by John Stack
‘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.
‘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 li
ght 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.
Atticus ran back to the helm, desperate to try and save Corin, to somehow turn his devastated galley into the sweep and gain a precious yard of distance on the starboard side. Gaius already had the tiller hard over, the portside oars hastening the turn, but at ramming speed the Carthaginian galley was moving too fast and Atticus looked again to the side rail, hearing the desperate cries of Corin and the others. He turned to Gaius, desperation in his eyes, helplessness overcoming him, his entire focus concentrated on saving his ship and crew, never seeing the approaching danger on the foredeck of the Carthaginian galley.
Hamilcar staggered as he ran the length of the main deck, the Alissar bucking wildly beneath him as it smashed through the oars of the Roman galley. The noise was overwhelming, the screams of dying men, the crack of oars snapping, the sporadic boom of the hulls slamming against each other as they reeled from the initial strike. He reached the foredeck within seconds and glanced over his shoulder to Himilco standing at the helm, his eyes locked on his commander, waiting for the order that would trigger his command to turn away from the stricken Roman galley and rejoin the battle at large.
The deck beneath Hamilcar was littered with the splinters of the shattered oars, while yet more rained down upon him as he came up behind the group of men he had stationed on the foredeck. They stood unmoving, their weapons poised in their hands. Hamilcar looked beyond them to the Roman galley, the mainmast now directly opposite him, now behind. He turned to the enemy aft-deck. Three men stood there and Hamilcar immediately recognized Perennis amongst them, issuing orders to his helmsman while frantically looking to the starboard rail. Hamilcar smiled coldly.
‘Make ready,’ he shouted above the cacophony of noise. His men raised their weapons.
Drusus stood stoicall
y on the main deck of the Orcus at the head of his demi-maniple, his legs braced against the shudder of the deck beneath him, his expression murderous behind his raised shield, his eyes locked on the passing Carthaginian galley. As a soldier trained and forged in close combat, where you could smell the breath of your enemy, where the shadow of death was cast over all, the concept of attacking an enemy with impunity was abhorrent.
There was no honour in the naval tactics of ramming or sweeping oars, striking your foe with a crippling or even mortal blow, only to sail away without ever having faced down your enemy. That was not the way of the legions, and Drusus craved the chance to take the fight to the Carthaginians, hoping that they might yet board the Orcus and taste the steel of the men to his back.
A shattered piece of oar slammed into his shield. The bow of the Carthaginian galley passed, moving at the speed of a running man, and Drusus’s eye was immediately drawn to the knot of men on the enemy foredeck, their attention fixed on the aft-deck of the Orcus, their intention clear. Drusus did not hesitate. He ran, shouting for his men to follow, the more alert reacting instantly, the Carthaginian galley outpacing them all as they raced to the aft-deck.
Atticus heard his name being called through the deafening noise and turned to the main deck. Drusus was running towards him with a half-dozen men, while behind him the rest of the maniple seemed in confusion, with many others turning to join the flight towards the aft-deck. The optio was screaming his name, pointing frantically to a point somewhere to Atticus’s right, and he spun around.
The foredeck of the Carthaginian galley was all but level with his position and Atticus immediately saw the danger, the tight knot of archers with their bows drawn, their arrows pointing directly at him, Baro and Gaius. Behind them he saw Hamilcar, his gaze already locked on Atticus. Across the maelstrom of shattered oars and the wall of screams from the rowers below, Atticus saw the hatred pouring from Hamilcar’s eyes and the triumphant, twisted smile on his face.