Ship of Rome mots-1

by John Stack

  ‘That’s the Cape of Mylae,’ Atticus explained to Duilius and Septimus as he pointed to a headland five miles ahead off the port quarter. ‘And those are the Aeolian Islands,’ indicating a darker mass of land on the starboard quarter horizon.

  ‘How far beyond is Brolium?’ Duilius asked.

  ‘Roughly twenty-five miles beyond the cape, a little over four hours at our current speed,’ Atticus replied automatically, his own thoughts also focused on the distant islands. He wondered if the Carthaginian fleet had left the island or if they were still at the port city. Either way he relished the encounter, and Atticus recited a vow to make them pay a heavy price.

  ‘Enemy galleys dead ahead!’

  Gisco reacted instantly to the call.

  ‘Signal all galleys. Enemy sighted. Battle formation!’

  The crewmen responded immediately, rushing to transmit the commands to the ships on the left and right flanks.

  ‘Battle speed!’ Gisco ordered the helmsman and the Melqart sprang forward as the ship’s oars were engaged.

  The admiral walked calmly to the bow, his unhurried steps in contrast to the frenzied activities of the crew as final preparations for battle were made. As he walked up the steps to the foredeck, he caught sight of the approaching Roman galleys. Their sails were lowered against the oncoming wind, relying solely on oar power to propel them through the channel. Gisco smiled coldly as the order was given for his own sail to be lowered and secured against the lifting yard. The Carthaginian fleet had arrived on station under sail and their rowers would be fresher as battle was joined.

  Gisco looked left and right as his fleet moved into formation. His own ship was in the centre of the three-mile line, with the remaining quinqueremes interspersed among the triremes. Boodes, his most trusted squad commander, was anchoring the starboard flank against any attempt to escape to Brolium while the port flank was held by Hamilcar to cut off retreat to the Aeolians.

  The admiral stared across the five-mile gap to the Roman galleys, his eyes narrowing in hate as he watched them deploy into a line of battle. Over a year before, Gisco had been forced to abandon the city of Agrigentum in the face of the Roman legions. He had believed his army unbeatable but the Romans had shamed him. He now twisted the bitter memory into pure malice for the enemy. There would be no repeat of his ignominious defeat.

  ‘Damn it, Lucius, signal them to hold the line!’

  Atticus continued to look left and right as the Aquila reached her full battle speed. Lucius bellowed over the side rail for the order to be passed down the line, the command having an immediate effect on those who heard it directly. The line of battle had been slow to form and was now becoming ragged as the ships increased to battle speed. Each ship was guarding the flanks of her port and starboard cohorts, the very reason for line-of-battle formation. If the Roman line struck the Carthaginians unevenly, many ships would be immediately exposed to the deadly rams of the enemy. The experienced galleys on the flanks worked hard to dress the line and slowly the formation re-established cohesion.

  Atticus grunted his satisfaction and turned once more to the approaching enemy ships, now only three miles away. They were in perfect line-of-battle formation, their expert seamanship evident in the quick collapse of their sails and steady spacing between each ship. The Carthaginians would try to run through the line of Roman ships, destroying the formation so that every ship would have to fight as a single entity. The Roman plan was to engage the Carthaginians at the first point of contact, turning their bows into the enemy’s and stopping them from breaching the line. It was a tactic never tried before, but Atticus could think of no other that would allow for maximum use of the corvus.

  As the Roman captain took one more look to his port and starboard, he could see that some galleys were still not fully in line. The air was filled with shouted orders as ships’ captains commanded their crews and coordinated with their flanking galleys to keep formation. A sliver of doubt rose in Atticus’s thoughts as he recalled the command crews’ lack of experience. The final week in Ostia had been consumed in relentless training of the crews on how to use the corvus. The first head-on contact was crucial. After that the Carthaginians would have the advantage.

  Septimus breathed easily as he looked over the faces of his demi-maniple of the Fourth. Only the faces in the front row were familiar, the remaining six members of his own marine command. The rest of his former command were scattered amongst the legionaries of the new fleet, their fluency in boarding providing each party with a backbone of experience. As Septimus’s glance reached the end of the line, he nodded to his new optio. Quintus had also been reassigned and was now commanding a demi-maniple of his own, while Septimus had been given a tough second officer of the Fourth. He was an older man of few words, but the men respected him and he would anchor and steady the line on the enemy deck.

  Septimus could sense the impatience of the legionaries. They were men of the Fourth, the Boar. Their legion had been dishonourably wounded at Lipara and the loss of twelve hundred of their comrades called for vindicta, revenge on the hated Punici. Over the years Septimus had heard many words spoken to troops before battle. In his time as centurion he had given such orations himself, a way to rally his command before battle, the words spoken to whip up the men’s fighting frenzy. With cold realization he knew only two words would be needed that day to unleash their fury. As he heard the shouted command for the galley to increase to attack speed, he drew his gladius, knowing that the enemy were close. The eyes of sixty men were locked on Septimus, ignoring the approaching enemy over the centurion’s shoulders. Septimus raised his sword.

  ‘Avenge Lipara!’

  The men roared with demonic blood lust, a roar of pure aggression. Septimus smiled grimly. They were ready.

  Atticus felt his mind clear as the Aquila moved to attack speed. He instinctively looked left and right at the battle line to watch the other galleys match his speed. They were committed. At attack speed, the final gap of a mile would be closed in less than two minutes. There was no time for final changes, no time for doubts. His whole being became focused on the enemy before him. Over the preceding weeks he had begun to consider the enemy in abstraction, a faceless foe to be outwitted and outmanoeuvred. Now he vividly recalled each encounter, the dishonour of fleeing in the Strait of Messina still sharp, as was the rage he felt at the slaughter of the transport fleet at Brolium.

  The Carthaginians were quarter of a mile away, close enough for Atticus to pick out individual details. The centre of their line was held by a quinquereme, a behemoth in comparison to the triremes flanking her hull. Atticus realized it would be the flagship, the head of the serpent. The Aquila was on course to strike the Carthaginian line three galleys south of the centre point. He etched every detail of the quinquereme in his mind, marking it as his prey. After the lines collapsed he would hunt her down. For the Romans, the fleet was not the last line of defence, it was the only line. The Punici had to be defeated and their commander struck down. In the centre of the Roman line, Atticus knew only the Aquila was equal to the task.

  As the gap closed between the lines, Gisco’s focus was interrupted by the sight of an unusual structure on the bow of each Roman galley. At one hundred yards his mind had little time to react and he dismissed the sight, concentrating on the gap in the line between the two enemy galleys before him. The Melqart would sweep through, her archers raining death as she passed, before turning once more into the rear of the line. The Romans would turn to meet the threat, exposing themselves neatly. With the entire Roman fleet consisting of triremes, Gisco was confident that no enemy ship could match the speed and power of the Melqart.

  He recalled the glory of the day when his ram had claimed four Roman transport ships. At the time he had revelled in the victory, his first chance to repay the hated Romans for his defeat at Agrigentum. Now he was faced with battleships and his endless appetite for revenge was goaded by the increased danger.

  ‘Archers, ignite!’ Gisco or
dered.

  The pitch-soaked tips of two dozen arrows were lit at the shouted command, the archers drawing their bows to ready themselves for the command to release.

  Gisco watched as the Roman galley on his port quarter veered into his course, setting her bow against that of the Melqart.

  Gisco smiled at the idiotic manoeuvre. He would crush them for their recklessness.

  ‘Prepare to withdraw the portside oars,’ he commanded.

  Gisco allowed himself a quick glance to starboard to see the rest of his line. The Melqart’s superior speed had put them a half-ship length beyond the line and so his galley would strike the Roman line first. He turned to the bow as the final yards swept beneath his hull.

  ‘Withdraw!’ he roared. ‘Helmsman, hard to port!’

  The ninety-ton Melqart tore into the side of her smaller opponent. The larger galley shook with the impact but Gisco saw the Roman trireme was almost capsized by the blow. Futile grappling hooks were thrown from the Roman deck, but the momentum of the quinquereme was too great and her speed continued almost unchecked. One Roman was plucked from his ship, his hand caught on the line connected to a grappling hook held fast by the Melqart. He was thrown into the gap between the grinding hulls, the hook finally releasing as his body was pushed under.

  Gisco saw the device he had noticed earlier suddenly fall towards his ship. It was a ramp of some kind, a crude boarding device with massed ranks of legionaries formed behind it. Gisco watched in fascination as the ramp fell onto the main deck of the Melqart, a series of spikes penetrating the timbers of the deck. The quinquereme shuddered at the moment of impact and for a heartbeat the two ships were locked by the inanimate ramp before the momentum of the Melqart broke the spell and the ramp was torn apart by the opposing forces on either end of its length. The spikes tore a huge gash along the deck before finally releasing, the ramp buckling under the strain, throwing legionaries from the far end where they had been poised to attack. Gisco roared defiance as he watched the ill-fated tactic thwarted and the quinquereme shrug off the remnants of the boarding ramp.

  The cutwater of the Melqart tore into the extended portside oars of the Roman galley, the splintered spars snapping like twigs against the reinforced bow.

  ‘Loose,’ Gisco roared above the crashing sounds.

  The arrows seemed to dart across the rails of the enemy ship, the point-blank range allowing the archers to keep their trajectories almost horizontal, their precision deadly. Fresh calls of panic rose from the trireme as fire took hold of the deck, the cries mixed with the screams of the dying.

  The Melqart broke through the back of the Roman line out into an uninterrupted sea. Gisco ordered the portside oars to re-engage before running to the stern rail to witness the devastation his galley had wrought on the Roman ship that had dared to challenge him.

  ‘Come about to re-engage!’ he ordered automatically as he continued to scan the back of the Roman line, expecting any minute to see other Carthaginian galleys break through.

  ‘Loose!’ Septimus roared.

  The twenty hastati of his command threw their pila spears as one, the volley striking the knot of Carthaginians on the foredeck of the galley directly opposite the Aquila in the Carthaginian battle line, the two ships only thirty yards apart and closing. Septimus felt the deck tilt beneath him as the bow of the Aquila was aimed at the enemy’s bow. He braced himself against the impact, holding the straps of his scutum shield tightly.

  The collision of the equally matched ships drove the momentum out of both, and for an instant the rowers were thrown from their stations, the rhythm of their stroke shattered. Grappling hooks were thrown and made secure, creating the moment of inertia required.

  ‘Release the corvus!’ Septimus roared.

  The thirty-six-foot ramp crashed down across the gap separating the foredecks, crushing the side rail of the enemy ship, the spikes driving deeply into the weathered timber deck. Septimus was instantly away, the legionaries following behind him at a rush. They roared in attack, the sudden onslaught temporarily stunning the Carthaginians. The Punici rallied into the charge, echoing the Romans’ cries with calls to their own god of war.

  The legionaries deployed with terse commands, the ingrained training of years taking control of their movements. Within an instant they presented a solid wall of interlocking shields, against which the Carthaginian charge broke in disarray.

  ‘Advance!’ Septimus ordered above the clash of battle.

  The legionaries began to step forward. At each footfall they shoved their shields forward, the copper boss at the centre striking the enemy and parrying their blows. Gladii were punched through the narrow gaps in the wall to wound or kill the faceless enemy beyond, the cries of pain mixed with shouts of futile rage at the pitiless wall of shields. The twenty principes made up the first row of attack, their physical strength driving the tide of legionaries forward. Those Carthaginians that fell wounded under the wall were instantly dispatched by the junior hastati in the rear, giving no quarter to the desperate enemy. Within five minutes the Romans had cleared the foredeck, leaving a trail of dead behind them, and the enemy were beginning to buckle.

  ‘We have them,’ Duilius said with relish as he watched the legionaries’ relentless advance from the aft-deck.

  Atticus didn’t reply, his eyes restless, his sailor’s instincts compelling him to continually search the four quarters of the galley. The scene on board the Carthaginian galley captured by the Aquila was being repeated on all sides, the corvus tipping the odds inexorably in the Romans’ favour. Not every Roman galley had met with success the first time and Atticus counted six individual duels developing in the waters behind the Roman line as opponents struggled to manoeuvre to ram or board. Smoke billowed into the sky as a Roman galley burned furiously, the desperate cries of her crew filling the air.

  The sound of a tremendous crash caused Atticus to spin around to see a Carthaginian quinquereme drive home her ram into the exposed flank of a Roman galley. The Roman vessel had been stationary in the water, her bow transfixed by her corvus as a battle raged on a captured ship. The blow was incredible, the trireme buckling under the strike, the six-foot ram of the quinquereme disappearing into the hull of the smaller ship, pushing the trireme up onto the cutwater of the Carthaginian galley. The trireme was close to capsizing and Atticus watched as sailors were thrown over the side into the maelstrom of the churning sea.

  ‘Consul!’ Atticus shouted, immediately recognizing the quinquereme.

  Duilius spun around to face the captain.

  ‘That quinquereme is the Carthaginian flagship. We need to take her.’

  Duilius looked over the starboard rail across the two-hundred-yard gap to the enemy ship. He considered the position for a mere second.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said.

  ‘Lucius, prepare to get under way,’ Atticus ordered immediately.

  Atticus’s order was accompanied by a shout of triumph from the legionaries on the enemy deck. The Carthaginians had finally broken, their nerve shattered by the ruthless advance of the Roman soldiers. Atticus took off at a run, rushing down the length of the galley and across the corvus. The enemy deck was slippery with blood, the brutal work of the legionaries. Atticus searched the ranks of the legionaries, instantly recognizing the imposing figure of Septimus. He called the centurion’s name, causing Septimus to break off a command to his optio in order to turn. He strode back to the foredeck, his sword bloodied by his side, his shield scored and dented.

  ‘We’re breaking off the assault, Septimus. The Carthaginian flagship is on our starboard flank. We’re going to attack her.’

  Septimus nodded, his face grim. He turned to his waiting legionaries. They were still hungry. The remaining Carthaginians of the trireme had gone below decks to make one last stand.

  ‘Drusus!’ Septimus called, his optio reporting immediately.

  ‘Fire the deck. We’re withdrawing.’

  The optio saluted, his face showing none of the s
urprise he felt at the decision to abandon the Carthaginian galley at the moment of victory. He ran to complete the order.

  The demi-maniple formed up and marched quickly across the corvus once more. Atticus led them, making his own way once more to the aft-deck. Septimus watched as Drusus and two legionaries fired the deck, setting the main mast and mainsail alight before finally igniting the tiller. Once they were gone, Septimus had little doubt that the Carthaginians would be able to control the fire, but their ship would be hamstrung and useless. They would be lucky to escape.

  The centurion was the last man across the corvus, the ramp immediately raised as he once more set foot on the deck of the Aquila. The galley was instantly away, swinging her bow to starboard as she came about to face her prey.

  ‘What’s the count, Drusus?’ Septimus asked.

  ‘Four dead and seven wounded. Two of those won’t fight again this day.’

  Septimus’s face remained grim as he calculated the odds. Septimus had counted approximately fifty warriors on board the Carthaginian trireme they had just taken. The flagship would surely have twice that number. Septimus was left with forty-nine able men and five walking wounded. Good odds, he thought sardonically, the fire of battle still fierce within him. To him, the men of the Fourth had shown their courage. He would lead them again over the corvus, confident that they would follow him into the firestorm awaiting them.

  The Aquila swung around in time to see the Melqart’s first attempt to break free of the impaled Roman trireme. The bow of the quinquereme was buried deep within her victim’s hull, the untested, untempered timbers giving way completely under the hammer blow of the six-foot bronze ram. It was a killer blow, the water rushing past the ram into the lower decks of the stricken galley. Once the ram had been withdrawn, the trireme would sink like lead, taking two hundred chained slaves with her, and their cries of panic and fear could be heard above the clamour of battle.