"Until a few days ago none of us had even looked upon a sea."
"Well, then, there's no harm in your seeing the outside.
That much is open to everyone." He strode to the water's edge and leaned on the balustrade, his scarred brown hands making an odd contrast with the polished white marble. He raised one of them and pointed at the great facade of the dock, which curved away from them with its row of gaping tunnels.
"There you see the ship sheds. Inside are all the facilities necessary for fitting out the ships, arming and victualling them. Inside, each of those is long enough to hold three ships at once. If a middling large fleet must abide here, twice that many can be accommodated."
"How is that possible?" Flaccus asked him. "We saw a ship go in a short time ago. There seems to be little leeway on each side. If they are only long enough for three, how do you crowd in three more?"
"Easily. First, three ships go in, prow to stern. They are unloaded and dismasted, then they are hoisted to the ceiling with rope and tackle. Then three more are rowed in to dock beneath them."
"Whole ships hung from the ceiling?" Marcus said, trying to visualize such a thing.
"It is how warships are always stored for the winter. Even the Greeks do it, and they were never the sailors we are."
So, Marcus thought, 150 ships constituted a middling sized fleet, unless this man was lying or exaggerating. "It is a magnificent establishment."
Egabal shrugged. "It's not much compared to the great naval harbor of Carthage, but it's impressive to barbarian eyes." The Romans remained stone-faced, merely filing the small insult away as one more offense for which Carthage must one day be made to pay.
That evening, after a sumptuous dinner at the palace, they heard Metrobius's report.
"Many of the soldiers are Greeks, almost all of the marines. I encountered a number of Argives, a few Athenians and men from the islands and the cities of Magna Graecia, but no Spartans. I learned that all the training officers and drill instructors are Spartan professionals, so the Laconian dialect is the language of the whole army, even among the non-Greeks. The army also includes a great many Spaniards and men of Libya, Numidia and Mauretania, along with Balearics, Sicilians, Corsicans, Sardinians and men from all the islands of the western sea."
"But no Carthaginian ground troops?" Marcus asked.
"They never leave their homeland and are kept in reserve against uprisings by the natives and foreign threats to Carthage herself. The elite of the army is the Sacred Band, which is made up of highborn young Carthaginians."
Norbanus snorted. "Elite! A pack of privileged boys who have never campaigned in foreign lands are the elite of this army?"
"They're probably just the best-dressed," Flaccus said. "Shiny gear and bright plumes always seem to give men a high opinion of themselves. Did you see the purple cloak Egabal wore? Back home only a triumphing general gets to wear such a thing. Here, a navy functionary rates one."
"I am preparing a report for the Senate," Marcus said. "I will include all we've seen and learned, but I have a feeling that the true revelations lie ahead."
"Carthage," Norbanus said, dreamily. "We are going to see the heart of enemy territory with our own eyes! Even our ancestors never had that chance."
"Actually," Flaccus said, "while it sounds like a most interesting trip, I will be more than happy to forego it in order to stay here in Tarentum and be your liaison-"
"You're going with us, Flaccus," Marcus said. "You're just afraid to go out on the open sea."
"It's unnatural to go floating about on water like that," Flaccus protested. "Neptune did not give us scales and fins."
"You are going with us, Flaccus."
"Very well, Commander," Flaccus sighed.
That same evening, in another part of the palace, Hanno drafted two letters. The first he dictated to a scribe.
"Begin with all the usual salutations to His Majesty," he told the old man who sat at his feet cross-legged, a writing table on his lap, pens and pots of ink on the floor beside him. The man scribbled industriously.
"Majesty," Hanno began, "this day your city of Tarentum was visited by a most unexpected apparition-a delegation of Romans! I assure Your Majesty that your servant has not taken leave of his wits. It seems that the rumors of a state in the north founded by the Roman exiles are true. Not only that, but these latter-day Romans have prospered beyond expectation. They have retained some of their martial organization and I believe that Your Majesty may find them to be of some use in your most justified and holy war against the decadent Ptolemies of Egypt. To this end, I shall within a few days place these Romans on a trusty ship and dispatch them to the capital where they may afford you some amusement as well as provide a martial resource. I remain etcetera etcetera. Close with the usual formulas and make up a copy fit for royal eyes."
Then he dismissed the scribe and began another letter, this one written with his own hand.
Most esteemed and worshipful Princess Zarabel, he began. You are about to be visited by a delegation of Romans. It seems that these people are far from expunged from history as we have long imagined. The far north is a savage place, and for these to have founded a state in that wilderness and made it prosper must mean that they have lost none of their political and military skills. The bearing of these men is dignified to an extent that you must see to appreciate. Impoverished and downtrodden states do not produce such men.
Their leader is one Scipio, a name we know from history. His second in command is named Norbanus, and I detect both envy and ambition in this man. He is resentful of his inferior position. Such rivalry we know to be the bane of republics, and useful for us. For many years the world of the Middle Sea has lain in uneasy balance, with the Barcas, the Ptolemies and the Seleucids contending for dominance but each unable to seize it. These crude but martial foreigners are a new factor and they could tip the balance in favor of one or the other of the royal contenders. The one who makes best use of them may have a decisive advantage.
Perhaps we have been mistaken in our concentration upon the Middle Sea, acting as if the rest of the world did not exist. I shall act forthwith to dispatch agents to the north, beyond the alps, and get an accurate report concerning this Roma Noricum. It is clear that the Greek merchants who trade to the north have been concealing much from us. I will interrogate such of these persons as I can find with utmost rigor.
You, Lady of the Moon, Light of Tanit, are an unparalleled judge of men. I know that, once you have had an opportunity to assess them, you will read their hearts as you read the stars and the sacred waters of Tanit. This, I feel certain, is an opportunity that must be seized with the utmost resolution.
I remain your most loyal servant, Princess Zarabel, shadow of Our Lady upon Earth.
He finished the letter with a few more flourishes, rolled the parchment and placed it in a bronze tube. This he capped and sealed with melted lead, pressing a special seal into the soft metal. At his call a man entered the room and prostrated himself. The newcomer was a man of middle years, dressed in a short tunic and a pointed blue cap. His skin was burned dark and his face was seamed like old leather.
"You are to deliver this to the Princess Zarabel at once. Take my fastest cutter and leave tonight. Her reward and mine will be, as always, most generous."
The man stretched out a hand and took the tube, then he knocked his brow upon the floor. "I am your servant, Lord. None is more swift, none more loyal. The king's men will never know that I am in Carthage, they will never know that I have left."