“Certainly.” Again Hanno’s manner grew cheerful. “I’ve thought how to prove my skills to you. In a short time. You realize the need to embark soon, don’t you? Preferably at the start of sailing season.”
“Because of Carthage?”
Hanno nodded. “This new war in Sicily will engage her whole attention for a while. Agathokles of Syracuse is a harder enemy than the Carthaginian suffetes have taken the trouble to discover. I wouldn’t be surprised if he carries the fight to their shores.”
Pytheas stared. “How can you be so sure?”
“I was lately there, and I’ve learned to pay attention. In Carthage too. You’re aware she discourages all foreign traffic beyond the Pillars of Herakles—often by methods that would be called piracy were it the work of a private party. Well, the suffetes now speak of an out-and-out blockade. If they win this war, or at least fight it to a draw, I suspect they’ll lack the resources for some time afterward; but eventually they’ll do it. Your expedition will take a pair of years at least, likelier three, very possibly more. The earlier you set forth, the earlier you’ll come home—if you do—and not run into a Carthaginian patrol. What a shame, after an odyssey like that, to end at the bottom of the sea or on an auction block.”
“We’ll have an escort of warships.” Hanno shook his head. “Oh, no. Anything less than a penteconter would be useless, and that long hull would never survive the North Atlantic. My friend, you haven’t seen waves or storms till you’ve been yonder. Also, how do you carry food and water for all those rowers? They burn it like wildfire, you know, and resupplying will be chancy at best. My namesake could explore the African coasts in galleys, but he was southbound. You’ll need sail. Let me counsel you on what ships to buy.”
“You claim a great many proficiencies,” Pytheas murmured.
“I have been through a great many schools,” Hanno replied.
They talked onward for an hour, and agreed to meet again on the following day. Pytheas escorted his visitor out. They stopped for a moment at the front door.
The house stood high on a ridge above the bay. Eastward, beyond city walls, hills glowed with sunset. The streets of the old Greek colony had become rivers of shadow. Voices, footfalls, wheels were muted; the air rested in chilly peace. Westward the sun cast a bridge across the waters. Masts in the harbor stood stark against it. Gulls cruising overhead caught the light on then- wings, gold beneath blue.
“A lovely sight,” Pytheas said low. “This coast must be the most beautiful in the world.”
Hanno parted his tips as if to tell about others he had seen, closed them, said finally: “Let us try to bring you back here, then. It won’t be easy.”
2
Three vessels fared by moonlight. Their masters dared not put in at Gadeira or any part of Tartessos— Carthaginian territory—and kept the sea after dark. The crews muttered; but night sailing was not unheard of on familiar lanes, and to be out in the very Ocean was a strangeness overwhelming all else.
The craft were alike, so they could more readily travel in convoy. Each was a merchantman, though her principal cargo was well-armed men and their supplies. Narrower in the beam man most of its kind, the black hull swept some hundred feet from the high stern, where the twin steering oars were and a swan’s head ornament reared, to the cutwater at the prow. A mast amidships carried a large square sail and a triangular topsail. Forward of it stood a small deckhouse, aft of it lay two rowboats, for towing her at need or saving lives in the worst need. She could get perhaps eighty degrees off the wind, slowly and awkwardly; nimbler rigs existed, but drew less well. Tonight, with a favoring breeze, she made about five knots.
Hanno came forth. The cabin, which the officers shared, was confining for a person of his habits. Often he slept on deck, together with such of the crew as found the spaces below too cramped and smelly. Several of them rested blanket-wrapped on straw ticks along the bulwarks. Moon-tight turned planks hoar, cross-barred with long unrestful shadows. Air blew cold, and Hanno drew his chlamys close about him. The wind lulled above whoosh of waves, creak of timbers and tackle. The ship rocked gently, making muscles flex in a dance with her.
A figure stood at the starboard rail, near the forward lookout. Hanno recognized Pytheas’ profile against quicksilver moonglade and went to join him. “Rejoice,” he greeted. “You can’t sleep either?”
“I hoped to make observations,” the Greek replied. “Nights this clear will be few for us, won’t they?”
Hanno looked outward. Brightnesses rippled, sheened, sparked over the water. Foam swirled ghostly. Lanterns hung from the yard scarcely touched his vision, though he saw their counterparts glimmer and sway on the companion ships. Across a distance hard to gauge in this moving mingling of light and night, a vague mass lifted, Iberia. “We’ve been lucky thus far in the weather,” Hanno said. He gestured at the goniometer in Pytheas’ hand. “But is that thing of any use here?”
“It would be much more accurate ashore. If only we could— Well, doubtless I’ll find better opportunities later, the Bears will be higher in the sky.”
Hanno glanced at those constellations. They had dimmed as the moon climbed. “What are you trying to measure?”
“I want to locate the north celestial pole more exactly man has hitherto been done.” Pytheas pointed. “Do you see how the two brightest stars in the Lesser Bear, with the first star in the tail, form three corners of a quadrangle? The pole is the fourth. Or so they say.”
“I know. I am your navigator.”
“I beg your pardon. I forgot for a moment. Too absorbed.” Pytheas chuckled ruefully, then grew eager. “If this rule of thumb can be refined, you appreciate what a help that will give seamen. Still more will it mean to geographers and cosmographers. Since the gods have not seen fit to place a star just at the pole, or even especially dose, we must make do as best we are able.”
“There have been such stars in the past,” Hanno said. “There will be again in the future.”
“What?” Pytheas stared at him through the phantom radiance. “Do you mean die heavens change?”
“Over centuries.” Hanno’s hand made a chopping motion. “Forget it. Like you, I spoke without thinking. I don’t expect you to believe me. Call it a sailor’s tall tale.”
Pytheas stroked his chin. “As a matter of fact,” he said, low and slow, “a correspondent of mine in Alexandria, at its great library, has mentioned that ancient records give certain intimations. ... It requires deeper study. But you, Hanno—”
The Phoenician formed a disarming grin. “Perhaps I make lucky guesses once in a while.”
“You are ... unique in several respects. You’ve actually told me very little about yourself. Is ‘Hanno’ the name you were born with?”
“It serves.”
“You seem without home, family, ties of any kind.” Impulsively: “I hate to think of you as lonely and defenseless.”
“Thank you, but I need no sympathy.” Hanno mildened his manner. “You judge me by yourself. Are you already homesick?”
“Not really. Not on this quest that I’ve dreamt of for years.” The Greek paused. “But I do have roots, wife, children. My oldest son is married. He should have grandchildren for me when I return.” With a smile: “My oldest daughter is now marriageable. I left arrangements for her in my brother’s hands, with my wife’s advice and consent. Yes, my little Danae too, she may well have a little one of her own by that time.” He shook himself, as if the wind had touched him with cold. “It won’t do to yearn. Well be long gone at best.”
Hanno shrugged. “And meanwhile, I’ve found, barbarian women are usually easy.”
Pytheas regarded him for a silent spell and said nothing about youths already available. Whatever Hanno’s tastes ought be, he didn’t expect the Phoenician would become intimate with any member of the expedition. Behind that genial front of his, how much humanity was in him?
3
