Siege of Carthage

The siege opened badly for Rome. Amphibious assaults failed; the city’s walls—thick, high, and defended by desperate citizens—spat invaders back into the surf. Streets inside the Megara ran with the clatter of improvised armor; the harbors still whispered with clandestine boats slipping to fetch grain along the coast [4].

Command passed to Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, grandson by adoption of Scipio Africanus. He brought order. Trenches multiplied; a massive mole strangled the harbor; towers crawled forward under a storm of stones and arrows. The sound turned mechanical—rams thudding, pickaxes ticking, engines creaking with torsion [4][16].

Carthage answered with will. Citizens forged weapons; sorties burned Roman works; the city built a secret channel to the sea, launching ships painted the dull colors of dawn. For a time, the azure of the Gulf of Tunis framed daring. But the noose tightened. Grain dwindled. Disease seeped [4].

Scipio’s troops breached outer defenses and fought block by block. The Megara fell; then the lower town. Streets narrowed into killing lanes; doorways became fortresses. The Byrsa—citadel and symbol—awaited the last blow, its stones stained with smoke [4].

The siege’s rhythm—assault, setback, adaptation—taught the legions the grim craft of urban war. It taught the Senate, watching from Rome, that erasure would require patience and pain [4][16].