Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

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.’