“Ah!” Hiero said knowingly, as if the ingenuity of the machine had suddenly become obvious to him. When Archimedes offered no further details, Hiero said, “Perhaps you’d better explain to me exactly what it is I’m looking at here.”
“Certainly. Here, hold this,” Archimedes began, indicating the base of the pole. Hiero held the pole upright between his thumb and forefinger. “This pole fits onto the foredeck of a ship. The line—”
“What sort of scale is this?” Hiero interrupted. “How long is this pole?”
“Yes, of course. The pole is twenty-four feet long. Here. Here’s a drawing.” Archimedes held an oversized parchment before Hiero’s face. He saw an extremely complicated drawing, scratched over with notes and calculations of all sorts. But he could make out identifiable objects, not least of which was something that looked like the model he was now holding.
“You can see that I’ve sketched the ship in here,” Archimedes pointed out. “Just so you can visualize the scale. You can see that the pole actually extends down to the keel of the ship, where it is secured to the hull. When I say the pole is twenty-four feet long, I mean that it rises twenty-four feet above the deck. But it is actually longer than you see in my model.”
“Ah, yes,” Hiero said. Archimedes set the drawing aside.
“Now, the boarding ladder fits around the pole with this twelve-foot-long slotted piece, here. The boarding ladder itself is twenty-four-feet long and four-feet wide and has these side rails, two-feet high. I was going to make the side rails full height, but I needed to reduce the weight. The thing is still heavier than I would like, but I have pared it down as much as possible.”
“I see. What is the idea behind this?”
“While traveling, the boarding bridge stands upright alongside the pole.” Archimedes pulled the string and the ‘equalizer’ rose to its upright position. He ran his finger along the taut string. “The line that holds it up is tied to the deck through an iron ring. The line goes up through a pulley at the top of the pole and attaches here to the end of the gangplank. Notice that the slotted connection at the base of the pole allows the gangplank to be pivoted in any direction — left, right, straight ahead, and all points in between.” He pivoted the boarding ladder to illustrate.
“Now, when an enemy ship is within range — that is, within twenty-four feet of this pole — a deck hand cuts the rope with an ax and the gangplank comes crashing down on the enemy deck. This spike here,” Archimedes indicated a single appendage that sprouted from the underside of the bridge, “fixes the bridge to the enemy deck.” He let go the string and the boarding bridge fell forward, looking, Hiero thought, something like a bird digging its beak into some morsel of carrion.
“Yes!” Hiero exclaimed, understanding the meaning. He let go of the base of the pole and laid the unit down gently on the tabletop. Archimedes was certainly not mad. Not today.
“Since the Roman ships are hopelessly slow,” Archimedes went on excitedly, “the impact the ‘equalizer’ will have on their speed is irrelevant. In fact, the slower, the better, as they will want to lure the Carthaginian ships within the ‘equalizer’s’ range. What is the maximum number of soldiers that can be put on one of these Roman ships?”
“120,” Hiero said. “Normally they carry forty. We have been drilling with forty.”
“Oh, forty will not do!” Archimedes said. “The fast Carthaginian ships carry forty. For the Romans, I propose the maximum, 120. The enemy rushes in with the ram and the Romans hold them fast with these boarding bridges, sending 120 soldiers across before the Carthaginians know what has hit them. It is armored men with swords and shields that is the Roman strength — not rams and seamanship, certainly.”
“How long will it take to make one of these to full scale?” Hiero asked with a smile.
“I have already commissioned a prototype,” Archimedes said. “We will have one tomorrow.”
Hiero watched as the old Syracusan trireme raced towards the plodding Roman ship bow-on. It was single ship-on-ship combat, perhaps not the most realistic drill they had run in the week of training, but this drill had a specific purpose. Fixed to the bow of the Roman ship was Archimedes’ ungainly apparatus, the ‘equalizer’. It was held fast in the upright position. The Syracusan crew of Hiero’s expendable trireme had been told nothing and the king could only speculate as to what they thought of the mysterious device on the opposing ship. Hiero knew that his crews grew weary of the training. As seamen, the Romans, they thought, were hopelessly out of their element. The tedium of defeating them was only relieved by moments of laughter at their pitiable exertions. They supposed they had been put in the obsolete trireme only to heighten the challenge of defeating the Romans once again. Hiero felt anxious, and he supposed Archimedes felt the same as he witnessed his device in action for the first time. Diokles viewed the proceedings with a detached, judicious air while the man Scipio had left in charge of the Romans in Syracuse, a tribune named Rufinus, was skeptical.
As the two ships approached one another, the Syracusans attempted the same ramming technique that had brought them success all week: that of turning sharply and striking the Roman vessel at an oblique angle amidships.
Hiero gripped the stone railing until his knuckles were white.
The Roman ship turned to keep its bow pointed at the enemy as its captain had been instructed. This was far simpler than attempting to ram and the maneuver was accomplished easily. As the trireme approached for its killing blow, the ‘equalizer’ suddenly dropped with a crushing weight onto the enemy deck, its iron spike ripping the flesh of the trireme as if it were the beak of a carrion crow. The trireme shuddered to a halt, and Hiero saw that both ships trembled together for an instant before coming to rest. The ‘equalizer’ held them fast. No sooner was the boarding bridge in place than the first of the 120 Roman marines that packed the ship rushed across and spilled onto the enemy deck.
Hiero erupted in a spontaneous cheer, lifting his clenched fists. Archimedes shouted in triumph. Diokles, noting the overwhelming superiority of the Roman marines scored it a victory, the Syracusan trireme “captured.” Rufinus was stunned.
“But will it work under combat conditions?” Rufinus asked.
“It was more effective than I dared hope,” Archimedes said.
“The device can be pivoted as well,” Hiero reminded Rufinus. “Even if the crew fails to get its bow around as skillfully as this one did, the device can still be brought to bear — 180-degrees around the bow of the ship.”
Later, discussing the exercise with his men, Hiero learned that the Syracusans had laughed at the awkward Roman apparatus, thinking it some machine for shearing oars or perhaps some kind of ramming device. Ultimately, their surprise had been complete. Their own marines had been too shocked to react until they had found themselves surrounded by three times their number. Surrender had been the only option.
Repeated trials against fresh crews bore similar results. Soon the Romans brimmed with pride and confidence, and the Syracusans learned quickly to fear the ripping beak of the “corvus” as the Romans had begun calling the device due to its resemblance to a pecking raven.
After returning to Messana and conferring with Scipio, Rufinus commissioned the construction of 120 corvi to be delivered to Messana in time for the arrival of the main Roman fleet from the shipyard at Ostia.
Archimedes, disappointed that his own name for the device had not stuck, was nevertheless thrilled with the outcome and relieved to be finished with the project so he could get back to his more satisfying theoretical pursuits. Although he did warn Rufinus that he could not vouch for the seaworthiness of any ship with an equal— er, corvus attached, all were convinced that Archimedes had produced a potentially war-winning machine.
Hannibal Gisgo popped a fig into his mouth and lustily licked his fingers. A fresh salt-breeze wafted through the open doors to the balcony of the dining chamber of his headquarters in Panormus, which overlooked the harbor. He and Boodes sat on c
ouches inside finishing a leisurely lunch. Hannibal could barely contain his amusement as he listened to the report of his spymaster.
“The Roman ships are scarcely able to engage the enemy at all,” the spymaster said. “The ships themselves are sloppily constructed out of green timber. Even seasoned crews could not get much out of them. The Syracusans defeated them with ease time and time again. The sailors laughed at the Romans.”
“What kind of ships?” Hannibal asked, plucking another fig from the dish.
“Fives. They look to be of the same design as Carthaginian vessels.”
“How many?”
“Twenty in training at Syracuse. More are being built in Italy.”
“Where in Italy?”
“We don’t know. Near Rome. Probably Ostia.”
“Not Rhegium?”
“No, not Rhegium.”
“How many?”
“We don’t know that either.”
“Hmm…” Hannibal gathered in the folds of his robe as he sat up. “For a spymaster, you don’t know very much,” he said. He reached across the table and picked up a small leather pouch, cinched with a thin cord. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the bag to the spymaster. The spymaster caught it, noting the satisfying clink of the coins inside.
“Gathering this information is perhaps not as easy as it sounds,” the spymaster said. “And not cheap, either,” he added, jangling the pouch.
“Your expenses are your own affair,” Hannibal said. It always came down to coin with these people. Hannibal thought back to Iliatos. Tragic greed. “Perhaps if I knew how many ships the Romans were building, I would be more sympathetic.”
“That is impossible. I have a man who knows his way around Syracuse. But the heart of Italy is another matter entirely. Of course, I have no one in Syracuse now as my men have followed the Roman to Messana.”
Hannibal cocked an eyebrow. “To Messana?”
“The consul — Scipio — sailed his twenty ships away from Syracuse to Messana. We have followed him there.”
“Your people are in Messana now, and not Syracuse?”
“We left Syracuse when the Roman left. Security in Syracuse was very tight, a very difficult operation…”
“With only twenty ships? What is the Roman doing in Messana?”
“I have no report on that yet. Only that he left Syracuse with his fleet.”
Ultimately, Hannibal was satisfied with his spymaster. He understood the difficulties, although he would never admit to it in the man’s presence.
“I would sail for Messana at once,” Hannibal told Boodes later, “if I knew how many ships are in their main fleet and when it sails. But I cannot risk any surprises.”
“But given the quality of the Roman crews, numbers should hardly matter.”
In addition to the fifty ships Hannibal had docked in the harbor below, eighty more were making their way up the west coast of Sicily, having been called from Carthage.
“I’m afraid our timidity has resulted in Roman naval pretensions,” Hannibal said, thinking back to his encounter in the strait several years ago. He should have swept the sea clean then. Now, Rome felt she was capable of challenging Carthage at sea.
“It will prove a foolish pretension, do you not agree?”
“Foolish indeed!” Hannibal said. “I let them off easy last time and my mercy was mistaken for cowardice. I will not make the same mistake twice.”
Chapter 21
All eyes turned to Juba as he entered the crowded command tent to give his report. He had not realized that he was walking into the middle of a war council and he felt an immediate flush of self-consciousness redden his cheeks. He recognized only a few of the participants — Consul Duilius and Gelon, of course, and a tribune named Gaius Caecilius, perhaps a couple of others.
“The camp at Macella has been abandoned,” Juba said. His embarrassment evaporated the instant he began speaking. “There are no sizeable enemy forces in the vicinity of the city. From what I can tell they are all at Segesta.”
“That is not what my scouts are telling me,” Caecilius said haughtily, glancing around at his companions. He sat in a camp chair with his legs crossed. “I am hearing of heavy concentrations of formed troops nearby. Surely, your men have not been thorough in their scouting.”
“Well, which is it?” Duilius asked. “Tribune Caecilius, I must make plans on the basis of sound and consistent reports. Now, I am hearing something entirely different from—” He paused and looked over at Gelon. “This is one of your men?” he asked, and Gelon nodded. Duilius went on to the group, “Now, I am hearing something entirely different from the Syracusans.”
“With respect, Consul,” Juba said. “I suggest Caecilius’ scouts are jumping at shadows. The way to Macella is open, and the city itself virtually undefended.”
“That’s Tribune Caecilius to you!” The tribune stood and glared at Juba.
Since the Syracusan legion of four thousand had joined the Roman army outside Messana, Juba’s Eagles had done most of the scouting work, although not always by design. In Juba’s opinion, the Roman and Italian cavalry were completely unsuited to the task. The Eagles found that they could easily approach the Roman patrols unseen and Juba knew that they fled at the sight of any group of Carthaginian horse, no matter how small. He had reported this to Gelon who merely shook his head and shared with Juba his own experience with the Roman cavalry, his level of disgust rising anew.
“Tribune Caecilius…” Juba amended his comments with a bow. What did he care what the incompetent oaf wanted to be called?
“How dare you slander my scouts!” Caecilius said.
“Now, Tribune…” Duilius began, consolingly.
Gelon spoke up. “Tribune,” he said, mockingly exaggerating the title. “If my chief of scouts says that your men wet themselves with fear of shadows, then you can believe him.”
“Insolence!” Caecilius cried. Several of his peers laughed behind their hands at Gelon’s remark, and Caecilius’ face reddened with rage.
“Sit down, Tribune!” Duilius ordered. “Gelon, your objections have been heard. Perhaps next time you will raise them without the insults. I would suggest, Caecilius, that perhaps what your men saw were the Carthaginians retreating from the camp that is now reported as abandoned.”
“More likely, they have mistaken a foraging party for Hamilcar’s phalanx,” Gelon said. “Or a man out taking a shit for a brigade of Iberian lancers!”
This time the tent erupted in unrestrained laughter. Caecilius looked ready to burst.
“Enough!” Duilius cried. “Enough of this!” He gazed sternly about the group, and then went on. “If the camp is abandoned—”
“The camp is abandoned,” Juba said.
“—then that suggests to me,” Duilius went on with a glance at Juba, “that our victory at Acragas has made the Carthaginians wary. It is important that we keep their scouts away from us. If they know we are but 20,000, they may grow bold again.”
“Their scouts tried to penetrate my position today,” Juba said. “But my Eagles routed them in an engagement. Perhaps they have gone back to their camp with tales as exaggerated as the tribune’s scouts now bring to us.”
“Very good,” Duilius said approvingly, ignoring the insult this time. “Maybe all our scouts should take another look at Macella. Gelon’s man reports that it is weakly held. Are you certain of this?”
“Very certain, Consul. It is held by a local garrison only. The Carthaginians are at Segesta. Perhaps they believe Macella too forward to hold.”
“I will take Macella by storm, then,” Duilius said. “Afterward, we will move to relieve Segesta. Gentlemen, let us begin to plan this operation in detail,” he said, standing. “Gelon’s chief of scouts—”
“Juba,” Gelon interjected.
“Chief of scouts Juba,” Duilius went on, “I want you and your — Eagles, do you call them? — to keep enemy scouts away from this camp and I want a detailed report of the defense
s of Macella.”
Juba nodded, brimming with pride. His mind was instantly at work on the issue. He envisioned the terrain around the camp and city, already deciding where to post his pickets and with whom to man them.
“And what of my scouts, Consul?” Caecilius asked. “Are their reports to be disregarded out of hand? Do you not think it dangerous to proceed on the word alone of one such as this?” He indicated Juba disdainfully.
“I want your scouts only to stay out of the way,” Duilius said, “We shall find out what these Eagles are capable of.”
Unseen by the consul, Caecilius seethed.
“Now, enough with scouting. Let’s get down to the matter of capturing Macella.”
Gelon suggested the mode and timing of the attack. They would take the city by escalade at night. By the end of the next day, Juba’s Eagles had returned with reports of the height of the towers and the vigilance of the guards, neither of which seemed very formidable to a determined attacker.
The assault was set for that night. Throughout the day, they constructed their ladders to the height of the towers. But when heavy weather was judged to be approaching, they delayed their assault, welcoming the inclemency.
Rain sputtered throughout the next dreary day. Conditions for a surprise assault improved by the hour. Juba’s Eagles reported that the guards miserably huddled under cover, having abandoned their posts. When by nightfall the rain began to come down in sheets, it seemed that the gods themselves had blessed the operation. Conditions were perfect.
Gelon was determined to lead the attack, but Duilius, wishing to defuse the rancor he saw growing among his legions, diplomatically planned a four-pronged assault. He had designated four guard towers to be captured, one by each of the army’s “legions” — two for the Romans, one for their Italian allies and the last for the Syracusans, led by Gelon. Once the towers were captured, the soldiers would make their way to the gates and open the doors from the inside, allowing the army to capture the city.
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