The consul paced through most of this, but he did not interrupt. He did not frown or joke or shout. But finally he stepped close and slipped a hand over the Numidian's shoulder. He caressed the back of his neck and pulled him in. With his forehead touching Masinissa's temple, Publius' words brushed his face like the hot breaths of a lover. “Masinissa, do not think I'm deaf to your love. But what you wish cannot be. We are fighting for the world together. Why would you risk this for the pleasures of a woman? If you are to be worthy of a partnership with Rome, you must prove yourself—not just with your skill atop a horse but with your reason, with your wisdom in thought and action. Sophonisba can never be your wife. I'm sorry I did not make this clearer to you before you came here. She has a strong pull and men such as you feel emotion deeply. I understand this. But the promise of union you shared with her as a youth is no more. It's gone with the past and will never be again. There is something more. . . .”
The consul brushed his lips against the man's cheek. He ran his hand up into the African's locks and clamped his fingers there. “Do you think this is easy for me?” he whispered. “Think about it. My nation has been humiliated, my family destroyed. I am here trying to save the world as my people know it. In Iberia, some of the tribes declared me a living god. Even some among my own troops believe I walk blessed by Jupiter's hand. But you and I know the truth of these things, don't we? The gods are silent in me; are they the same in you? It may be that I lose everything tomorrow. I simply don't know. I have nothing but these hands and this mind. . . . These are the things with which I try to save my people. That is why I need you with me. The hour soon comes when I will meet Hannibal himself. You must be there.”
Publius loosed his fingers and drew back a little, but still he spoke in hushed tones. “I'll tell you this, and you'll become the first to know: I'm not returning to Rome yet. My work here isn't complete, and it must be made so. You will understand, then, how strange a position I am in. On one hand, I disobey the orders of my Senate; on the other I force you to heed them. Do not question the equity in this. Just hear me and do as I say. Be the left hand to my right. Pull with me on the rope that will drag Hannibal back to Africa. Do as I say and you'll become one of Africa's greatest kings. Give up the girl. She is a Roman prisoner: the wife of one enemy and the sister of another. It's not in your power to change this. It's a certainty that Sophonisba will go to Rome as a prisoner. If she is ever free again it will only be after Carthage's complete defeat, and she may never be free, Masinissa. Her life is not hers to direct anymore; nor is it yours. If you spurn us in this, you have no future. The Senate will tell me to crush you and flick you away like an insect and find another man to call my favored king; and if they ask me to do that, I will. But it need not be. Sacrifice this one thing and everything else is yours.”
Publius stood erect again and paced away a few steps. “I will hear your answer now.”
“I cannot live without her,” Masinissa said.
“Of course you can. Does a single heart beat for both of you?”
“But I cannot—”
“That is not your answer!” Publius snapped. “Who will know you for a king if you cannot be strong?”
The Numidian started to shake his head, but something in the question struck him in a different place and pressed home. In an instant he was reminded of weeks during which he roamed Massylii lands in hiding, exiled in his own country. He had learned so many things during that time, and one of them was that he was no different from other men. Though he wore the crown of a king inside his heart, no man recognized him. He ate stringy meat beside fires and rode beside merchants and slept on the open ground with dogs and beggars. Who knew him for a king then? His own people did not recognize him. They saw a man before them of flesh and bone, with hair on his chin, a person who ate and peed and shat like any other. But they did not see a king.
“You ask who will know me for a king?”
“That's what I ask.”
“And you want me to know that I can be replaced. Masinissa gone and some other on my throne.”
“As you are now on Syphax'. And in his quarters, even in his bed . . .”
Masinissa spoke before he knew he was going to. One thing was as impossible as another, so he said, “I will do as you wish.”
“Good,” Publius said. “You've assured your future. You may send the girl a note of condolence, but do not see her again. Tell her that she cannot be your wife, and that she is a prisoner of Rome.”
Quick as that, the consul turned and walked away.
Once he was gone, Masinissa flung himself onto the bed. Sophonisba's scent flooded him and twisted his insides into knots. What had he just said? Was he mad? He could not live without her. He could not. He simply could not. He said so over and over again. He would always wonder where in the world she was, and with whom. He would eat at his own heart in fear that she was being abused. Or—worse yet—was she giving her love to someone else? He could not possibly live with this hanging over him. So he would take his own life. That was it—he would take his own life!
He called for a servant of the house and asked the startled man if his old master had had any poison. He had, of course, and this was duly fetched. A few moments later he held within his hand a tiny vial, ornately worked. But looking at the vial he knew he could not do it. He was not a normal man. He was king. He had promised a whole nation of people that he would lead them into the future. He had rescued them from tyranny. He could not abandon them; what would become of them? Would not Rome turn against them in rage at his betrayal? And what of all the greatness he wanted to achieve in honor of his father? This had become the new duty of his life. He had to make up for all the years that he had been youthfully ignorant of his father's wisdom. He simply had to live.
And with that thought he decided. He called to his manservant. When he appeared, he spoke calmly. “Take this to my wife. Tell her that I'm keeping my promise to her. She will not fall into Roman hands, but I cannot be her husband. Ask her to drink this.”
The man took the vial without comment. Once he was gone, Masinissa tried to shift his attention to something else. He thought of Maharbal and hoped that he was still the commander of Hannibal's cavalry. He would have to speak to Publius about him, for he had of late conceived a plan that might aid them greatly, if Maharbal was still loyal to the Massylii. He began to rehearse what he would say. With this victory he could raise another ten or fifteen thousand men from his own people. For that matter, he could probably recruit from the Libyans—those not burned to cinders . . .
And just like that, the manservant was back. No time at all had passed. Masinissa was sure that the vial had not been delivered. The Romans had turned him around; the servant could not find her; he came to ask Masinissa to reconsider.
The man said, “She has received the gift, my king.”
“What said she? Tell me exactly. Exactly!”
“She said that she accepted it, but that it saddened her. She said that she would have died a better death if she had not married the same week as her funeral. She said to remind you of the tale of Balatur. She'd wanted to believe it, but truth was as she had said, wasn't it? No Massylii was ever true to a single woman. She said to tell you that she only ever loved you . . . only you, singly out of anyone in the entire world. And she drank the poison. She drank all of it without hesitation, and then she handed the vial back.”