Читать книгу Master of Rome - John Stack - Страница 8

Atticus sat in the stern of the skiff as it meandered through the crowded harbour of Aspis, the heat of the day and the gentle swell adding to his sense of fatigue as he watched the oarsmen thread their way through the Classis Romanus. He had barely slept in the two days since the battle at Cape Hermaeum, the demands of his rank too numerous, and even now his mind refused to quiet, the unknown fate of two of his galleys gnawing at his thoughts.

Atticus recalled the names of the two ships, adding them to the bottom of the list in his mind, beneath the nine galleys of his command that were already confirmed lost in battle. Given the enormous size of the Roman fleet and the addition of over a hundred captured enemy galleys, there was still hope that some of the crews had somehow survived. As a fellow sailor, Atticus had nursed that hope, but as a commander he had already accepted that the galleys were lost with all hands.

The constant noise surrounding Atticus finally interrupted his thoughts. The air was filled with the sounds of preparation and repair, of hammers resounding against timber and iron, with the din occasionally cut through by the lash of a boatswain’s command. Atticus sat straighter in the boat and dipped his hand over the side, cupping a handful of water and splashing it over his face, the salt smell filling his senses, refreshing him.

Ahead lay the inner harbour. Atticus scanned the rows of galleys. He saw the flagship almost immediately, standing apart from its neighbours, and he indicated his destination to the two oarsmen. As they changed direction, Atticus stood up and shuffled past them to stand in the bow, the skiff rocking gently beneath him as it moved into the shadow of the towering hull of the Concordia.

Atticus called up for permission to board and then clambered up the ladder to the main deck. A crewman was waiting for him and led him below to the main cabin, knocking on the door lightly before showing Atticus in. The room was cramped, with the normal spartan furnishing of a warship augmented by two couches in the centre of the cabin and an enormous strongbox against the stern wall. The two consuls were reclined on the couches and Atticus stepped forward, standing at attention and reciting his name.

‘Ahh, Prefect Perennis,’ Paullus said, swirling a goblet of wine in his hand, a wry smile on his face. He turned to the junior consul seated beside him. ‘This is the man I was telling you about, Servius. The Greek captain Regulus promoted.’

Nobilior nodded slowly, looking at Atticus with a studious gaze.

‘Your squadron fought well, Prefect,’ Paullus said.

‘Thank you, Consul.’

‘In fact,’ Paullus continued, his tone suddenly wary, ‘I would go so far as to say that although our victory was assured, your squadron’s arrival hastened our triumph.’

Atticus noted the inflection in the consul’s words, the implicit demand for agreement, and he was immediately on his guard.

‘Yes, Consul,’ he replied, and Paullus nodded, satisfied the prefect knew his place. The senior consul had already drafted his report of the battle for the Senate, taking special care to ensure full credit for the victory would fall on his shoulders, while the report also spoke favourably of the junior consul. Beyond that, Paullus had no intention of sharing his triumph with any of his subordinates, and certainly not with a lowly Greek.

‘Very good, Perennis,’ he said, his expression genial once more. ‘Report to the aft-deck and wait for me there with the other prefects.’

Atticus saluted, turned on his heel and left the room. Paullus watched him leave and then slowly raised himself from his couch, drinking the last of his wine as he crossed the cabin. He placed his goblet on a table, fingering the rim of it lightly as he glanced once more at the cabin door. Perennis had acquiesced without hesitation and Paullus was left with a sliver of doubt. The Greek was either very naive or very shrewd.

Atticus looked astern as he came back on deck. The aft-deck was covered by a canvas awning, a shade against the sunlight for the officers surrounding the chart table that had been set up in front of the tiller. The officers were legionaries and Atticus surmised they were all former tribunes, drafted from the army to serve as prefects in the expanding Roman fleet. As Atticus approached the table, one of them looked up.

‘What is it, sailor?’ he asked brusquely.

Atticus smiled. ‘Prefect,’ he replied, and he stood amongst them, looking down at the charts, conscious that every eye was on him.

‘Who in Hades are you?’ one of the officers asked, and Atticus looked up, the smile still on his face.

‘Atticus Milonius Perennis,’ Atticus replied, and he noticed the flash of recognition on the Roman’s face.

‘The Greek,’ he said, and Atticus’s smile evaporated, the Roman’s derisive tone enraging him. He made to respond but the officer looked past Atticus and suddenly shot to attention, the others following suit.

‘As you were, men,’ Paullus said, and the officers stepped aside to make room for the two consuls at the table.

‘We have won a great victory,’ Paullus began. Many of the officers tapped the table top with clenched fists in approbation, the senior consul smiling magnanimously. He held up his hand for silence.

‘But we cannot rest,’ he continued, looking to each man in turn. ‘We must strike while the enemy is weak. Without troops we cannot progress the campaign here in Africa; but Sicily remains the prize, and with this fleet I intend to take it.’

Paullus drew everyone’s attention to the chart on the table, his finger drawing a line along the map. ‘First we will return to Sicily. Then we will sail up the southwest coast of the island and use the might of this fleet to convince the cities of Heraclea Minoa and Selinus to defect to our cause. Then we will blockade Lilybaeum and force the surrender of the Carthaginian garrison there.’

The officers voiced their approval, the boldness of the plan inspiring their confidence. Paullus took a moment to listen to their praise for his strategy before he brought them to silence once more.

‘Now return to your ships,’ he said as the officers stood to attention. ‘We sail on the morrow.’

The men saluted and were turning to leave when a voice stopped them short.

‘We cannot leave so soon,’ Atticus said. All eyes turned to him, an astonished silence descending over the group at the Greek’s insubordination.

Paullus leaned in over the table and looked directly at Atticus. ‘You disapprove of my plan, Perennis?’ he said, a hard edge to his voice.

‘Your strategy is sound, Consul,’ Atticus replied, his tone confident. ‘But we cannot sail so soon. We must wait two weeks.’

‘Two weeks,’ Paullus scoffed. ‘The Republic was not built on timidity, Perennis, as I am sure your people know. We must strike now while we have the initiative.’

Atticus swallowed the insult, knowing it was important to persuade Paullus. ‘Orion has risen, Consul,’ he began. ‘We must wait for Sirius.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Paullus asked irritably.

‘The weather, Consul. Between the rising of Orion and Sirius there is too great a risk of severe weather in those waters.’

This time Paullus laughed, a mocking tone that brought a smile of derision to the lips of many of the Roman officers. ‘The weather cannot stop the will of Rome,’ he said curtly. ‘My order stands. We sail with the tide tomorrow.’

The officers saluted once more and walked away. Only Atticus did not move.

‘You’re dismissed, Perennis,’ Paullus said angrily, the Greek’s stubbornness irritating him.

‘Consul, the southwest coast is hostile and there are no safe harbours north of Agrigentum,’ Atticus continued, knowing his chance was slipping away. ‘Ask any of the experienced sailors in the fleet. If we hit bad weather—’

‘Enough,’ Paullus snapped, his patience at an end. He stepped forward and leaned in until his face was inches from Atticus’s.

‘You fought well at Cape Hermaeum, Perennis,’ he said coldly, ‘and for that I will forgive this insubordination. But only this one time. Now get off my ship.’

Atticus stood back and saluted, his expression unreadable. Underneath, frustration consumed him.

Hamilcar looked up at the soaring height of the Byrsa citadel as he made his way towards the columned entrance to the Council chamber. He paused and traced the ancient walls from their base to the towering battlements, oblivious to the people stepping around him, many of them muttering curses of annoyance, the teeming streets having little tolerance for the unhurried.

The citadel was a sight that had never before failed to lift Hamilcar’s spirits, but on this day it did not lighten his mood and, after a moment, he continued on, slipping into a current in the crowd that brought him quickly to his destination. He stepped into the cool interior, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom, and made his way across the marble floor, his footfalls mingling with the echoing sounds from the outer hall. He stopped at the antechamber door and knocked, entering as he heard a muffled summons from within. He closed the door behind him and looked to the two men in the room in turn. He was conscious of keeping a neutral expression, though, hiding his respect for the first man and his loathing for the second.

Hasdrubal smiled and stepped forward, his hand outstretched, and Hamilcar took it, matching the strength of the older man’s grip, the brief contact invigorating him.

‘It is good to see you, Father,’ he said.

‘And you, Hamilcar,’ Hasdrubal replied, although his face showed his concern at how exhausted his son looked.

Hamilcar released his father’s hand and turned to the other man, Hanno. He was a massive figure, broad in the chest and stomach, and Hamilcar nodded to him perfunctorily, his gesture ignored. He turned once more to his father.

‘I came as soon as I got your message.’

Hasdrubal nodded. ‘The meeting with the One Hundred and Four went well?’

‘As well as I could have expected,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘On balance, the victory at Tunis outweighs the loss at Cape Hermaeum. The city is secure for now and I retain my command.’

‘Congratulations, Hamilcar,’ Hanno said sardonically, stepping forward, his movements slow and deliberate. ‘I see your ability to delude those old men continues to save you.’

‘My record alone speaks for me, Hanno,’ Hamilcar replied scathingly. ‘And the One Hundred and Four know my worth.’

Hanno smiled, as if conceding the point, although Hamilcar sensed the councillor could see through his confident tone.

The One Hundred and Four was a council of judges that oversaw all military matters in the empire, their number drawn from the retired commanders who had served Carthage with distinction. Hamilcar’s mandate to command was based on their approval, with success being the main criterion; although Hamilcar had been victorious at Tunis, he had been forced to defend his actions at Cape Hermaeum, an argument that had fully tested the oratorical skills his father had taught him.

‘The Supreme Council meets at noon,’ Hasdrubal said, conscious of the time and impatient of the conflict between Hanno and his son. ‘We need to reach a consensus on how best to proceed.’

Hanno grumbled in agreement and walked once more to the far side of the room. Over the previous years, two factions had emerged on the Supreme Council. One, led by Hanno, was opposed to the war in Sicily and believed that the empire should expand in Africa, and the other, led by Hasdrubal, supported the Sicilian campaign. Prior to the current alliance, the two factions had frequently hamstrung each other, with neither cause prevailing. Coupled with this, Hanno had shared command with Hamilcar in their defeat at Cape Ecnomus. It was only their agreed mutual support after the battle that had saved both their careers. Hanno despised his coalition with the Barcid clan, but for now it was in his best interest to maintain the union, his fate inexorably tied to each man. So before he turned back to face the father and son, he buried his animosity beneath a thin veneer of unity.

‘Where is the Roman fleet now?’

‘Our spies tell us the entire fleet sailed east for Sicily two days ago,’ Hamilcar replied.

‘Do we know their final destination?’

‘No,’ Hamilcar conceded. ‘Although, given the time of year, I suspect they will make directly for the safety of their harbour in Agrigentum and wait there until Sirius has risen.’

‘How long?’ Hasdrubal asked.

‘Less than two weeks. After that the weather will once more be in their favour.’

‘Then you must be in Sicily when they move,’ Hasdrubal said.

‘I will sail for Lilybaeum,’ Hamilcar said. ‘The Romans will strike either there or Panormus.’

‘What do you need?’ his father asked.

Hamilcar didn’t hesitate. ‘The fleet stationed in Gadir.’

‘Impossible,’ Hanno scoffed, stepping forward to argue. ‘It is the only fleet we have left in Iberia.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar replied, ‘I need those galleys if I am to protect the northwestern approaches to Sicily and continue the war there.’

Hasdrubal remained silent and looked to Hanno, knowing there was no point in trying to persuade his rival. The One Hundred and Four appointed commanders and approved strategy, but it was the Supreme Council that steered the direction of any conflict, and that included the disposition of the empire’s forces. Hasdrubal wished only to know Hanno’s counter-proposal, the price he would demand for supporting Hamilcar’s request.

‘What will it take for your support?’ Hasdrubal asked of Hanno.

‘I will agree to release the fleet at Gadir to Hamilcar’s command,’ Hanno said to Hasdrubal after a pause, ‘on condition that his land forces now based in Tunis are given over to my command.’

‘You still intend to continue the war against the Numidian kingdoms?’ Hasdrubal asked incredulously, and Hanno simply nodded, not deigning to argue his position. Hamilcar made to interject, but his father shot him a look, warning him to hold his tongue. His son had no voice in negotiations at this level.

Hasdrubal held Hanno’s gaze, but behind his eyes he was examining his rival’s proposal. Throughout the conflict with the Romans, Hanno had also pursued a land war against the Numidians to the south. That campaign had only been suspended when the Romans invaded Africa, every resource having been recalled to defend Carthage. Now that the Roman threat had been eliminated, Hasdrubal was forced to concede there was no argument to prevent Hanno from restarting his campaign.

‘Agreed,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Hanno replied. ‘I will take command of those forces by the end of the week.’

‘And what of Xanthippus?’ Hamilcar asked.

‘The mercenary?’ Hanno replied with disdain. ‘That Spartan has served his purpose. Pay him off.’

Again Hamilcar made to speak but his father forestalled any further conversation. ‘It will be done,’ Hasdrubal said.

Hanno nodded curtly and left the room without another word.

Hamilcar waited until the councillor’s footfalls receded before turning to his father.

‘I needed those men in Sicily,’ he said angrily. ‘You conceded too much, too quickly.’

Hasdrubal’s eyes narrowed. ‘I agree the army at Tunis is a heavy coin to pay for a provincial fleet,’ he said. ‘But if we are to continue the war in Sicily, then Hanno must be appeased, now more than ever. He will be suffet this year, nothing can prevent that, and as leader of the Supreme Council he will have considerable influence on the uncommitted Council members, perhaps enough to permanently tip the balance in his favour.’

Hamilcar was silent, unable to see a way through the enemies ranged against him. Previously his thoughts had dwelt solely on overcoming the massive naval force of the Romans. But now he realized that the political threat to his flank, which he had believed neutralized, was re-emerging. He looked to his father, regretting his earlier criticism. He knew Hasdrubal’s political instincts were far superior to his own.

Hasdrubal saw the uncertainty in his son’s expression and he reached out, placing his hand on his shoulder. ‘Look to Sicily, Hamilcar,’ he said. ‘Your enemy is there. Hanno is my responsibility.’

‘But what of my men? I will need land forces if I am to defeat the Romans.’

‘I will petition the Council to make mercenaries available when you need them. Until Hanno becomes suffet, I can garner enough support for such expenditure.’

Hamilcar nodded, his renewed trust in his father allowing him to focus his mind once more. Whatever the internal conflicts with the Council, Rome was the true enemy and Sicily the battleground. The northwest of the island was still firmly in Carthaginian hands, but it was only a matter of time before the Romans launched an attack.

Hamilcar clasped his father’s hand in farewell and left the antechamber, passing quickly out on to the busy streets. He paused and looked briefly up at the Byrsa citadel, the sight steeling his determination as he set off towards the harbour below.

The cutwater of the Orcus sliced cleanly through the crest of the wave, the galley sailing close-hauled, with the wind sweeping in over the starboard forequarter, catching the spray and whipping it away towards the Sicilian shoreline two miles away. The mainmast creaked against the press of the mainsail, the canvas whacking like a clap of thunder; Baro’s shouted commands sent the crew racing to tighten the running rigging as Gaius dropped the galley off a touch.

Atticus stood at the tiller with the helmsman, his eyes on the southern horizon, the wind striking him directly in the face, pushing tears back from the corners of his eyes, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sea spray. He was silent, as was Gaius and many of the crew, their unease creating a tension that stifled every word. The sea around the Orcus was crammed with the galleys of the Classis Romanus, their formation loose and pliable, with each individual ship guarding its own sea room as the crews struggled against the adverse wind using a subtle mix of oar and sail power.

Septimus came up from below decks and made his way towards the aft-deck, shifting his balance with every step like a drunken man on solid ground, the centurion cursing softly with every pitch of the deck. He nodded to Gaius but the helmsman seemed not to see him. Septimus moved around to stand before Atticus, his friend’s intense stare causing him to look over his shoulder.

The sky to the south was shrouded in iron-grey clouds, reaching from the distinct line of the horizon into the towering heavens, the anvil-head formations clawing ever upward, while beneath the cloudscape the sea was streaked with dark bruises as enormous shadows moved across the troubled surface. Septimus was mesmerized by the sight, his gaze locked on a cloud as it seemed to consume the remnants of the blue sky above it, unable to believe that when he had gone below deck an hour before the southern horizon had been all but clear. He turned to Atticus.

‘This is the weather you warned Paullus about, isn’t it?’

Atticus nodded, taking no pleasure in seeing his prediction fulfilled. Septimus turned back to the storm front, the wind flattening his tunic against his chest, the sea spray holding it there. ‘Have you sailed through weather like this before?’ he asked.

‘Not with that thing on board,’ Gaius answered, indicating the corvus with a scowl.

Atticus ignored the helmsman’s reply, concentrating instead on the seascape. ‘I sailed the Aquila through twenty-five-knot winds once,’ Atticus said, ‘but I had a lot of sea room. If that storm advances, we’ll have the shoreline on our flank.’

‘How far is Agrigentum?’ Septimus asked.

Atticus looked to the coastline, not recognizing any feature that would indicate their position. An hour before, the fleet had been off the Carthaginian-held city of Selinus but, as the storm front developed, a general order had swept through the fleet to turn southeast and beat along the coast to Agrigentum, a forty-mile journey.

‘Too far,’ Atticus replied, and he looked once more to the southern horizon. ‘Do you see there, where the line of the horizon is obscured, where the sky and sea are the same colour?’

Septimus followed Atticus’s pointed finger and nodded. In places a curtain seemed to fall from the sky, a dark wall interspersed with shafts of sunlight from high overhead. It was moving across the horizon, the vertical lines expanding and receding, almost as if the storm were breathing.

‘That’s the squall line,’ Atticus said, ‘where the rain is falling in sheets. When that reaches us we’ll be in the grip of the storm.’

Even as Septimus watched, the storm seemed to advance, the squall line surging forward with every gust, the sheer size of the front making it difficult to judge its distance. He felt sick, his stomach swooping with every pitch of the deck; despite the cold sea spray on his face, he felt hot and nauseous. And something else, something Septimus had never felt away from the battlefield: fear.

He heard his name being called above the howl of the wind and turned. Atticus was looking at him and pointing to the main deck. ‘Septimus, I need your men to clear the deck. Get them below. We’re going to seal the hatches.’

Septimus nodded and moved purposefully to the main deck, glad to have something to do. He ordered his men below and set Drusus the task of dispersing the legionaries throughout the lower deck. A hammering sound caught his attention and he turned to watch three crewmen fixing a cover to the forward hatch of the main deck, the men moving off quickly as the last dowel was hammered home, heading towards Septimus. He looked down the open hatchway below him into the darkened lower deck, the thought of being imprisoned and powerless abhorrent to him; he turned his back and moved once more to the aft-deck, the crewman slamming the hatch cover into place behind him.

A sudden roll of the deck caused Atticus to stagger, and Gaius shot out his hand to hold him upright, the helmsman never taking his eyes from the bow of the Orcus.

‘The wind is shifting,’ he said, and Atticus looked to the mainsail. A ripple shot across the canvas, followed by another and another.

‘Can you hold it?’ Atticus asked, but before Gaius could answer, the deck pitched violently beneath them, the bow striking deeply into the crest of a wave, the water sweeping across the foredeck.

Gaius leaned on the tiller and the mainsail tightened up, but a sudden gust defied his efforts and the sail flapped once more.

‘We’re too close to the squall line,’ Gaius said in frustration. ‘The wind won’t hold steady.’

Atticus nodded but hesitated for a moment longer. If he dropped the sail the galley would have to rely solely on oar power, and the chances of reaching Agrigentum would fall away to none. He looked to the squall line again, estimating it to be less than three miles away. Even at that distance it was playing havoc with the mainsail, and Atticus knew if a sudden strong gust caught the Orcus broadside, the mainsail could have them over.

He sought out Baro on the main deck. ‘Secure the mainsail,’ Atticus shouted. Baro grabbed the sailors nearest to him and began barking orders, the crewmen responding as quickly as they could on the heaving deck.

Gaius dropped the bow off a point to take pressure off the mainsail, but the wind was becoming more unpredictable and the crew struggled to haul in the canvas sheet as the lifting yard was lowered. A sudden gust ripped the sail from their control and two men cried out as the running rigging slipped through their hands, the rough hemp rope ripping the flesh from their fingers. The men redoubled their efforts, but again they lost control and a rigging line parted, the lifting yard falling the remaining twenty feet to the deck, the men scattering beneath it, one man’s scream of panic cut short as the yard collapsed on top of him.

Baro roared curses and the men hurled themselves on the fallen yard and sail, smothering them as if they were felled quarry. The sail was quickly made secure, a new line of rigging attached, and the crew hauled the yard aloft once more to secure it to the mainmast. Baro ran to the fallen crewman, his screams of pain falling and rising with the surges of the wind.

Securing the mainsail had taken mere minutes, but in that time the squall line had advanced two miles, the wind that was driving the storm front increasing to twenty knots. Atticus looked to the shoreline two miles off the port stern quarter. Its features were almost obscured by the sea spray that filled the air, but Atticus could discern a solid white line that marked the breakers as they struck the rocky crags defining the shoreline in both directions. He scanned the galleys surrounding the Orcus, recognizing many of the nearest ones as ships of his own squadron.

He turned to face Septimus and Gaius. ‘Options,’ he said.

‘Three,’ Gaius replied. ‘We run before the wind and try to make landfall immediately, or we reverse course and sail parallel to the shoreline, or we turn into the wind and try to ride it out.’

Septimus remained silent, knowing there was nothing he could add, his opinion counting for naught. He had caught most of Gaius’s words, the wind taking the rest, and he looked from the helmsman to Atticus.

Atticus nodded, having reached the same conclusions as Gaius. He immediately discounted the first, running before the wind. The shoreline was treacherous. There would be no refuge there. The second option was fraught with risk. The galley would be sailing broad reach, the wind coming from behind at an angle. When the squall line overtook them, the wind speed would increase and the gusts would become more unpredictable. One mistake and the galley would be turned into running before the wind, sending the Orcus directly towards the jaws of the shoreline. Atticus realized that – of the three options – there was but one choice.

‘Ready the helm. We’re turning into the wind,’ he said, and Gaius nodded. Atticus called for a runner. He sent him forward to bring Baro to the aft-deck so he could inform the second-in-command to ready the deck crew. He looked once more to the galleys immediately surrounding the Orcus. Each one was now locked in its own battle with the weather, their courses for the moment parallel with the Orcus, but soon each captain would make his own play to save his ship.

Atticus watched as one galley began to turn into the wind. He recognized the galley as the Strenua, one of his own, and he smiled as he thought of her captain, the man who had reached the same conclusion as Atticus, only faster. The Strenua turned slowly, the wind-driven waves slamming into her bow quarter, fighting the pressure of the rudder and the strength of two hundred and seventy men, but inexorably the galley made headway until her ram was pointing directly into the waves and the wind, the ship holding steady under oars.

Without warning, the pitch of the Strenua increased, and Atticus watched in horror as the swell overwhelmed the bow, sea water crashing over the foredeck as each wave tried to swallow the galley whole. She foundered with incredible speed, the waves consuming the bow of the ship, a deadly embrace that doomed all on board.

Atticus was stunned by the speed of the Strenua’s demise; as he turned to Gaius, he saw the helmsman’s gaze already locked on the ship.

‘The corvus,’ he said. Atticus did not hear the words but read the helmsman’s lips; both men instinctively turned to the boarding ramp on the foredeck of the Orcus.

‘What is it?’ Septimus shouted, the fear he saw in each man’s face shocking him.

‘The corvus,’ Atticus replied. ‘We’re bow-heavy.’

Before Septimus could respond a wave of darkness fell over them, followed a heartbeat later by torrential rain that lashed against the timbers of the deck. The wind whipped past thirty knots and changed to a terrifying howl, the battle cry of Pluto who had come to claim his measure. The squall line was upon them.

The Orcus rolled sickeningly and every man was thrown to the deck, Gaius alone standing firm, never relinquishing his grip on the tiller. Sea water crashed over the starboard side, sweeping across the decks, taking two of the crew, and for a second the Orcus was poised to capsize before its buoyancy righted the hull. Atticus clambered to his feet, the deck giving little purchase, and spat at the storm, shouting a string of curses to Poseidon.

‘We have to turn,’ Gaius shouted, his face twisted in effort, the tiller trembling in his hands. ‘The waves are pushing us broadside.’

‘We turn into the wind now and we’re dead men,’ Atticus shouted back. ‘Hold this position. I’m going to rid us of that cursed ramp.’

Atticus turned and grabbed Septimus by the forearm. ‘Come with me,’ he shouted, and they fought their way across the heaving deck, their heads down into the rain-laden wind. Atticus called to Baro and the second-in-command ran to get axes, gathering crewmen as he went; they made their way to the foredeck.

The Orcus rolled violently and again they were thrown off their feet, the deck tilting beneath them. They slid to the portside rail, Atticus slamming into the barrier; the air was blown from his lungs as sea water washed over him. He struggled to breathe. A hand clawed at him and instinctively he reached out to grab it, but it slipped away and a cry of terror was lost in the deafening noise of the storm. He struggled to his feet and looked back to the aft-deck, signalling to Gaius to turn the bow a point further into the wind in a bid to find a balance between the threat of capsizing or foundering.

Atticus made the foredeck with Septimus, Baro and three other crewmen, and immediately they attacked the mounting pole of the corvus with their axes. Their blows were erratic, the pitch and roll of the deck robbing each man of the chance to find a rhythm, their feet slipping on the timbers. They fell in turn, coming to their feet each time with a string of curses.

With every passing second, the wind seemed to increase in intensity and the pitch of the Orcus deepened, her bow slamming into each roller. A wave of sea water erupted over the bow rail to sweep the foredeck, taking one of the crewmen, the sailor screaming as he fell into the water, his arms flailing, reaching out for the galley as he was carried further from the Orcus. Atticus stared at the crewman as he came back to his feet, feeling the weight of the axe in his hand, the haft wet with water, and he tightened his grip until his knuckles ached. He turned to the corvus and roared in anger, striking downwards, a splinter of oak spinning away as four other blades fell in succession.

Another wave crashed over the bow, carrying with it the body of a dead sailor. The corpse slid across the deck until it struck the side rail, but the next wave washed it overboard, the possessive sea claiming the sailor once more. A crack ripped across the base of the mounting pole and the men redoubled their efforts, striking at the point of weakness, the weight of the corvus now working to their advantage as the pole gave way under the strain. It separated without warning and the boarding ramp fell to the deck, the galley heeling over violently under the shift in weight.

‘The guy ropes,’ Atticus shouted, his words unheard in the noise, but every man understood the order and they rushed to sever the lines attached to the mounting pole, each one cut with a single axe blow, the lines whipping away. Baro yelled in pain as a rope struck him on the face, knocking him to the deck, a crewman grabbing hold of him as sea water threatened to wash him over the side.

For a heartbeat the corvus remained defiantly on board but, as the galley rolled, it swept towards the port side and smashed through the side rail before crashing into the sea. The bow of the Orcus soared out of the water, suddenly free of the dead weight, and Atticus yelled at the men around him to hold on as Gaius completed the turn into the wind, bringing the bow around to slice cleanly into the oncoming waves, the cutwater separating each wave from trough to crest.

Atticus led Septimus and Baro back to the aft-deck, the second-in-command covering the side of his face with his opened hand, rain-streaked blood running down his arm. The wind pushed into their backs as they fought the pitch of the deck, their pace changing as the deck fell away or reared up before them.

As they reached the aft-deck, Gaius called Atticus to his side. ‘We can’t make headway,’ he shouted, his voice laced with anger and frustration, and Atticus looked to the four points of his ship, trying to gauge the galley’s progress.

The Orcus was pointed directly into the wind and the waves; the combined forces were driving the galley back towards the shoreline behind. Atticus ran to the side rail to see the oars, watching them intently as the Orcus broke over the crest of a wave. For several seconds the blades of the forward oars were free of the water and the rowers pulled their oars through air, the sudden release of pressure fouling their rhythm, until the galley fell over the crest and accelerated into the trough. The bow crashed below the surface, submerging the lower oar-holes and, as the bow resurfaced, Atticus saw sea water pour from them, knowing it was but a fraction of what the galley had consumed. He ran back to the tiller.

‘Baro,’ he shouted, leaning in, wiping the rain from his face. He outlined his plan, and the second-in-command stumbled away to the aft-rail. Atticus looked to the helm. ‘Gaius, find a reference point on shore. We need to stand fast and ride out the storm in this position.’

The helmsman nodded. Atticus turned to Septimus and signalled to him to follow. They went to the main deck and Atticus ordered two crewmen to remove the aft hatch cover. He jumped down on to the steps the second the cover was away and clambered down, pausing at the bottom. The storm had transformed the rowing deck into a hellish place, the half-light filled with the sounds of wailing and the stench of sea sickness, while the waves hammered against the hull, the timbers groaning with each blow, the deck swooping beneath them with every pitch, the drum beat resounding in the enclosed space.

Drusus had the legionaries arranged along the central walkway that ran the length of the galley, the men crouched against the pitch of the deck, many of them stained with vomit, their faces drained of colour. Atticus ran to the centre of the galley, the sound of muffled screams guiding his feet, and he hauled up the trap door that led to the relief rowers in the lower hold. He looked down and dread struck him like a blow to his stomach. The men there were up to their chests in water, their faces upturned in abject terror; they fought each other to clamber up the ladder on to the walkway.

Septimus had followed Atticus and he called to the legionaries closest to him, the men drawing their swords to control the flood of relief rowers, stemming the threat of panic. Atticus quickly ordered the oars on the lowest level to be shipped and withdrawn, along with all the oars in the fore-section, and he rearranged the men and the relief rowers until there were two on each remaining oar, giving each oar extra strength and control.

Atticus moved to the top of the steps of the open hatchway and signalled Baro to make ready. He took a minute to judge the pace of the oncoming wave before ordering the drum master to make standard speed. The Orcus surged forward with renewed strength and quickly began to make headway, the galley climbing up the slope of the wave. As the Orcus neared the crest, Atticus signalled to Baro to release a drogue, an open water barrel that was lashed to the stern.

The Orcus crested the wave and Atticus called for all stop, the rowers holding their stroke. The drogue slowed the galley’s descent down the reverse slope, her bow biting into the trough but not as deeply as before, and Atticus immediately called for the oars to restart at battle speed, the rowers now fighting both the slope of the next wave and the drogue.

Atticus repeated the pattern a dozen times before he turned to Gaius. The helmsman was looking to a point off the starboard rail but, as he turned and caught Atticus’s eye, he nodded. The Orcus was holding steady, neither advancing nor retreating.

Atticus put his hand up to shield his eyes against the driving wind and rain as he looked to the fore once more. He shouted his next command to the drum master without thinking, the routine already established, and he suddenly became aware of the numbness of his limbs, the bitter cold that had seeped into him as he sat motionless in the open hatchway. He closed his mind to the pain, knowing the storm could last for hours yet, and between commands he looked to the sea around the Orcus.

Atticus could see no more than two miles in any direction, the rain-laden air obscuring all else, but even in that narrow field the scenes of carnage were terrifying to behold. The shoreline had already claimed dozens of ships, the waves breaking over their shattered hulls, relentlessly pounding the galleys against the rocks in unceasing fury while other ships were drawn inexorably closer to their doom, the crews fighting hopelessly against the power of Poseidon, a desperate fight between mortal men and the son of titans.

In the open sea around the Orcus only a handful of galleys were still afloat, all of them sailing into the wind, but as Atticus watched, two more foundered, the corvi on their foredecks dragging their bows beneath the surface, the boarding ramp that had once saved the fleet of Rome now a terrible curse, while all around the sinking galleys the water was strewn with dead and dying men, the wind mercifully hiding their screams from the living.

Atticus looked to the fore once more and the solid wall of blackness that was the heart of the storm. Its strength was unbound, its oblivious butchery far from over, and the numbness Atticus felt in his limbs slowly crept into his heart, shielding him from the agony that was the loss of the Classis Romanus.