Hanno circled the Admiralty Island and came about, heading straight for Artemisia. A tug of the rope raised the sail with one last gust of wind, and sent the sloop careening for an empty dock.
Hanno leapt to the wooden planks just as the sloop capsized against the posts, and smiled at the sight of Bostar racing behind him.
They ran up the empty, spiraling steps leading to the harbor walls, and climbed the entrance tower. Hanno remembered each stone from his youth spent exploring dock after dock, ship after ship. As always, Bostar followed.
The king set foot atop the tower, where the city’s defensive catapults stood unmanned, and looked down upon the forum. Tearful crowds had flooded the wide paving stones, pressed in on all sides by the furious mob. Some fought back against those with daggers and torches, but most huddled and prayed, awaiting what fate might bring them on the cold ground.
Hanno climbed atop the parapet and set his hand against the catapult arm to steady himself.
“Carthage!” he shouted.
Bostar lit a torch from a smoldering brazier at the base of the catapult and waved it like a banner.
Some pointed. Others shouted. Many more simply raised their eyes to the purple-cloaked king standing over the market.
“I will take you!” Hanno announced.
Silence descended upon the moonlit forum.
“I will take the Libyphoenicians. I will take the Libyans,” Hanno repeated.
“Hanno…” Bostar warned.
“Spare the lives!” Hanno shouted, ignoring his friend. “Phoenicians do not kill our neighbors. We are not murderers — we are a people of the sea! And when we have no bread we seek it upon the sea. People of Carthage! I shall take all who are willing upon the sea, to found colonies as we have always done, as our ancestors did when Carthage itself was founded.”
Silence came in reply. The tears stopped, as did the shouts, but the crowds remained.
A brighter set of torches emerged near the forum entrance, twin flames glistening off the purple and gold robes of the man they flanked.
“And where will you go?” shouted Suffete.
A collection of bearded men in white tunics fringed in purple, blue, or gold stood behind the Councilman, along with a company of bronze-capped swordsmen Hanno recognized as the guards who typically manned the city walls.
Hanno hoped distance concealed his scowl.
“West,” he replied.
A murmur of hope swelled in the market.
“We have colonies in the west. Awash in citizens like Carthage itself. There is no bread to be found there, not in the colonies themselves nor the empty lands around them,” Suffete countered.
“Then I will go further west,” Hanno replied.
“To where? Hispania? We have cities there. We have cities all across the Mediterranean. There’s a reason we have no more. The land is saturated. It needs cleansing, not colonies.”
Those in the forum huddled closer, but kept their eyes pinned to their king.
“Then I shall go further west,” said Hanno.
“Where? Beyond the Pillars of Hercules?” laughed Suffete, as did the men behind him.
“Yes.”
All grew quiet then.
“I shall take all who are willing through the Pillars of Hercules,” said Hanno, “and into the seas and lands beyond. I shall place colonies on fertile ground as our ancestors did, and prove that no space on earth or water is impenetrable to the might of Carthage.”
“Impossible!” shouted Suffette. “What you are saying is impossible and illegal. The Council will not allow it.”
The torch-wielders roared in agreement, their lust for blood still unsated.
“Do my words mean nothing? Am I not your king?” Hanno shouted them to shame and silence.
“I see only the son of a man who died in cowardice and defeat!” Suffete called back. “I see only a childless man who married a Libyan and called her a queen!”
“That queen is dead,” Hanno said with venom in his voice. “Your queen is dead.”
“And taken her disease with her then. We should do the same with the rest of her stock,” Suffette declared.
Hanno squeezed the hilt of his sword. His fingers brushed the crack in the guard the survivors of the terrible battle in Sicily said had been caused when his father dropped the blade and fled.
“You may not know me as your king,” Hanno said. “But when I return with gold and treasure beyond anything seen since the days of Tyre, you will know me. All peoples of Carthage and all the world will know me. I am Hanno, King of Carthage! Who will journey with me?”
Silence answered, broken only by the wind.
With it came the sound of leathered steps. Marines, oarsmen, the men of Hanno’s navy had penetrated the docks and raced to encircle the market with what weapons they could find. Their numbers came nowhere close to those protecting the Council and the mob, but they looked to their king and did not flee.
All eyes turned to the Council. Gray and white beards peppered with little black closed ranks to discuss Hanno’s proposal.
Suffete maintained the central position, but shook his fist at those around him. When the group finally separated, they left the man far more richly garbed than anyone else in a vacant space in their middle.
Suffete spat on the ground between him and the king.
“The Council has ruled…” he began, “that your voyage is agreeable. All Libyans in Carthage, and all those of mixed blood, will leave the city and board the king’s ships.”
“Provisions as well? This will be a Carthaginian expedition,” Hanno added.
“Then the king shall fund it. You will return with gold and treasure beyond that of Tyre, won’t you? Consider it an investment.”
Suffete looked one last time at the members of the Council, then extended his arm to the crowd.
“Here,” he declared. “Your assets. They will remain in the market, or leave with you. Either way, they will soon perish.”
Suffete turned around and stormed up the street.
At Hanno’s signal, the oarsmen and marines let them pass. The soldiers, however, remained, and kept the Libyan and Libyphoenician citizens of Carthage huddled in the forum.
“Bostar,” Hanno said. “Have our crews ready the ships.”
*****
Weeks later, the mouth of Baal Hammon spewed smoke from his bronze maw. The sacrifice smoldered upon his outraised palms, the brazier beneath heating the statue to a dull glow.
Hanno witnessed the sacrifice from his post among the remnants of his guard in the vacant forum.
All of his loyal marines and sailors working at a break-neck pace had led to this.
Carts were loaded and their contents craned aboard and below decks. Clothing that could be found served as layered containers for food, along with endless barrels of water and wine for ballast. There had been no time for mourning, and Hanno lost himself in the preparations.
The queen’s funeral was sparsely attended.
Hanno saw the tips of his triremes’ masts awaiting him beyond the seawalls. It would be improper, though, to depart before the sacrifice had been fully consumed. Or at least, that’s what Aba said.
“Melqart’s blessing will surely be upon us,” declared the priestess.
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Her shaved head glinted with the morning sun, as did her pure white robes, rubbed with salt to maintain their shine. She had a soft beauty, and smiled at Hanno like a proud mother.
“He has accepted our children,” Aba concluded.
Bostar stood on Hanno’s other side. None of the Council of Elders joined the lower entourage. They remained at the temple, watching the sacrifice burn and looking down upon the soon to be departing king.
The royal guard had to remain at the palace, to protect the building Hanno was forced to ransom in exchange for the many provisions his ships needed. Sixty ships. Loaded with thirty thousand men and women.
“Melqart be praised,” Hanno added.
He took one last glance at the house of his fathers, the royal palace of Carthage now made collateral for water and wheat. “Farewell, Elissa,” he said, and left the empty market.
Bostar and Aba followed.
They passed through the arched entrance of the inner harbor, the sun warming the stone piers waiting for the ships of commerce anchored nearby. Hanno’s fleet took up all the space, and the eyes of a hundred merchants waiting in their shops urged the king on his way. They did not wave.
“Be of good cheer, Bostar,” Hanno urged. “We are moving forward with a great undertaking.”
“To what end?” Bostar asked.
“Forward, my friend. At least we’re moving forward.”
Since they’d been little boys swimming through the harbor, Bostar had always been by Hanno’s side. Bostar’s father had been Hanno’s father’s captain of the guard. This meant that when they got in trouble, they got a double dose of authority. It never kept them from racing the triremes out of the narrow inner harbor opening, though, nor did it earn them any sympathy when they were caught.
Whatever the contest, Hanno almost always won, though Bostar never made it easy and never quit. Foot racing, swimming, grappling, and swordplay, Hanno was always one step ahead, with Bostar’s martial prowess honing the young prince’s efforts. Only when he picked up the bow did Bostar outshine his friend, earning Hanno’s happy congratulations in their switched roles.
If Hanno was caught trespassing where he shouldn’t, Bostar would be there. If Bostar got caught and Hanno escaped, Hanno would return to face their mutual punishment. They faced everything together, even the news that their fathers had been killed in Sicily.
With Bostar flanking him on their now sanctioned approach to the harbor, Hanno banished all doubts and felt that same confidence he had when he was small. He had to. Forward to the West was the only direction left to him.
A trilling pipe met them at the central dock, played by a short-haired young woman in a yellow tunic. Upraised arms and a quick cheer heralded the arrival of Hanno to his royal trireme.
“Hail Hanno!” called out a long-haired man beside the piper.
“Hail King of Carthage!” shouted the waiting oarsmen.
Wood and bronze the color of its king, the ship sat firm as an island atop the calm waters. A horned crest of polished bronze marked the bow, a target in rough seas for which the helmsman at the stern could level the ship. Stout planks formed the space between, with a hundred shimmering shields on the rails. The symbol of a circle-capped triangle split with a bar and covered in an upturned crescent decorated the shields in Punic purple. The other ships displayed this emblem of Tanit in white, but only Hanno’s royal trireme was afforded the kingly color.
A tall mast dominated the ship’s middle, capped in another bronze upturned crescent. A smaller mast, angled forward, bisected the bow with ropes spider-webbing across the entire vessel. Even while at rest, the shipwrights inspected every plank, every rail, every section of the ship, tightening it like the catapult they’d built between the masts.
The sails remained furled, the ropes and pulleys loose in the grips of their dozen handlers.
Hanno leapt aboard.
“A song for the king’s boarding?” Hanno asked the piper.
“A tune to play,” she replied. “Mapen has your song.”
“Ah, but it must be sung when we hit the open water. We can’t spoil it upon the harbor,” Mapen, the long-haired young man, said. Lean and tall, he straightened his already straight beard and laughed, his dark curls shaking like a hundred tambourines.
“Have you no songs for the priestess?” Aba asked.
“Jabnit does.”
“A song, no,” the piper admitted. “But I’ll play this for my mother.”
She played a somber tune.
“Your mother finds it lovely as your praises to Melqart and Tanit,” said Aba as she lifted her robes to carefully step onto the deck. Several marines assisted her.
“Those are far more complex songs,” Jabnit laughed.
“Then sing them loud so all can hear,” Hanno commanded.
“That Tanit may hear,” Aba added.
“I’ll be satisfied if it reaches our rowers’ ears.”
Hanno marched to the stern, running his hand along the rail and shields and ropes and binds, caressing the ship like an old friend, a first lover welcoming his heart-pained return.
A cedar post capped in gold marked the raised platform for the king’s seat. A curved tail rose from beneath the waterline to connect with this post in a sharp point. This, and the eyes painted just above the prow, made the ship resemble a low, many-legged water lizard rather than a vessel of wood and metal and men.
The boatswain, a short, muscled man Hanno knew well, accepted the clap his king gave him on the shoulder.
“And where is our helmsman? Swam back to Persia?” Hanno asked.
“Below deck,” said the boatswain. “Final inspection.”
He nodded toward the hoplite marines waiting with the others at their posts by the shields, making sure the grappling hooks and harpoons had their ropes tied and secure.
“That’s what good gold buys, Bostar. Skill,” Hanno announced.
“And desperation tempers the price,” Bostar noted.
“Which is why we’ve come so cheaply.”
Hanno and Bostar descended the steps built into the frame of the central mast and accepted the cheers from the eager rowers waiting at their stations. The oars were pulled in tight. Callused hands waited upon the well-oiled wood. One row sat with oars held high upon sturdy chairs. Another readied their oars in their laps, seated upon low mats. Faces looked up from the slats between the middle and lower decks, the third layer of rowers waiting for the signal from their king and captain.
The helmsman emerged from the lower deck with a scrap of leather in her hands.
“Tears will not be tolerated in any of the oar sleeves,” Artemisia said as she held up the worn leather.
“Good to see you accepted my offer,” Hanno said.
“Good for you there wasn’t a better one.”
“Come now, Artemisia, has your spirit of adventure soured so soon?”
“You purchased my seamanship, not my spirit.”
“Is it still in the hands of the Persian king of kings?”
“If it remained anyplace in this world, I’d sail to fetch it.”
“Good thing we’re departing the known world, then. Come. We must set forth.”
Artemisia handed the tattered leather seal to the deck officer, along with a glare that warned of further inspections.
When they reached the top deck, Artemisia shouted, “Ropes taught! Ready the sails. Top deck rowers set to water!”
Jabnit added a low-pitched piping to this command, the signal for a single layer of the oars to make ready.
“It is not wise for the king’s helmsman to miss the sacrifice,” Aba scolded Artemisia when she joined her at the stern.
“I don’t buy in to your religion,” Artemisia noted.
“Our sacrifices have purchased your attention with the assurances of Tanit and Melqart and Baal Hammon most high.”
“It’s Poseidon whose attention I’d prefer. And his tastes differ far from Baal Hammon’s. Those kind of sacrifices have different sorts of outcomes.”
“The greatest sacrifices earn the greatest outcomes.”
Artemisia spat on the deck.
“Of that we can agree,” she said.
Jabnit took up a tune, drowning the priestess’s attempted reply with the rhythmic splashing of the oars. Slowly, they rounded the Admiralty Island and headed toward the narrow opening at the end of the inner harbor.
They passed into the outer docks, flanked by twin sea walls capable of halting the strongest of waves from man or sea. Two further of Hanno’s choice triremes awaited them at the twin towers marking the harbor mouth. They raised oars in greeting, then plunged them into the water.
“Second row,” the helmsman commanded.
The pipe rose in tune, though its rhythm remained. Faster than before, the vessel skimmed the flat water, merchants and longshoremen on the docks staring with a mixture of impatience and awe.
“Third row,” the call went out.
Urged on by the music of the pipe, all three layers of oars splashed and sprayed, propelling the trireme out of the harbor mouth and into the open sea.
Artemisia leaned on the wide, starboard-side rudder oar and turned the ship toward the rising waves.
“Sails!” she called out.
Ropes tightened and pulleys screamed. The square sail fell open, revealing the bull of Mago, the symbol of Hanno’s grandfather and image of his dynasty. Down from the mast tumbled a small boy, who leapt across the ropes and rolled onto the deck.
“Did you see that, Mom?” the boy asked Aba.
“Fierel!” Aba scolded through a stifled laugh. “You were supposed to be with the other ships!”
“But I like this one better. More stuff to climb,” Fierel declared, and raced back up the ropes before anyone could stop him.
“Stowaways don’t make for good omens,” Artemisia noted.
“He’s not a stowaway, he’s a blessing from Tanit,” Aba declared.
“Should we bring him to another ship, Hanno?” Bostar suggested.
“If he’s a blessing then let him bless us. Let him be our bird and sing like his sister. Come, Jabnit!” Hanno said, and raced to the bow.
The forward sail unfurled behind the king, and he leapt atop the horned rail amidst the spray of a cresting wave. The trireme surged with wind and oar, and Hanno raised his fist to the turning fleet.
“Play, Jabnit. Push us to the ends of the Earth. Mapen, let’s hear that song!” Hanno commanded.
The son of Aba danced across the deck and belted out loud as his sister’s pipe, “Feel the sea, ye children of Tyre, the salt, the spray, the flow.
Our blood belongs, our joys, our songs, the waters we all know.
So clap the hands, and sing the pipes to the rhythm of the bow.
Hold fast the rope, pull mast and oar, ‘cross the oceans we will go.
Across the seas,
Across the seas,
We fill the sail and sing the wail,
The new city strikes again!
It’s in the soul of every man, each woman and child of Dido.
Our drums of wood, cymbals of wind, and voice of waves below.
And today they praise, we sing, we gaze, at great our King Hanno.
Across the seas,
Across the seas,
We fill the sail and sing the wail,
The new city strikes again!
Hanno, Hanno! Our king, our song.
To the ends of the Earth.
Once more we give birth.
The new city strikes again.
Across the seas,
Across the seas,
We fill the sail and sing the wail,
The new city strikes again!”
The pipes played on.
Sun and wind held out, along with Mapen’s voice. He sang while Hanno stood on the bow until the spray soaked him through. The king waved to the fleet, urging Artemisia to pass by each and every vessel. He claimed it was for inspection, but all the ships had been thoroughly tested and filled before setting off. Hanno wanted to make sure all saw him.
Men, women, children. Those not pulling the oars or stretching and tying the ropes gathered upon the decks. They waved and cheered at the sight of their king while their own pipers matched the rhythm of Mapen’s song. After sending their cheers, they started singing.
Before Carthage disappeared over their sternward horizon, the whole fleet sang.
“Across the seas,
Across the seas,
We fill the sail and sing the wail,
The new city strikes again!”
“Save your strength, Hanno,” Bostar warned.
Hanno climbed down from the bow and said, “The king’s strength is the people’s strength.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t waste it.”
Hanno laughed, but followed Bostar back to the stern, where he sat upon the gilded stool. He looked through the pointed horn back at the bow, and sighted in the curve of the sea. The ship had a level path, with the horn wavering little against the line where the water met the sky.
“You are confident we sail to—” Bostar tried to say.
“We sail forward. Forward to the West,” Hanno interrupted. He rose from his chair, and sat upon the stern railing, looking back.
Bostar stayed quiet, and stood beneath Hanno as they watched Carthage disappear beneath the horizon.