Hannibal's Last Hotel (182 BC)

After the war with Rome, back home in Carthage

they gave me three stars out of five for effort.

'Could have done better in battle,' they said.

'Should have flattened Rome with all those

elephants he had.'

No more autograph hunters, all side eyes

and back alley whispers.

And when the bitter Romans sent assassins,

I sailed for Tyre, a nice B and B by the Med Sea.

But they found me here as well and now

I'm in the armpit of the Middle East,

among thieves, camel lovers, fools.

Half-board in a hell hole.

Now and then I get a shady nod

from someone in a turban.

Beards pulled, sly Mesopotamian whispers.

They have a cunning Italic servant

who rummages through your used linen

for secret messages not there.

Every time the sky darkens

they demand a sacrifice

and the priests look at me greedily.

I will not feed the hungry gods

of this forsaken place,

or disgrace myself being taken 

captive back to Rome.

I hear agents discuss my presence downstairs.

The owner divulges my room number

with regret.

'Number seven,' a clink of silver.

I shudder and laugh, but my back becomes

a river of sweat.

I must act before they get me...