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& Tanit

2026-07-28

In Carthage when the boy was nine,
He laid both hands upon the fire,
And swore as if the words were wine
The oath that fed his life entire.

And Tanit whispered on the wind
That wandered north across the Tiber;
The watchmen slept, the gates were barred,
And Rome dreamed on with dread inside her.

The night was black on Baal Hammon,
The temple fires were burning low;
And far beyond the sleeping harbour
Lay Italy, where he would go.

...

Before the field by the river filled
With all the eagles of Rome's array,
His captain counted, his captain paled
And asked how they would win the day.

"Count on," he said, "till counting's done,
And mark this wonder, stranger still:
Of all those thousands, there's not one
Who bears the name of Gisgo still."

The laughter ran from line to line,
As if the oath itself had smiled.
The men who'd faced the dawn in dread,
Now by their captain were beguiled.

...

Alas! The gods, their cunning spent,
Return to fields he made his own;
They rake the Earth and burn the bones,
Kick down the tablet where the words once said in stone:

My name is Barca
I'm at the gate,
This place a marker
Where three times eight
Cold cohorts of men at arms
Put axe to orchard and torch to farm.

And Tanit whispered on the wind,
That walks at night above the Tiber,
And Rome woke up, and all had sinned
And nothing more was left inside her.

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