Fabius remembered their last image of the old centurion, mutilated in the dust all those years ago in the Alban Hills, and wondered whether Scipio had melded that memory with the vision of Africanus, both of them men who had reached for glory but had been brought low by the machinations of Rome: the one bowing before those who wished to restrain him from destroying Carthage and living the remainder of his life in shadow and disappointment, the other hacked down ingloriously for training a new generation to take up where Africanus had left off, to add conquest to conquest and go where Africanus had not been allowed to go by the Senate, and by a sense of duty to authority in Rome that he would later come to regret.
Polybius looked penetratingly at Scipio, and then put his hand on his arm. ‘You have much on your mind, my friend: a burden that has played in your dreams for years now. It will be lifted tomorrow.’
Scipio continued to stare at the walls of Carthage, his eyes dark and unfathomable. ‘You taught me that the Pythagoreans believe in the power of music, just as Africanus told me in my dream, that a single note might purify the soul and prepare it for Elysium. I used to think I heard it, at night alone in the forest, or encamped by the sea when the water was dead calm. But now, when I try to listen for it, all I hear is discordance, clamour, distant howls like the wolves in the Macedonian forest, shrieks and yells, a terrible groaning. Sometimes I can only sleep with other noises around me to drown it out: the crackling of a campfire in the desert, the creaking of a ship’s timbers and the slapping of the waves when I am at sea.’
Polybius leaned back. ‘Just as we cannot look at the sun, so we cannot truly hear the divine note that would allow us to ascend to the heavens; it is a note that we can only hear when our souls are ready for Elysium. But the sounds that haunt you are the sounds of war, my friend, of war and death in your past, and war that is your future.’
‘Then that is my music,’ Scipio said quietly. ‘When I woke from that dream, night was over, and when I looked towards the sun in the east its rays seemed to encircle the earth, cutting it off from the heavens; when I gazed up I could no longer see the stars, and instead saw only storm clouds rolling in from the south. Tomorrow when we awaken, they will be the clouds of war.’ He picked up the flagon, tipped it up so that the last dregs spilled out, and then tossed it into the sea. ‘We need clear heads for tomorrow. Dawn is only a few hours away, and before then Ennius and his fabri will be cranking up the catapults in readiness for the assault. We should try to sleep now.’
20
Shortly after dawn, Fabius stood with Scipio and Polybius on the quay beside the rectangular harbour. Around them lay all the panoply of war, piles of supplies brought in by ship over the last two days: stacks of amphorae filled with wine and olive oil and fish sauce, crates of iron-tipped ballista bolts, bundles of new pila spears and fresh swords. The stores were stacked where there was space among the rubble and collapsed warehouses that still smouldered from the fighting three days before. They picked their way over to a group of legionaries stripped to the waist working on a large pile of masonry that blocked an entrance into the main street of the city. Ennius detached himself from the group and came over to them, his stubble and forearms white with dust from the fallen masonry and his forehead glistening with sweat. Fabius could see the forged war hammer hanging from the left side of his belt, a gift from Scipio on his promotion to command the specialized cohort of fabri, the engineers, and on the other side the vicious makhaira sword with its curved cutting edge that showed his lineage from the Etruscan warriors of Tarquinia to the north of Rome. He stood before Scipio, and raised his right fist in salute over his chest. ‘Ave, Scipio Aemilianus Africanus.’
Scipio put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Ave, Ennius. You look as if you could do with a week in the baths of Dionysius at Neapolis.’
‘When this job is done, Scipio.’
‘How go the preparations?’
Ennius swept one hand back in the direction of the harbour and the massive wall dividing it from the open sea. Through gaps smashed in the masonry by Roman ballista balls six months previously they could see the prows and curved stems of war galleys hove-to just offshore, their oars angled forward ready to launch the ships into the quay and disgorge waves of legionaries to scale the walls. Fabius knew there were hundreds of ships now, quinquiremes, triremes, ram-tipped Ligurian galleys, all anchored in rows before the sea wall ready for the final assault. Ennius turned back to Scipio. ‘Twenty-five specially built barges with catapults lie two stades offshore, beyond the range of the Carthaginian archers,’ he said. ‘They are anchored at all four quarters, and the quinquiremes to seaward are positioned broadside on to the waves, making a breakwater to keep the barges as stable as possible. As we speak, my men are mixing the final ingredient of the Greek fire. At your command, the catapults will rain fireballs on the city and wreak destruction as you have never seen it before in a siege.’
‘And you are able to keep the barrage falling ahead of our advancing legionaries?’
‘We have forward observers concealed at the highest points on the sea walls, sharp-eyed Alpine Celts who can spot a deer in the mountains at a hundred stades. They will use coded flag signals to direct the ballista crews to adjust their aim. We have Polybius to thank for that, the code that he has given us.’
Scipio looked sceptical. ‘Do your men truly know this code?’
‘It’s brilliant. You’ve got to hand it to those Greeks. All twenty-four letters of the Greek alphabet are arranged in a square, numbered from one to five vertically and the same horizontally, with one letter fewer in the last division. The signaller raises his left hand to indicate the vertical column, his right hand for the horizontal. He raises a torch in each hand the correct number of times to signify a letter. We’ve practised it in the desert for weeks now. We even have a short-hand to indicate directional changes to the ballista crews.’
‘All right.’ Scipio looked from Ennius to the tall Greek beside him, cracking a smile. ‘Good to know you’ve been keeping Polybius’ nose out of his books.’
‘It was books that taught me the code, Scipio, as you very well know,’ Polybius said. ‘To be specific, an ancient hieroglyphic scroll in the possession of an old priest in the Temple of Saïs in the Nile Delta. It told how the earliest priests used this technique to signal from pyramid to pyramid.’
‘Is there anything else you need to tell me?’ Scipio asked Ennius, looking up at the sky and sensing the wind, and then back at the wooden observation tower on the island in the centre of the harbour. ‘We have only hours before I intend to order the final assault.’
‘Then there is time for a quick look at this. Polybius asked me to watch out for any inscriptions that might help with his history of Carthage. We found this bronze plaque with lettering, which had been used to strengthen a door. We’re about to melt it down to make arrowheads for the Numidian auxiliaries, which is why Gulussa is here.’
Polybius took the sheet of bronze from Ennius. It was about two feet across, and the lettering on it had been smoothed by polishing. He glanced over at Gulussa, who had just joined them. ‘Can you read this? I believe the script is an old version of Libyo-Phoenician.’
Gulussa knelt down beside the plaque, tracing his hands over the letters. ‘Two of these plaques used to be set up outside the Temple of Ba’al Hammon on the acropolis. I saw them there when my father Masinissa allowed me to accompany a Numidian embassy to Carthage when I was a boy. They’re an account by a navigator called Hanno of a Carthaginian expedition through the Pillars of Hercules and down the west coast of Africa over three hundred years ago. On the same pillar outside the temple was nailed the desiccated remains of skin, like old camel hide but covered in thick black hair, that Hanno cut from a savage he called a gorilla. The Carthaginians tried to kidnap their women but were no match for them in strength.’