by Antonio Napoli

I have never met anyone who, at least once in their life, hasn’t listened to the voice of a dream — or hasn’t bitterly regretted ignoring it.
I discovered that the Book of Memory exalted the qualities of each individual, granting me, for instance, the ability to evoke not only the living forms of others’ memories in my imagination, but also their very emotions.
Thus, even before the old man began to speak, it was enough for the adopted grandson to brush against me for me to feel the heartbeats of the triumphant general at Cannae and those of the victor at Zama surging through me.
I could have even spoken the four languages Hannibal knew, or prayed with Scipio’s devotion, so loudly did the voice of that mixed blood — Roman and Carthaginian — cry out within me.
The more time passed, the darker and deeper the power of the book became, fed by the misfortunes of those who had encountered it or held it in their hands.

But in Speusippus, the book had a different effect: not only did he remember his dreams in vivid detail, but memory allowed him to trace things back to their very origins, to where the destiny of what time has yet to reveal is already written.
Needless to say, this gift of his filled me with a deep and unsettling fear.

Suddenly, we heard a clamor of footsteps and voices coming from the kitchen.
We rushed to the garden, which was so dark with sunlight we could barely distinguish the figures moving within it.
On the low wall separating it from the countryside, shadows fought furiously over the shape of a boy, struggling like faceless beasts.

“Raiders! Raiders!” cried Timeo, shielding his eyes with a hand like a blade across his brow.
The old man had rushed to fetch a sword, while Speusippus was desperately trying to pull Jabir away from the iron grip of a powerful man.
Two other assailants, armed with knotted clubs, were striking the Greek from behind. But he stood his ground like a lean camel beneath the desert sun — bent, but unbroken.
The clash of blows mingled with cries, and the dust kicked up by their struggle shimmered in the air like golden powder.

I seized a bronze vase and hurled it at the two attackers, striking one on the head.
The other, seeing his companion collapse, turned toward me with hate-filled eyes, dripping with sweat, determined to beat me —
but the old man’s sudden slash shattered both his club and his resolve, disarming him.
Panic-stricken, the raider fled; the one still in the garden, now alone, did the same, releasing his grip on the boy and leaping over the wall —
his escape quickly swallowed by the scorching light of the fields.

The danger had passed.
Jabir sobbed, his face buried in Speusippus’ shoulder, who held him tight, whispering words of comfort.
Then, reaching for his grandfather’s outstretched hands, he whimpered: he wanted his mother.
The old man carried him to his small bedroom to put him to sleep.

When he returned, he found us trying to revive the unconscious thief.
We brought him inside, tended to his wounds, and watched over him.
While waiting, we wondered about the daylight assault.
The old man believed Jabir was no longer safe — the truth, he said, had reached the most dangerous ears: those of Massinissa, obsessed with the expansion of the Numidian kingdom and loyalty to Rome.

“A child can hardly alter the diplomatic balance between Rome and Carthage,” I argued, “but the Numidian king may have other reasons for seeking him…
Perhaps he means to use him as a bargaining chip to negotiate better terms with Rome — or as a hostage to pressure Carthage.”

Meanwhile, the bound raider had regained consciousness. But he had no intention of revealing who had sent him.
He feigned a fainting spell, unaware that I could feel his living conscience within me — like a pond feels a frog swimming in its embrace.

That’s when I thought to turn his deceit into a tool for our benefit, to protect the boy and the old man.
I gathered everyone in the garden and explained my plan. Once back inside, we put it into action.

“Then you’ll leave at dawn tomorrow for the city of Alexandria,” I said aloud.
The old man nodded, tears in his eyes. Timeo offered to accompany him to that rich, populous — and above all — learned city.
Speusippus and I, instead, would go in search of the mother.

“But how will you recognize my daughter Ishara?” asked the grandfather.
Indeed… how would we?
Distance could fade even the sharpest memory.
Then Speusippus whispered his solution in my ear. The Greek never ceased to amaze me.

Evening had come. We went to sleep.
During the night, the cat’s meowing signaled someone’s escape: it was the raider — he had freed himself.
We had deliberately loosened the rope.

“Now this house will be the safest place for you,” I said.
“The fugitive will tell his accomplices you’ve left. If they attempt another kidnapping, they’ll never search in the one place that no longer gives them a reason to.”

“A ruse worthy of Hannibal,” the old man said, still keeping vigil beside Jabir.

At dawn, Speusippus and I set off on the only camel in the stable.
We parted from the family and from Timeo with a long embrace and the promise that we would bring back the old man’s daughter — Jabir’s foster mother.

We could no longer cross that stretch of desert infested with venomous snakes — it was far too dangerous.
The raiders who had taken the woman — one of them being the brother of Ishara’s late husband — had likely taken a different route back, presumably toward Numidia.

Speusippus’ dreams would guide us along those traces wiped away by time — but not beyond knowing.
For even within the rigid logic of that wise Greek, Aristotle, dreams held clues.
Pathos, though it speaks another language, sometimes pronounces the same truths as logos.
And those very dreams would keep memory’s torch lit upon Ishara’s face.
Or so I believed, child of the hope that, as Aristotle once wrote, is a waking dream.