Absalon cackled with triumph as he let the mancala beans he had won pour through his fingers, pattering back onto his side of the board like raindrops. “What is it the Romans like to say? ‘I came, I saw, I conquered’?”
Himilco grumbled as he rested his brow on the palm of his hand. “You say that at least as often as the Romans themselves.”
“Because I am always conquering you, that’s why!”
Himilco had to admit, his fellow Sophet had a valid point there. Of the dozen or so games they had played since their tent got set up, Himilco had only won a couple, or maybe three if his recollection was generous. If he were to be honest with himself, mancala had never been his strongest suit.
Absalon put aside the board and accepted a pouring of wine into his cup from a comely young Numidian girl. “You know what your problem is, Himilco? You’ve no talent for strategy. Too much impulse, not enough calculation.”
“I suppose we can’t all be Hannibal Barca,” Himilco said. “He was so close to crushing Rome into dust.”
“You know, Himilco, it has occurred to me that we should be more like the Romans. Despite the Barcas’ best efforts, they have all but supplanted us as the power of the Mediterranean. Their ambition and ruthlessness know no bounds, and I feel that’s been the key to their newfound dominance.”
“And you say we can’t be ambitious and ruthless too? If I recall correctly, Hannibal wasn’t that much of a pushover.”
“He should have been even less of one. The problem with us Carthaginians, O Himilco, is that we are not a nation of conquerors like our Latin friends. We are traders and builders at heart. Why, we often let other men do our fighting for us. Numidians, Iberians, Gauls, and so on all have more fighting gumption than we do.”
Himilco helped himself to some figs from the bowl laid beside him. “I don’t know if I would call that a bad quality. One can get carried away with conquest. Ever heard of Alexander of Macedonia? He conquered half the world, more than even the Romans could imagine, and yet once he passed away, neither his generals nor their descendants could hold it all together.”
“Because he was an idling drunkard who died before he produced an heir, you fat oaf! Had he been more temperate in his ways and more attentive a ruler, we would all be subjects of Macedonia, from Africa to Asia and beyond. Why, he might even have beaten us here to Atlantis!”
Himilco rolled his eyes. “Atlantis, is that what we’ve decided on calling it?”
“It isn’t an inappropriate name, is it? It comes from Atlas, the Titan said to hold up the sky at the farthest west. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is, we as Carthaginians need to be more ambitious, more fearsome. We can’t stop at founding new colonies for trade and security. We need to do as the Romans do, which is conquer and dominate.”
“And how do you suppose we can do that here? We don’t even know what the Atlanteans’ capabilities are, if there even are any Atlanteans at all. For all we know, we might have intruded upon a military power even mightier than Rome’s.”
“Perhaps, but even if we don’t attack them, we can use this new colony to increase our population, breeding more men for our ranks. Then, we can take back what the Romans stole from us. And after that, we can achieve what Hannibal could not, razing Rome itself to the ground, and then conquering the world beyond that. Imagine, Carthage, an empire to put Alexander’s to shame!”
Absalon clenched his fist and slammed it onto the mancala board, throwing up the beans on it in a shower that fell all over the tent’s floor. His eyes, already yellowed with age, blazed with a passion that made Himilco shudder. It may have still been afternoon outside, but the tent inside felt a lot chillier than before.