Captain of Rome

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Atticus waved one last time as the Neptunus drew away from the Aquila, her captain returning the gesture before turning away to issue the order to come about. The Neptunus turned slowly into the north-easterly wind; the waves initially striking her broadside, throwing up a fine mist of spray until the spear-like bow came to bear, slicing cleanly into the whitehorses. For a second the galley seemed suspended, the oncoming wind counter-acting the power of her oars, but slowly and inexorably the two hundred slaves below decks overcame the inertia and within a minute she was up to a steady five knots.

Atticus turned and walked slowly over to the tiller. As he did he lifted his arm, rotating his shoulder through a full circle, recalling the slight stab of pain he had felt a moment ago when he had waved at the captain of the Neptunus. The wound on his chest was healing rapidly but the range of motion of his right arm was still restricted and even the weight of a sword became too heavy to hold within a minute.

Atticus nodded to Lucius and the second-in-command issued the order to raise sail, the Aquila’s course allowing her to take advantage of the wind and the whip-crack of canvas filled the air as the trireme came to life under Atticus’s feet.

‘Course, Captain?’ Gaius asked.

‘South-south-west Gaius,’ Atticus replied. ‘Where the wind takes us.’ And he felt an enormous sense of freedom as the galley turned neatly beneath him. The Aquila was his once more, Varro having transferred to the Tigris, the command ship of the squad, two weeks earlier when the Aquila had arrived on station in its patrol zone. Since then the mood of the entire crew had lifted, not least because the scrutiny of a senior officer was never welcome on any vessel.

‘South-south-west Captain,’ Gaius said as the Aquila settled on course and Atticus sensed the hopeful tone of his helmsman. He slapped Gaius on the shoulder and smiled, sharing his hope that today they would finally encounter the enemy and take back some measure of their loss at Thermae.

The past two weeks had been frustrating, with the Aquila patrolling at random, expecting each day to encounter an enemy galley, believing that the Carthaginians were perhaps emboldened enough by their victory at Thermae to venture east beyond Brolium. But each day had ended in frustration as the Aquila sailed through seas devoid of enemy ships and it was only morale that kept the crew sharp as inactivity chafed the nerves of all on board.

That frustration was compounded by the possibility that a second enemy was active in the area. The other captains spoke of reports of at least a half-dozen ships that had disappeared in the waters around the north-eastern tip of Sicily, ships that were known to be on a southerly course from Rome that had not arrived at their destination. These were the kind of reports that incensed the crew of the Aquila and they had accepted with relish the order that once more turned their galley into the pirate-hunter she was born to be.

‘Well?’ a voice asked and Atticus turned to find Septimus coming up from the main deck.

‘Nothing yet,’ Atticus replied, ‘but the rumours from the traders the Neptunus has stopped are the same as before.’

Septimus nodded and stood beside Atticus, looking past him to the departing Roman galley. Atticus stood easy, his hand resting lightly on the tiller. They had not spoken of their confrontation again in the previous two weeks and the tension between them had eventually dissipated, the unresolved conflict concealed by the routine of command and friendship.

‘You still think it’s pirates?’ Septimus asked.

Atticus nodded, trusting his instincts.

‘I don’t think it’s the Carthaginians,’ he said, reiterating his argument. ‘What reason would they have for capturing or sinking such a small number of ships? More importantly, not one ship has escaped to describe their attacker which means that each one was caught by complete surprise. Only a captain with local knowledge would know the best spots along the coast to ambush a passing ship.’

Septimus nodded, accepting the argument. ‘So it must be pirates,’ he said.

‘It must be…’ Atticus replied, his voice low, his thoughts still forming in his mind.

‘But…’ Septimus said, sensing Atticus’s hesitation.

‘I keep thinking of what Camillus, the survivor from the Fides, said,’ Atticus said, again lapsing into deep thought.

‘He said the pirates sunk the Fides after they captured it, slaves and all. A valuable prize,’ Atticus began. ‘And now every rumour speaks of ships disappearing without a trace. Not found drifting with their holds empty or beached with their complement of slaves taken, just disappeared as if they too were sunk. It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘Whoever they are,’ Septimus concluded, ‘it’s only a matter of time before they run into one of our galleys.’

Atticus shrugged. He was unsure if the other crews were searching specifically for the pirates. Certainly no general order to that effect had been received from Varro, but even if the Roman galleys were tasked with patrolling for Carthaginian ships, it would be unlikely that they would allow a pirate ship to pass unchallenged. Either way, up until now, Fortuna had been on the side of the pirates.

Atticus glanced over his shoulder one last time as the Neptunus grew smaller in the distance. Beyond her the horizon was clear as it was off all four points of the Aquila, a featureless seascape but one where a galley could hide if she were commanded by the right crew. In addition the ancient shoreline of Italy was littered with blind coves and headlands, a multitude of lairs for a predatory galley. To catch her, Fortuna’s wheel would need to turn in the Aquila’s favour or Atticus would have to turn the wheel for her. Armed with a crew and a galley that had hunted pirates for years that task might just be possible.

Regulus sighed irritably as his servant announced that Scipio had arrived and was waiting in the atrium. For a second Regulus was tempted to say that he was unavailable but he immediately thought better of it. He would have to confront Scipio sooner or later and as he felt more confident within the walls of his own house, now would be the most opportune time.

Regulus had left the Curia immediately at sundown, the traditional time of day when all discussion and debate was suspended in the Senate, in the hope of postponing this confrontation but even as he left, Regulus recalled thinking how futile his efforts were. In Rome the Senate might close with the setting of the sun but the Senate’s business continued regardless of the heavens and Regulus knew he could not avoid this conversation.

The senior consul half-stood as Scipio entered the room, keeping his expression neutral, matching the senator’s renowned ability to hide his inner thoughts. Over the previous weeks Regulus had tried to become adept at reading Scipio’s thoughts but to no avail, the senator’s serpentine nature constantly making a mockery of his efforts. On this night however Regulus felt sure he knew what was on Scipio’s mind and he became even more guarded, knowing that Scipio’s anger was lurking just beneath the surface.

‘The hour is late, Senator,’ Regulus said, keeping his tone even. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘Who in Hades do you think you are?’ Scipio exploded, his veneer of composure suddenly cast aside.

Regulus bristled at the words, his own vow to remain calm forgotten as his patience evaporated. ‘I am the senior consul of Rome!’ he shouted, stepping forward to meet Scipio in the centre of the room.

Scipio laughed derisively, ‘You are nothing, Regulus. You are a fool who has forgotten his place.’

‘My place, Senator,’ Regulus growled, ‘is wherever I see fit.’

‘No, Regulus,’ Scipio said, drawing himself to his full height, his hands bunched by his side. ‘You have gone too far this time. You will withdraw your announcement.’

Now it was Regulus’s turn to laugh sardonically. He turned from Scipio and walked back to his seat, taking his goblet of wine from the table as he did. He recalled the moment in the Senate only hours before when he announced that he would travel to Sicily. The campaign there was in turmoil, with the Carthaginians pushing eastward beyond Enna and the legions struggling to contain the advance in the rugged mountains, unable to bring their superior fighting skills to bear in the hostile terrain. As senior consul, Regulus had felt compelled to act and he remembered the pride he had felt when his announcement was cheered by the Senate, a spontaneous endorsement of his decision.

He had immediately looked to Scipio, knowing that his undisclosed decision would anger him, but he had been unprepared for the unbridled wrath he had seen written on the senator’s face. He took a drink from his wine, feeling confident that his decision had been wise. He turned once more to Scipio, recommitting himself as he saw the hostility in the senator’s eyes.

‘My decision and my announcement stand, Scipio,’ he began. ‘Rome needs me and I have answered her call.’

‘Rome needs you,’ Scipio spat, a mocking smile on his face at the pomposity of Regulus’s words. ‘What Rome needs is for me to decide, not you.’

‘You cannot hold me here,’ Regulus replied and Scipio realised for the first time, as he noticed a new confidence in the consul’s voice, that his grip on power was slipping. Regulus’s decision to travel to Sicily was a body blow to Scipio. With the senior consul away, leadership of the Senate would pass to Longus, the junior partner and a man completely beyond Scipio’s control.

Scipio was furious with himself. He had not foreseen that Regulus would become his own man and he couldn’t believe that it had happened so soon. With the revelation of his true intentions weeks earlier when they had first clashed Scipio knew his control of Regulus would become more tenuous but he had thought that his initial assessment of Regulus’s character was still sound, that the consul would bend to his superior will and that Regulus’s aspirations did not go beyond the title and trappings of the position of senior consul.

Scipio now knew that he had ignored his own doubts about his plan when he first noticed a new hostility emerging from within Regulus. Coupled with this the consul had unwittingly begun to gain support in his own right amongst many of the senators and the Senate’s endorsement of Regulus’s announcement earlier that day bore full testament to that support.

Scipio silently cursed Regulus as he watched the senior consul retake his seat, but this turned to a malevolent smile as he noticed again the consul’s manner, the proud bearing that was fully suggestive of his confidence. Therein lay his demise, Scipio thought and he turned to leave the room without another word, satisfied, for now, for Regulus to believe that he had triumphed.

Hamilcar Barca walked slowly along the shore, his gaze ranging over the final stages of construction, the air filled with the sound of hammering and shouted commands. He knew he should feel tired, for he had barely slept over the previous two weeks, but anticipation was fuelling his energy and the sights around him continually commanded his full attention. He stopped at the head of one of the many jetties, his mind’s eye already seeing the serried ranks of galleys that would soon be moored there and again his mind ranged over the events and details that needed to transpire before that vision would become a reality. He turned in the soft sand and looked down to his feet. The beach had been churned by a thousand footfalls, the slaves’ bare footprints mixed with the prints of sandaled feet of the tradesmen who had been drafted in to the site. Hamilcar traced the signs of his own hob-nailed sandals and once again he was given over to imagine when the sand would show only prints of his kind.

Over the previous two weeks Hamilcar had received one report after another, each one keeping him apace with events on all fronts. In Carthage the fleets were assembling, the military port which could house two hundred galleys already full and the navy had resorted to commandeering parts of the commercial port to house the excess. Sixty miles south-west from where Hamilcar stood, his forces had pushed past Enna and were skirmishing with the Romans, driving relentlessly eastward. They would reach the border of Syracuse within a week. One final report, received only two days before had come from Hiero through an emissary. Ostensibly the emissary had enquired about the security arrangements at Tyndaris but Hamilcar had quickly noticed that the Syracusan’s eyes had taken in every detail of the port and Hamilcar had taken the opportunity to mention the progress of his fleet and land forces, knowing that Hiero would hear his words within days.

Hamilcar looked to the sun setting rapidly in the west, the drop in temperature tempting a light cloud cover to appear on that horizon while over his shoulder, in the eastern sky, the full moon was beginning her climb into the heavens. Hamilcar’s thoughts drifted to Belus and his imminent return, the phase of the moon signalling the pre-determined end to his task. Perhaps he would arrive on the morrow and Hamilcar utter a silent prayer to Tanit that the information he would bring would confirm his earlier reports. Armed with that confirmation Hamilcar would be poised to strike and he suddenly felt impatient, the culmination of so many months of planning hinging on one final report.

Belus smiled in the twilight as he watched the full moon rise over the bow of the pirate galley. The moon looked unusually large in perspective and he savoured the sight that marked the end of his time on the pirate galley. Belus looked away and turned towards the darkening sea, blinking his eyes to clear them of the residual image of the moon as he once more marshalled his thoughts, sifting the information he had gathered since he had last seen his commander.

The crux of his report involved security and the perceived opportunity to take the Romans by surprise. On this point he was now sure, the evidence overwhelming and he smiled without thinking as he imagined the reaction of Hamilcar to the news. The smile dissipated quickly as Belus was reminded of the primary source of this vital information, the Roman captain still recovering below decks. Too many times over the previous days, when Belus had gone to check on the Roman, he had found himself examining his decision to spare him. More than once his conviction had faltered, even when faced with the sight of the Roman’s broken body. Rome was the enemy, the aggressor who had precipitated the conflict on Sicily until the only option left to Carthage was total war. The sons of Rome therefore deserved no mercy, whether trader or soldier, for victory could not be achieved through halfmeasures. And yet, more often than not, Belus knew he was right to spare the captain. He firmly believed the Romans were no better than wolves, creatures totally without honour that corrupted all they touched. If Carthage was to prevail and remain unsullied by the conflict, Belus knew her sons needed to remain honourable. The Roman captain had been a worthy adversary and Belus would treat him as such. Once the impending campaign was underway, he would release him back to his people.

The stench of unwashed skin and clothes shattered Belus’s thoughts and he turned to find a crewman standing beside him.

‘Captain wants to see you,’ he said, his mouth a mess of broken and rotting teeth, his breath putrid.

Belus nodded and stepped passed the pirate, his eyes searching the deck until he spotted Narmer on the aft. He strode towards him, conscious of the intense stare of the pirate captain as he approached.

‘A full moon, Carthaginian,’ Narmer said, stepping forward.

‘Then we set course for Tyndaris,’ Belus replied, wishing to keep the conversation as brief as possible.

‘We’ll be there by noon tomorrow,’ Narmer replied.

‘No sooner?’ Belus asked. By his reckoning Tyndaris was no more than twenty miles as the crow flies.

Narmer nodded over his shoulder to the darkening horizon. Belus followed his indication and noticed the darker smear of storm clouds.

‘There’s a storm rolling south,’ Narmer remarked. ‘We will have to stay in shallow waters and hug the coastline.’

Belus nodded. The bireme had a very shallow draft, ill suited for heavy seas, and the galley was now in open waters west of the Bruttian peninsula. They would have to sail eastwards to the Italian mainland, into the lee of the peninsula, and then south along the coast. It was unavoidable but it added considerable time to their passage and Belus allowed his irritation to show on his face.

‘Trust me, Carthaginian,’ Narmer sneered, seeing Belus’s expression. ‘I am as anxious as you to reach Tyndaris and have you, and that Roman you spared, off my ship.’

Belus stared stonily at the pirate, not deigning to reply.

Narmer stepped towards Belus, leaning forward threateningly, determined to press home his opinion. ‘And remember this,’ he spat. ‘If my gold isn’t there waiting for me, you’ll die on this galley, but not before my crew string you from the mainmast.’

Belus continued to stare icily into the captain’s eyes, silently marking every contour of the pirate’s face before turning abruptly to leave the aft-deck.

‘Another wasted day?’ Septimus said with mock derision as he came up to the aft-deck.

‘Not one sighting,’ Atticus replied with frustration.

‘Maybe the other galleys have had more success,’ Septimus said, sharing his friend’s disappointment although he knew Atticus’s hatred for pirates ran deeper than his own, second nature for a man who had spent his life at sea.

‘We’ll know tomorrow,’ Atticus replied, referring to the prearranged assembly of the squad in the fishing village of Falcone that was scheduled for the next day.

Septimus nodded, sensing Atticus’s conviction that no other crew had encountered the pirate galley. He looked beyond the captain to the setting sun and watched as the last of the day’s sunlight skipped across the wave tops. Septimus had spent most of the day in training with his demi-maniple, a welcome distraction from the seemingly endless trek across open water and even now, within a minute of watching the horizon, he became annoyed by the monotonous seascape.

‘Captain!’

Septimus turned at the call, recognising Gaius’s voice and he watched as Atticus walked towards the tiller and man who had called him. As Atticus approached Gaius nodded to a point high in the sky over the port rail, using only his head to indicate, his hands never leaving the tiller. Septimus turned and followed the line of sight of the captain, immediately seeing a loose flock of seagulls flying across the line of the Aquila’s course. He wondered at their significance and he turned again to see Atticus and Gaius in conversation, both of them occasionally looking to the northern horizon.

‘What’s wrong?’ Septimus asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

‘The seagulls,’ Atticus replied, pointing again to the dwindling profiles of the flock. ‘They’re heading inland.’

‘So?’ Septimus asked.

‘It’s a sign that bad weather’s approaching.’

Septimus smiled at superstitious sailors but as he looked to the north he saw the unmistakeable stain of dark clouds crowding the horizon, their height seeming to increase with every second.

‘Come about east,’ Atticus ordered.

‘We’re going to run from it?’ Septimus asked, surprised. ‘Surely this galley can weather an autumn storm.’

‘Not with that thing on board altering the trim of the hull,’ Gaius said, indicating the corvus boarding ramp on the foredeck. ‘We encounter heavy weather with that thing attached to the deck and we’ll capsize before we have time to make our peace with Poseidon.’

Septimus looked doubtful. The corvus looked ungainly on the foredeck but it was dwarfed by the mainmast and he found it hard to believe it posed some kind of threat as to how the galley would fare in rough seas.

Atticus noticed the centurion’s expression, ‘I trust Gaius’s judgement on this,’ he said. ‘Galleys are very finely balanced and remember the corvus was installed on all galleys before Mylae. That was early spring so no galley has had to sail through a storm with a corvus weighing down its bow.’

Septimus accepted the argument although he remained sceptical. He knew nothing of sailing and had always deferred to the experience and knowledge of Atticus and his men but in this case he couldn’t help but feel that they were being over-cautious.

Narmer stood on the aft-deck of his galley, his hand resting easily on the weathered arm of the tiller, his eyes focused on the waters ahead and the brooding dark shoreline to his starboard. The helmsman lay asleep on the deck behind him, curled up against the aft-rail with a canvas tarp over his head, meagre protection against the rain which had begun over an hour before. The bireme had just sailed into the lee of the Bruttian peninsula which protected her from the rising swell and although the helmsman knew the coastline well, Narmer was sure none knew it better than he. As the bireme moved slowly through the shallows, Narmer’s thoughts began to drift. He would be glad to reach Tyndaris on the morrow and finally rid himself of the Carthaginian shackles that had held his galley fast over the previous six weeks.

Narmer’s galley had taken eight Roman ships during that time, rich pickings that he had been satisfied to sink in exchange for the fifteen hundred drachmae the Carthaginians had promised him. The waters around the north-eastern tip of Sicily were becoming too dangerous however, and Narmer had already decided that his next hunting ground would be the northern coast of Africa. The pickings would not be as rich there but neither would the risk of capture be as high and Narmer recalled with unease how close to detection his ship had come over the previous weeks. His ability to avoid the Roman war-galleys was based on detecting them before they spotted his ship. In daylight this was possible because of the extremely low profile of his bireme while at night he sailed without running lights, something the regimented Roman navy galleys would never do and so they were easily seen and avoided. Even with these precautions however, Narmer knew luck was always a factor in remaining undetected and so he looked forward to the time when Tyndaris and Sicily would be lost in the wake of his galley.

‘Land, bearing two-points to port!’

Atticus followed the line indicated by Corin the lookout, wiping the rain from his face and eyes as he peered through the semi-darkness formed by the struggle of the moon to be seen through the heavy but broken cloud. The northwesterly wind was picking up with each passing minute but Atticus judged the land ahead to be no more than two miles away.

‘Recognise it?’ Lucius asked.

Atticus studied it again, trying to discern some detail in the ethereal half-light, knowing that the older man was testing his knowledge. He smiled and shook his head.

‘It’s the Bruttian peninsula,’ Lucius said and he pointed out the landmarks that had allowed him to recognise the Cape.

Without command Gaius steered the Aquila two points to starboard, the line of her hull pointing directly off the southerly tip of the peninsula.

‘Recommend battle speed until we reach the lee, Captain.’ Gaius said. ‘The storm is coming up fast.’

Atticus agreed and sent the order below for battle speed, sensing the changed momentum as the Aquila took on the extra two knots of speed.

Twenty minutes later the Aquila sailed into calmer waters in the lee of the peninsula. Atticus ordered standard speed and sent lookouts to the starboard rail with orders to watch the line of breakers on the shoreline less than half a mile away. The coastline here ran south-south-west, reaching out ahead of the Aquila but Atticus could see that Gaius was adjusting the course of the galley to match, keeping her line parallel to the shadowy shoreline.

‘Ship ahead!’

Atticus moved quickly to the side-rail and looked out over the seascape before the Aquila. The wind was lighter here behind the Cape but it was buffeted by the land and the rain was now falling in long narrow sheets, at once obscuring and then revealing the waters ahead in quick succession. The cloud cover was also increasing and the moon’s light was becoming more sporadic and feeble. Atticus could see nothing ahead and he turned his face up to the masthead lookout.

‘Confirm!’ he shouted and for a brief second he saw the moonlight reflect off Corin’s face as he turned to acknowledge the order. Corin remained silent and within a couple of minutes Atticus was ready to put the sighting down to a trick of the light and the young crewman’s inexperience.

‘There!’ a shout came suddenly. ‘Two miles, dead ahead. A galley!’

Again Atticus looked to the waters ahead and again he was frustrated by the combination of elements that obscured his view. He turned to Lucius who was also scanning the waters ahead and he raised his eyebrows in question.

‘I don’t see it, Captain,’ he replied but he kept his gaze fixed on the specified point nonetheless.

Atticus looked up to the masthead again.

‘Corin!’ he ordered. ‘Report to the aft-deck.’

The young man scrambled down from the fifty foot height with ease, hitting the deck on a solid footing before running to the aft.

‘What did you see?’ Atticus asked.

‘A galley, Captain,’ Corin replied. ‘A small one, possibly a bireme. Bearing directly ahead and sailing on a parallel course.’

‘You’re sure?’ Atticus asked, suddenly not as willing to dismiss the sighting as he had been a moment before. ‘We can’t see it from here.’

‘She’s sailing without running lights,’ Corin replied.

Atticus understood immediately. Looking from the deck the ship ahead was silhouetted against the dark night sky and was therefore invisible. From Corin’s viewpoint however, the ship would also be silhouetted against the intermittent moonlight on the water.

‘A galley sailing without running lights can only mean one thing,’ Atticus said, thinking out loud. ‘She’s trying to avoid detection.’

‘The pirate galley?’ Lucius ventured.

Atticus nodded, ‘It could be,’ he said. He turned to Corin and placed his hand on the young lad’s shoulder.

‘Get aloft and let us know if you see her change course.’ Atticus ordered. Corin nodded and made to leave but Atticus stopped him, ‘and Corin,’ he said, ‘well done.’ Corin smiled and spun on his heel, retracing his steps and scurrying back up the running rigging to the masthead.

‘Lucius,’ Atticus said, turning to his second in command. ‘Douse the running lights and pass the order to the crew. No exposed flame on deck.’

Lucius nodded and left also, leaving Atticus standing alone at the side-rail. He searched the waters ahead but again he saw nothing. He smiled despite this, knowing now that a ship was there somewhere and if it was the pirate galley then dawn’s early light would expose her.

Narmer turned his face up to the rain in an effort to wash the fatigue from his eyes. He and the helmsman had shared the task of keeping the galley on course during the night but even when Narmer had taken a break he had been unable to sleep and he had surreptitiously watched the helmsman to be sure the crewman was alert. The sky was turning a lighter grey in the east, with dawn less than thirty minutes away and as the darkness fled, Narmer once again checked the line of his course in relation to the shoreline. The rain had never stopped but the wind had fallen away and so now, although the galley was no longer in the lee of the Cape, the sea breathed with only a gentle swell.

The gathering light also revealed the huddled figures of his crew spread out over the deck. Narmer was tempted to rouse them but he decided to let them sleep on. With Tyndaris less than six hours away, he could afford to relax the normally brutal discipline he was forced to impose to keep his galley running effectively. Narmer’s eyes slowly drifted upwards and his lenient mood was replaced by a sudden fury. The masthead lookout was asleep, huddled against the mast, a canvas hood draped over his head and face to protect him from the rain.

‘Masthead!’ Narmer roared and his eyes were murderous as he saw the man start with surprise. He looked immediately chastened but the captain kept his gaze upon him, vowing silently that he would flog the man raw when his watch was finished at dawn.

‘Helmsman!’ Narmer shouted again, his anger now spurred on by his exhaustion. The man was immediately by his captain’s side and Narmer handed over control of the galley before he set off along the deck, kicking the crew awake as he did, their curses of annoyance cut short when they noticed the vicious mood of their captain. Within a minute the crew were roused and they began the daily routine that marked their lives at sea.

‘Galley! Dead astern!’

Narmer’s insides turned to water at the shout and he raced to the aft-rail, his mind flooded with foreboding. He saw the oncoming galley before he even reached the rail, her hull a dark arrow on the brightening horizon directly behind his own ship. She was on an intercept course, no more than three miles behind.

‘Any markings?’ Narmer roared as he turned to the masthead, his fury at the lookout knowing no bounds.

There was moments silence as the lookout waited to be sure but Narmer knew there could only be one answer.

‘Roman!’ he shouted, fear evident in his voice, a fear that rippled across the entire deck.

‘Prepare for battle!’ Narmer roared without hesitation. ‘Orders to the rowers, battle speed!’

He looked again to the galley in pursuit. Narmer could see that she was a trireme, at least four knots faster than his ship but the pirate bireme had one advantage over its bigger rival, manoeuvrability, and Narmer knew how to exploit it. Battle would soon be joined but Narmer was determined that it would be on his terms.

‘She’s accelerated to battle speed!’

Atticus nodded at Lucius’s words, noticing the change himself.

‘Battle speed!’ he ordered and the two hundred slaves below decks responded to the drum master’s beat without visible effort, bringing the Aquila up to seven knots, a battle speed that was a knot faster than the bireme’s.

‘She’s a pirate?’ Septimus asked as he approached Atticus.

The captain nodded. ‘She’s not Carthaginian,’ he replied, ‘and no other galley would have cause to run.’

Septimus nodded and looked back over his shoulder, wiping the rain from his face as he did. His demi-maniple was drawn up in formation on the main deck, Drusus to their front, the optio seemingly oblivious to the rain that pelted off his breast-plate.

‘Then we’re ready,’ Septimus said, and he left the aft-deck once more, his stride determined and focused, his men equally so.

Atticus watched him go and then turned to the helmsman.

‘What do you think?’ he asked

‘She’s quick,’ Gaius said, his intense gaze locked on the target.

‘But not quick enough,’ Atticus replied, no humour in his voice as his mind inventoried every capability of the Aquila and how they could be sequenced to run down her prey.

‘She’ll try to cut inside,’ Gaius continued, ‘maybe to sweep our oars or simply escape.’

‘Can we cut inside her?’ Atticus asked, trusting Gaius’s judgement over all others when it came to close quarter sailing. There were many different galley types, some of them unique, and it was impossible to apply a general rule of attack, the variations in speed and manoeuvrability too great. Only now, with a ship in his sights, could a skilled helmsman properly formulate an attack.

‘There’s only one way we can cut inside her,’ Gaius said, ‘and even then we need to anticipate her turn. Otherwise she’s too nimble.’

Atticus nodded, as his mind narrowed the options in the face of Gaius’s assessment. The manoeuvre Gaius was implicitly suggesting had been practiced many times by the crew of the Aquila but had never been used in actual combat. Atticus could see no other option against a galley as manoeuvrable as the pirate’s.

‘They’ll need to be close,’ he said aloud as he weighed the odds.

Gaius nodded, ‘They’ll never see it coming.’

‘If it works,’ Atticus remarked almost to himself. ‘If it doesn’t we’ll have handed them the advantage and maybe the fight.’

Gaius remained silent as he waited for his captain to decide, glancing once more to the pirate galley, now less than two and half miles away and then back to Atticus. The choice was far from clear-cut and he didn’t envy the captain’s position. The sound of the rain hammering the deck increased as Atticus broke the silence and turned to his helmsman.

‘We do it,’ he said, total conviction in his voice. ‘Make ready the helm.’

Gaius nodded, his grip on the tiller intensifying as his eyes moved once more to the enemy.

‘You were on the aft-deck!’ Belus roared, his gaze locked on the Roman galley in pursuit. ‘How did they get so close without detection?’

‘She was sailing without running lights,’ Narmer spat, his anger at being caught compounded by the Carthaginian’s censure.

‘And the masthead lookout?’ Belus said, turning to Narmer, his eyes full of accusation and contempt.

‘He was asleep,’ Narmer said, looking past Belus to the lookout who had just descended from the masthead by his orders.

‘Asleep?’ Belus growled, his anger threatening to overwhelm him. He was about to berate Narmer further when the arrival of the lookout interrupted him.

‘Yes, Captain,’ the lookout said, trying to sound confident but his voice was laced with panic and Belus could smell the stench of fear from him.

Narmer stepped forward. ‘You were asleep,’ he accused.

‘No, Captain,’ the man stammered, what little confidence he had tried to muster now gone. ‘I just didn’t see her because of the rain.’

‘Do you see her now!’ Narmer shouted as he grabbed the lookout by the arm and pushed him towards the aft-rail.

The man stumbled but maintained his balance and he grabbed the aft-rail for support, looking out over the water to the galley bearing down on them.

‘I didn’t…’ he began, his attention captivated by the sight before him. ‘She came from nowhere…’

He turned around to plead again and found that Narmer now stood directly before him, the captain’s expression more terrifying than before, Narmer’s gaze so hypnotic that the lookout only saw the blade a heartbeat before it struck. He backed off slightly, his mind suddenly screaming in panic as awareness flooded his senses and his hands shot up to his neck, the blood drenching his fingers. He tried to scream but the sound died in his severed throat and the lookout fell backwards over the aft-rail, striking the rudder as he fell before being swallowed by the wake of the bireme.

Narmer stepped forward and spat over the rail into the water as the lookout’s body resurfaced, the water around him stained red. He turned to face Belus, the bloodied knife still in his hand, a silent challenge passing between them. The captain would accept no more criticism from the Carthaginian.

Belus turned away and moved to the aft-rail, watching the lookout’s body until it was run over by the Roman galley advancing at seven knots. He couldn’t believe that Narmer had been so inept as to be caught so easily, especially since the captain had shown incredible skill over the previous weeks in avoiding the Roman galleys that patrolled the area. Belus knew he was partly to blame. He had noticed the change in the crew the day before when the bireme had finally turned its bow towards Tyndaris. They had become complacent, the end in sight, and Belus realised he should have confronted Narmer on the issue. Now, so close to success, Belus was faced with utter failure. He cared little for his own life, it belonged to Carthage, but the information he carried was invaluable.

Belus turned once more and looked out over the crew of the pirate galley. They were good swordsmen but they fought as individuals, relying on speed and savagery to carry a fight. Against the marines of Rome those tactics would be useless and Belus remembered his own desperate fight at Mylae. To defeat the Romans he would have to change their normal plan of attack and Belus turned to Narmer as an idea resurfaced in his mind, an idea he had formulated after witnessing the enemy attacks at Mylae. The Romans might find some way to board but for the first time Belus felt a creeping confidence that maybe the vaulted marines of Rome could be beaten.

‘Attack speed!’

The gap between the galleys was now down to a mile and as the Aquila accelerated to eleven knots Atticus waited for the first turn. Gaius stood firmly to his right, his feet slightly apart to brace himself, ready to throw his weight against the arm of the tiller. Lucius was stationed below deck on the shoulder of the drum master, watching the rowers intently as they pulled through the sequence of moves that defined their existence. The slaves had been forewarned of the order to come, an order no different from the many times they had practiced the manoeuvre, although this time a chain ran through the eye of the manacle on their ankles. Failure in practice had meant a lash of the whip. In the face of the enemy, shackled to the seventy-ton galley, the stakes were immeasurably higher.

The first turn came without warning, the pirate galley swinging hard to starboard. Gaius reacted without command and the Aquila tilted heavily underneath Atticus’s feet, the captain standing with his legs shoulder-length apart for balance. He noticed Gaius did not match the turn exactly but kept the Aquila on a convergent course, narrowing the gap between the galleys with every oar stroke. Atticus kept his own gaze locked on the aft-deck of the pirate ship, trying to anticipate their next move. He recalled with dread fascination the scene he had witnessed minutes before when one of the pirate crew had been thrown off the stern of the bireme, his body crushed beneath the ram of the Aquila as she followed the wake of the bireme relentlessly. It was a sight that would have frightened lesser crews but for the men of the Aquila, it merely reminded them of the ferocity of the prey they were about to hunt down, a prey far more dangerous than the Carthaginians in close quarter fighting.

The pirate galley turned again, this time to port and again Gaius matched her course. The two galleys were now less than four-hundred yards apart, the Aquila’s line two points inside the bireme’s to further close the gap. The rain continued to fall, peppering the surface of the sea and striking the deck of the Aquila with a staccato beat, the sound filling Atticus’s ears as he tried to single out the pirate captain on the galley ahead, the distance and the water-drenched sea air thwarting his efforts.

‘Make ready!’ Atticus shouted to Gaius over the sound of the rain, knowing instinctively the pirate galley was about to commit, the distance and angles near perfect.

‘She’s turning!’ Gaius shouted, his hand steady on the tiller, his muscles tensed in anticipation. ‘She’s coming about!’

The bireme turned violently to port, coming about at an incredible speed, her agility a sight to behold as she turned her bow into the path of the Aquila.

‘Centre the helm!’ Atticus ordered and Gaius lined the Aquila’s ram up with the oncoming bireme. The two galleys were now on a collision course, ram to ram, the larger trireme tearing down the line of attack.

Atticus focused his entire attention on the oncoming galley, trying to estimate the distance between the two ships, their combined speeds devouring the gap between them. The bireme had turned with an extraordinary display of manoeuvrability and Atticus was left with a lingering doubt as to the ability of his own galley. He brushed it aside, angry at his own mistrust of the Aquila. She had never let him down before. He looked over his shoulder to Gaius; the helmsman braced as before, holding the tiller on a centre line but ever-ready to react. The pirate’s course was suicidal and both men knew it was only a feint.

With the gap down to two hundred yards the pirate galley turned three points to port, breaking the headlong attack, a classic manoeuvre for a more agile galley that readied her for a turn into the broadside of the Aquila. Gaius reacted instinctively, also turning the Aquila three points to port, putting the galleys on parallel course to pass each other going in opposite directions at a distance of one hundred yards, the only obvious defence for a trireme of the Aquila’s size.

‘Runner!’ Atticus shouted and a crewman was instantly at his side, ‘Orders to below, prepare for a turn to starboard!’ The crewman acknowledged the order and ran from the aftdeck, disappearing down the hatch that led to the rowing deck.

Atticus focused his attention on the pirate ship once more. She was now on the Aquila’s starboard fore quarter, less than one hundred and fifty yards away and she now held the advantage.

If the Aquila tried to force a fight and turn into the bireme’s course to strike her amidships the pirate galley’s agility would allow her to cut inside the turn and sweep past the Aquila before the trireme could bring her ram or corvus to bear, perhaps even striking the Aquila’s exposed oars as the two galleys swept past each other. On the other hand if the Aquila played it safe and stayed on course, she would run past the bireme and then need to turn to pursue her once more, allowing for the pirate galley to replay the entire sequence of turns once more, never allowing the Aquila the opportunity to engage, trumping her speed and power with agility.

The Aquila sped on, Gaius holding her course, while the pirate bireme did likewise, content to pass the Roman galley with one hundred yards separating their oars. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, his eyes locked on the ram of the bireme, the rain dripping from his matted hair and soaking his tunic beneath his armour. The pirate galley seemed to slow, as if the intensity of Atticus’s gaze was somehow a barrier to her advance and Atticus’s eyes flashed to the bow of his own galley, judging the angles, his innate skill deciding in a heartbeat.

‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus shouted without conscious thought. ‘Hard to starboard!’

The helmsman threw his weight onto the rudder, swinging it fully through the half circle that would put the galley hard over. Atticus watched the pirate galley intensely as a second passed, then another, waiting for the bireme to react, to commit to the counterturn. Again time seemed to slow and Atticus was running even as he registered the turn of the pirate galley. She was turning into the Aquila’s line, the speed of her course change faster than the trireme’s, a speed that would allow her to cut inside and negate the Aquila’s attack.

Atticus reached the hatchway in the time it took the pirate galley to commit fully to the turn. He roared down to the slave deck, the terrible gamble he was taking putting an edge of alarm to his voice, knowing a second’s delay would cost him the Aquila.

‘Now, Lucius!’

For a heartbeat Atticus thought the command had gone unheard but then suddenly the galley, already turning slowly to port in response to the rudder, keeled over violently as the ship accelerated through the turn.

Below him on the slave deck Lucius had signalled the manoeuvre which the rowers and drum master had been drilled in so many times before in training. At the command the starboard-side rowers had thrown themselves forward, immediately raising their oars clean out of the water within one stroke. The port-side slaves continued to row, the drum master calling for ramming speed, their top stroke. With the rudder hard over and the starboard-side rowers offering no resistance, the galley turned within a half ship length, the deck listing twenty degrees from the uneven force of propulsion.

Atticus leaned into the turn, balancing easily as the deck tilted beneath him. Within six seconds the Aquila had made the turn, a turn that under rudder power alone would have taken twenty.

‘Re-engage!’ Atticus roared to Lucius and the Aquila’s deck righted as the starboard-side oars bit into the water once more. The pirate galley was only twenty yards off the bow on a converging course, the opportunity to cut inside lost, the ships now too close for a counter manoeuvre.

‘Centre the helm!’ Atticus shouted as he turned to Gaius. ‘Hit them full-on!’

‘Ready the corvus!’ Septimus roared as the bow of the pirate galley filled his vision. He had been on the main deck when the Aquila had made her turn and although he had been prepared for the violent and sudden course change he had nearly lost his balance with only his fighter’s natural instincts saving him from a fall. Some of the younger hastati had not been so lucky but they had picked themselves up without hesitation, reforming ranks before Drusus had an opportunity to berate them.

Septimus led his hastati and principes to the foredeck at a run, the hob-nailed soles of his sandals giving him purchase on the rain-soaked deck. He drew his sword as he stood behind the raised corvus, his ears ringing with the sound of forty other blades clearing their scabbards in unison.

‘Steady, boys!’ Septimus growled and although there was a gap between him and his men Septimus could almost feel them pushing against him, a pent up charge ready to be released against the enemy. Septimus braced himself for impact and a second later the ram of the Aquila struck the bow of the pirate ship, a solid blow that did not penetrate but drove the momentum out of each galley.

‘Grappling hooks!’ Septimus roared. ‘Release the corvus!’

The ramp before Septimus fell in the time it took the centurion to start his charge; his feet already on the ramp as it struck the deck of the bireme, the three foot long spikes on the underside penetrating and splintering the foredeck of the pirate ship, holding her fast in a mortal embrace. Septimus ran without issuing a command, his men following without hesitation, their guttural war-cries splitting the air, their shoulders bunched behind four-foot high scutum shields, an unstoppable charge that had them on the empty foredeck of the pirate ship within seconds.

Narmer was thrown off balance as the Roman galley struck the bow of his bireme a hammer blow, violently tilting the deck beneath him and bringing the galley to a full stop. He cursed savagely as he regained his feet, instinctively drawing his sword in anticipation of the attack to come. Only minutes before Narmer had believed the first round of battle had been his, the sharp series of the bireme’s turns making a mockery of the Roman galley’s attempts to gain an advantageous line of attack. He had even laughed out loud when the Romans had begun their final turn, a forlorn hope to cut across the gap separating the two ships. Narmer had immediately turned hard over, his galley responding nimbly, ready to cut inside and sweep the enemy’s oars. But that laughter had died on his lips as the Roman galley completed its turn with incredible speed, matching the bireme’s agility and cutting off her line of flight.

The air around Narmer was spilt by the sound of his crew roaring in defiance as the Romans’ boarding ramp crashed down on to the foredeck. The sight was terrifying, even though Belus had warned him of the new tactic and for a full second Narmer was transfixed by the unholy scene. The foredeck was empty, a ploy advocated by Belus, and the Romans quickly formed a solid shield wall across the breadth of the galley. The sight enraged Narmer, the invasion of his ship, of his domain and his fury reached a fever pitch, his mind casting aside the prearranged plan as he yelled a demonic war-cry, rushing forward, his crew following with the same savage haste, each man knowing that no quarter would be granted by their attackers.

Narmer’s gaze was locked on the centre of the shield wall as he rushed forward, his sword held high, his rounded Greek hoplon shield strapped to his forearm, the rain lashing against his face. The wall advanced to the main deck in the time it took Narmer to cover the distance and he bunched his shoulder behind his shield as he struck the Romans at full tilt. The force of the blow numbed his arm but the sensation was barely registered as his mind lost all focus except for an overriding urge to drive the blade of his sword into enemy flesh, to stain the deck of his galley with Roman blood.

Narmer slashed down with his sword, parrying a strike from between the shields before him and he stepped backed instinctively, the Roman wall pushing forward. His mind cleared for a heartbeat, the backward step triggering his reaction and he stepped back once more, this time unbidden by his attackers, remembering the plan Belus had outlined. The Romans came on and Narmer continued to give ground slowly, his men backing off at the same pace, their defence unceasing but uncommitted. Narmer saw one of his men fall, then another but he smiled viciously nonetheless as his back struck the mainmast. The Romans were fully committed, their shield wall still strong, their forward advance unrelenting. It was just as Belus had foretold.

‘Advance!’ Septimus ordered, his voice carrying clearly to his men over the sound of the pirates’ war-cries and the rain pounding in their ears.

The line advanced as one, reaching the main deck before the pirate charge struck home, the shield wall buckling and then forming strong again as the momentum of the charge was absorbed and repelled. Septimus’s face remained grim as he stood behind the front line, his eyes ranging over the attack before him. His men were well drilled, efficient and deadly, and the enemy gave ground almost immediately.

‘Hold the line!’ Septimus shouted, forestalling any rush forward by his men. He waited a heartbeat, ‘Forward!’

The shield wall advanced again as one, its strength grounded in unity and Septimus felt his confidence rise. The pirates were savage fighters, but they were undisciplined and uncoordinated. They had foolishly missed the chance to repel the legionaries as they made their way over the corvus, squandering their only opportunity to engage the legionaries at their weakest moment, before they had time to deploy into line. But the foredeck had been abandoned and the legionaries had formed unmolested, creating the solid unbreakable line that was now reaching the mainmast, half the galley in their wake.

A trumpet blast filled the air and Septimus instinctively shot around to its source on the Aquila, the warning sound cutting through the din of battle. His gaze never left the pirate ship however, as the reason for the warning was instantly apparent, his vision filled with the oncoming attack from the previously closed hatchway at the fore end of the main deck, the charge led by an inconceivable sight, a Carthaginian officer.

‘Orbis!’ Septimus shouted for a circular defence, overcoming his surprise without conscious thought. ‘Enemy to the rear!’

The legionaries acted without hesitation, the second line behind the wall turning on their heels to face the new threat with their centurion but they were a fraction too late, the men to the left and right of Septimus betrayed by the swiftness of the pirates’ surprise attack and the enemy crashed into the unprepared line with a ferocity that immediately buckled and then shattered the Roman formation.

Septimus fought like a man possessed, his attack instantly changing from the strict discipline of the legions to the fluid movements of one-to-one combat. The men around him fought with equal desperation, but many had never been trained to fight as individuals and within thirty seconds a half-dozen legionaries were down, the cries of the wounded lost in the roar of attack.

Septimus rammed his blade home with all the strength of his frustration and anger, twisting the blade savagely before withdrawing it, the pirate falling forward as he did, his face a mask of pain and defiance. Septimus shoved him away with the boss of his shield, the pirate slumping to the rain-soaked deck and Septimus was given a heartbeat’s respite. The legionaries were in the fight of their lives, the original formation now scattered across the deck. Drusus stood by the mainmast, giving ground to no man, marking the furthest advance of the line. Septimus swept the deck with a murderous gaze, searching for the Carthaginian officer who had led the surprise attack. He spotted him almost immediately, his Punic armour standing out amidst the pirate crew. Septimus raised his sword once more, the hilt slippery with blood and rain and he tightened his grip, putting his weight behind his shield as he pressed forward, roaring a challenge as he went, a challenge that the Carthaginian answered with a savage war-cry of his own.

The trumpet was loose in Atticus’s hand as he watched the surprise pirate attack slam into the exposed and unready Roman line. He had grabbed the trumpet at the first sign of the attack, instinctively realising the futility of his warning but desperate to alert Septimus, his towering frame easily recognisable in the Roman line. The centurion had reacted even as Atticus had sounded the warning but within seconds he, and the men around him, were engulfed in a wave of attackers.

‘Gaius!’ Atticus shouted running forward. ‘You have the helm. Lucius, follow me!’

Atticus drew his sword as he jumped onto the main deck, the sharp stab of pain in his chest ignored. ‘Men of the Aquila to me!’ he roared as he ran, surefooted on the wet timbers of the deck. Lucius echoed the call, drawing his own sword and shouting to individual crewmen as he ran after his captain. The twenty triarii of Septimus’s demi-maniple were in formation on the foredeck and Atticus shouted at them to advance, unsure of legionary orders but sure they would understand.

Atticus screamed a war-cry as he ran across the corvus, his shout taken up by Lucius and the rest of the crew, their anger easily flamed by prospect of taking the fight to the pirates. The triarii followed in loose formation, battle-hardened troops who were past their prime but still possessed the strength and will to engage any enemy. The men of the Aquila fanned out as they reached the main deck of the bireme, their cries finally heard by pirate and Roman alike in the maelstrom of battle around the mainmast. They came out of the rain like a horde from Hades, Atticus at their centre, the raw wound on his face giving him a demonic mask as generations of inbred hate against the pirate breed was given expression on his face.

They tore into the fight with a momentum that pushed Atticus into the centre of the swarm. A legionary fell at his feet and Atticus threw up his sword to attack the pirate who had made the fatal thrust. The strike was parried and Atticus swung his blade around to block the counter-thrust, twisting his torso violently to gain the angle. Pain flooded his consciousness as he parried the blow and a warm dark stain of blood streamed across his chest, the rain-soaked tunic beneath his breast-plate clinging to the reopened wound. Atticus grunted through the pain and stabbed his sword downward; running the edge of his blade against the pirate’s groin, opening a deep fatal wound that stained Atticus’s sword. The pirate screamed, his face a mask of terror as he dropped his sword and fell, his blood washed from the deck by the unceasing rain. Atticus fell to his knees, his hand reaching inside his armour to be drawn out again stained red.

Septimus hammered his shield against the Carthaginian’s chest twice in quick succession, roaring each time, his anger unbounded at the thought of his men falling around him. Belus answered in kind, his sword striking the boss of the Roman shield, his mind flooded with visions of Mylae and the desperate knowledge that he must prevail in order to deliver his message. Septimus registered the flood of men from the Aquila as they swept around him but his focus remained on the Carthaginian, the head of the serpent that had struck his line from behind, his initial incredulity at the sight of a Carthaginian officer leading the pirate charge forgotten as anger overcame reason.

Belus sidestepped to the right to gain space, his sword arm feigning a further advance before he centred his balance once more, his shield deflecting a vicious strike from the Roman. He too had seen the second wave of Romans join the fight and he knew the pirates were now hopelessly outnumbered. They had reacted so quickly, much faster than Belus had thought they would, believing that the surprise of his attack would stun the remaining crew of the Roman galley and keep them at bay until the legionaries were overwhelmed. But they had reacted instantly and attacked without hesitation, robbing Belus and his men of the precious minutes that would have led to success. He instinctively pushed forward again at the thought, a creeping recklessness beginning to control his actions as realisation swept over him. There would be no escape.

Septimus stepped back as the Carthaginian’s attack suddenly intensified, his sword a blur of iron and light, rain water streaming off the tip as the Carthaginian slashed his blade in low. Septimus narrowly deflected the strike and shifted his balance to swing his shield around, slamming the brass boss into the Carthaginian’s sword arm, breaking his attack and eliciting a furious cry of anger.

Belus attacked again, his skilful swordsmanship giving way to unfettered fury as he rained blow after blow on the Roman’s shield, the hated enemy that had caused him to fail in his duty. He roared out a cry to Anath, the war-goddess to put strength into his sword arm, his voice rising until it blocked out every other sound, his face twisting maliciously as he felt the Roman give way under his assault.

Septimus bent his knees and prepared to strike as the Carthaginian’s attack reached its crescendo, drawing his shield in close as he coiled his body behind it, drawing the Carthaginian in ever closer. Suddenly, with a strength forged in the legions, Septimus propelled himself forward, his shield crashing into the Carthaginian, knocking him back. Septimus continued his lunge, pushing his foe across the deck, waiting for the moment to strike. The Carthaginian threw his sword arm up, fighting for balance and Septimus plunged his short sword into the Carthaginian’s exposed flank, striking him below his armour, a killing stroke that Septimus compounded as he twisted the blade, a rush of blood and viscera covering his hand as the Carthaginian screamed in pain.

Belus fell to the deck, his sword and shield falling from near-lifeless fingers, his hands reaching for the wound in his side as his blood stained the deck he had defended with his life. He looked up at the Roman standing over him, a younger man, the intensity of his gaze matching the ferocity of his attack, the rain streaming off his helmet and armour, his sword in his hand drenched with Belus’s own blood. The Roman held his gaze for an instant longer and was gone, leaving Belus staring at the grey sky, the terrible knowledge that he had failed Carthage haunting him as his life slipped away.

Narmer roared at the men around him, driving them forward, stirring their blood and savagery into a frenzy. The pirates responded with ever-increasing cries of defiance and challenge, giving the Romans no quarter in a fight that was becoming ever more desperate for the outnumbered defenders. Moments before, Narmer had seen Belus fall, struck down by the Roman centurion who was now rallying his men for a final push that Narmer knew would overwhelm his crew. He backed away from the line of battle, the final surge of his crew affording him the opportunity to make his escape below decks and he turned and ran to the hatchway at the aft-end of the main deck.

Narmer charged his sword as he landed on the walkway in the middle of the slave deck. The rowers beside him began to clutch at his legs in panic, begging him to release them. He struck out with his sword, fearful of being overwhelmed by clawing hands and a rower cried out in pain as the blade sliced through his wrist. The others backed off and Narmer rushed to the gangway leading to the main cabin, closing and baring the door behind him as he entered.

The sounds of battle continued on the main deck above. Narmer slowly paced the room, his sword hanging loose by his side, panic rising within him as his mind sought a way out. His flight below deck would buy him another few minutes, perhaps longer, but Narmer knew there was no escape. A sudden anger welled up within him and he slammed his sword onto the table in the centre of the cabin, cursing the day he had placed himself in the midst of the conflict between Rome and Carthage. Belus had robbed him of his galley, Narmer realised that now, robbed him of his command and sailed him into waters infested with Roman galleys. Now the Romans were poised to rob him in turn, to plunder what was his and deprive him of the galley he had won through ingenuity and blood.

As Roman victory cries sounded from above, Narmer picked up his sword once more, a vow passing his lips as he examined the blade before sheathing the weapon. He had no need for it, for another blade would not stop the Romans from taking his ship. For that, Narmer would need another weapon, one more ancient and deadly, and he repeated his vow as he prepared, an oath to deprive his enemies of the galley they had dared to take from him.

‘Hold!’ Septimus roared, as his men began to chase after the half-dozen pirates fleeing below decks and the legionaries halted at the whip-crack of the centurion’s voice, ingrained discipline overcoming their blood-lust. They stood in silent sobriety for a moment, breathing heavily, their swords slowly falling as they realised the deck was theirs and a single shout of victory quickly became many.

Septimus let them roar, the ship was theirs but to finish the task they would have to clear the remnants of the pirate crew from below decks.

‘Drusus,’ he called to his optio. ‘Take ten men and secure the fore main deck hatch. I’ll take the aft.’

Drusus saluted and gathered the men closest to him, leading them at a run in loose formation towards the hatch. Septimus did the same, his eyes ignoring the dead and dying, ally and foe alike, as he ordered his remaining men to stand fast on the main deck.

Septimus paused at the hatchway for a moment before clambering down, his eyes adjusting quickly to the half light of the rowing deck. Stepping back, he allowed his men to follow and they formed a defensive ring around the ladder, their shields charged outwards. A walkway ran the entire length of the slave deck, with chained rowers on either side, their pitiful cries for release deafening in the confined space. Septimus ignored them, his gaze reaching forward seventy feet along the walkway to the fore hatchway and the sight of Drusus’s squad moving towards the forward cabins.

Septimus formed his men behind him and stepped towards the gangway that led to the main cabin at the rear of the galley. Its door was flanked by two others, smaller cabins to port and starboard. Septimus readied his shield and pushed the portside door open with the tip of his sword. It was a tiny cabin; no more than six foot across and it was empty. He spun around and pushed the door opposite, expecting the same but inside a man lay supine upon a low cot, his face horribly disfigured, his tunic bloodstained and torn. Septimus nodded for one of his men to step into the cabin to examine the apparently unconscious figure while he led the others to the final door, the main cabin.

A sudden eruption of shouts from the front of the galley caused Septimus to look over his shoulder as the clash of iron signalled Drusus’s discovery of more of the crew. Septimus looked to one of his men at the rear. ‘Report to the optio,’ he ordered, ‘find out if he needs help.’

The soldier nodded and ran back along the walkway, his footfalls heavy on the timber deck. Septimus turned his attention to the main cabin once more and as before pushed against the door with the tip of his sword. It did not open and he half turned to press his shield against the timbers, putting his weight behind it.

‘Barred,’ Septimus said to himself before turning to the two men behind him.

‘Break it down!’ he ordered and the legionaries stepped forward, reversing their swords and hammering on the door with the pommels, the hardwood spheres cracking and splintering the weathered door.

‘Ready, lads!’ Septimus said, preparing himself to surge forward. The door could only last for seconds more. He breathed deeply, tensing his muscles for the lunge forward, expecting to find the majority of the remaining crew behind the door. His intake of breath triggered an alarm in Septimus’s mind as he sensed the underlying dreaded smell that overwhelmed the stench of blood from his sword and the reek of filth from the deck beneath his feet. It was a smell that triggered the fear that dwelt in every man who lived on the timber ships of the age, a smell that foretold of an enemy that could not be contained, one that would consume the galley and all on board.

‘Stop!’ Septimus shouted and he crouched down in the silence that followed. He smelled the air again. There could be no doubt. Whoever was behind the door had fired the cabin. Septimus stood up instantly.

‘Back on deck. Now!’ he roared, his men responding, not yet sensing what Septimus had perceived but following his order without hesitation.

‘Centurion!’ Septimus turned to the soldier who emerged from the side-cabin.

‘This man is Roman,’ he said, indicating over his shoulder. Septimus looked beyond him to the man on the cot. ‘He’s says he’s the captain of a trader taken by these pirates,’ the soldier continued in explanation. Septimus grabbed one of the fleeing legionaries by the shoulder.

‘You,’ he said, ‘help him get this man up top.’

The soldier obeyed and between them the two legionaries carried the Roman captain up the gangway. Septimus followed them, continually glancing over his shoulder at the main cabin door, seeing the first wisps of smoke appear even as he began his climb to the main deck. The sight caused him to quicken his step and he immediately ordered men forward to command Drusus to disengage the enemy. He spotted Atticus and made his way towards him, issuing orders for his men to form up as he did.

The captain was sitting amidst the Roman wounded, his face deathly pale against his blood-stained tunic, Lucius kneeling beside him.

‘The ship is ours?’ Atticus asked, his voice weak but the triumph of victory strong in his gaze.

‘No,’ Septimus spat in anger. ‘This ship is in the hands of Vulcan.’

‘By the Gods…’ Atticus whispered. ‘Fire?’ As Septimus nodded the first cries of panic rose up from the slave deck below, the terrifying sound ripping along the entire length of the galley in the time it took the unaware amongst the Romans to understand what was happening. Soldiers who had charged fearlessly into battle turned to flee, their eyes looking around in trepidation, searching for evidence of the fire that terrified them all. Shouts of alarm rang across the main deck as smoke suddenly billowed from the aft hatchway.

‘Everyone back across the corvus!’ Septimus shouted and he helped Atticus to stand, bearing his weight as he continued to issue orders to his men, ensuring that the wounded were all accounted for.

‘Wait!’ a junior hastati shouted from the head of the forward hatchway, listening to the cries for mercy of the slaves. ‘I can hear Roman voices!’

‘Hold!’ Atticus roared, realising the danger but his order was lost amidst the cacophony of panic and desperation from the slave deck and he watched helplessly as the junior soldier disappeared down the hatchway to be immediately followed by two others. Atticus ran forward, the pain of his wound forgotten as saw that other legionaries were preparing to follow the first three below.

‘You men stand fast!’ Atticus shouted and the soldiers hesitated, looking beyond the Greek captain to their centurion, the pull of the Roman voices desperately calling for help causing them to inch forward once more. Septimus couldn’t understand Atticus’s command but he repeated it without hesitation, ordering his men to get back aboard the Aquila. Only when he reached the hatchway did he question Atticus; the endless voices of terror from below drowning out his words to all others except Atticus.

‘Damn it, Atticus,’ he hissed, angry that he hadn’t considered the fact that there might be Romans amongst the rowers sooner. ‘Why did you stop more of my men from going below? We need to be sure we rescue any Romans amongst the slaves.’

‘The slaves are dead men,’ Atticus replied, his eyes locked on the retreated legionaries, many of them returning his gaze balefully, ‘and you condemn any man you send down there.’

Septimus instinctively looked over his shoulder, judging the spread of the fire, trying to ignore the endless cries of terror.

‘There’s still time,’ he said. ‘But the three men down there need more help.’

Atticus turned to Septimus, a look of despair on his face.

‘I’ve seen this before,’ he said, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘They can’t be helped.’ He nodded towards the hatchway, ‘Look for yourself.’

Septimus held Atticus’s gaze for a second before turning to descend. Atticus grabbed his forearm. ‘Stay out of their reach,’ he warned.

Septimus nodded and started down the ladder, instinctively drawing his sword as he was exposed to the full measure of the terrible screams of panic that seemed to stem from the very timbers of the galley. He stopped halfway down the ladder, crouching down to see back along the abyss of Hades that was now the slave deck. The fire had already taken hold of the stern end of the ship, the smoke consuming the aft-end of the deck, the slaves visible in front of the grey wall dragging desperately at the manacles around their ankles that held them fast, the deck beneath them stained red by their torn skin as terror drove many to near madness.

Septimus spotted two of his men not ten feet from the base of the ladder, their bodies only recognisable from the remnants of their armour, their flesh in places torn away by the frenzied horde who had clawed desperately at them for release, robbing them of their swords and daggers, of anything they could use to free themselves, their collective panic preventing them from recognising the men as rescuers and Septimus watched in dread fascination as a slave snapped the blade of a gladius against an unyielding chain, a dozen hands clamouring for the shattered sword.

Beyond the fallen soldiers Septimus spotted the last man, the legionary who had fearlessly led the others. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, his cries ignored, terror etched upon his face as he slashed his sword at the countless hands that clawed at him. He suddenly turned in Septimus’s direction and for an instant his terror cleared as he recognised his centurion, his eyes pleading for help, his instinctive half-step towards the ladder cut off before he could complete it. He roared something incoherent, his plea lost in the maelstrom of fear and Septimus could only return the soldier’s gaze until the desperation of his fight forced the soldier to turn away once more.

Septimus hesitated for a second more and then turned his back on the doomed man, climbing back up the ladder and walking past Atticus without a word, the captain following the centurion back across the corvus, the ramp lifting behind them, separating the Aquila from her victim. Septimus moved to the fore-rail and stared across at the pirate galley as he sheathed his sword, his eyes ranging over the fallen legionaries on the deck, men who had given their lives for a hollow prize. The cries of the damned on the slave deck abated as the Aquila drew away, distance finally silencing their pleas.