by John Stack
‘Captain!’ he shouted, glancing over his shoulder. He would cut his force in two, sending one half back to relieve Varro’s galleys. It would mean the escape of many of the Carthaginian centre but the transports had to be protected at all costs. The captain appeared beside him. Regulus turned.
‘Signal Consul Longus,’ Regulus began, ‘order him to take the second…’
‘The enemy are turning!’ a voice shouted out and Regulus looked to the waters ahead. The entire Carthaginian line was turning once more into the attack, every galley, a fluid coordinated manoeuvre as if some unseen hand had swept over their line.
‘Mars protect us…’ Regulus whispered as the full realisation of what he was witnessing overwhelmed him. There was never a retreat. It was a trap, and the Roman vanguard had taken the bait completely, leaving a vital part of the fleet vulnerable, risking a loss that would prevent the invasion of Carthage, the death of ten thousand legionaries.
Hamilcar glanced left and right as the last of his galleys slipped into formation, completing the battle line, creating a sweeping wave fifty ships wide bearing down on the Roman line at seven knots. The seaward flank was a mile to the south, its line equally formed on a convergent course with Hamilcar’s galleys and the Romans trapped between them.
‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar ordered and the Alissar bucked beneath him, taking on the extra knots with a savage intent that matched the will of its commander. Hamilcar moved once more to the side-rail to gain a better view of the Roman squadron a half mile away, his elation growing with every passing oar-stroke, the decreasing distance confirming the masthead’s earlier report that the enemy were retreating. The line was in complete chaos, with galleys fleeing north towards the coastline and east, away from the line of attack. Only the transports remained relatively unmoved, the fickle insipid wind making a mockery of their attempts to manoeuvre by sail. Hamilcar had been ready for a fight, had already accepted in his mind the loss of many of his galleys, even the quinqueremes that would be vulnerable to attack as they rammed the transport ships. Now that fight was dissipating before his eyes, the shield wall drawing back to lay bare the unprotected.
Hamilcar looked back over his shoulder to the rear of the Roman spearhead, the enemy galleys slowly fanning out to counter the re-turned Carthaginian line that threatened to envelope them. Hanno had timed his counter-stroke perfectly. He had executed the first part of the plan exactly as requested and so now, for the first time, Hamilcar felt confident that Hanno would follow the second part of his plan, the order that dictated how the councillor would engage the enemy vanguard.
His back protected, Hamilcar brought his full focus back to the transport fleet and its retreating escort. He felt his elation surge again and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, sifting the smells in his nostrils, the clean salt, the stale dry land and underneath, something else, a smell he could almost imagine, a smell of sweat and bile, the fear of the ten thousand men trapped in floating timber coffins.
‘Enemy galley on intercept course!’
Hamilcar snapped open his eyes and looked to the masthead, seeing the outstretched arm and following the indication to the sea ahead. A lone trireme was approaching, her bow reared up in attack speed, her foredeck drenched in spray from her cutwater as she sliced through the gentle swell. Hamilcar looked to her flanks, to her rear and beyond, searching for other galleys, for the attack she must be leading but there was none. The trireme was alone, a single galley against a line of fifty. Hamilcar’s mouth twisted into a snarl as he stared at the lone galley, admiring the bravery of the suicidal charge but dismissing it instantly.
‘Hold your course!’ he shouted to the helmsman.
Hamilcar had seen how the Romans attacked their prey many times, striking them head-on, holding them firm before releasing their cursed boarding ramp. But the approaching galley was a trireme, sailing into a pack of quinqueremes and Hamilcar knew the Alissar would brush her aside with barely a check. He smiled at the prospect, his hand gripping the side-rail in anticipation of the hammer blow to come.
‘Steady,’ Atticus said as he placed his hand on Gaius’s shoulder, the helmsman gripping the tiller with a force that turned his knuckles white.
The solid line of Carthaginian galleys seemed to stretch forever before the bow of the Aquila, the quinqueremes in the centre a terrifying combination of speed and brute strength, their hulls dwarfing the smaller galleys on the flanks and the single galley that sailed towards them.
Atticus looked to the main deck and the sight of Septimus forming his men into protective ranks. The men moved with grit determination, their faces grim under iron helmets and cheek-plates, every sword drawn for the fight to come. Atticus checked his own weapon by his side, drawing the blade an inch out of its scabbard, feeling the familiar weight before slamming it home, his attention returning once again to the enemy.
Atticus counted to the centre galley, the lead ship, its masthead banners unfurling languidly behind and in an instant he was transported back to Tyndaris weeks before, remembering those same banners on a fleeing quinquereme, Hamilcar Barca’s galley. Atticus ran to the side-rail, locking his gaze on the masthead of the enemy galley, confirming what he believed, realising that his target was ever more deadly because it carried the military commander of Carthage.
Atticus stood back from the rail and moved to the centre of the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping once more over the deck of his ship. Corin had descended from the masthead and he stood with the rest of the crew on main deck, the men in a tight knot as Lucius issued final orders to each man. The legionaries beyond were in their own ranks but Atticus noticed glances being exchanged between the two groups, expressions that marked their shared fate, Roman and provincial citizen alike.
Septimus stepped away from his men and strode to the aftdeck. ‘They’re ready,’ he said, his expression grim, unrelenting.
Atticus nodded, ‘Expect two attacks at least,’ he said, tension in his voice for the first time as the distance to the enemy fell below four hundred yards. ‘My crew will try and hold the aft, you hold the main.’
Septimus nodded, looking at Atticus closely, seeing the shadow of uncertainty in his friend’s face.
‘This is something,’ he said and Atticus gave him a quizzical look.
‘I said we needed to do something,’ Septimus explained, a slight smile reaching the corners of his mouth, ‘and this is it.’
‘We had to give the Ninth some chance…’ Atticus said, glad that Septimus understood his order to charge the Carthaginian line. He looked to the advancing enemy, the odds overwhelming and he turned to his friend.
‘About Hadria,’ Atticus began, unsure of what he was about to say.
Septimus looked at Atticus, holding his gaze. ‘She told me,’ he said, the shadow of an emotion sweeping across his face, ‘that she won’t give you up.’
‘And you can’t accept that?’ Atticus asked, silently willing Septimus to relent.
Septimus looked to the waters ahead, each drum beat and oar stroke taking the Aquila closer to certain defeat and the very fate he had wished to shield his sister from, the loss of another love in battle. He turned once more to Atticus.
‘Not today,’ he said and walked back towards his men, his hand reaching for his sword and drawing it with one sweep of his arm, the metal singing against the scabbard.
Atticus watched Septimus for a moment longer. Not today, he thought and he drew his sword, the grip of the hardwood hilt solid between his fingers. He caught Lucius’s eye, nodding to him in command, the older man nodding back imperceptibly before ordering the crew to make ready.
The Aquila sped on, her two hundred oars never faltering, the banner at her masthead whipping out to release the eagle in flight, the seventy-ton hull like an arrow set loose from the draw, skimming the wave tops, taking deadly aim. Atticus stepped back to the helm, seeing Gaius’s hard stare, his gaze never wavering and Atticus took strength from the helmsman. He looked to the enemy. Two hundred y
ards.
‘Ramming speed!’
One hundred yards, thirteen knots, the enemy surging forward, the edges of the line disappearing as all focus turned to the centre, the drum beat crashing out, the oars slicing through the air and surging through the water.
‘Steady Aquila,’ Atticus whispered, placing one hand on the tiller behind Gaius’s grip, his vision filled with the sight of the charging behemoth bearing down.
Fifty yards.
‘All hands, prepare to be boarded!’
Forty yards. Thirty.
‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared and threw himself against the tiller, the helmsman surging with him, their every strength throwing the rudder hard left, the Aquila responding in opposition, her bow slicing right into the path of the flagship, her hull turning in seconds to create a solid wall of timber, iron and men across the enemy front.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Alissar struck the fore section of the Aquila with all the force of her one hundred ton hull, her eleven-knot momentum driving the ram cleanly into the Aquila, punching through the seasoned oak, the blunt-faced fist propelled deep into the slave deck of the trireme. Sixty yards along the hull, the second quinquereme struck, her ram taking the Aquila deep below the waterline, flooding the lower hold, the splintered timbers of the Aquila clawing at the lower cutwater of the quinquereme as if desperately trying to stay the blow.
Hamilcar regained his feet and charged to the front of the aft-deck, scarcely believing the sight before him. A huge crash and screech of timbers made him spin around in time to see two of his galleys collide, a quinquereme turning into the path of another as it swerved to avoid the aft-section of the Roman ship. He swore at the top of his lungs, cursing the idiotic captain who had caused the collision, cursing the Roman galley that shattered the centre of his line. He looked to the trireme, his gaze sweeping her chaotic decks, the galley somehow familiar but the thought cast aside as fury overwhelmed him, his sword leaping from his scabbard without conscious thought. He ran to the main deck, gathering his crew as he did, leading them on, a gathering storm, surging towards the fore and beyond to the enemy deck.
‘It’s the Aquila!’ the masthead roared and Varro whipped his head around, watching as the trireme was rammed by two of the enemy quinqueremes. The sight transfixed him, his mind flooded with doubt, anger and confusion.
‘We have to help them!’ a voice shouted beside him and the captain’s call was taken up across the deck. Varro snapped around, his expression furious.
‘Hold your course!’ he roared, striding over to the captain.
‘Helm! Collision course!’ the masthead roared, his voice manic.
Varro and the captain looked directly to the water ahead, to the three Roman galleys that had turned and were sailing directly across the Orcus’s line and towards the Carthaginian attack, their crews having also seen the Aquila’s lone charge, the sight spurring all to follow.
‘Helm, evasive course!’ the captain shouted and the Orcus turned to starboard.
Varro looked to the helm and beyond to the ragged anarchic formation that had once been his squadron, his gaze immediately picking up the sight of a dozen more galleys turning into the fight, the sound of shouted orders and angry calls for support gathering every ship to the fight, the effect rippling down the line with other Roman galleys turning directly into the seaward enemy attack.
‘Tribune,’ the captain said, his face stern. ‘Your orders.’
Varro turned to the captain, his eyes darting beyond to the empty sea ahead and the coastline. It was close, minutes away.
‘Your orders,’ the captain repeated.
Varro put his hand to the hilt of his sword, fighting the urge to draw the blade, to run the captain through, to escape. He looked at the captain directly, seeing the challenge in his eyes, the naked contempt for Varro’s indecision.
‘Hard to port,’ Varro growled and the captain instantly reacted, shouting the command to the helm, the Orcus turning once more, this time into the face of the oncoming enemy attack.
Varro watched the scene change before the bow of his galley, the coastline giving way to open sea and then the Carthaginian formation, a gaping maw in the centre of their line, a savage tear caused by the Aquila.
‘Perennis,’ Varro whispered, all his hate and fear forged into one man, the Greek captain who seemed set to ruin his fate once more, the Aquila’s lone attack exposing Varro’s retreat in all its shame. There would have been others to blame after the battle, the captain of the Orcus, of other galleys, men lost in a chaotic fight against overwhelming odds whose deaths Varro would use to tangle and bury the truth, but now that confusion was gone, replaced with the clarity of attack, the entire Roman third squadron taking the fight to the enemy. Varro’s order to retreat would be remembered, reported, his reputation ruined forever. One man had precipitated this, one man who had come so close before. Varro turned to the captain once more.
‘Steer a course to the Aquila,’ he said. ‘We will go to her aid.’
‘Yes, Tribune,’ the captain said, concurring unequivocally with the order. The Orcus was the largest galley of the squadron, only she could pass unmolested through the open centre of the Carthaginian line and save the brave men of the Aquila.
Varro caught the captain’s expression of approval and he turned away, hiding the rage that rose unbidden to his face.
‘Vitulus!’ he shouted. The guard commander ran to the tribune.
‘We will soon board the Aquila,’ Varro said, his voice low and menacing. ‘There will be confusion, chaos, many will be killed. Make sure one of those is Perennis.’
Vitulus nodded, his eyes cold as he saluted the tribune, stepping back to draw his sword, his gaze following Varro’s as both men turned to the sea ahead.
The Carthaginian warriors flooded onto the port-side fore and main decks of the Aquila in a savage wave of iron and fury, their war cries screaming hate and death to the Romans, their momentum a relentless force that swung towards the tightly packed semi-circle of legionaries backed up to the starboard rail. Septimus shouted the release of pila, the spears striking the mid and rear ranks of the Punic charge, the front line too close to maul, the Carthaginians bearing down behind their shields as they ran across the ram-tilted deck towards the Roman shield wall.
‘Steady the line!’ Septimus roared, no other command to give, the sea behind them an enemy as merciless as the Punici.
The Carthaginians struck the legionaries with an incredible force and the Roman line buckled and caved, the men behind pushing forward against the front, heaving the formation back into shape with the desperate strength of sixty against two hundred. Septimus struck out with all his might, driving his sword home with a ferocity born of a forlorn hope, his roar giving vent to all his bravery, all his strength, the men to his sides matching his savage aggression, giving no quarter, expecting none, remorseless enemies on all sides.
The Carthaginians surged around the Roman shield wall, enveloping it, hemming it in against the fragile starboard rail, sensing the kill, their blood-lust unleashed while others ran towards the aft-deck, a baying pack of wolf-hounds searching for prey. Atticus stood unmoved; the crew of the Aquila to his back, Lucius and Gaius to his side, anger wrought on every face, knowing their ship was dying beneath them. The Carthaginians gained the aft-deck, spreading out, never faltering as they ran onwards. Atticus raised his sword, holding it high, the unsullied forged iron blade light in his hand. He summoned up his will and let fly with a roar: ‘Aquila!’ The call unleashed his crew and their war cry surged out before them as they ran full-on into the Carthaginian charge, Atticus running deep into the enemy ranks, sweeping his sword down into enemy flesh, the blade drenched with blood that fell to the deck of the dying galley. The crew were swallowed by the Carthaginian horde, the fight on all sides as Atticus held his ground at the centre of the aftdeck with a small knot of men, every man fighting with a demonic fierceness that defied the greater strength of the Punici.
> Beyond the decks of the Aquila the Carthaginian flanks struck the ragged attack of the Roman third squadron, the galleys colliding head-on, the quinqueremes breaking through, the Carthaginian triremes held fast, the Romans streaming across boarding ramps as the battle descended into single combats. A single Roman quinquereme slipped through the line, tearing through the water at twelve knots with the ranks of a full maniple forming on her decks, their shields raised and swords drawn, the standard of a Roman tribune flying from the masthead.
The Baal Hammon reversed oars, her ram at first resisting the pull, the splintered hull of the Roman trireme clawing at the bow of the Carthaginian galley. Hanno watched the death throes of the enemy ship from the aft-deck, his gaze darting left and right, to the archers on his own galley who ceaselessly rained death on the Roman decks, the legionaries hidden behind shield ramparts, forestalling the certain death that awaited them and their ship.
Hanno looked beyond the galley to the fight at large, the lines of battle now a tangled net. He suddenly thought of Hamilcar’s strategy, the plan Hanno had agreed to before the battle, to feign retreat and then counter-attack but to avoid a full engagement against the corvus-armed Roman galleys, Hamilcar warning Hanno that the enemy could not be beaten on their terms, that the ramp still held sway in open battle. Hanno looked to the sinking trireme before the Baal Hammon, the Romans dying before his eyes, the quinquereme, finally released, turning quickly to seek new prey. He smiled derisively. Hamilcar was a fool, or worse he was hoping to take the lion’s share of the victory, his strategy a clever ruse to minimise Hanno’s impact on the outcome.