‘The soothsayers would call that a prophetic dream,’ Polybius murmured.
‘And do you?’ Scipio asked.
‘You know my opinion of soothsayers. A man makes his own life, though if he believes in a prophecy it may shape his destiny.’
Scipio looked away from the stars at the shimmering city walls, his face troubled. ‘He brought me back down to earth, but suddenly it was a different place: barren, scorched, shrouded in smoke, reeking of burned flesh like some wasteland of Hades. And through the smoke I saw that it was not Carthage but Rome, all in ruins: the Capitoline Temple, my house on the Palatine, the great walls of Servius Tullus – every building crumbled and blackened. And when I turned to find him, Scipio Africanus was no longer standing beside me but was lying contorted on the ground, grey and naked, fearfully gashed, his mouth open in a grimace and his arms extended towards the smouldering ruins of the city.’
Fabius remembered their last image of the old centurion, mutilated in the dust all those years ago in the Alban Hills, and wondered whether Scipio had melded that memory with the vision of Africanus, both of them men who had reached for glory but had been brought low by the machinations of Rome: the one bowing before those who wished to restrain him from destroying Carthage and living the remainder of his life in shadow and disappointment, the other hacked down ingloriously for training a new generation to take up where Africanus had left off, to add conquest to conquest and go where Africanus had not been allowed to go by the Senate, and by a sense of duty to authority in Rome that he would later come to regret.
Polybius looked penetratingly at Scipio, and then put his hand on his arm. ‘You have much on your mind, my friend: a burden that has played in your dreams for years now. It will be lifted tomorrow.’
Scipio continued to stare at the walls of Carthage, his eyes dark and unfathomable. ‘You taught me that the Pythagoreans believe in the power of music, just as Africanus told me in my dream, that a single note might purify the soul and prepare it for Elysium. I used to think I heard it, at night alone in the forest, or encamped by the sea when the water was dead calm. But now, when I try to listen for it, all I hear is discordance, clamour, distant howls like the wolves in the Macedonian forest, shrieks and yells, a terrible groaning. Sometimes I can only sleep with other noises around me to drown it out: the crackling of a campfire in the desert, the creaking of a ship’s timbers and the slapping of the waves when I am at sea.’
Polybius leaned back. ‘Just as we cannot look at the sun, so we cannot truly hear the divine note that would allow us to ascend to the heavens; it is a note that we can only hear when our souls are ready for Elysium. But the sounds that haunt you are the sounds of war, my friend, of war and death in your past, and war that is your future.’
‘Then that is my music,’ Scipio said quietly. ‘When I woke from that dream, night was over, and when I looked towards the sun in the east its rays seemed to encircle the earth, cutting it off from the heavens; when I gazed up I could no longer see the stars, and instead saw only storm clouds rolling in from the south. Tomorrow when we awaken, they will be the clouds of war.’ He picked up the flagon, tipped it up so that the last dregs spilled out, and then tossed it into the sea. ‘We need clear heads for tomorrow. Dawn is only a few hours away, and before then Ennius and his fabri will be cranking up the catapults in readiness for the assault. We should try to sleep now.’
20
Shortly after dawn, Fabius stood with Scipio and Polybius on the quay beside the rectangular harbour. Around them lay all the panoply of war, piles of supplies brought in by ship over the last two days: stacks of amphorae filled with wine and olive oil and fish sauce, crates of iron-tipped ballista bolts, bundles of new pila spears and fresh swords. The stores were stacked where there was space among the rubble and collapsed warehouses that still smouldered from the fighting three days before. They picked their way over to a group of legionaries stripped to the waist working on a large pile of masonry that blocked an entrance into the main street of the city. Ennius detached himself from the group and came over to them, his stubble and forearms white with dust from the fallen masonry and his forehead glistening with sweat. Fabius could see the forged war hammer hanging from the left side of his belt, a gift from Scipio on his promotion to command the specialized cohort of fabri, the engineers, and on the other side the vicious makhaira sword with its curved cutting edge that showed his lineage from the Etruscan warriors of Tarquinia to the north of Rome. He stood before Scipio, and raised his right fist in salute over his chest. ‘Ave, Scipio Aemilianus Africanus.’
Scipio put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Ave, Ennius. You look as if you could do with a week in the baths of Dionysius at Neapolis.’
‘When this job is done, Scipio.’
‘How go the preparations?’
Ennius swept one hand back in the direction of the harbour and the massive wall dividing it from the open sea. Through gaps smashed in the masonry by Roman ballista balls six months previously they could see the prows and curved stems of war galleys hove-to just offshore, their oars angled forward ready to launch the ships into the quay and disgorge waves of legionaries to scale the walls. Fabius knew there were hundreds of ships now, quinquiremes, triremes, ram-tipped Ligurian galleys, all anchored in rows before the sea wall ready for the final assault. Ennius turned back to Scipio. ‘Twenty-five specially built barges with catapults lie two stades offshore, beyond the range of the Carthaginian archers,’ he said. ‘They are anchored at all four quarters, and the quinquiremes to seaward are positioned broadside on to the waves, making a breakwater to keep the barges as stable as possible. As we speak, my men are mixing the final ingredient of the Greek fire. At your command, the catapults will rain fireballs on the city and wreak destruction as you have never seen it before in a siege.’
‘And you are able to keep the barrage falling ahead of our advancing legionaries?’
‘We have forward observers concealed at the highest points on the sea walls, sharp-eyed Alpine Celts who can spot a deer in the mountains at a hundred stades. They will use coded flag signals to direct the ballista crews to adjust their aim. We have Polybius to thank for that, the code that he has given us.’
Scipio looked sceptical. ‘Do your men truly know this code?’
‘It’s brilliant. You’ve got to hand it to those Greeks. All twenty-four letters of the Greek alphabet are arranged in a square, numbered from one to five vertically and the same horizontally, with one letter fewer in the last division. The signaller raises his left hand to indicate the vertical column, his right hand for the horizontal. He raises a torch in each hand the correct number of times to signify a letter. We’ve practised it in the desert for weeks now. We even have a short-hand to indicate directional changes to the ballista crews.’
‘All right.’ Scipio looked from Ennius to the tall Greek beside him, cracking a smile. ‘Good to know you’ve been keeping Polybius’ nose out of his books.’
‘It was books that taught me the code, Scipio, as you very well know,’ Polybius said. ‘To be specific, an ancient hieroglyphic scroll in the possession of an old priest in the Temple of Saïs in the Nile Delta. It told how the earliest priests used this technique to signal from pyramid to pyramid.’
‘Is there anything else you need to tell me?’ Scipio asked Ennius, looking up at the sky and sensing the wind, and then back at the wooden observation tower on the island in the centre of the harbour. ‘We have only hours before I intend to order the final assault.’
‘Then there is time for a quick look at this. Polybius asked me to watch out for any inscriptions that might help with his history of Carthage. We found this bronze plaque with lettering, which had been used to strengthen a door. We’re about to melt it down to make arrowheads for the Numidian auxiliaries, which is why Gulussa is here.’
Polybius took the sheet of bronze from Ennius. It was about two feet across, and the lettering on it had been smoothed by polishing. He glanced over at Gulussa, who had ju
st joined them. ‘Can you read this? I believe the script is an old version of Libyo-Phoenician.’
Gulussa knelt down beside the plaque, tracing his hands over the letters. ‘Two of these plaques used to be set up outside the Temple of Ba’al Hammon on the acropolis. I saw them there when my father Masinissa allowed me to accompany a Numidian embassy to Carthage when I was a boy. They’re an account by a navigator called Hanno of a Carthaginian expedition through the Pillars of Hercules and down the west coast of Africa over three hundred years ago. On the same pillar outside the temple was nailed the desiccated remains of skin, like old camel hide but covered in thick black hair, that Hanno cut from a savage he called a gorilla. The Carthaginians tried to kidnap their women but were no match for them in strength.’
‘How far south did the expedition go?’ Ennius asked.
Gulussa pointed at the base of the plaque, where the last line of text ended abruptly. ‘It is said that the rulers of Carthage ordered the lower part removed because they were fearful of giving away Carthaginian secrets to foreigners who might read this,’ he replied. ‘But my father was told by a priest that Hanno circumnavigated Africa, and came back through the Erythraean Sea to Egypt.’
Ennius looked at Polybius. ‘When I was in Alexandria learning about Greek fire I spoke to a ship’s captain who had sailed beyond the Erythraean Sea to the east and claimed to have seen mountains of fire emerging from the sea on the horizon, at the very edge of the world.’
‘If the world is a sphere, then there can be no edge,’ Polybius said patiently.
Ennius stood up, his hands on his hips. ‘How do you know it’s a sphere?’
‘If you had been attentive in Alexandria, you would have visited the school of Eratosthenes of Cyrene and learned how he had determined the circumference of the earth by observing the difference in the sun’s angle from the zenith on the day of the summer solstice at Alexandria and at Syene in upper Egypt, a known distance away.’ Polybius picked up a splinter of wood and used it to sketch a rough image in the dust. ‘This is Eratosthenes’ map of the world. You can see the Mediterranean Sea in the centre, surrounded by Europe and Africa and Asia, and the thin band of Ocean surrounding that. But the edge of the map isn’t the edge of the world. It’s the edge of our knowledge. What lies beyond that is open to exploration.’
‘And conquest,’ Ennius said.
Scipio put his sandalled foot on the line representing the coast of North Africa, and then on Greece. ‘We are here, in Carthage, and Metellus is there, in Corinth,’ he murmured. ‘The world is divided between us.’
Gulussa pointed at the map. ‘If Hanno the Carthaginian went south along the coast of Africa, surely others have gone through the Pillars of Hercules to the north?’
‘Timaeus writes of it,’ Ennius said. ‘And Pytheas the Greek navigator in Massalia is said to have gone to the northern tip of the Cassiterides, the Tin Islands, to a place called Ultima Thule. If the Carthaginians had found those routes, they would have kept them secret too.’
Polybius curled his lip in disdain. ‘Timaeus claims to be the pre-eminent historian of the west, but he never leaves the comfort of his library in Alexandria. When I decided to write my history of the war against Hannibal, did I not speak only to those who had seen the war with their own eyes? And did I not trace the route of Hannibal with my own two feet, marching from Spain through the Alps in the path of his elephants?’
‘And did you not muck out Hannibal’s last elephant with your own hands, when we were young warriors in the academy at Rome?’ Gulussa said with gentle mockery. He gestured at the leathery back of the beast tethered on the other side of the harbour. ‘And do I not smell that very ordure here with us now?
Polybius cast him a withering glance. ‘I write history that I see with my own eyes. I am neither a mythographer like Herodotus, nor a writer of fables like Timaeus. My history is not for entertainment. It is to teach us better tactics and strategy. It is to guide our course of action in the future.’
Fabius put his centurion’s staff on the map above Europe, and spoke quietly. ‘The Cassiterides exist; my wife’s people call it Pritani, land of the painted people, and others call it Albion. She was the daughter of a Gallic chieftain who shipped wine there from Massalia, exchanging it for slaves and tin.’
Polybius eyed Fabius shrewdly, nodding, and then he turned to Scipio. ‘It is not to the east that we should be looking, but to the west. And it is not tin or slaves that interest me, but strategy.’ He put his pointer on the map beside Fabius’ staff. ‘We should be seeking a route for our transport ships to sail around Iberia and land our legions in Gaul, to sweep south over the expanse of land occupied by the Celtic tribes. We have already fought them, and know them as formidable enemies. During my travels across the Alps I learned of fearsome tribes to the north of the mountains, in the forest lands of the upper rivers. If we do not conquer these tribes, they will grow ever stronger and in years to come will sweep down on Rome itself, as the Celts of northern Italy did two centuries ago. Once we control the west and vanquish these tribes, then the world is truly open to us.’
Scipio put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘When we have laid waste to Carthage, I will provide you with a ship to sail west through the Pillars of Hercules to find these fabled isles and a northern sea route to Gaul.’
‘I should like that above all things,’ Polybius said fervently.
‘But now is not the time for future strategy. Now is the time for war.’ Scipio looked piercingly at Ennius. ‘Do you remember what I told you, when I allowed you to create this special cohort of fabri?’
Ennius grasped the head of the war hammer with one hand. ‘You said I must be a soldier first, an engineer second. My armour lies to hand, ready to put on when the work on the wall is done. And once the ballistas have unleashed hell, I will lead my cohort of fabri through the breach in the wall on the north side. We will fight through the streets and destroy the enemy. We will win more crowns and wreaths and bear more battle scars than any other unit in the army. My hammer and my sword will be steeped in Carthaginian blood.’
‘Good.’ Scipio slapped him on the upper arm. ‘Now, to the preparations for war.’
21
Just as they were turning to go, a huge commotion erupted from the entrance to the circular harbour, and to Fabius’ astonishment a small galley came powering through, its oarsmen pulling furiously. Behind it he could just make out a dark opening on the far side of the harbour that had evidently housed the galley, just within the Carthaginian defensive curtain. As the galley crashed through into the rectangular harbour, followed by legionaries shouting and hurling missiles at it from shore, his astonishment doubled. It was the same lembos that he and Scipio had seen three years earlier, recognizable by the distinctive rake of the bow. The crew of some twenty oarsmen were bent double to avoid the missiles and he could make out half a dozen men in the stern, cowering under shields. There would be no time to chain off the entrance to the harbour; nobody had expected a hidden shipshed, let alone a fully prepared and manned warship. Fabius ran up to the quay at the harbour entrance for a better view, and managed to catch a glimpse before the lembos swept round the corner and into the bay, powering past the anchored warships and heading for the open sea. It had only been a few seconds, but it had been enough for him to be certain. The crew was Roman.
He turned and hurried back to tell Scipio. A centurion came running up from the circular harbour, followed by two legionaries, pushing a man ahead of them whose hands had been tied behind his back. The centurion saluted, caught his breath and gestured back. ‘This man’s a Thracian mercenary, and he’s deserted to us because he says he’s got information for Scipio Aemilianus.’
Fabius glanced the man over, checking that he had been disarmed. ‘He can tell me.’
The centurion shook his head. ‘Only the general. It’s about that lembos.’
Scipio had overheard, and came marching towards them. ‘If this man is telling the truth and h
as good information, I will spare him execution.’
The man stumbled forward and fell on his knees, speaking Greek. ‘I know about that lembos. I’ve guarded it for weeks now. The man who’s just escaped in it is a Roman, called Porcus.’
Fabius stared at Scipio, astonished. It could only be the Porcus who had been his enemy from the backstreets of Rome, the wily thug who had grown up to be Metellus’ right-hand man and adviser. They had last seen Porcus in Carthage during their reconnaissance three years earlier, but had not expected him to be here again. Scipio turned to the man. ‘Do you know what he was doing here?’
‘That’s what I have to tell you. I overheard him talking to Hasdrubal. I want to be spared.’
‘If your information is good, you have my word.’
‘This man Porcus is going to Metellus in Greece with a message. He is to tell Metellus that Hasdrubal will surrender, but only to Metellus. Metellus is to return by the lembos and accept the surrender here beside the harbours.’
Everyone seemed stunned. Scipio stared at the ground for a moment, and then nodded at the centurion, who led the Thracian off to the nearest slave galley. Petraeus turned to him. ‘We have no time to spare. We have to cut him off. We have nothing as fast as that lembos in short bursts, but one of our liburnae could catch them up. The lembos is too small to carry a reserve complement of rowers, whereas the liburnae are large enough to rest some of the rowers and keep up the pace. But we must order a pursuit now. The captain of the lembos will be putting all of his effort into pulling away as fast as he can. Once they’re out of sight, then we’ve lost them.’
Scipio turned to Ennius, who had joined them. ‘What do we have?’
‘My personal liburna. She’s docked in the outer harbour on standby for my use so will be ready to go immediately. I use her for getting to the assault ships, and for going offshore to view the Carthaginian defences. She has a crack complement of Illyrian oarsmen, the best in the Mediterranean, and a section of thirty marines trained in ship-to-ship warfare. She’s one of the vessels that we had specially designed and equipped under your instructions to counter the threat of Carthaginian privateering. She even has a ram.’
Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage Page 27
