A short time later, Suniaton awoke. Hanno, who was still feeling fragile, was surprised and irritated to see that his spirits had risen somewhat.
‘I’m hungry,’ Suniaton declared, glancing around with greedy eyes.
‘Well, there’s nothing to eat. Or drink,’ Hanno replied sourly. ‘Get used to it.’
Hanno’s foul mood was obvious and Suniaton had the wisdom not to reply. Instead he busied himself by bailing out the handsbreadth of water in the bottom of the boat. His housekeeping complete, he lifted the oars and placed them in their rowlocks. Squinting at the horizon and then the sun, he began rowing due south. After a moment, he started whistling a ditty that was currently popular in Carthage.
Hanno scowled. The tune reminded him of the good times they had spent carousing in the rough taverns near the city’s twin ports. The pleasurable hours he had spent with plump Egyptian whores in the room above the bar. ‘Isis’, as she called herself, had been his favourite. He pictured her kohl-rimmed eyes, her carmine lips framing encouraging words, and his groin throbbed. It was too much to bear. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped.
Hurt, Suniaton obeyed.
Hanno was spoiling for a fight now. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, pointing at the oars.
‘Rowing,’ Suniaton replied sharply. ‘What does it look like?’
‘What’s the point?’ Hanno cried. ‘We could be fifty miles out to sea.’
‘Or five.’
Hanno blinked, and then chose to ignore his friend’s sensible answer. He was so angry he could hardly think. ‘Why choose south? Why not north, or east?’
Suniaton gave him a withering glance. ‘Numidia is the nearest coastline, in case you hadn’t realised.’
Hanno flushed and fell silent. Of course he knew that the southern shore of the Mediterranean was closer than Sicily or Italy. In the circumstances, Suniaton’s plan was a good one. Nonetheless, Hanno felt unwilling to back down, so he sat and stared sulkily at the distant horizon.
Stubbornly, Suniaton continued to paddle southwards.
Time passed, and the sun climbed high in the sky.
After a while, Hanno found his voice. ‘Let me take a turn,’ he muttered.
‘Eh?’ Suniaton barked.
‘You’ve been rowing for ages,’ said Hanno. ‘It’s only fair that you have a break.’
‘“What’s the point?”’ Suniaton angrily repeated his friend’s words.
Hanno swallowed his pride. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, all right? Heading south is as good a plan as any.’
Suniaton’s nod was grudging. ‘Fair enough.’
They changed position, and Hanno took control of the oars. A more comfortable atmosphere fell, and Suniaton’s good humour returned. ‘At least we’re still alive, and still together,’ he said. ‘How much worse would it have been if one of us had been washed overboard? There’d be no one to throw insults at!’
Hanno grimaced in agreement. He lifted his gaze to the burning disc that was the sun. It had to be nearly midday. It was baking hot now, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. What I’d give for a cup of water, he thought longingly. His spirits reached a new low, and a moment later, he shipped the oars, unable to work up the enthusiasm to continue rowing.
‘My turn,’ said Suniaton dutifully.
Hanno saw the resignation he was feeling reflected in his friend’s eyes. ‘Let’s just rest for a while,’ he murmured. ‘It looks set to remain calm. What does it matter where we make landfall?’
‘True enough.’ Despite the lie, Suniaton managed to smile. He didn’t vocalise what they were both thinking: if, by some miracle, they did manage to reach the Numidian coastline, would they find water before succumbing to their thirst?
Some time later, they both took another turn at the oars, applying themselves to the task with a vigour born of desperation. Their exertions produced no discernible result: all around, the horizon was empty. They were totally alone. Lost. Abandoned by the gods. At length, exhausted by thirst and the extreme heat, the friends gave up and lay down in the bottom of the boat to rest. Sleep soon followed.
Hanno dreamed that he was on one side of a door while his father was on the other, hammering on the timbers with a balled fist and demanding he open it at once. Hanno was desperate to obey, but could find no handle or keyhole on the door’s featureless surface. Malchus’ blows grew heavier and heavier, until finally Hanno became aware that he was dreaming. Waking to a pounding headache and a feeling of distinct disorientation, he opened his eyes. Above, the limitless expanse of the blue sky. Beside him, Suniaton’s slumbering form. To Hanno’s amazement, the thumping in his head was replaced by a regular, and familiar, cadence: that of men singing. There was another voice too, shouting indistinct commands. It was a sailor, calling the tune for the oarsmen, thought Hanno disbelievingly. A ship!
All weariness fell away, and he sat bolt upright. Turning his head, Hanno searched for the source of the noise. Then he spotted it: a low, predatory shape not three hundred paces distant, its decks lined with men. It had a single mast with a square sail supported by a complex set of rigging, and two banks of oars. The red-coloured stern was curved like a scorpion’s tail, and there was a small forecastle at the prow. Amidst his exultation, Hanno felt the first tickle of unease. This didn’t look like a merchant vessel; it was clearly no fishing smack either. However, it was not large enough to be a Carthaginian, or even a Roman, warship. These days, Carthage had very few biremes or triremes, relying instead on the bigger, more powerful quinqueremes and, to a lesser extent, quadriremes. Rome possessed some smaller ships, but he could see none of their standards. Yet the craft had a distinctly military air.
He nudged Suniaton. ‘Wake up!’
His friend groaned. ‘What is it?’
‘A ship.’
Suniaton shot into a sitting position. ‘Where?’ he demanded.
Hanno pointed. The bireme was beating a northward course, which would bring it to within a hundred paces of their little boat. It was in a hurry to be using both its sail and the power of its oars, and it seemed no one had seen them. Hanno’s stomach lurched. If he didn’t act, it might pass them by.
He stood up. ‘Here! Over here,’ he began shouting in Carthaginian. Suniaton joined in, waving his arms like a man possessed. Hanno repeated his cry in Greek. For a few heart-stopping moments, nothing happened. Finally, a man’s head turned. With the sea almost flat calm, it was impossible not to see them. Guttural shouts rang out, and the chanting voices halted abruptly. The oars on the port side, which was facing them, slowed and stopped, reducing the bireme’s speed at once. Another set of bellowed commands, and the sail was reefed, allowing the ship to bear away from the wind. The nearest banks of oars began to back water, turning the bireme towards them. Soon they could see the base of the bronze ram that was attached to the bow. Carved in the shape of a creature’s head, it was only possible to make out the top of the skull and the eyes. Now pointing straight at them, the vessel gave off a most threatening air.
The two friends looked at each other, suddenly unsure.
‘Who are they?’ whispered Suniaton.
Hanno shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe we should have kept quiet,’ said Suniaton. He began muttering a prayer.
Hanno’s certainty weakened, but it was far too late now.
The sailor who led the oarsmen’s chant began a slower rhythm than before. In unison, the oars on both sides lifted and swept gracefully through the air before arcing down to split the sea’s surface with a loud, splashing sound. Encouraged by the shouts of their overseer, the oarsmen sang and heaved together, dragging their oars, carved lengths of polished spruce, through the water.
Before long, the bireme had drawn alongside. Its superstructure was decorated red like the stern, but around each oar hole a swirling blue design had been painted. It was still bright and fresh, showing the work had been done recently. Hanno’s heart sank as he studied the grinning men — a mixture of nationalities from Greek and Libyan to Iberian — lining the rails and forecastle. Most were clad in little more than a loincloth, but all were armed to the teeth. He could see catapults on the deck as well. He and Suniaton had only their daggers.
‘They’re fucking pirates,’ Suniaton muttered. ‘We’re dead meat. Slaves, if we’re lucky.’
‘Would you rather die of thirst? Or exposure?’ Hanno retorted, furious at himself for not seeing the bireme for what it was. For not keeping silent.
‘Maybe,’ Suniaton snapped back. ‘We’ll never know now, though.’
