Master of Rome

by John Stack

  He turned to the Roman spearhead, now less than a hundred yards from the entrance of the inner harbour. No more than forty ships, too few to stop the escape of the Gadir fleet, and Hamilcar repentantly withdrew his censure of Tanit, knowing that had the entire Roman fleet kept pace with the vanguard, his ships would have been annihilated in the bottleneck of the inlet. He glanced once more at the spearhead, ready to dismiss it, when he suddenly recognized the lead ship, his immediate fury sending his hand instinctively to the hilt of his sword. It was Perennis’s ship. The cursed Greek was leading the vanguard, and Hamilcar spun around to face the helmsman, tempted to turn the Alissar into the path of the spearhead.

  He cursed loudly and turned to stare at the enemy once more. To attack the Roman vanguard would be to abandon the chance granted to him by the chaos of the enemy fleet. Its destruction was his priority, and for that he needed to extract his entire fleet from the inner harbour. The battle would be joined, the Gadir fleet unleashed, but Hamilcar now had a further objective. As the Alissar continued west under the shadow of Drepana, his eyes remained locked on his sworn enemy.

  Atticus strode across the deck to the helm as the Orcus reached the southern edge of the inner harbour, his hand kneading the handle of his sword, his frustration of only minutes before – at seeing the leading galleys of the Carthaginian fleet emerge from the inlet – being slowly replaced with a sense of relief. The enemy seemed intent on escaping, sailing in a line astern formation a mere two hundred yards away at the other side of the inlet. Already over forty galleys were outside the bounds of the inner harbour, and although Atticus was in a position to strike at the enemy’s flank, he knew the lead galleys of the Carthaginian fleet would immediately turn back into the fight and trap him.

  Even as a coherent force, Atticus had little doubt in the Romans’ chances against a determined Carthaginian fleet. A surprise blockade had been their only chance and, given that Scipio’s ill-conceived plan of attack had been further weakened by the lack of coordination in the Roman fleet, the enemy’s withdrawal was a godsend. He looked to the lead ship of the enemy fleet, remembering his previous thoughts on the calibre of the Carthaginian commander. His hand fell away from his sword in shock, his feet taking him unerringly to the side rail. He leaned against it, his gaze locked on the distant galley, the unmistakable masthead banners. Barca’s ship.

  He spun around, dread clawing at his stomach as he stared at the scattered Roman fleet. He knew Barca too well, knew he would not retreat in the face of such a disorganized and exposed foe. The Carthaginian fleet was not escaping. It was gaining sea room in order to regroup.

  ‘Prefect …’ Gaius said, alarmed by the look he saw on his commander’s face.

  The helmsman’s voice snapped Atticus back.

  ‘Full about,’ he shouted, and Gaius reacted without hesitation, bringing the Orcus and the vanguard about at the entrance to the inner harbour.

  The crews of the opposing fleets looked across at each other over two hundred yards of iron-grey sea, many of them in silence, while others shouted sporadic curses and threats, eager to engage with the enemy. They did not know the intentions of their commanders, the experienced crewmen knowing they were powerless to control their destiny, subject as they were to the commands of their officers, slaves to their judgement, never realizing that those men were subject to the same tempestuous fate.

  ‘Confirm,’ Scipio shouted impatiently to the masthead, striding across the width of the aft-deck, pausing at each rail in turn to look ahead. His command was followed by a moment’s silence, prompting the captain to order a further two sailors aloft, eager to assuage the consul’s impatience. The Poena was still two miles short of Drepana; from his position, Scipio was unable to see what was happening, his frustration quickly boiling over to compound his anger.

  The lookout had reported the concentration of the vanguard and its advance towards the inner harbour, only to report minutes later that the Carthaginian fleet was escaping the confines of the inlet and sailing west in the lee of the city. The opportunity for a surprise attack had been lost and Scipio was immediately overcome by a sense of desperation, of helplessness, unable in his position at the rear of the fleet to bring the Carthaginians to battle.

  ‘Confirmed, Consul,’ one of the new lookouts called. ‘The Carthaginian fleet is escaping. The vanguard did not reach the inner harbour in time.’

  Scipio halted his incessant striding at the portside rail and watched the long line of Carthaginian galleys extend to the limits of the peninsula, the unmolested enemy ships in a tight formation that mocked the chaotic disposition of the Roman fleet.

  ‘Shall I order battle stations, Consul?’ the captain asked, wary of the proximity of so many enemy ships.

  Scipio seemed not to hear him, his attention turning to the city.

  ‘Consul?’

  Scipio turned around irritably, his mind slowly absorbing the captain’s original question. He waved his hand dismissively.

  ‘No, it’s hopeless,’ he said. ‘We are too far out of position to stop the Carthaginians escaping. We will advance to the inner harbour and take control of the city.’

  The captain hesitated but thought better of challenging the consul, and he nodded his ascent, ordering the minor course change.

  Scipio nodded to himself. Drepana was a small consolation given his original plans and he knew he would need to embellish his account of its capture if he was to gain any credit for such an insignificant victory. The Carthaginian fleet had escaped, the surprise attack had failed, and Scipio cursed the deities for robbing him of his victory.

  ‘Hard to port, standard speed,’ Hamilcar ordered, and the Alissar turned tightly around the seaward end of the narrow island, the vista to the fore of the flagship changing from the empty western horizon to the teeming waters of the southern approaches to Drepana. The galleys behind the Alissar began their turn as they reached the same location, each one dropping off a fraction of a point to sail beyond the flagship, maintaining battle speed until they came up on its starboard beam before dropping to standard speed, the formation rapidly extending into line abreast, the Carthaginians bringing their rams to bear on the Roman foe.

  The low cloud cover and feeble sunlight reduced visibility to less than five miles but Hamilcar could see the entire Roman fleet was encapsulated within that sphere. His gaze swept over them, counting them quickly with a practised eye. He was outnumbered by at least thirty galleys, but the Romans were woefully out of position and Hamilcar now had the advantage of superior sea room.

  He walked over to the helmsman and pointed out the cluster of galleys that made up the Roman vanguard under the command of Perennis, issuing the helmsman with a terse order. The Greek had extracted his galleys from the inner harbour in the time Hamilcar’s ships had taken to sail the length of Drepana, and was now engaged in forming a defensive line. He nodded grimly. Perennis had anticipated his turn. It was not unexpected. He knew the Greek to be a skilful opponent. But he was the only one who had predicted the counter attack, and Hamilcar smiled as he looked upon the centre and southern flank of the Roman fleet, still advancing towards Drepana in a scattered screen of galleys.

  Hamilcar felt the Alissar shift slightly beneath him; he looked along its length and onwards to the enemy formation a mile away. The helmsman was following his orders to the letter, keeping the Alissar fixed on the command ship of the vanguard, and he slapped him on the shoulder before striding away to check the unfolding formation of the Gadir fleet. The battle line was almost formed, the galleys still moving at standard speed, poised to accelerate to battle, attack and then ramming speed.

  Hamilcar turned his focus to the Greek’s ship. He would get only one chance, one opportunity to attack before having to withdraw to take command of the entire battle. He would not be able to order his men to board. There was no time; the overall battle was too important for him not to command personally. One ramming run would get him close enough. Then he would strike.

&n
bsp; ‘Damn it, Baro,’ Atticus shouted. ‘Signal them to tighten the formation.’

  Baro nodded and ran to the signalmen on the foredeck, skirting around the formation of legionaries on the main deck. Atticus looked to the western approaches and the rapidly forming Carthaginian battle line.

  ‘Corin, report,’ he shouted and looked up to the masthead. The lookout turned around and looked down to the aft-deck.

  ‘Thirty galleys still sailing behind the line,’ he shouted. ‘No more than five more minutes.’

  Atticus waved to acknowledge the report and looked anxiously to the remainder of the Roman fleet to the south of the vanguard. The line of his ships was being extended along the coastline by the galleys of Ovidius and, beyond, Scipio, the haphazard defence only slowly taking shape, the Roman captains taking their lead from the vanguard, while only a mile away the Carthaginian battle line was forming with deadly efficiency. Atticus turned to his helmsman.

  ‘Gaius?’ he asked, requesting his steady assessment.

  The helmsman looked to the four points of the ship as his hand continued to move on the tiller, making minor adjustments to his own charge. He looked to Atticus.

  ‘Our only chance is a tight defensive line,’ he said. ‘The Carthaginians will try to ram and they have the sea room to back water if we try to grapple them and board.’

  Atticus nodded. He could see no other way, and his first command to form up on the coast remained sound.

  He met Gaius’s steady gaze. It was a testament to the helmsman’s loyalty that Gaius had not questioned the overall strategy of the attack, or Atticus’s part in its planning. Atticus had not discussed his reservations with any of the crew, but he knew Gaius would be of the same mind. The Roman fleet simply wasn’t ready, and that disparity in skill would be compounded by an unfavourable position in the battle ahead.

  Atticus took strength from Gaius’s faith, using it to suppress his growing fear. The storm off the southern coast of Sicily had cost the fleet many ships and countless lives. Now a new storm was on the horizon less than a mile away, a tempest of steel and men, with a squall line of bronze rams that would overwhelm the exposed and vulnerable Roman fleet.

  ‘They’re advancing,’ Corin called from the masthead. ‘Estimate battle speed.’

  ‘All hands, make ready,’ Atticus shouted and the crew roared a defiant war cry, many of them looking to their commander standing firm on the aft-deck before focusing all of their attention on the oncoming enemy. Atticus spotted Baro on the main deck and called him to his side, wanting to bury their recent enmity in the face of a shared danger.

  ‘They’re moving to attack speed,’ Corin called. ‘Close formation.’

  ‘Close formation …’ Baro repeated to himself. ‘To make sure we don’t break through.’

  Atticus nodded and turned to his second-in-command. ‘Who says we want to escape?’ he said with a wry smile.

  Baro did not reply, the prefect’s glib remark irking him, and he kept his gaze locked on the approaching enemy ships.

  The sun broke through the low clouds with spears of light that reached down to the sea, turning great swathes of the surface from grey to blue. The Alissar sailed into one of the shafts at attack speed, her spear-like hull making a shade over twelve knots in the tideless waters. Hamilcar looked up to bathe his face in the heat of the sunlight. It was a good omen, the light of Shapash, the sun goddess, was upon them, and Hamilcar muttered a brief prayer of gratitude.

  He looked to the main deck and the tight knot of men taking instructions from Himilco, the captain. Many were nodding grimly, glancing over their shoulders to the Roman line, and with a final command they broke to take up their assigned positions. Himilco returned to the aft-deck and saluted his commander.

  ‘I have given them your instructions,’ he said, and Hamilcar nodded in reply.

  He looked to the bow and watched a solid line of shadow sweep along the length of the Alissar towards him as the quinquereme breached the outer edge of the shaft of sunlight. Shapash had bestowed her blessing, and Hamilcar looked to the Roman line less than three hundred yards away, wallowing in grey seas, their formation still not exact, even amongst the galleys of the Greek’s command.

  Hamilcar examined his decision one last time, knowing he was risking a great deal to strike this one blow against Perennis, concerned that his personal vendetta was clouding his judgement, but he quickly rationalized his choice, conceding that the Greek was one of the most skilled commanders in the Roman navy and his loss would be significant. His attack would be swift and brutal, specifically targeted to kill the Greek, and Hamilcar could trust Himilco to have the Alissar back in a command position before the battle was fully engaged. He nodded to himself, his remaining doubts dispelled, and he looked to the captain to issue the order of commitment.

  ‘Ramming speed.’

  Atticus looked along the length of the approaching Carthaginian battle line, the bows of the galleys dipping and rising out of sequence, like the heads of cavalry horses charging in line. He knew the Roman fleet should have advanced to meet the Carthaginians in the centre of the bay in order to gain some sea room, but that command had remained impossible. With many of the galleys still not in position, a ragged charge would have led to utter chaos. However disadvantageous, their only chance now was a defensive battle plan, with the Roman galleys remaining in close proximity to each other.

  ‘Enemy galley on ramming course!’

  ‘Battle speed, full ahead,’ Atticus shouted, reacting instinctively to Corin’s warning.

  The rowers were holding the Orcus on station, the majority of them with their oars dipped in the water, but they moved with lightning speed to Atticus’s command, all of them having heard Corin’s call from the masthead, knowing that if the Orcus was holed they would share its doom.

  Atticus ran to the side rail to look past his own main deck to the approaching galley. He recognized it instantly.

  ‘Barca,’ he uttered, knowing that the focused attack could not be mere coincidence, that the enemy commander had identified the Orcus as he had the Carthaginian’s flagship. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. The odds against the Roman fleet were staggering, but now there was a chance to sever the head of the serpent. The realization steeled his determination to strike down the Carthaginian commander whom he had fought too many times.

  The one hundred-ton hull of the Orcus moved forward at a torturously slow pace, its previous inertia fighting the strength of the rowers.

  ‘Your helm, Gaius,’ Atticus said over his shoulder. ‘Wait for the turn.’

  Gaius nodded and lightened his touch on the tiller, his hand moving slightly from side to side, waiting for the moment when the speed of the hull would allow him sufficient rudder control to turn quickly. The Orcus might gain only a ship length in the time it took for the Carthaginian galley to cover the final gap, and in that limited sea room Gaius knew he would have only one chance to thwart the Carthaginian’s ramming run, to foul the angle of attack and prevent the enemy’s ram from penetrating the hull.

  ‘One hundred yards,’ Corin called.

  ‘Steady …’ Atticus said almost to himself as he returned to the helm, his trust in Gaius absolute.

  ‘Prepare to repel boarders,’ Baro shouted, and the sailing crew drew their swords, the legionaries following suit at the command of Drusus.

  ‘Fifty yards …’

  The hastati raised their pila spears, ready to loose them.

  ‘Aspect change, turning to starboard,’ Corin shouted frantically. Gaius reacted before Atticus could utter the command, the helmsman throwing the tiller hard over, the Orcus turning to port to counter the attack. Atticus nodded. Gaius had done it. The Carthaginians would not be able to cut back inside to ram. They would have to board over the bow rail and take the ship along its entire length, giving the defenders a greater chance. He drew his sword and braced his legs for the impact, Baro drawing his own blade beside him, while Gaius kept both hands on the tiller,
the gap falling to thirty yards, twenty …

  ‘They’re withdrawing oars,’ Corin shouted suddenly, panic in his voice. ‘Starboard side …’

  ‘They’re going to sweep the oars!’

  Again Gaius reacted without hesitation, but travelling at battle speed he could not turn quicker than a galley approaching at ramming speed, and the Carthaginian ship gained a yard on the starboard side as it covered the last ten.

  Time slowed for Atticus as he watched the turn. His heart seemed to stop beating, overwhelmed by a surge of dread and anger, Barca’s perfect ruse bringing a roar of utter defiance to his lips which he twisted into a forlorn command.

  ‘Starboard oars, withdraw! All hands, brace for impact.’

  The Carthaginian ram slammed into the starboard bow of the Orcus, striking the forward strake timbers with a force that heeled the Orcus over into the strike. The entire crew was thrown to the deck, the mainmast tilting over thirty degrees as the Orcus absorbed the blow, and Corin was thrown from the masthead, his cry cut short as he struck the water over the starboard side.

  Atticus regained his feet and ran to the side rail. Corin had resurfaced, along with two other men who had fallen over the rail, and Atticus looked with horror at the approaching Carthaginian galley, the three men directly in its path. The deck beneath shuddered again, this time under the impact of the cutwater of the enemy galley striking the starboard oars, the sound of the fifteen-foot-long oars snapping was overwhelmed by the screams of the dying on the rowing deck, the remnants of the oars scything through the chained men on their mountings, killing any within their reach.