The War God’s Men
A Novel of the First Punic War
David Ross Erickson
For Roli
“What a beautiful field we leave for the Romans and Carthaginians to fight in!”
–King Pyrrhus of Epirus, 276 B.C.
“Delende Est Carthago” (Carthage Must Be Destroyed)
–Marcus Porcius Cato
Contents
Prologue: The Romans Wash Their Hands In The Sea
Part I: The Siege of Acragas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part II: A Gathering of Crows
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part III: Captains of Repute
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Historical Note
Preview: The Blood Gate
Prologue
The Romans Wash Their Hands In The Sea
Strait of Messana, 264 B.C.
In the gathering gloom, a light rain had begun spitting in his face and Appius Claudius Caudex was making a dash across the strait.
He clenched his jaw, letting the rain drip. It galled him. A consul of Rome, stealing into Sicily like a thief in the night. The risk was great: 20,000 men crossing a hostile sea under an escort of but a handful of borrowed warships. Of course, there was cause for fear.
But it galled him, nonetheless.
The consul could see that his tribune, Gaius Claudius, was aching to speak out, but held his tongue. By now, the tribune knew the strait as well as anyone. As part of a diplomatic delegation, he had made the trip from Rhegium to Messana twice in the previous week. The first time, he had been turned back by the appearance of a Carthaginian war fleet. The second, crossing at night, he had at least been able to disembark. But Rome’s demands had been rejected out of hand by Carthaginian and Syracusan alike. Neither, he had been informed, would abandon the siege of Messana, Rome’s ally. Roman honor could not tolerate this, but the Carthaginian commander had been clear. “Rome will not be allowed to even wash her hands in the sea!” he had exclaimed with sneering arrogance. “This remains to be seen,” Gaius Claudius had replied boldly, striding from the room. But neither he nor the consul felt so bold now. What if the Carthaginian’s threat had been no idle boast?
The ships of Claudius’ fleet, more than one hundred of them, filled the sea all around him. Thousands of oars bobbed and strained through the waves. The growing wind whipped the low-hanging clouds until they roiled as turbulently as the seascape below them. A fine, cold mist — a discouraging mixture of sea-spray and rain — showered consul and tribune alike. Their flagship, a trireme borrowed from the city of Tarentum, was one of the few decked warships in the fleet. Most of the fighting ships were mere fifty-oar pentekonters, little more than open rowboats. Unlike Rome, the Greek colonies of Magna Graecia in southern Italy at least had a seafaring tradition. They had provided all of the warships in Claudius’ fleet, along with experienced oarsmen and crew. Claudius had long advocated the need for a Roman fleet to counter Carthage, but his pleas had been ignored. What did the Senate care when it was Claudius who had to sneak across the strait with only wind, weather and darkness to protect him? Even the triremes and pentekonters of the Italian Greeks were obsolete, certainly no match for the modern warships of Carthage.
Even in the failing light, Claudius could see the rowers in the nearby warships as they grappled with their oars, the cruel bronze beaks of their ships’ rams slicing through the waves. The mainmasts and sails had been disassembled and stowed in Rhegium. The added weight would have only slowed them down. The transports carrying Claudius’ legions relied solely on the strength of their rowers’ backs to power them.
“What is it, Tribune?” Claudius asked finally, seeing that some issue continued to weigh heavily on Gaius’ mind.
“What chance have we to reach Messana without interference?” the tribune asked. The thick mass of Sicily loomed on the horizon.
“None,” Claudius replied. “The harbor in Rhegium was swarming with spies.”
“Carthaginian spies?” Gaius asked in a surprised tone. “I saw only traders.”
“Spies and traders… It is all the same, Tribune. Little happens in the Middle Sea without Carthage knowing.”
“Well, hopefully we will reach Messana before they know we’ve left Rhegium.”
“Our only hope is speed and the coming darkness. Hannibal Gisgo,” Claudius said, referring to the man who commanded the Carthaginian fleet, “will not risk a battle in the darkness.”
“Certainly not in this weather,” Gaius said, hopefully.
Their fleet was bearing north-northwest. Clinging to the toe of Italy, Rhegium lay south of Messana, so it was before them that any threat would materialize. Claudius gazed toward the northern horizon, satisfied with the increasing gloom. The strait was treacherous in the fairest of weather. Claudius had not wanted to attempt a crossing at night any more than the Carthaginians would have dared contest it. He could not take the risk. With his entire army packed into over one hundred ships, even a single accident would be a tragedy; a large-scale mishap, a catastrophe.
Better to time his crossing as near to nightfall as possible. It was part of the plan he had worked out the previous evening with one of the clever Tarentine captains.
“With darkness descending,” the captain had said, “the Carthaginians will have a short timeframe in which to attack us.”
Not for the first time, Claudius asked the man to explain. Claudius was a long-time senator, a newly elected consul, a politician. Although he understood the need for sea power, he himself was no naval man. The more he had listened to this particular captain speak, the more he valued his opinion. The captain exuded a natural authority and the other captains and military tribunes who had assembled in Claudius’ command tent listened attentively.
“Because,” the captain explained, “the Carthaginians are tied to their naval base, here.” He showed Claudius a map and pointed to the extreme northeastern tip of Sicily, Cape Pelorias. “At minimum, they have a quarter-day’s round trip. Our own journey will take just a fraction of this. Not only must their timing be precise, but they must leave themselves enough time to return to their base before nightfall.”
“They will not simply patrol the strait, waiting for us?” Claudius asked. Judging from the inexpertly concealed expressions of the other captains, he felt that it must have been a foolish question.
“Oh, no,” the captain said. “Warships simply cannot remain at sea long enough to make an effective blockade. They can attempt to patrol, as you say, but there will be long gaps. Chance alone would put their fleet in our path.”
“And why is that?”
“The men need food, Consul. They especially need fresh water. Not even a Carthaginian quinquereme has the storage capacity for these things. You will see on our triremes that there is simply no space. They must put into shore every night, just as we do.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Claudius said, nodding.
“This Hannibal, who commands the fleet,
must first be informed of our departure, then deploy his fleet and travel to the strait. Not an instantaneous reaction, to be sure.”
So with darkness falling, Claudius felt at least a little comforted that his inadequate war fleet of ten obsolete ships might be required to do little more than delay the powerful Carthaginian fleet, if it showed itself at all.
“By acting aggressively, however,” the authoritative captain had gone on, “we might be able to discourage them from attacking. If we make it clear that killing us will not be effortless, they may disengage.” The captain smiled at his remark. Unspoken by the group was the fact that, while the destruction of the Roman warships might not be effortless, it was, given Carthaginian inclination, certainly inevitable. The captain might have smiled, but his colleagues listened grimly. Claudius marveled at the bravery of these men. The colonies of Magna Graecia had only been incorporated into the Republic during the previous decade, but here were her men — Locrians, Neapolitans, and Tarentines — offering their lives for Roman honor.
So it was ten warships to face the might of Carthage. The captain and his colleagues had then worked out a plan, to Claudius’ satisfaction. His faith in these men was absolute.
But now, despite the captain’s assurances, Claudius was not so certain they would need the plan after all. The horizon remained empty, and Messana drew near. Claudius’ thoughts turned to the problems involved in the deployment of his legions, and his heart quickened. No one was more aware of the momentous nature of his undertaking: the first Roman conquest off the mainland of Italy. He knew there would be more, if he had his way — and his fleet. But whatever the future held, his name, Appius Claudius Caudex, would forever be linked with the crossing of the historic threshold. The men might have been interested in plunder, but for the senior consul of Rome, the opportunity was for glory, the currency of power.
“When we step off these ships into Sicily,” Gaius said. “We are at war with Carthage.”
“When we enter Messana,” Claudius replied, “Messana becomes a Roman city. If Carthage wants war, she will have it.”
They could see Messana now. Diminutive against the massive bulk of the island, the city’s structures of white stone and mud brick stood out starkly along the shoreline. In a moment, the Roman fleet drew close enough for the men to make out the wind-whipped flames of torches that burned on the walls along the harbor, their reflections flickering in the water below.
Claudius’ optimism was short-lived.
“To the north!” Gaius pointed into the distance.
Claudius turned and saw a warship pulling through the heavy sea toward them. Waves crashed over its bow, exposing its deadly ram. It was a quinquereme, a ‘five’, so-called because five men, as opposed to three for a trireme, rowed each bank of three oars. The ship was sleek and fast and flew Carthaginian banners. In a moment, Claudius spied another behind it, and then another — all fives. Even from a distance, he could see that they towered over the smaller triremes of the Roman fleet.
The captain of the trireme rushed to Claudius’ side.
“Your orders, Consul.”
“Signal the quick-rowing, captain. Send out the covering force.”
The captain turned at once and began bellowing orders, putting the Tarentine’s plan into action: six ships to confront the enemy, four to remain with the transport fleet. The signalman waved his flag, struggling with the two-handed flagstaff in the strong wind. Claudius heard officers shouting from the rowing deck, and the drumming of the mallet, the “thump…thump…thump…” became “thump-thump-thump-thump” and the oars splashed through the waves to the quicker beat. Soon the entire fleet was moving at the new rapid pace.
The signalman then flagged the warships and a small group of triremes and pentekonters split off from the main force. They sped toward the onrushing enemy in two files, oars pounding the water. In the distance, more Carthaginian ships came into view. Their mainmasts were empty, sails stowed for battle, but the little foresails billowed in the increasing wind as the vessels, in line abreast, bore down fast on the approaching triremes. Even as Claudius and the tribune watched, the Carthaginian crewmen began removing the foresails as well, with practiced efficiency.
“Now we’ll see how Tarentines and Locrians fight,” Claudius said. “They are skilled rowers. Not like Romans.”
“Will they fight?” Gaius asked. “That is the question.”
“We will find out soon,” Claudius said. “They need only hit them hard once, and then beat a retreat. That should give us time to reach the harbor. If our Tarentine captain is correct, the Carthaginians will have no stomach for a fight. The triremes are smaller but more agile. That will have to see us through.”
“Even now darkness falls,” Gaius said hopefully.
In all, seven Carthaginian quinqueremes rowed out of the gloom to the north on the roughening gray sea, their oars perfectly aligned, beating soundlessly. Claudius watched their implacable advance in awe and fear. Their empty mainmasts towered above their decks, sticklike crosses. They looked like an approaching line of scarecrows.
To Claudius, they looked like harbingers of death.
The sea-faring trader had arrived at the Carthaginian naval camp just after midday. His report was of the launching of the Roman transport fleet. The crossing was to be completed before nightfall, the man had said.
Hannibal Gisgo had heard many reports over the past few days, and he was of a mind to ignore this one. He had his own spies in Rhegium and in Messana. Half his fleet was already out patrolling the strait. Apart from the trader, holding out his hand for some coin, he had heard nothing of a crossing.
“Another political delegation?” Hannibal had asked dismissively, referring to the first crossing he had thwarted.
“An entire army,” the man had said finally, and convincingly, despite his sly demeanor.
Hannibal had arched an eyebrow. Twenty thousand men. That was worth some coin, anyway. Perhaps it was even worth a look.
During the past week, information had been profuse, and was largely contradictory. Hannibal had all the information he cared to hear, perhaps more than he could bear. What he did not have was a clear directive from Carthage. Had Carthage not promptly returned the first captured Roman ships, with apology? The last thing Carthage wanted was war with Rome. Hannibal had hurled the latest correspondence from the Council to the ground where it remained, trodden on by all who entered his command tent. The slyly worded missive, as Hannibal interpreted it, directed him to prevent Roman troops entering Sicily — while not precipitating war.
“Welcome to the strait of Messana!” Hannibal had cried, dashing the parchment to the ground. “Home to Scylla and Charybdis, indeed.” These mythical entities guarded either side of the strait. One was a man-eating beast that lived in a cave, the other a whirlpool that swallowed ships. You could not avoid one without falling prey to the other.
“Scylla and Charybdis would feel at home in Carthage, would they not, General?” said the captain of Hannibal’s flagship, well aware of the hopelessness of the task before them.
Hannibal felt he could live with the monsters. They at least made few demands. It was clear that the exalted Council of Carthage did not understand the risk. No one knew better than Hannibal Gisgo the dangers of navigating the strait. He had lost his first ship attempting to blockade Messana, taken onto the rocks by an unexpectedly strong northerly current — and that was during good weather in the middle of the day with not a single enemy ship in sight. That he should now risk the strait in the failing light and heavy weather to engage in combat with an enemy whose captured vessels might simply be returned to them while operating with uncertain intelligence and under contradictory orders…Well, he had had better assignments.
“Feeling confident, Captain?” Hannibal asked. The two men now stood on the aft deck of Hannibal’s flagship, the King of Epirus. The ship was the massive septireme, a ‘seven’, Carthage had captured from Pyrrhus during the king’s expedition to Sicily,
twelve years before. It was the pride of the Carthaginian fleet, and Hannibal’s personal joy. To him it represented the might of Carthaginian sea power and the futility of opposing her. If the great Pyrrhus had been unsuccessful, what hope had an obscure regional upstart like Rome?
“I would feel better if I knew how we should react to the appearance of a Roman fleet,” the captain said.
“We will destroy them, Captain,” Hannibal replied. “If the gods will it,” he added. He was in full war regalia: bronze breastplate and plumed helmet, his sword sheathed at his waist. “The enemy warships are nothing but triremes and pentekonters. We can ignore them and fall on the transports.”
“But does not that mean war, General?”
Hannibal paused in thought, and then heaved a sigh. He slammed his fist on the rail.
“Damn the Council! Let them crucify me, if they will!” he cried. “If the Romans put their legions into Sicily, there will be no end of war. The Council must know this.”
“I agree,” the captain said.
“Still, I would not go into battle on a night like this,” Hannibal said. “I do not wish to tempt the gods — or the Council’s good graces. But I am sorely tempted by slaughter.”
“The transports?” the captain asked.
Hannibal nodded. He knew he would not be able to resist unescorted transports if that was how he found them. He was not so sure he would be able to resist a full-out battle.
Hannibal’s fleet consisted of fifteen ships, all quinqueremes but for his flagship. Once they had drawn near to where he suspected the Roman would cross, he arranged his fleet in two lines abreast, seven in the first, and eight, including his flagship, in the second. This conservative arrangement matched his mood. To speed their progress, he sailed with foresails deployed and had stripped all ships of their customary marine contingents, normally forty or fifty soldiers each. He had retained one-hundred-fifty marines on his flagship as a precaution, but he did not anticipate any boarding actions.
He stood outside the small canvas deckhouse, feeling the wind. He could hear the rhythm of the drumming below decks and the monotonous croaking of the dip and pull of the oars. To his left and right, the white foresails of his fleet made billowing crescents as they captured the wind. Joined at the horizon, sky and sea roiled in equal measures as the dark mass of Sicily towered to his right. It was no night for sailing.
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