Naturally, Hanno’s favourite part of his instruction was that dedicated to military matters. Malchus himself taught him the history of war, from the battles of Xenophon and Thermopylae to the victories won by Alexander of Macedon. Central to his father’s lessons were the intricate details of tactics and planning. Particular attention was paid to Carthaginian defeats in the war with Rome, and the reasons for them. ‘We lost because of our leaders’ lack of determination. All they thought about was how to contain the conflict, not win it. How to minimise cost, not disregard it in the total pursuit of victory,’ Malchus thundered during one memorable lesson. ‘The Romans are motherless curs, but by all the gods, they possess strength of purpose. Whenever they lost a battle, they did not give up. No, they recruited more men, and rebuilt their ships. When the public purse was empty, their leaders willingly spent their own wealth. Their damn Republic means everything to them. Yet who in Carthage offered to send us the supplies and soldiers we needed so badly in Sicily? My father, the Barcas, and a handful of others. No one else.’ He barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Why should I be surprised? Our ancestors were traders, not soldiers.’ He fixed his dark, deep-set eyes on Hanno. ‘To gain our rightful revenge, we must follow Hannibal. He’s a natural soldier, a born leader – as his father was. Carthage never gave Hamilcar the chance to beat Rome, but we can offer it to his son. When the time is right.’
A red-faced, portly senator shoved past with a curse. Startled, Hanno recognised Hostus, one of his father’s most implacable enemies in the Senate. The self-important politician was in such a hurry that he didn’t even notice who he’d collided with. Hanno hawked and spat, although he was careful not to do it in Hostus’ direction. Hostus and his windbag friends complained endlessly about Hannibal, yet were content to accept the shiploads of silver sent from his mines in Iberia. Lining their own pockets with a proportion of this wealth, they had no desire to confront Rome again. Hanno, on the other hand, was more than prepared to lay down his life fighting their old enemy, but the time wasn’t ripe. Hannibal was preparing himself in Iberia, and that was good enough. For now, they had to wait, but Hanno was damned if he’d listen to Hostus and his ilk any longer. It was time to enjoy himself.
Carefully the pair skirted the edge of the Agora, avoiding the worst of the crowds. Around the back of the Senate, the buildings soon lost their grandeur, returning to the shabby aspect one would expect close to a port. Nonetheless, the slum stood in stark contrast to the splendour just a short walk away. There were few businesses, and the single- or twin-roomed houses were miserable affairs made of mud bricks, which looked ready to tumble at any moment. The iron-hard ruts in the street were more than a hand span deep, threatening to break their ankles if they tripped. No work parties to fill in the holes with sand here, thought Hanno, thinking of Byrsa Hill. He felt even more grateful for his elevated position in life.
Snot-nosed, scrawny children wearing little more than rags swarmed in, clamouring for a coin or a crust, while their lank-haired, pregnant mothers gazed at them with eyes deadened by a life of misery. Half-dressed girls posed provocatively in some doorways, their rouged cheeks and lips unable to conceal the fact that they were barely out of childhood. Unshaven, ill-clad men lounged around, rolling sheep tail bones in the dirt for a few worn coins. They stared suspiciously, but none dared hinder the friends’ progress. At night it might be a different matter, but already they were under the shadow of the great wall, with its smartly turned out sentries marching to and fro along the battlements. Although common, lawlessness was punished where possible by the authorities, and a shout of distress would bring help clattering down one of the many sets of stairs. It was a shame, thought Hanno with a backward glance at the pitiable specimens, that such men weren’t expected to fight for their country, as ordinary Roman citizens were. Given a purpose, their lot would improve infinitely, as would that of Carthage.
The tang of salt grew strong in the air. Gulls keened overheard, and the shouts of sailors could be heard from the ports. Feeling his excitement grow, Hanno charged down a narrow alleyway, and up the stone steps at the end of it. Suniaton was right behind him. It was a steep climb, but they were both extremely fit, and reached the top without breaking sweat. A red concrete walkway extended the entire width of the wall – thirty paces – just as it did for the entire length of the defensive perimeter. Strongly built towers were positioned every fifty steps or so. The soldiers visible were garrisoned in the barracks which were built at regular intervals below the ramparts.
The nearest sentries, a quartet of Libyan spearmen, glanced idly at the pair, but seeing nothing of concern, looked away. In peacetime, citizens were allowed on the wall during the hours of daylight. Perfunctorily checking the turquoise sea below their section, the junior officer fell back to gossiping with his men. Hanno trotted past, admiring the Libyans’ massive round shields, which were even larger than those used by the Greeks. Although made of wood, they were covered in goatskin, and rimmed with bronze. The same demonic face was painted on each, and denoted their unit. He didn’t envy them their heavy bronze helmets and padded linen cuirasses, though. Despite the fact that they were doing nothing, the Libyans’ sallow faces were covered with sweat. Hanno wasn’t naive: he had trained with similar armour and weapons. In spite of his dreams, the idea of marching long distances and fighting under the hot sun was intimidating. He was glad that diversions like fishing were still an option.
Trumpets blared one after another from the naval port, and Suniaton jostled past, outstripping him. ‘Quick,’ he shouted. ‘They might be launching a quinquereme!’
Hanno chased eagerly after his friend. The view from the walkway into the circular harbour was second to none. In a masterful feat of engineering, the Carthaginian warships were invisible from all other positions. Protected from unfriendly eyes on the seaward side by the city wall, they were concealed from the moored merchant vessels by the naval port’s slender entrance, which was only just wider than a quinquereme, the largest type of warship.
Hanno scowled as they reached a good vantage point. Instead of the imposing sight of a warship sliding backwards into the water, he saw only a purple-cloaked admiral strutting along the jetty which led from the periphery of the circular docks to the central island, where the navy’s headquarters were. Another fanfare of trumpets sounded, making sure that every man in the place knew who was arriving. ‘What has he got to swagger about,’ Hanno muttered angrily. Malchus reserved much of his anger for the incompetent Carthaginian fleet, so he had learned to feel the same way. Carthage’s days as a superpower of the sea were long gone, smashed into so much driftwood by Rome during the two nations’ bitter struggle over Sicily. Remarkably, the Romans had been a non-seafaring race before the conflict. Undeterred by this major disadvantage, they had learned the skills of naval warfare, adding a few tricks of their own in the process.
Since her defeat, Carthage had done little to reclaim the waves.
Hanno sighed.
Truly all their hopes lay on the land, with Hannibal.
Some time later, Hanno had forgotten all his worries. Nearly a mile offshore, their little boat was positioned directly over a mass of tunny. The shoal’s location had not been hard to determine, thanks to the roiling water created by the large silver fish as they hunted sardines. Fishing boats dotted the location and clouds of seabirds swooped and dived overhead, attracted by the prospect of food. Suniaton’s source had been telling the truth, and neither youth had been able to stop grinning since their arrival. Their task was simple. While one rowed, the other lowered their small net into the sea. Although they had seen better days, the plaited strands were still capable of landing a good catch. Small pieces of wood along the top of the net helped it to float, while tiny lumps of lead pulled its lower edge down into the water. Their first throw had netted nearly two dozen tunny, each one longer than a man’s forearm. Subsequent attempts were just as successful, and now the bottom of the boat was calf deep in fish. Any more, and they wou
ld risk overloading their craft.
‘A good morning’s work,’ Suniaton declared.
‘Morning?’ challenged Hanno, squinting at the sun. ‘We’ve been here less than an hour. It couldn’t have been easier, eh?’
Suniaton regarded him solemnly. ‘Don’t put yourself down. Think of the money we’ll make selling this lot. I think our efforts deserve a toast.’ He reached into his pack and with a flourish, produced a small amphora.
Amused by his friend’s irrepressible character, Hannibal laughed, which encouraged Suniaton to continue talking as if he were serving guests at an important banquet.
‘Not the most expensive wine in Father’s collection, I recall, but a palatable one nonetheless.’ Using his knife, he prised off the wax seal. Raising the amphora to his lips, he gulped a large mouthful. ‘Very tasty,’ he declared, handing over the clay vessel.
‘Philistine. Taste it slowly.’ Hanno took a small sip and rolled it around his mouth as Malchus had taught him. The red wine had a light and fruity flavour, but possessed little undertone. ‘It needs a few more years, I think.’
‘Now who’s being pompous?’ Suniaton kicked a tunny at him. ‘Shut up and drink!’
Grinning, Hanno obeyed, taking more this time.
‘Don’t finish it,’ cried Suniaton.
Despite his protest, the amphora was quickly drained. At once the ravenous pair launched into the bread, nuts and fruit which Suniaton had bought. With their bellies full, and their work done, it was the most natural thing in the world to lie back and close their eyes. Unaccustomed to consuming much alcohol, they were both snoring before long.
It was the cold wind on his face which woke Hanno. Why was the boat moving so much, he wondered vaguely. He shivered, feeling quite chilled. Opening gummy eyes, he took in a prone Suniaton opposite, still clutching the empty amphora. At his feet, the heaps of blank-eyed fish, their bodies already rigid. Looking up, Hanno felt a pang of fear. Instead of the usual clear blue sky, all he could see were towering banks of blue-black clouds pouring in from the northwest. He blinked, refusing to believe what he was seeing. How could the weather have changed so fast? Mockingly, the first spatters of rain hit Hanno’s upturned cheeks a moment later. Scanning the choppy waters around them, he could see no sign of the fishing craft which had surrounded theirs earlier. Nor could he see the land. Real alarm seized him.
He leaned over and shook Suniaton. ‘Wake up!’
The only response was an irritated grunt.
‘Suni!’ This time, Hanno slapped his friend across the face.
‘Hey!’ Suniaton cried, sitting up. ‘What’s that for?’
Hanno didn’t answer. ‘Where in the name of all the gods are we?’ he shouted.
All semblance of drunkenness fell away as Suniaton turned his head from side to side. ‘Sacred Tanit above,’ he breathed. ‘How long were we asleep?’
‘It had to be two hours or more,’ Hanno growled. He pointed to the west, where the sun’s light was just visible behind the storm clouds. Its position told them that it was late in the afternoon. He stood, taking great care not to capsize the boat. Focusing on the horizon, where the sky met the threatening sea, he spent long moments trying to make out the familiar walls of Carthage, or the craggy promontory which lay to the north of the city.
‘Well?’ Suniaton could not keep the fear from his voice.
Hanno sat down heavily. ‘I can’t see a thing. We have to be fifteen or twenty stades from shore. Maybe more.’
What little colour there had been in Suniaton’s face drained away. Instinctively he clutched at the hollow gold tube which hung from a thong around his neck. Decorated with a lion’s head at one end, it contained tiny parchments covered with protective spells and prayers to the gods. Hanno wore a similar one. With great effort, he refrained from copying his friend. ‘We’ll row back,’ he announced.
‘In these seas?’ screeched Suniaton. ‘Are you mad?’
Hanno glared back. ‘What other choice have we? To jump in?’
His friend looked down. Both were more confident in the water than most, but they had never swum long distances, especially in conditions as bad as these.
Seizing the short oars from the floor, Hanno placed them in the iron locks. He turned the boat’s rounded prow towards the west and began to row. Instantly he knew that his attempt was doomed to fail. The power surging at him was more powerful than anything he’d ever felt in his life. It felt like a raging, out of control beast, with the howling wind providing its terrifying voice. Ignoring his gut feeling, Hanno concentrated on each stroke with fierce intensity. Lean back. Drag the oars through the water. Lift them free. Bend forward, pushing the handles between his knees. Over and over he repeated the process, ignoring his pounding head and dry mouth, all the while cursing their foolishness in drinking so much wine. If I had listened to my father, I’d still be at home, he thought bitterly. Safe on dry land.
Finally, when the muscles in his arms were trembling with exhaustion, Hanno stopped. At least a quarter of an hour had gone by. Without looking up, though, he knew that their position would have changed little. For every three strokes he made, the current carried them at least two further out to sea. ‘Well?’ he shouted. ‘Can you see anything?’
‘No,’ Suniaton replied grimly. ‘Move over. It’s my turn, and this is our best chance.’
Our only chance, Hanno thought, gazing at the darkening sky.
Gingerly they exchanged places on the little wooden benches which were the boat’s only fittings. Thanks to the mass of slippery fish underfoot, it was even more difficult than usual. While his friend laboured at the oars, Hanno strained for a glimpse of land over the waves. Neither spoke. There was little point. The rain was now drumming down on their backs, combining with the wind’s noise to form a shrieking cacophony that made normal speech impossible. Only the sturdy construction of their boat had prevented them from capsizing thus far.
At length, his energy spent, Suniaton shipped the oars. He looked at Hanno. There was still some hope in his eyes.
Hanno shook his head once.
Suniaton cursed. ‘It’s supposed to be the middle of summer! Wind like this shouldn’t happen without warning. The Scylla must be angry.’ He shuddered.
Hanno tried not to think of the winged demon which dwelt in the strait between Carthage and Sicily. Their plight was bad enough already. ‘There would have been signs,’ he barked. ‘Why do you think there are no other boats out here? No doubt they all headed back to shore when the wind began to rise.’
Suniaton flushed and hung his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s my fault. I should never have taken Father’s wine.’
Hanno leaned forward and gripped his friend’s knee. ‘Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t force me to drink it. That was my choice.’
Suniaton managed to crack a smile. That was, until he looked down. ‘No!’
Hanno was horrified to see some of the tunny floating around his feet. They were shipping water, and enough of it to warrant immediate attention. Uncaring, he began throwing the precious fish overboard. Survival was now his aim, not earning money. With the floor clear, he soon found a loose nail on one of the planks. Removing one of his sandals, he used the iron-studded sole to hammer the nail partially home, thereby reducing the influx of seawater. Fortunately, there was a small bucket on board, containing spare pieces of lead for the net. Grabbing it, Hanno began bailing hard. To his immense relief, it didn’t take long before he’d reduced the level of water to an acceptable level.
A loud rumble of thunder overhead nearly deafened him.
Suniaton moaned with fear, and Hanno jerked upright.
The sky overhead was now an menacing black colour, and in the depths of the clouds a flickering yellow-white colour presaged lightning. The waves were being whipped into a frenzy by the wind, which was growing stronger by the moment. The storm was only just beginning to break. More water slopped into the boat, and Hanno redoubled his efforts with the bu
cket. Any chance of rowing back to Carthage was long gone. They were going only one direction. East. Into the middle of the Mediterranean. He tried not to let his panic show.
‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Suniaton asked plaintively.
Realising that his friend was looking for reassurance, Hanno tried to think of an optimistic answer, but couldn’t. The only outcome possible was an early meeting for them both with Melqart, the god of the sea.
In his palace at the bottom of the sea.
About the Author
Ben Kane was born in Kenya and raised there and in Ireland. He studied veterinary medicine at University College Dublin, and after that he travelled the world extensively, indulging his passion for ancient history. He now lives in North Somerset with his wife and family.
Ben Kane, The Road to Rome
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