Ship of Rome. John Stack

the others. Hamilcar watched the enfolding scene without comment, despising the brutality of targeting helpless men in the water. Like all on board he had cheered as the Melqart had made her first kill, revelling in the destruction of the enemy fleet, praising Tanit, the Phoenician goddess of fortune, for the incredible stroke of fate that had delivered the Roman fleet into their hands.

      The frantic pleas of the Romans were cut off as the Melqart struck, many of the archers on the aft-deck running to the stern rail, hoping for survivors. There were none. Hamilcar found himself watching Gisco as the admiral stared at the broken bodies of the Romans in the wake of his ship. He marvelled at the duality of the commander. He was an incredible seaman, the perfection of his trap and his ability to understand and outwit the Roman enemy testament to his skill. But he was also capable of incredible brutality, a burning, insatiable blood lust that demanded a heavy price from the enemy.

      Hamilcar recalled the brief of his appointment, a shadow to extend the reach of the Council of Carthage to ensure there was no repeat of Gisco’s ignominious defeat at Agrigentum. It was a course that Hamilcar had often secretly questioned, wondering why Gisco had been allowed to retain his command. Only now, in the heat of battle, did he fully understand the Council’s logic. If Rome was to be defeated in Sicily, men with Gisco’s ruthlessness would be needed in every battle. In all its five-hundred-year history, Carthage had never relinquished a dominion to any enemy. Sicily could not become an exception.