Waterfall courtesy Hawaiipictures.com
A new story for Janeway and Chakotay
Disclaimer:
Paramount owns Voyager, Janeway and Chakotay.
Synopsis:
Set end season six-beginning season seven. Voyager responds to a distress signal and when they investigate the source of the signal, find a derelect drifting in space. There are no lifesigns but the away team headed by Chakotay discover the bodies of sixty men, women and children. While they continue their investigations, Janeway mysteriously vanishes from the bridge of Voyager. In a race against time, Chakotay and the rest of the crew must find their captain before she is lost to them forever.
Acknowledgement:
Mary Stark, for her editing and recommendations.
PG- 13
PROLOGUE
146 BCE - The burning city of Carthage
From the historical records of Appian I of Alexandria
The city burned.
The three roads that led to the Byrsa Hill were strewn with the remains of citizens - men, women, children, old men, old women, babies, slaves and mercenaries who had fought to protect their fortresses. There was smoke everywhere. Smoke and dust and the stench of rotting flesh in the heat of the great sun that beat down on the city even as the Roman soldiers' horses crushed those still alive.
It was the third day of the last surge. As I looked up, I saw bodies falling from the buildings - tall buildings of several stories lining the three streets that led to the Byrsa hill and the great citadel. Bodies plummeted into the dusty ground below, limp, writhing, run over by chariots, further crushed by wooden wheels that had no hearts, only hardness that let me hear how bones crunched and skulls cracked. Some were hurled into the street below; others climbed onto the ledges and plunged into broken heaps.
Street cleaners - who were these hardened men who worked for the enemy? - wielded their implements and swept bodies into the long ditches dug by Romans. They had no time to think that some of those bodies still had life in them. Without ceremony, they were swept into graves, some head first so that flailing feet dangled in the air, others falling in feet first, while soldiers beheaded those they thought were still alive.
Such was the carnage of the Roman destruction of Carthage, this city with its great war ships, its magnificent maritime fleet, its wealth and commerce, prosperity such as Rome could only dream of, great generals proudly bearing the name of Barca. A city worthy of surpassing Rome as the most important of the modern world. A city worthy of crushing Rome once again.
Did not Cato the Elder declare at the end of every speech he made in the Senate that Carthage be destroyed?
Carthago delenda est!
Again and again this phrase rang out, instilling a hatred for Carthage in the hearts and minds of the plebeians of Rome. Some of the less lazy, upon hearing that they would be paid, reported for clean-up duty, disposing of the bodies of the enemy.
Everywhere, every day and every minute, the sounds of wailing, of screaming, of helpless cries filled the air as the city was drained of its inhabitants. But there were too many citizens and Roman deserters who filled the city. They could not kill them all. After Byrsa burned, there were still fifty thousand Phoenicians - Carthaginians - left. Rome's order was that no Carthaginians nor their Numidian slaves inhabit the city again. The trenches were piled with dead bodies, bodies frozen in the throes of death, with fear contorting their faces.
Scipio Aemelianus, the Roman general, sent word to Rome that all the gold and other valuable ores would arrive there soon. Once he was ready, he would bring the remaining prisoners to be sold into slavery.
The harbour, the pride of Carthage, stood bleeding as her ships went down one by one. The great maritime power that had been Carthage was gone. Her triremes were no match for the sleeker, faster quinqueremes of the Roman fleet. In the secondary harbour, the merchant vessels lay broken, burning, stripped of their precious cargoes.
This day shall be the day of remembrance as I, Appian 1 of Alexandria, can only record what I have seen and heard from those poor souls who fled the city through the gateway to the south. I tried to follow the fleeing citizens as far as I could. Remaining in the distance, I was perhaps fortunate that I was so far away, ere I too be part of the strange event that followed.
As an historian and writer, I record the last experiences of some of the more than three thousand people who fled Carthage to the hinterland, to escape slavery and the destruction of their beloved city…
"Hasdrubal's wife has thrown herself and their two sons into the furnace of the Roman pyres. We must hurry. She was our last hope," said Baka, pulling his wife to him. Baka was dressed in a simple knee length tunic secured at the waist by a gold cord.
The cart was barely big enough to hold all their belongings and their two youngest children. He was sick with concern. Their eldest son was dead in the trenches and their daughter… Baka sighed. Hudda had wanted to collect her ashes from the Tophet first. Now their cart was burdened even further by the heavy stele with the inscription of her name and a cartouche of their goddess Tanith.
"But she was my cousin. She did not want to be a slave and called Hasdrubal a coward because he surrendered to Scipio."
"Your cousin was a fighter. A proud fighter, Hudda. But Isabel is dead. There is nothing we can do but flee south, into the hinterland, further and further to where Aethiopicus lies."
"Many women collected their children's ashes from the Tophet, my husband. We join many who flee, like us. We are never to be slaves…."
"Then we must hurry and join with my brother. I asked Hisham to come, but you know Hisham. He was always a rough neck, wanting to fight the Romans at every turn."
"Now Hisham is dead too. Only Sheke of your brothers remains. Sheke and his wife and children…" said Hudda reflectively as she pulled her veil over her mouth to drive away the stench of rotting bodies and dust of the city. From far away, they could hear the last cries of their people. She turned her head in the direction of the citadel, the proud building that was no more, razed by the soldiers of General Scipio Aemelianus Africanus. She sighed deeply as she jerked her head away from the bloodbath. She had seen babies hacked to death, small children, old men and women. Had Rome sunk to this? she wondered in bemusement.
Hudda was saddened very much. Isabel was her cousin. Isabel was royalty, descended from the queens of Tyre, indeed, from the great Jezebel who had graced the courts of her husband Ahab, King of Israel. Who would be their queen now? Isabel had no daughters.
"Does it matter, now, Hudda? Who shall be queen? Our city has been destroyed, emptied of its wealth. Soon the Romans will move in and give the city their own debauched identity. We will make new lives wherever we seek to settle."
"It matters very much, Baka, my beloved. I am thrust into the gloom of our ending. Yet we must still obey the laws of our faith, no matter where we go…"
"We lost one daughter, Hudda. I shall not lose another through Tanith, our goddess. Look what all our sacrifices have led to - the destruction of our land! Tanith! Pah! She looks like you, did you know?"
"Our goddess? How can I look like someone I have never seen?"
"Then you do not understand what I mean."
"I do, Baka. I too am descended from the great queens of Tyre. We must obey our laws wherever we go…"
"Even if it means another child must be sacrificed?" retorted Baka sharply as he flicked at the mule with a stick. "We loved our little Abaisha. She did not have to be sacrificed!" The cart rolled forward. Hudda walked beside him. She would sit on the cart when she became too tired to walk. "You can change things, Hudda. We can change things. This is our chance."
"Then, Baka, when sorrow or terrible things befall us such as the destruction of our beloved city and its people, then look not to me to petition our Goddess Tanith for our merciful delivery from the enemy."
Baka gave an impatient click of the tongue; however, his expression changed to tenderness when he looked at his wife's crestfallen face.
"Look," he said as he turned his gaze in the direction of the south wall of the city. "The gateway beckons. The soldiers will wake up too late to realize that we have reached the gate. We must make haste."
"Yes, my husband."
Gaius Titus Sirinius wanted his wife to hurry. All who had agreed to make the journey to the hinterland were already in the process of leaving. Many Roman soldiers like himself who had taken Carthaginian wives were leaving too. Most of their friends had been brutally killed by the army of Rome. They had been called deserters, but to him, they were settlers with their new families in a land they had come to love. Not for them to take up arms against what Rome perceived as its enemy.
Now, the time had come to make haste. Already word had reached them that Hasdrubal Barca was about to surrender to Rome. What could the Carthaginian, descendant of the great and illustrious Hannibal Barca, do when his nation lay dying, destroyed by the sword and by the flames? He had asked this question and his wife had replied with, "Throw himself into the flames like Isabel and her sons, as a true and loyal citizen of Carthage who refused to become a slave." Now he looked at her and his heart filled with pride. She was a true and loyal citizen of Carthage; it was in her aristocratic bearing, her fierce defence of the wife of Carthage's military leader.
"Come, Gaia - "
The beautiful Phoenician woman, heavy with child, touched her belly and looked at her Roman husband.
"I do not mind that you call me "Gaia", Titus, but I also do not wish to forget that my mother named me Toreth, as shall be our child."
"If it is a girl. But if our child is a boy, he will be called "Gaius Titus Sirinius the Younger."
"It is too long and heavy a name for a child to bear, Titus. There. I call you Titus."
"Will you come now? We must join your sister and brother. They are near the wall, hidden in the foundry huts. There are no more weapons. What food we have, we must make last as long as we can or we shall die of starvation."
"Almost ready, my husband," said Toreth as she covered her head and smoothed the sleek black strands behind her ears. She had a cloth bag filled with their most basic foodstuffs, her combs, extra sheets for covering. Then she looked at her husband with concern. "Our chariot, Titus? What of our chariot?" she asked
"The horses have been taken by the soldiers. We shall have to make do with a small cart and donkey. It was all I could salvage from the Byrsa Hill."
The Centurion, once a proud Roman, carefully lifted his wife on to the cart before he too, climbed up. The donkey neighed once, then moved briskly after Titus whipped the animal to compliance. They were a little further up the hills, beyond the last rows of houses where the soldiers had not yet made their way to murder and plunder. Titus thought that Scipio must have rested many of his soldiers who had been fighting without ceasing for four to five days at a time.
He flung one arm round his wife's slender shoulders and with his free hand held on to the reins as he led the donkey further and further away from the burning city to join the ever growing throng of fleeing families heading toward the gateways in the walls of the city. His heart was sad. Once he had been a son of Rome, his family living on the Palatine Hill, patricians. Glancing at the soft, gentle planes of his wife's face he gave a smile. It was worth it. They were going where they could find a place to rest and live and see their children grow up.
One day…who knows? Jupiter and Eshmoun would smile on them and shower them with good fortune again.
"It is getting dark," Toreth remarked as she looked up at the sky.
"And yet it is not late," Titus replied with a frown.
"Perhaps the gods are with us after all," Toreth said, smiling at her husband.
Would the Roman soldiers follow them all the way to the hinterland? Once darkness fell, all would be even. .
A small camp near the ruins of the citadel.
General Scipio Aemelianus Africanus sat on a stool near a table, poring over a scroll, when Tribune Sextus Flavius Metellus entered. Sextus faced General Scipio with a worried frown. He was exhausted, his breastplate covered in a mixture of dust and dried blood, his broadsword held firmly in his left hand while his right hand, the palm facing down, was stretched in salute.
"Ave, General Scipio."
Scipio acknowledged the salute then stood up, his own weary eyes, red from lack of sleep, holding the old centurion's gaze.
"You have news of the fleeing hordes of Phoenicians?"
"Aye, sir. Through the southern gateways in the great wall of the city. They move towards the hinterland, deeper to the south. What are your orders, sir?"
"Follow them. Kill them all. And if you cannot kill them all, we will sell them in Rome as part of my triumph."
"Sir, my son…"
"Quintus Metellus is a deserter, Sextus, and should be treated with the same contempt we treat those who go against Rome. He has chosen a way of life away from his Roman heritage and has betrayed Rome. He deserves no better than the inhabitants of this city. I will hear from you that you have slain the fleeing mobs…"
Sextus stood rigidly at attention as he listened to General Scipio. The words were heavy, but delivered with decisiveness, a certain hardness which he had come to abhor in the older man. His son had chosen a Carthaginian wife and they had two sons whom he had seen only twice, once near the edge of the city, close to the Tophet when Quintus had wanted them to meet their grandfather. After that, Sextus Metellus was forced to resume being the enemy of his son. It was he who had suggested they try and flee the city.
Quintus had not wanted to leave.
The centurion gave a sigh, realising the conversation with General Scipio was over, his directive ringing like a sounding cymbal in his ears. He turned, his heart heavy as he headed towards his encampment where the troops were resting. Fervently he prayed to Jupiter, to Bellona, to Diana and Vesta that his son, his daughter-in-law and grandchildren be protected even as he called his men together to hunt them down.
The portents were in the skies. All around, Carthage lay bleeding, smoke from the raging fires reaching the heavens, then settling like a pall of death over the city, with the stench that seemed to pervade the air even beyond the city walls. They were many - perhaps three thousand strong - who moved with a hurried air across the plain. Not many old men and women, I noticed. They had been the first to die at the hands of the soldiers, for their movements had been slow, their actions laborious. No, this band of fleeing citizens were made up of young men and women, children, and the middle-aged. They pushed carts, or accompanied carts drawn by mules, by old horses, by donkeys.
Here and there, I could see chariots. I thought it strange at first but later understood its full meaning Seeing these chariots brought the realisation that Roman deserters were among the fleeing mass.
Some were in their uniforms, and I could only conclude that, tired of fighting and killing unarmed civilians by the thousands, they had made the decision to leave, too. Whatever their fate or wherever their destinies lay, would be linked closely with the very people they had come to kill.
Some say a new disgust with Rome's decadent ways and its desire to destroy that which it feared with clinical ruthlessness changed the hearts and minds of many tired Roman soldiers who deserted.
Some say it was love that transcended barriers of culture, religion and race.
Whatever the reason, they added to the numbers fleeing the city.
A band of Roman legionaries was in pursuit of the fleeing citizens. They were heavily armed horsemen who moved swiftly across the plain, fast catching up with them. The sky had darkened with brooding black cloud billows hovering above those in flight and those in pursuit. Below, dust clouds whipped up around the horsemen as they sped toward the three thousand inhabitants making their way south.
As an historian, I, Appian I of Alexandria, must at all times maintain my objectivity in recording events and those occurrences witnessed by me or recounted to me by others. I have hoped over the years that my narrators were faithful in their accounts as I seek at this moment to be faithful in my recording of what I witnessed.
The hovering black billows seemed not to be billows of clouds at all. It appeared to me that they were alive - thick, rolling dark clouds that moved with great energy. There was no sound, such as cracks of lightning or heavy rolls of thunder. It was not cold, for it was the dry season. No rain had fallen in three months.
I saw some of the fleeing group pause to look up at the darkened sky. Perhaps if I strained my ears, I might have heard the cries of children. The horses pulled up, their hooves clawing the empty air. Some threw their riders and ran off, into the crowd of people.
Then I saw it, as I am certain all who were fleeing, including the pursuing Romans, also saw it. A reddish burn around the edges of the cloud billows began to swell out and make visible something strange in the sky. It was immense, of a metal that shone like white gold. It was shaped like a giant Roman shield. As I noted earlier, there was no sound until suddenly this giant object made a noise, like the screeching of a million owls. But the sound was like an echo, coming from a great distance. The Roman soldiers stopped in their tracks, as well as many of the fleeing Phoenicians, as if an unseen power from the object in the blue firmament pulled them back. As great as the size of Carthage itself, it cast the hinterland in darkness.
I was filled with wonder and fear. An object in the sky - why did it not fall to the ground? Did General Scipio also experience this new darkness that would make the day night? Did the fighting Romans in the city see it? Did the great Carthaginian Hasdrubal Barca see it?
Suddenly, a shaft of light came down from the object, like a sunbeam streaming through a window in summer, only this one swathed everyone in it - the Carthage survivors, the Roman deserters, the horses, ploughs, carts, donkeys, mules, the soldiers hunting them, dogs following their masters and mistresses, wooden cages with exotic birds, a few goats, some sheep, a camel or two. It was a white light that made them appear like angels rising to the heavens, for they all looked up at the source of the light.
The object hovered, hovered, and then suddenly, everyone and everything bathed in the light dissolved in an instant, as if the light swallowed them. They were all gone - the Carthaginians, men, women, children, babies, Numidian slaves, traders from neighbouring lands, Roman deserters and dissidents, the Roman soldiers who hunted them on horseback, some soldiers riding chariots, others on foot. They were gone. I sat on a large rock outside the south gateway of Carthage. In the distance, much like a tableau, such as I have seen in wall carvings in the temple of Abydos in my beloved Egypt, where stories were told upon the ancient walls, or in caves or frescos in the temples of Rome three thousand men, women, children, Roman soldiers, deserters, pursuers in one single moment disappeared from the face of the Earth.
They were gone, all of them. Just as suddenly as the strange object appeared, it disappeared from sight, and the sky became clear. It was light of day again. The vessel was gone, and with it, all the people who had stood in its light. Like a memory, or an echo in a dark cavern, I wondered if what I’d seen had really happened. I blinked many times as I looked up at the sky, but it was clear, with not a cloud that could mar the beauty of it. Did it happen?
It did. Perhaps two or three Roman soldiers who lagged behind the full charge of horsemen, those who were too tired to follow, came to rest where I was resting on a rock just outside the south gateway of the city.
"These are strange portents in the heavens. It is a punishment from the gods, surely," said one foot soldier.
"How are we to report of this to General Scipio?" asked the other.
"Strange gods have carried them away in a mighty vessel. They are all dead!"
"Perhaps then, that is what you should report to General Scipio," I suggested. "A fight broke out, and all perished, save a few who were left standing to tell the tale."
The three soldiers nodded vigorously, for their minds could not absorb what they had seen. There was nothing they could explain. How could they explain the unexplained? They were unable to take the mystery and divine it. Even I stood, unable to understand the mystery.
What I know is this: I think those people's lives were saved by an unknown force. A force that took them away from their hardships and certain death, from complete annihilation. Such atrocities that have been committed by the Romans in the name of the expansion of its empire, this genocide, the total laying waste of a noble land and its people shall be visited on Rome again. Is it not in the nature of empires to rise and then, ignominiously, fall to a lesser people?
And what shall you write, Appian I of Alexandria?
What shall I write?
I shall write the truth, for in the name of truth I am prepared to die.
*****************
END PROLOGUE