by John Stack
Atticus watched the oars of the quinquereme dig deep into the water, the oar shafts straining to extract the ram. The Carthaginian was only vulnerable when stationary. Once free, her speed and power would give her unassailable odds against any Roman galley. The Aquila had to strike before she was released from her quarry.
‘Ramming speed!’ Atticus roared. ‘Steer dead amidships!’
The Aquila accelerated to thirteen knots, her ram thrusting forward at every oar-stroke. The strike would merely wound the larger ship, but it would also bind the Aquila inexorably to her hull, like a bull terrier attacking a wolf, refusing to release the grip of its jaws. The Aquila swung onto her final heading, her arrowed bow fixed on course. Atticus whispered a prayer to Jupiter, calling on him to remember the Titans and infuse his Eagle with strength.
‘Captain!’ Gisco bellowed in rage. ‘Get below decks and make sure those slaves are whipped to within an inch of their lives.’
The captain scurried away, fearful of the terrible wrath evident on the face of the admiral. The Melqart was stuck fast, the splintered hull of the Roman trireme gripping the bow of the larger ship like teeth. Gisco’s fury knew no bounds as he watched the tide of battle turn against the Carthaginians. The ramp he had seen so easily destroyed by the Melqart was spewing Roman legionaries onto the decks of the Carthaginian triremes, the deadly effect of the new tactic fully realized on the more evenly matched ships. All around him, Roman formations were sweeping his men from the decks of their own ships, slaughtering them with cold efficiency.
Every minute spent attempting to extract the ram from the Roman ship robbed Gisco of the chance to assuage his anger and satisfy his lust for vengeance. From the corner of his eye he saw an approaching galley on a collision course. He spun round to see her, watching in satisfied anger as the trireme advanced at ramming speed, willing the battle to come to him. As his gaze swept the galley, he caught sight of the name on the bow, Aquila. His hatred threatened to overwhelm him and he squeezed his hand until the nails dug into the flesh of his palm. Here was a focus for his revenge. The Aquila, the galley that had escaped him in the Strait of Messina.
‘Prepare to repel!’ he roared from his position on the aft-deck.
The bulk of his men were on the main and foredecks, the archers selecting targets on the deck of the trireme impaled on the ram. The order was lost in the noise of battle. Gisco turned to Khalil, the man’s massive frame tensed under the leather-bound chest-plate.
‘The Romans depend on discipline and command,’ Gisco snarled. ‘Bring me the head of the Roman centurion and I will grant you your wish.’
‘Yes, Admiral,’ Khalil replied, his mind already picturing the Roman consul he had once called master under his blade. The sight hardened his resolve and hatred for the Romans. Gisco sensed the hatred, smiling to himself. He too would have a target in the fight to follow, the captain of the Aquila. The man had disgraced him in the Strait of Messina, dishonouring him before his own fleet. Now he would extract the price of that humiliation in blood.
Gisco drew his sword, his personal guard following suit. He turned and marched quickly across the aft-deck, his eyes never leaving the approaching galley. He roared his order again, this time his command heard by many on the main deck. They turned into the sight of the Roman galley, their faces first registering shock and then cool determination as they formed up to receive the oncoming assault, eager to bloody their swords.
Septimus stood tall at the head of the assembled men. The ranks behind him were swelled by fifteen praetoriani, the consul releasing them in the desperate bid to take the Carthaginian flagship. They were the cream of the Roman army, each man a veteran of battle, and their strength reinvigorated the battered demi-maniple. Septimus waited as he judged the distance to the enemy deck, his hastati once more armed with deadly pila spears. At ramming speed the moment would soon be upon them.
At fifty yards Septimus could see the Punici form up into a knot of men on the main deck. They were well over one hundred in number. Beside them the rail of the foredeck was lined with archers.
‘Raise shields!’
The first of the Carthaginian arrows soared across the closing gap, many with their tips aflame. At thirteen knots, the Aquila was a difficult target, but the close range allowed for near-flat trajectories and Septimus felt the arrows slam into his shield on the exposed foredeck. Behind him he heard shouted commands as fires were doused on the main deck and one man cried out as an arrow found its mark.
‘Hastati, prepare to release on my command!’
The junior soldiers shifted their weight behind interlocking shields as they prepared to target the massed formation on the enemy main deck. Septimus breathed out slowly as he judged the distance with a trained eye. The volley would have to be perfect if the necessary chaos was to be instilled in the enemy ranks. He picked out individual men in the enemy formation, their shouted war cries lost in the noise of battle. Their faces were masks of fury and blood lust, of intense hostility. They would not die easily.
‘Loose!’ Septimus roared, as his body instinctively braced itself for the oncoming collision of the two ships.
The bronze ram of the Aquila struck the Melqart dead amidships, its blunt-nosed point striking the hull cleanly, the four-inch-deep cork-oak timbers splintering with the force of the collision. The Aquila seemed to reel from the blow, the impact transmitted down the long axis of the hull, as if the galley had struck solid rock. For a long second the men on both ships staggered under the impact, their balance and focus lost with the brute force of the blow.
Septimus didn’t wait for his men to recover. Knowing there would be no retreat, he swung his gladius in an arc to sever the line holding the corvus aloft. The ramp crashed down onto the main deck of the Carthaginian galley, crushing a man beneath its weight, its foot-long spikes biting down on the deck timbers to bind the fate of both galleys.
‘Advance!’ Septimus roared, running at full tilt across the twenty-foot ramp, never looking behind him, sure by the cries he heard that his lead was being followed. The massive centurion raised his shield to chest height and angled his body to put the weight of his shoulder behind the charging wall of reinforced, canvas-covered timber. Septimus’s momentum was duplicated to his left and right by the legionaries, who threw themselves across the six-foot-wide ramp. As one they slammed into the enemy formation, the brass bosses of their shields crunching bone and cartilage.
‘Wedge formation!’ Septimus ordered as the legionaries deployed from the head of the corvus.
Another Carthaginian fell under the centurion’s blade as he heard his optio, Drusus, shout orders to dress the flanks of the wedge. Septimus continued to push deep into the enemy’s centre, aiming to create a bridgehead that would allow his troops to form a solid line of battle. The gamble was significant. The wedge formation would shock the enemy and slow their response, but it was brittle, the thin edge exposed to the enemy on two quarters.
Septimus clearly heard Punic commands shouted in the pitch of battle. The Carthaginian commander was rallying his troops, aiming to reverse the momentum of the Roman charge. Septimus almost sensed the change in the enemy formation before it occurred, the Carthaginians at the rear pushing forward to check the retreat of their front line.
‘Line of battle!’ the centurion roared, an instant before the Carthaginian thrust reached the front.
The wall of interlocking shields formed up to create a semicircle around the boarding point.
‘Steady the line!’
The legionaries roared their acknowledgement of the command. Unable to advance against the mass of the enemy pushing against them, they would hold the line of battle where they stood. There would be no retreat, no forfeiture of the deck already held. From this moment their mettle would be tested. Whichever side broke first would be slaughtered.
‘Push them back into the sea!’ Gisco bellowed as the Romans’ initial thrust was checked.
From his position at the rear of the fo
rmation he watched the first steps backward as the Romans surged into his men. The sight enraged him and, sensing the panic ripple through his men, he watched for the first sign of retreat. A young soldier turned his back on the fight, a moment of hesitation that cost him his life as Gisco ran his sword into the man’s chest.
Gisco stepped over the body and pushed his way into the formation, his personal guard and Khalil following, forming a solid knot that drove directly at the apex of the Roman wedge. His shouted commands and presence amongst his men overcame the first heated moments of panic, and the Carthaginians turned into the fight with renewed vigour. Five men back from the front line, Gisco watched the Roman line re-form into a seemingly impenetrable wall of shields. His eyes scanned the Roman line for the man he sought and found him at the centre of the formation, his height setting him apart from the men on his flanks. Gisco turned to Khalil to single the man out but the Nubian had already identified his prey.
Gisco renewed his cry to advance and his men surged forward, the momentum allowing Khalil to push through to the forefront of the formation. Within seconds he would be poised to attack the very centre of the enemy line – his target, the Roman centurion.
Atticus ignored the strike of the arrow on his hoplon shield as he stood on the foredeck of the Aquila. From the moment Septimus had led his men across the corvus, Atticus had realized the magnitude of the task set for the legionaries. The enemy outnumbered them by at least two to one and, after the initial shock of boarding had been overcome, the Carthaginians would fight fiercely to defend their ship.
With victory in the balance, Atticus had assembled on the foredeck the best fighters from amongst his crew. The twenty men were veterans of countless battles and skirmishes with pirates, and they stood stoically as the battle unfolded before them. Eight of Atticus’s crew were skilled with a bow and they worked to keep the Carthaginian archers at bay, their own arrows seeking targets on the decks of the Melqart. Atticus suppressed the urge to rush across the corvus as he saw yet another legionary fall under the enemy’s onslaught. Atticus and his men knew nothing of legion tactics and would hamper the strict discipline of the line formation. If the enemy broke through, the battle would descend into a mêlée. Only then would Atticus unleash his men.
Septimus grunted as a fresh surge hit the shield wall and he shoved his shoulder forward to counter the lunge. His gladius sought the gap between the shields and he struck low, seeking the groin of an unseen enemy. His sword connected with flesh and he twisted the blade, hearing the cry of pain as yet another Carthaginian fell under the Roman attack. He withdrew his sword, its blade dulled with anonymous blood, before sending it out again to maim and kill.
Septimus’s shoulders and upper arms ached as he reversed the thrust. The physical stress of the battle was beginning to take its toll on the legionaries. In a land battle the three-line, triplex acies, formation allowed for troops to be rotated from the front line to let men rest before rejoining the fight. In a demi-maniple on the deck of a Carthaginian ship, no such respite could be granted. The legionaries would have to continue fighting until the fight was done. Stamina, willpower and courage had become the foundations for the last line of defence.
A guttural war cry cut through the air and Septimus arrested his next sword stroke, his warrior instincts screaming at him to beware. The shield of the legionary to his left was struck with a force that pushed the man off his balance, exposing a small gap in the shield wall. The next legionary along the line thrust his sword into the breach but it was instantly struck down, the attack anticipated. Septimus bellowed for Drusus to cover the possible breach, unable to help the man to his left without turning and exposing the flank of the man to his right. The legionary’s shield was struck again, this time with a ferocity that caused the soldier’s legs to buckle, and Septimus was given a glance at the enemy warrior forcing the breach. His eyes widened in shocked awareness as he recognized the figure of Khalil, Scipio’s Nubian slave. The man’s face was twisted in grim determination as he bore down on the legionary, battering his sword like a hammer on the anvil of the shield. A final thrust tore through the legionary’s defence and he fell, clutching at the mortal blow to his stomach.
The Carthaginians screamed in triumph as the breach was made. Time seemed to slow for Septimus as he watched the enemy ranks swell in anticipation of exploiting the gap. Survival and victory for the Romans now depended entirely on discipline. With the line breached and their backs exposed, there was the immediate threat that the legionaries would panic. If they fled they would be cut down. If Septimus re-established order they would survive and counterattack. Everything now depended on his command. As the order formed on his lips, Septimus instinctively threw up his sword to counter a thrust from Khalil. The Nubian had not rushed through as anticipated, but instead had turned into the centurion, focusing his attack on the embattled commander.
Septimus was forced to parry another blow as Carthaginians surged through the gap made by Khalil. The centurion took another step back under the onslaught, the Nubian’s blade seeming to strike in two places at once as the speed of the blows intensified. A tiny portion of Septimus’s mind registered the need to regain control of his men, but the thought was overwhelmed by his survival instinct as he narrowly defended a counter-thrust. He raged at his incapacitation, his inability to command his men when they needed him most. As he readjusted his balance and took a further step back, he planted his feet firmly on the deck. Steady the line, he thought grimly as another blow was parried. The battle for the Carthaginian flagship might be lost but Septimus would ensure that at least his fight for the legions would be won.
‘Breach!’ Atticus roared as he pointed to the emerging gap in the Roman formation with the tip of his sword.
‘Men of the Aquila, to me!’
Atticus raced across the corvus, his men at his heels, shouting the name of their galley as they charged. The captain swerved into the line of the breach in time to see a powerful black warrior step through to engage Septimus. Atticus recognized him immediately but his mind swept the shock of recognition clear as it focused on the vital action needed to save the Roman line. Another legionary fell and the charge intensified, the breach widening.
A dozen Carthaginians were through the breach, their cries of triumph causing the Roman line to waver as the legionaries felt their backs exposed to encirclement. The men of the Aquila crashed into the charge at full tilt, their attack cutting the premature cries of success short. Atticus brought his hoplon shield high to block an overarm blow of a Carthaginian axe, driving his sword underneath into the exposed flank of his attacker. The strike knocked the Carthaginian off his feet and Atticus twisted the blade to release the weapon from the man’s ribs. His men overwhelmed the breach, their frenzied attack causing the Carthaginians to hesitate at their expected moment of success.
‘Men of the Fourth! The line is held!’ Atticus roared, his eyes scanning the backs of the Roman legionaries. The Boars of Rome roared as the tide was turned again and they intensified their defence.
The Carthaginians trapped behind the now solid line fought with the desperation of doomed men. At their centre was Khalil, his focus entirely on Septimus, their fight exemplifying the intensity of the bitter struggle. The centurion’s spirit rose as he registered the shouted acclamation of Atticus, the captain now engaged in the front line. The battle was once more finely balanced and victory was there for the taking.
Septimus stepped inside another strike from Khalil and reversed his sword to rake the Nubian’s stomach. Khalil bunched his shield into the assault, narrowly deflecting the blade against the shield edge. The men were mere inches apart, their combined skills keeping the combat close, their blades a whirl of iron. Septimus focused his mind on the movements of his attacker, searching for a weakness, a way through. With the clarity of discovery, Septimus realized his advantage over the Nubian. Khalil was using his rounded shield for defence only, his sword the only offensive weapon in the attack. The legio
ns had taught Septimus differently.
Khalil kept his attack high, forcing Septimus back on the defensive as he parried a sequenced series of blows. The Nubian suddenly inverted the attack and Septimus cried out in pain as Khalil’s sword swept the back of his thigh. The wound itself was not mortal, but it would kill him nevertheless as his balance crumbled, his body automatically favouring his uninjured leg. Against an opponent of Khalil’s skill, the end would come swiftly. Septimus had mere seconds to react.
The centurion attacked with ferocity, forcing Khalil to throw up his shield, keeping his sword low, poised, waiting for the opportunity to counterattack. Septimus registered the stance, the coiled energy of the Nubian, waiting for his own chance to end the fight. Septimus ground his teeth against the pain and shifted his weight onto his injured leg. He could feel the severed muscle buckle under the strain, and his cry of pain mingled with a vicious roar of attack. He lunged forward with his scutum shield, striking the Nubian’s sword arm with the copper boss of the shield, the unexpected blow throwing Khalil completely off balance, causing him to stumble backwards. Septimus resisted the intense urge to ease the pressure on his injured leg and he continued the lunge, committing himself fully to the desperate attack. Khalil’s arms raised fractionally to balance himself and Septimus seized his chance. He whipped his gladius high through the opening, the blade cutting cleanly through Khalil’s arm, severing the sword hand from the wrist. Khalil screamed in pain, dropping his shield as he grasped the stump of his injured arm. He bowed over the wound and Septimus reversed his swing to bring the sword down in a killing blow. At the last instant the centurion stayed his blade and he struck Khalil on the top of his head with the iron hilt of the gladius. The Nubian collapsed, unconscious, before he hit the deck.
Khalil’s fall was registered by the front line of the Carthaginian formation and their will cracked at the loss of such a powerful warrior, the only man who had forced a breach in the Roman line. Septimus straightened up slowly as the last of the Carthaginians trapped behind the line was dispatched by Atticus’s crew.