Delenda Est

 
The pleasant aroma of fish stew lingered even as the next course of fruits and baked cakes was brought to the table by the servants in the prosperous household. Filling his head with such happy memories was a trick Himilco’s pedagogue had taught him to help him endure pain and fear, but its effectiveness was breaking down. The desperate reality could not be denied. He fought against his lungs while a part of his mind told him to just inhale water and accept the peace of death. He must remain below the surface until he was well past the great chain blocking the inner military harbor or else he surely would be spotted by Roman sentries. Even so, he was gambling that Roman eyes were distracted by events at the city wall. After a protracted siege the Romans finally had taken the wall next to the inner harbor and were pouring over it. Defenders inside Carthage were falling back to the final redoubt at the Temple of Eshmun. Himilco hadn’t gone there despite the entreaties of his mother. He had no wish to starve to death in a siege of the temple, nor did have any illusions he could combat professional soldiers in the streets. Instead, when he saw amid the chaos a clear path to the inner harbor some instinct impelled him to run into it. He stripped down to a loincloth and jumped into the water before the Romans completely cut off access to it.
 
He wished he had stayed in Britain before the war as his seafaring merchant father had offered. He could have stayed in the household of his older sister Asherah who had been married off to a local barbarian who controlled tin and silver mines in the southwest of the island. The marriage had sealed the trading deal for the metals and thereby made their family rich. Asherah had complained bitterly on the sea voyage to Britain but in the end she seemed happy enough to be left behind there with her husband. The fellow was good looking in a hairy barbarian way and he was a nobleman by the rude standards of that place. Himilco had enjoyed the trip, though the swims in the cold northern waters that his father had insisted he take to “toughen up” were unpleasant. Nonetheless, Himilco had refused the offer to stay behind for a year and instead returned with his father to Carthage to pursue his studies and learn more of the family business. Then the war came. His father had been killed in a Roman raid on the outer harbor. Asherah was the only member of his family whom the odds favored to be alive by morning. As for riches Himilco’s only remaining possession was his loincloth.
 
Himilco broke the surface of the water and gasped. He coughed up salt water and then choked on smoke from the burning buildings and burning flesh wafting from the city. He had swum not nearly as far into the outer harbor as he had imagined. He was certain his splashes and coughs would alert Roman sentries but none of the shouts from the shore and walls seemed directed his way. No projectiles splashed around him. He reckoned his only chance was in the water. He had no chance on land, which was thick with soldiers on the mainland side. 13 years old and scrawny, he was no match for even one of them. Yet he was old enough to be considered “military age” and most likely would be killed on sight despite being unarmed – or, if very lucky, he might be sold into slavery. Himilco didn’t pray to Tanit and Melqart for help. He had tried that in the city for months. They weren’t listening. His father, unusually for a seaman, had been a skeptic in such matters and Himilco was leaning toward the view that he was right.
 
Himilco tried to get his bearings. The Romans early in the siege had obstructed the outer harbor’s main exit to the sea. In response, the Carthaginians had cut a canal through the fortified spit of land separating the outer harbor from the Mediterranean. This second lifeline to the sea hadn’t lasted long. The Romans blocked the new canal by sinking one of their own ships in it. Still, Himilco figured the canal was his best bet. If he could swim past the hull of the sunken ship he could slip out to the Mediterranean. His arms ached and his chest hurt as swam toward the canal. Again he contemplated how much easier it would be to give up and be done with the pain. Himilco’s arms and feet continued their motions even as they protested. He could see no guards by the canal as he bobbed his head between strokes.
 
He entered the canal after what felt like an eternity but the setting sun had barely budged since he had surfaced in the harbor. He saw no soldiers. Himilco hoped the ongoing sack of the city had drawn them away from this narrow sea break. He reached the ship blocking the canal. It was sunk up to the gunnels. He could see why the former warship had been chosen for sacrifice. The hull was rotting and infested with barnacles. It would have sunk of its own accord soon anyway. There were just a few feet of clearance between the ship and channel bank. He worked his way toward the sea keeping just his head above the water. Just he passed the stern of the ship the tip of a Roman pilum appeared inches in front of his face.
 
He looked up to see a grizzled veteran with scars on his arms. His armor was well-worn but shipshape. Himilco closed his eyes waited for the killing jab. At least the struggle was over. Moments passed. Himilco opened his eyes. Astonishingly, the pilum withdrew. The veteran nodded his head seaward. The sun had finally slipped below the horizon, and though it was hard to be certain in the growing twilight Himiclo thought he saw tears on the man’s face. Himilco would never know why the soldier let him live. Perhaps he had a son Himilco’s age. Perhaps the kill would have been too easy. He had seen hunters for this reason release animals tangled in vines or trapped in bogs rather than take them as prizes. Romans at this moment were slaughtering his countrymen inside the walls of the city yet this one spared him. You never knew about people. Himilco resumed swimming to the end of the channel and slipped into the open sea. He looked back at the old soldier who was deliberately looking the other way.
 
Himilco swam parallel to the shore hoping to reach the beaches where merchant vessels unloaded their goods to sell to the Roman army. Ideally one would be Phoenician and he could beg for a passage. Despite their blood ties to Carthage, Phoenicians shamelessly sold to the Romans, but the crew still might take him aboard. Then again, they might him into slavery but he had to take his chances. He wasn’t strong enough to swim safely past the entire war zone. On foot, death or capture was certain. His luck with the veteran could not be expected to be repeated.

Himilco hadn’t counted on a backcurrent. No matter what direction he propelled himself the shore continued to recede. His last reserves of strength were fading. He was cold. The waters were not as cold as those by Britain but cold enough. His mind was oddly at peace with the notion of drowning but somehow his body continued to struggle. The sky turned dark and starry. Only the fires in burning Cartage gave him any sense of direction. He eased trying to make headway and instead expended merely enough energy to stay afloat. A sloshing sound approached. He had spent enough time at sea to know what it was. He called out. The sound grew louder. There was definitely a dark shape. It resolved into the silhouette of a type of vessel had seen many times. The ship had a rounded bow, a square mainsail, and a spritsail. It carried oars but not as a primary means of propulsion. They were just to aid in maneuvering into docking positions. She was a merchant vessel and not a very impressive one.
 
He shouted again and this time heard shouts back. As the vessel drew close an oar extended out to him. If it was a Roman oar his long swim would be fruitless. He pulled himself along the oar toward the hull and reached up toward the gunnel. Rough hands pulled him on board.
 
“What do we have here? Not very pretty for a Nereid,” the words in Greek came from a bearded man with a commanding presence despite his small stature.
 
“Prettier than you, Captain, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said a crewman. “Perhaps it’s Arion looking for his dolphin.”
 
Himilco had heard some story of a Greek saved from drowning by a dolphin and guessed this was the reference. A basic familiarity with Greek was another skill beaten into Himilco by his father, a man whom Himilco was increasingly inclined to forgive for his severity.
 
“What are you doing out here, boy? Fall overboard?”
 
Himilco weighed a lie against the truth. Either was a gamble. The Greeks were traditional enemies of Carthage but also had a difficult relationship with the Romans. He decided to be truthful up to a point.
 
“I tried to get away from the city,” he said in halting Greek.
 
“Carthage?” asked the captain. “What was your plan? To swim all the way to Tyre?”
 
Carthage had been founded by Tyrians who maintained a cultural relationship with the city. “No, I meant to keep close to shore but the current was strong and pulled me away.”
 
“I’m not sure what good you did yourself. We’re headed for Carthage.”
 
“There is no Carthage.”
 
“I can see the flames, boy. I’ll rephrase. We’re going to sell our goods to the Romans outside Carthage. Armies always need supplies. Sacking your city means they are better able to pay for them. Maybe I’ll throw you into the bargain as a sweetener.”
 
“The Romans will just kill him,” said one of the sailors.
 
“Well, that’s neither here nor there.”
 
Still shivering from the cold sea, Himilco collected himself. He usually flubbed his rhetoric exercises with his tutor. Getting tongue-tied this time would mean his life. A part of him didn’t care, but once again an urge to live a little longer took control. “You will miss the opportunity of a lifetime if you do that. The Romans use agents to negotiate with merchants like you – Greeks mostly. They will bargain you down to rock bottom prices and take a hefty fee for themselves for the privilege. You would do better trading at almost any random port.”
 
“I don’t think your assessment is disinterested,” said the captain.
 
“It isn’t. But it is true. Tell me, what are you carrying?”
 
An uncomfortable silence lengthened. Himilco knew he was showing unseemly arrogance for someone who had just been rescued, but he gambled the approach would work.
 
At length the captain’s curiosity got the better of his annoyance. “It’s fortunate for you you’re a good-looking lad,” he said. Himilco wasn’t sure what that had to do with it, but didn’t respond. “Not that it’s your business, lad, but we’re carrying wine and olive oil.”
 
“Then you definitely can make a better deal elsewhere.”
 
“A fish in the net is worth a school in the sea.”
 
“There is just a sardine waiting for you here. The farmlands around Carthage are rich with vineyards, fruit trees, and grain. We exported wine before the war. How do you think the Romans have sustained their army? You always can sell what you are carrying of course, but you won’t get a good price for it. Those goods are cheap here. Forget the sardine. I can deliver a whale. Captain, how many times will you rescue a scion of a merchant family who offers you a fortune?”
 
“‘Scion,’ are you? Are you telling me you’re worth a ransom?”
 
“No. The only person would pay for me would be far more profitable just to trade with. Choose to be rich, captain.”
 
“You’re going to make me rich.”
 
“Yes. And you could pay all your men bigger shares than they’ve ever seen besides.”
 
“I’ve heard enough,” said the captain. “Boy, you are an urchin I saved from drowning – an act I’m regretting. Maybe I’ll toss you back in the sea.”
 
“Let’s hear the boy out,” said a crewman, skeptical but curious about Himilco’s talk of shares.
 
“Fine. Tell us. Where is this great fortune of yours? You are doing a good job of hiding it.”
 
“Britain.”
 
The captain laughed. “Beyond the pillars of Hercules? That is crazy.”
 
“No it’s not. I’ve been there myself on a ship no bigger than this.” Himilco chose not to mention that the ship was a sturdier design built and rigged for ocean trade. “My father had a fleet of six. I’m guessing the wine below isn’t the finest.”
 
“Soldiers aren’t picky so long as they can get drunk.”
 
“I’m not so sure about that. But even the vilest plonk is rare in Britain. There are no vineyards there. Wine of any kind is more valuable than gold. It’s more valuable than the tin and silver mined there – mines owned by my brother-in-law, a barbarian noble named Sysul. Go there without me and you’d just be robbed by some local warlord, but Sysul has a longstanding business relationship with my family. And there is more than just metals. Amber is cheap. They import it from the northern reaches of Scythia. You really can be rich.”
 
The crewman who had wanted to hear out Himilco balked at mention of Britain. “Captain, tell me you aren’t really considering going out into the ocean because some fancy boy has caught your eye. There are serpents and giant waves and whirlpools that swallow ships like ours”
 
Himilco thanked the crewman silently, for he saw this rebellion was hardening the captain to insist on the opposite.
 
“Those are just tall tales,” said Himiclo. I’ve been there because my father took his children with him on the trip. Are grown men too afraid?”
 
“Don’t think I don’t know what you are doing boy.”
 
After taking a moment to unravel the double negative, he answered, “Do you care so long as you profit?”
 
Pytheon,” said the captain as he shifted attention to the crewman, “if you don’t want to go we’ll drop you off at a port in Spain. That goes for any one of you. Boy,” he said to Himilco, “if any part of your story is false you’ll wish we gave you to the Romans. We’re tacking north.”
 
“At night sir?”
 
“Yes, at night.”
 
“You won’t regret it,” said Himilco who was half-regretting it himself. As rough as the Mediterranean could get in a storm, there really was even more danger in the open ocean. It would have been so much easier to have surrendered to fate back in the harbor. Still, he had cheated death for at least another day. “Um, may I have some clothes?” he asked.
 
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
 
Himilco wasn’t entirely at peace with the captain’s answer, but he already had learned about himself that he would do what he must. His countrymen who stood on principle were dying back home in the streets. He stared at the orange glow onshore.
 
“You can call me Kimon,” said the captain. “My home is in Corinth. You’ll like it there when we get back.”
 
Though willing to make what business deal he could in Britain if they arrived there alive, Himilco had no intention of ever leaving the island again. Nonetheless, he nodded assent.