Ship of Rome mots-1

by John Stack

  The first drop in speed came suddenly, a barely perceptible drain, as if the galley had somehow snagged on an underwater obstacle that was sapping her strength. Scipio immediately noticed the change and he searched for the cause, his mind suddenly registering the ever-increasing whip cracks from the slave decks below as the rowers were whipped to comply with the impossible task of maintaining ramming speed, an order issued by Fulfidias the moment the oars had engaged over five long minutes before. Scipio cursed the idiot, realizing he had expected Fulfidias to be every bit as competent as the captain of the Aquila.

  ‘Commander,’ Scipio said, his praetorian guard standing by his side with their shields raised, ‘form up around me. We are about to be boarded.’

  The commander saluted and the ten praetorian guards formed a ring around the consul, their black scutum shields creating a fortification against the coming onslaught. Scipio looked to the main deck to see the legionaries of the Fourth formed up ready to repel the enemy. Their faces were set in the legionaries’ blank expression of battle, discipline holding them firm, bravery giving them resolve. The senior consul turned again to the enemy ship. It was upon them.

  The six-foot ram of the Melqart struck the side of the Mars with a terrifying crack, its unyielding bronze striking deep in a killer blow that drove to the very core of the smaller ship. The ram split the deck beneath the rowers, crushing the slaves like grain under a millstone, their cries mingling with the tortured sound of the ship. The momentum of the Carthaginian galley drove the trireme up onto the cutwater of the larger ship, the impact throwing all on the deck of the Mars off their feet, as if the hammer of Vulcan had fallen amongst them.

  Like a dark wave of Hades, the Carthaginians spilled over the forerail of the Melqart onto the deck of the Roman galley, their war cries renewed in the battle frenzy of attack. The men of the Fourth were immediately on their feet, but they found themselves instantly overwhelmed, their sixty outmatched by the scores of Punic warriors still pouring from the Carthaginian flagship. Within minutes each legionary was fighting for his life. All sense of order was lost in the Roman ranks as men fought desperately against overpowering odds. The lone voice of a Roman centurion cut through the air to rally his legionaries into a coherent unit and the men summoned innate battle tactics as they tried to adopt a unified defensive position, their career-long training giving them a moment’s respite. It did not last.

  The Carthaginians pressed home their attack on the main deck, their superior numbers and ferocity keeping the balance firmly on their side. The Romans struggled to build an effective defensive wall on the confined deck, and time and again their flanks were exposed. The Roman commander’s attempt to rally his troops died on the end of a Punic sword and, to the last man, the legionaries of the Fourth fell under the Carthaginian assault.

  Scipio took another step backwards as a fresh wave of Carthaginians attacked his small band of praetoriani. They had been largely ignored during the Carthaginians’ first onslaught, with only individuals or small groups of two and three peeling off from the main attack to seek out other targets on the blood-soaked deck. His guard was down to seven men, a pitiful number that would be instantly overwhelmed the moment the legionaries’ defence collapsed on the main deck, freeing the entire Carthaginian horde to seek out new prey. Scipio stumbled over an inert body as he moved towards the stern rail and he looked down to see the captain, Fulfidias, lying supine on the deck, an arrow buried deep in his neck. His face was fixed in a grotesque scream, the expression robbing him of dignity, revealing the terror the man had experienced at the moment of death. Scipio spat on the man, cursing his incompetence.

  Another of Scipio’s guards fell and a Carthaginian warrior charged through the gap, his sword raised for the killing blow. Scipio deftly sidestepped the swipe and brought his own dagger up in an underhand blow into the lower back of his attacker. The knife drove deep into the kidneys of the Carthaginian, a gush of dark blood confirming the strike. Scipio twisted the knife and withdrew it, pushing the man aside and readying himself for the next attack. A cheer from the main deck signalled the final defeat of the legionaries and the knot of men on the main deck dispersed to fan out over the ship. Scipio spotted a large group heading for the aft-deck and he bent down to pick up the sword of a fallen praetorian, stepping forward into the line formed by the four remaining guards, ready to die with his men.

  ‘Hold!’

  The bellowed order split the air and the Carthaginians checked their attack. Scipio did not understand the shouted order in Punic but he realized its significance and he searched the crowd of blood-soaked warriors for their commander. The Carthaginians parted and a solid bull of a man strode forward, his bearded face matted with sweat. He was older than Scipio, by at least a dozen years, but he carried himself with the bearing of a commander. He stood directly opposite Scipio and looked him up and down, his face fixed in a crooked smile. He turned to his men and issued more orders in incomprehensible Punic. The men rushed forward and struck at the four praetorian guards, taking them by surprise and killing them where they stood. Scipio roared a curse at the Carthaginian commander and readied himself once more. The commander laughed at the defiance.

  ‘Put down your sword, Roman,’ the Carthaginian said in fluent Latin.

  Scipio did not move, his expression hard. The Carthaginian commander sheathed his own sword and walked forward until he was within range of Scipio’s blade.

  ‘I do not wish to kill you, Roman, you wear the robes of a senator. Who are you?’

  Scipio drew himself to his full height.

  ‘I am Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, senior consul of the Roman Republic,’ he said, speaking in a tone that reflected his disgust at having to address the Carthaginian commander. In the pause that followed, Scipio studied the man before him, wondering what fate the Carthaginian had in store for him.

  The Punic commander smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes but rather emphasized the loathing that dwelt behind the gaze. For the first time that day, as Scipio gazed upon the hate-filled expression, he felt fear in his heart.

  Atticus looked out over the aft-rail of the Aquila as the last traces of the volcanic smoke disappeared in the southern sky, the island of Stromboli now twenty miles behind in their wake as the galley sped northwards towards a darkening horizon. The drum beat of standard speed infused the air, but to Atticus the sound went unnoticed, its staccato rhythm blended into the myriad of familiar sounds that he had known half his life. Only unusual sounds alerted his concentration, and so he turned abruptly as he heard Duilius approach. He stiffened to attention in anticipation of an order, but Duilius waved his hand.

  ‘Stand easy, Captain,’ he said, his voice lowered so as not to be overheard.

  Atticus turned once more to the aft-rail and resumed his vigil. Duilius leaned on the rail beside him. Minutes passed.

  ‘Do you think any will have escaped?’ the consul asked.

  Atticus simply shook his head, too weary to answer.

  ‘You seem sure,’ Duilius said, glancing sideways at Atticus.

  Atticus stood upright and faced the consul, Duilius mirroring his stance.

  ‘They never had a chance,’ Atticus said, Duilius noting an underlying anger in the captain’s voice, ‘condemned men from the first day they arrived in Fiumicino.’

  Duilius was shocked by the finality of Atticus’s answer, and his own anger began to rise.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.

  ‘Because the Carthaginians outclass us in nearly every way and we don’t have the experience to beat them on their terms.’

  ‘So the Classis Romanus should never have been born,’ Duilius asked angrily, ‘is that it? We should abandon Sicily and the legions?’

  ‘No,’ Atticus replied, the thought of futilely having to argue his point with another Roman making him angry, ‘but I do believe we need to stick to our strengths and challenge the Carthaginians to the only fight we know we can win.’

  D
uilius was about to rebuke the captain again, but something in his voice made him pause and he realized that what he had thought was defeatism was in fact frustration.

  ‘So what are our strengths?’ he asked, his gaze searching.

  ‘Our sailors can’t match the Carthaginian crews, but our legionaries far surpass the Carthaginians’ best fighters. We need to take the fight to the enemy decks.’

  ‘How?’ Duilius asked, realizing at that moment that he knew nothing of naval tactics.

  Atticus outlined the sailing skills necessary and the time that would be needed to train the crews. He paused as he decided if he should reveal the whole truth, the gaping problem in the tactics he outlined, the legionaries’ inability to board successfully. He recalled the consul’s earlier honesty and decided to gamble with the truth.

  Duilius absorbed the entire argument, for and against, before replying.

  ‘Why were the sailing crews not taught boarding manoeuvres at Fiumicino?’ he asked.

  ‘Because our orders were to train them in ramming techniques only, the one area the Carthaginians have complete superiority.’

  ‘By whose orders?’

  ‘Tuditanus’s,’ Atticus replied.

  Scipio’s man, Duilius thought to himself.

  ‘Do the other galley captains agree with your judgement?’ the consul asked aloud.

  ‘The captains of the Ostia fleet are Roman. They follow orders without question,’ Atticus said, a hint of disdain in his voice. ‘It takes an outsider to see what they cannot.’

  Duilius nodded. He had seen it many times himself in the Senate, from the first day he walked in as a novus homo, a new man. The senators from the older families were blinkered by tradition and age-old stability, bred from a young age to replace their fathers in the Curia. It was because Duilius was an outsider that he was able to see what they could not, that he had been able to use the system in a way they would never discover, and it was the reason he had risen so far so fast.

  Duilius gazed intently at Atticus as his mind weighed the task ahead of him. He was not a military man. In fact, he had never been on board a galley before two days ago. Now, however, he was overall commander of the Classis Romanus and he realized in an instant that, if he was going to succeed, he would need the expertise of men like the captain before him, men whose qualities reflected his own.

  ‘Captain Perennis,’ he said suddenly, ‘I want you to draw up a full training schedule when we return to Fiumicino, one that encompasses both ramming and boarding.’

  ‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, his hand unconsciously gripping the aft-rail as frustration was replaced by anticipation.

  ‘But…’ Duilius continued ‘…you also need to solve the problem of the legionaries.’

  Atticus nodded as he consciously brought the entire argument to the forefront of his mind once more so he could examine it anew.

  Duilius studied Atticus’s expression and saw that his mind was already at work on the problem. He nodded to himself. The captain was indeed a man like himself, a man who became focused and driven when the odds were stacked against him. He turned once more to peer out over the aft-rail as the last of the day’s light fell below the western horizon, his thoughts returning to the day past and the weeks ahead.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Marcus read the parchment in silence as the legionary stood before him in the centurion’s tent, the dagger still in his hand.

  ‘This was hooked to the pommel of the knife,’ the soldier said, holding out his hand to reveal a signet ring.

  Marcus took the ring and studied it. It was gold, with an ingrained symbol on its face. ‘SPQR.’ He turned it over slowly in his hand, his mind reeling from the news on the parchment, news that the Carthaginians had stuck to a tree outside the main gate during the night using a Roman dagger. It had been found by the legionary standing before him when the dawn light revealed its presence.

  ‘Who else knows of this parchment?’ Marcus asked abruptly.

  ‘Only the two legionaries from the II maniple. They were stationed at the gate beneath our watchtower.’

  Marcus got up and walked to the entrance to his tent. From his vantage point he could see the gate sixty yards away. There was only one guard on duty.

  ‘Stercus!’

  His eyes whipped across to the tents of the II maniple. Aelius, the centurion, was striding away from his tent towards the centre of the encampment, towards the legate’s quarters. Behind him the men of his maniple were talking animatedly in groups, with individuals breaking off to head to other parts of the camp.

  ‘The bloody fool,’ Marcus cursed.

  ‘You, come with me!’ he ordered, and walked out to intercept Aelius. The legionary followed.

  The three men met twenty yards short of the legate’s command tent. Aelius saw the parchment in Marcus’s hand.

  ‘By the gods, Marcus, we’re lost.’

  ‘Get a hold of yourself, Aelius,’ Marcus spat. ‘Curse it, man, your maniple will spread the news to the whole camp before roll call.’

  ‘I-I-I…’ Aelius stammered, looking back over his shoulder at the sound of raised voices, realizing his mistake.

  Marcus turned abruptly and walked determinately towards the commander’s quarters, the legionary following behind again, leaving Aelius standing alone in the middle of the parade ground. They passed the hospital tent and, as they did, both men instinctively covered their mouths with their hands for protection.

  The first case of typhus had been confirmed a week before, the legionary collapsing on parade, the telltale rash on his chest only found when he was stripped inside the hospital tent. The word had spread like wildfire, the dread news that plague stalked the encampment driving the last remnants of hope from every soldier of the Ninth Legion. Malnourished as they were, the men were ripe for the scythe of typhus, and the hospital tent was already full, a hellish place where the moans of dying men rent the air.

  Two legionaries of the III maniple stood to attention as Marcus reached the entrance of the tent, their fists slamming against their armoured breast-plates in unison. Marcus ignored them and ducked his head under the opening into the outer awning. Without requesting permission he strode into the inner tent. Megellus was seated behind his desk, his expression immediately hostile at the unannounced interruption. He hadn’t slept the night before, his mind in turmoil as it fixated on the deteriorating situation of his legions, and his face was drawn and colourless. The admonition he had formed in his mind fled from his lips as he noticed Marcus’s uneasy expression.

  ‘What is it, Centurion?’

  ‘Beg to report, Legate, these were stuck to a tree outside the main gate using a Roman knife.’

  Megellus stood up to take the proffered parchment and ring. His eyes widened as he immediately recognized the ring. He turned it over to read an inscription on the underside of the face.

  ‘No, it can’t be…’ he muttered, the parchment in his hand forgotten.

  ‘Who found this?’ he asked suddenly, his anxious face betraying his mounting apprehension.

  ‘This man,’ Marcus replied, stepping aside to allow the legionary to move forward.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ Megellus ordered.

  The soldier quickly related his discovery of the message. Megellus listened in silence.

  ‘Who knows of this?’ he asked as the legionary finished.

  ‘Word is spreading throughout the camp as we speak,’ Marcus admitted angrily, silently cursing the centurion of the II maniple for his carelessness.

  Megellus cursed as he sat back into his chair, taking up the parchment as he did so, dreading what he would find written by the hand of the enemy.

  Marcus watched the legate intently. Megellus’s stature seemed to dissipate before his very eyes as he read the Carthaginians’ report of their total victory at Lipara. When Marcus had read the report minutes before, his mind had tried to dismiss the words as enemy propaganda, a vicious ploy to eradicate the last vestiges of
hope within the Roman encampment. The ring, however, put paid to that hope, although Marcus could not fathom the special significance that Megellus had afforded it, beyond it being crude proof as to the veracity of the report.

  As Megellus finished reading the report, he unclasped his right hand to reveal the ring within. Twenty galleys lost, three hundred dead, fifteen hundred in chains. The defeat was absolute. He twisted the metal band in his hand, turning it once more into the light to read the two inscriptions. Megellus had recognized it immediately. He had seen it many times before, each year on the finger of a different man. Each year on the finger of the senior consul of the Senate of Rome.

  Megellus’s gaze lifted from the ring to the face of the centurion before him. Marcus’s face was grim, the cheeks drawn from fatigue and hunger, but Megellus could see that his strength and determination were still intact, elements forged from a life serving in the legions. The legate wondered how long those would last in the face of such adversity.

  The remaining meagre supplies of the Ninth were disappearing fast and with the defeat at Lipara, there was now no hope of resupply in the near future. Megellus had lost all contact with the Second at Segeste, the three-day march through enemy territory an unbridgeable gulf. No doubt the camp prefect was reading an identical parchment that very morning, and Megellus could only guess as to what condition the Second was in. If the Ninth was a mirror guide, the camp at Segeste was close to collapse.

  Megellus stood up, his will forcing his body to stand erect. His aching muscles protested at the enforced activity and a fleeting fear ran through the legate’s mind. He dismissed it brutally, telling himself the ache was from salt deprivation and not the onset of the monstrous disease that had struck down over eighty of his men.