The War God's Men

by David Ross Erickson

  “Your ships are not always here, General. In a few hours, not only will your fleet be gone, but half my garrison with it!”

  “Temporarily,” Hannibal said, with a sigh. He could see that Kyros clearly did not believe him. In truth, Hannibal had not made up his mind whether he would indeed return the soldiers. He simply had not given it any thought; he certainly was not planning on making a point of it.

  “Carthage may not mind making a battlefield of Lipara, but Liparians do!” Kyros exclaimed.

  “Lipara has nothing to fear from Rome,” Hannibal said dismissively. “These raids, in fact, benefit your city greatly. The Romans will soon leave their legions in Italy to garrison the coast instead of sending them to Sicily — where they really do threaten you — and the hysterical mob of their people will demand peace, having no stomach for the pain I will inflict.”

  Kyros was unmoved. Hannibal thought he looked silly in his ill-fitting formal robe—he looked rather lost in its folds. He found it absurd that he should have to spend his time arguing with such a man.

  “Let the Romans enter your harbor in their borrowed pentekonters,” Hannibal went on, as a final conciliatory gesture. “Islanders have nothing to fear from an army without ships, Kyros. Some would say that this is obvious.”

  The magistrate glared at Hannibal. “The people of Acragas might have a different view, General,” he said evenly.

  “I believe we have nothing more to discuss,” Hannibal said after a pause. “You may lodge whatever grievances you wish, sir, but my fleet awaits me.”

  Hannibal bowed. He turned and stalked away, his guards filing in line behind him, as he swept past.

  Down on the deck of his flagship, the King of Epirus, he found Boodes waiting for him.

  “Good morning, General Boodes!” Hannibal called, stepping aboard, the unpleasantness with the magistrate instantly forgotten. “And how do you find the sea air this morning, sir?”

  “After the stench of Acragas, it is indeed invigorating,” Boodes said, with a smile.

  “And the even more stifling air of Carthage?”

  “Indeed, General!” Boodes said with a burst of laughter. “Indeed!”

  Hannibal watched as the captain of the vessel directed the deck hands as they heaved and tugged on the thick ropes of the rigging, raising the mainsail. Amidships, fifty soldiers sat grimly on benches along the rails. From the stairs leading below deck, Hannibal could hear the drummer’s lugubrious cadence as the oars sprang to life, dipping and rising rhythmically in the calm, dark water of the harbor. Main and foresail billowed under a westerly breeze. Traveling with the wind for this trip, Hannibal would use only half of his rowers at a time, working in two-hour shifts, while the others rested at their oars.

  On the map in the cabin on the aft deck, Hannibal pointed out the area of the Italian coastline that was the target of this raid. He showed Boodes other areas — mainly in Bruttium and Lucania — where previous raids had struck. They made a heading due east toward Bruttium.

  “Will the Romans have garrisoned the coast by now?” Boodes asked.

  “They have resisted so far,” Hannibal said. “But no matter. This fleet carries three-thousand marines. We can deal with whatever the Romans put before us. But I rather pity the poor Bruttians for what I have in store for them.”

  When news of the latest Punic depredations along the Italian coast reached Rome, Scipio put out for Ostia at once to inspect the progress of the fleet. Rome’s port city was a bustle of activity. The beach was littered with lumber and crates of supplies. Oxen-drawn wagons drew up beneath wooden cranes for unloading, and gangs of men shouldered their own heavy burdens. Dominating the scene were the great scaffolds supporting the burgeoning hulls of Scipio’s fleet. The consul could just make out the forms of the ships amid the jumble of cross-timbers that comprised the supporting frames. Workmen crawled over the scaffolds like ants and the air was filled with a mixture of hammering and sawing, punctuated by the sharp cries of crew foremen, exhorting their workmen on.

  “When will the first ships be ready?” Scipio asked the prefect of the work camp, a man named Quintillus.

  “We expect the first twenty ships within ten days, Consul,” Quintillus said.

  Looking down on the beach from this distance in the slanting dawn sunlight, the scaffold frames looked like great black behemoths washed up on the shore. Scipio smiled when, in his mind, he saw the finished ships. He could not put to sea soon enough. His thirst for revenge against the ravaging pirates of the Carthaginian fleet grew by the day. He wanted to strike them in their own territory, even more than he wanted to contest their control of the sea.

  Behind the beach, a series of tiered wooden benches had been set up, configured like stair steps, three steps high. Each group of three benches was about five feet long. Two men sat on the top step, two on the middle and one on the lowest step. Each of the men held what looked like ax or shovel handles, holding them horizontally. Where two men sat together, they shared the handle, while the solitary man on the lowest step held one of his own. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five of the three-tiered planks had been set in a long row that extended in a line over one-hundred feet long. Toward the front of the line sat a man with a wooden block before him like a tree stump that he hammered rhythmically with a mallet. The men on the benches thrust their ax handles back and forth in front of their chests in time to the hammering.

  “These are our rowers-in-training,” Quintillus said. “What you see here represents half of a ship.”

  “This is how the rowers will be arranged on board the ships?” Scipio asked, intrigued.

  Quintillus nodded. “Three banks of oars each manned by five men. That’s why the ships we are building are called “quinqueremes” because of the five-man arrangement. We’re building 100 of these. Triremes, which you are probably more familiar with, are so named because they use a three-man arrangement — three banks of oars manned by three men, one man per oar. We’re building twenty triremes — although, frankly, I don’t know why we bother. The quinqueremes are faster because of the extra rowing power, even though it is a bigger ship. This is based on the latest Carthaginian design.”

  “Claudius’ captured ship.” Scipio smiled.

  “Exactly,” Quintillus said. “Until our first ships are built, this is the best we can do to train our rowers. We’re reserving our mock ship here for men who have never even seen a ship.”

  Scipio raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, yes,” Quintillus said. “We need 30,000 rowers. There are not half that many trained men in all of Italy. These men on the benches now are from Samnium, I believe. We have more men pouring in from all over constantly. A few hours on the benches are all they get. At least they learn the various orders and cadences.”

  They turned and watched for a moment. An officer strode alongside the benches. “Quick-rowing!” he shouted. The drummer doubled the speed of his striking the stump and the rowers awkwardly pushed their ax handles back and forth, trying to match the cadence.

  “It will be rough going at first,” Quintillus admitted with a shrug, turning away from the benches. “Here is where we house not only our rowers and crews but the legions from which will be selected the marines for the fleet.” He pointed at a vast field of tents behind the benches.

  “My army,” Scipio said. Only one army would operate in the field in Sicily this year under the junior consul, Duilius. This year belonged to sea power.

  “Yes,” Quintillus said. “We need anywhere from five to 15,000 marines.”

  “Why the wide range?” Scipio asked.

  “It has not yet been determined how many marines to have aboard each ship. The usual is forty, but we can go with three times that number, if necessary.”

  “And the determining factor?”

  “The speed at which we choose to operate and the distance from our base. The more marines aboard, the slower the ship. Obviously,” Quintillus added, reddening. Scipio realized that the man was afraid that he
was over-explaining.

  “Tell me everything, Prefect,” Scipio urged. “I know little of fleets and marines, apart from their strategic value.”

  Quintillus sighed in relief. Scipio asked, “And the distance?”

  “Of course, Consul. The distance issue … Yes, well … The problem is that there is virtually no space on board any of these ships for storage of food and, especially, fresh water. So the fewer mouths to feed the farther we can sail without putting in to shore. Because of this, it is very difficult to operate in areas where the enemy controls the land. The fleet, obviously, is very vulnerable when beached while the men forage. Long oversea voyages, of course, are out of the question.

  “That is why Carthaginian control of Western Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica and the Lipari Islands galls us so,” Quintillus added.

  “We’ll see if we can’t change that,” Scipio said with a sly smile.

  The Carthaginians had been using Lipara, the main city of the Lipari Islands, as a naval base since they had seized control of the island group five years ago. The Senate supposed that this was from where the raids upon the Italian coast were originating. Located just off the northeastern tip of Sicily, if Rome controlled them, Carthaginian raiders would have to sail along the northern coast of Sicily, half of which was controlled by Rome, or make the longer open sea trip from Sardinia.

  Scipio shook his head. Here he was thinking conservatively, no less than the Senate itself when it ordered that triremes be included in the modern fleet Scipio envisioned. With 120 ships, Scipio would not only conquer the bases but destroy the raiders as well. A raid on Africa itself was not out of the question, either. He relished the idea of the surprise the Carthaginians were in for.

  The two men, followed by Scipio’s guard, made their way down to the beach. Bustling workmen and officers stiffened when the consul passed, saluting with fists across their chests. Scipio waved them off.

  “Stay at your tasks, Romans!” he called, suddenly possessed of an idea. He grabbed a passing workman and thrust his arm around the man’s shoulders. He raised his hand and turned this way and that amid the bustle of the work crews. All the men stopped to watch him.

  “Stop for nothing, Romans!” he called, grasping the workman even tighter in his friendly embrace. The stunned workman gazed out at his fellows timidly in the clench of the most powerful man in Rome.

  “The sooner we get these ships built,” Scipio went on, his voice rising in crescendo, “the sooner we take the fight to the gods-damned Punici!”

  The workmen howled with laughter at the patrician consul’s unexpected use of the vernacular. The men hooted and hollered and fists pumped the air. Scipio released the workman triumphantly and the man scurried fearfully away. Foremen clapped their hands and the men were quickly back to work, Scipio’s exhortation re-invigorating them.

  Scipio smiled and the consular party made its way between two of the looming hulks of ships at the water’s edge.

  “These are two of our quinqueremes,” Quintillus said, indicating both of the supporting frameworks in front of and behind them. They towered fifteen feet above the group. He began shifting through some large parchment drawings on a table nearby. Something caught Scipio’s eye and he stayed the prefect’s hand. He paged back a couple of sheets to a section view through part of the ship’s hull, showing the layout of some of the timbers.

  “These timbers are marked—” he began.

  “Oh, yes,” Quintillus said. He turned and gestured toward one of the wagons. It was full of stacked timbers. “Each one is marked with a number. We cut them according to plan in our shops and haul them here to be assembled as shown in these plans. All the timbers in the Carthaginian ship were marked similarly. So we prefabricate the parts, just as they apparently do.”

  “Ingenious!” Scipio said.

  “However, our timber is still green. But that cannot be helped…”

  Quintillus waved off his thought and flipped forward a few sheets. “Here is what she will look like when we’re done,” he said with obvious pride. Scipio gazed down at an exterior side view drawing of the completed quinquereme. Printed dimensions on the drawing showed that it measured 140 feet long and twelve high.

  “Ah,” Scipio cooed. It was a beautiful ship, long and sleek. And to think that he would have 100 of these under his command! “And what is this?” Scipio asked, pointing to the bow of the ship where a curved horn-like structure jutted skyward.

  “Ah!” Quintillus said, with pleasure. “That is for shearing off enemy oars. A well-trained crew, instead of ramming an enemy ship, will sometimes choose merely to glide along beside it. This horn will make sure to catch all the oars, snapping them, regardless of the size of the enemy ship.”

  “A well-trained crew?”

  “Well, yes. It is not a simple maneuver. But that is just one option. The other is here,” he pointed to the bow of the ship, near the waterline.

  “The ram,” Scipio said.

  “Yes. You see how the hull of the ship flares out at the waterline?” Scipio nodded. “Well, the ram bolts to the hull right here.” He indicated a spot on the drawing. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  Scipio followed him to a large cart inside of which sat two unassembled rams. They were made of bronze, each comprised a cluster of three spikes about an arm’s length long. They were fitted to a round plate from which were fixed four flanges where the unit bolted onto the ship.

  “Not as big as I had imagined,” Scipio said, flicking it with his finger to hear its metallic ring.

  “It doesn’t take much. The idea is to merely punch a hole in the opposing ship and back away quickly.” Quintillus punched the palm of his left hand with his fist, making a quick popping sound. “A larger ram is more likely to become stuck A lot of skill is required to effectively ram an enemy. You must be able to turn your ship into the enemy’s broadside and not only hit him with force, but back away again. This requires more skill than you might believe—”

  Scipio shot a look at Quintillus.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Consul…” he added quickly.

  “Of course not,” Scipio said. He did not want to hear of impossibilities. But he must also be realistic, he thought with a sigh. He must confront the fact that his rowers trained with ax handles. “You may speak your mind, Prefect,” Scipio said after a moment’s reflection.

  “The Carthaginians are the greatest seamen in the world, Consul,” Quintillus said.

  “Yes?”

  “That’s all, Consul.” Quintillus stopped, but Scipio continued to gaze at him. Quintillus went on haltingly. “We have their ship design, but—” He paused and looked up the beach where the rowers sat on their benches, thrusting their ax handles back and forth.

  “But what, Prefect? Out with it!”

  “But we don’t have their men,” Quintillus said all at once.

  Kyros gazed at the spot where a week ago he had watched the last sails of the Carthaginian war fleet disappear below the horizon. He wrung his hands, pacing, lost in thought. Of course, he had not expected the fleet to return. The general had taken half of his Carthaginian garrison. Half! Kyros had known that once those soldiers boarded the ships he would not see them again, but that did not make this latest example of Punic arrogance any easier to stomach.

  His lookouts in their posts atop the coastline peaks had reported nothing. He would know the moment any ship was spotted approaching the island. Still, he kept his eye glued to the horizon, afraid almost to blink for the fact that he might miss a rising mainmast. He had given up on the Carthaginian fleet. It was another threat altogether that made the curving horizon such a menacing presence.

  Last night he had dreamed of two great pulverizing stones rolling downhill towards each another at great speed. The stones reduced to powder everything in their path. He had awakened in a sweat. The stones were the great powers and Lipara sat helpless and alone in the bottom of the valley. When the stones crashed together, Lipara would be crushed between
them. He was certain this day would bring a sail on the horizon. The dream, he felt, had foretold it.

  “Fetch me Thales,” he called to one of his servants. “Quickly!” he shouted, and the servant rushed from the room.

  When Thales, commander of the city militia, arrived, Kyros asked him, “Any reports from our lookout posts?”

  “Of course not, sir,” Thales said, with a hint of impatience. “Your orders were clear. You will know at once of any sightings.”

  “Yes, yes,” Kyros said, turning away from Thales. “I dreamed of ships approaching the city,” he admitted, turning back.

  Thales was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his face brown from the sun. He had many scars on his arms from years of swordplay. He held his helmet, bearing the scarlet plume of his rank, under his arm. He towered over the diminutive magistrate.

  “Dreams,” the officer said, dismissively. “I put no trust in them. The trader Calepios reports the Roman fleet still under construction at Ostia.”

  “Yes,” Kyros said. The dream had been so jarring that even the trader’s report, well-known to him even before Thales mentioned it, could do little to ease his mind.

  “A more reliable report than dreams,” Thales added. “If you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Of course not,” Kyros said. “Of course you are right.”

  “And our man in Messana,” Thales went on, “has reported a consular army has arrived in that city, under the consul Duilius.”

  “This report bothers me,” Kyros said.

  “Oh, but it should quiet your worries, I should think, Kyros. Messana is not Lipara, after all.”

  “But the Romans are sending only one army to Sicily. This means they withhold the other to man their fleet.”

  “What makes you so certain they will target Lipara?”

  “I can read a map, Thales,” Kyros snapped. “As they move beyond Messana, do you think they will leave an enemy naval base behind them? Oh, no!” Kyros shook his head and began pacing and wringing his hands again. “They will do exactly what I would do: capture Lipara!”