Hamilcar Barca walked slowly along the shore, his gaze ranging over the final stages of construction, the air filled with the sound of hammering and shouted commands. He knew he should feel tired, for he had barely slept over the previous two weeks, but anticipation was fuelling his energy and the sights around him continually commanded his full attention. He stopped at the head of one of the many jetties, his mind’s eye already seeing the serried ranks of galleys that would soon be moored there and again his mind ranged over the events and details that needed to transpire before that vision would become a reality. He turned in the soft sand and looked down to his feet. The beach had been churned by a thousand footfalls, the slaves’ bare footprints mixed with the prints of sandaled feet of the tradesmen who had been drafted in to the site. Hamilcar traced the signs of his own hob-nailed sandals and once again he was given over to imagine when the sand would show only prints of his kind.
Over the previous two weeks Hamilcar had received one report after another, each one keeping him apace with events on all fronts. In Carthage the fleets were assembling, the military port which could house two hundred galleys already full and the navy had resorted to commandeering parts of the commercial port to house the excess. Sixty miles south-west from where Hamilcar stood, his forces had pushed past Enna and were skirmishing with the Romans, driving relentlessly eastward. They would reach the border of Syracuse within a week. One final report, received only two days before had come from Hiero through an emissary. Ostensibly the emissary had enquired about the security arrangements at Tyndaris but Hamilcar had quickly noticed that the Syracusan’s eyes had taken in every detail of the port and Hamilcar had taken the opportunity to mention the progress of his fleet and land forces, knowing that Hiero would hear his words within days.
Hamilcar looked to the sun setting rapidly in the west, the drop in temperature tempting a light cloud cover to appear on that horizon while over his shoulder, in the eastern sky, the full moon was beginning her climb into the heavens. Hamilcar’s thoughts drifted to Belus and his imminent return, the phase of the moon signalling the pre- determined end to his task. Perhaps he would arrive on the morrow and Hamilcar utter a silent prayer to Tanit that the information he would bring would confirm his earlier reports. Armed with that confirmation Hamilcar would be poised to strike and he suddenly felt impatient, the culmination of so many months of planning hinging on one final report.
Belus smiled in the twilight as he watched the full moon rise over the bow of the pirate galley. The moon looked unusually large in perspective and he savoured the sight that marked the end of his time on the pirate galley. Belus looked away and turned towards the darkening sea, blinking his eyes to clear them of the residual image of the moon as he once more marshalled his thoughts, sifting the information he had gathered since he had last seen his commander.
The crux of his report involved security and the perceived opportunity to take the Romans by surprise. On this point he was now sure, the evidence overwhelming and he smiled without thinking as he imagined the reaction of Hamilcar to the news. The smile dissipated quickly as Belus was reminded of the primary source of this vital information, the Roman captain still recovering below decks. Too many times over the previous days, when Belus had gone to check on the Roman, he had found himself examining his decision to spare him. More than once his conviction had faltered, even when faced with the sight of the Roman’s broken body. Rome was the enemy, the aggressor who had precipitated the conflict on Sicily until the only option left to Carthage was total war. The sons of Rome therefore deserved no mercy, whether trader or soldier, for victory could not be achieved through halfmeasures. And yet, more often than not, Belus knew he was right to spare the captain. He firmly believed the Romans were no better than wolves, creatures totally without honour that corrupted all they touched. If Carthage was to prevail and remain unsullied by the conflict, Belus knew her sons needed to remain honourable. The Roman captain had been a worthy adversary and Belus would treat him as such. Once the impending campaign was underway, he would release him back to his people.
The stench of unwashed skin and clothes shattered Belus’s thoughts and he turned to find a crewman standing beside him.
‘Captain wants to see you,’ he said, his mouth a mess of broken and rotting teeth, his breath putrid.
Belus nodded and stepped passed the pirate, his eyes searching the deck until he spotted Narmer on the aft. He strode towards him, conscious of the intense stare of the pirate captain as he approached.
‘A full moon, Carthaginian,’ Narmer said, stepping forward.
‘Then we set course for Tyndaris,’ Belus replied, wishing to keep the conversation as brief as possible.
‘We’ll be there by noon tomorrow,’ Narmer replied.
‘No sooner?’ Belus asked. By his reckoning Tyndaris was no more than twenty miles as the crow flies.
Narmer nodded over his shoulder to the darkening horizon. Belus followed his indication and noticed the darker smear of storm clouds.
‘There’s a storm rolling south,’ Narmer remarked. ‘We will have to stay in shallow waters and hug the coastline.’
Belus nodded. The bireme had a very shallow draft, ill suited for heavy seas, and the galley was now in open waters west of the Bruttian peninsula. They would have to sail eastwards to the Italian mainland, into the lee of the peninsula, and then south along the coast. It was unavoidable but it added considerable time to their passage and Belus allowed his irritation to show on his face.
‘Trust me, Carthaginian,’ Narmer sneered, seeing Belus’s expression. ‘I am as anxious as you to reach Tyndaris and have you, and that Roman you spared, off my ship.’
Belus stared stonily at the pirate, not deigning to reply.
Narmer stepped towards Belus, leaning forward threateningly, determined to press home his opinion. ‘And remember this,’ he spat. ‘If my gold isn’t there waiting for me, you’ll die on this galley, but not before my crew string you from the mainmast.’
Belus continued to stare icily into the captain’s eyes, silently marking every contour of the pirate’s face before turning abruptly to leave the aft-deck.
‘Another wasted day?’ Septimus said with mock derision as he came up to the aft-deck.
‘Not one sighting,’ Atticus replied with frustration.
‘Maybe the other galleys have had more success,’ Septimus said, sharing his friend’s disappointment although he knew Atticus’s hatred for pirates ran deeper than his own, second nature for a man who had spent his life at sea.
‘We’ll know tomorrow,’ Atticus replied, referring to the prearranged assembly of the squad in the fishing village of Falcone that was scheduled for the next day.
Septimus nodded, sensing Atticus’s conviction that no other crew had encountered the pirate galley. He looked beyond the captain to the setting sun and watched as the last of the day’s sunlight skipped across the wave tops. Septimus had spent most of the day in training with his demi-maniple, a welcome distraction from the seemingly endless trek across open water and even now, within a minute of watching the horizon, he became annoyed by the monotonous seascape.
‘Captain!’
Septimus turned at the call, recognising Gaius’s voice and he watched as Atticus walked towards the tiller and man who had called him. As Atticus approached Gaius nodded to a point high in the sky over the port rail, using only his head to indicate, his hands never leaving the tiller. Septimus turned and followed the line of sight of the captain, immediately seeing a loose flock of seagulls flying across the line of the Aquila’s course. He wondered at their significance and he turned again to see Atticus and Gaius in conversation, both of them occasionally looking to the northern horizon.
‘What’s wrong?’ Septimus asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
‘The seagulls,’ Atticus replied, pointing again to the dwindling profiles of the flock. ‘They’re heading inland.’
‘So?’ Septimus asked.
‘It’s a sign that bad weather’s approaching.’
Septimus smiled at superstitious sailors but as he looked to the north he saw the unmistakeable stain of dark clouds crowding the horizon, their height seeming to increase with every second.
‘Come about east,’ Atticus ordered.
‘We’re going to run from it?’ Septimus asked, surprised. ‘Surely this galley can weather an autumn storm.’
‘Not with that thing on board altering the trim of the hull,’ Gaius said, indicating the corvus boarding ramp on the foredeck. ‘We encounter heavy weather with that thing attached to the deck and we’ll capsize before we have
