Hannibal's children

Chapter 6

The sea was an alien world. The Romans had ample experience of great rivers and lakes, but this was something beyond their imaginings. The seeming limitlessness of the water, its rolling swells, its strange, salty, fecund smell, all unsettled them and made it difficult to maintain their Roman gravitas. To keep up their spirits, Metrobius recited from the Odyssey, with its thrilling seagoing passages, trying to reassure them that sailing upon the sea was a natural part of the nobleman's heritage. All this unfolded to the great amusement of the sailors, who took the usual seaman's delight at the distress of landlubbers forced to take to the great waters.

Before setting out, Marcus had made a generous sacrifice to Neptune, petitioning him for a safe and favorable voyage. This god was almost forgotten by the Romans, who had been landlocked for several generations, but their augur knew enough of the ceremony to carry it off. Tarentum had no native temple of Neptune, but its temple of Poseidon was a splendid one, and the Romans had long since acknowledged the equivalency of the Greek Olympians and the native Italian deities. They had been awed by the fabulous image of the blue-haired god standing in his scallop-shell chariot drawn by hippogriffs, his trident held aloft to proclaim his mastery over all the regions touched by his waters.

The ship was a Carthaginian war galley much like the one they had seen in the harbor at Tarentum. It was not one of the great three-banked triremes, but a single-banked vessel designed for coastal patrolling and pirate hunting. Beneath the image of the grotesque god, its small ram, shaped like a boar's head, was more a gesture of defiance than a serious weapon. Its real armament was a battery of ballistas and catapults ranged along the bulwarks above the rowing benches, and the weapons of the marines.

Despite their dread of the waves and their queasy stomachs, the Romans were fascinated by these weapons and spent many hours examining them. The skipper, a Greek professional named Has, was not reluctant to demonstrate the machines to his strange passengers.

"This here," he said in the now-familiar Laconian Greek, "is your man-killer." He slapped a hand on one of the swivel-mounted weapons. It looked like a crossbow, but the bow, instead of being a single piece of wood, was made of a pair of straight limbs mounted in a frame equipped with thick, twisted ropes. The limbs were thrust through the ropes, which provided the power of the weapon.

At Ilas's barked order, three marines sprang to the machine. Two of them worked cranks to tighten the ropes while another opened a chest and removed a short, thick javelin. Its point was shod with a heavy iron point, its tapered tail equipped with three vanes made of thin, hard leather trimmed in the shape of an arrow's feathers.

The ropes were tightened in moments amid an odd, rhythmic clicking of ratchets. The two marines then seized a pair of cranks at the back of the machine and drew back the ropelike bowstring, seizing it at full draw with a clawed device. The third marine laid the javelin in a trough before the string and stood by.

"Go ahead," Has said to Marcus. "Just pull back on that lever."

Marcus seized the ornate bronze bar that protruded vertically from the clawed string holder. It seemed to vibrate under his touch and he could hear a faint creaking from the twisted ropes. Even at rest, he could feel the harnessed power of the machine. It was something new and fascinating to him.

He pulled back on the lever and the Romans jerked involuntarily at the loud report of the released arms slamming into the padded posts that restrained them. The javelin shot from the machine with unimaginable force, almost invisible as it sped away in a low arc, spinning as it flew, dwindling to a black dot in moments, finally disappearing from view. If it raised a splash when it hit the water, it was too distant for them to see.

The Romans were awed, but Norbanus said, "That's a lot of noise and trouble to kill a single man."

Has grinned. "I've seen a single ballista bolt go through three men. That happens when they're crowded together, the way they usually are on a ship's deck. Or," he added, "when they're in a tight battle formation on land. Besides, it works on a man's mind, knowing that his shield and armor are no protection at all. It's like standing stark naked beneath an arrow storm. It can break an enemy's spirit before the armies or ships ever close to sword range."

"A machine like this," Marcus said, "has the power of many men."

"Still," Norbanus said, "it's better to have many men."

"Carthage has men by the myriad," Has told them, "and many, many machines like this. Come, I'll show you how a catapult works."

This was another machine powered by twisted ropes, with a vertically working arm terminating in a basket of wrought iron bars. As the marines worked a windlass to crank back the arm, Marcus mused upon the sensation he had felt in shooting the ballista, a sensation he could not have explained to the others. Holding the release lever, pulling it back, letting the javelin fly with such tremendous violence, had filled him with a sense of power such as he had never felt before. He could imagine how much greater the sensation must be operating the machine against a live enemy.

When the arm was fully drawn back, it lay almost horizontal and a marine dropped a missile into the basket.

"The catapult launches at a higher trajectory," Has explained. "That means you can hurl heavy stones onto your enemy's deck, or over his walls. And you aren't limited to stones for ammunition. You can also use incendiaries like these." The missile in the basket appeared to be a spherical wad of tarry tow. A marine touched a small torch to it and red flames began to crawl over its surface, the dense smoke releasing a pungent smell.

"She's ready now," Has said. "Who wants to do the honors this time?"

The other Romans seemed reluctant, regarding the machine with some distaste. Marcus stepped forward again. The release mechanism was operated this time by a cord. He took it from the marine's hand and pulled back. This time they were prepared for the noise, but they were astonished by the display. As it flew through the air, the modestly flaming ball of pitch and tow blossomed into a spectacular fireball. It arched high, then plummeted to the water below, disappearing in an instant, leaving behind only a trail of smoke. A few moments later the sound of the splash and hiss came to them across a hundred paces of water.

"The pitch doesn't just burn," Has informed them. "It sticks. If one hits your deck or mast or bulwark, your only hope is to scrape it away with an iron shovel and toss it overboard."

"What's the advantage?" Norbanus asked. "Don't your enemies have these weapons?"

"Some of them do," Has said. "But we use them better. That's why these marines step so lively. They drill on the war machines every day of their lives."

The Romans nodded understanding. They understood the value of drill and discipline.

The ship carried a complement of twenty marines, and these were conventionally equipped. To Roman eyes, their armor was strangely old-fashioned, like that of warriors depicted on old Greek vases or painted on porticoes. Each wore a rigid bronze cuirass and a horsehair-crested helmet. Their round shields were also made of bronze and were much smaller than those used by the legions. They wore neither greaves nor footwear. Their arms were short spears, curved swords and bows. Each marine was an archer.

In the evenings, the Romans gathered on the foredeck and discussed what they had learned and what should go into the report to the Senate. Conversing only in Latin, they could speak their minds without fear of being overheard by eavesdroppers.

"We've learned one invaluable lesson," said Flaccus on the evening after the war machine demonstration. "When Rome builds a fleet, every ship is to be equipped with plenty of iron shovels. Can you imagine being on one of these things when it catches fire? First they build them out of kindling, then they soak them in pitch so that they'll burn even better." He gave an exaggerated shiver at the concept.

They had been discussing the concept of building a Roman fleet since the start of the voyage. Greatly as they disliked the idea of seafaring, they understood that, to defeat Carthage, Rome would have to become a sea power. It was a daunting prospect, but their ancestors had accomplished it.

The story had it that, at the outset of the first war with Carthage, a Carthaginian galley had washed ashore in a storm. The Senate had sent a commission to study it, and many copies were built. Rowing benches were built on shore to train rowers, and then the new crews practiced maneuvering in sheltered harbors. When they were confident enough, they had taken to the open sea.

The Romans were inexperienced with the sort of sea maneuvering at which the Carthaginians and their Greek hirelings excelled, so they did not even try to compete in this arena. Instead, they invented a new boarding device called the "crow." This was a heavy boarding plank hinged to a turntable on the deck, held almost upright by a crane. When a Roman ship closed with an enemy, the plank was swung over the other ship and dropped. The beak of the crow was a stout bronze spike that sank into the enemy's deck, effectively nailing the ships together. Then the Romans crossed on the plank to engage the enemy in the sort of close quarters combat at which Romans were peerless. Rome won the naval war by turning sea battles into land battles.

"But what about rowers?" someone asked. "Slaves are useless for combat, and you can't very well ask citizens to do such work."

"That's where the native Italians will get back into our good graces," Marcus said. "They can serve as rowers, with the status of allies and auxilia. When the war is over, they can be rewarded with provisional citizenship, with full citizenship contingent on their good behavior."

"A good plan," Norbanus admitted, "but first you'll have to teach them to be brave."

Their voyage hugged the coast of southern Italy, taking them past Heraclea, Thurii, Croton and others. At nightfall, they put into the nearest port or anchored just offshore. Only during wartime, Ilas told them, did Carthaginian ships risk sailing at night. They crossed the narrow channel between Italy and Sicily and they sailed along the coast of that island, past Acium and Catana until they reached the great city of Syracuse. There the Romans admired the formidable fortifications of the storied city.

"This is where the glory of Athens died," Flaccus sighed. Metrobius nodded sadly and between them they tried to point out all the crucial sites of that famous siege.

"Greeks," Norbanus snorted. "What do you expect when you use amateur leadership? What was Nikias, a cobbler?"

"He was what most of our own leaders are," Flaccus said. "He was a rich man."

They sailed along the coast of the island until they reached the western tip. In the harbor at Lilybaeum, Has conferred with some other skippers about sailing conditions. He returned to the ship smiling. "This is where we make the hop across to Africa," he informed them.

"What sort of hop?" Flaccus asked. Something about the sound of the word seemed ominous.

"Up to now we've hugged the coastline and put in every night. From here, we take to the open sea."

"You mean we'll be out of sight of land?" Flaccus all but squeaked.

"Just for a few hours," Has assured them. "This is the shortest hop to the African coast in the whole sea. To get there by coastal sailing would mean going up the Italian coast to Liguria, then westward past southern Gaul to Iberia all the way to the Pillars of Herakles, then back east along the Mauretanian and Numidian coasts all the way to Carthage. Take another month or two that way, depending on the weather."

"It's your ship," Marcus said. "When do we depart?"

"At first light tomorrow."

The next morning, just as the eastern horizon began to turn pale, the ship turned its bow to the southwest and the rowers smote the water, raising a spray as the vessel surged forward. By the time the sun was fully up, Sicily was a dark line low on the northeast horizon. Flaccus stared at it longingly.

"Stop looking at that island like a lover at his mistress," Marcus chided. "These foreigners will think we're cowards."

"It's not that I have any fondness for Sicily," Flaccus said. "It's just that I'm afraid that it could be the last dry land I ever see."

Soon they were on open water with no land in sight. Now the Romans discovered a new misery. As the ship climbed the low swells, then dipped into the troughs, its motion became like that of a very slow horse bucking. The Romans took to the rails, helpless with nausea. The sailors were much amused.

About noon a favorable wind sprang up and the rowers shipped oars. The yard was raised up the mast and the sail unfurled. It was a rectangle of heavy Egyptian linen, decorated with the triangle-and-disc of Tanit. It bellied out with the breeze and the ship surged forward. As it did, the vessel began to heel over alarmingly.

"We're capsizing!" Flaccus shouted.

"Where did you learn that word?" Norbanus demanded.

"I think it's in the Odyssey."

"Is this usual?" Marcus asked, gripping a rail to keep his balance.

"Is what usual?" Has stood upright, his legs flexing with the motion of the ship.

"Leaning over like this."

"This is nothing. When you look straight up and see nothing but water, that's leaning over."

Flaccus groaned.

By late afternoon Africa was a dark line on the horizon ahead of them.

That night they dropped anchor off Cape Eshmun, the place where the African coast made its closest approach to the European mainland. In the sheltered coastal waters their illness abated, but sleep came late to them, and it was fitful. Welcome as land seemed to them, this was not the familiar land of Noricum, nor their ancestral Italy. This was Africa, the land of their enemy, the heart of the Carthaginian Empire.

At dawn their journey resumed along the northern coast of the cape. Coastal shipping was heavy, with many merchant ships of all sizes cruising the shallow waters. Has pointed out Greek and Egyptian vessels, Phoenician, Arabian and Rhodian ships, explaining the subtle differences that distinguished each. He told them that the ugly, squat god who crouched above the ram of every Punic warship was Patechus, the god of terror. The Romans took note of everything.

Every hundred stades along the coast there stood a watchtower, fifty feet high, equipped with tall flagpoles and signaling mirrors and bronze baskets for igniting alarm fires. Upon the inland plain they saw many villages as well as more substantial towns. To support such a population they knew that the land must be of astonishing fertility. The terrain was low, but all the highest points and the headlands featured fine temples to various gods, both Punic and Greek. Compared to backward, pastoral Italy it was another world.

All around them fishing boats harvested the abundance of the sea. There were craft with nets spread on broad, wing-like frames that looked as if they were about to take flight, and heavy boats that dragged bag-shaped nets along the bottom to stir up the creatures that fed there, and boats in teams that stretched floating nets between them. There were boats hauling up traps for crabs and others from which divers went down to pry shellfish from the rocks below.

"So many people for whom the sea is a way of life," Marcus mused. "It's hard to believe."

"Not all of them are naval sailors and merchantmen and fishermen," Flaccus said. "Our captain has mentioned pirates."

"What about them?" Marcus asked the skipper. "Who are these pirates?"

"Sea-banditry has a long tradition," Has told them. "You all know the poems of Homer. Even the heroes thought nothing of dropping in on some unsuspecting village, killing all the men, carrying off the women and children, putting the place to the sack and the torch, then sailing off on their merry way. Well, there are still a lot of people living in the age of heroes. They hide up creeks or behind islands, mostly. When a promising merchantman comes along, they run out and loot it. If there are passengers of any value, they're enslaved or held for ransom."

"And Carthage tolerates this?" Norbanus wanted to know.

"Why not? Rome did." Has grinned, then shook his head. "In truth, there's no practicable way to patrol the whole sea, because nobody owns it. When the Carthaginian fleet makes the west too hot for them, they just move east and work in Egyptian or Seleucid waters for a while."

"Where do they come from?" Marcus asked.

"The Ligurian coast is an old pirate haven. Cilicia is another. For some, it's their ancestral calling. Others are sailors who've fallen on hard times, or are pressed into a pirate crew. Some just take it up for the fun and adventure and profit."

"Are these ships solitary?" Marcus wanted to know.

"Sometimes. But, more often, there'll be five or six ships together. That's enough to raid a good-sized village. Sometimes they'll get together in big fleets with scores of vessels, and terrorize a whole province for months, until a real navy comes along to break them up."

"That," Marcus said, "is a messy and disorganized situation. It should not be tolerated by a nation that calls itself a sea power."

Has nodded sagely. "So it is. You must be sure to tell the Shofet that personally, when you see him."

When they came in sight of Carthage, they did not notice it at first, because they took it to be a part of the landscape. It did not occur to them that anything so immense could be the work of human hands.

The ship rounded a low headland and sailed into a broad expanse of water, which Ilas informed them was the Gulf of Carthage. They looked along the curving shore to its western extremity, which featured a set of oddly regular white cliffs. The vessel cut across the bay, the rowers working tirelessly, until the cliffs loomed large ahead of them and they saw the symmetrical, rectangular cuts, the tops of high buildings far behind them.

Someone gasped. "Those are walls!"

"I was wondering when you'd notice," Has said. "Don't feel alone. Only people who've seen Alexandria or Antioch can believe their eyes the first time they set them on Carthage."

Marcus found that his mouth had gone dry. "How high are they?"

"More than two hundred cubits. They're not just walls, they're a whole fortress system. The garrison, armories, beasts and all are housed inside those walls. They're so broad on top that the young bloods of the city race their chariots there, four abreast."

It seemed hard to believe, but there stood the walls and none of the Romans felt inclined to accuse the skipper of exaggeration.

The ship sped for the walls as if it intended to ram them. Its heading took them toward the southern end of the walls, where a dark arch awaited. As they neared, they could see that it was a tunnel. The stone surrounding the tunnel entrance was ornately carved, depicting leaves and vines and flowers with strange, stylized beasts and birds among the foliage. The arch was surmounted by the image of a deity. The upper body was that of a woman, but from the waist down her body was that of a fish, terminating in a broad, upraised tail. In one hand she held a cornucopia, in the other a sword.

"Is, ah, is the tunnel wide enough to admit this ship safely?" Flaccus asked.

"See for yourself," said Has, pointing. Two Carthaginian ships, three-bankers far larger than their vessel, were emerging from the tunnel, side by side. There was room for another ship or two to either side of them. The sheer size of the wall had deceived their sense of scale.

They passed beneath the fish-goddess into the dark tunnel, craning their necks to see overhead. Just within the entrance there was a slot in the ceiling, from which protruded a line of pointed bars.

"Some sort of dropping-gate up there," Norbanus said. "They want to be able to close this tunnel off if the city is attacked."

"Who is it they're worried about?" Flaccus wondered.

They came out into daylight again, this time into a perfectly circular harbor, larger than most lakes they had seen, its periphery consisting entirely of naval docks like the one they had seen in Tarentum. They tried to count the openings but were quickly lost. There was an artificial island in the center of the harbor, likewise perfectly circular. Upon it stood a huge building, its architecture a combination of Greek and elements totally unfamiliar to them. All around it grew stately poplars and cedars, and there were a number of ships moored to its wharfs, including an ornate naval cutter.

"Is this a temple to one of the gods of Carthage?" Marcus asked.

"That's the house of the harbormaster," Has told them.

"Somebody lives in that?" Flaccus said.

"It's far from the greatest mansion in Carthage," Has said. "But this is a very important man, a member of the royal family."

"I could get used to living like that," Norbanus said. Marcus shot him a look. His tone had not been sarcastic.

"You might not like some of the consequences of the job. He's in charge of the naval fleets of Carthage. You see that scaffold?" He pointed to a high platform towering before the great house. A gaunt wooden framework jutted from its top, like an unfinished house. "If there is a naval defeat or disaster, that's where he's crucified, along with the admirals."

"That's what I call incentive," Flaccus said.

Marcus turned to the others and spoke in Latin. "I want a count of those docks before we leave this city. I want a look inside them, too."