“All oars pull hard!” Artemisia shouted.

The bow turned into the westward current and spun about. A pull on the rudder straightened the ship and the royal trireme rose on its own wake to speed toward the pillars.

Gibraltar once more readied his spear.

“Nothing further beyond,” threatened the giant.

“Bostar, harpoon!” said Hanno, his eyes on Gibraltar’s stone spear.

The king shoved on the rudder to evade the wind-dulled weapon’s blow. Gibraltar dipped his free hand into the sea to sweep the ship aside once more, but Hanno turned away from the shore and found the opposite-flowing current.

The ship spun about and Hanno hurled the harpoon at the rising spear.

“Marines!” he shouted.

Bostar threw a hook that caught along the stone shaft beside Hanno’s harpoon while the marines threw further rope-tied missiles.

“Row!” Hanno ordered.

The marines pulled the ropes tight and the sails filled with wind.

The rope-caught spear rose from the water, and Hanno’s ship lurched to a halt.

“Row, curse you, row with the hounds of Hades tearing at your heels!” Artemisia roared.

The oars churned the water against the rising weapon, halting it before the tip emerged from the foam.

“What hubris is this?” shouted Jebel.

“Row!” Hanno ordered.

Gibraltar struck the water with his free hand, but did nothing more than splash the hurrying crew. The ship turned and throttled against its thin grasp of the giant’s spear. But the statue couldn’t open his hand, and remained pinned, bent over and struggling to retrieve his knotted arm.

“We can’t keep this up forever,” Artemisia advised.

“Baal Hammon release us, and halt the hands of your pillared servants,” Aba prayed.

“It’s not enough,” Hanno realized. “I need a stone. Bostar, tie this rope to a stone.”

Hanno took up a harpoon and handed the looped end to his friend, then grabbed two more coils of rope.

“What will you do?” Bostar asked.

“A labor of Hercules,” Hanno said.

He leapt off the bow with harpoon in hand and landed atop the giant’s quaking spear. Hanno struggled to secure his footing along the weathered stone, then raced up the shaft. When he reached Gibraltar’s armored shoulder, he threw the harpoon at the colossus’s head. Its hook dragged secure against the jagged stone. The other rope, Hanno looped over the giant’s shoulder.

“Hubris! Hubris and malice!” shouted Gibraltar.

The colossus tried to swipe Hanno away with his free hand, but the open palm made for an easy mass to dodge, and when he moved it back, Hanno tossed the rope around his wrist.

More binds flew toward the pillar as Bostar fired rope-tied arrows. They spun and looped, netting the giant until he lurched to the side.

A mighty splash came from the straights as Bostar launched the stones securing the ropes into the sea with the trireme’s catapult. They tightened and pulled while the giant twisted and failed to rise.

Hanno swung beneath Gibraltar’s quaking shoulder and rappelled down the giant’s back to reach the boulder-strewn ground. He secured the rope to the largest boulder and tied it fast, then pushed against the rock.

It wouldn’t budge.

“Gibraltar!” Hanno shouted to the pillar.

The giant spotted Hanno.

“Do you know what’s beyond your straights?” he asked.

The giant swept his hand toward Hanno.

“Me!” the king shouted, and leapt out of the way.

The boulder toppled over the side of the cliff and splashed into the sea. The weight of the rock and the many ropes anchored the giant, and though Gibraltar struggled against his binds, he remained where he stood.

Hanno took one of the free ropes and swung it over Gibraltar’s spear, securing it to the giant’s base.

“Artemisia! Have the fleet use the current. And be quick about it!” Hanno shouted.

“You okay up there?” Bostar asked from the ship.

“Of course I am. Send the fleet through the straights.”

Artemisia shook her head, and gave the command. The sails of the sixty ships behind them filled, and the rowers moved to speed.

“Hubris! Hubris and lunacy!” cried Jebel.

Though she lashed against the sea, the fast-flowing current dispersed her blows, allowing the fleet to pass safely through the narrow Iberian shallows.

“King Hanno of Carthage,” Gibraltar said.

“I know. Hubris and all that,” Hanno replied.

“No. I see you.”

The pillar ceased his resistance, and gazed down at the king with eyes of unblinking stone.

“I see what you will find,” said Gibraltar.

“I thought there was nothing beyond,” Hanno mocked.

“Nothing beyond but death. Nothing beyond but trials of which my pair and I cannot contest. You will see them. You will face fire and smoke. You will face giants that look to me as I to you. I see all this, for this is what I was carved for. I give you my last warning. Turn back, for there is nothing further beyond.”

“You see many things, Gibraltar. But of all this, there is one thing you do not see beyond the edges of the world,” Hanno replied.

“And what be that?”

“Hanno, King of Carthage.”

Hanno looped a rope over the pillar’s secured spear. He swung down over the high cliff, and when he neared the water he splashed into the straights.

A rope fell at his side, and Hanno grabbed hold, allowing Bostar to pull him onto his trireme while the crew cheered.

“Hercules himself might be pleased,” Bostar said.

“What walls be this, this water this cliff, this pillar that reigns on high. Over I say, hip-hip, hooray! King Hanno leapt over the sky,” sang Mapen.

“Fleet is out of reach. So long as those two don’t start throwing things,” Artemisia announced when she made her way to the bow to greet the king.

“I doubt they’ll bother us further,” Hanno said. “Press on. We turn south. Follow the shore.”

Hanno took a deep breath and felt the wind against his wetted hair.

“We’ll make miles more this day. Signal the fleet,” Hanno ordered.

Jabnit belted out the high-pitched command for a turn to port, and the fleet began its true journey down the African coast.

Gibraltar ceased his protests. The colossus watched the triremes journey south, silent and still.

*****

Strong winds carried them till the sun disappeared over the endless ocean.

“The world seems upside down,” Bostar noted. “To have no land south of us.”

“We can only guess at the shape of Africa,” Hanno declared as Artemisia oversaw the lowering of the sails, the slowing of the oars, as they made their way to a suitable shore. “It could be straight on till we circle around to the Tin Islands in the north. It could span the Earth in a wide belt. Or it could end after half a day’s sail and turn about to the source of the Nile. We could row downriver back home, and pass the graves of the Pharaohs.”

“A suitable sandbar will suffice.”

“The ocean seems bountiful in this commodity at least.”

The western coast of Africa had no lack of landings. That first night, they celebrated with the Iberian pork and scavenged what fruits could be found growing near the beach. Grass and trees seemed to press right against the narrow shore, but they found plenty of space to secure the triremes, and made camp amidst a low canopy of figs.

Darkness prevented any further inspection of the vegetation, but when daylight came Hanno hoped to search further into the brush while the crews readied to push the boats back into the shallows.

A shriek, however, came from where the fleet had been tied.

Hanno hurried from his tent, sword in hand.

Through a low-hanging branch, he came upon the beach. Only the beach had grown. No longer a narrow strip of sand, thrice the distance now stretched between trees and surf.

Bostar arrived a moment after Hanno, bow strung and ready.

“The sea is withdrawing from me. It fears my advance,” Hanno declared.

Bostar frowned at the distance between the ships and the water. “I have not seen the ocean express fear,” he replied.

“Then what do you call this?”

Aba strutted about, kicking the beach like it were a sinful child.

Artemisia, her tent not far from the triremes, stood with her arms crossed.

“Helmsman!” Hanno called out when he saw her. “What do you call this fear the ocean shows?”

“Just a heftier tide,” Artemisia said. “We’ll need to push harder to get off the beach.”

“A tide, nothing more?” Hanno asked.

“We don’t get tides like this in the Mediterranean,” Bostar noted.

Artemisia shrugged. “Still just a tide,” she said.

“Then we can move on without delay,” Hanno added.

“The dancer has more spells to cast.”

Artemisia tilted her head toward the sand-kicking Aba.

“One less puller on the ropes won’t hinder our departure,” said Hanno. “Bostar, Helmsman, I’ll have no hesitation in the ranks. Aba can have her prayers, but there will be no fear in our leaving.”

“An ocean that moves like this is not something we can keep people from fearing,” Bostar noted.

“Then tell them that’s what Aba’s prayers are for.”

“I’ll spread the word.”

Hanno surveyed the gathering crews. Women and children climbed aboard the beached craft to assist the placement of ropes while the oarsmen freed the anchors and ties, spitting on well-worn hands to ready the push into the waves.

Hanno took position on the stern of his own ship.

“Fear not, brave sea, we see that you yearn, for oar and sail, and Phoenician Baal, your heart we do return,” sang Mapen. “Hey look, the water’s actually returning.”

“Your singing brought it back,” Jabnit said.

“Everyone comes back for my singing.”

“Tanit and Melqart have seen fit to ease our journey,” Aba added as she ascended a rope ladder to join those waiting for the pushing to begin.

“Tide’s coming back in. We’d better get started if we want a controlled wetting,” Artemisia corrected from her position at the stern. “Oarsmen! Ropes!”

A thin pillar of smoke further inland rose into the sky.

“Did we scout the terrain?” Hanno asked Bostar, who stood ready to push beside the king.

“Some. No signs of humanity were found,” Bostar answered.

“And what do we call that?”

Hanno pointed to the smoke.

“Worrying,” Bostar said.

“Do we not want to witness the makers of this fire?” Hanno wondered.

A wave crashed against the diminishing sandbar.

“Tide’s coming in strong. We don’t have time to meet the locals,” Bostar said.

“With your command, King Hanno,” Artemisia said from the deck.

Hanno paused, but turned his back against the smoke.

“To sea,” he said.

“Push!” Artemisia shouted.

The pipes played from decks across the narrowing sand, and oarsmen pushed and pulled. The polished hulls slid down the beach and into the rising shallows. Those at the bows retreated to the rope ladders and boards posted strategically along the triremes’ sides to climb aboard. Those at the sterns were last onto the deck.

“Ready thrust,” Artemisia ordered.

The now positioned oarsmen on the top row extended their oars.

“To water,” the helmsman said.

The oars pressed against the shallows, some striking sand while the stern remained narrowly beached.

“Third pipe in sequence,” Artemisia commanded.

Jabnit played one note, two, three, and the oars swung in unison, pushing against water and sand and thrusting the trireme into the sea with one solid stroke. They continued their third-note swing, and progressed beyond the low breakers.

Each ship repeated this process, and in minutes they were underway.

Hanno watched the column of smoke retreat into the distance as a strong wind propelled them further down the coast.

They made a great pace, but continuously had to turn to the west. The African beaches did not progress straight south, but curved.

Hanno updated his incomplete map at regular intervals. Each time they surveyed the coast for any signs of habitation, or a well-hooked sparse of land where a suitable harbor could form a shelter for a potential city, Hanno saw the column of smoke. It never quite disappeared. Each day it returned, its source hidden by trees or the occasional hill.

By nightfall, they still hadn’t found a colony-supporting location.

“Doubt anyone wants to live within a day’s journey of the pillars anyway,” Bostar noted when they beached the ships and made ready for camp.

“Someone must be living here. And we shall discover them,” Hanno said. “Artemisia, oversee the camp. Bostar, ready your bow. We’ll scout with what daylight remains.”

Hanno led Bostar and a selection of marines into the brush. The column of fire remained, though the setting sun prevented them from marking its exact location. Once more, a collection of fig trees provided food a-plenty for the ships’ crews, though the thin growth of vegetation offered little chance for a permanent settlement. The trees soon ended in a field of dried grass, beyond which lay snaking hills dotted with oasis-like growths of brush and trees.

The smoke lingered beyond this field.

“Light’s dying. No time to cross the field safely. Post sentries on the tree line,” Hanno commanded.

“It could be natural fires,” Bostar suggested.

“Then we should see them coming. Be it man or beast, I’ll not have anything sneak up on our camp.”

The marines set up their tents and lit their own fires and torches.

All through the night, Hanno expected to be awoken by some creature sneaking into camp, by the shriek of an ambushed sentry or the cry of alarm as they raced back to the tents. But his sword remained sheathed. The camp remained quiet, and only the sentries themselves returned from beyond the trees when the sun rose.

Once more, they pushed to sea. Once more, the column of smoke appeared. This time, though, it was far ahead of them.

“Do you think we’ll find a settlement there?” Bostar wondered.

“Perhaps,” Hanno said.

“With six days’ rations remaining, anything to offload a few mouths will help us,” Artemisia noted.

“I’ll not unload my people to be starved or killed by an already saturated settlement. We’re here to found colonies, not deposit bodies.”

The shore continued its westward bend, and the winds remained strong. Towards midday, the bend became stronger, and the smoke drew closer.

“We’ll need to make camp soon,” Artemisia announced several hours later.

“The winds are growing stronger. We can see if the land bends the other direction. We’ll find a good port if it does,” Hanno suggested.

“The smoke’s gone. Could mean we’ve found vacant land,” Bostar said.

“The land’s vacancy is not a requirement. Merely that it be capable of hosting us.”

A high-pitched note came from one of the two triremes behind Hanno’s. They flanked the royal ship’s stern, one further to sea and one closer to shore. The latter’s helmsman waved to Artemisia, and had his piper repeat the call.

“A danger?” Aba asked.

“That’s a different note. They’re signaling that they’ve spotted someone,” Artemisia noted.

All eyes turned to the shore, where a speck of a person appeared in the narrow gap between beach and brush, and sprinted across the sand.

The wind and bend had pushed the royal trireme further from the coast, so Hanno could not discern the shape of the runner. They did not return the helmsman’s wave or shout. They simply ran.

“What’s he doing?” Aba asked.

“No way to tell if it’s a man or woman,” Bostar noted.

“Could be a she-horse. Perhaps it’s a beast learned to walk upright? I know a song about a particularly fast one,” Mapen noted.

“They’re racing us,” Hanno laughed. “Look.”

While the Carthaginians couldn’t make out the runner’s features, it was clear they had their head tilted and their arms pumping.

“If it’s a race they want it’s a race they’ll get. Jabnit, increase the rhythm,” Hanno ordered.

The king untied a coil of rope and straightened the sail. The tension coursed through his palms, a slight pulling and loosening allowing more wind to fill the sail.

The runner kept pace with the royal trireme.

“Hand me that other rope, Bostar,” Hanno said.

The king took hold of both key sail tethers, and tilted the canvas to better catch the wind. He strained against the tension, and wrapped the ropes around his waist to better pull against the shifting bellows.

“The rudder, man, the rudder,” Hanno said, and gripped the port-side oar.

With a quick tug, he jumped onto the stern railing and leaned hard against the rudder, using the weight of the sea to brace himself against the turning sail.

Hanno’s muscles trembled with the pull, but the trireme raced ahead of the coastal runner.

The other ships witnessed their king’s trireme speeding away, and let out a cheer when the runner slowed.

The wind grew stronger, but Hanno held on.

“A fine race won!” the king declared.

“Perhaps this is a good time to beach? We might find the runner’s settlement and make it a colony,” Bostar suggested.

“With this wind? We press on further! At such speed we’ll round the world before the day’s end.”

A wave struck the bow, shaking the ropes so much Hanno nearly lost his grip.

He stepped back to the deck, and handed off both rope and rudder.

“The wind is getting stronger,” Artemisia warned, frowning at the clear sky. She sniffed deep. “There’s no smell of storm. And there wasn’t this morning.”

“Tanit has favored our victory,” Aba announced.

Hanno looked back to the diminishing form of the runner he’d defeated.

Instead of sprinting with head tilted forward, the racer waved their arms over their head. Hanno couldn’t tell at such a distance, but it looked like a warning.

The air turned cold. A cresting wave crashed against the bow, and Hanno lost sight of the horizon as the waves grew higher, higher, and higher.

Lightning struck out of the clear blue sky, and instead of thunder, a voice called out, “Tresspasserssss.”