Hanno scowled as they reached a good vantage point. Instead of the imposing sight of a warship sliding backwards into the water, he saw a purple-cloaked admiral strutting along the jetty that led from the periphery of the circular docks to the central island, where the navy’s headquarters were. Another fanfare of trumpets sounded, making sure that every man in the place knew who was arriving. ‘What has he got to swagger about?’ Hanno muttered. Malchus reserved much of his anger for the incompetent Carthaginian fleet, so he had learned to feel the same way. Carthage’s days as a superpower of the sea were long gone, their fleet smashed into so much driftwood by Rome during the two nations’ bitter struggle over Sicily. Remarkably, the Romans had been a non-seafaring race before the conflict. Undeterred by this major disadvantage, they had learned the skills of naval warfare, adding a few tricks of their own in the process. Since her defeat, Carthage had done little to reclaim the waves.
Hanno sighed. Truly, all their hopes lay on the land, with Hannibal.
Some time later, Hanno had forgotten all his worries. Half a mile offshore, their little boat was positioned directly over a mass of tunny. The shoal’s location had not been hard to determine, thanks to the roiling water created by the large silver fish as they hunted sardines. Small boats dotted the location and clouds of seabirds swooped and dived overhead, attracted by the prospect of food. Suniaton’s source had been telling the truth, and neither youth had been able to stop grinning since their arrival. Their task was simple: one rowed, the other lowered their net into the sea. Although they had seen better days, the plaited strands were still capable of landing a catch. Pieces of wood along the top of the net helped it to float, while tiny lumps of lead pulled its lower edge down into the water. Their first throw had netted nearly a dozen tunny, each one longer than a man’s forearm. Subsequent attempts were just as successful, and now the bottom of the boat was calf-deep in fish. Any more, and they would risk overloading their craft.
‘A good morning’s work,’ pronounced Suniaton.
‘Morning?’ challenged Hanno, squinting at the sun. ‘We’ve been here less than an hour. It couldn’t have been easier, eh?’
Suniaton regarded him solemnly. ‘Don’t put yourself down. I think our efforts deserve a toast.’ With a flourish, he produced a small amphora from his pack.
Hannibal laughed; Suniaton was incorrigible.
Encouraged, Suniaton went on talking as if he were serving guests at an important banquet. ‘Not the most expensive wine in Father’s collection, I recall, but a palatable one nonetheless.’ Using his knife, he prised off the wax seal and removed the lid. Raising the amphora to his lips, he gulped a large mouthful. ‘Acceptable,’ he declared, handing over the clay vessel.
‘Philistine. Sip it slowly.’ Hanno took a small swig and rolled it around his mouth as Malchus had taught him. The red wine had a light and fruity flavour, but little undertone. ‘It needs a few more years, I think.’
‘Now who’s being pompous?’ Suniaton kicked a tunny at him. ‘Shut up and drink!’
Grinning, Hanno obeyed, taking more this time.
‘Don’t finish it,’ cried Suniaton.
Despite his protest, the amphora was quickly drained. At once the ravenous pair launched into the bread, nuts and fruit that Suniaton had bought. With their bellies full, and their work done, it was the most natural thing in the world to lie back and close their eyes. Unaccustomed to consuming much wine, before long they were both snoring.
It was the cold wind on his face that woke Hanno. Why was the boat moving so much? he wondered vaguely. He shivered, feeling quite chilled. Opening gummy eyes, he took in a prone Suniaton opposite, still clutching the empty amphora. At his feet, the heaps of blank-eyed fish, their bodies already rigid. Looking up, Hanno felt a pang of fear. Instead of the usual clear sky, all he could see were towering banks of blue-black clouds. They were pouring in from the northwest. He blinked, refusing to believe what he was seeing. How could the weather have changed so fast? Mockingly, the first spatters of rain hit Hanno’s upturned cheeks an instant later. Scanning the choppy waters, he could see no sign of the fishing craft that had surrounded theirs earlier. Nor could he see the land. Real alarm seized him.
He leaned over and shook Suniaton. ‘Wake up!’
The only response was an irritated grunt.
‘Suni!’ This time, Hanno slapped his friend across the face.
‘Hey!’ Suniaton cried, sitting up. ‘What’s that for?’
Hanno didn’t answer. ‘Where in the name of the gods are we?’ he shouted.
All semblance of drunkenness fell away as Suniaton turned his head from side to side. ‘Sacred Tanit above,’ he breathed. ‘How long were we asleep?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hanno growled. ‘A long time.’ He pointed to the west, where the sun’s light was just visible behind the storm clouds. Its position told them that it was late in the afternoon. He stood, taking great care not to capsize the boat. Focusing on the horizon, where the sky met the threatening sea, he spent long moments trying to make out the familiar walls of Carthage, or the craggy promontory that lay to the north of the city.
‘Well?’ Suniaton could not keep the fear from his voice.
Hanno sat down heavily. ‘I can’t see a thing. We’re fifteen or twenty stades from shore. Maybe more.’
What little colour there had been in Suniaton’s face drained away. Instinctively, he clutched at the hollow gold tube that hung from a thong around his neck. Decorated with a lion’s head at one end, it contained tiny parchments covered with protective spells and prayers to the gods. Hanno wore a similar one. With great effort, he refrained from copying his friend. ‘We’ll row back,’ he announced.
‘In these seas?’ screeched Suniaton. ‘Are you mad?’
Hanno glared back. ‘What other choice have we? To jump in?’
His friend looked down. Both were more confident in the water than most, but they had never swum long distances, especially in conditions as bad as these.
Seizing the oars from the floor, Hanno placed them in the iron rowlocks. He turned the boat’s rounded bow towards the west and began to row. Instantly, he knew that his attempt was doomed to fail. The power surging at him was more potent than anything he’d ever felt in his life. It felt like a raging, out-of-control beast, with the howling wind providing its terrifying voice. Ignoring his gut feeling, Hanno concentrated on each stroke with fierce intensity. Lean back. Drag the oars through the water. Lift them free. Bend forward, pushing the handles between his knees. Over and over he repeated the process, ignoring his pounding head and dry mouth, and cursing their foolishness in drinking all of the wine. If I had listened to my father, I’d still be at home, he thought bitterly. Safe on dry land.
Finally, when the muscles in his arms were trembling with exhaustion, Hanno stopped. Without looking up, he knew that their position would have changed little. For every three strokes’ progress, the current carried them at least two further out to sea. ‘Well?’ he shouted. ‘Can you see anything?’
‘No,’ Suniaton replied grimly. ‘Move over. It’s my turn, and this is our best chance.’
Our last chance, Hanno thought, gazing at the darkening sky.
Gingerly, they exchanged places on the little wooden thwarts that were the boat’s only fittings. Thanks to the mass of slippery fish underfoot, it was even more difficult than usual. While his friend laboured at the oars, Hanno strained for a glimpse of land over the waves. Neither spoke. There was no point. The rain was now drumming down on their backs, combining with the wind’s noise to form a shrieking cacophony that made normal speech impossible. Only the sturdy construction of their boat had prevented them from capsizing thus far.
At length, his energy spent, Suniaton shipped the oars. He looked at Hanno. There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.