He was Deathbringer.
THE END
Be sure not to miss
THE WAR GOD'S MEN
The exciting novel of ancient warfare from
David Ross Erickson, author of The Blood Gate
Available Now on Kindle
Please visit DavidRossErickson.blogspot.com for more info
Here's a special preview
PROLOGUE
THE ROMANS WASH THEIR HANDS IN THE SEA
Strait of Messana, 264 B.C.
In the gathering gloom, a light rain had begun spitting in his face and Appius Claudius Caudex was making a dash across the strait.
He clenched his jaw, letting the rain drip. It galled him. A consul of Rome, stealing into Sicily like a thief in the night. The risk was great: 20,000 men crossing a hostile sea under an escort of but a handful of borrowed warships. Of course, there was cause for fear.
But it galled him, nonetheless.
The consul could see that his tribune, Gaius Claudius, was aching to speak out, but held his tongue. By now, the tribune knew the strait as well as anyone. As part of a diplomatic delegation, he had made the trip from Rhegium to Messana twice in the previous week. The first time, he had been turned back by the appearance of a Carthaginian war fleet. The second, crossing at night, he had at least been able to disembark. But Rome's demands had been rejected out of hand by Carthaginian and Syracusan alike. Neither, he had been informed, would abandon the siege of Messana, Rome's ally. Roman honor could not tolerate this, but the Carthaginian commander had been clear. "Rome will not be allowed to even wash her hands in the sea!" he had exclaimed with sneering arrogance. "This remains to be seen," Gaius Claudius had replied boldly, striding from the room. But neither he nor the consul felt so bold now. What if the Carthaginian's threat had been no idle boast?
The ships of Claudius' fleet, more than one hundred of them, filled the sea all around him. Thousands of oars bobbed and strained through the waves. The growing wind whipped the low-hanging clouds until they roiled as turbulently as the seascape below them. A fine, cold mist -- a discouraging mixture of sea-spray and rain -- showered consul and tribune alike. Their flagship, a trireme borrowed from the city of Tarentum, was one of the few decked warships in the fleet. Most of the fighting ships were mere fifty-oar pentekonters, little more than open rowboats. Unlike Rome, the Greek colonies of Magna Graecia in southern Italy at least had a seafaring tradition. They had provided all of the warships in Claudius' fleet, along with experienced oarsmen and crew. Claudius had long advocated the need for a Roman fleet to counter Carthage, but his pleas had been ignored. What did the Senate care when it was Claudius who had to sneak across the strait with only wind, weather and darkness to protect him? Even the triremes and pentekonters of the Italian Greeks were obsolete, certainly no match for the modern warships of Carthage.
Even in the failing light, Claudius could see the rowers in the nearby warships as they grappled with their oars, the cruel bronze beaks of their ships' rams slicing through the waves. The mainmasts and sails had been disassembled and stowed in Rhegium. The added weight would have only slowed them down. The transports carrying Claudius' legions relied solely on the strength of their rowers' backs to power them.
"What is it, Tribune?" Claudius asked finally, seeing that some issue continued to weigh heavily on Gaius' mind.
"What chance have we to reach Messana without interference?" the tribune asked. The thick mass of Sicily loomed on the horizon.
"None," Claudius replied. "The harbor in Rhegium was swarming with spies."
"Carthaginian spies?" Gaius asked in a surprised tone. "I saw only traders."
"Spies and traders… It is all the same, Tribune. Little happens in the Middle Sea without Carthage knowing."
"Well, hopefully we will reach Messana before they know we've left Rhegium."
"Our only hope is speed and the coming darkness. Hannibal Gisgo," Claudius said, referring to the man who commanded the Carthaginian fleet, "will not risk a battle in the darkness."
"Certainly not in this weather," Gaius said, hopefully.
Their fleet was bearing north-northwest. Clinging to the toe of Italy, Rhegium lay south of Messana, so it was before them that any threat would materialize. Claudius gazed toward the northern horizon, satisfied with the increasing gloom. The strait was treacherous in the fairest of weather. Claudius had not wanted to attempt a crossing at night any more than the Carthaginians would have dared contest it. He could not take the risk. With his entire army packed into over one hundred ships, even a single accident would be a tragedy; a large-scale mishap, a catastrophe.
Better to time his crossing as near to nightfall as possible. It was part of the plan he had worked out the previous evening with one of the clever Tarentine captains.
"With darkness descending," the captain had said, "the Carthaginians will have a short timeframe in which to attack us."
Not for the first time, Claudius asked the man to explain. Claudius was a long-time senator, a newly elected consul, a politician. Although he understood the need for sea power, he himself was no naval man. The more he had listened to this particular captain speak, the more he valued his opinion. The captain exuded a natural authority and the other captains and military tribunes who had assembled in Claudius' command tent listened attentively.
"Because," the captain explained, "the Carthaginians are tied to their naval base, here." He showed Claudius a map and pointed to the extreme northeastern tip of Sicily, Cape Pelorias. "At minimum, they have a quarter-day's round trip. Our own journey will take just a fraction of this. Not only must their timing be precise, but they must leave themselves enough time to return to their base before nightfall."
"They will not simply patrol the strait, waiting for us?" Claudius asked. Judging from the inexpertly concealed expressions of the other captains, he felt that it must have been a foolish question.
"Oh, no," the captain said. "Warships simply cannot remain at sea long enough to make an effective blockade. They can attempt to patrol, as you say, but there will be long gaps. Chance alone would put their fleet in our path."
"And why is that?"
"The men need food, Consul. They especially need fresh water. Not even a Carthaginian quinquereme has the storage capacity for these things. You will see on our triremes that there is simply no space. They must put into shore every night, just as we do."
"Oh, yes. Of course," Claudius said, nodding.
"This Hannibal, who commands the fleet, must first be informed of our departure, then deploy his fleet and travel to the strait. Not an instantaneous reaction, to be sure."
So with darkness falling, Claudius felt at least a little comforted that his inadequate war fleet of ten obsolete ships might be required to do little more than delay the powerful Carthaginian fleet, if it showed itself at all.
"By acting aggressively, however," the authoritative captain had gone on, "we might be able to discourage them from attacking. If we make it clear that killing us will not be effortless, they may disengage." The captain smiled at his remark. Unspoken by the group was the fact that, while the destruction of the Roman warships might not be effortless, it was, given Carthaginian inclination, certainly inevitable. The captain might have smiled, but his colleagues listened grimly. Claudius marveled at the bravery of these men. The colonies of Magna Graecia had only been incorporated into the Republic during the previous decade, but here were her men -- Locrians, Neapolitans, and Tarentines -- offering their lives for Roman honor.
So it was ten warships to face the might of Carthage. The captain and his colleagues had then worked out a plan, to Claudius' satisfaction. His faith in these men was absolute.
But now, despite the captain's assurances, Claudius was not so certain they would need the plan after all. The horizon remained empty, and Messana drew near. Claudius' thoughts turned to the problems involved in the deployment of his legions, and his heart quickened. No one was more aware of the momentous nature of his und
ertaking: the first Roman conquest off the mainland of Italy. He knew there would be more, if he had his way -- and his fleet. But whatever the future held, his name, Appius Claudius Caudex, would forever be linked with the crossing of the historic threshold. The men might have been interested in plunder, but for the senior consul of Rome, the opportunity was for glory, the currency of power.
"When we step off these ships into Sicily," Gaius said. "We are at war with Carthage."
"When we enter Messana," Claudius replied, "Messana becomes a Roman city. If Carthage wants war, she will have it."
They could see Messana now. Diminutive against the massive bulk of the island, the city's structures of white stone and mud brick stood out starkly along the shoreline. In a moment, the Roman fleet drew close enough for the men to make out the wind-whipped flames of torches that burned on the walls along the harbor, their reflections flickering in the water below.
Claudius' optimism was short-lived.
"To the north!" Gaius pointed into the distance.
Claudius turned and saw a warship pulling through the heavy sea toward them. Waves crashed over its bow, exposing its deadly ram. It was a quinquereme, a 'five', so-called because five men, as opposed to three for a trireme, rowed each bank of three oars. The ship was sleek and fast and flew Carthaginian banners. In a moment, Claudius spied another behind it, and then another -- all fives. Even from a distance, he could see that they towered over the smaller triremes of the Roman fleet.
The captain of the trireme rushed to Claudius' side.
"Your orders, Consul."
"Signal the quick-rowing, captain. Send out the covering force."
The captain turned at once and began bellowing orders, putting the Tarentine's plan into action: six ships to confront the enemy, four to remain with the transport fleet. The signalman waved his flag, struggling with the two-handed flagstaff in the strong wind. Claudius heard officers shouting from the rowing deck, and the drumming of the mallet, the "thump…thump…thump…" became "thump-thump-thump-thump" and the oars splashed through the waves to the quicker beat. Soon the entire fleet was moving at the new rapid pace.
The signalman then flagged the warships and a small group of triremes and pentekonters split off from the main force. They sped toward the onrushing enemy in two files, oars pounding the water. In the distance, more Carthaginian ships came into view. Their mainmasts were empty, sails stowed for battle, but the little foresails billowed in the increasing wind as the vessels, in line abreast, bore down fast on the approaching triremes. Even as Claudius and the tribune watched, the Carthaginian crewmen began removing the foresails as well, with practiced efficiency.
"Now we'll see how Tarentines and Locrians fight," Claudius said. "They are skilled rowers. Not like Romans."
"Will they fight?" Gaius asked. "That is the question."
"We will find out soon," Claudius said. "They need only hit them hard once, and then beat a retreat. That should give us time to reach the harbor. If our Tarentine captain is correct, the Carthaginians will have no stomach for a fight. The triremes are smaller but more agile. That will have to see us through."
"Even now darkness falls," Gaius said hopefully.
In all, seven Carthaginian quinqueremes rowed out of the gloom to the north on the roughening gray sea, their oars perfectly aligned, beating soundlessly. Claudius watched their implacable advance in awe and fear. Their empty mainmasts towered above their decks, sticklike crosses. They looked like an approaching line of scarecrows.
To Claudius, they looked like harbingers of death.
Be sure not to miss
MY CLOCKWORK MUSE
A Poe Files Mystery
by
D.R. Erickson
Available Now on Kindle
Please visit DavidRossErickson.blogspot.com for more info
Here's a special preview
I was determined not to miss a single shred of evidence, however minute. I started by inspecting the walls on my way down and even the steps themselves as I trod upon them. Naturally, I found nothing, but I could see where a fine film of dust had once coated the stairs as well as the floor below. "Footprints, you damned Gessler!" I muttered under my breath. Hundreds of feet had long since obliterated any traces of the murderer's shoes. This did nothing to discourage me, however. On the contrary, I felt certain that the same carelessness that had destroyed evidence would have unwittingly preserved some for me as well.
The main chamber of the basement, a bustle of activity just the day before, now bore the abandoned, spirit-haunted air of an ancient ruin. The battered aperture in the brick wall was only slightly larger than I had last seen it, extending to about three feet above the floor and of sufficient diameter to comfortably manhandle a corpse through it. As I thrust my lantern forward, the jagged edge made by the broken bricks cast a shadow within the cavity that looked like the gaping mouth of a sharp-toothed beast. I was loath to reach my hand inside, assuring myself that even Gessler would have thoroughly examined the space within. I did not come here to repeat Gessler's investigation, but only to conclude it.
Thus, I did not concern myself with the obvious. No, it was the obscure reaches of the crime scene that interested me.
I turned my lantern away from the hole and was disappointed to find little of interest apart from a worktable set against one of the walls. I walked over to it and found an assortment of carpenter tools laying among untidy stacks of dried-up lumber. I put my lantern down on the table and, expecting little, examined the implements in more detail. It was plain by the dust that covered them that they had not been used in some time, a fact that disclosed to me as well that Gessler's men had not handled them, either. This made the table a trove of potential evidence and I immediately began to scrutinize the objects with increased interest.
My vigilance was rewarded almost at once, for among the planes and the bit-less drills and the saws I chanced upon a trowel. An odd tool, I thought, to find on the worktable of a carpenter. Without touching it for fear of spoiling any evidence thereupon, I bent low over the object and inspected it closely. I quickly found that not only was it free of the dust that covered the other tools, meaning that it had been recently handled, but that it bore on its blade fresh-looking smears of brick mortar!
Gessler, the fool, had missed it! The very implement used to commit the murder, found not ten feet from the body itself! I wondered what else he had managed to overlook. I set about making a thorough search of the table, fearing only that it might take more than Dupin to counteract Gessler's vast incompetence, which ran much deeper than even I had suspected.
I didn't have far to look. Stashed behind a jumble of desiccated two-by-fours, I found a little glass vial. I saw at once that it too was free of dust and my pulse quickened. I brought it out from its hiding place and held it close to the light of my lantern. It was unstoppered and empty and bore a hand-written label. The label was torn and one corner of it had curled away from the glass, but I smoothed it out and read. "Laudan..." The paper had torn right through the 'n', but I knew what it was. My heart raced. This was exactly what I had told Gessler to look for. And here it was: Laudanum.
This was a discovery even greater than that of the trowel. The murderer had no doubt used the drug to sedate his victim, allowing him time to entomb the man within easy reach of his unbound hands. I was all too familiar with the stuff, for Dr. Coppelius had often administered small doses to Virginia in her final days to calm her suffering. I passed the vial under my nostrils, but the bottle had been so long empty that the substance within had left no trace of a scent behind. Being also familiar with the taste, I was just about to touch the rim of the vial to the tip of my tongue when a faint sound reached my ear from out of the darkness beyond the range of my lamp. I paused, listening.
I didn't move a muscle. I strained to hear the sound again. When it failed to recur, I resumed my effort to taste the vial - when there it came again. This time there could be no doubt what it was. My hand shook viole
ntly in my fright and I nearly dropped the precious glass.
It was the sound of jingling bells!
The Blood Gate Page 50