He continued to peer into the shifting fog, hoping there was some kind of mistake. He could see a line of ghostly ships forming a picket across the mouth of the harbor—and clearly saw the Carthaginian banners hanging limply from their mastheads.
“Attack them!” he cried, looking in panic-stricken rage all about him. He grabbed the nearest guard and flung him towards the harbor, as if he expected the man to lunge at the enemy ships with his sword. “Attack! What are they waiting for? Attack, you fools! The enemy is here!”
He watched with mounting disbelief as his two ships beat a course for the center of the harbor. At the same time, two of the Carthaginian ships began to move, one headed directly towards each of the Romans. The first Roman ship tried to turn into the enemy, but it struck a hopelessly right-bearing course. Even from Scipio’s vantage point, he could see that most of the oars on the left hand side of the ship failed to move at all. He imagined the rowers paralyzed with terror at the sight of the enemy ship bearing down on them, its speed increasing with every sweep of its oars.
The Roman galley heaved as the Carthaginian ram pierced its side. The sickening crack reached Scipio’s ears a moment later. The Carthaginian quinquereme, expertly handled, backed away as the Roman ship immediately began to founder. Scipio could not watch. It had been such an easy kill. He could almost hear the Carthaginians laughing.
When he looked up, the second enemy ship bore down on the other Roman, the one under full sail. (Full sail? Were they trying to escape? By Jupiter, Scipio thought dismally, they were fleeing!) This time, the crew did not even try to resist. Scipio watched in abject shock as the rowers abandoned their oars and began jumping overboard. The Carthaginian steadied its progress and within a few moments had come to rest, yards short of the forsaken Roman ship. The sleek fiver sat in silent and motionless witness to Rome’s utter humiliation, as the panicked Roman crew plunged into the water. The Carthaginians calmly rowed up alongside, grappled the ship and manned the Roman vessel uncontested.
The other fifteen Roman galleys remained moored as their crews streamed away from the docks and rushed into the city. There, cries and the clamor of battle followed them.
“What is happening?” Scipio cried. “Kyros! By the gods, Kyros has betrayed me!”
“The enemy is in the city!” one of the guard cried.
“Where is Kyros? Where are his men?” Scipio asked hopelessly. “Form around me,” he cried to his guard as he heard the sounds of battle approaching.
Three men formed a triangle around the consul. They were as confused as was the consul himself, and they looked all around them for threats, swords in hand. Servants scampered in fear across the terrace. Thales and more than two dozen of his soldiers suddenly appeared through an adjoining archway.
“You are Kyros’ man,” Scipio called with obvious relief. He dashed out from behind his guards and grabbed Thales by the shoulders. “The enemy is in the city!” he cried. “You must attack them.”
Thales looked the consul squarely in the eye — calmly, expressionless. Scipio’s face turned red with rage. The impertinence!
“Don’t just stand there!” he raged, tugging on the man’s shoulders, trying to force him to action. “Attack! Do something! Are you all cowards?”
Thales signaled by raising his chin and instantly his soldiers surrounded the remnants of Scipio’s guard, disarming them. Scipio’s mind was a riot of confusion. Thales unsheathed his sword and held to it Scipio’s throat.
“Shut up your wailing,” he said calmly. “You are under arrest.”
Kyros ran onto the terrace, his face contorted by fear.
“There is the man!” Scipio cried, straining against Thales’ sword. “The traitor! The man who has betrayed me!”
Kyros, seeing Thales’ men, stopped in shock.
“Seize him!” Thales cried.
Half a dozen of Thales’ men peeled off and surrounded the little magistrate. As the men enclosed him, tears sprang into his eyes.
Thales gestured towards the harbor. “There is the Roman fleet you have wagered your life on!” he said.
“Thales, you son of a whore!” Kyros cried, his voice cracking. “You will die for this!”
“You are wrong, Kyros,” Thales said calmly. “Now I shall live.”
The terrace was full of Carthaginian soldiers by the time Boodes arrived. He strolled casually among the knots of his armed men that had gathered around their prisoners. He walked into the palace itself where he inspected the furnishings and scattered parchments. The room was in disarray. In the harbor below, Carthaginian soldiers filled every deck, including those of the sixteen surviving Roman vessels. Long lines of crewmen were filing back onto the ships. Boodes’ squadron, now numbering thirty-six vessels, would soon be departing for Panormus. The Roman oarsmen, under the supervision of Carthaginian crews and marines, would be allowed to row themselves into captivity, their lives spared.
Boodes indifferently scanned the text of an inconsequential Liparian missive and flung it aside with the flick of his wrist.
“A decidedly unimpressive performance, Consul,” he said. “I’m afraid your fleet fared no better in the harbor at Lipara than it did at Syracuse.”
“I was betrayed,” Scipio said sullenly. Kyros stood nearby, lost in a sea of guards, his hands bound.
“But Lipara is a Carthaginian possession, Consul,” Boodes said. “And, yet, when I arrive here I find it full of Romans. I’m afraid you have it wrong. It was not you who were betrayed, but I.”
Boodes looked over at Kyros. He stood with his head down. Boodes could see the wet trails his tears had made on his cheeks. He felt pity for the man. And revulsion.
“Unbind the consul,” he ordered suddenly. “It is an unwarranted humiliation for a man of his stature.”
“What about me?” Kyros lifted his own bound hands hopefully.
Boodes made no reply but continued his circuit through the ransacked room examining parchments. He picked one up, quickly scanned the text, and arched his eyebrows in surprise.
“What have we here?” he asked. He read silently for a moment and then began reading aloud. “‘Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, in command of Rome’s first fleet’…” He looked up from the text. “What is this?” he asked.
“Scipio’s proclamation,” Thales explained. “To be sent to the Senate of Rome describing his glorious victory here at Lipara. You would think it describes the exploits of some god or hero—”
Boodes held up a hand for silence. As he continued to read, a smile spread across his face.
“It looks like I may have interrupted your deification, Consul,” Boodes said with a smile.
Spying the scribe’s instruments on the table, he moved quickly and began altering the document.
“…in command of Rome’s first fleet…” He began crossing out and rewriting, reading aloud as he did so. “…and encountering the great Carthaginian admiral Boodes, promptly got the whole thing captured with scarcely a fight…” Boodes grinned as he wrote. “…crewmen abandoned their ships … sixteen vessels captured, one sunk … I, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, in chains…” Boodes laid the instruments aside and called for the consul. Using the flame of a sputtering lamp, he applied sealing wax to the document. “Seal it,” he ordered Scipio.
When Scipio refused, he grabbed the consul by the wrist and slammed his signet ring, bearing Scipio’s personal seal, into the soft wax.
“There!” Boodes said triumphantly. He handed the sealed document to Thales. “Now, you can send this to Rome.”
Thales grinned. “It shall be done,” he said.
Later, on the deck of Boodes’ flagship on their way back to Panormus, Boodes ushered Scipio and Kyros into the canvas deckhouse on the aft-deck of the ship. There, the men sat on stools.
“A welcome shelter from the sun and heat,” Boodes said, ladling out some fresh water from a small pail into three cups.
“Can you at least unbind my hands so I can drink?” Kyros complained. Boodes p
ut the cup to Kyros’ lips himself.
“You have a meeting with Hannibal Gisgo in Panormus, Kyros,” Boodes told him. “Strict orders. I am not to lose you.”
Two hours later, Kyros sprang to his feet and leapt over the gunwale. He splashed into the sea ten feet below. Boodes rushed to the side, yelling for help. But with his hands tied, Kyros did not last long. By the time Boodes got there, nothing but a ripple on the water marked the spot where Kyros had gone in. He never reemerged.
“Shall we circle round?” the captain asked.
“No. It is no use. He is gone.”
Boodes reentered the deckhouse and sat with a sigh. “I should have foreseen this,” he said. “I should have secured him to the deck.”
He looked up and saw Scipio contemplating Kyros’ empty stool with sadness. Boodes examined Scipio’s expression carefully. He decided the consul regretted his own lack of courage that would have allowed him to follow Kyros over the rail.
“Kyros was worth little in exchange or ransom,” Boodes reassured him. “He would not have fared well in Panormus, I’m afraid. In contrast, you are worth very much — more even than that little fleet of yours. You will soon find yourself in Carthage. You have little to fear.”
Scipio nodded sadly. “I appreciate your patrician manners,” he said, after some time had passed. “I would not have expected that from a Carthaginian.”
“Carthaginian or Roman, we are both of noble birth, Consul,” Boodes explained. Scipio nodded and they sailed the rest of the way to Panormus without saying a word.
Chapter 24
Before Scipio had set off for Lipara, Rufinus had gone back to Ostia to prepare for the launching of the rest of the fleet. Now, after four days’ sailing, he found himself in the lead vessel of the one hundred ships rounding the Cape of Italy off the coast of Bruttium, bound for Messana.
The fleet hugged the coast, sailing in three columns, each over a mile long. Eighty of his ships were modern quinqueremes of the latest Carthaginian design; the other twenty were triremes. He had stationed these in the landward column to protect them. After witnessing the trials in Syracuse, he dreaded meeting the enemy and his fear intensified the closer they sailed to Sicily. He was eager to reach the friendly harbor at Messana where the corvi awaited him. Without the device, he felt vulnerable and exposed. In case of battle, they would have to depend only on the crews’ skill to defend them and each sweep of the oars raised the likelihood of a chance encounter. The men, not having witnessed the results of the mock battles, were unaware of their vast limitations so shared little of Rufinus’ foreboding which made him feel alone and uneasy.
Equally disconcerting was the all-enveloping fog through which they sailed. On the one hand, the thick cloak protected them from the sight of any chance Carthaginian raiding fleet, for they were now in the zone most frequently targeted by their raids. On the other hand, the fog concealed dangerous shoals and much of their time was spent out of the sight of land altogether, so thick was the concealing fog. The air was absolutely still, the sails and banners hung lifelessly from the masts, so all ships moved under oars, the gentle splash absorbed by the thick, damp air, the water itself so still they might have been sailing over an inland pond. Rufinus, on the aft-deck of his ship alongside the captain and helmsman, could see nothing more than the shadowy hulks of the vessels to his right and left, the scarcely perceived motion of their oars like multitudes of spindly legs improbably walking on the water.
Presently, he perceived other shadows ahead. To his left was a vast headland, a looming blue mass of rock, a jutting peninsula. The helmsman adjusted the steering oar to follow it and as they changed course to a southwesterly bearing, what Rufinus saw amazed him. There before him loomed a quinquereme. It had been nothing more than a dark patch of shadow at first, and then, driving out of a shifting fog bank, the thing resolved itself in sudden crystal clarity, rowing across the path of his columns in utter silent oblivion, flying a Carthaginian banner. Two identical ships followed it, and many more preceded it. Rufinus’ heart leapt into his throat. They had stumbled upon a vast Carthaginian column of ships, unseen, so close he felt he could touch them.
He saw the helmsman start at his oar, a look of panic filling his eyes.
“Hold steady,” Rufinus said, trying to calm him. But he needed calming himself.
“They’re Carthaginian,” the captain said in astonishment. “What do we do?”
“Attack…them?” Rufinius said. His words sounded more like a question than an order, and the captain paused.
“Attack them?” he asked, confused by Rufinus’ tone.
“Yes, yes,” Rufinus said, collecting himself. “Yes, attack them.”
Satisfied that he understood, the captain bellowed the attack order below deck to the rowing officer. The time-beater’s cadence increased at once, and the captain’s signalman frantically waved his flag to the lead ships of the other columns. Rufinus could only hope that they saw them. At least one of them did, for he noticed the increased speed of the ship to his right.
“Keep signaling,” he told the man. “There!” He pointed off towards the unresponsive shadowy hulk to his left.
Tarantines, experienced seamen, manned Rufinus’ ship. He had made a point of assigning the ships with the most experienced crews to the van of the three columns. Now, at least two of his ships were racing at attack speed toward the oblivious broadsides of the Carthaginians before them.
Each of the ships instinctively chose separate targets. Rufinus could see the rest of his fleet now. Other than the two attacking ships, the other vessels, noticing the enemy for themselves, had changed course and were heading out to sea, behind the enemy column. The nearest ships were hoisting sail. There had not been time for Rufinus’ ship to do so, and it was a strange sight to see the vessels going into combat with sails unfurled.
The Carthaginians seemed to become aware of them at the last moment. Rufinus could actually hear the enemy deckhands and officers shouting in alarm just as the Roman ram slammed into them, sending all hands flying across the enemy deck. Rufinus had braced himself for the impact and he could feel the deck shudder beneath his feet. He was pleased when his oarsmen immediately began to back water. As they pulled away from the Carthaginian ship, he could see the gaping hole at the waterline, the sea pouring in as down a drain.
Almost at the same time, he heard the distant crack of the second Roman ship battering its prey. He heard the enemy shouting, this time in pain and consternation. Men and marines leapt overboard as the Carthaginian ships began to founder.
As Rufinus backed away, he saw the leading Carthaginians begin to swing around to join the battle, and Rufinus hoped to Hades that he did not have a major fight on his hands.
“We’re under attack!” the captain of the King of Epirus called.
Hannibal Gisgo gazed forward into the fog and saw nothing. He could scarcely make out the bow of his own ship from his position in the stern as wisps of fog floated across the deck like tufts of cotton. For this mission, his septireme carried one-hundred-fifty marines. They had been expecting to conduct another raid into Italy, but when they became aware of a naval battle brewing, they sat upright and laid their hands on their swords and javelins, preparing for action.
“No,” the captain said. “Behind us. There! See?” He pointed into the fog at the trailing ship upon whose mast now fluttered the crimson battle flag. “The rear of our column is under attack.”
“Turn about, captain,” Hannibal cried. In his mind, he had given up the notion of conducting a reconnaissance because of the fog, converting his mission instead into a simple raid. The only way he would have spotted an enemy in this soup would be to stumble upon them, and now that appeared to be exactly what had happened. He wondered if it was possible that he had found the Roman fleet. More likely, some pirates had recklessly attacked one of his ships in the enveloping fog, supposing it to be alone.
The King of Epirus swung around, and the second and third ships in li
ne followed as it went past. Others closer to the rear of the column had turned about as well and were already racing towards the scene of the action. With so many ships turning about in all directions, Hannibal proceeded cautiously for fear of collisions. Attacked by an unseen enemy from an unknown quarter, he sensed the confusion of his fleet, as ships crossed the bows of their fellows and the formation lost all semblance of order.
Hannibal rowed past his scattered fleet as quickly as he dared until he came within sight of the rear of the column. There, in the shifting fog, he saw one of the foundering quinqueremes, still at full sail. As he watched, it capsized with a groan of creaking timbers and lay in the water like a great wounded beast. Men splashed helplessly alongside as it was rapidly consumed by the sea.
In the confusion of the attack, the ships at the rear of the column had wheeled about to the right and left and many had had to come to a complete halt to avoid colliding. Beyond the roiling water that now marked the grave of the sunken ship, Hannibal could just make out the shadow of the wreck of the second. Then he saw the head of the Roman fleet, three columns of ships at full sail, coming straight for them.
“It is the Roman fleet,” he cried to his captain, recognizing the banners and decorations on the sails. “They have collided with us in the fog!”
“They attack aggressively, sir,” the captain replied.
“How many are there?” Hannibal asked, straining to discern the shadowy shapes.
“Impossible to say. I cannot see them to count.”
“They are too many,” Hannibal decided at once. To his eyes, the lines of the Roman ships appeared to extend deep into the fog. He could not fight facing such uncertainty. The Roman ambush had thrown the tail of his fleet into confusion. They could not turn in time to face their attackers and so were better off running from them.
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