by John Stack
‘By the gods,’ Atticus whispered, ‘what is their destination?’
‘Lipara.’
Atticus nodded, his abrupt question and the lack of further unnecessary queries justifying Duilius’s judgement of his character.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Senators, I’ll have one of my men show you to the main cabin,’ Atticus said, and left the two senators alone on the aft-deck.
He went directly to the main deck to coordinate the preparation of the ship, his heart pounding in his chest as his thoughts went to the untried and unaware fleet sailing south.
The Aquila shoved off from the Ostia docks twenty minutes later, her full complement of crew and marines on board. The two senators joined Septimus and Atticus on the aft-deck as the galley cleared the busy inner harbour under oar power. Directly ahead the sun was setting rapidly, its golden light causing all to shield their eyes against the glare. Gaius kept both hands steady on the tiller, his eyesight seemingly unaffected as he nimbly wove the galley through the obstacle course of the Republic’s busiest port.
As the Aquila reached the mouth of the harbour, the protective headland to the north slipped behind them, exposing their beam to the full force of the northerly wind. Atticus called for the oars to be shipped and the mainsail raised as Gaius adjusted his course southwards. The orders were carried out with alacrity, and Duilius noted the efficiency, wondering why Scipio had not taken such an obviously competent crew on his voyage south. The Aquila shot ahead under full sail, making twelve knots as her spear-like bow cut through the white horses of the wave tips.
Atticus noted the intense stare of Duilius as he looked ahead to the darkening horizon. Lipara was no more than thirty-six hours to the south. Scipio’s considerable head start was now weighed against the experienced crew of the Aquila. The galleys themselves were evenly matched, the Aquila’s design copied in every hull of the Classis Romanus. Only the crews were different, with men new to their galleys set against men such as Gaius and Lucius, who’d spent countless hours minutely adjusting the trim of the Aquila to garner every knot of speed from the wind.
Atticus found himself matching the intense stare of the senator as he looked to the horizon ahead. He remained silent, knowing there would be plenty of time to question the consul on what was known of the trap. Right now those questions took second place to the immediate need to ensure that his galley was running at her top speed. Within fifteen minutes the water around them was shrouded in darkness, the night’s arrival seemingly portentous, the obscure seascape suppressing the hope of the men standing on the aft-deck of the Aquila.
CHAPTER TWELVE
From the main cabin in the Mars, Scipio clearly heard the call of land sighted on the port quarter. He consulted the maps laid out before him, his finger running down the line of the ship’s course as described by the captain the day before. Fulfidias had estimated that the Mars would sight the volcanic island of Stromboli at the beginning of the third day and now, an hour after dawn, the ship was indeed sailing past the island.
Scipio noticed the sulphuric stench infusing the air in the cabin and he went on deck to see the famed island that he had never laid eyes on before. The legendary volcano rose over three thousand feet above the sea, its summit constantly spewing out noxious smoke that seemed to fill the entire eastern sky off the port bow.
Scipio approached Fulfidias.
‘Report, Captain.’
‘We are an hour short of Lipara, Consul. Our next land sighting will be Euonymos, and immediately after that we will be able to see the island of Lipara.’
Scipio nodded. ‘Call me when we pass Euonymos,’ he said, and returned to his cabin.
‘Land ahead, three degrees off the port bow!’
Atticus glanced up at the masthead lookout and followed his pointed hand to the low cloud ahead on the eastern horizon.
Stromboli.
He rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the morning sun seemingly brighter than usual after the darkness of the pre-dawn.
‘Anything?’ a voice beside him enquired.
Atticus turned to see Duilius standing beside him, the consul’s bloodshot eyes testament to the sleepless night shared by all on board the Aquila.
Atticus shook his head before returning his full concentration to the horizon ahead.
Fifteen minutes later the Aquila was parallel to Stromboli, the half-mile-high volcano hiding the morning sun and casting a three-mile-long shadow across the sea through which the galley sailed at speed.
‘An hour from Lipara,’ Atticus thought.
‘Lucius, what’s our speed?’
The second-in-command signalled the drop of the marker on the foredeck and counted aloud until it passed his position on the aft-deck, one hundred and twenty feet from the start point. He closed his eyes momentarily to calculate.
‘A shade over ten knots, Captain.’
‘Orders to below, engage oars at attack speed. Once rhythm has been established, accelerate to ramming speed.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied and went below to the slave deck.
From the aft-deck, Atticus clearly heard the drum master call the slaves to order, making them ready to engage. It was a tricky manoeuvre, one only an experienced crew of oarsmen could accomplish. At attack speed their stroke was eleven knots, one faster than the wind. Their first stroke would have to be perfect, with each oar hitting the water simultaneously, otherwise the current of water flowing past the ship would foul any oar out of sequence. There was no margin for error. Atticus waited for the order to engage to be given, holding his breath until the drum beat started. The order to engage was coupled with the first beat and two hundred oars hit the water as one. The Aquila took on the extra knot of speed with ease. Within a minute the order for ramming speed was given and the Aquila reached her top speed of thirteen knots.
‘How long can your slaves maintain this speed?’ Duilius asked, watching the manoeuvre intently.
‘Five minutes under normal circumstances,’ Atticus began. ‘However, with the wind taking the lion’s share of ten knots, the rowers only have to make up the additional three. The tempo is as high as ramming speed but the effort is greatly reduced.’
Again Duilius nodded, his face reflecting his admiration and understanding of the skill required for such an operation.
Atticus noted the unspoken compliment. In the brief time he had known Duilius, he had begun to form a very different opinion of senators from the one Scipio had ingrained in him.
The Aquila sailed past the island of Euonymos at thirteen knots, her every stroke taking her closer to Lipara. Atticus stood with Septimus and Duilius on the foredeck, the three men searching the sea ahead in silence. Atticus was tempted to increase the oar-stroke to beyond ramming speed, a move made possible given the trailing wind. It was a highly dangerous manoeuvre, though, one he had seen carried out only once before – and that with disastrous consequences. Above ramming speed the individual beats on the drum began to merge and the guiding rhythm, so important in keeping two hundred men working in unison, could be easily lost. Atticus dismissed the idea with reluctance. He would have to rely on their current speed and pray to Fortuna that they would be in time.
‘Ships ahead!’
The entire crew looked to the masthead at the call, each man following the line indicated by the lookout to the horizon dead ahead.
‘How far?’ Atticus called up.
‘I estimate five miles, Captain, sailing in line-astern formation, just short of Lipara harbour.’
‘Stercus!’ Atticus spat. ‘Too far to signal.’
‘We’re too late,’ Septimus said aloud to himself, speaking the dread words that all felt.
‘Maintain course and speed,’ Duilius said, ‘perhaps the Carthaginian trap is not set to be sprung. We may yet reach them in time.’
Atticus nodded, wanting the possibility to exist.
Scipio surveyed the seemingly quiet city of Lipara from the aft-deck of the Mars as th
e galley entered the crescent-shaped harbour. The city stood in the centre of the bay, the land rising sharply behind to create a series of undulating hills stretching northwards along the spine of the island. What activity there had been on the docks had ceased at the sight of the Roman galleys approaching the mouth of the harbour, and so the trading ships that were moored to the quay stood quiet and forlorn. Scipio smiled as he imagined the panic now unfolding in the Carthaginian garrison somewhere deep within the city.
The Mars hove to in the centre of the bay, the other galleys deploying left and right in line-abreast formation. Scipio had personally chosen the formation, remembering the impact the sight had had on the people of Ostia, a sight that would inspire fear in the heart of any enemy standing on the shoreline. The senior consul experienced a feeling of anticlimax at the ease of their approach. Once back in Rome he would need to embellish his report on the capture of the city, if only to satisfy the city’s appetite for glory. A victory easily won was not a tale worth telling.
Scipio waited impatiently as the inexperienced crews manoeuvred their galleys in the confines of the harbour. Although the ships were under oar power, their efforts seemed uncoordinated and clumsy. The simple transformation of the fleet from line astern to line abreast was still incomplete when Scipio’s patience ended.
‘Standard speed!’
The Mars got under way, her advance matched by the galleys flanking her position. Scipio adjusted the folds of his toga, readying himself for disembarkation.
Duilius watched in hopeless silence as the last of the Classis Romanus breached the harbour mouth four miles ahead. The Roman galleys were moving with intent, but without haste, allowing all on board the Aquila to grasp on to the slim hope that the trap could yet be averted.
Atticus, his years at sea compelling him to be ever vigilant, continued to scan the four quarters of the horizon for any sight of an approaching enemy.
‘There!’ his mind screamed as he caught a flicker of movement off the southernmost tip of the island, a headland less than a mile from the harbour.
‘Ships off the port forequarter!’ the lookout called, all eyes turning to where Atticus’s gaze was already rooted.
‘Carthaginians!’ Atticus said, the unfurled masthead banners confirming the already realized truth. ‘Moving at attack speed.’
Atticus counted ten galleys, with more rounding the headland with every stroke of their oars. They were led by a quinquereme, an alpha male leading the attack wolves unerringly to their prey.
‘All stop!’ Duilius said suddenly.
Atticus hesitated for a heartbeat before relaying the order to the crew. The sail was immediately collapsed and the Aquila’s oars brought her to a complete stop within three galley-lengths.
‘Your orders, Consul?’ Atticus asked, urgency in his voice, knowing that every second counted. Septimus stood beside him, his hand holding the grip of his sword tightly, the proximity of the enemy heightening his readiness.
‘Set course for Rome, Captain,’ Duilius answered, his voice laced with futile anger.
Atticus and Septimus made to protest, but Duilius cut them short, anticipating their words.
‘I cannot compound Scipio’s fate by sailing into Lipara. If both he and I fall into enemy hands the fleet will be leaderless. Our priority is Rome and the legions of Sicily. One extra Roman galley at Lipara will not stave off defeat.’
Atticus had been making ready to retort but he stayed his words, surprised by Duilius’s explanation of his decision, the consul’s honesty creating trust, the collaborative style of command encouraging compliance.
‘That fool Scipio,’ Longus spat, ‘he deserves the fate his pride has led him to.’
‘But the fleet does not,’ Duilius cursed, slamming his fist down on the side rail. ‘They are Romans. Men who answered the call of their city. They should not die like rats in a trap.’
Atticus nodded imperceptibly at Duilius’s words, the underlying belief striking a chord with his growing connection to Rome.
‘Bring her about, Gaius!’ he ordered, his faith in the consul’s vision enabling his obedience to the command. ‘Set course for Rome.’
The Aquila swung neatly as her oars engaged, the crew silent as the full realization of their failure to catch the Classis Romanus struck home. Behind them the Carthaginian quinquereme rounded the mouth of Lipara, her hull down in the calm waters of the inner harbour.
Atticus and Septimus continued to look over the aft-rail as the Aquila retreated northwards under oars, the familiarity of the scene imposing a silence on both men. The faces of the command crews and marine centurions of the Classis Romanus swept through their minds, the faces of men already lost, men already mourned. Within minutes the details of the horizon were lost in the distance and the inevitable defeat was accepted.
‘Enemy ships astern!’
Scipio spun around at the sound of the strident call. Over three hundred yards away five galleys were rounding the southern headland into the bay, with a dozen more in pursuit. They were led by a colossal ship, a quinquereme that towered over the triremes surrounding her. All were tearing through the water, rounding the headland in the time it took for panic to spread throughout the Roman fleet. Carthaginian war cries split the air and Scipio’s stomach tightened at the sound. The veneer of a Roman consul fell away to be replaced with his experience as a legionary commander.
‘Captain! Evasive manoeuvres! Centurion! Form ranks, prepare for battle.’
Scipio registered the centurion’s salute and affirmation as he responded instantly to the command.
Fulfidias, however, did not respond. Scipio whipped around, taking his eyes off the enemy to find the captain standing motionless, his eyes locked on the approaching Carthaginian galleys, a look of sheer terror on his face. Scipio struck him hard across the face, the open-handed blow knocking Fulfidias off balance. The captain regained his stance and looked at Scipio, his expression of panic unchanged.
‘Captain!’ Scipio shouted. ‘Get control of yourself and this galley or I’ll have you thrown over the side.’
Fulfidias reacted. ‘Drum master!’ Scipio heard him roar above the cacophony of sound enveloping the panicked ship. ‘Full ahead. Ramming speed!’
The Mars lurched forward as the oars bit into the calm waters of the harbour.
Scipio was given an instant to survey the Roman fleet, expecting to see the other galleys break formation and prepare to engage the enemy. His expectation was wrong.
Gisco bellowed at the top of his voice as he echoed the war cry of the men assembled on the foredeck of the Melqart. The sword in his hand felt light and he held it above his head to renew the frenzied cries of his crew, the sound filling his warrior soul. From the moment the lookouts on the heights above Lipara had signalled the arrival of the Roman fleet, Gisco had felt the exhilaration of battle rise within him. The Carthaginian fleet of twenty galleys had been moored in the village of Pianoconte, a mere two miles around the southernmost headland and completely hidden from any vessel entering the harbour of Lipara. When the Melqart had rounded the headland, Gisco’s heart had soared at the sight of the Roman galleys formed in line abreast, facing away from the mouth of the harbour. The formation seemed an act of madness, an asinine deployment that left the ships entirely vulnerable to the type of attack Gisco was now employing. The arrival of the Carthaginian galleys had transformed the scene into one of sheer chaos.
At the northern end of the fleet a number of Roman galleys were already racing towards the beach, skirting that end of the city in order to beach their ships and escape on land. Gisco had anticipated a possible fight on land and so had deployed two thousand soldiers within the city. With the Romans in disarray, their capture was inevitable. Gisco laughed out loud at the sight of the remaining galleys attempting to turn to engage his own fleet. No more than four ships had got under way in a manner that seemed to suggest competency and, as he watched, one of them endeavoured to ram a Carthaginian trireme one hundred yar
ds off his starboard bow. The Roman’s trajectory was hopelessly inaccurate and the ram merely bounced off the heavier hull of the target. Gisco smiled malevolently as the crew of the Carthaginian trireme grappled the Roman ship and boarded her, reversing the attack the Romans had forfeited through their incompetence.
The smile was once more wiped from Gisco’s face as his eyes searched for the other three ships that were showing signs of a determined resistance.
‘Orders to the helm,’ he shouted, ‘turn two degrees starboard. Intercept and ram the Roman ship closest to the dock.’
Seconds later, the course of the Melqart adjusted under Gisco’s feet as the quinquereme pointed her bow at a gap left in the centre of the Roman line by one of the few ships that had had the good sense to break formation and give themselves steerage space. As the galley raced through the gap, Gisco looked left and right to the Roman triremes. The starboard ship was entangled with another, while the port one seemed simply incapacitated by the total panic of her crew.
‘Archers!’ Gisco shouted, his men immediately loosing volley after volley into the stricken crews, their aim deadly at the short range.
The Melqart emerged from the gap at attack speed, her course once again changing as the helmsman bore down on the lone Roman trireme ahead of them. Gisco felt the surge of pace as the galley moved to ramming speed. He looked down at the six-foot bronze ram splitting the wave tops in front of the rushing galley, its squared face racing ahead of the ship in its haste to sink itself into the enemy’s hull. Gisco raised his eyes once more to the Roman galley, desperately trying to flee parallel to the shoreline. He sheathed his sword and gripped the rail before him, tensing his body for the impending impact. At fourteen knots the momentum of the ship would drive all six feet of the ram into the Roman galley.
Scipio felt the deck of the Mars heel over beneath him as he watched the Carthaginian quinquereme speed through the Roman line. He spun around to look for Fulfidias, enraged that the captain was looking for an avenue of escape when all around them Roman galleys were locked in a chaotic, desperate fight with the Carthaginians. The enemy were spreading out to pick off individual targets and, as Scipio watched, a Carthaginian galley rammed a Roman trireme amidships, the crack of the impact filling the air, the sound immediately followed by the dread cry of the Punici boarding party as they swept onto the stricken ship. Scipio knew that if the Mars was to survive she needed to turn into the fight, not flee before it, and his eyes searched the aft-deck for the spineless captain.