A Letter to Rome

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    Lenora Minogue

    Patruelis, (Cousin)

    It may interest you to know that the dreaded Queen of Carthage, so despised by Rome, withers from nothing more than drinking water from a bad well. Mortals are so fragile. She will not last more than 26.2 hours. I have sent this missive on ahead before correspondence becomes difficult in the chaos following her death.

    It is said that Saulot himself has turned her away. The Salubri will not heal her.

    Troile’s mercurial interest has long since shifted from the queen. And Troile will, no doubt, use Ethbaala’s death simply to further excite her destructive childer.

    Even Moloch has made himself scarce, inevitably reasoning that Ethbaala is a poor pawn in his plans.

    He will not have time to make more of them.

    When the queen dies, Ethbaala’s cousin, Bitnima will encroach on Carthage with an army of her husband’s men and their elephants and a civil war will erupt with Troile’s pernicious disciples exacerbating it, leaving a window open for Rome to invade for a relatively easy victory lasting approximately 6.1 months versus 3.5 years otherwise.

    I am well-aware that some in Rome would rather see Carthage destroyed than conquered just as I am well-aware, as a renowned scholar of Carthage, you have reason to see it spared.

    But though the Senate howls for Carthage’s destruction, it has more often been the practice of wise Camilla to embrace conquered lands into the empire of Rome, allowing for life, trade, and most importantly, the pursuit of knowledge to continue with suitable tribute.

    Therefore, reason dictates that this is the most agreeable solution for Carthage and Rome.

    Tanitbaal-Sahar, tell Camilla the time to strike is near. And that the True Brujah will prove allies when the time comes where Troile’s brood has failed.

    Cura ut Valeas, (Stay well)
    Ashdanot of Tyre


    Tanitbaal-Sahar finished reading the scroll in the crypt by the glow of the green flames, tousled dark brown hair, snaking out from beneath the hood of his cloak in wisps, eyes dark with flecks of gold.

    His face, youthful, silken, brow unfurrowed, did not betray his thoughts in the illuminated glow.

    But then his eyebrows sloped downwards in a serious expression, eyes moving over the page again. His usually playful, boyish smile had drawn into a hard line across his face.

    That hard, little, perfect line of a mouth that Camilla had found so ripe for the kissing.

    He tossed the scroll into the fire, ripples of emerald flame rising up in a wave to devour it before it went out with a hiss. The boyish smile returned as he turned and left, his cloak billowing around him, stroking the dead stone at his feet.

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