Storm Chasing: Filia Punica
Title: Storm Chasing: Filia Punica
Author: clodia_metelli.
Rating: K+
Characters: OC, War, a hint of Pestilence.
Summary: Carthage: always a pleasure.
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I make nothing from this except my own entertainment.
Word Count: 426
Italy, Pyrrhus, Carthage (x3), Macedon (x2), Antiochus | Pyrrhic Victories | Mater Punica | Catch Up Over Coffee |
~ filia punica ~
There’s a handout. The title is: The Second Punic War (1). War sets her elbows on the desk and glances down the dense paragraphs while Professor Plum fusses happily with the projector, which is working this week, and the long room fills up.
A parchment vista of names and outlines splashes over the interactive whiteboard. “There,” says Professor Plum, his pink face practically glowing. “What a nice map. Now I’ve got a bit of a sore throat today, but I’ll do my best...”
... and War grins, because she shouldered through the clutter of a former colleague’s office this morning and found him planning seminars on ancient medicine (the lack thereof) for a module he’s been teaching longer than anyone would believe...
“... complete text of Livy for this period. Lots of good stuff - all sorts of stirring speeches and heroism on both sides -”
Yeah. Sometimes War likes a good clean fight.
“- heavily mythologised, of course. I’d advise you to read it. That’s what I did, when I first started getting interested in this period. At Didcot Parkway Station waiting room, I recall.”
Professor Plum is getting confidential now. He leans on the lectern, his lecture notes furled up in his plump hand. “These places have all gone downhill. Paninis. They’ve all got people selling paninis! Why do people talk about paninis? It’s already plural! I just - I want want to punch the idiots...”
He catches War’s eye. She’s grinning again. He clears his throat.
“Anyway,” he says, and stands self-consciously straighter. “The causes of the war...”
Always the least interesting part. War yawns and leans back and waits for Marcus Fabius Buteo to carry her to Carthage in the folds of his toga. I have war and peace here, he’d said, and whether he knew it or not, he’d lied... because she’d unfolded herself, had stepped out among the Carthaginian senators, had touched their hands, and their eyes, and their hungry mouths. Yeah, and felt the heat of their breath clouding on her bronze skin, and smiled as she remembered Hamilcar stampeding elephants into a dead-end gorge, the pulp of rebel mercenaries red underfoot.
Carthage. Always a pleasure.
She’d liked Hamilcar and she’d liked his son better. Hannibal, now, there was an artist. Anyone who’d go to the trouble of hauling a herd of unreliable, constitutionally delicate monsters over the mountains was all right by her. They did like their elephants, Carthaginians. And most of them had died en route, and he hadn’t needed them anyway.
Ticinus. Trebia. Cannae. He’d done so well. She’d been really proud.
On to Filia Punica (2)
Back to the masterlist