Tag: alternate history

These are the first two chapters from my newest novella, Carthage Atlantica, an alternate-history story about ancient Carthaginians from North Africa discovering North America (“Atlantis”) in 200 BC. You can purchase the full novella on Amazon.

If you wish to hear these chapters read aloud, check out this reading by Brian Cole on YouTube.

Chapter One

200 BC, in an alternate timeline

The deckhouse door slammed open as the navigator barged in, his russet-brown face soaked with sweat. “Baal-Hammon be praised, we’ve sighted land at last!”

Isceradin’s cup of wine slipped down from his grasp as he took in the sailor’s words. It took his wife Arishat’s lightning reflexes to catch it before it could shatter on the floor. Not that he would miss it too much if it did spill and break, since the liquid was well over halfway to turning into vinegar at this point. Another week at sea, and they would have nothing left to drink unless they figured out how to turn seawater fresh.

Baal-Hammon be praised, indeed.

Gisco, the stout old captain, rose from his bench and laid both hands on the navigator’s shoulder. “Are you sure you haven’t gone mad?”

“You should see for yourself, Captain,” the navigator said. “One could mistake it for nothing else!”

Little Nikkal tugged on Isceradin’s arm, her eyes gleaming with innocence and wonder. “Did they really say they’ve found land, Abba?”

He gave his daughter’s crown of curly black hair a playful rub. “We can only hope so. Let’s find out for ourselves.”

Together, Isceradin and his family followed the captain and navigator out of the deckhouse to the bow of the galley and squinted at the western horizon. It first appeared as a green line on top of the dark blue sea that grew thicker with every rhythm of the drivers’ drumming. From underneath the drumming and the sailors’ chanted shanties, there rose the frantic cawing of distant seagulls.

“You see, beloved? I told you the gods would always be at our side,” Arishat said.

“Either that, or fate has been kinder to us than usual,” Isceradin said.

He wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and pecked the black tattooed lines on her mahogany-skinned cheek with his lips. She repaid the favor, and then their mouths locked together in an embrace tighter than the one they made with their arms. Although they had been wed for eighteen years, Isceradin had been away at the war with Rome for fifteen of those years, so Isceradin had come to savor every moment of affection like this.

“Yuck, Abba and Amma!” Nikkal cried out with her tongue sticking out.

Isceradin withdrew from the kiss with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, little one, we forgot you were watching.”

Gisco slapped Isceradin’s shoulder with a laugh. “The girl’s got to find out about those things sooner or later, my Iberian friend. And I can’t say I blame you, either. It’s a good occasion to get another taste of that sweet, dark Carthaginian flesh, isn’t it?”

The captain winked with a jab of his elbow into Isceradin’s ribs. For his part, Isceradin’s only reply was a low groan. No matter how much he considered himself a citizen of Carthage, having wetted his blade with Roman blood many times under none other than Hannibal Barca himself, Carthage would never let him forget his family’s Iberian roots. Not that he could hide them, either. Given his light tan complexion and wavy brown hair, most people would sooner confuse him with a Latin or Greek than a typical Carthaginian from Africa. For that reason, he would always appear a foreigner among his own countrymen.

Nikkal walked up to the ship’s gunwale and jumped to get a better look at the approaching landmass. “What are we going to call this place, Captain?”

“Ever heard of the story of Atlantis, young one?” Gisco answered. “This Greek philosopher named Plato wrote about it a long time ago. He said they lived on a continent in the middle of this very ocean before the god Baal-Saphon—whom the Greeks call Poseidon—sank it to punish them for their greed. So, maybe we’ll call it Atlantis in honor of that?”

“What if there are people living there?” Arishat asked. “They might have a name for it already.”

The captain held his hand over his eyes as he scanned the coastline. “If there’s people over there, I don’t see any sign of them. Not even one trail of campfire smoke coming from the trees. But, even if they were, it would probably take a while to learn their language so we could ask them. Learning languages is never quick, you know. So, we’ve got to call the place something until then.”

Isceradin shrugged. “Atlantis is as good a name as any, I suppose. Though, in the end, it’ll be up to the Sophets to decide.”

“Then I’ll pitch it to them once we reach land.”

The drivers sped up the pace of their drumming, causing the ship to accelerate towards the awaiting shore. It was the foremost of a fleet of seventy that cut westward through the sea, the violet image of the fertility goddess Tanit dancing with outspread arms on their billowing sails. Together, their drumming, chanting, and the splashing of oars merged into a cacophony as festive as any banquet back in Carthage.

When the water beneath them had faded from dark to light blue closer to the coast, all the fleet wheeled around so that their sterns faced land before backing up. Each jolted as their keels began slicing through the alabaster beach. Sailors threw down the gangplanks, and everyone aboard the vessels filed down to the sand whooping and praising Baal-Hammon and the other gods of Carthage for their merciful fortune.

From the largest and grandest of the fleet strutted Absalon and Himilco, both of whom the Senate of Carthage had appointed as Sophets to govern this new colony. Numidian youths kept the two elders cool with ostrich-plumed fans while spearmen in bronze breastplates marched before and behind them. Once the trumpets had summoned all the people onto the beach, they arranged themselves into an audience encircling the Sophets like spectators at a Greek theater.

Absalon, after taking a deep inhale of the salty air through his nostrils, was the first to speak. “My people, once citizens and subjects of Carthage, none of us can overestimate the gratitude we owe our gods for our safe passage here. Many back home said we could not make it to the end of the western ocean alive, and yet here we are, without having suffered even one casualty to the best of our knowledge.”

“And yet, our journey has only begun,” Himilco said. “We have much work to do. We have land to clear, crops to grow, and a city to build. We trust that, with all our hard work, we can claim this land for Carthage and bring forth a new age of power and prosperity for our civilization. May Baal-Hammon and all the gods continue to watch over us!”

A Gallic servant handed the pair the banner of Carthage, which hung from a mast-like cross and displayed the icon of Tanit in purple, and they planted it into the sand together. All in the audience thundered with applause.

“But first, we must learn more about this new world we’ve landed on,” Absalon said. “Who among you offers to scout for us?”

From within the crowd, Isceradin raised his hand. “I’ll lead a party inland until sundown. We’ll take note of everything this country has to offer, and maybe see if there are any human inhabitants. Then we’ll make our way back.”

Nikkal pulled at his hand. “But what if you run into trouble, Abba?”

Isceradin held his daughter up in his arms and squeezed her with loving firmness. “Then they’ll send more men to rescue us if things get too bad. But don’t you worry, if the gods have kept us alive across a whole ocean, they shouldn’t let us down here on this new land either.”

Beyond the far side of the beach, the thick greenery of deciduous trees such as oak, hickory, and chestnut rose as a towering wall. There was no telling what—or who—awaited in the shadowy depths of the forest. And, in truth, the gods had let Carthage down before. They wouldn’t have lost two wars with Rome had that not been so, despite all the sacrifices the priests had made—including the lives of dozens of noble-born children. But then, who had the heart to trouble their own child with such worry?

Isceradin gave his wife and daughter another kiss each. “If I don’t come back before sundown, keep praying for me. I’ll need all the blessings I can get.”

Chapter Two

It was not the first time Phameas had ventured into a forest. He, Isceradin, and most of the men who now made up their troop had trudged through more of that than he cared for when they were marching through northern Iberia and Gaul on their way to Rome. The muggy summertime warmth, the brushing of foliage against his face and limbs, and all the squealing mosquitoes which kept pelting his skin with itching dark bumps, were like unpleasant memories that had come back to haunt him after almost twenty years.

Back in Europe, they had to keep constant watch for packs of ravenous wolves, giant brown bears, and most of all the local Gauls, those white-skinned barbarians who were always skulking around for heads to lop off with their broadswords and claim as trophies to mount on their huts’ walls. Did such savage beasts and men lurk in the darkness beneath the woodland canopy here as well? Or maybe even worse? What was the Senate back in Carthage thinking when they sent men to this faraway place without knowing what even lay in wait?

Then again, perhaps that was the whole point of exploration. When Dido and her Phoenician expedition came to Africa to establish the trading colony that would become Carthage six centuries ago, they would have undertaken similar risks. And, it had to be admitted, back in those days, it was the very native Africans from whom Phameas and most other Carthaginians were descended that those Phoenician colonists had to fear.

So far, an hour had passed since the scouting party first penetrated the forest from the beach. Other than the occasional scurrying small creature or fluttering bird, they had yet to spot anything of interest. If nothing else, the profusion of trees here would make plentiful timber for building the new colony. Phameas had overheard some suggesting the name Atlantis, after the legendary continent that had sunk under the sea, but he would have preferred something that didn’t imply an eventual doomsday. On the other hand, “New Carthage” had already been given to a colony set up on the southern Iberian coast, and he’d be hard pressed to think of something more imaginative himself.

Another mosquito buzzed too close to Phameas’s neck for comfort. He slapped it down into a tiny pulp. “This remind you of home, Iberian?”

Isceradin snorted. “For the last time, my family is from the southern part of the peninsula, near New Carthage. It’s scrubland over there, not dense forest like this. You of all men should know that, Phameas.”

“Sorry, then, my officer. It’s only that I’m still getting used to the thought of you bedding my sister.”

“Really? You’ve had eighteen years to ‘get used to it’. And, not to boast, but she couldn’t be better off nowadays. If there really are any natives here, she’ll make quite a killing selling her textiles to them.”

“If they have anything worthy to buy them with.”

An unpleasant whiff slithered into Phameas’s nose. It was the stench of decayed flesh, like a body that lain on the battlefield for too long. Something must have died nearby. He unsheathed his falcata and probed the undergrowth with it, following the smell the way a bloodhound might.

Something cracked under his sandal. Bone. Right there, where the rotting stink was strongest, a whole human skeleton lay. Blood and scraps of flesh were still clinging to the remains, and the skull had cracked in half to reveal moldy, wrinkled fragments of brain tissue. Even after all the Romans and others he’d mutilated as a soldier of Carthage, Phameas recoiled from the sight with a yelp, nausea pouring into his insides.

“We’ve got to go back!” he said. “I’m not walking around here any longer!”

The other scouts huddled close to him, gasping and stuttering with horror as they looked upon the morbid remains. Even Isceradin’s face blanched a shade paler than usual. With a grimace, the Iberian knelt over the bones and picked up a wooden stick that lay near the skull. Hafted to it was a flint point stained dark red with dried blood.

“There are people in this land, we know that from this,” Isceradin said. “But it appears they’re still using stone tools.”

“That might not be too bad for us,” one of the other soldiers said. “It means that, if we get into trouble with them, we can hit them harder than they hit us.”

“But we don’t want to get into trouble with them,” Phameas said. “We ought to head back and stay away from those savages. I knew coming here was a bad idea!”

Isceradin held his palm out. “Hold on, we don’t know for sure how this man died. He might have been a criminal they put to death. Even if he’s a war casualty, one side might have the nobler cause. We can’t assume they’re all savages to be avoided.”

“Maybe, but I still wouldn’t want to mess with them. I say again, we should get back to camp. All those in favor?”

Phameas and almost everyone else in the party but Isceradin raised their hands, waving them about.

With a shake of his head, the Iberian muttered something in his native language. “Fair enough if that’s how you all vote. But we could’ve pressed on to find fresh water, at least.”

As the party hiked over the tracks their sandals had already left in the damp and spongy earth, the forest interior grew darker, and not only because the sunbeams arrowing through the canopy had dimmed with time’s passage. If the tribes here were anything like the Gauls, or even those Iberians who prowled the peninsula beyond the areas under Carthaginian influence, they would be worse than the most rabid wolves. Even the more civilized nations could be treacherous, the Romans being the exemplar par excellence of that. It was an experience Phameas had hoped to have left behind in the past.

A whistling cry pierced the calm within the forest. All the Carthaginians halted. Phameas’s heart pounded like a stampede of feral horses across the grasslands of Numidia back in Africa, the sweat on his brow chillier than a breeze among the Alps. Ahead of him, leaves in the undergrowth rustled, with shadows flashing between the trees and bushes.

From the cover of the brush emerged men in deerskin loincloths and trousers. Their muscular, stocky bodies were of a bronze hue, perhaps a little darker than Isceradin, the Iberian, but much less so than the Carthaginians proper, with their faces and limbs striped with tattooed black lines. Their straight black hair was shorn into crests with feathers attached to them, and many had pieces of bone or ivory piercing their noses and ears. Gripping spears tipped with flint points, these strange men stared at the Carthaginian party with narrowed eyes.

Phameas held his empty hands up in a gesture of surrender. “We won’t hurt you, see? Please, I beg you, have mercy on us…”

The local warriors blinked at one another, whispering in a language Phameas had never heard in his life.

“I doubt they know a word of Carthaginian,” Isceradin said.

“Fair enough,” Phameas said.

He patted himself on his breastplate of toughened linen while looking into the eyes of the native man nearest him. “Phameas. My name is Phameas.”

The warrior squinted at him. “Fah-me-us?”

“Yes, Phameas!” Phameas tapped his correspondent on the shoulder. “And you?”

“Huh, ‘and you’?” The native had less luck pronouncing the Carthaginian right.

Isceradin shook his head. “He wouldn’t know what ‘and you’ means yet, Phameas.”

The foremost of the native troop, a tall man with a necklace of bear claws and teeth, pointed his finger up with a nod, as if he had figured something out. He then tapped his own breast. “Sukamek.”

“Sue-ka-meck,” Isceradin repeated while pointing to the man.

The one who called himself Sukamek nodded with a smile, and then pointed back to the Iberian.

Isceradin replied with his own name and hand to his breastplate. He then drew an invisible circle that, from their point of view, would include the whole Carthaginian troop. “Carthaginians.”

“Carthaginians,” Sukamek repeated. He then drew a similar circle around his own companions. “Inu’naabe.”

“In-new-knob-bay?” Phameas recited.

The other Inu’naabe men snickered among themselves, but Sukamek gave Phameas an affirming nod while touching his shoulder. “Phameas.”

It warmed Phameas inside to see that the native had gotten his name right. Assuming he understood it to be a name, of course. Regardless, Phameas showed his gratitude by touching Sukamek in turn while saying his name the best he could. This time, not one of the Inu’naabe even so much as sneered or tittered.

These strange locals, as primitive as their attire and weaponry may have appeared, didn’t seem like such a bad lot after all. There were civilized men out there who could be far less welcoming than them.

Sukamek turned to face the forest behind his band and waved his hand toward it, a clear signal requesting that they follow him.

“I think he’s inviting us to his village, or wherever they live,” Isceradin said. “It can’t hurt to pay them a quick visit before sundown.”

“If you say so,” Phameas said. “They do seem the hospitable sort.”

Even so, he had not forgotten the spear they had found near the rotting skeleton. Or how, with its flint point, it so closely resembled the spears the Inu’naabe warriors carried.