Hannibal's Children (12 page)

"Find out," Marcus said. "You can poke around without looking like a spy."

Along the waterfront they heard for the first time many people speaking in the guttural Punic tongue. To their ears, accustomed to Latin and Greek, it was an ugly language. Wandering among the waterfront stalls and taverns, they saw Punic soldiers and sailors. Immediately they noted that the soldiers all conversed in Greek, the sailors in Punic.

"They still rely on mercenaries," Norbanus said with contempt. "Only the navy men are native Carthaginians."

"Some of the soldiers seem to be using the Laconian dialect," Flaccus noted.

"Spartans?" Marcus said. "If so, they've fallen far, to be hired lackeys for Carthage."

"Spartans were hiring themselves out as mercenaries long before our ancestors left Italy," Flaccus said.

Marcus beckoned to Metrobius and the fat teacher came to him. "Metrobius, you know Greek better than any of us. I want you to circulate here, talk with the soldiers, find out where they come from and anything else that might be of use to us."

"You'll have my report this evening, Commander." He walked off and was soon lost in the crowd.

They came to the naval dock and found it to be fortified with its own wall on the landward side, heavily gated and manned by soldiers who wore armor of bronze scales and conical helmets. At their approach, one of the guards called something and a tall man emerged from the interior. He wore a Greek-style cuirass of silvered bronze, its shoulder rings supporting an extravagant purple cape. He was bareheaded, his hair dressed in long, oiled ringlets, his beard square-cut. His complexion was dark, his eyes black, flanking a great beak of a nose that divided his face like the prow of a warship. They did not need to be told from what nation this man hailed. The writings and tales of their great-grandfathers had described this physiognomy in detail: highborn Carthaginian.

"Greetings, sir," Marcus said. "We are a delegation from Rome, and we were just admiring your admirable naval base."

"I know who you are. I've heard the rumors." His Greek was fluent, but so guttural that he sounded as if he were gargling some of the words.

"Might we come inside and tour your facility?" Marcus asked.

"That is forbidden."

"But your governor gave us freedom of the city," Norbanus said.

"It may be his city, but this is my naval base, and it is forbidden for any foreigner not in the service of His Majesty to set foot within any Carthaginian military base."

"You must hold to your duty, of course," Marcus said. "We intended no disrespect."

The man unbent fractionally. "I am Egabal, Commodore of the Tarentine Gulf and of the Adriatic fleet."

Marcus made the introductions and Egabal looked them over. "I suppose, living in the far north, you've never seen a civilized naval base?"

"Until a few days ago none of us had even looked upon a sea."

"Well, then, there's no harm in your seeing the outside.

That much is open to everyone." He strode to the water's edge and leaned on the balustrade, his scarred brown hands making an odd contrast with the polished white marble. He raised one of them and pointed at the great facade of the dock, which curved away from them with its row of gaping tunnels.

"There you see the ship sheds. Inside are all the facilities necessary for fitting out the ships, arming and victualling them. Inside, each of those is long enough to hold three ships at once. If a middling large fleet must abide here, twice that many can be accommodated."

"How is that possible?" Flaccus asked him. "We saw a ship go in a short time ago. There seems to be little leeway on each side. If they are only long enough for three, how do you crowd in three more?"

"Easily. First, three ships go in, prow to stern. They are unloaded and dismasted, then they are hoisted to the ceiling with rope and tackle. Then three more are rowed in to dock beneath them."

"Whole ships hung from the ceiling?" Marcus said, trying to visualize such a thing.

"It is how warships are always stored for the winter. Even the Greeks do it, and they were never the sailors we are."

So, Marcus thought, 150 ships constituted a middling sized fleet, unless this man was lying or exaggerating. "It is a magnificent establishment."

Egabal shrugged. "It's not much compared to the great naval harbor of Carthage, but it's impressive to barbarian eyes." The Romans remained stone-faced, merely filing the small insult away as one more offense for which Carthage must one day be made to pay.

That evening, after a sumptuous dinner at the palace, they heard Metrobius's report.

"Many of the soldiers are Greeks, almost all of the marines. I encountered a number of Argives, a few Athenians and men from the islands and the cities of Magna Graecia, but no Spartans. I learned that all the training officers and drill instructors are Spartan professionals, so the Laconian dialect is the language of the whole army, even among the non-Greeks. The army also includes a great many Spaniards and men of Libya, Numidia and Mauretania, along with Balearics, Sicilians, Corsicans, Sardinians and men from all the islands of the western sea."

"But no Carthaginian ground troops?" Marcus asked.

"They never leave their homeland and are kept in reserve against uprisings by the natives and foreign threats to Carthage herself. The elite of the army is the Sacred Band, which is made up of highborn young Carthaginians."

Norbanus snorted. "Elite! A pack of privileged boys who have never campaigned in foreign lands are the elite of this army?"

"They're probably just the best-dressed," Flaccus said. "Shiny gear and bright plumes always seem to give men a high opinion of themselves. Did you see the purple cloak Egabal wore? Back home only a triumphing general gets to wear such a thing. Here, a navy functionary rates one."

"I am preparing a report for the Senate," Marcus said. "I will include all we've seen and learned, but I have a feeling that the true revelations lie ahead."

"Carthage," Norbanus said, dreamily. "We are going to see the heart of enemy territory with our own eyes! Even our ancestors never had that chance."

"Actually," Flaccus said, "while it sounds like a most interesting trip, I will be more than happy to forego it in order to stay here in Tarentum and be your liaison—"

"You're going with us, Flaccus," Marcus said. "You're just afraid to go out on the open sea."

"It's unnatural to go floating about on water like that," Flaccus protested. "Neptune did not give us scales and fins."

"You are going with us, Flaccus."

"Very well, Commander," Flaccus sighed.

That same evening, in another part of the palace, Hanno drafted two letters. The first he dictated to a scribe.

"Begin with all the usual salutations to His Majesty," he told the old man who sat at his feet cross-legged, a writing table on his lap, pens and pots of ink on the floor beside him. The man scribbled industriously.

"Majesty," Hanno began, "this day your city of Tarentum was visited by a most unexpected apparition—a delegation of Romans! I assure Your Majesty that your servant has not taken leave of his wits. It seems that the rumors of a state in the north founded by the Roman exiles are true. Not only that, but these latter-day Romans have prospered beyond expectation. They have retained some of their martial organization and I believe that Your Majesty may find them to be of some use in your most justified and holy war against the decadent Ptolemies of Egypt. To this end, I shall within a few days place these Romans on a trusty ship and dispatch them to the capital where they may afford you some amusement as well as provide a martial resource. I remain etcetera etcetera. Close with the usual formulas and make up a copy fit for royal eyes."

Then he dismissed the scribe and began another letter, this one written with his own hand.

Most esteemed and worshipful Princess Zarabel,
he began.
You are about to be visited by a delegation of Romans. It seems that these people are far from expunged from history as we have long imagined. The far north is a savage place, and for these to have founded a state in that wilderness and made it prosper must mean that they have lost none of their political and military skills. The bearing of these men is dignified to an extent that you must see to appreciate. Impoverished and downtrodden states do not produce such men.

Their leader is one Scipio, a name we know from history. His second in command is named Norbanus, and I detect both envy and ambition in this man. He is resentful of his inferior position. Such rivalry we know to be the bane of republics, and useful for us. For many years the world of the Middle Sea has lain in uneasy balance, with the Barcas, the Ptolemies and the Seleucids contending for dominance but each unable to seize it. These crude but martial foreigners are a new factor and they could tip the balance in favor of one or the other of the royal contenders. The one who makes best use of them may have a decisive advantage.

Perhaps we have been mistaken in our concentration upon the Middle Sea, acting as if the rest of the world did not exist. I shall act forthwith to dispatch agents to the north, beyond the alps, and get an accurate report concerning this Roma Noricum. It is clear that the Greek merchants who trade to the north have been concealing much from us. I will interrogate such of these persons as I can find with utmost rigor.

You, Lady of the Moon, Light of Tanit, are an unparalleled judge of men. I know that, once you have had an opportunity to assess them, you will read their hearts as you read the stars and the sacred waters of Tanit. This, I feel certain, is an opportunity that must be seized with the utmost resolution.

I remain your most loyal servant, Princess Zarabel, shadow of Our Lady upon Earth.

He finished the letter with a few more flourishes, rolled the parchment and placed it in a bronze tube. This he capped and sealed with melted lead, pressing a special seal into the soft metal. At his call a man entered the room and prostrated himself. The newcomer was a man of middle years, dressed in a short tunic and a pointed blue cap. His skin was burned dark and his face was seamed like old leather.

"You are to deliver this to the Princess Zarabel at once. Take my fastest cutter and leave tonight. Her reward and mine will be, as always, most generous."

The man stretched out a hand and took the tube, then he knocked his brow upon the floor. "I am your servant, Lord. None is more swift, none more loyal. The king's men will never know that I am in Carthage, they will never know that I have left."

"See that it is so. Go now." When the man had left, Hanno called for wine. He needed it. This had been a most momentous day, perhaps one of those rare days that influenced all that followed, and he gave thanks to the goddess and the other Baalim that these men had appeared at Tarentum, and not at one of the other port towns. This circumstance allowed him to give the princess some forewarning. In the murderous intriguing of the Carthaginian court, such preparation could mean the difference between ascendancy and failure, between life and death.

His own position was now most precarious. Should the recipient of the first letter learn of the existence of the second, more detailed and perceptive letter, the order for Hanno's death would arrive on the next ship from Carthage. Like many other Punic nobles, Hanno kept a selection of poisons handy against just such an eventuality. Of course, the king's officers were highly skilled at dissembling, displaying the utmost friendliness and goodwill to mask their intentions.

Life, Hanno reflected, was a chancy thing at all levels. If one aimed for the most exalted goals, the cross always waited at the heights.

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.