Читать книгу Master of Rome - John Stack - Страница 7

Marcus Aemilius Paullus strode purposefully across the main deck of the Concordia, ignoring the salutes of the soldiers he passed on his way to the side rail. He looked out over the fleet, the three hundred and fifty galleys of the Classis Romanus spread out in formation behind his flagship, and his heart swelled, the sight overwhelming him, the power of his command filling him with pride.

As senior consul, Paullus had rushed to Sicily six months before, taking residence in the walled city of Agrigentum on the southern coast. From there he had sought to take command of the war in Sicily, to carve out a victory that would rival his predecessor’s triumph at Cape Ecnomus; but the enemy had withdrawn their naval forces south to Carthage and Paullus lacked the legionary army necessary to take the fight to the Carthaginians on land. He had led skirmishes to Panormus and Lilybaeum, the two main Carthaginian-held ports of Sicily, hoping to take the fight to the enemy, but his minor victories only served to deepen his frustration.

All eyes in Rome were on the conflict in Africa. There lay the glory, but Regulus had persistently evaded all efforts to recall him to Rome, his victories at Ecnomus and Adys giving him considerable support in the Senate, so he had maintained his position as commander of the expeditionary force. With defeat in Tunis, however, that command was no more, and Paullus couldn’t suppress his rising anticipation. When news of Regulus’s defeat had arrived from a supply ship that had escaped the harbour of Tunis, Paullus had immediately assembled the fleet to sail west, eager to take full advantage of his restored mandate.

Paullus made his way slowly to the aft-deck, surreptitiously watching the crew at work as he went, their frantic pace at odds with the consul’s unhurried movements. The consul had never before been on a galley sailing to Sicily but, over the previous months, he had learned all that was necessary to command a fleet, his two victorious skirmishes against the enemy confirming his belief in his natural ability to lead.

Paullus turned to look out over the length of the Concordia as he reached the aft-deck. The mainsail was taut against the rigging and, beyond that, the corvus boarding ramp stood poised. He breathed in the warm crosswind and looked across the deck. The junior consul, Servius Fulvius Paetinus Nobilior, was standing by the tiller and he nodded at Paullus, the senior consul returning the gesture before turning once more to the sea ahead, his mind already focused on his plan of attack once he reached Aspis. Audacity was the key to victory, and Paullus smiled as he imagined the fear that would sweep across the sea-lanes as news of his arrival spread.

The horizon before the Concordia darkened, a shoreline came slowly into view, and the call of land sighted echoed across the fleet. Paullus moved quickly to the foredeck, giving himself an uninterrupted view of the seascape and the shoreline beyond. A flicker of colour caught his eye and he focused on the intermittent movement. The crosswind caused his eyes to water and he rubbed them irritably. He saw them again, flashes of vibrant colours, stark against the dark shoreline, and he suddenly understood what he was seeing, the vivid masthead banners whipping furiously in the wind, their number growing with each oar stroke the Concordia took to narrow the distance. An instant later the lookout’s call confirmed his sighting.

‘Enemy galleys, dead ahead!’

‘Number and heading,’ Hamilcar roared as he ran the length of the Alissar.

‘At least three hundred,’ the lookout called. ‘Heading due west, directly for us.’

Hamilcar stopped as he came to the aft-deck and looked east to the approaching galleys. But for their masthead banners they could be Carthaginian ships, their design a copy of the galleys constructed by the master shipbuilders of Carthage, and Hamilcar cursed the sight. He looked over his shoulder to the inner harbour of Aspis and the forty Roman galleys that still faced him defiantly.

The deadline he had imposed was but hours away, and he reproached Tanit for her fickle nature. Many times during the preceding night he had been tempted to retract his proposal and order a full attack. He knew that tactically it would be a mistake, but his honour demanded a measure of retribution for the defeat inflicted on him and his men at Ecnomus. The Alissar had been his command ship on that day, the quinquereme in the vanguard of the main attack, a position of honour that Hamilcar had assumed with pride but one which had become forever tainted with humiliation when he had ordered the Alissar to lead the retreat from Ecnomus.

Many of the galleys of the blockade had been in battle that day and, even a year later, the shock of defeat still lay heavy on the morale of the crews, another reason why Hamilcar had been tempted to attack Aspis. A fight in the inner harbour would be on the Romans’ terms, and Hamilcar’s gains would be negated by his losses, but success was nevertheless assured by numbers alone. Hamilcar knew his men needed a victory over the hated Roman fleet that many perceived to be indomitable.

He had been racked with indecision during the night, perhaps touched by the same lack of confidence that was endemic in his fleet. Now fortune had swung against him, punishing him for his hesitancy, and Hamilcar looked once more to the east and the approaching Roman galleys, a quiet determination stealing over him.

The proximity of combat cleared his mind of any further thoughts of what might have been. He was outnumbered, and the enemy was on two sides. He could not hope to hold his position at the mouth of the harbour. Defeat would be certain. Equally he couldn’t order his fleet to disperse, knowing that fleeing before a blow had been struck would be the death knell of his command.

He would have to take the fight to the Romans, but first he needed to reduce the odds against him. He closed his eyes and pictured the surrounding coastline in his mind’s eye, searching his store of local knowledge of the shores around his beloved Carthage. He opened his eyes and checked the height of the tide on the nearby shoreline. He looked to the north, his mouth hardening into a thin line, his previous hesitation forgotten, and he turned to the helmsman.

‘Come about,’ he ordered. ‘Battle speed. Signal the fleet to form up on the Alissar. We sail for Cape Hermaeum.’

The helmsman nodded and sent a runner to signal the fleet as he put his weight behind the tiller, the quinquereme responding instantly to the rudder as the galley broke the formation of the blockade. Hamilcar leaned into the turn, his hand on the siderail as the drum beat intensified, the Alissar increasing speed to eight knots within a ship-length while all around him the galleys of his command responded in kind.

‘Aspect change on the blockade!’

‘All hands, make ready,’ Atticus shouted at the lookout’s call, quickly running to the foredeck to see the course change of the blockading galleys for himself. He stood poised to issue the order for battle stations, expecting to see the Carthaginians turning into attack, but instead their bows swung north, the blockade rapidly disintegrating.

‘Galleys approaching from the east!’

Atticus heard the call and tried to see past the Carthaginian ships, their hulls blocking his view of the eastern horizon. He looked to Corin, the masthead lookout, the young man’s gaze locked on the distant seascape.

‘Identify, Corin,’ Atticus shouted, his inadequate vantage point frustrating him. Was it another Carthaginian detachment? Maybe the blockading galleys were moving to redeploy for attack. Every passing minute counted, and Atticus had to fight the overwhelming urge to go aloft and see for himself. He focused on Corin’s face, and saw the answer a second before the lookout responded.

‘They’re Roman, Prefect.’

Atticus turned to look for his second-in-command, seeing him on the main deck. ‘Baro,’ he called. ‘Get us under way. Battle speed.’

Baro nodded and began shouting orders to the crew, their already frenzied pace increasing with the ferocity of his voice. Atticus moved quickly to the aft-deck as the Orcus lurched beneath him, her oars biting into the calm waters of the inner harbour, the galley increasing speed with every drum beat.

He suddenly thought of Lucius, his former second-in-command, and how the older man would have been on the foredeck with him, shadowing his every move. He had yet to achieve that same bond with Baro; he was a harsher man than Lucius, but effective in his own right, and Atticus knew he could trust the experienced seaman.

‘Over three hundred galleys,’ Corin called out in excitement. ‘Heading west on a direct course to Aspis.’

Atticus heard the report and checked the line of his squadron, the other galleys getting under way. He nodded to Gaius as he reached the aft-deck, but the helmsman did not return the gesture, his attention as always locked on the task at hand, his hand playing lightly over the tiller as he made minute course adjustments to the one hundred and ten-ton galley. The weeks of inactivity while the squadron waited in Aspis had driven Gaius to near madness, the fact that the hull lay stationary beneath his feet was contrary to his every instinct. Now, although his face was expressionless, Atticus knew that Gaius was charged with anticipation.

‘Your assessment,’ Atticus said, and the helmsman looked to him for the first time.

‘It looks as if the Carthaginians are running,’ Gaius said after a moment’s pause, his expression puzzled.

‘But,’ Atticus prompted, noticing the helmsman’s hesitation. He too had noticed an anomaly in the Carthaginians’ manoeuvre, but he wanted to draw out the helmsman’s thoughts, knowing that Gaius’s intimate knowledge of the capabilities of a galley, and his skill at attaining the best possible position in battle, made his opinion invaluable.

‘They’re staying in formation,’ Gaius replied, after a moment. ‘If they really wanted to flee then they would have broken formation and scattered, making our pursuit more difficult.’

Atticus nodded, looking to the rear of the Carthaginian formation a thousand yards ahead as the last of the galleys disappeared around the northern headland protecting the port of Aspis. By the time the Orcus reached that point, Atticus knew the distance to the enemy rear would be even greater, his pursuit from dead-stop giving the Carthaginians the initial advantage.

‘Maybe they’re planning to fight,’ Atticus said, doubting his own words even as he spoke them.

‘They’re too outnumbered,’ Gaius remarked, glancing to the approaching Roman fleet.

Atticus nodded again and set his mind to the task. He moved to the side rail to get a better view of the sea ahead. ‘Gaius, what’s north of here?’ he asked.

‘The coastline runs north for ten leagues to a cape and then turns southwest for forty leagues into the bay of Carthage.’

They’ll never get as far as Carthage, Atticus thought, but, as he looked to the approaching Roman fleet, waiting for them to change course to intercept the Carthaginian formation, a sliver of doubt remained in his mind. Barca had been beaten before, but never due to error, and Carthaginian seamanship still outmatched that of most Roman crews. If the enemy were staying in formation, then their true motive was yet to be revealed.

‘They’re running,’ Nobilior shouted in elation.

Paullus turned to the junior consul and frowned, regarding the excessive display of emotion as undignified, although he too felt the satisfaction of seeing the enemy flee in the face of his command.

‘Helmsman, change course to intercept,’ Paullus ordered, and the Concordia turned two points to starboard, the fleet behind responding immediately.

The enemy fleet was still some five miles away, sailing parallel to the coastline, their galleys bunched together as if racing each other in a bid to escape. Paullus followed the line of their course, immediately seeing the land give way to the north as it turned a headland.

‘Helmsman,’ he said, ‘increase speed. I want to reach that headland before the enemy has a chance of rounding it.’

The helmsman nodded, calling for battle speed, and Paullus nodded in satisfaction as he felt the pace of the Concordia increase. He looked to the main deck and the ordered ranks of the legionaries, sensing their expectation, allowing it to feed his own impatience, and he sneered in contempt as he thought of the enemy’s futile attempt to escape his wrath.

‘The Romans are turning to pursue,’ the lookout called, and Hamilcar glanced over his starboard aft-quarter to confirm the course change of the enemy fleet before turning to look out over the aft-rail. The Roman galleys from Aspis were just breaching the harbour mouth, now more than two miles behind the last ship in his formation, and Hamilcar watched as they neatly formed behind the lead galley, beginning their pursuit in earnest.

Hamilcar turned to the sea ahead and the coastline to his left, silently naming the landmarks in sequence as the Alissar sped north, his intimate knowledge of the shoreline deepening his resolve to deny the Romans any part of his people’s sacred land. To his right the Roman fleet was slowly closing the gap as they sailed diagonally towards him, revealing their simple plan to cut his course as he made to round Cape Hermaeum. Hamilcar thanked Tanit for the Romans’ actions, forgetting her earlier duplicity.

His fleet was outnumbered, but Hamilcar knew he stood a reasonable chance of thwarting the Romans’ attempt to trap him if he could level the odds or – better yet – turn them in his favour. Victory might yet be possible or, failing that, retreat with honour. Either way, Hamilcar needed to keep his fleet together, and Cape Hermaeum would give him that chance.

Atticus stayed at the side rail of the aft-deck as the Orcus settled on a northerly track, the galleys of his command slipping into the wake of the Carthaginian formation, using the enemy’s course to avoid any hidden shallows along the coastline. He was joined there by Septimus, while the legionaries formed up behind Drusus on the main deck, the proximity of the enemy dictating every action on the quinquereme.

‘The main fleet will reach the enemy first,’ Atticus said, thinking aloud, judging the angles and speed of their attack.

‘Pity,’ Septimus replied, his hand kneading the hilt of his sword, the anger he felt at the loss of the Ninth increasing with every oar stroke, the fact that Hamilcar Barca was in command of the enemy fleet giving his aggression a keen edge.

Atticus looked to his friend and nodded, understanding his fury, his own battle lust rising within him. The Ninth was Septimus’s former legion, but Atticus had formed his own bond with the legionaries over the previous years, understanding and accepting the symbiotic relationship between the two forces. He had put his ship and his crew in harm’s way many times to protect the soldiers of Rome.

The Orcus sped on, her ram slicing cleanly through the calm water, the gentle swell separating cleanly across her cutwater to run down the length of her hull, her wake instantly sliced by the ships behind. The galley’s crew settled into silence, the drum beat dominating; the trailing wind tugged at the furled sail, the creak of running rigging and the rhythmic splash of the oars replaced the shouted commands. The pursuit demanded nothing more of the crew than patience as each man waited for the battle to come.

Atticus rubbed his fingers on the side rail, his eyes constantly darting to the four points of his galley, checking and rechecking her trim, the unconscious routine of a man who had spent his life at sea. Septimus stood immobile beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes focused two miles ahead on the enemy galleys, watching with the endless patience of a career soldier.

‘You’ll target Barca’s galley?’ Septimus asked, glancing at Atticus, whose gaze was locked on the two convergent fleets.

‘Don’t worry, Septimus,’ he replied, never taking his eyes off the waters ahead. ‘We’ll get him.’

The centurion nodded and looked to his men on the main deck. Once the battle was joined he would have no control over the course of the Orcus, depending entirely on Atticus to get him and his legionaries into the fight, the prefect deciding which galleys to target in the rush of battle. As a soldier, such reliance was second nature, but, as a commander in his own right, Septimus had developed a deep respect for Atticus’s ability. When the fleets engaged, the battle would swiftly descend into a mêlée, and a centurion leading his men over a boarding ramp on to an enemy ship needed to know his line of retreat was secure. Over the years he had fought alongside Atticus, Septimus had never once looked over his shoulder.

‘Barca is doing a bad job of trying to escape,’ he remarked, looking to the headland beyond the Carthaginian galleys.

‘I’m not convinced he is trying to escape,’ Atticus said, giving voice to the doubt that refused to subside.

‘The Carthaginians are no cowards,’ Septimus replied sceptically, ‘but they’re no fools either. The odds against them are too high.’

‘Then why haven’t they increased speed or taken advantage of this tailwind and raised sail?’ Atticus said. ‘Only ships going into battle would keep their mainsails furled.’

Septimus shook his head, unable to answer. ‘Either way,’ he said, putting his helmet on for the first time, ‘it looks like we’re in for a fight.’

Atticus nodded and slapped his friend on the shoulder, knowing the centurion was eager to confront the enemy. Septimus turned and left the aft-deck, taking up his position at the front of his men on the main deck. Drusus saluted smartly before falling into the ranks; the optio, like all of Septimus’s men, was ready for battle.

‘Nabeul,’ Hamilcar said to himself as the Alissar sped past the tiny fishing village, ‘over halfway there.’

He looked to the Roman fleet, now two miles off his starboard beam, their course still convergent with his own, both fleets aiming for the headland ahead. We’re moving too fast, Hamilcar thought, estimating that his own ships would reach the headland before the Romans and he immediately ordered the helmsman to drop to standard speed, the galleys behind the Alissar bunching up slightly as the pace dipped, before the crews brought their ships back into perfect formation.

Hamilcar relayed his orders to the squad commander at the rear of the fleet, keeping the command simple to avoid confusion or an error in signalling. The battle ahead was unavoidably going to be fought on two fronts, with the Carthaginians out numbered on both. Only a quick result would achieve victory, a prolonged fight could only end in defeat.

Hamilcar’s gaze fell across the deck of the Alissar, his men formed into loose ranks, many with their swords drawn as they prepared for battle. He spotted signs of nervousness amongst them – men moving restlessly; others with their gaze locked on the deck – and Hamilcar felt his anger rise anew. Before Ecnomus these same men would have stood resolute before battle, always with their eyes turned to the enemy, willing them on, eager for the fight. Now they were riddled with doubt and Hamilcar realized that his crews might easily panic should the tide of battle turn against them.

He looked to the sea ahead once more, the shoreline filling his vision on the left, the Roman fleet on the periphery on his right, and the headland dead ahead. For Hamilcar, his only hope was to get the larger Roman fleet to disengage and flee. He focused on the waters just beyond the headland, looking to the ally that could give him victory.

We have them, Paullus thought, slamming his fist on to the side rail in triumph. His galleys would reach the headland before the Carthaginians. He looked to the galleys flanking the Concordia, the earlier formation now ragged as ships competed to be first into battle, although none dared to overtake the flagship. The senior consul felt renewed pride in the overt display of confidence and aggression and he called for more speed, spurring his fleet to a greater pace, the thrill of battle surging through him.

The helmsman made minor adjustments to the Concordia’s course, steering the quinquereme to reach just beyond the headland to give the fleet room to turn into the fight and face the Carthaginians head on, allowing them to bring their deadly corvi to bear, the legionaries on every galley already moving forward to form up behind the boarding ramps, many of the soldiers whispering prayers to Mars, the god of war, to give them strength in the battle ahead. Paullus stood firm on the aft-deck, the junior consul beside him, a display of calm authority and steadfast courage in the face of battle. The headland was but a mile away and the enemy was now hopelessly trapped.

Something’s wrong, Atticus thought, his intuition sensing the change before he could confirm it, his eyes turning to the gap between the Orcus and the Carthaginian formation ahead.

‘Gaius,’ he called, turning to the helmsman.

‘I see it,’ he replied, his own gaze locked on the sea ahead. ‘We’re gaining on them.’

The Carthaginians are slowing down, Atticus thought, his instincts screaming alarm, his eyes darting everywhere as he tried to determine the cause. He moved to the tiller, his mind registering the steady drum beat from below decks, the steady pace of battle speed unchanged.

‘Baro, confirm our speed,’ Atticus ordered, and the second-in-command acknowledged the command, calling for a marker to be made ready on the foredeck. He ran to the aft and signalled for the marker to be dropped, counting the seconds until it passed his position. He paused for a moment as he calculated.

‘A shade over eight knots, Prefect,’ Baro said. Battle speed.

‘Something in the water ahead maybe, some hindrance?’ Gaius suggested.

Atticus shook his head. The water was calm, the only disturbance caused by the wakes of the Carthaginian galleys.

‘Barca wants our ships to reach the headland first,’ Atticus said, speaking aloud the only conclusion he could draw.

‘And our galleys will do exactly that,’ Gaius replied, feeling the same sense of alarm as his commander.

‘Baro,’ Atticus said. ‘We need to try and signal—’

‘Aspect change in the Carthaginian formation,’ Corin shouted from the masthead, and all eyes turned immediately to the fore. ‘The rear-guard is turning to engage.’

A squad of twenty-five galleys turned neatly from the rear of the enemy force and away from the coastline, moving swiftly into open water. They were increasing speed, coming about at a terrifying pace, the galleys transformed within seconds from escaping prey to ferocious attackers. Precious seconds passed as Atticus watched the enemy rear-guard deploy.

‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Baro said, an edge to his voice as he waited for the command to deploy the squadron into line of battle to counter the threat.

Atticus ignored the demand, but looked instead to the main Carthaginian formation, their course unchanged, the vanguard of the Roman fleet now obscured by the enemy ships as they swept in before the Carthaginians’ course.

‘Will I order the squadron to deploy, Prefect?’ Baro asked insistently, glancing briefly at Gaius, seeing the helmsman’s body braced for the command to come, his knuckles white on the tiller.

Atticus glanced at the enemy ships sweeping down at an oblique angle, poised to slice into his galleys, their foredecks crowded with Carthaginian warriors, their war cries growing louder with every passing second. His experience called him to order his squadron to turn into the fight, but the words would not come, a deeper instinct staying his command. He looked to the headland where the two main fleets would clash, the place where the battle would be won or lost, the place Hamilcar Barca had chosen to make his stand.

Paullus stumbled forward as the Concordia lurched beneath him, the deck suddenly echoing with frantic commands and cries of alarm, the galley losing momentum as the rhythm of her two hundred and forty oars was fouled. Only moments before, the vanguard of the fleet had reached the headland, the Carthaginians still some two hundred yards short of the tip, while before the Concordia the sea stretched out far to the west, the coastline falling away around the sharp apex of the cape. The senior consul reached out and grabbed the side rail, looking to the galleys around him in shock as he watched their close formation disintegrate.

‘What’s happening?’ he roared, spinning around, searching for the captain, finding him standing at the tiller, the commander shouting orders to his crew. He looked to the consul.

‘A tidal stream,’ he shouted in frustration. ‘Rounding the cape. An ebb flow, at least four knots.’

The Concordia was now sailing in waters unprotected by the sweep of the headland. As the quinquereme steadied beneath him, the captain pointed her cutwater directly into the current, her forward speed reduced by the ebb flow but the ship once more in control. Paullus looked to the enemy, the Carthaginian galleys closing fast on his left flank.

‘Captain, come about. Order the fleet to turn into the enemy,’ Paullus shouted.

‘We can’t,’ the captain replied and, before Paullus could retort, a crashing sound ripped through the air as two Roman galleys collided, the first one having turned broadside into the current to face the enemy, the ebb flow pushing the galley out of position and into its neighbour.

‘We cannot form up in this current,’ the captain shouted in explanation, his own eyes darting to the approaching enemy galleys, the Concordia turned broadside to their rams, the swift current forcing the captain’s hand.

Paullus stood speechless, the oncoming enemy galleys dominating his mind, the air around him filled with commands and counter-commands from the ships surrounding the Concordia, the thread of panic in every voice as crews sought to avoid collision while turning to face the enemy, the galleys becoming further entangled as all control was lost.

‘Ramming speed,’ Hamilcar roared, as the helmsman of the Alissar settled the quinquereme on her final course, her bow pointing slightly obliquely to a line amidships of a Roman galley, the enemy crew’s hesitation in deciding between collision and the Carthaginian ram sealing their fate. The Alissar came up to fourteen knots, the six-foot-long blunt-nosed bronze ram sweeping cleanly under the surface of the water, the momentum of the galley keeping her hull down.

The helmsman made one final adjustment to her trim and Hamilcar watched with near awe at the display of seamanship, the sailor using the sudden onslaught of the current upon the Alissar’s hull as it cleared the lee of the headland to straighten the quinquereme’s course, perfecting the angle of attack, making the elements work to his advantage while the Romans floundered in the same conditions.

Fifty yards became ten in the span of a breath, and Hamilcar braced himself for the impact, his whole body willing the Alissar on, putting the strength of his hostility behind the charge of his ship. The Alissar struck the Roman galley six inches below the water line, the ram splintering the seasoned oak with a single blow, the relentless momentum of the quinquereme driving the ram deep into the rowing deck, crushing bone and timber, the screams of dying men merging with the screech of tortured wood as sea water gushed through the shattered hull of the Roman ship, overwhelming the damned souls chained to their oars.

Hamilcar roared in triumph with his crew, his every battle instinct commanding him to send his men over the bow rail on to the Roman galley and annihilate her crew, but he suppressed the urge, knowing he had to keep the initiative if he was going to turn the Roman vanguard.

‘Full reverse,’ he ordered, and the rowers of the Alissar put their strength to the task, the ram withdrawing reluctantly against the hold of the splintered Roman hull. In the brief minutes of contact the Alissar had drifted with the current, but the helmsman again used its force to swing the bow around, drawing on skills that had been forged over generations, and the galley turned neatly away from the Roman line to withdraw into the lee of the headland before turning once more to re-engage, the Alissar’s rowers bringing the galley back up to attack speed as Hamilcar sought out further prey, his gaze sweeping over the attack.

The Roman vanguard was in chaos, unable to form a battle line in the hostile current, while Hamilcar’s ships rammed them with near impunity. The Romans had only managed to deploy their boarding ramps on half a dozen careless galleys, their isolated resistance ineffective against the momentum of the Carthaginian attack.

Hamilcar quickly assessed his odds, looking to the four points of his ship. Beyond the Roman vanguard, the bulk of the enemy fleet had yet to engage, many of the ships still sailing in the lee of the headland, their formations intact in a coherent defence that the Carthaginian galleys could not challenge. For now, the main Roman fleet was stalled, the confusion of the vanguard robbing them of the sea room to advance to the battle line. Hamilcar knew the reprieve could not last and he turned his focus back to the battle at hand.

‘Two points to starboard,’ he commanded, and the Alissar moved deftly beneath him, the helmsman adjusting her course, compensating again for the current as he brought her ram to bear.

Hamilcar braced himself again, his heart hammering out the drum beats from the deck below, his gaze sweeping over the maelstrom of the battle in which over a hundred Roman galleys were fighting for survival. He looked to the enemy ship before him, her main deck crowded with legionaries, their shields raised, their voices raised in challenge and defiance. Hamilcar balled his fists, watching as the gap fell to fifty yards, and called for ramming speed. It was time to shatter their courage.

The sounds of battle carried clearly across the water, the crash of ramming galleys, screams of death mixed with cheers of success. The voices of command that called for greater slaughter as men fought for victory conflicted with calls for resistance as men fought for survival. Atticus watched the collapsing Roman vanguard in silence, the sounds washing over him and the crew of the Orcus, while his mind registered the approaching threat on his flank. Only Atticus’s squadron remained unfettered, a liberty the Carthaginian rear-guard was poised to take, completing a strategy that would give the Carthaginians full control.

Atticus turned to his crew. ‘Attack speed,’ he ordered as he looked to Gaius. ‘Hold your course.’

The helmsman nodded grimly in compliance, his eyes darting to the approaching Carthaginian galley three points off the starboard beam, and then to the headland ahead.

‘But the rear-guard, Prefect,’ Baro protested, the enemy ships now less than a hundred yards away. ‘We must turn into their attack.’

‘No,’ Atticus replied angrily. ‘We fight on our terms. We stay on this heading and follow the course set by the main Carthaginian fleet. Signal the right flank. Tell them they must only turn into a galley that targets them directly.’

Baro nodded and issued the orders, but he struggled to reconcile the decision with his own instincts, knowing that the inevitable losses the squadron would incur could be avoided if the entire command turned into the Carthaginian rear-guard. He made to protest again but he held his tongue. The Greek would not yield.

On a galley there were few secrets and Baro knew how the prefect had worked with Lucius, seeking the older man’s advice but always making his own decisions. Despite his promotion, Baro had been unable to adopt the same role as his predecessor. In the past, Baro – and all the crew – had taken their orders from Lucius, the normal command structure of a galley shielding Baro from interaction with the Greek. Now Baro reported personally to the prefect. He despised the direct subservience to a non-Roman and, as he watched the squad of Carthaginian galleys descend upon their flank, he felt the serpent of hatred uncoil itself in his stomach.

A collective shout of aggression caused Atticus to glance over his shoulder; he watched with dread as the Carthaginian rear-guard accelerated to ramming speed. The Orcus and many of the leading galleys were already beyond their reach, the unexpected continuation of their course and increase to attack speed giving the Carthaginians little time and sea room to react, but for the bulk of Atticus’s squadron there would be no reprieve.

The Auster was first to be threatened, her outermost position on the right flank drawing the rams of two galleys. She swung into the attack, her bow slamming obliquely into the first Carthaginian galley as the second turned sharply to strike her stern quarter, sweeping her oars, the ram gouging the strake timbers but failing to penetrate. The Carthaginian crew threw a flurry of grappling hooks to hold the Roman galley fast. The Auster deployed her corvus on to the first ship and the legionaries streamed across, but as they did the Carthaginians of the second boarded the aft-deck, sweeping the command crew aside before charging into the legionary rear-guard, the fate of the Auster already decided even as her crew fought on.

Eight other galleys were forced to follow the course of the Auster, two of them reacting too slowly as Carthaginian rams struck them cleanly below the water line, the enemy galleys withdrawing immediately, condemning all to the pitiless sea. Atticus felt the bile rise in his throat as anger and shame threatened to overwhelm him, seeing the same conflict in the eyes of his second-in-command, the urge to abandon their course and go to the aid of their comrades. He turned his back and focused on the waters ahead, his aggression narrowing to a fine point.

The main Carthaginian fleet were dead ahead, manoeuvring in the lee of the headland, while beyond, in the grip of the current, lay the chaotic remnants of the Roman vanguard, their flank still exposed to the deadly attack runs of the enemy.

‘Ramming speed on my command,’ Atticus said, his voice low and hard, his order almost unnecessary. Gaius made no reply, their attack from this point predetermined by the sea and the enemy. Atticus glanced around him to the remaining galleys of his squadron, their formation rapidly forming behind the lead galley, the Orcus becoming the thin edge of a war-hammer poised to strike the enemy’s rear.

‘We must withdraw,’ Nobilior shouted above the din of battle, his eyes darting to every quarter, his face splattered with blood, a sword loose in his hand.

Paullus looked beyond the junior consul to the main deck of the Concordia. It was strewn with the fallen, enemy and Roman alike, their blood soaking the timbers; while only yards away the Carthaginian galley that had attacked the flagship was now fully ablaze, the screams of the rowers, trapped below decks, terrifying to hear.

Paullus closed his eyes, trying to focus his mind. Everything was happening too fast; the enemy swarming over his broken formation, his own galley narrowly avoiding the killing blow of a ram, the reprieve lasting mere seconds before the enemy boarded over the rails, the fight on the Concordia’s decks descending into a vicious brawl that was won at a terrible cost.

The battle line surrounding Paullus was chaotic, a tangle of shattered and sinking galleys. The water was filled with survivors clinging hopelessly to debris, their cries ignored by men still in the fight, while the clash of iron could be heard on every side as men fought for the decks beneath them, the Carthaginians boarding over the side, the Romans attacking across the corvi, their few successes lost in the tide of battle.

‘We cannot hold,’ Nobilior said, grabbing the senior consul by the arm, impatient for the commander to react. ‘We must withdraw now.’

Paullus heard the words, each sound a blow to his honour. Beyond the battle line the bulk of his fleet was untouched, the colossal force unable to deploy in the current, the fate of the vanguard slowing their advance, while all around him the momentum of the Carthaginian attack continued unchecked, the Roman galleys unable to recover from the initial chaos that had engulfed them. Paullus realized the junior consul was right. With the Carthaginians holding the initiative, the vanguard could not stand.

The Alissar swept past the Roman galley at fourteen knots, the cutwater of her prow striking the extended oars of the enemy ship, snapping the three-inch diameter shafts, the shattered remnants of the oars swinging wildly on their mounts, killing and maiming the rowers below deck. Hamilcar immediately ordered the helmsman to steer away, the portside oars of the Alissar emerging once more as the quinquereme cleared the disabled Roman galley. Hamilcar looked over his shoulder at the carnage his galley had wrought.

The Roman galley had turned unexpectedly, a desperate attempt to avoid the Alissar’s ram, but the skilled crew of the Carthaginian galley had reacted instantly, changing their attack run to sweep the port side of the enemy ship, and Hamilcar smiled coldly as the helmsman brought the Alissar around without command, lining the galley up to make another ramming run.

Hamilcar could sense the instability of the Roman vanguard. The crew of the crippled galley in the Alissar’s sights was showing none of the defiance Hamilcar had previously witnessed, the Romans realizing they would be given no chance to fight back while, beyond the battle line, the as yet untouched enemy galleys were no longer moving to attack, their skittish manoeuvres testament to their hesitation.

Hamilcar looked to Himilco, seeing in his stance and expression the same sense of expectancy. He nodded to the captain, granting him the honour of giving the fatal command; Himilco returned the gesture in gratitude and turned to the helmsman.

‘Ramming speed.’

The crew on the aft-deck cheered the order, the Alissar surging beneath them as if unleashed from a sea anchor. Hamilcar looked once more to the stricken enemy galley only fifty yards ahead, his eyes focusing on individual Romans, marking each one.

A sudden cry of alarm broke his trance and the masthead lookout’s shout was quickly taken up by the Carthaginian galleys closest to the Alissar. Hamilcar spun around to face the headland on his left flank, immediately seeing the danger, his mouth opening in shock before twisting slowly into a snarl of anger.

The arrowhead formation behind the Orcus splayed as the distance to the battle line diminished, the ships clearing each other’s wakes to give themselves sea room. Atticus stood at the tiller, constantly issuing orders to the signalmen who relayed his commands across the squad, the disciplined crews responding with alacrity as Gaius lined up the attack run of the Orcus.

Atticus watched the closest Carthaginian galleys react, the unengaged turning quickly into the attack, while those already committed to ramming runs remained on course to strike their prey. He looked to his flanks, conscious of the limited number of galleys under his command. A solid battle line favoured Roman tactics, the frontal assault giving them the best chance of deploying their corvi, whereas open water favoured the Carthaginians, affording them the sea room they needed for ramming. With the battle ahead in complete disorder, Atticus knew his line could not engage as one, and he could only hope his squad’s initial attack would carry enough momentum to break the Carthaginians’ stranglehold on the vanguard.

The Orcus swept across the water to the battle line, every oar stroke propelling her ram through the wave tops, her two hundred and seventy oars sweeping as one through the arc of recovery before striking the water together, the rowers pulling through the drive, the drum beat pounding in every mind, controlling every movement.

Atticus picked his target, Gaius nodding in agreement as signals were sent to the galleys immediately flanking the Orcus, every commander in the line taking this one opportunity to coordinate their attack, each knowing that after the initial blow turmoil would reign. Gaius shifted the tiller slightly, swinging the bow of the Orcus through two points, the Carthaginian galley ahead registering the course change, reacting swiftly to the challenge but forced to face the Orcus head on.

Atticus sent a runner forward to Septimus, watching as the crewman relayed his intentions, the centurion nodding, never turning from the enemy ahead. They were committed, and Atticus felt the weight of commanding his squad lift from his shoulders. In the fight ahead he would be a captain once more, the Orcus his only charge, and the outcome of the battle was now in the hands of the gods.

Septimus breathed deeply, the warm, dry air giving no relief from the heat of the day. He blinked a bead of sweat from his eye. He stood to the right of the raised corvus, the Carthaginian galley ahead filling his field of vision. Behind him his men stood silent; Septimus could almost feel their breath on his back, a hostile exhalation that spoke of their hunger for the fight.

The gap fell to fifty yards and Septimus braced his legs against the sway of the deck beneath him as the rival helmsmen competed for the best line of attack. An arrow struck the corvus, then another, the enemy archers finding the range, and Septimus turned his head to look over his shoulder.

‘Shields up,’ he ordered, his voice low and hard, the proximity of his men ensuring his command was heard in the rear ranks.

The legionaries raised their scuta shields to their chins seconds before the first flight of arrows struck the foredeck, the iron-tipped barbs striking deep into the leather and hide shields. Septimus felt the arrows thump against his shield, his taller stature and position at the front of his men making him an obvious target, and again he blinked the sweat from his eyes, marking the distance between the galleys, waiting for the moment to strike back, the killing urge rising slowly inside him. A legionary cried out in pain, the sound fuelling Septimus’s fury, and he breathed deeply once more, his gaze never leaving the enemy, the sound of their war cries washing over the foredeck of the Orcus.

‘Make ready,’ he shouted, and the hastati swept their shields aside to change their stance, drawing their spears back, the tips trembling slightly with suppressed energy. Septimus held them there, waiting for the gap to fall to thirty yards.

‘Loose!’

The hastati roared as one as they shot their spears towards the enemy, the deadly torrent sweeping up and out over the water, where it seemed to pause for a heartbeat before falling once more, the spears accelerating through the fall, striking the crowded foredeck of the Carthaginian galley, the unprotected archers bearing the brunt.

Septimus stepped back to stand behind the corvus. He drew his sword slowly, the blade withdrawing smoothly from the scabbard, and his men edged forward instinctively, the charge only seconds away, their disciplined silence a fallacious mask.

‘Steady boys,’ Septimus growled, and he glanced over his shoulder to his optio. ‘Drusus, the Carthaginians are massed on the foredeck. Wedge formation.’

‘Yes, Centurion,’ Drusus replied, slamming his fist into his chest in salute. Septimus nodded, marking as always his optio’s inscrutable expression.

Septimus could no longer see the enemy’s faces, but he could hear their ferocious battle cries. He leaned forward, ready to charge, the proximity of the enemy driving every thought from his mind save the lives of his men and the fight to come. The galleys collided with a tremendous crash, testing the balance of every legionary, and Septimus quickly called for grappling hooks, the crew of the Orcus sending a flurry of lines across the gap to the enemy deck.

‘Release the corvus,’ Septimus shouted, and his men roared a battle cry, their aggression finally given vent. They surged as one behind their commander, their feet on the boarding ramp even as it fell.

The corvus swept down like a hammer of Vulcan, striking the Carthaginian foredeck a furious blow, crushing the men under its fall, the three-foot-long iron spikes of the ramp slamming into the weathered timbers of the deck, locking the two galleys together. Septimus bunched his weight behind his shield and ran across the corvus’s length, his eyes seeing for the first time individual faces of his enemy, their expressions twisted in belligerence, their mouths open, screaming defiance.

The centurion led his men across without check, the momentum of their charge driving them deep into the enemy ranks, a wedge forming, with Septimus at the apex. The Carthaginians attempted to counter-surge, but legs made strong from countless marches held them fast and the line became solid behind overlapping shields.

‘Give ’em iron,’ Septimus roared, and his men acknowledged the command with a visceral cry, the Roman line surging forward a foot, the legionaries pushing out with their shields, feeding their swords through the emerging gaps in the shield wall, striking the flesh of men they could not see, their exhaustive training guiding their blades to the groin and stomach, killing blows that drenched the deck beneath their feet.

‘Advance the flanks.’

Again the legionaries roared in affirmation and the Roman line began to straighten out, taking the enemy foredeck inch by bloody inch, the Romans giving no quarter, the Carthaginians asking for none.

The pressure against the shield wall grew as desperation crept into the Carthaginians’ defence. Septimus responded in kind, the muscles in his sword arm burning from exertion, his left arm numb from the countless blows on his shield, the fury of the enemy defence reaching a crescendo as the Roman line neared the edge of the foredeck. Septimus glanced to his side, alarm flashing through his mind as he spotted that the shield wall was no longer straight, the unequal pressures testing the formation. He called for Drusus and the optio stepped out of the front line, quickly taking men from the rear ranks and feeding them into the weakest sections, dressing the line until it was straight once more.

Septimus continued to push ahead, his mind a blur of fury, the faces of men from the Ninth Legion flashing through his thoughts as he shot his sword forward. The blade found resistance but Septimus pushed it through, twisting it before withdrawing it once more, making ready for the next strike.

The Carthaginians broke, their courage finally giving way in the face of the inexorable advance of the Roman line. Septimus immediately shouted for his men to halt, knowing their instinct was to rush after the fleeing enemy. The Carthaginians were not beaten; they would regroup, almost certainly below deck, and if the legionaries followed in disorder they would be slaughtered. Septimus looked to the foredeck behind him, his battle lust slowly giving way to his other senses, the smell of blood and voided bowels assailing him, his mind unconsciously counting the slain.

He looked beyond to the Orcus and spotted Atticus on the aft-deck, the prefect signalling him, their prearranged gesture to withdraw. Septimus acted without hesitation, ordering his men to fire the deck of the Carthaginian galley, while others helped their wounded back across the corvus. Septimus was the last to leave, stepping across the foredeck that his men had so desperately fought for, the rising smoke from the fired main deck already masking the battle stench.

Septimus strode across the corvus and ordered it raised, standing motionless as the Orcus moved off, his eyes on the fire as it spread to the foredeck of the Carthaginian galley. The enemy crew had emerged once more on the main deck, their cries of panic echoing from the thick pall of smoke that engulfed them, but Septimus ignored the sound, watching in silence as the fire cremated the fallen of his command until the Orcus completed its turn into open water. Only then did he turn his back, his sword sliding once more into its scabbard as he made his way to the aft-deck.

The Orcus increased to ramming speed, Atticus ordering a minute course change as the next Carthaginian galley tried to turn away from a frontal assault, the enemy’s confidence giving way as their rear was overwhelmed. Gaius leaned into the tiller, the hull of the Orcus speeding through the water, her power concentrated on the blunt nose of the ram.

The crew of the Orcus roared in spontaneous hostility, a vengeful demand for the loss of their comrades, retribution for the Carthaginian attack. Atticus let them roar, knowing his men needed their measure of revenge. The corvus was a weapon of the legionaries, a device that distanced the sailing crew from the fight, but the ram was theirs, and with it the crew of the Orcus would bring death to the Carthaginians.

Hamilcar roared in frustration as he watched the defence of his rear descend into rout, many of his galleys turning away from the fight by mindlessly fleeing east with the current, their course taking them directly into the main body of the Roman fleet, a net that would trap them all. He shouted orders to the signalmen, who relayed them to the fleet in an effort to stem the retreat, but only the galleys in the immediate vicinity of the Alissar took heed, their proximity to the command ship steadying their nerve.

Hamilcar ordered the helmsman to turn northwest to cut through the previous battle line. The Alissar was followed by no more than a handful of Carthaginian galleys, their passage unnoticed in the chaos of battle. Hamilcar moved to the port side, his hands kneading the rail in anger as he watched the destruction of his fleet, his earlier plan to bolster the fragile morale of his crews having ended in catastrophe.

A lone galley caught his attention and he suddenly ran back to the tiller, pushing the helmsman aside to take command of the rudder. He looked once more to the Roman galley, more than a half league away, its banners clearly visible, the enemy ship slowly withdrawing its ram from a stricken galley. A surge of energy shot down his arm and his grip tightened on the tiller, his arm trembling with muscle tension, his every instinct calling on him to turn, the conflict filling his head.

From the moment the rear of his fleet had been attacked, Hamilcar had known who was leading the assault, the direction of attack precluding all other alternatives. He had sent the rear-guard back to pin down the Greek’s squadron, but Perennis had obviously refused the bait and sailed past them, a move that had cost Hamilcar the battle. During the frantic minutes when he had tried to rally his fleet, he had forgotten that realization, but now, with the Greek’s ship in sight, he remembered.

He became conscious of the tiller beneath his hand, the force of his grip numbing his fingers. Half a league separated him from the Greek, the sea between them dominated by the advancing Romans. With a shout of anger he ripped his hand away, striding across the deck to stand at the side rail, frustration assailing him.

As he was heavily outnumbered, Hamilcar had never hoped to overcome the Roman fleet; but to turn their vanguard and withdraw his own fleet in good order would have been a victory in itself, a victory the Greek had taken from him. Now all that remained was ignominious retreat.