Mediterranean Hegemon of Ancient Greece Chapter 1002: Seizing the Lighthouse

Past the water gates of Carthage, the coastline was lined with commercial piers ready for merchant vessels (though the innermost circular Military Port remained shielded by towering walls, off-limits to ordinary craft). But Lilybaeum was built first and foremost as a military fortress. Here, the coast was fortified by five-meter-high walls interspersed with watchtowers. Its ten-odd docks sat tucked at the very rear of the rectangular harbor, nearly a li away from the water gate. Should an enemy vessel dare breach the harbor, defenders on the flanking walls and towers would rain down flaming arrows, leaving the intruders nowhere to hide.

Right now, a patrol boat led the way. Behind it, the cargo ships filed in, pressing close to one another like a long serpent winding slowly toward the docks.

Just as they neared the piers, a frantic ringing echoed from behind. "Clang! Clang! Clang!" The captain of the patrol boat froze, instantly recognizing the Bronze Bell tolling from the lighthouse. An enemy invasion?!

He whipped his head around. The once-orderly convoy had splintered. Several cargo ships had broken formation, fanning out and rushing madly toward the docks.

We've been tricked! This convoy is an enemy disguise! The realization slammed into the captain, filling him with dread.

In truth, the lighthouse keeper observing the convoy's arrival had not sounded the alarm because the ships broke formation. Before that even happened, he had noticed several cargo vessels abruptly halting alongside the natural breakwater. The heavy linen tarps in the centers of those ships had been thrown back, and dozens of men swarmed out from beneath them.

The cargo was alive! The keeper immediately realized they had been deceived. Yet even as he rang the alarm, a sliver of confusion lingered in his mind: why would the cunning enemy anchor their ships there of all places?

The natural breakwater was forty meters across at its narrowest point. Because a defensive wall was already built along its outer edge facing the sea, the inner edge facing the harbor remained unwalled. However, the inner embankment had been heavily reinforced with stone blocks, earth, and gravel. It was solid, perfectly vertical, and a sheer seven meters high. Scaling that embankment directly from a ship was virtually impossible. Furthermore, beyond the wall, watchtowers, and lighthouse, a small military camp sat on the breakwater. It permanently housed a hundred light infantrymen ready to respond to any emergency. Though it was deep into the night and the soldiers were fast asleep, the tolling of the Bronze Bell would surely rouse them. They would don their armor in moments and surge out to defend the harbor.

But the keeper had clearly forgotten one detail. There was another structure on that breakwater besides the military camp—a small shrine. It not only provided a sacred place for the garrisoned soldiers to pray, but it was also where the lighthouse keeper himself went every morning at the opening of the port to offer prayers for a safe day, a necessary and sacred ritual at Lilybaeum Port.

Every cargo ship in this convoy did indeed hail from Carthage—they were the very rescue fleet captured the night before at the port of Palermos. However, their current crews consisted primarily of men from Alalia. Not long ago, they had used this exact same trick to slip fleets into Sant'Ibinia and the Port of Saros, amassing enough experience to easily fool the vigilant patrol captain. The first seven ships were genuinely loaded with supplies, but the cargo hidden beneath the linens of the trailing vessels was made up entirely of soldiers from the Mountain Scout Corps.

Right now, Tarentus and his men stood on the swaying decks of the cargo ships, swinging grappling hooks. Guided by the flickering torchlight held by the crew, they looked up at the silhouette of the shrine on the embankment and hurled the hooks upward. One by one, the iron claws arced through the night air and flew toward the shrine, several successfully snagging around the stone columns. Tarentus and the others immediately seized the ropes and nimbly scaled the sheer embankment...

In the blink of an eye, over a dozen enemies had vaulted onto the breakwater, yet not a single soldier had emerged from the camp. The keeper watching from the top of the tower stared in sheer disbelief before screaming to the men on the lower floors, "Shut the gates! Hurry! The enemy is here!"

Watching them scramble frantically down the tower steps, the keeper furiously pounded the Bronze Bell once more.

Standing beneath the shrine, Tarentus tilted his head toward the tolling lighthouse a short distance away. He pointed at the men pulling themselves up over the ledge and barked, "Ten of you, come with me to take that lighthouse! Phocinicas, lead the rest and wipe out the enemy in that camp, then regroup with us at the tower!"

"Yes, Captain!" Phocinicas roared in response.

"With me!" Tarentus waved his hand and sprinted toward the lighthouse, ten soldiers right on his heels.

When they reached the base of the lighthouse, the heavy doors were already barred shut.

Tarentus did not panic. He simply reached his hand back. "Grappling hook."

A soldier hurriedly slapped a readied grappling hook into his palm. Gripping the iron head, Tarentus took aim at an illuminated stone window above. With a swift heave, he tossed the hook inside, tugged the rope sharply to secure it against the stone sill, and began his ascent.

The other soldiers followed suit, throwing their hooks toward the remaining windows.

Tarentus was scaling the wall with rapid agility when a soldier below suddenly screamed, "Captain, watch out!"

A silhouette suddenly materialized in the window above. Instinctively, Tarentus flattened his body against the rough stone wall. A whistling gust of wind swept past him, followed by a searing pain across his back. A javelin hurled by the enemy had skimmed right over him, its razor-sharp tip slicing through his clothes.

He was in dire peril. A second javelin would undoubtedly follow, and hanging suspended in mid-air, Tarentus had nowhere to dodge. A visceral surge of survival instinct flooded his veins with explosive strength. Pushing off the stone wall violently with his feet, he hauled himself up hand over hand, climbing the rope several times faster than before. By the time he reached the window ledge, the enemy had just raised a second javelin to throw.

Tarentus swiftly drew his short sword and lunged forward in a hasty thrust.

Unable to dodge in time, the defender took a slash across the cheek and staggered backward with a scream of agony.

Seizing the opening, Tarentus grabbed the sill with his left hand, vaulted his entire body through the window, and rolled across the floor. In one fluid motion, he drove the short sword in his right hand forward, burying it straight into the enemy's chest.

In the blink of an eye, swiftly as the hare leaps and the falcon swoops down, the battle was decided.

The enemy collapsed with a look of utter shock, as if unwilling to believe his own demise.

To snatch his life back from the brink of death and violently turn the tables, Tarentus had pushed the skills forged through over a decade of grueling training to their absolute limit.

Only now, safely out of danger, did his limbs go soft and numb. Thinking back on how close he had just come to plummeting into the Underworld, a cold sweat broke out across his body.

But he had no time to rest and calm his nerves. Gripping his short sword, he charged at the remaining enemies.

Typically, during the dead of night, the Lilybaeum lighthouse was manned by only a single keeper. The extra personnel currently present had been temporarily assigned to operate the water gates for the Carthaginian Convoy transporting grain. The tower itself housed no soldiers. However, for defensive purposes, the city's original architects had not built stone steps directly up to the breakwater's wall. Instead, they had merged the end of the wall straight into the lighthouse. This meant soldiers from the camp had to pass through the lighthouse to access the ramparts, and sentries patrolling this section of the wall at night could enter the tower directly.

Fortunately, there were only five Lilybaeum soldiers in total. They were no match for the vicious veterans of the Mountain Scout Corps and were quickly dispatched, while the civilians were taken prisoner. However, one of the ten raiding scouts had been pierced by a javelin and lay on the verge of death.

Bringing their prisoners along, Tarentus and his men descended to the lower level of the lighthouse. They gathered around a massive, millstone-like mechanism and shoved against it with all their might, causing the lowered water gates to slowly rise once more.

Following that, another scout rushed to the top of the tower, ignited a prepared torch, and hoisted it high into the air.

With this, two distinct flames burned atop the lighthouse. The fiery glow pierced the pitch-black sky, radiating far out over the open sea to the west, where over a hundred Warships of the Daonian Sicilian Fleet lay at anchor, while a small detachment of their Warships chased down fleeing Carthaginian cargo vessels.

"My lord, there's our signal from the Lilybaeum lighthouse!" a captain, who had been waiting anxiously on the deck of the Flagship, shouted in excitement.

"Then what are we waiting for? Full speed ahead, destination Lilybaeum!" Secilian could hardly conceal the thrill on his own face.

The soldiers of the Second Legion crowding the decks also realized the sneak attack on the Port of Lilybaeum had succeeded. Every man rubbed his palms together in eager anticipation, though bound by strict military discipline, not a single one dared cheer aloud.

Meanwhile, to the north, over a hundred Warships of the Third Fleet, equally packed with soldiers, were racing madly toward the Port of Lilybaeum.

...

Because the matter of "delivering reinforcements to Palermos last night" had been weighing heavily on his mind, Imisere had dispatched his servants to the port several times by evening, demanding to know: had the cargo ships sent to Palermos returned yet?

The answer every time was: "No."

His trusted aides tried to comfort him. "The cargo ships relieving Palermos not only have to evade the patrols of the Daonian Fleet along the Southern Coast, but they also have to slip past the even closer Daonian Fleet on the northern coast. It's impossible for them to return this early..."

Finding their reasoning sound, Imisere stopped sending people to check on the port. Eventually, exhausted in both body and mind, he fell into a deep sleep, only to be shaken awake by a servant. Still groggy, he mumbled, "Have the cargo ships returned?"

"Master, the bell is ringing down at the port!"

"The bell?!" Startled, Imisere's drowsiness vanished instantly. "Enemies have invaded the port?!"

He leapt out of bed, grabbing his clothes as he barked at the servant, "Go saddle my horse! Hurry!"