Evening,
24 May, 219 BCE,
536 Years since the Founding of Rome
Saguntum,
Costa del Azahar
*****
The chamber reeked of blood and sweat, and the brown-stained floor slick with a fresh pool of the former. The dying lay where they fitted, the lucky ones on wooden cots and others on the grimy stone, propped against tables, or leaning against a comrade. Flies big as a fingernail buzzed about freely, and the moans of the wounded were incessant both day and night, though by know she had grown used to it.
Isabale hated it; she hated the smell, the whimpers of the feeble, the screams of those being treated. Yet still she came daily, and helped where she could–wiping up the bloody floor here, dabbing a cooled cloth against a sick man’s brow there, whispering a kind word to those who were on the cusp of death every now and again. She had been blessed with a kind heart, Diodachmus was wont to say, though in truth she came more for the bread and water given to the workers daily than for any humanitarian tendancy given her by the gods.
Saguntum had been under seige by the army of Carthage for over two months. Weeks of sleepless nights, highlighted by moments of sheer terror, followed by days of uncertainty and hopelessness that seemed to go on forever until the cycle repeated itself. Every night the sky seemed to come to life with fiery arrows that danced across then horizon like devilish fireflies. Monstrous groans and crashes could be heard from the walls, and each morning new patients would arrive in the hosptial, carried on the shoulders or some watchman or another, or dragged on a sled by a horse if they were too wounded to walk. Those were the fortunate ones. The others were carted in heavy wayns to great trenches dug where the harbor market had once stood and piled with the rest of the bodies for the blazing funeral pyres that would be burned each day. Diodachmus said it prevented disease from spreading, but there was no evidence of that. More grew sick every day, and the alleys in the Dock Ward were lined with moaning, coughing haggard people who seemed to be dead already.
Before the war, she had braided flowers and made necklaces and bracelets and sold them to the Roman soldiers that frequented the marketplace, but those days were gone and the harbor had been burned to the ground, replaced with a ruin of ashes and skeletal buildings where beggars and theives now made their home, preying on the sick and helpless.
“Isabale!” Diodachmus always shouted, as if everyone else in the world shared his plight of bad hearing. The old man was kind enough, though, and could sew a wound shut just so that only the slightest scars remained. He was trained in amputations, poultices and elixirs, leeching, and had even studied the brain and heart, he claimed, though Isabale had never seen him preform such surgery, and didn’t care too anyway.
“Isabale!” He repeated.
“I’m coming,” she yelled, knowing he wouldn’t hear her otherwise. Growing up on the docks had taught her a smattering of trader’s tongues, and so she had quickly become the favored of the doctor’s aides since she could understand his language. She entered the old man’s study, a side chamber conjoined to the moldy old storehouse turned hospital, which was lined with shelves on which stood the books and scrolls Diodachmus had saved from the fire which leveled his home last month.
Diodachmus had come from Sicily, a great and mountainous island in the Mare Meditteraneum, he had told her when she first started working for him. From great Syracuse upon the coast, one of the mightiest cities of the age, full of wealth and splendor alike and coveted by both Carthage and Roma, he had practiced medicine for nigh on forty years, he said. As for why he had chosen to relocate to Saguntum–at best a minor port, and away from the courts and majesties of republics and kingdoms, he had never said.
He was a tall man, Diodachmus was, even at his age. A hooked nose hung out from a dark, overhanging brow perched with wild eyebrows and whiskers, and dark eyes within the recesses saw more than one might suspect of a man pushing sixty winters. He still had his teeth, crooked though they were, and his beard was the color of steel. A heavy gold medallion hung about his short neck, and his robes were moth-eaten homespun.
“Ah, there you are,” he said without looking up as she approached. He sat stooped over a table spread out with parchements depicting sinews of muscle and bone, a quill in hand.
“You called for me?” Isabale asked.
“We need supplies,” he said, setting down the pen and looking up at her.
Isabale knew what that meant. Since the siege had begun, all of the city’s marketplaces had been closed to the public, and supplies—everything from grain to fabric, had been consolidated and stored away by the army, kept in constabularies situated across Saguntum. She hated going there, not only because of the dangers that lurked in the streets these days, but the dock ward’s constable, Dalac, was one of the most repulsive men she had ever had the displeasure of meeting.
“I will go in the morning,” she started.
“No, I need parchment tonight, my girl. Not to mention cat-gut, gods forbid a man needs a sewing up right now, because he would be well displeased with his bowels spilling about the floor.”
“It will be dark soon,” Isabale replied.
“Take a lantern,” he said. “I am serious, Isabale. I need supplies. Take one of the girls with you if you must.”
“As you wish,” she said with a turn for the door. She knew there was no dissuading the old man from a decision he had made. Hurrying, she crossed the hallway and ducked into the low room adjacent, which was deep with shadow.
“Briga,” she called. There were five girls who stayed and worked at the hospital besides herself, and Briga was the one she most trusted. Short and flaxen-haired, the Celtiberian woman was an opposite of Isabale, with her tall, slender form and raven-dark mane. Briga had been a slave, bound for the markets in Marsielle before the storming of the harbors, when she escaped her fetters in the flame and smoke. She spoke little, and carried scars on her face from the fire which nearly clamed her life.
“Briga,” she repreated. Stirring from her cot, the girl rose groggily.
“Have they come?” she asked fearfully.
“No, silly girl. I need you to come with me, to the guard-post.” Isabale rummaged through the drawers on the wall, retrieving a short knife wrapped in a shawl and pushing it through her belt. The streets of Saguntum could be dangerous even in times of peace and plenty; now was not the time to be taking chances.
“It must be dusk already,” Briga said with some astonishment, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
“Past,” Isabale said, taking an oil lamp from the wall and searching about for a wick. “But Diodachmus will not be satisfied until he has cat-gut.” She smirked at the idiocy of it all. “Come along now, it won’t take us long.”
The evening air was warm and heavy, tinged with the smell of woodsmoke and the salty breeze that came from the sea. Overhead the sky was a voluminous cloak of darkest satin, smeared with tiny points of starlight and a swathe of faintest red in the west, where the sun was a quickly-fading memory. The sounds of wagons rattling down the hard-packed street was met with the cry of a screaming infant from somewhere and the barking of a pack of dogs. Wrapped in a heavy brown cloak, Isabale held the lamp high as she could as they climbed the moldy steps from Diodachmus’ place out onto the open street. There was debris and trash strewn everywhere, and a pack of feral cats were searching through the piles of garbage at the corner, who howled in protest at being disturbed the the sudden light.
In the courtyard of the greek doctor’s building were tents and lean-tos, where crowded in the sick and wounded who had not yet found a place inside the hospital proper. There was a well which was running dry, and the smell of urine and worse was strong nearest the gate where the most of them had congregated. Some of the conscious men raised hands as the two passed by, anxious for a reassuring touch as their wounds festered and burned. Briga held her hand over her mouth, as she was still not used to the odors.
On the horizon, above the squat buildings and rickety towers piled up by the city’s elite, there was a radiance of orange flame, the ominous glare created by the encampment of Hannibal’s army. It was an ugly, oppressive glow, making the night sky bloody. On the wind came the shouts of men now and again, like bad memories barely recalled and quickly cast aside.
Isabale looked away and took Briga’s hand. “Stay close to me,” she said quietly.
******
Ashes drifted on the sea-breeze, glowing embers that floated briefly and then vanished as smoke drifted into the starlit sky. Cale Valens used his tongue to pick a piece of leathery meat out of his teeth, then spat into the muddy ground. The night was muggy and warm, and such was atmosphere for foul tempers in the best of times. After more than two months of hard rationing and little rest, this was certainly not those times. He shrugged his weary shoulders and heard the familiar crack of joints and muscle, and swung his arms back and forth to ease their tension. He was grimy, his skin soot-covered in places, oily and unwashed for days and days. He was tired, moreso than he had ever been before in his life, he realized.
“They’re coming again,” Folco announced. The Iberian looked as bad as Cale felt, he mused, his lean, wiry frame soot covered like his own, and weariness hanging on his face like a veil.
The Punic siege lines surged forward again first in fits and starts, then in a wave of advancing shields and flesh, in the red light of dusk, long low blasts from brazen horns blaring against Saguntum’s walls. The clamor rose as a tumultuous din of metal and sandaled feet, soon followed by the symphony of bow-strings from the walls answered by the clangor of arrows on shields and helmets.
“Look sharp!” Cale shouted, voice hoarse from days and nights of harsh commands.
The Iberian milites who manned the walls shuffled in place, some leaning against the battlements and looking over while others stroked weapons as thoughtfully as they would their wives. They were simple men, with not a professional soldier amongst them along this section of the wall. Armored in bits and pieces of bronze scale and boiled leather, they had fought harder and for more days than many Italians Cale had known in his years of campaigning, and truth be told he was proud of them for it.
Drums sounded a steady beat of march as the Carthaginians plodded forward, every third man holding a flaming brand to light their steps across the mud-choked killing grounds that stretched before the mounds upon which the city walls were built.
Ladders carried upon their backs were pushed forward and piled against the earth, with arrows raining down around them. Now and again a muffled cry or shriek would cascade up the walls to the defenders, the sound of an arrow finding its mark in an unprotected neck or armpit. One by one the enemy, Numidians, Celts, Iberians, began filing up the siege ladders. Saguntum’s defenders swarmed to the battlements, pushing the ladders away where they could and flinging themselves against the men coming over the walls where they could not. Many shrieked as they plummeted to their deaths on the rocks, and many others continued the climb.
Cale threw himself shoulder first into one man, a brawny Numidian with skin as black as obsidian who was pulling himself over the stone crenel. He stumbled and fell backwards into the dark night, just as another climbed up in his place behind him. Cale swung broadly with his short gladius and hacked into the second man’s forearm bloodily, leaving a red stump and a shrieking cry that echoed into nothingness as he too fell backwards into the darkness. He chanced a look over the rampart and saw a steady line of other enemy soldiers filing up the ladder, and ducked just as a hissing arrow flew past his brow. The smell of smoke on the wind was overpowering, and he grew dizzy suddenly but suppressed it with a growl, sheathing his sword smoothly and grabbing the nearest vat of oil in both of his bloody hands, heaving it up with a surge of strength and setting it on the lip of the stone crenel. With another push, he tipped the bronze cauldron and sent a cascade of sticky oil showering the men below, the vat itself even hitting one of the men in the shoulder and causing him to lose his grip.
“Now!” he shouted, nodding to the man beside him, who took up the cresseted torch from the wall and simply dropped it onto the ladder.
The jet of hot air swept upwards with surprising force, a waft of hell’s flames in the face as the oil caught the flame and the liquid ignited. Suddenly the wall was bright orange with fire and a cacophony of screaming men as the embers sparked up high over the wall and flaming bodies fell screaming from the heights to burn on the rocks below.
Horns sounded from the depths of night in the south, and then the Carthaginians were again retreating. Cale, breathing heavily, wiped droplets of sweat from his brow and leaned heavily against the stone. He was exhausted.
“Valens!”
He looked up, eyes blurry with sweat and dizziness. He was sitting with his back against the stone rampart, though he did not remember sitting down. “Cale,” came the voice again, and then he recognized Folco kneeling beside him. “You’ve got to rest,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“The enemy,” he started.
“Is retreating again. They’ll not bother us again tonight, its too dark now. Go to the command post and rest your eyes at least. I will wake you in a few hours.”
Grudgingly, the Etruscan accepted, though truth be told he would have killed a man for a soft bed at that moment. Folco helped him to his feet, and slowly he walked down the stairs from the guard tower nearby where soldiers were busily restocking their supply of stones and javelins for the next morning’s assault. The stench of wounded men and burning fires was everywhere near the city walls, and the brimstone scent dizzied him further. He grabbed a skein of water from a table set up near the foot of the tower and drank thirstily, then poured the rest on his forehead to wash away the sweat. Running a hand over his smooth shaven head, he set off towards the nearest command post to find a bed and maybe even a pitcher of wine.
*****
Night,
24 May, 219 BCE,
The Balearic Coast
******
Poseidon was a fickle god.
The prow of the Perseus reared upwards through the crashing wave, sending a gout of frothy sea-water rushing over the bow of the vessel and sloshing against his feet. Julas gripped the rope on the bulwark tightly to keep his footing as the water receeded once again. Peering out into the dusky night sky, his gaze was keen and resolute. Today marked two weeks out of Genua, and he was eager to make landfall. Droplets of rain lashed his face and his clothes were thoroughly soaked, but he kept his watch fixed westward regardless, staring into grey sheets of rainfall.
The Perseus was a square-rigged ship not unlike the other merchant vessels that plied the Mare Mediterraneum, sturdy and solid with a single-beamed core, made to roll in the water, not against it. Its rigging was sure, its sail expertly made in Corisca. Nontheless, it was madness to sail the Iberian coast in April, as any one would tell you, he knew.
The wind howled like an apparition against the creaking timbers of the ship. Another wave of white water surged over the bulwarks astern, rolling the ship to the side and causing unsecured ropes and tools to slide against the far wall. The rigging stretched taut and threatened to snap, but Julas knew they would hold. They always had before, hadn’t they?
“You’re mad!” Drussus yelled, half-smiling, his white teeth bright in the rainy darkness.
“Then what does that make you, working for me?” The captain responded with a clap on the back as Drussus came near, using the rigging ropes to climb to him gingerly.
“A fool, perhaps?” He shared the laugh. Drussus was a big man, with skin as black as coals and corded muscles not unlike the heavy ropes that supported the mast of the ship. Born a prince, or so he claimed, the Numidian had fled his homeland as a boy to see the wonders of the east, and had become a seasoned sailor, fighter, and gambler along the way. His eyes were bright like embers and his feet as sure as a circus dancer, on land or sea. With a care-free attitude that matched that of his captain, Julus and himself had made a fast friendship and profitable partnership sailing the riskier sea-lanes when others would not take their ships out of port.
“Can you see it?” Julus asked.
“All I can see is rain slashing my face,” the African said.
“No, look.” Julus took the man’s neck in one hairy hand and canted his head just so. “There, you see?”
And he could. Against the grainy darkness of the nighttime sea, awash in wind and rain, there was a faint glimmer amongst the low clouds. A haze of orange that peeked out from the horizon and disappeared behind darkness, only to show itself again as the vessel rolled over the cresting waves.
“Saguntum burns,” Drussus announced.
“And so too the world,” Julus said ominously. “Tell our passenger we’ve sighted land.”
Been waiting for this one. ^_^ My interest has skyrocketed especially since I began reading the Emperor series, starting with Gates of Rome. And I've got two other novels set in the Roman empire; Gates of Hades (no connection with Gates of Rome 
