Gauda whinnied blissfully. “Isn’t it simply astonishing, Gaius Marius, how much in concert our two minds are? Letters are exactly what I was going to suggest!”
“Well, as I said, I knew that,” said Marius deprecatingly. “But is it possible, sire?”
“Possible? Of course it’s possible!” said Gauda. “All it takes is time and influence and money—and I think, Gaius Marius, that between the two of us we can get together a great deal more time and influence and money than Quintus Caecilius Metellus, don’t you?”
“I’m certainly hoping so,” said Marius.
Of course Marius didn’t leave it there. He went in person to every Roman, Latin, and Italian man of note from one end of Africa Province to the other, pleading his duties on Metellus’s behalf as his reason for needing to travel so far afield, so constantly. With him he carried a secret mandate from Prince Gauda, promising all sorts of concessions in Numidia once he was its king. And asking everyone to enroll as a client of Gaius Marius’s. Rain and mud and rivers overflowing their banks couldn’t stop Gaius Marius; he went on his way enlisting clients and gathering promises of letters, letters, and more letters. Thousands upon thousands of letters. Letters enough to sink Quintus Caecilius Metellus’s ship of state to the bottom of the sea of political extinction.
*
By February the letters from the Roman African province to every important man or body of men in Rome began to arrive, and continued to arrive by every ship thereafter. Said one of the early ones, from Marcus Caelius Rufus, Roman citizen owner of hundreds of iugera of land in the Bagradas River valley, producer of 240-fold wheat crops for the Roman market:
Quintus Caecilius Metellus has done very little in Africa save look after his own interests. It is my considered opinion that his intention is to prolong this war to increase his own personal glory and further his craving for power. Last autumn he gave out that it was his policy to weaken King Jugurtha’s position by burning Numidian crops and raiding Numidian towns, especially those containing treasure. As a result, my lands and the lands of many other Roman citizens in this province have been placed in jeopardy, for Numidian raiding parties are now retaliating inside the Roman province. The entire Bagradas Valley, so vital to Rome’s grain supply, lives in fear and trembling from one day to the next.
Furthermore, it has come to my ears, as it has to many others, that Quintus Caecilius Metellus cannot even manage his legates, let alone his army. He has deliberately wasted the potential of men as senior and capable as Gaius Marius and Publius Rutilius Rufus, putting the one to commanding his unimportant cavalry unit, and the other to work as his praefectus fabrum. His behavior toward Prince Gauda, regarded by the Senate and People of Rome as the rightful ruler of Numidia, has been insufferably arrogant, thoughtless, and sometimes cruel.
In conclusion, may I say that what little success last year’s campaigns produced is purely due to the efforts of Gaius Marius and Publius Rutilius Rufus. I am aware that they have been accorded no credit or thanks for their endeavors. May I recommend Gaius Marius and Publius Rutilius Rufus to your notice, and condemn most strongly the conduct of Quintus Caecilius Metellus?
This missive was addressed to one of the largest and most important grain merchants in Rome, a man whose influence among senators and knights was legion. Naturally, once he was apprised of Metellus’s shameful conduct of the war, his indignation waxed loud; his voice dinned in all sorts of interesting ears, with immediate effect. And as the days went by and the spate of letters kept coming, his voice was joined by many other voices. Senators began to flinch when they saw a merchant banker or maritime plutocrat coming their way, and the complacent satisfaction of the enormously powerful Caecilius Metellus clan was rapidly tumbling into dismay.
Off went letters from the Caecilius Metellus clan to its esteemed member Quintus Caecilius, proconsul of Africa Province, begging that he tone down his arrogance toward Prince Gauda, treat his senior legates with more consideration than he did his son, and try to drum up a couple of really impressive victories in the field against Jugurtha.
Then there broke the scandal of Vaga, which, having surrendered to Metellus in the late autumn, now rebelled and executed most of its Italian businessmen; the revolt had been fomented by Jugurtha—with the connivance of none other than Metellus’s personal friend, the garrison commander Turpilius. Metellus made the mistake of defending Turpilius when Marius demanded loudly that he be court-martialed for treason, and by the time the story reached Rome via hundreds of letters, it appeared that Metellus himself was as guilty of treason as was Turpilius. Off went more letters from the Caecilius Metellus clan to their esteemed Quintus Caecilius in Utica, begging that he choose his friends better, if he was going to insist upon defending them on treason charges.
Many weeks passed before Metellus could be brought to believe that Gaius Marius was the author of the Roman letter campaign; and even when he was forced to believe it, he was slow to understand the significance of this epistolary war—and even slower to counter it. He, a Caecilius Metellus, brought into disrepute in Rome on the word of a Gaius Marius and a sniveling pretender and a few vulgar colonial merchants? Impossible! Rome didn’t work that way. Rome belonged to him, not to Gaius Marius.
Once every eight days, regular as the calendar, Marius presented himself to Metellus and demanded to be released from service at the end of Sextilis; just as regularly, Metellus turned him down.
In all fairness to Metellus, he had other things on his mind than Marius and a few paltry letters turning up in Rome; most of his energies were taken up with Bomilcar. It had taken Nabdalsa many days to arrange an interview between himself and Bomilcar, then many more days to set up a secret meeting between Bomilcar and Metellus. But late in March the latter finally happened, in a small annex attached to the governor’s residence in Utica, to which Bomilcar was smuggled.
They knew each other fairly well, of course, for it was Metellus who had kept Jugurtha informed through Bomilcar during those last despairing days in Rome, Bomilcar rather than his king who had availed himself of Metellus’s hospitality, contained as it had been within the city’s pomerium.
However, there were few social niceties about this new meeting; Bomilcar was edgy, afraid his presence inside Utica would be detected, and Metellus was uncertain of himself in this new role of spymaster.
So Metellus didn’t mince matters. “I want to conclude this war with as few losses in men and materiel as possible, and in as short a time as possible,” he said. “Rome needs me elsewhere than an outpost like Africa.”
“Yes, I heard about the Germans,” said Bomilcar smoothly.
“Then you understand the haste,” said Metellus.
“Indeed I do. However, I fail to see what I personally can do to shorten the hostilities here.”
“I have been led to believe—and after considerable thought, I find myself convinced—that the quickest and best way to decide the fate of Numidia in a way favorable to Rome is to eliminate King Jugurtha,” the proconsul said.
Bomilcar considered the proconsul thoughtfully. No Gaius Marius, he knew well; not even a Rutilius Rufus. Prouder, haughtier, far more conscious of his station, yet not as competent or detached. As always to a Roman, Rome mattered. But the concept of Rome cherished by a Caecilius Metellus was very different from the concept of Rome cherished by Gaius Marius. What puzzled Bomilcar was the difference between the old Metellus of days in Rome and the Metellus who governed Africa Province; for though he knew about the letters, he had no appreciation of their importance.
“It’s true that Jugurtha is the wellhead for Numidian resistance to Rome,” Bomilcar said. “However, you may not be aware of the unpopularity of Gauda within Numidia. Numidia will never consent to be ruled by Gauda, legitimate or not.”
At the mention of Gauda’s name, an expression of distaste appeared on Metellus’s face. “Faugh!” he exclaimed, waving one hand. “A nothing! An apology for a man, let alone a ruler.” His light brown eyes dwelle
d shrewdly upon Bomilcar’s heavy face. “If anything should happen to King Jugurtha, I—and Rome, of course—was thinking more along the lines of putting a man on the Numidian throne whose good sense and experience have taught him to believe that Numidia’s interests are best served in a dutiful client kingship to Rome.”
“I agree; I think Numidia’s interests are best served in that way.” Bomilcar paused, wet his lips. “Would you consider me a possible King of Numidia, Quintus Caecilius?”
“Most definitely!” said Metellus.
“Good! In that case I shall happily work toward the elimination of Jugurtha.”
“Soon, I hope,” said Metellus, smiling.
“As soon as may be. There is no point in an assassination attempt. Jugurtha is too careful. Besides, he has the total loyalty of his royal guard. Nor do I think a coup would succeed. Most of the nobility are well satisfied with the way Jugurtha has ruled Numidia—and with his conduct of this war. If Gauda were a more attractive alternative, things might be different. I”—Bomilcar grimaced—”do not have the blood of Masinissa in my veins, which means I will need all of Rome’s support to ascend the throne successfully.”
“Then what is to be done?” demanded Metellus.
“I think the only way to do it is to maneuver Jugurtha into a situation where he can be captured by a Roman force—I don’t mean in a battle, I mean in an ambush. Then, you can kill him on the spot, or take him into custody and do what you like with him later,” said Bomilcar.
“All right, Baron Bomilcar. I take it you’ll get word to me in plenty of time to set up this ambush?”
“Of course. Border raids are the ideal opportunity, and Jugurtha plans to lead many of them as soon as the ground is dry enough. Though be warned, Quintus Caecilius. You may fail several times before you succeed in capturing someone as wily as Jugurtha. After all, I cannot afford to jeopardize my own survival—I am no use to Rome or myself if I’m dead. Rest assured, eventually I’ll manage to lead him into a good trap. Not even Jugurtha can lead a charmed life forever.”
All in all, Jugurtha was well satisfied with the way things were going. Though he had suffered considerably from Marius’s raids into the more settled parts of his realm, he knew—none better—that the sheer size of Numidia was his greatest advantage and protection. And the settled parts of Numidia, unlike other nations, mattered less to the King than the wilderness. Most of Numidia’s soldiers, including the light-armed cavalry so famous throughout the world, were recruited among the peoples who lived a seminomadic existence far within the interior of the country, even on the far side of the mighty mountains in which the patient Atlas held up the sky on his shoulders; these peoples were known as Gaetuli and Garamantes; Jugurtha’s mother belonged to a tribe of the Gaetuli.
After the surrender of Vaga, the King made sure he kept no money or treasure in any town likely to be along the line of a Roman route march; everything was transferred to places like Zama and Capsa, remote, difficult to infiltrate, built as citadels atop unscalable peaks—and surrounded by the fanatically loyal Gaetuli. And Vaga turned out to be no Roman victory; once again Jugurtha had bought himself a Roman, the garrison commander, Turpilius. Metellus’s friend. Ha!
However, something was changed. As the winter rains began to dwindle, Jugurtha became more and more convinced of this. The trouble was, he couldn’t put his finger on what was changed. His court was a mobile affair; he moved constantly from one citadel to another, and distributed his wives and concubines among all of them, so that wherever he went, he could be sure of loving faces, loving arms. And yet—something was wrong. Not with his dispositions, nor with his armies, nor with his supply lines, nor with the loyalty of his many towns and districts and tribesmen. What he sensed was little more than a whiff, a twitch, a tingling sensation of danger from some source close to him. Though never once did he associate his premonition with his refusal to appoint Bomilcar regent.
“It’s in the court,” he said to Bomilcar as they rode from Capsa to Cirta at the end of March, walking their horses at the head of a huge train of cavalry and infantry.
Bomilcar turned his head and looked straight into his half brother’s pale eyes. “The court?”
“There’s mischief afoot, brother. Sown and cultivated by that slimy little turd Gauda, I’d be willing to bet,” said Jugurtha.
“Do you mean a palace revolution?”
“I’m not sure what I mean. It’s just that something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”
“An assassin?”
“Perhaps. I really don’t honestly know, Bomilcar! My eyes are going in a dozen different directions at once, and my ears feel as if they’re rotating, they’re so busy—yet only my nose has discovered anything wrong. What about you? Do you feel nothing?” he asked, supremely sure of Bomilcar’s affection, trust, loyalty.
“I have to say I feel nothing,” said Bomilcar.
Three times did Bomilcar maneuver the unwitting Jugurtha into a trap, and three times did Jugurtha manage to extricate himself unharmed. Without suspecting his half brother.
“They’re getting too clever,” said Jugurtha after the failure of the third Roman ambush. “This is Gaius Marius or Publius Rutilius at work, not Metellus.” He grunted. “I have a spy in my camp, Bomilcar.”
Bomilcar managed to look serene. “I admit the possibility. But who would dare?”
“I don’t know,” said Jugurtha, his face ugly. “But rest assured, sooner or later I will know.”
At the end of April, Metellus invaded Numidia, persuaded by Rutilius Rufus to content himself at first with a slighter target than the capital, Cirta; the Roman forces marched on Thala instead. A message came from Bomilcar, who had lured Jugurtha in person to Thala, and Metellus made a fourth attempt to capture the King. But as it wasn’t in Metellus to go about the storming of Thala with the speed and decision the job needed, Jugurtha escaped, and the assault became a siege. A month later Thala fell, and much to Metellus’s gratified surprise, yielded a large hoard of treasure Jugurtha had brought to Thala with him, and had been obliged to leave behind when he fled.
As May slid into June, Metellus marched to Cirta, where he received another pleasant surprise. For the Numidian capital surrendered without a fight, its very large complement of Italian and Roman businessmen a significantly pro-Roman force in town politics. Besides which, Cirta did not like Jugurtha any more than he liked Cirta.
The weather was hot and very dry, normal for that time of the year; Jugurtha moved out of reach of the slipshod Roman intelligence network by going south to the tents of the Gaetuli, and then to Capsa, homeland of his mother’s tribe. A small but heavily fortified mountain citadel in the midst of the Gaetulian remoteness, Capsa contained a large part of Jugurtha’s heart, for it was here his mother had actually lived since the death of her husband, Bomilcar’s father. And it was here that Jugurtha had stored the bulk of his treasure.
It was here in June that Jugurtha’s men brought Nabdalsa, caught coming away from Roman-occupied Cirta after Jugurtha’s spies in the Roman command finally obtained enough evidence of Nabdalsa’s treachery to warrant informing the King. Though always known as Gauda’s man, Nabdalsa had not been prevented from moving freely within Numidia; a remote cousin with Masinissa’s blood in him, he was tolerated and considered harmless.
“But I now have proof,” said Jugurtha, “that you have been actively collaborating with the Romans. If the news disappoints me, it’s chiefly because you’ve been fool enough to deal with Metellus rather than Gaius Marius.” He studied Nabdalsa, clapped in irons upon capture, and visibly wearing the signs of harsh treatment at the hands of Jugurtha’s men. “Of course you’re not in this alone,” he said thoughtfully. “Who among my barons has conspired with you?”
Nabdalsa refused to answer.
“Put him to the torture,” said Jugurtha indifferently.
Torture in Numidia was not sophisticated, though like all Eastern-style despots, Jugurtha did avail himself of dungeo
ns and long-term imprisonment. Into one of Jugurtha’s dungeons, buried in the base of the rocky hill on which Capsa perched, and entered only through a warren of tunnels from the palace within the citadel’s walls, was Nabdalsa thrown, and there the subhumanly brutish soldiers who always seemed to inherit such positions applied the torture.
Not very long afterward, it became obvious why Nabdalsa had chosen to serve the inferior man, Gauda; he talked. All it had taken was the removal of his teeth and the fingernails of one hand. Summoned to hear his confession, the unsuspecting Jugurtha brought Bomilcar with him.
Knowing that he would never leave the subterranean world he was about to enter, Bomilcar gazed into the illimitable heights of the rich blue sky, sniffed the sweet desert air, brushed the back of his hand against the silky leaves of a flowering bush. And strove to carry the memories with him into the darkness.
The poorly ventilated chamber stank; excrement, vomitus, sweat, blood, stagnant water, and dead tissue clubbed together to form a miasma out of Tartarus, an atmosphereno man could breathe without experiencing fear. Even Jugurtha entered the place with a shiver.
The inquisition proceeded under terrible difficulties, for Nabdalsa’s gums continued to bleed profusely, and a broken nose prevented attempts to stanch the haemorrhage by packing the mouth. Stupidity, thought Jugurtha, torn by a mixture of horror at the sight of Nabdalsa and anger at the thoughtlessness of his brutes, beginning in the one place they ought to have kept free and clear of their attentions.
Not that it mattered a great deal. Nabdalsa uttered the one vital word on Jugurtha’s third question, and it was not too difficult to understand as it was mumbled out through the blood.