have been the amber reflection of flame.
“Oh, this is exquisite,” the Corinthian murmured. “These bands behind your teeth, are they copper?”
A slight scraping across the roof of the general’s mouth accompanied the taste of wood on his tongue. The thought that the Corinthian might try and adjust his teeth with only fire-hardened twigs almost caused the old man to blanch.
He moved a hand to the doctor’s chest and pushed him back. “It’s an Etruscan invention. At least an Etruscan built the device. They are the teeth of a Roman tribune, taken many years ago, banded together to replace the teeth I lost at Cannae.”
The doctor went back to his table. “I will need to remove it. Something has caused swelling between the tribune’s teeth and your own ridges.” From one of the burning urns of incense he pulled a thin-bladed chisel of iron. “Do not worry, I anoint such implements regularly in a ritual to Hephaestus. They remain sharp and precise.“
As the doctor approached, the general made note of a silhouette that stopped outside the tent. The figure did not enter, but the broad shoulders and short cape left little doubt as to the nature of the soldier behind the flap.
“Tell me, doctor, for what will you be remembered?” the general asked.
The doctor paused, chisel in hand. “Perhaps I will be known for bringing knowledge of this Etruscan invention to my fellow Greeks. Do you worry about how you will be remembered, General?”
The general nodded toward the tent entrance. “My time for such concerns has come to an end. Our good King Prusias, Prusias the Lame, has offered me to your Great Senate of the West. And a Roman assassin now awaits outside your tent. I am forever set as the man who stole the annals of time from the grasp of Mother Africa and gifted them to the blade and fire of Rome.”
“The time when we Greeks might be so dramatic has long passed,” the doctor said, leaning close. “Now, there is work we should finish here.”
The general gripped the doctor’s hand between his own in a sudden motion that caused the little
man to yelp. “I give you one last chance to spite the Romans as their greed siphons your culture and beliefs. Promise me only that you will not sell my gift, nor hand it to this Roman assassin. Bury it when you are done, in a swift river, knowing that what once belonged to a tribune entered eternity as part of my spirit.”
The Corinthian nodded, and with a sudden gesture, the general rammed the blade deep into his own throat. He did not gurgle as the doctor turned away from the spray.
“Sic transit Hannibal,” the shaken doctor whispered.
