The Mediterranean Sea
Hours passed in a blur of driving rain and pounding waves. Darkness fell, which increased the magnitude of the friends’ terror manyfold. The small boat was tossed up and down, back and forth, helpless before the sea’s immense power. It took all of Hanno’s energy just to stay on board. Both of them were sick multiple times, vomiting a mixture of food and wine over themselves and the vessel’s floor. Eventually there was nothing left but bile to come up. Flashes of lightning regularly illuminated the pathetic scene. Hanno wasn’t sure which was worse: not being able to see his hand in front of his face, or looking at Suniaton’s wan, terrified features and puke-spattered clothes.
Slumped on the bench opposite, his friend alternated between hysterical bouts of weeping, and praying to every god he could think of. Somehow Suniaton’s distress helped Hanno to remain in control of his own terror. He was even able to take some solace from their situation. If Melqart had wanted to drown them, they would already be dead. The storm had not reached the heights it would have done in winter, nor had their boat capsized. Besides these minor miracles, there had been no further leaks. Sturdily built from cypress planks, its seams were sealed with lengths of tightly packed linen fibre as well as a layer of beeswax. They had not lost the oars, which meant that they could row to land, should the opportunity arise. Moreover, every stretch of coastline had its Carthaginian trading post. There they could make themselves known, promising rich reward for a passage home.
Hanno pinched himself out of the fantasy. Don’t get your hopes up, he thought bitterly. The bad weather showed no signs of letting up. Any one of the waves rolling in their direction was capable of flipping the boat. Melqart hadn’t drowned them yet, but deities were capricious by nature, and the sea god was no different. All it would take was a tiny extra surge in the water for their craft to overturn. Hanno struggled to hold back his own tears. What real chance had they? Even if they survived until sunrise and their families worked out where they had gone, the likelihood of being found on the open sea was slim to none. Adrift with no food or water, they would both die, painfully, within a few days. At this stark realisation Hanno closed his eyes and asked for a quick death instead.
Despite the heavy rain which had soaked him to the skin, Malchus had returned from the meeting with the Council of Elders in excellent humour. He stood now, a cup of wine in hand, under the sloping portico that ran around the house’s main courtyard, watching the raindrops splashing off the white marble mosaic half a dozen steps away. His impassioned speech had gone down as he ’d wished, which relieved him greatly. Since Hannibal’s messenger had given him the weighty task a week before of announcing to the elders and suffetes that the general planned to attack Saguntum, Malchus had been consumed by worry. What if the council did not back the Barca? The stakes were higher than he’d ever known.
Saguntine reprisals against the tribes allied to Carthage were purportedly the reason for Hannibal’s assault, but, as everyone knew, its intent was to provoke Rome into a response. Yet, thanks to the general’s perfect timing, that response would not be militaristic. Severe unrest in Illyricum meant that the Republic had already committed both consuls and their armies to conflict in the East. For the upcoming campaign season, Rome would only be able to issue empty threats. After that, however, retribution would undoubtedly follow. Hannibal was not worried. He was convinced that the time for war with their old enemy was ripe, and Malchus agreed with him. Nonetheless, bringing those who led Carthage round to the same opinion had been a daunting prospect.
It was a pity, thought Malchus, that Hanno had not been there to witness his finest oratory yet. By the end, he’d had the entire council on their feet, cheering at the idea of renewed conflict with Rome. Meanwhile Hanno had most likely been fishing. News of the huge shoals of tunny offshore that day had swept the city. Now Hanno was probably spending the proceeds of his catch on wine and whores. Malchus sighed. A moment later, hearing Sapho and Bostar’s voices in the corridor that led to the street, his mood lifted. At least two of his sons had been there. They soon emerged into view, wringing out their sodden cloaks.
‘A wonderful speech, Father,’ said Sapho in a hearty tone.
‘It was excellent,’ agreed Bostar. ‘You had them in the palm of your hand. They could only respond in one way.’
Malchus made a modest gesture, but inside he was delighted. ‘Finally, Carthage is ready for the war that we have been preparing for these years past.’ He moved to the table behind him, upon which sat a glazed red jug and several beakers. ‘Let us raise a toast to Hannibal Barca.’
‘Shame Hanno didn’t hear your speech too,’ said Sapho, throwing a meaningful glance at Bostar. Busily pouring wine, their father didn’t see it.
‘Indeed,’ Malchus replied, handing each a full cup. ‘Such occasions do not come often. For the rest of his life, the boy will regret that he was playing truant while history was made.’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Have you seen him?’
There was a short, awkward silence.
He looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’
‘We ran into him this morning,’ Sapho admitted. ‘On our way to the Agora. He was with Suniaton.’
Malchus swore. ‘That must have been just after he’d scarpered out of the house. The little ruffian ignored my shouts! Did the pair of them give you the slip?’
‘Not exactly,’ Sapho replied awkwardly, giving Bostar another pointed stare.
Malchus caught the tension between his sons. ‘What’s going on?’
Bostar cleared his throat. ‘We talked, and then let them go.’ He rephrased his words. ‘ I let them go.’
‘Why?’ Malchus cried angrily. ‘You knew how important my speech was.’
Bostar flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Father. Perhaps I acted wrongly, but I couldn’t help thinking that, like us, Hanno will soon be at war. For the moment, though, he’s still a boy. Let him enjoy himself while he can.’
Tapping a finger against his teeth, Malchus turned to Sapho. ‘What did you say?’
‘Initially, I thought that we should force Hanno to come with us, Father, but Bostar had a point. As he was the senior officer present, I gave way to his judgement.’ Bostar tried to interrupt, but Sapho continued talking. ‘In hindsight, it was possibly the wrong decision. I should have argued with him.’
‘How dare you!’ Bostar cried. ‘I made no mention of rank! We made the decision together.’
Sapho’s lip curled. ‘Did we?’
Malchus held up his hands. ‘Enough!’
Throwing each other angry looks, the brothers fell silent.
Malchus thought for a moment. ‘I am sorely disappointed in you, Sapho, for not protesting more at your brother’s desire to let Hanno do as he wished.’ He regarded Bostar next. ‘Shame on you, as a senior officer, for forgetting that our primary purpose is to gain revenge on Rome. In comparison, frivolities such as fishing are irrelevant!’ Ignoring their muttered apologies, Malchus raised his cup. ‘Let us forget Hanno and his wastrel friend, and drink a toast to Hannibal Barca, and to our victory in the coming war with Rome!’
They followed his lead, but neither brother clinked his beaker off the other’s.
Hanno’s wish for an easy death was not granted. Eventually the storm passed, and the ferocious waves died down. Dawn arrived, bringing with it calm seas and a clear sky. The wind changed direction; it was now coming from the northeast. Hanno’s hopes rose briefly, before falling again. The breeze was not strong enough to carry them back home, and the current continued to carry their small vessel eastwards. Silence reigned; all the seabirds had been driven off by the inclement weather. Suniaton’s exhaustion had finally got the better of him, and he lay slumped on the boat’s sole, snoring.
Hanno grimaced at the irony of it. The peaceful scene could not have been more at odds with what they had endured overnight. His sodden clothes were drying fast in the warm sunshine. The boat rocked gently from side to side, wavelets slapping off the hull. A pod of dolphins broke the surface nearby, but the sight did not bring the usual smile to Hanno’s face. Now, their graceful shapes and gliding motion were an acute reminder that he belonged on the land, which was nowhere to be seen. Apart from the dolphins, they were utterly alone.
Regret, and an unfamiliar feeling, that of humility, filled Hanno. I should have done my duty, he thought. Gone to that meeting with Father. The idea of listening to dirtbags like Hostus and his cronies was now most appealing. Hanno stared bleakly at the western horizon, knowing that he would never see his home, or his family, again. Suddenly, his sorrow became overwhelming. Hanno’s eyes filled with tears, and he was grateful that Suniaton was asleep. Their friendship ran deep, but he had no wish to be seen crying like a child. He did not despise Suni for his extreme reaction during the storm, though. Thinking that a calm mien might help his friend was all that had prevented him from acting similarly.
