On a wet winter morning I ascend a hill to view Dido's city. It is Carthage, mighty Carthage.
The name made Rome tremble.
Her ships were the gliders of the Mediterranean. Her merchants, the dealers of enterprise. Her iniquities (whispered by washerwomen along the Tiber), were without peer, feculent.
I pull at my jacket.
From the Byrsa I gaze across the Gulf of Tunis. The grey mounts of Cap Bon cower in the squalls.