Kitabı oku: «Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome»
JOHN STACK
MASTERS OF THE SEA TRILOGY
Ship of Rome Captain of Rome Master of Rome
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Ship of Rome
Captain of Rome
Master of Rome
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also by John Stack
Copyright
About the Publisher
JOHN STACK
MASTER OF THE SEA
Ship of Rome
Dedication
To my beloved Adrienne
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Historical Note
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
For an instant the low sun shone through the surrounding fog to illuminate the lone figure on the foredeck of the Aquila. Atticus had been motionless but the momentary shot of sunlight caused him to quickly lower his head and close his eyes tightly against the light. He raised his hand instinctively and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, trying to wipe away the tiredness he could feel in every part of his body. Slowly raising his head, he spied the winter sun, estimating it to be no more than an hour above the horizon, its weakened rays only now beginning to burn off the sea mist which had rolled in so ponderously the evening before, and so the Roman galley continued to be enveloped in the all-consuming embrace of the fog.
The Aquila, the Eagle, was a trireme, a galley with three rows of oars manned by two hundred chain-bound slaves. She was of the new cataphract style, with an enclosed upper deck that protected the rowers beneath and improved the ship’s performance in heavy weather. As a galley she was a breed apart, the pinnacle of Roman naval technology and a fearsome weapon.
As the onshore wind freshened, blowing a cooling mist into his face, Atticus opened his mouth slightly to heighten his sense of smell. The oncoming wind and his position at the front of the trireme allowed him to filter out his surroundings, the salt-laden air, the smouldering charcoal braziers and the stench emanating from the slave decks below. The breeze would help conceal the Aquila, robbing any approaching ship of the opportunity of picking up the all-too-familiar smells of a Roman galley.
With his vision impaired by fog and, before that, darkness, Atticus had planned on detecting his prey by sound, specifically by the rhythmic beat of the drum marking the oar-strokes of the enemy bireme’s two rows of galley slaves. He knew from reports that the galley they were hunting would be travelling close to the shore, passing the inlet that hid the Aquila from the main channel. The fog afforded the Roman galley extended cover now that the sun had risen, but it was fickle and Atticus knew he could not rely on it as he had on the darkness of the pre-dawn.
Hobnails reverberating on the timber decking indicated a legionary’s approach, and Atticus turned to watch the soldier emerge from the fog behind him. He was a hastatus, a junior soldier, recently recruited and untested in battle. He stood tall with broad shoulders, his upper arms disproportionately developed from long hours training with a gladius, the short sword of the Roman infantry. He wore full battledress and, although his face was expressionless beneath the iron helmet, Atticus sensed the man’s confidence.
The legionary stopped four feet short of Atticus and stood to attention, raising his right fist and slamming it into his chest, a salute to the captain of the ship standing before him. The sound of the soldier’s fist against chain mail sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the morning. The silence was shattered, a silence needed to ensure the Aquila remained undetected. As the legionary drew himself to his full height in anticipation of addressing a senior officer, Atticus reacted.
‘Beg to report, Captain,’ the legionary declared in a strident voice. As per regulation, he was looking straight ahead, but his eyes dropped quickly as the captain suddenly lunged at him, his expression murderous. The soldier tried to react but the movement was too quick and he felt the captain’s hand close over his mouth.
‘Keep your voice down, you whoreson,’ Atticus hissed. ‘Are you looking to have us all killed?’
The legionary’s eyes widened in surprise and alarm as both his hands wrapped themselves around the captain’s wrist in an attempt to ease the pressure over his mouth. Panic flared as he realized that the grip was vicelike, the muscles in the captain’s arm like iron, the pressure unrelenting. Atticus relaxed his hold a little and the legionary gulped air into his lungs, dread still in his eyes which moments ago had showed only confidence. Atticus removed his hand, his face expressing the warning for silence that needed no vocal manifestation.
‘I, I …’ the legionary spluttered.
‘Easy soldier,’ said Atticus, ‘breathe easy.’
As if for the first time, Atticus noticed how young the legionary was, barely eighteen at most. Septimus, the marine centurion, had twenty such hastati under his command. Fresh from the barracks, and before that a Roman family, these boys had eagerly signed on at sixteen to fulfil their duty as Roman citizens.
‘The centurion …’ the soldier began haltingly, ‘the centurion wishes to speak with you.’
‘Tell him I cannot leave the foredeck.’
The soldier nodded, as if the effort to speak was too much. He straightened up slowly.
‘Yes, Captain.’
Once again he stood to attention, though not as sharply as before. He began to salute but stopped short of hitting his chest, his eyes locked on those of Atticus.
‘I’m sorry, Captain … about before …’
‘No shame, soldier, now report to the centurion.’
The legionary did an about-face and marched off, although this time with a softer step. Atticus watched him leave and smiled to himself. Ever since Septimus had come aboard the Aquila ten months ago, he had tried to impose his will on Atticus. As captain, Atticus was responsible for the ship and its crew of sailors, while Septimus was responsible for the reduced century of sixty marine infantry stationed on board. The ranks were, to all intents and purposes, equal, and it was the responsibility of both men to maintain the status quo between the commands. Atticus turned and took up his position at the bow of the trireme. He instinctively checked the line of his ship, satisfying himself that the four rowers, two fore and two aft, were keeping the trireme midstream. He became motionless again, rock steady, refocusing all his senses on the task at hand. As suddenly as it had blown up, the onshore breeze disappeared, robbing the Aquila of that additional advantage, shifting the odds again, this time in favour of the prey.
Septimus stood tall at the front of his assembled century in the aft section of the main deck. At six foot four inches and two hundred and twenty pounds he was a formidable sight. The centurion stood with his feet slightly apart, balancing himself against the gentle rolling of the deck, his right hand resting lightly on the hilt of his gladius, his left arm encircling his helmet. His dark Italian features were accentuated by a tangle of black curly hair, giving him a permanently dishevelled look.
The centurion had been standing ready since before dawn, over two hours in full battledress. The waiting never bothered Septimus. Over his twelve-year career as a Roman infantryman, he had developed the endless patience of the professional soldier. He began his career not long after the Battle of Beneventum, when the Roman legions finally routed the army of Pyrrhus of Epirus, the Greek aggressor who had sought to subdue Rome and expand his kingdom across the Adriatic. Where before the legions would have been disbanded after a campaign, the ferocity and swiftness of Pyrrhus’s attack persuaded Rome that she needed to maintain a standing army, trained, disciplined, and ever ready. Septimus was one of this new breed, a career soldier, honed through discipline and battle, the backbone of the ever-expanding Republic.
The year before he had fought at the Battle of Agrigentum, the first pitched battle against the Carthaginians, the Punici, on the island of Sicily. As a member of the principes, the best fighting men of the legion, he had been positioned in one of the centre maniples of the second line of the three-line, triplex acies, formation. He was an optio, second-in-command to his centurion, and, after the first line of hastati had been overwhelmed by the Carthaginians, he had helped steady the line before the Romans turned the tide of battle and broke the Carthaginian front. His actions that day had come to the attention of the commander, Lucius Postumius Megellus, and he had been rewarded with promotion to the rank of centurion.
‘Alone, of course,’ he thought to himself with a smile, as he watched the legionary return from the foredeck of the trireme through the dissipating fog. He had known that Atticus would not come to him. Before being assigned to the Aquila, Septimus had had no respect for sailors. His first experience at sea had been only four years earlier, when the Roman task force of four legions, some forty thousand men, were ferried in barges across the Strait of Messina to Sicily to counter the Carthaginian threat to that island. It was the first time the Roman legions had deployed off the mainland, but the sea trip had only been one link in a chain that saw the legions travel from their respective camps around Rome to the battlefields of Sicily. In his eyes, the sailors had been no different from the myriad of support people who serviced the fighting men of the legions, and their ships were unwieldy, uncomfortable hulks.
The Aquila, however, was a different breed of ship. Powered by both sail and the strength of two hundred slaves, she was capable of incredible speed and manoeuvrability, a stallion in comparison to the pack mules that were the transport barges he had first encountered. Atticus was the perfect foil for the Aquila. Completely at home on the deck of his ship, he had an innate ability to get the best out of both his crew and his ship. Septimus’s respect for sailors was born out of his respect for Atticus. On the two previous occasions the Aquila had gone into action since Septimus had been assigned to her, the captain had proved himself to be the equal of any centurion.
Septimus noticed that the legionary was treading softly on the timber deck, and when he saluted it was not with the usual vigour.
‘Well, soldier, where is he?’ Septimus asked with underlying menace.
The legionary hesitated. ‘The captain said he can’t leave the foredeck.’
In the silence that followed, the soldier waited for the rebuke that was sure to follow, bracing himself. Septimus noticed his expression and smiled inwardly.
‘Very well,’ the centurion said tersely, ‘get back to your position.’
The legionary saluted again and with relief retook his position in the ranks.
‘Quintus,’ Septimus called over his shoulder, ‘take command. I’m going to see the captain.’
‘Yes, Centurion,’ the optio replied as he moved front and centre.
Septimus took off towards the foredeck, passing several of the ship’s crew as he went. They had been busy since dawn, preparing the ship for action, a routine drilled so well that all work was carried out without comment or command. He approached the captain slowly.
Atticus stood at the very front of the foredeck, leaning slightly over the rail as if to extend his reach through the impenetrable fog. He cocked his head slightly as he picked up Septimus’s approach, but did not turn. Atticus was three inches shorter, thirty pounds lighter, and a year older than the centurion. Of Greek ancestry, he was born the son of a fisherman near the city of Locri, a once-Greek city-state of Magna Graecia, ‘Greater Greece’, on the toe of Italy, which Rome had conquered a generation before. Atticus had joined the Roman navy at the age of fourteen, not out of loyalty to the Roman Republic, for he had never seen Rome and knew little of its democracy, but out of what he believed to be necessity. Like all those who lived on the shores of the Ionian Sea, his family feared the constant attacks of pirates along the Calabrian coast. Atticus had refused to live with this fear, and so he had dedicated his fifteen-year-long career to hunting pirates, a hunt that he hoped would bear fruit once again that very day.
‘You wanted to speak to me?’ Atticus said without turning.
‘Yes, thanks for coming so quickly,’ Septimus said sarcastically. ‘Well, where are these pirates of yours? I thought they were expected over an hour ago.’
‘I don’t know where they are,’ Atticus replied frustratedly. ‘Our sources said their bireme passes this section of the coast every second day before dawn.’
‘Could your “sources” be wrong?’
‘No, the lives of those fishermen depend on knowing the movements of any pirates in these waters. They’re not wrong … but something is. That ship should have passed by now.’
‘Could you have missed them in the fog?’
‘Doubtful … a pirate bireme? If she passed within a half-league of here I’d have heard the drum master’s beat. No … she hasn’t passed.’
‘What if she were under sail?’
‘She can’t be under sail, not this close to the shore, especially with an intermittent onshore wind.’
Septimus sighed. ‘So what now?’
‘The fog is dissipating. We wait until it’s gone and we move out of this inlet. Without a man on that headland,’ he indicated the opening of the inlet, ‘we don’t have enough advance warning of any approach and we might be spotted in here. We can’t risk being bottled in.’
As if by Atticus’s command, a large gap in the fog opened around them. Septimus was turning to leave the foredeck when the sight off the bow arrested him. At this point on the Calabrian coast the Strait of Messina was over three miles across, and under the blue sky he could see the distant shore of eastern Sicily. However, it was not the magnificent vista opening before him that stopped him short.
‘Now we know why the pirate ship didn’t appear,’ muttered Atticus.
In mid-channel, a league away and directly across from them, three trireme galleys were slowly beating north towards the mouth of the strait. They were a vanguard, scouting ships, moving ponderously under oars in arrowhead formation, unable to utilize their sails in the calm weather of the strait.
‘By the gods,’ whispered Septimus, ‘who are they?’
‘Carthaginians! Tyrian design, heavier than the Aquila, rigged for sea crossing. Looks like the fog hid us for just long enough.’
Atticus’s gaze was not on these three ships as he spoke, however. He was looking further south along the strait. At a distance of over two leagues behind the vanguard, Atticus could see the darkened hulls of additional approaching ships, a whole fleet of them led by a quinquereme, a massive galley with three rows of oars like the Aquila but with the upper oars manned by two men each.
Septimus noticed Atticus’s gaze and followed its line, instantly spotting the other ships.
‘In Jupiter’s name,’ Septimus said in awe, ‘how many do you think there are?’
‘At least fifty,’ Atticus replied, his expression hard, calculating.
‘So what now?’ Septimus asked, deferring to the man who now controlled their next move.
There was a moment’s silence. Septimus tore his gaze from the approaching fleet and looked at Atticus.
‘Well?’
Atticus turned to look directly at the centurion.
‘Now we run.’
Hannibal Gisco, admiral of the Punic fleet and military commander of the Carthaginian forces in Sicily, was a prudent man. Ever since taking command of the Carthaginian invasion of Sicily over five years earlier, he had insisted that any significant fleet of galleys was to be preceded by a vanguard. This ensured that any dangers were detected long before the fleet proper stumbled upon them. The evening before he had transshipped from his flagship quinquereme, the Melqart, to the trireme assigned point duty for the coming day’s operations, the Elissar. They were on their way to Panormus on the northern Sicilian coast, where Gisco planned to deploy his forces back along the coast in an attempt to blockade the Sicilian ports now in Roman hands, thereby hampering their supply lines from the mainland. The captain of the galley had naturally given up his cabin for the admiral; although the cabin was comfortable, Gisco had slept fitfully, the anticipation of the coming day running through his mind. They were to pass through the mouth of the strait, where Sicily and the mainland were separated by only a league, a mere two thousand five hundred yards, and a natural route for Roman supplies. As the commander of the vanguard he planned on being one of the first to draw Roman blood that day.
Gisco had arisen at dawn and taken his place on the foredeck of the Elissar. It felt good to be in command of a single ship again, a trireme, the type of ship on which he had first cut his teeth as a captain and one which he knew intimately. He had ordered the captain to open the gap between the vanguard and the fleet from the normal distance of one league to two. He remembered sensing the captain stifling a question to the order, but thinking better of it before moving to signal to the other two ships to match his pace. The captain knew the admiral’s reputation well.
Only a year before, when Gisco was besieged in the city of Agrigentum on the southwest coast of Sicily, he had continued to resist against all odds, even though the populace, as well as his soldiers, were starving, and all attempts to alert the Carthaginian fleet about the Roman siege had failed. Gisco’s tenacity had proved to be well founded, as relief did finally arrive, and although the Carthaginians had lost the ensuing battle and the city, tales of Gisco’s fearsome reputation and determined aggression had spread throughout the Carthaginian forces.
Gisco had opened the gap to add a degree of danger to his position. Now if they encountered the enemy it would take the fleet just that little bit longer to arrive in support. He wanted the first encounter of the day to be a reasonably fair fight and not a slaughter. Not from any sense of honour, for Gisco believed that honour was a hollow virtue, but from a need to satisfy his appetite for the excitement of battle. More and more his senior rank of overall commander placed him at the rear of battles rather than the front line, and it had been a long time since he had felt the heady blood lust of combat, a feeling he relished and hoped to experience that day.
‘Run …? Where to?’ Septimus asked. ‘Those three ships obviously haven’t seen us; maybe we should just sit tight. There’s still plenty of fog banks, maybe one will settle over us again.’
‘No, we can’t afford to take the chance. The fog is too fickle. We’ve been lucky once, the lead ships didn’t spot us, but their fleet is bound to. There’s no way fifty ships will cross our bows without someone spotting us. Our only chance is to outrun them.’
Turning away from Septimus, he called back along the ship, ‘Lucius!’ Within an instant they were joined by the second-in-command of the Aquila. ‘Orders to the drum master, Lucius, ahead standard. Once we have cleared the inlet, order battle speed. Get all the reserve rowers up from the lower deck.’ Lucius saluted and left.
Atticus turned to the centurion. ‘Septimus, I need ten of your men below decks to help maintain order. Our rowers may be chained to their oars but I need them obedient and the reserves guarded. I’ll also need marines on the aft-deck – those Punic bastards are going to give chase and I’ll need my helmsman protected from Carthaginian archers.’ Septimus left the foredeck to arrange his command.
‘Runner!’ Atticus commanded.
Instantly a sailor was on hand.
‘Orders to the helmsman, due north once we clear the inlet. Hug the coast.’
The runner sprinted back along the deck. Atticus felt the galley lurch beneath his feet as two hundred oars bit into the still waters of the inlet simultaneously and the Aquila came alive underneath him. Within a minute she had cleared the inlet and the galley hove right as she came around the headland to run parallel to the coastline. As Atticus hoped, there were still some fog banks clinging to the coast, where the change in temperature between land and sea gave the fog a foothold. His helmsman, Gaius, knew this coastline intimately, and would only need intermittent reference points along the shoreline in order to navigate. After fifty yards the Aquila was once again hidden within a protective fog, but for how long Atticus could only estimate. Although he had told Septimus that he planned to outrun the Carthaginian vanguard, he knew that it would not be possible. One ship could not outrun three. He needed an alternative. There was only one.
‘Runner! Orders to the helmsman, once we clear this bank, turn three points to port.’
The runner disappeared. Atticus tried to estimate their position relative to the vanguard. The Aquila was moving at battle speed, the vanguard at standard speed. He judged the Aquila to be parallel to them … now … now ahead. The longer the fog held, the greater their chances.
It lasted another two thousand yards.
The Aquila burst out into open sunshine like a stallion surging from the confines of a stable. At battle speed she was tearing through the water at seven knots, and Atticus noted with satisfaction that within her time enclosed in the fog she had stolen five hundred yards on the Carthaginian vanguard. He was about to turn to the stern of the galley to signal the course change when the Aquila responded to Gaius’s hand on the rudder. ‘Sharp as ever,’ Atticus smiled as the galley straightened on her new course, running diagonally across the strait. Now the Aquila’s course would take her across the bows of the vanguard, Atticus estimated, at no more than three hundred yards. He gripped the rail of the Aquila, feeling the pulse of the ship as the rhythmical pull of the oars propelled it through the water.
*
‘Ship to starboard … Roman trireme … bearing north.’
With an agility that belied his fifty-two years, Gisco ran to the rigging of the mainmast and began to climb to the masthead. Halfway to the top he glanced up to see the lookout point to the mainland. Following this line, he looked out towards the distant coast. Sure enough, some five hundred yards ahead, a Roman trireme was moving at speed along the coast.
‘Estimate she is moving at battle speed,’ the lookout shouted down after overcoming the shock of seeing the admiral below him. ‘She must have been hiding somewhere along the coastline, invisible behind the fog …’
Gisco stared at the Roman trireme and double-checked his estimate of their course. It puzzled him. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he thought, ‘why not run parallel to the coast, why halve their lead on us?’
Gisco clambered down the rigging to the deck twenty feet below. The instant his feet hit the deck he took stock of his surroundings. The crew were frantically clearing the deck for battle. They were good, he noticed, well drilled and efficient.
He could see the captain on the foredeck, no doubt looking for him.
‘Captain!’ he shouted.
The man turned and strode towards him. ‘Yes, Admiral?’
‘What do you make of her, Captain?’
‘Roman for sure, probably coastal patrol, maybe thirty crew and a reduced century of marines. She’s fast, doing battle speed now, and she cuts the water well. She’s lighter than one of our own, maybe a couple of knots faster at her top speed.’
Gisco wondered if the captain had noticed their course. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she’s commanded by a fool. If he holds his current course he’s giving us an even chance of catching him.’
Gisco turned away from the captain and spied the Roman galley again. She was ahead, about forty degrees off their starboard bow, but instead of running parallel to the Elissar’s course and maintaining her lead, she was running on a converging course that would take her across the bow of the Elissar at a distance of approximately three hundred yards.
‘Captain, alter your course, two points starboard.’
The captain issued the order to a runner who set off at speed to the helmsman at the stern of the ship. The ship altered course slightly and Gisco nodded with satisfaction when he noted the other two triremes instantly responding to the new heading. He turned again to look ahead. The captain was right on one count – the Roman was a fool; but he was wrong on the other: their odds of catching them were a lot better than evens.
‘Shall I increase to attack speed, Admiral?’
At first Gisco did not hear the question. All his senses focused on the Roman galley, now four hundred yards ahead on his right. ‘He must know he is eating up his advantage with every oar-stroke by now,’ he thought. ‘Where is he running to?’
‘Shall I increase speed?’ the captain asked again.
‘What?’ Gisco answered irritably, his mind replaying the captain’s words that he had heard but not listened to, allowing them to form in his mind.
‘No, maintain course and speed. If we increase, the Roman may alter course and run before us, matching us stroke for stroke. We’ll let him shorten his lead in his own good time. Then we’ll take him.’
Septimus moved towards the foredeck. He had noticed the course correction when they emerged from the fog and had been instantly alarmed. What the hell was Atticus doing? He trusted the captain but their course seemed like madness. Atticus was joined on the foredeck by Lucius, and the two men were deep in conversation. The second-in-command was ten years older than Atticus. He was a small bull of a man, solid and unyielding. A sailor all his life, he too was a native of the Calabrian coast. He was known as a tough disciplinarian, but he was fair, and all the crew, especially Atticus, respected his judgement. As he spoke with the captain, he occasionally pointed ahead to the distant shoreline across the strait.
‘There,’ Septimus could hear him as he approached, ‘about two points off the starboard bow, you can see the breakers now.’
‘Yes, that’s where I thought. Lucius, take command on the steering deck. Have Gaius follow my signals once the Carthaginians fall in behind us. Make sure he doesn’t take his eyes off me. The course corrections need to be immediate.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius said, and hurried past the approaching centurion.
‘Your men in place, Septimus? Remember, once the Carthaginians get behind us you can expect some incoming fire from their archers. It’s imperative that my helmsman has all his attention on his job, I don’t need him worrying about taking an arrow between his shoulder-blades.’
‘Yes, they are. But why the course change, Atticus? We’re halving our lead.’
Atticus did not immediately answer. He looked back at the approaching galleys, two points off his port stern, a little over three hundred yards behind. Within seconds they would be running dead astern.
‘Septimus, we can’t simply run, they’ll catch us before we breach the mouth of the strait. One ship can’t outrun three.’
‘Why the hell not? They’re all triremes, surely you could match them stroke for stroke. I’ve seen how you run your slave deck. Those men are all fit. With your reserve of forty rowers they could maintain battle speed for at least another hour. The Carthaginians would never have closed a gap of five hundred yards before we reached the mouth of the strait.’
Atticus shook his head. ‘Think it through. If you were one of three men pursuing another and all were evenly matched in stamina, how would you run your prey down?’
Septimus thought for a moment. He turned to face the three galleys astern. One was in the lead with the other two off its port and starboard stern quarters. They were matching the lead ship stroke for stroke, as if they moved as one. But they’re not one, Septimus thought. They’re three. The commander of the vanguard did not need to run his ships at the same pace. Even with two galleys they sufficiently outnumbered the Aquila to ensure victory. One ship could be sacrificed.
‘We can’t outrun them,’ Septimus said aloud. ‘They’ll sacrifice one ship to run us down.’
Atticus nodded, his eyes never leaving the Carthaginian hunters. They were now dead astern. Three hundred yards.
‘Septimus, clear the fore. I need line of sight to the aft-deck.’
Septimus hesitated, one question remaining. ‘So if we can’t outrun them, what’s our plan?’
‘We need to level the odds,’ Atticus replied as he turned his full attention to the course ahead, ‘so I’m steering the Aquila between Scylla and Charybdis, between the rock and the whirlpool.’
‘Match course and speed, Captain,’ Gisco ordered over his shoulder. He heard the captain repeat the order to a runner, and a moment later the Elissar heeled over slightly as she slotted into the wake of the Roman trireme. Gisco could not see the crew of his quarry. The Romans had erected a shield wall along the back of the aft-deck using their scuta, the four-foot-high shields of the legions, in a double-height formation, ostensibly to protect the sailors on the deck, Gisco surmised. ‘That won’t protect you for long,’ he thought. He turned to the captain, his face a mask of determination.
‘Men of the Aquila, to me,’ he shouted, and jumped the gaping void beneath the two galleys, landing solidly on the aft-deck of the Carthaginian ship.
The marines roared as the blood lust of battle overwhelmed them and they followed the centurion without hesitation over the rails of the enemy ship, clamouring to be the first to draw Carthaginian blood. Septimus barged straight at the man nearest him and struck him squarely with his shield, using his momentum to knock the man off his feet, sending him reeling into someone behind. The few Carthaginians remaining on the aft-deck fled before the charge. Behind the marines, Atticus and Lucius jumped onto the deck of the Carthaginian galley, axes in their hands. Their task would take only minutes, time Septimus and his men would have to buy with their blood.
The war cries of the marines spilling over the rail of the Elissar fuelled the frustration within Gisco at the sudden reversal. The air around him was filled with the screams of injured and dying men while beneath his feet the deck still reeled from the impact of the Roman trireme’s run against the starboard-side oars of his galley. The ranks of his men had disintegrated under the hammer blows of the pila volley, and they were in chaos, with neither focus nor formation.
‘Men of the Elissar to me!’ Gisco bellowed as he charged from the foredeck. The veteran soldiers reacted more swiftly than the untested, and so the line of attack was ragged and uncoordinated, but their ferocity bore them on in a headlong rush along the length of the Elissar. They struck the line of Romans at full tilt, their momentum checked within a stride by the near-solid wall of shields.
Gisco sidestepped a thrust from a Roman marine before countering the stroke with a slash to the Roman’s thigh. The man yelled in pain as the sword bit deeply into the flesh, but before the admiral could deliver the killing blow his sword was stayed by another Roman, who followed the parry with a vicious attack. Gisco immediately realized that although each of the Romans fought as one man, they also fought as a team, overlapping their attacks, their coordination sapping the strength of the Carthaginians’ original charge. Gisco renewed the surge of the counterattack, urging his men on through the ferocity of his own charge. The Elissar would not fall easily.
The Carthaginian war cries reached a new high as another lunge was made in an effort to break the Roman line of battle. The sound spurred on Atticus and Lucius and sweat streamed from their bodies as they redoubled their efforts to sever the tiller from the rudder. The weathered toughened timber was as hard as iron, but with each axe blow small chips flew away and already they were halfway through the four-inch-diameter section.
On the main deck, Septimus saw a breach developing and immediately fed his best fighters into the gap. Within the space of two vicious minutes the gap was sealed once more and the tide of Carthaginians checked. The last of the reserves were now engaged. The next breach could not be held. If the Carthaginians broke through, the fight would become chaotic and all chance of a withdrawal would be lost.
The tiller finally parted under the blows of Atticus and Lucius. Now, even if the Carthaginian galley managed to get back under way, the loss of her rudder would render her useless.
‘Septimus!’ Atticus roared. ‘Withdraw!’
Septimus heard the signal. ‘Fighting withdrawal!’ he roared, his men instantly stepping back towards the aft-deck.
The sudden break-off in resistance threw the Carthaginian attack and a gap opened between the lines.
The twenty triarii who had remained on the Aquila now loosed volleys of spears into the flank of the Carthaginian forces, checking their advance, allowing the marines vital seconds to mount the aft-deck rails and recross onto the Aquila. Within moments the bulk of the marines were aboard, with just a small knot remaining, Septimus amongst them. Under an almost constant volley of spears, the Carthaginians reared up in attack again, their centre driven by a demonic commander, rage emanating from his frame as he tried to cut off the remaining marines. The lines of the grappling hooks were severed as Septimus jumped across the opening gap, the last man to do so.
Gisco could only look on in futile rage as the Roman galley re-engaged her oars, hastening her escape. The Carthaginian fleet was still two thousand yards away, too far behind to stop the Romans reaching the mouth of the strait. All around him his men stood at the side rail of the aft-deck, shouting defiance and insults of cowardice at the Romans. Gisco remained silent, his eyes searching the rails of the enemy ship. The two men he sought were on the foredeck, standing side by side, the taller man, the marine centurion, recognizable from the fight. They were the commanders and he instantly saw they were watching him intently. Gisco burned the images of their faces into his mind. As the gap opened to one hundred yards the Roman galley began to come about to resume her course northwards.
‘Aquila,’ Gisco read on the stern of the galley.
Gisco made a silent promise to the gods that one day he would hunt down that ship and have his revenge on all who sailed on her.
CHAPTER TWO
The sail billowed out with a crack as the trailing wind filled the broad canvas sheet, the running rigging straining against the pull. Within an instant the Aquila was propelled to fifteen knots, its cutwater tearing through the sea, throwing a spray of water across the foredeck. The running of a galley required immense skill and concentration, and Atticus noticed the iron look on Gaius’s face as he fought to keep the helm true. One slip and the galley’s stern would swing through the line of the wind. The sail would be exposed to unequal stresses, instantly snapping the rigging and collapsing the canvas. Worse still, if the rigging held, the galley would capsize under the press of wind.
Atticus watched in silence as the experienced helmsman struck a delicate balance between the prevailing wind and the ship, making the two connect until the galley perfectly matched the wind’s speed and direction. Confident that Gaius had the ship in hand, Atticus looked out over the stern rail to confirm the Carthaginians were not in pursuit. The Aquila was now four hundred yards clear of the headland at the northeastern tip of Sicily. The Punici had not followed beyond the strait.
Atticus was in turmoil as he realized his ship had escaped. Although he had known the only choice had been to flee from the enemy fleet, the retreat from the Carthaginian galley marked the first time in his whole life that he had run from an enemy. The empty sea behind the Aquila mocked the captain for its absence of an enemy and Atticus slammed his fist onto the stern rail. Knowing he had made the right decision was not enough to assuage the dishonour he felt at having fled.
Septimus stood silently by Atticus’s side. Eight marines were unaccounted for from the fight on board the enemy galley, six of them hastati, junior soldiers, many of them in their first battle. He could only pray that all had died under the sword and that none had been left injured on the enemy’s deck. If taken alive their fate would be horrific. The Aquila had been saved because of the sacrifice of those men. Septimus recounted their names silently in his mind.
‘Where are we sailing to?’ he asked finally.
‘To the only port Rome holds on the north coast. To Brolium.’
Septimus nodded, looking ahead over the bow. During his time on the Aquila he had come to accept that the unfamiliar seas around him held many enemies, as had the unfamiliar terrain of Sicily when he had served in the legions. As a legionary he was always confident that he served in the best land army in the world. The sight of the Carthaginian fleet had made him realize that Rome did not enjoy that same superiority and confidence at sea.
Eight hours later the Aquila rounded the eastern headland guarding the approaches to the Roman-held port of Brolium. Atticus stood alone on the bow, preferring solitude as the hours had sped past and league after league fell under the galley’s wake. His thoughts had ranged over every detail of the Carthaginian ships they had fought, every difference, however minute, between them and the vessel under his feet, his mind slowly forming a model of the heavier, stronger galleys that would soon plague the waters off northern Sicily.
A sudden change in the tilt of the deck broke Atticus’s thoughts as Gaius lined up the Aquila to strike the very centre of the hectic waters ahead, crammed with transport barges awaiting a chance to disgorge their contents onto the already crowded docks of the once-quiet fishing town. Even from this distance out, the air around Atticus was filled with the hum of voices from the multitude at work, broken occasionally by the sound of a whip crack as a driver spurred his team of oxen to advance, signalling the departure of yet another fully loaded wagon along the road south to the fortified legion encampment hidden beyond the town.
The scene of docking and departing barges, of unloading and reloading supplies, of man and beast struggling for space on the congested docks seemed completely chaotic, and yet Atticus could sense the underlying order that permeated the entire operation as no voice was raised in anger and everywhere men moved with purpose and intent. The Roman legions had never fought a campaign off the mainland before Sicily, and yet, within a matter of months, the Romans’ ability to bring order and discipline to all endeavours ensured that the legions were operating as if they were but a mile from the city of Rome itself. Atticus could only wonder if any natural barrier would ever exist that could protect a people against the seemingly relentless advance of Rome.
Lucius’s sharp commands cut through the cacophony as the sail was collapsed and made secure and the oars were engaged in the rapidly dwindling sea room of the inner harbour. Again Gaius’s incredible skill was called upon as barge after barge was avoided, their crews shouting warnings and curses as each near collision with the slow, ponderous vessels was averted. Atticus’s gaze swept the dock, searching for an opportunity. He quickly saw one and calculated the angles. It would be tight.
‘Three points starboard!’ he roared, his voice acknowledged by Gaius sixty yards away with a nod and a nimble touch on the tiller as Atticus ran to the main deck to prepare to disembark.
The Aquila aligned her bow with an emerging gap as a barge began to cast off, her now empty hull turning towards the mid-channel. Voices and hands were raised on the docks, calling forward the next waiting barge into the valuable space before one of the taskmasters noticed the Aquila’s intercept course, his realization causing a minor panic as the galley’s unerring intent became apparent. Lucius roared for the barge to give way, his command instinctively followed by the merchantmen of the transport vessel who feared the Aquila’s four-foot bronze ram, and the galley swung deftly into the gap left by the departing barge.
Atticus, Septimus and a detachment of six legionaries ran down the gangway the moment it touched the dock, their determined arrival forestalling any protest from the irate taskmaster.
‘Stand by on station,’ Atticus called to Lucius, who saluted and immediately ordered the gangway raised and the galley to push off from the dock. The six legionaries fell in pairs behind the captain and centurion and together they marched towards the end of the dock, heading to the town beyond. The slave labourers crowding the wharf moved back to allow the armed men to pass; as a knot of them dispersed, Atticus spotted an officer approaching at the head of a contubernia of ten soldiers. He was a tall, gaunt man, determination in his step, his face a mask of fury. Atticus recognized him immediately. He was Aulus, the Brolium harbour master.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Aulus yelled as he moved around the gangway of an unloading barge, shoving his way through the queue of bearers that cut across his path. He checked his step as he recognized the approaching captain, ordering his squad of ten men to halt.
‘Atticus, you Greek dog!’ he smiled. ‘By Jupiter’s balls! What madness is this?’
The two men shook hands, Roman style, each grasping the other’s arm below the elbow.
‘I should have known it was the Aquila; only Gaius could pull off a manoeuvre like that. And Septimus,’ Aulus exclaimed over the captain’s shoulder, ‘still alive, I see.’
Septimus allowed himself a smile at the friendly gibe, knowing Aulus’s dislike of legionaries.
‘We couldn’t wait for clearance, Aulus. We need to see the port commander immediately.’
Aulus was disturbed by the captain’s infectious agitation, something he had never before seen in the young man.
‘Atticus, in Pluto’s name, what’s going on?’ he asked, all trace of humour now gone.
‘Carthaginians, Aulus, a whole fleet of them. At least fifty ships. Bearing north through the Strait of Messina.’
‘A Carthaginian fleet? In these waters? By the gods …’
Instinctively Aulus looked around at the assembled fleet of barges. These vessels and their ability to ply goods between the mainland and Sicily were the key to the entire Roman campaign on the island. But they were slow, ponderous beasts in comparison to galleys. Fifty Carthaginian ships would play merry hell with them.
‘Atticus, this news must reach the legion commanders immediately,’ Aulus said without looking back at the captain, his focus on the barges around him, his mind already picturing their destruction at the hands of the Punici.
‘That’s why I need to speak to the port commander immediately, Aulus. He will be able to speak to the legion commanders directly.’
‘Atticus … Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio is here, in Brolium itself.’
‘The senior consul? Here?’ Atticus asked with disbelief. ‘What’s he doing in Sicily?’
‘He’s here to inspect the legions before the spring campaign,’ Aulus replied. ‘He only arrived two days ago. He’s staying in the port commander’s villa.’
Atticus looked up at the villa overlooking the port. It was fifteen minutes away by foot, four minutes by horseback, but that was on a quiet day, when the streets were all but empty. Today the entire town seemed choked with equipment, slaves and draught oxen. He would need the marine legionaries to beat a path to the consul’s door.
‘Septimus,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we need to get to the villa as quickly as possible.’
‘Understood,’ Septimus replied, and turned to his six men. ‘Squad … draw swords!’ he ordered, his words followed instantly by the distinctive sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards.
All activity around the soldiers ceased as the sound arrested the movement of every man in earshot. Those within range immediately drew back from the group, fearful of the razor-sharp killing sword of the Roman legions. A ripple ran through the crowd as word was passed quickly along the length of the dock and, like a gust of wind blowing through ripened corn, the crowd began to part in front of the soldiers. Septimus turned and slowly drew his own sword, holding it firmly before him, sensing the familiar weight of the weapon, remembering the last time he had drawn it only hours before.
‘Fall in behind,’ he said to Atticus as he looked beyond him to the channel opening before them. ‘Squad … double-quick time.’
The squad took off as one, their pace the ground-eating double-quick time that would get them to their destination, over two miles away, in fifteen minutes. Aulus watched them go until his view of them was lost, the slaves around him returning to work as if nothing had happened. But something had happened, Aulus thought, something had changed. The four legions on Sicily had seemed invincible, unbeatable, the best land army in the world. Now the Carthaginians had begun to exploit their best asset, as masters of the sea, and as surely as death follows life, if the fifty ships of the Punici were not stopped, they would strangle and starve forty thousand of Rome’s finest.
Atticus and Septimus mounted the final steps leading to the villa’s rooftop garden behind two of the consul’s black-cloaked praetorian guards, their long wait before being summoned forward by the guard commander further chafing Atticus’s nerves after his earlier angry exchanges with the praetorian commander in the villa’s courtyard. The praetoriani were notoriously arrogant, their privileged position as the guardsmen of the Senate setting them apart from and above the regular soldiers of the legions, and this particular guard commander, an ex-centurion of the Fourth Legion, had a glaring contempt for all ranks other than his own. He had initially refused the Aquila’s officers’ request for an audience with the consul out of hand, turning his back on them even as they spoke, as if the very effort of refusal was beneath him, and it was only when Atticus mentioned, with barely contained anger, that the entire campaign was now under threat that the guard commander stopped in his tracks to listen before agreeing to seek the consul’s permission for an audience.
Atticus and Septimus stood to attention as the praetorian guards came to a halt just inside the boundary of the garden, their arrival seemingly unnoticed by Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, senior consul to the Senate of Rome, who was standing with his back to them, slowly and methodically splashing cold water from a basin onto his forearms and face. He reached out for a towel and one was immediately proffered by a large Nubian slave before he turned to face the two officers.
Atticus and Septimus saluted in unison, but the consul did not acknowledge the gesture as he poured himself a glass of wine, the pause giving Atticus a chance to study the man before him. He knew Scipio was a patrician, one of the elite of the Roman Republic, and his bearing showed all the hallmarks of a privileged upbringing. He was not a tall man, maybe two inches shy of six feet, but his stance gave the impression that he stood over everyone around him. He moved like a fighter, with long, slow, fluid movements that belied his obvious strength, and although his eyes were downturned, Atticus had the impression that he was fully aware of everyone around him. The consul looked up to face the two men, his eyes never leaving them as he took a drink from his glass, and both Atticus and Septimus knew that they were being assessed by one of the most powerful men in the Republic.
‘Report,’ he ordered.
‘I am Captain Atticus Milonius Perennis and this is Centurion Septimus Laetonius Capito of the marines. We are the commanding officers of the trireme Aquila out of the port of Locri, stationed in the Ionian Sea and Strait of Messina. This morning—’
‘Wait,’ Scipio interrupted. ‘I am familiar with the family name Laetonius,’ he said with a nod to Septimus, ‘but I have never heard of Milonius. What is the origin of your family?’
‘It’s Greek,’ Atticus replied, somewhat puzzled at the line of questioning, ‘from Brutium,’ indicating the region occupying the ‘toe’ of the Italian mainland.
‘So what is a Greek doing commanding a Roman vessel?’ the consul enquired, trying to gauge the young captain before him. He knew that many of the ships of the Roman navy were provided by provincial cities and so their crews were a mix of personnel from all corners of the Republic, but he had thought all the galleys were commanded by Roman citizens.
‘The origin of the name is Greek, but we are of Brutium, and citizens of the Republic. I joined the navy when I was fourteen and worked my way up to the rank of captain.’
Atticus had drawn himself to his full height as he spoke, and Scipio could sense the pride and determination behind the words when he spoke of his citizenship and rank. He recalled that Brutium had once been part of Magna Graecia, Greater Greece, a loose confederation of city-states whose founders had originated from the Greek mainland. Rome had absorbed the entire area less than a generation before as the legions washed the stain of Pyrrhus from the peninsula, and so now former enemies had become fellow citizens.
‘Continue with your report, Captain,’ Scipio said with a wave of his hand, his mind now tinged with a hint of mistrust as the Greek continued.
Atticus quickly recounted the morning’s action, emphasizing the enemy’s numbers and course.
Scipio listened while the captain spoke, his expression never changing. The consul was used to hiding his thoughts and emotions from those around him, and he had trained his face to remain impassive no matter what news was delivered. This report of a fleet of Carthaginian galleys shook him to his core, however, as he realized its implications. Scipio lifted his glass to take a drink and noted with satisfaction that his hand was rock steady. He turned to his fellow Roman.
‘Centurion, do you confirm this report?’
‘Yes, Consul, every detail,’ Septimus replied without hesitation, sensing his friend Atticus bristle as his honesty was questioned. Scipio continued to hold the gaze of each man, his face a mask of indifference. Atticus immediately mistook his demeanour for a sign that he had missed the point of the report entirely.
‘Consul, the fleet was moving north through the strait. Their destination must be Thermae or Panormus further along this coast. From there they could range along the entire northern coast, attacking our transport barges as they cross from the mainland.’
Scipio had looked up the moment Atticus began to speak and he listened intently until the captain finished his sentence. It was only then that his expression changed. Not to one of understanding and concern as Atticus had expected, but to one of rage.
‘How dare you speak without permission?’ he growled at Atticus. ‘Do you think me a fool? Hold your tongue!’
Atticus was stunned by the consul’s outburst and silently cursed the manner of the man standing before him. His ship had fought hard to escape the Carthaginian fleet and for the past eight hours he had pushed the trireme to its limits. For him there was not a moment to lose and the unreadable manner of the consul irked him. The port commander at Brolium, the man he had hoped to report to, spoke to his captains as near equals, accepting their opinions and dissent in any private discussions. This man, however, this politician of Rome, kept his own counsel and invited none.
‘You men will accompany me to the legion encampment immediately,’ he said brusquely to Atticus and Septimus. ‘Wait for me in the courtyard.’
The two men saluted and turned on their heels. The consul’s personal guard quickly formed up around them and they were escorted from the rooftop.
Scipio walked to the rail and looked out over the docks below. The tempo of the labour there had not abated throughout the afternoon, but it now seemed that they had broken the back of the task of unloading the fleet of barges. With a new threat emerging in the waters beyond the harbour, Scipio wondered briefly if these would be the last supplies for the fighting legions on Sicily.
Hannibal Gisco sat in his cabin on the flagship Melqart, drinking wine from a golden goblet. The goblet had once belonged to the prefect of Agrigentum, the city Gisco had captured over a year before. Along with the entire city Council, the prefect had been stoned to death, punishment for closing the city gates against the Carthaginians’ initial advance. The man had not died well. In the corner of the cabin, reclined on a couch, Hamilcar Barca sat watching the admiral in silence. He noticed the slight smile on Gisco’s face, wondering what thought had prompted the smile, an expression so different from the frustration Gisco had displayed an hour before when he had first returned to the flagship.
Hamilcar had listened then as Gisco outlined the escape of a Roman trireme, concealing his shock at the anger that seemed to emanate from every pore of the admiral’s body. The slaves had worked with practised speed as Gisco talked, stripping the admiral of his armour and tunic, bathing his skin with scented water before massaging oil into the obviously tensed muscles of his upper body and shoulders. The familiar routine had gone some way to assuage Gisco’s frustration, but only now, as a lingering smile remained on the admiral’s face, did Hamilcar judge the moment right to discuss the implications of the Roman ship’s escape.
‘You said she was a coastal galley?’ Hamilcar asked, keeping his voice even, suppressing all elements of judgement.
‘Yes, lighter than one of our own. Probably a pirate hunter.’
Hamilcar nodded, allowing a silence to develop once more, his experience in the Council chamber of Carthage dictating his line of questioning.
‘She will flee along the northern coast of Sicily then?’
Gisco grunted a reply, disliking the young man and his presence on board the flagship. The Council’s interference in military affairs had reached new depths with the appointment of Barca, the Council’s ‘envoy’, an advisory observer who shadowed Gisco’s command.
‘No doubt to the nearest Roman port, where she will give advance warning to all that our fleet has entered these waters …’ Hamilcar persisted, trying to get Gisco to reveal his thoughts on the change in circumstances.
‘It is of little consequence, Barca, the Romans would have found out soon enough,’ Gisco replied, avoiding any admission that his failure to capture the Roman trireme was in any way significant.
A sudden knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
‘Come,’ Gisco ordered.
The commander of his personal guard, Cronus, entered. He snapped to attention.
‘Captain Maghreb of the Hermes reporting as ordered, Admiral.’
‘Good, show him in, Cronus.’
Gisco rose from his chair. He leaned over his desk, strewn with Carthaginian maps of the waters around the eastern and northern coasts of Sicily. Maghreb entered, led by the guard commander and flanked by four more soldiers. His sword and dagger had been removed. He stood to attention and saluted.
‘Reporting as ordered, Admiral,’ he said, trying to hide the tension in his voice. He failed. Gisco could sense the captain’s fear.
‘Captain,’ the admiral began, ‘I have studied all our maps and charts of these waters. I can find no reference to the whirlpool we encountered this morning. The Romans tricked us using superior local knowledge. We could not have been aware of their plans.’
Maghreb visibly relaxed and, although he still stood to attention, Gisco noticed that the tension had gone out of his shoulders and he was no longer holding his breath.
‘They will not escape the next time they cross our path,’ Maghreb added, sensing the admiral’s mood.
‘No, Captain, they will not,’ Gisco replied, his voice cold.
The two men stood facing each other in silence and Maghreb felt uncomfortable once more under Gisco’s gaze. The admiral’s expression was impossible to read, but the captain sensed that he would evade blame for the escape of the Roman galley.
He was wrong.
‘Guard commander!’ Gisco suddenly ordered, breaking the heavy silence. ‘This man disobeyed my orders, he must be punished. Seize him.’
Cronus looked at two of the guards and jerked his head towards the captain. They immediately rushed forward and grabbed his arms. Maghreb’s initial shock at the admiral’s words gave way to fear and he struggled against the men holding him.
‘But …’ he pleaded, fear consuming him, his mind unable to comprehend the admiral’s actions, ‘you said yourself, I couldn’t have known of the Romans’ trap. We were taken by surprise. We—’
‘Enough!’ Gisco bellowed, cutting across the captain’s pleas. ‘You were ordered to continue your pursuit of the Roman vessel. You did not and they escaped. There are no excuses.’
‘But …’ Maghreb began again, hopelessness overwhelming him.
‘Take him away, Commander,’ Gisco ordered. ‘Have him straddle the ram.’
The pronounced sentence instantly silenced Maghreb, an overwhelming wave of terror engulfing him. Cronus saluted and led the condemned man from the cabin.
Hamilcar had watched the entire exchange with disbelief. In the two months since being appointed to shadow Gisco, he had become increasingly aware of the man’s serpentine nature. Hamilcar had witnessed scenes like this before and as always his honour was offended by Gisco’s methods. The admiral always lulled an enemy before striking and Hamilcar knew it served no purpose other than to satisfy Gisco’s ego.
The admiral noticed Hamilcar’s expression as he sat back down behind his desk. The captain’s renewed cries for mercy could be heard through the cabin door as he was dragged up onto the deck above and brought forward to meet his fate.
‘You disapprove, Barca?’
Hamilcar kept his peace, sensing Gisco’s dislike for his position, knowing the admiral wanted to provoke a confrontation to justify his actions.
‘Let me tell you something, young man,’ Gisco began, his voice patronizing. ‘Fear is what drives men. Fear of failure. Fear of retribution. Fear of—’
‘Hannibal Gisco?’ Hamilcar interrupted, his own censure evident in every word.
‘Yes,’ Gisco replied, as if trying to explain his reasoning to an obtuse child, ‘fear of Hannibal Gisco. Maghreb was ordered to hunt down the Roman galley and he failed. Now he will pay for that failure with his life.’
Hamilcar bit back his retort, knowing the futility of arguing against a man such as Gisco. The man had no honour, no sense of the true motivation of men, the drive that inspires them to create and control an empire. He got up slowly from the couch, sensing the admiral’s dismissive gaze as he moved towards the door. He walked out without a word, glad to be out of Gisco’s company.
CHAPTER THREE
The returning column from the legion encampment reached the dockside at Brolium an hour before sunset. With a curt command, Scipio dismissed the officers of the Aquila with orders to be ready to sail at dawn. He turned his horse in the direction of the villa and continued up the narrow winding streets of the port town, the way ahead deserted as before. Within minutes he was in the courtyard of the villa and Scipio dismounted before dismissing his guard.
The senior consul made his way to his quarters, where he was met by his personal aid, the Nubian slave Khalil, whom Scipio had personally chosen from the slave markets of Rome; he was accompanied by two female slaves carrying fresh towels and warm, scented water. Before his appointment to the Senate, Scipio had been a fighting man by profession. His social position in the patrician class had afforded him the opportunity to join the legions as a tribune, but within ten years, by the time he reached twenty-eight, his aggression and ambition had taken him to the rank of legate, the overall commander of a Roman legion. He had used this position and his influential family connections to enter the Senate, where now, at only thirty-five years old, he held the position of senior consul, the highest elected official of the Republic.
Although the battles he fought in the Senate against the other ambitious men of Rome were as fierce as any he had faced on the battlefield, they lacked the element of physical danger, of pitting one man’s strength against another’s. It was a sensation he relished, and he now lived it vicariously through the fighting men he trained for the arena. Khalil was one of his current stock, a tall, sinewy, powerfully built Nubian whose eyes, although clear and open, seemed to hide a defiant streak that came from having been taken in slavery and not being born to it. Scipio had bent this man to his will, knew he would now kill at his command, but he also knew that it was dangerous to keep such a man in his household, to turn his back on him, to allow him even to approach while he slept. It was this danger, this element lacking in the Senate, that Scipio found intoxicating. It had driven his career in the legions and it had drawn him now to the battlefields of Sicily, to be once more around the fighting men of Rome.
Scipio allowed Khalil to help him undress and the female slaves washed his body before massaging warm oil into his upper torso. They dressed him in a clean white linen tunic and then stood back against the door, waiting for his next instruction.
His habitual routine complete, Scipio began pacing the room, his mounting excitement at the voyage ahead light in his veins. The thoughts of once more facing mortal danger heightened his anticipation.
‘Make ready for my departure for Rome at dawn,’ Scipio ordered Khalil, who immediately turned to leave. The two female slaves made to follow him.
‘Wait,’ Scipio said, causing the three to stop. ‘You stay,’ he ordered, indicating the second of the two women. The others left, closing the door behind them. The woman stood waiting, the basin of cooling water heavy in her hands. She was Sicilian, tall and dark, with large brown eyes and long hair. Her coltish legs were accentuated by the short stola dress she wore, the cord around her waist emphasizing the flair of her hips. Scipio estimated that she was no more than twenty. With a nod of his head he indicated his cot in the corner of the room and she moved towards it, placing the basin on the ground as she went, the simple gesture heightening Scipio’s raw desire. Her expression never changed as she acquiesced, her face adopting the servile look of all slaves as she lay down on the bed.
Scipio had called her to his room the night he’d arrived in Brolium, but this time was different. She could see the Roman could barely contain his sudden desire. Scipio never questioned why impending danger had this effect on him, he simply gave vent to his base desires. Tomorrow he would take sail back to Rome and he would need to show the calm exterior of a leader of Rome to all on board the galley. He would need to bury deep the excitement and lust for action threatening to manifest itself in his expression. Only now, in the privacy of his quarters, as he moved slowly towards the woman, could he give in to his emotions, the brief coupling a chance to assuage his exhilaration at the approach of danger.
The sun had become a memory for the men on board the Aquila as they continued preparations for the dawn departure. The sky still held the light of the departed star, but it was rapidly losing ground to the approaching night, the headlands at the edge of the harbour mouth becoming mere darkened shadows against the more reflective sea.
Lucius approached Atticus on the foredeck.
‘We’ll be ready to sail by dawn, Captain. The last of the supplies are just arriving from the port barracks.’
‘Very good, Lucius. Have my cabin cleared and made ready for the senior consul.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied, and was immediately away.
Atticus moved to the starboard rail. All around him the frantic activity of preparation continued. As always the sound most commonly splitting the air was the roar of Lucius’s voice, his words a whip crack to a careless or indolent crewman. To Atticus the sound was as much part of the ship as the creak of the deck timbers or the lapping of the tidal waters against the hull ten feet below him. His mind tuned out the sounds as his eyes wandered over the barges spread out across the harbour before him. In the near darkness he could vaguely distinguish their shapes, their hulls swinging slowly against the hold of their anchor lines as the current of the outgoing tide kept their hulls in parallel with each other and perpendicular to the dock. The same current pulled at the hull of the Aquila, drawing her away from the dock. She answered in kind, as if eager to sail, a creature born to the sea, pulling gently at the ropes that held her fast.
The words of Septimus’s former centurion, Marcus, rang in Atticus’s ears: ‘Whatever needs to be done, you need to do it,’ he had said, and Atticus remembered how Septimus had consented without hesitation, revealing the unbreakable bond between former comrades and fellow Romans.
A descendant of Magna Graecia and a sailor all his life, Atticus had never felt any attachment to the Roman citizens of the land-based legions. His duty had always been to his ship, his crew and the people of the Ionian coast under his protection, not to a Republic that was forged by men who were a breed apart from the people of his home city, Locri.
Atticus’s ancestors had migrated from Greece over generations, slowly evolving and adapting the local culture to their own. In contrast, the legions of Rome swept over entire regions in a fraction of a lifetime, transplanting their culture and the ideals of their city as they went, absorbing entire populations into their Republic within a single generation.
Atticus stood on the border of two worlds, his friendship with Septimus drawing him ever closer to Rome and the legions, while men like Scipio and Marcus blocked his path with distrust and age-old animosity. Beneath it all, Atticus could hear his ancestors whisper censure and lament for his association with Rome as they spoke of an ancient loyalty to his people who, for over five hundred years, had made southern Italy their own.
The day dawned with the scent of must in the air, the scent of the dry arid land of northern Sicily. Atticus rose from his cot in one of the smaller aft cabins of the Aquila and looked out through the opened hatch to the harbour beyond. From his vantage point he could see that all of the transport barges were preparing for departure, taking advantage of the turn of the tide that would ease their navigation of the harbour mouth.
The barges were lumbering vessels when docked, like beached pilot whales lying on their backs in the sun. Under way, however, with their massive mainsails pushing them through the waters, they were transformed into living, breathing creatures, and Atticus admired the seamanship required to sail these vessels in the open seas. A worry crossed his mind that they were sailing into waters where the Carthaginian hunters would be seeking them, but he quickly dismissed it. The Punici only held the ports of Thermae and Panormus, over one hundred miles further along the coastline, and they would be unaware of the Romans’ activities in Brolium. Without local knowledge it would take them weeks to discover that this port was the Romans’ supply hub for the entire campaign. Only then would they be able to mount an effective blockade. The departing fleet of barges would be safely home long before that day.
Atticus left the cabin and went on deck. He was immediately beckoned to the aft-deck by Lucius, the second-in-command turning and pointing over the stern rail. A hundred yards away, Scipio was leading a guard detail of praetoriani towards the Aquila. Their approach was framed by the rapidly rising sun in the eastern sky, the clear blue indicating fine weather ahead and the prospect of a quick sailing. He ordered a runner to go below and tell Septimus that Scipio was arriving and to meet him at the head of the gangway. The senior consul would expect to be welcomed aboard by the senior officers of the ship.
‘There, sire,’ the man pointed, his hand shaking, ‘low on the horizon. That’s the headland. Cape Orlando. Brolium is a league west.’
‘You’re sure?’ Gisco asked, his voice threatening the same fate the pirate had seen his crewmates suffer.
‘Yes, sire, I swear it,’ he whimpered, ‘we were in these waters for four weeks. We saw the Roman transport barges ply in and out of Brolium many times, although they were too big a prey for us to take. The latest fleet of over two dozen arrived only three days ago.’
Gisco grunted a reply as he stared through the pre-dawn light to the dark mass of the headland on the horizon.
‘Remove this man from my sight,’ he ordered, ‘throw him over the side.’
The pirate screamed for mercy as the guards lifted him off the deck. In two quick strides they were at the rail and they threw the pirate overboard, his cries cut short as he hit the water ten feet below. Within seconds he was lost beneath the waves.
Gisco smiled. The gods were looking favourably on him this day. The day before, one of the galleys in the rearguard of the fleet had captured a pirate bireme as they moved north through the strait. Many of the crew were instantly put to the sword, the Carthaginians sharing the hatred of pirates that all men of the sea held, but the senior crew had been brought to the flagship where they were tortured for information on Roman naval activity in the area. Gisco’s original plan called for an extensive search to find the Romans’ supply hub once the fleet had reached Panormus, but fortune had smiled on him and the pirates had now given him the information he needed to carry the battle to the Romans.
‘Captain Mago,’ Gisco ordered, ‘signal to the fleet: the first four squads are to remain on station here with the Melqart. The remaining six are to continue to Panormus with all possible speed. Have the squad commanders report to the flagship.’
‘Yes, Admiral,’ Mago replied, and took off towards the stern to signal Gisco’s orders to the ships behind them. Within minutes the four squads of five galleys had broken off from the fleet, each squad comprising a quinquereme leading a group of four triremes. The Melqart also broke formation.
Fifteen minutes later the four squad commanders boarded the Melqart. Gisco met them on the foredeck.
‘The Romans are using the port of Brolium as their supply hub. It is there …’ Gisco pointed towards the distant coast ‘… two points west of that headland. We will move two leagues north of here and cast our net across their course to the mainland. Deploy with bows forward to the mainland. No sails. I want the profile of your ships to be as small as possible. At that distance out, when we are spotted, the transport barges will be too far from port to run. I want your quinqueremes on the extreme flanks. I will take the centre. Get behind them quickly and push them towards me. We will crush them between us.’
‘Yes, Admiral.’ The four captains saluted and turned to leave the foredeck.
‘One more thing, Captains,’ Gisco added, arresting their departure. ‘We take no prisoners. Every barge is to be sunk. No exceptions. Understood?’
‘Yes, Admiral,’ they repeated and left.
‘Now,’ Gisco thought as he looked up at the rapidly brightening sky, ‘let them come.’
Drusus Aquillius Melus, captain of the transport barge Onus, was nervous. Word had swept through the port of Brolium that the trireme that had rushed into the harbour the day before had encountered a Carthaginian fleet of galleys. The rumours had been contradictory, with some claiming the fleet was travelling east and others that it was going west, while estimates of its number varied from three to over a hundred. One thing was clear though, and on this all were agreed, their days of shipping supplies from the mainland to Brolium were numbered. Melus hoped that the days of his life were not similarly marked.
The captain looked up at the mainsail and checked its line as his barge moved slowly out of the harbour. His ship was two hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, a behemoth of the sea, as long as a quinquereme, but wider in the beam and over twice as tall from the waterline. The offshore breeze was light and he estimated their best speed once clear of the port would be no more than five knots. At this speed the passage to Naples would take nearly two full days. He looked over his shoulder at the thirty-two other barges making their way ponderously under sail. They would separate out as the day wore on, the new ships outpacing the older, the experienced crews faster than the inexperienced. Each ship had its own pace. Unique. By nightfall they would aim to have a half-mile between each ship, to avoid collisions in the dark. Now, grouped together, the flotilla of transports seemed to Melus to resemble a flock of sheep, the bellies of their broad white mainsails stretching out across the width of the harbour. A sight to see. He looked up above them to the sky overhead. It was a clear day which promised clear sailing. Perfect weather for navigation. Two days, he repeated to himself, two days and home.
The Aquila cast off from the dockside as the last of the transport barges weighed anchor and raised sail. The larger vessels moved slowly under sail and Gaius wove the Aquila nimbly through their ranks using the galley’s superior manoeuvrability under oars. Scipio stood alone on the aft-deck, watching the action of the crew around him intently, his journey on the Aquila marking his first time on a galley. The consul was travelling light in comparison to his arrival three days before on one of the transport barges. The confined and valuable space aboard a fighting vessel meant that his entourage consisted of merely his guard commander and four praetoriani with his Nubian slave, Khalil, in attendance. In any other place the reduced guard would be foolhardy, but in the isolation of a galley at sea it seemed almost excessive. The only enemies that threatened him were the Carthaginians and, if the Aquila was somehow attacked in strength, the fact that his guard was four instead of twenty-four would make little difference.
Atticus watched the consul surreptitiously as the Aquila gained the lead on the fleet of barges. Lucius ordered the sail raised, transferring the exertion of the rowers to the wind. The galley’s combination of oars and sail would maintain a slight gap on the barges, keeping her in the van of the flotilla. Septimus joined Atticus on the foredeck.
‘Rome!’ he smiled, and slapped Atticus’s shoulder.
Atticus couldn’t help but smile, his friend’s good mood at returning to his home city infectious.
As a younger man, with the wanderlust of youth powerful in his veins, Atticus had wanted to travel to Rome and all the great cities of the Republic, and from there beyond to the distant shores of the Mediterranean, the great sea that touched all the coastlines of the known world. That ambition had narrowed with age, tempered by realities and his duty to his ship and crew. But the desire to see Rome had always stayed with him, a desire to see the centre of the Republic, to grasp the atmosphere in the city that inspired men to conquer the world around them.
Captain Melus stared at the galley moving effortlessly through the water. The wind had picked up after leaving port and so now, two hours out from Brolium, the galley was still within a mile of the leading ships on the port side of the fleet. Melus had served twenty years on a trading galley, rising to the rank of boatswain. His share of the profit over those years had provided him with the opportunity to purchase a part share in the Onus which, thanks to the campaign on Sicily and the almost constant supply drops, was proving to be a profitable investment. That would all change with the commencement of a blockade and Melus cursed Fortuna for her fickle nature.
Suddenly, as Melus watched, the mainsail of the galley collapsed. Even over the distance of a mile, the captain could see the deck of the galley come alive. Something was wrong.
‘Ship ahead!’
Melus turned. The cry had come from the masthead. He looked up to see the lookout pointing directly ahead of their course. An acid feeling of dread filled his stomach as he rushed forward to the foredeck. Peering out over the rail, he waited to see the reported ship, his viewpoint twenty feet below the masthead making him wait before seeing what the lookout had seen.
‘There,’ his mind screamed, ‘dead ahead.’
He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them and refocused on the unexpected and yet feared sight in front of him. He couldn’t make out any details beyond the fact that it was directly facing them, its bow pointing like an arrow at his own. It looked like … no, he was certain … it was a galley.
‘Two more ships ahead! A point off starboard and port!’ the lookout called again. Melus could hear fear in the man’s voice at the realization of what he was seeing. Within five seconds he could also see the two ships himself, flanking the first. It was an ambush. There was no doubt and there could be no doubt of who they were.
Melus was about to sound the alarm when he heard the resonating sound of a signalling trumpet from the fleet behind him. In foggy weather these trumpets were used to alert other ships to avoid collisions. In clear conditions their repeated blasts meant mortal danger.
‘Two more ships ahead!’ The lookout’s cries were now frantic. ‘Two points off starboard and port!’
The captain ignored the cries from above, his mind trying to comprehend the warning sounds he was hearing. They weren’t emanating from the ships around him, from those who could also see the ships ahead, but from the rear of the fleet. ‘They can’t have seen them yet,’ his mind was telling him, ‘unless …’ He felt a sharp pain in his lower intestines as terror overtook his emotions.
‘Sweet mercy …’ he whispered at the realization of what was happening. ‘They’re all around us … we’re trapped.’ ‘Prepare for action!’ Atticus roared, his orders overlain with the repeated blasts of warning trumpets from the transport fleet behind. Five galleys could be seen on the horizon, with the lookout reporting four more on the flanks. The Romans had sailed into a perfect trap.
‘Gaius! Two points to starboard. Prepare to sweep. Lucius, orders to below, attack speed!’
‘Hold!’
Atticus turned to see Scipio standing beside him, the consul’s face a mask of fury.
‘Explain yourself, Captain!’
‘I’m going to sweep the portside oars of the outermost galley. If we disable her we’ll open a gap in the line to allow some of the transports to escape,’ Atticus said quickly.
‘To Hades with the transports. Your orders are to escort me safely to Rome!’
‘With all due respect, Consul,’ Atticus growled, his expression hard, ‘we can’t abandon the transports to the Punici. Without our assistance they will be slaughtered to a man.’
‘I am in command of this galley, Captain, and my safety is paramount!’
Atticus stepped forward and leaned in slightly to respond, an instinctive movement to reinforce his argument.
Scipio’s guard commander spotted the move and instantly drew his sword, misreading Atticus’s stance as a prelude to attack. Within a heartbeat the four praetoriani followed suit. Gaius and Lucius drew their own daggers, their reactions instinctive.
Only Atticus and Scipio remained immobile, their faces inches apart, their expressions unwavering. Atticus could feel the blood thumping in his chest, the adrenaline coursing in his veins, his mind racing, his ears filled with the sound of two conflicting voices screaming within him. One called for caution, knowing that Scipio could kill any who disobeyed without remorse or recourse. The other demanded defiance, the fate of hundreds of men in the transport fleet in the balance. To his left and right Scipio’s praetorian guards stood with their swords drawn, outnumbering his crew on the aft-deck, their lives on the brink of forfeiture.
‘Gaius! Hard to port!’ Atticus shouted. His command was met with silence and he turned to the helmsman. Gaius was tensed, his body coiled to release at the first sign of an attack from the praetorian guard opposite him.
‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared, breaking the taut spell that held each man ready on the aft-deck. The helmsman instantly obeyed, sheathing his dagger before leaning on the tiller, turning the bow away from the oncoming Carthaginian galley.
Scipio remained rigid, his eyes focused on Atticus before him, anger still threatening to overwhelm him. With immense will he suppressed the urge to order the captain killed, to expunge this questioning of his authority, this affront to his power. He reasserted his reason, knowing that, at least for now, the captain was invaluable.
‘Stand down!’ he ordered and his guards immediately obeyed.
‘Captain?’ Scipio said, his voice low and menacing. He drew Atticus over to the side rail.
‘This ship belongs to Rome, Captain, and on this ship I am Rome. This crew may look to you for command. But make no mistake, Perennis, I command here. Do not hesitate to follow my orders again.’
‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, suppressing the last of his defiance, allowing the consul to bend him to his superior will.
‘Attack speed!’ Gisco ordered with relish. ‘Steer an intercept course for the lead barge.’
The Melqart came alive under his feet, its two hundred and seventy rowers on four levels bending their backs to the task of bringing the quinquereme up to attack speed. ‘Like sheep to the slaughter,’ Gisco thought, with a smile as the rising rhythm of the oar-strokes matched the rising tempo of the blood pumping in his veins. There was no escape for the Romans. By now the other quinqueremes would be closing the trap behind the transport fleet, cutting off their escape back to Brolium. Against unarmed barges the fight would be no more than practice for the helmsman of each galley, a chance to exercise their skill at ramming and withdrawing from enemy ships. Gisco estimated the fleet at well over two dozen barges. Far off to his right a lone galley was preceding the transport fleet, her course set to collide with the far right flank of the Carthaginian attack. Gisco regretted that the Roman galley was not within easy range for his ship but then dismissed the thought. There would be plenty of Roman blood spilled on the waters this day.
‘Maintain course!’ Melus roared to the aft-deck.
The gap between his barge and the Carthaginian ships ahead was closing rapidly as the Onus set her bow against the centre galley. The sound of breaking timbers caused him to tear his eyes from the approaching galleys to the fleet behind him. Two transport barges had collided, their frantic efforts to escape causing them to accidentally turn into each other. They’re dead men, Melus thought with finality, knowing that the crew of the Onus would surely follow them to Elysium if he could not find a way out of the trap.
Melus’s twenty years’ experience on trading galleys flashed through his mind. There was only one chance. The galleys were better armed but the transport barges were bigger, almost twice the size of a quinquereme. Against ships that size, Melus knew the galleys could not ram them head on. They could only attack, and ram, on the flanks. His only chance was to run directly at the ship approaching him and hope that the Carthaginian would turn.
Strange, Gisco thought, noticing the barge his galley was targeting had not turned. She was coming directly for the Melqart, the gap down to two hundred yards and closing rapidly. Gisco instinctively braced as he contemplated a head-on collision with the larger ship. The adrenaline in his blood coursed through him, picturing the Melqart striking the barge through the bow at ramming speed. The collision would be terrifying, the combined speed of both vessels nearly twenty knots. The Melqart would survive, of that Gisco had no doubt, but the damage would be catastrophic and casualties high. But what of the story? he thought. What of the story sweeping through the fleet of how Gisco had faced a ship twice the size of his own and rammed her through the bow? No one would ever doubt the courage of Hannibal Gisco.
‘Ramming speed!’ Gisco bellowed. ‘Prepare for impact!
‘Cronus!’ Gisco’s commander of his personal guard was instantly at his side.
‘Commander, station two of your men on the aft-deck. If the helmsman alters course against my orders, run him through!’
‘Yes, Admiral,’ Cronus replied and was gone.
Gisco’s will hardened as the Melqart came to her top speed.
The Aquila swept across the bow of the Carthaginian galley at a distance of two hundred yards. Atticus waited for the enemy ship to alter her course to intercept, willing the Carthaginian to turn, to force the engagement, thereby allowing Atticus to circumvent the consul’s orders. The Carthaginian vessel stayed unerringly on course, the prospect of so many more vulnerable targets too great a temptation for the Carthaginian commander. Atticus cursed at the clear waters ahead of his galley. Over his shoulder the transport fleet was now in utter chaos, with every barge seeking to escape the Carthaginians’ trap. Lacking the speed and manoeuvrability of the enemy galleys, their attempts to flee were hopeless.
The Carthaginian galley was not turning. She was not altering her course. Melus replayed his plan in his mind and could find no flaw in his thinking. The Carthaginian should turn. A head-on collision would cause tremendous damage to the galley, damage that could easily be avoided if they turned and pursued.
‘She is commanded by a madman,’ Melus thought, his shaking hand holding the tiller, doubt and fear assailing him. He measured the distance between the converging ships. The enemy galley was one hundred yards ahead, her bow arrow-like on its determined course.
Eighty yards.
Melus could clearly hear the unchecked drum beat of ramming speed, the sound unnerving, shattering the confidence of his earlier conviction.
Sixty yards.
A sudden urge to turn and run tore through Melus and he closed his eyes to suppress it, clinging to the belief that there was still a chance the Carthaginian would flinch.
Forty yards.
Melus opened his eyes. The prow of the Carthaginian galley filled his vision, its insistent course unerring. His breath froze in his throat as his nerve collapsed, his wits fleeing before the sight in his mind of the destruction of the Onus and her crew, a fate that could not be endured, a fate that could yet be avoided if he turned …
Melus threw his whole weight behind the tiller, heeling the Onus hard over to port. With the wind dead astern, the barge reacted instantly, her bow swinging quickly across the course of the approaching galley. The captain braced himself against the tiller, willing his ship to respond faster. His eyes remained locked on the Carthaginian galley, on the six-foot bronze ram screaming towards them at wave height, praying she would remain on her original course, the sight of so many other targets too great a temptation.
The voice in his head roared in rage and fear, ‘Take them, not me. Kill them but spare me—’
His silent cries were cut short by the sight of the ram swinging around to centre itself on the exposed hull of the Onus.
Gisco cursed as the Roman barge broke off her line to a head-on collision. He was standing firm on the aft-deck of the Melqart, his whole body tensed in anticipation, his mind locked on the thought of the bronze ram sinking deep into the bow of the transport barge, a near-suicidal blow that would rock both ships to their cores. He took precious seconds to react to the unexpected reprieve before his mind roared at him to take action.
‘Hard to starboard! Ram amidships!’
The Melqart swung immediately onto its final course, the oncoming wind-driven waves breaking over the ram.
The quinquereme struck the transport barge at a speed of thirteen knots, the six-inch squared blunt nose of the bronze ram splintering the oaken hull of the barge, the momentum of the ninety-ton galley driving the point deeply into the bowels of the larger ship. The force of the impact was absorbed by the keel of the galley, but the sudden loss of speed caused the rowers to lose all coordination and the Melqart came to a complete stop.
‘Archers!’ Gisco roared, and immediately ignited, resin-soaked arrows flew from the main deck of the galley to target the enormous mainsail of the stricken barge. For a second nothing happened, the arrows seemingly ineffective, then small flames appeared as if from nowhere on the huge canvas of sail. The flames held and then exploded as they began to consume the sail.
‘Withdraw!’
The orders to the slave deck were concise and well practised and the Melqart slowly reversed, her ram withdrawing from the mortally wounded ship, the water rushing past it into the gaping hole below the waterline.
‘Cut her down! … For the love of Fortuna cut her down before it spreads!’ Melus roared as he watched the fire grow from the corner of the great sail. Within seconds it began to engulf the entire canvas, the flames licking and then igniting the running rigging and mainmast. The crew of the Onus had been drilled many times in the training that now controlled their actions, their fear of fire fuelling their haste, their bare feet running along the timber deck that the fire above them so desperately craved.
The fire continued to consume the sail, its appetite fed by the trailing wind and, even as Melus watched, the first fiery sections began to fall to the deck. The men attacked the fallen canvas with fanatic hostility, beating the flames with water-soaked cloths. One man screamed as a burning section of canvas fell on him, igniting his hair and clothes, and he ran aimlessly across the deck before falling over the side rail.
The deck heeled violently as the Carthaginian galley withdrew her ram and many men fell on the inclined main deck. The entire sail was now aflame and the falling burning pieces overwhelmed the futile efforts of the crew. Melus looked past the burning main deck to the Carthaginian galley. She was resuming her course to the remaining transport barges behind the Onus, her crew cheering at the sight of the sinking Roman ship.
Melus held on to the tiller tightly as the deck continued to heel over under his feet, the Onus sinking rapidly by the bow. Bitter tears ran freely down his face as shame consumed him, shame for his cowardice, of calling down damnation on his fellow sailors in a bid to save his own life. A rage of frustration and regret overwhelmed him, for he knew he should have stayed on his collision course. The result would have been the complete destruction of the Onus, but Melus now realized their fate had been sealed the moment they sailed from Brolium only hours before. By turning his ship he had lost his only chance to exact some revenge from the Carthaginians for the destruction of his ship and crew, his only chance to send some of the enemy ahead of him to Hades.
The Melqart increased to attack speed as the helmsman sought out another target. Gisco looked around him at the carnage wrought by his fleet of twenty galleys. Some of his galleys were chasing barges as they attempted to break from the pack and escape, while others had sailed directly into the centre of the transport fleet, causing panic and collisions as they snapped at the heels of the larger vessels.
Gisco saw a knot of men in the sea ahead: Romans who had jumped from a burning vessel. They were keeping together, helping each other as their ship slipped beneath the waves not twenty feet away.
‘Helm, one point to starboard!’ Gisco ordered, the helmsman immediately seeing the intended target. He lined up the Melqart perfectly.
The ninety-ton galley bore down on the knot of men, one of their number suddenly seeing the approaching galley, his cries alerting the others. Hamilcar watched the enfolding scene without comment, despising the brutality of targeting helpless men in the water. Like all on board he had cheered as the Melqart had made her first kill, revelling in the destruction of the enemy fleet, praising Tanit, the Phoenician goddess of fortune, for the incredible stroke of fate that had delivered the Roman fleet into their hands.
The frantic pleas of the Romans were cut off as the Melqart struck, many of the archers on the aft-deck running to the stern rail, hoping for survivors. There were none. Hamilcar found himself watching Gisco as the admiral stared at the broken bodies of the Romans in the wake of his ship. He marvelled at the duality of the commander. He was an incredible seaman, the perfection of his trap and his ability to understand and outwit the Roman enemy testament to his skill. But he was also capable of incredible brutality, a burning, insatiable blood lust that demanded a heavy price from the enemy.
Hamilcar recalled the brief of his appointment, a shadow to extend the reach of the Council of Carthage to ensure there was no repeat of Gisco’s ignominious defeat at Agrigentum. It was a course that Hamilcar had often secretly questioned, wondering why Gisco had been allowed to retain his command. Only now, in the heat of battle, did he fully understand the Council’s logic. If Rome was to be defeated in Sicily, men with Gisco’s ruthlessness would be needed in every battle. In all its five-hundred-year history, Carthage had never relinquished a dominion to any enemy. Sicily could not become an exception.
Gisco turned as the Roman sailors slipped beneath the waves, immediately noticing Hamilcar’s gaze. The younger man continued to stare, a new commitment to forge a unified command welling up within him. Gisco noted the expression and mistook it for a shared satisfaction over the death of the helpless Roman sailors.
‘This will send a message to Rome and her legions,’ Gisco said, the fire of victory in his words. ‘From this moment, from this day, the seas belong to Carthage.’
Hamilcar nodded, bridging the gulf of honour between them with the common belief in their cause.
‘We have become messengers of Mot, the god of death. His message is: Death to the Romans.’
Hamilcar’s expression remained hard as he absorbed the words, the finality and the determination of the battle-hardened man before him. Gisco fought out of hatred for the enemy, Hamilcar because of his belief in Carthage. In the end their objective was the same, a connection forged as Hamilcar repeated Gisco’s vow.
‘Death to the Romans!’
The Aquila swept northwards through empty seas, her sail raised at the end of a long day, the slaves below deck resting at their posts, their bodies draped over the oars that defined their existence. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, staring out at the rapidly descending sun in the western sky. He was joined there by Septimus, the two men talking silently, their thoughts with the transport fleet lost over the horizon.
The sky was burnt red by the fading sun’s light, the sight a fitting backdrop to the day’s slaughter, as if the gods were accepting the souls of the dead, their passage to Elysium marked by the bloodstained sky. Atticus had watched the earlier battle for as long as possible, the details rapidly blurring as the Aquila escaped unopposed, until all that remained in view was a huge pall of black smoke. It was a sight that shamed him and the centurion who had stood beside him in silence.
The breeze was light in Atticus’s face as he turned away from the sunset to look out over the quiet deck of his ship. He had been on the aft-deck all day, over fourteen hours in total. Throughout the day his stamina had been fuelled by anger, by bitter frustration at his inability to wield the fearsome weapon under his feet in defence of his countrymen who were dying in their droves just beyond his reach. That stamina was now waning, the battle already becoming a single entity in his mind rather than a series of individual horrors.
Scipio had gone below as soon as the Aquila had secured her escape, Atticus noticing that the senior consul had never once looked back at the condemned fleet. He replayed in his mind his earlier confrontation with the consul and, although he realized his challenge to Scipio’s authority had been foolhardy, Atticus was also convinced his argument had been just and honourable. The thought of Scipio’s cold detachment from the fate of the transport fleet reignited Atticus’s latent anger and he cast aside his unease at the repercussions of challenging the consul’s order.
Atticus’s thoughts turned to the Punici. Their blockade had not been expected to materialize for weeks, but somehow they had located the Romans’ supply hub and had caught the Romans unawares, driving a wedge between Sicily and the mainland, a separation which spelled death for forty thousand Roman legionaries.
Atticus re-examined their trap, the sky darkening around him. It had been perfect, a true mark of their incredible seamanship. Coupled with this deadly skill, the Carthaginians, having built their empire on the back of their fleet, had scores of galleys in addition to the fifty Atticus had seen. Now, all that naval power was weighted against the dozen triremes of the Roman Republic; lighter smaller galleys designed for coastal patrol and skirmishing. The odds were insurmountable.
As the Aquila fled north, the first stars began to appear in the evening sky. Their arrival gave Gaius his first opportunity to accurately set the Aquila’s heading, and Atticus felt the deck heel slightly under his feet as the adjustment was made. Their course was now firmly fixed for Rome.
CHAPTER FOUR
Scipio allowed Khalil to massage his shoulders and back as he lay on his cot in the main cabin. He had left the aft-deck hours before, preferring to spend his time in solitude below decks, away from the company of lesser men. His confrontation with the captain remained at the forefront of his mind. The man had challenged him openly, a defiance Scipio would not forget. He regretted his own loss of composure, a slip that exposed his inner thoughts, and for this reason, even more than the blatant insubordination, he cursed the captain for forcing the argument.
In the Senate, appearance and deception were the cornerstones of a man’s survival. At all times a politician had to appear calm, never allowing his true emotions to surface and reveal his inner thoughts. Emotions, once mastered, allowed a politician to invoke them at will, a skill that engendered support from the people and fellow senators, a skill that was vital if one was to become a leader.
Beneath the calm exterior lived the art of deception, the ability to dissemble when the situation required it, to allow men false pretences and to be the puppeteer who controlled the lives of lesser mortals to the point where they fought your battles without even realizing it. Scipio was the embodiment of this type of man, his rise to the height of power in Rome a testament to his command of both himself and others. At the centre of this was control of his emotions.
Scipio now used that control to compartmentalize his mind, to push his self-censure to the back of his thoughts. Coupled with Khalil’s strong and practised hands, Scipio’s self-control helped to ease the tension in his body and he was asleep within minutes, his anger for the captain stored away to be drawn forth when the time was right.
Sensing that his master had drifted off, Khalil eased the pressure of his hands before withdrawing them from the oiled skin. Suddenly and unexpectedly his latent hatred rose in a wave, threatening to consume him, and his arms shook with the force of his restraint. The daily humiliation he felt at serving at another man’s whim was a constant open wound to his pride, and the realization that he could kill the Roman easily was like fire in his veins. He breathed deeply, trying to invoke the patience he had acquired in the four years he had been a slave.
Khalil had been seventeen when he was taken captive. His family had chosen to remain at Napata when the Nubian people of the Kush kingdom migrated to Meroë. It was a choice that was to cost them dearly. The city declined and its dwindling power made it a prime target for the Persians, who constantly raided the east coast of Africa. In just one attack the Persians overwhelmed the pitiful defensive forces of the city and took the population into slavery. Khalil had last seen his family in a slave market on the northern shore of Egyptus, his mother and two sisters sold to the whorehouses of Alexandria while his father was sent to the salt mines of Tuzla. Khalil was sent in chains to Rome, the price for his life a mere five sesterces.
Khalil’s first two years were spent enduring backbreaking labour in a fired-brick factory in Tibur, east of Rome. The infernal heat and relentless toil had honed his body and spirit into a rock of strength and had brought him to the attention of his master, who saw in him the opportunity to return a substantial profit on the price he had paid for the pathetic boy of two years before. He was sold into the house of Scipio, a fate that had revealed the duality of every turn in fortune. On the one hand Khalil was taught the deadly art of combat, a skill that spoke to his latent ferocity and burning aggression. On the other, the Roman senator treated Khalil as a plaything, a fighting dog to train and send out against the other trained dogs. The shame of servitude had never diminished in all his four years of slavery and his hatred burned like the furnaces of Tibur.
As a renewed sense of dishonour enveloped his heart, Khalil slowly withdrew his hands from where they were poised over Scipio’s neck. If he killed the senator now, he too would be dead within minutes – and Khalil was not ready to die. Patience and fate had taught him that revenge and freedom could be achieved together, that the opportunity would one day present itself and he would be free to find and save his family from the slavery that bound them all. Khalil would wait.
As the Nubian left the cabin, he extinguished the lantern and quietly closed the door to retake his position in the companionway. The slave leaned his massive frame against the bulkhead and lowered his chin onto his chest, relaxing the muscles in the back of his neck. He quelled the anger within him, burying his hatred deep behind defences that would hide his true feelings from his master. His self-control was immense and within five minutes he was calm. Then, like so many others on the now quiet Aquila, he slept.
*
The day dawned six hours later to find Atticus and Septimus on the aft-deck of the Aquila once more. The captain had awoken just before dawn as always, a habit born during his years as a seaman when the rising of the sun marked the change in the watch. He had dressed quickly and gone on deck to find the marine centurion already there. The two men discussed the events of the past two days but, as if by mutual consent, they avoided discussing the battle, each man having formed his own firm resolutions, inner promises that spoke of retribution and the heavy price to pay.
Septimus paused in the conversation to look around him. The ship was surrounded on all sides by the sea, an unfamiliar sight as the Aquila normally spent her time in coastal waters. The course of the ship seemed directionless, as if it were merely passing over the waves without a destination in mind. The thought unnerved him.
‘What’s our course?’ he asked, knowing that in general they were heading to Rome but wanting to hear specifics that would indicate that Atticus knew exactly how they would get there.
‘We’re travelling due north across the Tyrrhenian Sea, along the trading sea-lane to Naples. We will intercept the coast a little south of that city and then head northwest along the coastline to Rome.’
Septimus noted the easy confidence of the captain.
‘I’ve never been on a ship out of sight of land before,’ the centurion added, the featureless sea providing no visible point of reference.
Atticus turned towards the centurion and smiled.
‘My first time was when I was eight,’ he remarked, ‘and I was alone. I was fishing near the shore in my skiff when a storm blew up. It would have taken my sail away but I managed to secure it and weather out the squall until nightfall. By that time I had been carried out to sea.’
‘How did you survive?’ Septimus asked, trying to remember what it was to be eight.
‘I followed the stars home,’ Atticus replied matter-of-factly.
The captain smiled inwardly at the easy description of his escape, a contrast to the unmitigated terror he had actually felt at the time.
‘Even at eight you could navigate by the stars?’ Septimus asked, doubt in his mind that a young child could achieve such a thing.
‘Septimus, one of the first things I remember is my grandfather teaching me about the stars. He said they were the fisherman’s greatest ally against the fickle nature of the sea. The sea is uncertain, but the stars are constant, and a fisherman can trust them with his life. I trusted them that night and I survived.’
‘Give me land and a solid road under my feet any day,’ Septimus said, knowing he would never possess the skill that Atticus had at sea, an ease born out of a lifetime of pitting his wits against the sea and winning through every time.
‘And give me a fair wind and a good ship,’ Atticus replied.
Septimus smiled at the rebuttal and turned to walk down to the main deck and the assembled troops of his command. The men were subdued, their flight from the previous day’s battle a bitter shame. Septimus sensed the mood, weighing the impact on his men. Routine was a commander’s greatest ally and, for Septimus’s marines, routine dictated that each day began with combat training. Within thirty minutes they would be sweating heavily under the strain of full combat training, the concentration required clearing their mind of dissension. The men formed ranks and began to warm up. The moves they practised had been performed many times before, but Septimus had taught them that any lesson that might one day save your life was worth learning again and again.
The sweat was streaming down the marine centurion’s back by the time he disengaged from the training fight with his optio, Quintus. The younger man was also breathing heavily, the sudden burst of speed required to fend off the centurion’s attacks sapping him.
‘Good,’ Septimus said, between breaths, ‘very good.’
All around them the men of the marine century were paired up, each group fighting with the heavy wooden training swords that would build the muscle of all and bruise the limbs of the careless. Septimus had them practising a reverse thrust and the men now incorporated that move into their ever-expanding range of skills.
‘Take over, Quintus,’ Septimus said, before bending down to pick up his tunic, the garment discarded an hour before when the sun was two hours above the horizon. As he walked towards the aft-deck, the cooling sea breeze felt fresh over his toned body, his mood light after the morning’s exercise.
The consul was standing to one side on the aft-deck, two of his guards and the tall Nubian slave in attendance. As Septimus crossed the main deck he felt Scipio’s scrutiny, and the consul turned and spoke a few words to the unmoving Nubian beside him. The slave nodded, his eyes never leaving Septimus. The centurion mounted the aft-deck and walked towards Atticus at the ship’s rudder. The captain was issuing orders to a group of crewmen and, as Septimus approached, the sailors dispersed, fanning out over the ship as each went to the task assigned to him. Atticus looked up at the broad sail, an almost instinctive repetitive look to check and recheck the line of the sail, the angle of the wind, the tension in the running rigging and all the other myriad of minutiae that occurred simultaneously as a ship sped over the water.
‘How long has the consul been there?’ Septimus asked.
‘About half an hour. He’s been watching your men train. Seems to be discussing the training with his slave.’
Septimus nodded, knowing a summons was coming before the words were spoken.
‘Centurion!’ he heard, and spun around to see the consul beckoning him with a raised hand.
Septimus crossed the aft-deck and stood to attention before Scipio.
‘Your men are impressive, you train them well,’ the consul said coolly. Septimus could sense the undertone of challenge.
‘Thank you, Consul.’
Scipio seemed to study the centurion before him, weighing some unknown factors in his mind.
‘I would like you to fight my slave. He is a gladiator from my own school and would relish the challenge.’
‘I would welcome the opportunity, Consul,’ Septimus replied, and once more saluted Scipio before leading Khalil to the main deck. He caught the eye of Atticus as he went. Atticus had trained Septimus in one-to-one combat when the centurion had first come aboard the Aquila, but within three months the former legionary’s natural swordsmanship had surpassed Atticus’s median skills. It had been some time since Atticus had seen Septimus bested in a fight. He smiled broadly in anticipation.
The marines ceased training as they noticed the pair approaching, their purpose obvious as Septimus once more removed his tunic and began to limber up. They quickly formed a semicircle at the fore end so all could see the impending fight, the whispered bets and calls of encouragement steadily growing in intensity as Khalil removed his own tunic to expose his massive frame. Odds were renegotiated as the slave picked up a wooden training sword, his obvious comfort with the weapon a sign that he was familiar with it. All activity on the ship seemed to cease as the two men came toe to toe.
‘What’s your name, slave?’ Septimus asked, the last word spat in derision to raise the ire of his opponent.
‘Khalil.’
‘Well, Khalil, I will teach you a lesson or two today,’ Septimus taunted as he began sidestepping to his right, opening a circle of two arms’ length.
‘Not before I shame you in front of your men, Roman,’ Khalil replied, menace in his voice.
Septimus was shocked by the threat, the audacity of the slave to speak so aggressively to a freeman.
Khalil registered the surprise on the centurion’s face and used the moment to attack. Septimus was caught off guard and was forced to backstep as the Nubian’s blows came in fast and high. The centurion cursed himself for the momentary lapse in concentration; the simple trick of the Nubian had broken his thoughts and exposed him to the incisive attack.
Septimus counterattacked, parrying the Nubian’s blade before striking low, aiming to unbalance his opponent and go on the offensive. Within seconds he knew he was evenly matched. Septimus had years more experience with a sword, but much of that was in the legions, with only ten months of one-on-one combat training. Khalil had over twice that amount in single-combat training, his tutors the best gladiatorial trainers that Scipio’s money could buy. Septimus had balance and timing on his side, Khalil had practised technique – and each man tried to force the fight into their realm of strength.
Septimus stepped back again as Khalil flowed into a twelve-stroke sequence, a seamless series of blows that twice penetrated Septimus’s defence on the torso and upper thigh. Septimus grunted as each blow struck, the heavy wooden sword raising the purple hue of bruising under the skin. Septimus counterattacked with a series of his own; the strokes were less defined than Khalil’s, but the Nubian was forced to react quickly to avoid injury. Septimus kept the pressure up, never allowing the Nubian to pause between attack and counterattack. The unrelenting pace began to take its toll and Khalil grunted heavily as Septimus punched the hilt of his sword into his stomach. The gladiator roared in anger as he attacked again, but Septimus used his superior balance as a defence, causing Khalil to overreach on the final strike, opening the opportunity for Septimus to immediately go on the offensive.
Atticus watched in silence from the forward rail of the aft-deck. At the beginning of the fight he had cheered Septimus along with the rest of the crew, but now he watched in avid fascination as the fight developed. The balance between the two men was incredible. After nearly ten minutes of fighting, Khalil was clearly feeling the effects of the extended fight in his sword arm. His strikes were not as fast as before; however, the sequencing was every bit as deadly, and Septimus was struggling to fight off another attack.
Both men fought on, sweat streaming from every pore, every strike now accompanied by a grunt of exertion from attacker and defender. A killer blow was yet to be struck, but both showed signs on their bodies of where defences had been overcome and their flesh had suffered the lash.
‘Enough!’
All eyes turned to the source of command; all except the two fighters, who backed off imperceptibly, their gazes locked, their chests heaving in unison. Scipio descended to the main deck and approached the fighters. He eyed them both slowly, as if balancing them in his mind, his thoughts advancing the fight to an unseen conclusion.
Before the fight, Scipio had been sure of Khalil’s superior skills. Within seconds of the beginning, however, his keen eye had discovered the gladiator’s obvious disadvantage. Gladiatorial fights were rarely to the death, and rarer still for fighters of Khalil’s calibre, when swordsmanship was the attraction of the contest. The centurion, on the other hand, had fought many times when death was in the offing and knew of no other way to fight. For the centurion it was kill or be killed; for the gladiator it was draw first blood and claim victory. Without that exposure to mortal danger, Khalil would never be the centurion’s equal. Scipio was sure, however, that in a fight to the death Khalil’s steely ferocity would adapt, and no man, certainly not a brute centurion of the marines, would stand against him.
‘You fight well, Centurion,’ Scipio said, his voice betraying the hollow words.
‘Thank you, Consul,’ Septimus replied, drawing himself to attention.
Scipio nodded his head curtly to Khalil and turned towards the hatchway to the cabins below. He descended without another word, his personal guard and the Nubian slave following. Only when they were gone did the marines break the silence, the abrupt end to the fight sparking immediate arguments as to the victor and how the bets would be settled.
Septimus let them argue, his eyes never leaving his assailant, even when all that remained was an empty hatchway. He had never fought a man of such ability, and he rolled his shoulder instinctively against the sharp pain of a heavy bruise on his upper arm. Throughout the rest of the day he waited for the slave to return from the decks below so he could discuss the fight and the incredible sequence of strikes that seemed so effortless. He waited in vain, for neither Khalil nor the consul re-emerged.
Atticus could scarcely believe the sight before him. Everywhere he looked the sea was filled with all manner of ships, from the smallest skiffs, through merchant galleys, to the massive transport barges of the grain trade. Atticus felt an overwhelming sense of movement, of constant frenzied activity as ships travelled in all directions, their courses crisscrossing each other, with some setting sail for distant ports while others were reaching their journey’s end here, in Ostia, the port town of the city of Rome.
The Aquila had sighted land at dusk the evening before and had turned its bow northwest along the ragged coastline of the Italian peninsula. During the night they had passed Naples on their right, its lights scattered over the shoreline of the crescent bay and on into the hills beyond, the individual lights in the dark a mirror of the heavens above. The offshore breeze blowing from the city had filled the air with the smell of wood smoke from countless cooking fires, and underneath the musky scent of humanity from the tightly packed confines of the hidden city.
After the multitudinous lights of the city, only solitary pockets of light around small fishing villages remained. The mainland became dark once more, its existence off the starboard rail of the galley marked by a brooding presence that all aboard could feel, an unnamable sensation that constantly drew the eyes of those on board towards the shadowy features of Italia.
As the night wore on, the Aquila found company in the water from other vessels travelling the same route to Rome, the number increasing until finally at dawn, with the galley still some ten miles from Ostia, the brightening vista exposed a multitude of craft in the surrounding sea, a host that was compressed in the mouth of the harbour where the Aquila now lay.
The smaller craft in the water gave way to the galley, her bronze ram a deterrent that forged a path through the throng of lesser vessels. Further in, Gaius wove the galley around the larger transport barges, the Aquila, a more nimble ship under oar, giving way to the less manoeuvrable sailing ships in the time-honoured courtesy observed by all capable sailors.
Ostia, at the mouth of the river Tiber, had been founded by Ancus Marcius, the fourth king of Rome, over three hundred years before, and its growth and prosperity was intimately tied to Rome, a symbiotic relationship that had seen the once-small fishing village become the trade gateway to the greatest city in the world. Now the Aquila carried one of the most valuable cargos that had ever entered the port, a vital message to the Senate borne by the leader of Rome itself, a message that held the fate of the forty thousand fighting men of the legions on Sicily.
Lucius stood on the aft-deck beside the helmsman setting his course into the harbour. Years before, as a boatswain, the second-in-command had been stationed in the waters surrounding this port, and he intimately knew its harbour and the layout of the docks. He was guiding the galley to the castrum, the military camp that also served as the docking port for the Roman military galleys that patrolled the nearby sea-lanes.
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
