by John Stack
Atticus came on against the Rhodian’s charge, keeping his body low to maintain his balance on the blood-soaked and body-strewn deck. He shoved a man aside, keeping his line straight, and bunched his weight behind his shield, his battle lust pouring out of him in a guttural roar of challenge that the Rhodian answered with his own cry. They reached each other amidst the heaving fight. Atticus slammed his shield into the Rhodian to unbalance him, jabbing his sword forward; but his blade was immediately knocked down with a force that jarred the muscles of his arm and Atticus realized he was well matched. He dropped his shield an inch and stared into his opponent’s face, seeing past the fearsome mask of hostility to the eyes, readying himself for the assault.
Calix broke away to put the strength of his shoulder behind his strike. He brought his sword around like a scythe, the blade whistling through the air. Atticus reacted instinctively, a lifetime’s training guiding his arm, and he dropped his shield to accept the strike, the hammer blow knocking him off balance. He recovered with a counter-stroke, but with incredible dexterity the Rhodian reversed the strike and Atticus, acting on sheer reflex, parried the killing thrust with his sword, twisting his wrist to expel the Rhodian’s blade from inside his guard.
The steel swords rasped together and Atticus took a step back, regaining his balance as he drew breath before renewing his attack. Calix met him head on, both men unable to sidestep on the crowded deck, and again they were locked chest to chest, their faces inches from each other and the sweat and breath of the Rhodian mingled with Atticus’s own in his nostrils. He shifted his weight to his right foot, using his left to propel him forward and swung his sword around, but in the crowded fight his blade caught on an unseen soldier, and the Rhodian’s eyes flashed with triumph, his opponent exposed. He lunged forward inside the attack and Atticus, unable to give ground on the perilously slippery deck, was forced into a desperate defence.
He hooked his arm around to parry with his sword but the Rhodian pushed forward relentlessly, switching his attack from left to right and back, breaking his own rhythm with unexpected twists that kept Atticus on the back foot. The tortured muscles of his sword arm conspired with his laboured breathing to feed the creeping panic that clouded his mind as each strike of the ceaseless attack came within a hair’s-breadth of penetrating his frantic defence. He fought on, the battle surrounding him blurring into insignificance, his reactions to the Rhodian’s blade predetermined by reflexes and innate skill.
Atticus could see nothing beyond his opponent and the flash of steel between them. He was close to defeat and the realization stirred the fury within him. He had brought this fight to the Rhodian. This was his battle, fought on his terms, and suddenly his panic ceased, replaced with a cold determination.
The Rhodian brought his blade in low and Atticus swept it aside, reversing the parry, forcing the other to bring his shield down to stifle the blade. In the same instant, Atticus swung his own hoplon around, slamming it in the Rhodian’s exposed shoulder. He staggered backwards to regain his balance.
Atticus followed through, keeping the Rhodian off balance, and the roles were neatly reversed, Atticus tapping every reserve of his strength, knowing he needed to end the fight, that he was close to reaching his limits. He swung his blade through a series of strokes, a recurring sequence of cut and thrust, purposefully allowing a deadly predictability to creep into his attack while he watched the Rhodian’s face intently, waiting to see the first signs of recognition that the attack had become rhythmic.
Calix could not give ground on the crowded deck and he stood firm, his mind numb to the searing pain in his chest as he parried blow after blow. The attack was unceasing, Perennis’s strength seemingly limitless, and Calix started to search desperately for a way out. He had information the Romans could use — it was his only advantage; but as he made to utter a call for surrender, his warrior’s instincts registered a fatal flaw in Perennis’s attack, and he readied himself for what he knew would be the final strike.
Atticus saw it, the tiny light of triumph in the Rhodian’s eyes, and he suddenly broke the rhythm that had lulled the Rhodian, reversing his blade at the arc of his stroke to swipe inside the Rhodian’s defence. The Rhodian was completely unprepared and Atticus’s sword sliced cleanly into the under-side of his opponent’s outstretched arm, cutting through muscle and flesh until the blade met the smooth edge of the bone. The Rhodian cried out in pain and his sword fell from lifeless fingers. Atticus pulled his own blade clear to deliver the killing stroke, arching back, his eyes still locked on the Rhodian’s, seeing there the desperation of defeat. The Rhodian’s shield fell, his hand clasping his wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood, and his eyes came level with his executioner’s.
‘Quarter, Perennis,’ the Rhodian shouted, the shock of hearing his name causing Atticus to hesitate. He twisted his blade aside, staying his attack to bring the tip of his sword up to the Rhodian’s neck.
‘Your fleet,’ the Rhodian gasped, knowing death was still at hand. ‘Your fleet is in danger…’
Atticus remained poised to strike the Rhodian down, his sword hand trembling with suppressed battle rage, but the Rhodian’s words forced his hand.
‘Order your men to stand down,’ he shouted through parched lips.
The Rhodian quickly complied, calling on his crew to lower their weapons, and the outnumbered mercenaries followed his order, stepping back from their attackers, their arms held out as they looked about the ruin that was the deck of the Ares.
Atticus lowered his sword from the Rhodian’s neck, although he kept it charged, knowing the conflict that rages within the mind of a defeated foe, the sudden shame that can sweep a man who has surrendered his arms, a shame that can compel him to restart the fight. His crew did likewise and they moved forward quickly to distance the mercenaries from their fallen weapons, ordering them to relinquish their remaining blades.
Atticus stepped back and stared at the Greek mercenary. His face was drawn in a grimace of pain, but his eyes remained defiant and he held Atticus’s gaze.
‘I have information that can save your fleet from defeat,’ he said, his words coming slowly through ragged breaths.
‘What information?’ Atticus asked impatiently.
‘The location and size of the Carthaginian fleet,’ Calix replied.
‘Where are they?’ Atticus asked.
‘I will speak only with the consul,’ Calix said, knowing he had to regain some measure of control over his own fate if he was to survive. His contract, and therefore his loyalty to Hamilcar, was severed the moment he surrendered, rendered void by his inability to complete the task. Now his loyalty extended only to the task of securing his own freedom.
Atticus stepped forward once more, angered by the Rhodian’s evasion. ‘You will tell me now, Rhodian,’ he spat, ‘or I will have my men torture you until you do.’
‘You are no fool, Perennis,’ Calix replied evenly, straightening his back to stand tall, his face twitching slightly from the incessant pain in his arm. ‘You know my information will be more valuable if I give it willingly.’
Atticus knew the Rhodian was right, that a man would confess anything under torture, even untruths. He relented and brusquely ordered his men to take the Rhodian back to the Virtus.
He watched them leave and then looked down to the deck and the carnage that the few minutes of fighting had wrought. The quadrireme was taken, the blockade once more secure, but the cost had been high and Atticus counted a score of fallen men, Roman sailors who had charged fearlessly into the fight. He stepped through their ranks slowly, and then crossed once more to the Virtus, quickly making arrangements for a prize crew to take command of the Rhodian’s galley.
Within minutes Gaius had the Virtus under way, turning its course to the northern end of the bay as it cleared the channel, the Orcus falling into its wake. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, watching quietly as a sailor bandaged the wound on the Rhodian’s arm. The fight was won but the Rhodian had increase
d the prize. Capturing the quadrireme had become only a part. The Rhodian’s knowledge was the balance and Atticus was determined to take his full measure of its worth.
Atticus coughed violently as the dust thrown up by the horse’s hooves coated the back of his parched throat. The effort to breathe hurt his chest and he gazed through exhausted eyes to the main gate of the legion encampment ahead. The rush of battle that had possessed him only an hour before had fled, and he looked grimly to the charred remains of the siege towers two hundred yards away. They were being picked over by a dozen soot-stained soldiers, searching for salvageable remains of iron, like ants scavenging a carcass after a larger predator has eaten its fill.
Atticus looked to his own blood-and sweat-stained tunic, blacked by the fires of battle. Then he glanced at Ovidius, the Roman prefect, riding by his side, at his immaculate tribune’s uniform. He felt no inferiority, though; he was glad he had been able to locate his fellow fleet commander as he landed on the northern shore of the bay, knowing he too needed to hear the Rhodian’s information first hand. He saw Ovidius glance at the cavalry troop in their wake and the prisoner in their midst, noting with satisfaction that the Roman prefect had taken Atticus at his word and was conscious of the importance of the Rhodian.
The horsemen rode through the gates unchallenged, many of the legionaries looking with undisguised curiosity at the ragged sailor riding shoulder to shoulder with the tribune. They made their way directly to the command tent in the middle of the encampment, dismounting even as their horses slowed, and Atticus felt a renewed surge of energy flood his reserves as he watched two cavalrymen manhandle the wounded Rhodian from his mount. An optio approached Ovidius and, following a terse request, withdrew into the tent, reappearing after a minute to summon the men forward. Ovidius led Atticus and the Rhodian inside.
The interior was bathed in canvas-filtered sunlight, subdued by the dark rugs underfoot. After a brief pause inside the threshold, the men stepped forward. Scipio was seated at the far end of the tent, behind a dark stained desk, a solid piece built for the rigours of a campaign; but closer inspection revealed the intricacies of its elaborate carvings, the work of master craftsmen. His face was drawn with irritation and he barely acknowledged the salutes of his two prefects, his eyes darting to each in turn but lingering a second longer on Atticus.
‘Speak,’ he said to Ovidius.
‘Prefect Perennis,’ Ovidius began, glancing at Atticus, ‘captured this man and his crew as they tried to run the blockade earlier this morning. He is the mercenary known as the Rhodian.’
Scipio shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, looking to the wounded man behind Ovidius.
‘And…?’ he said impatiently.
‘He claims the fleet is in danger from a Carthaginian attack,’ Atticus interjected, hiding his own impatience, wary as always of Scipio’s hostility.
‘Claims?’ Scipio said.
‘He knows the location of the enemy fleet, Consul,’ Atticus continued.
‘Where is it?’ Scipio asked.
‘He will not say. He demanded to speak only to you, Consul,’ Atticus explained. ‘And, given the importance of the information, I judged it best that it was given willingly.’
‘You are a fool, Perennis,’ Scipio said dismissively. ‘He is bargaining for his life. He would say anything.’
Atticus bristled at the insult.
‘I believe him, Consul,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He escaped this harbour days ago carrying Carthaginian officers, and when captured today those men were not on board. With the wind shift in the past twenty-four hours, I believe they must have disembarked at some location not a day’s sailing from here.’
‘They could have transshipped to another galley,’ Scipio said mockingly, ‘or simply landed somewhere along the coast.’
‘I brought them to their fleet,’ Calix said, speaking for the first time, noting the open hostility the consul displayed towards the Greek prefect. The identity of his passenger entered his mind, but Calix chose to retain that information, knowing he needed to keep something in reserve to strengthen his bargaining position.
Scipio grunted in reply but he tempered his scornful remarks, the seeds of fortune and opportunity combining in his mind. Perhaps this was his chance to go on the offensive. He beckoned the Rhodian forward with a wave of his hand.
‘You are who Perennis claims you are?’ he asked.
‘My name is Calix.’
‘But men call you the Rhodian?’ Scipio said, smiling coldly at the confident tone of the captured captain.
‘I am of that island,’ Calix replied.
‘So you too are Greek,’ he said slowly, the smile falling from his face. ‘Like the mercenaries who attacked the siege towers.’ And he glanced unconsciously at Atticus.
Calix saw the sideward glance. ‘I know nothing of them,’ he said. ‘I was hired by the Carthaginians for a specific task, as I was hired by the Romans in the past.’
Scipio’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he leaned forward, his interest piqued by the revelation. ‘When were you hired by the Romans?’ he asked, and Calix listed the operations he had carried out at the beginning of the war.
Scipio sat back again, intrigued by the mercenary’s obvious indifference to both sides in the conflict, his adherence to any cause purchased only for the length of a single contract. Scipio had known and manipulated men of this sort his entire career, and he knew the measure of their loyalty, and how easily it could be bought.
‘So now you will reveal the location of the Carthaginian fleet in exchange for your life?’ Scipio asked and Calix nodded.
‘Where is it?’ Scipio asked.
‘You will release me?’ Calix said.
Scipio nodded.
‘The Carthaginian fleet is anchored at Drepana.’
‘How many?’ Atticus asked.
‘Over one hundred galleys,’ Calix replied over his shoulder. He turned back to Scipio. ‘They are planning an attack. I do not know when.’
Again Scipio nodded.
‘Guards,’ he called, and four legionaries entered.
‘Take this man to the guardhouse and hold him there,’ he said.
‘But our agreement,’ Calix said angrily.
‘Will be honoured when we have confirmed your information,’ Scipio said dismissively, and he returned the Rhodian’s hostile gaze as he was escorted out.
Calix followed the legionaries across the beaten earth in the centre of the encampment, the acid bile of anger in his throat. He swallowed his fury, knowing he needed to remain calm. The consul’s actions were not wholly unexpected and Calix focused on the remaining information he held. The Romans would have confirmation of his report when they reached Drepana and, whether they attacked or remained in defence, the identity of the Carthaginian commander was salient information.
Calix suddenly recalled the hostility he had witnessed towards Perennis. The Greek prefect had been victorious, had taken a valuable ship as a prize, and yet the Roman consul had offered no praise. He had even looked at Perennis when he spoke of the attacks perpetrated by Greek mercenaries. Such an open schism was an obvious weakness and Calix kept it at the forefront of his thoughts, knowing that if he were to escape with his life, he would need every advantage he could gain.
Scipio looked to Atticus and Ovidius in the silence that followed the Rhodian’s departure, his mind already formulating a plan, a mortal blow to the Carthaginian fleet.
‘How far is Drepana?’ he asked of the two men before him.
‘No more than four hours,’ Atticus replied. ‘We must plan our defence so we can be ready at a moment’s notice.’
‘Our defence?’ Scipio said incredulously. ‘By the gods, Perennis, you Greeks are a timid race. We will attack, immediately.’
‘We cannot, Consul,’ Atticus said, struggling to contain his anger against Scipio’s hostility and denigration. ‘The men of the new fleet aren’t ready for an open, offensive battle.’
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�We have surprise and numbers on our side, Perennis,’ Scipio said, a cold edge to his voice. ‘If you have not the courage to fight on even these advantageous terms, then I shall remove you from your command.’
Atticus took a half-step forward to retort, but Ovidius spoke first.
‘We can be ready to sail by nightfall, Consul,’ he said, looking to break the conversation between the other two men. He did not know the source of the consul’s antagonism towards the prefect, but he was eager to deflect it, confident in the opinion he had formed of the Greek since arriving in Lilybaeum.
This was Ovidius’s first naval command, granted to him weeks before in Rome when he was tasked with sailing the first contingent of the new fleet south to the Aegates Islands in preparation for the siege of Lilybaeum. Unfamiliar with naval warfare, he relied heavily on the experienced captains of his squadron, and had spoken to each exhaustively over the course of the monotonous weeks of the blockade. The Greek prefect’s name had been mentioned many times, and Ovidius had quickly become aware of the high regard in which the men held him.
He did not understand the Greek’s hesitation and agreed with the consul’s assertion, but he also knew it was in the fleet’s best interest for Perennis to retain command of his squadron.
‘By nightfall,’ Scipio said, looking to Ovidius, the distraction causing his mind to focus once more on the incredible opportunity the Rhodian’s information had unlocked. He pushed his anger aside.
‘Yes, Consul,’ Ovidius replied. ‘We can sail up the coast during the night and attack at dawn, and a night approach will ensure the Carthaginians are not forewarned by land.’
Scipio stood up in anticipation. ‘Ready the fleet, Ovidius,’ he said, striding around the table. ‘We sail at dusk.’
Ovidius saluted and as he made to turn he saw the Greek ready himself to argue once more. He grabbed him by the arm, staying Atticus’s words, and led him from the tent.