Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (28 page)

The kybernetes raised his eyes. ‘Phoenicians? Throw away a trade commodity? Not likely. That wine is part of another scheme, of even greater profitability. Beside the inner harbour, away from prying eyes, they have begun to build huge warehouses, large enough to house a ship as big as that amphora carrier on the quay. Soon these warehouses will fill up not with amphorae of wine but with something even more precious: sacks of an exotic spice called
pipperia.
It comes from India, and will be shipped across the Erythraean Sea to the shore of Egypt, and then transported across the desert to the Nile and Alexandria and to Carthage. The first Greeks to reach the shores of southern India found that the local spice merchants loved their wine, and wanted more; even rough Italian wine is like nectar to them. That's where all of those amphorae are destined.'

‘But to transport tens of thousands of heavy amphorae across the Egyptian desert would be an expensive undertaking,' Scipio said. ‘I've been there, and the cost would be prohibitive.'

‘The Carthaginians are prepared to do so, underwriting the transport cost with the profits from the trade with Gaul. They intend to send only enough to seed the trade, to bring back shiploads of
pipperia
and other spices and luxuries of the east, enough to fire up demand among the wealthy in Rome itself: among the wives of those whose greed they had exploited to set up the trade in the first place, the senators whose ship you see on the quayside now. But then the Carthaginians will move from exporting wine to another commodity that the Indians love, something transported much more easily with profit margins far higher. I mean gold: gold coin, gold bullion, gold specie, gold in any form. The Carthaginians will channel the gold of the Mediterranean to the east, emptying the wealth of nations to create in their own city the richest nation-state the world has ever seen, here where we stand now.'

‘How do they get the gold?' Fabius asked. ‘Another ingenious trading scheme?'

The kybernetes did not reply, but raised his eyes at Scipio, who turned to Fabius, his expression hard. ‘It will come from another source. This time old Phoenician guile takes a back seat, and new Carthaginian strength will be to the fore.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean war. War not of defence, but of conquest. War against Rome, and war in the east. Wars that may even see Carthage allied with those Romans who, it seems, have already thrown in their lot with her.'

Fabius felt a cold shiver down his spine. They were no longer talking about extinguishing an ancient foe, about finishing business and satisfying honour, about Scipio's own destiny. They were talking about a war that could change everything, a war that could escalate to swallow up the entire known world, from the shore of the Erythraean Sea to the furthest reaches of Gaul and the Albion Isles. The reason for Scipio's presence here now to gather intelligence suddenly seemed so important that it made him feel faint, as if he were standing at one of the pivotal points of history. The stakes could not be higher.

The kybernetes eyed Scipio. ‘Perhaps you have now seen all that you need to see. Even Polybius knows little of this, as my knowledge of these plans came since I last saw him in person, and I could not trust others to tell him. But now you have seen enough with your own eyes to trust that what I say is true.'

Scipio paused for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and then shook his head. ‘You have told us of the strategic threat. But we came here also to evaluate the tactical challenge of an assault on Carthage. I need to see the soldiers, their equipment, the fortifications, the new war harbour. Without that intelligence, we will be severely hampered. And I cannot yet use the strategic threat as an argument in Rome. If what you say is true, there are too many in the Senate implicated against us, names that I can guess, and to suggest in public that they are treacherous to Rome without clear evidence of Carthaginian military build-up would destroy my case and probably my life. It's the detailed evidence for war preparation that will win the day. After that, I will ponder what you have told me and decide how that will shape my own strategy after the army I lead here is victorious, if they give me the consulship.'

The kybernetes waved at someone, and they could see that the messenger they had sent with their seal was returning from the customs house. ‘Good,' the captain said. ‘There are no guards returning with him, so we will be let through.' He turned to Scipio, and spoke intensely. ‘I'm glad you're confident. But I'll speak my mind. From what I've seen of the Roman forces so far here in Africa, those helping Masinissa's army, I'm not so sure. You've got a lot of work to do, Scipio Aemilianus. Perhaps the name of your father and of the great Scipio Africanus will carry the weight of history forward. Meanwhile, remember that for today you are a mere merchant, and you must play your part with caution. You must be on the alert.'

15

The guards at the entrance from the outer harbour through the city wall were typically Carthaginian in appearance: dark-skinned, swarthy men with curly black hair and beards, the descendants of Phoenician forefathers who had left their homeland in the east Mediterranean centuries before to escape the turmoil that followed the Trojan War, founding Carthage not much before the Trojan prince Aeneas had first alighted on the coast of Italy and set eyes on the site of Rome some six hundred years ago. The two guards closest to Fabius carried long thrusting spears with butt tips of bronze so they would not rust when rammed into damp ground, as well as curved Greek-style
kopis
slashing swords: fearsome-looking weapons with the edged blade on the inside, yet less effective in a close-quarter melee than the straight-bladed Roman thrusting sword. Instead of metal armour they wore the distinctive Carthaginian hardened linen corselet, not thick enough to deflect a determined thrust yet with a white exterior and lighter weight that made it better suited to the African sun than Roman metal armour.

Their most striking equipment was their helmets, made of highly burnished iron with a bulbous crown that rose and extended forward, and detachable cheekpieces; the cheekpieces covered the face entirely, leaving only apertures for the eyes and mouth, and were embossed to represent facial hair. Seeing those helmets made Fabius catch his breath and remember the dreams of his boyhood. They were exactly as his father had described them from the Battle of Zama more than fifty years before, the last time the Romans had encountered the Carthaginians in a set-piece battle. Polybius in his
Histories
had derided the Carthaginians for using too many mercenaries and for fielding an untrained conscript force of their own citizens, but Fabius knew from his father that Polybius' sources had exaggerated to deflect attention from deficiencies in the Roman line, especially the division of forces within each legion according to experience and the quality of their weapons and armour. Seeing these guards here today, confident in their poise and the way they held their weapons, so similar in appearance to his father's description of those supposedly ill-trained levies, Fabius could begin to understand how the infantry battle at Zama had raged for hours before Masinissa's cavalry had arrived and tipped the balance in favour of the Romans. Yet these men today did not look like shadows from the past, a token police force allowed to a vanquished foe, but like highly trained, toughened warriors, men who had probably been blooded in the border clashes of the last three years with Gulussa's cavalry and the Roman expeditionary force. If there were more men like this mustered inside the walls of Carthage, then an assault on the city by the Romans would not be the walkover that some might have predicted.

The kybernetes returned from talking to the customs officer, nodded at Scipio and gestured to the entrance in the city wall beyond the guard tower. ‘You are authorized to go through to the merchants' hall, the name they give to the colonnaded space between the outer harbour where we are now and the two inner harbours, the rectangular harbour for state-controlled trade and the circular war harbour. Officially you cannot gain access to those inner harbours or the city beyond. Whether you find a way of doing so is up to your own devices. I will set sail as soon as you return. Your stated purpose here is to conclude a deal with a Carthaginian wine merchant, no more. If you linger any longer than you need to, the port guards will become suspicious. And if I come into the merchants' hall with you I'm liable to be press-ganged into the Carthaginian navy. The only place where sailors have immunity is out here, and I'll busy myself with the chandlers' stores to stock up on supplies for my ship. Whatever happens, you must never reveal your name. For the Carthaginians to have caught the heir of Scipio Africanus on a covert mission within their walls would be to sound the death-knell for any Roman attempt to take this city. They would demand an extortionate ransom, hold you up as a laughing stock that would undermine Roman prestige everywhere, and shatter the morale of the legions. Far better, if you are threatened with capture, to die fighting, or to fall on your own sword. Good luck.'

He scurried off towards a cordage seller beside the quay. Scipio walked confidently past the soldiers, Fabius an appropriate distance behind, and in a few moments they were through the city wall. The colonnaded space they had entered was long and narrow, lined not with warehouses like the quay outside but with small
officinae
fronted by marble tables and seats. The place seemed less like the animated chaos of the merchants' square that Fabius knew well from the port of Rome at Ostia, a favourite haunt of his as a boy, than one of the law courts in the Forum, with clusters of men engaged in solemn discussions. Sitting in the office next to the entrance was a man wearing a robe dyed deep purple, the colour that the Phoenicians extracted from a rare species of seashell; it was the easiest way to spot a Carthaginian state official. On the stone table in front of him was a steelyard weighing scale and a line of balance-pan weights resting in carved-out depressions in the stone, and in the back of the
officina
was a stone strongbox guarded by two burly soldiers. It was evidently an exchange facility, and Fabius could see others interspersed among the colonnades. This place was clearly run by Carthaginian officials, not by free merchants, and their transactions were not the small deals built up piecemeal of a typical shipper's business in Ostia, but instead high-value exchanges, evidenced by a transaction a few offices down, where the pan in the scale was piled high with gold coins.

Scipio walked along the colonnade, looking to the left and right as if searching for a specific merchant, and then turned casually to Fabius and nodded at the opposite colonnade. ‘There's an entrance between the columns,' he said quietly. ‘It's a narrow passage guarded by two soldiers about halfway along, out of sight of anyone here unless they were really looking. It must lead to the landlocked harbours. Our disguise as a merchant and his servant is no use to us any more if we want to get in there. Our only chance is to go as Carthaginian soldiers. When I give the signal, you deal with the one on the right.'

Fabius followed Scipio as he turned down the alley and walked up to the soldiers, who wore the same style of armour and equipment as the men at the entrance. They both had their cheekpieces down, obscuring their faces, but by their long beards they looked to be eastern mercenaries, perhaps Assyrian. The man on the left stood forward, slamming his spear butt on the ground. ‘You are not allowed through,' he said, his Greek barely comprehensible. ‘By order of the high admiral.'

‘The high admiral?' Scipio said, pretending ignorance. ‘So this is the way to the circular harbour?'

‘Yes, but it's not the harbour you want,' the man growled. ‘Your harbour is back the way you came. You merchants are even bigger fools than I thought. You have no sense of direction.'

Scipio turned, affecting a puzzled expression, but in reality looking down the alley to make sure they were not being watched. He caught Fabius' eye, and nodded almost imperceptibly. In a lightning movement he swivelled round and punched the soldier hard in the throat, catching him as he fell and twisting his head violently to one side until he could hear his neck break. In the same instant Fabius did the same to the other man, keeping hold of his head afterwards and lowering him gently to the ground. There had been no noise, and there was no blood. They dragged the two men out of the alley into a dark space behind a wall, and then quickly stripped them, taking off their own clothes and donning the soldiers' armour, pulling on the helmets and snapping the cheekpieces shut over their faces. The bodies lay with their eyes wide open, caught in the shock of instant death. Scipio kicked their discarded clothes over the corpses so that it looked like a pile of cloth. They picked up the spears, walked out into the alley, turned and moved swiftly along the columns of a portico that extended at right-angles from the merchants' hall for several hundred feet, and then veered right through an opening towards a shimmer of water.

Scipio stopped for a moment, listening for any sign of pursuit, hearing nothing. Fabius took a deep breath, and saw that his hands were shaking. It always happened after he killed, the energy rush, like taking a deep draught of wine at the end of a long run, his heart pumping the nectar through his veins and making him shake. And it was not that he had come to relish killing for its own sake. Taking out those two men had seemed like the first act in the endgame, as if the assault on Carthage was finally in train.

They had come out on the edge of the enclosed rectangular harbour, a basin that led to a fortified entrance at the eastern side, with the twin-peaked mountain of Bou Kornine visible in the background. Fabius realized that the harbour must be parallel to the outer one where the
Diana
had berthed, only completely man-made and landlocked. There were only two ships berthed inside, one a typical Phoenician-style wide-bellied merchantman with eyes painted below the bows, and the other a sleeker design that was neither warship nor merchantman, with gunwales higher and more robust than Fabius was used to seeing. The wharf beside the vessel was lined with baskets filled with fragments of stone, some of it shimmering and metallic. As he and Scipio passed, a slave came down a gangplank and heaved another basket to the ground, sweating and cursing. He glanced ruefully at Fabius, who had stopped to look. ‘Feel free to give a hand, if you have nothing better to do,' the slave said in heavily accented Greek. ‘I'm just about done in.'