“We’re making fine progress this morning,” Hanno announced.

  “Could make eight knots if we didn’t have to wait for the lesser rowers,” Artemisia complained. She handed off her starboard rudder oar and stood beside Hanno.

  “We will not always have colonists, Helmsman.”

  “How long will we have them?”

  “The people of Carthage are not merely cargo. They’re our children,” Aba declared.

  “Children eat our stores and don’t help row.”

  A rope came free of its tie. Fierel ran along the rail with the bind in hand and swung out over the water. He dipped his bare feet into the sea, then spun around to land on the stern tail, laughing with delight.

  “I’m gonna do that again!” Fierel announced.

  “Now, now, Fierel, come down,” Aba chided.

  “That’s the ribbing guide,” Artemisia noted.

  “Yes, Fierel, return the rope to its handler and get down — there are many other places to play.”

  Fierel hopped to the stern and handed the rope to Artemisia.

  “That’s a good boy,” said Aba.

  Fierel snatched a bracelet free of his mother’s arm and dashed to the stairs, disappearing below deck.

  “Fierel, Fierel! That’s the ivory circle of Tanit!” Aba said, and chased after her laughing child.

  “As I said,” Artemisia continued as she tied off the rope. “When do we deposit the children?”

  “Bostar, you have the map, yes?” Hanno asked.

  Bostar removed a waxed roll of parchment from a leather satchel and laid it out on a hammered-down table.

  “The artist did well,” Bostar noted.

  “What is it?” Artemisia asked.

  “A map of the world. I commissioned it the day after our journey’s announcement,” Hanno said.

  “You mean after the riots that forced you to flee the city.”

  “This is to prevent that from being the conclusion of our songs.”

  The map showed the jagged waters of the Mediterranean. The coasts of Iberia were detailed and spotted with the mapped islands of Carthage’s latest colonies. Artemisia placed her hand upon the Aegean Sea, blotting out the states of the Greeks to press the map flat. Below that lay Egypt, Syria, the homelands of Phoenicia, and the mother-city of Tyre. Further North, the shores of the Dardanelles and the Black Sea beyond. And all to the East, the empire of Persia.

  “The known world,” Hanno declared.

  Three quarters of the map remained blank.

  “All we have ever seen lies here,” the king added, and pointed to the upper right quadrant containing what some of his helmsman’s fellow Greeks claimed held the entire world.

  To the west, the Pillars of Hercules marked the narrow gap between the Mediterranean and the Unknown Ocean.

  “Some claim you fall off the world beyond the Pillars,” Artemisia noted.

  “And that there’s monsters beyond,” Hanno added.

  “Do you believe them?”

  “I believe the ocean is there.” Hanno pointed to the empty West. “And Africa is there.” He pointed to the blank space beneath the impenetrable desert separating Carthage from the ends of the Earth. “We cannot cross the sands, but the coast does not go on forever. So there must be a way to reach southern Africa from the water. The land is there. The water is there.”

  “Just no one’s ever been there before.”

  “No one except Hanno.”

  “Because Hanno has no place else to go.”

  “Neither does Artemisia.”

  “Which is why she’s here.”

  Artemisia grunted, and reached to a chain around her neck she’d hidden beneath her cuirass. It held two rings. The first was made of hammered gold, small, and with a vacant clasp where a jewel had once been. The other ring was wide bronze with a needle-sized point crossing its radius. She held the ring to her eye and sighted in the bow, port, stern, and starboard, then returned the chain beneath her cuirass.

  “We should make a hundred miles a day. That puts us at the Pillars in twelve days, with landings along your coast,” the helmsman said.

  “I dispatched my fastest messengers to make ready for wheat and water from every waystation,” Hanno added.

  “We’ll need it.”

  “After we breech the Pillars—”

  “Is if a more proper word?”

  “Your Punic needs work, Helmsman, we are not considering if. When we breech the Pillars, we’ll round the coast of Africa and deposit our colonists at a proper source of water and grain.”

  “There’s a reason this map is blank. We have no idea how long the coast goes.”

  “We know it turns beyond the Pillars. It’s open ocean to the West, so we head South and follow the coast. The desert begins several miles inland. It should be the same on Africa’s western shore as it is on its northern,” Hanno explained.

  “It better be. If we don’t resupply, we’ll have eight days at normal rations,” Artemisia noted.

  “Plenty of time to forge colonies. And with few ships at sea, the fishing will supplement our stores. We deposit five thousand colonists at a time. Ten if the soil seems fertile enough. Then we continue south until we’ve depleted our children and can return to Carthage in triumph.”

  “An easy enough journey. And one that won’t happen if we can’t sync our oars. Second row, position eight, I’ll have no clacking of tholes on my ship — keep your gear in check!”

  Artemisia scolded the deck officer and clapped her hands to renew Jabnit’s rhythm.

  Bostar stood beside Hanno, and closed one eye to level the ship’s horn along the horizon.

  “You promised more than just colonies,” he warned.

  “I’m aware,” Hanno said.

  “You promised gold and treasure.”

  “We’ll find it. Berbers and Libyans trade gold from all over. Where do you think they get it? The source must be further south.”

  “That’s a bold claim.”

  “Boldness is all I have.”

  “The boldness of your father.”

  “Careful, Bostar.”

  “Someone without care is what you need.”

  Hanno climbed the post and mounted the stern tail, using one of the ropes for support as he watched his city fade into the distance.

  Bostar remained on the deck.

  “Mago conquered all the lands of North Africa. My family secured Iberia, western Sicily, Corsica, and all the islands between the Adriatic and the Pillars,” Hanno proclaimed.

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  “And Hamilcar?” Bostar asked.

  “My father…” Hanno squeezed the hilt of his sword. “I am not my father.”

  “He had all the preparations necessary to succeed in his conquest of Syracuse.”

  “We have enough of Sicily.”

  “We have enough of Africa?”

  “I am not my father.”

  “Do you believe what the Council said about your father? That he turned in fright at the first hesitation of our lines against the Sicilian Greeks?”

  Hanno stayed still.

  “I knew your father well, Hanno,” Bostar continued. “My father and yours were close as brothers, as we have been since you first could hold a blade. When your mother died, I saw your father change. I saw the fury in his eyes. I can’t believe he would turn and flee in defeat.”

  “I won’t,” Hanno vowed.

  “I worry over that promise.”

  “Worry not.”

  Hanno hopped down, and smiled.

  Bostar searched the king’s face for some time before shaking his head.

  “Make sure we are sailing toward something, Hanno. Not just running from it,” Bostar concluded.

  “I am not my father,” Hanno repeated.

  Bostar nodded.

  “Do you hate him so?” he asked.

  Hanno turned back toward the stern.

  “Does hate make a suitable fill for the hollow of lost love?” Bostar asked.

  Hanno leapt onto the tail with one swift pull on the post.

  “How can I hate when there is sea to be had and new lands to be found? I am Hanno! And my fleet leaves Carthage for the lands of gold!” declared the king.

  Several ships and marines around him cheered.

*****

  The calm shores of North Africa swept by in a haze of wind and wake. Each day, they filled the sails and set the rowers to pace. Each night, they found suitable beachings to make land and secure the ships. Once repairs had been made and camps had been struck, they pushed into the yielding waters to repeat the same process as countless traders and merchants to and from Carthage had done on their many centuries of maritime practice.

  Their last stop in the Iberian colony of Malaca furnished them with as many barrels of wine and water as they could carry. There, the governor feasted Hanno with his last meal of bread and pork. A portion of the smoked meat had been allotted to the king’s ship, which Hanno promised Bostar and Artemisia they’d celebrate with once they cleared the pillars. Artemisia claimed she preferred fish.

  With the ships making good time after their early morning launch from Malaca’s docks, Hanno kept his eyes pinned to the bow horn.

  Artemisia pressed her cheek against the port rudder oar.

  “Current’s turning swifter,” she cautioned.

  “Our cartographers claim the currents are strongest inward in the center of the straight,” Hanno said, pointing to his map, and the thin gap between Africa and Iberia. “But there is an ocean-bound current close to the northern shore.”

  “We’re close enough to the straights to earn it. Narrow our approach! Two abreast and remain at coast length,” the helmsman ordered.

  Jabnit wailed on her pipe to deliver the command, and echoed it along the fleet. The sixty ships paired up with their designated partners. The two triremes that had accompanied the royal trireme out of the docks of Carthage lined up behind Hanno’s vessel. The king would go first.

  “Depthfinder,” Artemisia called out.

  Bostar handed her a coiled rope with a lead weight tied to its end. The helmsman dropped the weight into the water and marked the knot where it grew taught. When she pulled it up, she nodded at the lead’s mud-free surface.

  “Just enough depth,” Artemisia said.

  “By the shadow of Tanit!” Jabnit declared, gaping at the shore.

  “Watch your tongue, child,” Aba scolded. “You gaze upon the works of Melqart.”

  “Keep those pipes playing, Jabnit,” Artemisia said. “Slower.”

  A high rock stood above the rising coastline. It looked hewed from the peninsula it stood upon, an artificial construct taller than the walls of Carthage. Carved into its gray surface burned the words Nothing Further Beyond in crackling flame.

  “I asked to see the wilds of yon, the magic I thought had been gone. Yet all I see, is fear not glee. What myst’ries must the lost have won?” Mapen sang.

  “Press on without fear. You have Hanno to lead, don’t you?” Hanno declared. “Melqart himself passed through this straight. Consider it a holy act.”

  “Praises be to Melqart,” Aba added. “And may Tanit guide us.”

  Clouds hung low over the distance. The coasts of north and south tapered closer and closer, Africa and Iberia growing like two upraised hands. And through the mountainous fog, Hanno spotted the bases of two enormous structures flanking the narrow space between.

  The constructs pierced the clouds like a pair of spears. As the trireme drew closer, the fog cleared and the forms sharpened.

  Two statues of colossal height rose on either shore. The Iberian-sided one stood a head taller, with its thick, sandaled legs posted atop a square plinth surrounded by wide boulders. He wielded a narrow spear in one hand, braced close to his body, and held the other hand palm outward at his chest. His wide eyes glared down behind the nose guard of a stone helmet, and he wore the chest plate, bracers, and calf armor of a warrior from the age before Elissa set westward to found Carthage.

  The African-sided statue loomed on her lower mountainous shelf. A stone dome of hair capped her head, and she braced a dagger at the side of her unmoving robes. She mirrored her partner’s halting gesture with palm held before her chest, though a single jewel on her forefinger caught the early morning light, dispersing the fog and casting a yellow glow upon the pillars.

  The man was made of moss-covered gray stone. The woman brown rock. Together, it seemed they held the world upon their monolithic heads.

  “Lovers embrace that we might pass; the breast brings more joy than sail and mast,” Mapen sang.

  “Quiet,” Artemisia scolded.

  “You think the works of Melqart will not see us?” Aba asked.

  “If Hercules really did carve them, he might have let them drink and sleep. Soften the oars. Sail only.”

  The pillars grew as the horizon fell. The helmsman checked the depth again, and pulled up a muddy weight.

  Hanno stood upon the rail and dipped his hand into the water.

  “Current is strong,” he said.

  “But shallow,” Artemisia agreed. “We’re threading a needle here.”

  A crack echoed from the looming mountainside.

  “We might have poked its eye,” Hanno noted.

  Seagulls cawed their displeasure at the cascade of rocks splashing into the sea. A wall of moss fell from the male giant like the dropping of a cloak, and his spear-held hand extended toward the water. The woman shifted her hands as well, raising her dagger and lowering her palm.

  “By the fires of Baal Hammon,” Jabnit cursed.

  “We should go back,” Artemisia said.

  “Is that what you told Xerxes?” Hanno asked.

  “Yes.”

  Hanno grimaced.

  “Sail on. They raise their arms to greet us, so we greet them back. Raise me a whistle, fair piper,” the king commanded.

  Hanno climbed atop the stern tail as Jabnit played a high, single note.

  “A fine day to you, mighty works of Hercules-Melqart!” Hanno shouted.

  “Nothing further beyond,” came the paired voice of the pillars. They spoke unison, their voices like stone tumbling across gravel.

  “We are explorers, colonists and sailors. We seek the golds of Southern Africa.”

  “Nothing further beyond.”

  “Oars reverse,” Artemisia commanded.

  “Keep them dry. We’ll let the current take us in. Aba, say your prayers if you must but backwards we’ll not go,” Hanno ordered.

  “Nothing further beyond!” the pillars repeated.

  The male planted the base of his spear into the sea, forming a whirlpool of mixing waves.

  “The current is faster on the northern side than the middle — three rows fast stroke!” Hanno commanded. “We’ll pass him by before the pillar can think to touch us.”

  “Fast row, all oars — fill the sails!” Artemisia ordered.

  Jabnit played out the command and kept up the tune. The oars dove into the shallow waters and pushed on, surfing the crests of waves that broke against the cliffs.

  “Nothing further beyond!” roared the Iberian pillar.

  “Halt or be halted,” added the African.

  “Faster!” Hanno ordered.

  The Iberian pillar plunged his massive hand into the water and swept a wave toward the Carthaginians. Only the quick shove Hanno gave to the starboard rudder kept them from smashing against the rocks, and when they mounted the crest the giant reared back with his spear.

  “Port side reverse!” Hanno commanded.

  The quick push of the oars turned the ship away from the attack, and the pillar’s spear disappeared beneath the water just off their bow. It dripped mud and sand upon their heads when the giant retrieved it for another strike.

  Again the pillar dropped his palm against the straights, dragging his still-open hand across the surface.

  “Turn, turn!” Hanno shouted.

  The hand struck them.

  The starboard hull cracked and the marines fell against the deck with the collision of wood and stone. The mighty hand swept them backwards until the trireme drew out of reach, where it drifted along the foam-topped sea.

  “Trim the sail. Starboard oars two strokes,” Artemisia ordered with her shoulder against the rudder.

  The ship came to a rest with the stern facing the giants.

  Hanno waved at them.

  “I am Hanno, King of Carthage. We will pass through these straights!” he shouted.

  “Nothing further beyond,” the pillars warned.

  “How am I to know that if I haven’t seen beyond?”

  “Our words are carved in stone, therefore true.”

  The pillars’ voices tremored out of unmoving mouths, and they returned to their readied poses while Hanno’s ship remained out of reach.

  “Have the fleet stay back,” Hanno ordered.

  “How do we get past such creatures?” Bostar asked. He’d readied his quiver and bow, but didn’t dare string an arrow.

  “We get past them.”

  “How?” Artemisia asked.

  “We will. And who might these carved ones be?” Hanno shouted to the pillars. “I’d have your names, Colossae.”

  “I am Gibraltar,” called out the male.

  “I am Jebel,” said the female. “We are guardians of the world’s end. You will progress no further.”

  “Should we try the woman?” Jabnit suggested. “She seems nicer.”

  “A dagger’s as good as a spear at that size,” Mapen noted.

  “And there’s a weaker current on the African side,” Bostar added.

  “But there’s westward speed here,” Hanno said, and shouted to Gibraltar, “They say Hercules performed his Labors here.”

  “The hero carved us to stop all travelers,” Gibraltar agreed.

  “And what would it take to convince you to let us pass?”

  “We are carved, and we proclaim,” said Jebel.

  “Nothing further beyond,” said the two.

  “So you’re made of rock. Both of you, stone?” Hanno asked.

  “We are carved. We protect,” answered Gibraltar.

  “And could you walk away if you wanted? My colonists to the north tell me there are mountains full of silver along the Iberian coast. Nice place to settle down, raise a few hills.”

  “We are carved as we are.”

  “There is no need to move more than we can,” added Jebel.

  “Their hands stay flat,” Hanno whispered to Bostar.

  Bostar’s eyes widened. “They don’t even blink,” he realized.

  “Do as I say, Helmsman, exactly as I say.”

  “How skilled a swimmer are you?” Artemisia mocked.

  “Very.” Hanno handed Bostar a coil of rope. “Fetch more. Marines, oars. Make ready.”

  The decks creaked along with the rising tension of muscles on arms and ropes gripped in wetted hands.

  “I suppose Hercules knows best,” Hanno shouted to Gibraltar.

  “Hercules carved. Hercules knows,” agreed the giant.

  Hanno pointed away from the pillars.

  “Take us into the eastward current,” he said.

  “Oars, to speed,” Artemisia ordered.

  “By the way, do you know who I am?” the king asked the pillars.

  “You are one who turns back,” said Jebel.

  “No. I am Hanno.”

  Hanno leaned hard on the starboard rudder and shouted, “Full speed!”