Chapter Two: The Weapon

A lion, not a man, who slaughters wide,
In strength of rage, and impotence of pride…
— Apollo, The Iliad

HE SNARLED TO life.

A phantom thought echoed: Seek her…

“Hamilcar?” a woman rasped. Lying down, he looked to his left. Dim lit, an oil lamp whipped shadows across a lithe face, and a young man, eyes wide.

Gasping, the man pushed off a soiled sheet. Scar, etched into the palm, a calloused right hand ran across burns, bald patches where Carthage’s inferno had licked flesh, through singed hair, over a stubborn jaw. “Not Hamilcar.”

This place was cramped and dark. Slivers of light pierced, within which motes danced and memories fled. And his signum glowed bright enough to bathe all crimson. But Tanit had fallen. He should’ve been fractura-stricken and without a signum. 

A god had chosen him.

Hunched as she approached, the woman wore a dark tunic and breeches, hair shorn close; scars textured her toned frame. A Daughter of Tanit. Or former Daughter—those clandestine killers Carthage had wielded.

The fractura, but a spiritual hangover, he dimly remembered this woman’s failure to kill Scipio. Her name was a haze—too much opaque. Which suited him. There was little worth remembering. 

Right arm missing at the elbow, she knelt at his side, hawkish features pulled to a point. “…Ajax?”

There was that name. Self-appointed, until he earned his legacy. 

“Yes.” Ajax winced. Skin massacred, he must look twice his 28 years. And stiff with dried blood, a bandage wrapped around his waist. Masking it was a coarse red tunic, a far cry from the finery a demi deserved. Seeing his signum flare, the woman’s eyes widened. “I need to leave.”

“You can’t,” the youth said. Looking no older than sixteen, copperish curls framed his freckled face. He looked down the moment Ajax made eye contact. 

The Daughter rested her hand on his shoulder. "You've been chosen, but Mapen’s right. If you’re to become a demigod, you need to gather your str—”

“If you want to keep your other arm, you’ll take your fucking hand off me.” Ajax didn’t need to shout; everyone in Carthage knew that, even if he wasn’t a demi, he was still a Barca. That meant something. Had meant something.

Renewed purpose was his, yes, but wounds assailed Ajax. “Changed my mind. Water.” The Daughter handed him a skin he then quaffed. Lean torso complaining as he stood, Ajax promptly smacked his head on what passed for a ceiling. “Godsdammit, where am I?”

“In a larder beneath Mapen’s bakery.”

“It was my mother’s.” A flicker in the youth’s eye withered beneath scrutiny. He tucked within a commoner’s tunic. 

“Right, his mother’s. There's bread and amphorae of water down here.” 

“Why didn’t you die fighting?” 

Ajax’ comment cut the Daughter, but she said, “I was looking for my mother and sister when I found you neck deep in rubble. Fire licked good before I hauled you out. Had trouble, but Baker Boy lent a hand.”

“So you gave up on your family?” Again, the hurt, but Ajax was a club, not a dagger.

“Tried to at least get you somewhere ‘safe,’ then look for them, but the Romans herded us until this was the only place left. Then she fell.” Above them, the “ceiling” was a goddess’ corpse Ajax ran a calloused hand across.

I should have died with you, Mother.

The Daughter continued, “Been sponge feeding you gruel and water ever since. Not to mention,” her nose wrinkled at the smell of piss and shit, “sponge you off.”

“How long was I out?”

“Feels like a week. That’s all it took for Ares and Rome to destroy our home, then fuck off.”

Seek her. “I’m leaving.”

“Debris is blocking the way. Two sets of hands—well,” the Daughter raised her right arm, “three wasn’t enough to break through. But a Barca might make the difference. You strong enough?”

Finally, Ajax recalled the woman’s name. “Until the end, Tanithia.” No wonder she’d been looking for her mother and sister. Matriarch Melita was commander of the Daughters, and Tanis, one herself.

“If you’re half as stubborn as your mother, a dead goddess won’t stop you.” Ajax lifted his signum to examine the sagging ceiling. “We’re going to break through. Because if we don’t,” he stared down Tanithia and Mapen, “you’ll be stuck here with me.”

A hand to his tunic came away wet. “Shit.” Tanithia made to get clean rags. “Don’t bother. Won’t matter after my exaltation. Just help me out of here.” Tunic chafing at the shoulders, Ajax ripped off the sleeves. A sharp inhale was Mapen’s response. “These your clothes?” 

“My father’s.”

“I’ll buy him a purple tunic.”

“No need.” Mapen joined Ajax and Tanithia, their backs against the rubble. 

“On three.” Ajax squared both legs. Tanit’s corpse bit into his back. Warmth wet his abdomen now, but pain was the prod, not an impediment. “One…”

Memory screamed: Hamilcar’s desperation, tearing at the Column as Himilco wailed in Ajax’ arms.

“Two…” 

Ares roared, a titan of purple coal searing the moon. Tanit’s dirge as he plunged a serpentine spear through her umbilicus; desolation as the fractura claimed Barcid twins.

“Three!”

The ceiling groaned as the Carthaginians put their backs into it. Ajax’ muscles quaked, eyes bulged as he channeled defeat into a violence-sculpted body. A god was giving him a second chance. He wouldn’t let the corpse of his former primus impede it. 

Ajax’ growl became a scream, became bestial as debris clattered. But he didn’t relent. Couldn’t stop now—wouldn’t give up his hate. It was the fire, and he, fuel if it incinerated Rome. Because Ajax had sworn an oath.

Someone screamed his name. 

Hamilcar screamed Zosime’s.

Tanit’s death rattle ravaged his mind. 

Break, burn anything that defies you. Repay Scipio one-hundredfold. Become their Punic nightma—

“Ajax!”

Gasping, muscles shivered as debris sloughed off him. Daylight’s pale cut his signum’s light.

“We’re through.” Tanithia and Mapen cowered opposite him. Hand raised, as if to calm a wild animal, she repeated, “We’re through.” 

Ajax exhaled the tension. “I’m leaving.” He hauled himself free of the larder. And staggered as, in every direction, desolation languished.

Carthage’s alabaster walls—sixty feet high and tall enough to reach Tanit’s shins—had been sundered. Six-story apartments were rubble; temples that had stabbed the sky, such as Eshmun’s atop the Byrsa—the hill upon which Carthaginian power had rested—resembled broken bone. 

All that remained was detritus and brick that had endured fires so intense they’d turned red. Smoke fumed in every direction, while, southeast, the Cothon, that famed double harbor, lay submerged. 

And if Ajax could see the harbor, Resheph’s temple was close. 

On noon’s horizon, however, nothing of the war god’s house remained. What did linger were the bodies festooning Carthage.

They lay in various states, tales of violence Ajax read fluently. Whether a double-bladed Gladius Hispaniensis through the gut, or arkons pulping soldier and zealot alike, Carthage exhaled charnel fumes the Mediterranean choked on. 

And gods, it was too cold for spring. Ajax had sweat inside Tanit’s umbilicus, but shivered for her arkonic womb now. The mere thought set him to rubbing his bicep, the phantom pain of Ares’ spear haunting.

World spinning, Ajax staggered—slumped against a sheared column. Blood loss. You’re dying, Barca. 

Tanithia and Mapen cleared the rubble, gasped as they took in the ruins. “Tanit’s dead,” the youth whispered.

“Banished,” the Daughter corrected. “Not the same thing.” The goddess would recover in the Etherium, but her corpse spanned the twelve square miles of Carthage, an arkonic mountain range erected in war’s name. 

Ajax thought to pray, but the sentiment withered. He didn’t need prayer, just his partner-demi. 

Entering the Etherium, he sought her filum. Where are you? 

There. Not far off and, by the looks of it, beneath Resheph’s temple. “She’s in the Column.”

“The what?” Tanithia, like nearly all of Carthage, didn’t know what he spoke of. Aside from General Hasdrubal, only the suffetes—the dual leaders of Carthage—select members of the 104, and Senate knew about Donis’ artifice.

“Be ready to swear yourselves to me.” Ajax jogged away, teeth gritted as he stumbled over bodies and debris. Past survivors, many of whom looked too sane considering the circumstances. Tanit’s true zealots would be raving mad or dead. He ignored their pleas for aid.

Are you waiting for me, Brother? 

Could Hamilcar have survived? He’d tried to free his wife from the Column’s collapsed entrance. Beside himself, he’d handed Ajax his wailing son, bled fingers prying debris before Ares annihilated Tanit’s umbilicus. 

Then the fractura struck. 

But what if Hamilcar had been captured? Ajax wanted to believe his brother would take his and Himilco’s life rather than become a Roman slave. But twins or no, they were ‌different men.

Because Hamilcar's words were his weapon; how the Barca ingrained himself among their multicultural populace of 300,000. He’d husked zealots to amplify Tanit’s arkon, yes, but not enough. Had it been him, Ajax would’ve bled Carthage’s fidem dry if it meant a pyrrhic victory over Rome.

Staggering over a woman’s corpse, child in death’s embrace, a quiet voice insisted Hamilcar be dead. This, too, served Ajax. Would make the killing easier. 

He wound past more corpses, one of which must have been a Roman missed in the recovery effort. Ajax spat on the contubernale. Next to him, another’s hand sported a crescent moon tattoo.

A Roman defector: One of the 900 men who’d proved Romulus’ honor wasn’t just bluster by joining Carthage’s defense. And what of Marcus and Quintus, the demis that had led them? From Tanit’s arkon, Ajax had seen Honos’ demigods; they’d barricaded themselves inside the Byrsa, besieged within a siege. 

Scipio’s men had been rabid wolves at the end, but two years away from home fighting your arch-nemesis had that effect on a man. But gods, Ajax thought as he navigated a sagging workshop, what a glorious battle it had been!

He, Hamilcar, and Tanit hadn’t stood a chance once Ares punched through her pomerium, the divine aegis protecting Carthage from the rival arkon. And there had been an air of fate to it all, Ajax’ grandfather having fought Rome in the Second War, losing to Aemilianus’ adopted grandfather, Scipio Africanus—it was symmetrical poetry. Their bloody reunion, one Ajax had looked forward to.

But surviving the massacre hadn’t been part of the plan. As far as he was concerned, Mot should be choking on his bones right now.

Ajax jogged, breath ragged as he neared Resheph’s sundered temple. Fell. Groaned, got back up. Phasing in, then out of the Etherium, his partner’s red filum shortened by the step. Ajax clutched his side, pulled himself over rubble with the other hand. Then reached Resheph’s temple. 

Frigid breeze hunching the Barca, a lone palm tree leaned, blackened fronds whipped. And beyond, the Mediterranean Sea shimmered; Tanit and more mundane remains smothered the temple. And as Ajax stepped into what had been a courtyard lined with fig trees, he despaired. 

Resheph’s house had been a proud edifice, its robust columns receding into three chambers, ending at a bronze bowl cupping an eternal flame. Priests regularly performed prayers there, prohibiting women and pigs from entering the temple. That had been before the war. Afterward, the carnifices ensured all bore Tanit’s signum, and that the temples became war forges.

Mago had been a bastard of a man—he was a Magonid, after all—but the Chief Carnifex knew how to “motivate” zealots. Carthage worshiped a polytheistic pantheon, but once war reared its head, the executioners made her functionally monotheistic—all faith for Tanit.

And almost as a relief, neither Hamilcar nor Himilco’s corpse lingered. Searching, Ajax saw only dead priests and the occasional zealot.

And who will keep me human now that you’re gone, Brother? Ajax spat to his side. It was better this way. Hamilcar had joined the Barcas in Sheol. There, peace beckoned—one their oath forbade.

In, out of the Etherium, his partner’s filum belowground. The Column had always rankled Ajax, General Hasdrubal’s stab from the grave, a step too far. Best that man’s revenge stay buried.

And Ajax’ partner rose higher by the moment. Soon, he would avenge Carthage, his family, those who had served Tanit. 

And what of the tormenta and geminis, those tasked with protecting and assaulting arkons? Did Vecto live? If any mortal could survive Tanit’s collapse, it was the monolithic Gaul. But sworn to the goddess, the Magnus Tormentum would be a thundering terror if alive.

Tunic soaked now, Ajax staggered to where the Column’s entrance had been, slowed to a stop. Before him, one of Tanit’s fingers remained. He ran his hand along the jagged edges as—

Memory snarled, hurled Ajax from the goddess’ umbilicus, divine armor denting as she deposited him on the ground. Through his signum, she’d whispered forgiveness, then charged Ares and his demis, the descendants of fleet-foot’d Achilles.

Shuddered breaths as now returned. A hand to his chest, Ajax’ voice was hoarse: “I should have died with you.” But why hadn’t Tanit made him dismiss her?—not that he’d wanted to. “Because you knew.” He examined scorched purple armor. “You knew Carthage was doomed.” That madness was a better fate than a sane Roman world. That the goddess would rather “die” with her city than persist. Because, for all her love, Tanit knew mortal hate.

And the gods were so pitifully human‌.

Ajax tugged at a scorched plank of wood once buttressing a balcony. There, onlookers might admire snaking aqueducts. They’d witness the Mediterranean's people gathered in districts, from industrial areas to apartments to villas hugging the Byrsa; visit the temples to Numidian, Roman, and Punic gods; and see the Chora, within which olives greased the gears of a mercantile empire. They’d behold and hear hegemony’s Punic accent.

Ajax twisted the plank until torsion snapped fibrous ligament, then went to the Column’s entrance. Leaning into each step, the same determination that had made him a demigod kept a dying man upright. Cresting arkonic debris, he leveraged the plank beneath smaller chunks, dislodging divine remainders.

Cold air kissing sweat, Ajax pushed himself past the pain. Harder, always demanding more of himself, of others. Perhaps, he thought while leveraging rubble aside, Carthage would still stand if everyone fought like he had.

But you didn’t fight until the end, did you?

Jaw flexed, Ajax put his back into the work. Slag tumbled past his caligae. So lost in thought was he that, upon loosening more, it created a miniature landslide that clipped his shoulder, arkonic remains lacerating skin with ease. Another chunk fell, snapping Ajax’ board at the midsection.

The Barca collapsed as blood loss cuffed his world. And smelled something. Ajax pressed scraped hands against the section he’d unearthed, breathed deep: humanity’s stench.

There! The smallest hole in the Column. He widened it with bloody hands. And heard voices. Ajax abandoned caution. Either he and his partner made the connection soon, or Mot would have his meal. “Up here!” 

Barely heard over a beating heart, a feminine voice replied. A hand emerged, fingers desperate. Ajax clasped her signum and—

Entered the Etherium.

Looking upon the divine expanse, Ajax knew how infantile, how meaningless he was. The Etherium contextualized experience, rendered him nothing more than a grain of sand in a haboob. Where you began and ended was pointless, as divine winds buffeted his spiritual form, physical body and an abstracted Terra Firma shrinking below. 

Ethereal, he and his partner soared. Holding hands, Ajax looked upon her. 

“Hamilcar?” It was Zosime. Uncaring of how they hurtled into the heavens, Ajax held her at bay as she tried to embrace him. “What are you—” Her eyes searched his. Peered past burns and ruined flesh, recognized the perpetual scowl and flinty eyes that had put seasoned generals in their place. 

“No.” Zosime’s lips quivered. “No, you’re supposed to be him. This isn’t right!” Her voice echoed through the void as Carthage became a speck. “Oh, gods.” Ethereal tears manifested as Zosime hugged herself. “Where are you, Hamilcar?” 

Of all the people Ajax could be saddled with, for it to be a temple clerk, let alone his brother’s widow? The gods were cruel.

And she’s sadder about Hamilcar than I am. The thought burdened Ajax despite the Etherium’s wonders, the star-clustered pantheons in their terrifying glory. From lands known to those of alien tongues, all humanity had its gods—the manifestation of collective consciousness.

It didn’t matter how often he’d communed with the Punic pantheon; the sight unmanned Ajax. The gods and goddesses of their people were housed within nebular disks, arms of stars and etheric clouds spinning languid; from the furnace-red of Kothar’s realm to the verdant emerald of Ba’al’s domain, all bore wonder and terror.

But a dark star curdled such majesty; a clotted heart where the dead dwelled. Sheol: That wretched home Mot claimed. Iridescent and grand as they might be, the godly realms barely resisted its decayed gravity.

And while fully realized and worshiped gods enjoyed their divine palaces, primordial aspects prowled the midnight sea. Gods long since forgotten or that had fallen out of favor, ghosts of the Etherium—who’d forgotten themselves but never their hunger.

Mouth agape, Ajax watched as a maw monolithic licked the cosmos. What was its purpose? What god had it formerly been, if at all? Catatonic in aspect, it vanished into eternity.

Far to the divine and terrestrial north, past Roman-held Iberia and disputed Gaul, were lands Himilco the Explorer had explored. In those wisps beyond, a place the Hellenes called “Bretannikē” hid. There, Himilco had recorded blue-painted people, skin as pale as Vecto’s. As Ajax peered in that direction, he saw nascent faith birthing a new god.

Speaking of power.

His gaze returned to Terra Firma, northeast, where he beheld the Greco-Roman pantheon. Its vitality didn’t surprise, flaring brighter now. Too bright. The etheric channels—the connections pantheons had with divine neighbors were many. And fidemic tendrils whispered across the Mediterranean; such was Rome’s sphere of influence.

Awestruck, Zosime had quieted. Ajax looked upon her: The lithe frame, curious blue eyes his brother had never shut up about. Where Ajax saw the politicking of man and gods, Zosime admired belief’s collection. But she formed fists while looking at Carthage’s dark heart. 

She’s wondering the same thing. 

“They’re alive,” Zosime stated, then looked down, gasping as the Mediterranean spread beneath her feet: East of Carthage resided Libya, then Egypt—south of that ancient realm, the dark-skinned Kingdom of Kush. Like Zo, Ajax looked west, to Numidia. There, the famed horse skirmishers galloped across plains expanded by kingly ambitions and Roman friendship.

The sea separated Africa from Iberia, Gaul, and the Italian Peninsula, which the Punic peoples had plied, becoming wealthy by trading the murex mollusk’s purple dye. And far to the east, the island-nation of Tyre, from which Queen Dido had fled with her people in search of a new home. A home of abstract destruction beneath Ajax. 

A red star detached from the Punic pantheon and swooped toward the Carthaginians. “Resheph,” Ajax realized. A lesser god, he may be, but not a pushover. Sharing etheric channels with Apollo, he knew his way around a bow. Besides, you didn’t cart Shapash across the sky without guaranteeing her safety.

The red comet came to a concussive halt before mortals. Colored crimson and dressed in a billowing toga braced by armor, Resheph looked every part the war god. 

Taller than Ajax by a few heads, he examined the demis. “I always forget how small you mortals are. What? Why’s she looking at me like that, Barca?” 

An old hand at dealing with the gods, he knew better than to wilt beneath their every word. “This is her first exaltation, Primus.”

“Excellent! Mine too. Well then, let’s make you demigods.” Resheph collected himself like an actor recalling his lines: “Carthage has been destroyed. My temple, the Roman did desecrate. Among many others, these are injustices I will not tolerate. Anchoring myself to Terra Firma’s a bad career move, but I’m done letting Shapash hold me back. 

“The two of you will be my champions: Pilot and Arbiter, controller and master of my arkon.” Resheph looked at the Punic pantheon. “And let’s be quick about this because, if Shapash finds out I’m ditching my day job…?” He made a face. “Anyway—hands!” Both mortals rendered as much. “Do you, Ajax, take Zosime to be your—” The Barca choked on his response. “Mot’s tongue, man, relax. Tanit was right about you—no sense of humor.”

“She’s well?” Ajax didn’t hide his desperation. “Can I speak with her? Please, I need to…” Apologize for my cowardice.

Resheph adopted a sincere tone. “She’s been banished, Demi. Lord Ba’al attends her, but she’ll need time to heal.”

“Are Hamilcar and my son here?” Zosime’s voice was an echo colliding with its urgency, “Can you tell?”

“If they live, I see no trace of them in Carthage, Zosime. And I’m not going to ask,” he pointed at Mot’s realm, “you-know-who for answers. Even Shapash and I don’t tarry in Sheol. Death consumed Lord Ba’al before Anat freed him. You honestly think he won’t inhale a glorified cartbearer? No,” Resheph declared, “we’re here for you two. Now, let’s get to it.”

The god would bind himself to their signums, assign divine roles. And once Ajax controlled an arkon, even a minor primus compared to Tanit, he’d hunt down Aemilianus. 

Holding their hands, Resheph closed his eyes, then cracked one open. “This is gonna blow your minds, by the way.” 

“Shi—”

If time existed, its concept became moot. Billowing from Resheph’s realms, deification became a waterfall pounding Ajax into himself, poured raw fidem into the veins. And he, a vessel unable to contain it, screamed. Roared, welcomed power and terror. Became the lion Rome would dread once more. Would—

Silence.

A castaway on divine seas, he floated. Senses resumed, a man groaned, remembered himself. Power bade Ajax open his eyes. “Holy shit.”

Arms crossed, Resheph floated before him. “More or less.” 

Zosime, still recovering, Ajax examined his signum. If his forearm formed a hub, from there, spokes of red power snaked to his elbow, blistering Punic tapestry interlacing a roaring lion. Every sworn zealot bore a signum, but none would confuse a demigod’s.

Running a rough hand across his cheek, Ajax’ burns had healed. Dark brown hair returned, it tapered to a severe hairline, though far shorter than preferred—and godsdammit, where was his beard?

“Good as new,” Resheph said. “Figured I’d give you a haircut while I was saving your life, by the way.”

“Prefer it longer.”

“Always had a hard time telling you and Hamilcar apart. Thought this might help. But if lustrous is your pleasure, I live to serve, Demi. Just a mo—”

“Wait.” Shorter hair meant one less distraction. “This’ll do.”

“Or you could say, ‘Wow, Resheph, your fashion sense is without compare!’ Or you could just keep staring me down. Yeah, let’s do that instead.”

Zosime gasped, then yelped as she took in the Etherium. “You’re alright,” Ajax assured, surprised by his tenderness. And the words might’ve calmed her—if they didn’t sound like a broken version of Hamilcar’s. 

Saying nothing, she ran her hands through straight, dark hair that stopped at the neck. And felt her breast, stomach. “I’m healed?” A pause. “I’m healed…How will I feed my son?”

It was Resheph who broke the silence, “Okay, formalities first. Ajax, you shall be my arbiter, the shepherd of our people's faith. Zosime, as pilot, you'll control my arkonic manifestation.”

From Ajax, “Bullshit! I was Tanit’s pilot. I know how to handle an arkon better than she ever will. Switch our roles, Resheph. You owe the Barcas after all we’ve done for Carthage.”

The god’s gaze pierced. “And just as thankless as Tanit said.” 

The words forced a lump into Ajax’ throat. He looked down, realizing he’d rebuked a god for giving him a second chance. The very power needed to avenge what little Ajax had loved. “Forgive me.”

“Apologize with action, Arbiter.”

“How do I find Hamilcar’s filum?” Zosime said while looking down at Terra Firma.

“I’m sorry, Pilot. If sworn to me, I’d find him in a moment.”

“Tanit’s banished. If my brother’s alive, his signum’s gone.” Zosime’s lips quivered. Give her something to fight for. “Listen, Himilco’s father was a demigod. That means he’s a demi by birth—a ‘natural,’ unlike Hamilcar or I.”

“Which means he’s tough,” Resheph added. 

Something in Zosime hardened. “Then let’s get to work. My family needs me.”

“Oh man, I chose wisely. Anyway, boon time!” The divine gifts demis enjoyed were always a potluck. You just learned to grin and bear the bullshit. 

Ajax waited…Waited. “So? Let’s get to it, Primus.”

“First off, love the energy—great vibes. Second, I don’t actually know what yours are…?” 

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Hey, it’s my first day! However,” Resheph raised his hand to forestall Ajax, “I’ve got a ‘gut feeling,’ and it feels like…” he pointed at Zosime: “light. Seems fitting.” His digit wandered to Ajax: “Distance. Also fitting.”

“And how is that supposed to help us?” Zosime exclaimed.

“Finding out’s half the fun!” Resheph leaned forward. “Now let’s hit the dirt.” His grin revealed fangs. “I’ve heard great things.”

“Just imagine inhabiting your body,” Ajax instructed Zosime. “And get ready for the whiplash.” He closed his eyes, years as a demi returning.

Wintry air shocked the senses, rubble Ajax had slumped against jabbing his side. He spat drool, realized he still held Zosime’s hand. There came a yelp on the other side of the debris, pilot’s hand disappearing into the Column. 

And Ajax removed remains that would have taken a labor gang hours to dislodge. It was hard not to grin as he tossed masonry aside, even if it belonged to Tanit. He was a demigod again! By the sound of it, Zosime did the same, though other voices encouraged her. 

 It took coordination, but the demis grew closer. Finally, they tore the largest barrier aside and faced one another. Deified, Zosime looked as invigorated as her partner. He extended a hand she didn’t take. Instead, the pilot helped someone behind her. 

A leathery glove slapped Ajax’ palm, making him chuckle as he pulled Donis from the construct he’d designed. “Starting to think your boon is being a pain in my ass, old man.” 

The Tyrian stabbed debris with his ivory cane as he scrutinized the arbiter. “Which Barca are you?” Not missing a beat, Donis wagged his finger. “Don’t bother! I know that scowl anywhere. Where’s your brother, Ajax?” Behind him, Zosime helped wretched zealots from the Column.

“Sorry to disappoint. And I’ve no idea where Hamilcar is.” Donis didn’t respond, which was well—two salty bastards made for poor conversation.

Ajax recognized oligarchs as they emerged from the Column, while others looked like commoners and slaves. And not a single member of the Sacred Band of Carthage or Daughters to be found. Was this all he had to work with? Stuck-up nobles and those too craven to die to the last? Not to mention plenty of fractura-riddled zealots.

 A woman emerged with brusque orders, one man protesting before her voice throttled objections. Ajax smirked; Dido was not someone you tried to outdo. He’d only spoken with her a few times while inspecting the Column, but the former governess to Mago’s villa had left an impression. 

As for Resheph, the primus emerged from Ajax’ signum, red robes and lionesque mane aflutter. Despite the devastation, he marveled at Carthage’s desolation.

“We have to get these people medicine,” Dido ordered. “Food, water, whatever’s left.”

"No. The first thing we do,” Ajax flexed his right hand, “is anchor Resheph to Terra Firma. No obelisk means no arkon.” He had to repeat the last part before getting his primus’ attention. 

“Yes! Yes, correct. Ajax will need to create a silo for my zealots’ faith.”

“Might I suggest the Byrsa?” Donis said. “I can’t see past my eyelashes, but even I can tell it’s about the only landmark left.” Ajax regarded the hill, which translated to “oxhide,” a reference to Queen Dido’s guile in claiming the land that became Carthage.

“We can’t be the only ones left alive,” Zosime said. Thousands must have been taken as slaves, but Carthage had been a pregnant city. Even Rome couldn’t organize a slave train of that size.

“Some live, yes, but too many died once the siege broke,” Resheph said. “I spotted survivors beyond the city, but Carthage is dead or in chains. If it weren’t for my worship elsewhere, I wouldn’t have even been able to manifest.”

“And unless Zosime or I swear those people in,” Ajax inserted, “we’ve got all the fidem we’re gonna get.” A silence stretched over those who heard, the rest, too mad or dumbstruck to respond.

But even in death, Carthage’s people persisted and emerged from the rubble. Whether it was a collapsed home, workshop, or bakery, humanity clambered toward divinity, some fractura-stricken and carried by comrades. 

And Ajax envied Zosime. Soon, she would pilot Resheph’s arkon, while he had the unenviable role of corralling zealots, receiving and redirecting fidem. A taskmaster’s job—“Hamilcar Work,” as he and Vecto had joked. Still, it served as a means to an end. 

“Let’s head for the Byrsa,” Ajax said, but stopped, craned his head. 

“What is…” Zosime tapered off, eyes searching a jagged horizon. Because a demi could hear for miles:

Hoofs clopping over rubble. Yips. Ululations.

“We’re under attack,” Ajax said 

From Donis, “Surely the Romans haven't returned?” 

“No.” The arbiter listened to the raiders’ tongue, one he’d heard plenty over the years. “They’re Numidian.”

“Then you must go, Demis.” Donis’ cane pummeled Terra Firma into supplication. “Every zealot they kill is one less committed to Resheph.” He took Zosime by the hand. “I am sorry, child, but your time as a mortal is at an end.”

“What do I do? Fight them, and with what weapons?”

“You’ll find my gifts more than up to the task,” Resheph said. “Just think of your bow, Zosime. Ajax, your grandfather’s armaments.” He winked, then seethed into both demis’ signums.

“Not to mention mystery boons,” Ajax muttered. “Tanithia?” Joined by a huffing Mapen, the Daughter reached him. “We’re under Numidian attack, and you’ve got fuck all to work with. That going to be enough to protect these people?”

With her foot, the Daughter flicked and caught a short spear. “Just send ‘em my way, Barca. I’ll save you the trouble.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” A glance saw Mapen shiver within himself.

“Go, Demigods,” Donis said. “Protect Carthage, or what remains.”

Ajax regarded his partner. Was Zosime up to the task? Could she become a killer—what her people needed now more than ever? 

The pilot steeled herself, then jogged past him. “You coming, Arbiter?” 

Grinning, Ajax caught up, then sped past. “Just try to keep pace, Pilot.” Sprinting up a mound, he leapt, landed without breaking stride, toothy grin brandished.

It was time the lions hunted.