Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

Hamilcar slammed his fist into his open palm in triumph. Time had passed but nothing had changed and Hamilcar thanked Anath, the goddess of war, that the Romans had lost none of their arrogance. They would certainly put to sea once the storms of winter had passed, perhaps believing because of his forces’ inertia that Lilybaeum was vulnerable once more. He smiled coldly. That belief, or whatever conceit possessed them, would be their undoing. The forces of Carthage in Sicily might have slumbered but they were far from inert. They could be battle-ready by his command within days, while an additional fleet would soon assemble in the harbour of Carthage, ready for his hand to lead them into battle.

  Drepana was merely a prelude. His next victory would be nothing short of annihilation. Beyond that, Hamilcar was determined not to repeat his previous naivete. He would not return to Carthage to trumpet his victory, nor would he relinquish his forces. He would retain them and, after the Romans had been defeated in pitched battle, he would pursue them relentlessly, even to the very shores of Rome, a punitive voyage to destroy every last galley they possessed and forever crush their ambition to conquer the island of Sicily.

  Septimus sat in the bow of the skiff, his rounded hoplon shield across his lap, his gaze on the quinquereme ahead. The Orcus had been in port for over three weeks, although Septimus had been unable to call on the galley until now, the demands of his rank keeping him in camp. He called for permission to board and quickly climbed up the ladder from the skiff to the main deck, the familiarity of the galley bringing a rough smile to his face.

  He went towards the aft-deck and saw Atticus approach to meet him, his hand extended in friendship. Septimus took it. ‘It’s good to see you, Atticus.’

  ‘And you,’ Atticus replied, maintaining the grip.

  ‘What news from Sicily?’ Septimus asked, and Atticus told the centurion of his progress over the previous months, the two men lapsing into a conversation as Atticus tried once more to fathom the Carthaginians’ plans. They walked to the side rail together.

  ‘I heard about Scipio,’ Septimus said, a wry smile on his face.

  Atticus nodded, his satisfaction at the demise of his enemy still tainted by the support Scipio’s accusations had found amongst the senators, and he told Septimus the details of the trial.

  ‘And where is Baro now?’ Septimus asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Atticus replied, ‘I only know he hasn’t been seen since.’

  Septimus tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as he thought of Baro and Scipio, regretting that he had not been there to stand beside Atticus as he had done when his friend had first faced the senator in the Curia, his command of the IV of the Ninth keeping him in Sicily.

  He looked at Atticus’s scarred face. So much had happened between them since he had first been assigned to the Aquila years before. They had fought together many times, against each other over Hadria, but on the same side against every enemy. He thought of the absolute trust they had always placed in each other in battle and their mutual conviction to stay and fight, side by side, against any foe. The war had yet to be won, the fight was not over, and Septimus knew he should honour the friendship that had been forged in the fires of battle.

  He turned to Atticus, his decision made. ‘When the fleet sails, the Ninth will sail with them, and I will ask to be assigned to the Orcus. As a prefect you could overrule that request, given my previous resignation…’

  Atticus never hesitated, a smile breaking out on his face once more. ‘The command is yours,’ he said, and in that simple acceptance the last vestiges of their previous conflict were swept away.

  ‘Duilius has told me of the Ninth’s training,’ Atticus said, breaking the silence that followed. ‘What’s your assessment?’

  ‘Given time they’ll be ready, Atticus,’ he said with total conviction. ‘Fully trained to the standard of any marine on the Aquila before the war.’

  Atticus nodded. ‘I’ve already seen how the fleet performs. The remaining experienced captains and I still have a lot of work to do, but by the time the winter storms pass the new crews will be ready to sail south.’

  ‘Then we’ll go back to war,’ Septimus said, looking forward to the time when the Ninth would once more become a front-line legion.

  ‘We’ll go back,’ Atticus said. ‘Only this time, we’ll face the Carthaginians as equals, on their terms.’

  ‘Rome victorious,’ Septimus said.

  ‘Rome victorious,’ Atticus responded, the phrase taking on a new meaning for him, one that spoke of the loyalty to his comrades that he now knew could never be broken.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hamilcar looked up at the verdant slopes of the mountain soaring up from the shore of the ‘sacred island’ to the clouds racing overhead. The sky was a reflection of the sea, the heavy swell following the course of the clouds, racing to keep up under the force of a strong westerly wind. He placed his hand on the side rail, gripping it tightly as the Alissar rolled beneath him, and he gazed about him at the Carthaginian fleet holding station in the lee of the island.

  Over the winter months, Hamilcar had slowly assembled a fleet of one hundred and sixty galleys in Carthage. Hanno had refused to re-release the Gadir fleet and so Hamilcar had been forced to draw his forces from the minor fleets guarding the African coastline and trading routes. They were skilled sailing crews but he had been forced to admit that they lacked the battle-hardiness of the Gadir fleet, and the cold months had had to be spent reinforcing their training, while waiting for news from Rome that the enemy fleet had sailed.

  Reports had arrived four days before, not from Rome but from Lilybaeum — disastrous news that the Romans, with a fleet of two hundred ships, had taken the undefended port of Drepana in a surprise attack from the north. Hamilcar had hastily set sail with his fleet, his course taking him directly to Hiera, the sacred island of the Aegates, to find Himilco already waiting there for him with the ninety galleys of the Lilybaeum fleet, the very ships they had captured from the Romans at the battle of Drepana over a year before.

  Himilco had abandoned the port, fearful of being blockaded and, knowing that a battle with the Romans was inevitable, he had taken with him the entire garrison of a thousand men. It was a bold and decisive move that Hamilcar approved of, although he knew Lilybaeum was now ripe to fall. If the Romans were to attack from the landward side, the population might well panic, and without a garrison to control them they would throw open the gates to save themselves. It was imperative, therefore, that his fleet reach Lilybaeum with all haste, but Hamilcar had nevertheless waited for a favourable wind to give his approach an additional advantage in what were now enemy-infested waters.

  With a combined fleet of two hundred and fifty galleys, Hamilcar was confident that he could challenge any blockade of Lilybaeum; but, given the Roman’s boldness in bypassing Panormus and taking Drepana, he knew that blockade would never materialize. The Romans were seeking battle. It was surely why they had attacked Drepana without warning, for they had expected to find a Carthaginian fleet there.

  Hamilcar had always known the Romans to be arrogant, but given their defeat over a year before in these very waters, their return and audacious attack displayed a level of arrogance that was staggering to behold. Hamilcar’s fleet was inexperienced but nonetheless they were Carthaginian, and he outnumbered the Romans by at least fifty ships.

  After Drepana he had wanted to push the war to a final conclusion. Now the Romans were handing him that chance, confronting him like a dying warrior reaching for his last weapon, marshalling his final strength for one last great effort. They would not succeed, Hamilcar thought triumphantly; he would end them, here, in the cold grey waters off the Aegates Islands, and with a shouted command that carried on the wind, he called his fleet to battle stations, knowing that between the sacred island and Lilybaeum he would meet and finally destroy the greatest foe he had every known.

  Atticus stood on the foredeck of the Orcus, his tunic soaked through from the sea water crashing over the bo
w rail, the cutwater of the quinquereme slicing through the endless rows of wind-driven waves. The drum master was hammering out standard speed, but the quinquereme was only barely making headway, while Atticus squinted into the wind to the grey horizon and the distant island of Hiera.

  He glanced over his shoulder to the rest of the fleet taking shelter around the southernmost headland of Aegusa, the largest of the Aegates Islands and the closest to Lilybaeum, five miles away to the east. He wiped the sea spray from his eyes, searching again for some flash of movement, some sign of colour, anything that would betray the exact position of the Carthaginian fleet in the shadow of Hiera.

  He turned and looked back along the length of the Orcus. Catulus, the junior consul, was on the aft-deck, standing by the helm, his personal guard close at hand. He stood with his legs apart, braced against the pitch of the deck, his gaze reaching past Atticus to the western horizon, his bearing one of total confidence. The senior consul, Aulus Postumius Albinus, was also the flamen martialis, a member of the priesthood, and was forbidden by religious taboo from leaving the city. The position of overall commander had therefore fallen to Catulus.

  The junior consul had quickly chosen the Orcus as his flagship, wishing to sail with his most experienced prefect, and from the outset he had consulted with Atticus at each stage, reminding Atticus of another junior consul years before on the eve of the battle of Mylae. Catulus knew the limits of his experience, and was content to allow Atticus to make front-line decisions, giving him effective command of the fleet.

  Atticus looked to the heavens, knowing that Fortuna was continuing to toy with him. His approach from Rome had been flawless; his tactic of keeping the bulk of the fleet out of the normal trading lanes and away from the sight of land, coupled with avoiding Panormus, had allowed him to take Drepana completely by surprise. But only then did Fortuna reveal her presence. Drepana had been abandoned by the Carthaginian fleet, and although Atticus had been gifted a secure harbour, his ultimate goal to bring the enemy fleet to battle had been thwarted.

  He had sent out patrol ships, through which he’d received reports that the only ships the Carthaginians had in the area had fled Lilybaeum and sailed west, another stroke of bad luck that was neatly reversed when the enemy fleet was seen approaching from the south to take up position at Hiera, a staging post for a run at the port of Lilybaeum. Atticus had immediately ordered his fleet to Aegusa, knowing the Carthaginians would have to sail past, but again Fortuna had spun her wheel, stirring up a strong westerly wind that churned the sea into a heavy swell.

  Atticus had continued the training of the fleet during the winter, and his confidence had increased during the voyage south from Rome, the disciplined formations of the fleet holding even during the hours of darkness. Individually the seamanship of the Romans would never be of the standard the Carthaginians possessed, a skill learned over a lifetime, but in a massed battle the finer subtleties of seamanship mattered little, and Atticus was confident that his men were trained to a high enough standard to match the enemy.

  But now the gods were conspiring to foul those odds, giving the Carthaginians the advantage of a tail wind and the Romans the potentially ruinous disadvantage of facing into a heavy swell. The Roman rowers would have to work twice as hard to take up position against the Carthaginians, and if any of the crews misaligned their hulls, the swell would turn them out of position, leading to collisions and exposing their broadsides to the enemy rams.

  Atticus glanced at the new helmsman. He was a master of his craft, a skilled navigator and pilot, but although Atticus had shared the aft-deck with him since Drepana, he had yet to establish the level of trust that he had had in Gaius. The sailing crews were untested in battle and, with the elements against them, any battle fought on this day would be a challenge beyond any he had envisaged. He wished Lucius and Gaius were by his side, two steadfast advisors from whom he could draw counsel, and he looked once more to the western horizon, the wind robbing him of his breath at the moment he spotted the line of dark hulls in the distance.

  ‘Enemy galleys approaching, dead ahead,’ the lookout called, and without command the Orcus came to battle stations.

  Atticus stood silent. The time for deliberation had passed. Now he had to commit one way or the other: withdraw to the safety of Drepana and wait for a better opportunity, or take the fight to the Carthaginians and trust in the men he commanded. He suddenly realized that Septimus had come up to the foredeck and was standing beside him, the centurion looking out beyond the bow rail to the enemy ranks, his expression as hard as iron.

  ‘The final battle,’ he said, and Atticus looked to the enemy. If we dare, he thought.

  Septimus glanced over his shoulder, looking to his own men on the main deck, Drusus at their head. He was too unskilled in boarding to be given a command in the navy, and so he had accepted a demotion to optio in order to remain on board, gladly taking his place beside his former commander.

  ‘They’re ready,’ Septimus said, referring to his legionaries, the men drawn up in tight ranks, their rounded shields held firmly by their sides.

  Atticus nodded. ‘They are,’ he said, thinking of his own command, the sailing crews — and the simple admission ended his doubts. They were ready and the enemy was at hand. He looked past Septimus and called a runner to his side.

  ‘Signal the fleet. All hands prepare for battle.’

  ‘Enemy galleys ahead!’

  ‘Battle speed. Secure the mainsail,’ Hamilcar shouted, and the actions of the crew of the Alissar were repeated on the galleys flanking the flagship, the preparations for battle rippling down the length of the fleet. Hamilcar stared at the waters ahead, watching as the Roman battle line extended, the enemy galleys beating directly into the wind, the spray thrown up by their bows as they sliced through the heavy swell visible even from his distant vantage point. Whether through stubborn arrogance or mindless courage, the Romans were obviously determined to precipitate a battle, and Hamilcar sneered disdainfully at their folly.

  From the Alissar ’s position in the centre, Hamilcar looked to his flanks and the expanding line of his own fleet, their deployment hastened by the wind-driven waves. A sliver of annoyance rose within him as he noticed that many of the galleys were not gaining their position with the alacrity he would expect, the less experienced coastal galley crews being unused to large fleet manoeuvres, but he ignored the feeling, vowing instead that after the battle he would ensure that every crew was trained to the level of the Gadir fleet, an exemplar for the entire empire.

  The battle line coalesced and hardened into a solid wave of timber, steel and men. Hamilcar moved to the foredeck, glancing left and right down the line, acknowledging the signals relayed from Himilco on the right flank that the Carthaginian line extended beyond that of the Romans, an implicit assurance from the experienced captain that he would allow none to escape to the south.

  Hamilcar was captivated once again as he watched the bows of the galleys surge forward with the sweep of each oar stroke, the rams overtaking the swell, catching each wave and slicing through its crest, the hull bearing down through the trough in an unstoppable charge. He let the sight fill his heart and he thought back to the battles he had fought, on the sacred land of Carthage and the cursed earth of Sicily, on the all-encompassing sea, the domain of his ancestors. He thought of his foes, the invidious Romans and the Greek whoreson who had risen in their ranks, and the misguided leaders of his own beloved city who sought to confound his every move. It would all end in the waters ahead, decided on the blunt-nosed tip of a bronze ram or the steel tip of a sword, and Hamilcar ran his gaze across the length of their battle line before focusing dead ahead on the centre of the line and the heart of his foe.

  The gap fell to a mile, the final boundary of commitment, the last chance for the combatants to disengage, but the fleets continued to converge without check or alteration. Hamilcar let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. He drew it slightly and looked to the shard of exposed stee
l. It was polished, sharpened to a fine edge, and he tilted the blade to catch the sunlight, imprinting the image on his mind, knowing that by the end of the day it would be stained with Roman blood.

  ‘Six hundred yards,’ the masthead lookout called, and Hamilcar strode from the foredeck, nodding to his men on the main deck as he passed them, their eyes determined and hostile, locked on the approaching enemy, silently goading them on, waiting for the order to strike. Drepana had steeled the nerve of every man, even those who had not fought that day, the crushing defeat inflicted on the enemy navy exposing the Romans as mortal men, vulnerable to the blade of a sword and the power of a ram. They returned their commander’s nod, ready to follow him against the enemy, and Hamilcar felt the awe-inspiring faith of Carthage on his shoulders as he took up his command position beside the helm.

  ‘Four hundred yards,’ the lookout called.

  ‘Attack speed,’ Hamilcar ordered without hesitation, the entire fleet responding within a ship length. He closed his eyes and whispered a final prayer to Anath, to guide his hand and watch over his men, and when he opened them again, he raised his voice and led his men in a war cry, calling down death upon the enemies of Carthage.

  Atticus heard a war cry on the back of the wind, a surging wave of sound that swept over the advancing Roman fleet. It was met with silence by the legionaries, discipline holding them firm. Only the order to attack would unleash their fury; until then, each man would hold that fire within him. Septimus moved among his men, speaking slowly of the battle to come, of how he expected each man to attack without hesitation, without mercy, reminding them of Drepana and the measure of vengeance that their fallen comrades called for from beyond the Styx.

  The legionaries stood in silent ranks, rocking slowly with the pitch of the deck, their gaze locked on the enemy, seemingly oblivious to Septimus’s words, but each one was heard clearly and, as the order for attack speed was called from the aft-deck, a deep growl came from the men of the IV maniple — a reactive, momentary sound that revealed their readiness for the fight.